by Richard Fox
“Steuben,” Gor’al said over his shoulder, “what did the humans do to the Toth? My teammates have no idea what might have happened.”
Hoffman cleared his throat loudly.
“There were no Dotari witnesses,” Steuben said. “I was there on the deck of the Breitenfeld when the Toth received justice. When I thought they were wiped clean from the galaxy.”
Hoffman stared at Gor’al and swiped his fingertips across his neck.
“The Breitenfeld nuked the Toth home world?” Gor’al’s quills bristled.
Hoffman cleared his throat again.
“Booker, I believe the lieutenant is choking,” Gor’al said.
“There was an…entity,” Steuben said. “A Qa’Resh being named Malal. He was needed to destroy the Xaros drones spread throughout the galaxy.”
“He missed one,” Hoffman snorted.
“Malal learned to change the drone’s programming from the Xaros Masters. His price was…energy. Souls. The Ibarras gave him the Toth to feast upon,” Steuben said.
“Oh, them,” King said. “The Ibarras are to blame for it all.”
“There was no other way to beat the drones,” Steuben said. “They were trillions upon trillions in the galaxy. Malal destroyed them all. I was there when he touched the Toth home world. Saw him spread across the surface and consume them all. Then we took Malal to…I don’t know how to explain it. But Malal is now gone.”
“Wonder why a Toth xenocide isn’t common knowledge,” Max said.
“Think the rest of the galaxy would like humans if they knew what happened?” Booker asked.
“The Toth were—no, are monsters,” Gor’al said. “If the price to make the galaxy safe from the drones was to sacrifice them…I don’t object. Nor would the Dotari. We owe the Terran Union too much.”
“My parents are coming.” The gethaar pointed in the distance.
“What?” Duke looked through his scope. “I don’t see anyone.”
The child let out a staccato hiss that Hoffman assumed was laughter.
“Hammers, Scipio on approach,” came through the IR.
“Roger, team set for pickup,” Hoffman sent back as the low rumble of the ship carried through the air.
“I will leave my home,” Steuben said, “to fight the Toth and Kesaht with you.”
“Our next mission isn’t on that front,” Hoffman said. “We’re going to Eridu first. They need us to—”
Steuben held up a hand. “I am in your debt. To Eridu, then I will petition to join the fight against the Kesaht. I will ask Admiral Valdar to assist my request if needed.”
“Yeah…that won’t be easy,” Hoffman said.
“Why? Did he retire?” Steuben asked.
“Not exactly.”
“Steuben,” Garrison said, “why do you hate the Toth so much?”
The child put her head against Steuben’s breastplate.
“Many years ago,” the Karigole said as his face darkened, “the Toth were allies to my race. They raised us up from steam technology to space flight. Helped us ready our planet to fight the Xaros. We thought they were friends, blood brothers. We never learned the truth about their overlords until it was too late.
“The Toth leadership caste survive with their brains and neural systems suspended in a tank. They achieved a form of immortality by consuming the mental energy of other sentient races. And the Karigole are long-lived. Our minds proved to be too much of a temptation for them to resist.
“Once they had total control of our technology, our defenses…they conquered our world. Then they murdered us. One by one, we went to our deaths to feed the overlords.
“I was off world with my cohort of warriors, trying and failing to capture a Xaros drone. When we returned home, we found the fields of the dead…and we thought we were the last of our kind. My cohort was all males. Extinction was inevitable. So we swore to make the Toth pay for what they did until we crossed over to the land of the dead. But…”
“But?” Gor’al asked.
“But my battle brother, Lafayette, was with me on the Breitenfeld. We went on a mission to Nibiru to kill the leader of the Toth, one named Mentiq. There we found that he kept a small group of Karigole alive, selling them off to be eaten. We saved them, praise to the Strike Marines and Valdar for their courage.
“Earth took us in, gave us a home, and protected us from the Xaros.” Steuben touched his bionic eye with his mechanical hand. “Not that Lafayette and I did not give back.
“After the Ember War, we settled here. I thought my vendetta with the Toth was answered. I was wrong. And now I will fight beside you until Bale, and every other Toth, is dead by my hand.”
“Opal, sounds like you’ve got a challenger for the dead-enemy contest,” Garrison said.
“No one beats Opal,” the doughboy grumbled.
“I’m staying behind the two of them the next time we get in a fight,” Max grumbled.
The Scipio roared overhead, slowing to a hover, kicking up dust and blinding the team.
“I love a good brownout!” Max shouted. “Makes cleaning my gear so much more fun!”
The gale subsided and the corvette lowered its ramp.
Hoffman looked to Steuben. The Karigole was on his feet, helmet donned. The gethaar had vanished.
“Steuben, where’d she go?” Hoffman looked around in a near panic.
“Her parents have her. You all lack training.” Steuben looked off in the distance toward the village and reached out and grasped at the air. He brought his hand to his visor and mimicked eating. “Come. Let us leave.”
The Karigole locked his early-model helmet over his head and marched toward the Scipio. With a nod of his head, Hoffman signaled the team to follow.
The lieutenant caught up to Steuben and gave a thumbs-up to a pair of sailors on the ship’s lowering ramp.
“Don’t you even want to know what the mission on Eridu is?” Hoffman asked.
“You said you needed a hunter. That is enough.”
“You don’t even know what we’re hunting. Perhaps there’s something your people have or know that would—”
“Eridu.” Steuben whacked his knuckles against the lieutenant’s shoulder hard enough to upset his balance. “I know a man on Eridu. I am the one sought after, not any other Karigole. He knows my skills. That is what the mission demands.”
“Oh…” Hoffman frowned. “And who might that be?”
“An old friend.”
Steuben marched up the ramp and past the sailors, one of whom did a quick head count and then a double take at a data slate.
“Hey, Marine,” the sailor said. “There’s eight of you. Where’s the specialist?”
“We’re all Marines,” King said. “Former Marines still count.”
Hoffman touched his transmitter.
“Captain, we’re good to lift off,” he said. “Let’s not overstay our welcome and eat a missile for being tardy.”
Chapter 9
Hoffman and his team held on to their safety harnesses as turbulence rattled the Mule. The ship would glide smoothly, then slam against something that felt like a brick wall and shift sideways.
Moments later, it fell again, rendering them weightless.
"Ohhhh, this is not my favorite part," Max said.
"How many times do we have to do this before you learn to relax and go with it?” Garrison said. “I like it. Makes me feel funny. Like climbing the rope in gym class.”
Max shook his head and held up a hand to ward off further attention. "Just leave me alone. I have my process."
"Your process better not involve blowing chow,” Duke said. “Again.”
“One time. You fill your helmet on one drop and—”
As turbulence rattled the Mule again, Max’s cheeks puffed out and he put his hand over his mouth.
Hoffman’s own stomach lurched and he noticed most of the team looked queasy. “Look at the bright side. This’ll be over a lot quicker than most landings.”
“Welcome
to the express elevator to hell, baby!” Garrison shouted.
“Oorah!” the team replied.
“I hate that movie,” Booker groaned as she squirmed beneath the iron grip of her five-point restraint harness. “It’s why I didn’t go Pathfinder Corps. But now look at me. On a bug hunt.”
Hoffman checked the battered view screen.
The research and development division had determined that being able to see outside was important for the human psyche, but structurally, windows were a bad idea. Mules were made to be functional workhorses with as much armor as they could lift or, conversely, land. As a concession, they developed camera-fed screens that would display with reasonable resolution what was happening outside the ship.
That was a moot point, though, when dropping through a storm system. Clouds ripped by the camera and lightning flashes blinded it. Hoffman dimmed the screen to minimize the effect on his vision.
"If you’re all going to be sick, perhaps it’s time for me to have a dip," Gor’al said.
"Keep that filthy dip stealer away from me," Duke said. "I don't know why I ever talked him into trying tobacco. I created a monster."
Hoffman felt a sudden decrease of perceived gravity. The effect lasted five or six seconds before the dropship impacted a cushion of air, smashing him into his seat as his safety harnesses tightened.
Alerts flashed on the screen reminding Marines to stay strapped in.
"Well, ladies and gents, this is your pilot speaking. You may have noticed we’re experiencing some minor turbulence. As your pilot, I’ve decided to minimize the effect by taking a more direct route to our destination."
“Destination? Like the ground?” Garrison complained loudly. "What’s our luck with pilots? All of them have to have jokes. Don't they send them to school for that? What I need right now is realistic information. Accurate intel on what we're doing and how soon it will be before touchdown and if said touchdown involves prayer and messing my shorts."
“Again,” Booker said.
"I'm pretty sure he means we’re being fired at the ground like a bullet," Max said, turning even paler and closing his visor. Strike Marine helmets could deal with vomit. Filters would purge the liquid, but it wasn’t a perfect process.
"In my medical opinion," Booker said, “you should consider Dramamine."
"Or he could stop being such a sissy," Duke said.
"That's enough,” King barked. “As enlightening as all this is, you're not helping your teammate.” He leaned over and jabbed Max roughly on the shoulder, which nearly made him puke. "You'll make it, buddy."
"You know what goes around comes around, right?" Max said.
Gor’al shook his head. "I don't know what is so problematic. I am not having sickness. Opal is not complaining. Why are you all losing the color in your faces and why is Max needing to move stomach fluid to the outside of his body?"
Garrison leaned as close to Gor’al as his harness would allow. "It's a really important tradition. You won't be one of us until you've puked during a drop."
"That makes me sad. I don't know that I can throw up on command."
“Well, maybe you can be taught." Garrison said. “Just watch Max to see how it’s done.”
Hoffman received an alert from the pilot. "All right, game time,” he said to the team. “Let's get ready for touchdown and deployment.”
An alert chimed on the public address system and the pilot cleared his throat. “All right, boys and girls, this is where it gets real. I won’t bore you with the technical difficulties, but thank your lucky stars and say a prayer of thanksgiving to St. Kallen that I’m flying this rig. We’re coming in really hard, for reasons air traffic control refused to explain."
The ship bumped and slipped sideways across air turbulence several times. No one spoke for long moments.
Garrison looked around, concerned. "Is anyone else waiting for the punchline? This guy really sucks."
"Also, for the record, I do have the ability to listen to all communications on the Mule. It’s my ship, after all—and your comms network slaves off mine while on board. So in answer to your question, Corporal Garrison, there is no punchline. Brace yourself."
Gravity amplified as the ship decelerated hard. Hoffman felt the short wings vibrating from the propulsor engines being reversed to push away from the surface of the planet. In technical terms, they landed soft, cushioned on gravity waves that had no actual substance. To his human perception, however, it felt like he was the nail in a hammer-and-nail situation. Or maybe he was the hammer. It was hard to tell as black spots filled his vision.
He fought to breathe, pushing air out of his lungs so he could suck it in again—the opposite of normal combat breathing. Across from him, Opal was the picture of stoicism while Max dominated the other end of the misery spectrum.
Even Gor’al looked flattened and miserable.
The landing only took a second or two—it just felt like forever. A red light flashed above the door to the cockpit, indicating the pilot was talking.
“We're down.” The pilot’s voice sounded strained.
"That wasn't so bad," Garrison groaned. “I’ve had worse. Least we’re not on some frozen mountain with a long walk ahead of us.”
“Are you ever going to shut up about that?” Booker asked as she slapped her harness and the straps retracted into the seat.
“Nope!” Garrison bounded out of his chair and stretched.
“Team deploy and set up security around the ship,” King said.
Hoffman eased out of his chair slowly, letting King take charge of the landing. Steuben remained silent and taciturn, rivaling Opal for quiet determination.
Ground crews meandered around the landing pad, their attention focused more on the outer fence separating them from the jungle than on the ship that had just landed. None wore headsets or had the ubiquitous forearm computers.
Hoffman saw a familiar face, Colonel Heinrich Fallon from the Syracuse campaign, and felt a mixture of relief and confusion. Although the man was rough and abusive, he had kept the colonists alive on Syracuse when no one else could have. Had things gone differently, Hoffman and the Dotari Armor might've been saving a planet full of slaughtered civilians and the small garrison of Marines that had been there instead of a city’s worth of survivors.
As much as he respected the man—the man whose nephew he had killed in a grisly Xaros drone incident—he knew this wasn't going to be an easy assignment. He was starting to think that Colonel Fallon was a kindred spirit he’d always find in the worst corner of the war against the Kesaht.
The colonel had a pistol in a thigh holster, not the standard-issue gauss sidearm Strike Marine officers normally carried. Hoffman couldn’t place the make and model at first glance, and it nagged the lieutenant that Fallon wore simple fatigues, instead of the Corps’ iconic power armor.
"Look sharp,” Hoffman said.
"Any reason why we had to do the combat drop?" Garrison asked. "I'm just asking because I'm worried about Max. He looks awful…and no one’s dressed for combat around here."
"I'm sure there's a rational explanation." Hoffman approached the colonel and saluted. Fallon returned the salute smartly, then told them to stand at ease.
"It's an honor to meet you, Steuben,” Fallon said to the Karigole. “I’ve heard a lot about you from the locals.”
Hoffman was surprised the colonel hadn’t commented on the Karigole's old armor. Fallon was a stickler for details and didn't tolerate shabby equipment. Hoffman noticed many other people in the ground security forces giving Steuben and Gor’al strange looks. That he was leading a team with members of two different alien races and one of the last doughboys in service had not given him any sense of being more elite than all-human teams. If anything, he thought they looked like a motley crew.
“Orders, sir?” King asked.
“Take the rest of the team to the quartermaster for new equipment. Draw gear for Steuben and Hoffman—they’re with me—and make it fast. It’ll b
e sundown soon."
"New gear. Yes, sir," King said, giving Hoffman a quick look. "I have your specs, sir. Not Steuben’s."
“Won’t matter, Gunney. Get it done.” Fallon turned and walked away, catching Hoffman flat-footed.
The colonel retrieved a short, chewed-up cigar from his utility pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. From what Hoffman remembered, Fallon didn’t like to have his orders questioned. At the same time, he didn't like mindless sheep either.
Once they were away from the officers, Garrison and Max began arguing, their voices easily carrying across the unusually silent airfield. Duke seemed to think he didn't need the re-equip, because his equipment was custom fit to his role as a sniper. King threatened a long, arduous run around the base to learn the lay of the land.
Steuben, Hoffman, and Fallon watched them for a moment.
"Combat landing wasn’t pleasant, I know, but it’s damn necessary on Eridu," Fallon said.
Hoffman waited, knowing the colonel would continue.
"We can’t have aircraft exposed for too long over the city. It's a significant safety risk. Just leave it at that. All will be explained in the formal briefing and mission planning. The colony chief likes to be involved in that sort of thing, but he’s not bad for a civilian—probably because he’s a former Corpsman and spent enough time with Strike Marines to get the Navy scrubbed off him.” He looked again at Steuben. “I appreciate having another hero of the Ember War. Wasn’t exactly sure we’d get you here, but Hoffman has a reputation for pulling off tough missions.”
Except when the Breitenfeld gets captured right out from under us, Hoffman thought.
Steuben growled in the back of his throat but said nothing. He towered over Hoffman, which made him a giant compared to the colonel.
“I cannot speak to hearsay,” the Karigole said.
Fallon chuckled. “I have it on good authority all the scenes starring you in that Last Stand on Takeni movie weren’t entirely factual.”
Steuben spat on the ground.
Fallon gripped the cigar between the base of two fingers and removed it from his mouth.
“I looked into Adams. Can the Karigole hear this?” the colonel asked.
