Disclaimer: The original Patlabor series was created by
Masami Yuuki. This is a tribute to it, and thus is not
intended to step on his toes or the toes of anyone else
involved in its production. :)

Previous episodes, along with current progress reports, are
archived on my Patlabor Stateside page, at:
http://www.cis.ohio-state.edu/~kelsey/fanfics.html

They can also be found at R&C Books:
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Bay/1375/

*****

Patlabor Stateside
Episode #4: The Shot Heard Round Columbus
by Bart Kelsey

     "Havin' fun up there, Mitch?"
     Weaver grunted and put the scraper down on the
platform, taking a second to wipe the sweat off of his brow.
"Fun?  I don't think anybody's scraped the rust off this
damn thing since it rolled off the assembly line.  When I'm
done, we'll be lucky if there's anything left."
     Ron grinned up at him.  "Well, keep at it.  You've got
two more days to get her painted before the 4th."
     "Hey, Ron," said Mitch suspiciously, "any idea why
there's been so much rust building up around the Corwin's
feet over the past couple days?"
     Ron shrugged.  "Not really."
     "It wouldn't be, say, dog urine, by any chance, would
it?"
     Ron glanced ruefully at his dog, who was at that very
moment relieving himself on the far wall of the mech bay.
He grinned again.  "I wouldn't know anything about that."
     Mitch shook his head, blew the drop of sweat off his
nose, and went back to work.

     Captain Todd Styles and Head Mechanic Tony Allison were
sitting in Todd's office making idle conversation as Todd
put the finishing touches on the forms he had to fill out
concerning last week's domestic incident.
     "It's not terribly complicated," the captain said.
"The labors will march up High Street with the parade, stand
at attention through the fireworks show, and then fire a
salute at the end of the National Anthem."
     "Todd, you know as well as I do that our pilots are
perfectly capable of screwing up without the aid of undue
complexity."
     "I'm pretty sure Ron and Gabe can handle it without too
many problems."
     "Well, we'd better hope so," said Tony doubtfully.
"Marching in the Independence Day parade will either make us
look really good or really bad, depending on whether we
manage to pull it off without any SNAFUs."
     Styles nodded.  "It'd be nice if the Nova got here
early so we could send it out, rather than the Corwin."
     Their conversation came to an abrupt stop as a large
truck pulled up outside the building, as if on cue.
     This truck, which Tony and Todd were now gaping at
through the office window, bore a labor--and not just any
labor, but a brand new 2009 Multicorp Nova LX Law
Enforcement Labor.  There was a whirring sound as the
truck's hydraulics activated, raising the bed so that the
Nova slowly tilted to a fully upright position.
     It was a beautiful sight.
     Somewhat taller than the Apollo, it lacked the typical
rounded blocky design of most police mechs.  Instead, its
plating was sharp and angular, giving it a strangely
formidable appearance.
     Tony and Todd were interrupted from their reverie by a
knock at the front door.
     "'Scuse me for a moment."  Styles stood up and stepped
out of the office.
     "Delivery for the Columbus Mobile Police," said the
thin, brown-haired deliveryman, stroking his moustache.
     "That's us," said Todd.  "Where do I sign?"
     "Right here," he said, holding up an electronic
clipboard.  "I'll also need a picture ID and a thumbprint."
     Styles nodded and pressed his thumb onto the device,
which beeped and lit up a little green light, signifying its
approval.  "Just drive 'er into the mech bay around back,"
he said while signing the board and at the same time
producing his wallet with his other hand.  "The gate should
be open."
     The man nodded and strolled back to the truck, starting
it up again and pulling it around back as Styles requested.
     "Wow," said Mitch, pausing to wipe the sweat off his
forehead again as the Nova came into view.  "Nice hardware."
     "I'd say so."  CAMP's veteran, Gabe Larson, walked
slowly down the stairs, looking the New Toy up and down
appraisingly.
     "Funny," said Mitch.  "I was sort of expecting a
gigantic crate full of parts labeled 'some assembly
required' and 'batteries not included'."
     "Kid," said Gabe, "for fourteen million dollars, they
damn well better put it together, deliver it to your
doorstep, and guarantee it for life."
     Mitch nodded.
     "Gabe," said the captain, as he entered through the bay
door, "start 'er up and walk 'er around for a bit.  See if
she's in order."
     Gabe rubbed his hands together, beaming.  "Time to see
what this baby can do in the hands of a real pilot."
     "Jody's out to lunch right now," said Mitch, with a
perfectly straight face, "so why don't you try piloting it
instead?"
     "Good one, kid."  Still smiling, Gabe waited by the
side of the truck as the driver lowered the bed down into a
lying position.  Adjusting his jacket, he scaled the ladder
and opened the hatch, climbing in shortly thereafter.
     The truck's hydraulics whirred once more, again tilting
the labor upright, and there was a resounding *click* as it
was released from the transport.
     The Nova, when it stepped onto the bay floor, moved
with a confident, menacing grace.
     Mitch had never noticed it before, but the Apollo,
which was a quite sophisticated mech in its own right, still
lumbered a bit mechanically.  The Nova, on the other hand,
walked like a human--and not just any human, but rather a
sturdy, self-assured, mess-with-me-and-your-ass-is-mine type
of human.
     "Nice hardware," Mitch said again, to no one in
particular.

     CAMP's four pilots spent the remainder of the day
"Assessing the Nova's Capabilities," which Mitch had learned
in engineering school was the technical term for playing
with the new labor.
     The Nova walked around the mech bay.
     Mitch scraped rust off of the Corwin.
     The Nova did agility tests.
     Mitch scraped the Corwin's feet.
     The Nova went through a combat simulation.
     Mitch scraped the Corwin's torso.
     It was all horribly unfair.
     By the time Mitch had finished scraping all the rust
off of the obsolescent mech, he was so tired that he went
straight to bed despite the fact that it was only seven
thirty.

     Four and a half hours later, there was a knock on his
bedroom door.  "Hey, Weaver," Jody yelled, "we're scheduled
for night shift!  Get outta bed!"
     /Thump!/
     "Ow!"  Weaver's voice was muffled by the heavy wooden
door.  "Ow, ow, ow!  Son of a bitch!"
     There was a quiet chuckle.
     "Dammit, Harris, from now on, you're sleeping on the
top bunk!"
     The chuckling grew louder, but was soon replaced by the
scuffling and rummaging sounds that one makes when hurrying
to get dressed.  Seconds later, Mitch Weaver emerged from
his bedroom in shorts and a T-shirt, limping slightly and
rubbing his hip.
     "I like the hair.  It's you."
     "Shut up, Jody."
     Mitch rubbed his eyes and followed Jody downstairs to
the break room, where he plopped down on one of the
moderately uncomfortable metal chairs and turned on the
television.  His arms hurt like hell, as did his hip.  On
top of that, he was tired and groggy, and he had a sinus
headache.  He surmised that, all in all, last weekend's
hangover had been much more pleasant than his current state.
     Resting his elbows on the table, he propped his head up
on his hands and stared blankly at the television, which was
showing a crappy late-night documentary on the history of
Muzak.
     "Man," said Jody, "I wish Styles would let me pilot in
the parade."
     Weaver utterly failed to acknowledge Jody's statement.
     "I mean," she continued, "he didn't even consider me.
He just told Ron and Gabe they'd be piloting, and that was
it."
     "Oh," Mitch replied with a tone of disinterest usually
used to indicate one's desire to not be spoken to.
     "Why couldn't he at least think about it?"
     Weaver's voice was low and crackled, the result of
inadequate sleep coupled with stress and physical
exhaustion.  He didn't look away from the television when he
spoke.  "Because piloting a labor before the public eye
requires some measure of competence, which, frankly, you
lack."
     The room fell silent for a moment.  "Well, Mitch," she
said quietly, "if you should happen to require any
incompetent piloting tonight, I'll be in the mech bay."
With that, Jody stood up, walked gracefully out of the room,
and slammed the door.
     Mitch surmised that she damn well shouldn't have taken
it so badly, and shifted his attention back to the TV set.
     
     Time passed.  When the door of the break room finally
opened again, Mitch was vaguely aware of an infomercial for
disposable socks playing on the tube.
     "Shift's over," said the captain as he entered.
     Weaver gave no reply.
     Styles sat down and produced a half-empty box of
Marlboros, then flicked his lighter a few times, swearing
under his breath when it refused to produce a flame.
     "Weaver," he said insistently, "you can leave now."
     Still failing to elicit a response, the captain reached
over and hit the power button on the remote.
     "Huh?" said Weaver, as the image winked out.
     "Shift's over.  Go to bed."
     Weaver stood up and shuffled out of the room without a
word.
     Flicking his lighter a few more times, Styles swore
again and finally tossed the ungrateful P.O.S. into the
garbage; or rather, near the garbage.
     When he finally left the room, he didn't bother to stop
and pick it up.

*

     It was mid-afternoon before Weaver dragged himself out
of bed and got dressed.  Despite the dull ache in his arms
and shoulders, he felt somewhat refreshed as he descended
the stairs into the mech bay.
     "Hey, Tony," he said to the mechanic, who was atop the
boarding platform poking the Nova's exposed innards with
some sort of diagnostic equipment.
     "Weaver."
     "Where's the paint at?  If I'm gonna get the Corwin
done in time for the parade, I gotta get started on it
pretty quick."
     "Don't worry about it."
     "How come?"
     "The captain's decided to have the Apollo and the Nova
march tomorrow.  The Corwin's gonna sit this one out."
     Mitch blinked.  "You mean to say I scraped all the rust
off that piece of crap for nothing?"
     Tony shrugged.  "Pretty much."
     "Son of a bitch," Weaver muttered, taking a seat at the
base of the stairs.  "In fact, many sons of bitches."
     "Hey, Weaver!"
     "Hm?"  Mitch looked up to see Laura calling him from
the other end of the bay.
     "I'm gonna head over to The Earl and get some lunch.
Wanna come along?"
     "Nothing better to do," he mumbled.  With a slight
grunt, he pulled himself to a standing position using one of
the metal banisters, and jogged to catch up with Laura, who
already on her way down the front hall.
     Passing the break room, Mitch caught a glimpse of Jody
sitting at the table, munching glumly on an apple.  She
looked up and glared at him, and he would have returned the
gesture, had he not already walked out of view by the time
it registered on him.
     Mitch muttered to himself as he and Laura crossed the
street and stepped into The Earl of Sandwich.
     "So, how you robo-cops doin' today?" asked the
friendly, mustachioed man behind the counter.
     "Labor pilots," Mitch mumbled.
     "Yeah, labor pilots is what I meant.  How ya doin'?"
His Brooklyn accent sounded a bit out of place in Columbus,
but it did add some measure of charm to his dining
establishment.
     "Been better," Mitch said.
     "So, can I get you two anything?"
     Laura considered for a second.  "Yeah, I think I'll
have the Italian sub, please...and a Pepsi."
     "Grilled cheese and a water," said Mitch.
     "Comin' right up."
     The two of them stood quietly as the man (who's
nametag, ironically, read Earl) fixed their sandwiches.
     "Ya know,' said Earl, "I was thinkin' when you labor
cops came in the other day, that they should make a labor
aimed specifically at the sandwich and deli business.  Not
that I'd need one for regular lunch orders or anyting, but
it'd come in handy for making party subs and stuff, when
it's necessary to use large quantities of meat and
toppings."  He placed the olives delicately atop Laura's
gradually growing Italian sub, then doused it with a squeeze
of the bottle labeled 'oil and vinegar.'  "That look alright
for you, ma'am?"
     "Perfect," she said, nodding.
     "How 'bout you, sir?"  He scraped Mitch's sandwich off
the grill with a spatula and deposited it on a plate.
     "Fine."
     "Well, then."  He punched a few numbers on the cash
register.  "That'll be two fifty-six for the grilled cheese,
and five seventy-five for the Italian sub and the soda."
     Mitch and Laura produced the necessary amounts of money
and paid for their respective meals, then took a seat at a
table beside the front window.
     
     "Hey, Mitch," Laura ventured, once they had gotten
situated, "Jody's been in a pretty foul mood today.  Any
idea why?"
     "She sent you out here to make me feel guilty, didn't
she?"
     Laura blinked.  "What?"
     "She told you to come out here and make me feel bad."
     "Feel bad about what, Mitch?"
     Mitch shook his head and took a bite from his sandwich.
"Nofing.  Never mind."
     "Well, obviously it's something, otherwise you wouldn't
have assumed I was talking about it."
     Mitch didn't answer.
     "C'mon, Weaver," insisted Laura.  "Spit it out."
     Mitch took another bite from his grilled cheese.  "She
had it coming."
     "Had what coming?  Did you say something to her that
you shouldn't have?"
     Mitch quietly set down his sandwich and took a slow sip
from his water.  "Listen," he said.  "I've spent the last
three days scraping rust off that damn labor so I could
paint it for the parade, and, as it turns out, our fine
captain has decided not to use it after all.  I'm tired, I'm
sore, I'm pissed, and I have neither the time nor the desire
to be chastised about something I said.  Enjoy your meal."
     With that, he got up and dumped his mostly-uneaten
sandwich into the garbage and deposited his plate on the
counter, then walked out the door.  Laura shook her head and
sighed.
     "This seat taken?"
     She glanced up at the source of the voice.  "Oh, hey
Ron."
     "I just saw Mitch stomping out the door as I came
in...he didn't look too happy."  Ron set his plate down on
the table and took a seat.
     Laura sighed again.  "I need to stop playing
psychologist."
     "How do you mean?"
     "Like, trying to help people out with their personal
problems.  I always seem to cause more damage than I fix."
     "Since when?"
     "Well," said Laura, "just now, for instance.  I tried
to ask Mitch what happened between him and Jody, and he got
up and left.  I should know better by now than to do
that...it's not as if I have any business telling other
people how to manage relationships."
     "Hey, now don't get so down on yourself," Ron
admonished.  "After you resolved that little domestic
incident last week, I'm pretty well convinced that you're
the most perceptive person I've ever met.  It'd be a shame
to let that go to waste."
     Laura sighed yet again, tilting her glass back to get
the last little bit of Pepsi that was hiding in the ice at
the bottom.
     "Anyway," Ron continued, "don't worry about Mitch.
He's been in a bad mood all week.  I'm sure he'll come
around eventually."
     Laura nodded and took another bite from her sub.

*
     
     The CAMP task force spent the rest of the day doing
practice runs for the Independence Day parade.  This kept
Paccini, Larson, and Styles pretty well occupied, and left
the rest of the squad to find things to do.  Mitch wandered
aimlessly around the station, stopping occasionally to watch
the Nova in action, or exchange angry glances with Jody.
All in all, it made for a most unpleasant afternoon.
     Unpleasant afternoon soon turned into unpleasant
evening, and Weaver finally surmised that no one would
notice if he turned in a little bit early, so he went to
bed.

*

     Mitch rubbed his eyes and reached over to shut off his
blaring alarm clock.  He sat up and slid off of the bunk
(correctly, this time), landing quietly on his feet.
     He approached the mirror and picked up his comb, then
paused, somewhat taken aback by the face that was scowling
back at him.  This wasn't exactly the way he liked to
picture himself.  The bed-head was easy enough to fix, but
the angry frown and cold glare appeared to have taken up
permanent residence on his face.
     Naturally, Mitch found this a bit disconcerting, as he
liked to think of himself as a friendly, outgoing person.
     /Wow, I really look like a prick... I have a right to,
though, considering the crap I've been through over the past
couple of days./
     /Sure, you have a right to be pissed as Styles, but at
everybody?/
     /Shut up, conscience./
     /Hey, man, I left you alone for two days, and look
where it got you./
     /.../
     /You're gonna have to apologize to Jody, you know.
Don't roll your eyes like that.  You really hurt her
feelings, and if you don't remedy the situation like right
now, she's gonna hate you for life./
     Mitch sighed and shook his head.

     Jody's silent break-room introspection was interrupted
by the sound of someone in the doorway nervously clearing
his throat.
     "What?" she asked quietly.
     "Well," Mitch faltered for a moment, trying to arrange
his thoughts into some sort of coherent form.  "I'm sorry
about what I said the other night."
     "Why should you be?  You were just being honest."
     Mitch didn't answer.
     "I mean, you were right.  I am incompetent.  I don't
have a single arrest to my name--just half a million in
property damage."
     "You're not incompetent, Jody.  Green, maybe, but I've
seen you on the sim.  If you were a bit more confident in
yourself, you'd be able to hold your own in real combat as
well... of course, big help I am.  How are you supposed to
trust in your abilities with some jerk like me putting you
down?"
     "I suppose I'll just have to learn to ignore you," she
said, cracking a smile.
     Mitch moved to leave, but stopped, turning around half
way out the door in a feigned afterthought.
"Listen...rather than staying here at the station while the
parade's going on, why not ride out with me when I take the
Apollo up to High Street, and then watch the fireworks?"
     "I appreciate the offer, Weaver, but I think I'd rather
stay here tonight.  No offense or anything."
     "Oh.  Well, okay then.  See ya later."  Mitch withdrew
from the doorway and plodded sullenly down the hallway to
the front door, where he pressed his face up against the
glass and watched Captain Styles put the Nova and the Apollo
through more marching drills.

     Although none of them would have ever admitted it, the
staff and pilots of the Columbus Area Mobile Police Force
were growing more and more nervous as the hour of the parade
approached.  Tony Allison had taken to pacing across the
bay, silently checking and rechecking the mechs so as to be
a hundred percent positive that if something did go wrong,
it wouldn't be on account of a mechanical failure.
     Paccini and Larson were standing nearby, observing Tony
in action and talking quietly.  Mitch couldn't quite place
it, but somehow their usually jovial demeanor seemed a bit
forced, as if they were trying to convince everyone
(themselves included) that they weren't at all worried about
their upcoming public appearance.
     Captain Styles spent the afternoon sitting in his
office.  It was later determined that he smoked
approximately two and a half packs of cigarettes and drank
nearly four cups of coffee between 1 and 8 PM.
     Jody and Laura took refuge in the break room, watching
reruns of NYPD Mech.
     Once again, Mitch was left to roam the station without
anything important to do.
     "Hey, Ron, any idea where Harris is?" he asked, having
noted the quiet man's absence.
     "Yeah, he left for Toledo last night to spend the
holiday weekend with his family.  Said he'd be back Monday."
     "Lucky bastard.  Wish I could get the weekend off."
     "Well, it's too late now.  As it is, we're understaffed
with him gone.  If we were missing two people, we'd be in a
bit of trouble."
     Mitch shrugged.  "Yeah, I suppose so...  Anyway, good
luck tonight."
     "Luck?  I don't need any luck.  Larson here's the one
the needs it."
     Gabe Larson laughed and slapped Mitch on the back.
"Yeah, right.  Take your luck somewhere else, kid.  I rely
on skill alone."  He adjusted the collar on his leather
jacket, which he technically wasn't supposed to wear over
his uniform, but did anyway.
     "Well," said Mitch, "if you don't mind, I think I'm
gonna go grab a bite to eat before it's time to go.  I'll
catch you guys in a little while."

*

     Finally, the hour came.  Mitch, who had been designated
to drive the Apollo to its starting place on Main Street,
popped his head into the break room.
     "Jody, you sure you don't want to come along and see
the fireworks?"
     Jody shrugged.  "Not tonight."
     "Ya know," said Laura, "you might enjoy it.  It's not
like both of us have to be here--there's only gonna be one
labor left at the station."
     "I can't just run off on you like that."
     "Don't worry about it, Jody.  I'll be fine here.  Now
go and enjoy the parade."
     "Oh, fine."  Jody stood up dejectedly and followed
Mitch back out into the mech bay.
     Transport 2 was already loaded and waiting.  Mitch
climbed into the driver's seat and picked up his mike.  "You
ready in there, Ron?"
     "Good to go."
     Mitch reached over to Jody, who was fumbling around for
a handhold, and pulled her into the truck.
     "Buckle up," he said to Jody, as she situated herself.
"I just got my heavy vehicle license two weeks ago."
     "Great."
     "Transport 2," said Tony over the radio, "are you set
to leave?"
     "Roger that, Tony.  Ready when you are."
     Mitch turned the key, shifted into drive, and pressed
on the pedal.  The engine revved, but the truck remained
stationary.
     "Uh, Mitch," said Jody, "don't you have to release the
air brake first?"
     "Oh, no.  Diesel engines need to have gas run through
them before they start pulling weight, otherwise there won't
be enough nitrogen in the cylinders to shift out of first
gear."
     "Wow!" Jody exclaimed.  "Did you just think that crap
up on the spot?  I'm impressed!"
     "Thank you," said Mitch proudly as he released the
brake and pulled out of the garage.

     The two rigs drove down Broad Street at a leisurely
thirty miles per hour, turning left on Front Street, which
ran parallel to the intended parade route.  A policeman
flagged them past a roadblock, and they proceeded to their
assigned parking area.
     After getting the all-clear from Tony, Mitch pulled the
lever and raised Ron's labor to a standing position, then
pulled the release valve.  There was a familiar click as the
restraints on the Apollo disengaged.
     "You're free, Ron."
     "Acknowledged," Ron replied.  "I'm climbing down now."
     The truck creaked and swayed as the labor shifted its
weight and finally stepped completely off the bed.
     "Well," said Mitch.  "No use sitting in here.  I know a
great place to watch the parade from."
     Jody shrugged unenthusiastically as she opened the door
and hopped down out of the truck.  She and Mitch walked
farther down Front Street until they reached a bridge going
over a seldom-used set of railroad tracks.  The overpass,
having been blocked from public access because of the
parade, was free of people except for a few miscellaneous
persons who probably had some sort of official involvement
with the upcoming celebration.
     Mitch and Jody sat on the edge of the bridge, resting
their arms on the lower rung of the metal fence and letting
their feet dangle down over the train tracks.
     From their elevated vantage point, the pair could make
out a large crowd gathering on High Street as night
approached.  At length, the celebration commenced, and the
police labors took their places at the rear of the
procession.
     "What the hell is that thing?"  Jody pointed off toward
one of the floats that was bobbing along the road.
     "That," said Weaver, "is Lester the Pink Woodchuck.
He's a mascot for gay animal rights."
     "Ahhh."
     "How 'bout that one?"
     Weaver pondered for a moment.  "To be honest, I don't
know...it kinda reminds me of the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man,
though."
     "Hey, look!  It's Snoopy!"
     Their conversation continued along those lines for
another half hour or so, as they watched the parade go by.

     Captain Styles sat in the break room, staring vacantly
at the television, which at the moment was broadcasting an
aerial shot of the parade.  Surprisingly enough, the two
police mechs seemed to be getting by without any problems.
     Some people are blessed with pessimism so powerful that
they are able to jinx themselves with a mere thought.  Todd
Styles was one of those people.
     The telephone rang.
     Todd put out his cigarette and trudged into his office.
     "Styles here."
     Pause.
     "Oh, great."
     Pause.
     "Do I have a choice?"
     Short pause.
     "Didn't think so.  We'll get right on it."
     Styles hung up the telephone and quickly lit up another
cigarette.  He meandered back into the break room and
resumed his place in front of the TV, then picked up the
radio mike.

     "Larson, this is Styles.  Do you copy?"
     "Loud and clear, sir."
     "We've got an unidentified construction labor heading
west toward High Street on I-270.  I want you to break
formation and move the Nova to intercept."
     "Gotcha."
     "--but take it slow.  Do a left face at the next
intersection and march away from High Street like it was
part of the original parade plan.  I don't particularly want
to incite public hysteria by letting on that there may be a
major problem."
     "Copy that."

     If a beeper goes off in the front seat of a semi and no
one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
     That deep philosophical question and many others like
it were not on Tony Allison's mind as he leaned on the front
of his transport and watched the parade, taking a sip from
his beer.

     "Hey, Mitch...how come Gabe's heading off down a side
street like that?"
     Mitch shrugged.  "No idea.  He's may be--"  Weaver was
interrupted by a loud beeping noise coming from his pocket.
     "Dammit, somebody's paging me."  He pulled the
obnoxious device from its resting place and read the number
that appeared on the display.  "It's Styles," he said.  "My
guess is we're about to find out."
     They stood up and jogged hurriedly back down the road.
     "Captain, this is Mitch," he said into the radio once
they had reached the truck.
     "Weaver, I need you to get back to base immediately.
We've got a problem on our hands.  There's a rogue
construction labor headed towards the parade on I-270.  When
you get here, the Corwin will be loaded and ready on
Transport 1.  Switch trucks as fast as you can, and I'll
give you further orders then.  Styles out."
     "Yes, sir!"
     Mitch started the truck again, this time remembering to
release the air brake before attempting to accelerate.  He
turned on his siren and sped back toward Broad Street as
fast as the vehicle's engine would allow.  The cop, who was
leaning up against the roadblock, scurried out of the way of
the speeding rig.
     Turning right on Front Street, they bore down the near-
empty road back toward CAMP headquarters.
     When they finally reached the mech bay, the Corwin,
still un-painted, was already loaded on Transport 1 and
ready to go.  Mitch turned the vehicle off and threw the
door open, leaping down and making a dash for the other
truck.  Jody, who was still a little dazed by recent events,
climbed down the other side and looked around nervously.
     "You coming, or what?" Mitch yelled.
     "I--well--yeah," Jody replied decisively.
     "Weaver!"  Even without the PA system, Styles' voice
still echoed loudly through the labor bay.
     Weaver hesitated momentarily as he climbed into the
rig.  "Sir?"
     "The labor's still headed toward High Street.  Drive
out and meet Larson at the Front Street exit from 270."
     "Got it."
     The two doors shut almost simultaneously as Mitch and
Jody clambered into the front of the semi.  Seconds later,
Transport 1 roared out of the station toward the intercept
point.

     By the time they reached the exit, the approaching
construction labor was within view about a quarter mile down
the interstate.  Traffic in the northbound lane had come to
a screeching halt; no one was willing to risk exposing
themselves to the danger of coming too close to the hulking
yellow and black menace.
     The massive machine shambled challengingly up the ramp
toward them as Mitch rose the transport's bed and released
the Corwin.  As the small labor stepped down off the
platform, Mitch shifted into reverse and pulled down the
road a ways to give Gabe and Laura some room.
     "Attention," Gabe's voice blared out over the Nova's
loudspeaker.  "This is the police!  Power down your labor
and come out of the hatch with your hands above your head!"
     "That never works," Mitch mumbled.  "Holy shit," he
added, as the construction labor produced a semi-automatic
mech gun from a compartment on its arm and trained it on the
Nova.
     "Like hell I will," said the pilot's voice in a slight
southern accent.  The construction labor backed down the
road toward Mitch so as to keep both the Corwin and the Nova
in view.  "Now," said the pilot, "my gun is pointed right at
your driver's compartment.  If either one of you makes a
move, Mister Nova Pilot here's gonna end up splattered all
over the road!"
     Neither of the labors moved.
     Satisfied, the rogue helmsman continued.  "Ok, I want
you to veeeerrrrry sloooowly open up your hatches and climb
out of your mechs.  This weapon's got a hair trigger, so
don't be tryin' anything funny."
     "Hey, Jody," Mitch whispered, "how thick is the armor
on these transports?"
     "Oh no," she said.  "Don't you even try anything
stupid."
     Mitch, of course, didn't listen.  Instead, he shifted
back into drive and floored it, steering directly towards
the back of the construction mech's legs.
     Jody screamed and ducked down.  There was a resounding
crunch as the transport made contact with the renegade
machine.  All at once, the transport's windshield shattered,
and a gunshot went off.  Then, there was another crunch, as
the mech landed on its back on the bed of Mitch's truck.
     All was quiet for a moment as they slowed to a stop.
Mitch reached up and wiped a trickle of blood off his
forehead.  He glanced over at Jody, who seemed to be alright
despite being paralyzed with fear.

     Styles winced visibly at the image on the television
screen and squeezed the button on his microphone.  "Status
report, Transport 1?"
     "Few cuts and bruises, sir," said Weaver's voice, "but
we're alright."
     "Larson?"
     "Not a scratch on me, Captain.  The bullet went through
my labor's shoulder, but it didn't hit any vital systems."
     "Weaver," said the captain after a brief delay, "that
was the dumbest stunt I've ever seen anyone pull in all my
years on the force.  You and I are going to have a little
talk when I we get back to base.  For now, I want all of you
to stay put.  I'll be there in a few minutes.  Styles out."

     Mitch reached over and put a hand on Jody's shoulder.
"You alright?"
     Jody leaned back and took a deep breath, shaking bits
of broken glass out of her hair.  "You could call it that."
     Mitch climbed down out of the driver's seat and walked
around the front of the truck to the passenger's side, where

he offered Jody a hand getting out of the rig.  She grabbed
hold of his arm and hopped shakily down onto the street.
     "Hey, look," said Mitch, pointing into the sky above
high street.  "The fireworks are starting."
     The four of them (Laura and Gabe still in their labors)
stood and watched as the fireworks burst in the air,
sparkling splashes of color in an otherwise dark sky.

     Ron sat in his mech, trying his best to figure out from
the radio conversation exactly what had transpired.  His
thoughts soon returned to the matter at hand as the National
Anthem begin playing.  The finale was nothing short of
glorious.
     The Apollo saluted throughout the song, and as the
final note played, the mech lifted its rifle and fired a
single shot into the air.

*

Epilogue:  The pilot of the rogue labor was found
unconscious several minutes later.  The unidentified pilot
and Mitch Weaver were taken to the hospital, where Weaver
was treated for minor cuts and abrasions and then released;
the suspect remains in unknown condition.  The motives
behind the attempted terrorist attack have yet to be
determined.