by Richard Fox
“You’re not in your armor. I can get away with it. No one in the line units think you’re a traitor.”
“You were everywhere on Thesius,” Valencia said. “We’re not the only Marines who owe you our lives.”
“It was my duty.”
“This whole trial’s a sham,” Jerry said. “Most of us in the guard shacks think so. Major Lynch’s a dick about it, but he’s an officer, so what do you expect?”
“The guys assigned to the Ibarrans have been real squirrely lately,” Valencia said, then lowered her voice. “You know what the Omega Provision is?”
“I do.” Roland’s mouth went dry. “Part of the Hale Treaty with the rest of the galaxy. No new proccies once the treaty was approved. They find any born after that, they’re to be destroyed.”
“All the proccies in your cellblock are OK,” Jerry said. “Blood tests on all the Ibarran prisoners…something like nine out of ten are in trouble. Few from the original fleet that went AWOL, rest are on the chopping block.”
“No.” Roland shook his head. “We can’t do this. President Garret won’t. Murder is murder. Proccie or not.”
“The brass have feelers out,” Valencia said. “Looking for those in the guard force that are…that’ll obey any order.”
“No one on Earth knows.” Roland raised his cuffed wrists. “Not anyone that can help. Phoenix has the whole situation on lockdown. By the time we…we need to get the word out.”
“Back to your ‘whole situation on lockdown’ point,” Jerry said. “No contact beyond the crater. Automated supply runs. We’re all flushed down the memory hole.”
“I have a lawyer.” Roland lifted his head up. “He’s got outside access.”
“You trust him?” Jerry asked.
“It’s not like we’re burdened with options.” Roland shrugged. “What are you two prepared to do?”
Jerry and Valencia traded a nervous look.
“Well,” Jerry said, frowning, “Mr. Black Knight-armor-paragon-guy. We were hoping you’d have an idea.”
“My trial isn’t important. My actions are my responsibility and I regret nothing. The Ibarran prisoners didn’t choose when or how they were born—they can’t be punished for that. Keep an ear to the ground and find out what they’re planning for the Ibarrans. Feed the news back to me and I’ll get it out through Finkledge. See if public pressure can’t do something…or…no.”
“‘No’ what?” Valencia asked.
“Colonel Martel and the Templar won’t stand for this,” Roland said. “When they find out—”
The two Rangers slapped their skull facemasks into place and Jerry hurried out of the cell. The cart shuddered slightly and Roland felt it decelerate through the bench.
“Out of time,” Jerry said. “Game faces back on.”
“We’ll figure out what we can,” Valencia said. “Ferrum corde.”
Roland leaned forward slightly and touched his fist to his chest.
“Ferrum corde.”
****
Cha’ril moved a metal pick to one side of an empty wooden bowl. She stepped back and double-checked the angle, then clicked her beak and rolled the pick back a quarter inch.
“How did Mother do this?” she mumbled. Cha’ril glanced over her shoulder and saw a data slate on the frame around the cushions that formed the room’s nest bed. She abandoned the table setting and hurried across the apartment. Living quarters for joined Dotari felt almost palatial after living so long inside her armor’s womb and the bunks on the Scipio. The living quarters built into Mount Olympus struck her as being designed for comfort, which was not a concern of the Armor Corps that controlled the extinct volcano and the planet.
She swiped across several images of a traditional Dotari dining table, double-checking that every utensil was in the proper place. She looked up in horror when she realized the waste bowl for shells was on the wrong side.
The door opened with a swish and Man’fred Vo came in, holding a stack of wooden steamers by a twine handle.
“Cha’ril, your mighty hunter returns.” He placed the steamers on the table.
“My joined,” she said as she grabbed his face with one hand and turned his gaze to her. They touched foreheads and Cha’ril moved the shell bowl to the correct spot.
“I have such news.” Man’fred Vo helped her sit down, then took his spot next to her, their shoulders touching as he unwrapped the steamers. “Such incredible news from the home world!”
“I have news as well,” she said shyly. “But you go first.”
“Father sent a priority message that just cleared the Crucible this morning. You know of the Breitenfeld’s deep-space mission?” he asked.
“The one the humans tried to keep secret? Of course.”
“Uncle Lo’thar was there with Admiral Valdar. They found a Golden Fleet and brought it back to Dotari Prime. The phage,” he said, plucking out a steaming gar’udda nut and feeding it to Cha’ril, “has been cured.”
Cha’ril stopped chewing mid-bite, then looked over at their nest.
“The disease killing everyone—” he popped another nut into his mouth and cracked it loudly “—is in remission. My niece Trin’a is up and walking again. The Dotari on the Golden Fleet are all engineers and scientists and doctors—useless in a fight. You’d think they’d never seen a gauss cannon before. But they’re all carrying the antibodies we need to beat the phage. Incredible, isn’t it?”
“When did all this happen?”
“Perhaps a month or two ago.” He clicked his beak. “The Council of Firsts are keeping things quiet until they’re certain the phage is cured. Lo’thar told my father, of course, who wasn’t supposed to tell me. And I’m not supposed to tell you. So you don’t tell anyone either.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes darting from side to side, “if the phage is cured, then the pheromone blockers will come back. There’s no threat of extinction and…”
“Wait—are you angry with me?” the pilot asked. “You don’t want to have our joining dissolved, do you?”
“Do…you?”
“No.” Man’fred Vo kneeled beside Cha’ril and held both her hands. “I’m joined to the most beautiful Dotari I’ve ever seen. Everyone is so jealous. We’re just beginning as a joined pair, but I would never petition to have this dissolved while we’re still—”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You…are?”
“My body’s going through more hormonal shifts than I knew were possible.” She grabbed a steamer, tossed away the lid, and smelled a plate full of baked grubs. “If you try to eat any of my orikin, you will lose a finger…and the blood tests all came back positive. I’m carrying your child.”
She stuck her thumb talon into a grub and pulled it off with her beak, staring at her joined as she chewed.
“We need—” Man’fred Vo looked around. “We can’t—not on Mars. I mean…you and I need to…” He fell back on his seat.
“You’re taking this well,” she said.
“My darling.” He got up and hugged her. She kept munching on the orikin.
“I’m happy…” she said. “Just imagine if your father had sent that message a few weeks ago.”
“I wouldn’t be as happy as I am now,” he said.
“Good. Good. Now I want you to go get me more of these grubs.”
Chapter 10
Roland, his body braced in a push-up position, felt sweat dribble down his face and watched a drop fall from his nose onto an exercise mat.
“Halfway down and hold!” Adams called from the front of several ranks of prisoners, all in the front-leaning rest. There were groans and more than one curse directed toward the Strike Marine leading the physical-training session.
Roland’s arms shook as he lowered his body even with his bent elbows. Fire burned in his muscles as Adams counted down from ten, then counted back up once she reached one. Most of the formation collapsed before she got to five again. Roland kept his focus, knowing he was conditione
d well enough to endure.
“Recover!” Adams shouted as she popped her feet up next to her hands and sprang up. She winked at Roland as he got to his feet. He was the only one that managed to keep pace with her. Adams looked up at a snooper droid, then to the catwalk around the prison’s perimeter.
“Group, atten-shun! Fall out, you weak bunch of pogues. Strike Marine PT isn’t for any of you. Except one.” Adams picked up a towel and wiped it across her forehead.
Roland put his hands on his hips and exhaled, tiny drops of sweat flying off his lips and into the air.
“Not bad, sir,” the Strike Marine said as she walked up to him.
“You get the count?” he asked.
“The guards change shifts every four hours.” Her eyes darted toward a pair of power-armored men on the catwalk, their faces hidden behind skull visors. “Those two aren’t line troopers. See the way they walk? Stiff legs—normal for someone new to frontline gear and real Rangers don’t prop their weapons over their waist. They should have the stock tucked into their shoulder.”
“What about the guards on the Ibarrans?”
“We get glimpses,” she said. “They’re all in Ranger gear with no rank or name tags. The ones assigned to the Ibarran cellblock move like Strike Marines or Rangers. Guess they think we’re less of a threat. Though any Devil Dog wearing GI Joke equipment has got to piss them right off.”
“I’m sure if any of those Rangers could’ve fit their head in the jar to pass Strike Marine quals, they would’ve done so,” Roland said.
“Strike Marines don’t need Halloween masks to be scary,” Adams grumbled. “We’re quiet professionals.”
“Group six, report to the mess section,” boomed through loudspeakers. “Group six, report to the mess section.”
“Thought chow wasn’t for another hour,” Adams said.
“Odd,” Roland said as he walked toward the center of the cellblock and Adams kept pace. “Well, I don’t want to miss my reconstituted bowtie pasta drowned in oil.”
“Might be turkey cutlets.” Adams shrugged.
Roland got to the line forming at the food dispenser and waved enlisted soldiers ahead of him in line.
“How does chow work for you tanks?” Adams asked.
Roland gave her a sideways glare. “What did you call me?”
“The armor. I meant the armor. Sorry.” She lowered her head slightly.
“Amniosis has all the nutrition we need. Eating actual food is almost a treat these days. Looks like I’ll get used to it.” Roland let Adams step in front of him and he took his spot in the back of the line.
He held his palm up to a reader and a drawer opened with a ding. A single tray with steaming mashed potatoes and what looked like a shoe insert drenched in gravy waited for him. He took the tray out and felt a piece of paper underneath the left side.
Keeping his composure, Roland sat down next to Adams. Boucher set two cups of water and one of what looked like weak orange juice next to Roland’s tray.
“Bug juice is a bit off today. Sorry, sir,” Boucher said.
“Thank you.” Roland took a bite of the potatoes and glanced up. A snooper drone drifted overhead.
“So we were on the Kid’ran’s Gift doing a sweep and clear in case any banshees were still alive,” Adams said. “And Rocha decides to eat one of the Dotari’s gar’udda nuts right off the tree. Jackass breaks out in hives and Booker had to jab him with an antihistamine.”
“I need some top cover,” Roland said quietly and tucked his fingertips next to the side of his tray where he’d felt the paper.
Adams’ head bobbed from side to side in thought, then she got up and stood behind Roland. Hooking a finger into the elastic band holding her hair in a bun, she pulled it away, shook her hair out, and leaned over Roland, pressing her chest to his back and letting her hair drape over his face.
“Can I get an autograph?” she asked a bit too loudly.
Roland slid the paper out and recognized Jerry’s handwriting on the small slip of paper: OP 72HRS.
Roland brought his hand holding the paper past his mouth, then gave Adams a pat on the cheek. She pulled away and sat back down, working her hair back into a tight bun with practiced ease.
Boucher stared at the two, his mouth agape.
“He’ll let you have one too,” she said.
Roland cut an end off what smelled like Salisbury steak and took a bite.
“You get it?” Adams asked.
Roland nodded.
“Where’d it go?”
Roland chewed harder.
“Oh. Now what?”
Roland took a sip of water and swallowed with some difficulty.
“I have a court date in the morning,” he said. “That might be enough time.”
Chapter 11
Finkledge raised his arms wide as Roland entered the holo room.
“Hell of a time for a system update, eh?” the lawyer asked as Roland sat down. “Interrupts proceedings, wastes all sorts of time. Another ding against telepresence court and ammunition for an appeal, at least.”
“I want to testify,” Roland said.
Finkledge looked at Roland like he’d just grown a second head.
“Sorry, did you just say you want to torpedo your defense? You don’t even have to get on the stand to plead the Fifth. The prosecutor asks me if you’re willing to take the stand and I get to ‘nope’ that idea right into—”
“You heard me.”
Finkledge squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“The prosecution hasn’t even rested their case. You can’t testify today unless you’re a witness for the prosecution. You know how that looks? The defendant providing hostile testimony against himself? This is courtroom 101 stuff. As your legal counsel, I strongly advise against this.”
“Noted. Let’s go.” Roland motioned to the small control panel on the edge of the desk next to Finkledge.
“If you were a Marine, I might try to explain this to you in crayon, but you’re armor. Let me try this again.” The lawyer took a deep breath. “If you—”
Roland snapped out of his chair and grabbed Finkledge by the wrist, ignoring shouts from guards that burst through the door and his own lawyer’s rather feminine cries. Roland slapped Finkledge’s hand against the controls and the courtroom materialized around them.
“You tell them or I will,” Roland said and let the other man go.
“Counsel?” the center judge asked.
“I will send you a very strongly worded letter about this,” Finkledge hissed, “explaining just how stupid this is. Mostly so that I don’t get disbarred.” He went to the judges’ bench and two of the prosecutors hurried over.
Roland looked at the gallery and saw Colonel Martel, Tongea, and General Laran in the front row. The prosecutors returned to their desk, buzzing with excitement.
“Is the court to understand the defendant wishes to testify…now?” the center judge asked.
“Yes, your honor,” Roland said.
“Your counsel has made you aware of your rights?” asked the judge on the left. “Specifically about not incriminating yourself?”
“I am aware.”
“Let that be reflected in the record,” the center judge said and looked to the witness stand, which was an incorporeal projection for Roland. “Can the holo techs do something about this?”
The room froze, dematerialized, then snapped back into place with Roland sitting in the witness stand. His table clipped through the judge’s bench and Finkledge phased through the judge’s bench like a ghost.
“Counsel,” the judge said, waving his gavel at Finkledge, “are you trying to peek up my robe?”
“No.” The lawyer stepped out of the bench and held his hands up awkwardly. He looked at his desk beside the prosecutors’, which was now a holographic projection. “I’m not sure what I should…”
“Stand in the corner for all we care,” said the judge on the right. “Just don’t get in the way.”
Moore stood up and smiled at Roland, a glint in her eyes like a shark scenting blood in the water.
“Chief Shaw,” she said, “please tell the court the nature of your time with the rebel Ibarran faction.”
“Obj—no?” Finkledge was halfway out of his chair when Roland stopped him with a raised hand.
Roland looked at Colonel Martel. “The Omega Provision is in effect,” Roland said. “Part of the Hale Treaty. The Ibarrans we captured on Thesius are two days away from—”
“Stop him!” General Laran shouted.
“Being murdered for no other reason than being born the wrong way!” Roland projected over the chaotic din in the courtroom and all three judges banging their gavels.
Finkledge ran for the real table where Roland sat and lunged for the control panel. Roland kicked the table leg and sent it skidding out of Finkledge’s reach. The lawyer tripped over his own feet and hit the ground.
“All the Ibarrans from the Narvik are there,” Roland said to Martel. “We are Templar. We cannot let—”
The holo courtroom fizzled away in static.
Finkledge rolled over, his meager ribbon racks torn loose from his uniform. “Well…maybe you bought yourself a mistrial.”
“It’s not about me,” Roland said. “It’s about preventing a tragedy. Stopping a civil war that our enemies want.”
“Unless it relates to your case, just stop talking.” The lawyer got up as a pair of guards entered the room. “You say too much, I’ll end up in whatever hole they’ve got you in too.”
A guard slammed a hood over Roland’s head.
****
Colonel Martel stood with his hands resting on the wooden beam separating the gallery from the rest of the courtroom. General Laran was a few chairs away, her gaze locked on the empty witness stand where they’d just seen Roland’s holo projection.