Iron Dragoons (Terran Armor Corps Book 1)

by Richard Fox

  “Your womb is limiting most of what you’re capable of, for now. More will come in phases.” Gideon kicked a loose rock and rocketed it toward Roland’s helm. Roland’s hand snapped up faster than his flesh-and-blood limbs could ever manage and caught the projectile.

  “Not bad, Shaw. How far can you throw it?”

  Roland brought his arm back and his torso twisted to the side. He hurled the rock into the air. It sailed up…and he lost track of it as it shrank away.

  “By the time you’re ready for combat,” Gideon said, “you’ll be able to rip through a starship. Shoot the enemy with both cannons at the same time and call in an airstrike while you’re ending any crunchy alien that gets within reach. You will become the mailed fist of humanity’s might. But for now, you need to learn to walk. Come.”

  Roland walked beside Gideon, watching his footfalls over the uneven terrain. The cadre motioned toward a ravine in the distance.

  “Why did the Armor Corps build our base on Mars?” Gideon asked.

  “The Corps was assigned here during the second Xaros invasion,” Roland said. “The cannons, the real big ones, the defenses weren’t ready when the Xaros showed up. Armor was split up to defend the emplacements from the drones.”

  “Half the Corps fell in battle,” Gideon said. “Far fewer than we lost taking the Crucible and the battle against the Toth. Most of the dead were new Dotari recruits. They learn fast, are just as capable in the armor as we are, but they had no combat experience. Carius, the old Corps commander, declared Olympus hallowed ground for the sacrifice paid that day.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was. Still hadn’t earned my place in a lance back then, but I had a high enough synch rating to fight. Battles against total annihilation demand every gun in the fight, no matter what a bean head I still was.”

  Gideon stopped at the edge of the ravine. Roland looked over the edge and into the fissure almost a hundred yards deep.

  “We call them wadis,” Gideon said. “Old armor term from when the American tanks practiced in the California desert. Now that you’ve got walking down, it’s time to learn to fall.”

  He grabbed Roland by the shoulder and shoved him into the ravine.

  Roland’s arms pinwheeled as he tipped end over end. He let off an undignified yell until he careened off the other wadi wall and went spinning. When he hit the wall again, he managed to grab a handhold. The rock snapped away, barely slowing his fall. He slammed his fingers into the rock, remembering when the Toth android had dragged him through the Australian mud and how helpless he’d felt.

  He tore furrows through the wall until he finally came to a stop. He looked up for Gideon, but he wasn’t there.

  “Shaw,” Gideon said from behind him.

  Roland tried to turn around, but his grip was absolute.

  “Turn your head, not your body,” Gideon said.

  Roland’s vision panned around until his helm had rotated 180 degrees. Gideon stood a few yards away.

  “Are you floating?” Roland asked. He kicked his heels in the air.

  “Look down.”

  Roland found himself a few feet off the ground. He pried his fingers loose and thumped into deep sand.

  Roland touched his armor and helm where they’d bounced off the rock during his fall, and wiped dust away.

  “You’re armor. You think a little fall in this gravity will hurt you?” Gideon asked.

  “This whole day’s been full of surprises. What’s next? Tongea jumps out and shoots me with a gauss rifle to see if I flinch?”

  Gideon twisted a heel in the dust, and Roland felt like the older soldier was staring daggers at him.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Onward.” Gideon walked through the wadi that widened and deepened as they went into a narrow canyon. Scorch marks appeared on the upper edge of the walls as they turned a corner. Roland sidestepped around broken hunks of rock almost as large as his armor.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  “Admiral Garret and Marc Ibarra played off the battle against the Xaros as an impossible victory,” Gideon said. “But I was there. The only reason we won was because the Iron Hearts finished off the Xaros General back on Earth. The drones reverted to their base programming and became easier to predict, to beat. Mars held…barely.”

  Gideon hesitated a few steps from a narrow passage through the canyon. Shadows dominated the other side.

  “You go first,” Gideon said.

  Roland rolled his shoulders back and forth, feeling the extended range of motion his armor enjoyed over his true body. The thought of how useless it was to limber up mechanical parts before a potential fight struck him.

  He sidestepped through the gap and found a suit of armor lying in the sand, its head and shoulder propped against the rock wall, its arms bent at the elbows and helm turned up, like it was frozen in rigor mortis. Four enormous claw marks scarred one side of the breastplate, the marks deepening to a full breach of the armor. The armored womb that should’ve been inside was missing. Small eddies of sand whirled around the armor, its legs already buried beneath a tide of red dust. The ripped remnants of a fleur-de-lis patch on the breastplate were faded and sand worn.

  Roland’s stomach heaved. His true hand pressed against his womb and his armor recoiled.

  “No no no…what’s happening?” Roland stumbled backwards and landed hard. One leg cocked to the sky, his metal arms flopping like a fish out of water.

  “Override, code gamma,” Gideon said. Roland’s armor froze. “I am armor, Shaw. Say it.”

  “I am armor.” The feel of cold sand and rocks beneath his back intensified.

  “Your synch rate dropped below ten percent when you saw the wreck. Your mind imagined the damage to your true body and it created a dissonance between you and the armor. Be the armor. Now get up.”

  Roland’s limbs returned to his control. He rolled over and got to his feet, his legs wide like a newborn deer standing for the first time.

  “What happened to him?” Roland asked.

  “The Xaros General ambushed us. It took out one of our Dotari recruits, Han’va, first,” Gideon said. “Captain Dorral landed a few shots…but bullets weren’t enough to kill that thing. I hit it with a quadrium round, managed to disrupt the General’s matrix enough to get him to back off.”

  “What were you even doing down here?”

  “Trying to help,” Gideon said, looking up.

  Wedged between the canyon walls, the scorched, battered remains of a frigate hung suspended a few dozen yards over the ground. Armor panels hung from the hull and Roland could see into the ship through ugly rents along the hull.

  “The Nashville,” Gideon said. “Lost most of her engine power over Noachia and burned into orbit. Her skipper managed a decent landing, all things considered, but she hit with enough force to send her bulldozing through the dirt and into this canyon.”

  “Any survivors?”

  “Eighty-three. The captain wasn’t one of them.”

  “Why didn’t you bring the armor back to Olympus? What happened to Han’va?”

  “Han’va’s with the Dotari brigade on their world. Lost his legs and eyes to exposure, but he’s still armor. The suit is a total loss. The captain decided to keep it here, let it remind bean heads like you what it means to fight. Dorral was a good lance commander. We are less without him. Now,” Gideon said, pointing to the sky, “we climb.”

  ****

  Roland watched the as the sun set beyond the rim of a distant crater, the dying glow of the Martian twilight filtering through dust particles high in the sky. A faint gust of wind swept over the small mesa where he and Gideon stood.

  “Nothing like home,” the cadre said, “not that we’ll be here long.”

  “Is there another war? Thought the rest of the galaxy would’ve got the message after the Cygnus campaign.”

  “Armor can go where the crunchies can’t. Deep space. High-pressure atmosphere. Irradiated area. Ther
e’s a whole tour of the solar system waiting for you. Fighting on Mars isn’t a challenge.”

  “When will I join a lance? How does that work?”

  Gideon motioned toward a plume of kicked-up dust emanating from behind a nearby hill.

  “When you’re fully certified, the lance commanders will decide where you go. Some are more particular than others. Not everyone goes into a lance. Some are better suited for specialist loadouts and fall directly under the squadron commanders…who’s that coming around the hill?”

  Watching as a pair of armor strode into view, Roland said, “It’s Masako and Tongea.”

  “How do you know?”

  “By the way they walk.”

  “Very good, bean head.”

  A column of light erupted over the horizon, tapering away to nothing as it stabbed through the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Roland backpedaled, waiting for a reaction from Gideon.

  A faint thunderclap came through Roland’s microphones.

  “Macro-cannon,” Gideon said. “Rail guns too large for the navy’s ships. There are hundreds built into the surface across the planet. Each one can put a munition through a goal post on Pluto. Calibration shot, by the look of the contrails. Never forget that Mars is a fortress, and armor guards the battlements. Let’s get you back to the bays. Eeks will need a look at you.”

  ****

  The skin around Roland’s plugs was raw, his nerve endings protesting every time his fingertips brushed past the implant. He swept his hand over his bald head. After his last shearing at Knox, his hair had finally regrown to the point where he could comb it, and it was taken all away while he slept.

  He splashed water across his face and left the restroom.

  “How’d it go?” asked an also-bald Aignar in the hallway.

  “It happened.” Roland shrugged and tapped the plug.

  “You keep playing with it and you’ll get a cone around your neck.” Aignar twisted around and gave Roland a look at his new implant. “I’ve had worse surgeries. At least the plugs are inorganic. My body’s immune system won’t try to murder it like a new vat-organ.” He pinched his fingers together with a snap.

  “Hello, boys!” Masako said. She still had much of her hair, but it was cut into an inverted bob, high enough in the back to leave her plugs exposed. Cha’ril was with her…and looked no different.

  “Cha’ril, what happened?” Roland asked.

  “My surgery was successful. Why?” She looked down at her uniform for a discrepancy.

  “Why did the rest of us get a barracks-special haircut and you’re the same?” Aignar asked.

  “My quills are not ‘hair.’ They help regulate my body temperature and are full of blood vessels. Cutting them off would kill me. Just because your species is constantly shedding does not mean the rest of the galaxy does the same.”

  “And here I thought getting plugs would mellow her out,” Roland said.

  “There’s a formal function in the mess hall,” Cha’ril said, tapping her gauntlet, “six minutes from now.”

  Roland fell back and walked beside Masako.

  “I saw you out there with Gideon,” she said.

  “He’s a bit different in the armor. How was your walk?”

  “I had some trouble with terrain.” A tic pulled at one side of her face and she rubbed her fingertips against the spot and smiled at Roland. “Eeks gave me a good workover and cleared me. Sounds like you had an easier…ahh…” She turned her head to the side and sucked air through her teeth.

  “You OK? Should we get you back to Eeks?”

  “Just some nerve endings figuring out their new place in the world. It’s nothing. Like my new ’do?” She fluffed the tips of the angled hair coming down the side of her head. “I look like something out of those old anime comics.”

  “It suits you.” Roland touched his forearm screen, tempted to call in a medical bot to look her over, but whatever pain had vexed her was gone. Roland’s stomach rumbled.

  “Me too,” Masako said. “Haven’t had a bite to eat since we landed.”

  Long tables covered with red linen ran down the length of the mess hall. A small stage at the far end had the Armor Corps, Terran Union and Dotari flags on either side. Almost two dozen candidates were already there, heads shaved and boasting fresh plugs. The clash of plates and steam came from an adjacent kitchen.

  “What’s all this?” Aignar asked.

  “Big day for us,” Roland said, “maybe it’s a party.”

  “Or there’s a bunch of Denevian spider wolves under the tables and we have to fight them off with our cutlery,” Masako said. “Don’t give me that look, Cha’ril. Who knows what the cadre are up to this time.”

  A master sergeant in the armor auxiliary uniform—gray in contrast with the Mars-red of the candidates’ uniforms—and a chest full of ribbons stepped onto the stage.

  “Candidates! Be seated.”

  Roland sat between Cha’ril and Masako. He tapped a foot beneath the table, searching for a false panel.

  “No spiders,” he whispered to Masako.

  “Maybe ninjas will fall out of the ceiling. Stay alert,” she said.

  Silence fell as a colonel walked onto the stage. His uniform was bare but for a Templar cross on his shoulder and an armor badge on his chest. Roland gripped his chair, waiting for the command to rise to attention that should have come when any superior officer entered the room.

  “Stay seated,” the officer said. “I am Colonel Martel. You’re all still recovering from your surgery and normal decorum is suspended for the near future. Congratulations on your First Walk. You reached this point through commitment and fortitude. I’m proud to have you all in my Regiment.”

  The colonel looked to one side, and a half-dozen officers entered the room and formed a line beside Martel. Four had the Templar Cross; two—one being Gideon—had other lance patches and wore their medals and ribbons.

  Masako’s hand began shaking atop her lap. She grasped it firmly and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Roland gave her shoulder a nudge, but she shook her head quickly and pushed his touch away.

  “These men and women are lance commanders. They will take part in the next and final phase of your training. In all likelihood, you will be assigned to one of them once assessment is complete,” Martel said.

  A trio of service robots rolled out of the kitchen, each holding ten trays in its segmented arms. Each human candidate got a plate of identical food and a drink bottle filled with blue liquid. The Dotari received a bowl full of steaming nuts.

  “Eat, please,” Martel said, waving a hand. “You’ve been without solid food longer than you realize. Let me introduce the first lance leader, Lieutenant Silva.” He stepped away from the podium and Silva took his place.

  Suddenly, Masako hissed and turned her face to Roland, her lips pulled back in pain. A hand slammed onto the edge of her plate, flipping it over and tossing food across the table. She looked at Roland for a second, then her eyes rolled back into her head. She fell backwards, limbs thrashing in a seizure.

  Roland caught her, knocking over his chair as he set her to the ground. He grabbed her by the wrists and tried to stop her out-of-control movements. She kicked her chair over as the seizure grew stronger.

  “Medic. Medic!” Roland cried.

  Blood trickled out of her mouth as her jaw snapped open. He jammed the side of his hand into her mouth and took the bite, trying to stop her from severing her own tongue.

  Colonel Martel pushed through the ring of candidates and knelt beside Masako. He took a hypo from off the small of his back and tapped it against her neck twice. Masako’s convulsions faded, but her limbs and face kept twitching.

  “Back to your quarters!” Martel called out. “All of you. Now.”

  Masako whimpered and curled into a ball. Roland pried his hand out of her mouth, ignoring the pain from the torn skin.

  “Masako? Can you hear me?” He gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

&nb
sp; “Shaw,” Martel said, looking him straight in the eye, his word laced with the authority of command. “Return to your quarters. The medics are on the way. Go.”

  Hands grabbed Roland by the shoulder and pulled him up, then Gideon moved Roland through the cordon of lance commanders. Martel stayed at Masako’s side, one hand cradling her head.

  Roland’s world shrank down to Masako, her body jerking as if it were receiving shocks every few seconds, her face slack and eyes unfocused.

  “We’ve got this,” Gideon said, putting a hand to Roland’s chest and nudging him backwards.

  Roland, his mind and body numb, turned away.

  Chapter 16

  The barracks room Roland and Aignar shared was little different from their quarters back at Fort Knox, but this room had a holo screen in place of a window. Random Martian landscapes cycled through the projection, the light levels in tune with the world just outside Olympus.

  Roland paced up and down the room, rubbing the patch of spray-skin on his hand. Aignar dug a screwdriver into his left forearm, his fist closing with each twist of the tool.

  “What happened to her?” Roland asked. “None of the cadre seemed that shocked. Did they know it was coming?”

  “All a bunch of veterans. I’m sure they’ve seen everything by now, and I doubt the Corps promotes any panickers to lance commander.” Aignar’s fingers clicked up and down at random and through a range of motion that his flesh and blood hands couldn’t have matched without breaking bones and tearing tendons.

  “Wait…are you OK? Not you too…” Roland slapped a palm against his plug.

  “Settle down. This one’s been on the fritz since we left Earth.” He bashed the back of his hand against his table, and the fingers opened and closed with their usual stiffness.

  “How can you sit there and be…calm! She’s your friend, too, and all you’ve done since they kicked us out is sit there.” Roland jammed his hands to his hips.

  “What should I do?” Aignar asked. “Write my congressman? Go to the med facility and press my face against the glass as the docs work on her?”