Iron Truth

by S. A. Tholin

  This wasn't combat, he decided as he dispatched the sixth vessel with a headshot. This was like playing a game. The AI was a little bit smarter than he was used to, but in return, the NPCs were far more fragile. No bullet sponges here; one or two and down they went.

  When he floated back into the core chamber, it was with a sense of optimism. He'd hang back and wait for the third group to return from the exterior - maybe set another trap - and after that... well, who knew. The team might be back in contact by then. If not, he'd think of something.

  And then he looked through the viewport and saw the Daughter's airlock open, and a stream of grey-armoured vessels come pouring towards the Cascade. Towards him.

  It had to be - oh stars - he tried to count, but somewhere around ninety-five his brain seemed to have forgotten numbers, seemed to have forgotten anything that wasn't cold fear.

  "Meekscommanderhopewell," he whispered down the team channel. "Damnitpleasewhereareyou?"

  Nothing, and in desperation, he reached towards the oncoming legion. He probed their suits' defences for weaknesses, but hacking Primaterre equipment would take longer than he had.

  One of the vessels opened its comms systems to him, and as he crept inside for a peek, it typed:

  HELLO

  MURDERER

  Lucklaw pulled back, shutting down all connections and reminded himself to breathe. He had to... he had to... he had to do something, but his brain had gone blank and his HUD was aglow with caps-lock accusation.

  Then silver flames arced between pylons, and a familiar feeling tugged at his brain. The Cascade was processing a fold request. Except, it wasn't transmitting; it was receiving, and he grinned. Bastion had heard the commander's request, and they were coming.

  But when the fold sickness wore off and reality solidified, he saw that the new arrival was a warship, painted proudly red and black.

  A beat of silence followed, and he could imagine the confusion onboard the three ships outside. Then the RebEarth cruiser's railguns glowed hot, and the Daughters' force fields flared bright. The first volley streaked across the dark void like a cluster of stars.

  And the Cascade burned silver as it processed another incoming request.

  64. Cassimer

  Ash fell from a burning sky. The wastes had become a maelstrom of grey and black, churning around a rapidly widening crevasse.

  The third Daughter had unfolded below ground. Cassimer had no words for what had happened, no comprehension of the science, but he understood the effects perfectly. Destruction, immaculate and pure.

  The mountain peaks listed towards the plains. Chunks of glass broke off, careening down slopes and valleys. One RebEarth ship still flew, its dark shape increasingly obscured by dust and ash. He could hear screams from down below; desperate calls for assistance - and he could hear the determined march of half a dozen armoured men.

  "Stay here."

  They'd made it to a plateau in the mountains, surrounded by fangs of dark glass, before a landslide had cut off their ascent. Joy showed no sign she'd heard him, staring up at the sky, eyes wide, lost in awe of the destruction.

  "Joy." He touched her shoulder. She turned, and he could see tears in her eyes. She began to say something, but her voice was drowned by a sudden rumble.

  A tremor tore through the ground. Not the first, but violent, and as fulgurite trees rattled and shattered, he held Joy close. Felt her heartbeat, her cold skin and the short puffs of breath against his neck. So fragile; so perfect.

  The mountain screamed. Ridges bucked wildly, sending torrents of mud down trembling slopes. Bedrock tore open, swallowing gulps of glass and dust. The ground convulsed as it turned itself inside out, spewing bricks and mortar, tiles and tracks. Cato purged itself of the civilisation that had dared to burrow through its bones.

  The train came speeding through the falling debris, kicking up a cloud of grey as it smashed through, following its tracks towards the edge of an abyss. The train's sensors should've warned its systems to stop. Perhaps its brakes had gone, but to Cassimer's eyes, the train acted as though honour-bound. It didn't stop, didn't hesitate, plunging into the dark.

  "I did that," Joy said, her gaze fixed on the flames that burst from the abyss. "Oh my god. I did that. All of this."

  His lips found hers, cracked and mud-caked, and he murmured through the taste of salt and blood: "No, not you. He did it; all of this. Every terrible thing."

  He kissed her still-bruised cheek and her hands, lacerated with cuts of shrapnel from Rhys's visor. All of this, he told her, was the demon's doing. It had turned a whole world dark, and she had done nothing but bring the light.

  "You did what was necessary." A hairpin stuck out at an awkward angle, and he pushed it back into her hair. Even now, she was warm light and soft curves. Beautiful, and a selfish part of him wanted to kiss her again, wanted to keep kissing her for as long as they had before the planet died. A death like that would be all right. A death like that would be better than he could ever have hoped for.

  But he was still Commander Cassimer of Scathach Banneret Company, and what he wanted mattered less than ever.

  "We're soldiers," he said, "and we're going to finish this like soldiers. You with me, Private Somerset?"

  ◆◆◆

  She was - even after he explained that she'd have to play bait.

  Too much interference for comms, almost too much dust for visual. He eased into position on an outcrop of rock above the plateau and set his rifle up. Through the scope, Joy was a pale shimmer of body heat, but he could no longer see the glass pillar that was her cover - nor the chunk of glass that he'd shifted to catch her reflection. Anyone coming up the mountain path would see her image captured in lichen-streaked, glossy darkness. They'd see her fear and her fatigue, and they'd see that she was alone. If they were smart, they wouldn't believe it.

  The demon wasn't smart.

  Before the first vessel hit the ground, Cassimer had fed another round into the Hyrrokkin's chamber and adjusted his aim. Going against instinct and avoiding the kill-shot was the hard part, but the second vessel fell shrieking, confirming that it'd been a good hit.

  "Little sister."

  Even with his augments, Cassimer strained to hear the demon over the roar of landslides.

  "I only have one brother," called Joy. "And you killed him."

  "Only the part of him that was flesh." The demon's voice rose a pitch every now and then, sharp notes like barbs on wire.

  "If flesh parts are so unimportant, why don't you come a little closer and we'll help you get rid of yours?"

  The demon tried to laugh, but the injured vessel cried out in pain, and the laughter became a scream. It was cut short by a bullet.

  "See what you have done, little sister? Twice I've killed myself because of you. I've never done that before. Not even when I wanted to. Not even during my ten-thousand-year captivity in the sands of Cato."

  Movement to the west. Guided by his HUD, Cassimer spotted two shimmers heading round the outside of the circle of glass fangs. He tracked them, waiting for an opportunity to take them.

  "Eight months on Cato and a brother lost, and you think that you have suffered? Try ten thousand years. Try working on your escape for a century-and-a-half, your every waking moment spent on controlling wilful human minds. Try getting close enough to the sky to touch it - only to have it ripped away. Only to be swallowed once more by the gloom, lying on Cato's cold sands as you die ten thousand deaths."

  Movement on the path below Joy. The demon, advancing as it spoke. Cassimer fired a quick warning shot that punched through glass, leaving a smouldering fist-sized hole.

  "I suffocated as smoke replaced oxygen. I burned in nuclear fire. I drowned in mud and am drowning still - trapped inside metal, I am sinking and drowning and screaming." The vessel approaching Joy had backed off and stopped, and Cassimer turned his attention back to the others.

  "I'm sorry," Joy said, her voice choked with tears.

  "Sorry?"
The demon scoffed. "You will be. You chose your soldier over your brother."

  What?

  "A choice that's kept you alive so far. But who will you chose when the choice is between the soldier and yourself?"

  Glass crunched underneath boots, and too late Cassimer understood that the demon had been talking to Joy, but had intended to distract him.

  Down below, a vessel came into view between two glass fangs. Cassimer took the shot, even as he felt the presence of another behind him.

  "Hands away from the rifle, soldier." The muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his neck.

  "Fuck off," he replied and chambered another round. The Hyrrokkin spat fire, but the demon struck him from behind, and his aim was thrown just enough for the second vessel to escape. At least Joy would've seen. At least she'd know to expect trouble.

  A boot kicked his Hyrrokkin away, sending it clattering down to the plateau.

  Still kneeling, Cassimer turned.

  "I have your soldier, little sister." The demon almost sang with glee. "Give yourself to me, and he can keep his flesh."

  "Cassimer?"

  The vessel with its gun on him smiled. "Answer her, soldier."

  No. Never. He'd play no such game. The vessel was male and dressed in Primaterre sentinel armour, but underneath that armour was a would-be colonist who'd spent a century in stasis. Its mind might be ancient, but its body had been built for softer, gentler times. It had been built for picnics in the park and bathrooms where soap dispensers wished their users a great day; and shadows that were just the absence of light.

  A long shard of glass lay within reach. The vessel caught him looking, and shook its head.

  "Don't," it said. "I'm not afraid to die."

  It was lying.

  "Neither am I," said Cassimer; and so was he.

  A twitch of his fingers toward the shard. The vessel reacted, kicking the shard away. Less than a second of lost concentration. Long enough.

  Cassimer grabbed its wrist and pulled it sharply towards him. It fired its gun, bullets screaming wildly into the haze, and stumbled forwards, tumbling into him. Cassimer's spine gave out in a burning gush of liquid. His knees slid across dusty rock, and into air.

  He landed hard on the plateau. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move; his chest felt heavy with dust and his spine like writhing fire. The vessel lay nearby, reaching with broken arms for its weapon.

  Cassimer's damaged shoulder had been broken beyond repair, fresh tendons snapping as he reached for his Morrigan with numb fingertips. The vessel sat up, raising its rifle - and jerked backwards in a spray of blood. Joy hadn't managed a kill shot, but good enough for Cassimer to have time to finish the job.

  A hot wind, glittering with embers, swept the haze from the plateau. Joy, lowering her borrowed gun, was approaching, but he motioned for her to stay back.

  The vessel the Hyrrokkin had failed to hit stepped into the circle of glass. It carried a rifle, and it aimed for her, sending a burst of bullets in her direction.

  But that was wrong. It knew where he was. It knew that he should be its priority target. The demon wasn't always smart, but it wasn't that stupid.

  "Joy -" He tried to call out a warning, but the wind forced dust and embers down his throat. Coughing, he rolled over, dug his fingers deep into mud and tried to push himself upright. Sweat spattered the ground. Liquid surged around his spine in hot spirals.

  And then he was on his knees and the Morrigan in his hands. He took the shot the demon had been expecting, but too late. Its barrage had forced Joy back, had forced her to leave the glass circle or die.

  Had forced her right into the demon's arms.

  It stood like a shadow between the two blocks of dark glass. It wore a suit of banneret armour, its dark visor sealed shut. A Hyrrokkin protruded over its shoulder, and the gun pressed to Joy's temple was a matte-black Morrigan.

  It laughed, and so did Cassimer. How could he not? Hell had found him in the crumbling mountains of a dying world. Here, where the winds blew hot as fire and ash rained from flame-lashed skies, it had come to him. And he had been right, because hell was cacophony and hell was chaos; and Joy had been right, because hell was silent anticipation and the stillness of tears in honey-brown eyes.

  "I'm glad you like my little joke."

  "It's something I've been waiting for a very long time," he said to the thing that might as well be his own reflection. Embers danced on its shoulders, streaking past its visor like fireflies, and he wondered; if the visor opened, would maggots come pouring out?

  "I understand the feeling." It slid the Morrigan's barrel along Joy's cheek. "Twice I gave the little sister a choice. Twice she failed to choose. Now I give you the choice, soldier. Die, and she will live."

  "Live?" He spat black dust on the ground. "As one of your vessels, you mean."

  "Her truth will live on, as will her flesh." The demon tugged the jacket from Joy's shoulder. Its hand slipped inside the collar, down her chest. "I think you like the flesh enough that you don't want to watch it be destroyed. I think that you'd rather die than see what this weapon will do to such a pretty face."

  "Joy." He spoke her name in despair. He knew what he had to do - two kill switch codes glowed on his HUD - but he'd told her once that killing a RebEarther was as inconsequential as harming her would be impossible, and that had been true. Was true. Was the cold weight of iron in his heart.

  And then he saw that the tears had gone from her eyes. He saw the slight turn of her nose and the firm line of her lips. She looked at him, tensing her fingers around the hilt of white-hot fire, and spoke a name of death.

  "Ereshkigal."

  He understood. Two bullets flew from his Morrigan, flew true and straight, and evaporated in a harmless sizzle against reactive armour plates. The demon staggered backwards, and Joy, slick with mud, slithered round and pulled Cassimer's thermal knife from her belt, and rammed it upwards into the demon's jaw.

  I taught her that, he thought, his stomach roiling with sickness and pride, and he crawled through mud to pulled her from the demon's arms.

  The demon was alive. Its jaw worked awkwardly up and down the incandescent blade. It spoke, though its words were garbled.

  "I will come for you, little sister. I will have you."

  "No." Cassimer pressed his palm against the hilt of the blade. "You won't."

  When the demon died, he took back his knife and burned it clean.

  "We need to keep climbing," he said to Joy, but when he tried to stand, he found that he couldn't. When he saw the look on her face, he tried harder and managed a few stumbling steps before collapsing.

  "It's all right," she said, helping him sit. "We'll be fine right here."

  ◆◆◆

  The haze had thickened to night darkness. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. The mountainside juddered, sending gouts of mud down the ravines and gullies.

  Cassimer and Joy huddled in the glass circle, behind a curtain of sludge pouring from the outcrop. He could hardly see her now, and there was no more pain, only a growing numbness. Joy assured him it was the cold and the shock, and maybe she was right - he wasn't used to either sensation.

  "Of course I'm right," she said, taking his hands between hers to rub them warm. "I'm sort of a scientist, remember?"

  A group of panicked RebEarthers galloped past them once, but either didn't see or didn't care. Couldn't blame them. The earth groaned with hollow thunder, and when his HUD reported a rising rad-count, it was his turn to comfort Joy.

  "I don't want to end up like Scarsdale."

  "You won't," he said.

  "Because we won't live long enough?"

  "Because the rad-count's still within acceptable levels."

  "Oh." She sighed and rested her head on his chest. "I'm sorry. Tell me something nice, Constant. Tell me about Scathach Station."

  He described to her its many rings and slowly-revolving core; how it shone like a beacon and how ships hovered around it like moths. He
described its shimmering aura of shields and its plated hull, and the section that belonged to the banneretcy. His quarters were larger, he told her, than any room he'd ever had before, and quiet. He told her about the park at the centre of Scathach, where wood-chip paths snaked around ponds underneath swaying canopies of oak and beech, and where artificial sunshine beat down on hill-sized boulders.

  "Ah," she said and smiled, wiping mud from his face. "That's where you got your tan."

  He nodded and told her about his favourite places and how he would take her there. She liked that, he could tell, and he wracked his mind for any detail that might make her smile, for words that might make her forget Cato for a moment. He knew it was possible, because he had walked its dead earth more than once imagining himself elsewhere.

  And then she stopped him with a hush.

  "Did you hear that?"

  She shook her head as he looked towards the mountain path. "No - over the comms."

  He opened all channels and turned up the volume. Static mounted until the white noise drowned out the rumbling ground. Nothing. Nothing. And then -

  "...opy...mander.."

  "Hopewell," he said with disbelief, and then, louder, across the team channel: "Hopewell, Florey - do you copy?"

  No response. He tried again and again, and Joy pointed towards the east.

  "Is that them?"

  A dark shadow moved through the dust storm. Big and weighty like a whale, pale cones of searchlights dully penetrating the haze.

  He nodded - maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, but at this point, he'd take any result. He continued to call out to them, but there was too much interference in the air, too much chaos.

  "Hang on." Joy patted his shoulder and stood. "I have an idea."

  Before he had time to object, she was gone. He got the absurd feeling that she was trying to run after them and tried to stand. He couldn't lose her to the storm.

  And then she was back, dragging his Hyrrokkin by the strap.

  "Paint it," she said. "Paint it red."

  He lifted the rifle to his good shoulder. His primer connected to its systems and searched the skies until it found its target. The targeting laser beamed bright crimson, and he held it, tracking the ship. If the RebEarth shuttle was half-decent, its systems would notice.