The Ibarra Sanction (Terran Armor Corps Book 2)

by Richard Fox

  “I wasn’t exactly sure you’d carry out your part of the plan. You had the chance to cut back to town. Didn’t want to share anything useful until I saw you were committed. As for our colonists, the Kesaht have them in compliance collars,” Aiza said. “Puts them somewhere between euphoria and sleep. You try and rip them off and you’ll kill the wearer.”

  The collar rippled, then peeled off the prisoner and fell to the floor. The woman blinked hard and tried to rub her eyes. Aiza moved to the next person.

  “What in the Sam Hill…” The groggy prisoner looked up at the armor and blinked hard, then turned her gaze to the dead Sanheel and gasped. She tried to scoot away from the body and bumped into the back wall.

  “Easy,” Aiza said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “you’re safe now.” He pointed at the chains on her wrists, then to Roland.

  “Nothing special about those. You mind?”

  The woman lifted her bound hands up to Roland, and he snapped the chain links between the cuffs.

  “Thank you,” she said. “We were on pylon ninety-nine when those things—”

  “Here.” Aiza pressed the wand into her hands. “Hold the tip against the collar until it finds the release frequency. You do the rest.” He got to his feet and touched the side of his helmet. It folded back into the ring at the base of his neck. Aiza wore an earpiece, one Roland hadn’t seen on him earlier.

  “They’re not all here,” the major said. “Still missing eighteen of them…all children.”

  “The Kesaht took them somewhere else,” Roland said. “We’ll find them.”

  “No.” Aiza pointed to another building. “The teacher and the chaperones are in that building. Kids aren’t here. We saw a small Kesaht shuttle in the valley a couple hours ago. They must’ve taken them…and only them. Damn it.”

  “Where could they be?” Roland asked.

  “Anywhere. If their in-atmo craft have a range, we haven’t seen it yet. Some kind of anti-grav that…” Aiza cocked his head slightly to one side. “Yes, ma’am…right away.”

  Roland opened his communications suite and got nothing but static.

  “Who are you talking to…and how?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid this is where we leave you,” Aiza said. “You send up a pigeon to Tonopah and they’ll send a truck to pick everyone up. You can keep the sonic keys, make some of your own.” The major backed away, his gaze on the armor.

  “What do we say to Gideon if we just let them go?” Cha’ril asked over their IR.

  “The truth,” Roland said. He switched back to his speakers. “Major. The next time we see each other, the circumstances may be different.”

  “Aye.” Aiza said, looking at the hostages. “That’s war. Some days you’re the hero.” He turned his head to the trail of dead aliens outside the building. “Some days you’re the villain. I hope we don’t see each other ever again. I doubt it’ll end well for either of us.”

  He put two fingers against his earpiece.

  “What’s that? As you wish.” Aiza set his rifle to the ground, then unsnapped the hilt from his back. He carried it in two hands to Roland, straining against the weight.

  “Morrigan wants you to have it.” He set the hilt into Roland’s hand. “May the Saint bless you and keep you.” Aiza thumped a fist against his heart, picked up his rifle, and vanished into the night.

  “What’s a ‘Morrigan’?” Cha’ril asked.

  “A name, I think.” Roland gripped the hilt in both hands. He touched a button on the forward edge, and a blade snapped out in segments. It locked into a sword far too large for a normal man to wield, but scaled to Roland’s size and complete with a simple cross guard. He spun the weapon around and looked at the pommel: a Templar cross with the word “Morrigan” embossed along the edge.

  “No…” Cha’ril said. “That’s impossible.”

  “This was designed to be used by armor,” Roland said. He set the blade in one hand and examined it closely. The metal was nicked and scratched in several places, and; a yellowish discoloration of Rakka blood marred the forward third.

  “This was used in battle…by armor,” Roland said.

  “I thought it was impossible for proccies to get the skull plugs and become armor,” Cha’ril said. “How are the Ibarrans creating armor soldiers?”

  “I don’t think they are.” Roland leveled the sword back to Tonopah. “But I know who will have answers.”

  Chapter 9

  Lettow adjusted the position of his Javelin class artillery ship squadron to just behind a cruiser strike group in his holo tank. He punched in a least distance course to Oricon and double tapped a CONFIRM icon to send the plan to Strickland.

  Strickland raised an eyebrow at the admiral.

  Lettow pointed at the slow-moving Kesaht fleet, still on course for the Crucible gate. The 14th’s projected course and the aliens’ would come close to weapons range, too close for Lettow’s comfort.

  “We come at them with the Javelins unsheathed and they may think we’re itching for a fight,” Lettow said.

  He moved the holo tank view back to the slow moving alien fleet. They had twice the number of ships as the 14th, but it was their three battleships that concerned the admiral the most. Each was larger than the Ardennes, and boasted cannon turrets on the dorsal and ventral hulls. Enhanced pictures of the ship’s surface showed likely torpedo tubes…weapons with warheads and acceleration capabilities that were a mystery to him. Fighting an enemy he didn’t know would be like trying to box with a blindfold over his eyes.

  “The Ibarrans said the Kesaht attacked the colony,” the operations officer said.

  “I’m not ready to trust them. We pick a fight with them here and now and there will be a war between Earth and these new aliens, one the Ibarrans will have started for us. This is why I hate first contact missions,” Lettow said.

  “Understood…Commander Rusk reports the Crucible is clear of all explosive devices, anticipates full functionality in twenty-six hours. We could access the gate to leave in twelve.”

  “Twenty-six hours until anyone else can arrive,” Lettow said. “Plenty of time for things to play out. Signal the fleet. We weigh anchor in two minutes for Oricon.”

  Lettow went to his command chair and strapped himself in as the Ardennes went to ready alert. He snapped on his helmet and double checked his air supply. The bridge switched to local IR as the atmosphere drained out through the vents and the ship lurched forward as the engines flared to life.

  He pulled up a screen from his chair arm and watched as his fleet reformed into a hemisphere with the Ardennes, strike carriers Gettysburg and Falklands, the Javelin artillery ships and support craft behind the screen of cruisers, frigates, and destroyers.

  “Sir,” Strickland said from his seat to the admiral’s right, “just detected a change from the Kesaht fleet. They’re accelerating.”

  On his screen, the time projection on the alien vessels’ arrival to the Crucible shortened to less than a day.

  “We’re being hailed by the Kesaht,” the communications officer said. “It’s coming over the first contact frequencies we tried earlier.”

  “So they can speak,” Lettow said. “Guess we gave them a reason to talk. Put it through.”

  He raised the arm with his screen up and locked it in place in front of his face. The screen flickered, then resolved into one of the ugliest aliens Lettow had ever seen. Its skull was a rounded cone, with a bulldog’s jaw buffered by coarse hair and jet black eyes. Data cables ran out of the back of its head and into red and gold armor on its shoulders.

  The alien huffed, turning its head slightly from side to side as it examined Lettow.

  “I am Primus Gor’thig, risen Sanheel of the Kesaht Hegemony,” the alien said in decent English. “We pursued one of your fleets to this system to punish them for attacking one of our worlds. The blood debt has been paid, now we demand safe and unhindered passage through the Crucible gate.”

  Lettow kept his face neutr
al as he considered the alien’s words.

  “I am unaware of any such attack,” Lettow said. Indeed, what the alien just said directly contradicted the story the Ibarran admiral gave him. “To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time the Terran Union has ever encountered your species.”

  “Is the other fleet not full of your kind?” Gor’thig asked. “Your ships are of the same shape. You look like them.”

  “That fleet is not of the Terran Union; they stand apart from us. But the colony on Oricon is part of the Terran Union. What happens to the innocent people down there is very much my concern and you need to end your communication jamming and explain your aggression against a colony full of builders.”

  “Your kind are fractured, squabbling? This is not a weakness the Kesaht Hegemony suffers. We are many races, all working toward a common good. I do not understand how humans can operate independently of each other.”

  “I’m not asking you to understand. There will be time for the Terran Union and your Hegemony to engage in diplomatic efforts later…after you tell me what’s happened to Oricon,” Lettow said.

  “The not-Terran-but-Terran fleet landed soldiers on the moon,” Gor’thig said. “I sent troops to find them and bring me their skins. Your soldiers massacred a Kesaht research team. Blood must follow blood.”

  “The Ibarrans are not of the Union, but if you’ve killed civilians, then—”

  “We do not murder those without blood on their hands. We seek only to balance the scales. The atmosphere ionization will dissipate in two rotations of the moon. I assume denying an enemy the ability to communicate is a human tactic.”

  An icon flashed on Lettow’s screen. One of the Kesaht battleships had broken off from the fleet and was on course to Oricon.

  “I will remove my troops from the moon,” Gor’thig said. “We bled the Terran-not-Terran fleet while the hunt on the ground went on. The scales are balanced. Once I have them back, we will leave this system. Do not get in our way.”

  The channel closed.

  Lettow sat for a moment, processing. First contact scenarios were one of the toughest a commander could face. Without knowing the culture and diplomatic ways of these Kesaht, one misstep could send these new aliens into the arms of Earth’s enemies, or bring them over as new allies.

  He’d been on the rescue mission that answered the distress call from the Belisarius; he knew just how bad first contact could turn out.

  “Comms, we need contact with Oricon,” Lettow said. “If they slaughtered the colonists, they’ll learn how the Terran Union answers a blood debt.”

  “We’re still trying, admiral,” the lieutenant said. “Whatever they did to the atmosphere is scrambling any and all communication waveforms. I’ve got the signals section on every ship working on it.”

  “It’s not like we can send up a smoke signal,” Strickland said. “Or even a…wait, we’re another hour from Auburn City, coming into view as the moon rotates. Comms, do you still learn Morse code and how to use Aldis lamps at Officer’s Candidate School?”

  “Yes, sir. The signal lamps are one of our backup communication channels.”

  “We can see the surface just fine,” Lettow said. “If the armor’s made it to the city, they know we’re here and we’re on the way.”

  “They should be looking for us,” Strickland said. “Our targeting cameras could spot a dog taking a leak on a mesquite bush outside of Phoenix from Mars.”

  “Figure out a way to make a signal obvious enough for them to notice,” the admiral said to the red-faced comms officer.

  “Aye aye,” he said.

  “What that Gor’thig said doesn’t match the Ibarrans’ story,” Strickland said. “But if they were on the run after raiding the Kesaht, I doubt that Admiral Faben would come clean.”

  “We’re all playing each other,” Lettow said. “The Ibarrans are after something and are running the clock until they find it. I have a hard time buying Gor’thig’s noble warrior routine. He didn’t contact us until we forced his hand. And I’m juggling if we should engage the Kesaht, run down the Ibarrans or go help the colony that might not need any assistance at all.

  “We stay the course until we can see Auburn city with our own eyes. Then I’ll know our next move.” The admiral interlaced his fingers and watched as Oricon turned.

  Chapter 10

  Roland and Cha’ril flanked the gate through the hasty barricade around Tonopah as the trucks full of rescued colonists drove through. Roland looked over the wall and was certain every last person in the town was pressed around the gate.

  “They left the watch towers unmanned,” Cha’ril said to Roland over closed IR.

  “We’re watching for them. You think there are any more Kesaht out here?”

  “It is a distinct possibility,” she said. “Haven’t heard the sound of gauss cannons from Gideon or Aignar. If they haven’t found and eliminated any stragglers, the town is under threat. The legionnaires led off a significant number of enemy foot soldiers. I doubt they killed them all.”

  “If there were any survivors, they were smart enough not to engage us on the way back to town. Doubt they’d stand a better chance attacking this fortified location.” Roland grabbed the top of the metal barricade and managed to shake it back and forth with ease.

  “Improved location,” he said.

  “Hey!” Dinkins waved up at Roland. “Where are the children? Did you find the children?”

  “No sign of them,” Roland said.

  Dinkins’ shoulders drooped. He slunk down to the ground and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

  “Tim! Tim!” His wife Sally came out of the gate, dragging a woman in her late early twenties by the hand.

  “Maria, tell the foreman what you told me.” Sally clung to her arm. “And the armor, hurry!”

  “I’m the head of child education.” She looked up at Roland with a blank expression. She, like many of the others the armor rescued, was on the verge of shock. “Everyone just calls me the school marm. But I was with the kids when the aliens took us. They separated me from the children near one of their shuttles. They didn’t take George or Vinnie Tate; they’re the oldest boys we have. Thirteen and fifteen.”

  “You saw the children loaded into the shuttle?” Cha’ril asked.

  Maria nodded.

  “They could be anywhere,” Roland said.

  “But they’re alive.” Dinkins wiped tears away and got back onto his feet.

  “Not necessar—” Cha’ril stopped when Roland’s helm snapped up at her. “Of course they’re alive.”

  “What can you do?” Sally asked. “Can you track them or—”

  “We don’t fly,” Roland said. “But there may be a way to find them. Do you have anyone with xeno-tech or biology experience?”

  “We’ve got…” Dinkins looked at his wife and frowned. She snapped her fingers and ran back into the town. “We’ve got a former Path Finder. He’s still got his old rig too. Why do you ask?”

  Cha’ril reached behind her back and tossed a black plastic sack onto the ground. A Sanheel head rolled out and stopped in the middle of the road. Severed data cables twitched in its skull sockets like Medusa at the end of her tail. The alien’s eyes were rolled back into its head, tongue impaled on a fang.

  Maria screamed and ran back inside.

  “Oops,” Cha’ril said.

  Dinkins shuffled back and bumped into the back of a truck.

  “How did you-you-you…” the foreman stammered.

  “The Sanheels’ bodies disintegrate just like the Rakka,” Cha’ril said. “But if you rip their heads off before they die, that part tends to stick around.”

  “What? What?” Johannsen the sniper pushed through the crowd, clutching a slightly larger than normal gauntlet to his chest. Sally was right behind him, pushing him along.

  “What is the damn hurry—Holy shit!” Johannsen almost stumbled over the alien’s head. He jumped over it like the ground was electrified. “A
little warning? Huh?” He glared at Sally.

  “You were a Path Finder?” Roland asked.

  “That’s right. Eight years.” Johannsen removed his jacket and slipped his hand into his gauntlet. “Did bio surveys on twenty-three different worlds.” He kicked the side of the alien’s head.

  “I’m used to looking at these through a scope. Christ, they’re ugly.” He went to one knee and passed the lit fingertips of his gauntlet over the head.

  “Aesthetics aside,” Cha’ril said, “what can you tell us about it? The implants are highly unusual for any encountered species.”

  Johannsen drew a small wand from his gauntlet and stuck it into the Sanheel’s cheek. He dabbed a bit of flesh into a tiny receptacle, then forced the tip into the flesh around a data cable and pushed it deeper until it touched the skull.

  “Before these Kesaht showed up, I would have told you there wasn’t a single cyborg species in the galaxy. Might be some that need prosthetic replacements, but to see such extensive work done on a soldier…never,” Johansson said.

  “Why’s that?” Roland asked.

  “The Xaros. They’d hack anything with a CPU. One drone gets near this big pile of shit and he’d be shut down or turn on his buddies at the drone’s order. The Qa’Resh never, ever recruited a species that couldn’t survive without augmentation. Waste of time, no way they could fight the Xaros. Path Finders might find the occasional species that might develop intelligence on an old Xaros-occupied world, or we’d bump into another Alliance species that was scoping out the same planets we were.” His gauntlet beeped.

  “What have we here?” Johannsen squinted at his screen. “Carbon based…normal male female profile in the DNA…not a match for anything in the database. And—that’s funny. There’s another species’ DNA in here.” He tapped the data wire touching his probe wand.

  “Inside his head?” Cha’ril asked.

  “No, inside the wires. Looks like another alien built the cables that’re in his brain box,” Johannsen said, tapping his gauntlet, then looking up at the armor. “You guys have some of the same thing, right?” He touched the base of his skull.