“Good call. Make it happen, Top.” Gerard said, using the familiar moniker used for a First Sergeant. “No Battle-Net cross talk outside of Striker 2-9. I'll have Adona rig something so that our TCM indicates the company is traveling together along the same bearing. Please make sure that all IFF markers are active but only broadcasting to half a click. I don't want that fort to see us until we're right on top of them. Couldn't hurt to launch scout drones to make sure we don't get jumped.”
“Roger that, sir. This one's got us all spooked.”
“Top, until we can hunt down a reason this all started and put bolts into the brains of those responsible, I want us to act as if the devil himself is hunting us. And along that line of thinking, the marshal said the QRF from the Surando meet is missing.”
The first sergeant was in the middle of calling his operations NCO's forward when Gerard's last word caught his attention. “Missing? How is that possible?”
“Dunno. Have one of our drone jockeys link into the OWL and see if we can't use the tracking-control module to secure that gear. I don't like the idea we have robot and drone assets loose in the wild.”
“Loose or sliced?”
Concern took command of the captain's expression. “Remains to be seen. But maybe the AI on the orbital weapons locker can shed some light on this. And, Top?”
“Aye, sir?”
“Slick and silent.”
First Sergeant Trask slammed his lid back in place, becoming the faceless force of the 9th lancer regiment's Striker Company. “Aye, sir. No slack.”
Sixteen
Marshal Brand locked the last securing strap for the rib plates in his armor. He swayed his shoulders left and right to make sure the plates and harnesses were sitting correctly. A few exaggerated breaths steamed up the oxygen mask he was wearing. He was careful not to move much more than a foot at a time lest he risk pulling the respirator wire from the breathing unit set into the wall.
Doc slowly walked over to the armored warrior while working on a piece of tech with a combo-driver. “Managed to salvage the old mask. I used a printer on our APC to fix the cracked parts on it. Got this last bit locked in and you are good to go, sir.”
He handed the mask to his superior. Relinquishing the item, he put his hands on his hip to watch the change-over. He was like a proud parent sending his creation to school for the first time.
Brand took several deep breaths and removed the clear mask from his face, setting it down on the bed. Ravaged skin sat beside a decimated nose as minuscule robots crawled in and around the injuries. He placed the re-breather over his face, the black and silver system covering his face from the eyes down. There was a high-pitched tone when the system powered up, magnetically locking on to securing studs in his face. A small whoosh preceded the system pressurizing and feeding the marshal with specialized air that contained a miracle cocktail. This mixture ensured that his damaged throat could handle each breath while infusing the maximum oxygen into his system.
Doc wore a huge smile that teetered on parental bliss. “Now. Before I sign off on you going back out there to get your bald head shaved up again, there are some conditions.”
The marshal's eyebrows went up, signaling he couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was his turn to place his hands on his hips.
“One of these injectors twice a day. Antibiotics so you don't get an infection. You are still healing after Fedoran City. That little stunt saved a bunch of troopers but burnt you pretty good. You need to administer these to keep healthy. No excuses.” Doc started to hand his patient the device, yanking it back at the last second. “After you roll up this operation, you need to go back to Elysium and get patched up for real.”
Brand took the injectors and nodded. He set the small case on the bed and took one to inject himself now. He pulled his armored collar out a bit so he could push the auto-injector into his neck. A quick stick and he could get on with the mission and clean up the mess he had allowed to happen. The injector hovered over his neck for several seconds.
Doc looked puzzled. “You okay, Marshal? I know you're not afraid of needles.”
The marshal appeared frozen in place. Behind the new breathing mask, his jaw appeared to quiver. Doc took a quick look, noticing the marshal's pupils were not reacting to the light in the room. They were large and frozen like the man they belonged to.
“I need help over here! I think he's having a seizure!”
Lancers around the room and in the hall dropped what they were doing to rush over to the bed. They surged to within a few feet, stopping at the sound of a booming voice shaking the chamber.
“Freeze! No one touch him!” Commander Hylaeus strode into the room. This wasn't the polite insightful commander these men had seen over the last cycle. He was going to barrel through anything in his way, whether the men moved or not. He grabbed the sides of Brand's armor, steadying him before he fell over. “Tell me what you see.”
The marshal signed furiously. He spoke of dying lancers and monsters. He saw Seladriel Ferrand fighting like a Valkyrie to save her men. He saw something ancient clawing its way out of the dirt to rage against a lightning lanced sky. In the center of it all, the mongrel howling like a wolf as he tore through battalions of men. He saw the grey lion.
The marshal's eyes closed and he gripped on to his senior commander, who helped to lower him to the floor. Labored breathing echoed electronically in his new mask as the man strained to regain his grip on reality.
Doc looked to the commander. “Talk to me, sir. I know you marshals have your own way of doing things, but this man is my patient until I say otherwise. I need to know what's going on.”
“Of course, corpsman.” Hylaeus set a blanked under Brand's head, coming to his knees to bring his own breathing under control. “We both just experienced what the marshals call a divergent path in the Way. It often happens when the power of the Crucible flows in a different manner, possibly to forge a new path or outcome. Something has happened to adversely affect the power of the Crucible around us. As such, we both had visions as that power overflowed from the source. I stormed your infirmary because Marshal Brand had been subjected to high levels of drugs over the last few hours and I didn't want his visions to prompt some unconscious action.”
Jordan was checking Brand's vitals across a data pad. “Unconscious action, sir?”
“You ever see someone with high levels of battle fatigue?” Hylaeus asked.
The doc nodded. Battle Related Stress Syndrome was all too common in both the Core Worlds and the Frontier. Decades of war, military, and policing actions against a multitude of worlds had led to legions of combat veterans who had never truly been able to leave their wars on the battlefield. While most could learn to function in society normally, some could not.
The force commander closed his eyes, falling into the Crucible to radiate a sense of calm to the room. “Some of the Marshal's defenses might have been down due to the drugs he was on. Much like a stressed patient experiencing a flashback, I didn't want him to succumb to his visions and start using the Way or his plasma sword to cause harm to you fine folks.”
Doc brought two fingers to his eyebrows and twitched them forward in a mock salute. “Much appreciated, sir. Now if you don't mind, and it's safe for you to do so, can you slap that auto-injector into his neck? Marshal Bad Trip still needs to take his meds.”
“Will do, corpsman. Thank you for the help.” Force Commander Hylaeus waited until the doc was out of earshot. “You with us again?”
Brand slapped his commander on the shoulder. Sitting up, he signed.
“Yes, Marshal Brand. I saw it too. Best not to say anything to the corpsman. Futures are never set until they are.”
Marshal Brand stood beside Commander Hylaeus outside the entrance to the fort. A company of ARC-Badgers bore down on the stone structure while they waited. As the vehicles closed to within one hundred meters, the convoy stopped. Small orb-like drones flew in and around the columns, disappearing into the du
st clouds they created, only to reappear again.
The dust began to settle on the grasses, parting for a single combat skiff breaking the formation. It roared through the dust cloud, leaving tornado trails behind it. The grasses parted, reminding Brand of the crowds on Elysium during the Great Gallop. Elysian horses would storm through the streets of Lorinae as penitents, looking to join the Faith Revere, would stand in their way. Over-curious bystanders were always the first to run. Only a few of the penitents would be brave enough to stand their ground with the horses thundering past them. Of those that remained, a handful would have enough faith in their connection to the Crucible to wave off the horses by sheer will. Most were struck.
Anyone who had the nerve to stand their ground against the titanic steeds were usually accepted into the order as a novice. The dead were always given honorable mention.
“All Devil Hunter Elements, this is Brand. Cover down on all incoming victors but fire only on my order. Break.” The marshal issued the orders to his men on the roof and to those scattered about the steppe in improvised fighting positions. “Delta Hotel 2-9, do you have a read on IFF markers?”
Tom's holographic face rose above Brand's gauntlet. He was pointing to something off screen while working multiple feeds from his end. “Roger that, Marshal. IFF marker indicates Striker 2-9 codes match the ones we sent.”
Marshal Brand cut Tom's feed, switching over to his lancers. “All Devil Hunter elements, allow incoming victors with 2-9 IFF Codes into our perimeter. Lock it down once they're inside.”
The approaching vehicle, an XLR Javelin Combat Skiff, was easily recognized by the marshals. It was the troublesome vehicle that carried off the fugitives the Devil Hunters had been dispatched to capture. It was scored by blaster and slugger rounds, giving it all the personality of a vehicle in a demolition derby. The back end swung in a wide arc several meters from the waiting marshals. Its repulsors flared to bring it to a complete stop.
The silvery moonlight highlighted the dust kicked up by the engines. Three people hopped off of the skiff. They walked casually toward the front of the building.
Two women and a man approached. The officer removed his helmet and came to a sharp salute. “May the stars light your way.”
Commander Hylaeus nodded. He approached the trooper with an outstretched arm. “Good to see you again, Captain Gerard. I'm grateful that you're here.”
Gerard returned his greeting, the smile on his face accented by shadows and moonlight. “I believe you were looking for them.” He gestured to one of the two women.
Marshal Truveau walked forward and saluted the field commander. She turned to Brand. “Didn't appreciate you allowing your boys to shred the ship I was sitting on with that seven-five-oh.”
Brand was about to fire back with a temper tantrum of epic proportions when the commander stepped between the two. “Chief Inspector Castillo called to explain everything he has learned thus far. That included you using the skiff to recover the bodies of our fallen.”
While Hylaeus' calm demeanor seemed to smooth Truveau's anger at being shot at, Brand was not about to be contained. “You were helping him get by the perimeter defenses meant to keep him in! We all saw him grab you. The issue isn't that you were on the skiff. It was that you seemed awfully chummy with him once you were. What did he say to you to flip your loyalties?”
As Marshal Truveau was about to step in to forcefully rearrange Brand's disposition, the commander stepped in again. “Enough! Both of you.”
Both marshals stepped back, looking in opposite directions as if the sight of either one might ignite an old-school sibling fist fight. The two had worked together enough to know how to push the other's buttons. While not related, they knew how to fight like they were.
Hylaeus regarded the Striker Company Commander. “Captain Gerard, I want you to park your vehicles and have the lance sergeants get with First Sergeant Trask. Have them work out an integration roster for our two elements.”
The captain nodded and proceeded to descend into the Battle-net after donning his helmet. He assumed the role of puppet-master, orchestrating his men according to the commander's will.
“Both of you come with me.” Hylaeus ordered. The three marshals walked out to the front of the fort near some of the vehicles. Hylaeus led them to the wadi, where several of the RIM-VIs had met their end. The only operational mech left, Echo-44-Uniform, was floating nearby, performing a lazy routed patrol of the area.
Commander Hylaeus turned to Brand. “The reason you keep coming up for commands where you lead packs of Devil Hunters is because you are not taking the time to investigate when something is off.” Leaving no time for Brand to respond, he addressed Truveau. “You get too emotionally invested. A little objectivity wouldn't hurt. Now I have pieces of a larger puzzle, but there are still too many gaps. What happened in those first moments on the skiff?”
Truveau was quick to respond to her obviously perturbed superior. “Lasher had some theories about his current condition. He made a lot of sense before he asked me to take the skiff and recover our fallen. He gave me their location. I figured I could get him away from the fort to either talk him down or at least deal with him away from the platoon. LaGarron and Tran were already hurt. We didn't need anyone else getting hurt by a Way-adept who was also a skilled gladiator.”
Brand nodded. “That's a sound tactical decision. After the ion missile failure, we were trying to rip down the skiff's defenses so we could knock out one or more of the repulsors. Then I could have caught you both in the Way and floated you to the bottom of the valley. You would have been naturally pinned down and it would have been an easy recovery.”
Truveau nodded. “Good plan.”
Hylaeus harrumphed, indicating he was playing the role of referee father figure. “Now that we are all friends again, we need to get to the bottom of this.” The three stepped back and looked off into the distance. Striker Company was parking their vehicles, assigning work and sleep rosters to prep the company to hunt down their fugitives. The whole affair was loud, but ultimately organized.
“Mara, get with Tom in the command center. See if anything you've learned about our fugitives might lead to tracking them. Make sure to take the 'sister' with you, but not before I've had a word.” Hylaeus addressed Brand, who had his arms folded and was looking off into the steppe. “Get with Captain Gerard. Coordinate two elements, Devil and Striker. The longer Lasher is allowed to remain free, the more damage he can do. He has other pieces of the puzzle we need in order to move forward and stop the shadow threatening us all.”
Both Truveau and Brand turned to their commander, regarding him quizzically. He was quick to answer their inquisitive looks. “Both of you keep that last bit quiet for the time being. Someone orchestrated the little dust-up with the Hidek and Surando. They didn't expect Lasher to be as big a threat as he has become. His presence has also put other events into motion we are not ready for. I'll explain more on that later. Mara, tell the sister to come over, please.”
Sister Leeuwen walked to the commander, stopping just short of the three. She introduced herself by a curt bow as the two marshals walked off to their assignments. “At your command, sir.”
“Sister, I've spoken to Brother Castillo and we've come to an agreement. We've decided to share any and all information and work the problem we have from multiple points. I would like you to accompany Marshal Truveau to the command center and see if you can help to locate my stolen ship.”
“I am at your disposal, Commander.”
“Good. Also, while you're here, there's another matter that concerns us both I would like your help with.”
Seventeen
D'Marco hated this part.
He had been a soldier most of his life. When he was a greenie, he had been part of the newly formed mercenary company, Raven Star. It did nothing to fill his sense of duty to cause. He just went where they told him and pulled the trigger when it was time. It was during a raid on a drug cartel in the Oute
r Boundary that he came in contact with the lancers. Their sense of purpose enthralled him. When his contract ended, he flew to Elysium and pledged himself to the Regiment.
He was walking away from the meeting with First Sergeant Trask and Lance Sergeant Locke. He had the mission plans for mixing his Devil Hunters in with Striker Company, but there were things to do before making that happen. He had to talk to two of his squad leaders first. It had been a hard day. There were losses that needed to be acknowledged and leaders, junior to him, that needed shoring up.
A waving arm caught his attention. Just off to his two o'clock was a trooper who was backing up one of the ARC-Badgers. All the vehicles in motion were being ground-guided into uniform rows by a member of their crew. Dress-right-dress-and-tight. The life of a lancer was discipline. This was just another example of it.
The dust clouds the drive engines were spitting out while cycling up and down could have choked a horse. Bits of grass and pebbles whipped in and out of his view as he passed the line of vehicles. He was glad to still be wearing his helmet. He could see everyone clearly through the night vision.
He spotted Sergeant Bolaji speaking with another sergeant from Striker Company. He made a direct path to the man, dodging several troopers on the move. The lancers were quick to adjust their path as their HUD showed them who and what was headed their way. It was an unlucky private who Murphy-walked into a lance sergeant on a mission.
Both sergeants turned to face their superior when he was a few feet away. They locked themselves into a stern stance, one hand behind them and their other covering the weapon hanging from their armor. The whine of engines spinning made speech difficult in this area, so D'Marco resorted to internal coms. The other sergeant moved off on his own purpose while Bolaji and his boss made their way back toward one side of the fort.
The two men removed their lids, staring back at the maelstrom of dust and discipline going on before them.
The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1) Page 16