The True Measure (Terran Armor Corps Book 3)

by Richard Fox

  “I told you I’d get you to a…where?” Makarov looked to one side, then back to Lettow and narrowed her gaze.

  “Contacts,” Paxton said, flinging the Crucible moon into the middle of the holo tank. Blue icons of friendly ships appeared over the horizon. Lettow froze his channel with Makarov.

  “Admiral Lettow.” A Terran admiral with five stars on his collar appeared. “High Command decided to send in the fleet reserve through an offset jump when you didn’t check in. Good thing we brought pioneers to repair the Crucible.”

  “Fleet Admiral Hastings.” Lettow swallowed hard. “The situation—”

  “Looks to be well in hand,” Hastings said. “I see the Ibarras stole the one-time gates from us too. Your artillery ships have the range. Take it out before they can escape.”

  “Admiral, after the Kesaht arrived, we agreed to terms with the Ibarras—”

  “And the Kesaht are dealt with. I’ve more than enough ships to make quick work of what they’ve got left. We sent you here to do a job, Lettow. Is there a problem?”

  Lettow thought hard, searching for some way to de-escalate the situation.

  “The Ibarras still have their macro cannons, sir. The—”

  “Yes, we know where they all are now. Far out system. Shouldn’t be too hard to mitigate the risk. How long until you have a firing solution?” Hastings’ tone hinted that he was quickly running out of patience.

  “Stand by.” Lettow put the channel on hold. He looked up at Paxton and locked eyes with her.

  “I’ll go speak with gunnery.” She winked. “Should be awhile until we can fire, what with all the…jamming, or something.”

  Lettow looked at Ericson’s holo.

  “My system’s going on the fritz,” she said. “I have to shut it down. Send text if there’s anything pressing.” She shut down her perfectly fine connection.

  Lettow touched Makarov’s portrait and the young woman came up.

  “Makarov…how long until you can jump out?” Lettow asked.

  “Just like that?” she asked. “You gain the upper hand and our deal is gone? I should have known you—”

  “Not my decision. We all work for someone and Fleet Admiral Hastings sees things differently than I do. I’m trying to help you, but I need to know how long until you can jump.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “Best I can give you is ten.” Lettow clenched his jaw as anger flashed across her face. “Ten minutes of bad computation data. Hastings isn’t an idiot. If I try to stall longer than that, he’ll relieve me of command and send orders direct to the artillery ships and you won’t have three minutes before you’re trapped here with him. Now get everyone out that you can.”

  “And what of those I leave behind?” she asked.

  “Prisoners of war. Treated as best as I can manage.”

  She bit down on a knuckle, then pointed at Lettow.

  “You…I can forgive for this. But now…I will never trust you—or any other Terran—again. Any harm that comes to my people I will revisit on you tenfold, you understand me?”

  “Get out of here, Makarov.” Lettow gave her a quick salute. “Don’t take this personally, but I hope we never see each other again, because it won’t be as friends.”

  “Best not, for your sake.” She cut the channel.

  “Gunnery,” Lettow called across the bridge, “time on that firing solution?”

  Chapter 30

  The rotary gun on Roland’s shoulder ripped through an open-topped Rakka transport, and sparks flew as the bullets punched through the thin metal and out the other side, slaughtering the aliens within. The weapon snapped toward another transport where Rakka leaped over the sides and kept spinning.

  “Out of rotary ammo,” Roland said and ran to the transport, jamming his hands beneath the tracks and flipping it over. Rakka went flying through the air and the transport burst through the wall of an administrative building.

  An alien shot Roland in the back of the helm, the hit cracking an antennae array and scrambling Roland’s HUD. He twisted around, grabbed the Rakka by the leg, and used it as a club to crush two other Rakka while a third tried to run. Roland hurled the mangled mess of his club and splattered the two against a wall.

  “Duck!” Nicodemus shouted over his speakers.

  Roland fell to one knee, just as a Kesaht tank tumbled through the air right where his head and shoulders had been. The tank hit the remains of a hasty barricade put up by the Ibarran defenders and flattened two Sanheel. Looking back at the source of the flying tank, he saw Nicodemus and Morrigan finishing off the last of the Rakka.

  Beyond the barricade was the spaceport, separated from the city by a chasm. Three causeways crossed over the expanse that stretched from a few dozen yards in width toward the far edge of the spaceport to almost a quarter mile wide at the causeway nearest to Roland.

  Rakka and Sanheel advanced down the causeway toward a fighting position manned by legionnaires. Remnants of Kesaht tanks and their dead littered the battlefield. This wasn’t their first push on the spaceport, but it would be their last if they broke through the final line of defenses.

  “They’re attacking,” Roland said. “How do you want to—”

  A spike hit the ground near Roland’s leg and bounced off his shin. Sanheel in the bottom floor of a nearby building stabbed their rifles through windows and fired on the black-clad armor.

  Roland swung to the side and drew his Mauser as a spike ricocheted off his breastplate, leaving a long gash. Firing his heavy cannon, he blew out a support beam and the building collapsed, pancaking several floors onto the Sanheel attackers.

  “Damn it,” Morrigan said as she pulled a spike out of her left knee servo. Nicodemus tugged a spike out of his shield and tossed it aside.

  “They must really want us alive,” Morrigan said. “Stupid decision if they think we’ll ever—”

  “Watch out!” Roland yelled as he caught a flash from the upper floors of the building behind her. He reloaded a shell as the report of Sanheel rifles broke through the air.

  Nicodemus lunged toward Morrigan, his shield stretching over her. A spike struck it dead center. The next shot chipped off the edge and pierced Morrigan’s back. Her armor locked up, then pitched forward like a toppled statue.

  Roland fired into the building, blowing out windows and disintegrating entire floors. He put two more rounds into the enemy position before he looked to Morrigan.

  Amniosis fluid leaked out of the tear in her armor. Nicodemus had one hand at the base of her helm’s neck servos.

  “Morrigan?” Roland asked.

  “She’s alive,” Nicodemus said. “Hurt, but alive. Get to the bridge. The last transport isn’t away yet.” He pulled Morrigan’s sword hilt off her leg and tossed it to Roland.

  He caught it and held his arm steady.

  “She needs—”

  “Who are you here for!” Nicodemus roared. “For her or for your oath as a Templar?”

  “For the innocent,” Roland said, looking back at the spaceport where the Kesaht advance had broken through the first line of defenses around the chasm. “For us all.”

  “Save them.” Nicodemus pointed toward the bridge, and Roland saw three Kesaht spikes embedded in Nicodemus’ arm, hip, and lower back.

  Roland brought Morrigan’s hilt up to his helm in salute, then ran toward the battle, transforming his legs into treads and accelerating forward. At least a dozen Sanheel were charging down the causeway, their shields flaring as the fighting position fired on them.

  Where the causeway met the road stretching along the outer edge of the chasm was a burnt-out Kesaht tank. Roland drove toward the tank and slapped a new round into his Mauser.

  Rakka huddled next to the tank, looked up just in time to see Roland as he drove right over them, and used the tank as a ramp. Roland let his momentum carry his treads over his head as he sailed through the air. He fired his Mauser on a Sanheel at the back of the pack and hit it where its upp
er body met the hindquarters.

  Roland slapped in another round, transformed his treads back into legs, and got off another shot that punched a Sanheel into the chasm. Then he swung himself upright and landed in the middle of the officer pack.

  Roland bashed the barrel of his Mauser into the face of an alien and dropped the weapon. He grabbed his sword hilt off his thigh and hit his forearm against the same Sanheel’s neck while he hooked the bottom of his sword behind its head.

  Roland pulled the alien off-balance and used it as a shield between him and another alien as it lunged at him with the crackling bayonet at the end of its rifle. The alien ran his companion through. Roland jabbed the edge of his blade at the alien—that looked horrified at what it had just done to a friend—and cut a deep gash through its throat.

  A blow to his back knocked Roland forward. He rolled over the bayonetted alien, slapped a hand against a Sanheel fumbling with its rifle, and shoved forward, sending it through the railings on the side of the causeway and plummeting to its death. Drawing Morrigan’s sword, he lunged to one side as a Sanheel reared up to strike him with its front hooves. Roland stabbed it in the belly and twisted the blade, then cut across and disemboweled his attacker.

  He then brought both swords over his head and launched a twin slash down on his next target. The Sanheel tried to block with its rifle, but the blades broke through and hacked into its shoulders.

  Roland ignored its screams, put a boot to its chest, and kicked it free.

  The remaining Sanheel formed a circle around Roland, their rifles held high and bayonets pointed at him.

  “You want them, you alien filth? You have to go through me! You understand!” Roland yelled.

  A Sanheel lunged at him. Roland parried the strike and sent a riposte up the barrel, severing the attacker’s hands at the wrists, then he ducked and made a blind swipe with his other blade through the air, connecting with a stab from behind and breaking the muzzle.

  A bayonet rammed into his left arm just above the elbow. Sympathetic pain arced through Roland’s body. The Sanheel wrenched the bayonet from side to side, its mouth open and bellowing.

  Roland jerked away, but the enemy’s blade was wedged tight.

  A Sanheel ran at Roland from the other side, rifle braced against its side. Roland reversed the grip on his other sword and swung the flat of his blade into the rifle, deflecting it to one side and into his already stricken arm.

  The impact ripped Roland’s left arm off. His HUD pulsed with damage reports and he felt his connection to his armor lessen as the suit tried to prevent his nervous system from overloading and sending him over the red line.

  Roland kicked the charging Sanheel into the other one and they mashed against the railings, the metal creaking and bending as their combined bulk proved too much for the rails. They broke through and tipped over the side. One managed to grab the edge of the road, its hand holding on for a second, then it slipped away.

  Roland raised his good arm over his head, the blade angled down toward the three remaining Sanheel.

  “You go through me,” Roland said.

  “I will carry your shell back to the savior,” the Sanheel in the middle said and aimed its rifle at Roland.

  Gauss shots snapped from the fighting position, igniting the Sanheel’s shields. It whirled back toward the source of the attack and fired its rifle, blowing away a corner of the barricade. One alien swung its rifle toward the fighting position; the other aimed at Roland.

  Roland bent his arm and threw his sword. It hit with a thump and buried in the alien’s chest. Roland picked up the other sword from his severed arm and charged. The blade cleaved a Sanheel’s head, and he left the weapon there and tackled the last one, landing on top of the alien and punching it in the face, cracking the orbit around one eye.

  “Through me!” Roland brought his fist up again and struck with all the force his armor could muster. The blow split the Sanheel’s skull and cracked the road beneath as the sound of distant gauss fire and fighter engines drifted over the causeway.

  Roland stood up and shuffled toward the sword buried in his enemy’s head, pressing what remained of his other arm against his side. He ripped the sword free and looked down the causeway where alien dead littered the road.

  A team of legionaries peeked over the fighting position.

  Roland motioned toward the spaceport.

  “Get out of here,” he said.

  “It’s too late for that, sir,” a legionnaire said.

  The causeway rumbled and a transport lifted over the walls, angling up and roaring toward the sky. Gray Eagles and black Shrikes formed an escort as the transport made its escape.

  “You could have made it,” Roland said.

  The legionnaire shook her head. “If they got through you, they’d have to get through us.”

  The air rumbled and a Mule in Ibarra colors flew overhead. The rear ramp was down and a crewman waved to Roland from the cargo bay. Roland scanned through his comms frequencies, but his damaged antennae found nothing.

  One of the legionnaires had a hand to the side of her helmet.

  “Tell them there are two armor soldiers just to the south of here,” Roland said. “Both damaged and in need of extraction. Nicodemus and Morrigan.”

  The legionnaire did a double take, then nodded. The Mule banked away.

  “Pilot’s got eyes on them,” the legionnaire said. “Said he can take two suits, not three.”

  “Get them out of here. We’ll hold here for pickup.” Roland looked down at his wrecked arm. “You got a name?”

  “Loiola, sir…what?” She cocked her head to one side. “Roger.” She took her helmet off and red hair spilled down one side of her face. Setting the helmet down on the top of the barricade, the open end angled toward Roland, she touched the control screen on her forearm.

  “Roland?” Nicodemus’ voice came from the helmet’s internal speakers.

  “Yes, sir. Transport’s away. Morrigan?”

  “We’re loaded.” The Mule rose up from where Roland had left them behind and it roared on the same path the last transport took, afterburners glaring in the sky. “Admiral Makarov’s ordered a full and immediate retreat. Ours is the last Mule off Balmaseda.”

  Loiola tightened the grip on her rifle.

  “You had a deal with Lady Ibarra,” Nicodemus said. “Now she’s honoring her end. I’m transmitting our Kesaht data to your armor and you can go home.”

  Roland looked up at the Mule as the afterburners cut out and it vanished into the sky. A data line on his HUD flashed as a small file transferred over.

  “Was that the plan all along?” Roland asked. “Leave me behind once this was done?”

  “Lady Ibarra told me to give you the choice to stay with us or go back. The war made the choice for you. I am Alec Nicodemus, ferrum corde.”

  “I am Sinéad Morrigan.” Her words were tinged with static as the distance between them grew. “Ferrum corde.”

  “Take our names with you, Roland,” Nicodemus said. “—ght well…Templar.” The speakers cut off. Looking to the sky, Roland asked himself if he would have returned to the Ibarras if he had the chance. After several long seconds…he still didn’t have an answer.

  “What was that about, sir?” Loiola asked.

  “I don’t know,” Roland said.

  “Contact.” One of the legionnaires pointed down the bridge where armor advanced down the causeway. Red Uhlans followed the white-clad Templars of Colonel Martel’s lance.

  “Sir, what do we do?” Loiola asked.

  Roland looked down at Morrigan’s sword in his hand. He flipped a switch on the hilt and locked it against his leg.

  “It’s over,” Roland said. Reaching up to his rotary cannon, he unlocked it from the mount, tossed it aside, then discarded his gauss cannons with a flick of his arm.

  The Terran armor stopped a few dozen yards away, but Martel and Tongea continued forward. The colonel looked Roland over, studying the damage to hi
s suit.

  “Governor Thrace has ordered all Ibarra forces to lay down their arms,” Martel said, “and surrender. I’ll have your name.”

  “I am armor.”

  Martel stepped back and looked at Tongea. If Martel didn’t recognize his voice, Tongea certainly would. Roland dipped his head in shame and slouched down to one knee, studying his black armor and the alien blood staining it.

  “What have I done?” Roland asked. “What have I done?”

  “Why are you here?” Tongea asked.

  “Because I am armor.” Roland looked up. “Because I could not let others go to war while I chose to stay behind.”

  “Then you are our brother,” Martel said. “Stand. The righteous will never be shaken. And they will be known with honor.”

  Roland got to his feet.

  “Will everyone see it that way, sir?” Roland asked.

  “No.” Martel placed a hand on Roland’s shoulder. “But who we are will never change.”

  Chapter 31

  Roland examined the manacles around his wrists and the chain connecting them to a hook embedded in a metal table.

  “Let’s go over what you thought you saw in that church,” Commander Kutcher said as he leaned back in his seat opposite Roland. “You encountered some sort of genetic variant of a Sanheel—”

  “They were Toth.” Roland sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you what they were?”

  “And how many times do I have to ask you if you’re a xenobiologist?” Kutcher slapped a palm to the table. “You were trained in the Armor Corps, not as a Path Finder. Just because you might have come across what could be another part of the Kesaht doesn’t mean what you saw were Toth.”

  “I told you where the bodies are,” Roland said. “Go to that church and find them. Have an actual xeno specialist get an answer that you’ll accept. I told you what they were, what they said to us. They didn’t move like Sanheel, weren’t armed like Sanheel, and they didn’t fight like Sanheel. Why? Because they weren’t Sanheel. They were Toth.”

  “How convenient that church was destroyed in the fighting and your armor only had the last few minutes of video logs before Colonel Martel found you.” Kutcher crossed his arms over his chest. “Convenient, no?”