by Richard Fox
“Thank you for the history lesson, XO. How about you tell me if you found the Ibarras?” Lettow deadpanned.
“Yes, sir. Probes are away.”
A few seconds later, the colony world appeared in the holo on the opposite side of the moon.
A gold-bordered comm request appeared in the holo tank, a direct line from the Normandy.
Lettow tapped the icon and a woman with blond hair run through with a few white strands replaced the icon.
“Ardennes, not to speak too soon, but our arrival is on track. The moon screened us from the target world. Should help with the shock-and-awe factor,” Admiral Ericson said.
Did High Command send Admiral Valdar’s old XO along to send a message…or to relieve me if I screwed up again? Lettow thought. What I wouldn’t give to have the old man around for some advice.
“30th is through,” she said. “We’re set for lockdown. Primo Victoria.” She signed off with the Normandy’s motto.
“XO, engage limpets,” Lettow said. “No need to have anyone else joining this fight.”
“Aye aye,” Paxton said.
In the holo tank, red pulses appeared in the Crucible. The graviton generators would create fields, making any travel through the gate impossible.
“Strike Marine Team Gold reports that control node alpha is unmanned,” Paxton said. “Still waiting for updates from the rest.”
“Release the San Juan’s destroyer squadron from formation and have them secure the Crucible,” Lettow said. “We’ll need IR buoys around the moon to keep comms open once we cross the horizon.”
“Buoys being loaded into launch tubes now,” Paxton said. “Bridge crew anticipated the need and got the techs working soon as we came through.”
“A problem foreseen is a problem half-solved. Pass on my compliments,” Lettow said.
The 14th and 30th accelerated around the moon, each in an arrowhead formation with the battleships at the tip.
Lettow tapped a finger against the edge of the holo tank. Things were going smoothly—so smoothly that he worried he’d blundered into a trap.
“Hail coming through from the target planet,” Paxton said.
“Comms, an attempt to get a message through the Crucible?” Lettow asked.
“Negative, Admiral,” said a lieutenant in a workstation. “No IR relays detected anywhere in system. They may have something on the moon’s surface we haven’t found yet.”
“Sir, report in from Strike Marine Team Crimson.” Paxton reached into the holo tank and flicked a file toward Lettow. Camera footage of a Crucible command node came up, a domed room with several descending tiers and stairs designed for beings much taller than humans. At the bottom of the node was a blast crater. Tendrils of smoke reached through the air as the self-repair protocols of the Crucible reknit the basalt-like material of the floor.
“Team leader reports feeling a shock wave soon after entering the structure. They found the control room like this. Denethrite explosive residue detected throughout the command node. No casualties,” she said.
“Was the explosion before or after we locked down the Crucible?” Lettow asked.
“It was…eighteen seconds after we engaged the limpets,” she said.
“Comms detected no signal from the planet. Nothing got through…what did they blow up?”
Paxton shrugged her shoulders.
“I need better than that, XO. We have all manner of equipment bolted to our Crucibles. Find out what was in that room,” Lettow said. He set a delay to open the channel with the Ibarra colony and dialed Admiral Ericson in to monitor the conversation.
A bald man with a wide face appeared in a window as several others milled around behind him.
“Hello? This is Balmaseda Governor Thrace. Identify yourselves,” he said.
Lettow stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked into the camera and let his iron bearing make the first impression.
“Governor Thrace, I am Admiral Lettow of the Terran Union. Your presence here is in violation of the Hale Treaty and must be removed immediately. I’ve been instructed to take you, and every last illegal settler, back to Terran space. You will comply. How difficult the relocation goes depends on you.”
“Now just a goddamn minute.” Thrace looked over his shoulder and waved at someone. “The Ibarra Nation isn’t a signatory to the Hale Treaty and we’re not going to up and leave our homes because some pompous…”
Lettow looked to one side of the holo tank. Both fleets were nearly over the horizon and visible from Balmaseda.
The admiral’s earpiece clicked as Paxton spoke to him.
“Planet is barely habitable,” she said. “One city on a mesa in a mountain range. Couple outlying settlements near glaciers. That must be where they’re getting water.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Admiral,” Thrace said, though his mouth wavered and his eyes betrayed just how scared he really was. This was not a man with a military background, Lettow decided.
“I am not asking you, Thrace,” Lettow said. “I am telling you. I have two fleets at my disposal. Armor. Strike Marines and battalions of Rangers. Bastion is fully aware that you’re here, and if I don’t remove you, they’ll send the Kroar or the Mendesans to deal with you. Have you ever seen a Kroar? They’re seven-foot-tall hairy alligators and full carnivores. They’re still angry at humans after they tried and failed to take our colony on Eire. I am the last friendly face you will ever see if you don’t comply with my instructions.”
“We…we’re not helpless, you know.” Thrace swallowed hard.
“I’m under orders to remove you without force if possible. You fire on my ships or my soldiers and my goodwill vanishes…I don’t know your background.” The corner of Lettow’s mouth twitched. He would bet a month’s salary this Thrace was a new proccie. “But you’re old enough to remember rebuilding Earth, the whole Ember War, and all the work humanity did together to fight back from the edge. I’m not here as your enemy. I am here to save you from the rest of the galaxy. Don’t turn—”
The channel cut out.
“Damn it, I rehearsed that part forever.” Lettow looked over at Paxton.
“Admiral, this colony hasn’t been here long.” Her hand tapped inside the holo tank, and a picture of the main settlement appeared. Rows of multistory buildings stretched out from four massive colony landers, each the size of a battlecruiser.
“This place is a shake and bake,” Paxton said. “We did the same thing with our first out-system colonies. Drop enough people and equipment to be self-sustaining. More about planting the flag than long-term viability.”
“Admiral,” the lieutenant commander at the ship’s tactical station stood up, “sensors are picking up rail gun batteries throughout the surrounding mountain ranges and a number buried beneath the moon’s surface.”
“Are they active?” Lettow asked.
“Negative, sir. Powered down at the moment,” he said, “but if their tech is as good as ours, they could have rounds in the void in less than five minutes.”
“Normandy, go to a dispersed formation.” Lettow pulled the data from the tactical officer into his tank and waited as his ship’s computer analyzed the number of guns and just how much damage they could do in one salvo. He grunted as the first simulation went through. Of the twenty batteries they’d detected, the colonists might have managed a hit or two through his fleets’ point defense. None of their guns would have survived to make a second shot.
“Thrace isn’t a fanatic,” Lettow said. “At least one thing’s going right for us today. Tactical. I want a full scan of the system. I don’t want to find out they have macro cannons when a hypervelocity round from the Kuiper belt cuts the Ardennes in half.”
“Aye aye.”
“Low orbit to discourage a macro shot, Admiral?” Paxton asked. “They fire one on us, it’ll hit the planet—massive destruction and a mini ice age for decades.”
“We’ll set the 30th to low orbit. Keep us in geo-
synch over the settlement in case they have any surprises we’ve not anticipated.”
“Admiral, Thrace is hailing us again,” the comms officer said.
“He can wait.” Lettow pulled up a menu and tapped a name. “Colonel Martel, begin landing your armor. Phase two begins now.”
Chapter 18
“…and then I threw the dragon way up into the air and it flew away,” Jonathan said.
Roland smiled and looked down at his plate. He’d had more than one serving and felt like he’d eaten a bit more than what was polite, but the lamb chops had a spice to them that Roland had never tasted before, and the grain dish was savory and had an almost-cinnamon aftertaste. Wherever this Navarre planet was, the Ibarras had made good use of the local flora.
“That’s quite the story, son,” Nicodemus said.
“I’m all done eating,” the boy said. “Can you help me with gauss cannon targeting? Mom said you would.”
“I need to take Mr. Shaw back to his quarters,” Nicodemus said.
“But Mom said…”
“I can get back on my own,” Roland said. “Air cars are air cars. Right? The gu—people in charge of quarters won’t mind.”
Nicodemus looked hard at Roland, then glanced at the small shrine to Saint Kallen in the corner behind him.
Roland brushed his hand over the bare patch on his shoulder, making an implicit promise to the Saint that he wouldn’t abuse Nicodemus’ trust.
“Go get your gear on,” the Ibarran said to his son.
Jonathan scrambled off his chair and raced away.
“Your car should still be waiting,” Nicodemus said.
“Then I’ll get started on dishes.” Suzzana made to get up, but Nicodemus stopped her.
“We’ll let the Rosie handle it,” he said.
“You remember this.” She pointed at Roland and then to her husband. “Spoil your pregnant wife and life will be happier for everyone.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roland said, standing up. “Thank you for having me over.”
“Sir,” Roland said to Nicodemus as he walked toward the exit. The Ibarran joined him and grabbed him by the forearm as the door opened.
“If you think I’ll go easy on you after this…” Nicodemus said.
“I didn’t think you would.” Roland frowned.
“Have a safe trip back.” Nicodemus waited until Roland had started down the hallway before closing the door.
Roland heard muffled conversations from the other apartments as he passed. Just how many families were here? He’d imagined the Ibarrans as little more than one giant army, creating entire strike groups from their crèche farms bent on whatever Stacey Ibarra demanded from them. To know that there was a deeper dimension, that they lived lives little different from the people of Earth and the colonies…
The pair of legionnaires met him without a word at the garage. They kept their weapons pointed away from Roland and their fingers off the trigger, but Roland could sense their alert nature. Even if he had the desire to try to escape now, he’d stand a better chance fighting armor while in his utilities and holding a butter knife.
A deep sense of uselessness and ennui came over him as the pilotless air car came up to him. There was no escape from the Ibarrans, he realized. He was nothing more than a nuisance for them now, having already given up what they wanted from him.
Resistance was useless. Without his armor, he was nothing as a fighter compared to those combat-built and -bred legionnaires.
An air car rose up and came to a gentle stop in front of him. A door opened and Roland saw a small book on the seat.
“You guys coming with me?” Roland asked a legionnaire. The soldier motioned toward the car with his rifle’s muzzle.
Bolts locked the door after Roland got inside, and the car moved off before he could sit down, the windows going dark before it moved out of sight of the legionnaires. The car turned hard and the book skittered across the seat to Roland’s side.
It was the tape-covered Templar primer. Roland opened it, deciding to get some study in during the view-less trip back to his cell. He glanced at the inner cover that bore the handwritten inscription: Property of B.B.
BB…Bassani? The primer grew cold to the touch as Roland realized who it belonged to. Bassani was dead, presumably lost in battle. Roland put it down gently and turned his gaze to his reflection in the window.
I don’t deserve it. I am armor, but I am a failure.
He didn’t bother to keep a count during his trip. It was pointless. He crossed his arms over his chest and huddled against the door, basking in his self-pity.
After a few minutes, the screens went blank and the world outside the car was there. He turned his head just as the car passed a final skyscraper and went into the gloom. The glow from the city faded out quickly, and the air car continued unabated. The clouds darkened and rain lashed against the windows.
“Hello?” Roland rapped his fingers against the glass separating his compartment from the control systems up front. Being enveloped in the abyss wasn’t unusual for an armor soldier accustomed to the womb, but being in a car on a strange planet traveling to an unknown destination brought Roland’s combat instincts to life.
He looked down and saw the shadows of mountain ridges lit by travel beacons.
At least I’m going somewhere. Maybe they aren’t going to use the lamest escape attempt in military history as an excuse to kill me.
A dull pyramid edged in light emerged in the distance. Roland leaned close to the windshield as the car angled down toward a hangar door that slid up one side. The structure was enormous, easily several times the size of the skyscraper he’d just come through. He saw rail cannons dotted along the pyramid, their vanes facing down as small rivers of rain ran off them.
Is this where they’re holding me? This trip was longer than the flight to Nicodemus’ place and with fewer turns…where is this? Roland slipped the primer into a thigh pocket as his car swooped into the hangar only a bit wider than the vehicle.
The car slowed to a stop and Roland stuck his head out, looking for the two habitual guards but found the hangar otherwise empty. A blast door slid down and locked in place with a thump that echoed through the chamber.
A doorframe lit up and Roland got out and looked around.
“Okay, then.” The door slid open to a wide hallway as he approached. His boots echoed off the dark rock walls, constructed of a different material than his prison. He passed closed doors, each with foreign words carved onto the surface in neat English letters.
Roland stopped before a double door arched with blocks, the keystone bearing a red Templar cross. The door opened down the middle and a gust of air tinted with incense wafted over him. Shadows moved in the candlelit chamber beyond. Dim light glinted off metal rings on the shadows at head height, all vanishing as those inside turned to look at Roland.
Morrigan, wearing dark chain mail, a sword belt, and a sash with a Templar cross, emerged from the darkness and grabbed him by the wrist.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.
A chill crept across his skin and Morrigan shuddered. A hooded figure walked up and light played across Stacey Ibarra’s surface. A tall man with a full beard in the same dress as Morrigan followed close behind.
“He’s my guest,” Ibarra said. “You all don’t mind if I see this part, not a problem if he joins me, is it?”
“Our invitation is to you…and to whom you choose,” the man said. “He will be respectful,” he put a hand on his sword hilt, “I’m sure.”
“Come, Mr. Shaw.” Ibarra motioned to him. “This part always fascinates me.”
Roland swallowed hard and stepped into the room.
Templar, at least two dozen of them, stepped aside for Stacey and Roland as she brought him up to a ring of candles along the floor. A privacy screen hummed a few inches past the line of candles, and the barrier changed as they drew closer, opening the view into what was beyond.
He gaze
d down into an amphitheater where rows and rows of kneeling men and women—all in the same Templar garb, their hands gripped on their swords planted point first into the floor—faced a raised stage. The chants of prayer, prayers Roland had memorized from the primer, rose from the faithful.
Stacey tossed back her hood and the slight chill of her presence grew stronger, but was not as bone-chilling and painful as the last time he was in her presence. She gripped her sleeve with a gloved hand and wires in the coat glowed. Roland felt a bit warmer.
“They pray for hours, I’m told.” Ibarra gently tilted her head from side to side, the candles’ reflection twisting on her metal face. “Is it the same still on Earth for the Vigil?”
“I’ve not stood the Vigil yet,” Roland said.
She gave him a look; even without expression, Roland felt she was perturbed.
“Those who take the final Templar rites will go to Memorial Square in Phoenix, kneel with their armor, and recite the litanies from dusk until dawn,” he said. “There’s more that comes afterwards, but that’s revealed at the end of the Vigil.”
“I love tradition,” she said. “It’s what makes us who we are. It’s such a shame that I could never send my armor back to Earth for the rite, things being as they are. But they’ve made do.”
“You mean this is…your Vigil?” Roland asked.
“The public part.” She brought her fingers up to the side of her head and twirled them around. “This isn’t the only place to watch.”
A spotlight appeared on stage and widened, bathing the wooden slats in gentle light. Toward the back, a single suit of armor knelt with a sword made of glass run through with golden lines. The armor was of an older model, one phased out not long after the Ember War ended.
“Ah…Elias,” she said. “I remember him, a man singular in purpose. A true warrior, one that never wavered from what he considered to be right. His code of honor almost ruined everything…if he’d survived that last battle, he would have destroyed me the first chance he had. Still, I wish he was with us. It was his iron heart that won the war against the Xaros Masters on their world, and I bargained away my soul to win us the galaxy from the Xaros drones. But he’s the one we all remember, the one with the monuments. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”