The Sentinel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 3)

by Walt Robillard

  The lioness walked away from her, a scant smile on one corner of her mouth, not bothering to savor the shocked expression on the senior marshal's face. She watched the battle on the holo unfold while her warriors wrapped around the room behind the large circular table in the center. The high marshals seated around the counter top the council called, the Shield, seemed extremely uncomfortable at so many House Liau marshals being present. This was a rarity. Normally the lioness would stand silently by as matters of the temple were discussed. On days where threats to the council existed, a contingent of Crimson Lancers under Liau command would secure the room, as well as the entire floor outside.

  Alessandra caught the side of the Shield Table to steady herself as a wave of the Crucible's power washed over her. The shadowy marshal in the back of the room called to her, “Force Commander, are you well?”

  “I am, High Marshal. Thank you for your concern,” the lioness offered in return for the shadow's inquiry. “Did you not sense that? A powerful drawing of the Crucible, there in the battlefield.”

  “Sorry, Force Commander. I didn’t.”

  Liau gestured to the holos. “There! The child. Is she a deputy marshal?”

  Peletier pushed her way back to the podium set in front of the table. “That’s Bethayell. She was taken in by Marshal Mara Truveau and turned over to Marshal Brand to aid him on his mission while he healed.”

  Liau narrowed her eyes at the senior marshal, “And what was his mission?”

  “Do you have clearance to know such things?” Peletier knew she had overstepped the second the last word left her mouth. There was something different about today. About Alissandra. She was bolder. There was more fire in her voice, her posture, her aura in the Crucible. The Grand Marshal had never been strong in the Crucible Faith, the Way, but she had a knack for politics. That last question was what members of Parliament would have deemed 'a bad call.'

  Luckily for her, the shadowy marshal in the back of the room, Gideon had drawn her attention. “Force Commander, Brand was sent out by Force Commander, I mean Field Commander Hylaeus to investigate the theory that a rogue element had infested our government, leading to the death of Marshal Seladriel Ferrand. The deputy, Bethayell, was strong in the Crucible before Marshal Brand was tasked to show her the Way.”

  “It’s not her. At least not yet.”

  “What’s not her?” Peletier risked the question.

  “Somewhere in the middle of that battle there are Athalon Lions. I can feel one of them stalking. I can feel him killing. The rest of my Lions are accounted for, so who is in the middle of that fight?”

  Mara Truveau, Marshals Templar and a lion of the Athalon, climbed the ladder to the cockpit, tapping the weapons officer on his shoulder. “You got something for me, Chief?”

  “Pilot rolled up a message for you when we dropped out of hyper-cast. I can feed it to whatever you like.”

  “Send it to my cell-com. Thanks, Chief.”

  She slid down the ladder, making her way by the platoon of lancers under her command. They were suited up in the infamous lancer armor, their helmets stowed under their seats. An older looking trooper with a thousand meter stare watched her approach.

  “Something from the big house?” Lance Sergeant D'Marco asked.

  “Nope. The message was encrypted but the signal ident has your pappy's fingerprints all over it?”

  “Think he misses us?” Lancer First Grade Tai asked.

  “Did anyone ask you to join us? Hey! Which one of you lost the leash for this mutt?” D'Marco barked.

  Sergeant Corvin stepped up from his seat at the back of the assault shuttle. “That's my bad, Lance Sergeant. He thinks just because he's a Vosi, he can wander all over the joint. He don't realize as a lancer, size is a state of mind.”

  Corvin kicked the tall lancer's shin, sending a spout of pain that made him reach for it. The sergeant pinched his ear, bringing the nearly three meter tall alien closer to his side of the ground. He guided the kid away amid a flurry of, “Ow, ow,” curses through a gauntlet of fellow lancers laughing and smacking him on the rump.

  “One of these days that lancer is going to be as dangerous as he is big and then Crucible help us.” D'Marco snorted. His smile faded when he saw Mara's was gone.

  “Big brother's in trouble.”

  “Isn't he always?” D'Marco asked. “What did he do, now?”

  Mara charged back through the bay, up the ladder to the pilot's ear. “LT Swan, I need you to plot a course to Sadosia. Make orbit and wait on my go for atmo.”

  “Aye, ma'am.”

  “How long until we're hot?”

  The lieutenant shifted several holos, plotting jump vectors along the marshal's request. “Won't be long, ma'am, but weren't we supposed to be dropping into that mining gig to deal with a Solidak?”

  Mara grimaced. “There you go again, LT, making like a responsible adult. Sergeant Guerrero, get Fourth Squad ready to hunt. You think you can take down that angry string bean by yourself?”

  Guerrero was already in the middle of hot loading his men into a set of powered armor that was the envy of the Elysian forces. As the heavy weapons squad leader, he had access to the best toys. “I'll take my boys and a handful of the mechs. Snake lady shouldn't be a problem.”

  “Hey sergeant, how do you know it's a female?” called back one of the lancers.

  “Never saw a Solidak away from their homeworld that wasn't female. And if it is a male, Costa's rig is going to make it cry like a little girl, anyway,” Guerrero said, gesturing to the lancer running his battle frame through its pre-flight checks.

  Mara rolled her eyes. “Would that be a little girl like, me?”

  “No, ma'am,” Guerrero said with his hands up in surrender. “You lose little girl status when you wrap that right shoulder in a Liau Cord.”

  “Damn right,” Mara said with a punch to Guerrero's arm to pound the thought home. “Chief, I'm going to scratch out a couple of messages. Need you to shoot them out on the quick.”

  “Aye, ma'am.”

  “Lance Sergeant, get our guys locked in. We have to go bail out Marshal Brand, again.”

  Eight

  A tornado of rounds flew straight at the truck bed, threatening to punch through the metal that had kept them from harm thus far. The surrounding air bent, sending the projectiles in every direction but their intended one. Walls crumbled and foundations were slagged by a young girl using her connection to the Crucible to thwart the onslaught of a Scorpion Tank.

  “Back blast area clear!” Bethayell shouted to her partner.

  “Firing!” Latisha leaned out just enough for the rocket-propelled grenade to send its payload into the leg she'd been attacking. An air shimmering pop erupted from the impact, knocking the mech backwards a step.

  “You did it! You crippled its leg!” Beth yelled.

  Latisha snatched up the HI-CAB, “It doesn't mean squat. That was our last heavy weapon and all I have left is the machine gun and a single drum. See that over the top of that building? That's the second tank coming to flank us. We're done! Get your marshal and go. I'll distract them.”

  “We're not done!” Beth aimed her palm at the vehicle, forcing her will through the Way. The damaged leg twitched a few times, fighting an invisible force for control. Beth raked her hand across the air, yanking the tank easily through the Crucible as it stepped awkwardly to find purchase. She brought her other hand over her head, acting like a weight to force the enemy tank onto its damaged leg. It toppled sideways, digging its nose, along with its rotary cannons into the dirt. “Now, Corporal! Blind that sensor eye up front!”

  Latisha dumped the drum for the CR-15 straight into her target. Each burst she sent into the armored skin had plenty of bolts deflected by the duradium plating. But for every few shots that bounced off, a few had found their mark. At the end of the drum, the barrel warped, ensuring Latisha wouldn't be running the gun unless she swapped in out. Luckily, she'd also burned out the forward sensor eye.
>
  “That's how it's done!” Beth yelled.

  The mech's rear coaxial launcher coughed out a single rocket. At the odd angle the vehicle was sitting in, the weapon launched along a drunken flight path, skimming across several buildings, catching the lip of a blown out wall. The side swipe sent the rocket at a new angle that cut a path between the truck and the tiny marshal.

  “No, no, no!” Beth screeched as she adjusted the power of the Crucible to deflect the rushing projectile. It landed against an adjacent building, the explosion braking apart the stone in a debris-laden firestorm. Huge chunks blasted Beth from her feet, while the truck spun, knocking Latisha prone.

  Latisha shifted her helmet, raising her head to appraise her situation. The kid was down, probably unconscious or worse. Toda was being dragged away by one of his team leaders. Saikon was pushed over to his side by the truck, a bloody mess being kept alive by quick fix trauma patches that wouldn't hold him much longer. She'd almost believed the kid. Had almost believed this wouldn't be the end. She had done her part. She held the street like Captain Morreau had said. If that tank pilot wanted any more of it, he was going to have to come through her to do it.

  She hoisted her CR-45, sending bolt after bolt into the opposite leg, trying to copy what she had done to the first. Something was using space magic to talk to that kid, and although she didn't have a clue what it was, she felt she had to believe her. Something was coming. Not because the kid said so, but because Latisha felt it too.

  The second tank scaled the backside of a building, enough to get its bulk into a broken room and part of an alley. It's coaxial tail weapon didn't look nearly as big as the first. The extension looked like the flood light that used to shine on the door outside Old Lady Maven's diner. Probably a beam weapon. That wouldn't be good. Nothing like a sword of pure light to carve up everything in its path. Latisha thought how much she would rather have the greasy eggs, overcooked bacon, and acidic coffee over at Maven's, rather than what was coming next.

  The beam was silent, just a stream of light lancing from the rear most mech. It cut part of the building it was in, driving down to slice the reinforced truck bed. Then it caught the fuel cell. The power brick ruptured. The explosion bent the truck's frame, bouncing Latisha back to the ground.

  “Last time you're knocking me over today! My turn!”

  She switched her weapon to automatic, tearing into the laser-wielding tank with a couple of bursts. The bolts knocked down a rickety wall, forcing it back into the alley it came from. She switched targets, trying to further ruin the sensor she'd scuffed up earlier.

  “These are my friends. My family! You want them? You gotta go through me! And I ain't going down without taking you with me!” Each taunt brought more gunfire. Latisha was burning through magazines on her relentless harassment of the enemy mechs. Running back and forth along multiple firing positions, Latisha snatched up mags from the fallen whenever she ran dry. They were incapacitated or dead. Either way, no one would mind her scalping the ammo. The injured vehicle straightened itself, spinning up the barrels of its main guns to doll out its deadly punishment.

  Waiting for the hurricane of lead that would end her time on this side of the Crucible, she whispered, “We're the rock that breaks the wave.”

  It was a whisper so powerful that it shook Marco's balance, forcing him to lean on the side of the corridor. She had no idea what she was. No idea of the power she commanded or how that call had brought him here.

  “We're the rock that breaks the wave.” Marco raised his helmet, pulling the eye patch from his face. Bracing himself, he felt the flow of the Crucible wash over him, like molten metal pouring into the mold. Powerful fire traced its way up his spine while a deep pressure from his alien eye spread across his face, forcing his normal orb to match it. He felt his old muscles tighten, straining against the power demanding they yield more than anyone could contain. The eye slits of his helmet shone with ethereal brilliance, commanding he set his sight on his prey.

  “It has been a long time, Father Lion,” whispered another voice in his ear. The voice was the essence of the storm. It was the soothing sound of rain above the hint of thunder, a distant reminder of nature's ancient capacity for violence.

  Marco held onto that voice, letting it maintain his calm in the firestorm threatening to consume his soul. “It has been, old friend.”

  “Are you once again the lion?”

  “Until I find the cub to replace me.”

  “Then we will hold you until then.”

  Digging his feet in, he unlocked the spear, extending it to its full length. A ferocious snap flash engulfed the blade under arcs of electricity sparking across.

  “The Way is my will...”

  Brand sat upright. He'd taken a beating when the rest of that rocket barrage had put him on his back. Getting to his knees, he focused on the still form behind the fighting fury that was Corporal Corvin. In the Crucible, he felt the strength surging through his little deputy, spurring her back to consciousness. They'd held off the two tanks together. The two women were amazing.

  He watched the barrels on the tank spinning up, threatening to end Latisha's fight. Reaching into the Crucible, he braced himself to be her shield until his apprentice could get back into the fight. He could hear a commotion behind him. Something was riling up the troops protecting the depot. They had to hold for a moment longer...

  “...And my will is the Way,” he whispered. “Twin Almighty Hells!”

  The building beside the Scorpion tank erupted. The entire side facing the vehicle blasted outward in a dust clenched explosion that pushed the tank toward the damaged leg. There, amid all the smoke and fury, was the most epic roar Brand had ever heard. It sounded like dozens of beasts rolled into a single scream that rattled his teeth straight through his soul.

  The smoke parted, coughing out a demon wrapped in golden armor. A bristled red crest topped his helmet, reminiscent of the old marshals leading lancers for the first time. A brilliant crimson cloak flapped behind him, making it appear as if he was trailing the blood of his enemies on his hunt for more. Lightning-flecked golden fire wrapped his energy spear. The shield bearing a lion standard led the way, clearing his path of debris as he leapt the meters of distance between the building and his target.

  He landed softly on the top of the first tank. Bringing the spear over his head, he rammed what looked like the weighted butt of the weapon into the dorsal armor. The bulbous end burst with a pressure wave, slamming the tank into the ground like a boot to a spider. The impact propelled the warrior through the air to the next vehicle. He struck the side with his shield and a roar that blasted the machine into the building Corvin had chased it from, ending in a tangle amid the debris.

  “Twin almighty Hells,” Latisha echoed Brand, her jaw loose with awe over the attack.

  The warrior landed in the empty alley, whirling back to the first machine with a flash of his cloak.

  “Help her!” shouted Tabor, the Saedoran marshal. He held Force Commander Liau, who was gripping the side of the Shield table. The force commander was drenched in sweat, panting heavily as the feed played out.

  Grand Marshal Peletier pointed to one of the techs in the communications pit, “Kill that feed!”

  “No!” Liau shouted, blowing the techs from their chairs. Webbed cracks traced around the table from her hands and on the floor under her feet as she drew in breath. The other Liau marshals in the room did likewise in time with their leader. Marshals and laymen alike, felt the immense power draw filling the lions. As one they all cried out. “My will is the Way!”

  The lions roared in unison. It was deafening. Everyone not of the Pride felt as though they were trapped in the path of a hurricane with no choice but to ride it out. Floors cracked, windows shattered, computer stations sparked, all while the thunder that was the Liau roared their battle hymn into the Crucible. The video feed surged, showing a tremendous explosion. There, wrapped in the middle of the storm, was a figure of legend. />
  His golden armor trailed the smoke from the blast, the crest speeding away from the clinging dust in a streak of red directed rage. The first tank slammed into the ground while the next struck a building. Every lion in the room knew that armor. Every warrior worthy of calling themselves a Marshals Templar knew the crest riding that roar. Marco Sorrin, the Lion Guard of Athalon, had decreed with every strike that someone on this dusty battlefield had crossed the Pride. They would pay with blood and thunder.

  The warrior charged for the first mech which was now using a lower repulsor to jump back to whatever feet remained functional. Marco slid along the street, coming to rest under it with his shield above his head. An anti-personnel blaster dropped from the underside, pulsing against his defense. The bolts sizzled off in various directions as it met the unrelenting barrier held in their way. A whirl of the red cloak brought the spear into the damaged leg, tearing it free from the joint. Another turn danced the warrior from the path of more shots as the lance flashed upward, shattering the weapon into the street. Each spin of Lion's stance severed a leg joint or deflected a weapon back to its source. The mech attempted to use its repulsors for a power slide away from him. Marco slammed the lance into the armor, holding on for the ride until it came to a stop, away from the embattled soldiers.

  Watching the feed, the Grand Marshal asked into the ether, “How is he doing this?”

  The warrior turned the spear over to place the butt of the weapon forward. He thrust the canister-looking end into the bottom of the tank. The blast wave catapulted it into the air several meters. Somewhere in the back of the room, several marshals yelled, pushing their power deep into the Crucible, across light years to their embattled symbol. In the feed, he cocked his head, affecting a quick nod to them.

  He traced a circle in the air with his hand, flipping the tank over to land onto its top. A hatch opened, allowing escape for the mercenaries trapped inside. Someone came out fast, the hatch barely opened to allow his exit as he fired a subcompact on burst. The bolts danced around the Lion Guard, merely an annoyance of flies in his mane. He made a fist, telekinetically priming the arming levers on grenades secured to the merc's chest rig to shift in their housing, chiming with a red light. They shifted back the other way; the marshal making a patting motion with his hand. The merc was forced back into the hatch, which locked closed. Several explosions popped inside the vehicle, culminating in a larger detonation that blew it into a mushroom cloud of ruin.