by Richard Fox
“What’s the difference between us dying here or dying in one of your prisons?” Hoffman asked.
“We’re not…not like you. You have my word, on my armor and my honor, that we will get you back to Earth. Free. But I am not going to carry you crunchies to the extraction point.” Nicodemus’s arm snapped up, pointing toward the center of Gold Beach.
“Now. The Aeon. Have you seen her?” Nicodemus asked.
“She’s there,” Steuben said as he slid down the rise. “Unharmed. Last we saw her.”
“Why is this armor bearing religious markings?” Gor’al asked, joining the rest of the team as they abandoned the defenses.
“What in the hell?” Nicodemus did a double take at the Karigole and Dotari. “Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen today.”
More of the Ibarran Armor came through the defenses and ran toward the main landing zone while dark-hulled fighters with forward-swept wings roared overhead.
“We’ve got the skies and the void,” Nicodemus said. “For now. Get your people to an evac boat. Ferrum Corde.” Nicodemus banged a fist to his chest and ran off after his compatriots.
“Told you there were angels,” Garrison said.
“Secure Garrison and fall back,” Hoffman said and looked to the sky, where an intense void fight continued. “We’re not surrendering to these bastards. We’re catching a ride home.”
Chapter 11
Hoffman removed his helmet and felt sweat lift off his skin and into the hot, greasy air of the Ibarran Destrier transport. The cargo ship was almost identical to the same class of Union ships he’d been on, but the language stenciled across the fuselage was in both Basque and English.
The cargo bay was full of wounded since the last of the field hospital had been loaded on just before takeoff. The Hammers formed a small circle around Garrison, still out of action from his wounds. The Marine had been particularly obnoxious once painkillers had been administered, but his attitude was the least of Hoffman’s worries.
The cargo bay was split into halves—a hodgepodge of Union troops and their wounded on one side, Ibarran personnel on the other. Armor from both factions were present, and Hoffman got the distinct impression that the suited warriors somehow knew each other from the little body language that carried through their armor.
Captain Gideon had been the last to make it aboard. An argument between one of the Ibarrans—Hoffman had heard him called Roland—and the Dotari Iron Dragoon, Cha’ril, had nearly come to blows before Gideon had been pulled aboard as the ship took off.
Then there was the Aeon, who made Hoffman uneasy, as she was almost human and carried herself with something like a regal air. That she had a small human girl that clung to her like the Aeon was her mother only made things stranger.
The Aeon and the armor had been locked in a discussion since the Destrier cleared atmo, a discussion Hoffman hadn’t been invited to.
An Ibarran legionnaire, one of that nation’s burly foot soldiers, approached Hoffman. His dark armor bore a red Templar cross emblazoned over his visor.
“Lieutenant, helmet on,” he said.
“Why don’t you piss off, Leej?” Max growled. “You know where we just came from?”
“Someone wants to talk to him,” the legionnaire said, tapping his helmet and walking away.
“Fun while it lasted.” Hoffman wiped sweat from his brow and put his helmet back on.
An IR channel, one he and his team only used for training, blinked with a message. He opened it and a text box read: COCKPIT. HAMMER 3.
Hoffman’s mouth went dry and he removed his helmet again. “Stay here,” he said to King and went to the ladder leading up from the cargo bay to the sectioned-off area of the cockpit.
The door opened as he neared, and a female legionnaire in full armor motioned him inside. He stepped in and the door shut behind him. The legionnaire removed her helmet and red hair spilled out.
“Adams,” Hoffman said, crossing his arms.
“Sir—I mean, Lieutenant.” His former Strike Marine bit her bottom lip and looked to the cockpit, where the last traces of Kesaht’ka’s atmosphere fell away as the ship ascended to the void.
“You were there on Eridu,” Hoffman said. “I saw you with them. The Ibarrans. I thought it must have been some sort of…mistake? That you were brainwashed or—”
“No,” Adams snapped. “Never brainwashed. I am Ibarran. Always was. I just didn’t know it.”
“Bull,” Hoffman said. “You were my Marine. A Hammer. I don’t know what they did to you but the Adams I know you to be is no Ibarran.”
The co-pilot looked over his shoulder.
“Zure gauzetaz arduratu,” she said.
“The hell was that?” Hoffman asked.
“I either told him to mind his own business or his mother was an ostrich. Basque is…” She rolled her eyes.
“You’re not Ib—”
Adams poked a finger in his chest, hard enough to shock Hoffman.
“I don’t care what you have to say about me, Terran,” she said, her eyes going hard. “You know what they did to me? Threw me in a hole because they thought I might turn traitor. Then President Garret signed my death warrant. Signed it for hundreds of other innocent men and women. It was the Nation that came for me. That bled to save me. That took me in as one of their own and have never judged me for anything but how well I fight and how I can best serve the Lady.”
“What have they done to you?” Hoffman asked, shaking his head slowly.
“Set me free.” She put fingertips to her temple then opened them, mimicking an explosion. “The only reason I even want to speak to you is…Opal. What happened to him?”
“You care?”
“Opal is the purest soul I ever met,” she said. “He would never have questioned me or my humanity.”
“No…he wouldn’t have.” Hoffman reached into his neck guard and pulled out Opal’s dog tags, holding them up for Adams to see.
“I’m sorry.” Adams turned away. “He was a good soldier. I will remember him to Saint Kallen.”
“You do that.” Hoffman went to the door and twisted the handle to open it.
“When we get to the ship,” Adams said, “give up your batteries and your ammo. I convinced the legionnaires to let you keep your weapons—mainly because I know Duke will die before he lets anyone else touch his sniper rifle. I put my word on the line for you, Hoffman. Respect for our time together. For Opal.”
“Get us home,” Hoffman said, “and there won’t be any trouble.”
“Don’t try us, Hoffman. Don’t think that because the Ibarra Nation saved you that we want anything else to do with you and your kind. It was the Black Knight, Roland, that insisted we get you all out. Plenty of us were happy just to grab the Aeon.”
Hoffman pushed the door open and left.
Chapter 12
Max reached a bare arm into a small hatch in the Breitenfeld’s deck ceiling.
“Hurry,” Booker said from her post just outside the door of the small utility closet where Max and King were. “I think that Ibarran’s coming back.”
All three wore fresh utility overalls, bereft of markings.
“Almost…got it…” Max grunted and pushed his arm in farther, then his eyes widened with surprise. “What is this?”
He pulled his hand out, a very dusty bottle of liquor in his grip.
“That’s not a commo node,” King said.
“That’s where it’s supposed to be,” Max said, blowing dust off the label. “Rum. There’s a message on here. ‘Put it back. I’ll know if you try and sell it.’”
“An illicit alcohol network on a Navy ship?” Booker asked, incredulously. “What sailor would ever do that?”
“We’re not here looking for buried treasure,” King said. “We need commo off this ship and—”
Booker coughed.
King grabbed Max by the collar and slammed him against the bulkhead.
“You ever mouth off to the LT again, I will
rip out your tongue and use it as a full body rag before I stitch it back in your mouth!” the gunnery sergeant shouted as a pair of Ibarran crew went by.
One Ibarran shook his head at Booker and jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the Union’s berthing area. Where they were supposed to be.
“What? You guys don’t discipline your troops?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Get back to your assigned area. No loitering,” the Ibarran said.
“We done here?” King asked, his voice tinged with rage.
“Heard, Gunney,” Max said. “Heard.”
The three Strike Marines hustled down the passageway to a berthing area. Booker opened a door to a small common room, where the rest of the team sat around a table with a pack of cards laid out. Garrison had bandages up and down his right side and a nasty bruise covering one cheek.
Through a wide window on the bulkhead, Earth and her two moons, Luna and Ceres, hung in the distance.
“Good news?” Steuben asked from one side of the window, his gaze looking out.
“Failed to get the part I need to contact Phoenix,” Max said, reaching into his waistband and pulling out the bottle of alcohol. “Did find this though.”
“This is the ship of miracles,” Garrison said as he slammed his hand down and winced with pain.
Steuben sniffed hard.
“Standish. His scent’s still on the bottle. Not like him to forget a cache,” the Karigole said.
“Huh.” Max frowned at the bottle. “The Standish Liquors Standish? Guy with the statue in front of his stores?”
“Is there another one?” Steuben asked.
King took the bottle from Max. “We need to be focused on getting out of here, not getting wasted,” he said.
“Been ten hours since we left Kesaht’ka,” Duke said. “Ibarrans locked us in our old billets and cleaned us up. Now we’re in Earth orbit. Everything’s pointing to them just letting us go home.”
“You trust these assholes?” Booker asked. “After all the crap we’ve been through with Masha and her meathead boy toy, Medvedev?”
“Spies are spies,” Duke said. “The rest of them seem OK.”
“They didn’t shoot you,” Max said, touching his side.
“Or taser you,” Garrison added, wagging a finger.
King looked into a small quarters. “Where’s the LT?” he asked.
“Someone wanted to see him.” Gor’al shrugged. “Didn’t say about what.”
There was a knock at the door and King slid the rum beneath a pillow. He turned around just as the door opened.
An Ibarran in ornate armor stepped over the threshold. King saw more dressed like him in the doorway, all armed. The Ibarran had his helmet in hand, upturned.
“I am Hamish,” he said. “I have a gift for the Karigole from Lady Ibarra.”
“I want nothing from her,” Steuben said, still looking out the window.
Hamish turned his open helmet to the table and pushed it forward. A hunk of crystal with gold inlay and a galaxy of tiny jewels landed amongst the cards.
Steuben looked at the offering, then picked it up. He sniffed at it, then looked at Hamish from the side of his eyes.
“Bale, the last Toth overlord, is dead by Lady Ibarra’s hand,” he said. “Every Toth aboard the Last Light is gone. Their species is extinct. She wished for you, and the Karigole, to know this.”
“She should have summoned me to do it,” Steuben said.
“The Lady does as she wills,” Hamish said. “That is for you to keep.” He beat a fist to his chest and left.
Steuben twisted the fragment around in his hand.
“What is that?” Duke asked.
“Part of Bale’s tank,” Steuben said. “It reeks of his fear. I will bring this back to the gethaar. They will…be pleased.”
“Mission accomplished for you, even if you didn’t do the deed yourself,” King said.
“My cohort…I must perform the gul’thul’gul ritual again. Our oath is fulfilled. I saw the Toth world wiped out with my own eyes. To hold a…memento mori, as you call it, of the last Toth is somehow more satisfying.”
“Their whole world was wiped out?” Booker asked. “How?”
“That,” Steuben said, pointing the fragment to the window. In the distance, a ship came into view. Shaped like an ancient conch and the size of downtown Phoenix, the Strike Marines had heard the Ibarrans use only one word for the ship.
Ark.
The Ibarrans had gained control of it and put it into action against the Vishrakath and Kesaht attacking Earth. The Marines had caught bits and pieces from the Ibarran crew, who were in awe of the ship.
“That thing did it?” Duke asked as he and the rest of the team crowded around the window.
“By the one whose power I see in that Ark,” Steuben said. “An evil being…Malal.”
“This Malal still around?” King asked.
“No…” Steuben shook his head. “But his legacy still haunts this galaxy.”
****
Hoffman walked down a catwalk, past giant-sized lidless coffins in the bulkheads. He’d never been in a cemetery before, the place where armor readied for battle and the suits were stored. There was only one suit in the coffins, impassive and still.
The Strike Marine noticed a unit plaque on the wall over the suit’s coffin. A black sash wrapped around it and obscured the writing on a scroll across the bottom. Hoffman still tried to make it out.
“Iron Hearts,” Gideon said from the suit’s speakers. “This was the lance’s final duty assignment before they were lost in battle.”
“I know their story,” Hoffman said, putting his hands on the railing and looking up at Gideon’s helmet. “You wanted to speak to me?”
“We have a chance, Hoffman. A chance to end a threat to Earth,” Gideon said.
“The Kesaht…they’re beaten. They were in a full-scale civil war by the time we left their system. I saw the footage.”
“Not them. Not the Vishrakath. No alien. The true threat to Earth. The cancer that’s eating away at our soul.”
“The Ibarrans,” Hoffman stated.
Gideon nodded.
“What do you think we can manage against them?” Hoffman asked. “We’re prisoners aboard this ship. They have that Ark monstrosity in orbit over—”
“Everything they are depends on one Ibarran,” Gideon said, “and only one. Stacey. Their leader. Their ‘Lady.’ We end her and the rest will crumble.”
“How do you know this?” Hoffman asked and looked down at the entrance to the cemetery, concerned that someone might stumble across this growing conspiracy.
“She made them all, Hoffman. Created every single Ibarran in her procedural tubes. They are locked to her will. Slaves…even if they can’t realize it.”
Hoffman thought of Adams, and how radically different she’d become.
“Our intelligence has broken into their minds,” Gideon said. “They can’t function without her to lead them. I have a chance…a chance to end her, but I need your help.”
“Intelligence said what, exactly?” Hoffman asked, his suspicion growing. For the Ibarrans to engineer such a flaw into their people…
“You…you’re a procedural. A doughboy wrangler. I know what the Ibarras did to your face. How they purposely made you to lead your soldiers into battle,” Gideon said.
“I was always my own person. Even if I had another’s face.”
“The tech has evolved,” Gideon said. “The Ibarras put sleeper agents into the population, keyed them with—”
“I know.” Hoffman raised a hand.
“And the newest Ibarrans we’ve captured all have an Achilles’ heel. No Stacey Ibarra, no Nation. If we take her out, the Ibarrans can be coaxed back to Earth. Rejoin the Union. No risk of another conflict with them.”
“We can free them all…” Hoffman trailed off. In the end, there was only one Ibarran he wouldn’t welcome back to the fold.
Adams.
“You’re sure of this?” Hoffman asked.
“By my…I’m sure,” Gideon said. “Dead sure.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I dropped something—two somethings, to be specific—on the armor elevator on this deck. Kicked them beneath the gear box. Find them and bring them to the flight deck when we do the prisoner swap. Then you need to pray.”
“Pray?”
“You’ll understand.”
“If we fail—”
“It will fall only on me. I’m certain of that.” Gideon’s helm titled from side to side. “There’s blood between me and the Ibarrans. You’ll do this with me? For the Union?”
“For the Union,” Hoffman nodded.
And for Adams, he thought.
****
Hoffman stood on a munitions elevator, a simple lift taking him up to the Breitenfeld’s flight deck. A pair of Ibarran legionnaires stood behind him, both silent within their black power armor.
He felt the press of two lumps within his belt, hidden by the slight bulk of his too-big utility coveralls, a sense of paranoia growing the longer the legionnaires stared at him. Silent and unmoving.
Hoffman, unarmed and unarmored, knew he didn’t stand much of a chance if the Ibarrans decided to take him out. Acting nonchalant was his only viable course of action, but he was a Strike Marine, not a spy. This sort of thing was meant for the intelligence types like Masha, not him. He smiled slightly, thinking of whatever deep, dark hole the Terran Union had her in.
The lift squeaked with age as it came to a stop on the flight deck. A small cohort of Union officers stood around Gideon. The armor was on one knee, in supplication like he was at pre-battle rites. Two officers knelt in prayer before the Iron Dragoon.
Hoffman went over to General Hue, who seemed more out of place than anyone else in his plain uniform.
“Sir,” Hoffman said, looking to the prow of the flight deck where the forward blast doors were open and a force field kept the deck’s atmosphere in place. Earth’s horizon jutted up and into the bottom of the view, the pearlescent and ivory shell of the Ark hanging closer to the ship.
