by Richard Fox
“Aignar? Ever hear of a ghost fleet?” Roland asked.
“I was a Ranger. The only thing we cared about with the navy was them getting us to the fight and not blasting us into paste if they screwed up an orbital fire-support mission. I never heard anything.”
“But Tongea knows something,” Masako said.
“I’d rather not piss him off,” Roland said. “If the Dotari got told to pound sand over this, imagine what’ll happen to us if we stick our nose—or beak—where it doesn’t belong. We have enough to worry—”
“All candidates,” Gideon’s voice came from their gauntlets, “report to cargo bay seven. Full combatives gear.”
“No breaks during this trip,” Masako said.
“We had eight whole hours to ourselves back at Phoenix,” Roland said. “How could we ask for more?”
“If I get you on the mat, I’m going for your kidneys,” she said.
****
A Mule shuttle flew from the Verdun, one of the many orbital fortresses around Mars, and dove toward the red planet. Roland swung his turret around, his hands gripping the gauss cannon controls tightly. Riding in the turret protruding from the Mule’s hull almost felt like flying. A grin spread across his face as the Mule accelerated forward, pressing him against the turret seat.
“I hate you so much right now,” Masako sent through the shuttle’s IR.
“Should’ve beat me on the last VR range. I dropped anchor and got the rail cannon shot off a full half-second before you did,” Roland said.
“My own fault for teaching you to anchor in sandstone rather than shale,” she said with a huff. “How’s the view? Not much to see in the cargo bay but the other thirty candidates from Knox and Gideon’s smiling face.”
“Spectacular.” Gossamer clouds stretched across the Martian atmosphere. Looping over the equator, a swarm of construction ships worked on a partially built orbital ring, and prebuilt segments loitered near the busy end of the ring.
“You should see the Ibarra ring,” Roland said. “I remember when they started work on it a few years ago. Only another ten years before it’s fully operational.”
“Why is the Terran High Command putting so many resources into defending Mars and not Earth?” Cha’ril asked from the upper turret. “Ninety percent of the system’s population is on—”
“Better to have Mars as the target of an invasion than Earth,” Gideon cut in. “Mars is the lynchpin to the system’s defenses. It is the anvil the Xaros broke against during the last invasion. The planet is easier to defend with its lack of atmosphere—fighting in vac suits isn’t easy for most species—and Mars’ dead core keeps earthquakes from interfering with the macro-cannons. Anyone comes for Earth, they’ll be hammered by Mars. Enemy comes for Mars, the rest of the system’s defenses will make them pay for every second they’re in system.”
“In theory, right, sir?” Roland asked.
“Do you see any Vishrakath or Naroosha ships anywhere?”
“No…”
Roland saw a long shadow cast across the Martian surface and followed it back to a wide shield volcano. A cloud bank ran up one slope, dissipating to nothing before it reached the caldera.
Olympus Mons rose twenty-one miles over the surrounding plains, two and a half times taller than Mount Everest on Earth. The long-dead volcano was almost round, reminding Roland of the shields Spartans once carried into battle. The entire mountain could have fit snugly into France, if such a thing as countries still existed back on Earth.
Roland looked down at his new home and touched the nubs on the back of his skull. Soon. Soon they’d receive their plugs and finally become armor.
Wisps of flame and superheated air ran along the Mule’s reentry shield as it descended into the atmosphere.
****
With a whine, the Mule’s ramp descended and Roland and the other candidates marched into the hangar bay, falling into formation in front of Gideon, whose face had softened for the first time since Roland had met him. If he wasn’t careful, the candidate would almost guess that the scarred man was happy to be here.
He looked up at the massive metal door in the roof and ran a hand across the emergency hood in a pouch on his thigh. The Mars ground uniforms that they all wore incorporated an environmental layer and small air tanks that would protect them for up to two hours beyond the pressurized confines of Olympus.
The cadre had forbidden them from eating or sleeping during the three-day trip from Earth until they could don their emergency hoods and gloves and pressurize their suits in less than ten seconds.
Roland hoped the safety measures were just a precaution, and that exposure to the deadly thin Martian atmosphere was an exceedingly rare hazard for anyone stationed here.
A dozen other Mules and a few of the larger Destrier transports took up most of the hangar. Personnel in armor corps gray serviced the ships and loaded cargo onto drone carts for delivery through twenty-foot-tall and overly wide sally ports around the hangar.
A suit of armor—a patch with a blue, red and yellow triangle on its breast—walked over to the formation and stopped near Gideon, red dust clinging to the armor’s legs and hands.
“Dragoon,” came from the armor’s speaker, “good to see you again. Brought us new bean heads?” The armor thumped a fist to its breastplate, letting off a clang that stung Roland’s ears.
Gideon returned the salute.
“Not bean heads yet, Captain Rapp. I’m taking them to surgery now,” Gideon said.
“Ha!” The armor’s helm looked over the candidates. “See you all on the high ground.”
“Surgery?” Masako asked quietly from her spot in the line next to Roland. “So soon?”
“Can’t get much further without the plugs,” Roland said. “It’ll be all right. This is what we’ve been training for, right?”
“Platoon!” Gideon called out. “By file, follow me to the tram.”
Masako didn’t say anything else as they went single file to a platform on the far side of the hangar. By the time they loaded up into a tram pod and traveled deeper into the mountain, she’d lost much of the color in her face.
****
Roland pinched the paper-thin smock he wore and pulled it away from his legs. It wafted cold air over his bare body as it fell. The small exam room had no clock, and he hadn’t bothered to keep track of how long he’d been waiting. Medical readouts of his nervous system clicked through a succession of images.
There was a knock on the door and Dr. Eeks came in, wearing surgical scrubs, and a face mask dangling from her neck. Tongea and an officer with a cross for his branch insignia came in behind her.
“Candidate Shaw,” the doctor said, “all your readouts are in the green. Bend over slightly and let me get those nubs out for you. Tongea you know; Chaplain Krohe you don’t.”
Roland leaned forward and lowered his chin to his chest. He felt Eeks’ touch against his neck and his skin went numb after a slight hiss of air.
“There’s an issue we need to go over,” Tongea said.
Roland felt a chill of fear in his chest. Did the cadre know he went to Bailey’s bar? Wouldn’t they have cut him before sending him to Mars if they knew?
“Do you know what redlining is?” Tongea asked.
“It’s something that happened to that Iron Heart, Elias. I’ve heard it mentioned, never explained.”
“Apropos that he brings up Elias,” Eeks murmured. Roland felt a tug on his neck.
“Once you receive your plugs,” Tongea said, “your nervous system is at risk of overloading while in your armor. You can push the suit to do more than your body is capable of, but the feedback from armor can be more than your brain can handle. Similar to a fighter pilot blacking out if they pull too many gravities in a maneuver, or like crashing if you’re driving a car too fast when you make a sudden turn.”
“I can wreck myself if I’m not careful,” Roland said as he felt another tug at his neck.
“The armor has a n
umber of safeguards to stop you from redlining, but they can be broken if the situation calls for it,” Tongea said. “Breaking the restraints won’t redline you immediately, but you’ll be dangerously close to it.”
“And what situations call for this, sir?” Roland asked.
“Elias, who you mentioned, redlined after a data spike from firing two gauss cannons. He did it to save his ship, the Breitenfeld, during the Battle for Ceres. Others have fallen while trying to compensate for battle damage. The Naroosha used a nerve-shock limpet mine that…neutralized…two lances before we found a countermeasure. Most redlines happened in the early days of the Corps.”
“We’ve improved our screening procedures.” Eeks tugged at Roland’s neck again and he heard small pieces of metal fall into a tray. “Your risk factor is in a lower tier compared to others.”
“So on the battlefield I’ve got to worry about being shot at and my brain exploding?” Roland asked.
“The former is much more likely.” Eeks spritzed the back of Roland’s neck and slapped him on the shoulder. “Done.”
He sat up and put a hand to the back of his neck. The flesh where his nubs used to be was soft.
“What happens when I redline?” he asked.
“Your synaptic links are scrambled,” Eeks said, snapping off her surgical gloves, “resulting in a coma bordering on locked-in syndrome as you’re unable to do much in the way of cognition. Some cases are worse than others.”
“But Elias…didn’t he recover from it?”
“Barely,” Eeks said. “Bringing him out of his redline damaged his brain stem. His womb took over those brain functions to keep him alive. He never came out of his armor again.”
Roland rubbed his palms down his legs. The thought of spending the rest of his life inside a womb…
“But how?” Roland asked. “Why not do it for the others who’ve redlined.”
“It was a miracle,” Tongea said solemnly.
“It was not,” Eeks snapped at him. “The human neural system does not work on faith. She joined Elias’ neural connection and managed to coax his consciousness back to the fore. That her body was already compromised is probably the only reason she survived the experience.”
“Who’re you talking about?” Roland asked.
“We’ve never replicated the…event because there is too much risk to all parties involved,” Eeks said. “No matter how often you armor jockeys ask to do it. So…bottom line for you, Mr. Shaw, you redline—there’s no coming back. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The next thing you must know,” Tongea said, “is that there are some side effects to the procedure. Minor numbness and tingling in the limbs when out of the suit. Epilepsy is uncommon, but possible. Batten’s Disease is a risk—but small—and we monitor for it.”
“What’s—”
“Degenerative neurological condition. Terminal if not treated,” Eeks said.
“Is all this good news why you brought the chaplain?” Roland shifted back on the exam table.
“Many candidates take solace in a moment of prayer before surgery,” Krohe said.
Roland touched the back of his head.
“Chief, would you mind turning around for me?” he asked Tongea. The cadre member twisted to his side and let Roland see his plugs. “You ever have any regrets?”
Tongea faced Roland.
“The only regrets I have in life are the things I did not do, not the actions I took.” Tongea held up his off-colored hand. “In the Corps I make a difference. I have no doubts as to my purpose. I am armor.”
“Then let’s do this,” Roland said.
“Here comes the fun part,” Eeks said, pressing a hypo to his neck. “Everything’s going to be awesome in a few minutes.”
“Are you one for faith, my boy?” Krohe asked.
“Not really, but…” Roland’s hands began to tremble. “Is this normal?”
“It’s normal to be scared,” Krohe said. “I can pray with you, for you, stay…leave. Up to you.”
Roland looked at the cross on Krohe’s uniform, then to the Templar symbol on Tongea’s shoulder.
“Chief, I heard you praying once. Would you and the chaplain…do that one for me?”
Tongea raised an eyebrow, then looked at Krohe.
“She wouldn’t mind,” the chaplain said. He put a hand on the back of Roland’s neck and bowed his head forward. Tongea put his hand over Roland’s neck and the three men formed a small huddle.
“Sancti spiritus adsit nobis gratia,” Krohe and Tongea said together, “Kallen, ferrum corde…”
Chapter 15
Roland snapped awake. He saw an oil-stained floor and reached out to steady himself against whatever ladder or walkway he was on before he fell. His arms and legs didn’t move. He tried to look around, but his head would only move a few degrees in any direction. He blinked, but his vision remained unsteady.
“Synaptic pathways nominal.” He heard Eeks in his ears but didn’t see her. “Bit of a feedback loop through the shunts, compensating.”
A suit of armor stepped into view, its helm looking him right in the eyes.
“Shaw, you hear me?” Gideon asked.
“Yes, sir.” Roland struggled to lift his right arm, then a metal appendage with a double-barreled gauss cannon attached to the forearm came up.
“He’s green across the board, but don’t push it,” Eeks said.
“Shaw,” Gideon said, as the cadre’s armor tapped him on the chest. He felt the touch, but the point of contact was beyond his body.
“You are armor. Walk.”
Roland took a step forward and the stomp of metal on metal filled the room. He looked down at his armor’s legs and watched them stride forward. His balance shifted and Gideon caught him before he could fall over.
“Easy. Takes a little getting used to,” Gideon said.
“Equilibrium adjusted, change logged with his womb,” Eeks said.
“Synch rate?”
“Thirty-seven percent and climbing fast,” she said.
Gideon released him and stepped back.
“This…is a little different.” Roland’s words came from his armor’s speakers.
“You’re doing just fine,” Gideon said, his helm motioning toward an air lock, “but you need to walk a bit. Get your synch rating up through some locomotion. Doors.” He said the last word loudly.
Red warning lights snapped on next to the air lock as the door cracked open in the middle, the barren red world of Mars opening before them.
Roland reached for an emergency hood at his hip and banged his hands against the servo rings that served as his armor’s waist.
“What do you need that for?” Gideon asked. “What’re you breathing?”
“I…” Roland felt a slight sensation of moisture within the armor. “I’m in the womb. I don’t need air.”
“You’re not a crunchy anymore, Shaw. You need to forget your old limitations and become your armor. You’re next to useless in combat without at least a sixty percent synch rating. Still a long way to go before you’ve earned your spurs. Follow me.”
Gideon marched through the thin force field separating the outside from the hangar, leaving wide footprints in the rust-colored dust.
Roland walked forward, feeling the floor through the armor’s feet, the force field sending a slight tingle over his body as he passed through. The bite of Mars’ air hit him like a cold shower and he came to a stop, kicking up rocks and dust.
“Get it?” Gideon asked.
“He’s a little sensitive. Let me dial him back,” Eeks said.
The chill faded away. Roland took in the pink sky, the thin clouds over the short horizon, and turned back to the hangar door. A solid rock cliff extended as far as he could see to either side and miles into the sky.
“Whoa…” Roland sank slightly as vertigo overcame him.
“Quite the sight,” Gideon said. “Mars’ volcanoes are the only ones in the solar sys
tem with escarpments like this. We’ve managed to hollow out a few hundred square miles. Still have to add aegis shielding and more rail cannon batteries along the slopes. It’ll take another twenty years before the initial concept is complete. Work continues after that.”
“Always improve your fighting position,” Roland said.
“Correct. How do you feel right now?”
“I can feel the armor…and myself in the womb. It’s…weird.”
“The neural shunt feeds the suit’s sensor information to you in a way your brain can process it. You’ll learn to dissociate from your body and that will help with your synch rate. The hardest part is compensating for battle damage. Take a shaped charge through your shoulder servos, the suit will feed you a pain response, but nowhere near as bad as taking the hit to your true body.”
“How long will it take to get used to this?”
“Six months in the suit to be fully combat-rated. But before that…catch.” Gideon tossed a rock into the air. Roland’s hand opened and the stone landed in his palm.
“Good. Your armor does most of the calculations. Your mind provides the impulse; the armor does the work.
Roland’s fingers closed on the rock and crushed it into jagged fragments.
“You mean to do that?” Gideon asked.
“Yes, sir. Curious how strong I am.”
“Your womb is limiting most of what you’re capable of, for now. More will come in phases.” Gideon kicked a loose rock and rocketed it toward Roland’s helm. Roland’s hand snapped up faster than his flesh-and-blood limbs could ever manage and caught the projectile.
“Not bad, Shaw. How far can you throw it?”
Roland brought his arm back and his torso twisted to the side. He hurled the rock into the air. It sailed up…and he lost track of it as it shrank away.
“By the time you’re ready for combat,” Gideon said, “you’ll be able to rip through a starship. Shoot the enemy with both cannons at the same time and call in an airstrike while you’re ending any crunchy alien that gets within reach. You will become the mailed fist of humanity’s might. But for now, you need to learn to walk. Come.”
