by Richard Fox
“We’re not Union anymore.” Santos beat a fist to his chest. “For the Lady. For us all. Now move out and draw fire.”
****
Nakir left the field hospital, his superficial wounds treated and a “Return to Duty” chit in his hand. He shouldered his rifle and walked around the back of the hospital to where the dead were laid out. The Ibarrans’ medical system was strained with every clash, and triage meant that those too injured to survive without heroic efforts were left to expire…yet others didn’t survive emergency surgery.
Triage was as old as war, and the Ibarrans’ difficult choices provided him with an opportunity.
He took a small device from his pocket—one of the medics had left it on a tray and taken her eyes off it—and held it over a row of dark body bags lined up next to a flatbed truck. No robots for this work; the Ibarrans handled their own dead.
Profiles of the fallen flipped across the screen. Most were infantry from scratch companies, a few from established military units. The more dead he saw that had been civilians before the Geist invasion, the more he knew the Ibarran defense here was getting desperate.
One profile came up and he stopped. Cable, Todd, Logistics Division Alpha. Age: 21. Only son. No listed next of kin.
“I’m sure you served them well.” Nakir went to one knee and unzipped the body bag. The smell of blood and ruined entrails hit him, and he had to look away for a moment. Keitel had died quickly, at least.
His eyes were held closed with strips of clear tape. The soldier’s body was unrecognizable as human from the waist down, but his right arm was intact, which was what Nakir needed. He was running a hand down the blood-encrusted sleeve when he sensed someone behind him.
“This isn’t allowed,” a man said. “Attracts insects. Vermin. Nothing personal, you understand?”
Nakir looked up with a snarl. The man was in threadbare fatigues, a black patch with a silver cross on his collar. Graves and Registration. His face was tired, the skin around his eyes and jowls drooping. Nakir’s feigned anger had no effect on him.
“I can’t even say goodbye?” Nakir clenched Keitel’s wrist and worked the clasp on the logistics access band that was still on the corpse.
“This batch is due for cremation,” the undertaker said, raising his chin to the truck. “But there’s time for a prayer…if you like.”
Nakir’s heart fluttered. Crusaders had a litany of prayers, all of them said in Latin. Prayers that Nakir didn’t know perfectly. Fouling words for the dead could ruin his cover, and this far behind Ibarran lines wasn’t the place for such a mistake.
“I’m not…can’t say I feel the Saint’s spirit right now. I was nearby when it happened.” He brushed fingers over his rapidly healing patch of Nu-Skin.
“No issue, son. I save my prayers for their souls to the end of my shift…My boys are here. Close your friend up before we get to you, yeah?”
“Thank you.” Nakir nodded slowly and drew the hand on the corpse’s wrist away, the access band hidden in his palm. The undertaker moved to the head of the line, where a handful of soldiers hefted body bags onto the truck.
Nakir looked down at the dead man’s face, knowing he needed to act the part of the grieving for a few minutes. Keitel’s countenance was soft and oh-so very still. Nakir was used to seeing the dead not long after he’d killed them, their bodies still warm, their soul lingering. This one was far gone. His Wield thrummed behind his eyes, sensing nothing.
Who were you? he thought. Another abomination from the tube farms spat into the grinder at Lady Ibarra’s orders? Full of faith and fire and not a single independent thought in your mind? Or were you true-born? Did you choose to fight because you actually believed in this war? You haven’t seen what the Geist can do for us, how they will bring us to salvation. That’s not what your “Lady” or your false Saint can do. Your soul is lost. The Geist cannot lead you to Malal’s grace anymore. Shame…if you’d lived a few more days, we could have saved your soul—if you were wise enough to surrender. But we don’t often encounter that trait among Crusaders.
The mortuary workers picked up a body bag a few spots down from him and Nakir put a hand on Keitel’s shoulder. He zipped the bag closed and hurried away, his head down and shoulders tight.
As he got away from the field hospital and the bodies, Nakir looked up. He slipped the access band onto his wrist and squeezed it to grind away dried blood.
His target was in a very specific model of Armor, one that needed certain parts that the rest of the Ibarran Armor didn’t use. A few minutes searching supply requisitions would pinpoint exactly where Ely Hale was in the city, and Nakir had the perfect cover story to get close to him.
Increasing his pace, Nakir made for a foundry a few blocks away, a smile on his face.
Chapter 8
Marshal Roland walked around the holo tank where the diagram of the Astranite spun slowly, several of the components blinking red. A trio of flag-grade officers, one in the red and black of the Ibarran Navy, stood to one side of the tank.
“So what’s the problem?” Roland stopped and asked.
A one-star general stepped forward. She had blond hair cut high over her collar and a stress-aged face.
“Sir, even with our foundry working full-time to make the components, we’re still running behind the timetable you gave us.”
“You’re not one to bring me a problem without a solution, General Halk.” Roland jabbed his hand into the holo and lifted out more screens.
“Our fleet attaché suggested bringing in a…consultant.” Halk gave the lone naval officer the side-eye. “The proposal has merit, I must admit.”
Roland lifted his chin and frowned, then his eyes went wide. “No.” He turned to the trio and set his hands against the railings. “Not him. Admiral Udane has lost his damned mind.”
“His reputation precedes him,” Udane said, raising his hands. “If there’s anyone that can fix our bottleneck, it would be him.”
“He’s in my jail because of more than his reputation.” Roland leveled a finger at Udane. “No.”
“We need a solution.” Udane held up three fingers and counted down to zero.
A chime sounded in the holo tank and a video request screen appeared.
“Is that Admiral Makarov?” Roland asked, his tone deadpan.
“Y-yes, sir,” Halk said.
The Marshal glared at Udane, who feigned innocence.
“Fine. Fine! Bring him to me.” Roland whirled around and cancelled Makarov’s call.
****
A man in an orange jumpsuit shuffled into Roland’s command center, his wrists and ankles cuffed to a chain. A massive legionnaire kept a meaty paw on the back of the man’s neck, who kept his head down, staring at his ratty socks and sandals.
The guard pulled the prisoner to a stop and he looked up at Roland standing at his holo tank.
“Mr. Niles Paul Standish,” Roland said heavily. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Standish looked up, his thin hair in crazy wisps. He looked far younger than his effective age, a testament to a fortune spent on rejuvenation work and plastic surgery. He glanced around at all the exits—manned with armed guards—then to the ceiling.
“Am I finally free to go?” Standish asked. “I’ve been rotting away in your jail for weeks without legal counsel or even a hearing. All for a simple misunderstanding over a few shipping manifests that—”
“Eight counts of grand theft,” Roland read from a pad. “Three counts of false official statements to customs officials. Smuggling proscribed substances—”
“Alcohol is perfectly legal!” Standish tried to raise his hands and only managed to rattle his chains. “So what if they were missing some tax stamps?”
“Nine counts of wire fraud and…” Roland raised an eyebrow, “public indecency involving clergy.”
“She said she wasn’t married and I had no idea there were nuns around that corner when I made my escape.” Standish looked incredulous
. “What? That’s never happened to anyone else here?”
General Halk cleared her throat.
“Let the record show that all of these charges are alleged,” Standish said. “Maybe not that last one, but I was under duress. I’ll remind you that the only reason I’m even on Aachen is because I was transporting refugees from New Benin—at my own expense!”
“It’s illegal to charge refugees for passage,” Roland said.
“Still at my own expense!”
“Evidentiary standards are lowered during declared military crises,” Roland said. “The only reason your case hasn’t been adjudicated is that everyone else that was arrested has been as uncooperative in the investigation as you’ve been.”
“My, all of us prisoners have been in quite the pickle,” Standish’s eyes twinkled, “almost a dilemma, one could say.”
General Halk laughed but stifled it after an angry look from Roland.
“As it stands, I’m judge, jury, and the prosecutor,” Roland said. “Executioner too, if I feel like it.”
“But you need something.” Standish wagged his eyebrows. “Which is why I’m here.”
Roland seethed for a moment, then tapped his slate against the handrail.
“I need several components, all of it heavy equipment,” Roland said. “Equipment that is somewhere in this city, but logistics logs were lost during a Geist cyberattack on our computer infrastructure. The paper backups were also lost during a fire. If you help us find these components…I will issue you a conditional pardon for all your crimes.”
“Alleged crimes,” Standish said. “As much as I appreciate your offer, I couldn’t accept knowing that so many others are still in jail on the same baseless charges. Extend the pardon to my crew and then we’re talking.”
“Patrick,” Roland said.
The guard grabbed Standish by the collar and hauled him up to look eye to eye with Roland.
“You think you’re in some sort of position to negotiate?” Roland asked quietly.
“Naturally, you’re offering me a get-out-of-jail-free card in exchange for what—and I’m shocked, shocked, that there’s even a suspicion of this—for what I might know about where to find missing equipment. So we are indeed negotiating, Marshal Shaw.”
Roland’s face went flush and his jaw grinded from side to side.
“Fine. Conditional pardons for you and your crew.” Roland’s eyes darted to one side and Patrick dropped Standish, who fell with a panicked yelp. He tripped over his restraints and lay on his back.
“And I want my ship back!” Standish cried out.
“Denied. The Crusade has need of it. Don’t worry, you’ll be compensated for its fair market value.” Roland held out a hand, and a JAG officer gave him a clipboard with several sheets of paper on it.
“You’re what?” Standish jerked at his restraints. “In that case, I need some blanket amnesty for anything…untoward…you might find on my ship. I can’t vouch for everything my crew does every minute of every day. If there’s some contraband on board, I can’t be held responsible for that. Assuming there’s anything to find. Naturally.”
“I’ll write it in,” Roland muttered. “Patrick. Release him.”
The guard broke the chains with his bare hands and Standish scrambled to his feet. The cuffs popped open and clattered to the floor. Patrick loomed over Standish, the muscles in his face twitching.
“I don’t do autographs, sorry.” Standish gave him a pat on the slab of one pectoral.
“But you do need to sign this,” Roland said, tossing over the clipboard, “or you get nothing.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Standish unsnapped a pen beneath the clip, flipped to the back of the packet, read over the list of charges, then signed his name. “Get me a list of what you need and I’ll get to work.”
He slapped the clipboard flat against Patrick’s stomach.
“You need a uniform. General Halk is a stickler for protocol,” Roland said.
“Come again?” Standish frowned.
“You signed a contract to serve in my Crusade. Page two, subparagraph seven.” Roland smirked.
Standish took the clipboard back and flipped to the second page. He mumbled as he read and went pale.
“But you’ve got rank commensurate with your position. I trust you won’t have any trouble finding a uniform, Colonel Standish.”
“Oh, a colonel. At least someone appreciates my talents. Wait…” Standish raised a finger.
“Officer misconduct isn’t tolerated in the Crusade, Standish. It’s the firing squad for any felony.” Roland’s smirk stretched into a slight smile. “That hasn’t been much of an issue, not sure why I feel compelled to mention it.”
“No problem. No problem at all…sir.” Standish rubbed his wrists.
“With me, Colonel.” Halk tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s start off with the encabulators. Do you know where we can find one with multiple marzelvanes?”
“Famulated or pre-famulated amulite? Doesn’t matter, both are in a storehouse on 8th Avenue. Crates are mislabeled as phase detractors. Oh…toodles!” Standish wagged fingers at Patrick as he and Halk left.
“Patrick…” Roland leaned over the rail and the guard looked up at the Marshal, his eyes still hot with anger. “Patrick, you’re still assigned to Colonel Standish. Can’t have him getting any crazy ideas.”
“Sir,” Patrick said and jogged away, his feet heavy against the floor.
Roland rubbed at an oncoming stress headache. Morrigan stepped out of the shadows and holstered her pistol.
“Am I going to regret this?” he asked her.
“Definitely. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow…but if we live to regret it, it’ll all be worth it,” she said.
“I’ll hold you to it. Now let’s get back to that intel report from the outriders.”
****
Ely was in Armor, his gun arm braced out in front of him, the range ahead a simple projection of range markings. A bull’s-eye snapped up at the 200-meter mark and Ely’s gauss cannons snapped, the weapon barely recoiling.
One simulated round clipped the target and it spun around before disappearing.
“Ha, got that one.” Ely bent his gun arm in triumph. A new target of an oblong Xaros drone, its stalk tips alight with power, appeared directly in front of him. “Crap! Crap!” He ducked and fired blind.
“Range fault. Range fault,” sounded in his ears.
+If you were shooting real bullets, you would’ve shot up the low wall in front of you,+ Aignar said.
“Why’d it have to be a Xaros?” Ely stood up. “Those things freak me out.”
“Wow, you think the enemy’s going to be nice and easy circles for you to shoot?” Lars stepped up to the firing line inside his Armor. His suit was matte-black and several feet taller than Ely’s, and it had blue runes on the shoulders and breastplate. In the center of his chest was the faded paint of a unit crest. “You’re bringing the target to the sights, not the sights to the target.”
Aiming his arm-mounted weapon down the range, he locked his helm’s gaze down the barrels and raised them both up together at a 150-meter target.
“Not like that. Your vision will tunnel. You need to be looking around as much as you can for hostiles to engage or for hostiles to call out. Don’t stare down the straw. There’s more to see. You spot the target and you raise your sights to the target.”
He shot the 150, then swung his arm across to hit three additional targets in less than a second.
“Oh…just like that,” Ely said.
+And just like I told you,+ Aignar said.
“You shut up.” Ely hit two more targets after missing a few times.
Lars put a hand on Ely’s shoulder.
“Not you! You don’t need to shut up.” Ely cocked his gun arm up.
“Then who needs to shut up? The man who released his soul so you can wear the Armor of one of our greatest?” Lars asked.
+I like this one.+
“Sorry. Sorry, I’m frustrated is all,” Ely said. “This isn’t easy.”
“You saw the elephant and didn’t freeze up—that’s something,” Lars said. “And your suit is…you never did selection at Knox, so you didn’t do the road march through the night to the Armor center. I was a recruit coming into the building with the hall of suits from the earliest iterations to the Armor we’d take to combat. You’re in the model that fought in Australia and the first battles of the Ember War. And then there’s who wore that Armor…”
“The guy I was named for, whose name I can’t even say because the Geist crossed some of my wires. No pressure, right?”
“Then let’s change the scenario, give you some skills to respect your namesake.” Lars turned sideways to the range and cocked his right arm. A panel opened and an emitter poked out, an energy shield unfurling into a kite shape. He poked the twin barrels of his gauss cannons over a divot on one side of the shield.
Ely mimicked the stance and imagined a shield on his lead arm. A bar extended from the forearm and a circular shield snapped out painfully slow.
“Why don’t I have the neat force-field thing?” Ely asked.
“The Wield takes practice,” Lars said. “It can be our sword, our shield. But it takes practice and you have to earn the right to use it. How the Crusade came to acquire it…How about you learn not to fall through the ice before you try långfärdsskridskoåkning—eh, free skating over a frozen lake, ja?”
“I can skate?” Ely looked down at his feet.
“No…let’s get you familiar with rail gun employment. See if you can handle that.”
****
Nakir hopped off a cargo tram. His uniform was now the simple fatigues and single unit patch of the city militia, which made him blend in with nearly every military-aged male he’d come across. He hauled the case with the heat sinks off the tram and struggled to carry it to a flat pallet jack.
He looked around the tram stop to make sure no one else was around, then reached through the Wield with his arms and used the power to help lift the weight. He went light-headed for a moment. Pulling from within—instead of using the cells the Geist provided—drained him more than he’d anticipated.
