by Richard Fox
“The Kesaht will come for us if they can find us,” Makarov said. “Doesn’t matter what action New Bastion takes.”
“We will not abandon our people,” Stacey said. “No one in the nation is disposable. Makarov?”
“My lady?” The admiral stepped forward.
“I want the crew of the Narvik, and Morrigan, returned to me. I don’t care how it’s done or what it costs.”
Makarov opened her mouth, took in a quick breath, then paused. “As you command, my lady. I’ll need access to our assets in the solar system,” she said.
“Every resource.” Stacey looked at Davoust, who nodded once.
“They’re being held on Mars,” Hurson said. “My old home.”
“In Olympus?” Makarov asked.
“No.” Hurson shook his head. “The Templar still there would never allow Garret to murder our people. Our oaths are to protect the innocent, and no one is guilty by the circumstances of their birth.”
“Faith again,” Makarov said.
“Faith,” Stacey said, “the righteous shall live by faith. It takes no faith to know the Templar. To know their hearts, one must simply see them. I was there when armor sacrificed everything to win the Ember War. I need no faith to believe in the Templar.”
“Excuse me, my lady,” Makarov said. “I must see to my task.”
As Makarov turned and left, Stacey continued to watch the legionnaires as they marched off to war.
Chapter 5
Roland gripped a handrail as the all-encompassing white static of a jump gate faded away. He shook his head quickly to clear out the cobwebs that came with every trip through a Crucible. The observation deck windows were full of stars.
“That’s never fun.” Aignar adjusted his prosthetic jaw from side to side and nudged the speaker embedded in the front of his throat. “Cha’ril, does wormhole travel make the Dotari dizzy like humans?”
Cha’ril had her eyes closed and her chin pressed against her chest. The skin around her beak flushed red, then drained away to an unnatural yellow.
“She OK?” Roland asked Aignar, who shrugged.
The Dotari armor retched, then opened her beak and gave off dry trill.
“It’s nothing.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Sounds like you had a hairball,” Aignar said.
“Do I inquire when you have indigestion? Or when Roland inebriated himself when we were in Australia and…What did you say, ‘prayed to the porcelain god’? No. Not every one of my bodily functions is your business. In fact, none are your concern,” she said.
“Excuse me,” Aignar said.
Roland glanced at the screen on his forearm.
“We’re back in the solar system…no alerts. Why hasn’t Gideon called us to the simulation center yet? Got a good couple days before the Scipio can make the sprint to Mars,” he said.
“Look.” Cha’ril pointed to the observation window.
The red planet swung into view, and a thin ring made up of the remnants of Phobos glinted in the sunlight. Basalt-colored spikes of a Crucible gate swept across the port edge of the window.
“When did Mars get its own Crucible?” Roland asked.
“The foundry on Mercury built it while you were…indisposed,” Aignar said. “It was supposed to be assembled on Pluto, but the Kesaht War threw a wrench into those plans. The Armor Corps is here on Mars. Some colony needs us and its best they don’t have to wait for a sprinter to bring a squadron or two over from here to the Ceres Crucible over Earth.”
“I’m surprised Phoenix didn’t order the entire Corps back to Earth,” Roland said.
“Eggs. Baskets.” Aignar knocked metal knuckles against the handrail.
“There’s the Ardennes.” Cha’ril pointed to the carrier as it accelerated past the Scipio. “I can see Man’fred Vo soon.”
“You think Gideon will let you go see your almost-husband?” Aignar asked. “Mars has the best live-fire training facilities anywhere…other than the two-way shooting range of a fight with the Kesaht. You know how he is about drills and proficiency ratings.”
“I’m allowed a full day-night cycle pass with my joined once a month if we’re close to each other. Our mutual-defense treaty is explicit about this…and it’s been too long since I’ve seen Man’fred Vo,” Cha’ril said.
“The Ardennes has our casualties.” Roland tapped his Templar cross. “I have duties on Mars. The dead must be interred properly.” He gave Aignar a look. The other armor soldier had been a Templar initiate along with Roland but had backed away from the faith after the encounter with Ibarran armor on Oricon.
“More range time for me,” Aignar said. “I wonder if there’s a quantum link between this new Crucible and the one over Ceres. I could get a real-time call to my son on Earth. The time dilation makes for garbage conversations.”
“Busy busy,” Roland said as he gave them a wave and left the observation deck.
“I’m worried about him,” Cha’ril said. “He’s different. The Ibarras affected him too deeply.”
“He’s a full Templar now,” said Aignar as the first knuckle of his left index finger popped up and down of its own accord. He clamped his other hand over the offending digit. “That changes a man. And it was the Ibarran armor that gave him the final nod to take the vows and stand his vigil. You think he’d be normal after that?”
“Change is constant. Change is normal. But what has changed isn’t normal. I’m surprised Gideon hasn’t transferred him to another lance. Do you think the lieutenant still trusts him?”
“No.” Aignar’s brow furrowed. “I doubt Gideon has any confidence in Roland either.”
“Then why is Roland still with us?”
“Because the brass don’t trust him either, is my guess. Back when I was a Ranger, there was a soldier the First Sergeant was sure was…foraging supplies from other units and redistributing them around to those who’d pay for it.”
“You mean stealing.”
“There’s stealing and then there’s stealing. The First Sergeant didn’t transfer that kid to the supply section to make his suspected extracurricular activities easier. He kept him under the nose of someone he trusted until they caught the kid in the act,” Aignar said.
“Roland remaining in our lance isn’t Gideon’s decision?”
“How would a Templar lance react to Roland?” Aignar asked.
“They’d take him in like a brother. While we…”
“Will keep our eye on him.”
“I don’t like human politics, human games. Roland fights with fury and is a fine soldier. That should be all that matters,” Cha’ril said, pressing a hand to her stomach.
“It is to me…but not to Gideon or those way above our pay grade. I’ve been in uniform long enough to know what I can change, and I don’t lose sleep over the grand plans of those detached from my reality.”
“So you don’t care what happens to Roland?”
“Of course I care. But if I oversleep, I don’t try to turn all the clocks back an hour to fix it.”
“Some things are beyond our control.” She clicked her beak. “No matter our feelings.”
****
Roland knelt with his sword planted tip-down in Martian soil. Templar knelt around him in even rows; the assembled were divided into two halves facing inward with a wide strip between them.
He wore his white tabard embroidered with a Crusader cross on the chest over matte-black coveralls, the under uniform representing the womb in the heart of each armor suit. The Templar chanted softly as Chaplain Krohe, followed by Colonel Martel and Major Tongea, swept a smoking censer from side to side. One after the other, each of the three led a mag-lev platform bearing a broken suit of armor.
The smell of burning copal and frankincense wafted over him, and part of Roland knew that scent would forever remind him of death and mourning.
Roland resisted the urge to look up as the platforms slowly passed. He knew what damage the Lancers’ suits sust
ained. Knew the names of the fallen. A fourth went by, bare of armor but carrying momento mori of a Templar lost to the battlefield: a fencing epee and several antique books with frayed spines.
That Rocha of the Conquistadors had perished when her landing pod was destroyed by Kesaht fighters was not in question. Her armor had burnt up in reentry, the fragments dispersed across Thesius’ wilds.
Would they let Morrigan attend? Roland wondered. The Ibarras were accommodating enough when they learned I was Templar. He banished the thought and concentrated on the funeral chant.
The armor and momento mori went into a tomb, and the three men that led the Templar order emerged a few minutes later.
Chaplain Krohe raised a hand and gave a blessing as the massive red-rock doors to the tomb shut with a boom.
The room went silent—dead silent—until Krohe tapped the censer three times against the door.
The ceremony was over, and Roland stood and sheathed his sword as the Templar broke into small groups, speaking amongst themselves. Dozens of lances must have been present; more Templar were here than he’d seen when he stood his vigil months ago on Phoenix. For so many to be on Mars while battles raged against the Kesaht perplexed Roland. Armor’s place was the battlefield, and Templar did not fulfill their vows to protect humanity on a world at peace.
Seeing the other Templar in their lances and squadrons sent a tinge of loneliness through Roland. He’d set himself apart from his lance when he took on the cross, and the Iron Dragoons had operated apart from most other armor after his return to the Terran fold.
“Roland,” said a voice from behind him.
Tongea clasped the young Templar by the forearm in the traditional salute. “Good to see you again, brother.” The Maori’s facial tattoos wrinkled as the man smiled.
“Circumstances could be better,” Roland said.
“Always.” Tongea nodded toward a side door leading to a maintenance tunnel. “The post-funeral feast is about to begin. Krohe made that potato casserole with all the cheese and corn flakes on top.”
“That…does not sound appetizing.”
“They’re incredible. I’m just letting you know there won’t be any left if you come with me to see Saint Kallen,” Tongea said.
“The Saint…” Roland felt color drain from his face. The venerated woman lay buried deep beneath Mount Olympus, the location unknown to but a few in the Templar. Visits to her damaged armor and momento mori had been restricted since the incidents with the Ibarra Nation, under orders of General Laran, the Armor Corps commander.
“You performed the rites for the fallen,” Tongea said. “Chaplain Krohe, Colonel Martel and I agree you earned an audience. Been some time since you’ve seen her.”
As Tongea led Roland toward the side door, Templar got out of the way, nodding to the older fighter and Roland as they passed.
“Not since I first arrived on Mars,” Roland said.
“Different times.” Tongea shouldered the door open to a small four-person transport on tracks leading into a dark tunnel.
Roland climbed into the transport, careful with the ceremonial sword hanging on his belt. Tongea sat next to him and keyed in a code. The transport accelerated forward with a hum of electric motors.
“How is Gideon?” Tongea asked.
Roland shifted in his seat. “He’s…formal, sir.”
“Of all the Templar that went with the Ibarras…you had to fight beside those two.” Tongea shook his head. “Gideon’s not the forgiving type.”
“Still a professional. Still a brave lance commander.”
“You saw the Ibarran armor during their ceremony. Perhaps you saw a woman with Ta Moko.” Tongea waved his fingers over his tattooed face, then brushed his chin several times.
“It…it was dark during the ceremony and my focus was on Stacey Ibarra. I don’t remember seeing someone like that. Sorry.”
“Kaia is fighter. I doubt the Kesaht could kill her if they tried,” Tongea said.
“Kaia?”
“My sister,” Tongea sighed. “Stationed on the Warsaw when it left Terran service.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Why would you? I don’t share that bit of information with many. The Templar are under enough scrutiny,” Tongea said as the transport cut down a branch of the main tunnel.
“If the order’s suspect since the Ibarran exit, why let me take the oaths and become a full Templar? I would have understood if my vigil had waited until things—”
“When do Templar care for politics? For timing?”
“Never.”
“We hold to the rod of iron through all temptation and chaos. To waver is to fail.” Tongea frowned and tapped the control panel.
“I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps I shouldn’t be in the Saint’s presence just yet.”
“Doesn’t matter…seems we’re not going to the crypt. Someone changed our route.”
The transport cut up a ramp and into a warehouse where massive cargo containers were stacked against the far walls. An armored personnel carrier blocked the tracks, and military police armed with gauss carbines flanked the vehicle. They snapped their weapons to their shoulders and a group moved to flank Tongea and Roland as the cart came to a sudden stop.
There was a slam of metal as a hatch cut off the ramp.
“Chief Warrant Officer Roland Shaw.” An MP with lieutenant bars and a pistol in one hand approached. “You are under arrest.”
“What is this?” Tongea snapped to his feet and marched toward the lieutenant.
“Stand down, sir.” The MP gripped his pistol with both hands and angled the muzzle at the ground between him and Tongea. “We have a warrant.”
“What charge?” Tongea stopped, one hand on his sword’s pommel.
“Treason.” The lieutenant waved a hand to the five police flanking the cart.
“Drop the weapon!” an MP shouted at Roland.
“No!” Tongea held up a hand. “Olympus is Armor. You have no jurisdiction—”
“General Laran signed the warrant, sir,” the lieutenant said.
“She what?” Tongea’s face fell.
“Templar,” Roland said as he rose slowly and unfastened his sword belt with an easy, deliberate motion, “my faith remains.”
He set the blade aside and stepped away from the cart, hands up and level with his face.
Two MPs rushed him and wrenched Roland’s arms behind his back. They slapped cuffs on him and a hood went over his head.
“We were told this would be a signal-one arrest,” the lieutenant said, relaxing slightly but keeping his eyes on Roland. “Armed and dangerous suspect.”
“Why didn’t you come for him during the funeral? Frog-march him in front of everyone?” Tongea asked.
The passenger side door of the APC opened and a navy commander stepped out.
“I wanted to,” Commander Kutcher said, “but none of the MPs would do it. Care to explain that one, lieutenant?”
“Respect.” The MP glanced at Tongea’s Crusader cross, then holstered his pistol as Roland was led into the back of the APC. “And it would be my men fighting armor if the Templar were a bunch of treasonous fanatics like you told us.”
Tongea stared daggers at the commander.
“Just that one.” Kutcher winked and jerked a thumb back to the APC.
“Where are you taking him?” Tongea asked.
“He’s got an appointment with a judge, then an all-expense paid trip to a special hole we dug. Real destination spot; you want to come see?” Kutcher asked.
“He’s an officer and innocent until proven guilty, no matter the charge,” Tongea said.
“I expected more…chutzpah from you armor types,” Kutcher smirked. “You don’t live up to the hype outside the suits. Clothes really do make the man.” He poked two fingers at the cross on Tongea’s chest.
The Maori snatched the digits before they could touch him and broke them with a quick twist. Kutcher stifled a cry and backed away, clutching his
misshapen fingers.
“You saw that!” the naval officer said to the lieutenant.
“Saw what?” The MP traced a circle in the air and his men hurried into the APC.
“He assaulted me!”
“You fell. You better get back in the truck before you slip on this wet floor again.” The MP grabbed Kutcher by the shoulder and manhandled him back to the front passenger seat. The MP slammed the door shut, then turned to Tongea and tapped his fist to his chest. The Templar salute.
Tongea watched as the MPs left with Roland, heading down a logistics tunnel. He touched his forearm screen and opened a channel.
Chapter 6
Roland sat on a bench, still hooded, his ankles chained together and cuffs on his hands. The engine noise around him told him he was on a Mule. He kept a count going in his head, sure that he was still on Mars as the Mule hadn’t done a burn to break into orbit since he’d been placed onboard.
He heard footsteps against the metal, then his hood came off. Kutcher brandished his broken fingers, held straight by splints, at Roland.
“Not appreciated,” Kutcher said. “That savage of yours will pay for this.”
“You got off lucky,” Roland said. “Maori have a habit of decapitating their enemies, then shrinking the heads to use as door knockers.”
Kutcher rolled his eyes and sat next to Roland.
“Don’t think you’ve got me—or anyone—fooled. We’re in an undeclared war with the Ibarras. You don’t switch jerseys and expect us to believe you’re back in our fold. You know who you are? The Black Knight,” Kutcher sneered. “Vids of you fighting on that bridge against the Kesaht have gone viral—despite all our efforts to restrict that little stunt. You want to tell me who your Ibarra handlers are? What they want you to do to undermine the Terran Union?”
“I am Templar,” Roland said. “The Ibarras have nothing to do with who I am or why I fight.”
“I know what you did on Oricon, saving all those kids from the Kesaht. That’s why I’m going to make this offer—this one-time offer.” He brandished a finger from his unbroken hand. “Cooperate. Admit the Ibarras sent you back as part of a fifth column. Turn back their influence on the Union and it’ll go easy for you.”
