The Crucible (The Ember War Saga Book 8)

by Richard Fox

  “My…my Mule crashed a few miles away. Only survivor. You’re lucky I found you. I’m going to get you out, make a litter and get you to Phoenix. OK?”

  “Or sit in this seat until I die of blood loss or dehydration? Fine by me.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she unbuckled him from the cockpit.

  “Greg Harrison, assigned to 10th Defense Wing out of Maricopa. You?” His face twitched with pain as she slid her arms beneath his knees and back.

  “How many drones did you shoot down during the fight?”

  “What? I know I got at least nine before the—” Harrison let out a wail as Torni lifted him out of the cockpit. His right leg dangled at an obscene angle, badly broken. She set him down as gently as possible amid a torrent of profanity from the pilot.

  “Pain is good,” Torni said, “means the damages isn’t too bad.”

  “None of what I said was directed at you.” Harrison grimaced and laid back. “I got to get your name. I’m taking you to a steak dinner. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy that can get actual booze. You like whiskey? I’m a whiskey guy. Oh, what I wouldn’t give right now for a shot…”

  “My name…my name is Torni.” She dragged a section of wing away from the crash, then went back to the cockpit for the straps.

  “Torni? Like from that movie? What’re the odds?”

  “What movie?” She ripped the straps off then reached under the seat for the medical kit that was part of the ejection suite. The red plastic box came free with a tug. She opened it and found a can of disinfectant/analgesic spray.

  “You haven’t seen Last Stand on Takeni? I thought the big admiral made sure everyone saw it. Shame about what happened to that sergeant with your name. People ever ask if you’re related to her? Can’t be. She was true born—most everyone’s a proccie these days.” Harrison’s head wobbled from side to side.

  “Greg? You OK?”

  “Just dizzy.”

  Torni ripped the sleeve off his good arm and wrapped a fluid pack around his inner elbow. The pack stiffened, immobilizing the joint, then sent a needle into his veins and began flooding his system with a cocktail of drugs and hydration fluids.

  “Keep talking to me. Where you going to take me to dinner?” She ripped open his pants and sprayed the synthetic skin across oozing gashes down his leg.

  “There’s a guy named Vinny, little hole in the wall place. Doesn’t take script for payment, only gear. He owes me a couple meals after I found him a spare armored bodysuit. Ah…is that supposed to be so cold?”

  “I need to put a splint on your knee.” Torni reached back and saw a long shadow stretch across the ravine. It traced back to an armor soldier that had its arm cannons leveled right at her.

  “Get away from him,” boomed an oddly accented voice from the suit’s speakers.

  Torni raised her hands and got onto her knees.

  “What’s the problem? He needs medical attention,” Torni said. Could the armor know what she was?

  “Your infrared scan matches ambient temperature. You’re either a corpse…or Xaros.” The arm cannons clicked as rounds loaded into the breaches.

  “I’m not either of those.” Torni got to her feet slowly. “Don’t shoot. You’ll hurt him. Let me step away and I can explain all this. Somehow. How long have you got?”

  “Hey, tin man! You leave my girl alone!” Harrison shouted.

  Torni sidestepped away from the wounded pilot. A direct hit from the large-caliber cannons could crack a drone into pieces. Torni didn’t think she’d fare any better, not in her weakened state.

  The armor advanced toward her quickly, its cannons aimed with deadly intent.

  “Xaros killed my parents.” The armor slammed an open hand into Torni’s chest and lifted her off the ground, its fingers wrapped around her torso. It slammed her to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  “You murdered my world and now you come to take our new home from us.” The armor lifted its other arm overhead. The fist retracted, replaced by a diamond-tipped spike.

  Torni struggled against the mighty weight pressing her to the ground. Her arms lost their human appearance and reverted to the undulating patterns of a drone’s surface.

  “Leave Torni alone!” Harrison threw a rock that bounced off the armor’s helm.

  The arm went a bit higher, then froze.

  “There was a Torni…on Takeni. Saved me and my sister from the banshees,” the armor said.

  “We ran through the burning forest,” Torni said. “We were all on fire by the time we made it through. There was a little boy…Ar’ri…and Caas. Standish and I got them back to the capital and I never saw them again.”

  The fingers in her right hand lengthened against her will. A burning ruby formed when the tips touched. She tried to pull her fingers apart, but her body had different ideas.

  A massive foot from another armor soldier slammed onto her right hand, crushing the fingers. Bodel loomed over her.

  “At ease, Ar’ri. I know this one,” Bodel said. Ar’ri released his grip and sheathed his spike. Bodel slid his foot away.

  Torni grabbed her crushed hand at the wrist. It took a moment of concentration to return to its normal shape.

  “We didn’t part on the best terms,” Bodel said.

  “Elias was trying to destroy Malal. I did what I had to.” Torni stood up. She closed her eyes and forced her shell to mimic her old human form.

  “What the hell kind of drugs did you give me?” Harrison asked.

  “He needs help,” Torni said.

  “He’ll get it.” Bodel canted his head to the pilot. Ar’ri picked him up gently and carried him out of the ravine. “Picked up his emergency beacon. We were out looking for him. What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to get to Phoenix. If you could give me a ride, maybe explain what the hell’s been going on, I’d appreciate it,” Torni said.

  CHAPTER 8

  The crack of gauss weapons pounded through the passageway as the three Marines reached the stairs leading into the dome. Standish mag-locked his rifle onto his back and thrust his arms up into the hatch. His palms hit with a metallic clang. The hatch bobbled, but stayed closed.

  “What the hell?” He pushed on the door again and managed to lift it a few inches. “It’s not locked.”

  Panicked shouting and the rattle of a rotary cannon came from the other side of the entrance.

  “We’re not going to sit here while everyone else fights,” Egan said, joining Standish beneath the hatch. They managed to lift it a few inches before dropping it again.

  Bailey touched the other hatch…and lifted it with ease. She pumped her arm and sent the door flying open.

  “I knew that.” Standish took his rifle off his back and charged up the stairs behind Bailey and Egan.

  Smoke rose from the flaming towers and coalesced into an ugly cloud against the ceiling. Doughboys and Marines fired over the battlements, ducking as short bolts of lightning struck the walls.

  A pile of slain doughboys lay on the closed hatch door, jumbled with rectangular aegis shields almost the size of the soldiers that carried them. Each bore a circular wound through their helmets.

  “Hey, what happened to them?” Standish asked.

  “Hornets!” The warning came from one of the last intact towers and echoed across the battlements.

  “What the hell are they talking about?” Bailey swung her long sniper rifle up and looked down her scope.

  “I’m not sure,” Standish said.

  A shadow zipped across the ground. Standish looked up and caught a blur diving straight at Bailey. He slammed his hip against the diminutive Marine and sent her sprawling. The blur clipped Standish on the shoulder and spun him around.

  What looked like a chrome-covered wasp slid across the floor, gouging tiny furrows as it came to a stop. Bulbous and misshapen eyes focused on Standish. Silver-tipped claws the size of daggers snapped out from the hornet’s many legs. It rose into the air on a t
hrum of antigravity generators.

  Standish swung his rifle up as it shot toward him so fast his eyes could barely follow. The hornet smacked into the barrel and ripped the weapon out of his hands. It lurched higher and snapped the rifle in half.

  Egan fired on the Ruhaald attacker and missed as it danced from side to side, getting closer to Standish with each swoosh through the air.

  Standish drew his pistol and tried to draw a bead on the hornet. An evil buzz rose through the air as the daggers stretched toward Standish and it dove on him.

  A dark shape crossed in front of the Marine and he heard a metallic clang and a grunt. The doughboy in front of Standish stepped aside, revealing metal spikes from the hornet that had pierced through the aegis shield he carried. The spikes jiggled as a discordant buzz filled the air. The doughboy lifted the shield over his head and slammed it to the ground, on top of the struggling hornet, then he leaped onto the shield and jumped on top of it like a child playing on a mattress.

  “Whoa, whoa! I think you got it,” Standish said to the doughboy.

  Onyx Twelve-Twelve pointed his gauss rifle at the shield and said, “No like!”

  “I’m with you on that one, buddy.” Looking at the remains of his rifle, Standish sighed. “Now how about we—”

  A nearby barricade buckled inward as something smashed into it with the force of a runaway truck. Defenders along the wall opened fire on whatever was opposite the damaged wall.

  Bailey ran a line from a battery pack on her hip to her rail rifle. Electricity arced up and down the twin vanes of the barrel.

  “Don’t think that’s another hornet,” she said.

  Another slam battered the barricade aside and a scorpion tank charged through the breech. The scorpion’s tail snapped over the shields and let off a torrent of lightning bolts that cracked over Standish’s head and filled the air with the reek of ozone.

  “Bailey? Anytime now!” Standish yelled.

  The sniper grabbed Standish by the shoulder and nestled against his chest.

  “Don’t move.” She raised her rifle and aimed it at the Ruhaald armor.

  Rail rifles were designed as anti-materiel weapons, meant to knock out fortified positions and punch through vulnerable spots on well-armored void warships. Firing a fully charged shot from a standing position was strictly forbidden in training, given the injury rate to the shooters.

  Bailey’s rifle whined as the magnetic fields along the twin vanes accelerated a slug beyond the limits of the sound barrier. Thunder clapped as the bullet streaked toward the Ruhaald armor so fast it left a burning trail of air in its wake.

  The recoil slammed Bailey into Standish. With no backstop of his own, Standish went flying and slammed into the ground so hard stars erupted across his vision.

  He lifted his head off the ground and saw the Ruhaald armor—a giant chunk of one armored forelimb blown away and its tip-less weapon’s tail spewing green liquid as it flailed in pain—running straight for him.

  The enemy let off a squeal, leaped into the air, and arced straight down toward Standish.

  Standish let out an un-Marine-like yell and rolled to the side. Darkness slammed around him and he bounced against something hard and unforgiving. He looked around and found himself surrounded by pulsating cables full of lambent liquid. He tried to get to his feet and found his foot caught in a mess of wires.

  A ray of light opened ahead of him as a gap appeared. He caught a glimpse of doughboys and Marines firing on the scorpion tank. A gauss bullet sprang off the ground and bounced off his thigh as the gap closed.

  “Ah, damn it!” Standish struggled to pull his foot free and accomplished nothing.

  The walking tank shifted to the side, dragging Standish across the floor.

  “Not. Good.” He tightened his grip on his pistol, pointed at the morass of alien machinery and snapped off a round into a cluster of wires. The bullet bounced away and pinged around the enclosure.

  “Not there.” He found a slight bulge against the roof and fired again. The tank jerked like it had been hit with a live wire. Neon fluid poured onto Standish. The tank stumbled to the side as the concussion of an explosion shook the floor.

  “If I don’t get stepped on, I’ll get blown up by my own Marines.” Standish took a grenade off his belt and double-pressed the firing pin to activate it. He emptied his pistol into the sack and tossed the grenade into the flapping tear—then he threw his arms over his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

  The grenade exploded with a whoomp. Standish felt a tidal wave of fluid slam into his body and send him tumbling like driftwood coming in to a beach. His world became a chaos of motion and green until he thumped into something.

  Wiping slime off his visor, he found Onyx glaring down at him. Standish looked at his body: green ooze covered every inch of him, sloughing to the side in thick gobs. He whined and tried to wipe the mess away.

  “Standish!” Bailey ran over. She reached for him, then jerked her hand back with a look of disgust. “You…OK?”

  The Marine tried to shake the goo off his hands.

  “Do I look OK?”

  “We thought we’d have to take you home in a bucket. Glad you’re…somewhat better than that,” Bailey said.

  Standish let out a miserable cry and looked around. None of the defenders fired as doughboys and Marines hustled around the barricades.

  “Did we win?” he asked. “Oh God…I feel so yucky.”

  “Squids pulled back after you killed their tank,” Bailey said. “Nice work.”

  “Can you get me to the reactor?” Standish sat up, accompanied by a slurping sound from the goo.

  “What? Why?”

  “To make me a towel, maybe? Wet wipes? A pressure washer? Something!”

  “Stop being a wuss,” Bailey said, but she helped him to his feet.

  ****

  Hale, Steuben and Cortaro stood on a fire step running across the access bay and above the entrance doors. They peered through a foot-high firing slit to the Ruhaald energy wall, made whole since their escape. The image of a crude white flag played across the barrier along with slanted numbers reading “09.”

  “And the number is getting smaller?” Hale asked.

  “Was ‘17’ eight minutes ago,” Cortaro shrugged.

  “I do not understand the image,” Steuben said.

  “It signifies surrender,” Cortaro said. “Maybe we gave them enough of a beating that they know what’s best for them.”

  “No one surrenders while they have the high ground.” Hale handed a set of binoculars to Steuben. “I watched plenty of shuttles come and go in the last few minutes. They’re reconstituting their force behind the wall. From what I remember of my laws of land warfare class at Quantico, a white flag means ‘we want to talk.’”

  “You think those Ruhaald had the same class?” Cortaro asked.

  “We know the Ruhaald have prisoners. It’s not impossible that they asked around for some way to talk to us without getting shot in the face the second we saw them.” Hale rapped his fingers against the firing slit. “We have comms with Phoenix yet?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve got Devins in one of the wrecked AA batteries trying to get an IR bounce back to the city,” Cortaro said.

  “Shall we speak with them? Or is this a trick?” Steuben asked.

  “Trusting an enemy to honor a flag of truce depends on the enemy. The Chinese kept to the laws of land warfare. Daesh in Europe and the Levant, not so much,” Hale said.

  “We saw them murdering prisoners. I don’t trust them,” Cortaro said.

  “It is a mistake to judge an alien culture by your own standards,” Steuben said. “The Karigole do not kill those unable to fight, but we also do not take prisoners.”

  “You’re not helping,” Cortaro muttered.

  A segment of the energy wall faded away. Hale heard orders snapped as the defenders readied their doughboys to fight.

  “Hold your fire.” Hale held up a hand as a single alien veh
icle came out of the gap. It was little more than an anti-grav sled with a single Ruhaald driver in the front. Behind it were a half-dozen humans, all bound into a fetal position by silver cord. The barrier returned seconds later.

  “First Sergeant?” Hale asked.

  “If it weren’t for the prisoners, I’d say this is a trap—shoot a couple rounds in the dirt to get them to turn around. But maybe they’ve got Bailey and Egan out there,” Cortaro said.

  “What about Standish?” Steuben asked.

  “Oh. Him.”

  “Steuben?” Hale nudged the Karigole with an elbow.

  “There is risk. Let me speak with them.”

  “They’re expecting to negotiate with a human. It needs to be me.” Hale watched as the sled came to a stop in the middle of the barren plain between the firebase and the energy barrier. The Ruhaald driver—the wide-shouldered kind with two legs—stood up, held its arms wide, and slowly turned around. Hale took the binos, zoomed in, and saw this alien had a constellation of stars etched onto its breastplate.

  “Unarmed and kind of a big deal by its flair.” Hale handed his gauss rifle and pistol over to Cortaro. “Have Thibodaux cover me with his rail gun. Anything goes wrong, don’t risk coming for me.”

  Hale touched the sacrificial dagger he’d taken from the Ruhaald when he rescued Nickel and left it on his belt. He’d worn it during the smash-and-grab; there was a decent chance the Ruhaald would recognize it. If he’d learned anything from negotiating with the Toth, having some sort of reputation helped his bargaining posture.

  “Your instructions are received,” Steuben said.

  Hale grabbed on to a ladder leading up the firing stoop and slid down. One of the Hussars yanked the reinforced door open wide enough for Hale to squeeze through. He stepped into the dry heat and marched toward the stopped sled. The Ruhaald paced back and forth, its helmet locked on Hale.

  “Steuben,” Hale said into the IR, “you said you received my instructions about not trying to save me. You understand what I mean? If this is a trap, you let it play out and take charge of the firebase.”

  “Standish shared the human parable about the value of asking for forgiveness instead of permission.”