by Richard Fox
Roland locked eyes with the intelligence officer, then turned to the hood on the bench beside him.
“Thank you.” Kutcher swept up the hood and shoved it into his pocket. “You made all this so much easier.”
“The Ibarras don’t care about Earth,” Roland said. “They want to be left alone.”
“Is this an act or are you really that ignorant?” Kutcher glanced at his forearm screen and buckled himself into the seat next to Roland. “Ibarran sleeper agents sparked the war between the Union and the Kesaht. I was there. Stacey Ibarra and her abomination sent a shockwave through our military, but we’ve got that damage under control. As you’re about to find out.”
The Mule’s vector engines rotated and flared as the transport descended. It landed roughly, then a shadow passed over the Martian landscape just beyond the portholes.
“Now you get the hood,” Kutcher said.
“There’s no one with me.” Roland sat up and accepted the cowl. “And I am loyal to the Templar. To Earth.”
“That’s exactly what a spy would say,” Kutcher said. “Dome’s almost pressurized. Ready to check in to the last place you’ll ever call home?”
Chapter 7
The restraints fell off Roland’s wrists and ankles. His eyes stung as light hit his face and his hood was removed. He rubbed his wrists and found himself in a coffin-like enclosure, bright lights humming.
“Prisoner,” a voice said through speakers, “turn around and step out of the enclosure.”
Roland spun in place and faced a crowd of Terran Union soldiers, sailors, and Marines sitting at long tables with trays of food in front of them.
“Step. Out.”
Roland stepped out of the box and crossbars snapped across the opening as soon as he was clear. The box descended into the floor with a hydraulic hiss.
A dome spread out overhead, and Roland saw pink Martian skies and gossamer clouds above. Bare rock walls of an ancient crater formed the perimeter. Three structures were built into the walls, manned by guards wearing power armor. Small drones flitted through the air while a few larger ones hovered over the tables well out of reach. Prefabricated housing units surrounded the dining area.
“So much for my theory.” A red-haired young woman with a Strike Marine emblem on her utilities walked over to him. “Unless armor found some way to stick the armor plugs in proccies.”
Roland touched the neural interface at the base of his skull and realized that all the servicemen and women who saw his arrival got an eyeful of his cybernetics.
“Still true born,” Roland said. “Far as I know.”
“Sir, I’m Lance Corporal Adams, Terran Strike Marines.” She shook his hand.
“Roland. Armor. This is my first prison…it’s not what I expected.”
“They told you it was a prison? At least they’re honest with you.” She pointed to an empty spot at a distant table. “Chow? The commander will want to see you soon. A runner’s going for him now.”
“Fair enough.” Roland followed Adams down the rows of tables. The other prisoners were a motley assortment of various ranks from across the Terran Union military. Roland glanced at the Military Occupation Specialty badges on their utilities: logisticians, computer specialists, flight crew, medics. He couldn’t pick out any pattern to clue him in on why they were there with him. Perhaps a crew of a single ship…but there were unit badges from across several fleets.
A junior sailor hurried over to a food combiner in the center of the dining area and pulled a tray from a drawer. He set it down at the empty spot and clicked his heels together as Roland sat down. Prisoners crowded around the table, elbowing each other for a better look at the armor soldier.
“Anything else, sir?” the sailor asked. “The bug juice is OK most days.”
“Water?” Roland stuck a fork in a pile of macaroni and cheese, then set his utensil down. “I appreciate the attention…but what are you all doing here? You don’t strike me as traitors.”
Adams snickered. The woman carried herself stiffly, with the same sort of faraway look Roland had seen on warriors who’d been in too many battles over too many years.
“All the same story,” she said, sitting across from him. “Out-of-the-blue transfer orders to Mars. Doesn’t matter where we were or the assignment. I was in a Strike Marine team that just came off a mission to rescue a bunch of Dotari in deep space, then we were hunting down Ibarran agents on clandestine status when some pogue takes me off the line. Lieutenant Hoffman and Gunney King were pissed, but it didn’t matter. I got a one-way ticket to Mars and had all my kit confiscated soon as I got here.”
“I was on the Ulundi,” the sailor said as he set three different cups of water on Roland’s tray. Roland glanced at his name tape: Boucher. “Finished our shakedown cruise, just got watch certified and bam. Get on the transport shuttle. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“The guards didn’t say why you’re all here?” Roland asked.
“Guards don’t talk to us. At all,” Adams said. “We get called out at random for holo conferences with intel types. They keep throwing word salad at us, trying to gauge some kind of reaction. It’s all weird and frustrating.”
“If we don’t go to the sessions, they cut back on chow,” Boucher said. “Play their games or its bread and water. Not like we have much else to look forward to in here. No net access. No slates to pass the time.”
“Card games and one channel in our boxes.” Adams pointed at the prefab structures, which looked like they could sleep four individuals uncomfortably. “No news either.”
“This must be him.” A big hand patted Roland’s shoulder and a commander pushed Roland down as the armor tried to rise to greet the officer. “Strickland. Formerly of the Ardennes. I’m the ranking officer in here.”
The commander looked at Roland’s name tape and his eyebrows shot up.
“I know that name.” Strickland wagged a finger at him. “You were listed as a POW after the fight on Oricon. How’d you get free of the Ibarras?”
“They let me fight to save one of their colonies…linked up with Terran Armor there. You haven’t heard of me otherwise?” He rolled his eyes. “The Black Knight?”
“Nope,” Strickland said. “We don’t get any news in here. We’re in a strange spot. We’ve been ‘assigned’ to this duty station and put under commo blackout. So we’re about to pick your brain to find out everything that’s happened out there. Don’t suppose they let slip why they brought you in now? Haven’t had a new arrival for months.”
“Treason.” Roland cast his gaze down. “Had a brief stop in front of a judge before I got here. They asked me to confirm my identity…then asked if I was the armor they had on video fighting in Ibarra color. That was all the judge needed for an indictment.”
“Why were you fighting for the Ibarras?” Adams asked as she sat up, pushing away from the table…and Roland.
“Templar fight for humanity. Who we fight beside is of less concern.”
“And they stuck you down here?” Strickland rubbed his chin.
“There were all those other irregular flights the past few days.” Adams pointed up at the dome. “It goes opaque when a bird lands or departs. Not sure if it’s to keep us from seeing out or the pilots from seeing in.”
“There’s a landing every day at 9:00 a.m. standard,” Strickland said. “Brings in supplies and guards. Last few days, the activity level’s been high. Snooper drone activity over the other cell block for the first time.” He pointed to the north end of the crater.
“Could be the Ibarra survivors from the Narvik.” Roland looked along the tall, razor-wire-topped solid-metal fence separating the cell blocks and followed it to the east, where the air was absent of drones. “Is that another cell block? Anyone over there?”
“Not that we can tell,” Strickland said. “Three cell blocks. One guard shack for each. Only time we’ve heard from them is when they caught us tossing messages over the wall for the
new arrivals.”
“‘Do that again and you’ll be punished,’” Boucher said. “If there are Ibarrans over there, they haven’t responded to our notes. Doubt they even found them. The drones watch everything.”
Roland looked up and saw optics on the bottom of a drone flash in the light. One camera lens was pointed right at him.
“This is…a little odd for me,” Roland said. “I was a prisoner of the Ibarrans. I knew what my duties were then. Now…”
“None of us are traitors,” Strickland said, waving a hand over the crowd. “I was right next to Admiral Lettow while he was arguing with the Ibarran admiral on Oricon. I saw firsthand how they turned our own people against us…somehow. Damn mess with the Kesaht. Then Kutcher got all squirrelly—”
“That’s the guy that arrested me,” Roland said.
“All right.” Strickland pulled a green hardback notebook from a pocket and clicked open a pen. “Let’s start connecting dots…”
****
President Garrett walked down a narrow corridor beneath Camelback Mountain as the hum of computers and machinery worked through shut doors. Not many frequented this part of the Union’s military headquarters, which was the point.
Staff flocked behind the president as he went to an unmarked door that opened for him. A pair of plainclothes protection officers tried to follow him, but he waved them off. Inside was a poorly lit room and a wall of glass between Garret and an empty section.
An intelligence officer and a mousy scientist stood next to a box on a pedestal.
“She’s waiting for you,” the scientist said.
“Recording suite ready?” Garret took off his jacket and tossed it to the scientist.
“Yes, Mr. President,” the spy said.
“Dial her in.” The glass slid open and Garret went into the empty section and put his hands on his hips.
Stacey Ibarra appeared, her silver body sitting on a simple stool. She remained statuesque, then her face turned suddenly toward Garret, like a puppeteer had moved her strings.
“President,” Stacey said, lowering her chin slightly.
“Where’s Marc Ibarra? What have you done with him?” Garret asked.
“I tolerated Grandfather keeping a back channel with you, but using our quantum-linked hotline to share information that could harm the Nation…no. He’s in a cell and kept entertained. I even let him have a friend for a bit.” Stacey cocked her head to one side and Garret felt she would have smiled if her shell could have managed the expression.
“You want to keep up with pleasantries or get down to brass tacks?”
“We lead every human soul in this galaxy,” Stacey said. “Let’s assume our time is valuable.”
“New Bastion is out of control,” Garret said. “You and your procedurals upset what little balance we had with the other factions. They smell blood—an excuse to break from the Hale Treaty—and Earth and our colonies will suffer first.”
“Excuses don’t forgive desire, Mr. President. The Dotari and the Ruhaald haven’t broken with Earth. The Vishrakath will strike once they’re strong enough. This was always their plan, and the treaty gave them the time to build their capability. Ambassador Wexil had the original Bastion behind him…most of the races are still with him, even after his coup toward the end of the war. You think the Kesaht coming onto the scene just as the Vishrakath decided they couldn’t tolerate the Ibarra Nation was a coincidence?”
“You have proof there’s a connection?”
“I have a working theory. Nothing that would sway New Bastion.”
“Then your theories don’t change my situation—or yours.” Garret ran a hand through his hair. “Your ‘nation’…can’t go on.”
“I want my people back,” Stacey said. “The Narvik survivors.”
“Don’t you care about your sleeper agents? We got all of them. Took a while to dig through the code you put into the crèches, but we found it.”
Stacey’s head bobbled slightly.
“I can’t let the Narvik go,” Garret said. “I signed the treaty. You know what that means.”
Stacey held up her arms, then opened them to her sides. “Your hands aren’t tied. Don’t hide behind the Omega Provision.”
“It’s war with the galaxy or we terminate a few dozen proccies.” Garret leveled a finger at Stacey. “You can replace them in days—don’t act like they’re that precious. Your grandfather murdered hundreds when he blew up tainted proccies on the Hiawatha. This has happened before.”
“I know exactly what those poor souls were capable of.” Stacey stood and poked a finger against her chest with a tink of metal. “It was wrong then. It’s wrong now. They are human beings, not constructs. They are my children and I will have them back.”
“And then? I might as well rip up the treaty in front of everyone on New Bastion if I do that. You ready to fight the rest of the galaxy to protect Earth from that decision?”
“The Ibarra Nation is marked for death with or without Earth at our side. We’re stronger together. If you keep trying not to slip on the ice, you’ll fall through it.”
Garret crossed his arms. “There may be a third path,” he said. “The Ibarra Nation at New Bastion. You agree to the Hale Treaty. Cease procedural production. We can argue that you were a political entity before the treaty was signed and you’re not bound to—”
“Don’t insult me with parliamentary tricks,” she said. “You didn’t try to tinker with the Xaros during the Ember War. The Vishrakath and the Kesaht have the same goal—destroying us. They’re just a bit wordier and more patient about it.”
“Earth isn’t ready for a fight on this scale,” Garret said, tossing his arms up. “We don’t even know the Kesaht’s full strength and we’re struggling to hold what we’ve got. We follow the treaty for a few dozen—”
“You mean murder Ibarran citizens.”
“And I’ll have the breathing room to deal with the Kesaht, who are the immediate threat. We’ll run interference for you on New Bastion. Your navy’s done a few raids for technology. You’re not assaulting planets like the Kesaht or taking prisoners.”
“No.” Stacey stood up, and the dress making up her shell didn’t sway as it should have to Garret’s mind.
“Stacey. Listen to me. I can’t throw the Terran Union into an all-out war with a faction I’ve publicly called traitors—”
“I am the only one loyal to Earth!” Stacey screamed. “The only one loyal to all our future! Do you know what I’ve done? What was done to me? What I sacrificed to beat the Xaros? You are nothing, Garret!”
She pressed her hands to the side of her head and turned away from him. “I did it for us all,” she said, her voice quavering. “Not for me. Never for me. I’d take it all back if I could.” Stacey fell to her knees, rocking back and forth.
“Are you…” Garret reached for her, but stopped short. This was a hologram of her, nothing more.
“You don’t know but it’s my fault. My fault, my fault, my—”
Stacey vanished.
Garret stood in the silent chamber for a moment, then motioned for the glass door to open.
“Keeper and Laran,” he said.
The two entered the room a moment later.
“You have her?” Garret asked.
“We’ve enough of a trace,” Keeper said. “The next time she uses a Crucible, we’ll know.”
“She’s insane,” Garret said. “And if she’s in this condition, then the entire Ibarra Nation is a threat to Earth…and the galaxy. I’ll have the Narvik personnel eliminated soon. That should bring the rest of the galaxy around to our side against the Kesaht. Objections?”
“No, sir,” Laran said.
Keeper didn’t answer.
“Then your silence is consent,” Garret said. “Laran, prepare a strike force. I want Stacey Ibarra dead. Her grandfather Marc is a dyed-in-the-wool son of a bitch, but he can be reasoned with.”
“There’s no guarantee he’d take over if we e
liminate her,” Laran said. “But I’m happy to find out.”
“Get to it,” Garret said.
Chapter 8
Roland stood in the box that first brought him to the common area of the prison. The walls of the tight confines vibrated slightly as it moved, reminding him of his armor’s womb, and he wondered if he’d ever don the suit again. The modification to his neural system from the plugs was permanent, and the thought of spending the rest of his life in a cell with a tactile reminder of what he once was darkened his spirits more than anything.
I am armor, he thought. I am fury. I will not fail.
The box shuddered to a stop and there was a rush of air as the back panel came off. He turned around and saw a small room with a single table, two chairs, and an army officer with captain’s bars.
“Chief Shaw.” The captain walked over, hand out for a shake, thumb cocked to the sky. “I’m Captain Finkledge, your JAG attorney.”
Roland raised his shackled wrists as high as he could, but the captain drew his hand back before they could shake.
“Restraints in the courtroom?” Finkledge asked. “Clearly prejudicial. Especially this early in the discovery phase.”
“This is court?” Roland shuffled toward the desk where the captain pulled a chair aside for him.
“It’ll be done through holo,” Finkledge waved a hand around his head. “Supreme Court ruled the current level of technology allows for the defendant to face their accuser without any loss of fidelity—though this is the first actual time it’ll be used. Grounds for an appeal, at any rate.”
“I’m not guilty of treason,” Roland said. “I don’t know why General Laran or anyone else—”
“That’s what the trial’s for,” Finkledge said, smoothing out his well-tailored uniform.
Roland noted that his ribbons lacked any combat deployments or commendations for action in the field.