by Richard Fox
Admiral Lettow paced across a line of a dozen armor soldiers on the Ardennes flight deck. Commanders Paxton and Kutcher kept pace, each holding a small stack of data slates.
“Wing commanders report a ninety-five percent operational rate on the Condor bombers,” Paxton read. “Which is—”
“Yesterday they were green across the board,” the admiral snapped. “Why the change?”
“Priority personnel transfer to 22nd Fleet engaged in the Wolf Star sector,” Paxton said. “Personnel for casualty replacements to units in contact can’t be fought. We were a buffet for crews needing to fill out their rosters before we got this mission.”
“A mission we shouldn’t be waiting around for,” Lettow said.
“Making us wait is a species trait,” said Kutcher, the ship’s intelligence liaison. “If they were on time, it would signal some manner of distress.”
“My ship, my cultural mores,” Lettow said.
“I can teach them some manners when they arrive,” Gideon said at the fore end of the line of armor.
“Maybe not?” Kutcher looked up at the armor. “You’re here to intimidate and show we’re serious about the mission. Not that I wouldn’t mind going to see Ambassador Ibanez and explaining why you caused a major diplomatic incident. Still, no. Just give me a war face…just like that.”
“If he steps on you, I’ll write it up as an accident,” Lettow said.
An oblong ship half the size of a Mule flew up and halted just beyond the open hangar doors. The ship looked like a meteor had been hollowed out and engines added to it. The forward section had irregularly sized windows, like the eyes of some mutated spider.
Gideon loaded gauss shells into the double-barreled cannons on one arm and his rotary weapon snapped up onto his shoulder.
“That’s not necessary,” Lettow said as the ship floated through the force field. Landing gear extended from the bottom of the rocky hull and it set down a few yards from the admiral.
“It might be,” Gideon said.
“You don’t like them,” Kutcher said. “They don’t like you. Let’s all agree to hate each other quietly and with no bloodshed. Yeah?”
Lettow gripped a wrist behind his back and waited as a trio of Vishrakath exited their shuttle. The aliens were insect-like—six-foot-tall ants that walked upright on four legs attached to their bottom segment. Lettow had been told that their skin covered a skeletal shell and could change hues to blend in to the environment. The alien in the center bore a wide sash of woven metal and several jeweled badges.
Azure eyes flicked around independent of each other as the three came to a stop a yard from Lettow.
“I am to ask for permission to board this vessel,” the middle alien said. “Though I am already here.”
“Permission granted,” Lettow said. “I am Admiral Lettow. Welcome aboard the Ardennes.”
“Horva. We will take up positions on your bridge.”
“No,” Lettow said firmly.
The Vishrakath’s clawed feet scraped at the deck. “By the agreement Ambassador Ibanez reached with brood sire Wexil, we are to have full—”
“Full observation rights,” Kutcher spoke up. “And you will. In a wonderful chamber we’ve set up that conforms to Vishrakath environmental needs. Our humidity requirements are much lower than yours. Can’t have you uncomfortable during your stay.”
“You will not stick us in a cell and expect us to take your word for what happens,” Horva said. “That is not the agreement.”
“Your facility will have full sensor data,” Lettow said, “and a holo mirror to all my communications with anyone not in the Terran Union. Ibanez and Wexil did not agree you would look over my shoulder during this entire observation.”
“Unacceptable,” Horva said. “The Terran Union agreed to allow observers to prove you are not in league with the Ibarrans. You could alter the data coming into this facility you’ve created.”
“Which is why we have other observers.” Lettow raised a finger in the air. Gideon stepped aside, startling the Vishrakath. An enclosed hover chair with a clear upper section floated over. Inside, bubbles clung to the glass and an alien inside leaned through dark-blue water.
This kind of Ruhaald always struck Lettow as some sort of creature from a dark lagoon, except that this one had a mermaid’s tail instead of legs.
“I am Rhysli of the Ruhaald diplomatic corps.”
The other alien observer was taller, with a wide build and in thick armor. Its purple-skinned head was encased in a clear helmet, and it had tendrils in place of a mouth.
“Septon Jarilla, of the Ruhaald Expedition and I render the appropriate greeting.”
Both aliens were of the same species, which fascinated Lettow. Rhysli was of the aquatic facet, while Jarilla was amphibious but required a good deal of moisture to be comfortable. Lettow had heard of a third Ruhaald offshoot, giants that lived deep within their planet’s oceans.
“We will be on the bridge to confirm your data,” Rhysli said.
“My mission is to kill or capture Stacey Ibarra,” Lettow said. “You’ll see that the Terran Union is not protecting or aiding them in anyway. Kutcher, show the Vishrakath to their chamber.”
“We have these nice hats for you.” Kutcher removed three large hoods from a pocket. “Strictly a formality while you move through the ship. Would you like me to—”
Horva hissed like a rattlesnake about to strike.
Gideon’s rotary gun spun to life.
“Formalities that are optional.” Kutcher pointed a finger up at Gideon but the barrels kept spinning. “Do follow me.” He stuffed the hoods back in his pocket and the Vishrakath followed him away.
“Deceitful creatures,” Rhysli said. “Never to be trusted.”
“When the intelligence officer works for you, one must give them the benefit of the doubt,” Lettow said.
“I spoke of the Vishrakath,” the Ruhaald said.
“Sir,” Paxton said, touching an earbud, “we’ve got a hit on the Ibarrans.”
“Just in time.” The admiral looked up at Gideon. “Your team ready for deployment?”
“We are always ready,” Gideon said.
Chapter 16
Roland watched as drones buzzed overhead and flew to the empty cellblock. Clipped shouts from the guards echoed over the walls and Roland heard bars slamming shut.
“New arrivals,” Adams said from across the chessboard she shared with Roland.
“How long since anyone else’s been put in here?” he asked.
“Other than you and the Ibarrans, sir?” Boucher asked. “Maybe…two months?”
“Fifty-nine days,” Adams said. “I was one of the last.”
“You hear those slams? Lots of cells getting occupied,” Boucher said. “Maybe another Ibarra ship was captured?”
“If the Omega Provision’s being enforced,” Roland said, stroking his chin, “seems like a lot of excess trouble for prisoners they’re just going to kill. Navy voids people for capital punishment, don’t they?”
“That’s right,” Boucher said.
A drone swooped down and shined a light on Roland.
“Prisoner Shaw, report to Guard Post Bravo immediately. Prisoner Shaw—”
Roland grabbed a black knight on the chessboard and moved it.
“Checkmate,” he said to Adams.
“Good luck,” Adams grumbled as she stared at her doomed king.
Roland went to the guard post, a reinforced shack built into the base of the crater wall connected to a lift up to the main guard post. A chamber made of thick bars buzzed next to revolving door. A trio of Rangers with shock batons waited on the other side for Roland. By their height and build, Roland knew none were Jerry or Valencia.
Roland opened the door to the chamber and stepped inside. It locked shut and a Ranger grabbed him by the front of his overalls and jerked him forward. Cuffs and a hood came next, both applied with more speed than finesse.
“My trial back on?” Roland asked.
/>
Guards grabbed him beneath both arms and dragged him away.
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry for that to start back up, traitor,” one said.
Roland felt his boots drag over a rough surface, then he was manhandled into a cart for a ride that lasted a few minutes. The guards escorted him into a quieter area, and he heard the buzz of drones in the air around him. There was a slam of a cell door and his cuffs and hood were removed.
He was alone in a small cell—a single bunk and latrine. He spun around and found Morrigan in the cell across from him. Behind bars to her left was Tongea; to her right, Martel knelt in prayer.
“I always thought General Laran was a ladder-climbing, conniving bitch,” Morrigan said. “But at least I’ve someone to talk to now.”
Roland pressed his forehead against the bars and tried to look down the long line of cells around him. He saw shadows move in some, while hands and arms rested on the bars of others.
“Tongea,” Roland said, “this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. When I told Martel about the Omega—”
“General Laran shut off Olympus from the rest of Mars and the Crucible,” the Maori said. “Couldn’t get word back to Earth or anyone else.”
“The Ibarrans,” Roland said, grabbing the bars. “If you’re in here…how’re they going to survive?”
“They all know what’s coming,” Morrigan said. “They’re not afraid of it. They serve Lady Ibarra to death, no matter where it comes from.”
“We can’t just sit here and—” Roland kicked his bunk and pain shot through his foot. He sat down, feeling alone and useless.
“What did you do while you were in her jail?” Tongea motioned to Morrigan’s cell.
“I…prayed. Kept my faith in Saint Kallen that a solution would arise,” Roland said.
“Then keep the faith.” Tongea rapped his fist twice against the bars. “Templar! Evening prayers!”
Cell doors rattled as the Templar beat their fists against their cells.
Roland went to a knee and took a deep, cleansing breath. He glanced up and saw Morrigan, her knee bent and head bowed.
“Salve, Kallen, ferrum corde…” echoed through the cellblock.
****
Freeman stood in an elevator with a handful of other naval personnel. He kept his eyes glued to the control panel, willing his body to stop sweating so much.
“You believe this crap?” a woman asked. “I was on a Pathfinder cruiser, doing planetary surveys, then whammy. Get your ass to Mars. Not even Mars proper. Orbital control.”
“Could be worse,” another woman said. “This could be an indefinite-duration assignment. Oh wait, it is.”
The elevator stopped and opened into a large room shaped like a bowl. Tiers rose up from the depression at the bottom, the lower levels full of workstations, the upper rows bare. A dais in the bottom of the room supported a large holo tank inside of which was a semi-opaque, well-built woman with blond hair and a well-lined face.
“Second watch,” said a lieutenant commander as he made his way to the top of the stairs to the lift doors. “Welcome to Grinder-M. Freeman? Sir, I need to take care of a formality.” He held up a scanner clamp. He put it on Freeman’s fingertip and a light on top flashed green.
“You’re true born,” the officer said. “Can’t believe we have to check that, but here we are. You’re with Keeper in the tank. Rest of you, get checked, then I’ll show you to your stations.”
Freeman wiped sweat away from his forehead and rubbed his tongue against the molar the Ibarrans had transplanted into his jaw. Their promises that the communications were untraceable and undetectable didn’t make him feel any better as he descended to the dais.
The hologram of Keeper touched a screen and pulled up a map of the galaxy. Her hands tapped icons for Crucible gates and information leaped up onto the holo, far faster than Freeman could process it.
He cleared his throat.
For a second, he could have sworn Keeper’s skin shimmered with fractals. Just a connection error, he guessed.
“Finally,” Keeper said. “Managing the Ceres Crucible and Grinder-M is a tax on resources. Get in here.”
“Sorry, Miss…Keeper, is it? I used to drive starships, not juggle wormholes,” Freeman said.
“It’s both harder and easier than it looks.” Keeper’s holo vanished, but her words continued through the speakers. “Hop up.”
Freeman put a shaky hand on the top of the dais and climbed up with little in the way of grace. Once he was back on his feet, he saw the stairs on the other side.
“Grinder control is simple,” Keeper said as a dozen new screens popped up around him. “The most important thing is authorizing or declining wormhole formation. You’ll go through that first in training modules I made for you and other operators at colony Crucibles. Twelve hours each. Should take you a month to be fully qualified. Start working through your qualifications. I’m on Ceres and can handle most of Grinder-M’s functions through the Crucible network.”
“So I just—”
“My focus is needed elsewhere. I’ll pop back in and check on you.” There was an audible click as she closed the channel.
“Back to school,” Freeman murmured as he looked around and found a blue-ringed data port, right where Masha said it would be. He wiggled his fake tooth and brushed a hand over a thumb drive in a pocket.
I miss you, Salina. We’ll be together soon.
****
Masha left footprints in the red sand as she hurried down a cut to a creek bed that had been dry for millions of years. She took cover beneath a rock outcrop and looked up at the pink skies.
Breath fogged against the inside of her helmet as she took a box off her belt and opened it. Trapped air burst out and inside was a small device the size of a hockey puck and a tarnished shell casing. She waited as the puck stirred to life. Metal arms unfolded from the top and it bobbed up and down in her palm.
“You ready to go to work?” she asked.
The device touched an arm to her gauntlet screen and text flowed across her visor.
“You got it. Fly, my pretty.” She tossed the device away and it bounded across the red soil, kicking up little tufts of dirt with each jump in the weak gravity.
“Masha?” came over the IR in her helmet. “Where’d you go?”
The spy took the shell casing out of the box and lifted it over her head.
“Look what I found!” She turned just as three men came into view. “You think it’s from when the Xaros attacked?”
“Buddy teams, Masha,” said a tall man as he shook his head. “This is an orientation walk. You know how bad it looks if Mars Search and Rescue loses someone out here? The Pathfinder contingent already thinks we’re nothing but amateurs.”
“But the Pathfinders don’t have a war relic, do they?” Masha twisted the shell casing, letting sunlight wink off it.
“It might be from the Chinese occupation,” another man said. “Gauss weapons don’t use shell casings.”
“So this is even more of a relic?” Masha clutched it to her chest.
“Beginner’s luck,” a woman said. “I’ve been hiking out here for months and haven’t found a damn thing.”
“Great, that’s all great.” The leader glanced at his gauntlet screen. “What’s even more great is that Commander No Fun just posted the alert roster. We’re all on duty in six hours. Time to head back.”
Masha looked back and didn’t see any sign of the device she’d let loose. She smiled and gave a quick salute to the horizon.
Chapter 17
If there was one thing Aignar didn’t miss about his time in the Rangers, it was being stuffed into a Mule up to his neck in cargo and other people. The Mule he was in brought back a number of bad memories of air sickness and squad mates that hadn’t showered in weeks.
The cargo pallet locked down in front of him provided a big brown wall of boredom to stare at during the flight. The document pouch in his lap was locked, and he’d b
een forbidden to carry anything electronic on the flight.
The mountain of a man in a black jumpsuit sitting next to him had slept the entire flight, a trick Aignar used to know back in his infantry days: any time not spent fighting, eating, or actively engaged in work was an opportunity for some shut-eye.
Waking the sleeping bear next to him for the sake of conversation was not how one made friends in the military, so Aignar kept to himself.
He glanced at his screen-less forearm out of habit, then looked down the row of cargo pallets and across the other passengers to where the crew chief should’ve been sitting, but that person was missing too.
“I hate drone Mules,” Aignar said.
“You’re surprised?” the big man grumbled and Aignar almost shot out of his restraints in surprise. The man raised his head, then stretched his arms—the width of Aignar’s legs—up over his head.
“Can’t trust them,” Aignar said. “Who knows who’s been mucking about in the code. We crash, there’s a pilot to blame. If this thing plows into a mountain because the terrain readers went on the fritz, whose butt do I kick? You kick. You look like the bruiser kind.”
“I’m a simple drone tech.” The man rapped the back of a hand against a cargo pod. “Got to drop these new units off to Tholis. If it makes you feel any better, I know enough about the Mule’s autopilot I’m not afraid.”
“If it craps out?”
“There’s still a manual override.”
“I am armor. I am not a pilot,” Aignar said.
“Why is armor going to some Martian bolt hole?”
“I could tell you,” Aignar said, tapping his document pouch, “but then I’d have to…just not tell you.”
“Sorry, I should know better than to ask.”
“You’re not in service coveralls. What did you do before you went civilian? Eat and lift cattle over your head?” Aignar asked.
“Lots, but drone work pays the best. You stay safe once we land.”
“It’s a prison and I’m on the right side of the bars. Should be fine. I’m Aignar.”
