by Richard Fox
“What’s one rogue fleet got to do with the treaty?” Roland asked.
“Who do you think came up with the proccie tech, Mr. Shaw?” Tagawa screwed the end of a fiber-optic cable into the hydraulic controls, then scooted away from the under-seat housing. “It was the Ibarras. They ran the entire program. Helped usher in three billion people over the course of two decades. You think they skipped the Sol System without it?”
“If the Vishrakath figure out that the Ibarras still have their proccie tubes at work, they—and most everyone else in the galaxy—will hold Earth responsible,” Aignar said.
“What? That’s not fair,” Roland said. “The Ibarras are renegades, traitors. How are we responsible?”
“Humanity was the last member to join the Alliance against the Xaros,” Cha’ril said. “To be part of the Alliance, a species had to be unified, purposeful. This was the way of things for thousands of years. There are no Vishrakath nation-states. The Naroosha do not have factions. The galaxy won’t distinguish between the Ibarras and Earth. I did not think this would happen to humans. You passed through a great filter when the Xaros wiped out the Earth. Ibarra saved a fleet made up of a single culture, ‘—the West,’ I think you call it.”
“If you think the West never fought itself, I have some reading to suggest to you,” Aignar said. “But what now? Earth declares war on the Ibarras for the Cairo?”
“First, we get this evidence back home.” Tagawa closed up the hydraulics and tucked the buffer box beneath an arm. “I’m heading to the bridge.”
Cha’ril waited for her to leave before saying, “My father told me serving with humans would be interesting. I don’t think this is what he meant.”
“Gideon knows more than he’s telling us,” Aignar said. “I’ve never seen him so worked up before—not even when we were dealing with the Vishrakath.”
“Who wants to ask him?” Roland raised an eyebrow.
Silence.
“Yeah. Neither do I,” Roland said.
Chapter 3
Roland hefted a duffle bag onto his shoulder and marched down the gangplank extending out of one side of the Scipio and to the floor of the hangar beneath Olympus Mons. He looked up to the roof, almost a half mile above his head. Force fields separated the hangar’s atmosphere from the thin air and pink skies of Mars beyond the largest mountain in the Solar System.
The sheer scale of the corvette hangar always left him in awe at the engineering prowess that went into the Terran Armor Corps’ home base. The entire complex stretched out beneath Olympus—: training areas, underground cities, manufacturing plants…all for the armor and the Martian defenses.
On the Scipio’s main ramp, the Iron Dragoons’ armor slid down on anti-grav generators within their sealed maintenance pods, their “coffins.” With the weight of the bag and the exhaustion of arriving at Mars during the middle of their normal sleep cycle, Roland longed to be back inside his armor.
“Home sweet home,” Aignar said from behind Roland.
“You prefer this to Earth?” Cha’ril asked.
“I prefer anywhere I’m not stuffed into a navy can with a bunch of squids that haven’t showered in days,” Aignar said.
“Serve on a Dotari ship for a few months,” Cha’ril said. “You’ll find the Scipio has plenty of room in comparison.”
Gideon waited for them at the base of the ramp. He scrolled through a data slate as the three huddled around him. Drone carts rolled through the hangar. A trio of armor soldiers in red-painted armor emerged from a sally port and strode to another corvette at the opposite end of the hangar.
The iron tang of Martian air hit Roland’s nose. Growing up in Phoenix, he was used to a dry heat; the cool, moist air of Olympus tinged with red dust gave the place its own distinct scent.
Roland and the others waited as his lieutenant scrolled down a data slate, then looked up at them.
“Our lance remains on deployment cycle,” Gideon said. “Armor’s going to tech bay seven for quarterly services. Be there at 1700 local.”
Roland’s heart sank. He understood the value of being a part of his armor’s regular maintenance—his user insight often caught problems the diagnostics did not—but the more he tried to help, the more annoyed the technicians became with his presence.
“The brass want to see me in the Castrum,” Gideon said, citing the headquarters structure for all of Olympus. “What we encountered on Nimbus remains quiet, understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Roland tapped a data slate in a pocket. “Speaking of, seems all our accounts are locked. If you need to reach us before 1700…”
“Forgot about that—one second.” Gideon tapped on his screen and the data slate in Roland’s pocket vibrated with new notifications.
“Stay out of trouble.” Gideon said, holding up a hand, and an empty cargo sled pulled up next to him.
Roland pulled his data slate out and looked through a month’s worth of messages. He scanned down the senders’ names, hoping for a note from Jerry, his old friend from the orphanage that joined the Rangers the same time Roland volunteered for the Armor Corps…but all he had were administrative notices from the battalion’s adjutant. He didn’t bother looking for anything from Masako. He’d given up on her months ago.
“Only three months until we’re off deployment cycle,” Aignar said. “You still going back to Dotari for leave, Cha’ril?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes fixed on her screen. Her skin went almost pale blue as the tip of a quill quivered next to the base of her beak.
“Cha’ril?” Aignar asked. “You okay?”
“My leave has been cancelled,” she said. “Seems I won’t be going home anytime soon.”
“That’s bullcrap,” Aignar said. “Thought the Corps couldn’t stop a Dotari from going home at least once or twice a year.”
“It was not the Corps…my. My father did it.” She adjusted her pack, then slid her slate into a thigh pocket. “I must…excuse me.” She summoned a sled and was gone seconds later.
“Nothing’s ever easy, is it, kid?” Aignar asked Roland.
“I got nothing special.” Roland shook his slate gently. “Just that Dr. Eeks is on planet and needs to do a checkup on my plugs. There’s a Templar fellowship on Stack C-31 in half an hour. Want to come?”
“You want to go do that instead of sleep, eat, or take a shower that doesn’t have a thirty-second ration time?” Aignar asked.
“The Templar won’t let us stand the Vigil unless two inducted members vouch for us. No one will do that unless we go to fellowship and practice.” Roland looked down at his bare left chest pocket, where a Templar cross would go once the order accepted him.
“I’ve been a bit…lacking in my service to Saint Kallen,” Aignar said.
“Then let’s go.” Roland said, holding up a hand. “It’ll be fun!”
****
Roland caught a glimpse of the sword as it slashed at his face. He swung up the blade of his own wooden sword and managed a block that bounced the training weapon against the thin metal bars of his helmet.
He didn’t see the kick that struck his stomach, but he felt the sting and the whoosh of air out of his lungs. Roland doubled over, and his opponent chopped down on the pads protecting Roland’s neck.
Roland fell to one side, struggling to breathe as his diaphragm failed to function for a half second.
“You haven’t been practicing,” Lieutenant Tongea said as he removed his helmet and held it against his side. The Maori wiped sweat off his tattooed face and shook his head.
“We…were…” Roland coughed.
“Are you going to offer me an excuse?” Tongea set down his wooden sword and helmet and helped Roland sit up.
“No, sir.” Roland took in a deep breath and winced.
“You think this is foolish? Armor practicing with sticks when we carry rail weapons and gauss cannons?” Tongea slid Roland’s helmet off to look him square in the eye. “That this is somehow beneath you?”
“You think it will go differently?” Tongea half-smiled at him.
“I’ll improve. Bruises are a decent teacher.” Roland reached for his weapon but Tongea knocked it away with a flick of his sword tip.
“You may not be ready for this. For the Templar,” Tongea said.
“What? I am. I need practice, but it will—” Roland struggled to get up, but Tongea poked him in the chest with his sword and kept him seated.
The Maori sat down next to him and crossed his legs, then rested the sword over his thighs. He tapped the red cross sewn onto his white tunic.
“Why the sword?” Tongea asked. “Why do we bother learning this when we fight with guns and cannons?”
“The first Templar, Colonel Carius, carried one when he fought the Xaros on their home world. Their leadership caste wasn’t flesh and blood. The swords were designed to kill the Xaros.”
“Not quite,” Tongea said. “The sword is a symbol. Carius—and all the Martyrs—took up the Excalibur swords because it was the only weapon that could win victory against the Xaros, to save Earth and the human race. The sword is our promise, our vow that the Templar will protect humanity at all costs. Not every Templar carries a sword. The Uhlans have their lances. Odinsons their hammers.”
“If it’s a symbol, why bother practicing?” Roland asked.
“Vows are worthless unless deeds are wedded to them,” Tongea said. “If you can’t wield the blade, you won’t respect what it stands for.”
Roland nodded slowly.
“But that’s only one part of becoming a Templar.” Tongea got back onto his feet. “You want to become part of the order? Wear the cross on your armor and uniform? You must know the hymns, the prayers…then we’ll consider letting you stand the Vigil at Memorial Square. You won’t be a Templar until then.”
“I’m having trouble with the hymns. They’re so long. And in Latin,” Roland said.
“You are armor. You went through the most arduous training and selection process humanity has for its warriors, and you can’t memorize a few dozen pages of Latin?” Tongea grabbed Roland by the forearm and pulled him to his feet.
Around them, pairs of Templar and initiates sparred with wooden long swords on bamboo mats. Tongea pointed across the training area to rows of pews arrayed in front of a shrine to Saint Kallen. Aignar and several others were there, all reading from hymn books.
“Ask Brother Cordeswain to help you with memorization,” Tongea said. “The next time you step on the mat with me and you fight below my expectations, I’ll give you a good scar to remind you to practice.”
“Thank you, sir.” Roland winced as he felt the ache of accumulated bruises beneath his armor.
****
The door to Cha’ril’s barracks room slid open and she hurled her duffle bag against the far wall, breaking a wrought-iron sculpture of a nest. She stomped into the room and glared at the door as it slid shut, wishing she could have slammed it.
She paced back and forth, emanating a constant hiss punctuated with clicks from her beak. She tapped her fingertips together, then kicked a low stool into the bent nest sculpture on the floor.
Her barracks managed to make her angrier. The proper Dotari bed made of a bowl-shaped cushion hanging from the ceiling, a mist shower unit, her stash of salted gar’udda nuts in her closet—all vivid reminders of her home world that her father had forbidden her from visiting.
She took her data slate out of her uniform and slammed it against the recharging pad built into her desk. A holo screen popped up and a high-priority video message pulsed for her attention. It was from her father, not sent by his military account and with a heavy Dotari encryption that stopped her from listening to it in public.
Cha’ril kicked off the human tanker boots and let her feet splay out. She gripped a stool with overly long, claw-tipped toes and dragged it in front of her desk. She stood on top of it and squatted down, sitting like a proper Dotari and not pressing her hindquarters against things, like the humans always preferred.
She pulled out a small shrink-wrapped bunch of red fruit still attached to a cut branch, hesitated for a moment, then tore open the packaging and popped a raw coffee berry into her mouth. She chewed it quickly and a gentle wave of euphoria passed through her body. Her anger subsided and a dull buzz filled her ears.
The Dotari had first encountered the coffee plant on Hawaii. A few enterprising individuals discovered a recreational effect for the raw fruit, a secret not shared with their human hosts.
Cha’ril pinched another coffee berry between her fingers, then wrapped it up in the plastic and gently returned it to the desk.
“Play message seven-seven-eight,” she said.
The holo screen snapped to her father in his office, the skyscrapers of Phoenix in the background.
“My sweet nestling,” Un’qu said, “I’m sorry I cannot give you this news in person, but your deployments are difficult to track. I cancelled your trip to Dotari, not out of anger, but to protect you.” His forehead deepened in color, a sure sign he was upset.
“The phage has become worse. We thought returning to our home world after the war, after our long exile in the void and on Takeni, would be our salvation. We were no longer the itinerant Dotok, but rightful Dotari, proud of our homes and our nation. But the disease has proven too tough, too resilient to our science.
“Children are dying,” he rubbed a tear away from the corner of an eye. “We thought they would be the most resilient to the phage, but their immune system collapses faster than an adult’s. The Council of Firsts is on the verge of declaring a quarantine, forbidding any healthy Dotari from setting foot on our world.
“The Terrans are most helpful. They’ve sent their best doctors and scientists to aid us, but they’ve had just as much success as we have in developing a treatment. There is a joint…effort underway with the humans. One I can’t discuss on this channel. It is a long shot, but as the humans say, ‘Cod mittens…Goof missives.’ No…”
“Gott mit uns,” Cha’ril said. Older Dotari were notoriously bad at speaking any human language but English. The younger generation had developed their tongues to embrace more of their allies’ esoteric sayings. But why her father would invoke a human battle cry, even one that famous, didn’t make any sense to her.
“Your mother and brothers are still there, still healthy, but I cannot risk letting you go back. If Dotari is lost, along with ninety percent of our population, it could doom our species. As such, the Council of Firsts has ordered the removal of hormone blockers from all Dotari Expedition ships and food processors.”
Cha’ril almost choked on her coffee berry.
“Any eggs will be cared for in crèches on Hawaii or Dotari vessels as per our treaty with Phoenix. That’s the official position. As your father…it never occurred to me that you’d ever have children until you transferred back to the Dotari armor brigade and married, yet this is the world we live in. Given your age…the urge will be quite strong. I wish I could do more for you, but at least your mother can still send you videos from home to help you through this. Do come see me when you can.”
He signed off with their family trill.
Cha’ril stared at the blank holo screen for a moment, then took the whole pack of coffee berries back out of the desk.
Chapter 4
The mess hall servicing the main armor barracks beneath Olympus was a bit of an anachronism; it had a kitchen. The bang of pots and pans against stoves, the sizzle of cooking meat, and a complete omelet station always made Roland think of Earth and his last job as a waiter in a restaurant that went to the great expense of hiring human chefs.
When modern robots could cook food perfectly and a single food printer could deliver tailored nutrition quickly and easily, the nuances that came from others preparing one’s food almost felt like a luxury.
Roland set a tray of food next to Aignar, then inhaled the aroma of his pasta dish. Aignar lo
oked down at his meal inside an enclosed cup and straw, then back at Roland.
“The Andouille sausage smells incredible.” Roland jabbed a fork into his meal. “I actually saw them making the pasta back there. I can’t believe it.”
Aignar stuck a fingertip against his jawline and pressed twice. His prosthetic jaw snapped open slightly, then he maneuvered the straw between his lips and pinched them shut around the straw. He took a long sip of nutrient paste, then set the cup down just hard enough to make a statement.
“Oh,” Roland blushed. “I’m an asshole. Aren’t I?”
“Not at all. This is my favorite flavor of gloop and I’m not sharing it with you,” Aignar said.
Roland took a bite of his dinner. His face contorted in pain a moment later.
“Bit myself again,” he said. “Damnedest thing about being in the armor for so long. You forget how to eat. Crap. I did it again.”
“You keep making it weird and I’ll stop eating with you,” Aignar said. “How was your sparring session with old man Tongea?”
“One-sided.” Roland took a quick glance around the mess hall. “You ever notice that the Templar, the ones that have stood the Vigil and can wear the cross, never sit with anyone but each other?”
“Probably because they don’t waste time speaking while at meals,” Aignar said. “They train and they fight. Any time not in armor is time you’re losing your synch rating.”
“Not like we have much time for socializing,” Roland said. “This is our third time back on Mars since the dustup on Barrada almost eight months ago…You know any lances that have Templar and non-Templar armor in them? Seems like every lance is either all Templar or not at all.”
“Don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Lieutenant Gideon. He’s never said a word about the Templar. Hasn’t shown a speck of interest in them, which strikes me as odd since I heard he must have seen Saint Kallen on Hawaii during the Toth attack. He’s got that same fire as the Templar. Why hasn’t he ever joined? What’s going to happen when we’re fully inducted?”
