by Richard Fox
“Why don’t you trust the legionnaires?”
“Why do you? You saw what they did to the Cairo. What if that Aiza was the one who killed that turret gunner? Would you be so eager to put yourself up on a target block for him?”
Roland passed into a slight bend, the last marker before they neared the occupied encampment.
“There’s something about all of this that’s off, Cha’ril. High Command isn’t giving us the entire picture. They want us to crush the Ibarrans without question or hesitation, but when we encounter them on our own…they don’t act like an enemy.”
“I seem to remember two shaped charge explosive devices fastened to my armor. Very friendly.”
“Your first Mexican standoff. I’m proud of you.” Roland slowed down as heat from the camp showed up on his IR optics. They were a few dozen yards from the camp.
“I don’t know what extinct human governments have to do with what happened. But politics, for a moment. You are familiar with the Hale Treaty between Earth and much of the old Alliance?”
“Crucible gate usage and colony-settlement rights. Dull stuff.” Roland stopped next to a small concrete placard labeled 137 next to the electromagnetic rail tracks.
“And it specifically forbade the Terran Union from using procedural technology,” she said. “All those men down there are living proof of a violation.”
Roland gently peeled a tunnel tile away and found a pair of low hills where Aiza was waiting for the armor’s signal.
“I’m not certain they’re recent proccies,” he said. “There are blood tests to confirm that. Telomere length and neuron density that—”
“They are purpose-built for war, Roland. Don’t deny it. They’re larger, faster, and look a good deal tougher than any crunchy humans I’ve come across. The Ibarras are making super soldiers. All the billions of proccies created—”
“Born.”
“—born before the treaty were little different physically or mentally than a true-born human. That the Ibarras have broken that pattern begs a number of questions.”
Roland sent a small camera-tipped probe through a gap in the tunnel wall and confirmed that they were right on top of the column that ran into the middle of the encampment. Climbing up the column farther down the hyperloop line hadn’t proven difficult for the armor. Who would repair the damage from their ascent was another concern.
A light blinked twice in between the two hills. He snapped the light at the end of his probe on and off and received the counter-signal, a long flash followed by two brief ones.
“They’re in place and ready,” Roland said. “You set?”
Cha’ril set her hands against a support beam on the other side of the tunnel.
“What do we do about the Ibarrans when this is over?” she asked.
“If they want to walk away, I won’t stop them,” he said, turning his helm toward her, “and neither will you.”
“‘Trust’ and ‘mercy’…these are not armor words.”
His audio sensors picked up the snap of gauss fire, Roland grabbed the metal framework of the tunnel wall and ripped it aside. He ducked through the hole and stepped out onto the top of the column. Below, Rakka around the camp’s perimeter fired into the forest. The crack of rifles using chemical propellant sounded through the valley.
“Watch your line of fire.” He gripped the edge of the column and swung down, his rail cannon anchor snapped out of his left heel and scraped against the column. Massive fingers in one hand crumbled the column’s concrete and he slid down the side.
His targeting computer put threat icons atop every Rakka it made out. Groups of the aliens fell almost simultaneously as the legionnaires fired volleys into the aliens. Guttural commands and pained squeals grew louder as Roland slid closer and closer.
None of the defenders had bothered to look up the column. All were focused on the attack from the surrounding forest—which was precisely what Roland had planned.
A belt-fed machine gun opened up on a shed roof, felling trees with each burst.
Roland checked the distance to the ground…still too far to release without damaging his armor on landing.
“I can take the shot.” Cha’ril put a pulsing target icon over the machine-gun nest.
“No, you don’t know if any civilians are under it. We’re almost—wait…” A group of Rakka stormed out of a maintenance shed, none in full armor but all carried rifles. Roland sheathed his anchor spike and pushed off the wall. His HUD pulsed red warning as he raised his arms up like an eagle about to strike.
He landed on top of two Rakka, crushing them with the crack of bones and a spurt of viscera against the shed walls and the other aliens. Roland backhanded a stunned alien hard enough to send it bouncing across the encampment like a stone skipped across a lake. He spun up his rotary cannons and sent a flurry of bullets up and through the machine-gun position, the angle assured to kill only the aliens, not the human prisoners clustered on the ground floor.
A Rakka fumbled with its rifle next to Roland’s knee, so he grabbed it by the arms and hoisted it into the air. It had an upturned nose, red eyes with no trace of an iris, and coarse brown fur on its body between bare skin patches with small nodules. These aliens fastened their armor directly onto their bodies.
Roland whipped the alien against the ground, crushing its spine and skull with a single hit, then stepped out from between the buildings and found the Rakka troops in foxholes firing into the woods around them.
He swung the dead alien back, then hurled it into a post in the laser fence line. The body ignited against the post, sending up a black gout of smoke.
The Rakka near the burning body stopped firing and looked around to see Roland just as his rotary cannon began spinning. The cannon ripped a storm of bullets across the foxholes, shredding the hasty defenses and the Rakka inside to pieces. The rounds buried deep into the ground and any shots that ricocheted or bounced off the aliens’ armor went into the woods and away from the sheds.
His cannons wound down as a tall door on one of the sheds behind him burst open, bathing Roland in light. A Sanheel galloped out, its four hooves sparking against the poured concrete slab that ran beneath the entire encampment.
The Sanheel leveled its long rifle at Roland, and he fought the well-trained response to fire with his own gauss cannons. He couldn’t shoot yet, not while there were civilians behind the Kesaht officer.
The alien’s rifle fired, blasting flechettes across Roland’s chest and helmet. His HUD wavered, then blinked off as the optics in his helm went haywire. A blow struck down on his right shoulder, knocking him off-balance and sending his fist scraping against the ground.
Roland struck out blindly and felt his fist connect…then freeze in place. A jolt of energy went up his arm as he pulled it back. He slapped the back of his other hand against his helm and his optics came back online.
He looked up and saw the Sanheel loading a long metal slug into its rifle. Roland stomped the weapon, snapping it in half. The Sanheel opened its jowly mouth and bellowed at him, rows and rows of needle-sharp teeth quivering. Its single eye housed several pupils that fluctuated with color.
It swung the broken rifle like a club at Roland’s helm. He caught it easily and dug his fingers into the metal. The Sanheel tugged and shut its mouth as it found the armor’s grip quite firm. Roland yanked the club away, then stabbed the end at the previous owner. A force field flared to life, rippling as the rifle butt slid across it.
Then, with an audible pop, the shield collapsed.
Roland grabbed the Sanheel by the upper edge of its breast plate and slammed his helm forward, striking the upper metal edge against the alien’s eye. It fumbled back, but Roland kept it close. He slammed a foot onto the Sanheel’s forward hoof, then slapped his hands against the side of the alien’s head.
Roland ripped its head clean off its shoulders and spiked it against the concrete slab.
The surviving Rakka began hooting. Some crawled out of thei
r foxholes and crawled toward the laser fence.
“Behind you!” Cha’ril called out.
Roland ducked and turned. Another Sanheel, with its rifle pointed right at Roland, galloped around a building. Its shield flared along its flank and its rear legs buckled. Roland thrust his forearm-mounted cannons at the alien and fired. The quick one-two punch of the round ripped through its shields and a gauss shell exploded out of the creature’s back. It crumbled forward, leaving a slick of black blood behind it.
The Rakka’s hooting grew louder. One reared up and tossed its weapon aside. Roaring, it charged straight for the armor. The rest picked up the cry and swarmed toward Roland.
He booted the first Rakka into the laser wire fence. An alien jumped on his back, scratching at his rail rifle with its claws. Roland bent the elbow of one arm around, plucked the assailant off him and then used it as a club, crushing several of the berserkers with each blow.
A Rakka climbed onto the shoulders of another alien and jumped at Roland. He brought a fist down and hammered it into the pavement.
It took him another thirty bloody seconds to finish off the last of the aliens. Yellow mist rose from the corpses and their flesh melted into ooze, sloughing off skeletons that crumbled into dust moments after exposure to air. Cyborg implants in the alien’s skulls overloaded and burnt, looking like lumps of broken coal.
The two Sanheel corpses remained whole.
Cha’ril walked up to him, her hands and forearms covered in steaming yellow gunk.
“I took care of the third big one,” she said, holding.” She held up a severed hand. “I thought it would disintegrate with the others, thought we’d get a gene sample from this.” She tossed it against the headless corpse.
“The prisoners…” Roland stepped over the body and into the maintenance building. The upper floor was nothing but half-complete construction drones and auto-assemblers. On the bottom floor were a dozen men and women bound to a long metal chain. The lower half of their heads and necks were covered in a black metal that reflected the building’s light like a mirror. All of them gazed up, their eyes unfocused.
“What did they do to them?” Cha’ril asked.
“Don’t touch!” A shout came from beyond the laser fence. A gauss rifle snapped and a post broke in half, creating a hole in the fence. Aiza and three of his men charged through the gap. Aiza raised a hand next to his head and pointed forward, and the three split off toward different buildings.
The major hurried past the armor and went to the nearest colonist. He drew a device that looked like a thin metal wand from off his thigh and pressed the tip against the shiny metal on the base of the woman’s neck.
“What happened to the Rakka?” Roland asked. “That they’d drop their weapons and come at me with tooth and claw in a rage like that…”
“There’s some sort of connection between the Sanheel and the Rakka,” the major said. “When the grunts lose all their officers, they revert to some sort of primitive compulsion. Very aggressive. Not so bad when you’re armor. It’s a bit different when you’re in a derelict ship and those piggies are running all over the place.”
“You might have told us as much,” Cha’ril said. “And you could tell us what you’re doing to the hostages.”
“I wasn’t exactly sure you’d carry out your part of the plan. You had the chance to cut back to town. Didn’t want to share anything useful until I saw you were committed. As for our colonists, the Kesaht have them in compliance collars,” Aiza said. “Puts them somewhere between euphoria and sleep. You try and rip them off and you’ll kill the wearer.”
The collar rippled, then peeled off the prisoner and fell to the floor. The woman blinked hard and tried to rub her eyes. Aiza moved to the next person.
“What in the Sam Hill…” The groggy prisoner looked up at the armor and blinked hard, then turned her gaze to the dead Sanheel and gasped. She tried to scoot away from the body and bumped into the back wall.
“Easy,” Aiza said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “you’re safe now.” He pointed at the chains on her wrists, then to Roland.
“Nothing special about those. You mind?”
The woman lifted her bound hands up to Roland, and he snapped the chain links between the cuffs.
“Thank you,” she said. “We were on pylon ninety-nine when those things—”
“Here.” Aiza pressed the wand into her hands. “Hold the tip against the collar until it finds the release frequency. You do the rest.” He got to his feet and touched the side of his helmet. It folded back into the ring at the base of his neck. Aiza wore an earpiece, one Roland hadn’t seen on him earlier.
“They’re not all here,” the major said. “Still missing eighteen of them…all children.”
“The Kesaht took them somewhere else,” Roland said. “We’ll find them.”
“No.” Aiza pointed to another building. “The teacher and the chaperones are in that building. Kids aren’t here. We saw a small Kesaht shuttle in the valley a couple hours ago. They must’ve taken them…and only them. Damn it.”
“Where could they be?” Roland asked.
“Anywhere. If their in-atmo craft have a range, we haven’t seen it yet. Some kind of anti-grav that…” Aiza cocked his head slightly to one side. “Yes, ma’am…right away.”
Roland opened his communications suite and got nothing but static.
“Who are you talking to…and how?” he asked.
“I’m afraid this is where we leave you,” Aiza said. “You send up a pigeon to Tonopah and they’ll send a truck to pick everyone up. You can keep the sonic keys, make some of your own.” The major backed away, his gaze on the armor.
“What do we say to Gideon if we just let them go?” Cha’ril asked over their IR.
“The truth,” Roland said. He switched back to his speakers. “Major. The next time we see each other, the circumstances may be different.”
“Aye.” Aiza said, looking at the hostages. “That’s war. Some days you’re the hero.” He turned his head to the trail of dead aliens outside the building. “Some days you’re the villain. I hope we don’t see each other ever again. I doubt it’ll end well for either of us.”
He put two fingers against his earpiece.
“What’s that? As you wish.” Aiza set his rifle to the ground, then unsnapped the hilt from his back. He carried it in two hands to Roland, straining against the weight.
“Morrigan wants you to have it.” He set the hilt into Roland’s hand. “May the Saint bless you and keep you.” Aiza thumped a fist against his heart, picked up his rifle, and vanished into the night.
“What’s a ‘Morrigan’?” Cha’ril asked.
“A name, I think.” Roland gripped the hilt in both hands. He touched a button on the forward edge, and a blade snapped out in segments. It locked into a sword far too large for a normal man to wield, but scaled to Roland’s size and complete with a simple cross guard. He spun the weapon around and looked at the pommel: a Templar cross with the word “Morrigan” embossed along the edge.
“No…” Cha’ril said. “That’s impossible.”
“This was designed to be used by armor,” Roland said. He set the blade in one hand and examined it closely. The metal was nicked and scratched in several places, and; a yellowish discoloration of Rakka blood marred the forward third.
“This was used in battle…by armor,” Roland said.
“I thought it was impossible for proccies to get the skull plugs and become armor,” Cha’ril said. “How are the Ibarrans creating armor soldiers?”
“I don’t think they are.” Roland leveled the sword back to Tonopah. “But I know who will have answers.”
Chapter 9
Lettow adjusted the position of his Javelin class artillery ship squadron to just behind a cruiser strike group in his holo tank. He punched in a least distance course to Oricon and double tapped a CONFIRM icon to send the plan to Strickland.
Strickland raised an eyebrow at the admiral
.
Lettow pointed at the slow-moving Kesaht fleet, still on course for the Crucible gate. The 14th’s projected course and the aliens’ would come close to weapons range, too close for Lettow’s comfort.
“We come at them with the Javelins unsheathed and they may think we’re itching for a fight,” Lettow said.
He moved the holo tank view back to the slow moving alien fleet. They had twice the number of ships as the 14th, but it was their three battleships that concerned the admiral the most. Each was larger than the Ardennes, and boasted cannon turrets on the dorsal and ventral hulls. Enhanced pictures of the ship’s surface showed likely torpedo tubes…weapons with warheads and acceleration capabilities that were a mystery to him. Fighting an enemy he didn’t know would be like trying to box with a blindfold over his eyes.
“The Ibarrans said the Kesaht attacked the colony,” the operations officer said.
“I’m not ready to trust them. We pick a fight with them here and now and there will be a war between Earth and these new aliens, one the Ibarrans will have started for us. This is why I hate first contact missions,” Lettow said.
“Understood…Commander Rusk reports the Crucible is clear of all explosive devices, anticipates full functionality in twenty-six hours. We could access the gate to leave in twelve.”
“Twenty-six hours until anyone else can arrive,” Lettow said. “Plenty of time for things to play out. Signal the fleet. We weigh anchor in two minutes for Oricon.”
Lettow went to his command chair and strapped himself in as the Ardennes went to ready alert. He snapped on his helmet and double checked his air supply. The bridge switched to local IR as the atmosphere drained out through the vents and the ship lurched forward as the engines flared to life.
He pulled up a screen from his chair arm and watched as his fleet reformed into a hemisphere with the Ardennes, strike carriers Gettysburg and Falklands, the Javelin artillery ships and support craft behind the screen of cruisers, frigates, and destroyers.
“Sir,” Strickland said from his seat to the admiral’s right, “just detected a change from the Kesaht fleet. They’re accelerating.”
