by Richard Fox
Keeping pace beside her was a bald man with a drooping mustache and a lab coat.
“What do you need, Dr. Cummings?” she asked. “Production is down ten percent across Navarre’s crèches. We’re building ships faster than we can crew them. This is unacceptable.”
“My lady, I warned you…side projects would impact our operations. Nine days is the standard for a trained adult in all manner of military specialties. The Legionnaires take two more days as their physical attributes are a bit more difficult to bring forth while they’re in the tanks. Getting the growth hormones just right is difficult and there will be long term health repercussions.”
“It’s not like I’m demanding officers derived from Caesar, Attila, Napoleon and Alexander the Great,” she said.
“My Lady, genetic stock is largely irrelevant given the amount of gene editing that goes into each unit and the procedural consciousness that—”
“I am aware of the process, doctor,” she snapped. “Why has production slowed?”
“I told—forgive me. It’s the special orders. Changing the procedural generation code so drastically takes time and a fair bit of trial and error. Making a change like this would have been easier during the war when Mr. Ibarra—” he shrank back slightly as she glared at him “—had the Qa’Resh drone to do all the heavy lifting. Of course, I doubt the drone would have made these changes.”
“The project continues,” Stacey said. “What do you need to make your quota, doctor?”
“More tubes, more computing power.” Cummings shrugged. “We can’t shorten the gestation period. You’re aware of what happens if we do.”
She removed a data slate and tapped at it, her fingers moving far faster than Cummings had ever seen before.
“There.” She pressed the slate to his chest. “Fifty thousand new tubes and associated equipment will go into the south ranges. Once the project moves into phase two, you will supervise the transfer of those mainframes and a thousand tubes to the test planet. Understand?”
“Of course, my lady,” Cummings raised an eyebrow at the order on the data slate. “This is my life’s work. Anything for you.”
“Meet the quota, Cummings. There will be casualties soon.” She continued down the pathway and left the doctor alone in the crèche.
Chapter 9
The Destrier-class transports were the larger, hardier cousin to the ubiquitous Mules used for most personnel and cargo transports within the fleet. The cargo bay could carry up to a hundred combat-loaded Rangers for an orbital insertion and nearly a dozen armor soldiers.
That this cargo bay held only Cha’ril, Aignar, and the armor-less Gideon lent it an almost eerie emptiness. The two armored soldiers stood with their feet locked in deck clamps. Gideon was between them, lights glinting off his medals and the silver bars on his rank epaulets. He had his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes were squeezed shut.
“Then, Mr. Aignar, you volunteered to be Cha’ril’s…ushulra?”
“No, sir.” Aignar’s helm shook quickly. “There was a lot of yelling in Dotari that I didn’t understand and then Cha’ril was there and she started singing—”
Gideon held up a hand and cut him off. He looked up to his Dotari soldier.
“Cha’ril, is there any way to get Aignar out of this?” he asked.
“Yes. A male blood relative of mine can take his place. All of whom are on Dotari Prime and under quarantine. The role is one of great honor in my community. He should be proud.”
“Helps to know what the hell I’m supposed to do before I can put on airs,” Aignar said.
“Having one of my lancers play matchmaker for another is not a complication I anticipated for this mission,” Gideon said, his voice full of frustration. “Aignar will choose who you marry? Is that it?”
“There are varying degrees of Dotari marriage,” she said.
Gideon pressed a palm to his face.
“Sir, are you well?” Cha’ril asked. “I can see your body temperature and blood pressure rising on my IR.”
Gideon slammed a fist against his thigh and looked away from her.
“A joining under these circumstances is temporary. There are many conditions under which the joining may be annulled. A full marriage with clan transfers, inheritance rights—”
“So this may not last?” Gideon asked.
“Correct.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Aignar asked. “Human divorce is about as fun as a kick in the crotch.”
“An unsuccessful joining is considered a positive,” she said. “If a couple prove…incompatible, then they should search elsewhere. My parents were of different castes and married for love and experienced great social hardship until we resettled Dotari Prime. Had they joined during the season, their lives would have much easier.”
“And I thought dating apps were complicated,” Aignar said.
Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Is there a chance your suitors—by God, I never thought I’d have this conversation in the Armor Corps—will lose interest by the time we return to the Ardennes? It could be days or weeks.”
“If my pheromones were absent…but I left both of them yiliri.”
Gideon made a rolling forward motion with his hand.
“A yiliri, a small cloth that I dabbed against my pheromone glands,” she said.
“They have the smell of your perfume to keep driving them crazy.” Aignar tossed his hands up. “Why? Why make my life more difficult than it already is?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to do!” Cha’ril said, loud enough for the Destrier’s cabin crew to perk up and notice. “I wasn’t going to be rude. Do you want to read the poetry they sent me?”
“No,” Gideon and Aignar said at the same time.
Gideon sighed. “Cha’ril. I understand this is a significant event for you. It’s just frustrating for us.”
“I’m experiencing frustration in other matters,” she snipped.
The Destrier rumbled as it descended into New Bastion’s atmosphere.
“Wheels down in five minutes!” a crew man shouted.
****
The Destrier’s ramp lowered to a dust storm. From the edge of the cargo bay, the dry air and fine dust particles assaulted Gideon’s eyes and nose. Of all the things he missed about his days as a grunt Marine, dealing with weather was not one of them.
Cha’ril and Aignar stood behind him, their rotary cannons panning across the landscape. The dust storm turned New Bastion into little more than an orange haze. Lights from distant buildings diffused through the sand like stars within nebulae.
Their rotary cannons snapped forward as a ground car emerged out of the gloom. It pulled parallel with the end of the ramp and a human woman in an overcoat hurried out of the backseat and up the ramp.
“Lieutenant Gideon, I presume,” she said loudly over the storm. Her long black hair blew free in the storm. He nodded.
“Ambassador Ibanez,” she said as she looked up at the two armor, then over Gideon’s shoulder. “Where are your bodyguards?”
“What are we, chopped liver?” Aignar asked.
“No armor allowed on New Bastion,” Ibanez said. “Didn’t you get the memo? I specifically sent that almost three days ago. The Ruhaald delegation are terrified of you and they made an amendment to the security forces—”
“We’ve been under commo blackout for the last week,” Gideon said. “They’re all I brought.”
“They have to go back!” Ibanez waved a hand at the armor. “Things have gone from bad to worse since the Vishrakath emissary showed up and I can’t deal with another security breach—especially not one as obvious as those two.”
“Our effectiveness as bodyguards would be limited if we leave our armor,” Cha’ril said.
“Go back,” Gideon said as wind howled around them.
“Sir?” Aignar’s rotary cannon popped back onto his shoulders as he looked down at his lieutenant.
“Return
to the Ardennes and have them send another security element. This situation is delicate and I can take care of myself just fine,” Gideon said.
“Great! Settled. Can we get out of this mess?” Ibanez asked.
“Stay safe, sir.” Aignar backed away from the edge and Cha’ril followed.
Gideon stomped down the ramp and opened the car door for Ibanez. He looked back at the Destrier and saw both his lance mates staring out at him as it buttoned up. He got into the car and slammed the door.
“To the embassy, Jerry,” Ibanez said to the driver. She raised a privacy screen and shook sand from her hair. “I swear, this planet has two seasons: miserable and shitty.” She opened a compartment next to her seat and fog rose from a small cooler with ice in it. She took out two glasses and a bottle of liquor.
“Drink?” she asked.
The ambassador was in her early forties, attractive, and lacked a wedding ring. Under normal circumstances, Gideon would have found nothing wrong with her offer.
“I’m on duty,” he said.
“This is a Standish special reserve.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Prewar whiskey recreated in the omnium foundries. Tastes like the original because it is the original down to the molecule. Lots of speculation as to how some junior enlisted Marine got his hands on the booze and the reactor.”
“Is the answer in that bottle?”
“No, but I can appreciate the taste and the mystery at the same time.” She dropped two ice cubes into a glass and poured herself more than a finger’s worth of the whiskey. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“The surface reason is that I fought the Kesaht on Oricon. Then there’s what the Ibarras were doing there…”
“It’s a shit show.” She swirled her drink around and took a sip. “The whole galaxy. We had a great framework going for us after the Hale Treaty: races could stake out territory across the galaxy, build up their own little enclaves. Plenty of room for everyone. Then the Ibarras emerged from hiding and moved our cheese.”
“Did what?”
“Spanner in the works. Knocked over our tea cart. I know you’re armor and tend to deal with problems by shooting them but work with me here. The Ibarras raided alien worlds—looking for God knows what—and that raised questions back here on Bastion. ‘Why is Earth doing this to us?’”
“It’s not Earth. The Ibarras are traitors.”
“See, you can make that distinction. The rest of the galaxy…not so much. To join the old Alliance, a species had to be unified. No squabbling nation-states or factions to upset the Qa’Resh’s grand plans. The old members were unified for thousands of years before the war ended. Earth met that criteria…after the Xaros wiped out everyone but the Atlantic Union fleet Ibarra created ‘to colonize Saturn.’ So when we tell the rest of the galaxy that the Ibarras aren’t us, they’re skeptical.” She took a longer sip and glanced at the bottle.
“Then we will make them understand,” Gideon said.
Ibanez spit some of her drink out.
“Oh, I like you.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Four hundred and nineteen different species are here. All with different cultures and histories. All it’ll take is a lecture or two and all our problems will go away.”
“Then why did Phoenix send me here? Admiral Lettow dealt with the Ibarras on Oricon. He’s here.”
“Because you’re armor.” Ibanez sighed. “And armor’s role in the end of the war carries weight with plenty of species. That, and I know for a fact that every single ambassador here has seen that stupid Last Stand on Takeni movie in an attempt to better understand human culture.”
“That’s a propaganda film,” Gideon said. “How the armor in that movie, the Smoking Snakes, died on Takeni isn’t at all how it happened in the movie.”
“Don’t spill that secret. That you’re armor carries a good deal of weight in your testimony—which needs to focus on the Kesaht as much as possible. How dangerous they are, big scary teeth. All that.”
“Why the Kesaht? I thought New Bastion called this meeting because of the Ibarras.”
“They did, but we need to hijack this thing and get the ambassadors concerned about the Kesaht, not the Ibarras.” She pulled a data slate out of her coat pocket and handed it to Gideon. A map of the galaxy came up and attack icons dotted settled systems. At least a dozen different races had been affected.
“The Kesaht have been busy, much more so than the Ibarras,” she said. “They raid settlements, take prisoners, and then vanish back into the Crucible network. We have no idea where their home world is or where they’re staging from. The only one of our systems they’ve hit is Oricon.”
“They’ve skipped over Vishrakath worlds,” Gideon said.
“Yes…curious.” Her eyebrows jumped up and she finished her drink.
“Anyone know why the Kesaht are using Toth technology?” he asked.
Ibanez slammed her drink down and blood drained from her face.
“You are forbidden from mentioning the Toth, you understand? You know nothing about them,” she said forcefully.
Gideon turned his head so she could see the scars running down one side of his face.
“I know nothing?”
“Do not talk about the Toth. I will have your armor if you fuck with me on this.”
“The lady doth protest too much.” Gideon leaned back. “Why is this such a touchy subject?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, let’s go over how this session will play out…”
Chapter 10
Aignar waited as the ramp of the Destrier lowered. Being armor changed his demeanor, as being fifteen feet of killing machine will do to a man. Towering over the deck crew didn’t make him feel superior to them; it made him feel protective of them.
“Let’s see if your boyfriends are here,” Aignar said to Cha’ril just behind him. “They’ll learn what it means to mess with a man’s little sister.”
“Your attitude is not helping,” she said.
“Well, waking up and learning that I’m in the middle of a Dotari love triangle was a bit more than I anticipated this morning. I’ll cope however I want—ah, damn it.” Admiral Lettow walked up the ramp before the edge could hit the deck. A Dotari officer, 2nd Circle and equivalent to a Terran navy captain, kept pace with him.
“Which of you is Cha’ril?” the admiral asked.
She raised a hand in a tentative wave.
“And you’re Aignar,” Lettow said. “I’ve just had a most informative briefing on the Dotari-Terran mutual-defense treaty. Chief Warrant Officer Aignar, are you aware of Addendum E, subsections 19-85?”
“It’s been learn-as-I-go, sir,” Aignar said.
“Same here, seems I didn’t get the memo that my Dotari crew would start secreting pheromones and demanding honor duels with each other over possible mates.” Lettow put his hands on his hips and frowned at the Dotari officer, who nodded emphatically. “I also didn’t know that I would be required to host said duels, but there it was in black and white.”
“Duels? Sir?” Aignar suddenly felt much smaller within his armor.
“Cargo bay 11.” Lettow pointed a knife hand at Aignar’s chest. “Both of you. Two hours.”
“Appropriate dress is waiting in your berthing,” the Dotari officer said.
“I can’t have any more disruptions on my ship,” Lettow said. “Bring this to whatever conclusion you need to. Just don’t let anyone get so hurt they can’t fight.” He spun around and marched to the exit, muttering and cursing the whole way.
The Dotari officer bowed and spoke in his native language, then ran after Lettow.
“What did he say?” Aignar asked.
“He hopes you choose well for me and that my suitors remain as brave and committed after the joining,” she said.
“Well…shit. Guess we better get dressed.”
Chapter 11
As Ibanez faced away from Gideon, murmuring words to a prepared speech from her data slate, he loo
ked over his uniform in the reflection of the small dome over their ambassador pod. The robot that met the car at the grand hall had done a remarkable job of cleaning New Bastion’s dust from his coat and pants.
The dome was mostly opaque, but Gideon could see the faint outline of other domes around them and shadows of alien ambassadors filing in. The center of the stadium-sized hall was lost to darkness.
“This is what Bastion was like?” he asked. “Before the war ended?”
“To a degree.” Ibanez put her speech down and touched up her eyeshadow. “The ambassadors had their consciousness transferred to the station and put into shells. Brilliant idea. Solved most of the administrative problems we’re dealing with now. The Eridinu are on their fourth ambassador; they keep dying of old age once they get here.”
“How long have you been on this assignment?”
“Four years and counting. You know who should be here? Stacey Ibarra. She’s dealt with these ambassadors before. President Garret begged her to take the position once New Bastion was announced, but she had a whole cornucopia of issues to deal with…which leads back to why you’re here.”
She opened a drawer and removed two small collars made of transparent plastic with a round nub in the middle.
“This is how we talk to each other around here,” she said, snapping one around her neck and handing the other to Gideon. “We call them wielding modules, lets you wield your voice as a tool. The collar reads your vocal cords and the translations go straight to your inner ear.”
Her fingers danced across a keypad and a circle of light lit up on the ceiling.
“Holo projector. Step inside and you’ll be on the big stage,” she said. “Which hopefully won’t be necessary. You don’t have a fear of public speaking, do you? Probably should have checked on that sooner.”
“It takes more than a suit to be armor,” Gideon said, tapping his chest.
The lights inside the pod dimmed and flared.
