Steel Sworn

by Richard Fox

  “Why leave the Geist behind?” Shannon asked. “Why ignore so many other races that were less advanced? The Qa’Resh had so many other species under their influence. Why take them?”

  “Now it’s getting difficult.” Ibarra stepped to the edge of the light and bowed to the Geist watching them from the pods. “Now it’s time to consider some hard truths…perhaps Malal and the Qa’Resh didn’t consider the Geist worthy of moving on up.”

  Growls and the snap of teeth from the pods hit Ibarra and he winced.

  “But the Geist are oh, so pious…can’t be that!” Ibarra pointed a finger to the ceiling. “What do you all know about the technology from the Ark? The same Qa’Resh tech that you’ve bent to your will? The Ark was powered by soul energy, the same energy you’re hoarding for Malal. Now why on earth would Malal and the Qa’Resh want souls?”

  “We don’t fully understand,” Shannon said. “Malal invited the Geist to come to him for salvation. Eternal life. To do that, the Geist had to give up their mortal bodies and have faith in him.”

  “What a bargain,” Ibarra deadpanned. “It’s never occurred to you that the souls he collected could be used for something? Stop thinking of Malal and the Qa’Resh as angels for a moment and instead…consider them as demons. Why did almost all the Qa’Resh and sentient life disappear at the same time? Did you ever consider that the Qa’Resh harvested all their slave races and used them so the Qa’Resh could save themselves?”

  “No!” Shannon’s word hit Ibarra like a slap, sending him stumbling to the edge of the dais. Ibarra tilted over the darkness, but Shannon grabbed him by the front and held him. “The Geist are the worthiest of all Malal’s children,” she snarled.

  “Then why’d he leave you all behind?” Ibarra asked loudly, and the anger from the pods grew louder. Shannon whipped Ibarra across the dais, the friction scraping the outer layer of his arm and shoulder away, leaving silver exposed.

  “Oh, but since you’re all so pious,” Ibarra said, getting to his feet and brushing himself off, “Malal must have left you behind for a reason? That’s what you’re telling yourselves. You’re the best and brightest, so it must be up to you to redeem all those who weren’t worthy when the Qa’Resh Empire vanished so long ago. Am I right?”

  The anger subsided.

  “That’s what I thought…but you all know what happened on Anthalas, don’t you? The Breitenfeld was sent there after Earth was liberated. The ship and the Strike Marines found a dead civilization, corpses in the millions, all of it centered around Malal…who was imprisoned there, left behind by the—”

  “Lies!” Shannon stalked toward him. Bands of silver shown through her face as she approached. “Malal remained behind to defeat the Xaros so that his legacy would redeem those left behind. We are worthy! Tell us where he is!”

  Ibarra leaned his head back and laughed. “Fools. Fools, the whole lot of you. You can’t accept the simple truth that the Qa’Resh were monsters that sacrificed trillions—trillions!—of innocents so they could save themselves, and Malal was the worst of them. He was so bad, they abandoned him to whatever fate the Xaros brought with them. Swell bunch.”

  “Then where is he?” Shannon narrowed her eyes. “He was there at the end of the Ember War. Where, Ibarra? Tell us so we can join him in exaltation. We will be with him and we can leave the galaxy to the Ibarra Nation and the rest of the unworthy.”

  Ibarra raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, my dear. I can’t help you. Maybe the Geist should consider a new savior…or go back on ice and wait for Malal to come back. Should be anytime now…right?”

  Shannon stepped back and began to fade away, a wicked smile on her face.

  A rustling of millions of insects grew around Ibarra. He retreated to the center of the dais as darkness built around him, the circle of light growing smaller and smaller as shadows swirled. Claws struck at him, gouging long lines against Ibarra’s body.

  Double sets of red eyes and white-fanged mouths appeared in the abyss.

  Ibarra slammed his hands over his face and the din sank to nothing. He peeked between his fingers and saw a kitchen table. He looked around the mansion he called home in Phoenix for many decades, then pointed at a coffee maker. Hot water sputtered and his dark drink poured into a single cup.

  Ibarra took up the cup and sat down, taking in the scent.

  “It’s my mind,” he said. “All of you are guests.”

  ****

  “This is a waste of time.” Noyan lifted Shannon’s face with a silver, four-fingered hand. The Commissar’s eyes were crooked, staring in different directions, as a line of drool ran from the side of her mouth down her chin. The drool turned to ice and Shannon’s flesh went gray as frost bit into her skin.

  In his Geist form of twisted cables and tiny cubes that made up his face and shifted like grains of sand as he spoke, Zegor said, “We’ve made more progress…Ibarra’s defenses weaken when he has to lie. You gleaned something from him, yes?”

  Noyan admired the silver perfection of her Ambassador form and released Shannon. She slumped forward, the cables plugged into the back of her skull going taut before snapping free from the chair the Commissar had been sitting in.

  Shannon convulsed weakly, gagging on her tongue.

  “You broke another one,” Zegor said, stroking his chin.

  “I have many more.” Noyan grew a foot taller, her limbs lengthening as her fingers curled into claws. “This is sublime, Zegor…you simply must get one for yourself. I feel even closer to Malal’s perfection.”

  “That is mine.” Zegor’s dreadlocks writhed like snakes. “You think I forgot that you tried to steal it from my Vishrakath thralls? Stop deflecting and tell me what you learned from the interface.”

  “His mind is strong.” Noyan waved fingers and the floor went semi-opaque. Marc Ibarra was in a chamber below, sitting on an ice-rimed box, his hands on his lap, his chin against his chest. “And we are running out of time.”

  “We slept for so long and now there’s a rush?” Zegor stomped a foot against the floor, trying to get Ibarra’s attention, but the other Ambassador body remained still.

  “The Synod will learn of my breakthrough soon. Pallax has his ways…if he finds out about this…”

  “Afraid you’ll lose your new body?” Zegor nudged Shannon’s body and a forked tongue flicked in the air.

  “Pallax will take control, and when Ibarra does break, he will get the glory. If we are the first to the most holy Malal…we will be fully exalted before the others,” Noyan said.

  “What did you learn from the heretic?” Zegor asked.

  “He knows…he knows where Malal is, but his mental defenses are strong. He’s had too much time inside that body. I will not risk interfacing directly with him, as such the meat puppets are needed.” Noyan stepped away from a puddle spreading from Shannon.

  “Take the risk.” Zegor’s eyes flashed. “I’ll be there to pull you out if the human’s mind is too strong.”

  “Yes, you’d cry alligator tears if anything untoward were to happen to me. Have you encountered an alligator yet? They’re quite popular with the Turn masters. We feed heretics to them even before the animals are bent to our will.” Noyan waved a hand through the air in front of her and screens awash in Geist letters appeared, a single procedural generation tube in the center.

  “Ordering another one of these?” Zegor sneered at Shannon’s corpse.

  “Oh yes…another.” Noyan smiled as the screens reflected off her silver shell.

  Chapter 11

  Ely stepped into the coffin maintenance bay where techs and medics rushed about the catwalk and the shop floor, all converging around Pulaski’s Armor.

  “This is my fault,” Ely said as the amniosis around him slowly drained away. “Is he going to be all right?”

  +Santos locked the Karigole off from the rest of the lance. Good move when someone gets close to the redline. Less stress on the mind, the better.+

  “What do I do now?” Ely co
ughed up the thick fluid, retching as more came out of his stomach.

  +You’re responsible? Take responsibility. Maybe he’s OK and you’ll just get your pee-pee slapped.+

  “My what-what?” Ely swiped amniosis off his face and the collar snapped open. He practiced breathing on his own as cool air pumped into the pod. The top hatch opened and Ely stood up. A stepladder was set up for him with one of the powder-crusted towels hanging over the top bar.

  Lars was already at Pulaski’s suit, along with a medic team and stretcher. Santos stood with the small of his back against the catwalk handrail, his hands opening and closing. Both Armor soldiers were in their skin suits, streaks of amniosis staining their faces.

  Pulaski’s Armor still smoldered in parts. One side of the helm had collapsed under the bombardment, the broken metal forming an ugly smile.

  “Come on…” Ely said, still standing in his pod.

  Pulaski’s breastplate cracked open. Steam rose from the pod and the medics readied cutting tools. A line drew across Pulaski’s pod, then the top hatch opened. The Karigole pulled himself up, neural plugs still attached to the port on the back of his skull.

  The alien wiped his face clean, then gripped his plug wires with one hand. They unscrewed and spattered fluid over the crowd around his suit. He dropped the cable and stretched his arms.

  “What?” Pulaski rubbed a knuckle against his dead eye. “I’m fine.”

  The crowd broke out in cheers and clapped.

  “Go get checked out.” Santos pointed at the stretcher.

  “Pointless.” Pulaski vaulted out of his suit and landed on both feet next to Santos. The alien’s feet were scaly, with thick, sharp nails. “Your doctors do not know what to look for.”

  “Big Green loaded the robot docs with the right software. Medics. Now.” Santos put a hand on Pulaski’s shoulder.

  The Karigole took a towel from Sugimoto and dabbed it against his reptilian skull. He looked at Ely and spat to one side, then tossed the towel away and shouldered through the crowd.

  “Where is the spirit talker? I require an animal as sacrifice!” Pulaski beat the meat of his fists against the catwalk rails, sending a rumble through the metal.

  “That’s not how doctors work!” Santos called out, then waved a hand at Pulaski. He spoke to Lars quietly as Ely climbed down from his suit and toweled off. He scrubbed his chest and the amniosis fell away as dust.

  His suit had a few dings on it, and spatter marks of yellow blood ran up one arm.

  “Lillebror,” Lars said, tapping Ely on the shoulder. “Get decent and report to the captain in one hour.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Ely asked. “My dad talked about a board when Pathfinders screwed up in the field. I don’t even have one of their knives to be taken from me.”

  “You not notice that we’re in the middle of a war? No one has time for a board. Why are you so worried?”

  “Why? Look at Pulaski’s suit. He almost got killed because I screwed up.” Ely’s shoulders slumped.

  “But did he?”

  “No…he looked OK to me.” Ely sighed.

  “We can fix the suits, lillebror. It’s the soldiers we can’t replace. You think we’re supposed to come back as pristine as we left? The Geist shoot at us, in case you haven’t noticed,” Lars said. “Perfection is not the standard.”

  “What about not watching my sector and failing to call out a threat?” Ely asked.

  “That’s different, but we all lived to fight another day, ja? We’ve got a whole hour to ourselves. Let’s hit the chow hall. When was the last time you ate real food?”

  “Huh…I don’t even know. Guess I can have a last meal before the captain—ah!” Ely jumped away from his Armor like he’d stepped on a live wire.

  Stinker was on the other rail, hands and feet gripping the metal like he was an oversized chameleon. The Toth menial licked an eyeball, then canted its head to one side.

  “Gear malfunction in right hip servo?” the Toth asked. One eye blinked at Ely while the other looked over his suit.

  “It’s talking to me.” Ely inched behind Lars. “How can it do that?”

  “Stinker knows his suit maintenance. You have a gear malfunction or not?” Lars asked.

  Ely shook his head.

  Stinker rattled his claws against the rail, then scrambled up the suit.

  Ely shuddered.

  “You afraid of lizards or something?” Lars asked as the two walked to the locker room.

  “Yes. No. It’s that Dad took me and Jerry camping once and told us stories about the Toth…I’ve had nightmares ever since. Thanks, Dad. Never looked at lizards the same way after that,” Ely said.

  Lars laughed. “No worries, lillebror; that Toth won’t eat your brain. You know you’re not supposed to feed him dairy. Ever. That was made crystal clear to you?”

  “Yes. People are very serious about that.”

  “Good. Now let’s eat.”

  ****

  Ely set his tray into the open space within a food printer and waited. A light blinked on the control panel and words in Basque scrolled over screen.

  “You’re not even in the system yet.” Lars reached over Ely’s shoulder and tapped the screen. A turnstile inside the food printer turned and the tray vanished. “We’ll feed it your meal preferences later…so you’re getting the bog standard.”

  A plate with yellow rectangles came around. A sputtering noise followed and red sauce splattered over the rectangles.

  “Yum-o,” Ely said, removing the tray.

  “Yup, bacalao.” Lars raised his tray toward empty seats at one end of a long table. “Least it wasn’t baby squid.”

  They sat down and Ely stared at his food, sniffing at it. Lars reached over into plastic bins on a cart and slid a pack of utensils and a water bottle to Ely.

  “What is it?” Ely asked.

  “Reconstituted fats, protein, and enough vitamins and minerals to keep your system going for a while. All in the shape of breaded codfish with a poor attempt at a red sauce. When was the last time you had something home cooked like this?” Lars asked.

  The Swede had a plate of meatballs with a tart-smelling sauce and mashed potatoes.

  “Can’t really say. It was hospital food on Earth, then nutrient paste with Hoffman.” Ely cut a bit of the cod with the side of his fork and took a bite. He rolled the fish around his mouth, then began to nod.

  “It’s good. Real good,” Ely said.

  “The Ibarrans always get Basque food right. Meanwhile, my lingonberry sauce has no taste to it. I never understood,” he said, chewing a pair of meatballs and swallowing, “why Marc and Stacey Ibarra chose to model the Ibarra Nation off the Basque. The language is impossible. The Basque were a small ethnicity in what used to be Spain and France…not exactly the superpower you’d think Ibarra would have started from.”

  “Marc Ibarra was Basque…but raised in America. I don’t know. Maybe they wanted to feel at home when they went off to do their own thing.” Ely shrugged and ate some more.

  “Or the Ibarrans wanted the divide,” Lars said. “After the Ember War, all the survivors were from the Atlantic Union. Western culture was what we had left—though I can never get how some of the Brazilians act. Basque were always the odd ducks of Europe. My guess is that Ibarra didn’t want the Nation or the Union to get along, so they intentionally gave their people a cultural gap.”

  “They took you in, and me,” Ely said. “Are we really that different?”

  “Politics. War. Strange bedfellows and all that.” Lars mixed his potatoes with the berry sauce. “It gets weirder. You heard about artifact worlds?”

  “No.”

  Lars looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned closer to Ely.

  “The Ibarrans colonized these planets. Planets where the population thinks they’re on Earth, but in different time periods and some from extinct cultures. I heard there’s one like feudal Japan, another that’s Afrikaners settling
grasslands like it’s the nineteenth century. But no planet of Swedes. I could recruit more into the lifgardet…maybe share my last can of surströmming with the bikini team.”

  “That is weird,” Ely said.

  “I once saw an infantry unit in English pith helmets. Not kidding.” Lars glanced at his forearm screen and frowned. “The captain wants me. You know where to go?”

  “Yes, nineteen minutes.” Ely’s face fell. He poked at his fish sticks.

  “Captain’s a boot-in-the-ass, not a rip-off-the-face type of leader.” Lars winked at him and took his tray away.

  Ely ate a few more bites then dropped the tray down a chute. He was almost out the swinging doors when they opened on him and pushed him back. Soldiers in fresh fatigues muscled into the mess hall, each well over six feet tall and built like trucks. They had thick skulls and jaws that looked like they could crack walnuts.

  One bumped into Ely, and the bruiser leaned slightly to see what had gotten in his way, squinting at Ely. More of the equally large soldiers clustered around the curious one.

  “A doughboy?” Ely peered up at the soldier. “Wow, I didn’t think they still made you guys. Fixed the skin issues and the smell.” Ely poked the soldier in stomach. “No smell at all. They must’ve changed the polymer construction and—”

  The soldier grabbed Ely by the front of his overalls and lifted him off the ground, bellowing, “Who does he belong to? Where is the sergeant that let this fish flop around?”

  The mess hall went silent.

  “You can talk so well…wait…you’re not a doughboy…” Ely went pale.

  The soldier lifted Ely higher, until his head bumped against the ceiling.

  “Let’s eat him,” said a heavily scarred soldier.

  “Hey! Armor soldiers are delicate!” Sugimoto shouted from the food printers, her arms loaded down with covered trays.

  The soldier hoisting Ely up turned him around to see the back of his head, then whipped Ely back to look him eye to eye. Ely tried to smile.