by Richard Fox
A pair of Ibarran shuttles were parked to one side of the flight deck, leaving room for new arrivals. A group of Honor Guard and more legionnaires stood in a neat formation at the shuttles’ loading ramps.
“We have an audience with their queen,” Hue said. “Or Lady. Whatever.”
“To rub it in?” Hoffman said, brushing a hand against his belt, reassuring himself that what Gideon wanted was still there.
“Hard to tell with the megalomaniac types,” Hue said. “They’re supposed to bring the Aeon back to Gideon. Seems she wants to defect to the Union.”
“What’re we going to do with her?” Hoffman asked.
“Gideon says she’s some kind of scientist. The Ibarrans want her bad—she’s the only reason they even came to Kesaht’ka. If they want her…better for us to take her in. Bad enough the Ibarrans have that Ark thing out there. Maybe the jolly green giantess will balance the scales for us.”
“They in those shuttles?” Hoffman asked.
“Doubt it, they would’ve come out by now. Lady Ibarra’s just making us wait to make us wait,” Hue huffed.
There was a squeak of Gideon’s fist against the deck and Hoffman excused himself to the general. He went over to the armor and took up the position of prayer next to the arm Gideon had braced against the deck, knuckles down.
Hoffman had his eyes on the double-barreled gauss cannon locked to Gideon’s forearm. The ammunition belt that normally fed into the cannons from a magazine beneath the armor’s back plates was missing, but both barrel breaches were open.
“Marine,” Gideon said to him.
Hoffman crossed himself with one hand, while slipping the other into his belt and drawing out a pair of gauss shells. He kept the two bullets clutched to his chest. Light rose from behind him. Hoffman ducked forward and looked around his shoulder.
A screen of white static grew at the fore of the flight deck, and three figures stepped out: a matte-black armor, walking unsteady; the Aeon, dressed in a form-fitting jumpsuit; and a silver figure.
Hoffman focused on the silver figure, which appeared female, with short hair. She looked like a statue, but moved normally and with confidence, her shoulders back.
“What the hell?” Hoffman asked.
“That’s Ibarra,” Gideon said. “Now, Marine. Now.”
Hoffman stood, brought his hand to the gauss cannons and slipped the shells into the breach.
“She would bring him,” Gideon said. “She would bring Roland.”
The Iron Dragoon stood up and stepped forward. Hoffman jumped out of the way to avoid being knocked aside. Hoffman reached for Gideon, but stopped before he could chase after him.
He waited, watching as Gideon closed on Lady Ibarra, Roland and the Aeon. His jaw worked as his mind spun with doubt. The other Terran Union officers were more interested in the meeting than Hoffman’s near-panic.
The Ibarran Armor, Roland, dropped his ammunition to the deck as the two groups approached each other and Hoffman’s world shrank to just the two suits of armor. He’d given Gideon a distinct advantage when he smuggled those two rounds into his cannons.
I’m part of an assassination, he thought. If Gideon kills her, then…what if they turn on my Marines—punish us for it? Oh God, what have I done?
Hoffman put one hand over his mouth, his mind racing.
Lady Ibarra, her silver body catching the light, looked more alien than the green Aeon. This was the woman that created the entire Ibarra Nation. That controlled the Ark. Hoffman felt like an idiot. To imagine that a pair of gauss rounds and Gideon’s subterfuge could end this person struck him as hubris.
How could I have been so stupid?
Hoffman looked to the other officers and was about to warn General Hue when the snap of gauss cannons reverberated through the flight deck.
Roland was on the deck, shielding Ibarra, a pair of smoking divots in his breastplate.
Gideon charged forward and slammed into Roland, carrying him and Ibarra into the bulkhead.
Legionnaires shouted and Hoffman’s knees went out as someone kicked him from behind. The Strike Marine went prone and laced his hands behind his head, but he could still see the armor fight.
The pair battled in silence, punching and grappling with inhuman speed and ferocity.
Gideon smashed one side of Roland’s helm, scattering optics and shards of metal across the deck.
Lady Ibarra stood by, almost impassive as the battle continued. Gideon lunged for her, but Roland got under his guard and stopped him short.
Roland’s punch spike shot out and touched Gideon’s chest, just barely digging into the metal over the pod with Gideon inside.
“Stop this,” Hoffman said, looking up at the legionnaire standing over him and aiming a weapon at Hoffman’s head. “Shoot Gideon before—”
The Ibarran kicked him in the side, hard enough to knock his breath out.
“You betrayed us all!” Gideon shouted, still braced against Roland. Hoffman could hear their servos grinding with effort.
“Don’t choose to die now,” Stacey Ibarra said. “Please.”
Hoffman, his chest wracked as he fought to breathe, paused. Why would the monster that turned Adams against him and the Union beg Gideon to stand down?
Gideon pulled one arm back and his own punch spike locked out.
“Never!” cried the armor and he stabbed at the Lady.
Roland twisted and drove his spike through Gideon’s chest.
Officers around Hoffman cried out, but he watched in silence as Gideon froze, then fell over like an ancient tree finally succumbing to the axe. Roland yanked his spike out and a glut of blood and amniosis spilled out onto the deck.
Roland’s helm jerked from side to side, then the neck servos went slack.
Stacey Ibarra seemed to glide to Gideon, then she embraced his helm. “You’re right to hate me,” she said. “You were right.”
The legionnaires shouted in a mix of Basque and English and a boot pressed against Hoffman’s head, pinning him to the ground.
Bad enough to die for this, Hoffman thought. Worse to die for a failed attempt, no matter how wrong and stupid it might have been.
The boot came away a few moments later and a chill washed over Hoffman’s face and hands. A legionnaire grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up onto his knees.
Stacey Ibarra was a few feet away, her hands clasped over her waist. Her doll-like features betrayed no emotion as her dead eyes looked over Hoffman and the other Union officers, all on their knees and helpless.
Behind her, the Aeon directed Ibarran soldiers as they pulled Roland’s womb out of his armor.
Stacey Ibarra went to General Hue and bent forward, her lifeless gaze studying his face. She flicked a hand and a legionnaire pulled him back and threw him to the deck. She went from officer to officer, dismissing each one until she got to Hoffman.
Her presence drained the heat from his body and his breath fogged.
“I know you,” she said, her mouth still as the words emanated from her body. “You are the hammer. You love this ship, don’t you?”
Hoffman sneered at her.
“I can forgive some things…after a penance,” she said as she reached for Hoffman’s face. A legionnaire seized him by the back of the head, holding him steady.
“No…” Stacey Ibarra drew her hand back. “No. Gideon could have acted alone…he paid, but it isn’t enough. This ship will pay the price. I will teach all of you what it means to strike against me. Against my Nation. I will destroy the Breitenfeld. And I will have Admiral Valdar watch it happen with his own eyes.”
She spun around and made for the waiting shuttles.
“Hamish,” she called out, “get them off my ship. Kill any that resist.”
The legionnaire holding Hoffman’s head shoved him forward and he hit the deck hard. He remained prone as a thin stream of blood-tinged fluid from Gideon’s armor crept toward him, down a line in the deck plating.
He was alive. H
is team would survive, but this day was a defeat.
Looking at the dead armor, Hoffman’s heart filled with shame.
Chapter 13
The Mule slipped through the void like they were on a vacation cruise—no evasive combat maneuvers, no getting slingshot from a Destrier, no impossible mission that needed to be completed in twenty-four hours.
Booker sat with her feet wide apart, leaning against the back of the crash seat. With the mission over and the promise of a well-deserved break, she looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. She had even loosened her armor, a habit she’d eliminated after the mission on Koen. That one had changed her, hardened her. Maybe it was the effect of her first confirmed sniper kills, or maybe it was the lingering trauma of the cold and nearly dying at Duke’s side.
Garrison and Max passed a tablet back and forth, remaining unusually quiet. Hoffman thought they were probably looking at some type of contraband—probably pictures of women Garrison claimed were his girlfriends. Max kept talk of his family to a minimum, but everyone knew he missed them terribly. Hoffman thought the commo guy was extra bright-eyed at the thought of finally going home.
They have really earned a break, Hoffman thought, wondering why he couldn’t relax if it was really over.
King hadn’t loosened his armor—or relaxed, for that matter. He sat straight-backed near the door to the cockpit, his preferred place on a Mule. Hoffman saw him glance at his forearm screen once or twice, but only briefly. If a squad of Rakka magically appeared with machine guns blazing, King would be ready—only hesitating long enough to slip on his helmet.
The Mule changed course hard enough that Hoffman felt something like horizontal gravity for a second, but it was still an easy ride compared to all they’d been through.
Steuben and Duke talked about the finer points of hunting, mostly about what a wounded deer on Earth would do if hit with an arrow. The basic consensus was the animal would run downhill, taking the path of least resistance until it thought whatever had attacked it was gone. After that, they disagreed.
“I’m telling you it would go back the way it came. Known territory. Prey animals don’t like the unknown and don’t have much imagination,” Duke asserted.
“You have a point but that is not what I have seen when I hunt. Haven’t you ever burst from cover to subdue your prey with your bare hands?” Steuben asked, clearly stunned by Duke’s ignorance of the tactic.
“With that hand?” Duke asked, pointing at Steuben cyborg fist.
“No, with some other hand you can’t see,” Steuben growled. “Why are you being a hole of asses?”
Hoffman smiled, keeping an eye on Gor’al, who feigned sleep very near the sniper, probably hoping to pick his pocket.
Red LED lights were the only illumination inside the craft. This was the lull before the storm.
"You're way too quiet, boss," Booker said. “If you don’t lighten up a bit, I’m going to think we’re not as close to our block time as you promised. What’s going on in that fancy lieutenant’s brain of yours?”
“I was thinking about the Breitenfeld,” Hoffman lied. During quiet moments, he’d thought too much about how he’d helped Gideon. He also brooded over Opal and Adams and every mission since New Bastion. He’d done what he had to do but it never seemed enough.
“I know you, LT. Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’ve never liked Ceres. Don’t ask me why,” Hoffman said. “Listen, Booker. I can’t promise there won’t be some work ahead of us. You know the brass, they’ve always got something from the good-idea fairy. I’m just thinking of ways to get everyone home for the leave I promised you.”
“I assumed you were thinking about Opal.”
“I’m fine. Just feel a nameless dread since he died,” Hoffman said. “He wasn’t the first I lost …but he was the last.”
Booker studied him skeptically. “You know that’s why we stayed with you this long, right?”
“What are you talking about?” Hoffman asked.
“A pair of military intelligence jerk-offs offered us chances for reassignment after New Bastion. And by offered, I mean threatened a multitude of career-ending consequences for staying with you,” she said. “None of us knew you that well and no one was comfortable with Opal. Remaining on your team didn’t seem like a great career option.”
Hoffman didn’t respond. He’d wondered about that exact scenario more than once.
“We stayed because you actually give a shit about us,” Booker said. “No one talked about it. Can you imagine Garrison getting all emotional and deep in a discussion like that?”
Hoffman studied the breacher but continued talking to Booker. “Actually, I think I could imagine him in one of those ‘I love you, bro’ moments.”
Booker chuckled. “You haven’t been out drinking with us, but you’re not wrong.”
“Maybe after this mission we can change that.”
“Lieutenant’s fraternizing with the enlisted? That’s not like you. And I mean that in a good way,” she said.
Hoffman held her gaze. “I won’t be an officer forever.”
“Listen up, Strike Marines,” the pilot said through the public-address system. “We are on final approach to Ceres. Please observe all safety and security protocols.”
“Was that a joke? Tell me that was a joke,” Garrison said.
Max shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Gunney, can I go up there and slap this guy? Doesn’t he know we need shitty jokes more than we need pilots?”
“We don’t actually need humor right now,” King responded, eyes hard.
“Are you crazy? How many times have we gone into a swarm of giant-toothed aliens and nearly died because our Mule pilot sent us off with lame jokes. Well, it’s been a lot of times. I keep track of that stuff,” Garrison said.
“Interesting. What’s the number?” Hoffman asked.
“I don’t have an exact number. I’m not a geek like Max.”
“No landing is routine. You should know that. We’re Strike Marines. But I’ll have a quick talk with the pilot,” King said, unfastening his harness then moving toward the cockpit.
“Why can’t we have just one routine landing?” Garrison asked his other teammates. “No landing is routine…Who invited that guy?”
Hoffman watched, glad to be among people he trusted.
Booker shook her head. “Because you’ll jinx us with talk like that. A heartbreaking, life-taking stud like you should know that by now. Never tempt Murphy.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Garrison twisted toward Hoffman. “Sorry, LT.”
Hoffman nodded but didn't have a witty reply. He was thinking of how Opal would've been eyeing the breacher's protein bar.
The six-and-a-half-foot-tall doughboy wouldn't have complained, even if he’d been starving to death. If asked, he would've just grumbled, ‘Opal hungry,’ and left it at that.
“We all miss Opal,” Booker said quietly.
Hoffman laughed roughly. “Kick me in the ass if I start brooding again.”
“I can do that.” She made a fist and shook it at him. “Pow! Right in the kisser!”
Hoffman ducked back in mock fear.
Garrison went back to eating his Dutch-chocolate-whey protein bar while Max refused to tell Booker what he’d been looking at with Garrison, then shifted the conversation toward an action video they both wanted to see.
Duke, done with his hunting discussion, was now asleep, despite sitting with near-perfect posture along one wall of the ship. Gor’al opened one eye, squinting at the sniper. Moments later he began picking the sniper's pockets with slow deliberation.
It was getting to be an old game between them. Gor’al was surprisingly adept at going through the man's pockets, despite the man’s legendary sniper awareness and the Dotari’s cultural aversion to thieving.
King ducked back into the bay. "The pilot advises us to get ready for touchdown. We'll be landing soon."
"
Any problems?" Hoffman asked.
"None, sir."
The descent into the massive subterranean cavern was smooth, the landing perfect. Garrison continued to complain about the pilot’s jokes. Hoffman disembarked with his team and they were escorted to a secure area. He studied the dark surface of walls so high their details were lost in shadows despite the security lighting. Ships on the flight line looked small. Nothing about the place was welcoming. Hoffman didn’t like the vibe he was getting from the place or the hypervigilance of the guards.
Victory should have brought more relaxation and celebration, even in a place like this.
"A lot of guards,” King commented, head on a swivel and one hand near the gauss rifle locked to the front of his gear.
“Agreed,” Hoffman said, not needing to tell his team to maintain their own security. They knew something was different here, some critical event about to go sideways. Each person had their zone and watched for threats, even if the area was supposed to be secure.
"I'm afraid to ask why the guards are so tense," Booker said, turning to watch a pair of them.
A crisp, young officer approached and saluted. "I'm Lieutenant Jackson. I'll take you to the briefing room."
Hoffman returned the salute and followed with his team, muttering under his breath, "Where I’m sure all will be explained.”
"This day’s going just great," Booker said. “We just got clear of Kesaht and the Ibarrans…now this happy horse shit.”
The junior officer left them at the door to the briefing room. Inside, an officer wearing a perfect uniform stood near a map table. Across his left face and over his upper lip was ugly red scar tissue, shaped by a human hand, like a fresh brand.
“This just got weird,” Garrison muttered.
“Shut it,” King warned.
Hoffman focused on the man and not just his ruined face. He seemed familiar, but not memorable. Just why he still carried the brand on his face confused him, such injuries were easily treatable with modern technology. Scars were optional. And who—or what—did that to him?
He saluted, and the man returned the formality with less crispness.
