by Richard Fox
“And you’ll not take it,” Morrigan said.
Aignar breathed hard through his nose, looking from Medvedev and the Ibarran armor to Roland.
“I don’t know anything about this,” Roland said. “I swear it.”
Morrigan conversed in Basque for a few moments with the legionnaires, then nodded.
“Roland,” she said, “you’re about to know something. This is a jailbreak. For me and every Ibarran in this hole. I don’t think it’ll work and we’ll likely all die in the attempt, but it’s better than rotting away down here. You can come with us. I vouched for you once. I’ll do it again to our Lady, and I’ll see you keep your armor. Stay in your cell or join the Ibarra Nation once and for all. Choose quick, cara. We’re on a schedule.”
“Roland, they’re all trait—” Aignar’s voice caught as Medvedev pressed his foot against his chest.
“Stop!” Roland shouted and Medvedev relented slightly.
Roland looked from side to side, at all the Templar in the cells around him. He went to both knees and reached through the bars to touch Aignar’s shoulder.
“I am armor. I am Templar. Earth…doesn’t want that from me anymore. We cannot escape what we are, what we know is right.” Roland drew his hand back. “I’ll go with you, Morrigan, but you’ll take us all.”
Medvedev touched the side of his helmet and the bars to Roland’s cell slid to one side. He stepped into the passageway, as did the rest of the Templar.
“I hope they’re easier to convince than you,” Morrigan said.
“Well met.” Martel touched his fist to his heart when he recognized Morrigan.
“Colonel,” she said, “it’s been…a minute since we’ve seen each other. We’ve time for an elevator pitch. The Ibarra Nation extends a welcome invitation to serve in her armed forces for the good of all mankind.”
“We prayed to Saint Kallen for a solution,” Martel said. “Who am I to argue with how those prayers are answered?”
“Lovely.” Morrigan hit Medvedev on his arm and he removed his foot from Aignar’s chest. “The Lady’s intelligence service promises us a way off Mars. I’m all for making an Irish goodbye of the situation.”
There was a clap and a missile shot overhead, the engines burning like an ember as it wobbled up and down, then veered toward Guard Post Charlie. Gauss fire snapped out and the missile exploded short of its target, raining debris against the glass observation windows and sending smoke billowing up and against the top of the dome.
“That’s a problem,” Medvedev said. “That was supposed to kill most of the guards securing the Narvik’s crew.”
“You only brought one rocket?” Morrigan asked.
“The other is spoken for,” the legionnaire said.
“There are a hundred Rangers and Strike Marines in that guard shack,” Roland said. “How many did you bring?”
“Three,” Medvedev said, “but we’ll have more soon.” He handed an earpiece to Morrigan and sprinted back toward Guard Post Alpha with the other legionnaire.
“Three?” Roland asked. “Did I hear that right?”
“Aye,” Morrigan said. “Colonel Martel, we need to get your Templar to the lifts as soon as our transports arrive…I don’t recommend keeping our heads down in the cells, on account of the Earth dogs might get control of the network again.”
“Tunnels connect the guard posts,” Roland said. “We should be safe in there.”
“Tongea,” Martel said, “we form up by lances. Roland, get us out of the line of fire. We’re armor…just all rather crunchy at the moment.”
“Yes, sir.” Roland looked down at Aignar, who was propped up on his side.
“Just kill us both,” Aignar said, motioning to Valencia.
“No.” Roland shook his head. “You’re coming with us for now. You’ve got plugs in your head. The soldiers at Charlie will be gunning for any and all armor…but her.” Roland grabbed Valencia by the carry handle on the back of her shoulders and dragged her into his cell.
He removed her helmet and set it on his bunk. Her face was wet with tears, her eyes wide with fear.
“I…my arm doesn’t feel right,” she said.
“It’ll pass,” Roland said. “I’m sorry. This is the best I can come up with right now.”
“Say a prayer to Saint Kallen for me?” she asked. “All I ever wanted to do was meet Templar in person. Now they’re all around me and it’s…not how I envisioned it. At all.”
“I will. For you.” Roland touched her face and removed the slate off her gauntlet. He left the cell and hit a key to lock it behind him.
****
Masha sat in the cockpit of a Destrier transport, the much larger cousin to the ubiquitous Mules. The view of the massive doors for Olympus hangar Sigma-Nine hadn’t changed in the hours since she’d come on duty. Her copilot swiped through an ebook on a data slate.
The Ibarran spy checked a clock again, then drummed her fingertips against her thighs.
“You need the latrine, use the latrine,” said Padilla, the copilot. “We’re not under alert condition alpha. We can move around.”
“Fleet standards for mission receipt to wheels up is two minutes,” Masha said. “Keep forgetting Mars is a bit different.”
“Dirt-side assignments are just a bit easier than void time.” Padilla stretched and leaned forward to look through the viewing panels built into the floor of the cockpit. “The techs finish maintenance on the forward landing gear?”
“They left an hour ago.” Masha checked the time again. Medvedev was overdue to report, a delay that was very unlike him.
“Mobile, this is action.” Medvedev’s words sounded in her ears, transported through bone conduction through the false tooth in her jaw.
Masha ran a hand down a thigh and pressed a button on a small device in a hip pocket.
Red lights flashed on Padilla’s control panel.
“Electrical fault in the forward gear,” Padilla sighed. “Bet the techs got lazy and didn’t reset the breakers. They always forget that. Want me to call them back?”
“We’re a hangar queen until the fault clears,” Masha said. “It’ll take those grease monkeys more than five minutes to get back and fix it, and I don’t want to explain to Commander Hard-Ass why his alert bird is off-line on my first day on the job.”
“Yeah, he’s a dick. I’ll flip the breakers.” Padilla got out of her seat and left the cockpit.
Masha waited a moment, then clicked her jaw twice.
“Action, go.”
“Phase one complete, but there’s a complication. Total head count for evac is now 312,” Medvedev said.
“Sorry, did you say ‘312’?”
“The Terrans imprisoned all their Templar here. You said Lady Ibarra would want the Black Knight. I assume she’d want any other armor we could evacuate as well.”
“That’s very open-minded of you, Medvedev. I am talking to Medvedev, aren’t I, not one of the smarter legionnaires we snuck in?”
“That is more than we planned on taking home.”
“A lot more…let me think. I can get two hundred in my Destrier.” She looked out a side window to two more of the large transports on the flight deck. “We’re going to need a distress signal from Tholis. A big one.”
“We shut off all communications.”
“I know what I did, Medvedev. Thank you very much. Then we need to un-shut them off for just a bit…and we’ll need pilots. The doggies in the other birds are in for a surprise and I doubt they’ll be eager to join us. You have the wire-guided munitions with you, right?”
“Two.”
“Not four?”
“Not enough room in the cargo containers.”
“Excuses, now I’m getting excuses…here’s what you need to do.”
****
Strike Marine Lieutenant Colonel Izuma scrolled through a data slate. He shook his head at the proposed list of new personnel assignments and swiped left on any and all that had no combat exper
ience. Just why the Bureau of Personnel thought data-integrity technicians could manage Ibarran fanatics was lost to him,
He touched a room-temperature cup of coffee and sneered.
“Orderly?”
“Sir?” A private that looked like he was old enough to start shaving last week appeared in the doorway.
“Why hasn’t Major Lynch from Post Alpha sent over his daily situation report?” Izuma asked.
“I sent the request twenty—”
“Why is my coffee cold?”
“I made it for you an hour—”
“Why aren’t you fixing these issues?”
“Do you…the coffee or—”
“Move out!”
Izuma snickered as the junior soldier almost jumped out of his boots to comply. Why the desk jockeys hadn’t found him a decent senior NCO to serve as his first sergeant was starting to grate on him. Most of the combat soldiers assigned to him were young—children when the Ember War began. Using only true-born humans for this assignment might have briefed well to the senior staff, but he had to run his cellblock with almost no midlevel leadership.
“Sir?” The soldier stuck his head around the corner.
“You didn’t even come back with coffee.”
“There’s a problem,” the soldier squeaked. “We can’t raise block Alpha.”
“For the love of…” Izuma got out of his chair and snapped a pistol belt around his waist. He strode into the command center and went to a mix of soldiers, sailors, and Marines huddled around a workstation.
“Well?” Izuma asked. “I have to show you all how to work a damn radio too?”
“Negative, sir,” a Strike Marine said. “All connections to posts Alpha and Bravo are green. They’re just not answering.”
Izuma put his hands on his hips and looked through the window to the post across the crater.
“Didn’t a shuttle just land at Alpha’s pad?” the colonel asked.
“Yes, sir,” someone answered. “Not due to lift off for another three and a half hours.”
“Raise Olympus,” Izuma said.
“Aye aye,” the commo Marine said. He tapped at the controls and frowned. “That’s weird. We’re making the handshake to Olympus control, but there’s no data going back and forth.”
“Are we being jammed?” Izuma asked.
“This is more of a system fault.”
Izuma grabbed a sailor by the shoulder. “You. Get into the barracks and get everyone out of their bunks and in full riot gear. Not a drill.” He grabbed another. “You. Get the QRF in here.” He half shoved the sailors away. “Comms, get me the floor patrols.”
He took a micro bead off his belt and pressed it into an ear.
“They’re all off-line,” the tech said. They looked out the windows and saw a pair of Rangers standing between the rows of cells holding the Ibarran prisoners. One Ranger tapped the side of his helmet while the other waved to the guard post.
“Power armor,” Izuma said, “everyone. Open the arms locker and load live ammo. We’re under attack.”
****
Adams kicked at a fallen drone. A slight smell of smoke from the exploded missile tickled her nose and she almost felt like she was back in action with her old Strike Marine team.
“What was that?” Boucher asked, his eyes wide with panic. “Are we—who’s—should—”
Adams grabbed him by the back of the neck. “You want me to cut your head off so you can finish your chicken impression?” she asked.
Boucher froze up.
Speakers in the fallen drone whined with feedback and Adams covered her ears.
“Prisoners,” Medvedev’s voice came from the drones. “The Ibarra Nation calls you home.”
“Kiss my ass!” Adams shouted at the drone. “I am a Strike Marine! Terran Strike Marines, you traitor.” She kicked the drone in the repulsors and sparks shot out.
“For Earth!” Boucher punched a fist in the air and repeated the words. The prisoners joined in the chant and added a number of expletives directed toward the Ibarras.
“Guillotine,” Medvedev said through the drones. “Tecumseh. Geranium. Circus.”
The chant died down and Adams felt lightheaded. She wobbled against a mess table and a sudden pain grew between her eyes.
“The Ibarra Nation fights for the Lady,” Medvedev said.
“For the Lady,” Adams repeated as a sense of calm washed over her. She looked at the Terran Union flag on her uniform with disgust and ripped it off.
The food station in the middle of the mess area rose out of the floor and the drawers popped open, all stuffed with loaded gauss carbines and pistols. Labaqui walked through the throng of prisoners and up to Commander Strickland.
“What does the Lady will?” Strickland asked the legionnaire.
“Who’s combat trained and experienced?” Labaqui tapped a thick pouch on his waist. “I need a security element.”
“Her.” Strickland pointed at Adams, who ran over to the food dispenser and drew a carbine. She reloaded the weapon and slipped two magazines into her pockets. More prisoners took up arms.
“Rescue is on the way,” Labaqui said. “Get everyone else to the elevator and wait.” He slapped Strickland on the shoulder, then ran toward the wall separating the cellblock from where the crew of the Narvik were held.
Adams struggled to keep up with the legionnaire. She wasn’t sure if it was the armor or the conditioning that helped the Ibarran move so fast. The red Crusader cross on his black armor held her gaze, the sight filling her with hope and excitement.
Deep in her mind, a sense of wrongness scratched at her consciousness. She shook the feeling away and caught up to the legionnaire at the wall where rows of razor wire discouraged any notion of going over the top.
Labaqui opened the pouch and drew out a roll of burn cord.
“Strike Marine, you know how to breach?” he asked.
“I’m cross-trained.” She took the end of the cord and drew it out. “Diamond-shaped entry? Our people should still be in their cells. If we go for frag and—”
“No choice.” Labaqui tapped his muzzle against the rock wall. “Feldspar composite? The Terrans use a spoil compactor to build this?”
“It was like that when we got here.” Adams pressed the burn cord against the rock, and adhesive built into the outer layer glued the cord in place. “Water charge?”
“You have an IV bag?” a prisoner said from where he crouched next to a closed cell. “Pathfinder,” he said, giving a quick salute to the Ibarran.
“If we use enough cord—” A rifle shot sounded across the prison and Labaqui stumbled forward.
“Sniper!” Adams called out as she caught Labaqui before he could fall over. The new Ibarrans took over and one pointed to Post Charlie.
Labaqui grunted and grabbed Adams by the waist. He shoved her aside and swept up his weapon, sinking to a crouch just as another bullet snapped over his head. He fired from the hip once, then braced the carbine against his shoulder and let off two more shots.
Across the prison, a Ranger pitched off the catwalk and fell into the Narvik cellblock with a crunch of broken armor.
Labaqui’s right arm went limp at his side and he cursed in Basque as rivulets of blood ran down the back of his arm from a broken armor plate. He locked his carbine on his back and picked up the roll of burn cord, slapping it into the middle of the diamond Adams had almost finished as he waved his good arm at the cells.
“Fire in the hole!”
Cell doors—all the cell doors—slammed open. Adams ducked into the first opening as Labaqui stood just outside the cell, shielding her from the burn cord.
“Sir?” she asked. “Don’t you want to—”
The burn cord ignited and a blast wave smacked against her head. A cloud of dust roiled past Labaqui and into the cell.
The legionnaire darted away. Adams heard the crunch of heavy boots on rocks and hacking coughs from her fellow prisoners.
“Korrika e
gin!” Labaqui shouted. “Exekutatu nire ahosta!”
Adams wasn’t sure how she could suddenly understand Basque, but she knew the legionnaire was calling for the Ibarran prisoners to run to the sound of his voice. She ran through the clearing dust and saw the legionnaire standing atop a section of collapsed wall. Dark figures emerged from the fog, coughing as Labaqui waved them over.
The Strike Marine bumped into an Ibarran sailor, his uniform torn and singed from the Narvik’s crash. He looked at her with fear in his eyes.
“Keep going.” Adams turned him toward the back of the cellblock and jabbed him on his back with her carbine’s stock. She charged up the slope as Labaqui kept shouting.
On the other side, dozens of Ibarran sailors rushed out of their cells and toward the legionnaire.
A bullet snapped past Adams’ head and struck the wall next to Labaqui.
“Contact!” Adams slid down the other side of the hill and stopped herself by bumping into the side of a cell. The Pathfinder thumped against the wall next to her.
“Turcotte,” he said.
“You puffies better be good in a fight.” Adams quickly peeked around the corner and saw more Ibarrans rushing past.
Gauss shots rang out and someone cried out in pain. A sailor stumbled forward, clutching her stomach. She fell in front of Adams, blood pooling beneath her.
“They’re not even armed,” Adams said as she reached out and grabbed the woman by the collar, dragging her out of the line of fire. A blood bubble formed in the woman’s mouth and she swiped a hand across Adam’s shirt. The woman went limp and died before the Strike Marine could do any more.
“God damn it.” Adams stood and set her carbine to full auto. “Puffy, with me.”
Gauss shots snapped through the air as Labaqui returned fire. Adams saw which way his rifle was oriented and shouldered her weapon.
“Three…two…go!” Adams swung around the corner and stepped over a dead sailor. She saw a Ranger duck behind a cellblock and pulled the trigger on her carbine, emptying the entire magazine into the cell wall, blasting through the rock and kicking up puffs of vaporized rock.
She ran forward, slapping a new magazine into the weapon, and went into a feet-first slide past the gap in the cells. Three Ranger guards stood in the passage. One had his hands pressed to the front of his visor, while the other two didn’t seem prepared for an unarmored prisoner to come into view.
