Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Alarms rang out as the proximity sensors registered his motion. Mamoru shot a glance at the emerging sentry gun and rushed forward. He skidded to a halt in front of it before it could arm, too close to the box for it to angle down and fire at him. In seconds, a hand on the side of the housing let his consciousness into the gun and it bent to his will. The sense of immobility that came with embodying the turret unnerved him in a scenario where enemies had firearms. He swiveled right until the other sentry unit lined up in the crosshairs.

  The emplaced particle cannon created ripples of orange fire wherever it struck. Clusters of charged particles traveled faster than the eye, or the weapons’ sensors, could perceive, resulting in an effect as though the will to attack created spontaneous detonations wherever he aimed. Two bursts reduced the second emplacement weapon to a shower of fragmented, burning chunks.

  With the other sentry turret down, he chased several UCF soldiers to cover behind various buildings. Mamoru triggered at random for several more seconds before devoting his concentration to the creation of an automation construct. A small program formed within the electronics of the defense gun. The new software took over the turret, altering the friend-or-foe routine to recognize only one friend: Mamoru.

  He left the weapon on autopilot and let go, jogging out of cover to the side of the main barracks pod. The particle cannon went off behind him as a thick muscled soldier leaned out and aimed at him. Mamoru boosted his strength and agility, leaping to the right as he twisted under a flurry of bullets. The soldier exploded in a shower of charred gore and orange plasma before Mamoru landed.

  One hit from a particle cannon meant to disable vehicles had vaporized the soldier’s torso and flung arms and head in random directions. Smoldering composite armor ash flaked through the air like snow. All around him, men and a few women cursed.

  “Stay down and you will live,” said Mamoru in a loud, calm tone. “I will only harm those who interfere with me.”

  “Who the fu―”

  The electronic whirr/whine of the particle cannon cut the voice off with a wet, splattering explosion.

  A woman’s scream melted from anguish to words. “Kevin!”

  “Kevin should have stayed down,” called Mamoru. “Do not repeat his mistake.”

  He paid no mind to the angry stream of obscenities and death threats flowing out in a feminine voice, and put his hand on the wall of the barracks pod. Electronics inside the building fell under his control, locking both doors and four hatches. Another minor program came into being at his desire for it, designed to block communication with the outside world until someone found and destroyed it.

  Mamoru jogged to the nearest prison pod and overrode the electronic lock at a touch. Inside, the narrow hallway glimmered with dim green light. Muffled crying, both male and female, mixed with snoring as well as nervous tapping.

  “Are you MLF?” called Mamoru, a hair quieter than yelling.

  All went still except for the occasional blast of the particle cannon outside reminding the trapped soldiers it was still online.

  “Who the hell are you?” A man’s fingers emerged through the bars of a small window at the top of an armored door.

  “Your associate Garrison has arranged for your departure from this place.”

  Cheering, weeping, thanking of God, and banging erupted.

  “Calm yourselves!” yelled Mamoru. When they had quieted, he continued. “I need you to remain in control.” He raised his voice over their protests. “I have reprogrammed an automatic weapon outside. It will kill anyone other than me who walks through its field of fire.”

  The prisoners became quiet.

  “So how the hell are we getting out of here?” asked a frazzled man.

  Mamoru touched the wall. A series of heavy clunks ran down one side of the hall and back along the other as doors unbarred. Sixteen men and four women, all looking bruised and battered, emerged from tiny cells and gathered in the corridor. At the sight of fire dancing across Mamoru’s arm, they all but stopped breathing. One woman did not seem to care. She shoved her way through the disoriented prisoners until she clung to a man and wept. The way they embraced left no doubt they were husband and wife.

  Mamoru coughed loud enough to cause silence. “Stay here and remain quiet. Wait for my signal.”

  Outside, the handful of soldiers pinned behind one of the thick spring-loaded legs of the mess hall traded fire with the turret. They held weapons around the wall, using optics to aim without exposing themselves. Streams of metal liquefied from the sides of the particle cannon mechanism as high-velocity indirium rounds tore at it. Mamoru blurred to the second prison building and forced his way through the security system. This building smelled of vomit and held more whimpering.

  “Attention, MLF people, it is time to leave. I am here at the request of Garrison.”

  As the doors clanked open in sequence, ten people emerged. They looked, and smelled, as though they had been trapped in the same clothes for weeks. Many appeared in their later teen years. All wore the heavy cloak of resignation that came with impending death. Only a handful regarded him with a spark of life in their eyes.

  The portable building rocked on its springs from the force of an explosion outside, jostling the prisoners against the wall. A few fell.

  “What the hell was that,” asked the closest boy, perhaps seventeen.

  “That was…” Mamoru looked at the wall and sighed. “Unfortunate.”

  The Beast of Many Arms

  ragments of flaming debris rained over the compound as the particle cannon went off in a shower of ruptured energy cells. The weapon core was nowhere to be seen, well on its way into low Mars orbit. Mamoru hovered inside the prison pod door, listening as the sound of boots drew closer.

  Three men, one woman.

  Mamoru closed his eyes, reciting a silent request to the Kami in his mind―to guide the souls of these fools in the next life. The younger MLF sympathizers behind him murmured and gasped as light wreathed his arms and shoulders. When crunching gravel drew close, he let his power off its leash.

  He erupted from the door, leaping from the top of the detachable stairway. A female soldier led the way up the metal steps, desire for payback clear in her eyes. Three men followed. Mamoru rushed past her, slicing her rifle in half and landing between two of the distant soldiers before her facial expression changed. Shock crept in to her rage as his blade ended the men in the time it took her to spin around.

  The third man, who looked as young as the prisoners in the second berth, had his rifle sideways across his chest. Mamoru stood with the katana pointed at him. Patches of blood boiled away from the sides.

  The soldier shook, terrified by the blazing glow. “W-what are you?”

  “In a hurry.”

  “You killed my fiancée!” screamed the woman behind him.

  Mamoru lunged, covering a dozen meters in an instant. He landed next to her on the stairway platform with a precise upswing that sheared the holstered pistol from her belt before she could get a hand on it. She had not yet reacted to the stroke when he pinned her to the wall next to the door with his sword at her throat. Her glare radiated anger while her body sought to recoil from the seething edge approaching her neck.

  Mamoru narrowed his eyes. “Stay out of my way if you do not want me to arrange a reunion. I take no pleasure in slaying women.”

  She tore her gaze away from him, looking at the remaining man and shouting. “Landis, why are you fucking standing there?”

  Private Landis glanced down at his untouched, fully loaded assault rifle, and back at Mamoru. “I-if I s-shoot at him, it’ll go through both of you.”

  “That would require that you live long enough to aim,” said Mamoru.

  Landis whimpered and took a step back. His arms shook as he tried to force his fear aside. Even without telepathic abilities, Mamoru could almost hear the man wondering if he would be fast enough.

  The female soldier screamed with rage and drove her fist
into Mamoru’s gut while he was distracted. He grunted. When the blade inched away from her neck, she grabbed his arms and shoved. One of Mamoru’s eyebrows went up in shock at the realization she was, in the absence of his power, stronger than him. The detached porch shuddered as she forced him backward over the railing. What kind of woman is this strong? Energy crawled over his arms as he empowered his muscles. I am not in Japan. This woman is a soldier. I should not have hesitated. He pushed his strength beyond human limits and flung her at the wall hard enough to knock her senseless.

  He shifted his grip on the blade, ready to finish her off. She is helpless again. He closed his eyes, trying to tune out the memory of his little sister shrieking as the men grabbed her. One-armed, he grabbed the trooper by her armor and hurled her at Landis, knocking them both into a tumble for several meters.

  “Shit… It’s a god damned doll,” rasped the woman, struggling to crawl toward Landis’s abandoned rifle.

  Mamoru’s boot was on it in seconds. She looked up at him, unable to suppress the startled scream at how he had moved with such speed. Her green-gloved fingers clutched a fistful of dirt. The anger in her expression gave way to dread as she crawled back. He was about to disregard her until her hand crept toward a knife.

  The MLF prisoners came streaming out of the two detention pods, running toward the three dead soldiers. The first two grabbed dropped weapons while others scavenged armor. They overwhelmed Landis and the woman, forcing them to their knees. One of the MLF men raised his rifle at them.

  “Don’t,” said the oldest among them. Greying hair blended with his Marsborn white skin and gave him the look of a phantom. “The MLF does not execute prisoners. We shall not become the tyrants we seek to dislodge.” He moved up alongside the eager executioner, and looked down at the soldiers. “They are only following orders. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Goss?”

  “The bombs you set off killed thirty-six UCF military personnel. A third of them weren’t even soldiers. How the fuck can you kill us then and want to spare me now?”

  The younger man with the rifle edged toward the two, head whipping to the side every few seconds to give the old man a protesting glare. “They were gonna execute us.”

  “Their bosses were going to execute us, Kalas.” The elder frowned at Sergeant Goss. “When two armies meet in the field of battle it is one thing. When an enemy has been captured, different rules apply. Your leaders would kill my men by labeling them terrorists, using fear to dissuade others from the cause. What are terrorists but those who use fear as a weapon? They care nothing for your dead compatriots, Sergeant. They want our movement broken.”

  “Fine. Fuck.” The younger man snarled at the soldiers. “Get outta that armor, both of you.”

  “You’re nothing more than a bunch of killers,” said Goss, energy fading from her voice. “With a political agenda.”

  The elder gestured at his companions. “Some of these boys are sixteen. Like your brethren, they have never killed anyone, yet your commander would see them dead. Examine the motives behind your generals, Sergeant. The Martian Liberation Front is a movement of the people. A room full of politicians has no power over a planet of angry citizens.”

  Goss flung her armor to the ground, glaring at him. “You’re delusional.”

  “I am sure the British thought the same of the Americans.” He waved at the detention box.

  “That was almost seven hundred years ago.” Goss shook her head.

  “I would love to debate politics and philosophy with you, Sergeant, but we do not have the time. While you wait to be let out, consider the similarities in our situation despite the centuries. Men and women hundreds of thousands of miles away make decisions that alter our lives without the slightest idea of what it is like here. They exploit us, they exploit you, and if you think for one second they give a Cydonian crab’s ass whether you live or die, you’re mistaken.”

  Mamoru sheathed his blade and walked away as they poked and prodded the two soldiers up the stairs of the prison building at rifle point. He went past the pounding walls of the barracks box to the prowler he had hitched a ride on. Between the first and second wheels on the left side, closer to the front, a ladder led to an armored hatch. The underside of the vehicle sat far enough off the ground for him to walk under it without stooping. It took only a second to convince the code lock to open. He ducked under a four-inch thick slab of armor plating as it strained upward on powered struts, and climbed in to a narrow corridor. A left turn past storage cabinets on each side brought him to the cockpit, where he took a seat in the driver’s chair.

  “Much more comfortable than the rear bumper,” he muttered.

  Mamoru’s consciousness embodied the vehicle, leaving him with the sense he was some manner of bear. The angled nose and subtle forward tilt of the body, combined with its overall shape, felt ursine. Of the six wheels, the front and rear pair turned for steering, which required a moment of adjustment. It was far less complex than a hovercar and an order of magnitude easier than the Fūjin. He brought the vehicle around in a circle and rumbled to a halt by the former prisoners. The two soldiers were nowhere to be seen, most likely occupying the cells they used to guard.

  Mamoru’s voice emanated from an external speaker. “Get in.”

  After a mental squirm, he found the proper pattern of thought to open the rear hatch. The entire back end of the vehicle droned down on hydraulic struts and formed a ramp. Mamoru brought the suspension in close to the hull and the prowler settled low on its wheels, near the ground like a cat about to nap. Inhabiting a vehicle was a surreal experience to begin with―the addition of people inside it made it stranger.

  “What the fuck?” A man’s voice echoed in his belly. “Is he on fire?”

  “No, I am controlling this machine.” He let go of his link, and sat up in the chair as his consciousness rushed back to his body. As odd as it felt having people walking around inside him, being helpless among so many strangers was unacceptable. “Would one of you know how to operate this in the normal manner?”

  “Yeah,” said at least four of them.

  “Good.” Mamoru got out of the driver’s seat. “Please do so.”

  It did not take long for the prowler’s air filtration system to bog down, allowing the interior to fill with the stifling stench of the unwashed. Despite its size, the designers intended it to house a crew of eight―not thirty-one. The liberated MLF fighters packed wall to wall in the main cargo space. The older man, Darl Ulyn, had the highest rank of the former prisoners, equivalent to a military captain. Redness had taken his face from a minutes-old argument. His subordinates wanted to keep the bulk of the supplies the prowler had brought in; however, to do that would have left most of them walking.

  After weeks, and in some cases months, in detention, not one of them could have handled a two hundred kilometer hike. Mamoru disregarded much of their conversation, which consisted in large part of grumbling at the lack of sleeping berths these vehicles were supposed to have. No matter how often someone mentioned it was a cargo-converted unit, another person invariably whined about having to stand.

  “Hey,” said Darl, leaning through the bulkhead. “I wanted to thank you for getting us out of there.”

  Mamoru glanced at the outstretched hand. “It was a request of Garrison in exchange for information.”

  Darl chuckled at Mamoru’s apparent confusion and lowered his arm. He bowed. “Regardless of why you did it, I appreciate it.”

  “That soldier had a point. Why do you attack military targets? If you are fighting a demon with many arms, it is foolish to chop off its hand. While you waste the effort to do that, its other arms will kill you. You should take the head from the beast, not break its weapons.”

  “Easier said than done.” Darl crossed his arms and leaned on the wall. Weariness manifested as sweat tracing cleaner lines through grime-stained pores. Against his pure white skin, the dirt created the appearance of beard stubble. “I get what you’re saying. We should b
e trying to get the military on our side, not making enemies of them.”

  “A campaign of truth, electronic sabotage, and diversion can be carried out from safety. The military can only oppose force.”

  “You’re pretty sharp, son.”

  “I am not your son.”

  Darl laughed until he wheezed, and pounded a fist on his chest twice. “Sure enough you’re not.” He looked at the driver. “Pria, take us to grid 098, reference 22-45.”

  The woman at the controls whirled at Darl. Her short, black hair swished about eyes brimming with eagerness. “Won’t that leave us about five kilometers away from the shaft?” Pria’s complain-face relaxed to a neutral expression and then to one of understanding. “Oh, I get it. No tire marks to give us away.”

  Darl grumbled. “I don’t even like going that close, the transponder―”

  “Is dead,” added Mamoru.

  “Still, not to say I don’t trust you, but I’d rather not take chances.” Darl looked over his shoulder to the back. “Need a volunteer in reasonable health who’ll drive this thing about ten kilos away and ditch it.”

  One man attempted to volunteer, but could not speak over coughs.

  “I’ll do it,” said Pria. “I’m seventeen. They won’t kill me if I get nabbed again.”

  “Unnecessary,” said Mamoru. “I will deal with it.”

  “I thank you again, stranger.”

  Mamoru closed his eyes and linked to the machine.

  The prowler pulled away, leaving the former prisoners surprised to find Mamoru standing in the dust cloud. He strode through the billowing haze, while the six-wheeled behemoth continued on a course farther toward the north polar cap.