by Richard Fox
“XO, what’s out there? Are we sure the Ibarrans are even here?” Lettow activated the holo tank and it fizzled to life. The Crucible gate with his ship in the center was well imaged, but what was around that came in broken and distorted.
“Radiation is wreaking hell on our scanners,” Paxton said. “We’re working through spotter feeds from around the ship now.”
A minute ticked by. If the two Ruhaald observers were getting nervous, he couldn’t tell. A message request from the Vishrakath contingent popped up, but he swatted it away.
A black ball of a planet cut through with varicose lines of red lava appeared forward and below the Crucible gate. A shadow in the nebula formed on the near side of the planet and Lettow’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of all this.
“Fascinating,” Rhysli said, raising her enclosed chair flush with the holo table. “This system is moving through the nebula. It must be a rogue star. One so close to the galactic core is—”
“Sir,” Paxton interrupted, running over to the holo table, “there’s a magnetar star fifteen astronomic units away. It’s flooding the nebula with radiation. If we get in the planet’s wake, our shields will hold.”
“Conn, get us in low orbit, best speed!” Lettow ordered.
“Aye aye!” came from the bridge and the Ardennes lurched forward. A course projection came up in the holo tank. The carrier would reach safety with two minutes to spare.
“Rad levels should slack off the closer we get,” Paxton said. “Not that I suggest we slow down.”
“We can make the return trip to the Crucible easy enough,” Lettow said.
“Why are the Ibarrans here?” Rhysli asked. “I get ahead of myself. Why did the Xaros build a Crucible gate here?”
“The Xaros built gates in only two places,” Jarilla said, “over habitable worlds or in systems with archaeotech—civilizations dead before the Xaros arrived.”
“Nunavik isn’t exactly ripe for colonization,” Lettow said, shifting the holo tank to the planet. Swaths of the surface came into clear focus as cameras from around the ship sent video to the tank for processing: active volcanoes and obsidian-black terrain riven through with lava flows.
What are they here for? Lettow wondered, then asked, “XO, any sign of the Ibarrans?”
“We got a hit from the graviton wave generated by our arrival,” she said, and in the tank a cone extended from the Crucible to Nunavik, encompassing the whole planet. “They got a head start on us. My guess is they’re in low orbit to keep out of the radiation.”
“We’ll find them,” Lettow said. “It’ll just take some time.”
“By the depths,” Rhysli said.
In the holo, an ivory and gold circle appeared. Lettow directed more cameras to the area and zoomed in. The area covered over a hundred and twenty miles, nearly the size of metropolitan Phoenix back on Earth. On closer inspection, the gold lines became buildings, all radiating out from a central dome.
“Fascinating,” Rhysli said, “the radius is ten kilometers. The builders gave it an area that echoes pi. This could be a Qa’Resh location. They worked mathematical constants into their architecture on other planets.”
“How is it still here?” Paxton asked. “The Qa’Resh vanished millions of years ago. This planet is like Io.”
Jarilla reached into the tank and tried to manipulate the view with his eight-tentacled hand. Bubbles floated from his mouth tendrils and he pulled three tentacles back to match a human hand. The view shifted to the edge of the city…and Lettow watched in amazement as terrain moved beneath the circumference.
“The city is moving,” Lettow said.
“Keeps it out of the lava and the radiation,” Paxton said. “Not bad.”
“Long-term study of a magnetar moving through the galactic center would—” Lettow stopped the Ruhaald.
Paxton touched her forearm screen and tossed a file into the tank. The view shifted over to a human drop pod not far from the central dome.
“Got you,” Lettow said. He swiped through shifting data readings then opened a channel to the commander of his embarked Rangers. “Major Haskell, how long can your men function in that environment? The city’s out of the worst of the radiation, but the levels are still far above normal.”
“Maybe seven minutes before our absorption layers fail,” the major sent back.
“Stand down,” Lettow sighed. “This isn’t a suicide mission. Augment the counter-boarding and damage-control parties as the chief of the boat sees fit.” He closed the channel.
“Guess it’s up to the armor,” Paxton said. “They’re built for harsh environments like this.”
“I don’t like having only a single option,” Lettow said. “It makes you predictable and vulnerable, but it’s not like we’re spoiled for choice right now. Captain Gideon?”
“Task Force Iconoclast stands ready.” Gideon’s icon popped up in the tank.
“Load drop pods,” Lettow said. “I’m letting you off the leash before we make orbit. If we can’t detect the Ibarrans on sensors in this mess, they won’t see your approach.”
“We will not fail.” Gideon cut the channel.
Lettow stepped back from the holo tank, emotion roiling behind his eyes. This wasn’t like Balmaseda where he led a mission to remove an Ibarran colony as peacefully as possible—a mission he carried out that led to a tacit truce with the Ibarrans when it came time to fight the Kesaht. This was a decapitation strike. This was an overt act of war. There was no turning back from this.
“You have concerns, Admiral?” Jarilla asked.
“No,” he said. “My orders are clear. Stacey Ibarra’s reign ends now.”
Chapter 22
Roland felt vibrations through the floor as the hangar dome opened. All the Narvik crew and most of the prisoners had evacuated, leaving Medvedev and a handful of turncoats remaining along with the Templar.
Medvedev handed Roland a carbine.
“What’s next?” Roland asked.
“Last chance out of here,” the legionnaire said. “Then it’s up to the Saint if we make it home.”
“The Saint…” Roland turned to Tongea. “Her tomb is here on Mars. Who will look after it? After her?”
Tongea frowned. “It’s not just the Templar that revere her,” the Maori said. “A good deal of the military does too. They wouldn’t disturb her.”
“It’s a tomb,” Colonel Martel said. “Relics of the final battle against the Xaros are buried there. Laran wouldn’t dare—”
Medvedev raised a hand.
“Our ride landed. Hangar is pressurizing. Get ready to move.” The legionnaire went back to the air-lock doors.
“Aignar,” Roland said to the other two Templar. “He could be reasoned with. Maybe he’ll—”
“Where is he?” Tongea said.
“In the back.” Roland motioned with his carbine. “You can see his hands…or not.”
A light wobbled over the top of the tunnel entrance. Roland leaned to one side and down the curved passage. Templar shifted uneasily from side to side.
“That’s the arrival light,” Tongea said.
“It’s on the other side too.” Martel pointed across the guard post to the shut doors of the tunnel leading to Charlie.
The sound of a high-speed cart racing down tracks sounded through the opposite doors.
“Incoming!” Roland dived forward just as the other tunnel doors exploded. A concussion slapped against Roland’s head and a hunk of a metal door ripped through a workstation next to him, killing a pair of prisoners guarding the catwalk entrance. Smoke filled the air, choking Roland.
Pain crept into his feet. He looked down and saw that both his feet were on fire. He kicked at the floor and slapped the flames away, burning his hand against the red buckles of his boots. Hacking and coughing as more smoke entered his lungs, he pawed through the growing darkness for his weapon.
His eyes stinging against the caustic air, he swung his carbine toward the observat
ion windows and willed his weapon to fire.
I’m not in my armor! he thought.
He pulled the trigger, emptying the magazine into the window, and heard coughing all around him…then a cracking sound. As the glass broke apart in a rain of crystal knives, smoke billowed out and into the dome, clearing the air slowly throughout the guard post.
Roland blinked tears from his eyes and saw the round counter on his carbine flashing double zeros. His ears roared with tinnitus from the explosion, and he was acutely aware of what a difference his armor made on the battlefield.
Another carbine lay a few feet away, a severed arm still gripping the handle.
Muffled shouts fought through the ringing, but he kept his focus on the weapon. Even out of armor, he knew he needed a weapon to be useful in a fight. He crawled forward, the smell of soot and blood almost gagging him.
Roland reached for the weapon, and a gauss bullet snapped past his face and sliced across the top of his arm. He cried out and fell onto his stomach as another round passed through where his head had just been.
“Ferrum corde!” Medvedev shouted.
A dozen power-armored Strike Marines and Rangers rushed through the blown doors.
Medvedev leaped off a workstation and speared a Strike Marine with his shoulder. The legionnaire’s sudden attack caught the Union troops flat-footed and he rolled into the middle of their group. He jabbed a carbine into a Ranger’s neck and blew his throat out, then swung the dying soldier into another Strike Marine, knocking her off her feet.
The legionnaire slapped a rifle aside and grabbed the Ranger by the wrists, pulling him across his body with a twist of his hips. The Ranger stopped a bullet meant for Medvedev’s heart and flopped to the ground.
Izuma snapped his Ka-Bar out of his forearm housing and hacked it against Medvedev’s forearms, cracking the armor plate and forcing the legionnaire to drop his weapon. A Ranger kicked Medvedev in the small of his back and sent him stumbling forward. Izuma pulled his knife arm back and rammed the blade into Medvedev’s stomach, piercing the armor.
“Templar!” Martel shouted. “Charge!”
A roar filled the air and the unarmored Templar thundered out of the tunnel.
Roland snatched up the carbine with his good arm and struggled to his feet as gauss fire erupted from the Union troops.
The forward ranks of the Templar fell, riddled with bullets. A melee broke out as Templar charged over their dead and wrestled with the Union troops.
Tongea wrenched a Strike Marine’s muzzle up, straining against the armor’s powered muscles just long enough for another Templar to crush the butt of her carbine into the Marine’s visor.
Roland almost tripped over a dead Templar and veered toward a scrum of his fellows beating Izuma with bare fists and hunks of rock. Blood poured down the split flesh of his arm, but the pain was lost in the adrenaline haze.
A Strike Marine toward the fore of the fight threw off a Templar, crushing bones against the wall. Roland braced the carbine barrel over his bloody arm and fired, hitting the Strike Marine in the chest and staggering it back.
Martel, a broken Ka-Bar blade in his bloody hands, stabbed the knife into the Strike Marine’s neck with a roar.
Roland felt his collar tighten and he went reeling backwards. He crashed against a desk and fell against a file cabinet in the post commander’s office.
Aignar stood over him, pistol in hand and aimed at Roland, shaking his head slowly. “No, Roland. You’re not getting away from this,” Aignar said.
The sound of the fighting tapered off and shouts for help echoed across the room.
“Aignar…” Roland held up his bloody arm and grimaced as the pain caught up with him. “This is all wrong.”
“You’re right.” The pistol in Aignar’s grip quivered. “You’re not above the law. I don’t care what you believe or what we used to be. You are not getting away from this.”
Roland looked his friend in the eye…felt a part of his soul wither away…then raised a foot and kicked Aignar just below the knee where his prosthetic foot met his real leg. The limb snapped free and Aignar twisted forward as he fell. Roland rolled aside and Aignar fell hard. Roland grabbed Aignar’s gun hand by the wrist and twisted it twice, just as he’d seen Aignar do to release the limb. The hand came loose smoothly and Roland tossed the weapon and the arm away.
Aignar made a pitiful cry and reached for his hand with the stump.
Roland got up and took the pistol out of Aignar’s detached hand. He looked back at his friend, who struggled to cross the floor with his remaining limbs.
In the main room, Templar lay dead, their bodies intertwined with dead power-armored Union soldiers.
Roland made for the door when Aignar grabbed him by the ankle. “No…you’re not…getting…” Words crackled out of Aignar’s throat speaker.
Roland pulled his foot free and roared as he kicked Aignar in the face. The other Iron Dragoon’s head smacked against the floor and he lay still.
“Aignar?” Roland, horrified at what he’d just done, touched Aignar’s shoulder.
Aignar looked up, his false jaw swinging free from a socket. A bloody, ragged breath gurgled through Aignar’s exposed throat. He reached out for Roland, his metal fist bouncing off the Templar’s chest.
Roland backed away, his breath heaving as he saw his old friend in such a state.
Aignar slammed his remaining hand to the ground and inched forward, looking at Roland with hate in his eyes.
“Traitor,” Aignar said, blood flecking his broken jaw as he crept forward. “You are a…traitor!”
“I’m not.” Roland shook his head. “I’m sorry, Aignar.” Roland backed out of the door, and a mournful cry followed him.
Martel and Tongea dragged Medvedev to the air lock, both Templar bloody and struggling to move the man in his armor. Medvedev had one hand clutched to the knife wound in his abdomen.
Roland ran over and reached behind the legionnaire’s head. He found two buttons and pressed them home. The armor plates on Medvedev’s arms, legs and shoulders fell away. Tongea let go and crumpled against a wall.
“Get him,” Martel said, nodding at Tongea, as he dragged the legionnaire into the hangar toward a Destrier with its ramp lowered.
Roland guided Tongea upright and got the Maori over his shoulders. He took a hard step forward, then another.
“Kallen,” Roland said, “ferrum corde…” He broke into a run and stomped up the ramp.
“Anyone else?” asked a prisoner with a bloody face.
“No.” Roland knelt and set Tongea against the bulkhead. The ramp rose and locked against the Destrier.
“Medic?” Roland asked, but Tongea wasn’t the only one in need.
A pair of prisoners worked on Medvedev, his chest armor cracked open, blood oozing from the stab wound.
Templar were strewn across the cargo bay, all bloody and battered.
Roland looked down at his arm, still oozing red.
Tongea’s breathing was shallow. He wheezed with every exhale.
“Sir, stay with me.” Roland felt moisture against his leg. A pool of blood spread out from the Maori.
“Not now.” Tongea shook his head and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “She…the Saint cried for me. I’ll die in my armor. Not like this.” He grabbed Roland by the collar with strength. “Not. Like. This.”
The hand went slack and fell to Tongea’s side.
“Medic!” Roland caught Tongea as he slumped to the side.
****
The drop pod burst through a plume of volcanic smoke and ash, hurtling toward the Qa’Resh city. Two more followed, each spaced several kilometers from the other. Rockets flared from the first, arresting the downward velocity so fast it would have snapped the spines of any normal humans inside.
The pod slammed into a wide boulevard and a metal panel swung down like a drawbridge. Gideon charged out, gauss cannons loaded, scanning for targets. The buildings along the street
had white walls, ghostly light blue hues shifting beneath the surface seemed to mimic the nebula filled sky above. The gold roofs glittered for reasons Gideon didn’t care to understand. There was no obvious pattern to the size of the buildings; some were as wide as a Mule, while others stretched on for hundreds of meters. All had a single iris for a door at ground level, twice the height of an armor soldier.
Gideon charged toward a building and took cover against a corner. The rest of his cobbled-together lance, Pak and Thomas, both from lances torn apart by the Templar detention, pulled security around him.
His HUD fizzled with radiation, making long-distance targeting difficult. The building wall seemed to react to his presence as ripples of white matching his outline rose up from where the wall melded into the ground.
Gideon leaned back from the building and shot a pigeon drone out of the launcher on his back. An IR channel connected him to the other two lances on the ground.
“Hell Fighters, Black Watch, report,” he sent.
“Boots on the ground.”
“No sign of the enemy.”
“Move toward the central dome. Send a drone if you make visual or hostile contact,” Gideon said. “The Ibarrans have their armor here—you all saw the drop pod. We are not here to talk them down. We are here to end them. Gideon out.”
He pulsed a command to the drone and it fell onto a sparkling gold roof.
“Qa’Resh architecture.” Pak almost poked the wall but restrained himself at the last moment. “The laws of physics tend to be a bit…wonky.”
“Three-sixty security,” Gideon said. “Assume the Ibarrans can be anywhere until you’ve got them dead at your feet. Follow me.”
He made his way down the boulevard, checking corners and moving at a bounding over watch across open space.
I hope you’re here, Nicodemus, he thought. You and I have unfinished business.
****