by Richard Fox
“You’re the one wearing their armor and I’m treasonous?”
“I wear the armor for a purpose. Standing out on the battlefield is a sure way to attract attention, and bullets. You understand the etymology of the word ‘uniform’, correct?” Steuben crossed his arms.
Lafayette snapped the new hand against his wrist and flexed the hand against the range of motion. He tapped each forefinger against the thumb, and encountered some difficulty making the ring finger move as he desired.
“My nervous system is meant for four fingers. This will take some getting used to,” Lafayette said.
“I don’t understand why you bother. Use your four fingers as your three parents made you.”
“Improvement, Steuben. Self-improvement. After the Xaros left me with…so little to work with, I had to recreate my own body. Fiddling with capabilities has become something of a hobby,” Lafayette tried to pick up a wrench with his new hand, and fumbled with it. “You’re heading to the surface, aren’t you? Normally you’d spend this time glaring at people.”
Steuben pulled the broken pieces of his short sword from a sack and put them on a work bench.
“Again?” Lafayette asked.
“Yes, again. Just fix it.”
“Very well, let me show you something amazing at the same time,” Lafayette picked up the broken pieces and brought them to the omnium reactor. He opened a cabinet near the end of the machine and set the pieces inside. The control panel came to life with a flip of the switch. The two pieces of the sword came up on a screen. A grid overlay with Shanishol language slid across the screen.
“The engineers on Bastion promised the schematics for a better interface will be waiting for us on Earth. I’ve had to make do with what I can figure out in the meantime,” Lafayette said. His nine fingers danced across the controls and a puff of air and light flared in the cabinet. The sword vanished from the screen.
Steuben put a heavy hand on Lafayette’s shoulder, claw tips working into the exposed joint. “Lafayette. What have you done? That blade has been in my family for almost a thousand years.”
“Relax. This is the neat part,” the reactor hummed to life. Pale blue light glowed from inside the reactor. “Your blade has been converted into omnium; pure energy in solid form. Something of a contradiction, yes. That’s what this machine does. It transforms energy to matter, matter to energy with no loss. Nuclear weapons do the mass to energy transition, but this reactor does it without any of the radiation…massive fireballs.”
Steuben’s grip on Lafayette’s shoulder tightened.
“Did I mention it does so perfectly? Now it will recreate your weapon, perfect down to the molecular level,” Lafayette hit a button and a red light came on atop the cabinet.
Steuben opened it and withdrew his blade made hole. He tested the weapon’s weight, balancing it on top of a claw tip. He held the hilt up to his nose and smelled the leather straps running over the cross guard.
“I can’t tell the difference,” Steuben said.
“Perfect, just as I said. Even uses the same energy your blade was made up from. Don’t call it a copy,” Lafayette said. “I can recreate most anything that had a template stored within the computer.”
“There are old stories of people who could turn lead into gold,” Steuben said.
“Give me a handful of lead and it would transform it into an equal amount of mass of gold,” Lafayette said.
“Why aren’t you using this to mass produce quadrium? We’ll need more of it if we fight the Xaros.”
“Yes, there are a few limitations. Quadrium, and other exotic forms of matter, take a significantly longer time to manufacture. It would take days for this machine to make one of the smaller munitions you use in a gauss rifle. Also, if I put a complex piece of technology in to the machine, it will take longer to recreate. Your blade is simple, your rifle would take days,” Lafayette said.
“The Xaros strip any trace of a planet’s intelligent species…then convert it all into this omnium? Why?”
“Maybe they’ll rebuild those worlds by their own template. The omnium is just the building blocks. The Xaros have a much more sophisticated understanding of the technology. We’re playing around with paper airplanes compared to their space craft,” Lafayette said.
Steuben grunted and sheathed his blade across his lower back.
“I just described the most advanced discovery in the field of material sciences known to the Alliance and all I get is a humph?”
Steuben clapped his hands with little enthusiasm.
“Barbarian. I don’t know why I bother with you.”
Steuben stepped over an open tool box on his way out.
“Wait, Steuben. I’ve been meaning to ask you something. When you were on the Toth ship, you spoke with the ship masters. Do you think there’s any chance that there could be more of us?” Centuries ago, the Toth, acting under the guise of allies, invaded the Karigole home world and murdered the entire population as fuel for the Toth’s neural-stimulus addiction. Only a hundred Karigole were off world during the holocaust, and only four survived since then.
“No, Lafayette. There is no hope for us. Accept it. But, I will not be the last. Ghul’thul’ghul, brother.”
“Ghul’thul’ghul,” Lafayette returned to the reactor. He took a small anti-gravity plate and put it in the cabinet.
****
Torni pushed a case of rifle batteries into a compartment and tightened a strap over the top. Every spare inch of the cargo bay on the Mule drop ship was full of rations, medical supplies and ammo. There would be barely enough room for her squad, but comfort was never a factor for Marines.
“Sarge,” Standish stuck his head down from the upper turret, “we know where we’re going yet? Or what we’re doing? We’re packing like we’re going to retake Tokyo.”
“If you’re talking to me that means you’ve finished the pre-flight checks on that turret. Correct?” Torni said, not bothering to look up at him.
“Sure thing, Sarge, ready to rock and roll,” Standish said with a smile. “Hey, can we breathe the air down there? I’ve got air tanks loaded, but if we gotta haul more filters and fresh O2, we can’t carry as much boom-boom.”
“The atmosphere is breathable in the deep canyons, which is where all the civilians are. The air thins out on the plateaus and mountain ranges. There, the atmo is a little thicker than what we’ve got on Mars,” Torni said. She marked numbers on a manifest and shook her head. “Standish, how many Q-rounds do you still have for your rifle?”
“Five,” Standish said, a little too quickly.
“Standish.”
“I mean twelve. I didn’t count the extras I have on a spare bandolier,” Standish said.
“Give me half. We’ve got to cross level across all the squads and gold team is out.”
Standish unsnapped the bandolier across his chest and dropped it into Torni’s waiting hands.
“Let me guess, there are no more Q-rounds in the armory,” Standish said.
“Correct. Don’t miss.” Torni wrapped the bandolier around her forearm.
“Sarge!” Bailey called as she ran up the Mule’s ramp. “Deck boss needs some muscle. They’re about to crack open that Dotok escape pod that search and rescue brought in. Orozco’s already over there.”
Standish dropped down from the turret and picked up his helmet from a cubbyhole over a bench.
“I wonder what’s in this one,” Standish said. The three Marines trotted across the flight deck toward the escape pod. A team of engineers with cutting torches stood next to it, waving to the pod. The pod looked like it had been tossed down the side of a mountain, dents and gashes marring the surface.
“No screaming this time, Standish,” Torni said.
“I don’t…know…what you’re talking about,” Standish said.
“You going to fill me in, Sarge?” Bailey asked.
Torni slowed down and nodded to Orozco, now clad in his heavy gunner’s armor, the groundi
ng stakes built into his boots and stabilization rig across his back and shoulders adding to his already considerable bulk.
“You talking about the first time you met the Karigole?” Orozco asked.
“Slander! Second- and third hand stories blown completely out of proportion,” Standish said, shifting from foot to foot.
“I was there, Standish,” Torni said. The engineers fired their torches and started cutting into the side of the escape pod.
“Let me preface this story with the fact that I remember things very differently,” Standish said.
“We picked up the Karigole pod when it first came through the Crucible,” Torni said. “Naturally, command didn’t bother to tell us what was in it. Steuben slapped his hand against the side of a viewport and Standish started screaming like a little girl.”
“I-I…maybe,” Standish said.
“We got the cargo hold pressurized and Steuben climbs out of the pod. By this time, Standish is backed into a corner screaming ‘Don’t eat me! Don’t eat me!’ at the top of his lungs,” Torni said, pausing the story until Bailey and Orozco could stop laughing. “The four Karigole are just looking at each other while I’m trying to calm Standish down.”
“OK, in my defense, I’ve never had first contact training and have you seen what Steuben looks like?” Standish asked.
“You really need training to tell you that wetting your pants in front of a new species is a bad idea?” Bailey asked.
“What is the nature of this discussion?” Steuben asked as he walked over, Yarrow at his side.
“Oh great,” Standish shook his head.
“Recounting the time we first met,” Torni said to Steuben. The Karigole, six and a half feet of green-scaled muscle, wiped his four-fingered hand across his squat nose. He’d taken to human armor and weapons since they’d encountered the Toth on Anthalas, a race that considered Steuben’s centuries-old mind a delicacy. Wearing armor which set him apart from the Marines he fought beside made him a tempting target for the Toth.
“Is this the story about why the rest of the Karigole call Standish ‘Squeaky’?” Yarrow asked.
“Who filled new guy’s head full of lies? I bet it was Gunney Cortaro. Tall tales to keep this cherry’s spirits high,” Standish said.
Steuben unslung his rifle from over his shoulder and checked the battery power. “We thought we came to the wrong planet. The high-pitched noise coming from Standish didn’t match the language files we trained with prior to our mission. Lafayette thought ‘Don’t eat me’ was a traditional human greeting.”
“I didn’t say exactly…that.” Standish pointed to the escape pod where the engineers were cutting through a hinge. “Look, almost done. Anyone else concerned one of those banshees might be in there? Focus, Marines. We’ve got a job to do.”
The Marines powered up their rifles and pointed them to the opening the engineers had almost completed.
“‘Don’t eat me!’” Bailey said in a high-pitched voice. Orozco and Yarrow joined in, repeating the phrase and adding their voices to a chorus.
“Shut up! All of you!” Standish’s hands shook with rage as he wagged his rifle from side to side.
A section of the drop pod fell to the deck with a thump. Inside, a Dotok in a body glove shielded a prone figure with its body. The Dotok breathed heavily, brandishing a small knife at the Marines.
Torni lowered her weapon and raised a hand. “Friend, friend,” she said and raised her visor, exposing her face to the Dotok.
“Their word is meln,” Steuben said. He raised his visor and bent over to look into the pod. “Meln!” he thundered.
The Dotok started screaming.
“See, perfectly natural reaction,” Standish said.
“Steuben, back off,” Torni said, guiding the Karigole aside with a gentle push. Torni waved the Dotok toward her and repeated the only Dotok word she knew. The Dotok hesitated, then lowered its knife. It crawled toward Torni and accepted a hand out of the escape pod. The alien was short, barely reaching Torni’s collarbone. By the curves in its body glove, Torni figured it was a she.
The Dotok looked over the smiling faces of the Marines and pulled off her helmet. Her hair was wild and mussed, her deep green skin flushed. Torni thought the alien woman’s features were almost Slavic.
“Torni,” the sergeant said, tapping her chest.
“Shor,” the Dotok said, repeating the gesture.
Steuben extended a four-fingered, clawed hand toward Shor. Shor skipped back and cowered behind Torni.
“Give her some space, Steuben,” Torni said.
“I wonder if she thinks you just might eat her,” Standish said.
“Shut up, Standish,” more than one Marine said.
Torni looked into the pod at the other Dotok, strapped onto a stretcher. Torni raised a knee to crawl inside. A gentle touch on her shoulder pulled her back.
“Ehtan,” Shor said.
“Does he need help?” Torni tried to climb in again. Shor pulled her back.
“Ehtan!”
“He’s dead,” Steuben said.
Shor pressed two fingers to her lips.
Torni nodded to the Dotok and stepped back from the pod.
“So, what do we do with her?” Orozco asked.
“Let me ask the lieutenant,” Torni said. “The rest of you get back to loading up our Mule.”
The flight deck vibrated as a Dotok fighter came through the force field at the aft end of the flight deck. Eagles and Dotok followed in a steady procession.
****
Durand double checked that her ejection seat was disabled, then opened her canopy. The first day of flight school started with a video of an unfortunate pilot who didn’t make the same precaution, and she’d never forgotten the lesson.
“Oye, lassie!” MacDougall hooked a ladder against the side of her cockpit. “Who the hell are they?” The crew chief waved a hand at the Dotok fighters that had landed in a scrum in the middle of the flight deck.
“Guests,” she said. “Try to make them feel welcome.” She removed her helmet and shook out her shoulder length raven-black hair. She climbed down from her fighter and spotted Glue. Durand waved to get her attention.
One of the Dotok pilots struggled down the ladder the deck crew wheeled up to his fighter. The alien’s legs quivered as it came down the steps one at a time. He set foot on the deck and fell to his knees. Durand ran to him and fumbled with the latches fixing his helmet to the rest of his suit.
Durand got the helmet off and became the first human to get a good dose of Dotok body odor. The Dotok’s cheeks were sunken, its lips cracked and dry. He looked at Durand and made a drinking motion. He fell back against the ladder with a groan.
“Water! Get him some water,” Durand said to the nearest crewman. She knelt next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “How long were you in the saddle, mon ami?”
The Dotok’s mouth smacked like a dry husk being ripped apart. A crewman handed Durand a canteen. She unscrewed the top and pressed it into his hands. The Dotok sniffed at the water, then took a tentative sip. He swallowed hard, then downed the rest of the canteen.
“Glue, the rest of them will be like this,” she said to the Chinese pilot. “Captain needs me on the bridge. Get our birds topped off with bullets and—”
“Gall!” The heavily accented word rang out over the din of the flight deck. A Dotok pilot stood next to Durand’s fighter, pointing at her call sign stenciled against her cockpit. The pilot looked young, almost in his late teens by human standards, his head bald but for a braid of dark hair on the back of his head.
“I think you made a fan,” Glue said.
“When did they learn to read English?” Durand asked. She stood up and waved to the Dotok. “I’m Gall.”
The Dotok’s face darkened and it stomped toward Durand, pointing to her. Angry sounding words came from him as he approached. He got within a dozen feet and hurled his helmet at Durand.
Durand brought her own helm
et up and tried to block the projectile. The thrown helmet struck her fingers and sent pain shooting up her arm.
The Dotok broke into a run, a fist raised behind his head.
Durand backpedaled and bumped into a Dotok fighter, one hand up and her head shaking.
The enraged alien got within arm’s reach when Glue clocked him across the jaw. His head lolled over his neck and he fell to the deck like a puppet with its strings cut.
Dotok pilots rushed over and laid the unconscious pilot out against the deck.
“What the hell?” Durand asked.
“You really don’t make a great first impression, ma’am,” Glue said, her hand brushing against the thigh where Durand shot her months ago.
Shor pushed her way through the Dotok pilots. She slapped the prone Dotok across the face until he came to. The two locked eyes and embraced, the man crying like he’d just found a long lost child.
“You almost killed his wife.” The mechanical tinged words came from the pilot sitting against the stairs. He had a square shaped speaker in his hand, which he raised up to his mouth and spoke. “Bar’en is ill-tempered at times. Forgive him.” The translated words came from the speaker.
“You got a name?” Durand asked. Her words came through the speaker in Dotok.
“Mar’tig.”
“Martin, welcome to the Breitenfeld,” Durand said. “You tell hothead over there he swings at me again and I’ll shoot him in the dick. I’ve got to get to the bridge and figure out how we’re going to save this planet. Excuse me.”
Durand jogged toward the elevators and caught a dirty look from Bar’en along the way.
CHAPTER 4
Stacey Ibarra floated in a white abyss, her senses starved for anything but the sound of her heart beating and the light that cast neither shadow nor heat. She replayed a pop ditty from her high school days in her head, waiting for the translation to end. It took hours for the gates between Bastion and the Crucible to deliver her from one place to the other. Timing the experience with remembered songs staved off boredom and panic.