Steel Sworn

by Richard Fox

  +I would rather have died with my son.+

  Santos canted his helm slightly.

  “He says…he says he would have rather died with his son.” Ely regained full control of his suit and walked back, his palms to Santos.

  “You don’t know what happened to him. Fight like he’s alive, Aignar.” Santos accessed Ely’s biometric monitoring and screens opened up on Ely’s HUD. “Your soldier is on the edge. Dose him with Compound 12.”

  A chill went through Ely’s body and the buzzing in his mind subsided.

  “Good.” Santos nodded. “Let’s roll out.”

  ****

  Nakir flexed his injured arm slightly. The autodoc at the field hospital had patched him back together well enough, though the Nu-Skin patch over his triceps itched like mad. He sat in a crowd of soldiers that had been through the same triage process as he had. No one was allowed to leave before the painkillers wore off.

  “Hey, Faben, that you?” Lieutenant Haddar nudged his shoulder.

  Nakir looked up and let the lingering pain show on his face. “Still me,” Nakir said. The Ibarran officer knew him by the fake name the Commissar had given when he’d first infiltrated. That it was a false name that Stacey Ibarra had once hidden behind struck Nakir with a delicious irony.

  “You like getting shot or something?” He looked over his shoulder to a soldier with sergeant stripes on an arm brassard. “Daly, you find our guys?”

  Daly wagged a slate at the field hospital. “Got Johan and Par. Optio got downgraded to expectant,” Daly said.

  “Human doc could’ve saved him.” Haddar’s face hardened for a moment, like he’d swallowed a bitter pill, then his expression smoothed out again. “Faben, I know you can fight. What provisional company are you in?”

  “It was the 5th, but I don’t know where they are now,” Nakir said. He’d overheard other wounded lamenting that the 5th had been wiped out to man.

  “Yeah? Well, you’re back in my provisional. On your feet.” Haddar held a hand to him.

  Nakir took it and got up slowly. “Back to the front?” Nakir shifted a rifle off his shoulder and into his hands.

  “There’s nowhere else to go. For the Lady.” Haddar picked up a ration pack from an open box and shoved it into his jacket.

  Nakir smiled slightly. The front lines were just where he needed to go.

  Chapter 15

  Fleet Admiral Makarov stared down at her teacup. She tilted it from side to side, watching specks of leaves moving within the brown liquid.

  “More, Admiral?” asked Goncharov, her steward, brass pot in hand.

  “Please.” She set the cup in the saucer then looked over the plates and cups in front of her senior officers. They’d pecked at the kozinaki and churchkhela snacks and steam rose from most of their cups.

  Goncharov poured her tea then put the pot on top of a matching samovar, the Ibarran Navy crest embossed on the wide front.

  “Samovar,” Makarov said to the metal kindling pot, “I believe my officers disagree with our present course of action. Would you ask them to voice their concerns?”

  “Admiral,” said Volkov, her first officer, raising his cup, “if I may speak freely, I have not had a conversation through the samovar since I last saw my babushka and had to explain why I wasn’t married. This mission…the probability of success is low.”

  “Too low,” said Gunnery Officer Govorov as he poured some of his tea into his saucer so that it would cool faster. “We detected the graviton pulse from the Geist weighing anchor from the moon. There’s a chance they’re on an intercept course right now—”

  “And how difficult is it to engage a ship underway on Alcubierre acceleration? We’re jinking our course randomly, correct, Vasiliev?” Makarov asked.

  “Aye aye,” said Captain Vasiliev, the shipmaster, nibbling on fruit, not pastry.

  “If I was defending the planet,” Govorov said, taking a sip from his saucer, “I would wait for the Warsaw to come out of drive within moon orbit. Especially with the weight of fire the Geist commander has available to him. Or it.”

  “The Geist took the bait.” A brief smile crossed Makarov’s face. “Even less risk for us in the sky over Aachen.”

  “Assuming…assuming this magical faster-than-light engine from Terra Nova even works,” Volkov said, “the Geist will reach engagement range of our ships protecting the Keystone before we can get back to it. We’re risking a strategic asset for…the risk tolerances are too high for me, Fleet Admiral.”

  “Lady Ibarra has decreed that protecting the Keystone gate is a top priority of the Crusade.” Makarov set her cup down. “I am not like most of the officers serving in the Crusade…I can contemplate actions outside the letter of the Lady’s orders. I recruited you all from an artifact world because you don’t come with the same limitations that others in the Ibarran Navy do. But you all know the Lady’s decree, and you all serve the Crusade.”

  “This plan is reckless,” Govorov said evenly. “We’re putting faith into Marshal Shaw’s ability to get the components together—and while I respect the Marshal, he’s no Navy man—then we’re putting faith that this new engine won’t explode or turn us all into pashtet from the acceleration, then smear our atoms across the system. Miracles are not our business. The Warsaw is not the Breitenfeld, Fleet Admiral.”

  He touched the prongs of a silver fork to a small snack plate bearing pashtet—a slice of gray liver pate—then lost his appetite and dropped the fork to the plate.

  “No ship is,” Makarov said, nodding. “We have all scrutinized the FTL engine plans, yes? Ely Hale has the fuel. He flew in a ship powered by the engine without turning into pashtet. All these things should build confidence.”

  “None of that happened during a war with the Geist,” Govorov said.

  “And they weren’t trying to build their FTL engine while under fire from the Geist,” Volkov said. “Too much can go wrong, Fleet Admiral.”

  “Which is why we plan. Why we rehearse contingencies.” Makarov sipped her tea. “The prepared are always more likely to win. And the Geist are…unaware of our intentions. We fed them false information and they bought it.”

  Govorov coughed and looked away.

  “From what we can tell…yes,” Volkov said. “The Geist know who your husband is. That you could engage in a plan so…forgive me.”

  “Reckless?” Makarov raised her chin slightly. “The actions of a commander deciding from her heart and not her brain. Putting countless lives at risk to save the one she loves. Even putting the Keystone gate in jeopardy…contrary to orders.”

  Volkov’s cup tinked against his saucer. “The Geist could make that conclusion. Yes,” the executive officer said.

  “But none of you would see things as the Geist do,” Makarov said. “Vasiliev, do you remember Mars?”

  “I still have nightmares.” The shipmaster fiddled with his finger foods.

  “The Lady tasked me and my ship with rescuing the Nation’s prisoners held by the Terran Union on Mars…and nearly a hundred Armor soldiers that had lost favor with the Union,” Makarov said. “The mission was impossible. On paper. Moving pieces everywhere and all of them had to succeed or the mission would have failed. It succeeded…because it was audacious. It succeeded and the Armor we rescued from Mars saved the Lady from the Geist and formed the nucleus for the Crusade. We did not know the rescue mission would have such implications. What is on Aachen, we know—we know—is enormously valuable. The Astranite engine can be what turns the tide in this war, gentlemen. The risk justifies the reward.”

  “Everything hinges on this engine actually working,” Govorov said. “We end up as pashtet, we’ll be a cautionary tale for the rest of the Nation. And everyone on Aachen will be just as dead if we retreated with the Keystone gate as the Lady commands.”

  “Then it will be me who stands before Saint Kallen for judgment. Such is the burden of command,” Makarov said. “I simply require you all to do your duty.”

 
“Well, if we’re blessed with several miracles in a row, then we’ll be brilliant in the eyes of the Nation. And heroes,” Volkov added, wagging his bushy eyebrows up and down.

  “Then we will be pashtet or we will be heroes.” Makarov raised her tea. “Let’s put more effort into the latter, yes?”

  ****

  Roland marched out his headquarters, Morrigan and another pair of Armor flanking him. On the parade ground were several companies of legionnaires, their power armor battered and dirty. Standing in a loose formation, militia company standard bearers held simple gray flags with the Aachen system displayed in circles and rings done with silver string, the company number in black.

  Roland drew his sword hilt from a leg holster and flipped it in his hand. The blade snapped out and he drove it into the grass. He knelt before the hilt and bent his helm for a brief prayer. His lance joined him, forming a line with ample space between them.

  The legionnaires filed toward them slowly. The warriors kissed the back of their knuckles as they passed, then rapped them against the Armor’s legs.

  VTOL aircraft hovered in the distance, barely above the tops of buildings, leaving plenty of space between them and the shielded dome overhead.

  Antennae rose from Roland’s helm and back. Data flooded into his HUD, showing the city under siege. The Geist ground offensive had broken through the city walls in three places, and heavy fighting raged near the outer ring of the shield towers.

  “Working while your soul should be given over to the Saint?” Morrigan chided him through a suit-to-suit channel.

  “I prayed. My Wield is ready…the fight goes on no matter how pious I am,” Roland said. “You wouldn’t be peeking at my feed if you were still in prayer.”

  “I’m not just your bodyguard, Marshal. I’m also your operations officer. The lines around tower 37-Alpha are going to fail first,” Morrigan said.

  “Agreed…we can’t lose the towers. Not yet.” Roland issued orders to back-line units to join the fray at the endangered tower.

  “This plan you and your wife cooked up—”

  “Yes, you’ve made your opposition well-known.” Roland turned his helm toward her ever so slightly. “There’s honor in fighting to the last. The Crusade has a reputation for bleeding the Geist for every victory. We must play the part until it’s time to flip the script.”

  “This goes wrong at pickup, it’ll all be over but the screaming.” Morrigan reached down and touched a passing banner.

  “Just pickup? There’s opportunity for catastrophic failure at three other key points in the plan—at least,” Roland said.

  “I’m trying to be optimistic. Pickup is where you and I have the most control. The rest of the time, we have to depend on the Navy. Who are the Navy? Sure, they have big guns, but they never miss a meal and shower regularly. Can we really trust them?”

  “You were one of Ivana’s bridesmaids at our wedding,” Roland deadpanned.

  “She’s OK. It’s the rest of those vacuum squids that are questionable.”

  “Tower 37-Alpha will hold…do we commit to the spoiling attack in quadrant nine or hold what we’ve got?” Roland highlighted enemy troops massing outside the walls.

  “If we’re selling the lie that some Armor will be evacuated…then launch the spoiling attack to buy time to save your banóglach hide.”

  “Agreed.” Roland issued more orders through his HUD.

  A priority message flashed.

  “And here we go…” Roland opened the message and a window with General Halk appeared. She stood atop a corvette with a rusted-looking hull, different from the red and white of Ibarran Navy ships. Large containers were open behind her, each with blocks of electrical equipment or long rolls of cables as thick as a man’s arm. Humanoid robots unpacked the crates and welded equipment to the hull.

  “Report,” Roland said.

  Colonel Standish ran from one side of the window to the other behind Halk, a clipboard held aloft and one finger pointing as he shouted at someone off-screen.

  “We’re about twenty percent behind on our installation timeline,” Halk said.

  “No no no!” Standish slid to a stop next to a container and whacked his clipboard on one of the robot’s heads. “This one goes here, that one goes there! Jenny? Can I fire someone already?”

  Halk closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Standish waved a dismissive hand at her and went back to berating the robot.

  “Problems?” Roland asked.

  “If he wasn’t here, we’d be farther behind.” Halk lowered her voice. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

  “Said what? And if you’re calling me to report a delay, then you’re either going to tell me what you need as a solution or to ask for more time. ‘You may ask me for anything you like except time,’ as Grand Marshal Davoust used to say to me,” Roland said.

  “Fusion reactor stack from block central. Maintenance cohort sigma from the repair yards,” Halk said.

  “That will take half our air defense off-line,” Morrigan said. “There are nine suits still in the cohort queue. If we don’t get them online—”

  “Done,” Roland cut her off. “The Warsaw can solve the air-support problem.”

  “Then we’re robbing Peter to pay Paul, Marshal,” his operations officer said.

  Behind Halk, Standish took a small flask from inside his shirt and screwed open the top. He put it to his mouth, then his eyes went wide, realizing that whoever Halk was talking to could see him. Standish thrust the flask away from him and looked surprised at it. He smelled whatever was inside, made a face, and poured the contents out onto the hull.

  Halk sighed.

  “I’m deploying to the front,” Roland said. “You have my authority to requisition anything and everything you need. Shaw, out.”

  A chaplain with an arm in a sling trailed behind the last of the legionnaires. Wafts of censor smoke carried up Roland’s sword and the scent hit him through memory.

  “For Saint Kallen,” the chaplain said, touching the flat of his blade. “Ferrum Corde.”

  “Ferrum Corde.” Roland touched the forehead of his helm to the hilt, then rose to his feet. “Come with me, my Armor. We fight until we die.”

  Chapter 16

  The Steel Sworn were in travel configuration in a below-ground tunnel junction. Ely had his MEWS in hand, the variable weapon formed into a Roman-style gladius. Each of the Armor faced down a dark tunnel.

  “Now an axe,” Lars said.

  Ely imagined the weapon in his hand and the MEWS shifted into a double-bladed battle axe.

  “Too much. I am a Viking at heart, and even that looks ridiculous,” Lars chided. “Make a simple Dane axe. You need it to hack through the enemy, not inspire a barbarian cult.”

  An image of the intended shape flashed across Ely’s HUD.

  “The Ibarran Armor use the sword exclusively,” Pulaski said. “They understand its elegance and simplicity.”

  “But not the utility of a MEWS, you not-so-jolly green bastard,” Lars said. “The right tool for the right job, eh, lillebror?”

  “I can’t help but think that if the Geist are in stabbing range, then I’m in stabbing range, which means things have gone very wrong.” Ely looked over at Santos, who had sequestered himself into a command channel that the rest of the lance wasn’t monitoring. “I still don’t understand what we’re doing in these tunnels. Isn’t all the fighting on the surface?”

  “We’re in reserve,” Lars said.

  “Reserve? That mean we probably won’t fight?” Ely asked.

  Lars and Pulaski turned and just looked at him.

  “Or I’ve read this situation completely wrong.” Ely’s MEWS collapsed back into the handle. “Because…if we’re in reserve, that means we’ll fight somewhere things have gone badly and Armor needs to fix the problem.”

  “You should teach him proper doctrinal terms instead of how to make your barbarian weapons,” Pulaski said.

  “His heart’s in the right p
lace and he’s picking it up as he goes along, OK? And where I come from, it’s the barbarians that put kill trophies all over themselves,” Lars said.

  “The enemy sees proof of my might and will despair, as fits a proper warrior,” Pulaski said.

  “What? I am Armor. I am plenty intimidating all on my own. I don’t need flair.” Lars gestured to his suit.

  Pulaski glanced at Ely, then back down his tunnel.

  “Don’t mind him.” Lars leaned over and punched Ely in the shoulder. “He’s always like that.”

  “Stand by.” Santos’ helm lifted up. “Got deployment orders. Clearing the breach location.”

  “Finally.” Lars’s rotary cannon spun back and forth.

  A sliver of fear rose in Ely’s chest, a strip of cold that blossomed into ice and hung heavy against his chest.

  “Access way nine-six-five.” Santos revved his treads and rolled out, his lance following. “Enemy troops concentration. Strike and fade, Steel Sworn.”

  Ely’s fear grew and his arms pulled close to his body.

  A suit-to-suit channel opened to Lars. The comms log showed that he initiated the connection, though he didn’t remember doing it.

  “Need something, lillebror? Your heart rate’s a bit high,” Lars said.

  “Is it always like this?” Ely asked. “Before now…it was always kind of a surprise when the fighting happened. I am deliberately going to battle, and for some reason, I’m more scared than I’ve ever been before. Even when that Geist worm thing came out of the wall and—”

  “Combat is stressful. What a shock, eh? Your body’s dumping adrenaline into your system because it’s time to fight. Use it. React faster. Focus easier. Get your war face ready.”

  “My teeth are chattering.” Ely touched his chin and his suit mimed the gesture to his helm.

  The suit-to-suit channel closed without Ely doing anything.

  +I am with you,+ Aignar said.

  “Gah! Will you stop doing things through me? I’m surprised Santos hasn’t ordered us to go paint rocks or something after you tried to fight him.”