by Richard Fox
“We need your help,” Keeper said. “We’re throwing every available ship into this mission. Pulled out of three different systems to build an armada that can win this fight.”
“But it might not be enough,” Garret said. “Intelligence is spotty. And after that Toth dreadnought smashed the Cyrgal in Ouranos, we’d rather bring too many guns than too few.”
“You want Ibarran ships to join your assault?” Stacey’s voice went an octave higher, almost like she was laughing.
“They’ll have operational control,” Keeper said. “We have—”
“You want us to be your cannon fodder,” Stacey said. “First you execute us for the crime of being alive, now you want us to die in your place?”
“The Union doesn’t shirk from a fight,” Garret said. “Fight beside us as allies. As humanity united in purpose. After this, we’ll work out a mutual defense treaty. Full diplomatic recognition. We’ll even restart our procedural program. To hell with Bastion.”
“Come back to Earth, Stacey,” Keeper said. “This division between us was wrong. Help us make it right.”
Stacey uncrossed her arms then strode around the quantum box with her hands clasped behind her back. She stopped and looked to Marc, who nodded quickly.
Stacey turned her gaze to Garret. “No.”
Garret’s head jerked back like he’d been slapped. “But…we’re giving you everything you want,” he said. “This is your fight too and we can win it together if—”
“Never.”
Stacey chopped a hand across her chest and the box shut off.
She went to Marc and poked a finger in his chest. “This war ends on my terms, you understand? I will bring this galaxy to its knees with the Ark and then I will burn every planet that refuses to obey the Ibarra Nation. No compromises. No ally that can betray us when we need them the most. Our strength will keep us safe. My Nation over all. To hell with Earth.”
Stacey stormed out of the vault, leaving Marc and Medvedev behind.
Marc motioned to the quantum box, but Medvedev shook his head. The metal man shrugged, dejected.
Chapter 4
Aignar’s gauss cannons snapped as he put two rounds down the hexagonal cavern running down the keel of the Toth dreadnought. He ducked behind the shield mounted on one arm as energy bolts burst into sparks against it. A threat warning popped up on his HUD and he swung his shoulder-mounted rotary cannon around to spray an open hatch with a torrent of bullets.
A Toth warrior crashed to the ground beside him, body shredded but not bleeding.
Aignar stomped the Toth’s head with his heel and blasted a Kesaht armor berserker in the sternum as it ripped through the deck plating a few dozen yards away.
The rest of the Iron Dragoons picked off targets as they appeared down the massive corridor. The snap of gauss cannons and whirl of spinning barrels echoed down the long tunnel.
“This is taking too long!” Aignar kicked a bulkhead next to an open hatch too small for Armor to pass through.
“This is delicate work, thank you very much!” a man shouted over the IR.
“Don’t rush him.” Cha’ril pulled one arm back and a punch spike popped out of the housing to replace her fist. She rushed forward and bashed her shield into the chest of a Kesaht berserker, lifting the metal monstrosity off its feet as long claws flayed against her back and shoulders. She slipped the shield to one side and rammed the punch spike through its chest, stopping it cold. She put a foot against the berserker and kicked it off, blasting another of the Rakka-piloted suits as it got tangled in its fallen comrade.
“And time!”
A team of Strike Marines hurried out of the open hatch, their smaller gauss rifles covering the angles as they emerged. Their weapons snapped, picking off Rakka troops that Aignar had ignored. The brutes’ weapons were little more than a nuisance to him in Armor, but the Strike Marines weren’t as resilient.
A Strike Marine a head taller than the rest barreled out into the open and stomped a heel against the deck. Struts shot out from his lower leg and braced him against the deck. The batteries of his heavy gauss cannon, a single-barreled version of what Aignar had bolted to one forearm, hummed to life.
“Kill enemy!” the Strike Marine grunted and opened fire.
SIMULATION PAUSE flared on Aignar’s HUD, and the enemy fire ceased.
The Marine heavy gunner shook his gauss cannon. When it refused to function, he shook it even harder.
“Stand down, Opal,” the Strike Marine lieutenant said. “Inspectors don’t like wandering into a live fire exercise.”
Aignar cycled fresh rounds into his weapons and checked his battery reserves. After running this simulation for the last six hours straight, he’d need to swap out his capacitors soon.
“I did it right this time.” A Marine tapped an empty satchel bag strapped to his lower back. “Promise.”
“That is what you said last time, Corporal Garrison,” Cha’ril chided. “And the time before that.”
“You want to try mixing a binary denethrite explosive while under fire and set up a tamper proof timer?” The Marine pointed at the Dotari Armor. “Those big metal digits of yours aren’t designed for delicate work. Gor’al, tell her something rude.”
“Her big metal digits could crush your head if she wanted,” a Dotari Strike Marine said. “And I’ve taught you enough of our language.”
“You have.” Garrison took a deep breath and whistled a call, then clicked his tongue twice.
“You want to mate with my hydraulics?” Cha’ril asked.
“No, I said—” Garrison raised a finger.
“That’s what you said.” Gor’al nodded furiously.
“You’re just taking her side because you’re really on Team Dotari,” Garrison snapped.
A hidden door behind them opened and two Naval officers in light fatigues stepped into the passageway.
“Key leaders.” A commander set down a tablet and pushed it away from him. It floated a few inches off the deck and emitted a holo field. Video of Iron Dragoons and Strike Marines breaching the ship’s hull played out.
Gideon, Lieutenant Hoffman, and another Strike Marine went to the projection and spoke with the two Navy officers.
“I did it right,” Garrison said, almost at a whine.
“If we have to get into the tactical insertion torpedoes again,” Aignar said, “I’m blaming you.”
“Oh thank God.” Garrison shook his head. “I thought I was the only one that hated the TITs.”
“That acronym.” Santos shook his helm. “I still don’t get why we have to set the denethrite bomb inside the Toth dred. Denethrite ain’t gentle. Just slap it on the outside and run like hell.”
“It’s physics, my big metal friend,” Garrison said. “Even if I set a shape charge to blow a lance of graphenium through the hull, too much explosive force is lost to backblast. And the hull plating on that beast is no joke. You see the video from Ouranos? Took a hit from the Cyrgal and kept on ticking. We get the bomb inside and all the boom-boom will be contained within the hull. Difference between having a firecracker go off in the palm of an open hand—singed skin—or inside a closed fist—lost fingers.”
“All these years on the same team and you finally say something intelligent,” the Marine Sniper, Duke, said.
“Opal’s wearing off on him,” said Booker, the medic.
Aignar felt a sense of kinship with the Strike Marines. Their banter reminded him of his time in the Rangers, and if he still had a mouth, he would have smiled. He looked at the tall Marine next to the lieutenant. One of his hands had four fingers; the other was mechanical like the prosthetic Aignar used outside of his armor and bore five digits.
“That really Steuben?” Aignar asked. “The Karigole from the Ember War?”
“Yup.” Duke lifted his visor and put a pinch of chewing tobacco between his lip and gums. “He ain’t all cuddly like you may have seen in that crap Last Stand at Takeni movie. Guy’s a real hard-ass
. Hates Toth. Don’t get between him and the high priority target named Bale, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I love that movie,” Cha’ril said. “Dotari networks play it on a loop every Breitenfeld day.”
“There’s a day?” Santos asked.
“On the anniversary of when Admiral Valdar saved us from the Xaros,” she said.
“What about us?” Garrison flopped his hands to his side. “We rescued that Golden Fleet of yours. Cured the phage? Not even a Valdar’s Hammer commercial break?”
“That was you?” Cha’ril asked.
Garrison pointed a thumb at the patch on his left shoulder.
“Yup. We’re banshee slayers. Lieutenant Hoffman dusted the last Xaros drone in the galaxy.”
Cha’ril bent down, bringing her helm level with Garrison’s face.
“Why couldn’t you have been a few days faster?” she asked, a growl to her voice.
“Whoa, whoa.” The breacher backed up, hands next to his head in submission. “We didn’t exactly go sightseeing in the Kidran’s Gift.”
“Got a good look at the sewers,” Duke huffed.
“Bad smell.” Opal, the doughboy, nodded.
“Team.” Gideon walked over, his foot falls echoing off the wall. “Mission objectives were achieved…marginally. Planting the explosives took five minutes longer than projected.”
Garrison was about to protest, but Duke put a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“The sim runners will give us another shot.” Lieutenant Hoffman removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. “Then it’s back to the Ardennes for final load out. It’s up to my Hammers and Gideon’s Dragoons to take the Toth dreadnought out quick. Soon as we hit the Kesaht system. We screw it up and the fleet’s going to take one hell of a beating before they can wear down the dread’s shields.”
“No pressure,” Santos said.
“Fifteen minutes for reset,” the team’s head NCO, King, said. “Then back in the T-I-T simulator.”
Garrison snickered.
Aignar pointed a big finger at the breacher.
“Yeah yeah.” The Marine shrugged. “All my fault.”
Chapter 5
Cha’ril ducked under an Eagle fighter and looked around. Crewmen shouted to each other and ran carts of tools and bullets between the void craft.
“Darling.” A hand grabbed her by the elbow, and she spun around. Man’fred Vo gave her a brief hug and led her away to a less noisy spot just around a corner from a maintenance lift.
“The next time you say ‘meet me on flight deck Bravo,’ be a little more specific.” She flicked a talon under his beak.
“Sorry, I don’t have much time before I leave,” he said.
“Leave? You’re assigned to the Ardennes. You should be at the same briefing I’m about to be late to.” She placed her hands on his forearms.
Man’fred Vo shook his head, his quills rustling.
“The Council of Firsts ordered all our Union advisors back to Dotari. My father tried to delay it, but he’s not a First. Overruled. I take a transport home in less than an hour,” he said, his eyes cast down with shame.
“The Firsts know how important this mission is. It will end the war if—”
“There’s a Kesaht fleet within range of home,” Man’fred Vo whispered. “The Union pulled the task force they had stationed to protect us to bring more firepower to this mission. The Council panicked. Pulled everything they could back to Dotari.”
“There are dozens of Union fleets that can jump to Dotari through the Crucible gates within minutes. There’s no reason to panic.” Cha’ril snapped her beak as she said the words, realizing just how foolish they were.
“The Solar System’s holding up to the Vishrakath bombardment,” her joined said, “but just barely. The Council’s putting everything they can into more macro cannons. I’ve already got my work detail to fly ore shipments from the asteroid mines.”
“You’re a fighter pilot, not an ash and trash hauler. Wait, why haven’t I received recall orders?” She scrolled through messages on her forearm screen.
“The Union insisted on keeping the integrated Armor,” Man’fred Vo said. “They’re shorthanded.”
Cha’ril hissed with annoyance.
“But this is what we promised each other,” she said. “One of us must be there for our hatchling.”
“And I hate this.” He turned away and crossed his arms. “I am your warrior. Your protector. Why else did I beat the hell out of Fal’tir but to prove that I am strong enough to care for you and our hatchling?”
“I am Armor, my love. I can take care of myself.”
“You don’t live in that metal, darling. There is more to life than war…I hope.”
“Then this is fate.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him from behind. “For now. I don’t fight with the intent to lose. My lance is the best in the Corps. Don’t worry about me.”
“But I will.” He turned around and removed a wooden box from his flight suit. He popped the lid open and showed her a leather bracelet, woven through with small gems and carved bones.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“I should’ve done this on Mount Chatarall just as dawn broke over the bay and the vinit burst into morning song. I know you love that part of the old love stories, but proposing to you in a flight bay is the best I can do on short notice. I’m not happy just to be your joined. Be my wife. Let us raise our many hatchlings together.”
She touched the bracelet with a talon and looked into his eyes.
“Your timing is awful,” she said.
“That a yes?”
“Of course it is. I don’t want anyone else, and if another female batted her eyes at you, I’d crush her in my Armor.” She slipped on the bracelet and tugged a cord to tighten it around her wrist. She turned her arm from side to side, examining it in the floodlights.
“Oh…thank the ancestors.” Man’fred Vo nuzzled the side of her neck.
A chime sounded on her forearm screen.
“Duty calls,” she said, fingers tugging at the bracelet. “Your timing…ugh. I still love you.”
“I will see you after the mission to Kesaht’ka,” he said firmly. “The humans always say ‘be safe’ to each other at times like this.”
“I am Armor, my love.” She tucked the bracelet under a cuff. “Safe isn’t what we do.”
“I don’t want to go.” He balled his fists in anger. “I want to fly for you. Keep your skies free of danger.”
“Go home, and make our skies safe for our egg,” she said. “You will do your part. I will do mine. There’s no dishonor in either.”
He touched the side of his beak to hers and gave her hand a squeeze before he left.
Cha’ril watched him go, an ache building in her heart.
****
Santos pushed the prosthetic hand and forearm against the bolt attached just below Aignar’s elbow and it attached with a snap. Aignar worked the fingers open and shut, then gave Santos a thumbs-up.
The younger Armor stepped back and opened his locker. He was still in his skin suit, hair damp and unkempt from the shower he’d just taken. Santos stepped into a jump suit and glanced over at Aignar as he put the nub of his left leg into a boot already holding his mechanical foot.
“You good?” Santos asked.
“I can take it from here,” came from the speaker in Aignar’s throat.
“Can’t believe Admiral Lettow wants us in person for the final briefing. He knows we lose synch every time we unplug.” Santos pushed an arm through a sleeve.
“Admiral’s ship. Admiral’s mission. Admiral can tell us to do whatever the hell he wants,” Aignar said. “It’s only for a couple of hours. We’ll be pegged out by go time.”
“If you say so.” Santos frowned and zipped up his uniform. “You going to the service?”
Aignar stopped. His left ring finger trembled and he put his other metal hand on top of it to silence the
noise.
“I’m not Templar,” he said.
“Neither am I. No one is anymore.” Santos shrugged. “But the squids and jar heads didn’t get that memo. Every time they spot my plugs, they ask if Armor’s going to be at pre-battle rites. We’re getting too close to the ceremony. It’s hard for me to stay noncommittal.”
“Saint Kallen’s an important part of the fleet and the Strike Marine Corps,” Aignar said. The Saint had once been key to much of the Armor Corps. The memory of dead and bullet-ridden Templar on Mars still haunted his dreams.
“But I’m not Templar. You’re not Templar. Nobody’s Templar anymore,” Santos said. “But can we still go to the ceremony in Armor? Let the crunchies do their knock for luck.” He rapped his knuckles against his locker.
“Who’s going to stop you?” Aignar asked.
“The captain.” Santos glanced at Gideon’s locker. “He…I know he doesn’t care for religion.”
“Captain Gideon doesn’t have a problem with Saint Kallen; it’s the Templar he…has history with. Why are you sitting on the fence over this? You want to be used as an icon for the ceremony or don’t you?”
“It’s not about me.” Santos looked down at his boots. “I’ve never asked the chaplain to bless my gear before a fight and I don’t think it’ll matter this go-around. But you know how some of the crunchies are about us. We’re in the fight with them and it’s like the Saint’s there. Gives ‘em hope. Bit of solace in the middle of a shit storm. You know this assault on the Kesaht home world isn’t going to be a walk in the park. This is the big show. Not everyone’s going home…even if we do everything right.”
“Then you should go to the ceremony.” Aignar snapped his other foot on and stood up. “Your head’s in the right place. The captain won’t bother you about it.”
“Oh…good.” Santos reached into his locker and removed a small gold crucifix on a chain. He put it on and tucked the cross under his shirt.
“Thought religion wasn’t for you,” Aignar said.
“Dad sent it to me. Says he wore it during the war and it got him through without a scratch.” Santos rubbed his chest, adjusting the necklace. “You…you’re good? All set for this mission?”
