His tears fell freely as he exposed his neck, almost daring Marco to cut him down. The room was silent, although Latisha wondered if they were conversing inside their helmets so no one else could hear.
“Athena, how many Fallen have you killed?” Hera asked.
“Four.”
“And how many had sired a family, kept hidden until he announced it in a room full of enemies?”
Athena's growl sounded menacing, pushed out by the helmet's external speakers. Judging by how she fought through the city, it was probably worse without it. “None of them. What does it matter? Father called a Gauntlet for this operation. Noguera, Oros, Tychon, Nashir, and Subikai. Five rooks to a gauntlet. Which means that you wouldn't have received a call.”
She stepped forward, her sword, similar to Marco's, slipped from its resting place in her shield. It screeched to life, golden fire wrapped in sharp cracks of electricity.
“Except Rook Tychon was sent to Elysium, so I sent word for another,” Hera said, stopping Athena in her tracks.
The tall warrior extinguished her blade, returning to her place beside Marco. Latisha could almost feel the woman's scowl under her helmet. “And what did they contribute?”
“A planetary cordon. Nothing was getting off this rock without the Father's permission.”
“You knew?” Athena raged through clenched teeth.
Marco turned on this hostile daughter, stepping into her until she backed up at his advance. “Like I knew how to free you from your captivity? Like I took all of you in knowing full well the destruction and carnage you each caused? Should I rain down on you the same judgment waiting for him?”
The lion didn't wait, pointing at Latisha. “How about her? Should I give her my sword to kill Hera for the crimes she committed against her people during the Exodus Wars? And why is there no rage at me? I have the blood of thousands on my hands from the war! Where should we place the balance between punishment and forgiveness?”
Athena turned her head slightly away from her mentor. “This is our Path.”
Marco slapped her shoulder, a soldier's sign of reassurance, “We know the Way.”
He took turns staring down the Rook commanders, waiting for some sign of challenge to his authority. They remained statues, unreadable in their face masks, displaying the most minimalist representations of their rook totems. Returning his attention to the man on his knees, he continued. “The Gun Wraith, Aryan Singh. You will immediately coordinate your forces with Hera, who will bring them into the Dreadmarr. You will strip all of those Fallen Owl emblems from your armor, immediately. From this point forward, anyone wearing one is your enemy. You will turn over the Black Cypher Mercenaries to Hera. This feeding pipeline you've established could be useful. It is now a Dreadmarr asset and they will need to be shown the Path through the Way.”
“Yes, Father Lion,” the unmasked wraith said.
“Lastly, I want what you promised me.”
“Father, I used our cypher-technology to cure the old Grand Master of the Monastery at San Verone of his Gorgon's disease. He's with Rook Tychon now, solidifying control of the Vernai. Using the resources of the monastery, he was able to gain the information you sought. This disc contains Orin's location. After delivering him to the Koda Corporation, I tracked him to the Halikos Moon on Camulon. My sources at the facility say he's still there.”
Marco hoisted the man up by his armor, the Crucible jumping the fallen mask into his hand. “The Dreadmarr is a way of life born of second chances. We shed our old faces so that this mask becomes our new one. We are one family. Our fortunes and debts become the responsibility of all. When we call, you come. You already know what's at stake, so if you betray us, Ajax will murder your family in front of you before Ares rips you from that body to toss you into a digital Hades. The four that Athena put there would love some company.”
Singh replaced his helmet, his voice once again haunting, “There will be no need. This is my Path.”
As one, the assembled Dreadmarr all responded in kind, “We know the Way.”
“You have your assignments. Walk the Path.”
Latisha stepped through the warriors, feeling like a pretender among military bearing bordering on religious fervor. Marco watched her approach, reaching up to hammer fist her armor's shoulder plate.“Do you have a question for me, Lioness?”
“Did you fight an entire civil war just to get the location of one man?”
“I fought a civil war to get the location of my grandson,” he said with a fatherly grin, handing the disk to Madame Tarot.
The owl-eyed killer stopped just shy of the TOC entrance with her robotic entourage, waiting patiently for someone to pass through the door. Another woman barged in with all the bluster of a soldier carrying the proud cords of an Athalon Lion dangling from her shoulder.
“Don't you dare tell me I flew all this way to save your backside for nothing!”
“Good to see you again, Mara Truveau,” Marco said, beating Marshal Brand to the punch.
“Who in the Twin Hells are you supposed to be? Why are you dressed like...” She swiveled her head to Marshal Brand who was nodding furiously. “Marco Sorrin?”
Marco clasped her wrist. “That was smooth. Not awkward at all. So, this is the part where I tell you why the Crucible brought you here and what happens next.”
Sixteen
“I don't mean to be a pain in the fourth point of contact, but females don't serve in the lancer regiments,” Lance Sergeant D'Marco said while rubbing the back of his head.
“They did before the Cross Sabers,” Marco said flatly. “They served in the heavy weapon squads. All lancer battle-frame pilots were women.”
This stopped a bunch of side conversations around the huddled lancer platoon sitting outside the Storm Saber-131 Assault Transport. Every lancer had an opinion on the subject, but none of them were willing to cross the living legend standing in front of them. All except one.
Sergeant Bolaji stepped away from the platoon, walking out among the commanders. He was a long-time member of the devil hunter platoon, as broad as he was tall. His calm demeanor spoke of his homeland, Neroba, a place of contradictions. Those that lived there were polite despite living on a world that saw it as part of the natural order that everyone should fight to survive. “All lancers have to pass assessment. It ensures we have the very best serving in the regiment. If a woman were to pass LASSO, I would call her a lancer. Just saying that someone is a thing does not make them one, sir.”
Marco smiled, his face brightening as he heard the sergeant talk. “You're from Neroba?”
“I am, sir.”
“And what does a Nero call a zankatti without stripes?”
Bolaji shook his head. “Sir, that is a rare mutation that affects two percent of the herds.”
“If it can ram, run and jump with the rest of its kind, does the color make a difference?”
Bolaji looked to Truveau, Brand, and D'Marco for guidance. Despite meeting his gaze, he could tell the group wouldn't be any help here. “Sir, this is not about color, it's about ability.”
“My point exactly, sergeant. Is LASSO still the same for lancer indoctrination?” Marco asked.
“Slightly longer than when it was first enacted, sir.”
Marco nodded, walking in a loose circle about the rigid NCO. “But they still deprive candidates of sleep and food for days, all while putting them through the wringer in regards to leading combat operations. And does the course still end in taking an objective through some of the most intense combat the instructors can devise?”
“Yes, sir.” Bolaji said.
“This squad went for three days with almost no sleep, little food, and fighting an actual enemy on the same corner they wouldn't give up to another squad, even when their NCOs were taken out of the fight. They held their position and when told they were relieved to take a break, still moved a PPC on a spider mount through a network of buildings, fighting the entire way, to help us take the primary obj
ective of this campaign. Does that sound like a LASSO scenario to you, Sergeant Bolaji?”
“Very much so, sir.” Bolaji agreed begrudgingly.
“Then we have an understanding?”
“No, sir. Working through a nightmare day doesn't mean they can become the nightmare every day.” Bolaji said, gesturing to his own squad as evidence of what lancers should be.
“Fair enough. I'd like her to prove you wrong.”
“I'll take that bet as long as it won't cost lives.” Lance Sergeant D'Marco said.
Daniella raised her hand. “Do the ladies have a say in this?”
Marco nodded. “You did by holding that corner. Lance Sergeant D'Marco, any problems folding them into the platoon?”
“I don't have armor for them, sir. Without lancer armor, even if they were tough as nails, they'd be slow and quick to tire out.”
“All of you follow me,” Marco said.
They boarded the ramp of the Promise of Dawn, most of the lancers quick to approach a ship they'd heard tales about for the last thirty years. Unlike the pristine assault shuttle used by the devil hunters, the Promise was littered with old blast scoring that spoke of near misses and adventures the gathered lancers wondered about. Ares stood at the back, once again covered in his pilot's uniform. “You showing off again?”
Marco slapped the robot frame on the shoulder under the hologram, glad to have his friend solid enough for the camaraderie. “It's only showing off if you enjoy it.”
“So, you're showing off again.”
Marco led the troop inside the spartan shuttle, finishing his trek to one of the far walls. It was lined with hatches along one side, covering its length. “In the old days, we hadn't developed a unified set of armor like you have now. Back then, we forged lancers where we found them, and a lot of times that meant we had to take them in the skin they were in. But that didn't mean we couldn't throw a little marshal's magic into the mix.”
He punched a push panel on the wall, triggering the doors to open amid venting gasses. Inside were skeletal combat frames with a helmet reminiscent of the one Marco wore without the crest. Each set was in its sarcophagus with a shield and Accelerator Lance beside it. They appeared in good order, as though they’d been plucked off a rack days ago for safe keeping.
The Lance Sergeant, the platoon's senior NCO, whispered as though raising his voice would spoil whatever holy words would leave his mouth next. “This is Hoplite armor. Mark-I skeletal ultra-frames. I'd heard rumors that sets still existed somewhere, but...”
“How did this many survive? I always carried a squad's worth in the event I came across anyone who could do what they did,” Marco said, pointing at Latisha's squad at the base of the ramp.
Latisha walked by them to the first set, holding up her hand but hesitant to touch the metal. Her lips moved in time with reading the inscription on the side of an arm rail. “T-Co-1LR”
Marco translated from across the deck. “Thunder Company. First Lancer Regiment.”
“You know, Gramps would be damn proud of a Corvin lancer wearing something like that.”
At the words, Latisha turned to face one of the troopers who'd parted the crowd. He had a lopsided grin to go with the confidence written in sergeant stripes on his armor.
“No way!” Latisha said, running into a hug that started with two sets of heavy armor slapping into each other.
Sergeant Corvin patted her on the back, letting her go to shake hands how best friends and warriors did. They could either pull each other back into a hug or break into an arm wrestling match. Judging by the sound of their revelry, it could go either way.
“Looks like this organization is going to the Twin Hells. Seems they'll let anyone in.” Sergeant Corvin said.
Latisha pulled him in as though ready to give him another hug and then shoulder checked him, making the armors crack together, hard. “Says the guy who isn't even dirty from a fight, yet. You sure it's safe to fight in that costume?”
The members of the Devil Hunters gave good natured guffaws at the statement, some throwing water bottles or nu-bar wrappers at the pair.
“While I hate to break up a family reunion, time is short and we have a long way to go before we sleep,” Marco said, interrupting the two Sergeants Corvin.
“What do you have in mind?” Marshal Brand asked.
“Marshal, I'd like you to take command of the Devil Hunters again.”
“Oh, sweet stars 'a nova!” Mara said, holding her knees while exhaling a heavy puff.
The collected units in the Promise's cargo bay all stopped their side chatter to stare at Marshal Truveau.
“Don't act like you'll miss us or anything.” D'Marco chided.
“Hey, I thought she liked us?” asked Lancer Tai, a Vosi member of the platoon.
Marco jabbed his thumb toward the huffing marshal. “Don't take it personally, the members of House Liau are used to running all over the Frontier biting anything that even thinks about coming at the temple. I'm surprised you kept her tied down this long.”
Corporal Brasson swooped in beside his senior NCO, Sergeant Bolaji. “Hey, don't you doubt that she likes us. Remember when we did such a good job she ended up a force commander.”
Mara's expression dropped off at the mere mention of the “F” word. “You shut your garbage mouth, Corporal.”
The platoon erupted into laughter, rushing the female marshal in a dog pile of clacking armor and affection. They hit the deck as a group, an avalanche of young warriors saying their goodbyes to a commander they didn't ask for and didn't want to part with.
“Tough act to follow,” Marco said, absently.
Brand nodded, “She is what the Liau trained her to be. I'd expect nothing less.”
The Lance Sergeant interrupted the impromptu send off. “All right, boys, lock it up. Let Marshal Truveau get up and get on with it. Corvin! Sergeant male type, one each. Please corral that Vosi giant of yours and secure him out of the marshal's way.”
Marco helped Mara back to her feet. “Marshal, I would like you to accompany Madame Tarot on her mission to recover Orin Lashra. The people who took him most likely have safeguards to keep a Way user from getting out, but that doesn't mean they've done the work to keep one from getting in. I think the mission has a higher degree of success with you there.”
Mara continued to stare at him. The patch over his eye drew attention to that side of his face, littered with three scars tracing from his hairline down to his jaw. The pain and suffering he must have lived through to exhibit those marks would've been nothing short of nightmare fuel. “Sir, I don't know if you remember, but, a long time ago on Kalizhad, there was an Exo incursion.”
Marco looked out of the ship, watching smoldering fires going out across the city after the battle he'd just been in had turned the tide against a monster. He remembered the day she referenced, another day spent fighting monsters. “I remember pulling you out of that hole, a child who'd watched her family get wiped out. You were clinging to your sister, ready to fight that creature to protect her. You were the most courageous little thing I'd ever seen.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Lioness.”
Mara's face flushed with color, matching the smile warming her features. “Thank you for my life, Marshal Sorrin.”
“I know someone else who called you sister,” Marco said, reaching for her. He kissed the top of her head. The simple gesture passed their memories through the Crucible. Mara pulled back, tears streaking down her face.
“Seladriel. She was your daughter,” Mara said, pulling back.
“She was more than that. She was my hope for all of us. But hope isn't lost, because family is more than just biology. Please bring Orin back.”
Mara's movement out of the TOC was a stutter step, a halting movement of someone with more to say, deciding against it at the last minute.
“Like I told the other lioness, nothing need be left unsaid,” Marco called after her.
Mara returned to hi
m. He was tall, much more so than she was. His jaw was firm, set against a single blue eye that had the look worn by all men that had seen incredible violence. But there was something else under the penetrating stare that she had to identify in the Crucible. Her mind touched down in a tornado of vision. This man chiseled from rock, spending soft moments with a lion cub, tumbling in the grass. Then she was there too, Seladriel as a young girl. He was throwing her into the air, catching her before collapsing to the ground under a storm of tickles and laughter. The image shifted to Marco crying as his daughter faded, eventually being hoisted up and handed his helmet by the Dreadmarr.
“Why did you choose the Dreadmarr over us?” Mara asked, her voice barely registering.
“I didn't choose them over you. I chose them because of you. Mara, lions are typically the apex predator in their environment, until man enters the picture. Poachers, hunters, and criminals disdain the natural order. Frag it all to the Twin Hells. Sometimes you need rangers to watch out for the lions so they can do lion stuff. The Athalon were quick to wipe out any Exos they came across without asking the most important question. Why? We assumed we knew why the Exos were here and what they were trying to accomplish. We thought we knew so much, but we never asked them, 'why'. I did. The Athalon was so blinded by being the top predator on the plains, they never considered there might be something worse out there. I gave the Exos who wanted peace, a place to find it. Those that were willing, I put to work keeping the lions, the Athalon, free from threats they didn't see. Our job as Templars was supposed to be to protect travelers across the Frontier. Somewhere along the way we became soldiers, mediators, and politicians. We lost our way, and in doing so, lost sight of so much more.”
Marco rubbed the back of his neck, letting his fingers trace the spines invading his flesh. “That's why I built the Dreadmarr to be like rangers on a preserve. They watch the outside, keeping threats to the pride at bay. When a bigger threat comes, we can call them to fight beside you.”
“Where do you fit in all of this?” she asked.
“I'm in the middle making sure you both walk the correct path because I know the way.”
The Sentinel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 3) Page 20
