“Precisely, Ambassador, how dare you bring weapons into an imprimatur’s sovereign territory!” Rhossily was shouting at Ambassador Ochrie, who was already making small, calming gestures as if this were just a schoolyard argument and she some sort of long-suffering teacher.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, good citizens of Proxima, this does not concern you. That man, the CEO of NeuroTech industries, is wanted for kidnap, murder, attempted murder, torture, and selling illegal armaments in a time of war!”
“Arms to the Martian freedom-fighters, you mean!” someone at the back of the angry, panicked crowd shouted back.
“Yeah! Freedom for Mars, freedom for Proxima!” someone else bellowed.
Great, Solomon thought. What he really didn’t want was to find a bunch of Chosen of Mars sympathizers in this crowd right about now.
“It is not a time of war here on Proxima, Ambassador, and so your Confederate laws do not apply. You are attempting to extradite a Proximian citizen, and I, with the full authority of Proxima, do not allow it!” the imprimatur shouted.
Oh frack, Solomon thought. “Malady?” he whispered into the Gold Channel. “I want you to fire up that ship’s engines. We might need to make a much speedier exit than even I was expecting…”
“Aye, Lieutenant, sir,” he heard Malady intone in his usual metallic drawl.
“Consider your actions very carefully, Imprimatur Rhossily!” The ambassador drew herself up to her full height and spoke in a clear voice to her rival. “I will be leaving this planet with my honor guard and their prisoner over there, and if you or any Proximian force tries to stand in our way, then the Confederacy will have no choice but to do to Proxima what we did to Mars.”
To nuke it? Solomon thought in horror. No-no-no! This is not how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to avoid a war…
“Are you threatening me, Ambassador?” Rhossily spat back.
“No, I am promising you,” the ambassador said evenly. “Which is why I know that you will let us go. I do not want a war between our planets. I know that no good can come of it. And I certainly do not want hundreds of thousands to die in the subsequent conflagration.” The ambassador took a step forward, so that she was face-to-face with the de facto leader of Proxima. “Because you and I are both intelligent women, and we both know precisely that is what will happen as soon as we cross that bridge, one that we cannot come back over,” she said in a low voice as the rest of the lobby and dining room fell quiet.
“Hundreds of thousands will die. Perhaps millions. Is one man’s freedom worth all of that loss to both of our worlds?” The ambassador sounded cold, but infinitely logical. “War may be inevitable between Proxima and the Confederacy, one day, but it doesn’t have to begin here, on this day,”
Solomon heard Ochrie’s voice take on a slightly softer tone, and he realized just how good she was as a diplomat.
“You and a lot of your people have a dream, Mariad Rhossily: a free Proxima. An independent Proxima. I get that—really, I do—but that dream will be buried in ash and destruction if we fight each other now…. Instead, I am asking you to hold onto your dream, Mariad Rhossily and the good people of Proxima, to keep that hope alive and keep working for it in a different manner. Send ambassadors, envoys, and lawyers instead of soldiers and missiles. One day, the universe will be different, and I promise you that Proxima will have its chance again.”
Wow, Solomon thought. Either the ambassador was playing a really long game, or she had just managed to lie through her teeth to get what the Confederacy wanted, because he saw the tears well up in Imprimatur Rhossily’s eyes, for her to shake her head and look away, and then nod.
“Take him and leave Proxima space. I never want to see you in this hall again,” Rhossily said, and Solomon and the other Marines felt an immense sense of relief.
So happy were they, and so caught up in the impassioned arguments of these two women, that no one reacted quickly enough when the deactivated cyborg suddenly reared to life, raised its particle-beam hand, and shot Augustus Tavin dead in front of them.
16
A Metal Sky
BRAP-DAP-DAP!
Screams and gunfire filled the lobby as people reacted to the sudden assassination. Why did it do it? What’s going on? Solomon’s thoughts were already racing as he reached for his pistol—and realized that he didn’t have it on him.
Arlo, Ratko, and Willoughby had stepped up to the challenge, however, responding with all of their almost two years of Marine Corps training and casting a deadly flurry of bullets at the cyborg. Solomon watched as time itself seemed to slow, and the cyborg was hit on the chest and arm—the bullets sparking and ricocheting off toward the ceiling. It staggered back, lifting its particle arm once again as something happened to its shoulder.
It looked as though the thing’s metal shoulder muscle was blossoming like a flower, peeling apart steel petals as a four-barreled tube emerged from the thing’s back.
The weapons module that Tavin had installed! Solomon realized. It was a micro-missile launcher!
Phwack! Jezzy moved fast, lunging forward across the few meters that separated them and skewering her blade up and out, into the thing’s neck.
Crash! With a metallic whine, the thing collapsed as Jezzy’s blade severed the thing’s brain stem and it fell backwards to the floor.
“What’s happening!?” Rhossily was shouting. “Why did it—”
“It must be some kind of automatic backup system,” Solomon said, already moving forward to Ambassador Ochrie’s position. Without the need to take Augustus Tavin in, his next priority was to ensure that the ambassador and his Gold Squad got back to the boat safely.
“Malady… Get that bird ready. We’re leaving,” Solomon hissed over his suit’s communication channel.
“You think Tavin did this to himself? So that he wouldn’t be taken alive?” Jezzy was saying, standing over the body of the cyborg as the people around them quickly moved back from the gunfight, creating a wider and wider circle around them.
“He must have done. I don’t see any other explanation,” Solomon said quickly, looking around them.
“Arlo! Willoughby! You’re on point. I want a clear route back to the ship!” Solomon ordered brusquely. “Ratko, keep an eye on the other guests. Don’t shoot anyone.” He turned back to his remaining squad members. “Jezzy, Karamov, you two are with me. We’re protecting the ambassador and getting her out of here—”
THA-WHUMP!
Before any of the Outcasts could even take up their new positions, the checkerboard marble floor tremored and shook, and the chandeliers rocked from their chains.
“What was that!?” Imprimatur Rhossily of Proxima was already reaching into her white and silver robe for a small communicator bud, putting it into her ear as the crowd started to scream.
“We’re under attack!” Solomon heard one of the Proximian guests say, seconds before the glass of the windows shattered when another shockwave rolled over them.
“Ambassador! If this is some Confederate trick…” Rhossily was demanding answers, while at the same time calling for reinforcements. “Guard detail to the palace. Get me a situation report. Scramble the air fleet! What’s happening out there!?”
“Ambassador.” Solomon looked at her heavily. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Confederacy had decided to use his men as a diversion. Solomon and the rest of Gold Squad had been in Armstrong Habitat on Mars when the Confederate Marine Corps had started their attack, after all.
“I know nothing about any attack, I promise!”
FZZZT! There was a sudden bolt of purple-white light bursting down the hall from the main doors, missing the imprimatur by inches.
Solomon jumped forward, seizing Mariad Rhossily’s shoulder and dragging her back into the lobby. Over her struggling shoulder, Solomon saw two of the cyborg guards that had been placed by the front doors. They had broken down the front door and were marching forward, raising their weapons.
“Down!” Solomon shouted as another bolt of purple-white laser-light shot into the lobby and the dining room behind them. Someone screamed.
“Back! It’s the cyborgs!” Solomon shouted, shoving the Imprimatur of Proxima behind him as he reached for Ambassador Ochrie.
Who was firing a tiny, concealed pistol the size of a child’s toy at the advancing line of cyborgs. BANG!
“Even you came down here armed!?” Solomon shouted as he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her behind him as well.
“Of course! You don’t think I was stupid enough to not carry weapons, do you?” Ochrie said.
Great. It was just me who listened to the regulations then… Solomon thought, before shouting, “Outcasts! Form on me! Contact straight ahead!”
“It’s the cyborgs… They’ve malfunctioned,” the Imprimatur of Proxima was saying with wide eyes. Around Solomon, the Outcasts formed up, firing their pistols at the two advancing cyborgs. Without a weapon, Solomon was useless to do anything other than watch as the hail of bullets hit the two murderous man-robots, spinning them around or making them suddenly stumble.
CRACK! One shot hit something vital in one’s metal knee wheel, and the cyborg slammed to the floor, before starting to crawl towards them.
“Bring them down!” Solomon was shouting as the other cyborg was halfway to the lobby.
THAP! It was Karamov’s shot who ended it, firing from where he still lay on the floor. The rest of the Outcasts poured their bullets onto the remaining, crawling cyborg and eventually, one of them found the place that it needed to, as the metal death machine stopped moving.
“I’ve got reports coming in from all over Proxa. The cyborgs have seized the port, they’re making their way to the barracks…” the imprimatur said as she ordered people to stay away from the windows.
“NeuroTech,” Solomon growled. “It has to be them. This must be some sort of insurance policy that Tavin pre-programmed into the cyborgs…”
A metallic voice broke into their conversation. It was Malady from on board the ambassadorial ship. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant… I’m sending the courier’s live video feed to you…”
Solomon saw a faint line of green light flash over the inside of his helmet as Malady attached the ship’s videos to their Gold Channel.
Incoming Broadcast! Accept?
Source: Ambassadorial Craft X31 (Courier-Class)
A faint, slightly opaque image scrolled down over half of Solomon’s vision, and in it, he could make out the tall trees and parklands of the imprimatur’s estate and gardens, and the large white stone building of the palace itself. Everything was still glittering with grotto-lights, although they shared their radiance with large, dull red glows coming from Proxa itself.
“Bombs? Missiles?” Solomon breathed.
“Look up, Lieutenant…” Malady said, and Solomon did, seeing that the dark sky above the city wasn’t quite so dark as it should be.
Proxa was a wealthy place for a colonial city, and in its hex-mapped heart, there stood a number of shining metal skyscrapers—nowhere near as tall as the mega conurbations that existed back on Earth of course, but they were tall enough to speak of civilization and wealth. Along their sides and at their top were the gentle red illumination lights that guided Proxima’s drone and aerial vehicles. These lights spilled their radiance over the glass windows and metal walls of the towers.
And over the underside of a vast shape above them.
“What is that…” Solomon’s eyes went round inside his helmet.
Solomon Cready was a command specialist. That meant that he had been groomed for his position by studying strategy, tactics, military history, group psychology, and more. A part of his training was to have a functional knowledge of major types of starcraft employed across human space.
He was no expert, perhaps, but what he saw above him was unlike anything that he had ever seen before.
It was big, for a start—a vast metal sky that was only slightly grayer than the nighttime clouds that Solomon could see in the far distance. It hung over the city of Proxa like a shield, almost the size of the city itself.
The reason why Solomon hadn’t seen it at first was mostly because he hadn’t expected to see it, but also because the thing had no under-lighting on its machine belly. No landing lights. No guidance lights. Nothing to indicate that it cared at all for how it might make planetfall or what it might disrupt when it did.
And the thing looked mechanical in a way that Solomon didn’t expect from any sort of craft. He couldn’t even see any evidence of engines. No rocket fire or thrusters. How did it stay up there? Solomon had no idea.
He could see landscapes of metal pipes and tubes, each of which must have been as big as the palace they were currently standing in. Solomon could see units like metal boxes on tracks, shunting towards and back from each other. It was like looking at the inside of a vast engine, but one that Solomon had no idea what its ultimate purpose could be.
“Whose is that!?” Solomon was shouting as he took a step back, suddenly unsure. What do I do now? How do I defeat this? I can’t defeat this.
“Lieutenant?” It was Jezzy, helping Karamov to his feet as she looked at him in worry.
“Invasion. Some kind of craft,” Solomon was saying, his mind racing for an answer. Could this be a Proxima ship?
But all thoughts of it being loyal to the city it hung over were dashed as he saw small, dark, spinning objects fall from the engine-like sky, rotating as they did so faster and faster just before they hit the ground.
No! Solomon knew what would happen, and he watched in real time as he and everyone in the palace felt the whumps of explosions out in the city. Solomon watched as expanding purple-and-white light globes gave way to the roar of a more normal, crimson explosion.
That craft was bombarding Proxima.
“Imprimatur?” Solomon demanded, casting a look over his shoulder to see from her terrified expression that she had received the news over her ear communicator just what was happening to her capital city. “It’s not one of ours!” she said. “I’ve got reports of more cyborgs heading our way. Surrounding the palace.”
“Barricades!” Solomon realized what they had to do. “Get those doors sealed!”
“The windows are smashed open, Lieutenant,” one of the guests—perhaps the one who shouted pro-independence propaganda earlier—said dryly behind him.
“In the dining hall, not here in the lobby!” Solomon snapped, ordering that the grand, white-painted double-doors that led into the dining hall were also closed and barricaded. When some of the guests protested, Solomon had little time for them.
“You can either stay out there and be killed by the cyborgs or stay in here with a team of professionally-trained Marines. Your call.”
Each and every one of the guests, rather unsurprisingly, decided to move to the smaller lobby area as Arlo directed them in barricading the double-doors at either end of the room with anything they could find. Solomon watched as they upended antique dressers, tables, chairs, and statues against the doors. Before they had completely sealed the front, Solomon ordered them to halt, leaving a crack open.
“We all know that this is not going to hold them back, right?” he turned and said to Gold Squad.
One by one, Jezzy, Arlo, Willoughby, Ratko, and Karamov nodded at him. They knew what he was saying—when the cyborgs got there, they would be the only defense that these people had. And all they had were knives and service pistols.
Service pistols that are probably not far from running out of ammunition. Solomon grimaced.
“I’m going to our rooms,” Solomon said. “I’ll grab every weapon I can carry and rendezvous back here. But if you get a chance to get out to the courier, take it.”
“Lieutenant, no!” Karamov said. “I’ll go. We need you here.”
“No one needs to go,” Solomon heard a woman’s voice say, and he was surprised to see that it was Imprimatur Rhossily, stepping away from where she had been trying
to calm her crowd of Proximian officials and elites.
“Proxima might have a reputation as a heavenly place, but that does not mean that my predecessors were fools and idiots.” Solomon and the rest watched as she walked to the center of the room, kicking at the different tiles until she found one that made a curiously echoing thonk. “I need a knife,” the imprimatur muttered, and Jezzy was at her side, stabbing at the grouting between the tiles until there was an audible click and the entire tile rose on automated pistons, revealing a metal ladder leading downwards.
“Where does it go?” Solomon asked.
“The palace has its own armory—pretty old stock now, but enough to give everyone a weapon, at least.” The imprimatur was already gesturing for the guests to approach. “The tunnels lead out to a feature in the garden. From there, we’re right next to the private launch pads. If we can find any more craft…”
“Enough to get everyone off planet?” Ambassador Ochrie asked, looking up at Solomon as she said in a smaller voice, “There isn’t enough room on the courier for all these people…”
No, there isn’t, Solomon thought dismally. Not for the thirty-odd people here, and clearly not for the tens of thousands of civilians who lived in the city of Proxa beyond.
“Off planet?” said a man’s voice. It was the same one as who had been the most vocal and acerbic just a little while earlier. Solomon saw that he was looking a large, round-bellied man with short brown and gray hair, and heavy black-rimmed glasses.
“Trade Minister Wylie, please… Now is not the time for arguments,” Rhossily said in exasperation. Clearly this man had a history of antagonism long before the Outcasts came.
“I have no intention of going off planet. I have a villa in the mountains. Fully stocked with food, water, and arms,” the man stated proudly.
“I should have known…” the imprimatur hissed under her breath.
“Those that can’t fit into your craft or don’t want to flee Proxima can make for my villa, where we’ll hole up and wait for reinforcements,” the man was saying.
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