Late in his academic career, Maxwell had found himself travelling with a group of space pirates known as the Cosmic Jets. It wasn’t where the future philosopher would have thought he’d be when he set out on his journey. But he felt that his collection of belief systems and philosophies had been missing some grit. After all, selfish and antagonistic beliefs should be documented just as diligently as positive ones, as they were all part of the human condition. Plus, it provided some relief from seeking out new ideologies only to find out that they just boil down to “devotion to a higher service makes your life better”.
Morally, he didn’t agree with the idea of thievery, but any gripes about it could be put aside for the sake of his research. He did, however, draw a hard line against murder, which is why he made sure the Jets were the type of criminals to at least leave their victims alive at the end of their plundering. It wasn’t much, but it’s the closest thing to ethical piracy he could find.
Despite detailed explanations of his academic goals and his reasoning for wanting to tag along with the Jets, the pirates seemed to misunderstand and instead thought that Maxwell was a journalist writing some kind of book about them specifically. He didn’t try to correct them; it helped give him the in he needed after all. Everyone on the ship was incredibly excited at the idea of being interviewed and having their lifestyle documented. Every day, a different member of the crew dragged him somewhere to show him how they do their jobs and tell him about their life story. He wasn’t aiming to be a crew biographer, but he indulged them as they often would unintentionally drop some detail that shed light on what rules space marauders abide by, which made the conversations worth it.
On one particular day, Maxwell was talking to Roger, the head mechanic, in the docking bay. He was showing off the mechs they had on the ship, most of them stolen or salvaged, although there was a high chance that the latter actually just meant the former given the Jets’ line of work. Roger was just explaining how his gig with the Jets was “the best way to get off his home planet” and that he took it to “stick it to his dad who never approved of a stinkin’ thing he did” when the conversation was interrupted by loud sirens. Captain Enzio’s gruff voice came over the ship’s loudspeakers. The ship was under attack by the Stellar Sharks, the Cosmic Jets’ rivals in piracy, and it was all hands on deck to defend. Maxwell desperately wanted to ask Roger how pirate rivalry worked and if that kind of thing was a common occurrence in their field, but the mechanic was already scrambling to get ready for combat. After the other crew members had reached the bay and entered their mechs, Roger returned to Maxwell.
“Hey kid, you ever pilot a mech before?” Roger asked.
“No, but I know how to drive. Is that a similar skillset?” He replied. Roger laughed, slapping him on the shoulder hard. The academic’s wince of pain seemed to go unnoticed. “I never took you for a joker, Max! Why don’t you get in one of the spare mechs and see how similar it is? I gotta be on stand by in case we need any emergency repairs. You’re welcome to join me up top once you’re done scribbling notes about being in a cockpit during battle, even if you’re not doing anything.”
Roger climbed up the ladder leading to the captain’s deck and disappeared, leaving Maxwell alone in the bay. By this point, everyone had mobilised and joined the fray. He figured he’d take up the offer to sit in a mech, just to see what they look like inside, and jumped into the nearest one that was the easiest to get into.
Settling into the seat, Maxwell instinctively grabbed hold of the two joysticks in front of him. He wasn’t sure what he did, but the mech’s systems began to activate - the cockpit door closed automatically and the mechanisms holding the machine in place unlocked. Panic began to set in, and he looked at all the gauges, dials, and switches in front of him. He could make sense of some of the basic ones like speed, fuel, and altitude but didn’t see anything that said “Please stop, I didn’t mean to activate this”.
While he was frantically investigating, a large explosion burst out into the bay. The ship had been struck badly and it must have caused a breach. Before he could process the implications of a breach in the bay, the implications struck him first; Maxwell was violently sucked out onto the battlefield. He was still feeling disoriented from the force of being ejected into the void of space when his mech was suddenly stabbed by one of the Sharks wielding a plasma knife, lodging itself in his frame. Inside the cockpit, alarms started ringing, informing the unintentional pilot that whatever just got hit, it wasn’t good. Time began to slow. Maxwell figured this was it, his life was at an end, and this was his brain trying to prolong its existence as much as it could. A wave of immense sadness struck, almost as hard as the mech had been hit, followed immediately by the heavy weight of regret about how he would never achieve his goal of writing the United Belief, all because he was curious about the cockpit of a mech. This never happened to Jenny when she was curious. There was still so much to do, so much to learn. He didn’t want to die here. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.” The refrain echoed in his head, starting quiet before reaching a loud crescendo. It sparked something in his body, a passionate fire unlike anything the academic had ever felt before. Maxwell had to fight. He didn’t know how, but he had to fight.
Time roared back to normal as he grasped the controls of his mech and pulled back. He wasn’t sure how it all worked, but he found himself kicking the enemy away, sending them spinning off backward.
He’d achieved some distance, but his mind was left racing trying to figure out what to do next. He looked at the enemy mech and saw it start to reach for a gun strapped to its back. He had to stop them from doing any more damage, lest he take any more big hits. Pulling the embedded plasma knife out from his frame, he charged forward, now wielding the weapon against its owner. As he boosted towards the other mech, he started wildly slashing at their left arm. One of his slashes landed, severing the arm completely. The resulting explosion from the severed robotic limb shook Maxwell’s mech, but he held on tight as he attacked again, this time stabbing the knife deep into the remaining arm. There wasn’t any big explosion from this stab, but he assumed he’d done something right as it hung lamely, unable to reach for the gun. Sensing the tide had turned, the neutralised Shark retreated with haste, leaving Maxwell alone in this little pocket of the conflict.
He took a moment, realising that he was shaking and breathing heavily. A side effect of the adrenaline, he assumed. Reflecting on what just happened, more than anything he was surprised at how easy it was to pilot a mech. He didn’t understand most of what was going on inside of it, sure, but controlling it felt straightforward. Why had Roger made it seem like it was some kind of insurmountable task?
The skirmish between the rival gangs had ended as abruptly as it began, with everyone retreating back to their safe havens. After his rush had subsided, Maxwell followed the other Jets and brought his mech back onto the ship. As he entered, a message came through on what he assumed was a communications panel. It read “MAKE SURE YOU WEAR A HELMET BEFORE YOU GET OUT OF THAT MECH. BAY IS STILL PRETTY FUCKED UP! THERE SHOULD BE A SPARE HARDSUIT BELOW THE SEAT. - ROGER.” Grateful for the warning, Maxwell made sure to suit up before he exited, where he was met by the mechanic immediately.
Roger went for the shoulder slap again. This time, the hardsuit had absorbed most of the impact. “Max, I didn’t take you for a joker and I definitely didn’t take you for a liar! Why did you tell me you didn’t know how to pilot? Is this some kind of journalistic integrity thing?”
Maxwell shrugged and replied, “I don’t know how to pilot. I was just doing what seemed obvious to me. It wasn’t that complicated to get it moving around.”
The response earned “Max” a stony glare. “Kid, pull the other one. No newbie can disable a mech in combat like you just did. Granted, the Sharks are a bunch of drunks who can barely fly their way out of a paper bag, but still. Who taught you how to do that?”
“I’m telling you, I just did what I thought made sense. I’ve never piloted before, and I don’t think I ever want to again after that.”
Roger’s annoyed stare melted into a look of complete shock. “You’re not kidding, huh, kid? You must be one of those smart guys who can pick up something without trying too hard. You’d be a damned fool to never pilot again if you’re such a natural at it. People with those skills would be in high demand anywhere you go: be it military or freelancing.”
Maxwell had never thought about doing anything other than documenting philosophies and trying to write his United Belief. That was his reason for being. Piloting didn’t seem like something he could really make use of, if he was being honest. Especially if he was always going to be knocked around like he was just now. How could he write in such violent conditions?
“Anyway, kid, once we get the bay repaired, we’re going to go on another run. There’s apparently a run-down space station nearby, which should be an easy target. Even if they’re not too well off, I bet they’re still richer than us, so we should be able to make some kind of money.”
All thoughts about piloting and its possible implications vanished immediately, after an unintentionally revealing comment from the mechanic. Maxwell opened his journal, scribbling down a note which read, “Stealing from the poor is okay if they’re richer than you”. He was starting to piece together what creed the pirates lived their lives by. It wouldn’t be too long until all he had left to do was create a name for the philosophy and then figure out where he’d be off to next.