by Richard Fox
“Stacey and I saw the Geist blitzkrieg coming. We’ve had our disagreements over the years, but we always kept our eye on the real prize: humanity’s survival. When I couldn’t get the Union to take the threat seriously, I laid groundwork for the long war, same way I did against the Xaros, but I had more help back then. Elias Hale wasn’t what I was waiting for, but providence comes when you least expect it. You bastards—”
Shannon shot him in the face and his head exploded into fragments. Tiny shards hit Shannon’s face and arms, each stinging like ice.
The rest of Ibarra’s body didn’t flinch, then a projection of his face appeared on his chest.
“Still can’t hurt me,” he said. “Stacey told me enough about the Geist that I knew what they’d do. Occupations are always as lazy as possible, especially when we both know what the Geist are really after. I tore down Earth’s computer networks when the surrender order came. And when you and the rest of the Commissars rebuilt it…all your networks were built on top of what I left for you.”
“You’re cut off now. It’s over for you,” Shannon sneered.
“Am I?” Ibarra’s headless body tapped his forearm. “Thanks for playing.”
Shannon pulled her sleeve up. Her screen was a riot of code and data.
“What’re you doing? Stop. Stop!” Shannon emptied her magazine into Ibarra, shattering him into a pile of silver shards that crackled with the ice that formed on the detritus.
The lights in Phoenix went out. Hab block after hab block shut off like falling dominos. Drones crashed to the ground with loud cracks as carbon fiber bodies broke apart. Light flashed through dark streets as the drones’ engines shorted out.
Shannon’s forearm screen buzzed and a garish black-and-white drawing of a face appeared, one corner of the mouth pulled into a half smile. A single word flashed beneath the picture.
PROBLEM?
Shannon turned her chin up to the sky and took a long breath through her nose.
“Tompkins?” She bent her elbow and raised her pistol up to her shoulder.
“Commissar?” The shock troops around Tompkins shuffled away from him.
“Collect up every bit of Ibarra’s remains and have them transferred to the Faraday chamber beneath Euskal Tower. He’ll reassemble in there. No wires. No receivers in there. You detect anything from him, you smash him apart with hammers. Understood?”
“Yes, Commissar.” The guards hurried to comply.
Shannon went to a pile of fragments, saw fog wafting from the icy rime on them, and kicked a hunk.
“Think you’ve won, you old bastard? You think you’re so smart? You’ve got a surprise coming. One I can’t wait to give you.”
Chapter 13
“Oh no,” Ely said as he and Hoffman walked parallel to a creek.
“Contact?” Hoffman swung his rifle up and scanned the treetops.
“No, I just realized that I’m so old. Like…I’m almost forty,” Ely said. “This is awful. I missed all those prime years. I should be getting ready to retire or something. How do you deal with it? You look like you’re even older than I am on paper. Way older.”
Hoffman stopped and did an about-face.
“You listen here, you little shit. You’re not old. At all. You know what old is? Old is when you wake up one morning and your foot hurts for no goddamn reason at all. Went to bed? Foot’s fine. Wake up and you’re limping. Why? Damned if I know, but that foot’s going to hurt for the whole rest of the day. Stretching? Be careful. You never know when something that worked just fine yesterday will decide to quit on you out of nowhere.”
“Can you still trust every one of your farts?” Ely asked. “I heard that gets iffy.”
Hoffman sucked air through clenched teeth and leveled a knife hand at Ely’s midsection, then raised it to chest level.
Ely went pale beneath his helmet.
“I was in the profession of arms for almost my entire adult life,” Hoffman said. “You want to find out why it’s a poor idea to piss off someone who survived decades of a hazardous profession?”
“Maybe we should just keep going,” Ely said meekly.
“And let’s cut the chatter. There tend to be exiles this close to a functioning site.” Hoffman spun back around and continued on, muttering under his breath.
They walked along a steep embankment where the stream widened to a shallow babble of water. Fat raindrops smacked into the ground around them, and a mist obscured the treetops. Ely pulled his camo cloak tighter, but the sudden chill was getting to him.
He wandered closer to the edge of the embankment and looked up the stream. “What’s that?” He pointed down at the water’s edge where a gray slab of metal jutted out from the muddy wall.
Hoffman leaned over then jumped down, his boots splashing in the shallow water. “Come see.”
Ely slid down with less grace and tried to stay on the thin bank. His shoes weren’t waterproof like the Strike Marine’s power armor. Ely stepped over what he thought was a thick root feeding in from the forest, but lengths of slate-gray stuck out from the mud. He came up to where Hoffman was and the Strike Marine crossed himself.
A suit of Armor was partly buried in the embankment. It would have stood almost fifteen feet tall if its legs didn’t end in a mess of broken metal at the knees. The breastplate was wide, large enough to hold a single soldier scrunched into the pod within and connected to the Armor by an umbilical that fed into plugs at the base of the soldier’s skull. On the upper-left side of the breastplate was a faded yellow shield insignia with a black slash and a dark horse’s head. The Armor carried its own scars—holes with burnt edges and three long rents across the upper chest and into an arm nearly torn from the shoulder gyros.
The helm looked like a knight’s but was bent forward, its chin resting on one shoulder, like the Armor had given up the ghost right there. Too tired to fight on.
Small effigies made of sticks and twine were tucked into the soil around the Armor. Some had the rail cannon bent over one shoulder, while others attempted the double-barreled gauss cannons that most Armor carried fixed on a forearm, but which was missing on this one.
“What happened?” Ely asked. “Shouldn’t…shouldn’t someone have come and got the soldier? I think the pod’s still inside. I watched Dad practice recovery drills so many times that—”
“We lost,” Hoffman said. “Remember? No Pathfinders to make recovery. Who knows when this warrior fell, or if the rest of his lance is out there somewhere in pieces. This part of Canada was a battlefield for most of the fighting.”
“You’d think I’d be so excited to do this.” Ely made a small motion toward the Armor. “Mom and Dad named me after one of the more famous Armor soldiers. Ell-uh…Eee-lie…damn it. Joining the Armor Corps was never a goal of mine.”
“You didn’t want to join because of your father, right?” Hoffman asked.
“How’d you know?”
“Because every time your father told you a story about Elias of the Iron Hearts, he’d get this look in his eyes and he couldn’t always finish the story. He’d take you to Armor Square in Phoenix before the bastard Geist defiled it?”
Ely nodded.
“And sometimes your mother would have to take you and your brother away because your father needed a moment by himself.”
“How’d you know all that?”
“When you’ve been in the service long enough, you just know. So you think joining Armor would hurt your father too much, right?”
“How…did you—did you know my dad?” Ely did a double-take at the Marine.
“Reputation only. Your uncle’s a different story. We can’t all be Armor. And for those that do, they have to be Armor. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Come on, got to keep moving. There are definitely exiles around here.”
“Are we there yet?” Ely sighed.
“Shut up.”
Hoffman thumped his fist to his chest twice and pressed his knuckles to the bottom edge of his helmet, th
en climbed back up the embankment. He pulled Ely up as the rain slowed and sunlight flooded the clearing they were in.
Hoffman looked over his shoulder, then whirled around, one arm out to push Ely behind him.
“What?” Ely almost fell back down but managed to stop when he grabbed the edge of Hoffman’s cloak.
There was a snap of twigs as a half-dozen men emerged from the forest. They looked dirty and wore torn clothes; most carried simple clubs. One had a crossbow made from springs and metal that looked like it came from an old car. Another had a very clean gauss carbine.
“I’m on your side.” Hoffman moved one hand up slowly and brushed his hood back. “The Saint lives.”
“Funny,” said the man with the crossbow as he raised it up to his shoulder, keeping the bolt aimed at Hoffman’s feet, “we only see harvesters in power armor out here.”
“You ever met a harvester that talks to you?” Hoffman asked. “Most just open fire soon as they know where you’re at.”
“They’ll talk when they’re trying to buy time.” The man with the carbine flicked a switch on his weapon and Ely heard the magnetic accelerators power up. “Or when they’re begging for their lives.”
“Let’s keep this nice and quiet—and peaceful,” Hoffman said. “Charge for that carbine doesn’t come easy out here, does it? Same for bullets. And that crossbow of yours won’t scratch the paint on my Strike Marine power armor, even if it is a bit old.”
“He’s no Strike Marine,” said a woman with a metal club. “But I bet he’s got food on him.”
“You can have my food,” Hoffman said. “But I’ve got to keep on moving.”
“So you can get more of your harvester buddies?” carbine asked. “You took half of us last month. What do you need the rest of us for?”
Even beneath the dirt and grime, Ely could see the harness on the man’s neck.
“If you’re a Strike Marine,” said crossbow, looking back and forth from Hoffman to the man with the carbine, “you ever serve on Okinawa?”
“Did a rotation back before the Kesaht War,” Hoffman said.
“You ever get any off-duty time? Where’d you go?”
“I’m a Marine. I went to the Banana Show,” Hoffman said. “Wasn’t shit else to do.”
“Tell me a part of the act,” crossbow said.
“You told me you never went,” hissed the woman with the club.
The crossbow man shushed her.
“You give that lady a couple bucks and she’ll make change in coins,” Hoffman said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ely asked.
Hoffman shushed him.
“Hell, he’s got to be a Marine.” Crossbow relaxed, as did the rest of the exiles. “Old Breed. You?”
“Betio Bastard at the time.” Hoffman took a pouch off his belt and tossed it at crossbow’s feet. “Now that you all know I’m not a harvester…I’ll be on my merry way.”
“Can you take us?” the woman asked. “We’ve got some sick and children back at our—”
“No,” Hoffman snapped. “I’d appreciate it if you forgot you ever saw me. Deal?”
“Mama, it worked.” A little girl ran out of the bushes and hugged the woman’s leg. “You said if we pray at the suit, Missus Kallen would help.”
“Goddamn it.” Hoffman’s raised hand clenched into a fist. He walked up the bank, keeping Ely behind him, his eyes on the exiles. The one with the carbine took cover next to a thick tree, his gaze never wavering until Hoffman and Ely were far enough away to turn and run.
“What was that?” Ely asked, struggling to keep up with Hoffman. “Why couldn’t we take—”
“Because they’d be a liability!” Hoffman snapped. “They’ve all got their tracker chip still in them, and if I bring one in to where we’re going, it’ll set off alarms from here to Timbuktu. That’s why.”
Hoffman slowed to a jog and adjusted his cloak.
“Damn sloppy for them to sneak up on us like that. Maybe I really am getting old,” he said. “No more sightseeing stops, you understand?”
“I don’t know if it matters, but at this point, I feel like luggage,” Ely said. “I’m getting hauled around. Tossed this way and that. What I’m carrying is all that matters.” He tapped the back of his head.
“Ely, it’s not just what you’ve got stuck in your head. You ever heard of Prestor John?”
“Who?”
“Back during the Crusades—Middle Ages, not twenty-first century—the Christian kingdoms fighting the Muslims weren’t always winning. When their cities were under siege and they were losing battle after battle, they put their hopes on Prestor John to come and turn the tide. Legend was that this Prestor John ruled a Christian kingdom to the east, and that at any moment, he’d lead his armies to the Holy Land and defeat the infidels.”
“Since I’ve never heard of this, I guess it never happened?”
“Prestor John was a myth, but he was hope, Ely. He was hope that the Crusaders needed to keep on fighting. Didn’t work out for them in the end, but what I’m getting at is that Terra Nova is that hope for the new Crusade.”
Ely took in a breath to respond then paused. “No…” he finally said.
“Yes.” Hoffman nodded. “In my job, Ibarran prisoners would come through every so often. I’d read the debriefs. There’s a belief within the Ibarra Crusade that Terra Nova is coming to turn the tide. Don’t suppose they were building a fleet before you went on ice?”
“Not exactly. We had one really cool ship named the Valiant, but it was kind of small. There was a macro cannon…but I wrecked it.”
Hoffman shook his head.
“Maybe they started on a fleet after the fight with the Ultari.” Ely shrugged. “Makes me wonder why Dad didn’t mention any of that when he sent me back. He just asked for Stacey Ibarra to fix me and sent incomplete plans for that FTL engine. What the heck, Dad? I thought he’d be smarter than this.”
“Maybe he’s smarter than you think,” Hoffman said. “When you popped out of the Crucible, it was the first time anyone’s heard from Terra Nova. Ever. Two colony missions through. You came back. Your father’s the governor, so he’s not about to put the whole colony at risk. Crucibles are built to refuse a wormhole if they’re so inclined, so if Terra Nova doesn’t want to connect to Earth the next time conditions are right, they won’t.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The galactic situation wasn’t exactly peachy keen when you left. Ken Hale sent you back because he was getting desperate to help you. He took the risk that you’d come back and get to Stacey Ibarra, then be alive and kicking to give him the all-clear at the next wormhole connection to Terra Nova.”
“So I’m like a canary in a mine. This doesn’t make me feel any better. Not only do you have to get me to the Ibarrans, but then I have to be back at Earth to give the thumbs-up in…a few years? Doesn’t that mean the Geist have to be gone for me to do that?”
Ely slowed to a stop and hung his head.
“You’re hope made manifest to a lot of people,” Hoffman said to him. “Wars can be won and lost on technology, on numbers, but the will to fight is the real thing. Without that, it’s all over. Can’t ever quit.”
“I’m just a kid, Mr. Hoffman. A kid with a first and last name that I didn’t pick that mean way too much to other people.”
“Well, least you’ve got the face you were born with. Not everyone had that option.”
“Huh?”
“We’re almost there. Left foot, right foot.”
Chapter 14
Hoffman crawled toward a fence, slow and in time with the breeze so that his camo cloak could better mask his movement. Any guards should see just another patch of grass. While Hoffman had practiced infiltration technique for decades, Ely was having some difficulties.
“The ground is so wet,” Ely said through the IR connection between their helmets. “Which means I’m getting wet.”
“Shut. Up.” Hoffman crawled forwa
rd. He could feel the static coming off the electrified fence, could hear the snap of intermittent rain against the chain links. He crept closer and looked up at a rusty sign half-hanging from the fence.
“Property of Standish Meats, a subsidiary of Standish Liquors. No Trespassing.”
“Hey, I know that guy,” Ely said. “Friend of my dad’s. He always gave Jerry and me the best birthday presents.”
“Just be very still. No matter what happens.” Hoffman took a small puck off his belt and twisted a knob.
“But I’m in a puddle. Think I’m sinking.”
“I cannot believe you are the fruit of Ken Hale’s loins.” Hoffman flicked the puck forward and it hit the fence. The puck melded onto a link and began smoking. The puck melted like hot wax and ran along the links, tracing out a network of veins. Then the fence disintegrated into a hole just big enough for a prone man to get through, the ends thick with dark goo.
“Hurry.” Hoffman slithered forward and into the gap. He drew a silenced pistol and did a combat peek around a corrugated metal shed, then reached through the hole and grabbed Ely by the cloak, hauling him onto the gravel bed beneath the shed.
“Come on, come on…” Hoffman said as the fence reformed and the puck reformed on his side. It fell off and he caught it, tossing it gently in his palm like a hot potato.
“Neat. Pathfinders don’t even have something like that,” Ely said.
“Pathfinders have stealthed drones, which would come in handy right about now,” Hoffman said. He snapped the optics off his rifle and held the lens past the edge of the shed. Feed from the optics came up on Ely’s HUD.
“Maybe if you told me what we’re looking for, I could be more help,” Ely said.
“Something out of place. Something about the size of a car.” Hoffman looked over dilapidated buildings and heavy metal pens. “Don’t see it. Damn.”
“This place has power,” Ely said. “So someone’s here. And if something’s here that isn’t supposed to be here…then who is here is probably concerned about it. Maybe it’s next to the headquarters? Especially if it’s big and expensive-looking.”
