by Richard Fox
Roland looked up at the armor, a factory-fresh unit assigned to him at the last second. His Ibarra armor had been taken away and sent to Intelligence. If he ever got it back, he was sure it would come in many small pieces.
The Corps may learn something useful. At least they got the Mauser. If we can bring a better weapon to the fight against the Kesaht, then something good came out of that fight, he thought.
Ranks of armor stood motionless to Roland’s sides and behind him. Every Templar in system and not on an active deployment was here, as was the tradition. Hundreds of suits and soldiers stood in silence around him. Across a parade field was Memorial Square and the statues of the Iron Hearts, Carius’ Templars, and Winged Hussars, who all died in the final battle with the Xaros.
Most of the soldiers bore a sword in their scabbard—full Templars. Roland and the rest of the initiates filled the first rank.
Tongea grabbed Roland’s elbow from behind, passed a small disk into his hand, then touched his own plugs. Roland pressed the disk home and felt a hum through his plugs. He’d used the mime relays at Fort Knox before earning his full plugs on Mars.
A double pulse through the disk signaled that the new armor next to him was keyed in. Roland lifted his left foot slightly, and the armor mimicked him.
Tongea cleared his throat loudly and Roland put his foot down quickly.
Colonel Martel walked across the front of the formation, his battle-scarred armor keeping pace behind him. He stopped ahead of Roland and faced the Templar. The colonel made the sign of the cross, then did an about-face.
“Forward,” Martel sounded, “march!”
Roland stepped forward and his linked armor followed. In the distance, a drum sounded for the Templar to keep pace. Roland felt the world close in as he approached the Memorial. For years he’d walked past it to and from work, never giving the place much thought. Now...now he wished he could remember what it was to wander around the statues in ignorance again, feel what it was like to live without the burden of wars and the weight of his decision.
Childhood is over, he thought.
Dust and gravel creaked underfoot as they crossed the parade field. Martel looked over a shoulder and called a halt.
The colonel raised a hand up and slowly moved it to grip his hilt. Roland reached through his armor and could almost feel the blade against his palms. Martel drew his sword and held it high, reflecting light from the ever-burning flame at the center of the memorial, then he flipped the sword down and gripped the hilt with both hands.
Roland raised the sword in his armor’s hands, and, as one, the Templar drove their swords into the ground with a clash of metal on stone. Roland put his right hand on the sword and went to one knee, and his armor mirrored him.
Armor and soldier knelt together.
Roland lowered his head, and he heard the whine of servos from his armor as it did the same. A few minutes later, he smelled incense as Chaplain Krohe walked through the ranks with a censor.
Martel’s armor pounded its sword into the ground twice. Roland held his hand against his blade as he made his armor raise the weapon and drove it back into the ground.
“Sancti spiritus adsit nobis gratia,” the Templar intoned. “Kallen, ferrum corde, perducat nos ad portam salutis. Amen.”
Roland took a deep breath, concentrating on the aroma. Now began the hard part. The Templar would recite the litany, the collected psalms and prayers of the order, all of which Roland had memorized from Bassani’s primer during his time in the Ibarra prison cell. Once the litany was complete, the Templar would chant the Da Pacem Domine until sunrise.
Roland closed his eyes and joined in with the brother and sister Templar around him.
“Domine, Jesu Christe, sancta pater, aeterne Deus…”
****
Roland heard the sound of boots against the ground. He looked up, and Colonel Martel and Chaplain Krohe stood in front of him. Roland continued his chant, his throat sore from hours of recitation.
Krohe handed a sword to Martel. The colonel examined it, running a thumb around the seal within the round pommel, and then Martel drove the sword into the ground in front of Roland. Martel grabbed Roland’s arm, not touching the ceremonial sword the armor held and pressed his hand to the new sword’s hilt.
The colonel backed up, raised one hand, and struck it against the armor’s blade, which cut into Roland’s palm. Roland did not flinch, continuing his chant as blood dripped down the sword. Once the first drop reached the earth, Martel removed Roland’s bleeding hand and pressed it to the hilt of his new sword.
“Roland Shaw,” the colonel said, “find those worthy to carry your name here. The Templar know you.”
Martel nodded to Roland and moved away.
Roland ignored the throbbing pain in his hand. His voice trailed away as he felt someone else approach. He looked up, but there was no one there. The sun’s early light broke around the statues, and his gaze went to the Iron Heart, Elias.
A touch went down the side of his face and Roland’s eyes welled with tears.
I’m Templar, he thought. He looked down at the red cross on his tunic and felt the press of his Iron Dragoons patch beneath.
I am Templar.
Chapter 34
Marc Ibarra paced back and forth in his cell, twisted light from the privacy screen reflecting off his metal body.
“We’ve been in worse spots, Jimmy,” he said, wagging a finger at the drawer where he kept the dead Qa’Resh probe. “Remember all those years under my tower while the Xaros picked the planet clean? I don’t. You made me sleep through all that. Something about me going insane after so long. Well, that’s not going to happen here!”
He raised his finger higher, then froze. He tucked the hand behind his back.
“I’m talking to you again. That’s not what a sane person does. We talk to ourselves. Wait—no we don’t.”
The privacy screen snapped off and Marc found himself looking at the closed vault door. He whirled around to Roland’s cell…and found Stacey sitting on the cot, the door open. She held Bassani’s primer in her lap and was gently flipping through the pages.
“Hello, Grandfather,” she said.
“Stacey…I-I-you’re here! Because you want to be, I assume. To talk. Not because there’s been another coup and we get to stare at each other and think about our life choices,” Marc said.
She set the primer aside and looked up at him, any emotions she might be feeling hidden behind her doll-like face.
“You never gave me the chance to explain,” Marc said. “I kept the back channel open to Earth to feed them misinformation! That’s how it works. If you’d known then, maybe something would’ve slipped up and then the whole situation would—”
“Stop.” Stacey stood up and took a step toward the bars between them. “Lies. All lies with you. Forever and always. You built your empire on a lie that you were this amazing inventor. You raised me on a lie, that I was born just a little different by accident.” She ran the tips of her silver fingers down the length of her other hand. “You built the fleet that would survive the Xaros invasion on a lie. We lied to them all to win the war…and that lie brought us the Toth.
“Our debts are called due. Old sins require absolution. Yours and mine.”
Marc went to the bars and reached out to her. She stood firm.
“We created Navarre to save humanity,” she said, “then you betrayed it all.”
“I was only trying to help—”
“Lies!”
“What do you want from me, Stacey? An apology? To beg for my freedom? I know what I’ve done through the years. If my soul went to the great beyond after my body died, I’m confident it’s in hell. But you know why I did it—for all of humanity, to ensure a future…not extinction.”
“You thought we couldn’t create that future?” She lifted her arms to her sides. “We have the procedural technology. A clean slate. Whatever future we chose to design.”
“The galaxy
would never let us have that,” he said. “I thought it might, but for once in my life, I was naive. The procedurals are too dangerous because they’re a clean slate. What have you done since you cast me out?”
“You lacked conviction. You lacked faith in me. Having you down here has given me breathing room…so to speak. The great plan continues…but I have built my empire on the truth. The nation knows the threat. They know what they are and why we fight. You should see them, Grandfather. The truth has set us all free.”
She stepped out of the cell and ran her fingers along the bars as she walked toward the vault door.
“What did you do to Roland? Did you kill him?” Marc asked.
Stacey stopped and wrapped her fingers around a bar.
“Ah, my little poisoned seed,” she said. “I let him go home, armed with the deadliest weapon I could give him. Something you could never harness.” She looked him in the eye, and Marc felt a sorrow well up inside him. The Stacey he had known was so far gone. Was there anything left of her?
“The truth.” Marc’s shoulders slumped.
“Wrong!” She said the word like it was a triumph. “The truth was the method, but not the weapon. I showed him who we are. Showed him a path that would take him back to Earth and his Templar with the weapon—and he went willingly. Roland is back on Earth and he’s already spread the weapon…doubt. The Terrans know that we’re not so different from them, that we have the same heroes. Our children cry the same as theirs. Widows weep for slain soldiers. The Ibarra Nation is more like Earth than any ally from Bastion.”
“If our armor realize what you’ve done—”
“The armor are not loyal to me or to you,” she said. “I’ve known this for years. They are loyal to their creed, to humanity’s continued future. So long as I embody that future, they will follow me. Roland is doubt on Earth, but on Navarre, he was certainty—certainty that the Terran Union can be shown the light and brought over.”
“You don’t know Garret like I do,” Marc said. “He put that careerist Laran in charge of their Armor Corps after we…oh no…”
“Oh yes, Grandfather. You taught me well. Divide and conquer. The longer Roland is allowed to walk around, the more doubt will spread. Eventually, Earth will be forced to act and then…”
“Rebellion,” Marc said. “You’re using him as a pawn. This game won’t go the way you think it will, Stacey. Don’t do this to him—he’s a good kid.”
“Now you care. You didn’t care about me when you first sent me to Bastion. I didn’t learn the truth until I realized that this—” She struck the bars hard enough to send them ringing. “—this is what I was.”
Marc backed away.
“That’s why you put him down here—to get just the right information for him to feed back to Earth. Well played, Stacey. I’m impressed. Did you come down here just to gloat?”
“No…” She picked up a data slate from the floor. “I need your help. The political situation between Earth and Bastion is proving difficult to manage. I need your help with another project while I deal with the bigger picture.” She slipped the corner of the data slate through the bars and asked, “Interested? Or do you want to keep reading the classics?”
Marc looked at the slate and the promise of new information, news from beyond his miserable little cell. If he still had a mouth, it would water.
“I’m…you have my attention.” He reached for the slate, but Stacey yanked it away.
“I need an old friend and his ship,” Stacey said. “Admiral Valdar and the Breitenfeld. You’ll help me, won’t you?” She tapped the slate against the bars.
Marc hesitated, then took it from her.
Epilogue
Tomenakai and the rest of the Kesaht Grand Council waited as Bale watched several video screens of footage from the battle on Balmaseda. Ruhaald text lined the edge of each screen, shifting with new data as the fighting continued.
The Ixion and Sanheel risen of the Grand Council stood uneasily as the ends of Bale’s nervous system twitched. The Savior was difficult to read, as he’d ascended from his body many years before.
“Survivors?” Bale asked.
“The Kesaht held true to the cause and died fighting. Any that were trapped in disabled ships killed themselves before they could be taken by the humans, Master,” Tomenakai said. That the Grand Council had chosen him, a disgraced Ixion whose immortalis implants had been deactivated for failure. Senior Kesaht leaders all had the implants, which kept their minds alive for centuries, jumping from body to body.
“Though, the risen commander of our colossus unit was lost when Gor’thig’s flagship was destroyed,” Tomenakai added.
“Gor’thig was a fool,” Bale said. “He should not have damaged the Crucible so quickly. Then he allowed himself to be drawn in to the human’s trap. He will not be missed.”
“The human’s use of the macro cannons was a new tactic,” Tomenakai said. “Why our Vishrakath allies did not share that the cursed ones had this technology is of question to the Grand Council.”
“The Vishrakath are spineless! Weak!” Bale raised one of the mechanical limbs beneath his tank and crushed a holo projector. “They want others to bleed for their schemes while they grow in power. This will not be their galaxy! Do you all understand that? Every race will join our great unity then we will have true peace.”
“The Vishrakath have asked as to the investigation of their missing envoys,” Tomenakai lowered his gaze.
“The explosion on their vessel was most unfortunate. Send off our findings and whatever organic matter remains,” the ends of Bale’s nerves twitched slightly.
“The losses we suffered on Balmaseda are…significant,” Tomenakai said.
“And replaceable,” Bale said. “We will continue the war against the cursed humans until the Vishrakath finally deliver the rest of the galaxy into the fight against Earth and the Ibarras, just as they promised. Then we will sweep across their worlds and wipe them out. All of them.”
THE END
The story continues in A House Divided! Available now!
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SCHISM
A Terran Armor Corps Tale
By
Richard Fox
Author’s Note: This story takes place between the events of The Xaros Reckoning
and Iron Dragoons
The immortals made him uneasy. The command center of the Crucible had the same effect on President Garret of the Terran Union—that it was designed for inhuman Xaros masters was never far from his mind—even after the extensive renovations for the human crew. To be someplace essentially alien unnerved him; the two once-humans in the command center with him only heightened how out of place he—a living, breathing man—was in the place.
Torni stood in the center of the room on a small dais in the bowl-shaped command center. Rising tiers of empty workstations encircled her as she interfaced with the jump gate. Her surface—not a body, Garret reminded himself—gleamed in the light as geometric patterns flowed over her. She kept a human shape, but when her concentration waned during Crucible operations, her outer shell would slip back to her true form, that of a Xaros drone. The explanation of exactly how a dead Strike Marine’s soul ended up in a Xaros drone had never been adequately explained to Garret; that she remained on humanity’s side and was wholly committed to Earth was all he needed to trust her.
Garret looked over at the other immortal, Marc Ibarra. The industrialist sat—an anachronism, as his gleaming metal body had no muscles that could grow fatigued—at a workstation, regarding a single holo screen with a scrolling fleet readout. The holo reflected off Ibarra’s silver face, his expression impassive.
Garret breathed in, feeling the chill caused by Ibarra’s body as it leached ambient heat to power itself. That neither Ibarra nor Torni needed to breathe or seemed to care about where the thermostat was set, felt rude to the president. He was still subject to biology; that the two immortals kept him waiting in a room that was
slowly turning into an icebox seemed almost like an intended slight.
“Well, Torni?” Garret flexed his hands to keep blood circulating through his digits.
“There’s jump activity from the New Bastion Crucible,” she said. “I can feel it, like someone’s plucking the strands of a web. Jumps to new gates…to homeworlds, not the legacy systems.”
“So they’ve finished?” Garret asked.
“The same flurry of gate jumps happened after the last round of negotiations,” she said. “You know how those ended. He should be back soon.”
Garret huffed, and fog blew from his mouth.
“You don’t seem concerned,” the president said to Ibarra.
Ibarra swiped his hand across the holo screen and a logistics report dense with numbers came up.
“The prepared are never anxious,” Ibarra said. “We have the 9th Battle Group standing by, as well as what’s left of the 13th. If the negotiators want to stall again, we’ll crush the Vish’ra’kath fleet near Titania to send a message.”
“The 13th.” Garret shook his head. “They just came back from a mauling and you want to send them back to the front lines this quickly?”
“Proof of concept.” Ibarra looked away from his screen to Garret. “The 13th is a shake-and-bake fleet—recent proccies turned out as one naissance event and pushed into waiting ships. They won against the Kroar. They deploy again, we’ll know how well the training algorithms are working. We need tough, resilient crews. Especially if the negotiations fail.”
“Don’t forget I was a navy man,” Garret said. “Proccies are only human; you can’t drive them like machines.”
“They’re as human as I make them,” Ibarra said.
