Ferrum Corde

by Richard Fox

  “You betrayed us all!” Gideon struggled and Roland pressed the punch spike closer against the womb. Gideon stopped, realizing his former lance mate could kill him in a split second.

  “I am horrible,” Stacey said. “I am everything you think I am…but I don’t hate you, Gideon. I want to live. The battle that’s coming is far worse than you can imagine. I want you to live because Earth will need you. Don’t choose to die now. Please.”

  “Gideon,” Roland managed through damaged speakers, “I…I’m redlining. Stop this.”

  Gideon looked at Roland, then to Stacey. He pulled his weapon free from Roland’s grasp but kept it poised high and ready to strike.

  “Never!”

  Gideon drove the tip at Stacey’s heart.

  Roland twisted and punched his spike through Gideon’s chest. He felt the inner wall give and the weapon strike home against the back of the other man’s pod. Gideon’s armor locked up and fell to its side, Roland’s punch spike still embedded inside. Blood dribbled out of the womb and down Gideon’s breastplate.

  “Gideon?” Roland asked as his vision swam. He yanked his spike out and amniosis—thick with blood—poured down Gideon’s Armor. Roland collapsed to his knees as he lost feeling throughout his body. Through one eye, he could see light shining off the blood covering his weapon and a pool spreading across the deck.

  “Didn’t…didn’t want this, sir. If we could still be Iron Dragoons together…forgive…me.”

  His vision went red and his mind cut out.

  Chapter 35

  Santos pushed through a group of Strike Marines.

  “Move. Move!” He shouldered Lieutenant Hoffman aside and looked across the Breitenfeld’s flight deck. An Ibarran shuttle took off and passed through the force field.

  There, halfway across the deck, a pair of Armor lay entwined.

  Santos and Cha’ril ran to Gideon, their feet splashing through a puddle of amniosis run through with blood.

  Roland’s black armor was cracked open, the womb gone. The Black Knight’s fist spike still punctured Gideon’s chest.

  “No no no!” Santos tugged at the spike arm then put his hands against the spike to stop the dribble of fluid.

  “Stop…Santos.” Cha’ril put her hands atop Gideon’s arm. “It’s no use. One of them was always going to die.”

  “We should’ve been here.” Santos sank to his knees. “We could’ve stopped him or—”

  “You know why,” Aignar said as he limped over, Hoffman at one elbow keeping him upright. “You know why we weren’t here. Don’t you?”

  “To protect us,” Cha’ril said. “He went after…he tried to kill Ibarra, and we would’ve helped him. No question.”

  “And if he succeeded with us at his side, then the Ibarrans would’ve blamed all of Earth.” Aignar raised the tip of his cane to the Ark in orbit over Ceres. “Alone…it was just him. Ah, Gideon. You stubborn…stubborn…”

  Aignar’s metal hand creaked open and he touched Gideon’s helm.

  “You didn’t have to do it. Now look at you.”

  There was a whack of metal against the deck.

  Santos looked over his shoulder at one of Stacey’s honor guards, halberd in hand.

  “Transports are coming,” he said. “The Lady, in her grace, wants you to give honors to your dead. Take him with you.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Santos made for the guard, but an iron grip took him by the elbow. Aignar kept a painful hold on the younger Armor.

  “Think, kid,” he said. “Think about every Union soldier on this ship.”

  Santos shrugged his arm free, scowling at the guard.

  “We’ve got Strike Marines,” he said. “You know this ship, don’t you, Hoffman?”

  “Try it.” The guard’s leather gloves creaked as he gripped his weapon. “Please.”

  “Breitenfeld means a lot to people,” Hoffman said. “But it’s a hull. A thing. Can’t replace people. Once they’re gone…gone for good.”

  “I’m going to remember this.” Santos pointed at the guard’s face.

  “And you best hope the Lady…doesn’t.” He backed up, not turning his back until he’d put distance between him and Santos.

  Santos took an involuntary deep breath and spun back to Gideon. He wiped a sleeve across his eyes, chest heaving as he fought back tears.

  “It’s okay, kid.” Aignar bumped his arm against Santos’s, attempting real contact, not the cold touch of his prosthetics. “Let it out.”

  Santos went to his knees and bent his head against Gideon’s foot. He covered his head with his arms and wept.

  Chapter 36

  There was pain—pain and a world of white light, like he was trapped in a Crucible portal and every nerve ending tingled with agony. Roland felt the sensation at a base level as a dark, massive shape loomed over him. A childhood memory of suffering through a fever subsumed him…and he questioned if he was even alive as he made out long strands of hair around a face.

  “Mom?” he asked, his voice little more than a rasp.

  “That is unlikely.”

  Roland bent his fingers, but his joints felt rubbery. “I hurt too much to be dead…but I redlined.” He scrunched his face, but broken glass beneath his skin made him want to go back into the white light.

  “You redlined. Hard,” the voice said. A hypo spray touched his neck and a cool wave passed through his body, taking the edge off the pain.

  Roland blinked hard and realized he was talking to the giant Aeon, Trinia.

  “Your mother had green skin?” Trinia asked.

  “Not…in the mood,” he said as he shifted against his hospital bed and pain shot down his legs.

  “Locomotion is not recommended,” she said. “There is very little clinical data regarding the aftereffects of a neural overload. Take your hand out of the fire, yes? It won’t hurt so much.”

  “I redlined.” Roland smacked dry lips. “How am I here? No one comes back from that.”

  “Incorrect. You are the second. An armor by the name of Elias achieved partial recovery following the Tagomi procedure. Your Saint Kallen was involved in that event.”

  “It wasn’t Saint Kallen that brought me out…was it?” The nozzle of a water bottle worked between his lips and he took a long sip.

  “No. It was me,” Trinia said. “I designed your neural bridge. I was on hand to stop the complete degradation that normally follows a redline. Remember?”

  “You were there,” Roland said, turning his head away from the nozzle. “You…the Lady?”

  “Safe. We’re back on Navarre.”

  Roland felt a weight grow in his chest. “Gideon?”

  “Dead…and we are less without him.” Trinia frowned.

  “I didn’t want—”

  “I understand humans will not speak ill of the dead, but I am Aeon.” She stood, dwarfing his hospital bed, and went to a holo bank of diagnostic machines to swipe through overlays showing Roland’s biometrics. “Gideon attacked during my handover—a time of truce, one you honored…until he didn’t. Our cultures may have dissimilarities…but our concept of honor overlaps in a number of places. What Gideon did was wrong. I misjudged him. Misjudged Stacey. I’m old, yet I’ve failed to achieve perfect wisdom.”

  “You’re on Navarre…not Earth.”

  “Correct. You required my close and personal administration to recover. Now that you’re awake and alive…I’ve decided to remain with the Nation,” she said. “You’re not the only miracle I’m working. Plus, the Ibarrans are more…open to some projects I have in mind. I have a purpose here. On Earth, I would be put in a gilded cell to be gawked at.”

  “Welcome,” Roland said, lifting a hand and dropping it when shivering set in.

  A text message flashed within the holo screens.

  “Speaking of miracles…I must go,” Trinia said. “Just relax. You have a visitor coming.” She came and leaned over him, looking like a mother worried for a sick toddler. She put a palm to his foreh
ead then gave his cheek a quick pat.

  “Don’t think I’m going anywhere,” Roland groaned. He looked to one side where IV lines connected to several ports on his left arm. He sank against his cushions and marveled at the tiny stabs of pain working up and down his body.

  He didn’t hear Trinia leave. He zoned out until a new shadow appeared.

  “Roland?” Makarov pushed strands of her black hair behind an ear.

  “Oh, hi,” he managed. “I’m a little…fuzzy.”

  Placing her hands on either side of his face, she gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. He mumbled non-words and tried to raise a hand.

  “Don’t try and be clever.” She pushed his hand down and held on to it. “You’ll just wreck the moment.”

  “That works,” he said, taking a deep breath as strength returned to his limbs. “So…what happened? How long have I been out?”

  “Eight days,” she said. “Lady Ibarra destroyed New Bastion—though she let the diplomats escape—and all our ships are back home. We have a nonaggression pact with Earth. The rest of the galaxy knows well enough to leave us alone. No sign of the Kesaht. The war is over.”

  “Huh…we won. The Ark?”

  “In orbit over Navarre,” Makarov said, her face darkening. “It’s…unsettling. We’re still coming to terms with just what it can do.”

  “Lady Ibarra’s safe. I’m kind of glad you’re not in charge. Would be awkward for just some armor soldier to be around…the Lady,” he said.

  “Don’t jinx it.” She put a finger to his lips. “And you’ll never be—wait. You’re not just any soldier, Roland. You’re the Black Knight. My knight. You saved her. You went past the redline to do it. The Nation knows you’re a hero, no matter what happens next.”

  Roland squinted at her. “There’s…what aren’t you telling me?”

  Makarov put a hand over her mouth and a tear fell.

  Roland shifted up on his elbows, confusion writ across his face. “What? Is Lady Ibarra okay? Are you—what’s wrong?”

  Makarov hugged him and moved a hand over the back of his head. Her touch was almost electrifying, but he winced as her fingers passed over raw flesh. Which was wrong.

  He touched the base of his skull.

  His plugs were gone.

  “No…no, no, no!” Roland felt around, searching for the neural link that made him Armor. “What happened? This can’t be right. Bring Trinia back here. Now!”

  “You redlined,” Makarov said, gripping him by the shoulders. “The damage was too much. The Aeon could bring you back, repair what she could, but if you ever donned your armor again…you’d be dead. No way for you to survive.”

  “But…but Elias! Saint Kallen brought him back and he—”

  “Was trapped in his armor for the rest of his life,” Makarov said slowly. “The Aeon…is no Saint Kallen. Trinia did the best she could.”

  Roland leaned forward, face buried in his arms. “I am Armor. I must be Armor…no…now I’m nothing.” He recoiled when Makarov tried to take his hand.

  “Your plugs did not make you who you are,” she said. “Roland Shaw is not his suit.”

  “How would you know?” He pressed his fingertips into the scar tissue where his plugs had been.

  “Because I don’t care if you walk in metal…I only care that you can be with me,” Makarov said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Where’s your iron, Roland?”

  Roland fought back a sob as his anger grew, replacing the fear and shock from the loss of his plugs. Of his identity. He fought the urge to lash out and tightened his arms around his head.

  Then a still, small voice whispered to his mind.

  Fight.

  Roland lifted his face up to Makarov’s. He wiped the back of a hand across his eyes and nodded.

  “There’s no…nothing left of the plugs in me?” he asked.

  “All gone. I’m sorry, Roland.”

  “Huh…then where did that…ugh, what the hell do I do now?” he asked.

  “You’ve got a stint of physical therapy ahead of you. After that, Marshal Davoust has already promised to take you under his wing. You’ll make a fine commander, or that bald bastard will break you in the process.”

  “Not the Navy?”

  “I love you, Roland, but you don’t have the talent to drive a ship.”

  “Wait. You what?”

  Makarov pursed her lips. “Oops.”

  Roland managed a smile. “When I was in the Geist cage, that menagerie, trying to pull our Lady out, I had the chance to lie to her…pretend I was Hale, her long-lost…all I had to do was lie and say that I loved her, but I couldn’t do it. When I tried, she became…you. It was weird in there.”

  “Is this your way of saying—”

  “I love you too. I’m just not the man I was…sorry.” He touched the scars on the back of his head.

  “I never loved the armor. I love the man inside,” she said and gave him a better kiss on the lips.

  “It’s going to take me awhile to catch up to your rank,” he said, sinking back against his pillows.

  “Worry about getting back on your feet.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “As much as I want to stay and feed you Jell-O, I’m still a fleet admiral. I’ve been off the grid for almost half an hour. I wouldn’t be surprised if everything’s on fire.”

  “I get it,” he said as a brush of vertigo hit him. “See you soon.”

  “Tomorrow. That’s when the procedure will be ready.”

  “Procedure?”

  “Lady Ibarra is taking a risk—one I’ve tried to talk her out of. Get some rest, my Black Knight. She wants you there when it happens.” Makarov raised his hand and kissed his knuckle, then left.

  Roland stared up at the ceiling. He lifted a hand, remembering the feeling of his suit obeying his mind, a sensation he’d never feel again. His hand fell against his chest and tapped his dog tags.

  He fished out the metal-beaded necklace and ran his thumb and forefinger over two of the oval tags, both stamped with his parents’ names and serial numbers.

  “I’m not done…not done making you proud of me.”

  Chapter 37

  Roland tugged at the collar of his dress uniform. The Ibarran Armor Corps of a white tunic with the Templar cross and black tunic, pants and boots always made him feel like he was meant to dress up as a medieval knight outside of his armor. The connection wasn’t lost on him, though he would never don his suit again, and wearing the uniform grated at his mind, calling him out as a fraud.

  He touched the raw flesh at the base of his skull and felt small, useless.

  His elevator slowed to a stop and his knees buckled. Roland braced himself against the walls as the nerves down his arms and legs tingled.

  “Maybe I should’ve asked to stay in my Armor,” he said to no one. “Least then I could manage something like gentle deceleration.”

  The doors opened to a pair of Lady Ibarra’s Honor Guard. The two hulking soldiers in ornate armor beat a fist to their hearts in salute when Roland looked up.

  Roland returned the courtesy as best he could, although his hand felt like rubber when it brushed against his tabard.

  “They’re about to begin,” a guard said as he swung to one side and opened a path for Roland.

  Roland nodded quickly and hurried past them. He felt a burning where his plugs used to be, and wondered if the guards were staring at him like he was some sort of a cripple.

  Walking into a high-domed laboratory, he saw the ever-present Navarre rain lashing at the glass ceiling. Senior Ibarran military formed an outer circle around a workstation Roland couldn’t entirely make out. Trinia, the exceedingly tall Aeon, busied herself in the middle of the room, not paying any attention to the surrounding Ibarrans.

  Roland picked out Davoust’s bald head and the back of Makarov’s void-black hair to the right. A swath of white tunics were to his left. He hesitated for a moment, not sure which side he belonged to. His only communication with Marshal Dav
oust was a reading list from the older man, a long reading list of military history classics.

  Roland bit his lip and went to the group of Templars.

  General Hurson, the Corps commander, was the first to greet him at the back of the circle, clasping forearms with Roland and giving his shoulder a gentle shake.

  “Good to see you up and about, son,” Hurson said. “Trinia likes to claim all the credit for bringing you back from the redline, but we know the truth.” The general brushed the back of his fingers against the Templar cross emblazoned on his tunic.

  “Saint Kallen is ever with us,” Roland said as a knot formed in his throat.

  “More than ever,” Martel said from over Hurson’s shoulder. “We received her reliquary before we left Earth. A proper tomb is being built now. You should be well enough to participate in the consecration ceremony by then, yes?”

  Roland looked to one side as Nicodemus passed, and a touch of envy shot through his heart as he saw the man’s skull plugs.

  “I imagine it will be an…Armor ceremony,” Roland said.

  Martel’s face darkened. “It…will be. Yes.”

  “You’re a test case, Roland,” Hurson said. “Once we earn our spurs, the only way anyone’s ever left of the Corps is feet first. You are Armor. Let no one ever doubt that.”

  “But I’ll never fight with my lance again.” Roland gripped an imaginary stylus and mimed writing. “Pencils to push. Beans to count.”

  “The marshal promised me you will rise to the limits of your capability and talent,” Martel said. “You won’t disappoint us.”

  “By my…Armor and my honor.” Roland felt an invisible weight press against his shoulders and his legs went rubbery. “Excuse me, sir.”

  He took an uneasy step, when someone grabbed him by the elbow and helped prop him up.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Morrigan said in his ear, “I’d say you’d had one nip too many.”

  “Trinia has me on so many pills, I’m surprised I didn’t float in here.” Roland smirked.

  “Fair is fair. I was sent for you. They’ve got a spot up front for you,” she said.