by Richard Fox
“Forgive me,” she whispered and executed a program.
She turned to the larger tube just as the glass slid open and a muscular battle construct stepped into the biting cold. Ice crystals clung to the mottled green and brown flesh. The environment wouldn’t cause the doughboy any pain; she’d designed them that way.
“Kovar-99 online,” the doughboy said.
“List exceptions to aggression protocols.” Stacey tapped a screen and the arms inside the tank went back to work.
“Exception fields return two entries: Ibarra, Stacey. Ibarra, Marc,” Kovar-99 said. “Base protocols in effect.”
“You know the difference between humans and nonhumans, don’t you?” Stacey asked.
“You are not human,” Kovar-99 said. “But no harm to you. To people.”
“I interface with your base programming and it’s so easy. Ask you for higher-order thought and you’re a deer in the headlights.”
“Awaiting further instructions,” the doughboy said.
“Keep waiting, you big lunk,” she said. “You need some playmates.”
****
Gideon stared at the medical bay’s ceiling and then brought an arm up and looked at the screen on his gauntlet. He shifted against the paper-thin cushion on the exam table and felt a pinch on the flesh around the plugs at the base of his skull. His head lay on an equally uncomfortable cushion above an opening in the exam table.
“Hold still,” a nurse said from where she sat just behind him.
“You said this would take ten minutes.” Gideon’s mouth twitched as another pinch came from his plugs.
“And I thought armor could spend weeks in those wombs without issue. I need a little more patience from a patient and it’s like getting giving a vaccination to a three-year-old,” the nurse said.
“I don’t have a plug infection,” Gideon said. “My womb would have treated it automatically. Meanwhile, while I’m out of my suit, my synch rating suffers.”
“We just got off a combat deployment,” the nurse said. “You think we’re due for another fight tonight?”
“I am armor,” Gideon said.
“Right. I keep forgetting what you all are like…hold on, got a priority message on my screen,” the nurse said.
Gideon let out a long sigh, thrummed his fingers against the mattress and waited. He timed the beeps from medical probes under his exam table for thirty seconds.
“Nurse?”
“Huh? Where am…right. You’re good to go, chief.” Gideon heard her tap keys and the touch of metal probes against his skin vanished.
He sat up and rubbed the raw skin around his plugs. The nurse looked at him and swallowed hard.
“What?” Gideon asked.
“Nothing! Nothing. You’ve got an escort coming,” she said.
“I know the Warsaw.” Gideon swung his legs over the side of the table and picked up his uniform top from a chair. “I can find my own way back to the cemetery.”
“Standard procedure after any exam.” The nurse smiled, so wide that it struck Gideon as forced.
The bay door slid open and a woman with light brown hair in a single braid and the same tan uniform as Gideon stood on the threshold. She wore a Templar cross patch on her chest and shoulder. Gideon did not.
“Morrigan,” Gideon said to the new arrival.
“He’s good to go?” Morrigan asked the nurse and got a thumbs-up for an answer.
“Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Gideon stepped past her and made his way out of the med bay, his lance mate beside him.
“You took a few hits on Praxus,” Morrigan said. “You’re armor; you’re not invincible.”
“I seem to remember one of us losing an arm and half her sensor suit on our first drop,” Gideon said, leading her into a wide passageway. Crew rushed past them, moving with the intensity and purpose he’d seen while the ship was about to enter combat. He frowned and looked at the alert lights mounted along the ceiling. All were off.
“There a drill for the squids?” Gideon waved his hand over his gauntlet screen, but it stayed off. He shook his arm, then whacked the unresponsive device against a bulkhead.
“Nicodemus wants the lance on the firing range.” Morrigan grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him toward a side passageway.
“This is why I don’t like leaving my armor.” Gideon shrugged and followed her.
“Gideon…have you given any thought to my offer?” Morrigan asked over her shoulder as she led him down the narrow hallway.
“To go pray with you and the rest of the lance? I’m not one for religion. Or faith.”
“It’s just that…you saw the Saint—all the Iron Hearts—in battle back when the Toth attacked Hawaii. How can that have left you unmoved?”
“Might have something to do with the Toth warrior that almost ripped my face off.” Gideon touched the scars running from his forehead to his jaw. “The Iron Hearts weren’t saints or martyrs back then; they were armor. Seeing them in action did give me something to think about while the docs were stitching me back together.”
“There’s iron in you, Gideon. So much iron that there’s no room for anything else.”
Gideon tapped a marker on a corner.
“Why are we going this way? The holo range is on deck nine. The only things down here are lifeboats and angry chiefs looking for goldbricking sailors,” Gideon said.
Morrigan led him past a pair of lifeboat hatches, then turned to face him.
“I’m sorry, Gideon.” She rapped her knuckles against the bulkhead once, then twice more.
A lifeboat hatch opened and a pair of the ship’s men-at-arms in combat armor rushed toward Gideon. He snapped a punch into the first’s faceplate and grunted in pain as he hit the bulletproof visor. The man-at-arms grabbed him by the wrist and slammed him against the wall, cuffing him moments later.
Gideon struggled, but the sailors in their strength-augmenting armor held him easily.
“What the hell is this?” Gideon snapped his head back and struck a helmet with no effect. The guard pressed his forearm against Gideon’s neck and pinned him against the bulkhead.
“Don’t hurt him,” a man said.
Two soldiers in armor fatigues came around the corner.
“Nicodemus, Bassani, tell them to let me—” Gideon grimaced as the guard pressed harder against his neck.
Nicodemus, taller and older than the rest of the armor soldiers there, put his hand on Gideon’s shoulder.
“Stop fighting. It won’t do you any good,” Nicodemus said.
“Nico?” Gideon’s face changed from rage to confusion.
“The Terran Union’s betrayed us,” Nicodemus said. “Surrendered to the enemy’s demands. Humanity must survive, Gideon. Come with us.”
“Have you all lost your minds? Bassani—” Gideon said to the young soldier standing behind Nicodemus. Bassani looked down, his shoulders slightly hunched, “Bassani, what did he say to you? This is treason. Treason! Do you understand me?”
Nicodemus stepped to one side, and Gideon saw the Templar cross on Bassani’s chest. A cross that wasn’t there that morning.
“If you’d seen what I’ve seen…” Bassani said.
“What? Morrigan, tell him—damn you all, we went through Knox together! We’ve been a lance since the first day of selection. We’re the Iron Dragoons. Don’t let some religious nonsense—” The guard whacked his elbow against Gideon’s head, knocking it against the bulkhead.
“Don’t speak of the Saint like that,” the guard said.
“The fleet’s leaving.” Nicodemus held up three unit patches: the silver fleur-de-lis on a golden, many-pointed star of their lance’s insignia. He stuffed them into Gideon’s shoulder pocket. “You’re the Iron Dragoons now, Gideon. Honor that.”
Nicodemus stepped back and motioned to the open lifeboat hatch.
“Put him in.”
Gideon struggled against the men-at-arms as they shoved him into the lifeboat. When the hatch shu
t behind him, Gideon’s face filled the small window as he yelled and beat against the glass.
“I didn’t want it this way,” Nicodemus said to Morrigan and Bassani.
“I had to know for sure if he’d join.” Morrigan went to the hatch and locked eyes with Gideon. “We owe this to him. To see us and know that this was our decision, that we weren’t tricked into following the Ibarras.”
“He hates us,” Bassani said. “I can’t blame him.”
There was a metallic thump through the bulkhead. Gideon looked around his life pod, then beat harder at the glass.
Morrigan kissed her fingers and pressed them to the portal.
“May the road rise up to meet you,” she said. “May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rains fall soft upon your fields.”
The air lock shook as Gideon’s life pod spat out of the Warsaw and into the void.
“And until we meet again,” Morrigan continued, “may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”
****
In the Crucible’s control center, the Keeper stood atop a dais at the base of the bowl-shaped room. A holo tank surrounded her, showing the space traffic control of the void around the Crucible and Ceres. Crew manned the tiers of workstations around the Keeper.
The Keeper looked down at her hand and smoothed out a blemish on her “skin.” She kept her drone shell in the shape of a well-built woman, the health and vitality with which she carried herself at odds with the lines and cracks in her face. The crew didn’t know what she really was—the consciousness of a dead Marine inside a Xaros drone—and this fact was hidden from the general public, who would likely not appreciate that the last remnant of humanity’s mortal enemy was at the heart of the race’s expansion through the Crucible.
At the lowest tier, a man in dark overalls yawned and stretched his arms up from his workstation.
“You just came on duty, Morris,” Keeper said. “Long night?”
“No, ma’am.” Morris shrugged. “Just a bit sluggish for some reason.” He looked into the bottom of an empty coffee cup, stood up, and stumbled against his chair, bumping against the next tier.
“Get a strong cup,” Keeper said.
“Needs more turpentine,” Morris said.
An alert icon flashed on the holo projection. Keeper looked at a course trace running away from the Warsaw and arcing toward Ceres, Earth’s second moon.
“Orbital Guard, why is this alert coming to my station?” Keeper asked loudly, projecting her voice to a woman on the fourth tier. “This life pod was ejected almost eight minutes ago. You should’ve caught this.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The Orbital Guard liaison tried to touch a flashing circle on her holo display. She missed and slumped against her workstation. Squinting hard, she looked at her fingers.
“They’re tingling,” she slurred. “Anyone else…tingling?”
There was a crash and the sound of breaking porcelain from the center’s coffee station. Morris lay on the deck, his face in a puddle of spilled cream.
Across the command center, crew collapsed to the floor.
Keeper flipped a cover off a red button and slapped her palm against it.
Nothing happened. She hit it again with the same result. She flicked her fingers in the holo tank to open a comm channel but got an error message instead.
At the top of the command center, the basalt-colored doors opened and Stacey Ibarra marched in, followed by a half-dozen doughboys carrying gauss rifles.
“Keeper,” Stacey said, looking over the disabled crew, their chests heaving, “sorry about the mess.” She wore a thick belt around her hips, an odd accessory for one inside a synthetic body.
“Stacey…” The fingers of Keeper’s hand elongated and ruby light grew in the palm of her hand.
Doughboys snapped their rifles up and drew down on Keeper.
“Now, now.” Stacey wagged a finger in the air at Keeper. “Let’s not do anything you’ll regret. I changed up the air mixture to this room. Too much nitrogen, not enough oxygen. Hypoxia is a problem for regular humans but not for us, is it? Doughboys are a bit more resilient.”
“They’ll die if you don’t—”
“They’re unconscious with just enough oxygen to stave off brain damage. I’m not a monster,” Stacey said. “I need to borrow the Crucible for a few minutes. You mind?” She motioned for Keeper to shoo away from the dais.
“It’s the treaty,” Keeper said. “You Ibarras don’t get your way and what—you’re going to destroy the Crucible? Send a nuke to New Bastion?”
“Best if you don’t know. Best if New Bastion never gets word of this little…incident.”
“No, Stacey.” Keeper shook her head. “This isn’t the way. We’ve got a chance at peace. Lasting peace. You have to trust that Hale did the right thing. I know you’ve got feelings for—”
“You know nothing!” Stacey reached behind her back and drew a pistol. “But you do remember what quadrium does to Xaros drones, don’t you?” Her weapon cracked as it fired and Keeper felt her entire body lock up as the silver bullet struck her in the chest. Electricity arced over her shell and she tipped over like a felled statue.
Keeper’s vision fizzled in and out as doughboys dragged her off the dais. She watched as Stacey took her place in the holo tank and began entering commands. Keeper felt vibrations of the jump gate shifting its enormous thorns as it prepared to open a wormhole.
Ceres appeared in the holo tank, and course plots from dozens of ships traced from the moon’s surface into the center of the Crucible.
Keeper tried to speak but could manage only a burst of static through her mouth.
Stacey glanced at her, then went back to inputting commands.
“We’re taking the unmanned colony fleet meant for Cygnus and everyone on the 13th Fleet that chose to come with us,” Stacey said. “Well…‘chose’ is the wrong word for most of them. You give people the chance to make their own decisions and they might disappoint you.”
Keeper reached toward Stacey.
“Kovar?” Stacey said, nodding at Keeper.
The doughboy pressed the muzzle of his gauss rifle to Keeper’s temple.
“You’re not on his ‘nice’ list,” Stacey said, “and he’s got regular old bullets in his gun. Want to find out what those feel like?”
Keeper dropped her hand to the deck.
“What…will you…” Keeper’s words were high-pitched and tinny.
“What you and Garret lack the will to do,” Stacey snapped. “Win. I’ve got a virus in the system that’ll erase our destination. We’re taking everything we’ll ever need, so let us go, Keeper. Don’t come looking because you won’t find friends.” She stepped off the dais and knelt next to Keeper.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Torni. You remember your real name, don’t you?” Stacey cooed. “You remember what it was like? To be hurt? I miss the pain…helped me feel alive some days.” She swapped the magazine in her pistol and tapped the muzzle against Keeper’s face. “We’re immortal, you and I. We’ve got a long time to play our games. We’re on opposing teams for now…let’s hope we’re on the same side before all this ends. For your sake.”
Stacey dropped the pistol and stood up.
“Kovar-99, if she moves, destroy her.”
“Affirmative,” the doughboy rumbled.
Keeper heard a thrum as ventilation fans kicked on.
“I reset the air mixture,” Stacey said. “Behave yourself and your crew will make it out of this okay.” She waved at the holo tank and the projectors fizzled in a shower of sparks and smoke.
She reached up and pressed her palm against Kovar’s bare cheek. Frost bit into the doughboy’s flesh and spread slowly.
“I’m sorry, big boy,” Stacey said. “You can’t come with me. Need you to stay behind and keep her from bothering me.”
“No like?” Kovar asked.
She pulled her hand away.
“You’re a disposable hero. Initiate system shutdown
for all units in fifteen minutes,” Stacey said.
“Affirmative,” Kovar nodded.
Keeper’s shell rippled with fractals as she tried to form words. A metallic screech followed Stacey as she left.
****
Marc and Stacey Ibarra looked down on a cloud-shrouded world from the observation deck just below the Warsaw’s bridge. Smaller ships from the 13th Fleet flew between the flagship and the planet.
“Garden spot,” Ibarra said.
“You wanted a place where Earth and the rest of the galaxy wouldn’t find us,” Stacey said. “Golden worlds are the first place they’d look.”
“So you sent us to a star that doesn’t even have a Crucible.” Ibarra tilted his head from side to side. “Smart. No gate trace to follow. It’ll take decades before any graviton particles of our arrival reach an occupied system. Granted, now we have the tech to build our own jump gate.”
“You brought the tech from Mercury,” Stacey said. “We’ll reenter the galactic stage at the time of our choosing.”
“We don’t have a name for this place.” Ibarra stroked his chin. “Nothing so blasé as New Phoenix.”
“From the old country? Something Basque?”
Ibarra snapped his fingers.
“Navarre.”
THE END
THE ANVIL
An Ember War Universe short story
*Author’s Note: This story takes place before the events in THE EMBER WAR
Summers in Fort Knox, Kentucky, were the bane of soldiers. Heat hovered near the triple-digit mark before the sun cleared the horizon and only got worse as the humidity kicked in. Muggy air brought forth a sheen of sweat that clung to skin and uniforms and never went away until one got a respite in air conditioning. Then there were the mosquitos.
Soldiers engaging in physical exercise, ruck marches and field maneuvers at the old army base had questioned just why the miserable location was chosen as a basic-training center. One popular theory was that it was better for the United States Army—now the integrated Atlantic Union—to figure out who was susceptible to heat injury before they ever got to a real battlefield.
