Iron Dragoons (Terran Armor Corps Book 1)

by Richard Fox

  “Stop taking the piss, Wayne.” Dav-o said turning around and looking the four over through a black and swollen eye. “They’re looking drier than the Nullarbor desert, even the Dotty one. Let ‘em have a brew.”

  “Fair dinkum, they’ll get the Sheila in trouble again,” Wayne said. “Can’t have that mate. This is the only boozer in staggering distance from me yard that doesn’t water down its piss!”

  The bartender stood up from behind the bar with a cricket bat in his hand.

  “There’s my ‘behave yourself,’” he said. The man’s nose looked like it had been broken several times and an ugly scar ran along his hairline. Taking one look at the four of them, he shook his head, pointed the club at Aignar and waved him over to an open space at the bar.

  “What’re you four drop kicks doing in here?” he asked Aignar. “We’re all ex-service. You think we can’t smell a bunch of cherry AJ’s like you from a mile away?”

  “What did you call me?” Aignar lifted his chin slightly, letting the tall bartender see the speaker in his neck.

  “Ah sorry, mate.” The bartender set the club down. “Your mates are so new they squeak. Can always tell when newbies come round for a sticky beak. Can’t serve anyone from the base, might cost the boss her license.”

  Roland looked over the barman’s head to a rail rifle mounted onto the wall. Faded pictures of a short female Marine posing with other Marines and soldiers hung next to the rifle, more than one askew. One photo had the short woman with a rail rifle resting against her shoulder, a Marine Roland recognized from all the Standish Liquors commercials, Hale, Standish, a scowling Hispanic Marine and a tall blond woman, all clustered around a scaly-skinned alien that looked as if humor was an impossible concept.

  “I need to see Bailey,” Cha’ril said. “I…have something for her.”

  “The missus doesn’t do selfies, autographs or act out any scenes from the pile of dog vomit of a movie that’s on the telly all the time,” the bartender said. “Now I’ve asked you to piss off nicely, just like my court appoint shrink says I have to. So I suggest you drongos be on your way before the boys lose their rag with you.”

  “We are awful thirsty.” Aignar tapped his credit fob to a reader next to the barman and dropped a substantial tip.

  The bartender worked his thick jaw from side to side.

  “Well in that case, what’ll be drinking?”

  “Two shots of whiskey, and an old-fashioned…with a straw,” Aignar said.

  “Thought you said you were thirsty.” The barman put six plastic shot cups between Aignar and Cha’ril and poured whiskey from a bottle with a ripped-off label. He came back a moment later with a drink in a wide-mouthed glass and a plastic straw.

  “I’ll see if the missus is interested in a chat,” the barman said, nodding at Cha’ril. “Don’t get Dotties in here much anymore.”

  Aignar raised his drink to him, then took a hard look at the orange slice in his drink. He gave it a sniff, then tossed it to the floor.

  “A toast to a—” Aignar turned back to Roland and Masako. Four of the six shot glasses were empty. They each held a shot, a look of disgust on their faces.

  “Have you two never drank before?” Aignar asked.

  “Not me,” Masako said.

  “Nope. This is not as awesome as I thought it would be,” Roland said.

  “The more you drink, the better it tastes.” Aignar opened his bottom jaw a notch with a touch beneath an ear. His top lip formed a seal around the straw and he took a long sip. “I suggest you two—” He set his drink on the bar and shook his head as Masako and Roland tossed back their third shot.

  “I should’ve started them out on Shirley Temples,” Aignar said.

  “Do you think she’s here?” Cha’ril shifted her weight from foot to foot, her eyes on the door the bartender had gone through.

  “I feel kind of warm,” Masako said, grabbing on to the bar and bracing herself. She shook her head slightly. “Now that’s different.”

  “It is a little hot in here.” Roland rocked back and bumped into Wayne, his elbow knocking the other man’s drink over.

  “Oi! You see there’s a beverage here, right?” Wayne asked, shoving Roland forward. He bumped into Aignar, who raised his drink and kept from spilling a drop.

  Roland whirled around, swaying on his feet.

  “Sorry. The room is a little…spinny.” Roland widened his stance and teetered back and forth.

  “Bloody oath! This wombat looks like he’s about to chunder. What say we give this Yank a bit of barroom etiquette,” Wayne said, nudging Dav-o, who flashed a semi-toothed smile.

  “None of that, you two bogans.” A short, sturdy woman put herself between the locals and Roland. “Don’t you know armor soldiers when you see them?”

  “We’re still Nubbies, lady—” Roland stopped talking when the woman grabbed a handful of his shirt and pushed him against the bar.

  “Dickhead spilled my drink,” Wayne said.

  “Get another on the house. Just get it on the other end of the bar, you pair of footy hooligans,” she said.

  “What? I can take them,” Roland slurred. The woman twisted her grip on his shirt and yanked him down to look her eye to eye.

  “I’ve seen armor rip aliens apart faster than you can blink. But you know what you are outside your suit? A sack of meat ready for a good kicking. I’ll give it to you myself if the lot of you aren’t out of my establishment in five minutes,” she said.

  “You’re Diana Bailey?” Cha’ril asked. “Of the Breitenfeld?”

  Bailey pushed Roland up and away from her, but kept her grip on his shirt.

  “Any of you shits pulls out a phone for a picture and you’ll eat it. You think I’m kidding?”

  “High List Bailey, you saved me on Takeni,” Cha’ril said. “When the Xaros came, my mother—”

  “I know what happened on Takeni, Sheila. I was bloody there—damn stupid movie had me in it without my permission. Other than that, I’ve got the scars and the nightmares to prove I was there. Just because the Breitenfeld helped pull your asses out of the fire doesn’t mean I had anything to do with every last one of you. Now get these lightweights out of my bar before they throw up on it.”

  Cha’ril took Bailey’s hand.

  “I was born in Usonvi. My mother got separated from the rest of the village when the banshees came for us. They almost caught up to her, then you sent a bullet over her head and killed the abomination. You saved both our lives. Do you remember? The plateau where—”

  Bailey let Roland go. The former Marine’s face twitched and she put a hand to her side.

  “That part wasn’t in the movie, but I remember,” Bailey said. “Your mother running for dear life, a baby in her arms. That was you?”

  Cha’ril nodded furiously.

  “I earned me a Purple Heart that day. Wasn’t my first. Wasn’t my last, but it’s the only one I didn’t regret. We lost a fine Marine on that plateau where we evacced most of your village, good woman named Torni. I was too busy bleeding to death to help her.”

  “We remember her,” Cha’ril said. “A ganii tree grows in her honor on Dotari.” She removed a cloth-wrapped object from her pocket and gave it to Bailey. “For you.”

  The former Marine unwrapped a glossy ball the size of a walnut, Dotari writing scrolled along the shell.

  “A ganii seed with my family lineage carved into it,” Cha’ril said. “My father wished to bring it to you, but his duty in the Scout Corps kept him away from Earth.”

  “His name was…Un’qu? He fought beside me on the walls when that swarm of Banshees broke through, good fighter.”

  “Because of you, our family survived. If you plant the seed, it will grow well in this climate. Our gratitude will always—”

  “All right, calm down.” Bailey slapped her hands to the bar and climbed over. “You get me all misty in front of the boys and I’ll have to kick all their asses to respect me again. Let me show you how we
say thanks in my bar.”

  She reached under the bar and brought out a cowbell. She rang it twice.

  “Shot on the house!”

  Patrons cheered and rapped beer mugs against the bar.

  “I want another shot!” Masako said and leaned against Roland. She looked up at him and tried to reach for his face, but missed completely.

  “Could we get two shots?” Roland slurred.

  “God damn it. I’m in for a long night.” Aignar took a sip from his old-fashioned.

  Bailey poured the two drunks shots of vodka, and they drank before Aignar could interfere.

  “Why armor?” the former Marine asked Cha’ril. “That’s a hard life.”

  “For my father,” the Dotari said. “For my people.”

  “The Lord bless you and keep you,” Bailey said, squeezing Cha’ril’s hand. “I was there when we lost the Iron Hearts. I hope you never have a fight like that. Maybe the days of that kind of war are over. I’d tell you to stay safe, but that’s not what armor’s for.”

  ****

  Aignar half-supported, half-dragged Roland down the hallway to their room.

  “Aussie Aussie Aussie!” Roland pumped a fist into the air as Aignar’s hand, pressed against his chest, kept him from falling onto his face.

  “Oi oi oi!” Masako came stumbling around the corner, Cha’ril chasing after her. “Hey…Rolly. I saw the back. How about I see the front too?”

  Roland tottered around, but Aignar pushed him into a complete 360.

  “What? She just wants to see something…” Roland tried to wiggle out of Aignar’s grasp, but his cyborg hands were clamped tight on his arm.

  “Are they going to copulate?” Cha’ril asked.

  “No! They’ll have enough to regret in the morning as it is.” Aignar shook his head.

  Masako bumped into a wall and slid down to a seated position, raising a woozy hand over her head.

  “I want another drink!” Her hand bounced off her head and her chin fell to her chest.

  Aignar shoved Roland into their room and turned back to Cha’ril.

  “Remember. Have her drink water and put her to bed facedown,” he said.

  “Are humans always like this when they drink alcohol?”

  “This is pretty standard for the first time. Tomorrow there will be many promises to never drink again, promises I doubt they’ll keep.”

  Cha’ril grabbed Masako by the wrists and dragged her into their room.

  “Get Rolly,” Masako mumbled.

  Aignar got Roland into bed and met the Dotari in the hallway a few minutes later. The alien sniffed at her hands.

  “Are you aware of the excretions you make when intoxicated?” she asked.

  “It’ll be worse by morning.”

  “I hope this isn’t a regular occurrence. Dealing with those two is like handling toddlers.”

  “This’ll be a learning experience for them both. Did you say everything you needed to say to Bailey?”

  Cha’ril’s quills rustled slightly.

  “She was not open to speaking more of what happened on Takeni, but she was interested in the Dotari return to our home world. I told her she would be welcomed as a hero if she ever came to visit, but she was not interested.”

  “Don’t take it personal. Veterans deal with a war’s aftermath in their own way. Few are ever eager to relive old battles.”

  “Aignar…why did you help me, help convince Roland to come with us? We have not gotten along during training.”

  “We are a team, and anyone willing to shed their blood with me is my brother. Getting you to see Bailey was a hell of a lot more important than whatever else we could have done during our time off. I think Roland has that figured out by now.”

  “Taps” played through the hallway and the lights dimmed.

  “Good night, Aignar.”

  He gave her a nod and went back to his room.

  ****

  As a Mule idled on a flight pad, Gideon marked off candidates on his gauntlet as they filed up the ramp and into the aircraft.

  “Candidate Shaw!” Gideon pointed a knife hand at Roland before he could set foot on the ramp. Roland hurried over and snapped to attention, swaying slightly and mashing an eye closed against the sun’s rays.

  “Candidate Shaw,” Gideon said, far louder than needed, “did you enjoy your pass?” He leaned toward Roland and sniffed at the odor emanating from the younger man’s body.

  “Yes, sir. We…took in some local attractions.”

  “What do you think of Australia, candidate?” Gideon’s voice was on the edge of shouting and Roland winced harder.

  “Friendly people. Lovely scenery, sir.”

  “How about the food?”

  Roland choked slightly and Gideon stepped back.

  “Get aboard.” The cadre jerked a thumb toward the Mule. “Candidate Yanagi,” he said, chopping his knife hand toward her, “get over here!”

  Chapter 12

  Within a cavernous VR chamber, Roland raised his rig’s foot off the ground and a spike the size of his fist popped out of the heel. As he stomped it into a blinking panel on the floor, his HUD glasses showed him the anchor’s progress, twisting into the simulated earth.

  “Hurry up!” Cha’ril said, firing around a barricade toward the onrushing horde of gangly limbed aliens in armored environmental suits, all armed with long rifles. Aignar, Masako and a handful of other candidates in their rigs formed a perimeter around Roland as he readied his shot.

  “Anchor set!” Roland raised a pair of rail gun vanes off his back and tilted them over his shoulder. He swung the weapon toward an alien ship shaped like a flattened diamond high overhead as it burned along its descent through Earth’s atmosphere. Icons flashed green across his HUD.

  Firing a rail cannon in atmosphere was dangerous for any nearby individuals not within the confines of a full suit of armor. The concussion of the rail-cannon bullet shattering the sound barrier could prove deadly for even a Marine or Ranger in their combat gear.

  In the simulated environment of the VR chamber, Roland’s rail cannon crackled with electricity, then went dead. A burning line of air traced through the screens along the ceiling, the simulated shell ripping through the alien ship, breaking it into a thousand flaming pieces.

  “You did it,” Cha’ril said. “I have lost a bet.”

  The VR chamber went dark, then reset to neutral. Barricades sank back into the floor and Roland withdrew his anchor.

  Tongea came out of a side room in a rig. The candidates fell into a formation, ready for their evaluation.

  “Candidates,” Tongea said, “an armor soldier must be dangerous at every range. Your rail cannons can destroy starships from thousands of miles away. Gauss and rotary weapons can handle anything a step closer. Now you must close the final gap.”

  He punched his right arm toward Natalie and a blade snapped out of his forearm housing, stopping a hand’s breadth from her throat.

  “There are times when it is necessary to close with and destroy the enemy at such range. Boarding parties. Tunnels. Every race we’ve encountered that evolved on a planet with predator species has an instinctive fear of blades, of being stabbed and ripped apart. The threat of bullets has a degree of separation—it won’t be you that gets hit. When confronted by an enemy close enough to ram a weapon through their body, fear takes over. You will learn to use this fear against your enemy. You will learn to control that fear in yourself. You are armor. You are the fear. Spread out. We begin with simple thrusts.”

  Roland’s HUD pinged with a new icon, the blade within his forearm housing. He twisted his wrist aside twice and the blade snapped out.

  “Sir,” Natalie asked Tongea, “there’s no targeting routine for this weapon in our rigs. I assume there won’t be one in our armor either. Why is that?”

  “This is not a ballistics equation,” Tongea said. “When you receive your plugs, you won’t suddenly know Kung Fu or any of the European martial arts traditio
ns. If you will learn to wield this weapon with any degree of skill, it will take time and practice. Match my movements. This is high guard.”

  Roland brought his blade over his head to match the cadre member. It struck him as odd that he, training to fight inside an advanced suit of armor carrying multiple ranged weapons, would ever have to use something so basic as a sharpened length of metal. Then he remembered the statues at Memorial Square, and that every one of the armor at that battle wielded a sword or a spear.

  What kind of enemy do we have to kill in hand-to-hand combat? he thought. After the first hour of practice, he stopped worrying and did his best to follow Tongea’s instruction without accidentally stabbing himself.

  ****

  Gideon ran a finger down a candidate’s neural data.

  “Marginal,” he said to Tongea.

  “Mars,” the Maori said.

  “You and I just agreed to cut three candidates with significantly higher synch ratings,” Gideon said. “Why keep this one?”

  “Because synch ratings are not the measure of a warrior.” Tongea flexed his replacement arm. The skin had darkened slightly to match his natural tone and the muscles were nearly a match for his other appendage. “We cannot train heart, aggression. A candidate without iron makes a hollow suit.”

  “Don’t quote Carius at me,” Gideon said. “I sat through all the same lectures you did.”

  “Then why do I have to remind you? You’ll form your lance from these candidates. Would you trust that one to fight by your side, even with the marginal data?”

  “The chance of a redline is too high. Simply getting the plugs might prove disastrous.” Gideon ran a fingertip down the scar on his face. “But leading soldiers into battle is risk. How can I expect three soldiers to follow me into a fight when I won’t even carry them to Mars because of risk?”

  “Martel was right. You are ready for a lance,” Tongea said.

  “We’ll have Eeks counsel this one and all the marginals before we leave. We’ll see which of them decide to stay on,” Gideon said.