Colonies Of Earth: Unity War Book 1

by C. G. Michaels

Life was a crap shoot for any soldier, though, so the idea of a shortened life span had never bothered Fault much; he'd always planned on dying in battle anyway. The rehab facility, on the other hand—that, he could do without.

  Which was the reason he'd transferred from the Osiris ship Mare Cognitum to the Takarabune: he wanted out of the fighting. He'd always liked being a soldier, but lately he'd started to think maybe he liked it a little too much, that he'd begun to get bloodthirsty. And that was surely the first step towards snapping.

  He'd asked Doc Saller about it back on the Mare Cognitum, and he'd said mechs were supposed to enjoy violence, that that was what they'd been made for. But it worried Fault, so he'd put in for the transfer.

  And damn it all if there wasn't somebody stirring up trouble with the neutral Colonies now.

  His footsteps took on a brighter sound as he clambered up the emergency stairs to the 13th Mid-Deck, sweat dripping in his eyes. He wiped his brow with the rough towel he had draped around the back of his neck, wishing the stairwell had better air output. The bulk of the Takarabune ran cool, but the engine room, storm cellars, and, for some reason, the stairs all tended to run hot.

  He got to 13th Mid-Deck, sticking close to the bulkhead both to stay out of other people's way and to get as much out of the AC as he could; canned air blew onto his body in cold gusts, and he drank deeply of it, relishing its flavor. Most people said recycled air didn't smell as good as fresh, but Fault liked it. To him, it smelled of ozone, clean and crisp.

  He slowed when he reached the rec room, peering in to see if any of the video game consoles was free, but somebody occupied every station. The right video games challenged his primary enhancement, hand-eye coordination, in a way that ping pong or darts didn't, but everybody liked video games, so he didn't always have a choice.

  He glanced around the rest of the room: a group of soldiers watched an old movie on the sole TV; people lounged on the semi-comfortable sofas and wing chairs, reading or listening to music; others worked out with the weight-lifting equipment on the far wall, bulking up or toning their muscles beyond the daily calisthenics routines and laps everybody had to run; but the gaming tables sat mostly alone, a scattered deck of cards on one, a chess set on another.

  One of the billiard tables was empty, so Fault made his way over there and racked up the balls, figuring he could kill some time even if it didn't sharpen his skills much. At the next table over, some soldiers he didn't know were having an animated discussion about the mystery fighters and why they'd attacked Lotan.

  “I'm tellin' you, they did it to force Earth's hand,” one particularly loud guy said. He chalked up a cue and bent to the table. “Five balls in the corner pocket.”

  “Or to force Lotan's hand,” a woman with ginger hair said.

  “Lotan's wasted, or hadn't you noticed?”

  “Not altogether,” another guy said.

  Fault ignored them and hit the nose of the rack with force, breaking it up so that the cue ball stuck around in the center of the table and three other balls shot into pockets.

  “Anyway,” the second guy said, “no one's taking credit for the attack, so how's anybody going to take sides?”

  “It was obviously Osiris,” Loud Guy said. “With the make of those fighters, it had to have been.”

  One in every group, thought Fault.

  “Hey.” Second Guy got his buddy's attention, then nodded to indicate Fault. “Look who's playing next to us.”

  Fault moved around the table so that his back was too Loud Guy and his obnoxious friends, and sank three more balls, then straightened to examine the position of the remaining balls.

  “Hey!” Loud Guy said.

  Fault leaned over again; he thought he could sink the eight ball if he hit it just right . . .

  “Hey. Mech. I'm talkin' to you.”

  Someone jarred Fault's elbow just as he was pulling back for the shot, and the stick knocked against the bed cloth before bounding up again to tap the cue ball, which made a pathetic attempt to roll towards the eight ball, ending up a good three inches off-target. Pissed, Fault straightened and faced Loud Guy. “You screwed up my shot.”

  “Yeah, well, your kind screwed up Lotan.”

  “That had nothin' to do with me.”

  “You're from Osiris, aren't you? All mechs are from Osiris.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Osiris attacked Lotan,” Ginger said. She lifted her chin and handed him a cold, meaningful look.

  “You don't know that.”

  Loud Guy snorted. “Everybody knows it! Osiris is the only one with the technology to make those crazy-ass fighters. They made those ships . . . and they made you.” He poked Fault's chest.

  “Don't. Touch me.”

  “Kinda sensitive for a mech, aren't you?” Loud Guy shook his head, grimacing in disgust. “You're a coward for not admitting your people orchestrated the attack. I bet mechs were behind the controls of every one of those ships!”

  Fault pressed his chest to Loud Guy's. “I ain't a coward.”

  “Back off, freak!” Loud Guy pushed him.

  Fault tossed his cue aside and shoved his knuckles into the guy's big mouth. Fault didn't have any greater strength than any other man, but his arms were made of metal from just below the elbows down to his fingertips, and a steel fist could do a lot more damage than a normal fist even if you didn't hit all that hard, so he pulled his punch. Still, he felt Loud Guy's lip burst, and blood went running down his chin.

  Meanwhile, Second Guy had slipped around behind Fault and now swung his arms over Fault's head to choke him with his pool cue. Fault's hands clutched at the cue, trying to pull it out of Second Guy's grip, or at least get some space between the wood and his throat, but it pressed tightly against him, making him struggle for breath.

  Loud Guy took the opportunity to gut-punch him then—twice—forcing even more air out of Fault's lungs in a strangled set of grunts. Fault leaned into Second Guy for leverage, kicked Loud Guy in the sternum, propelling him back several steps.

  Second Guy jerked the cue harder against Fault's neck, and his vision started to go dark. Fault swung his body from side to side, using his weight to unbalance the other man, but just then Ginger came up and hit Fault in the nose. Pain shot through the middle of his face, and his head bobbed back with the impact, his skull bouncing off Second Guy's forehead.

  “Ow!” Second Guy said. “Damn it!” He shoved Fault onto the pool table and pressed his face to the bed cloth, pinning one of Fault's arms behind him. Now that the cue no longer cuts off his air, Fault could breathe easier, although his nose was bleeding, and he kept sucking up blood.

  Loud Guy must have recovered from Fault's kick, because he crowded in close to Fault now, a combat knife in his fist. “Maybe we should cut off some of that mech shit,” he said, and tapped the metal part of Fault's cheekbone with the tip of his blade. “Make you look like a normal human.”

  “A-ten-SHUN! Officer on deck!”

  Just like that, the knife withdrew, and Second Guy's weight left Fault. He stood, coming to sharp attention with everyone else in the rec room, and watched Colonel Lange stride purposefully across the deck, straight to the billiard tables. He began to pace slowly, deliberately, back and forth in front of Fault and the soldiers he'd been fighting with, his eyes glinting with barely controlled anger, his jaw set. If there was one person on this boat Fault was scared of, it was Samson Lange.

  “I was under the impression,” Lange said, “that the Takarabune was outfitted with only the finest men and women Star Force has to offer. It appears I was mistaken. Some of her ranks seem to be nothing more than miscreants and delinquents.”

  “Sir, he's a mech. He doesn't belong here.”

  The colonel got right in Loud Guy's face. “Did I say you could speak?”

  “Sir, no, sir!”

  “Emotions are high right now. I understand that. Lotan has been attacked, and we don't know by whom or why. We all want to see justice done. But tu
rning on each other is not the answer.”

  Fault glanced at the colonel. “Permission to speak, sir?”

  “No.” Lange resumed his pacing. “If I ever see any of you pull this again, I'll send you to the brig. Understood?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Now get to the infirmary, all of you. I need you all in prime condition. In case.”

  He didn't have to say what he meant by “in case.” Rumors of retaliation had spread since the attack, and there wasn't a soul on board the Takarabune who didn't think the President would declare war once they knew who was responsible.

  “Sir, I wasn't hit,” Ginger said.

  “Infirmary. Now.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  Fault trailed after the others to the infirmary. He had a feeling, though, that this didn't mark the end of the trouble, but the beginning of it . . .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the Murmansk Asteroid Belt

  The bogey headed straight for them, a silhouette in the deep, the two yellow lights on its forward section appearing almost like bodiless eyes, so dark was the craft that bore them.

  “It's seen us,” An said. “I don't know about you, but I'm a dot.”

  Meaning “a dot on the horizon”; An wanted out of there.

  “I'm with you,” Garner said. “Bugging out. Keep your head on a swivel; he may have his fangs out.”

  They performed a Bat-turn, going back the way they had come, back towards the Takarabune and–Garner hoped–safety. So far only one fighter tailed them, but it could always call on its buddies.

  Navigating the asteroid belt proved more difficult when you were beaded up about a possible bandit on your six. Garner pulled up over one rock only to have to scrape close under another one, his Banshee barely missing the surface of the asteroid. One wrong move and you were so much jelly.

  An squeezed sideways in the disintegrating space between a pair of rocks, his fighter all but sucking in its gut to get past. Garner breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his friend come out on the other end. “Where'd he go?” asked An. “I lost him.”

  “I don't know. Asteroids are playing hell with my radar.” He craned his neck and finally caught sight of the bogey, moving at an unhurried pace towards them. “I've got visual. Still on our six, but maybe five klicks behind. It's going slowly, though, like maybe it's not sure we're out here.”

  “Maybe the asteroids are messing with its radar, too.”

  “Maybe we can mess with it even more.”

  “Say again?”

  “What if we hide behind one of the really big asteroids and go dark? If we have nothing but the most essential life support on, its radar may miss us.”

  “What about the asteroid's gravity? We could get pulverized.”

  “We're running that risk just being in here.”

  “Okay, I'm in. But if you get smashed, I get your dirty magazine collection.”

  Garner chose the largest rock he could find, about three thousand square miles, and he and An edged as close to it as they dared, then turned off everything but the most vital life support in their Banshees. All illumination except the instrument lights went off, and even those dimmed. He felt his heart beating hard in his chest. All he could hear was the hiss of canned air and the sound of his own breathing.

  They waited a full fifteen minutes. Then Garner switched on his Tactical Information Display: nothing but asteroids showed up; An's fighter appeared as an unknown object drifting at his three o'clock. Garner motioned for An to stay put, then cut on his engine and lifted his Banshee into a better viewing position. Only then did he break radio silence. “No sign of the bogey. We are a go.”

  “Firing thrusters.” An joined him, and they began working their way out of the Belt again. As they wove between rocks, Garner kept a close eye on the TID, just in case. “Those fighters creep me out,” An said. “When I was growing up in Florida, we used to see snakes all the time. Copperheads, mostly. Those fighters look just like snake heads, like Copperheads. Even the lights, like a pair of eyes. It's freaky.”

  “Maybe that's the point. Native Americans used to wear war paint to intimidate their enemies.”

  “Well, if intimidation is their goal, they're doing a good job.”

  Garner had to agree. “They don't exactly scream 'friendly.' ”

  “Maybe if they painted a great big smiley face on the nose.”

  “Just as long as it's not a clown face. I hate clowns.”

  “Me, too. At my sixth birthday party, my parents hired a clown, and all I did all day was sit in a corner and cry–Wait a minute, I'm picking up something.”

  “Same here. Bogey, six o'clock!”

  They had come out into open space now; there would be no hiding this time.

  “He must've followed us,” An said.

  “He's spotted us. Bugout!”

  They sped for the Takarabune. The bogey–Garner could see the resemblance to a Copperhead now–came along behind them, at first hanging back, then gaining on them.

  “Damn,” said An. “What now?”

  “Whatever happens, do not engage. If he fires, perform evasive maneuvers; we can't afford to get Earth tangled up in somebody else's war. If that's going to happen, let the captain decide it. Not us.”

  “He's breathing down our necks.”

  “Stay cool,” Garner said, partly to convince himself. In a few miles, the Copperhead would come within firing range; and while the Banshees didn't have aft guns, the fighter on their sixes did have forward guns. They'd be easy targets.

  “Takarabune coming up on TID,” Garner said a moment later. “Visual in three mikes.”

  “Bogey within firing range in ten seconds.”

  “Let's hope our shields hold.”

  “Five seconds. Four . . . three . . . two . . . ”

  “Commencing evasive maneuvers.”

  The instant it came within range, the Copperhead shot. A bolt of red zipped over their heads, passing them by about three meters: a deliberate miss. The bogey did a U-turn and went back the way it had come.

  “I guess they don't want us getting near their warship.”

  “Message received,” An said. “Loud and clear.”

  A few minutes later, and they had docked safely aboard the Takarabune. Garner removed his helmet and climbed out of his canopy, the memory stick with the images he had scanned in one hand. He needed a shower; sweat covered his body and made his brown hair cling to his forehead.

  He and An came to attention as Colonel Lange met them. “You did good,” Lange said, taking the memory sticks Garner and An held out to him. “Go get washed up and get some R-and-R. You deserve it.”

  * * *

  Garner sat next to one of the game tables in a crowded rec room, watching as Falkner Crewe–“Fault” to his fellows–lost yet another game of poker to An, one of his other bunkmates.

  “That's twenty-four!” An said, laughing. “Twenty-four. In a row!”

  “Told you I never played before.” Fault crossed his arms over his chest. His voice had a sullen quality, but he didn't quite meet anyone's gaze. Garner couldn't tell if he was angry or embarrassed, or just faking a reaction; it was hard to know with a mech.

  Adam Simonis, Garner's third bunkmate, grinned lopsidedly. “Don't worry about it, Fault. Ness and I lost most of 'em, too. An plays so well it's sinful.”

  “I thought cyborgs were supposed to be smart,” An said. He collected the cards, then started shuffling.

  “Mechs were created for war, not gambling,” Ness said. “They know a lot. But what they know is how to kill.” She sounded bitter, as she always did when the topic of mechs arose. Mechs had nearly killed her a year ago today. She didn't trust mechs, and she didn't like them. And that included Fault.

  “Ness didn't mean anything by that, Fault,” Adam said.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “It doesn't matter,” Fault said. “She's right. I was made for war. Sometimes I don't know why I ever left Osiris.�
�

  “For the food?”

  An grinned at Adam's quip, but Ness clearly wasn't in the mood. Garner saw the hatred in her eyes as she stared at Fault, blaming him for the scars she bore, and for the lives lost. Having Fault here only reminded her of all that. Maybe it would be better, Garner thought, if Fault transferred to a different squadron so he and Ness could spend more time apart.

  Ness had almost died because of a war her planet had never taken part in. Only three of the Seven Colonies remained neutral in the many wars fought: Earth, Enas, and Lotan. The rest waged war between themselves and others; the days of country fighting country had vanished. Now entire planets warred with each other, over resources, religion, prejudice – the reasons as old as humankind itself.

  Before enlisting, Ness had secured work helping refugees on Gharad, a Colony often disparaged for its religious beliefs, mainly for Selfism. Selfites believed true enlightenment came when you tended to the self, not to others. Hundreds of offshoots of this religion had sprouted across Gharad, but people tended to assume anyone from Gharad followed the mother religion; the fact that most of the Gharad government abided by the strictest teachings of Selfism only advanced this stereotype and served as a sore spot for other Colonies, mainly Regem and Osiris.

  The governing Council on Gharad had long ago decreed it in their own best interests not to come to the aid of other Colonies, even Regem and Osiris, Gharad's one-time allies. The Council offered no humanitarian aid, no military aid, nothing – and Regem and Osiris had paid the price.

  Naturally, Regemites and Osirians thought Gharadites selfish cowards, and claimed Gharad had neglected to follow the decrees of the treaties between their governments. War among the three Colonies had broken out, with Regem and Osiris both hammering Gharad for its religious practices. Gharad now faced the consequences of its actions.

  It was into this complex soup of bad feelings that Ness had plunged herself, choosing to live on Gharad for five years, sacrificing her own safety and caring more for her charges than she did for herself. When she had finally decided to come home for a visit, she had taken a Gharadite passenger vessel, the Kailua. The Kailua had been transporting Gharadite Selfites and Osirian cyborgs, as well – and that's how the trouble had started.