by Richard Fox
“How is one ship supposed to fight through an entire planet’s worth of Xaros?” someone asked from the darkness.
“The Xaros maintain very small garrisons on worlds they’ve conquered. Uninhabitable rocks like Mars and Mercury might have a single drone. Places that have supported life in the past might have a half-dozen drones spread across the planet. Why? Best guess is that they’re sentinels, making sure intelligent life doesn’t reemerge or come in from off world.
“So long as you keep from broadcasting your presence, you should be able to sneak in and out without any trouble,” Ibarra said. More than one derisive snort came from the audience. “You leave in twenty-three hours and nine minutes.”
“My ship is barely out of dry dock and you want us to leave this soon?” Captain Valdar asked, standing up from his seat in the front row.
Admiral Garret stepped in front of Ibarra to answer. “The laws of physics are dictating our operational tempo.” He turned to Ibarra, “Professor?”
“The Crucible can adjust gravity fields within it,” Ibarra said. “When the fields are in resonance with another part of the galaxy, we can open a wormhole between those two points. The Xaros are moving Anthalas around the solar system, and that plays hell with any attempt to jump in or out of the system. But, thanks to the orbit of a gas giant in the system and a passing brown dwarf star, we have a brief window into the system. Once there, you’ll have less than two days to find the Omnium tech and jump out, or you’ll be there for a very long time.”
“Men and women of the Breitenfeld,” Admiral Garrett said, “if this mission wasn’t critical to our survival, we wouldn’t put your lives at risk. The Xaros will return. At best, we have a few decades to get ready. Our best weapon against the drones are the quadrium shells, and after the Battle of the Crucible, we barely have enough Q-shells for the fleet to fire a couple shots. When we have Omnium deciphered, we can turn our stockpile into quadrium and just about any other thing we can imagine and give the Xaros one hell of a punch when they get here.
“Now, get back to your ship and get prepped. Every last man, woman and child in Phoenix and the fleet is depending on you. Dismissed.”
CHAPTER 3
Hale watched the flight deck of the Breitenfeld seething with activity from the upper level catwalk. Mule drop ships and larger Destrier cargo carriers moved through the air on precision anti-gravity thrusters, levitating over unloading ships. The ship’s computers maneuvered the Mules and Destriers without human input, though there were still ready pilots in the cockpits in case something went horribly wrong with the ship’s computer.
A computer running the flight deck didn’t bother Hale as much as the open blast doors on either end of the flight deck. Once the Xaros were defeated, Ibarra gave the remnants of humanity all the technological advances he’d been sitting on since the alien probe arrived decades ago. One of the first upgrades was a force field that allowed the cargo deck to operate in atmosphere. Hale still wore small re-breather tanks on his back and kept an emergency hood in his cargo pocket. The new force fields were supposedly foolproof, but Hale would rather keep an insurance policy handy; he didn’t want to die in the void because he trusted too much.
Cortaro put his hands on the rail and checked the tail number of an incoming Mule.
“There, sir. That’s them,” Cortaro said.
“Let’s get them before they wander into a torpedo tube,” Hale said. He and his sergeant took the corrugated metal stairs down to the flight deck.
“I still don’t get it, sir. Why are we bringing a bunch of army pukes on this mission?” Cortaro asked. They stopped at the edge of the dashed yellow lines along the edge of the flight deck and watched as the drop ship landed at the far end of the runway.
“They’ve got the skills, and the more warm bodies we can throw at the planet, the more ground we can cover before the jump window closes,” Hale said. They walked down the runway, sidestepping cargo trams hauling Q-shells into the ship’s magazines and naval ratings who didn’t seem to care for the presence of Marines on their otherwise orderly flight deck.
“Your brother’s army. He know any of these guys?” Cortaro asked.
“No, never heard of them,” Hale said. His brother, Jared, had opted to follow their father and grandfather’s footsteps and join the army once he’d finished college. Jared was part of the fleet that survived the Xaros invasion, and the last time he’d spoken to Jared he’d been on the moon, scouring the deep tunnels to ensure a Xaros drone hadn’t found a hiding place.
“Army’s a lot bigger place than the Marine Corps—can’t expect them to know everyone,” Hale said.
The drop ship lowered its rear hatch and a dozen men and women in army green and brown battle dress uniforms stood in the cargo bay, their gear already slung against their chests and over their backs.
A lieutenant the same age as Hale tromped down the ramp and extended a hand, almost lost in the mountain of gear he carried on his person.
“We’ve got plenty of kitchen sinks, Lieutenant Bartlett,” Hale said.
“Brass said you Marines get by on whatever scraps the navy gives you, told us to bring all our best gear for this mission just in case you’re still using crap from the Australian campaign,” Lieutenant Bartlett said. He had the look of a warrior, a perpetually tired face with fierce eyes.
“We turned all that in last week,” Hale joked. “Gunnery Sergeant Cortaro will take you to your berths. The ship’ll shove off under combat conditions, so draw ammo once you’re situated,” Hale said.
“When do we jump?”
“Three hours.”
“Great, we got pegged for this gig first thing in the morning and we’ll be up to our eyeballs in Xaros by dinner. It’s the assault on the Crucible all over again,” Bartlett said.
“This should go a bit smoother,” Hale said.
“You hear that, boys and girls,” Bartlett said over his shoulder, “a cakewalk.” His soldiers chuckled and shifted beneath their gear. “Let me get them tucked in then we can go over what happens after the jump.” The lieutenant looked at Cortaro, who led the soldiers from their drop ship. The soldiers all looked exhausted and harried.
Army life is just like the Corps, Hale thought.
“Oh by the way,” Bartlett said as he walked away, “got a surprise for you in the back.”
The last soldier filed past, and Hale saw a woman he recognized, Helena Lowenn from the briefing in Euskal Tower.
“Oh no,” he muttered.
“Hello!” Lowenn waved to Hale and struggled to pick up a heavy-looking pack. She took long steps down the ramp and lost her balance. Hale managed to catch her before she fell face-first against the deck.
“Thanks, guess I don’t have my sea legs yet. Or space legs. What do you call them?” she laughed nervously. She pushed errant strands of hair out of her face and smiled.
“Ms. Lowenn, you need to get back on that shuttle and leave right now,” Hale said.
“Don’t be silly. I have a note for you from Admiral Garret.” Lowenn double-tapped a fingernail against the back of her hand and tapped it against Hale’s forearm computer. Text files rolled across his display as the chip in her fingernail transferred data. Nail chips were common among civilians, but strictly forbidden for military personnel as they could harbor malware and viruses. One of the files bore the admiral’s signature.
“Hey!” the crew chief of Lowenn’s drop ship shouted from the top of the ramp. “I’ve got to button up and un-ass this crate in thirty seconds.”
Hale swung Lowenn’s bag over his shoulder and led her off the flight deck by her elbow.
“Ma’am, I can get you on the next ship back to Earth or Titan station. Would you care to explain what it is you think you’re doing here?” Hale asked. The deck shivered as her drop ship rumbled into the air on anti-grav engines.
“Why, I’m your science advisor of course,” Lowenn said.
Hale tossed her bag atop a cart edged in yellow and blac
k chevrons and grabbed her by both arms. He leaned close to her and spoke slowly and clearly.
“This mission does not need a science advisor. You sit down right here until I find you a ride out of here,” he said.
“Do you have someone with advanced degrees in anthropology and archaeology on this mission?” She wiggled free of his grasp and put her hands on her hips.
“Miss, my job is to shoot aliens and break things. There will be no time for science.” Hale turned from her and tried to wave down a crewman in a blue vest, an aircraft handler that could help him get rid of this nuisance.
“Well, what about someone that can read Shanishol? Think maybe it would be useful to know which door says ‘Super Secret Science Lab’ or ‘Face-Eating Monsters’?” She grabbed Hale’s hand and yanked it back down.
“How can you read Shanishol?”
“The Ibarra probe has their entire language on file and I’ve been studying it since right after we retook Earth. Very interesting how the Shanishol language patterns match the Inuit trinomial—”
“Stop.” Hale held up his hand. “Do you even know how we’re getting to Anthalas?”
“Well, we’d better use that jump gate. If we’re going by sub-light speeds, then I definitely didn’t pack enough.”
“No, we’re going to do a Low Orbit Low Opening grav chute insertion. There is no way I can even get you to the planet if I wanted to,” Hale said.
Lowenn raised her nose slightly. “If you’d bother to look at the files I gave you, you’ll see that I have my civilian LOLO license. I was on my college team and I qualified to Marine standards just last week.”
A shuttle roared past them. Hale looked at the files she’d given him and found her certificates.
“What is an archaeologist doing in the fleet? … This says you’re a secretary,” Hale said.
“I was a personal assistant, thank you very much. Once upon a time, there was such thing as the civilian economy. As much as I loved fieldwork, there wasn’t a lot of money in digging through hillsides and trying to convince donors that you needed another six months of funds to find where the Clovis People spent their winters. I would have made more money if I’d majored in medieval French poetry or underwater basket weaving. Girl had to pay the bills somehow. The Ibarra Corporation offered me a spot on the fleet in a menial position and I figured I’d save some money in the colony then come back home,” she said. She looked out the open air lock to Earth and a shadow fell across her face.
“Not how I planned it,” she said.
“Ibarra. He must have known he’d need you and your skills years before the fleet even left anchorage for Saturn,” Hale said.
“And I thought I got the job because the hiring manager had a crush on me,” she said with a shrug. “You ever get the feeling that Ibarra, or whatever that probe thing is now, is playing chess and we’re messing around with checkers?” she asked.
“All the time. Ms. Lowenn, there’s—”
“Helena.”
“Ms. Lowenn, there’s no way you can keep up with a Strike Marine team or be anything but a hindrance to us in a fight. No.”
Lowenn’s mouth twisted in anger as she raised a finger in the air. “I’ll have you know that I was in the Home Guard and can field strip and shoot a gauss rifle with the best of them. Now, I wanted this to be pleasant but if it’s a dick-measuring contest you’re after, then you’re about to lose to a girl,” she raised a finger over the pad on the back of her hand. “One tap and I’ll open my direct line to Admiral Garret and Captain Valdar where I will explain why you can’t seem to follow the simple orders I transferred to you. What’s it going to be, jar head?”
Hale sighed slowly. This was a battle he wasn’t going to win.
“Come on,” he said, walking toward a hatchway leading to an elevator. “You’ll need armor and a weapon.”
“Wait, aren’t you going to help me with my bag?” Lowenn asked.
“Nope.”
Lowenn stood next to her bags, staring down the edge of the flight deck. Hale was about to berate her for wasting time when he saw what she was looking at. All four of the Karigole advisors stood together. Steuben and Lafayette he knew; the other two, Rochambeau and Kosciuszko, he’d only heard of. The four stood in a square, hands joined. Lafayette was noticeably smaller than the rest, his bionics much slimmer than the other’s bulk.
All had chosen a nom de guerre shortly after their arrival. Their true names were unpronounceable by humans, whose hearing and vocal cords couldn’t extend to frequencies the Karigole used for inflections in their speech.
“What are they doing?” Hale asked.
“I don’t know. They haven’t been very forthcoming about their culture, but this is fascinating to see,” Lowenn said.
The Karigole, their eyes closed, pressed their hands together over their chests.
“Ghul’Thul’Ghul,” the four said in unison. Each took turns pressing the knuckles of their right hand to the left temple of the others. Once each had received and given the gesture to the others, Rochambeau and Kosciuszko boarded a waiting shuttle.
“Steuben will be on the mission with us, right? I can’t wait to talk to him,” Lowenn said.
“He’s not exactly the talkative type,” Hale said.
****
Cortaro pressed his palm against the biometric reader and heard the heavy bolts around the doorway thump. A light above the hatch turned green and he pushed the thick metal door open.
The Central Mechanized Armor Training Room, which the crew referred to as the cemetery, stored the Breitenfeld’s armor suits for transit and maintenance. There were a dozen suits of armor, all recent upgrades from the last line that fought the Xaros on Earth and at the Crucible. These suits were more streamlined, and the old head modules that were little more than sensor platforms had been replaced with full helmets that looked like they belonged on a medieval battlefield—were it not for the line of sensors and camera lenses stretching in a line across where the eyes should have been.
Cortaro waited for the door to lock behind him, then he climbed up a rickety stairwell to a catwalk that ringed the room. The armor stood upright, enclosed inside lidless coffin acceleration beds. Cortaro walked past the armor, looking at the breastplate of each for a name. Some had drawings of a Xaros drone with kill marks scratched into the armor.
“Elias? You here?” Cortaro asked aloud, his voice echoing off the walls of the room. He stopped in front of a suit, an iron heart painted over its breast. He raised a hand to knock against the armor, then stopped.
“Elias?”
The suit’s head snapped up and Cortaro jumped back in surprise.
“Damn it, pendejo! What did I tell you about scaring me?” Cortaro backed against the railing as Elias’s armor rolled its shoulders and twisted its head from side to side like it was stretching.
“Sorry, the start-up sequence is a bit sudden,” Elias’ voice came through the suit’s speakers, heavily modulated.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Cortaro looked around, double-checking that they were alone. “How you doing? Haven’t seen you much since we busted you out of that hospital.” The story of how the other two Iron Hearts, Kallen and Bodel, had coaxed Elias out of his coma had gone viral through the fleet, with plenty of details embellished and glossed over in equal measure. Cortaro’s role in the event hadn’t escaped official notice, but it wasn’t part of the tall tale whispered among sailors and Marines whenever they saw Elias.
“New suit. There were some software issues with my … situation,” Elias said.
“You look good in the new stuff. Real bad ass,” Cortaro said, flashing a nervous thumbs up.
“Not a lot of mirrors in here,” Elias said.
“You hear where we’re going? Some planet the Xaros have been sitting on. Find us some tech that’ll win the war when they come back, or something like that,” Cortaro said.
“I’ve been over the mission specs. The Iron Hearts are in reserve, in case you crunc
hies run into trouble again.” Elias reached an arm up from the coffin and flexed a hand the size of Cortaro’s head. Servos whined as fingers tapped into the palm one at a time. “My synch rate is optimal, should be higher by the time you launch.”
“You … uh … you think you can ever come out of that suit again?”
“If I unplug, my nervous system will fail,” Elias said. “They’ve got my true body on steroids and electric shock stimulus. I can last for a few more years, unless I catch an infection or the wither sets in.” Some armor soldiers had grown too dependent on their suits, their limbs and muscles degenerating as their nervous system attuned to the armor at the expense of their own bodies. In extreme cases, the wither had left soldiers bedridden for the rest of their short lives.
“Come on, Elias, don’t talk like that. They can get you in one of those full-body exo-skeletons, let you run around in the fresh air.”
“No. There’s a chance I could lose my armor synch forever.”
“Med tech’s getting better all the time now that Ibarra opened up his archives. Maybe you could—”
“No!” The word snapped like a shot from Elias’ rail gun. Elias leaned forward. His metal hands wrapped around the top of the railing and squeezed, bending the metal with a tortured groan. “Do you pity what I have become? Some lump of flesh floating in a vat of chemicals and his own piss. Is that all you see?”
Cortaro stood still as Elias’ helm came within a foot of his face.
“I am armor. I am armor, Cortaro. This is all I will ever be.”
“I’m just worried about you, brother,” Cortaro said.
Elias tried to straighten the metal railing and managed to snap the top rung off completely.
“Oops,” Elias said.
Cortaro pulled an Ubi data slate from his pocket and held it out to Elias. “I found someone with all of Hideaki Anno’s cartoons. I heard you were looking for his stuff.”
Elias held a forearm in front of Cortaro and a data entry port popped open. Elias reached for the Ubi and the tiny wire extending from the device. Elias’s monstrous fingertips pecked at the wire but couldn’t grab it.
