Date: 2021-07-07 07:00:00+00:00
Description: A desperate call for help from hidden agents on the planet Roanoke brings an opportunity for the Ibarra a Charon transport. The Geist reap colonies under their control, the harvest transported between the stars aboard their soul prisons. Lady Ibarra wants that ship, and sends two lances of Armor and the Scipio to seize her prize. If Ely fails, and the Geist will grow ever stronger. Can he learn to wield Armor’s fury in battle? Soul Invictus, the third novel in the latest Ember War series, has all the Armor combat, explosive battles and growing intrigue that military science fiction readers hav

Soul Invictus

The Ibarra Crusade Book 3

by

Richard Fox

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

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Chapter 1

Ely Hale knew the man standing before him. He knew his voice, remembered all the times he was there to comfort him as a child, to ease him through hurt and mold him from a boy into the young man he was today. This was the man who surprised him and his brother Jared by jumping down from orbit and landing at their seventh birthday party with presents secured to his gear. The man who taught him to ride a bike in the hangar of a Terran Union battleship.

This man took him across the stars to alien ruins and brought him face-to-face with alien beings, then to a whole new galaxy beyond the Milky Way.

Ely looked upon his father, clad in the pale-gold armor of Stacey Ibarra’s personal guard, but the man that stared back couldn’t be the man that raised him. Ken Hale was still in Terra Nova, over twenty-five thousand light-years away in the Canis Major dwarf galaxy, and the Ken Hale Ely knew looked a good deal older and more world-weary than the man in front of him.

“Dad?” Ely got up slowly from the pew he shared with a very pregnant Stacey Ibarra.

Looking over her shoulder to another of her guards, Stacey said, “Give us the room.” She put a hand to her belly and let out a slow breath as her muscles tightened in another Braxton-Hicks contraction.

Her bodyguards spread across the shrine, where white-robed parishioners sat and prayed before a shrine of Saint Kallen. They got up and left without protest after a word from the guards.

The Ken Hale who could not be Ken Hale gave Stacey Ibarra a concerned look and reached over to hold her hand. The doors to the shrine slammed shut, leaving the three of them alone.

“Wait…wait…what’s going on here?” Ely pointed a finger at the imposter Ken Hale then to Stacey.

“You’re a bright boy, Ely. I’m sure someone’s explained the birds and the bees to you by now,” Stacey said. “I’ll assume that you want to know just how your father came to be here.”

Ely sat back down hard on the pew, his jaw open.

“Your father is still in Terra Nova, so far as I know,” she said, putting her palm over this other Ken’s hand, “but this is also Ken Hale in many ways…genetically…and most of his memories are in line with what your father remembers as well…up to a point. Then things get different. Darling, I need you to take a break. Mission. Octave. Cantor. Coelacanth.”

Ken Hale stood up straight and closed his eyes. He remained still as a statue, his chest moving slightly as he breathed.

“There. I put him in reverie. He won’t remember anything from this conversation. He’s the only clone in the galaxy,” Stacey said. “The Union had gene samples of everyone that went to Terra Nova and I decided to rescue that repository of data when I came to Earth to save who I could when the Geist attacked. From there, it was a matter of recreating Ken Hale’s experiences in my procedural-generation computers and growing him. I…tweaked what he remembered. Instead of marrying your mother after the Ember War, this Ken Hale decided to stay with me through all the difficulties leading up to the founding of the Ibarra Nation. We’ve been together for several years. And then there was a little accident.”

She gave her belly a pat.

“You…did what?” Ely scrunched his face at the clone. “You remade my father as some kind of a toy?”

“That’s a bit harsh.” Stacey frowned. “Ely…the Ibarra Nation is the only thing standing in the way of the Geist’s total domination of the galaxy. My Crusade has fought them for years and the blood of heroes was spilled in my name and at my command across thousands of stars. I raised armies of billions and sent them to die…all so that hope might survive. I thought things would be easier when I returned to this,” she ran fingertips across her brow, “but the flesh is weak. I had no one in my life to turn to—plus my mind was trapped in a Qa’Resh ambassador body that couldn’t be touched without causing frostbite. That was an obstacle to romance for just about everyone. I was lonely, despite the never-ending parade of marshals, admirals and engineers working with me to fight the Crusade. I needed someone, Ely.”

“So you cloned my dad?” Ely frowned at her.

Stacey lifted her palms. “I was in love with your father for a long time, Ely, but it didn’t go both ways. He was the only person I ever wanted to be with and I had the means at my disposal to have him. Forgive my little indulgence.”

“Indulgence? I don’t even know what to call this.” Ely stood and gestured at the clone. “Because I guarantee Dad would never have approved of him being…wait. The baby…”

“Your half-brother or sister. Yes.” Stacey nodded. “Genetically.”

Ely put a hand over his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He sat down next to Stacey again.

The Ibarra Nation’s Lady took a deep breath and sighed. “My Ken and I…I didn’t program him to love me. There was a line that I didn’t cross. I certainly set the conditions for it to happen, but he has free will. It doesn’t matter, but there are times I feel wrong about the whole situation. Still, we do love each other and look what that love has brought us.” She stroked her belly.

“Why…why even tell me this?” Ely asked. “He could’ve kept his helmet on and I would’ve never known. Are there some code words you can say that can make me forget? That was a neat trick.”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t work for true-born humans. I’m sharing the truth with you, Ely, because I must. You’re a bright young man. You might have figured things out on your own and then what would you have thought?”

“I can’t say the shock would be too different…my life’s been a real roller coaster lately.”

“Truth and trust are one and the same. I was educated at my grandfather’s feet for most of my life, and his preferred method of controlling people through lies and manipulation was not going to help me keep this Nation together. There was a time I lied to people who were critical to the Nation and that nearly destroyed everything. I pray my thanks to Saint Kallen that some are more forgiving and understanding than they had any right to be.”

“I don’t want to know everything.” Ely’s shoulders sank. “I didn’t want to be Armor or fight in the middle of a war I don’t understand. I just want to go home and be with my family.” He looked at his father’s clone. “I want to hug my father—the real Ken Hale—again and know that everything’s going to be all right.”

Stacey gave his knee a pat. “We’re pretty far from ‘all right,’ Ely. The fragment in your skull is a whole other issue. That’s another reason I had to bring you to this place.” She lifted a hand and golden lines extended from her fingertips. They formed into a lattice where the segments disconnected and reconnected with the sound of glass cracking.

“Whoa. How are you doing that?” Ely slid away.

“You can see it? Curious…the Crusade is failing, Ely. There’s someone I need you to speak with because we need a miracle to survive.” Her other hand reconnected parts of the lattice and Ely felt a warmth grow in the back of his skull.

Ely squinted hard until the pain subsided, and when he opened his eyes, Stacey and “Ken Hale” were gone.

A woman knelt at the pew closest to Saint Kallen’s shrine, her hands clasped in prayer before her face. Red hair lay in a long braid over one shoulder. Armor plugs at the base of her skull glinted in the soft light.

Even without seeing her face directly, she seemed familiar.

“Elias,” the woman whispered as she raised her face, a tear running down her cheek, a tear of bright-red blood.

Ely hurried toward her, his footsteps and his breathing muted, making no sound. A dull glow rose from the woman’s skin.

“Elias, I need you.” She reached to a longsword resting in a felt-lined depression atop the pew. The pommel was engraved with a Crusader cross, the blade clear crystal with strands of gold filigree.

Ely touched her shoulder. Her body was as hard as steel beneath her robe.

“There’s so many.” She picked up the sword and the church was swept away.

Ely and the woman stood on a battlefield, the skies ablaze with explosions, dying warships burning toward their doom and leaving fire in their wake. The blackened ground rumbled with explosions from a raging battle that had swept through, leaving alien bodies encased in polished obsidian armor littered around them. Milky-blue blood stank of rot and turpentine.

“Ferrum corde,” a weak voice said from a ruined trench line. Most of it had collapsed under the weight of absent machines that left tread lines to mark their passage. The woman strode forward, the sword in her hand and held out to one side. Ely followed her, struggling to process everything happening around him.

The woman went semi-opaque and she sank into the ground. Ely stopped at the edge of the trench and looked down.

An Ibarran soldier lay half-buried, the bodies of legionnaires around him. The soldier’s power armor was cracked, a puddle of bloody mud beneath him.

The woman stabbed the tip of her sword into the dirt near the soldier’s head and she went to one knee.

“Saint Kallen…please.”

“I’m here,” she said.

“My brothers…see to my brothers…” The soldier let out a slow breath.

“They are with me, Joaquim. You can let go now.” Kallen put a hand to the soldier’s cheek then raised her hand and a ghost of the man lifted up. A look of peace passed over his face and the ghost lifted away, then vanished into the raging sky.

“How…no, no, no, this can’t be.” Ely backed away from the trench. He turned to run, but Kallen was there, holding the sword by the blade across her chest.

“No prayer is ever wasted, Elias.” Kallen turned the sword and brought the hilt in front of Ely’s face. “Take it.”

“I can’t.” Ely shook his head. “I’m not Armor.”

She reached behind his neck and touched the scar over the place where the Qa’Resh fragment was embedded in his skull. Her fingers felt like they were made of iron. A deep sense of calm flowed through Ely’s body.

“You must be,” Kallen said. “Find your iron, Elias. There is no one else. No one but you.”

“I believe in him,” a man said from behind Ely.

Ely turned around and he was back in the shrine. He felt chill air, and the peace Kallen’s touch gave him ebbed away, replaced by fatigue and a growing hunger. There was no one at the pew, no Stacey Ibarra or the clone.

No one at all.

Ely looked up at the marble statue of Saint Kallen in her wheelchair. He whirled around, looking for anyone that might be able to shed some light on the past strange minutes, but he was alone.

He buried his hands in his face. “Why is this happening to me?” He fought back tears…then heard a buzz. He looked up and saw a forearm screen sleeve on a pew next to a door.

It buzzed again.

Ely slipped it onto his left arm. The screen flickered to life and a message scrolled across.

LANCE: STEEL SWORN. REPORT TO BRIEFING CHAMBER 37Z AT 0925HRS.

A map of a pyramid structure appeared on the screen with a route to an X in the lower levels. Ely was deep in the center, with quite a walk ahead of him. An arrow appeared, pointing at the nearest door.

“Anywhere but here,” he said and made his way to the door, the heavy wood creaking as it swung inward. A pair of the Lady’s bodyguards were at the doors, helmets covering their faces.

Ely tried to catch a glimpse through their eye slits, but couldn’t tell if they were clones of anyone else he knew. The guards shut the doors behind him and snapped to attention on either side.

Ely’s stomach rumbled. He tapped at the screen but couldn’t get it to display anything but the route to the briefing room.

“There a galley? Mess hall? Vending machine?” he asked the closest guard and was met with silence. “Fine, I’ll just…whatever.”

Ely shuffled off, his eyes on the arrow and his mind elsewhere.

Chapter 2

Duke adjusted his waistcoat, one hand brushing over the tomahawk hooked to his belt. The leather sheath over the axe head felt too tight for his taste. The seconds it would take to ready the weapon to fight might cost him his life, but it wouldn’t do to walk around with a naked blade.

Being poorly armed on a moonless night in the forest offended his Strike Marine sensibilities, but this was how things were here on Roanoke.

The sounds of drums and string instruments carried through the trees. Light strained through leaves and cast a glow over a nearby clearing.

Duke glanced up at the moon—which was smaller than it should’ve been—to gauge the time. She was almost late.

He spied a torch meandering along a path through the forest and he slipped behind a thick tree. The torchlight cast shadows past him and he held his breath.

“I can smell you, Duke,” a woman said.

“The hell you can.” Duke stepped onto the path and squared off with a woman in a cloak and wide-brimmed hat. “You’ve got your gear on you, Adams.”

“The hell I do.” Adams stepped closer to him and he saw the worry lines around her eyes. They’d gotten deeper and longer the last few years. “We can’t use gear that close to the enemy. They’re watching. You reek of crushed hemp fibers for once, instead of your other vice.”

“I’m not getting criticized by a quitter.” Duke plucked a leather pouch from a pocket and stuffed a pinch of chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum. “You ready?”

“Ugh. You’re more likely to get killed by the Geist than cancer at this point. What’s the recon?” She raised an elbow and Duke intertwined his arm with hers.

“Usual suspects. He is there.” Duke led her around a puddle as she hiked up her dress.

“Of course he is. But what about your girlfriend?” Adams jabbed her elbow into Duke’s side.

“She’s not my…you shut your mouth. I didn’t see her,” Duke grumbled.

“Maggie doesn’t have a ‘brother’ to escort her. I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to bring her,” Adams said.

“She did. I claimed you were so intent on going that I had to take you…and it would have been im-per-dent to escort a widow like her at night,” Duke said.

“Bull. You got a case of the dumbs when she batted her eyes at you, then you ran off without a reason why,” Adams huffed. “Besides, you can’t use words with triple syllables.”

“I still outrank you. Try not to flash your ankles at anyone. If Mr. Snow bothers me one more time for permission to court you, I might knock his remaining teeth out to send the message home. Just because we’re playing brother and sister don’t mean I don’t get to play big brother.”

“That almost makes sense in some atavistic, caveman way of thinking. Jim has a good heart. Leave him alone. Almost doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve got a bad feeling that everything’s about to come to a head here,” she said.

“Yeah…me too. Game faces.” Duke leaned to one side and spat tobacco juice into a bush. Torchlight appeared in the distance, the flickers through branches and brush heading down the path toward them.

Duke and Adams made their way toward the gathering, where the sound of music and cheers carried with the breeze.

A bonfire burned in the center of a clearing, backlighting men and women gathered before a stage made from just-chopped timber and bound by rope where the logs crossed. A pair of soldiers in red coats with long rifles guarded the entrance, the stocks of their weapons in the dirt, the barrels in hand.

“For the Lady,” Adams said quietly and placed a palm over her heart.

“Yeah, whatever.” Duke tensed at the sight of the soldiers. He didn’t recognize either of them. Both looked Duke up and down as he and Adams entered the clearing.

A string quartet with a drummer and flutist played on the stage.

“Ah, good old ‘Yankee Doodle.’” Duke cocked an ear up. “Now it’s a party.”

A man in chalked white clothes came by with a basket of sweet rolls. Duke’s nostrils flared at the fresh scent of sugary goodness, but he didn’t reach for one of the treats. Just where they’d found enough sugar to make the confections—let alone have enough to give away—was all part of the show, he thought. He remembered enough Sunday school stories to know what they were alluding to.

“There’s Miss Sara from my knitting circle,” Adams muttered. “Let me go see if she has any fresh gossip.”

“Head on a swivel,” Duke said as he unlinked his arm from hers and scanned the crowd. He’d expected the usual dozen or two of true believers, but there were nearly a hundred people in the meadow.

Long shadows flickered past his feet and Duke turned around, his hand slipping toward his tomahawk.

“Mr. Duke…pleasure,” said a spindly man in a chalk-white wig, extending a hand to him. A pair of rough men just out of their teens trailed behind.

“Minister Cord. Didn’t expect to see you at a revival.” Duke nodded to Cord’s sons, one of whom leaned over and spat tobacco juice to the ground.

“Nor I you, Mr. Duke. Though I haven’t seen you at proper services since the funeral.” Cord crossed his arms and glowered at the crowd. Revelers gave Duke and Cord a wide berth as they bunched toward the elevated stage.

“Forgive me, Minister. I haven’t felt particularly faithful since Danny’s passing.” Duke shifted his belt to put the tomahawk more toward his back.

“I’m not the one you risk offending.” Cord pointed a finger to the heavens. “But why are you here, Mr. Duke?”

“Much the same reason I suspect you’re here.” Duke proffered his chewing-tobacco pouch to one of Cord’s sons, who took a pinch.

“I doubt that,” Cord snorted. “The presence of clergy at an event that could be rife with fornication and drunkenness is a measure of prevention.”

“Sure, who doesn’t want a wet blanket around?” Duke worked his dip from one side of his mouth to the other, then thought better of what he just said. “Sinners in the fires of hell and damnation. That’s who’d appreciate a wet blanket.”

“Indeed.” Cord crossed his arms. “I trust you’re on the side of the angels, Mr. Duke?”

“If they’ll have one with dirty wings in their ranks.” Duke caught Adams’ gaze from the edge of the crowd. She touched at her face and bonnet, working old Strike Marine hand signals in between gestures.

HOSTILES. 8. NO IMMEDIATE THREAT.

Duke spat. Eight might be too many if things got difficult. At least none of them had taken an interest in Adams.

A chubby man climbed up the ladder to the stage, struggling for breath. “Brothers…and sisters!” He took a silk handkerchief from a pocket of his wool vest and dabbed at his forehead. “On behalf of Governor Wright, I welcome all of you to hear the words of the Prophet!”

Cord shuffled his feet in the grass and spoke a string of un-clergy-like expletives.

“Please, enjoy his gift of rum after the revival. A full bottle for every man!”

Cheers rose from the crowd and Duke raised an eyebrow at the thought of rum.

“Has a ship from the Caribbean come in?” one of the sons asked.

“No, no new ships in the harbor.” Duke shook his head. “And no one’s asking for more hemp rope.” He squeezed a sore forearm. Weaving hemp into rope took days and was one of the most physically demanding jobs in the entire colony.

“Then the governor’s letting the cult into the colony’s storehouse,” Cord said. “Sugar isn’t a luxury. We need the alcohol to treat infections, not to get inebriated before the gaze of the Lord.”

“Then we should each get a bottle,” said the son partial to dip. “Store it for our own use before the heathens can piss it away.”

His brother nodded emphatically.

“No,” Cord said and that decided the matter.

“Now…the Prophet!” The chubby man raised a hoop with an attached dark curtain off the floor of the stage. He dropped it and stepped away quickly.

A stocky man in blazing-white robes appeared as the hoop fell. He stretched his arms out and a drum beat out a quick, steady rhythm as the Prophet stepped out of the hoop. The edge of a harness attached to the back of his neck caught the torchlight.

Duke felt the tomahawk tight in his grip. He was a sniper by training and by trade. Putting a gauss shell through the Prophet’s mouth from a kilometer away would have been easy…but this wasn’t the time. Not yet.

Cord traced a cross in the air in front of him to ward against witchcraft.

“Brothers and sisters!” The Prophet gripped the wooden rail and leaned over slightly to look directly at the crowd. His voice was high and reedy, grating against Duke’s ears. “I have been in deep prayer. I have walked with the Holy Spirit in his own realm…and I feel kindred souls amongst you.”

Men and women looked around, but no one stepped forward.

“Our colony has been cut off from England for years.” The Prophet walked along the edge of the stage. “We all witnessed the war in heaven…and then one last ship arrived from home. A ship that needed a miracle to cross the great ocean. A ship with so few survivors. I was there! I saw the good Lord cast judgment upon the papists and sinners of the Old World and sift through their souls for the worthy. And when I was judged worthy, I was anointed with this gift, like homes in Jerusalem with lambs blood over the door to ward away the angel of death.”

He tugged at his collar to show the harness.

“Preach on!” someone called from the audience.

“I was given a revelation!” The Prophet raised his arms and his eyes flashed silver. The crowd gasped and Duke gritted his teeth in anger. “For the true master of our souls loves us all dearly and calls us unto his grace. So few have embraced him…so little time remains for the worthy to walk the path to eternal life.”

“Why weren’t we judged with the rest of the world?” floated up from the audience. Duke recognized the voice of the town’s cooper, who’d been embossing his barrels with quotes from the Prophet. Duke suspected the question was a plant.

“Roanoke is full of those who left the sins of the past behind. Your souls are powerful in his sight. He would have you come unto him freely, so you will be exalted in his presence with the power of your agency. By the grace of God, I escaped from London, like Lot fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah. I did not look back on that den of lust, greed, envy, sloth, gluttony, pride and wrath…for that I was spared. For that I was tasked by the angels to bring the message of the Lord that our time of judgment is nigh! I feel a soul prepared to join with our true father in Heaven. Who? Who amongst you has the faith to cross the threshold now? Who will gaze behind the veil and know true salvation?”

“Me! Take me!” A man in little more than rags and with an open bottle of alcohol in hand stumbled forward.

“Simon, no!” A woman started after him, but a redcoat stepped between the two with his rifle bared across his chest.

“Bring the true believer to me,” the Prophet said. A pair of redcoats grabbed Simon under the arms and helped him up a staircase behind the stage.

“Father, stop this,” one of Cord’s sons hissed and stepped forward.

The minister slapped a hand to his son’s chest.

“‘Therefore I will judge you, O house of Israel, everyone according to his ways,’” Cord said. “Simon is free to choose death…and free to repent.”

The redcoats brought Simon onto the stage and helped him down to his knees. Simon stared long and hard at the bottle in his hand, then brought it to his mouth. He caught himself before he could drink and held it up, sloshing the last of the alcohol around before tossing it to one side.

“Brother Simon…will you receive the gift from our true Lord?” The Prophet reached into his robe and removed a bent golden rod.

“Yes…yes, I see the true way now.” Simon sank back, defeated. “Will the pain end?”

“Absolutely.” The Prophet put a hand atop the man’s head. “You must speak our Lord’s true name, then all his gifts will be yours…”

“Malal!” Simon cried out. “The true name of our lord is Malal, and I surrender my soul to him and his salvation.”

“You have chosen wisely…” The Prophet pressed the bent rod to the back of Simon’s neck and it unrolled into a harness. The device bit into Simon’s flesh, tiny needles sinking into his spine and skull like deft talons.

Simon gasped and his jaw dropped open. The man floated up from the stage, the tips of his boots scratching against the wood as ghostly tendrils of light extended from the back of his harness and down his limbs.

The crowd went stone silent as Simon choked on air. The light faded away and he sank into the arms of a pair of redcoats, who took him into the forest behind the stage.

“Malal calls out to all of you!” The Prophet slapped the railing. “I come to you with a warning—the Rapture is almost upon us. At the next full moon…Roanoke will be judged. All the souls in our fledgling city will be found worthy of Malal…or found wanting. You have until the next full moon, Roanoke! Come to my compound and come unto Malal of your own free will and the whole of his kingdom will be yours! No one can hide from his judgment…no one.”

The Prophet raised his hands high, then swept them down. Smoke erupted from his feet, and when it cleared, the Prophet was gone.

Murmurs grew from the crowd.

“No!” Cord stepped forward. “This is not the Gospel. When the Son of Man comes to us, it will be in glory. Jesus does not demand we…we bind our souls to anyone but him! The Prophet is false!”

“Then explain his miracles!” someone shouted.

“Have you all not read the book of Revelation since the Old World was lost to us? ‘For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, which go forth unto the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to gather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty.’” Cord took a small Bible from his vest and held it up. “You must choose to remain with the faith of your fathers, with the faith you’ve known since you were baptized. Simon’s soul isn’t saved…it’s damned!”

Redcoats converged around the minister, anger in their faces and bayonets fixed to their rifles.

“Time for you to leave,” one said. “Governor doesn’t like having the peace disturbed.”

“This is hardly a matter for the governor,” Cord sneered.

“Gifts of rum and sugar cakes. Gifts of rum and sugar cakes!” came from the other side of the clearing.

Cord stared down the redcoat until one of his sons turned him away and the trio left.

Duke kept his hands away from his tomahawk and smiled at a guard.

“What’re you still doing here?” the redcoat asked.

“Me? I’d just like to get to the free stuff before all the rum’s gone. Can’t fault me for that, can you?” Duke spat tobacco juice perilously close to the guard’s boot.

The redcoats went away without a word.

Duke meandered over to the edge of the crowd, his attention on the guards and not so much on the rush for free booze.

“Mr. Duke?” a woman asked from behind. Duke almost swallowed his dip and coughed.

He turned and a woman in mourning black was there, a small basket of sweet rolls in her hands. She had eyes the color of the deep ocean, and a sharp chin. Worry lines and a few gray hairs aged her in a way that wasn’t reflected in the rest of her face.

“Maggie…I didn’t think you’d be here.” Duke put a hand over his mouth, hooked out the tobacco and tossed it away.

“Nor I you, Mr. Duke. You came to hear the Prophet?” she asked and stepped a little closer.

Duke’s heart raced and he got lost in the torchlight reflecting in her eyes. “Yes. I mean no. I brought my dear sister, is all. Can’t have her out by herself on a night like this. Wait, you didn’t come here alone…did you?”

Maggie shook her head. “Goodness no, the Jameson family are my neighbors and they were kind enough to escort me to and from…” She looked down at her basket with a bit of shame. “I…I heard that there might be something for those that attend. I’ve not much money since Hiram was lost and I thought…”

“There hasn’t been rum in the city for almost a year,” Duke said. “Spruce beer gets old after a while.”

“Maggie!” came from the edge of the clearing.

“They’re about to leave.” Maggie took a step away. “Mr. Duke, if you’ve the time…rabbits have been in my garden again and—”

“I can come by tomorrow, or the day after,” Duke said quickly. “I can trap them…if you like.”

“The pests have destroyed not only my azaleas but my onion patch as well. I prefer to look them in their guilty eyes before I toss them in the stew pot.” She raised her chin slightly. “But do keep your visit between us. The rumormongering amongst Roanoke’s lady folk has become something of a sport.”

“Don’t I know—I mean, my sister—I mean—” Duke mimed zipping his mouth shut.

Maggie smiled at him and Duke’s heart skipped a beat. She slipped a sweet roll into his hand and hurried away.

Duke looked down at the confection, the feel of her touch still on his mind.

“Ahem…” Adams elbowed him hard as she passed him, making for the path back to their home.

Caught flat-footed, Duke reached her quickly. Adams broke off a hunk of the roll and gobbled it down. “Goddamn, I never thought I’d jones so hard for some fricking sugar,” she said with her mouth half-full. “If only they had chocolate, I’d almost take the harness for a bar.”

“She came over and talked to me.” Duke looked over his shoulder to the clearing.

“Oh wow, maybe you can ask her to homecoming. Want me to pass her a note after gym class? Seriously, Duke, you were the biggest horndog in the Strike Marines. Every stripper in Phoenix knew your name. Since when do Devil Dogs get puppy love?” Adams shook her head, then her attitude grew grave. “You hear that about the new moon? There’s a harvest coming.”

“I heard it,” Duke said. “You think he means it?”

“The Prophet’s been laying the theatrics and the goodies on pretty thick lately.” She pulled down a sleeve and flashed a bottle of rum tucked into a band. “That’s consistent with the final push before a harvest.”

“Ugh…goddamn it.” Duke looked up at the moon, which was smaller and a shade of brown different from Luna. “We have no idea if there’s even a Crusade out there that can help us.”

“The Lady tasked us for this mission, Duke. You know what we have to do,” Adams said.

“And you know what we have to do if help doesn’t come.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want that on me.”

“You’d rather the Geist harvest everyone here? Maggie included?”

“No…no, they can’t have her. I’ll ready the drone. If it can get a message through the Crucible and the cavalry does come charging in…I’ll let you drag me to a shrine to Saint Kallen. Assuming we survive.”

“We’ve got through worse. Remember Eridu?”

“I remember you trying to kill me.” Duke glowered at her.

“You were on the wrong side of history. Now give me the rest of that sweet roll,” Adams said, reaching for the treat.

Duke shoved it in his mouth and chewed it quickly. “And you tried to kill me on the Breitenfeld,” he said through crumbs.

“And I got over it. You should too. Don’t make me regret pulling your ass out of the fire on Earth.” Adams uncorked the bottle of rum and took a long, unladylike swig.

Duke didn’t bother going for the drink.

“The Lady wouldn’t send us out here to die on the vine,” Adams said. “We do our part, she’ll do hers.”

“Faith is a luxury I can’t afford…but I hope you’re right.”

Chapter 3

Ely leaned against the wall of an elevator, bumping the back of his head against the metal as the lift hummed through the shaft. The ride from the church had either been terribly slow, or the building was enormous.

His stomach rumbled again and he felt his blood sugar plummeting. “Never got hungry when I was in the suit…surprise, surprise.”

The elevator slowed to a stop. Ely checked his forearm screen and tapped it a few times. This wasn’t his floor.

The doors opened and a squat delivery drone rolled into the elevator. A plastic case on top was labeled with words in Basque he didn’t understand, but he recognized the pizza delivery drone for what it was. The smell made his mouth water as the doors closed.

Ely licked his lips and glanced from the delivery drone to the floor tracker. “Might as well…” He twisted the screw top on the drone and the pizza warmer popped open. The smell of fresh pizza in the cardboard boxes smelled amazing. He took out a slice, melted cheese dripping off the side. It tasted fantastic and he didn’t care that the sauce burned the roof of his mouth.

The elevator doors opened and Ely almost choked on his purloined meal.

Marshal Roland Shaw was there. He wore khakis and a collared shirt, a much more normal set of clothes than the Armor skin suit and coveralls Ely’d seen him in on Achen. Roland put his hands on his waist and raised his eyebrows.

The drone lurched forward and beeped in front of Roland.

Ely swallowed hard.

“How’s my pizza?” Roland asked.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was yours, sir.” Ely looked around for somewhere to throw away his half-eaten slice, but there were no viable options.

“Whose did you think it was?” Roland picked up three pizza boxes.

“I was just…I was hungry and uh…this day’s just getting worse and worse, sir.” Ely stared at his slice, dejected.

“Daddy!” a child called from the hallway behind Roland. “Daddy, the app says it’s here!”

“Come on,” Roland said as he sighed and tilted his head to one side. “I wouldn’t have made it home without you. Suppose I can feed you properly in exchange.”

Ely shuffled forward, then looked at his forearm screen. “But, sir, I’ve got to be at some sort of a briefing—”

“It’s my briefing and it doesn’t start for another six hours. Come on, spring buck.” Roland used his knee to close the delivery drone’s hatch then gave it a solid kick to send it back into the elevator.

Ely wolfed down his slice as they walked past doorways, each bearing starred rank insignia and a name.

“I swear, I didn’t know it was your pizza, sir. Do I get paid? I’ll pay you—”

“At ease…karma isn’t much of a concept in the Ibarra Nation, but it’s funny how it’ll come back on you. Do me a favor when we get inside: don’t mention how close the evac was from Aachen. It was a dull evac mission, if anyone still in pigtails or grade school asks. They shouldn’t—they’re decently well-trained,” Roland said.

A door slid open.

“Pizza!”

Three children rushed Roland and jumped around him, their hands grasping for the boxes that Roland held high over his head.

“Ha! If only your mother and I got that sort of welcome when we came back.” Roland slid a box to Admiral Makarov—who was in sweatpants and a simple T-shirt, her dark curls loose and spilling over her shoulders. She kept the box out of the reach of two girls and a boy and glowered at her husband.

“You didn’t say we were having guests,” Makarov said with a tone that Ely recognized. His mother used it on his father when she was about to lose her temper.

“Spur of the moment. Plus, I don’t get too many opportunities to meet with my junior officers. Dinner with the commanding officer is a tried-and-true tradition.” Roland smiled.

“During our six hours of liberty before we’re due back on duty?” Makarov tore slices out of the pie and put them on plates for the kids, who ran off giggling to another room with their food.

“This is Ely Hale.” Roland put a hand on his shoulder. “He looks a bit different out of his Armor.”

“Oh…you should have led with that. Beer?” Makarov’s demeanor softened.

“Thank you, but—” Ely stopped when Roland tightened his grip.

“You know how many ration coupons it took to get pizza? You think cold beer is any cheaper? Don’t push it. Sit.” Roland motioned with the pizza boxes to empty seats around the dining table.

Ely sat and Roland flipped a box open for Ely to use as a makeshift plate. As the two sat down, Roland let out a breath, as though getting off his feet relieved some pain he was in. He waved his hand at the pizza and Ely ate more.

“I didn’t hear about you after my wife got you back to Navarre aboard the Warsaw. Did Trinia fix you up?” Roland reached for a slice, then drew his hand back.

“Who, sir?” Ely asked between bites.

Roland narrowed his eyes slightly. Makarov came over with an open bottle of beer that she set before her husband and an unmarked bottle of water that she rolled to Ely.

“The Lady’s guard took him away in his Armor after we docked to Port Astarte,” Makarov said. “Where’ve you been?”

Ely put his pizza down and worked his jaw from side to side. “I woke up and…I met Lady Ibarra,” he said.

“Wearing that? Weren’t you cold?” Makarov asked.

“Cold? Why would I be cold?” Ely’s brows furrowed.

Makarov and Roland traded a confused glance.

“The Lady’s business isn’t ours.” Makarov looked away as one of the children let out a trill and began crying. “I’ll handle this.”

Roland turned his head and watched her go. Ely spied a knot of scar tissue on the back of the Marshal’s head at the base of his spine.

“How’s Aignar?” Roland asked.

“We…oh no…I haven’t thought about him…I saw my Armor in-in-in—” Ely began to hyperventilate.

“Settle down. Drink some water.” Roland swiped on his forearm screen and squinted at it. “Your pod’s been moved to maintenance bay 94. Aignar should be there. Ghosts seem to do just fine when they’re left alone. At least, mine never complains.”

Ely calmed and glanced at a painting on the wall: Armor in the air, a lance in hand and pulled back to be hurled into a Ruhaald scorpion tank. A pair of semi-opaque feathered wings on its back, hooked at the top.

“That’s the Battle of Firebase X-ray.” Ely pointed to the picture. “My father fought there.”

“When the Hussars arrived.” Roland nodded. “Popular piece of art in the Nation. Aignar…how does he seem? Stable? Happy?”

“He misses his son,” Ely said, shrugging, “and he’s not exactly happy to be around Captain Santos. Or you, sorry to say, sir.”

Roland chuckled. “You missed out on a fair amount of history. I used to be in the Terran Armor Corps, then I switched jerseys a few times during the Kesaht War. That conflict ended with…” He touched the scars on the back of his head. “Well, let’s just say you can’t go home again. The Lady and Trinia found a way for me to mount up again when the Geist invasion hit in earnest. Then when it came time to decide what to do with the Armor we evacuated off Earth, most of the lances came to my command.”

“Wait, wouldn’t all of those Terran Union Armor think of you as a—never mind,” Ely said and picked up another slice.

“Turncoat. Traitor. Pick whatever term you like. The Nation inherited a fair percentage of the old Terran Armor Corps after a schism. Some wounds are slow to heal. Meanwhile, I was the only commander willing to take in the lances and survivors we evacuated. Santos and others were too great an asset to leave out of the fight,” Roland said.

“That include someone like me?” Ely asked sadly.

“The Crusade against the Geist is a total war, son. Fight until we die. Even my kids edit code to improve manufacturing output at the foundries. If the war’s still going when they turn eighteen…”

“Dad. Dad!” A boy of about nine ran over, his mouth stained with tomato sauce. He slid to a stop behind Roland and looked over his shoulder at Ely. “Dad…is he really from Terra Nova?”

“You can ask him yourself.” Roland chuckled. “He doesn’t bite, Jamis.”

“Is Terra Nova real?” the boy asked.

“Sure is. Two colony missions went to the planet. Things are still going strong there. Far as I know.” Ely tried to smile.

“When will Ken Hale come to fight the Geist?” Jamis asked. “Does he really have an entire army of Armor ready to come and help us?”

“Son,” Roland said and held up a hand.

“Just me so far. Just me.” Ely laughed. “Sorry if you thought I’d be taller.”

“Dad…does this mean the war’s almost over?” Jamis’ eyes lit up.

“Ely’s a brave soldier, but the Crusade goes on,” Roland said.

“Oh…so when are you going to leave again?” Jamis wrapped his arms around Roland’s waist and his father put an arm over his shoulders.

“I’m not sure.” Roland squeezed Jamis tight. “But I’m home for now. Let’s enjoy our time together, OK?”

“OK. Can we watch The Last Stand on Takeni again?” Jamis’ eyes lit up.

Roland sighed. “Sure. Sure, why not. Go get it cued up.” Roland let Jamis go and the boy ran off. “You like that movie?” he asked Ely.

“My father hates that movie with an irrational passion,” Ely said. “Even I think it’s over-the-top cheesy, and my namesake’s in it.”

“Humanity winning against all odds against a Xaros invasion, the forging of an alliance between us and the Dotari…good feelings all around. Even if there are some parts that were a bit embellished. You knew Admiral Valdar, didn’t you? I always wondered what he thought of it,” Roland said.

“It was also verboten around my godfather,” Ely said.

“Shame we lost Valdar at the Battle of the Line. Even my wife admits he was the best tactical commander of his generation.” Roland glanced at his forearm screen and his face darkened.

“I was on board the Breitenfeld,” Ely said. “I went to the bridge to see that he was really gone…but there wasn’t a body.”

“What? What do you mean?” Roland asked.

“There was a vac suit in his command chair, but it was empty.” Ely shrugged.

Roland stared hard at him for a moment. “We’ll circle back to this,” he said to Ely before calling out to Makarov, “Honey!”

“I saw! It’s bullshit!” Makarov answered from the living room.

“Of course she curses like a sailor…Ely, I’ve got some flag-rank issues to deal with. Can I trust you to not go digging through anyone else’s food deliveries? The Basque are pretty sensitive when it comes to their cuisine.”

“Yes, sir…but what do I—”

“I don’t recommend you go find Santos or anyone else from the Crusade right now. They’ve got a backlog of alcohol chits and they’re keen to use them. Go to the Scipio on the mid-docks.” Roland touched his forearm screen then flicked his finger at Ely, whose device buzzed with a new waypoint.

“Tell Standish I’ve got my eye on him, and if he reverts to his old ways, it’s the firing squad. Also fix the damn faster-than-light drive engines you helped install. Some sort of widget burnt out.”

“I doubt it was a widget. If anything, it was the sperving modules. Too much power and the panometric flams will—”

“Then go fix it.” Roland stood and glowered at his screen again. “I don’t mean to be curt. I’m trying to stop a giant turd boulder from running downhill where it’ll get to you and be even more of a problem.”

“No problem, sir. Good luck with that rolling ball of…I’ll see myself out.”

****

Ely stopped at shut bay doors. He pressed the wristband of his forearm computer to a reader and there was a beep a few moments later. With a groan of hydraulics, the bay doors slid slowly to one side.

A gust of wind and rain hit Ely, spattering him with frigid drops. The world beyond the walls was a continuous storm. Floodlights caught sheets of blown rain against dark skies. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating giant pyramid-shaped arcologies in the distance.

The Scipio was on a massive landing pad, rain sloughing off the ship and falling in thick rivulets to the deck. A pool of light cast from the open assault hatch backlit pallets of supplies.

Ely ducked his head and ran for the ship, his feet splashing through puddles as water soaked through his back in short order. He shivered as he got a solid stream down his spine. He tried to shake moisture off his clothes as he made his way to the open “hell hole” where Armor or Strike Marines would jump from.

A cargo-lifter was below the hell hole, loaded with several olive-drab crates. There was no one else around.

Ely went to the lift and examined the controls, but they were all labeled in Basque.

“Hey…hey, there’s nothing up there for ya,” came from the shadows, a puff of smoke rising from an open crate.

“I’ve got to fix the engines,” Ely said.

“How’re you…how’re you going to do that?” Standish stumbled out from the supplies, a lit cigarette in his mouth and a bottle in hand. His uniform was disheveled, his Ibarran lieutenant-colonel rank sticking out from a shirt pocket, having been removed from his epaulettes—which were unbuttoned and flopping like short wings.

“Uncle Standish?” Ely’s eyes brightened.

“I ain’t yer uncle. Nobody gets to call me that unlessh,” Standish slurred his words and brandished his bottle. Some sloshed out and Standish let out a brief squeal. “Ah…shit! There’s a beverage here and now it’s on the floor and…hey…you look famil-familiar.”

“It’s me, Ely Hale. I was in Armor before and—”

“Kid!” Standish hugged Ely and the stench of booze emanating from Standish’s body made Ely gag. “You look just like I ’member ’fore you left for Terra Novy. How’s your dad? Wait…why you look just like I ’member? You should be…a man.”

“Thanks? I think.” Ely pushed Standish away. “Dad’s still in Terra Nova. I got put in suspended animation after a hunk of a Qa’Resh probe got lodged back here.” He touched the back of his head.

Standish wobbled then pointed at him with the bottle still in hand. “Hey! That happened to me on Nibi…nibi…Nibiru!”

“Bless you,” Ely said.

“No, for real. Qa’Resh probe was here.” He poked a finger against a palm. “Made me say all sorts of smarty stuff. What’s it doin’ to you?”

“Killing me slowly. Also it’s a giant magnet for Geist hitmen who want to cut my head off and take it back to Earth. Made me miss the last fifteen years of life or so…so it’s not real value-added.” Ely shrugged.

“Ah, now I feel like an asshole. Come sit down.” Standish had to hold himself up against a crate as he shuffled around. There was a makeshift seat of crates, along with several open crates of bottles of alcohol.

“Look upon my final stash.” Standish sank to his seat and took a sip. “Once I was the richest man in the galaxy. Few divorces later and a couple questionable investments…timeshares on Iapetus looked great on paper! Then the Geist conquered my customer base and…” He flicked his hand at an open crate.

“But you’re alive, Uncle Standish. You’re the first familiar face I’ve seen since I’ve been back. You just look so much older now.”

Standish’s mouth worked from side to side. “I’m gonna drink enough to forget you said that. Though I’ll feel that remark in the morning…along with the hangover…so it doesn’t matter what you just said. Hey, we’re both in the Crusade! Huzzah! I’ll drink to that.”

He did.

“How’s being Armor treatin’ you?” Standish wobbled on his seat. “You should’ve…should’ve seen it comin’. I knew your guy.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. It wasn’t by choice either. I feel like I got tricked onto some kind of horrible amusement-park ride and I can’t get off…”

“Can’t go home again, kiddo. You woke up to the Geist and an altogether shitty situation. Your pop ever tell you ’bout how we had to drop on Phoenix full of Xaros drones and rescue Marc Ibarra from his basement?” Standish shivered, then put the back of a hand to one eye.

“Uncle Standish…are you crying?”

“No.” Standish shook his head quickly, wiping his eyes across his hand. “Jus’ allergies. My team of Strike Marines were the first to set foot back on Earth after the Xaros murdered everyone. Everyone I ever knew ’cept my fellow Marines and squiddies. Poof. All gone. I ain’t saying we had it worse than you, but least you know your family’s still out there.”

“It’s not fair,” Ely said, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

“Welcome to life. Be glad it ain’t fair. Imagine if all your suffering was ’cause you deserved it. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the dick? Best we can do is live true to ourselves and be judged worthy by God and Saint Kallen…’suming you believe. Saint Kallen owes me a favor. Did you know that? I’ve got her thumb on the scales. Should make up for any and all alleged…never minds.”

“Saint Kallen…” Ely looked out to the storm. “What was she like?”

“She was…better. She was the kind of person that would sacrifice anything and everything for those she loved. She never felt sorry for herself, never saw herself as jus’ some poor girl locked in a chair. I see her statues and I ’member her strength, how she fought to that last breath. Used to be that I see someone like that and I’d feel guilt over my own failings…but she made you want to try harder.” He looked at the bottle in his hand, took a cap from a pocket and tried to screw it on, struggling to find the motor control.

“Bah!” He hurled the bottle away, and it bounced off the landing pad and sailed over the edge.

“I’m not like her. At all,” Ely sighed.

“Join the club! What’re you even doing here at my pity party?”

“I came to look at the Asterlite engines.” Ely looked up at the ship as thunder rolled through the skies.

“Don’t bother. Bunch of Ibarran engineers were here a few hours ago and took most of the components away to get scanned by the foundries. They give you a rank yet? Remember something, kiddo, just ’cause they promote you don’t mean you can’t remember how to sham like a private. I told that stick-in-the-mud Jenny Halk that I’d be at personnel getting my paperwork straight, then I told personnel that I was going to the logistics hub to order new gear and logistics thinks I’m at medical getting my shots. I told medical I’d be at personnel.”

“Halk’s going to chase her own tail looking for you?”

“Exactomundo. She’ll figure it out eventually. But by then, I’ll be sober and my stash’ll be secured someplace she can’t find it.” He burped and put a hand to his chest. “Her wrath will fall on Patrick for losing positive control over me. Ha! That’ll teach ’im to be so dumb.”

“Won’t she be mad?”

“Furious. But what’s she gonna do? Draft me into the Ibarrans’ Crusade and take my ship?”

Ely frowned. “Then that means I didn’t see you here…”

Standish tried to touch the tip of his nose and pointed at Ely.

Ely’s forearm computer buzzed with an incoming call.

Standish slammed a case shut and looked around for an exit.

“It’s Captain Santos,” Ely said.

“I’m not here. You’re not here. Don’t say a word to anyone!” Standish fell off his seat and hit the deck. He crawled around the boxes and slammed more cases full of alcohol shut.

“Sir?” Ely accepted the call.

Santos’ face appeared on screen. “Hale…I almost didn’t believe you were really back on the net. Where are you?” Santos leaned closer to the camera.

“At the Scipio, sir. I thought I could do some work on the engines, but that’s not happening,” Ely said.

“Report to briefing room delta, level 209, in one hour. We’ve got a mission.”

“Already? But we just got away from the fighting…”

“Welcome to the Ibarra Crusade. One hour. Sober.” Santos closed the channel.

Thunder rumbled overhead and Ely felt a weight growing on his soul.

Chapter 4

Marc Ibarra drowned.

He was on dry land, strapped down to a board with a towel over his face and mouth, but he was still drowning. Freezing water hit his face, soaking the towel as he fought to breathe. The last of the bucket went over his naked body, the cold shock forcing a deep breath from him—or at least the attempt. The wet towel covering his nose and mouth defeated the effort.

Failing to breathe hurt even worse than the oxygen-starved blood burning through his body and the icy pain in his lungs.

The towel came off and Ibarra managed a ragged gasp. Floodlights over him washed out his vision, leaving him with a glimpse of one of his torturers before the towel was slapped over his face and another bucket emptied onto him.

The bench he was strapped to tilted to one side and Ibarra fell onto a chipped, pitted concrete floor. He landed in a puddle in which flecks of ice bobbed as blood from his split lips meandered through the water.

A sharp kick to his side got a yelp of pain and he curled into a ball.

“Did you miss this?” Shannon walked around Ibarra. “Pain is universal. Even the simplest of creatures knows to avoid it. All those decades you squatted in the vessel the Qa’Resh gave to the galaxy…did you forget what pain was? Does all this make you feel alive, Marc?”

Ibarra coughed up water then pressed his tongue to the cut on his lip, tasting the blood and wincing at the pain.

“The Geist restore you to flesh and blood and this is what you choose. You must have missed pain.” Shannon grabbed a handful of Ibarra’s hair and jerked his face out of the puddle. “You must love the pain, as you’re demanding it. Strange, I don’t remember you being such a masochist.”

She let him go and his skull thumped against the floor.

“This day spa…” Ibarra rasped, crawling toward the wall. “…I’m leaving a one-star review.”

“This is your existence, Marc. This place is your choice. Tell me where to find Malal and the pain will end.”

Ibarra chuckled, then laughed long and hard. He wheezed as his diaphragm balked at the effort, but he slapped at the floor.

“Wow! What an offer!” Ibarra rolled onto a dry patch. “You let the devil out of hell to rule the Earth and I get what? Room-temperature gruel? A bullet to the back of my head? You were with me through so many years of big business, Shannon, and you still don’t know how to negotiate.”

“Oh, my dear Marc.” She put a foot on his bare chest. “I wanted to ease you into being human again. Waterboarding is the prologue to what comes next. Your body’s just as fragile as you don’t remember. You spent too long without pain. Without suffering. How long do you think you can last before you’re begging to tell us everything we want to know?”

“Don’t threaten me with suffering. I was married three times!” Ibarra put a hand to her leg, then pinched the fabric of her pants between his fingers.

Kicking his touch away, Shannon took a small vial from inside her jacket and wagged it over Ibarra. She unscrewed the top and tapped out three drops.

Red splotches hit Ibarra’s arms and chest. He tried wiping them away, but whatever it was left a dry, itchy patch where it landed.

“The Geist have so much of the galaxy available to them. This compound was synthesized from moss taken from some little backwater. Terran Union Pathfinders cataloged it. Noted that an antidote would be needed before the planet could be colonized.” Shannon leaned over him and spoke like she was talking to a child. “How would you rate the experience so far?”

Ibarra’s muscles began to cramp. His skin felt like there were bugs crawling underneath, but he could barely move to scratch. His jaw locked, pinching off the edge of his tongue. Parts of his body felt like a blow torch had been taken to him, the spot jumping around at random.

“I’ve heard the effects are on par with heroin withdrawal.” Shannon shrugged. “The report didn’t specify how long it lasts. The Geist appreciate your contribution to science.”

She left the room, a heavy vault door slamming behind her.

Ibarra wanted to scream, to do anything against the agony. He shivered in the cold, helpless and alone as the pain intensified.

Chapter 5

Ely heard the low grumble of many voices as he made his way down a hall. Pictures of officers in wooden frames with brass plates at the bottom lined the walls. Several had black ribbons on the top-left corner.

He turned a corner and saw the backs of Armor soldiers, their skull plugs catching the light. Taller, bulkier legionnaires stood against the wall. The air was tense with anger and frustration.

Ely searched for Lars, Santos or even Pulaski, but he didn’t see any of them.

“I burned all my ration coupons for a steak dinner and I get the recall alert soon as the plate hit my table,” one Armor said to a small circle. “You’d think we’d rate a couple more hours of downtime after we evacced Aachen.”

“You think it’s about the kid again?” another asked.

“The one right behind you?” A man raised a chin to Ely and a small crowd turned to look at him.

“Uh…hi? I was told to be here. So I hurried up. Now I’m waiting.” Ely felt a dull pain growing from the back of his head.

The Armor—mostly men, but all with hard eyes—looked at him like he was a peacock that had wandered into a den of lions.

A heavy hand fell on Ely’s shoulder. He felt his body bobble slightly, but the sensation of the touch took a half second to register.

“You’re alive, great!” Lars pulled Ely away. The Swede had a golden loop in one nostril, and a wide Mohawk looked freshly shaved into his hair. “Where’ve you been, lillebror?”

Ely opened his mouth and a baaa came out. His lips felt like rubber and his vision tunneled. The fragment in his skull began to burn. Ely felt for the injectors in his shoulder pocket.

“What’s wrong with him?” a quiet voice said from far away.

“I think he checked out.”

“The child can’t even get through a briefing.”

Someone jostled Ely’s shoulder and there was a pinch against his neck. He gasped, and the cold in the air felt like it came from the Arctic. His vision snapped back and he looked across the faces of the Steel Sworn. The Karigole Pulaski had a semipermanent sneer on his face, which looked even more sinister with his dead eye.

“Ely, you good now?” Santos held up a Compound 12 injector in front of Ely’s face. “Need more?”

Ely’s teeth chattered, though his body didn’t feel cold.

“Doors are open, Captain.” Lars jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Duty calls. Why are we still treating this one like an un-blooded infant?” Pulaski asked.

“If you think you’re helping, you’re not.” Santos pointed a knife hand at the Karigole’s solar plexus and Pulaski went quiet. “Ely. You feeling better now?”

“Yeah, the compound worked. I’m not used to dosing myself. My suit’s been doing it for me.” Ely checked that there were more injectors still in his shoulder pocket.

“Let me take him to medical,” Lars said.

“And miss the briefing? No.” Santos waved to someone and a hulking legionnaire came over. “Escort him to the cemetery on level eighty-nine. He gets fuzzy, you dose him until he’s back to reality. Good?”

“No problem,” the legionnaire said.

“Ah…come on,” Lars said, raising his palms. “It’s not like anyone cares about my input to whatever…whatever this is.”

“Briefings are shit sandwiches,” Pulaski said. “We must all take a bite. That lessens the shit factor. Correct?”

“No, you iguana-looking ass, that’s not how this works at all.” Lars scratched his nose ring.

“When did you observe my cloaca?” Pulaski narrowed his eyes.

“Get in there,” Santos growled. “Boris, you’ve got him?”

“He will walk or I will carry him,” the legionnaire said.

“Walk. I’ll walk.” Ely started off on rubbery legs, but his gait improved quickly.

There was a knock on the briefing room doors and Santos hurried in before a guard in light combat armor could shut him out. Rows of seats radiated away from a small stage. The lower rows were already full of officers. Santos took long steps down the aisle to the lone empty seat.

“Nice of you to show up,” said Captain Jerrico of the Hawkari Lance.

“Did I miss anything? No? How about that,” Santos said and sat down.

A blond woman with a tight face leaned back to speak to Santos. “You know what this is about? Your golden child perhaps?” She spoke with a slight French accent.

“No idea, Captain Godfrey, and since I don’t know why we were summoned, then I must assume it has nothing to do with Ely Hale,” Santos said, his voice just loud enough for the rest of the commanding officers around him to hear.

“Room! Atten-shun!” came from the stage.

Santos sprang to his feet, locked his heels together and put his fists to the sides of his thighs.

Marshal Roland Shaw walked onto the stage. He wore a simple uniform, with an open-collar shirt and a chest full of ribbons.

“As you were.” Roland waved a hand over a sensor and the lights dimmed. A holo coalesced behind him, and a planet with continents unfamiliar to Santos rotated slowly over the stage.

“Yes, we were on liberty,” Roland said. “No, this is not what we expected. But there is a critical mission and the Lady has chosen our Crusade to execute.”

He gestured to the holo and the planet froze. Data filtered around the world.

“This is Roanoke.” Roland walked beneath the holo, his hands clasped behind his back. “The planet is a tier 1 artifact world. The population is preindustrial and seeded as a colonial American city. Less than two thousand souls by the last census.”

Santos frowned. Why Roanoke was important enough to warrant this recall wasn’t obvious to him yet.

“The Roanoke system was cut off early in the Geist invasion. The low population kept it from being a priority for both us and the Geist. Stay-behind Pioneer teams destroyed the procedural farm before the Geist could seize it. We received irregular reports from messages smuggled through the Crucible during Geist transits. The planet went dark over a year ago when the Pioneers ran short of messenger drones.

“Crusade intelligence wrote off the planet as being too low of a priority for the Geist to harvest. That assumption held until a few hours ago.” Roland raised a hand and a text message scrolled across the holo.

HARVEST IMMINENT. TRANSIT CRAFT CONFIRMED. INTERDICTION REQUESTED.

“For two thousand people?” Jerrico muttered.

“All souls are precious,” Godfrey said. “Though what we have to commit to rescue them…”

Roland turned his head to the sound of the voices, then continued. “We’ve detected Crucible activity on a Kroar colony world a few light-years from Roanoke. Likely more harvesting activity and consistent with Geist behavior. Which means…” The holo rematerialized into an inverted pyramid ship, the lines split, the angles and points glowing with power.

Santos’ jaw tightened.

“A Geist soul ferry,” Roland said. “Code-named Charon. The enemy move their harvesters from conquered worlds back to Earth with these ships. We’ve only detected a few of them during the war. The enemy is very protective of this asset. The Lady has tasked us with capturing the Charon…intact.”

Santos shifted in his seat. It wasn’t like the Lady to demand the impossible.

“The Geist will not send the Charon into a system where there’s any threat. As such, we must establish an ambush without being detected.” Roland swallowed hard. “Should the enemy detect the ambush, they won’t send the Charon into the system. We must lure the ship in, then disable the Crucible to prevent it from escaping.”

Santos sensed that the Marshal wasn’t as confident in the plan as he let on.

“To accomplish this, the Lady has allocated two strategic assets. The first is the Scipio outfitted with the FTL drives that were used to great effect on Aachen. The second…must remain classified for the time being. The Geist have a significant naval presence within Crucible range of Roanoke. It is imperative that we seize the Crucible and scramble the quantum fabric near the planet to keep the Geist away. As such, a platoon of legionnaires will be on the mission. Things will be tight aboard the Scipio.”

Roland snapped his fingers and the holo faded away.

“The Scipio can carry two lances. One will be the Steel Sworn.” Roland looked to Santos. “You have a subject-matter expert who’s needed.”

Ely. Santos kept his tongue in check. The boy knew how to work the FTL engines, but wasn’t exactly value-added in a fight. This mission was going to be carried out with no more than eight Armor, and Roland was now handicapping Santos even more.

Santos’ breath fogged in the air that grew chillier by the moment.

“The other lance…will be a volunteer. The rest of the Crusade will stage in the Antares Epsilon system.” Roland looked to the back of the stage.

“Send us,” said Captain Jerrico, rising to his feet.

“Send us!” another lance commander shouted.

Roland raised his hands to slow the volunteers.

“The choice is not mine,” Roland said.

The curtains parted and a silver woman emerged onto the stage. The auditorium jumped to their feet, hands over hearts, heads bowed. An audience with Lady Ibarra was a rare honor.

Stacey Ibarra stopped at the edge of the stage. Frost grew against the wood and one of the lights flickered out.

“My soldiers,” Stacey spoke through vibrations in her metal body, while her mouth and features remained fixed. “This mission is critical to the Crusade. You are Armor. I know you will not fail. Who will answer the call?”

Every commander was on their feet. Santos knew he would do the same if he wasn’t already tapped to go.

Stacey Ibarra walked slowly along the edge of the stage. She stopped and nodded. “The Maquis. May the Saint be with you.” Lady Ibarra turned and left the stage.

“The rest of you are dismissed,” Roland said. “Steel Sworn. Maquis. Lieutenant Yeoman. To the front.”

Soldiers filed out. Santos remained seated, his mind racing as he tried to figure out exactly how this mission was anything but a Hail Mary. He heard Pulaski and Lars take seats behind him.

The Maquis lance, all women, moved close to Santos.

Marshal Shaw hopped off the stage. “The concept of this operation is difficult,” he said. “You’re going in light, but there are Pioneers on the planet who can provide some intelligence. They’re old Strike Marines and they’ve been there for years. The Crusade’s been waiting for a chance like this for a long time, and we’ve been shaping the battlefield with harassment fire: long-range missile attacks fired from outside Crucible interference range. The Scipio will come in under cover of another harassment attack. Then you’ll FTL closer to the planet.”

“Oh no…no, no, no,” Lars said, “please no.”

“Then it’s a Tactical Insertion Torpedo to the surface.” Roland shrugged.

Lars groaned, sounding like a creaky door.

“Steel Sworn, you’re the ground element,” the Marshal said. “You’ll link up with the Pioneers. You’ll have an omnium forge pod with you for resupply. Your mission is to neutralize the Geist that control the system after the Charon arrives. As you’ll be at greater risk of capture, I have to compartmentalize the other strategic asset from you. I’ll brief the Maquis and the assault platoon on that separately.”

“We will not be taken alive,” Pulaski said.

“When do we break for orbit?” Santos asked.

“Twelve hours. Sooner if the Scipio’s retrofit ends ahead of schedule,” Roland said.

“The Charon carries harvested souls.” Santos’ hands squeezed into fists. “Are they from human worlds?”

“Likely not.” Roland shook his head.

“We won’t let them take the colonists. We’ll destroy the Charon if we can’t seize it,” Santos said.

“Approved.” Roland’s lips pressed into a line. “The Geist value their harvests. Denying that is a victory. Understand that we want the ship captured. That’s the Lady’s orders.”

“I am Armor.” Santos stood up and saluted. “I am fury.”

“We will not fail,” Godfrey said.

****

The cemetery row reeked of hydraulic fluid. The screech of saws and machinery from open bays dogged Ely as he and his escort walked down a wide hallway. Ely glanced at cemetery designations until they came to the only closed bay on the floor.

A red wheel lock on the door was high and out of reach. Armor-sized.

“Crunchy door,” said the legionnaire, pointing to a stairwell that led to an upper level and a human-sized entrance.

“It bother you when Armor calls you ‘crunchy’?”

“No.” The six-and-a-half-foot soldier loomed over Ely. “You have to get out of the suit sometime. Then who’s the crunchy one?”

“Fair point.” Ely went up the stairs, but the legionnaire didn’t follow. He shouldered the door open.

The cemetery had a single dull light in a maintenance coffin that held a pristine suit of Armor. No lance markings. No Crusader crosses. It was matte-black and looked like the joints would squeak once they were used for the first time.

Ely went down the catwalk.

“What am I supposed to do here?” He touched the shoulder pocket with his Compound 12 injectors. The last application left him jittery and his teeth felt fuzzy for reasons he didn’t completely understand. His eyes adjusted slowly to the low light, but as he approached the new suit, he made out a shadow next to it.

A shadow as big as the Armor.

Ely stepped across the suit to the shadow and made out a woman…a woman almost fourteen feet tall. She wore simple utilities and her head was bent slightly. Her face was almost human, the bright-green skin and slightly-off features marking her as alien.

A data line connected from the back of her skull to the Armor. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was having a vivid dream.

“What the…” Ely reached out and touched her bare forearm. Her skin was almost hot to the touch. His fingertips came back with a golden hue and smelled of pollen and honey. He leaned against the railing and tried to get a closer look at her face.

The fragment in his skull buzzed for a heartbeat. Ely fumbled for his injector.

“That was me,” the alien said. She opened her eyes, and wide, black pupils locked on Ely.

“Ah!” Ely backpedaled fast. The railing on the other side whacked into the small of his back and he tipped over the edge.

A massive green hand seized him by the shirt and held him in place half over the precipice.

“Young Mr. Hale,” the alien said, “it’s about time.”

“Why are you so big? And…” he pinched at the skin of her hand and wrist, “and rubbery? Are you some new kind of Armor?”

“Please,” she said as she set him upright. “My name is Trinia. I’m an Aeon. This is what I look like.” She gave him a pat on the head.

“Wait…I’ve seen you before. Aignar knows you,” Ely said.

“That he does.” Trinia reached behind her head and unsnapped the data line. “We’ve been talking about you.”

“You have? Wait, is he in there?” He pointed to the new suit.

Trinia wrapped the line around her upper arm, then leaned forward to rest her forearms on the railing.

“I installed your old pod and Aignar’s matrix into the new suit. Not easy. Meanwhile, both of you are a problem,” she said. “He was supposed to imprint onto a trained and ready soldier—not one that barely knows how to shave and who has a Qa’Resh probe fragment fused to his nervous system.”

“There was a fair amount of duress involved, if that matters. How are we a problem and you…are? I have questions.”

Trinia traced an oval in the air and Ely’s eyes twitched as the fragment buzzed again.

“I am a scientist. An engineer. Did you think that Marc Ibarra invented everything?” Her fingers flitted through a holo Ely couldn’t see.

“I’m guessing not. But you can do something with the probe fragment? Can you take it out?”

“Lady Ibarra and I both examined you. I’ve worked with Qa’Resh technology for…rather a long time. The fragment in your skull was badly damaged. It’s trying to repair itself while it’s linked to your neural system, which is not how things are supposed to work. We can keep it mostly inactive with the compound the Geist made for you—though we’ve improved the purity—, but we can’t remove it without killing you,” she said.

“‘Mostly inactive’?”

“Aignar exists within a Qa’Resh matrix. When you’re linked to him, the connection is deeper and stronger than it was designed to be. Which means that Aignar can’t imprint on anyone else, but he’s able to…live…more fully.” She swiped her hand to one side. “An unintended consequence.”

“Sometimes I wish I was still in that suspended animation tube. I would’ve caused a lot less trouble.” Ely shrugged.

“Roland and everyone on Aachen would be dead if you hadn’t come to the Crusade. Ask Aignar if he’d rather be in the background of your mind or fighting with you…no one’s told you about the Aeon?” she asked.

“No, my less-than-manly shrieking when you first moved was genuine.”

“I am the last of my kind, Ely. My species will die with me. My days are spent in service to the Crusade, to save life from the Geist. I have no time to feel sorry for myself. And you…tell me what you feel when the fragment is active.”

“Ma’am, I was held prisoner by an alien warlord when the Qa’Resh probe was blown up. Since then, it’s been a real roller coaster of evil procedurals, Geist assassins…war. That’s not even the weirdest part. I think…I’ve had visions of Saint Kallen and I barely go to church.”

“Again with that,” Trinia said, rolling her eyes. “Are you Armor, young Mr. Hale?”

“I’ll try,” Ely said, shrugging again.

“Tell that to Aignar. Come, he’s waiting for you.” She touched the coffin’s side and the Armor’s chest plate swung open, revealing the pod within.

Ely hesitated. His feet felt like they were in concrete.

“I understand.” Trinia reached out to him. “It’s never easy, Ely. There is no fate, only the future we fight for. Armor fights with more force than others, but what’s demanded of soldiers like you is more than what’s easy.”

“Will it ever get easy? Even a little?”

“No. You just get stronger.”

The pod cracked open.

****

Ely opened his eyes, surrounding by an obsidian darkness. He stood on black glass, his reflection forming without any source of light.

“Aignar? Ghost?”

“Here,” Aignar said from behind.

Ely turned around and saw a roughhewn statue made of chalk. It was of a young boy, baseball glove raised to make a catch. Several yards away were two arms raised up to make a throw, carved of the same material.

Aignar stepped up to the floating arms, his own limbs ending at the elbows. He raised the stumps to join with the carvings and the statue of the boy became more distinct.

“I’m ready, Daddy!” a voice said.

The alabaster arms attached to Aignar, and he threw a baseball. The statue of the boy came alive and fumbled the catch. The boy collapsed into a pile of dust. Aignar looked at his hands as they crumbled away.

“A good memory,” Aignar said, his words coming. though his mouth didn’t move. “I’m getting better at holding them together, but not beyond what I remember.”

“Trinia told me—”

“She told me too.” Aignar looked up. “Seems we both got more than we bargained for when you plugged in on the Breitenfeld. At least I’m more than just an operating system.”

“And you won’t be for anyone else. Seems you’re stuck with me.” Ely touched the white grains on the ground. They reformed into a picture of Ely, his brother Jared, and his parents taken in a void ship bay.

“I’m surprised you came back.” Aignar looked over Ely’s shoulder. “Thought they’d have you making more of those fancy engines.”

“No one’s been asking me about them. I guess the Ibarrans got them all figured out. It was nice to be useful…at least for a little while. So it’s you and me in the suit.”

“Why? Why are you mounting up again, Ely? You’re not exactly eager to get in the fight.” Aignar held out his truncated limb and a crude prosthetic formed off the end. “I can’t even remember what it’s like to be whole again…damn it.”

“I don’t…it’s hard to explain.” Ely looked at the sand and it reformed to his childhood memory of Armor Square, where the Armor that died in the final battle against the Xaros were memorialized. “Part of it is my first name that I can’t even say anymore. Then there’s the baggage with my last name. Everyone expects everything from me! I’m…I’m really lost out here. What else am I supposed to do?”

Ely kicked the sand apart.

“Aw…you poor guy.” Aignar clapped with the plastic-on-plastic sound of his prosthetics.

“Then tell me why you’ve kept at it,” Ely said, looking away with shame.

“Vishrakath took my arms. Took my legs. Took my mouth. Because of a certain genetic quirk of mine, I couldn’t get a vat-grown replacement. I was facing a future of being a freak. Yeah, veterans get respect, but there’d be the looks. The pity. I can’t stand pity, Ely. It’s insulting. People opening bottles for me like I’m a child…Then there’s my son, Joshua. How was I supposed to be a father to my son if I was less of a man? That was my thinking. I just wanted my son to be proud of me.

“That wasn’t going to happen pulling disability every month and bitching about the weather at the VFW…so I went to the Armor Corps. Lo and behold, I had a knack for that. Skull plugs and obvious prosthetics? The Saint Kallen parallels make themselves. But I was never doing it for the good of all mankind—it was so my son could look at me with pride. That worked. After the Kesaht War ended and Captain Gideon…the Armor Corps needed to be reconstituted. Time with Joshua was good. I was a father to him. Then the Geist came and I redlined during the collapse. It was death or living as a ‘ghost.’”

“I don’t get it,” Ely said. “Roland’s ghost is barely a flicker in his mind. Trinia says that this—” he turned slowly to take in the abyss around them “—this is an anomaly. We shouldn’t be able to talk like this.”

“What is there after death, Ely?” Aignar asked. “Maybe there are angels and paradise for the worthy. But if I surrendered to the dark, then what could I do for my son? He was on Earth when the Geist came. He’s still there! He’s there and he has no idea what happened to me. Did I die fighting to save him? Did I run off with the Ibarrans like a coward and abandon him to those monsters? He doesn’t know. With this—this twisted purgatory I’m in—I’m still fighting to save him. To get back to him.”

Aignar grabbed Ely by the arms, his fingers bending with the creak of servos. “I have to fight for my son, Ely. That’s why I’m doing this. I don’t have any regrets. But you—you, Ely Hale—you’re the weak link in all this. You understand? Being Armor isn’t some namby-pamby sort of thing. You must. Be. Armor!”

Aignar morphed into the pristine suit they both inhabited.

Ely looked up at the helm and shouted, “I’m not! I don’t have the training! I don’t have the-the-the years of ripping apart the enemy. It’s been nothing but learn as I go and surviving by the skin of my teeth. You were there on the Warsaw when I panicked at the thought of flying into Geist fighters. Armor doesn’t panic, Aignar. Never in my life could I imagine Armor being afraid of anything. El-ugh. Elsis…damn it. The man I’m named after faced down the Xaros king in the heart of its power and held it off long enough to die with those monsters. That’s not me, Aignar…I’m too scared. I’m too weak.”

Ely wiped tears away. Aignar, back to his normal self, nudged him.

“When I was a Ranger, we had our creed,” Aignar said. “Part of it was ‘I will shoulder more than my share of the task, whatever it may be, one hundred percent and then some.’ Don’t pray for less of a burden, Ely. Work to make yourself stronger.”

“And how am I going to do that?” Ely looked up to where the suit’s helm should’ve been, then down to Aignar.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Aignar huffed. “I’ve got a vested interest in training you to survive this Crusade. Trinia even has this suit outfitted to take the Wield. I spent a lot of time with shrinks after I got tagged by the Vish. Here’s one of the few good questions they ever asked: what if it all works out well in the end?”

“How would that…fine, I’ll play your silly game. Say I do live up to my given name and my surname and the Crusade retakes Jerusalem or Earth, same thing…I could get to see my family again. Maybe even go home to Terra Nova. And…we’ll find Joshua. You can see him through me. Talk to him.”

Aignar’s face brightened. “There you go. I waded through a mountain of the VA’s bullshit to find the occasional golden nugget. You done with your pity party?”

“Yeah…yeah, what do we need to do?” Ely tugged at his uniform.

“I’m going to beat you into shape,” Aignar said. “You’re not going to like it, but I really don’t care. What we do need is Wield…Trinia?”

The Aeon appeared, just as tall as the two humans. Her outline shimmered and her skin was pixelated and jagged.

“Not possible,” she said, her voice laden with static. “The fragment is too discordant to incorporate the Wield. He’s not ready.”

“You’re not helping!” Aignar shouted.

“How did you get the Wield?” Ely asked his ghost.

“That was after my time.” Aignar crossed his arms.

“It can’t be explained. It has to be known,” Trinia said and fizzled out.

“You’re right,” Ely said. “She wasn’t helping…let me go speak to Captain Santos. He was at some kind of a briefing and I need to figure out if I’m going along or if I’m staying here to figure out how to use this new suit.”

“Fair enough. I’ll run the dismount cycle. Get back here soon as possible so I can put you through the wringer.” Aignar raised a hand and the darkness faded to light.

****

Ely slapped at his skin suit, knocking dried amniosis off him. Flakes floated past his feet and through the catwalk. He felt a wet patch on his flank and sprayed it with a gout of white dust from a can. The dust crystalized the oxygen-rich, viscous fluid from the Armor’s pod and it crumbled off Ely’s clothes.

“This stuff is incredible.” Ely looked up at his suit. “Maybe that’s why Armor back in my dad’s day didn’t like to dismount. Showering off that stuff was too much trouble.”

“Hardly.” Lars walked up to him, large toolboxes in each hand. Light glinted off his nose ring. “Old suits lost synch if Armor dismounted for too long. Ibarrans figured out a way to stop the degradation. Not that being in the pod is so bad after you get used to it.” He dropped the boxes and rubbed his hands.

“Guess Trinia made the improvements?” Ely looked between the tool boxes.

Lars’s face lit up. “How do you know about her?”

“She was here. Green. Big. Real big.” Ely raised a hand to show her height then pointed to the ceiling.

“She was here and I didn’t know!” Lars grabbed the side of his head. “Did she ask about me? What did she touch?”

Ely leaned back slightly. “What?”

“Never mind…you know about the mission? You ever done a boarding operation before? No, of course you haven’t. But let’s get our cart-horse-cart situation straight first.” Lars put his hands on his hips. “Congrats on your new suit. Time to do initial inspection and maintenance.”

Lars kicked a toolbox open and took out a spanner.

“Don’t we have techs for this?” Ely peered into the toolbox. “Chief Sugimoto could do this. With that Toth of hers.”

Pulaski jumped up from the ground level. His clawed hands grabbed the catwalk railing and he flipped over and landed hard on his feet.

“No Armor worth his spurs would ever say that.” The Karigole shook his head. “The techs are not our servants.”

“Give the kid a break. He’s never even been through the long dark. We’re here to teach him, ’Ski, not crap all over him for not knowing everything.” Lars handed Ely a piece of chalk.

“What’s happening?” Ely examined the chalk with a frown.

“Factory-fresh suit.” Lars rapped his knuckles on the chest plate. “They don’t come battlefield-ready. There’s a break-in inspection for us to identify where this suit needs to be tuned up. I sent you the checklist.”

Ely swiped on his forearm screen. Then swiped up. And again. And again. “This will take forever.” Ely swiped again.

“Eighteen hours for an experienced soldier,” Pulaski grumbled. “Don’t lose your mount in combat. Easy enough rule to follow if you value your downtime and your life.”

“My old suit’s in—well, I’m not getting it back—but I didn’t lose it.” Ely held his screen up to his face. “Do we have to take the whole thing apart? I can’t believe all this.”

“What? Did you think being Armor was all glory and terror?” Lars chuckled. “Welcome to the nitty-gritty they don’t put in the recruiting videos. Pulaski and I will start the checklist. Meanwhile…you need to check for soft spots. Get a hammer.”

“‘Soft spots’? You mean the factory sent us a suit we have to fix ourselves and with faulty plating?” Ely dug a small hammer from a tool chest.

“Lowest bidders!” Lars bit his lower lip for a moment. “What you need to do is tap on the plating…go ahead…that part’s good. Now move over about six inches…ugh! Mark an X with the chalk. Keep going.”

Ely tapped the hammer again, then looked at Lars. “Do I have to do this to the whole suit?” Ely asked, dejected.

“Yes!” Lars’ voice pitched an octave higher and he cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Get at it, new guy. ’Ski, hand me that number twelve wrench. I can already tell the ammunition trails are out of tolerance.”

Ely tapped on the plating again, paused, then hit the same part again a little harder.

“Jag är generad för honom,” the Karigole said in Swedish.

“Håll käften. Få detta på video.” Lars bit his knuckles.

“What? Did you say ‘video’?” Ely reached up and tapped the hammer again.

“Less talking and more working!” Lars stomped his foot. “We have to at least get to the suspension test before we load her onto the Scipio.”

“I can’t believe they send us junk like this.” Ely shook his head. “This patch is definitely soft.”

Tap, tap.

“Such bullshit.” Lars covered his mouth to stifle a laugh, then leaned to one side to give Pulaski a clear shot. The camera on his forearm captured Ely as he continued to test the integrity of the metal plating.

Chapter 6

Duke carried a line of dead “rabbits” over one shoulder. The blue-green striations of their fur caught the afternoon light, blending into the foliage around Duke as he walked the outer perimeter of a garden that had seen better days. Rows of vegetables and corn were choked with weeds.

Duke dropped the dead animals on a stump, then pried out an axe embedded in the wood. He picked up a hunk of a tree sawed into rounds, then chopped it in half. Tall grass had grown through the log segments in the months since they’d been dragged there.

Maggie came out of her cabin made of stacked logs, its seams weatherproofed with mud and clay. Smoke curled from the chimney. She watched as Duke cut more firewood, then hurried back inside.

Duke wiped sweat from his brow and kept at his work. The handle was rough, and he could feel the beginnings of blisters.

“Mr. Duke…” Maggie had a wooden cup in her hands. “Please, don’t strain yourself for my sake. Here.”

Duke split another hunk of wood, then took the drink. It tasted of vinegar and ginger and had just a touch of sweetness.

“You make the best switchel,” he said and smiled at her.

“You’re too kind.” She poked one of the dead animals. “Vile little beasts. We didn’t have pests like this back in England. Rabbits with fangs! Lord, help us.”

“They don’t even taste like proper rabbit.” Duke shook his head.

“With enough spice, they make a decent stew. Such a travesty the New World is.” She looked at them hungrily. “Thank you for saving my onion patch. Will you take them all home with you?”

“I caught them on your land, Miss. They’re yours,” Duke said.

“That is very kind of you.” Maggie sat on the stump. “It’s been so difficult since Hiram passed. If there were still ships going back to England, my family there could pay my passage…but since the Rapture…”

“If it was the Rapture, it would have been over all of God’s green Earth. There could be another war with France or Spain that’s stopping ships from coming to us. This is the first colony. Perhaps the financiers went bankrupt?”

“You’d think the Ibarra Company would have the common courtesy to tell us if their finances were out of order,” Maggie said.

“Yeah, those damn Ibarrans.” Duke reached for the pocket with his chewing tobacco then reconsidered.

“But we don’t have to worry for much longer.” She withdrew from a pocket a pamphlet bearing a crude cartoon of the Prophet and a cross. “If the Prophet is correct, then all our earthly suffering is about to end.”

“I don’t believe it,” Duke said. “What he promises is not the Gospel. Minister Cord has made it clear how wrong the Prophet is.”

“You were never a regular at Sunday services, Mr. Duke. Neither was Hiram. I’m sure he’d agree with you, but he’s already with the Lord.” She seemed to shrink away.

Duke bit his tongue. He knew the exact truth of the “Prophet” but explaining to her that an alien wanted to harvest her soul energy and ship it back to the true Earth was not going to go over well. The colonists of Roanoke were still primed to burn witches at the stake if they were so inclined.

“Hiram was a good man. If I could have taken his place on that fishing ship, I would’ve…but doesn’t the Gospel teach that we’ll all be in the Lord’s kingdom after death? We don’t need to skip ahead by taking the Prophet’s offer…assuming it’s even true.”

“Why would the Lord send a false prophet that can perform miracles?” she asked.

“To test that we are true to him. Look at all the trouble in Europe after Martin Luther and—”

“The king’s own Anglican Church came about. A reformation! Perhaps we’re on the cusp of another great revelation.”

“OK, that’s a fair point, but Martin Luther wasn’t performing parlor tricks and taking people away from their families. No one ever comes back after they get the harness—I mean, Malal’s mark. Why does no one ever come back?”

Maggie nodded, then looked away. “Can I survive the winter alone, Mr. Duke?” she asked.

“No one is alone in Roanoke, even if the Old World has forgotten about us. I can keep you well supplied with rabbits and firewood. Don’t fear the seasons, Maggie.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “What does your sister think of all this?” she asked.

“I’m older. I don’t much care. Why ask?”

“It’s just that…you two don’t look anything alike. Plus, you won’t let Jim Snow court her.”

“He’s barely more than a simple laborer!” Duke stopped himself from getting any angrier. “But she is her own woman. I might chaperone…with my rifle in hand. But no other man’s been overtly interested in her since she cured the Duncan child of his fever.”

“Such a thing was unusual. She succeeded where both the town’s doctors failed. More rumors…if the Prophet had not showed up and softened others’ hearts to the idea of miracles…”

“The anti-sickness powers of certain molds have been known for many hundreds of years. Tobacco keeps many breeds of insects away. My sister is quite the apothecary.”

“I—for one—do not believe her to be a witch,” she said.

“Anyone that does can bring the issue directly to me.”

“Mr. Duke, you are simply too much.” Maggie giggled. “The city knows you’re the best shot of any man. If anyone were to attempt to besmirch your sister’s honor, they’d never know you were after them. It would just be…” She mimed a rifle in her hands then leaned back to mimic the recoil.

“With a reputation like that, one has to wonder about Snow’s sanity.”

“One can admire pure motives,” Maggie said. “If you’ll finish cutting this firewood, I’ll make you rabbit stew.”

“Chopping this wood isn’t enough to pay you back for your stew,” Duke said, hefting the axe onto his shoulder.

“More switchel?” she asked.

“Thank you kindly.” Duke went back to his work as Maggie went to her door.

They shared a look before she ducked inside. Duke’s heart ached for a moment, then he stowed the feelings away to concentrate on breaking up more firewood.

****

The Prophet walked around a wooden X within the courtyard of a high-walled fort. Red-coated guards walked the parapets, long rifles in one hand or placed lazily over their shoulders.

Simon was crucified against the X, his limbs bound to the wood by tight loops of metal. The man’s eyes had rolled up, and he choked with each breath. A glowing, pale-blue mist floated off his harness and fell over his body before being drawn into the metal binding him to the X.

The Prophet wafted the mist into his mouth and he breathed deeply.

“Your faith is rewarded.” The Prophet’s eyes glowed as he drew in another breath. “Don’t resist anymore…surrender to it.”

Simon gagged like a fish caught on a line, his head thrashing from side to side as the flow thickened into a stream. The Prophet bent over the lower section of the X and opened a panel, and a glass bottle filled with the light. A face that echoed Simon’s appeared in the cloud of light, screaming in silence.

“Exalted One…” A colonist came over, wearing an oversized robe made of coarse fabric. “The heavens sent you a message. An angel is on the way…”

The Prophet searched the night sky.

“Everyone! To the cloister!” The Prophet raised his hands and the guards and supplicants retreated into the wooden fort.

Minutes later, air billowed around the Prophet’s feet from an unseen force. Blown dirt washed over the half-dozen occupied crucifixes, not that the men and women bound to them seemed to mind—or even notice.

An old Terran Union shuttle appeared as if it were being poured into existence from the landing struts upward as the cloaking field retracted. A door opened from the fuselage and a woman in a dark uniform hopped out. A parcel floated after her, held aloft by anti-grav repulsers.

She fell to her knees before the Prophet and pressed her forehead into the dirt.

“Commander Dumitru…this must be very important for you to risk being seen by the uninitiated. Rise,” the Prophet said.

“Forgive me, Exalted One, but there was a disturbance in the Crucible. Normally, it’s the Ibarrans testing the network, like a spider feeling for prey that’s hit its web, but—”

“I am well aware of the Crucible network’s issues. That does not explain your presence here.” The Prophet reached toward the plastic box beside Dumitru and it rose into the air. The box fell away and a saucer-shaped object spun in the air.

“We detected the device after it crashed into the moon.” Dumitru stood but did not look directly at the Prophet. “It struck a dust basin instead of nearby regolith, else we probably wouldn’t have found it at all.”

“When?” the Prophet asked.

“The anomaly that prompted the search was almost two days ago. The gates connected to ours didn’t log anything unusual, which meant it wasn’t just another scan from that infernal Keeper of theirs. We did find a code injector in the number nineteen Crucible segment. They’re impossible to detect until an outside device,” she motioned to the device, “until the Ibarrans trigger one. This messenger drone moved on anti-grav drives. None of our tech—”

“You have not failed me, Commander. The Ibarrans prepared to cede territory to us. You were diligent and attentive in your duties…but this does concern me.” The Prophet plucked the drone out of the air and turned it over. He tossed it aside and it hit the ground with significant weight, hard and heavy.

“There will be a Charon ship transit soon,” Dumitru said, licking her lips. “Perhaps we should—out of an abundance of caution—”

“No. The harvest is nearly complete. This is the final colony on this world and I promised Geist Synod a significant bounty. Do you know what happens if I miss the Charon?” The Prophet reached around Dumitru’s neck and put his hand on her harness.

Dumitru tensed and her face trembled as her neck arched back.

“No, Exalted One…please!”

The Prophet turned her head so that her gaze fell on Simon. The man let out a weak scream and the mist around him faded away to nothing. The canister in the X flew out and smacked into the Prophet’s other hand. Soul energy swirled within.

The Prophet brushed it across his lips and his eyes glowed with silver light.

“This bounty has an expiration date, Commander.” He spun the canister on a finger. “We lost the technology to preserve it indefinitely through the ages when we abandoned our homeworld to harvest the galaxy in Malal’s name. I will not let my work wither on the vine.”

“No…no, of course not…” Tears streamed from her eyes.

“But I do not believe in coincidences.” The Prophet released her. “I announced the deadline for my crops to voluntarily embrace the harness and Malal…and then this. There are still Ibarran agents here…”

“Do you wish for the garrison to sweep the city?” Dumitru heaved and inched away from the Prophet.

“And destroy the illusion I’ve created? Harvesting terrified cattle ruins the soul. Send me a half dozen of your men with scanners. We’ll weed out the heretics and learn their plan…the Ibarrans are losing this war—there may be nothing to fear. Still, have the garrison aboard the Crucible on full alert. Your ‘abundance of caution.’”

“Yes, Exalted One, as you command,” Dumitru said.

“Go.” The Prophet turned to Simon’s crucifixion and touched the dead man’s face. Simon’s skin had gone ashen, his eyes white and empty. “There’s a trace of soul…perhaps there is still some use left in you…”

Chapter 7

Nakir and Shannon watched a bank of holos, each screen a different angle on Marc Ibarra in his cell.

Ibarra had spent the last ten minutes crawling toward a plate of food. Only one of his arms appeared to be working; the rest of his limbs were still knotted tight by cramps.

“No progress,” Nakir said, adjusting his chrome mask.

“Interrogation subjects don’t break instantly,” Shannon snapped. “Marc put up initial resistance. It takes time to tear down the defenses. This takes time, Nakir. You should understand that.”

“My Commissariat division had a one hundred percent success rate extracting information from prisoners within twelve hours of detention.” Nakir zoomed a camera in as Ibarra pawed at the edge of the plate where a beef patty and green beans had gone gray in the cold.

“From living prisoners. How many died during your interrogations without providing any actionable intelligence?” Shannon huffed.

“They were harnessed. Nothing of value was lost when they died, even if I had to bring in other subjects to get the information I needed. But we’re dealing with this prisoner.” Nakir pulled the camera back as Ibarra latched on to the patty and shoved it into his mouth—then threw it away and gagged.

“The fecal coating is an excellent indicator,” Nakir said. “A prisoner that refuses the meal still has some resistance. One that’s desperate enough to eat is ready to give up information for comforts.”

“Unless they opt to choke to death on it.” Shannon crossed her arms. “I’ve had a few cases end that way.”

“He’s under constant observation and we have medics in the next room…how far can we push him until he considers suicide a viable option?” Nakir asked.

“He’ll never. Marc Ibarra is too much of a narcissist to ever stop living. Look at what he did to escape death when the Xaros came to Earth. He transferred his mind to a Qa’Resh probe, then defiled a Qa’Resh Ambassador’s body with his presence. He chose to survive when billions died on Earth. Including me.” Shannon giggled as Ibarra’s legs began kicking of their own volition.

“Your lack of progress is…concerning to the Synod,” Nakir said.

“And what of your ‘progress’? Where is Ely Hale? How many times has he slipped from your fingers? Now you’re here, interfering with my task to—”

“Our task now.” Nakir took a small data wafer from his pocket and tapped it to a screen where a document popped up. “You promised results when Exalted Noyan used the recovered Qa’Resh probe fragment to invade Ibarra’s mind. No results. You promised to break Ibarra once he was made flesh and blood again. No results. Ely Hale has escaped, despite my best efforts. Now Exalted Noyan has tasked me with this. As interrogation lead.”

Shannon read the orders, then flicked the document aside like it was a dead bug on her finger. “Your star is falling before our lords’ eyes,” she said. “Fail here and they may harvest you.”

“My soul is pledged to Malal. Surrendering to him would never be a failure. I have only one life to give, unlike some of us…” Nakir looked at her and tapped the tops of his fingers.

“Are you jealous that I have been re-forged exactly how the Geist wish me to be?”

“Pig iron is no comparison to fine steel, no matter how many times it’s melted down into something new.” Nakir went to the door. “Let us visit him together. Time to change tactics.”

Chapter 8

Ely walked across the landing pad to the Scipio. His suit followed behind, slaved to his forearm computer. The pad was abuzz with robot cargo-lifters and logistics soldiers. Massive cylinders were fixed to the dorsal hull.

Ely kept glancing over his shoulder at the suit, the factory-fresh paint marred with scuffs and dozens of chalk X’s. The suit kept a constant five feet of distance from him, giving him a near anxiety attack with each heavy footfall.

“Relax,” Lars said, beside him. “Anyone that doesn’t know better than to get out of the way of Armor deserves to be crunched.”

“I’ve never had a giant metal shadow before,” Ely said.

“You’ve never even seen a Templar induction ceremony before…the old Terran Armor Core version. The Ibarrans have their own traditions, but on Earth, the soldier and Armor marched out to Memorial Square and met at dawn for prayer. No one got crunched.”

“What do the Ibarrans do?” Ely asked.

“I wouldn’t know. Ask Santos,” Lars said and shrugged.

Ely and his Armor stepped onto a cargo lift attached to the hell hole, and they rose into the ship’s cargo hold. Seven suits were already there, each in a maintenance coffin. Maintenance techs, sailors and robots moved about with purpose in the chaos. The cargo bay was surrounded by double decks with several ladders and robot lifters.

“Ah, nothing like embarkation,” Lars said. “Come on, let’s find where we’re berthed for the trip.”

“Where have you been?” Chief Sugimoto stalked across the bay, a digital clipboard in hand. “I was supposed to have that unit in the coffin for class B maintenance…wait…” She glared at Lars.

Lars nudged Ely’s shoulder.

“Huh? Oh, right.” Ely pointed at his suit. “Chief, do you know who assembled this unit? Because I counted at least ninety-four soft spots on the Armor. We had to recalibrate the travel mode configuration three times before suspension checked out.”

“You should see it for yourself.” Lars held out his arm and a video of Ely jumping on the Armor’s treads played on a loop from his forearm screen.

Sugimoto pinched the bridge of her nose.

“This wasn’t on the break-in checklist, but the onboard floodlights are critically low on fluid and the squelch canisters are missing.” Ely raised his hands in defeat. “What’re we going to do, Chief?”

Lars failed to hold in a laugh, and it came out like he was blowing a raspberry.

“What is this?” A trio of young women in Armor utilities came over, each prettier than the next, and each with her hair in a long braid over one shoulder, like Saint Kallen in many of the busts and pictures that Ely had seen.

“Who fell for it?” the youngest one asked with a faint French accent.

Lars fell to his knees, hyperventilating with laughter.

“What’s going on?” Ely frowned.

“Mon Dieu, of course.” The youngest had platinum-blond hair and alabaster skin. “This must be Ely Hale. He should know better.”

“Adalyn…do you want to explain this?” Sugimoto brandished her clipboard and whacked Lars with it. His laughter continued unabated.

“Come, come.” Adalyn took Ely by the arm and walked him a few steps away from the suit, which didn’t follow him. “They told you there were weak parts and you had to use a tiny hammer to find them?”

“Yes! How did you…son of a bitch…” Ely’s face went bright red.

“Lars, you are a rotten bastard!” a redhead said. “Do you know who this cerisier’s mother is? Or his father?”

“I had to!” Lars shouted as Sugimoto resorted to weakly kicking his back.

“I fell for a prank,” Ely deadpanned.

“Possibly the oldest one in the Armor book.” Adalyn rolled her eyes. “We are the Maquis lance.” She turned her head so Ely could see her plugs. “Our commander is with yours. The other blonde is Garcelle. The redhead trying not to laugh at you is Risette.”

“Pardon,” Risette said before she covered her mouth and ran away.

“Oh, you’re all Armor too. Hey, I’m just going to throw myself out that hole or the nearest air lock soon as we’re in orbit. Should make things easier,” Ely said.

“Lars is a bastard. You can get revenge at the next sparring session,” Adalyn said. “We made sure to bring the kendo equipment and—” She looked at her forearm screen. “Captain Godfrey’s calling us to the briefing room. Santos is probably about to do the same.”

As if on cue, Ely’s forearm screen buzzed.

“Come,” Adalyn said, canting her head to a ladder. “Let Lars explain why he’s late on his own.”

“I’ve never actually been inside this ship,” Ely said. “Lead the way. Wait…are you a singer? I think I remember your name from Aachen. You sang the old Crusader song.”

“Palastinalied. That’s me. The Crusade likes my voice, and if I could focus everyone on the battle…then so be it. No need to sing for Saint Kallen’s aid; she’d already sent you to us with the FTL engines. We were blessed.”

“It was a lot of dumb luck and sacrifice…not sure about any blessings.”

“No prayer is ever wasted. There was a whole planet asking for you…or something like you.” She hopped on a ladder and climbed quickly.

“What did you just say?” Ely gripped the handrails, feeling a twinge from the scar on the back of his head. He felt for the injectors in his shoulder pocket.

Adalyn stomped on a rung and Ely snapped out of the moment and followed her.

****

The briefing room aboard the Scipio could seat a dozen adults comfortably. With two lances of Armor, a platoon of burly legionnaires and Ibarran sailors, it quickly became humid and thick with the stench of body odor and coffee.

Ely sat in the first row with Lars and Pulaski on either side of him, the three Maquis to their left. Ely craned his neck around to look at the legionnaires standing in the back. One noticed him, and Ely twisted to the front.

“Crap…that’s the one I thought was a doughboy,” Ely said quietly to Lars. “What have the Ibarrans been feeding them?”

“I heard some rumors.” Lars leaned slightly toward Ely. “Almost all legionnaires are from the procedural farms. While they were in the tanks, they had their DNA ‘tweaked’ to make them better. Something about a ‘lactate threshold inhibitor signal’ deficiency. They can run forever. Only stop for food, water and sleep. They didn’t get that big from steroids. Their DNA grows them that big naturally. Just got to give them the calories and then they lift.”

“Dangerous game,” Pulaski said. “Promoting mutations can have devastating effects on later generations. I’m aware of wolves of Earth and then the aberrations that humans bred into them. Have you ever seen a pug breed of dog? Or a Chihuahua? Disturbing.”

“And sometimes embracing the occasional genetic aberration leads to survival.” Lars gestured to his face. “Not a lot of vitamin D during Swedish winters. Plus, my blue eyes make me irresistible to the fairer sex. Natural selection in action.”

“Did he just say that?” Garcelle of the Maquis said to her lance mates.

“Out loud and with his bouche mouth,” Risette said with audible disgust.

Lars put a hand to the side of his mouth to shield his words from the Maquis. “Don’t worry, they love the confidence.” He winked at Ely.

“Karigole are very cognizant of potential aberrations to future generations.” Pulaski ran a claw tip down the scars on his face. “Humans should be more cautious.”

“You think the Ibarrans are going to risk not doing something that could help win a war?” Lars asked. “Look what Marc Ibarra did to beat the Xaros. He sacrificed ninety-nine point…something…of Earth’s population for the chance to win the war with the Qa’Resh’s help. Make some minor genetic modifications to our soldiers so they can have a battlefield edge and maybe have muscular mutant babies? Oh no. Anyway.”

“Marc Ibarra took the chance of survival over assured extinction,” Ely said. “The only reason we’re even here to discuss it is because of his decision. But what you said about the big boys…seems tame. Sounds like mutations already present in the human genome. Lot less risky than giving them all new organs to see in more light spectrums or breathe water. Spit acid.”

“Steuben told stories of the doughboys,” Pulaski said. “Fierce fighters, if somewhat limited in their capabilities. Why haven’t the Ibarrans restarted their production?”

“We…ran into some on Terra Nova,” Ely said. “The first wave of colonists built some for labor. When the Triumvirate got loose from their prison, they perverted the doughboys and turned them into foot soldiers.” Ely shivered. “Maybe the Ibarrans don’t want that technology to fall into the Geist’s hands.”

“Who would’ve thought that big dumb bio-constructs would be forbidden tech,” Lars said. “Instead, we’ve got knuckle-dragging legionnaires in their place.”

“Knuckle-draggers with excellent hearing,” came from the back of the room.

Lars sat up straight, his eyes wide as they locked on a nearby exit.

Ely and Risette leaned away from him.

“Coffee? Fresh-brewed coffee…” Standish shuffled across the front row, his hands and arms loaded down with steaming cups.

Pulaski’s nose wrinkled, the secondary nostrils flaring. He didn’t reach for a cup as Standish handed coffee to Ely and Lars.

“Free of charge aboard the Scipio,” Standish said. “My ship might’ve been shanghaied by the Nation, but she still has a reputation of hospitality to maintain.”

Ely took a sip as Standish watched.

“Wow…very smooth.” Ely smiled.

“Dotari blend. D’hom’s Special Reserve. Don’t ask how I got it.” He moved down the row. “Coffee? Dial in your cream and sugar preferences on the cup.”

Ely turned the cup in his hand. A scratch of a fingernail would add sweetener or cream from a pad embedded in the bottom of the cup, but the taste was such that he declined to change anything.

“This is some gourmet stuff,” Lars said, nodding.

“How can you drink that shit?” Pulaski asked.

“What do you mean?” Ely blew into the cover’s opening and drank more.

Pulaski’s four nostrils twitched. “Never mind,” the Karigole said.

“Room, attention!”

Ely managed not to spill anything as Santos and Godfrey entered from a door at the fore of the briefing room.

“Be seated.” Santos waved a hand over a sensor, and a holo screen formed. “I’m not going to retread in great detail what you already know. Our mission is to deploy to the Roanoke system, seize the Charon ship during its transit and return the vessel to Ibarran space. Some details have been filled in for us. The Scipio, captained by Commander Duval—Lieutenant Colonel Standish is here in an advisory capacity and has no operational authority—will transit through Navarre Crucible Four along with a salvo of long-range interdiction torpedoes.”

The screen over his shoulder turned into a flat map of the Roanoke system. A course of dashed lines appeared in the outer system to converge on the colony.

“The distance from the Geist’s sensors at their Crucible near the colony will give us time to engage the FTL engines without being detected. The Scipio will come out of FTL close to Roanoke and then my Steel Sworn lance will make planet-fall via Tactical Insertion Torpedoes—”

Lars groaned.

“Are those bad?” Ely asked.

“—where we will link up with stay-behind forces on Roanoke. Two Pioneers, Adams and Duke, have been on world for several years. They succeeded in their mission to destroy the procedural tanks supplying the artifact world’s colonies, but weren’t able to make if off world before the Geist seized the Crucible.”

“What’s an artifact world?” Ely shot his hand up.

“Mr. Hale, normally, we hold all questions to the end,” Santos said, looking at Ely as if he was an unruly student, “but that detail is relevant…Early in their expansion, the Ibarra Nation established a number of colonies with differing levels of technology and with tube-fresh colonies with no idea of Earth’s true history or galactic conflicts. Roanoke, as you history buffs might have guessed, was established as a colonial America settlement. The colonists there aren’t prepared to see Armor walking down their streets.”

“To head off the next question,” Captain Godfrey interjected, “the Ibarra Nation wished to preserve unique human cultures through the artifact colony program. Earth had really only one culture after the Ember War—Western civilization based around the old Atlantic Union. The risk of stagnation was too great, so the Nation seeded other planets with the intention of reincorporating the colonies back into the fold once they were ready.”

“Because forcing cultures together worked out so well in human history,” Lars said under his breath.

“The operating environment is what it is,” Santos said. “Once the Steel Sworn have linked up with the Pioneers, we will wait until the Charon ship has entered the system. Then the Maquis and the legionnaire detachment will seize the Crucible, preventing the Charon from fleeing and interdicting any Geist attempt to reinforce from nearby systems within Crucible jump range.”

Santos raised a hand and waited for the room’s full attention.

“If the Geist detect the trap, they will not risk the Charon. Mission failure. If we do not seize control of the Crucible, mission failure. We fail this mission, the only option available to us is to board the Scipio and travel to Wolf 339-U where the Nation has control of the system Crucible. That should take fourteen months at best speed.”

Ely made a face like his coffee had just spoiled.

“Steel Sworn. Soon as the Charon is in system and the Crucible disabled, it is our mission to kill the Geist on the planet’s surface. Lady Ibarra…she believes that neutralizing that threat before it can reach the Charon is vital to our success. She did not elaborate, but I’ve never said no to killing a Geist before.

“Once the Geist is eliminated, we will seize the Charon in conjunction with the Maquis. We will await further orders once that is accomplished. If we fail to seize the Charon, our orders are to destroy it by any means necessary to deny the asset to the Geist,” Santos said.

“Full mission operations order is on your personal devices,” Godfrey said. “The Scipio is now running black. No comms from the ship to Navarre until we return. Priorities of work are outfitting suits to full mission capability, then boarding rehearsals for the Maquis and legionnaires. Questions?”

Ely raised his hand, but Lars grabbed him by the wrist and forced his hand down.

“No? Good. Devotional services at 0600 shipboard time. Dismissed.” Godfrey switched off the holo. The room emptied from the back, but the Steel Sworn stayed seated.

After the last person leaving the room closed the door, Santos leaned against the wall before Ely and nodded to him.

“Ask away,” the captain said. “We needed you to wait because chances are you’re going to ask something that everyone else knows and the time to answer you is time wasted multiplied by about fifty.”

“Finally. What’s so bad about the Tactical Insertion Torpedoes? I see it in the operations order as…T.I.T. Heh heh. That acronym. Did they do that on purpose?” Ely asked.

“The insertion torps aren’t a good time. As you’ll find out.” Santos nodded slowly.

“Is there any special training I’m supposed to—”

“You sit in there and hope you don’t die,” Lars said, cutting him off. “Very little input on your part. Though we’ll rehearse landings.”

“Ely,” Santos said, touching his forearm screen, “your factory-fresh Armor has thirty-seven identified faults. Get to maintenance and get to work.”

“No time on the observation deck to see the stars.” Ely shrugged.

“Welcome to the Army.” Lars chuckled. “Every idle moment is another opportunity for more work. Now let’s get to your suit before Santos finds some rocks for us to paint.”

****

Ely rubbed a greasy hand across his brow. The back of his suit was splayed open in front of him, the ammunition loaders in various stages of disassembly. He reached down to the catwalk, picked up a socket wrench and flicked on the tiny light built into the handle.

The rest of the ship was on night cycle, most of the passengers and crew in bed and the lights around the cargo bay dimmed.

“I’ve got you now.” He flicked down a pair of glasses and reached into the Armor. A camera showed him the backside of an empty ammo cradle. He set the wrench head against a bolt and twisted. The tool slid right off.

“What the—?” He tried the tool again and got the same failure.

“Eighty-five millimeters for that transfer,” a strange voice said.

Ely looked to one side and found himself nose to nose with Stinker, the Toth menial. Ely jerked back and whacked the back of his head against the armor plating.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Ely dropped the wrench into the suit and rubbed the impact site furiously. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. Can we put a bell around your neck or something?”

Stinker’s tail rose, the wrench gripped by the tip. The Toth swapped out the bolt and squeezed into the suit.

“The manual said it’s a ninety-four-millimeter bolt.” Ely kept rubbing with one hand as he double-checked his screen.

“Factory switched,” Stinker said from within. “Too big. Caused load malfunction. Maintenance teams always did swap. Factory got memo. Manual no memo. Give number six spanner.” Its tail wagged like a rattler’s.

Ely shivered and slapped the tool near the tip.

Stinker came out a moment later and brushed its yellow four-fingered hands clean.

“Run diagnostic code amber nine.” Stinker touched its forearm. “Hidden in drop menu.”

“I’ll be damned, there it is.” Ely touched his screen. His Armor closed up and the clank and whirl of the onboard ammo systems cycled through their start-up. “What’s amber nine?”

“Boss’ special program. Finds if the firmware’s latest version is scrap code or we have to use our own backups.” Stinker cocked its ear to one side. Its tongue flicked out and swiped across an eye. “Sounds good.”

Green boxes popped up around the diagram of Ely’s Armor.

“Finally,” Ely said with relief. “Why are you up so late? Don’t you sleep?”

“Sometimes.” Stinker’s head bobbed up and down. “Pulaski suit needed rail cannon coils re-synched. Boss said help you after.”

“Thanks. My dad used to talk about something called ‘tracer burnout.’ I think I’m there.” Ely picked up a small food tray with a sealed plastic covering and sat down, his lower legs dangling over the edge of the catwalk.

“Hey, are you hungry? No. Wait. You’re not supposed to—”

Stinker perched on the middle rung of the catwalk railing and handed Ely a squat thermos from off his belt.

“Treat?” Stinker asked.

“They give you treats? Fine by me.” Ely twisted it open and a smell of old shrimp stung his nostrils. Inside were cubes of compressed flakes. He shook one out onto his palm and offered it to Stinker.

The Toth’s tongue shot out and swiped it off Ely’s hand.

“Gah! Are you ever not terrifying?” Ely rubbed his palm against his thigh.

The Toth stared at him as it chewed.

Ely peeled the cover off his meal and unsnapped a fork from the bottom. He sniffed at the yellow substance over rice.

“Curry. Yum.” He set the cup of treats in front of Stinker. “Chow down. I don’t know how many you’re supposed to get, but I’m too tired to care.”

“You feed Stinker. Stinker no eat by self.”

“Really? Odd. I’m assuming that there isn’t any dairy in these. What happens if I feed you dairy this late at night? You cocoon yourself and come out as a Toth warrior?” Ely plucked another cube out and tossed it up. Stinker’s tongue snapped out and plucked the cube from the air.

Ely and the Toth ate in silence for a few bites.

“Why can’t you feed yourself? That’s an odd…evolutionary adaptation,” Ely said.

“Workers obey masters. Masters no feed. Worker no eat. Workers work hard. Food. Not Boss Lady rule. Big master law. Put in here.” Stinker touched the top of its head.

“I heard they found you on Hawaii…how’d you survive there if someone had to feed you?”

“No master around, no law. Green place had tree food. Air food. Water food. Ground food. Also dogs. Hate dogs!” Stinker bared his teeth. “Boss Lady find me after dogfight.” It raised the silver jumpsuit on its legs and showed Ely scarred skin. “Boss Lady new master.”

“You ever want to go back to the other Toth? Humans and Toth don’t have the best history. Then there’s Pulaski…”

“No more Toth.” Stinker clicked its tongue, then brushed its fingers against the treat jar. Ely tossed him another.

“No more Toth? I don’t think there was any contact with them after the Ember War…”

“One overlord survive. Bale. With Kesaht. Lady Ibarra kill Bale. No more Toth. Worker that leave Toth home.” Stinker mimed a pair of scissors snipping something. “No more Toth.”

“That’s…I’m not sure how to take that. Are you saying the Toth are nearly extinct and you might be the last one?”

Stinker’s head tilted from side to side, then he nudged the jar again.

“The Toth weren’t pushovers…how?”

“Stinker alone on big green for long time. Ship crash in big water. Swam with warrior Toth. Warrior Toth killed by Armor. Stinker hide in big green. Never saw another Toth. Boss Lady tell Stinker about Bale. No more Toth.” The alien’s yellow skin took on a shade of red for a moment, then shifted back.

“This ship’s a magnet for misfits. You. Me. Probably Pulaski…you get along with the Karigole? There’s some history there.”

“Stinker not master. Toth masters hurt Karigole. Not worker Toth. Stinker knows this. Pulaski knows this. Pulaski no hunt Stinker. Still…Stinker careful. Pulaski scare Stinker.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he scares me too,” Ely said. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Stinker tapped the treat jar.

Ely set out a half dozen on the edge of the catwalk and the two ate in silence.

Chapter 9

“Ely…get up.” Whoever was shaking him decided more jostling was warranted.

“Huh?” Ely’s bunk was hard, the pillow skimpy and the blanket thin, but there was nowhere else in the galaxy he wanted to be at that moment.

“Drills. Get up before Santos thinks you’re goldbricking.” Lars dropped a pile of clothes on Ely’s face.

“I’ve been asleep for…an hour?” Ely held up a navy-blue top and a dark, pleated bottom. “This a dress? I’m not falling for another of your games, Lars.” Ely dropped the clothes to the deck and rolled away.

Lars grabbed the mattress, yanking it and Ely off the bunk. Ely landed with some cushion. He looked at Lars like he’d just killed a puppy.

“You got to sleep for an entire hour? Luxury. Time for sword training.” Lars—wearing a kendo keiogi and hakama—stuck the toe of his sandal under Ely’s mattress and jiggled his foot.

“Fine. Fine!” Ely waved his arms around his head and started changing. “Shouldn’t we be catching up on sleep before a mission?”

“Flyboys and girls get crew rest. You’re Armor. Sleep when you die.” Lars turned around and picked up a pair of bamboo swords. He whacked the lengths together then looked at the disaster of Ely in the kendo uniform.

“No,” he said and handed the training swords to Ely before retying most of the uniform.

The two left the berthing on the second deck of the ship and headed for the cargo deck, where mats were laid out in front of the eight suits. The four Maquis were already there, each on one knee in front of their suits, facing away. Their heads were bent in prayer and each had a ceremonial longsword, the hilt before their eyes. Each was dressed for kendo.

“They’re up even earlier?” Ely asked.

“Templar beat the sunrise,” Lars said. “It’s their first victory of the day. Not a bad habit.”

“I would join a corps full of morning people.” Ely was mildly conscious of the view up his hakama as they made their way down the steps. Santos was at the edge of the mats, helmet under one arm and bamboo sword in hand.

“Ely, you have any idea what we’re doing here?” Santos asked

“Whacking each other with sticks.” Ely took a training sword from Lars and swung it around with accompanying “whoosh” and “vroom” noises.

“This is going to be great. I can already tell,” Lars said as he flicked his sword out and hit Ely across the thighs. “Can I go first?”

“Someone already took his marker.” Santos passed a pair of thick gloves to Ely. “You score by striking the head, shoulders and wrists. Thrusts happen.” He set a helmet with a horizontal grill over Ely’s head.

“Sounds easy enough. Who am I sparring?” Ely wagged his sword back and forth.

“We don’t spar. We fight.” Santos looked to the Maquis. Adalyn crossed herself, set her longsword onto a hook mounted on her suit’s leg, then approached the mat. Her posture was high and she made each step with poise and intention.

“I’ll try not to hurt her.” Ely stepped toward the mat, but Santos pulled him back.

“You bow before you enter and leave the dojo,” he said.

Ely bowed with his back curved, then got onto the mat. It felt thin beneath his bare feet, but it had decent grip.

Adalyn didn’t bother with gloves. She bowed at her end of the mat, and Santos tossed her a helmet, then a sword. She caught it by the handle then leaped at Ely, her weapon raised over her head.

“Kii-ai!” She struck straight at Ely’s forehead. Ely brought his bamboo sword up to block. The blow hit with more power than he anticipated and Adalyn’s strike overpowered him. The hit sent him stumbling, and Ely stuck his sword out in a panic. Adalyn parried it to one side then flicked a hit against Ely’s wrist.

The hit stung through the padding and Ely dropped one hand to his side, burning with pain.

Adalyn twisted her sword around to strike horizontally, catching him perfectly against the neck padding. She carried the swing across Ely’s neck and batted his weapon aside. She hit his arm above the padding and Ely’s sword went flying.

She kneed him in the stomach and Ely doubled over. Adalyn struck at his exposed neck and stopped the blow a hair over his spine. She flicked Ely’s helmet off and he collapsed to the mat, his diaphragm spasming.

Ely fought to breathe. His face went red to blue as oxygen became scarcer and scarcer.

Lars got on his belly to get eye to eye with his lance mate. “If you’re dying, say something.” Lars poked him in the cheek.

Ely squeaked.

“He’ll be fine.” Lars gave Santos a thumbs-up.

“Get up.” Santos dropped Ely’s sword in front of his face. “You’re not even bleeding.”

****

Everything hurt.

Ely felt welts up his arms and on his shoulders. Remembering the time that his brother Jared ran afoul of some wasps, he was pretty sure that he’d look worse in short order. Everyone that he’d fought had wiped the floor with him.

Pulaski sat on his knees next to Ely beside the mat. The Karigole didn’t bother with the kendo uniform, wearing instead simple linen shorts and vest. He hadn’t needed pads, as no one he fought had scored a single touch.

Lars squared off against Risette. The two hadn’t moved since Santos began their match almost thirty seconds ago. Ely wasn’t sure what their game was, but their being on the mat meant a break from the beating for him.

Lars’ pinky finger inched toward the bottom of his hilt.

Risette struck with a shout, but her attack whiffed as Lars back-stepped and pulled his sword to his chest. He landed a solid hit to the top of Risette’s head.

“Point!” Santos raised a hand.

Lars ripped his helmet off and bowed deeply to the Maquis.

Risette cried out in frustration and threw her helmet aside. Her eyes were on fire and her cheeks flush.

“You!” She wagged the tip of her sword at Lars. “How do you always beat me?”

“Skill or talent, I’ll let you decide.” Lars put a fist to one hip, then looked up and off to one side like he was posing atop a mountain.

“You…you can go catch a fart!” Risette stormed off the mat. She got two steps before she spun around and bowed, then continued off to the showers.

“Ah, the French.” Lars blew her a kiss. “They never change.”

“My mom’s done that,” Ely muttered to himself.

“She tells you to chase flatulence?” Pulaski asked.

“No. Not that exact thing. She knew how to flounce. She’d admit to that.” Ely bent the fingers of one hand, unsure if a bone was broken.

“We’re not going to beat that.” Santos tossed his bamboo sword up and caught it in the middle. “Showers. Then thirty minutes for chow. Then jet-pack fitting to suits. We’ll mount up to zero weapons afterwards.”

“Sir,” Lars said and picked up his helmet.

Ely got up with a groan, but the leather-covered end of Santos’ weapon stopped him before he could leave the floor.

“You didn’t do well.” Santos sank down to sit cross-legged. “Your performance in your suit is markedly better. Why?”

“Meat space fighting is a lot different than being in the suit. Pain doesn’t linger in the Armor.” Ely tugged at his sleeves to show off his new welt collection. “Then there’s not getting tired in the Armor. Not getting beaten like a rented mule by a girl—or her two friends—that might not even be a full hundred pounds with all her gear on!”

“But you didn’t quit.” Santos held his weapon up, the hilt next to his face. “Why do you think we bother with out-of-Amor fighting?”

“So we appreciate what the crunchies go through?”

“No…” Santos paused for a moment. “Not primarily. We fight out of the suits to remember that the suits are not what make us Armor. Old Ft. Knox figured out pretty quick that the Armor soldiers that could push through the idea of being in a suit performed the best. Others were trying to control the suit like they were using a piece of machinery. They stalled out—the separation between self and suit ruined the union. The best no longer saw themselves as a soldier in the suit…”

“They were Armor,” Ely said.

“And those soldiers pushed their suits further and harder. Then they learned where the redlines were. You can’t push yourself in your suit if you can’t push yourself outside it, Ely. Get used to being uncomfortable. Learn to find what’s beyond the pain.”

“I found a good amount.” Ely pressed a knot on one side of his head. “Hooray for me.”

“Hit the showers. We’ve got a long day ahead of us before we get to the Crucible.”

Chapter 10

Ely tugged at his skin suit’s sleeves. The dull pain of the tightness against his many bruises was muted after a visit to the legionnaires’ medic, who swore by an ancient remedy of “Motrin and water.” The horse tablet Ely received had worked as advertised.

He watched the oncoming Crucible through the Scipio’s forward observation sub deck. The gate was ringed by star forts, all boasting rail cannon batteries and missile pods that orbited the installations like diagrams of electrons around an atom.

The Crucible’s many thorns shifted against each other. A pale dot appeared in the center, spreading slowing through the inside of the gate.

“What do you think? This how you like crossing light-years?” Standish slipped into the observation bay, a shallow paper bowl in one hand. Ely smelled gravy.

“I’ve been through my share of Crucibles…the translation to Terra Nova wasn’t even that bad, even though it was the longest jump ever recorded.” Ely sniffed the air and examined what Standish was eating. There were thick-cut french fries, brown gravy and off-white lumps mixed together.

“Nah. Longest was the Breitenfeld jumping out to the Apex in extragalactic space to finish the fight with the Xaros. Now that was a trip. I remember when the Breit had Qa’Resh jump engineers…those jumps suuuuucked. Crucible to Crucible ain’t bad at all. Standish Cruises used to have parties during translations. I even invented the Quantum Scrambler drink that the robo-servers passed out. Renaming a champagne margarita and garnishing it with a rikki-tikki fruit from Alpha Centauri was brilliant on my part, if I say so myself. Which I do. Poutine?”

He offered the french fry mélange to Ely.

“What…is it?”

“Canadian delicacy. Fries, curds, gravy. Keeps you warm in winter.” Standish ate a fry.

“I’d rather not eat anything heavy before I get in my suit…”

“More for me…hey, how do you go to the bathroom in those things? Never mind. I’m pretty sure I won’t like the answer. Ooo, look!”

Missiles streaked over the Scipio and plunged into the white plain within the Crucible.

“And we’re going in after all that.” Ely swallowed hard.

“Hey, so long as the FTLs work.” Standish nudged him with an elbow. “Should be easy times. Or a protracted slog of nutrient paste for the better part of a year, should the operation go tits up. We’ll know pretty soon.”

“Hale boss,” Stinker said.

Ely turned around, but the Toth wasn’t there. He looked up and found the mechanic clinging to the ceiling.

Standish let out a string of consonants and dropped his poutine.

“Right?” Ely tossed his hands up. “I swear he enjoys sneaking up on me. What is it, Stinker?”

“Santos boss wants you.” One of Stinker’s eyes was on Ely, the other on the poutine all over the deck.

“On my way.” Ely stepped over the mess and went for the door.

“This is your fault.” Standish lifted the mostly empty dish up to Stinker. “You clean up the mess.”

Stinker’s tongue plucked a curd out of the gravy. It squeaked as he chewed. The alien’s face flushed, then he gobbled down the whole thing, paper and all.

“Don’t they feed you? Swab the deck too.” Standish narrowed his eyes at Stinker.

****

Ely put his hand against his suit’s leg. It was out of the coffin, jet pack bolted to its back. A red Crusader cross was on the right shoulder, the Steel Sworn lance crest on the left side of the chest plate. It looked newer than the rest of the lance’s suits, but for once he’d look uniform with the others.

Spazzing around the battlefield in Elias’ old Armor was not how he wanted to fight the rest of the war. That suit was meant to stand vigil over Saint Kallen’s tomb.

The Maquis prayed in front of their suits. Legionnaires in power armor walked between them and kissed the back of their knuckles before rapping them against the Maquis’ suits. Santos was in line with them and Ely felt self-conscious loitering next to his suit.

He wasn’t sure where Lars was, likely at a shrine to Saint Kallen, asking for her to serve as Valkyrie and judge him worthy of Valhalla should he be slain. Pulaski was at the munitions loaders, examining a belt of ammo in his hands.

The praying Maquis and Santos each had a ceremonial sword. Ely hemmed and hawed over kneeling next to them or joining the procession of legionnaires with the pre-battle ritual. He was supposed to be Armor, the avatar of Saint Kallen, but he didn’t feel worthy of that mantle, nor did he want to risk some sort of faux pas by interrupting the legionnaires.

“Gott mit uns, eh?” Lars slapped Ely on the back. “Your father was there, wasn’t he? On the Breitenfeld when Armor began this tradition?”

“He said Armor…as guardians…started back in Australia. Armor formed a line, and every civilian that wanted protection from the Chinese invaders had to pass behind the Armor on some highway outside Darwin,” Ely said.

A scent tickled Ely’s nose. Pungent and raw. “Is that you?” he asked Lars.

“No.” Lars sniffed twice and made a face. “It’s like really good surstromming. Or—”

Pulaski blew past them and scaled up his suit. The Karigole nearly pried his suit open as the chest plate swung out on hydraulics. He squeezed into the pod and slammed the hatch shut.

“He always that excited to—what is that?” Ely covered his nose. “It smells like…dog farts and hatred.”

Legionnaires coughed and waved their hands in front of their faces. Several cast accusations at the other.

“Did a sewer line fail on the ship or something?” Lars dry-heaved as the smell grew stronger. “It stings. Right? Stings the sinuses?”

“Does the Crusade use bioweapons? Was there a spill somewhere?” Ely jammed his mouth and nose into the crook of his arm.

“Smells like a port-a-shitter at the end of a Ft. Knox summer. Someone turn on the air scrubbers!” Lars stumbled over to his suit.

“At ease!” Santos looked up from his prayers. “We are still…still doing our pre-battle ritual—erp!” He almost vomited but choked it back.

“I can’t! I can’t!” Adalyn crossed herself and stood up. She unraveled her hair and flung it over her nose and mouth as an impromptu mask.

Overhead air vents blasted to life…and the smell got even worse.

“The scrubbers! They do nothing!” Lars slapped a control panel on the side of his suit and climbed up as the torso compartment opened.

“Oh God, it’s in my mouth…” Ely tried to find the menu to activate his suit, but his fingers were shaking as the smell clamped down on him like a sticky fog. He opened a text field and typed HELP HELP HELP over and over again.

His Armor scooped him up and deposited him into the pod. Amniosis flooded around his feet and Ely splashed the thick fluid into his nose and mouth. He never wanted to drown so fast in his entire life.

He pressed his neck to the collar and it clicked into place. The amniosis filled the pod and all ambient air was forced out.

+What the hell’s going on out there?+ Aignar asked. Ely’s HUD came online and he saw the crew scrambling around, most with emergency hoods on.

Captain Godfrey was still praying, though she had one hand over her mouth.

“There’s some kind of a gas leak or something. Of all the times not to have a nose or body, Aignar, this is it. Smells like chum or…microwaved fish. But worse!”

“Let me in!” Standish beat against Ely’s suit from the catwalk. “Let me in!”

Ely raised a finger in front of Standish, then wagged it from side to side.

+Ship’s systems aren’t showing any kind of containment leak.+

“Was it you?!” Santos shouted over the lance’s IR link. “Ely, did you feed Stinker something?”

“What? No! Last night, I gave him his treats and he didn’t so much as burp.” Ely shivered as the smell still dogged his nose.

“Whoever gave that little yellow bastard dairy, I will…I’ll rip his toenails out!” Lars shouted. “Slowly!”

“It wasn’t me, I swear.” Ely thought for a moment then looked at Standish.

The poutine.

“What’s a ‘curd’?” Ely asked.

“Ethnic group in what used to be northern Iraq and Turkey,” Lars said. “No…wait, you mean the cheese? Who had cheese?”

Lars’ suit bent at the waist and the helm turned to Standish. Santos and Pulaski did the same and Standish realized that the entire lance had him in their sights.

“I know nothing!” Standish ran off.

“Steel Sworn,” Captain Godfrey said, joining their network, “load up. Skipper wants you all poised to deploy in case there’s more waiting for us on the other side of the jump than intel promised."

“Moving.” Santos went to the hell hole as the hatch slid open. There was minor atmosphere venting as the one-way force field snapped into place. He dropped through and into the void.

“I’d take an actual portal to hell over staying in this garbage scow,” Lars said. “Pulaski! That nose of yours warned you. Didn’t it? That’s why you moved like a bat out of hell before the rest of us.”

“Correct,” said the Karigole, following Santos out of the ship. “That blunt knob of flesh you call a nose is worthless for hunting.”

“You could’ve said something.” Lars brandished a fist. “There a phrase in Karigole for blue falcon? Kid…you’re next.”

“Why me?” Ely went to the edge of the hell hole. There was nothing but stars beneath them.

“Because if you opt out of stepping into the void, there won’t be anyone to kick your matte-black metal ass off the ship. Unless you want to wait for one of the Maquis to do it in my place. Though they won’t be as gentle.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it…just give me a second.” Ely’s heart pounded as he lifted a foot over the opening. The fear he felt above Aachen where he was supposed to launch off the Warsaw and go screaming through space carried by his jet pack came back to him.

His vision shrank to a few stars in the distant black. The rush of blood through his ears turned into a roar and he froze up.

“Second’s up!” Lars shoved Ely from behind and he fell through the hole.

Ely scrambled to grab the edge, but Lars kicked his fingers away. Ely was below the Scipio, floating a few feet from the hull. Curved panels on one of the massive tubes fixed to the ship were open.

+That’s us. Just get inside and I’ll load us in the chamber,+ Aignar said.

“How do I move without looking down?” Ely asked.

Ely’s jet pack flashed on his HUD.

+Nudge us with the maneuver thrusters. Too easy.+

Ely reached for the Tactical Insertion Torpedo and a single thruster flared to life. He floated toward the torpedo, the top of his helm and jet pack scraping against the hull. His heart was still pounding.

“Aignar…can’t you inject me with something to knock me out? Maybe a little of that?” Ely seized the edge of an opening. Within was an Armor-sized acceleration chamber lined with cushions full of non-Newtonian fluid.

+I could, but then you’ll have an excuse to puss out the next time we have to do this. Get in the chamber.+

“You are not helping!” Ely swung his feet into the chamber and wedged himself into the torpedo.

+I am. You just don’t appreciate it. Things are about to get real snug,+

The hatch closed and the chamber tightened around his suit. Feed from the ship came into his HUD and he watched as the Scipio entered the Crucible.

****

Ely’s body tingled as the wormhole collapsed. A map of the Roanoke system flashed on his HUD. Another salvo of long-range torpedoes soared away, joining two already in system and closing on the planet.

Ely moved his hands within the pod, but his suit was locked in place. Claustrophobia suddenly became very real.

“How long will we be like this?” Ely asked.

“Until the Scipio’s in position to launch us.” A profile picture of Santos came up in the HUD. “We’ve got awhile until the torps begin their attack run.”

“I’d like to ask,” Lars said, “why we’re launching explosives at the Crucible and the planet. Because if we damage the Crucible, it won’t be functional when the Charon arrives. No Charon. Mission fail. Blow up the colony? No one for the Geist to harvest. No Charon. Mission fail.”

“Because Crucible jumps aren’t subtle and they aren’t by accident. They drop us out past the Oort cloud and the FTLs don’t work? We’re done. So we’re close enough that we can get in under sprinter drive if worse comes to worst,” Santos said. “Then, the Crusade launches harassment attacks on Geist systems in range almost daily. Sometimes several times a day. The Geist lose one Crucible node, we can cut off entire clusters. So they spend time and resources to fortify every star they take. Slows them down.”

“The salvos ahead of us screen our arrival,” Pulaski said.

“The torps aren’t meant to do any damage,” Ely said. “They’re going to fail.”

“Exactly,” Santos said. “Everything we’re doing is to convince the Geist that there isn’t an Ibarran corvette in system and that there aren’t any Armor about to surprise them. Plus, there’s a scrambler payload in the attack that’ll stymie atmo detection. We learned that one from the Kesaht. It’ll also hide our arrival, but it’ll stop us from contacting the Scipio for a while. Should clear before the Charon arrives.”

“Sounds to me like there’s a lot of things that can go very wrong here,” Ely said.

“Our fathers infiltrated an ancient Qa’Resh space station in conditions dicier than this, Ely. We’ll manage.” Santos’ profile picture closed.

“Ha! Sons of Terran Union Strike Marines are now Armor fighting for the Ibarra Crusade,” Lars said. “Do you think your dads would be angrier because you’re Armor or because you’re in Ibarran colors?”

“Dad never said anything about wanting me to be a Strike Marine or anything in the military…he’d be pretty shocked if he could see me now,” Ely said.

“Armor are the pinnacle of human warriors,” Pulaski said. “Both your fathers should be proud of your higher breeding potential.”

“That’s true. Grandbabies are like narcotics for parents. That why you went Armor, ’Ski? So Karigole ladies will flock to you when you get back? I’m not sure how ugly you are compared to the average lizard man. What are you out of ten, a solid four?” Lars asked.

“Being Armor is an advantage to you until you open your mouth,” the Karigole said. “After that, you’d need to be in a brig full of homely females with a fistful of pardons before you’d get the chance to procreate…No, I am a pariah amongst my people. I was badly hurt during my Honor Hunt. No Karigole female will have me because no gethaar would carry my child…because of the chance of passing on my injuries to future generations. At least…that is the belief.”

“Is it not…correct?” Ely asked.

“Steuben rescued our people from the Toth on Nibiru. I was a child when it happened. I remember both your fathers. Steuben was wounded in battle against the Xaros. Scars in battle are one thing to the gethaar; loss of limb or sense are too risky for them. A badly injured warrior is excluded from marriage and fathering or mothering children…unless they return to the clan with a mighty trophy. Steuben was part of the mission to kill the Toth named Mentiq. He helped slay the Xaros on the Apex. He is a warrior of legend. The gethaar accepted his injuries…he has three children now.”

“You joined Armor just to get laid? I’ve heard worse reasons,” Lars said.

“It is not just that. OK, it’s a little bit of that. But to fail the Honor Hunt is shameful. Those who’ve completed their Hunt take young warriors into the wilderness, where we’re given a brew made from psi’lo’teek root. The effects are…we travel to the spirit realm. After our vision, we awaken somewhere far from the clan, naked and alone. We must survive, forge weapons and return to the clan with a worthy kill. Those that succeed are considered adults.”

“What happened to you?” Ely asked.

“I had my eye on a true beauty of a Karigole…as did many others. To earn her consideration, I had to bring home the grandest of all trophies. I tried to take down a hash’andarrala. A mammal as big as a bus. Thick fur. Mandibles that could eat a child whole. Maybe it isn’t a mammal, but it was worthy…I proved not to be.”

“That’s why you collect so many trophies,” Ely said.

“Yes. I have them scanned into the foundries as a backup. For me to go home…I need something more. Something that would impress even Steuben. Steuben killed gods.”

“Join the club of being compared to previous generations,” Ely said. “My dad is a movie star to boot.”

“We’ve got some time. How about we watch Last Stand on Takeni,” Lars said. “I have the version with Standish and the original.”

“Belay that.” Santos came back into the channel. “Ely’s never done a T.I.T. mission. He needs to do the rehearsal modules until the absolute last second. Otherwise, he might end up as a smear on Roanoke and then we’ll be shorthanded for the mission. We can have movie night later.”

“I feel so ready for this,” Ely said.

“Load up the weather-free simulation and do that until you’re scoring perfectly,” Santos said, opening a private channel to Lars.

Ely wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what was being said and called up the program.

+If Trinia had said I’d do another T.I.T. mission, I might’ve stayed dead.+

“Is it that bad?”

+No. It’s fine.+

“I don’t believe you.”

+Doesn’t matter. Program executing time now.+

Chapter 11

Ibarra woke in a chair, a tunic of rough cloth over his torso and thighs.

“Did you miss sleeping?” Nakir asked from the other side of the desk between them. A bowl of a thick white substance and a spoon sat in front of Ibarra. Lights behind the Commissar hurt Ibarra’s eyes and he squinted and smacked dry lips.

“Water,” he rasped.

“I thought you’d have had enough of that.” Nakir rolled a plastic bottle across the desk. It landed on Ibarra’s lap and he gasped in pain. Ibarra struggled to twist the cap off.

“The aftereffects of substance JA-932 include skin sensitivity,” the Commissar said. “Any vertigo? Tingling in the extremities? I ask for the sake of science.”

Ibarra gave Nakir an exhausted look and put the unopened bottle on the table with a heavy hand.

Nakir snapped his fingers. A young woman with long blond hair and ample—and exposed—cleavage stepped out of the shadows. She twisted the cap off and put the bottle to Ibarra’s lips like she was feeding a baby.

Ibarra tried to gain control of the drink, but the blonde shoved the opening between his teeth until he hacked water all over the table. She slapped Ibarra hard across the face and returned to the dark.

“Once upon a time,” Ibarra coughed, “I knew guys who’d pay good money for that. She have a kitchen apron? Asking for a friend.”

Nakir leaned forward on his elbows. “The dark humor as a defense mechanism…were you always this way or did you develop it to cope? I know your life quite well, Marc, though I’m sure you’re used to people knowing the gist of the college kid who ‘stumbled’ on one scientific breakthrough after another to transform Earth. I’m more privy to all the little alterations you made to world events leading up to the Xaros’ arrival.”

“‘Little alterations’? You try tipping the scales during World War III just right so it will end with competing superpowers that want to fund void navies and Armor…not irradiated craters in the center of every city on Earth.” Ibarra looked at the bowl with hungry eyes.

“Must have been lonely all those years you were the puppet master. You never told anyone what you were doing?” Nakir opened a drawer and produced a new spoon. He lifted the very bottom of his mask and took a bite of the gruel.

“You human under there?” Ibarra looked at the food with a jaundiced eye.

“More than you.” Nakir tossed the empty spoon to the table where Ibarra could see it.

Ibarra sniffed the bowl, then took a tentative bite. He swallowed hard and ate another spoonful.

“Like it? It’s the same probiotic and bacteria slurry that procedurals are fed while they’re in the tubes. This is the first time you’ve ever tasted it.” Nakir leaned back in his chair and folded his hands.

“Hunger is the best sauce,” Ibarra said and pressed the spoon deeper. Red fluid oozed onto the spoon. Blood.

Ibarra recoiled and dropped his spoon. It clattered to the ground and the blonde returned. She picked it up and cracked it against Ibarra’s fingers.

“Normally, I’d want to know what the fuck is wrong with you, but here I am talking to a weirdo with a chrome face and bitchzilla waiting in the wings. Answer’d be a little redundant.” Ibarra rubbed his hand.

“The dark humor. Why?” Nakir asked.

“Sarcasm comes with a lot less legal trouble than punching people who annoy me.” Ibarra clutched his arms to his body and began shivering. His stomach growled loud enough for Nakir to hear it.

“Thank you.” The Commissar opened his drawer again and took out a small glass bowl filled with little pieces of candy in Halloween colors. He swapped it with the slurry.

“Let me guess, chili powder bombs? Laxatives?” Ibarra didn’t touch them.

“I have it on good authority that they’re your favorite,” Nakir said. “Some childhood association? Or did you appreciate the genius product placement from that alien-in-the-suburbs movie?”

“Aliens turned out to be not so cuddly.” Ibarra ate one slowly, staring at Nakir the whole time.

“Some proved to be quite valuable. The Qa’Resh and the Xaros had different plans for Earth. The Karigole came here as allies. Then it was the Toth,” Nakir said, putting one hand to the desk. “The Toth didn’t fit the pattern, not immediately friend or foe. They came here to negotiate for the procedural technology and the talks degenerated into a war. Why did so many have to die? Why not just give them what they wanted?”

Ibarra set the bowl of candy on his lap and picked at the orange ones.

“Toth…were monsters. You ever deal with an addict, tinfoil face? One taste of what they want is too much. An unlimited supply is never enough. Then there’s the fact that they betrayed and massacred the Karigole, got expelled from Bastion for trying to eat a Qa’Resh…should put them on your bad side, as you’re in the fan club,” Ibarra said.

“Giving the Toth the ability to create humans that would be eaten like farm animals had nothing to do with it?” Nakir asked.

“Add it to the list,” Ibarra said with a shrug. “Not that the Geist are all that different. What happens to anyone you all ‘harvest’?”

“The soul is saved for transfiguration through Malal’s grace. You were raised in the Christian faith—is it so different? But now Malal’s works and his power are evident. No faith required.” Nakir touched spots on his wrist where crucifixion nails would have gone.

“Christians have a choice,” Ibarra spat. “There’s no harness to ensure your version of salvation.”

“Why are you so against every soul being saved?” Nakir asked.

“There’s one church that had a story about that. An angel tried to convince God that he would force all of humanity to be true to God’s word, and all the glory for their salvation would be his. God disagreed. That angel ended up being Satan when he didn’t get his way,” Ibarra said and crunched down on a candy.

“There are many on Earth and the colonies who’ve taken the harness willingly.” Nakir laced his fingers together.

“Sure they have,” Ibarra winked. “Who wouldn’t want their soul stuffed in a jar until an alien demon comes calling for it? Easy sell.”

“What happened to the Toth, Marc?” Nakir asked.

Ibarra palmed a handful of candy. “What’s it matter? The Geist want to find a way to get freaky with their harvests like the Toth managed to do?”

Shannon stomped out of the darkness and jabbed a taser into Ibarra’s arm. He howled in pain and fell out of his chair.

“We know, Marc! We know what happened to the Toth.” She straddled Ibarra, the taser crackling. “Why did it happen? Tell us!”

Ibarra stuffed more candy into his mouth with a trembling hand. “Y-y-you remember Iceland? Our plane got stuck there overnight in a blizzard and these were all we had to eat? You said your daughter’s favorite candy were those honey toffee—”

Shannon hit him in the chest with the taser, then behind the shoulder when he tried to turn away. Ibarra cried out with each strike. She stopped once there were bloody welts across his body. She hurled the device away and a pair of guards dragged Ibarra into his vault.

He lay on his side, shivering. He opened a hand and pecked at the remnants of the candy squished against his skin, eating little bits as tears fell from his eyes.

****

“You are a liability.” Nakir paced across his office while Shannon sat in a chair, examining her fingernails.

“You can’t let him lie. I know him too well. He starts down one rabbit hole and then it’ll be nothing but obfuscation and lies about everything. Marc spent years in that Ambassador frame conniving just how to keep us from learning what we need to know,” she said.

“And it worked perfectly.” Nakir stopped. “Each time we get too close to what we need to know, he plucks one of your strings and you lose control.”

“I am less tolerant of blasphemy.” She raised her chin.

“No, Commissar Martel, you are a liability. Your presence is only hindering my progress.”

“‘Progress’? What did you learn from a few minutes of feeding him candy and damaging his ego? Please…”

“He has no exploitable guilt when it comes to the Xaros scourging. All’s well that ends well with Marc Ibarra, no matter the cost. And when losing is extinction, then any price can be paid,” Nakir said.

“I can’t fault that analysis,” Shannon said, sitting forward.

“The Toth are the key. He fights hard every time we circle that idea. It is not the answer we need…but it opens the door.” Nakir tapped the flat lips of his chrome mask.

Screens mounted on the backs of the Commissars’ hands chirped.

“Exalted Noyan demands an update to our progress. We will not keep her waiting,” Shannon said.

“The hard part will be convincing her that there has been progress. Our lords have different perceptions than we do,” Nakir said.

Chapter 12

“All hands, brace for drive shutoff,” Commander Duval said through ship-wide comms.

Ely squeezed his arms against his chest. The ten points to a safe landing passed through his mind again and again.

“Clear vessel. Check for obstructions to pack. Verify altitude…mark landing zone?”

+Engage engines. Armor have the aerodynamics of a brick. If you aren’t under powered flight within ten seconds of ejecting, we will be on a downward trajectory, and then when you do fire up the jet pack—+

“RUD. Manual says we’d RUD eighty-five percent of the time. What’s RUD again?”

+Open a channel to Santos. I want off this crazy thing.+

“Aignar!”

+Rapid Unscheduled Disassembly. Nice way of saying—”

“I get it! I survive this, I’m going back to Saint Kallen and thanking her.” Ely touched the side of his neck and confirmed that his heart was pounding.

+Going back?+

A timer appeared on Ely’s HUD, counting down from ten.

“Steel Sworn! Get to the rally point and avoid detection and combat. If you have to fight, remember Marshal Shaw’s standing order.” Santos transmitted more data to his lance.

“Fight until we die!” Lars sounded entirely too enthusiastic about what was about to happen.

“How is that even an option?” Pulaski asked.

The timer hit zero and Ely rocked in his pod as the ship came out of FTL. Nothing happened for the next few moments. Ely tapped the side of his pod.

The Tactical Insertion Torpedo rocketed away from the Scipio. Sudden acceleration slammed into Ely, pushing him toward the bottom of the pod. The collar around his neck tightened as more and more gravities of force pushed his body away from the top. The strain on Ely’s neck grew worse and worse. He clawed at the collar, trying to lessen the force on his neck before his spine snapped.

The collar popped open and Ely crashed into the bottom of the pod. Amniosis pressed against him like a heavy blanket.

“Aignar? Aignar!” Ely thought the name…but he wasn’t connected to the pod or his suit anymore. He reached for the collar, but the acceleration-compressed fluid was like clay.

The acceleration cut out and Ely sloshed forward, smashing into the top and cracking his head against the thin padding. He saw stars and free-floated back to the center of the pod.

Everything was nice and peaceful for a moment as his suit rattled around him.

“Clear torp…” he thought. “Clear…torp?”

Ely snapped back and flailed around for the collar. He pulled himself to it and flipped around. He pressed the back of his neck against the sensors…nothing. Ely banged his head against the back of the pod and the collar finally clamped around his neck.

Optics came in first and Ely was in a gray expanse. A lightning bolt cracked across the sky and Ely realized he was falling.

+Kid!+

“I don’t know what’s happening!”

+The jet pack! I can’t activate it while we’re re-synching!+

Beads of water streaked over Ely’s optics. He looked over his right shoulder to the engine intake. Clear. The left intake had a hunk of metal lodged in the grill. Ely reached up. The idea of ripping metal free would be impossible out of his suit, but he believed in the strength of his new vessel.

The obstruction came out with a squeal and Ely tossed it away.

+Manual override! Use your—!+

Ely stuck his thumbs out and jammed them into the jet pack against his lower back. He activated an emergency fuel injection and the pack roared to life. His ankles lit up like they were in hot coals. The pain sent him into momentary panic, then he remembered the checklist and splayed his legs out as poor rudders.

A shadow loomed in the distance and he was heading right for it.

“Aignar?”

+Oh balls. Altitude. Get some altitude!+

Ely kicked his legs forward and swung the jet pack’s thrusters down. The engines flared and Ely’s trajectory shifted higher. The sudden change in direction hit him with more g’s and the collar threatened to choke him again.

The shadow became a mountain ridge very quickly. Ely almost cleared the rocks.

Almost.

His toes scraped against a boulder and he went corkscrewing into a rainstorm. Everything in his HUD spun wildly, disorientating him completely.

Tiny maneuver thrusters fired around his jet pack and his spin slowed. He leveled out as he hit treetops, smashing through dozens of trees, leaving burning wood and shattered branches in his wake. He crashed into a muddy meadow, pushing a wave of water ahead of him that washed over bushes and ripped bark from dead trees.

He lay half-buried in a mound of mud and long grass. Sparks fizzled out of the jet pack as it wound down.

+Good news. We made it,+ Aignar said.

A frog leaped off Ely’s helm as he pulled himself out of the mound. He tested his servos and flexed his hands. The suit had taken minor damage, but nothing debilitating to his targeting systems or locomotion.

“That…was the worst! How did you stop the barrel roll?” Ely turned around. Flaming debris raked through the storm overhead. No sign of his lance. No rally-point beacon either.

+I don’t have an inner ear to get dizzy. The gyroscopes in the jet pack do a better job of keeping you on the straight and level than you could, but they have to be turned on to work. I activated them as soon as everything came back online. Don’t thank me. I did it for the both of us.+

“We almost hit a mountain…almost…” Ely reached to the side of his legs and unsnapped two halves of his Mauser rifle. He twisted the two pieces together and bolted them into a weapon almost as long as an un-suited man was tall. Bullets loaded into the breech and he felt a degree better.

“Down in front!”

Ely reared back. Flames from Lars’ jet pack ignited a line of steam before Ely. Lars twisted midair and dug his toes into the meadow, slowing as he slammed one hand into the mud. Lars slid to a stop, three tracks in the mud to mark his landing. He flicked mud off one hand as if he was going through a dull routine.

Ely pointed one finger to the low clouds.

“No! Never again! I almost died when my collar turned into a noose because of all the g’s. Were those T.I.T. things designed for plug Armor? Because they were almost…eight times that I almost died.”

+But did you die?+ Aignar asked.

“But did you die?” Lars asked, slapping his Mauser together.

Ely tapped the audio sensors on one side of his helm.

“Because you didn’t die. Which means the engineers that build the T.I.T. won’t care.” Lars looked up at burning debris in the clouds. “It’s a mess up there. Interdiction torps failed or were shot down…as designed. Any parts of our ride that the enemy find will just be more junk they were expecting to find. So far so good.”

“I am going to find those engineers and make them care.” Ely mimed crushing a skull. “You came down easy enough. How?”

“I gave up a double ration of mead to Saint Kallen. It worked. Now let’s move out to the rally point and find the others. Long-range comms are shot, but that’s part of the plan. Follow me.”

Chapter 13

Duke set down a wheelbarrow full of long, green stalks next to a wooden building. The plants were almost eight feet long, their exposed roots in the barrow and leafy buds at the other end. A coarse bag full of tobacco leaves held the plants in place.

He shook drizzle off his cloak and knocked on a door.

A portly man stuck his head out and squinted at the barrow. “They’re wet,” he said.

“Taxes are due today, Arnold. Governor never said anything about paying in dry hemp or wet hemp.” Duke worked his cheek against his jaw. He hadn’t had his morning dip yet and the craving was growing worse.

“Wet hemp weighs more.” Arnold set a pair of glasses on his nose. “When I turn in your dry hemp later this week, my books won’t balance.”

“Every year, I pay around a hundred hemp stalks. That’s seventy-four stalks and a stone’s worth of tobacco leaf, which the governor will also accept for taxes. I know how many I’m paying. You know how many I’m paying. The governor says I’m a little light on my payment, then I’ll come by and ask you to explain. So you can wait until it’s dry to weigh it. Fine by me. We know you’re an honest tax collector. There a problem?”

Duke brushed his damp cloak to one side and flashed his tomahawk as he drew a pouch of chewing tobacco off his belt.

“Hundred stalks? Fine, I’ll count it up right now. You come back in a bit for your receipt.” Arnold held a hand out to test for more rain.

“Then I’ll be back.” Duke tipped his hat and turned away, walking out onto a raised wooden sidewalk. The colony was ending its morning routine. Smoke from in-home fireplaces died away. Muddy streets were just wide enough for horse-drawn carriages. Buildings were made of split timber with a few roofs sporting shingles, but most had thatch or thick bundles of branches over boards to keep rain out.

The town seemed muted, as if everyone was holding their breath.

Duke followed his nose to the communal oven where he’d find Adams. Clusters of women surrounded the big earthen stove while others pulled up water from a well.

Adams stood under an awning, avoiding drips of rain. She adjusted a wide basket against her hip.

“That fat bastard take it? I don’t want to pull up any of my special grow to pay the bastards,” she said.

“But you’re fine with me paying with my tobacco.” Duke tucked dip into his mouth.

“There’s no shortage of that garbage here.” Adams leaned to one side to spy on the oven. A wooden paddle came out and a woman removed two bread loaves. She held them up for the group to see. “Yeah, Mary Margaret, we see you. We all remember that time you ‘accidentally’ took the Smithsons’ bread,” Adams said under her breath.

“Everyone marks their loaves with their initials…or their mark.” Duke spat juice into the mud. “You’d think people would know better than to try and get away with that.”

“Ladies are quiet this morning,” Adams said. “Everyone’s hedging their bets on the Prophet. We’re two days from his ‘Rapture.’”

“Minister Cord’s leading services every day. You think it matters?” Duke spat again.

“No…if our time’s up, there’s not much we can do,” she said sadly.

“But you won’t let me pull up the strains you’ve got behind the house. Why’s that?”

“No Charon, no harvest. The Crucible network’s been a mess for years. Maybe—maybe—we’ve got some more time. Besides, you think I want to pay more in taxes? Taxation is theft. If only we could get that through to these people,” she said.

“Not the point of a colony like this. Let’s concentrate on the fifty-meter target, yeah?” Duke sniffed the air. “Fresh bread. Nothing else quite like it.”

“I’m maybe two seasons away from growing the better kind of hemp. There’s nothing quite like that.” Adams flipped a cloth off her basket.

“People already think you’re a witch. You start spiking butter or smoking what everyone thinks is hemp and it’ll get worse for you,” Duke said.

“People would chill the fuck out if they had some other herbs to enjoy. My rolls are done. Be right back.” She went to the oven.

“I ain’t going to fight with you,” he said to no one in particular. “I try and argue, she’ll turn it right around to how healthy my dip is. I ain’t going to win that debate.”

A scream rose and Duke drew his tomahawk.

“The Rapture!” A woman thrust a hand into the sky, then fell to her knees.

A burning trail stretched across the sky, accompanied by more and more debris. Panic broke out around the oven. Women scrambled to find their children, while others beat at their heads and chests as they shouted prayers.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Duke tested the grip on his tomahawk. “I’ll be damned indeed.”

Adams returned, bread loaves steaming in her basket.

“So much for two more seasons,” she said. “Should we panic to blend in?”

“We need to make contact with whoever the Lady sent.” Duke led Adams away by the arm, which was what any brother would have done in such trying circumstances. “Time to clean up our gear.”

“Mine will fit. How about yours?” Adams took a bite of her bread.

They hurried out of the town, past the tall wooden walls and redcoats guarding them. The redcoats stared at them a little harder than Duke was used to as streaks of fire burned against the high clouds. A piece of something crashed into the distant bay, sending up a flume of water.

“When was the last time we saw something like this?” Adams asked.

“The Line…the rain of fire never stopped.” Duke’s gaze went distant. “The fight on Kesaht’ka was pretty bad, but it wasn’t home.”

“This isn’t home, Duke? We’ve been here for years.” She took another bite of her bread.

“Yet neither of us have set down roots…redcoats seem a little too interested in us. Paranoia seems appropriate,” he said.

“Yeah, I noticed too,” Adams said. “You done anything to break cover?”

“We sent up a signal drone. The message likely got back to the Crusade. The bad guys must have noticed it and realized someone down here sent it. So they’re looking for that someone…”

“Not my question.” She walked a bit faster and Duke kept pace.

“Nope, how about you, medicine woman?”

“Shit…shit, I forgot about that. I had the choice to let a child live or die. No regrets,” she said.

“Not yet,” Duke said. They continued away from the town, passing farms and small lumber mills. A bell rang from behind them as they turned a corner.

“Old Man Westley calling in the cows?” Adams asked.

“He does that before supper, not this early.” Duke scanned the woods. Birds chirped in the branches, more agitated than usual. Something shot through the air overhead, small and far too fast to be any creature Duke or Adams had ever encountered on Roanoke.

“Problem,” Duke said.

The rustle of men on the road approached from ahead, boots stomping, ammo pouches slapping against coats. A dozen redcoats came around a corner, the soldiers huffing and puffing. Duke recognized most of them; the new face was too pale compared to the ones he knew. Pale enough to believe he spent time aboard a space station and not in the abundant outdoors of the colony.

“What’s the call?” Adams reached into the bottom of her bread basket.

“We don’t know what they want. Might be nothing.” Duke gripped the edge of his coat. He looked relaxed, but he could go for his tomahawk with one motion. “Running looks awful guilty. Stay frosty.”

The redcoats stopped a few yards away. One stepped forward.

“I just paid my taxes. I’m allowed to use the road,” Duke said.

“Mr. Duke,” a sergeant said, tipping his tricorn hat to Adams. “Madam. Strange events abound, as you’ve noticed. Sows losing their litters. Fresh milk spoiling overnight…then there’s hellfire and brimstone in the sky.”

“Strange times indeed,” Duke said. “We’ve doubled our nightly prayers.”

“Well done. The governor’s employed a specialist tracker to make sure…make sure there’s no demonic influence on anyone of our community. We’re testing everyone,” the sergeant said.

“You’re touching a hot poker to every tongue in Roanoke?” Adams asked. “Or are you going to put us on a scale to see if we weigh as much as a duck?”

“That’s what a witch would say,” one of the redcoats grumbled.

“Mr. Krautmann,” the sergeant said, motioning the new face forward. “He was aboard a smaller ship investigating if Jamestown or Saint Petersburg were still out there.”

“Are they?” Duke asked.

“Didn’t make it. Storms,” Krautmann said with a very modern Earth accent, not Roanoke. He opened a leather pouch and took out a small wooden box. “You stick a finger inside. There’s something anathema to the unholy within. That’s all.”

He thumbed a switch, exposing a hole. He stuck a pinky in for two seconds then brought it out.

Adams gave Duke a worried look.

“We’ve all done it,” the sergeant said. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“I’ll settle the rumors once and for all.” Adams thrust her middle finger into the box. “There? Happy?”

A red glow from the box lit up Krautmann’s face. His eyes went wide.

Adams struck him in the head with her bread basket, sending rolls flying. She picked up a knife from the ground and sliced it across Krautmann’s leg, just below the kneecap. The redcoat went down with a scream.

“I’ll eat your souls!” She charged into the guards with Duke a step behind her. She lunged the knife at the sergeant, who knocked her blow aside with the butt of his rifle. Another guard grabbed her from behind.

Adams smashed her head back, catching the guard in the nose, and he dropped her.

Duke shoulder-charged a redcoat and knocked him into another. He drew his tomahawk and struck at a redcoat fumbling with his rifle. The redcoat thrust his rifle up to block the strike. Duke’s blade chopped into the guard’s hand, severing three fingers.

Another guard thrust his bayonet-tipped rifle at Adams. The blade caught her coat and ripped a gash down the side. The weapon tangled up in Adams’ clothes as the two struggled.

“Go! Get out of here!” Adams slammed her knife into the guard’s throat. The tip emerged out the back of his neck.

The sergeant bashed the stock of his rifle against Adam’s temple and she collapsed.

A rifle fired, sparks and ash blowing in Duke’s face. His eyes stung and his lungs burned. He swung wildly with the tomahawk and connected with something.

“Alive! Get him alive!”

Duke stumbled off the path and into the forest. He ran, hating to leave Adams behind, but their mission was more important. He crashed through a bush and saw the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.

“Don’t!”

Duke heard the rifle shot and his left flank stung. He lost his balance and tripped over a rock. He reached for a branch and missed it by a mile. The Strike Marine went headfirst over the cliff, to the waves breaking against boulders below.

The sergeant stopped at the edge and looked over, searching for Duke.

“Get back here!” Krautmann shouted. “Get back here before I bleed to death!”

“But Mr. Duke—” the sergeant pointed to the sea.

“Doesn’t matter. Send your men to search their house and get this spy—I mean, witch—back to the Prophet’s sanctum. Someone carry me!” Krautmann kept shouting.

The sergeant gave another look over the cliff, then crossed himself.

****

Ely and Lars moved through the trees. Flocks of birds erupted off the treetops as they continued.

“I don’t feel particularly stealthy,” Ely said. “You’d think either the Geist or Santos would have found us by now.”

“We’re miles away from any civilization.” Lars’ antennae extended up from his helm. A small dish unfolded from one and swung around. “The others should’ve landed with our forge pod…which should be right over there.”

He pointed to an empty clearing.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Ely raised his Mauser. “It’s entirely possible neither of them survived that landing. Especially not after what I went through.”

“Santos and Pulaski have made plenty of T.I.T. drops. Both are too mean and too angry to die so ingloriously. They’re not at the rally point. Atmo’s scrambled so we can’t do radio, which would be suicide anyway. Time to drop anchor.”

Lars raised his left foot and a diamond-tipped drill bit snapped out of his heel. He slammed his foot down and a shower of soil and rock chips spattered out as his anchor dug deep.

Ely felt pulses through the ground.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Old Armor trick. The sensors in our anchors are pretty sensitive; helps to know if your drop’s got a good hold or if your next rail shot will rip you apart…we can pick up seismic vibrations pretty easy. Helps that there aren’t any cars or trucks rumbling around. Now we wait and hope we don’t summon a sand worm…Bingo!”

“A what worm?”

“Hush…they’re close. Six kilometers at ninety-four degrees. They’re coming to us.” Lars’ antenna pulsed, then he lifted his anchor out and retracted it into his leg. “We’re going to make like the trees and…wait right here.”

“How do they know to drop anchor?” Ely asked. He cycled through optics and scanned the forest. Animal hot spots moved in the distance; some of the larger signatures were in the branches.

“Standard operating procedure. I should’ve had you go over those before we launched, but you surviving insertion was a higher priority,” Lars said.

“I’m still a bit pissed that no one considered the gravities and that I had my neck in a collar. Being hung in my own pod would’ve been an embarrassing way to die,” Ely said.

“Not a lot of special sorts like you out there.” Lars bent an elbow up. His hand retracted into the forearm housing and a punch spike snapped out. The hand cycled back out and he bent his fingers one by one. “Get your plugs like God intended.”

+Tell him he’s so last gen,+ Aignar said.

Lars’ jet pack unbolted with a series of snaps that echoed through the woods. He bent to one side and caught the pack before it could strike the ground. A hatch opened on the underside of the pack and a semi-opaque spike rose up. A twisted column of light shot several yards up, then expanded into a dome around them. Incoming light warbled, like they were looking up from just below the surface of a pool.

“Neat trick,” Ely said. “Can my pack do that too?”

“It can. Dismount yours and set it next to mine. I’ll run them in series to even the battery drain.” Lars popped another hatch and drew out a power cable.

“When was I supposed to learn about all this? Any other surprises in this new hotness of a suit?” Ely’s pack unbolted all at once. He caught the pack by a handle on the top before it could slam into the ground.

“You’ve got bells, you’ve got whistles. The cloak shell’s enough to keep orbital eyes from detecting us until we’re ready to find, fix and finish the Geist. We had limited time before we kicked off in that damn T.I.T. launcher. You had to focus on landing in one piece. Learning anything but landing would have been a giant waste if you were scattered about the landscape. Now we can have some discovery learning. Open the number six port.” Lars plugged the power line into Ely’s pack.

“We’re just going to sit here? Not a very Armor sort of thing to do.” Ely hefted his Mauser.

“We can’t go kill people and break things until the Charon’s in system. We’re in the hurry-up-and-wait phase of military operations. Welcome to the Army,” Lars said. “Still another hour or two until the atmo scrambling fades out. Then we can link up with the Pioneers that signaled us in the first place.”

Ely reached up to touch the stealth dome but pulled his hand back before he could touch it.

“Does this planet have anything in the way of native aliens? What if some shepherd kid wanders in here with his flock?” Ely asked.

“Tough one…what do you think we should do?” Lars swiped a finger down a small screen on his pack and a small, segmented arm unfolded. The tip opened up into several points and they poked and prodded Lars’ left hand.

“Say it’s a kid with a bunch of sheep…scare him off,” Ely said.

“And what happens when he goes home and tells Mom and Dad about the iron giants he saw?”

“This is a pre-industrial colony. They don’t know what Armor is. The parents will probably think the kid’s crying wolf and ignore him. They won’t bring it up to their neighbors because then they’re the ones crying wolf. Worry is that the Geist will get wind of us…they know what we are and they’ll come looking,” Ely said.

“Not bad. Not bad. Not certain either. Why not take the shepherd boy captive or something worse?”

“Someone will come looking for him. It’s inevitable,” Ely said. “Then they’ll find us.”

“Ah…but how long will that take? It’s early morning. Flock of sheep isn’t due back until evening to get them in the pens. Search wouldn’t even start until morning. We should have contact by then and will have moved on. Your first solution has a higher element of risk. You still sticking to it?” Lars asked.

“Possibly killing some innocent kid? Never.”

“What if we fail because of that decision? He runs home and the Geist get word in short order and no Charon? What will happen to all the colonists if that happens?” Lars asked.

Ely pondered for a bit. “We’re Armor…we’re supposed to be Saint Kallen’s avatars, paragons to protect all humanity. Killing a shepherd boy isn’t what we do. I don’t want that on my conscience just to accomplish the mission.” Ely’s fingers tightened and loosened on his Mauser.

“Carrying the guilt of every soul on this planet being harvested by the Geist is better? Plus, we’ll probably have a glorious last stand against the darkness once we’re found out and can’t get back to the Scipio.” Lars tested the servos on his left hand, then tapped a knuckle to the jet-pack panel and the repair arm snapped back.

“This isn’t easy,” Ely said.

“It’s not meant to be. Welcome to war.”

“What’s the right answer?”

“There isn’t one, Ely. There’s the best possible decision we can make with the information available. Complex moral reasoning isn’t a normal Armor problem, but it comes up…what do you know about Malal?” Lars went to the other end of the dome and peered into the forest.

“The Geist worship it. They were very interested in where Malal was and they thought I’d know…or my father would know,” Ely said.

“There’s a story that I heard, no idea how true it is, but it’s about Saint Kallen’s old lance, the Iron Hearts. Your namesake’s involved. Terran Union sent a mission to deep space during the Ember War to recover some old Qa’Resh tech. Somehow…Malal was on that mission,” Lars said.

“Wait…this evil god thing was working with us?”

“Stop interrupting me. Malal found what they were looking for and got it back to the Breitenfeld. While the Iron Hearts were on the mission, they learned about Malal and the harvests he did—same harvest that the Geist are all about. Malal killed billions—maybe even trillions—of aliens long before humanity was a factor in galactic politics. What happened to all those harvested souls? Don’t know. But the Iron Hearts knew what an evil monster Malal was, and Elias tried to kill Malal.”

“Good. Hold on…why didn’t he succeed?”

“The Lady stopped him,” Lars said.

“Wait…what?”

“You ever wonder why all the Xaros drones suicided into the nearest star after the war? You think that was by accident?”

“I thought it was because the Xaros Masters were all dead after the Apex was destroyed…” Ely tapped his Mauser. “My dad never said anything about it. Neither did Admiral Valdar. My godfather always liked telling sea stories.”

“Let’s assume Malal had something to do with the final acts of the Ember War. Reasonable? We know he’s a monster. We know Elias tried to kill him for being a monster. But was Elias right to try and kill Malal when that thing was vital to ending the Ember War?” Lars asked.

“That’s why the Geist changed my wiring so I can’t say my name.” Ely tapped the side of his helm. “I don’t…I don’t know if Eeeeluh—son of a bitch—I don’t know if that was the right thing to do. I’m not Marc Ibarra, OK? These sorts of decisions are above my paygrade.”

Lars shook his head.

“You’re Armor. The Nation expects you and me to act as Saint Kallen would. Like it or not, Armor are key assets for the Crusade. We tend to end up as a fulcrum in the larger strategic picture. Just ask Marshal Shaw about that sometime. He was a junior lancer when he got put between the Union and the Nation. Then there’s you, kid. You’re in the mix whether you like it or not…you’re already upsetting the balance.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for all this.” Ely shook his helm.

Something nudged Ely from behind and he swung his Mauser around.

Pulaski caught it by the barrel and kept it from pointing at him or Santos.

“You two keep worrying about the theoretical and you neglect actual problems,” Santos said. He shrugged off his jet pack and linked it to the others.

“How did you sneak up on us?” Ely asked.

“You haven’t used your active sound-dampening systems?” Pulaski flicked a finger against his arm. There was a barely audible thunk for the first hits, then a louder noise as the flicks continued.

“Haven’t shown him that yet,” Lars said. “There are a dozen other systems locked behind firewalls. Can’t have him playing with new toys in the field, can we? Where’s the forge?”

“You both made it down in one piece. At least that part of the mission went right.” Santos touched Ely’s helm and examined the mud and scrapes. “The forge pod was lost in the ocean. No contact with the two Pioneers.”

“No pod? So no ammo resupply or recharge?” Ely asked. “What’re we going to do?”

“Our suits can go almost a week at full combat speed without issue,” Pulaski said. “Assuming we aren’t launching rail shots. We’ve got our standard load and MEWS.”

“Better to strike first and strike hard than get into a protracted fight.” Santos reached to his waist and pulled a cylindrical device off his suit. He tossed it away and it unspooled into a thin wire. “Low-frequency antenna might pick up a signal from the Pioneers, but we’ve got nothing so far.”

“Didn’t we scramble the atmosphere?” Ely asked.

“We did…then there was a pulse from the colony and that cleared the air. Seems the Geist are wise to that trick. We could contact the Scipio now, but they’re still in FTL.” Santos took another device off his suit and stabbed it into the ground. It unfolded into a satellite dish, drifting from side to side.

“Will our ship detect the Charon?” Lars asked.

“It had better…but we need to find the Pioneers.” Santos sent pictures of Duke and Adams to their HUDs. “They’ll know where to find the Geist.”

“And if we can’t?” Ely asked.

“Lady Ibarra made it very clear that we have to kill the Geist before it can retreat to the Charon. If it escapes, failure is almost assured.” Santos’ helm antennae moved up and down. “She didn’t specify how or why, but I’m inclined to believe her.”

“So what do we do now? Sit on our thumbs?” Ely asked.

“Armor has always been the combat arm of decision.” Santos turned to Ely. “We need to find Duke or Adams…there’s only one of us that can do that.”

Pulaski and Lars looked at Ely.

“What’s happening?” Ely backed up.

“You need to dismount, Ely. I’m sending you in to scout out the Pioneers.” Santos nodded.

“Hold on. Why me?” Ely asked.

“Because you don’t have plugs, kid,” Lars said. “Skull inputs weren’t the fashion in colonial America. Pulaski…is right out.”

“It pains me to agree, but I must,” the Karigole said.

+Good luck,+ Aignar said to Ely.

“But…but…I’m in my skin suit. Aren’t they all dressed like George Washington?” Ely asked.

“There’s survival gear in your suit. Clothes are there.” Santos tapped Ely’s chest plate. “The Pioneers marked their house in the message they sent to the Crusade. You go straight there through the woods and see if they’re there. They are? Bring them here. They aren’t? Come back. They live outside the town walls, so thank God for small favors.”

“This is happening. This is so happening…” Ely touched his suit within the pod. “What happened to ‘death before dismount’?”

“You haven’t even earned your spurs and you’re trying to get froggy,” Santos said, shaking his helm. “Out, Ely. This is a mission only you can accomplish.”

Chapter 14

Ely pushed through a bush, thorns tugging at his fatigues and scraping one side of his neck. Water shook free from branches and soaked through his clothes. The fabric shifted colors to match the foliage around him, and he pulled at the loose-fitting mask over his face.

“I knew I should’ve been a Junior Pathfinder.” He peered up at the sky, trying to spot the sun. “But no, I had to sign up for the engineering classes while Jerry was out there being all hoah-hoah in the mud. Does this planet rotate so the primary star rises in the east and sets in the west? What if it’s backwards? Or the axis is all screwy? I should’ve asked this before I left the lance.”

He touched the cover on his forearm computer. He could call back to Santos, but it came with a very high risk of detection. With the press of a button, the Geist might realize that the Crusade was here on Roanoke, and that would end their mission in failure. Ely was supposed to find the Pathfinders and bring them back to the lance with the enemy being none the wiser. The comms badge was to be used only if he was in a life-or-death situation, or if the Pathfinders had a vital message to send to the Armor. Calling for help to figure out where he was going was a poor idea.

“Keep heading east and I should hit a road…then handrail that north and…” he peeled up the cover on his forearm screen and double-checked a way point, “…find the house where the Pathfinders are supposed to live. Then Bob’s your uncle.”

He touched the mask over his forehead and felt the optics package underneath. Night vision was built in—an advantage the local security forces weren’t supposed to have. All he had to do was get close enough to the target house and move in under the cover of night.

A simple plan that was proving to be way more difficult than how it was briefed to him.

Ely pushed through a bush of thin branches and tiny, spade-shaped leaves. He put his foot against the base of a group of the thin branches and pushed them down, revealing a farm. Rows and rows of tall plants stood between him and a farmhouse, smoke curling out of a chimney.

“What is that…corn?” He leaned forward and sniffed the air.

The ground crumbled beneath his boots and he slid down slick branches. Ely gripped the branches, but they came apart in his hands. He ripped leaves away and slid down a steep embankment.

Ely tried and failed to brake his slide by digging his heels into the slick, muddy slope. One foot hit a knotty root, sending him rolling. The world spun until there was a sharp pain behind one shoulder and he came to a sudden stop.

Vertigo kept his vision swimming. He thumped his heels against the slope, unsure why he wasn’t falling. There was a rip of fabric and he jerked down a few inches. His active camo top was hooked on a sharp rock.

Ely tried to reach up, but he fell a bit farther. His camo top fluctuated, flashing like a beacon against the slope.

“No, no, no…” He gripped his forearm computer as his top gave way. He held on to a sleeve, dangling in full view of anyone below, then he lost his hold and skidded down wet grass to splash into a shallow irrigation ditch.

Ely spat out muddy water and crawled out onto a path bordering the crops. He looked up at the tall stalks, which had thin leaves and fuzzy buds at the top. His lost camo top had powered off and looked like a ridiculously out-of-place bit of laundry, but his forearm computer still functioned. The device was incorporated into his skin suit and could take a fair amount of punishment.

“‘Just go find the Pioneers,’ they said. ‘It’ll be easy,’ they said.” Ely plucked at his skin-suit top, which was tight against his body and deep gray in color. He stripped off his mask and stuffed it into his back pocket. “I doubt colonial America had lucha libre wrestlers.”

“Papa! Hurry!” a child called out from around the path surrounding the field.

Ely slapped a hand to the pistol holster on his hip and looked around frantically. The crops were too thick for him to push into and hide or escape through like a corn field. Jumping back into the ditch, Ely drew his weapon, slipped beneath a gnarled tree trunk that had fallen from up the slope, and hid in the shadows.

He heard the creak of an approaching wheelbarrow.

“What is it, Josiah?” an older man asked.

“I thought I saw the fox that’s been eating all our chickens,” a boy said.

“Lot of good that’ll do us. The governor’s confiscated my rifle and cursing at that thief of an animal hasn’t worked at all…we just have to wait for the Edwards’ dog to have her puppies. Then that fox will learn a lesson.”

“Will we have any chickens left by then?” the boy asked.

Ely glanced at his pistol, his conversation with Lars about what to do if they were detected by some unwitting innocent more relevant than ever.

“We will if we finish their new coop.”

Ely heard the wheelbarrow stop next to the fallen tree that was hiding him, then an axe thumped into the wood.

Damn it…not like this, Ely thought. He debated putting the mask back on. Threatening the two while waving his pistol around might scare them off, but it sounded like there were a father and son up there, and, judging by the regular blows and cracks, the father knew how to wield that axe. It seemed more likely the man would choose fight over flight when his child could be in danger.

“Papa…I hear Momma calling for us,” Josiah said.

A voice carried over the ditch as Ely shivered in the cold water. Skin suits were designed to absorb amniosis to help regulate his temperature within his pod; he should’ve anticipated becoming inundated with the chilly ditch water, he realized. Quick thinking didn’t leave much time to factor in what should’ve been obvious to him.

“Huh? Course she’d need something soon as we start working. What’s she saying? My ears are bad since my last fever.”

“Redcoats at the house, Papa.”

The axe whacked into the trunk—and wasn’t pulled away.

“Another damn inspection…they’re harassing us because we won’t take that damn harness. Come on, son. Time to render unto Caesar.”

Ely waited a full minute before peeking out from beneath the trunk. He saw a man and boy turn around the path surrounding the crops. Ely crawled out of the ditch again and ran the other direction, skidding to a stop at the edge of the field.

The road. Little more than a path of cleared earth with slight depressions from horse-drawn carts.

“Aha, progress.” Ely ran across the road and blundered into foliage a few yards away. He could still pick out the road from where he was. He checked the position of the sun and made his way north. Or what he assumed was north.

“Do I look too much like a deer right now?” he said to himself after moving for almost half an hour. He sat at the base of a tree and took a sip of water from a tube attached to his shoulder. The skin suit had filters that made water drinkable and recycled any fluid that it absorbed. Ely wasn’t thrilled with some of the implications, but at least he wasn’t as thirsty.

He checked the map on his forearm screen and did his best to guestimate where he was.

“Pace count? Oh crap, I was supposed to do that.” Ely bumped the back of his head against the trunk. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then consulted the map again. “I should be close to the Pioneers’ house…looks like there’s a patch of that not-corn near it.”

Getting back to his feet, he continued north, making constant checks for the road as he struggled through thicker patches of forest. The time he was wasting zigzagging around trees was foremost in his mind as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

The smell of smoke grew in the air as he neared the Pioneers’ house. Ely climbed up a tree and peered over branches.

A smoldering field cracked and snapped, and the smoke had a skunky smell that Ely didn’t appreciate. Redcoats wandered around a small farmhouse as a table came flying out a window and crashed into a rack of drying animal skins.

“That’s the house…isn’t it?” Ely checked his map, looked to the sky, then squinted at the redcoats tearing the place apart. “Looks like. Damn it.”

There was a crack and bark exploded off the tree next to Ely’s head. He fell off and landed hard on a raised root. His ribs ached and breathing was a fight.

“I think I got him!” came from the house.

Ely rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward another tree. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but deeper into the woods seemed like a great idea. He stumbled forward, struggling to pull himself upright.

Another shot echoed through the forest and a bullet snapped past his head. He grabbed a branch and swung down around a thick trunk. He fumbled with his pistol then thumbed a button to power up the gauss weapon.

“Hold on…these guys have muskets. I’ve got a full magazine. I’ve got the better boom stick.” Ely held his pistol out at arm’s length and looked down the sights.

Something rustled nearby.

“Spread out! Find him!” came from farther away.

Twigs snapped and leaves shook. Ely’s heart pounded and he started panting.

Pivoting around the tree, Ely came face-to-face with a redcoat. The solider looked barely older than him as his jaw dropped open, his musket barrel raised to the sky. Ely saw fear in the soldier’s face—and disbelief as he stared at Ely in his strange clothes and inconceivable gun pointed right at him.

Ely’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he couldn’t fire.

“Lord Malal, protect me from this demon.” The musket shook in the redcoat’s hands.

“Terry! Terry!” came from behind Ely. “What’s…aaahh!”

Ely twisted his head around and saw another redcoat charging straight at him, bayonet fixed and flashing in the sunlight. This soldier had murder in his eyes and rage on his face. The world slowed down as Ely brought his pistol to bear. The bayonet was going to impale him before he could fire.

A shot rang out and the charging soldier flinched to one side. The bayonet careened off the trunk. The redcoat’s shoulder hit the tree and he spun away, leaving a splotch of blood against the bark. He hit the ground and flopped to his back. Dead.

The younger redcoat gawped at his fellow, then his face hardened. He brought his rifle to one hip and pointed the barrel at Ely.

There was a whoosh and the redcoat’s head snapped to one side, a tomahawk buried in his skull. The soldier collapsed to his knees, eyes off-kilter, then he fell face-first to the ground.

Duke stepped out from the woods, holding a musket up over his head. One of his flanks was stained deep red. He had a flintlock pistol in one hand and leveled it at Ely.

“For the Lady,” Duke said and winced. He propped himself up against a tree, the pistol trembling.

“For-for-for us all?” Ely motioned to his skin suit top and active camo pants. “Anyone else dressed like this out here?”

“That the bastards are trying to kill you probably makes you friendly,” Duke said. “So guess that makes me friendly to you too.” He lowered his flintlock.

“Friendly? You just killed two people.” Ely bent his arm and brought his pistol close to his face.

“You’re welcome.” Duke braced a foot against the dead soldier’s head and wrenched his tomahawk out. There was a cracking sound like a splitting melon.

Ely choked back vomit and looked away.

Duke ripped the dead soldier’s ammo pouch away and slung it over his shoulder. He picked up a rifle from the ground and handed it to Ely. When Ely took the surprisingly heavy weapon, the stock whacked against the ground.

“I’ve already got a gun,” Ely said.

“You’re an idiot. You hit them with a gauss shell and it’ll pulp whatever you hit. You think that’s the same effect as a musket ba—ahh!” Duke slumped against a tree, one arm held tight to his red-stained side.

“You OK?” Ely went to Duke’s side.

“Got shot.” Duke snorted and relieved the other body of his ammo pouch. “Bad idea. Don’t tell me you’re a legionnaire. Or a Pioneer.” Duke looked Ely up and down.

“Armor, actually,” Ely said.

“No plugs? Don’t matter…come on.” Duke jerked his head to one side and took off away from his house. “Geist will come looking for them soon.”

“Shouldn’t we hide them?” Ely followed a few yards behind Duke.

“No time. No point. They’re after me and they know I’m lethal. Anyone seen you?” Duke stepped down a riverbank. He struggled to drag fallen branches off a small canoe and dropped his looted weapon and ammo into it.

“No one else.” Ely pointed at the canoe. “Where are we going? Do you know where—”

“Shut the hell up and start paddling.” Duke sat at the front of the canoe and thrust an oar at Ely. “Shove us off…am I bleeding again?” Duke lifted his shirt up and exposed his back to Ely. Blood dripped down from a mud-and-grass patch over the small of his back.

“Little bit.” Ely pushed hard on the canoe and it wobbled into the river. He nearly tipped it over as he climbed into the back.

“Small victory.” Duke slumped to his uninjured side. “Paddle. We need to get out into the bay.”

Ely dipped the oar into the water and propelled them along.

“I’ve got a lance of Armor on call.” Ely brandished his forearm computer. “Where’s the Geist? When’s the Charon coming in system? Wait…why are we going to the bay?”

“Time. Time.” Duke pressed a hand to his bullet wound and winced at the blood staining his skin. “Couple things we need to do first…veer to the right. Stay away from the rocks. Name’s Duke.”

“Ely Hale. Aren’t we exposed out here?” Ely asked.

“Fishing’s to the north of here, and it’s almost nightfall. Too many ships have wrecked in this part of the bay.” Duke relaxed a bit. “Just one lance?”

“We’ve got more in orbit. Mission’s to capture the Charon,” Ely said. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying so much? There’s supposed to be two of you.”

“Adams. They’ve got her, but she’s not going to give up anything,” Duke said.

Ely rowed harder, passing boulders jutting out of the water near the cliffs. Waves slapped against the rocks, sending spray high into the air.

“There.” Duke pointed to a rock with a Crusader cross painted on it. “Turn right after that. Go straight to the cave.” He pulled the two looted ammo pouches under his body as sea foam settled over them. Ely felt his shoulders grow heavy as salt water inundated his skin suit.

He stuck the oar in the water and banked the canoe around the rock. Waves scraped the boat against a boulder. Ely shoved them away with his oar and paddled frantically to a jagged opening in the cliffside.

“Hurry. Tide’s coming in,” Duke said.

“Now you tell me? Maybe you could help?” Ely paddled harder.

“Too busy bleeding, sorry.” Duke’s face went pale.

The prow of the canoe hit the side of the cave entrance. Duke reached out and grabbed the bottom of the opening, steering them into the gap as a wave propelled them forward. Ely had to duck low or get brained against the rocks.

Inside the cave was still darkness.

“Forward…just a bit more.” Duke’s voice was weak and raspy.

The canoe slid into sand.

“Get us some light,” Duke said.

Ely drew his pistol and clicked a switch to activate a small flashlight below the barrel. The back of the cave held plastic crates, freshly dug out from the soil.

“Need you to…need you to help me out a bit. Go turn on the lantern on top of that one box.” Duke pointed a trembling hand at a cylinder atop a crate.

Ely sloshed through the water and clicked a button on the cylinder. LED lights came on, flooding the cave with alabaster-colored light. The cave’s ceiling was just high enough that Ely could stand upright. Broken stalactites clung to the roof like bad teeth.

“Help…” Duke raised a hand, then it fell to the side of the canoe. Limp.

“No, no, no, we need you.” Ely dragged Duke onto the sandy patch and up to the crates in fits and spurts. The big man dug up a sand bar like a ploughshare through soil. Ely panted between hauls that moved Duke a foot or two each time.

“Open the one with the red crosses and…get out the auto-suture patch,” Duke said. “Then get me some water.”

Ely left Duke in the sand and found a medical crate. He threw the top hatch open. His face fell at the many bandages and equipment pouches.

“Ugh…which one?” he asked.

“Says ‘auto-suture’ right on the tin,” Duke groaned, “and get the pain meds. All the pain meds.”

Ely dug through the med crate, holding up packages then dropping them to one side.

“Stop ratfucking my gear!” Duke snarled.

“Auto-suture!” Ely shook a green plastic case and handed it to Duke.

The Pioneer looked at Ely with a blank face. “You think I can reach back there and get the bullet out?” Duke deadpanned. He rolled to his stomach and raised his shirt.

“How do I use it?” Ely opened the case and took out what looked like an oversized stainless-steel hypodermic needle.

“They don’t send Armor through basic training anymore?” Duke said, his voice muffled by the sand. “Read the instructions. Supposed to be idiot-proof.”

Ely held up a small white card to the light. “Foreign object removal. Three clicks clockwise then…oh no…” Ely looked at the wound on Duke’s back.

“Don’t be squeamish…’cause I’m pretty sure the internal bleeding’s gettin’ worse.” Duke pried off the mud-and-grass bandage. A bad smell hit Ely’s nose.

“Dad would be so proud of me right now.” Ely turned the rear cap on the auto-suture until it snapped three times. The tip glowed a dull yellow. “Ready? On three. One.”

Ely pressed the device into the bloody hole and Duke roared in pain. Ely pressed Duke down as the device twisted of its own volition, then a metal ball spat out the back and bounced off Ely’s chest.

The putrid smell changed to sizzling meat. Ely felt heat radiate off the device.

Duke went limp, breathing hard.

The device emitted quick beeps and Ely pulled it out slowly. Burnt blood stained the tip.

“Let me find a Nu-Skin spray and some antiseptics.” Ely picked through the supplies he’d dropped.

“Pain meds!” Duke hit a fist into the sand.

“Yes!” Ely shook a small box. “Where on a one-to-ten scale would you rate your—”

Duke lurched forward and snatched the box away. He ripped it open and pressed a hypo spray to one side of his neck, then hit himself on the other side, sighing in relief.

“That’s better.” He stayed on his side, jaw slack, a bit of drool running from the corner of his mouth. “Still clean me up. My green blood cells ain’t what they used to be.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to have two hits of that…cleanup. Fine. There some hand sanitizer or something in all this?” Ely rummaged through the crate.

“How the hell are you Armor?” Duke asked. “Armor’s supposed to be harder than woodpecker lips. Does your mom know you’re here?”

“Huh. I’ve heard that one before.” Ely opened a pouch and leafed through bandages. “The Armor thing sort of happened by accident. It was the only way to get me off Earth and—”

“Earth? How’ve you…the meds are making me all floaty. Get me patched up, kid. Just get me patched up.”

Ely pressed a thumb to a small bottle and sniffed at what sprayed out.

****

A crust of bread in a bowl full of gruel was set between the bars of Adams’ cell. She stayed in the corner, wrapped in a thin blanket.

The redcoat that brought her the food stayed by the bars. He carried himself differently than most of the guards. For one, he didn’t seem to be afraid of Adams.

“You’re no witch.” He wagged a finger at her. “You just might be the oldest person on this planet…no matter how you look. How’d you get here?”

“I’m definitely a witch.” Adams shuffled toward the food, her stomach demanding sustenance. “There are natural cures to get that stick out of your ass. Rub donkey shit across your lips and gargle piss. It’ll come right out.”

“The telomeres in your cells don’t lie, Ibarran,” the redcoat sneered. “Did you sneak here after your kind lost another planet? Or is this place some sort of retirement plan?”

Adams stayed hunched over, dragging a foot behind her.

“Mint will work wonders for your breath, but only if you scrape a little earwax from a rabbit on it.” Adams punched between the bars and hit the redcoat in the solar plexus. He sat hard on his backside, struggling to breathe.

The guard kicked the bowl of gruel, spilling it across the filthy straw on the floor of her cell. He got to his feet, brushing his uniform.

“Bring in the prisoner!” he shouted to an open door. Guards dragged Minister Cord to the cell next to hers and dropped him to the floor. They slammed the gate and left.

Cord stayed on his side, breathing hard.

“My sons…” he wailed. “They killed my sons.”

Adams reached to him and touched his ankle. “Stay strong, Minister. Faith is still on our side.” Adams stayed close to Cord for a few minutes, then picked up the bit of bread from the floor and shook mouse droppings off it. She considered the meal for a moment, then took a bite.

****

Before a throne made of bent wires that sat atop several slowly pulsing tiers, Nakir and Shannon went to their knees, bending their foreheads to the floor. Geist thralls crawled along the darkened walls, misshapen into beasts and nightmares from a hundred alien cultures.

Noyan materialized on the throne. Her silver Qa’Resh Ambassador body was nearly eight feet tall; the double sets of eyes were dull. The blunt muzzle of her mouth didn’t open as she spoke.

“Where is Lord Malal?” the Geist asked, flicking frost from her overlong fingers.

“The interrogation continues,” Nakir said into the floor.

“Rise.” Noyan lifted a palm and the Commissars obeyed.

“Marc Ibarra’s mind is particularly resilient for one of our kind,” Shannon said. “His long-term exposure to the Qa’Resh has fortified him, but he wastes the gifts given to him by Lord Malal’s people.”

“I paid quite the price to the Naroosha flesh-shapers to create a mortal form for the heretic. Where are the results you promised?” Noyan asked.

“There are precautions.” Nakir put a hand over his heart. “He is in a weaker vessel now. He is more vulnerable, but also more fragile. If he dies, then what he knows dies with him.”

“Death should be no escape for Marc Ibarra,” Shannon said, her voice going higher with excitement. “If you will authorize the expense, Exalted One, I have a proposal, though it will require some modification to your holy technology.”

“What is this?” Nakir asked.

Noyan raised a finger to silence him. “And what would this plan accomplish?” the Geist asked.

“Hope is a powerful weapon for any prisoner. Knowing that the pain will end—one way or another—is Ibarra’s defense against us. We take that away, we will be one step closer to breaking him,” Shannon said.

“You have made this promise before,” Noyan said, leaning forward. “My life is eternal. My patience is not.”

“Then we go to the next step.” Shannon smiled. “Commissar Nakir made several excellent observations about the heretic and myself…we have a history. At times, Ibarra can trigger some…dormant emotions in me. Memory relics that do not serve my purpose to the Geist. But I know Ibarra’s true weakness. One we can exploit very quickly. Much of what we need is already within my matrix…all we need is the flesh-shaper again. The Naroosha are masters at manipulating data into memories. I was there for so much of her life.”

The Geist tapped claw tips against the armrests of her throne. “Nakir, what is this broken thing getting at?” she asked.

“Exalted One…I do not know,” Nakir said.

“Perhaps the measure of insanity inherent in the Shannon line has produced something of value…tell me more.” Noyan settled back in her seat.

Chapter 15

Marc Ibarra sniffed the air in his cell. The smell from his sanitary bucket had permeated the small room.

“There are some things I don’t miss about being a living thing,” he said, squeezing nutrient paste past his lips, working the chalky substance against the roof of his mouth to make it easier to swallow.

He wasn’t sure what flavor the manufacturers were going for, but if it was hot dog water, he was pretty sure they nailed it. Ibarra twisted the handle on a faucet and brackish water dribbled out. He collected a palm full and brought it to his mouth to drink, the feel of several days of stubble striking him as quite novel.

He sat with his back to the wall and shivered. There was no bed. No blankets. His sanitary bucket was the only object he could move and he wanted that as far from him as possible.

The cell door flew open and armed guards barged in. One struck Ibarra across the stomach with a club. He doubled over in pain, both hands over his torso. The guards pried his arms out and another clamped down on the back of his neck.

“Got him. Get the harness ready,” a guard said.

Ibarra’s eyes went wide and he fought to free himself.

The club struck the bottoms of his feet and the beating continued until Ibarra lost the strength to keep fighting.

There was a sharp pain against the back of his neck, like someone was trying to tickle him with razor-sharp feathers.

“You bastards can’t have my soul!” Ibarra struggled harder, to no avail.

“I’ve almost got it set,” a guard said. “Hold him still.”

The speaker loosened his hold on the prisoner and Ibarra noticed that the guard’s pistol holster had come unsnapped. Ibarra twisted his forearm to line the bone up with the weak point in the guard’s one-handed grip.

He jerked his arm free and snatched the pistol from the holster. He jammed the muzzle to the thin crease in the guard’s thigh armor and fired twice. Bullets ripped through the guard’s thigh and into his groin. He let go of Ibarra and crumpled to the ground.

Ibarra snapped the weapon at the guard to his left as he lunged to tackle him. A bullet through his throat and mouth snapped his head back and the body landed hard next to Ibarra.

Ibarra brought his other arm up to guard his face as a club came down. The strike broke Ibarra’s wrist with a loud crack of bone. His adrenaline in full force, Ibarra barely registered the injury.

Bullets smacked against the third guard’s chest, beating him back a step. The guard raised his club and Ibarra shot his armpit. The round bounced off the underside of his deltoid and tore through the arteries under his shoulder. The guard wobbled on his feet, then crumpled.

Ibarra swung his pistol to the last guard.

A boot pinned Ibarra’s arm to the floor. The last guard emptied his magazine into Ibarra’s chest and stomach, sending blood and bits of flesh splattering against the walls.

Ibarra smiled and sank against the floor. Darkness clouded his vision. Finally, he thought.

His neck touched the floor and there was a metallic clink. He realized that he’d been harnessed moments before he died.

The last guard kept his boot on Ibarra’s arm, then bent over to feel for a pulse. He turned Ibarra’s slack neck and touched the glowing gems on the back of the harness.

“He fell for it,” Nakir said, stepping off the body. Shannon stepped into the cell and over a puddle of blood expanding out from a dying guard.

“The matrix will need a few more seconds before brain death.” She clapped her hands. “I want to be there for the next part. Can I?”

“He has to know there’s no hope for him.” Nakir holstered his weapon. “See it for himself. You can gloat all you want later.”

Shannon reached down and turned Ibarra’s face to hers. His eyes were dead and empty.

“Maybe you’re still in there,” she crooned. “You’re ours forever, Marc. Forever and ever. Won’t that be fun?”

Chapter 16

Duke sat against a pile of crates, a paper cup in one hand, while Ely wolfed down a ration pack. The lantern was stuck into the sand between them.

“So the colonists have absolutely no idea about technology? Or that they’re not on Earth?” Ely asked between bites of spaghetti.

“Nope.” Duke spat dip into the cup. “They think old England and Europe are still out there. Or used to be. The Prophet’s got most of the colony thinking the Rapture happened in the Old World.”

“How’d you end up here?” Ely asked.

“The Ibarra Nation broke my team up during the Geist blitz across the galaxy. Sent us to artifact worlds to blow the procedural farms if the enemy showed up. I thought we could get off system after our mission was complete, but Adams knew it was a one-way ticket, and she had our follow-on orders. Damn the Ibarrans. Loyal unto death, not that they have a choice.”

“You’re not Ibarran?” Ely frowned.

“You’re not either. No, kid, I’m a former Terran Union Strike Marine. Was on a mission to Reptar IX when the Geist blitz hit. Ibarrans showed up with word that Earth had fallen, offered to take Union forces in before they cut the Crucible network…wasn’t a hard choice. Reptar was a shitty system. Didn’t want to spend my golden years there. Adams was an old teammate and she recruited me into the Crusade’s Pioneers. Pioneers are a pale imitation of the Pathfinder Corps, but it was nice to be around a friendly face.”

“And the Geist have Adams right now…you sure she hasn’t told the enemy anything? Because if they know the Scipio’s here, then—”

“Adams is a hard-ass,” Duke snapped. “Besides, died-in-the-wool Ibarrans like her are primed against giving up anything critical.” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s how Lady Ibarra makes them in the tubes.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about there,” Ely said and then ate some more.

“She’s good so long as the redcoats have her. The Prophet’s a different beast. Some Geist can screw around with the gray matter. Adams might not be able to keep from that monster that we called in the cavalry. He might get spooked and call off the Charon.”

“Yeah, I know all about that. I can’t even say my real name because of what one of them did to me.” Ely touched the scar on the back of his head.

“You’re not Ely Hale?” Duke raised an eyebrow.

Ely picked up the spent auto-suture and wrote “ELIAS” in the sand.

Duke narrowed his eyes. “Ken Hale had a kid named Elias…”

Ely kept chewing and flashed Duke a thumbs-up, then patted his chest.

“That’s impossible. The Crucible bridge to Terra Nova won’t be open for years. How’d you get here?” Duke asked.

Ely told him about the fight against the Ultari and how he ended up with a Qa’Resh fragment embedded in his skull.

“So if I go into convulsions,” Ely said, touching the injector pouch in his shoulder pocket, “just hit me with the compound and I won’t die.”

“Was I tripping on painkillers or did you say something about you being on Earth earlier?” Duke asked.

“My dad sent me back to Earth so Lady Ibarra could do something about the fragment.” Ely stopped eating. “He didn’t know about the Geist. He still doesn’t. Which means all of Terra Nova’s in danger when the more stable bridge opens in a few years…The Ibarrans left agents behind on Earth. They rescued me from the Geist and got me to the Crusade.”

Ely set his food down. “One was a woman named Masha. She opened up a Crucible wormhole for me when I was in Armor. I don’t think she made it…”

“Masha.” Duke worked his dip from one side of his mouth to the other. “Her. Can’t say I’m surprised she was involved. She was a real pain in my ass when the Union and the Nation weren’t on the best of terms.”

He pointed to the canoe. “Reach in the more beaten-up ammo pouch. There’s a little bottle of whisky in there,” Duke said. “She died well. A toast to her soul.”

Ely rubbed his hands against his thighs, then went to the canoe. He found a crude glass bottle with a cork stopper and handed it over to Duke. Duke took a sip, then poured more out into the sand.

“She was on the Crucible, but who got you off Earth?” Duke asked.

“Strike Marine named Hoffman.” Ely turned away from the light and put a hand to his eyes.

“What was that name again?” Duke asked quietly.

“Hoffman. He said he was a Strike Marine like you.” Ely wiped a tear away.

“The LT’s alive?”

Ely turned slowly and saw Duke’s eyes were wide with hope.

“He…was. No, he died getting me off the Breitenfeld. I’m sorry…Mr. Duke. You knew him?”

Duke sank back against the crates. He sloshed the alcohol from one side to the other in the bottle.

“Valdar’s Hammer. That’s who we were. Hoffman and that loyal dog of a doughboy of his and me and Adams and Gunney King and Garrison…I knew he was on Earth, but I thought he died during the Line. Hoped he did, so he wouldn’t have to live under the Geist…was it quick?”

“I don’t know…” Ely shook his head.

“If it was Hoffman, then he died on his feet. Worthy of Saint Kallen and Valhalla. May we all die so well.” Duke took another sip of whisky, then hurled the bottle into the water.

“He died to get me to the Crusade and what have I done since? Stumbled from one crisis to another. He should’ve been in that suit, not me,” Ely said.

“You had some faster-than-light engine tech, right? Marshal Shaw used that to get his Crusade out of a pickle. Then you used that same tech to get here. LT Hoffman’s still looking out for me and Adams…even if he didn’t know he was doing it. How many lives has he saved by getting you off Earth?”

“Mine for sure. How many more is…it’s a lot.”

“And we still need to get Adams’ ass out of the fire.” Duke grunted in pain and used the crate to help him onto his feet. He arched his back and poked at the fresh scar tissue over his bullet wound.

“The Geist doesn’t have her already?” Ely asked.

“Doubt it. The Prophet has his own ‘church’ at the Nation’s old watch station north of the city. Prophet’s taken to calling it his monastery. Colonists were told that’s in Indian country. Don’t go past the Bozeman Pass or they’d get an arrow and break the peace treaty. Again, Ibarrans have a way of making sure their people follow the rules.” Duke tapped his temple, then opened a crate.

“I don’t follow,” Ely said.

“Pilgrims and prisoners are held at the redcoats’ garrison inside the town walls.” Duke lifted out a Crusade-pattern power-armor helmet. “Wagon with supplies and anyone the Prophet wants leaves every Wednesday morning. Comes back on Fridays. Empty.”

“Hold up.” Ely raised a finger.

“The Charon’s due in about two days and Adams will be transported to the monastery tomorrow morning. They get her there, the Prophet might break her. Can’t take that chance.” Duke held up a cloth-wrapped rifle. He pressed his cheek to it and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Hello, Buffy, I’ve missed you too.” He unwrapped the fabric and ran his hand lovingly down an electromagnetic sniper rifle. Instead of a barrel, the weapon had twin vanes running down its length, a miniature version of the rail cannon Ely’s Armor carried. Several tick marks were carved into the stock.

“If we use that…won’t the Geist know—”

“It’s bad enough that I had to resurrect her spirit once before. I wouldn’t insult Buffy by suggesting I use her on tube babies armed with gunpowder muskets.” Duke clutched the weapon to his chest. “Besides, I pop anyone with her, it’ll be an enormous mess. Instant red flag to the Prophet. We’re going to bust Adams out with some more analog means.”

Ely tapped his forearm computer.

“Armor. Problem solved.” Ely nodded quickly.

“No Armor until the Charon arrives.” Duke shook his head. “Got to do this the hard way.”

Ely touched his holstered gauss pistol.

“Nope.” Duke tossed him a musket. “Can’t use Crusade tech either. Same problem as calling in Armor. You know how to use one of those yet? No? We’ve got some time to practice.”

“I’ve gone through all this trouble to be Armor and now I’m going to run around the woods like a crunchy,” Ely sighed.

“Builds character. Tricky part is keeping your powder dry. Let’s get moving.”

****

Ely adjusted his optics as the canoe wobbled in the rough surf. It was pitch-black on the ocean, but Ely’s goggles were set for him to see like it was full daylight. He clicked a button on the side of one lens and the filters changed to infrared. The coastline was clear, but hot spots bobbed on the surface farther out to sea.

“There’s something out there.” Ely rowed harder. “Like hot logs or something.”

Duke, lying low against the prow, leaned to one side and spat into the ocean. “Out to sea? Otter analogs. They link together and float when they sleep. Blue fur and they taste like chicken,” Duke said. “Don’t worry unless they all vanish. That means a fang squid’s nearby.”

“Fang squid? Why does that sound awful?”

“Because they like to attack from behind. Row faster,” Duke said.

Ely’s head snapped to look over one shoulder then the other. He dug the oar deep in the water and paddled as hard as he could.

“My dad…dad told me about Strike Marine selection,” Ely said between huffs, “something about rubber boats in the ocean near San Diego. How cold the water was.”

“Ha! Old American Navy SEAL phase. I went through that…twice. Don’t recommend it,” Duke said.

“Then why aren’t you rowing?” Ely asked.

“Ow, my back.” Duke pointed to the port side. “You see a beach? Couple wooden piles?”

“Yeah, that where we landing?”

“About half a mile ahead…keep rowing. There’s a tiny cove that’ll be a bitch and a half to get into and out of. It’s also a giant pain in the ass to get to the cove from inland.” Duke spat again.

“Does everything in the military have to suck?” Ely grumbled between rows.

“Embrace the suck. It doesn’t suck any less, but it’s easier to accept.”

****

Duke stalked up a forested hill, one rifle slung over his shoulder, another gripped in his hands. Ely followed a few steps behind. The first rays of dawn grew behind them as roosters crowed in the distance.

The old Pioneer went to one knee, uncorked a dried gourd and drank water. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth and set a rifle against a tree.

“I don’t see anything.” Ely tapped his optics. “Really think I should’ve been out front.”

“You know where we’re going? Nah, didn’t think so. Back brief me on the plan one more time.” Duke rubbed the patch of fresh skin on his back.

“I’ll be on overwatch and shoot the priority target that’s…officers first, then comms—wait, they don’t have radios.” Ely touched a bead fixed to his left ear.

“Some of the Prophet’s men might have something to contact him if there’s any trouble. Not every redcoat is a tube baby. Some are traitors working for the Geist. You see anyone with a forearm screen, a slate, a damn radio handset, you pop him,” Duke said. “Next priority?”

“Guards. Anyone with a weapon.”

“Then you target any redcoat without a weapon.” Duke shrugged an ammo pouch off his shoulder and handed it to Ely. He drew his hunting knife and offered the handle.

“But I’ve already got a rifle.” Ely gave his weapon a shake.

“Barrel can foul after too many shots. This gunpowder ain’t exactly clean burning. Maybe the redcoats decide not to be lazy and they have scouts flanking the road. You want to shoot one and tip off the others?” Duke wagged the knife.

Ely took it and tested the balance.

“You know how to do a quiet takedown?” Duke asked.

“Sure, just slit their throat from behind.” Ely drew a finger across his neck.

“No.” Duke shook his head. “You do that and it’ll slice open their windpipe, not an artery. You’ll have a man that’s screaming and choking on his own blood.” Duke swiped a finger down the sides of his neck. “Cut through an inch and a half of flesh to sever the artery. Target goes unconscious and bleeds out in seconds. But what if the redcoat’s taller than you?”

Ely thought for a moment, then slapped his gauss pistol holster.

“No…your father, Strike Marine extraordinaire and founder of the Pathfinders, never taught you this?” Duke rolled his eyes.

“The finer points of murdering someone with a sharp thing never came up during family time, no.”

Duke stood and grabbed Ely by the shoulders. He spun him around and wrapped an arm around Ely’s neck, cutting off his air. Something hard poked into the middle of Ely’s back.

“You gain head control, then you stab the diaphragm and lungs. Damage the diaphragm and he can’t call for help. Puncture a lung and his respiratory system will fill with blood. Incapacitate and finish him off.”

Duke lessened his hold and a hard nodule pressed against the base of Ely’s skull.

“Stab here. Easy as puncturing a melon.” Duke let Ely go.

Ely took a hard breath and slapped a hand over the scar on the back of his head.

“Got it?” Duke offered the knife—which Ely didn’t remember losing—back to him.

“I’ve never wanted to be back in my Armor more than I do right now.” Ely looked at the knife but didn’t move to take it.

“This is why you guys never want to dismount. You’re useless without all your toys. Strike Marines learn to be deadly at any distance. Hand-to-hand combat to a rail rifle shot from ten kilometers away, even to orbit if we’re on a moon or planet with minimal atmo.” Duke flicked the knife down and it thumped into the ground next to Ely’s foot. “Can that crystal in your head do anything useful?”

“Don’t think so. We’re not entirely sure what it can do. That’s from Lady Ibarra and the Aeon.”

“Trinia? How’s that jolly green giant doing? Eh…don’t matter.” Duke took a small leather pouch from within his shirt and pinched out some chewing tobacco. He stuffed it into his mouth and canted the pouch to Ely.

“What’s that?”

“Dip. Make it myself with molasses, cherry juice and homegrown tobacco.” Duke spat.

“What’s it do?”

“Wakes you up. Gives you cancer.” Duke shook the pouch again.

“I’ll pass. Adrenaline and anxiety are doing plenty for me right now.” Ely crept to the top of the hill and looked down a steep slope. A cart path stretched back to the town, and farther north, patches of grass encroached on the earth churned up by passing wheels. Decently sized trees dotted the crest. Ely noted which were likely big enough to stop a musket ball.

He lifted the trigger assembly of his rifle up to his face. The bit of flint in the hammer looked sharp as Duke said it should. He wiped dew off the strike face that would generate the sparks when the flint hit it. Reloading while kneeling or prone would be particularly difficult, given the rifle was almost four feet long.

Ely opened the ammo pouch. Thirty wax-paper-wrapped “bullets” were inside and stuck in holes drilled out of a wooden plank.

“What do I do if this lasts longer than…ten minutes?”

A branch snapped down the road.

Ely ducked, then crept forward. The sounds of an iron axle grinding against wheels and the rustle of people walking grew louder.

“Duke,” Ely hissed. He looked for the Pioneer, but the man was gone. “Duke? Crap…”

Ely plucked a bullet from the case, feeling the solid lead ball within, and bit on the tip. It tasted like charcoal and smelled almost like manure. He spat paper out, then lifted the pouch up to the barrel.

He poked it in with his finger, then drew out a ramrod stowed beneath the barrel and packed the paper-wrapped bullet and gunpowder into the base of the barrel. He considered jabbing the ramrod into the ground for easier access, then stuck it back in the recess.

Someone coughed and spat down the road.

Ely knelt behind a tree and peered through a bush. A wagon pulled by a mule rolled around the hill. Six redcoats were in the lead, with two more in the driver’s seat. In the back were hunched-over figures with blankets wrapped over their shoulders.

“Which one’s the officer?” Ely whispered to himself. He zoomed in with his optics and scanned from soldier to soldier. One sitting next to the driver had a brass-plated crescent hanging from his neck over his chest.

“Probably him.” Ely hid behind a tree and took several deep breaths. Duke said these smooth-bore rifles weren’t accurate more than a few dozen yards. He thought of the officer’s face, that he didn’t look like an evil tyrant…just like any man doing a boring job.

“I’ve got to do this,” he said quietly. “Santos would do it easy. Lars will be proud of me…Pulaski would already have eaten some of them. Here goes.”

He raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed down iron sights at the officer. He pulled the trigger and the flint struck down, spitting out a few sparks from the impact with a clack.

No bullet fired.

Ely’s eyes went wide and he slunk back behind the tree.

“What was that?” came from the road. “Croatans?”

“I didn’t hear nothing,” a gruff voice said. “You still got grog in you?”

The sound of the cart stopped. Ely heard the slap of hands to ammo packs.

“Permission to load, sir?”

“No…Cummings is paranoid.”

“I’m not, sir. That heretic killed two of our own yesterday. And we’ve got—”

Bickering ensued amongst the redcoats as Ely examined his rifle. There was no safety switch like on rifles and carbines he’d used before. He stuck a finger into the powder pan and then into a tiny gap leading to the mashed bullet and charge. The tip came back stained black.

The pan was clean. Ely slapped a palm to his forehead. He’d forgotten to prime the pan with gunpowder. The flint should have sent sparks to the pan, where the powder there would catch and ignite the wad at the bottom of the barrel and fire the bullet.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid…who designed these things?” Ely slowly drew another bullet from his pouch and bit off a tiny corner. He tapped a little gunpowder to the pan and tucked the rest of it into the tight cuff of his skin suit.

He pushed his optics onto his forehead and swallowed hard. He swung around to the other side of the tree, aimed at the officer who was berating his men, and fired.

A cloud of white smoke erupted from the barrel and the breech. The recoil knocked Ely back. His heel caught on a root and he fell onto a bush full of short thorns. Pain from the thorns got worse as he struggled out of the bush.

Shouts and commands came from the road and he heard the clatter of ramrods and hammers cocking.

Ely ran at a crouch to a tree to the left. He hid behind a fallen log and reloaded his musket from the pouch, putting a little extra in the pan. Duke had told him that the redcoats would focus on where he’d fired his first shot, giving him enough time to fire from his new position before the enemy could shoot him first.

The plan sounded good, but Ely had a newfound bitterness that he was the one executing the idea while Duke was God-knew-where.

Ely popped up from behind the trunk and saw that the officer was on his feet, uninjured. A blasted hunk of wood next to his seat smoldered in the morning air. Ely aimed again.

A redcoat fired and a bullet snapped past Ely’s head.

He flinched and twisted his rifle. His fingers tightened out of reflex and he shot the ground in front of a pair of soldiers, kicking up a tuft of mud. He fell behind the log as more soldiers opened fire. Musket balls ripped out hunks of rotten wood the size of Ely’s head and showered him in splinters.

Ely slid away from the log as more bullets tore it apart.

He clutched the rifle to his chest and rolled to his left, crunching grass and saplings. His next firing position was a few yards away, but it felt like it was at the end of a football field.

“Matthews! Johnson! After him!” the officer called out.

Ely stopped against the next thick tree, his skin suit soaked by dew and mud. He jammed a hand into the ammo pouch…and felt only wooden holes. He looked back in shock from where he’d rolled and saw bullets scattered about in his wake.

“He’s up here!”

Ely froze. His musket was empty and he didn’t even have a bayonet. Remembering the hunting knife hooked to his belt, he drew it and crept up behind a tree. He heard a hammer cock back.

A redcoat stood over the blasted log, looking right at him. The soldier smirked and raised his rifle.

There was a crack of a rifle and the redcoat pitched over the log, then rolled down the hill.

“For Valdar!” Duke charged out of the woods, gripping his musket by the barrel. He swung the stock like a club into a redcoat’s face as the man turned around. The blow left a deep indentation on his temple and he tipped to one side. Duke snatched the musket out of the falling man’s hands and fired from the hip.

The bullet struck a redcoat in the chest and blasted out his back, striking the soldier behind him in the shoulder and severing the arm in a flash of blood. Duke grabbed his rifle by the end plate and launched it at the next soldier.

The weapon turned sideways as it flew. The soldier tried to bring his arms up to block and their two muskets cracked against each other. The redcoat misfired and struck the mule just beneath the neck.

The animal screamed in pain and bolted forward, the officer and driver both bailing off the sides. The driver’s feet got caught up in the reins and he fell under the wheels. The cart bounced up and the mule ran into the forest, crumbling to the ground just off the road.

The prisoners bounced in the back, chained down to their seats.

Duke drew his tomahawk and buried the blade into the chest of the soldier that shot the mule. He put a boot to the man’s stomach and kicked him away, tearing out the tomahawk with a snap of breaking ribs.

“A transmitter!” Adams yelled out from the back of the cart. She yanked her chained wrists against where they were locked into a metal hook in the wood. “The officer has one!”

Duke pulled his tomahawk back to hurl it at the officer, who was working furiously to open a metal box he’d had hidden in his coat.

A redcoat tackled Duke from behind and the two went down, wrestling and striking at each other.

Ely reached for his gauss pistol. He felt the press of something hard against his wrist and realized that the bullet he’d tucked into the sleeve of his skin suit was still there. He debated going for the pistol, then cried out in frustration.

Adams kicked at the hook, cursing a blue streak.

Ely dug the bullet out and tapped way too much powder into the pan, then loaded the bullet and the rest into the muzzle.

The redcoat wrestling with Duke slammed his hand over Duke’s face, trying to gouge out his eyes. Duke bit into the meat of his palm and the soldier screamed in pain. He ripped his hand away, leaving a hunk of flesh in Duke’s teeth.

Ely slammed the ramrod home and tossed it away. He pressed the rifle to his shoulder.

“Saint Kallen…little help here?” The rifle bucked hard and a cloud of gray smoke erupted around his head.

The round hit near the officer’s feet, and he flinched to one side, fumbling the transmitter. The bullet bounced off the road and struck the cart, cracking the plank holding Adams in the restraints.

Adams raised her arms and the chains came up. She jumped off the cart and charged at the officer, swinging the chains still cuffed to her wrists at the officer’s hands. They knocked the transmitter box away and broke several fingers.

The man howled and fell onto his back. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward a fallen musket. Adams looped the chains around his neck and jerked them tight. She rammed a bare foot against the top of his shoulders and reared back.

The officer’s face went purple, his tongue jutting out of his mouth as he pawed at the chains. Adams snarled and let out a cry. The officer’s neck snapped so sharply that Ely heard the crack.

Duke and the soldier rolled to the side of the road where Duke grabbed a fist-sized rock and slammed it into the redcoat’s face. The man fell to one side, stunned. Duke grabbed the stone in both hands and brought it down on the soldier’s head. Then again. Then again.

Duke straddled the dead man, the corpse twitching. Duke’s arms and chest were covered in blood as he casually tossed the rock aside.

“You hurt?” Adams asked.

Duke blew out a gob of spit, then dug out a tiny patch of flesh from his gum line. He examined it for a moment, then flicked it away.

“I’ve been better,” he said to her, then looked up at Ely. “Get down here, kid!”

Adams kicked at the transmitter box. It was disguised at a pewter snuff case, but when the top flipped open, a tiny screen and thumbprint reader were visible.

“He supposed to be the cavalry?” Adams asked Duke.

“Our red star cluster got through…” Duke got to his feet slowly. “What did they get from you?”

“Nothing.” Adams shook her head. “I’m still a witch as far as they know. Speaking of…shit.” She hurried back to the cart.

Ely ran over to Duke, rifle in hand. “You were…you were really far from that guy when you shot him.” Ely jerked a thumb to the hill where the soldier had died near the log. “I thought these things weren’t accurate—”

“Principles of marksmanship are universal. If I’d missed, it would’ve been my fault, not my equipment’s. Speaking of…” Duke shook blood off his hands.

“I forgot to prime the pan. Like you told me not to,” Ely said and tried to smile.

“Least you figured it out.” Duke took out his dip pouch, then stuffed it back into his shirt pocket.

“Are you quitting?”

“Ain’t called an addiction because I want to do it. Taking a little break until I can brush my teeth. Gargle with a pint of whisky…get to the tree line. Now!” Duke grabbed Ely by the arm and jerked him to the side of the road.

Ely scurried into the bushes and hid.

Adams helped a very shaken Minister Cord off the cart. The mule had died and lay on its side.

Adams and Duke spoke with Cord and removed his chains. They handed him water and food from the cart and he walked back toward the city.

The Pioneers waited until Cord was out of sight, then joined Ely.

“What was all that?” Ely asked.

“A prisoner who’s going to return to the city and tell all his faithful that the Prophet’s men came for him in the dark of night, killed his sons, then charged him with blasphemy,” Adams said. “He’ll raise enough righteous fury to get the Prophet’s attention. And if anyone asks how he got free, he’ll say it was Duke and by the grace of God.”

“Prophet sends his men to investigate, he’ll find this mess. None of the bodies will have any gauss weapon injuries.” Duke reached a still-bloody hand out and gave Ely’s hair a tousle. “You fucked up every shot you took but still managed to do good. Do us all a favor and stay Armor, yeah? Strike Marines or the Legion ain’t for you.”

“How is this kid Armor?” Adams asked.

“Right? I’m still trying to figure that out,” Duke said and shrugged.

“All of this has been a tremendous learning experience and terrifying at the same time.” Ely pointed at his forearm computer. “Now? Can I call in the big guns?”

“Don’t insult Buffy.” Duke wagged a finger. “No. Not yet. We’ve got to wait for the Charon…your ship in orbit will know when that happens. Soon as they seize the Crucible, it’ll be game on down here.”

“So what do we do now?” Ely asked.

“We get ready to storm the castle,” Duke said, smiling, “and we ain’t doing it in cotton and leather. You think your shit still fits, Adams?”

“Duke…they’ve got Maggie.” Adams put a hand to Duke’s shoulder. “They took her yesterday. Whole bunch of pilgrims went with her.”

“What? Why would they take her? She’s no threat to anyone—”

“She volunteered, Duke. Word got out about us and…I think she lost hope.” Adams drew her hand away.

“Nothing changes.” Duke shook his head. “We…nothing changes! Let’s go!” Duke stormed off, hacking at branches with his tomahawk.

“Maggie?” Ely scratched his head, noting some red beneath his fingernails.

“You ever been in love? It’s as glorious as it is awful. We need to catch up before he hacks a trail right back to where we’ve got our gear stashed. You fill me in on the last couple years as we go.”

Chapter 17

Noyan felt the presence before the arrival. She dismissed the data projections around her and waited. It was no use to run. He would always find her.

She admired the perfection of her Qa’Resh Ambassador body. It would gall him as nothing else could.

Some of her semi-sentient thrall fell from the walls, their Geist-construct bodies quivering. They reformed into Praetorians, taller warrior forms with energy-bladed halberds, who proceeded to hack apart her thralls. They died screaming, but the harnesses built into their bodies were spared destruction.

The door to her chamber slid open and a Geist in a near-perfect approximation of their vestigial flesh-and-blood form entered. The head crest added almost a foot to his height and was decorated by jewels and precious-metal filigree. The Praetorians bowed in salute.

Pallax strode forward. The joined cubes and wire mesh of his body were so small and fine that Noyan almost thought he’d found a way to revert to their old forms. Pallax’s head crest matched the last great Geist king’s, the king who Pallax believed—as did the rest of the true believers—had been one of the first sacrificed to Malal’s glory.

“Noyan…you’ve changed.” Pallax’s mouth moved perfectly to match his words, though his voice was generated by his form and not lungs and a voice box. He walked around her, examining the Ambassador body like it could be an impulse purchase.

“As have you…why have you returned to Earth? Is the persecution against the Ibarrans complete?” she asked.

“I recalled the entire Synod to Earth.” Pallax put a claw tip to Noyan’s shoulder and ran it down her arm. The tiny line he left filled in with a crust of frost as the Ambassador body repaired itself. “You’ve come into possession of artifacts of Malal’s people…and more, I’ve learned.”

“I sent you a message after the Hale child fell into our laps,” she said stiffly.

“You sent one rather recently—after I already learned of what you found. Now I see why you were playing for time. The Qa’Resh probe fragment can transfer consciousness to their constructs…fascinating.”

“A blessing from Malal,” Noyan said, pulling away from Pallax. “My blessing.”

“You and Zegor both have moved closer to Malal’s perfection. No one in the Synod will fault that. But what has this new…elevation…taught you? Did it keep you from letting the Hale child escape?”

Pallax’s eyes glowed brighter, wires unsnapping from his face and waggling in the air as he grew angrier. “Because I do not understand why blessed Malal would lead you to this gift just so that you could see a faster-than-light engine delivered to the hands of our enemies!”

“I did not believe the device would work.” Noyan shook her head. “There was no fuel for it. Had there been any reason to believe otherwise, I would have killed Hale myself.”

“You conquered this planet too easily,” Pallax sneered. “You lost respect for the Ibarrans’ capabilities. Their gall in the face of defeat. Had you not let Hale escape, I would not have lost an entire fleet to the Ibarrans on Aachen! Mahnark blundered into a trap and was killed. This Asterlite drive the Ibarrans have can turn the whole war against us…and it is your fault.”

The Praetorians leveled their halberds at Noyan.

“I can’t punish you without the Synod’s sanction,” Pallax sneered. “They’ll decide your fate after we figure out a counter to the Ibarrans.”

“The Ibarrans’ new toy is about to be irrelevant,” Noyan said. “I will soon have Lord Malal’s location, then we will return to him in glory. Once Malal is with us, there is nothing the Ibarrans can do to stop us. Our great work will be complete, Pallax! The Synod will be more interested in that than some minor setbacks.”

Pallax considered this for a moment. “You’ve broken into the mind of the heretic Ibarra?” he asked.

“The task continues, but we are close…”

“Our faith and our works are rewarded. If we are so close to finding Malal…then more of us should meet him in a form closer to his perfection.” Pallax touched Noyan’s arm. Frost built against his fingers.

“I suspect more of our subject races that are part of New Bastion may be hiding Ambassador bodies,” Noyan said. “Offer to accept one in lieu of their tithes to us. They’ll accept.”

“Malal demands all souls,” Pallax said. “He’ll still get them when our dominance of the galaxy is complete. You won’t offer me your new form, Noyan, not even for old time’s sake?”

“No…I don’t believe I will,” she said and raised her chin slightly.

Chapter 18

“Run system check thirty-seven again,” Duke said as a mid-morning breeze blew ocean mist through the forest not far from the coastline.

Ely stood behind the Pioneer, now wearing a nearly complete suit of Crusade power armor. The older man was in sabatons and leg plates fixed to a pseudo-muscle layer that was exposed from the waist up. The false musculature was heavily striated and it flexed as Duke swung his arms across his chest.

Ely double-tapped an icon on a tablet, the edges encrusted with rust and sand.

The muscle layer tightened around Duke’s midsection and he grimaced. “There it is,” Duke struggled to say. He picked up his chest piece and pressed shoulder latches in place. The armor connected and adjusted itself against Duke’s body. The Pioneer fixed arm plates to himself, then thrust his hands into a pair of gauntlets he’d taken from a scuffed and dented case.

Duke flexed his hands with a squeak of old gears. “Just like old times.” Duke lifted out a gauss carbine and slapped a battery pack into one side. “Ibarran stuff actually holds a charge. Color me surprised.”

“You remember how to shoot something that can put out hundreds of rounds a minute?” asked Adams. She’d opted to don her armor out of sight of the men. Setting her back plate next to Duke’s case, she hefted up another armor piece. Duke turned around and Adams set his back armor into place.

“Squat.” Adams slapped Duke’s shoulder twice. Duke bent at the knees slowly until his thighs broke the ninety-degree plane with his knees. Adams slapped his backside and Duke straightened up.

“Feels stiffer than I remember,” Duke muttered.

“That’s just old age.” Adams turned and Duke returned the favor to complete her power armor.

With a thump of heavy footsteps, the Steel Sworn lance emerged from the woods, Ely’s Armor following behind Lars. Each had a jet pack mounted on its back.

“For the Lady.” Santos beat a fist gently to his chest.

“For us all.” Adams returned the salute.

Ely tossed the slate into Duke’s case and shuffled over to his Armor. Ely was bruised, his skin suit was torn in places, and his eyes had a faraway stare from days without sleep or rest. He stopped next to his Armor’s leg, wobbled for a moment, then hugged the suit around the knee.

“Have a good time?” Lars asked.

“Let me in.” Ely knocked on the Armor. “Just let me in.”

The suit went to one knee and the breastplate swung open. An arm bent to form a step and Ely kicked off his camo pants and boots. He climbed into the pod and sighed as the amniosis filled around him.

The collar snapped around his neck and he felt like he was falling.

Ely was in a dark place. A single light shone overhead onto him, and a grid-patterned floor that he couldn’t feel was beneath his feet.

Aignar stepped into the light.

“You look like a can of hammered assholes,” the ghost said. “Synch’s taking longer than normal. You been riding around in another suit or something?”

“No. Light infantry is absolute bullshit. You know that? You have to carry everything. Then there’s the weather and bugs and cold water, and my feet have never hurt this bad in my entire life. And what do Pioneers—or Strike Marines or whatever Duke is—have against sleep?”

“Oh no…” Aignar brought up a stiff prosthetic hand and gently pulled down the skin beneath one eye. “Anyway. I was a Ranger before Armor. If you need sympathy, look in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.”

The darkness slowly faded to reveal the forest. Duke and Adams spoke with Santos.

“What did I miss? The lance spend all the time I was with Duke killing dragons? Sleeping in hammocks and drinking fruity cocktails with little umbrellas in them?” Ely asked.

“Light maintenance mostly.” Aignar shrugged.

“Why do I feel like I got the short end of the stick for this mission?” Ely stretched out an arm and it morphed into Armor.

“Hush. Murphy can hear you. Keep tempting him and he’ll throw worse your way. You’re primed. Full integration protocols executing now.” Aignar and the darkness vanished and Ely was his Armor. He stood up, feeling none of the aches and pains his flesh and blood carried.

“Lillebror,” Lars said through the lance IR network, “the sniper crunchy said you shot a…musket?”

“Shot, yes. Hit what I was aiming at…not so much.” Ely cycled through the target acquisition routines in his Armor and powered the double-barrel gauss cannons mounted to his right arm.

“How are you still alive?” Pulaski asked. “I’m not complaining. I am genuinely curious.”

“Not bad, Ely; you finally impressed our Karigole buddy,” Lars said.

“Don’t go that far. Even a blind marsupial can find a maggot nest twice a day,” Pulaski said.

“I don’t know what you’re saying and I suspect you don’t either.” Ely shook his helm from side to side and extended the attached antenna up and down. “Duke did most of the work. I was there as bait, mostly.”

“Then we have found a good use for you.” Pulaski flashed him a thumbs-up.

“I missed you all so much,” Ely deadpanned.

“All right, listen up.” Santos walked over to his lance, the Pioneers trailing behind him. “Scipio reports that the Charon has entered the system and is on course for Roanoke. The Maquis will assault the Crucible in exactly ninety-four minutes. It’s our mission to find, fix and destroy the Geist—this Prophet—before he can react to the operation. So our assault on the old watch station will launch in ninety-three minutes and twenty-two seconds. Adams and Duke are coming with us for support. Seems the watch station is largely underground and we won’t fit…unless we dismount.”

“Can we not?” Ely asked. “Because we’ve got these two crun—Strike Marines—and they’re both badasses. I’ve seen them fight.”

“Former Strike Marines,” Duke said. “Currently Pioneers.”

“They’ll flush the Prophet into the open.” Santos’s Armor shifted to travel form as the leg plates swung to one side, revealing treads. “Duke has the schematics of the watch station. The Geist may have improved the defenses since they occupied the planet. I’ll work out an assault plan on the way. Duke, with me. Adams…pick your ride. Transform and roll out.”

Adams looked among the rest of the lance, then ran over to Lars, jumped up behind his back and grabbed the top of his armor plate.

“No offense,” she said to Ely, “but I’m guessing you’re new to this part too.”

Ely shifted into his travel configuration. “It’s just rolling,” he said. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

He backed into a tree, knocking it over in a shower of roots and soil.

“I meant to do that,” Ely said, lurching forward.

“Worst ride is better than the best walk…still.” Adams banged a fist twice against Lars’ back.

+Duke…sounds familiar. Doesn’t matter. Time to kill a Geist,+ Aignar said.

Ely rolled behind the rest of the lance as they made their way toward the watch station.

“That might be the easiest part of the whole mission,” Ely said.

+Hush, you. Murphy’s listening.+

Chapter 19

“Make ready,” Captain Godfrey—clad in her Armor—said to the legionnaire lieutenant with her in the Scipio’s cargo bay. The hell hole was already opened, a long fall to infinity beneath them. “Crucible’s thorns are moving…the Charon is almost here.”

“For the Lady.” Lieutenant Marcos beat a fist to his power-armored chest. The legionnaires behind him followed suit, then loaded magazines into their gauss rifles.

“For us all.” Godfrey backed away from the hell hole as the Scipio accelerated forward. She joined the rest of the Maquis away from the hole as the legionnaires formed into three lines around it. Each of the Armor bore a jet pack.

“I don’t like them going first,” Adalyn said to her lance. “We are Armor. We charge the gates of hell for them. Not the other way around.”

“You try and cut the line and they’ll fight you.” Risette laughed. “You’d insult their pride by insisting they’re too weak to accomplish the mission the Lady gave them…and then there’s the fact that we are mere damsels to be rescued, not the ones to kick in the door.”

“Stand by for FTL,” Commander Duval announced through the ship.

“How are we going to insist on chivalry while we’re dressed for war?” Garcelle asked. “If they think we wanted to be treated as proper ladies, then they should look to the civilians back on Navarre.” She unsnapped her hilt from her leg and spun it in one hand, then snapped the blade out. “I’m here to kill Geist. So are the legionnaires,” Garcelle said.

“We secure the Crucible, then the Charon,” Captain Godfrey said. “A kill count is secondary. Not primary. Run another diagnostic on jet packs. They’ve been fishy since we broke them out of stores.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Adalyn said.

“FTL in three…two…one.”

The Scipio lurched beneath the Armor. The view through the hell hole became a smear of light.

“Any word from the Steel Sworn?” Adalyn asked. “They’ve been planet-side for almost a day.”

“No news is good news.” Godfrey shrugged. “Succeed or fail, our mission does not change. Though it will get more difficult if they don’t kill the Geist in charge of this system.”

“FTL ending in five seconds. Saint be with you.”

“At least we don’t have to use those damn insertion torps. I did that once. Never again,” Risette said.

“We still have one primed on the hull if we can’t reach the Charon in time.” Godfrey unlocked a Mauser rifle from her back and readied it. “So we make this connection or we’ll have it even worse than the Steel Sworn. I’ve made a torp-to-ship breach twice. I’m in no mood for a third.”

The Scipio shifted again and regular space returned. Beneath the hell hole was a rounded nodule amidst the shifting thorns of the Crucible.

“Geronimo!” Lieutenant Marcos dived head-first through the hell hole.

He locked his legs together and thrusters attached to his boots fired up, sending him straight to the control center on the Crucible. The center of the giant crown was still alight with the wormhole. The last corner of the inverted-pyramid Charon slipped out the gate.

Marcos’ HUD blinked as each of his platoon jumped after him. Their spacing was good, and in just a few more seconds—

Plasma bolts ripped through the void. One came close enough that the searing light overwhelmed his HUD and it blacked out to protect his vision.

“Flak! Burn to defilade. Burn, you dog soldiers!” Marcos disabled the safety governor on his thrusters and blasted faster. The acceleration pulled blood from his head and curled his lips back. He killed the power and swung his feet toward the Crucible.

Turrets hidden along the outer rim were still firing. He aimed his gauss rifle between his feet at the turret directly beneath him and increased the battery power to HIGH. He fired and the recoil stole some of his velocity. Two more shots burnt out the battery, but the bullets had ripped one turret apart.

He activated his thrusters again to slow down. Marcos struck the basalt-colored dome and gasped in pain as something in his left leg broke. He unsheathed a knife off his chest armor and rammed the blade into the Crucible. The tip bit deep as the Xaros-built star gate repaired itself around the tip.

Marcos ignored the pain as he juddered to a stop. He let go of the knife and slid down to a wide lip along the edge of the dome. He unsnapped a grenade from his belt and hurled it at the nearest turret.

Ducking forward, Marcos covered his head as the spinning grenade telescoped out to form a shaped charge. Sensors within the weapon measured the distance to the turret and waited until the firing end lined up perfectly with the turret. An explosion formed a tungsten lens into a lance of plasma that punched through the turret and ignited the magazine within.

The turret exploded, ripping out huge chunks from the dome.

“This is Alpha, landing secured.” Marcos tossed his ruined battery pack from his gauss rifle and loaded another.

“Sigma. Burn cord in place at secondary breach location,” another legionnaire called out over the radio.

Marcos checked his HUD. Several of his men weren’t broadcasting data and he had to assume they’d been killed during the drop.

“Collapse on sigma,” Marcos ordered. “Eneko, status on the special package?”

“Secure. Waiting for breach,” Sergeant Eneko said.

Marcos tried walking across the surrounding edge of the dome, but his broken leg wouldn’t cooperate. He pushed off the edge and used a small hand jet to propel him through the zero gravity that existed just away from the Crucible.

Just how the Xaros built their star gates to defy all rational expectations of physics wasn’t a major concern of his, but knowing where he could use the Crucible to his advantage had been a large part of mission rehearsals.

He came around to huddles of his legionnaires on either side of a doorway outlined with burn cord.

“Breach it!” Marcos ordered.

The burn cord ignited and sank into the Crucible, gouts of gas and tiny bits of basalt coming out of the deepening crevice around the door.

Two legionnaires slammed picks into the door, then pushed against the metal handles. Marcos felt a groan through the station as the burn cord bit deeper.

“Clean shots.” Marcos readied his gauss rifle. “Quick kills. No mercy.”

“No mercy,” his legionnaires echoed.

The door burst out, tumbling into the void, the picks still attached.

Legionnaires rushed through the door and were met with fire. The first two men through were torn apart by energy bolts. Their deaths bought the rest of Marcos’ men the split second they needed to pick off defenders.

Marcos leaned against the side of the breach, watching as the Crucible repaired itself.

“Clear!” a soldier shouted.

“Go! Lock the inner entrance.” Marcos looked for the Scipio, but the corvette had already warped away. “Maquis. Phase one effective time now. Saint be with you.”

“Confirmed. Armor closing on the Charon,” Godfrey sent.

Marcos slapped Sergeant Eneko on the shoulder and the two were the last ones into the control room. The breach closed moments after they were through. The command center hadn’t been designed with humans in mind. The stairs were too high and there was no lighting. The original Ibarran team that ran this Crucible had installed lights and their own stairway, along with workstations to actually control the star gate. Raised levels radiated away from the command dais at the center of the room.

The control room was a bloody mess. Even low-powered gauss shots were devastating to the human body. His men dragged remains of the Geist’s crew of traitors to the outer walls. The platoon’s secondary medic—the senior man lost during the assault—held a palm over Marcos’ thigh.

“You’ve got an impacted fracture,” the medic said. “Minimal impact to your circulatory system. Administering—”

Marcos grabbed him by the collar and pushed him away. “I know the fucking thing is broken! Torin has a blast wound to his left flank. Treat him first.” Marcos limped to the command dais where Eneko was waiting with a matte-black box.

“She ready?” Marcos asked.

“Maybe. She’s been so quiet.” Eneko opened the lid and gently lifted up a metal shard, fractal patterns swarming across its surface. He touched one tip of the shard to the basalt of the Crucible and snapped his hand back.

The shard melted into liquid and spilled over the dais. Eneko backpedaled away, one hand on his gauss rifle. The fractals spread over the dais, then stalks grew from the pool.

Marcos forced his hand to loosen the grip on his weapon. A deep atavistic fear gripped him as the deaths of tens of billions of human beings rose from the command dais. They’d trained for this. He and his men knew what this was, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

A Xaros drone formed over the dais, an oblong shape with stalks that shifted against the wild fractals of its muted chrome surface. Stalk tips touched the controls, then morphed into hands. Human hands.

The drone transformed into a woman with an athletic build and a deeply lined face. Its colors shifted to khaki clothes, then melted back to the fractals.

“Keeper…do you have control?” Marcos asked.

“I do.” Her words came as her shell vibrated, her mouth not moving at all. “I’m in the Crucible network, but I can’t feel the rest of myself yet.”

“Did the enemy get a warning away?” Marcos asked.

“They tried. The message is in the data stacks and was sent, but nothing back. Ah…there are more in another node. Many more of them. I feel them moving through me like ants in my veins.” Her voice was far away, modulating improperly to ruin any semblance of humanity that Keeper tried to give off.

“Secure the doors!” Marcos pointed at a squad around the only doorway in and out of the command center. “Hostiles incoming.”

“Not for long.” One corner of Keeper’s mouth lifted into an unnatural smirk. “I’m opening their thorns to vacuum and disabling the force fields. I hear them screaming…I like it.”

“Keeper…” Marcos slipped a silver-tipped bullet into his rifle’s breech. The quadrium round could disable the Xaros drone that was Keeper, but probably not destroy her. “Keeper, we have a mission. Focus.”

“The Crucible gate network is fragmented. I need to find the rest of me or we can’t contact Navarre…I need time,” Keeper said.

“We are the Lady’s Legion,” Marcos said. “We win or we die. Take all the time you need.” He slumped against a workstation and stuck out his broken leg. “We’re not going anywhere. Medic…has everyone else been treated? Soon as you’re ready…I’ll be right here.”

****

Pallax sat on Noyan’s throne. She and over a dozen others of the Geist’s noble caste were gathered before a projection of the entire galaxy, systems with active combat pulsing bloodred.

“Pulling back from the Beta Irridani sector is foolish,” said a Geist named Thaemon. “We lost a dozen battleships to secure the gate there, the lynchpin of the entire local network. To give it back to the Ibarrans without a fight is—”

“Necessary,” Pallax said, cutting a hand across his body. “We are overextended on all fronts. If the Ibarrans managed to retake Beta Irridani with their new FTL engines, your entire armada would have been cut off and lost. How many millennia would you care to wait to return to the battle?”

“I will wait until the stars burn out to worship before Malal,” Thaemon said.

“And you can’t do that if you’re dead. Once the rest of…” Pallax let his thought remain unfinished as the projection changed to the Roanoke system, the Crucible gate blinking. “The Ibarrans have assaulted a Charon transport. No further information. The escort fleet was cut off in Soonda after the Charon cleared the gate.”

“Order the force at Soonda to make a deep-system jump,” Thaemon said. “If we lose any of our tithe to Malal, we will suffer for it!”

“It will take them too long to reach the Crucible,” Pallax said. “We’ve underestimated the Ibarrans one too many times.”

“They’ll destroy the Charon and retreat into the network.” Noyan approached the projection and other Geist shied away from her. “We may have to accept the loss.”

“Why attack a Charon…and why now?” Pallax tilted his head slightly. “I believe I know. Flood the Roanoke Crucible with a broad-spectrum message in the old cant. The Ibarrans won’t recognize my orders until it is too late.”

He reached to the projection and a mote of light snapped from his fingers to the hologram.

“Exalted Pallax,” Thaemon said, glancing at the Praetorians on either side of the throne, “if that order came from anyone but you…it would be heresy.”

“You may bring my decision up to the Synod once the rest arrive,” Pallax said. “A small sacrifice for a larger victory. Malal will approve.”

Chapter 20

Ely snapped his Mauser rifle together, then slammed a magazine with rounds the size of his forearm into the weapon. A flock of birds chirped and called to each other in the branches overhead. The forest was as thick as anywhere he’d been on Roanoke; finding a way through was tough for Adams, more so for Ely and Lars.

“Duke doesn’t see any new defenses, but stay frosty,” Santos sent over the IR. The lance commander and Pulaski were a few hundred yards away, ready to assault the back of the compound.

Images taken from a treetop crossed Ely’s HUD. The watch station looked like a fort with wooden walls done in a Vauban style with the corners extending out, providing defilade and flank shots for the defenders should the main walls be assaulted directly.

“Not everyone in there is hostile,” Duke sent. “Civilians—innocent civilians—are in there.”

“You expect us to take fire and not strike back?” Pulaski asked. “One shot from our Mausers will devastate the place. We can destroy the Geist before he even knows we’re here.”

“We are Armor. We are the sword, the shield, between humanity and evil,” Santos cut in. “If it’s more dangerous for us to protect the innocent, so be it. Our duty is clear. Assault in thirty seconds.”

Ely looked down at Adams, who had a gauss carbine in one hand and her helmet in the other. She gave Ely a nod and donned her helm.

“Can you keep up with us?” Lars asked her.

“Can you keep up with me?” She crouched slightly, her carbine whining as it powered up.

“I like this one. Ready…mark!” Lars kicked a tree over and charged toward the fort. Ely backhanded a tree in half and barged through dense undergrowth. Being in his Armor again was a powerful experience. The metal of the suit gave him a resolve that came without the fear and sense of vulnerability he’d experienced while dismounted.

He burst out into the clearing surrounding the fort with Lars, his targeting systems scanning every inch of the walls.

An alert pinged over one of the ramparts as a turret burst out of a wood-covered hole and slewed toward Lars.

Ely’s Mauser blasted a shell and the turret exploded into tiny fragments. He kept running toward the wall, crossing the kill zone within seconds. Ely jumped over the wooden-stake palisade and onto a rampart.

“Make a hole! Make a hole!” Adams called out.

Another turret burst up right beside Ely. He stomped his anchor-bearing heel against the top and stabbed the spike through the machine works. Electricity snapped up Ely’s Armor and his limbs tingled.

+Stop doing that!+ Aignar shouted at him.

Ely wrenched his foot out and turned his Mauser on the wall. Two shots sent up gouts of earthworks and smithereens of annihilated logs.

Adams burst out of the smoke and into the inner fort. She lowered a shoulder and rammed through a thick wooden door.

“Now what?” Ely scanned the forest from his vantage point on the walls. Redcoats scurried about in a panic, but none had a gauss weapon or scanned as anything but a normal human.

“Contact! Bravo section to the south side!” Santos called out.

“Vengeance,” Lars said, pointing south, and the two stomped down the top of the ramparts.

****

Adams slid to a stop as fragments of the doors skidded across the cobblestone floor. Prison cells ran along either side of the inner fort, stopping at tables where dozens of redcoats had been eating and drinking.

Pilgrims in the cells shied away from Adams as she marched toward the soldiers. She recognized every face but didn’t see the one she was looking for.

A redcoat at the end of the cell block swept up his musket and fired. The bullet struck her in the upper chest and ricocheted into the ceiling. Guards panicked as she kept coming. Another shot hit her in the forehead; it registered as barely more than a tap.

Adams fired a burst of gauss shells into the ceiling over the guards. The sudden peal of shots and the dirt falling from the impact craters shocked the redcoats. She flung open the door on an empty cell then leveled her carbine at the guards with one hand. She snapped off a single shot that punched a fist-sized hole through the only exit when one tried to escape.

Adams nodded at the cell.

The redcoats got the hint and hurried into the cage, leaving barely enough room for them to stand when the last was in. Adams slammed the door shut and ripped the keys off a guard’s belt.

“Duke, no joy, she’s not here,” she sent over the IR and went back down the line of cells.

“Then where…where can she be?” Duke asked.

“Not a lot of options. You figure it out while I make sure there’s no one of interest in the officers’ quarters.” Adams stopped at one cell and wagged her fingers at the man inside. She muted herself to Duke then switched on her helm’s speakers.

“Elijah Cord, that you?” she asked.

The man crossed himself and slumped over, praying. He was covered in bruises and lash marks.

“Your father’s alive,” she said and Elijah looked up at her. “I trust you know who’s a prisoner here and who needs to be reeducated to the Lord’s proper doctrine.” She tossed him the keys. “Get the faithful—the truly faithful—back to Roanoke. We’ll take care of the rest later. Cheers.”

Adams walked back to the cell full of redcoats. “Boo!” she barked at them.

The guards yelped in fear and crowded toward the back.

“I shouldn’t enjoy this so much,” she muttered.

****

Ely leaped off the ramparts and ran across the grass field surrounding the fort. A pair of carts were down a horse path, both being pulled and pushed along by robed pilgrims. A single man in pure white walked between them.

Ahead, an aging Destrier transport idled in the distance.

Santos and Pulaski came out of the woods and set themselves between the pilgrims and the airfield. Santos swung his Mauser to his hip.

“Release them,” he thundered from his speakers. “Release them and we’ll make this quick.”

“Shift right, I’ll go left.” Lars maneuvered to one side and Ely went the other way. The Steel Sworn had the Prophet surrounded on three sides.

The Prophet raised his hands out level with his shoulders and the carts rumbled to a halt next to him. “How dare you…” The Prophet rose off the ground, his toes scraping the dirt. “You abandoned these souls and only I love them enough to lead them unto salvation.”

Ely scanned the carts, but the contents were heavily shielded. The back of his head began to heat up as the Qa’Resh fragment hummed with power.

“Something…something’s happening,” Ely said.

The Prophet turned his head to Ely, his eyes glowing white. “No! Their souls are mine!” Light shot out from the Prophet’s hands, striking the pilgrims. The harnesses on their necks flared and they threw their heads back, light burning through their bodies.

Crates flew open in the carts, swirls of pale light erupting from them. Ely thought he saw faces howling in the light as it poured into the Prophet. There was a wail of lost souls, and he couldn’t tell if he imagined the cries or if they were real.

Santos opened fire. His Mauser blasted the Prophet with shell after shell, but each disintegrated against a Wield shield as the Prophet rose higher off the ground. The Geist’s skin tore apart as the alien within ripped out of the human shell.

Lines of power traced around the Geist as his true form expanded into a humanoid shape, the musculature all wrong and asymmetrical. The Prophet looked down at his four-fingered hands as balls of witch fire grew from the palms.

“Steel Sworn!” Santos tossed his Mauser aside and braced himself against the ground. A kite shield unfurled from his left forearm and he detached his hilt from one leg. A sword blade snapped out and Wield power swirled over his shield.

Lars and Pulaski followed suit. Ely—despite finally being back in action within his Armor—felt as exposed and useless without Wield as he did when he was dismounted.

“Charge!” Santos raised his shield and made for the Geist. Ely balked.

The Prophet, now head and shoulders taller than the Armor, thrust a palm at Santos and a lance of energy stabbed out at the captain. Santos ducked behind his shield as the beam struck. The blast gouged out dirt around him, igniting the air and breaking against the strength of his Wield.

Pulaski charged under the beam and leaped up, striking hard with his MEWS sword shaped into a Karigole weapon. His blade severed the Prophet’s hand at the wrist, ending the assault on Santos.

The Geist lashed out at Pulaski, his claws digging into the un-Wielded shield. The Prophet flung Pulaski to one side with a snarl.

“Bastard!” Lars struck at the Geist’s flank, white light blazing down his sword. The blade hit true and the Geist punched at Lars with the stump of his damaged arm. The blow clipped Lars’ helm and he rolled with the blow to one knee. He stabbed the Geist in the chest, the point embedding in the Geist’s metal body.

Soul energy arced around the Geist onto Lars’ sword point. An explosion of light slammed Lars into the ground and sent him sliding away, his weapon smoking.

+You going to fight or just stand there like an idiot!+ Aignar nudged their suit forward.

Ely braced the Mauser against his side and fired on the Geist. A shell hit the alien in the back of his shoulder, leaving a deep gouge. The Geist turned around, horns of semi-opaque light growing from his forehead.

Power grew in the Geist’s hands, forming twin shields to protect his upper body.

Ely lowered his aim and shot the Geist above one knee, blasting the lower leg out from under him.

The Geist fell, hitting the ground with one hand and his stump. Ely hit him again in the right arm. The shell exploded inside the alien’s metal flesh, leaving the arm hanging on by a few strands. The Geist fell to one side and rolled onto his back.

Santos stomped a boot to the monster’s chest. He raised the foot again and his anchor spike shot out from the heel. The spike whirled to life, drilling against a shield the Geist shifted over his chest. The Geist slammed one arm to the ground and new claws burst from the stump. Swinging his arm up, the limb telescoped out and grabbed Santos by the neck servos then hinged up at his feet, rising against the laws of physics as Ely knew them.

Ely fired again, but every shot bounced off the Geist’s shield.

Santos kicked at the Geist’s arm and stabbed at his face. The Geist caught the sword by the blade and Santos’ Wield was stripped away, coiling around the Geist’s arm.

A vicious grin spread across the Geist’s face, stretching from ear to ear as he stabbed a finger into Santos’ chest, digging toward the pod and the man within.

“No!” Ely rushed to save his captain.

“Kid,” Duke said through the IR. “Drop!”

Ely slid forward, hitting the ground and digging up dirt.

The rail rifle shot struck nigh-instantaneously. One moment the Geist had Santos in a death grip, the next the Geist was split in half from the waist up, his head dangling to one side. A line of fire traced back to Duke’s firing position, extending across the field and into a demolished copse of trees that had blossomed into a rising fireball where the hyper-velocity round had annihilated a portion of the surrounding forest.

The Geist’s body went a dark gray. Santos dropped to the ground—the hand that held him by the servos had torn away from the Geist and crumbled into tiny cubes. The Prophet collapsed, the form disintegrating like a rotted-out tree.

“That should do it.” Lars poked at the remains with his sword.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a sniper on overwatch.” Pulaski limped over, one leg sparking with each step. “We could have planned this assault better.”

“If you wait until the last minute, it only takes a minute.” Lars kicked the Geist’s head away. “But it worked out all right.”

“Wait,” Ely said, pointing to the dead pilgrims. “Why is that one still moving?”

A pilgrim’s body tightened into a ball with a crack of bones, then sprinted away on four legs.

“Odin’s eye!” Lars tap-danced out of the thing’s way as it moved almost too fast for the eye to track toward the airfield.

Pulaski fired from his forearm cannons, stitching up a line of earth behind the creature.

“Did you hit it?” Santos asked.

“I don’t think so,” Pulaski said, loading fresh rounds into his cannon.

“Whatever it was, we should probably kill it!” Lars started after it. “And never mention that last part to anyone!”

The lance ran into the next clearing with the landing zone and backed into a circle, weapons ready. A blast wave knocked Ely into Pulaski, who pushed him to the ground with a snarl.

Thunder broke over the tree line and a contrail rose into the sky, apropos of nothing.

“Damn it, lost the track,” Santos said. “The Geist had a stealth shuttle…Duke! Adams! Anything else you forgot to tell us?”

“How were we supposed to know? It’s invisible and we haven’t had eyes on this place for years,” Adams said over the IR.

“What does this mean?” Ely propped himself up on his elbows.

“The Geist is going for the Charon.” Santos looked up to the sky. “Maybe the Maquis can take it out. Maybe not…”

“We’re not just going to sit here and mope, are we?” Lars pointed to the Destrier transport craft at the other side of the clearing. “That can make orbit.”

“You going to fly it?” Santos asked.

“Death before dismount. Also, I have no clue how it works,” Lars said.

“There are heat signatures inside the cargo bay.” Pulaski sent optics captures from his helm to the others. A dozen figures swayed from side to side in seats along the bay.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Duke sprinted past them, pushing his power armor to the limit, his red-hot rail rifle attached to his back.

Duke opened a small hatch on the side and hesitated before pressing a button. The rear cargo ramp came down with a whine of hydraulics. He jumped onto the ramp with his carbine ready.

“Maggie!” Duke ran to the woman chained to a hook in the floor.

Maggie screamed and tried to kick at him. “Back! Back, you demon!”

Duke took his helmet off and bent so she could see him eye to eye. Her face went pale and she squinted at him.

“It’s me, Duke, and I’m here to rescue you.” He tried to touch her face, but she pulled back. “The Prophet’s gone! You’re safe now. Sort of. Let me help.” He gripped the base of the chain with his gauntlet and snapped the links apart.

Adams came in behind Duke and started freeing the other prisoners.

“What are you wearing? Are you some kind of knight, like Sir Bedivere or Percival?” She rubbed her wrists.

“Why can’t I be Lancelot? Never mind. There’s no time. You need to get everyone back to Roanoke and—”

“I’m not doing anything until you explain what is going on. Why did the redcoats put me in this strange land boat? How are you so strong?” she asked.

Duke took a deep breath.

“I’m a Pioneer in the service of the Ibarra Nation, a kingdom on many planets in the galaxy. You look up in the sky at night and see stars? They have planets like Earth. I was born on Earth. The real one. This isn’t Earth at all. In fact, this is the only city on the whole planet and they’ve got you living in some sort of messed-up Renaissance festival. There’s a galaxy full of great things I’d like to show you, like cold beer and-and toilet paper. But me and a bunch of iron giants outside have to go to space and kill this bastard of an alien vampire before it can escape into a star gate. So I need you and everyone else to get out and walk back to Roanoke. Then just sit tight until we come back. Yeah?”

Duke and Maggie stared at each other for a second.

“What?” she snapped.

“Get. Out!” Santos leaned down and pointed at the civilians, who promptly panicked.

Maggie flung her arms around Duke and buried her face against his armor.

“See? Iron giants! You believe me now?” Duke lifted her chin up.

“You’re going to come back? You promise?” she asked.

“Always.” He leaned over and kissed her.

“Well, I never!” an elderly woman shouted.

Duke turned his face from Maggie to the offended. “You shut your toothless mouth, Mary Ellen! Everyone knows you steal tomatoes from the Peterson’s garden and it wasn’t your goat that made off with Miss Connie’s britches that were drying on the line, it was your husband.” Duke pointed a knife hand at her sternum. “Now all of you get off this tub right now or I’m going to throw you off!”

The civilians ran.

Duke grabbed Maggie by the hand and stopped her. “Stay safe; I’ll come back,” he said.

Maggie turned to go, then swung back for another kiss before hurrying down the ramp, the hem of her dress hiked up.

“Come on, lover boy! This thing ain’t going to fly itself!” Adams called from the top of a ladder next to the cockpit hatch.

Duke shrugged off his pauldrons to fit through the door and into the co-pilot’s seat. Adams raced through pre-flight checks.

“You remember how to do this? Wait, when did you even get qualified?” He stuck a finger out to push a button, but Adams slapped his hand away.

“The Nation’s Pioneers have a wider skill set than Terran Strike Marines. I raised my standards after I returned to the Nation,” she said.

“Oh…you really want to have that pissing match right now?” Duke asked.

“You really want to lose a pissing match to a girl? Cycle the heat sinks and strap in. This is going to be a bumpy ride.” She pulled a lever and the ship rumbled.

The whole craft lurched as a pair of Armor got into the cargo bay.

“This thing doesn’t have stealth. Are we actually going to get to the Charon or are we going down in a blaze of glory?” he asked as he shrugged the restraints over his shoulders and fastened them.

“You’ve got something to live for and suddenly you care about living or dying.” Adams shook her head. “Armor boss said he’s on it. I’m inclined to trust him. Button up for void transit.”

“Buttoning…” Duke flipped a red switch, then turned a dial to the far left. “Buttoned. You want to pray to Saint Kallen for us?”

“On the way. After I remember what all these controls do.”

****

Godfrey landed against the Charon’s hull. Clamps snapped from her boots and locked her into place. Garcelle and Risette stood guard over Adalyn, who had both hands against the hull. Small servo arms from her forearms prodded and drilled into the ship.

“You’re very quiet.” Godfrey looked over to the Crucible, then to Roanoke in the distance. There was no true up or down in space, but they’d landed about halfway down the pyramid face of the Charon.

“This thing doesn’t read like any other Geist warship. The energy readings are off the charts. I can tap into the feeds but I can’t map it out…there’s too much noise,” Adalyn said.

“We need a way in.” Godfrey looked to the moon that wasn’t more than a few thousand miles away. The Charon was on an orbit that would bring it back into the Crucible. “And we need it now.”

“I saw bays along the angles,” Risette said. “That’s a way in.”

“The Geist harvest populations by force. They’re here for Roanoke. If there’s an armed element aboard, it’ll be there,” Garcelle said.

“I didn’t say it was a good way in.” Risette drew her sword.

“There.” Adalyn pointed to the chasm that bisected the pyramid side. “There’s a pressurized void two hundred and eight meters by ninety-six degrees against the hull. I suggest we move quickly. I was knocking pretty hard on the ship’s systems.”

“Let’s go.” Godfrey unsnapped her boots from the hull and floated toward the opening with a push from her jet pack.

She found metal plates over a section running across the chasm. Godfrey ripped the plates away to reveal a dark observation bay. She kicked the window open and it exploded out as air within depressurized. Godfrey was the first into the bay, which was just tall enough for her to walk around without crouching.

Heavy hatches closed behind the Maquis, locking them into the room. Air pumped in through vents in the ceiling.

The bay was mostly empty. Long tables were strewn about against the windows, thrown there by the venting atmosphere. Glass cups crunched beneath the Armor’s feet as they hurried to the other side.

“What is this place? Geist aren’t the kind to throw parties.” Risette kicked a red tablecloth away.

“Let’s go ask them.” Godfrey straightened her hand into a wedge and thrust it into the seam of a doorway. She ripped the door back, and it popped off in her hand. She examined it and didn’t see any moving parts.

Adalyn and Garcelle stepped through, their double-barreled gauss cannons and rotary guns ready.

“Mon Dieu,” Garcelle said.

The Charon gave way to deep, open levels. Segmented cylinders stretched to the lower point of the pyramid. Gaps stretched to darkness up, down and across the levels. Adalyn went to a cylinder near the doorway and wiped frost away.

Inside, a desiccated corpse hung from a metal X. Motes of light pulled from the harness on the back of the body’s neck and trickled through the X and deeper into the ship.

“Is that human?” Risette asked.

“I can’t tell.” Adalyn pulled a fist back and readied a punch. “Human or not, no one deserves to suffer like this…it’s still warm. Still alive.”

“No. We’ll deliver what mercy we can after we secure this ship,” Godfrey said.

A skittering sound grew suddenly. Pincers arced up from beneath the railing and stabbed at Risette. She chopped one off with a quick blow from her sword. The other latched on to her jet pack and pulled her to the edge.

Adalyn leaned over the opening and hacked at the other pincer. She pulled back as a mechanical insect the size of a city bus flowed onto their level.

Godfrey opened fire with her gauss cannons, blasting hunks off its shell. Garcelle focused her fire where armored plates met, blowing the machine into two parts. The section with the head jumped at Godfrey. The captain stabbed her sword through the head and pinned it to the ceiling.

The back section kept moving and came for Adalyn. The Armor hacked it apart and kicked pieces over the edge, sending them tumbling into the abyss.

Godfrey wrenched her sword out and the head fell to the deck. Lights in place of eyes flickered and died.

“It’s no Geist,” Godfrey said. “It isn’t leaking soul power.”

Howls sounded in the distance.

“Now those are Geist,” Adalyn said. “It’s coming from an upper level. Move higher?”

“Higher. Come on, Maquis. We’re not going to let the Steel Sworn win all the glory,” Godfrey said and powered her sword with Wield.

****

“This is insane.” Ely set a forearm against a section of red and black chevrons atop the cargo ship’s hull. Magnets activated, pinning him in place. He shifted his foot to two other similarly marked sections and they snapped tight to the fuselage. Ely clung to the top like a lizard on a wall.

“Needs must, lillebror.” Lars locked his forearm in place, then swung his legs onto the ship like he was mounting a horse. He slapped the hull twice and engines flared to life. “Could be worse, could be in a T.I.T. again.”

Anti-grav impellers activated and Ely’s stomach lurched. Not feeling gravity or acceleration as the Destrier took off was at odds with the sensations his eyes told him he should be feeling.

Tremors began in his arms within the pod, and a cold sliver of fear grew in his chest as the ship rose higher and higher into the atmosphere.

+Stop it. You can’t function if you have a panic attack.+

“Excuse me if primordial terror isn’t something I can control!” Ely snapped. He stopped looking up at the thinning sky and pressed his helm to the hull, leaving nothing for his optics to see but dull, gray metal.

“You OK over there?” Lars asked.

“Why do we have to ride the cheap seats while Santos and Pulaski are inside?” A warning popped up on Ely’s HUD as his heartrate topped a hundred beats a minute.

“Rank has its privileges would be my first guess. Better guess is that the captain needs to tie into this crate’s comms to work a plan out with the Skippy. Also, Santos knows you have problems with void ops, so he’s making you uncomfortable so you stop being such a fegis about it. Reasons don’t matter because here we are. Let’s run diagnostics on our jet packs.”

“We should’ve done that before this thing took off.” Ely looked down and saw the curvature of the planet on the horizon and immediately regretted the decision.

+Already did it, you’re fine.+

“Bah! We would’ve loaded up even if we didn’t have packs. Can’t let something like fear of floating out in the void for the rest of time and eternity bother us,” Lars chuckled.

“Are you trying to make me feel better? Because it’s not working…new subject…Wield! I’m in a new suit, but I still don’t have Wield like the rest of you. Wouldn’t I be more combat-effective with it? How’d you get it?” Ely asked.

Lars considered the question as they rose through the upper bands of Roanoke’s atmosphere.

“If I tell you…you might never get it,” the Swede said.

“Why? There some sort of a Sphinx’s riddle between me and that force you all are using? I can be better Armor with the Wield than without, right? So just tell me.”

“It takes faith, Ely. Are you a bag of meat and electrical impulses blathering around existence or do you have a soul?” Lars asked.

“I…I have a soul, yes.”

“Good, that’s a low bar to clear. With the Wield…it’s not an understanding of science or engineering. The Geist beat the ever-loving shit out of us during the first part of the war. They used their own version of the Wield. You saw the Geist using it down there. Armor was outmatched by the Geist until Lady Ibarra offered the Wield to those with faith. The native Ibarran Armor picked it up easily—they’re all fervent Christians and are always ‘Saint Kallen this’ and ‘Saint Kallen that.’ Union Armor had a slower adoption rate,” Lars said.

“But you’re a filthy pagan—I mean, a regular pagan—and you’ve got the Wield.”

“Just needed faith. A belief in things unseen and a soul to petition to a power greater than me. Funny about that ‘things unseen’ part, once we saw Armor with the Wield and learned how they used it…it became a lot easier to have faith. Easier to believe when the proof’s before your own eyes.”

“If I believe I have a soul…then I can get the Wield?”

“No. You ever had a religious experience, lillebror?”

Ely’s thoughts went back to Saint Kallen’s shrine and what he experienced there. “Maybe?”

“Then you’re still not there. Most Armor adheres to the Templar creed. Ibarran prospects spend training time praying for hours, studying scripture, chanting like they’re monks before they even get their plugs. Me? I know that Kallen’s a Valkyrie. I call her to witness me for the All-Father. I can use Wield. Santos and the rest of the Templar can use Wield. Even Pulaski when he’s out there sacrificing animals and war trophies or whatever he does can use Wield. What’s that tell you?”

“It takes faith,” Ely said.

“Then you’d best learn some before Lady Ibarra shares the Wield with you.”

“What? It comes straight from her?”

“Shit…shouldn’t have said that. Should not have said that. Since I’m on a roll, Lady Ibarra used the Ark to stop the Geist advance cold. She jumped from system to system and crushed the bastards in every battle, but she could only be in one place at a time. Then the Ark vanished from the war…after that, she offered the Wield,” Lars said.

“You think there’s a connection?” Ely asked.

“Correlation. Causation. It is what it is.” Lars shrugged. “Look, there’s the Charon.”

Ely raised his helm and took in the star field stretching through the void. An inverted pyramid ship was visible against the backdrop of Roanoke’s dust-colored moon. Ely pressed his helm to the cargo ship’s hull.

“What’s aboard waiting for us?”

“Death or glory, Ely. I’ll ask Kallen to judge you if it comes to that,” Lars said.

Ely bumped his helm against the metal.

“Stand by,” Santos said over the IR. “The boarding operation’s going to be fluid.”

Ely bumped his head faster.

Chapter 21

Commander Duval leaned over the helmsman’s seat on the Scipio’s bridge. Standish and the rest of the ship’s officers clustered behind him.

“How much Asterlite do we have left?” he asked.

“That’s a tricky question, Captain,” the ensign said. “Depends what you want to do. Engaging the FTL drives closer to a gravity well takes a lot more Asterlite fuel than coasting between planets or stars.”

“Steel Sworn commander needs a clear vector to assault the Charon. Maquis are already aboard, so he’s not getting there through guile or knowing any landing codes—which we didn’t have.” He crossed one arm over his chest and tugged at his chin. “I’m abandoning the fail-safe for this ship to FTL to the nearest friendly system. The Ibarra Navy fights to win, not for a draw.”

“The Charon’s not particularly well-armed,” the XO said. “We disable the dorsal ventral defense node, they can make it.” A holo of the ship appeared over the helmsman’s station. Fans of weapons coverage extended from the four corners. The bottom one blinked and a dashed line showing a safe approach for the Destrier came up.

“Acquisition and discharge time of their plasma cannons are known,” Duval said. “They’re effective at engaging targets at range. Up close, it gets easier to dodge…”

“Just have to get through the phalanx of highly accurate and deadly shooty bits,” Standish said, raising his hands. “No sweat after that. Except getting through the phalanx—”

“Shut up, Standish.” Duval mimed pinching Standish’s mouth closed. “You have this ship rigged for smuggling. How reinforced is the hull to high-g maneuvers? Better than her rating when she had a Union flag?”

“Now you want me to talk…First, I resent the implication that I—of all people—was a smuggler. I prefer ‘bootlegger’ or ‘opportunity capitalist’—”

“Patrick,” Duval said without taking his eyes off the holo.

The burly minder put a hand on the back of Standish’s neck.

“I had the trusses redone by Dotari and the inertial dampeners can overclock up to twenty percent if you have the codes.” Standish removed a key card from his overalls. “Which I do. Skippy will handle better than a platinum-rated sprinter ship, but you have to sweet talk her the whole time.”

“How much denethrite do we have?” Duval asked his quartermaster. “Using it to disable the Crucible is less important right now.”

“Eighty-five kilos…but no warheads or remote fuses,” the supply officer said.

“Prep the last T.I.T. and load the nose cone with the denethrite. Unpack it from the safety crates,” Duval said.

“Denethrite is a shock-sensitive explosive,” the quartermaster said, going pale. “The ship takes a hit when it’s not stowed correctly—”

“The Charon hits us and it won’t matter,” Duval said.

“This is still my ship, technically,” Standish said. “What’s going on up here, Cap?” He tapped his head.

“We’re going to let the Charon fire at us,” Duval said. “Then we’re going to use a maneuver that the Geist have probably never heard of.”

“Did you say ‘fire at us’?” Standish’s eyebrows perked up.

“Ready the torp,” Duval said to Standish and the quartermaster. “Have everyone strapped into acceleration couches in…ten minutes.”

“Can we put Stinker in there?” Standish asked.

Duval pondered this for a moment, then shook his head.

****

The stealth shuttle set down in a tall, triangular landing bay. A dozen thrall Geist—barely conscious fighters from the lowest rung of Geist society—flanked a pair of rail-thin Geist in flowing silver robes. Their heads were small, faces almost emaciated. Both bent their heads to the deck as the Prophet smashed out of the cockpit. Its arachnid form scuttled over to one of the Geist and jumped onto its back, legs stabbing through the robes.

The assaulted Geist let out a pathetic wail, then it floated up, its body growing as tendrils of light emanated from the bulkheads and flowed into the Prophet.

The Prophet cast the too-small robe aside. Tiny cubes grew and shrank against his new body as his form stabilized.

“Report,” the Prophet growled.

“Exalted One, the heretics have seized control of the Crucible,” said the starved-looking Geist. “We believe a distress signal entered the network, but no word back from the Synod or our fleet at Scandia IV. There is an incursion within the pens, but we have it contained.”

“Any damage to the cargo?” the Prophet asked.

“Minimal…there would be more, but my companion considered it better to keep the enemy in one spot and not risk losing the tithe.”

“Some spoilage may be necessary…how long until this ship can fire on the Crucible?” the Prophet asked.

The other Geist raised a trembling hand, then let it fall. “We are fourteen percent through our orbit of this moon. Three hours if we hold our current velocity.”

“Then in three hours, I will disintegrate the parts of the Crucible infested by the vermin. We can wait until the gate repairs itself. This tithe will go to Malal, even if it is less than expected. I will deal with the boarders personally.”

Lights within the cargo bay went a deep orange and a holo sphere materialized before the Prophet, the Charon at the center. The Scipio was several light-seconds away, far from the moon and the planet.

“How did that get so close without being detected?” The Prophet clutched at the holo and it zoomed in on the Scipio, which was accelerating toward his ship.

“We—I—don’t know,” the other Geist said.

The Prophet willed commands into the ship and three points on the inverted pyramid glowed white.

“Useless gesture,” he sneered as energy lances lashed out at the human ship. He watched as the beams converged.

A new threat icon—identical to the ship he was about to destroy—appeared perilously close to the Charon’s bottom point.

“What is this?” the Prophet asked, calling down sensor data. Somehow there were two Scipios out there. The nearest one launched a torpedo and veered away.

The further Scipio vanished as the beams converged.

“Target that missile! Destroy it now!” The Prophet’s fingers lengthened into claws and protrusions rippled around his skull.

“We depleted our batteries firing on the distant ship,” the other Geist said. “We need at least another—”

The Charon rumbled as the torpedo struck home. Damage reports flowed around the edge of the holo sphere. The bottom point of the pyramid floated away from the ship, pulsating with raw energy before it exploded.

The nearby Scipio vanished.

“The humans have a jump engine on something so small? They tricked me into firing on them then snuck in before I could fire again…bah!” The Prophet swiped a claw through the holo and it fizzled out.

“How long have the humans been able to travel faster than light?!” the Prophet roared. “Doesn’t matter. Take me to the locus. I will ascend and end this annoyance myself.”

“Exalted One, the tithe is—”

The Prophet’s two sets of eyes blazed red.

“—at your disposal. Follow me to the locus.”

****

“The what maneuver?” Lars leaned back on his haunches as the transport closed on the Charon. Debris from the damaged ship snapped past them, smaller bits sparking off the hull. “Pie chart? Pickle?”

“Doesn’t matter, it worked!” Santos called out. “We’ve got eyes on a landing bay. Prepare to go inverted and shoot out the force field or we’re going to make an interesting smudge across the hull.”

“Locked and loaded.” Lars looked to Ely, who was gripping the hull for dear life. “Ely. Time to shine. You’ve got the lower-left point. That’s your assignment, yeah?”

Ely cycled rounds into his forearm cannons and the rotary gun on his shoulder spun up.

“There are four of us and three points to hit,” Ely said, “and I am arguably the worst shot.”

“What did I tell you about being such a fegis? Stand by for the fun part.”

“I still don’t know what a fegis is, so—aah!”

The cargo ship’s engines cut out and it flipped over, sending Roanoke and all the stars swooping through Ely’s vision. The spin stopped with Ely looking out into the void.

“Turn around! Open fire!” Lars shouted.

Ely twisted back and thrust out his gauss cannon arm. A small triangle on the Charon’s hull blinked on his HUD, and he let off a stream of shells from his gauss cannon and the rotary gun. Pulaski joined the firestorm from the open cargo bay along with Lars next to Ely.

Rounds hit home, chewing up the hull and destroying the force-field emitters around the shuttle bay. The pale light covering the bay flickered out.

The cargo shuttle’s engines activated, slowing their relative velocity to the Charon.

“Too high! Too high!” Ely ducked against the hull as the ship entered the Charon toward the upper angle of the bay.

“Bail out!” Lars shouted.

Ely decoupled his mag locks and activated his jet pack. He slid off the Destrier right before the wings hit the Charon’s hull and ripped away. He and Lars landed on the deck and watched as the craft careened against the shuttle bay before crashing toward the back.

Ely saw the two Pioneers braced in the cockpit. When the Destrier screeched to a halt, Duke threw off his restraints and began pointing and shouting at Adams.

Adams didn’t seem to care.

“Boarding operation complete,” Santos sent over the IR. “You two coming?”

“What do we do with the crunchies?” Lars asked as he and Ely jogged up to the prow of the wrecked ship.

“Get them out. Link up with me and Pulaski. We’re moving deeper into the ship,” Santos said and closed the channel.

Lars punched into the cockpit and ripped out an opening for the Pioneers.

“—again! Never again, Adams! You said you could fly this thing!” Duke yelled as he reattached plates to his power armor.

“I flew her just fine. Landing was an issue. And we’re walking away from this landing, so I’m considering this a win,” she said as she jumped out of the opening, carbine in hand.

“Hey, plug-heads,” Duke said, landing next to Adams, “you know your way around this thing?”

“No, crunchy, no one’s ever been aboard a Charon before.” Lars stepped on a bit of wreckage and ground it with his heel. “We’re going to link up with the Maquis and kill the Geist. Easy plan.”

“I’ve got nothing on comms.” Adams tapped the side of her helmet. “How’re we going to find them?”

“Also easy.” Lars bashed the remnants of a wing aside. “We follow the sounds of gunfire.”

****

The Steel Sworn and the pair of Pioneers walked up to a precipice. They were in a narrow passageway with no evident ceiling. The bulkheads stretched high, the top lost to a blue mist. Below the deck’s cutoff was darkness, ahead more bare walls.

“This cut through the whole ship?” Lars asked. “Architecture here is…off.”

“Geist battleships have purpose-built decks. Troop barracks. Power plants.” Santos knocked on the bulkhead. “This doesn’t fit that pattern.”

“What are all those lights?” Ely pointed up the cavern. “Little pinpricks against the sides.”

“I don’t see that,” Pulaski said.

“Neither do I,” Lars seconded.

“You good, Ely?” Santos asked.

“Am I going crazy?” Ely asked his ghost.

+It’s there…coming through a blacked-out sensor suite. Which begs the question why there’s something I can’t access, but you can.+

“Ghost says it’s there…maybe you can’t see it,” Ely said.

“Phantom lights aren’t the issue.” Santos looked up the canyon. “We aren’t with the Maquis. We don’t have a lock on the Geist. How we’re supposed to—”

A section of the deck separated and floated up the canyon at a forty-five-degree angle, catching Adams and Duke flat-footed. Adams jumped onto the platform. Duke was a heartbeat behind her and hit his waist against the edge, his legs dangling over the drop.

Ely grabbed Duke under an arm and dragged him onto the platform.

“Thanks, kid; I didn’t want to be back there sitting on my hands.” Duke unsnapped his rail rifle and looked down the sights toward wherever the platform was taking them.

“This strike anyone else as being awfully convenient?” Adams asked.

“We’re ascending.” Santos pointed up. “Bridge is normally at the upper echelon of Geist ships.”

“We’re on a plate heading straight for the predator’s mouth.” Pulaski unsnapped his short sword from his back and it flared with Wield. “Acceptable.”

“The lights,” Ely said. “They’re getting closer.”

In the distance, and extending through the haze, he saw rows and rows of single lights evenly spaced.

“Ain’t no lights, kid.” Duke shook his head.

“There, we’re about to pass one,” Ely said.

The platform slowed and slid past X-shaped crosses. Adams gasped and took cover behind Lars’ legs.

On each crucifix was a human, their skin ashen, heads slumped. Some groaned as tendrils of energy crept across their bodies, the X behind them pulsating with light. Desiccated corpses appeared as they rose higher.

“Saint preserve us,” Santos said and crossed himself. “There are thousands…”

“More than that,” Pulaski said. “No one deserves a death like this.”

“No, they’re still alive.” Adams reached out to a woman, her head thrashing from side to side. She almost touched the woman, but she withdrew back to Lars.

“Look—Dotari.” Ely motioned to the other side. The avian aliens were fastened to the crucifixes same as the humans. Ely switched his optics to infrared and saw that many were still warm, still alive.

“There are Kroar too. Vishrakath. Ensaban.” Santos backed up slightly to be closer to his lance. “The Geist harvest all of them. Not just us.”

The stretch of victims seemed to go on forever as the rows vanished into the mist. Ely saw a single flickering light over each captive where the two bars of the X met. No light over the long dead.

“Why? Why so many?” Duke asked. “The Prophet was going to do this to every soul on Roanoke. How many other planets—”

Malal.

Ely looked around for who said the name. “You hear that?” he asked his ghost.

+Hear what?+

“Got something.” Santos pointed up ahead. The rows stopped. A single opening in the next higher deck looked to be their only way forward. “Make ready. If there’s an ambush waiting, it’ll be right—”

The platform fell. The deck plating tumbled like a dropped playing card, the edges crashing into captives and tearing them apart.

Ely’s arms pinwheeled as he fell. Duke and Adams spun around him, out of control.

+Jet pack!+

“No! Not yet!” Ely reached out and caught Adams by an ankle. He stretched out for Duke, who was grabbing frantically for his sniper rifle.

“Duke!” Ely cried out in frustration as the Pioneer was hell-bent on securing his weapon instead of being saved by the Armor. Ely snapped his punch spike out of his wrist and used the extra length to tip Duke by the feet. The nudge got the Pioneer within range of his sniper rifle and he clutched it to his chest. Ely snatched him by the carry handle across his shoulders.

“Punch it, Aignar!” Ely shouted and swung his feet down, pulling the Pioneers tight against his suit.

The jet pack kicked him up and he nearly lost his grip on Duke and Adams. He climbed higher and higher toward the open deck. The rest of his lance zipped into the opening.

“Almost there…” Ely said. As if on cue, one of his jets sputtered.

+Having some rocket issues.+

“No kidding?” Ely raised his arms up as his ascent slowed…and he wasn’t so sure he’d make it to the opening. Ely tossed the Pioneers up and they sailed into the gap. He reached for the edge…and missed it by inches as his jet pack died.

Lars slammed two hands onto Ely’s forearm. His lance mate braced his feet against the deck and hauled Ely up. Ely’s toes just cleared the edge and he landed standing straight up.

His jet pack trembled and spat out chaotic spurts of propellant. It popped off his back and fell toward the abyss. Ely looked after it and saw it explode into a brief fireball.

“It’s all right.” Lars touched Ely’s shoulder. “They knew we were coming.” The deck was a grid that extended into darkness. There was nothing else to indicate what the area was used for.

“You!” Ely stabbed a finger at Duke. “Your gun wasn’t worth your life!”

Duke covered Buffy’s breech like it was a child that had heard an expletive. “How dare you call her a ‘gun’!”

“At ease, all of you.” Santos touched the side of his helm. “The Maquis are close. I’m getting a low-frequency transponder from—”

Gauss shells ripped through the ceiling and shattered in a line between Santos and Pulaski.

“’Ski, boost me!” Santos raised a foot. Pulaski put both hands under Santos’ foot and lifted him up. Santos punched through a bullet hole and hauled himself up and into the next level. Gauss fire erupted from the brightly lit breach.

“After him!” Lars ran to Pulaski and got the same lift. Ely went next, one shoulder scraping the opening and slowing him down.

The Maquis fought against dozens of Geist, their bodies twisted into crude nightmare-fueled animals. Lars and Santos were already charging into the fray.

“Ely!” Pulaski called up.

“Oops, right,” Ely said, reaching down and pulling the Karigole up. He did a double take at Duke and Adams waiting their turn. “You two might want to sit this one out.”

Ely aimed his gauss cannons at the Geist at the outer part of the melee, shattering the back legs of a Geist shaped like a lion and sporting tentacles from its back. Another shaped like a horse-sized skeleton jumped onto the ceiling and crept toward one of the Maquis. Ely blasted a claw into fragments. It hinged down, directly into the arcing strike from Lars.

The Steel Sworn and Maquis hacked apart the last of the Geist in short order. Santos kicked a crumbling skull face away.

“About time,” Godfrey said, flicking a dark fluid off her blade. “How did you get up here? Just follow the trail of our dead?”

“There was a lift.” Lars jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Brought us right up.”

“I told you that was a lift.” Adalyn shook a damaged round from her ammo line, then reattached it to her gauss cannons.

“Geist dropped it right out from under us,” Pulaski said.

“And I told you it was a trap,” Risette hissed.

“The Geist is above us.” Captain Godfrey pointed to the ceiling. “We saw it access some kind of a teleport near here. We almost had it figured out when the freaks attacked.”

“You mean the ring?” Ely, the Pioneers with him, pointed to a circle floating a few inches over the deck.

“What ‘ring’?” Godfrey asked.

“He’s been seeing things.” Santos shook his helm. “I don’t know if he’s going Section 8 on us or if that thing in his head is playing tricks on him.”

“Show us where.” Adalyn pointed her sword at the ground and it glowed with Wield. The blade cut through the circle and it was like a match touching a wick. The circle burst into light and everyone in the room reacted.

“In. Everyone in!” Santos called out. Duke and Adams jumped over the ring and took cover inside a back-to-back circle formed by the Steel Sworn. The Armor and Pioneers rose with the ring, the ceiling going transparent as they went higher.

“Ely is definitely seeing things,” Lars said. “Care to explain how or why, lillebror?”

“The Qa’Resh probe fragment in my skull is the likely answer. Which doesn’t really help. Sure hope this takes us to the Geist…I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

“Santos…this ship is full of innocents. Some of them are still alive,” Godfrey said.

“We saw. The Geist must be stopped, or they’ll all die.”

Godfrey raised her sword hilt before her helm, then turned the tip down and went to one knee, both hands on the hilt, her head knelt in prayer. The rest of her lance followed and Santos joined them.

Lars and Pulaski stood ready as they chanted as one, their weapons glowing with Wield. “Sancti spiritus adsit nobis gratia. Kallen, ferrum corde…”

Ely snapped out his blade and followed suit. He listened to the prayer. Aignar put the next words up on his HUD for him to read.

“Expulsis indie cunctis vitis spiritabilis. Kallen, ferrum corde…”

Adams rapped the back of her hand against Santos’ leg, then pressed her knuckle to where her mouth would be on her visor. Duke loaded a shell into his rifle.

The ring brightened and the assault force was on the outer hull of the Charon. The top of the ship spread out around them, the distant corners pulsing slowly.

A single figure stood at the center, sunlight glinting off its body.

“Double echelon front.” Santos moved out in front, the Steel Sworn forming a line beside him, the Maquis to his right. “Shields.”

They unfurled their shields and stomped forward as one, all but Ely’s shield erupting in Wield.

“I’m just here for moral support,” Ely said to Aignar. “Or to keep the crunchies from getting too hurt.”

+Fight until you die. Marshal Shaw’s standing order is still in effect. The crunchies can take care of themselves.+

“Why do you fight against the inevitable…” The Prophet levitated over the hull, floating over a confluence of lines from each of the triangle face’s points. “We only offer salvation. Peace for the soul.”

“We’ve seen what you do, monster.” Santos raised his sword to high guard. “You promise nothing but damnation.”

“This ship is my gift to Malal. Souls willingly given and souls harvested.” The Geist rose higher, its body expanding slowly, light pulsing beneath the metal strands. “Try and take it from me…do it.”

A glow began from the line running from the point to the intersection. Ely stepped aside. No one else seemed to notice.

“Watch out. Everyone, watch the—”

A ball of light surged down the line, closing fast on the Steel Sworn and the Pioneers. Ely—acting without thinking—knocked the Pioneers away and grabbed Lars by the wrist holding his sword. Ely stabbed Lars’ weapon into the line. The line of light struck the sword and crashed like a wave against a rock.

Lars’ sword and shield lit up with power.

The other two lines connected at the nexus beneath the Prophet and a column of light engulfed the Geist. The Geist’s outer shell tore away, leaving a bare skeleton of golden bones behind.

Lars’ sword arm shook as power roiled through him.

The Geist raised a hand overhead, then swung it down the blocked line. A whip of white fire struck Lars’ raised shield. The whip split into tendrils, probing for weakness against the Steel Sworn’s Wield.

Ely opened fire with his Mauser. Shells exploded into sparks before they could strike. The whip cracked toward Ely, ripping the muzzle off his weapon and knocking him to the hull.

“Block the lines! Pulaski, with me!” Santos split to the left with the Karigole. The Maquis broke right.

The Geist swept his arms back, then slammed his palms together, directing a lance of energy at the Maquis.

Garcelle took the blow on her shield. She focused her Wield against the onslaught and pushed toward the Geist, her steps labored. Her shield shrank as the force against her grew. She stopped and bent to one knee; the shield pressing against her Armor and her Wield began to falter.

“Mes seours. Je t’aime—”

Her shield broke and Garcelle’s Armor shattered. The blast tore out a gouge in the hull as smoldering fragments scattered into the void.

Captain Godfrey stabbed her sword into the power line and the light around the Geist faltered. Risette and Adalyn threw up a Wield bulwark around Godfrey as the Prophet struck at them with blasts of white light.

Ely’s Armor moved in fits and starts as he tried to regain control. Snaps of electricity sent pain through his joints as the suit struggled to function. Ely’s vision tunneled as the Geist swung a scythe of energy at Santos, the blow parried overhead by Pulaski’s shield.

+It’s too much. I have to shut you down before you redline.+ Aignar sounded very far away in Ely’s mind.

“No…no, I won’t fail here. Not this time.” Ely forced himself up. His legs felt like they were moving through clay as he started toward the Geist.

Santos drove his sword into the power line, blocking another line to the Geist. Godfrey chopped her blade into the third line.

The column of light around the Geist flickered out. The Geist, his golden bones glistening with power, tore free from the locus and charged at the surviving Maquis. The other lance struggled to stave off the power from the ship as the Geist bore down on them.

Ely gained speed and changed direction to intercept the Geist. He grabbed his MEWS hilt off his leg and snapped the blade out into a longsword.

+You don’t have Wield!+

“Doesn’t matter!”

Ely set himself between the Geist and the Maquis, his sword at an inside guard, the point toward the Geist.

The Prophet didn’t even slow as he came at Ely, his long claws thrusting out. Ely lunged forward, stretching his body and stabbing his sword through the long bones of the Geist’s hand. The blade caught between golden rods.

The Geist yanked Ely off his feet, then slammed him to the hull. Ely kept his grip on the hilt as the Geist ground him against the Charon, ripping away his rotary cannon and breaking antennae on his helm. Ely rolled and changed the shape on the MEWS to a spike, breaking the hold of the weapon against the Geist.

He rolled with the momentum and ducked a swipe from the Geist’s other hand. The Prophet brought both hands up, ready to tear Ely to ribbons with a storm of scythes. Gauss shells struck around the monster’s eyes, fouling his strike.

Ely sidestepped a scythe as they slammed into the hull on either side of him. He risked a glance back to Lars and saw Duke and Adams firing their carbines over the Armor’s shoulders.

The Geist scraped its scythes back and Ely ran in closer, his MEWS snapping back into a sword. Ely struck at the Geist’s rib cage with a shout.

A ghostly hand caught his strike. Ely fought to free his weapon, but the power flowed down his hands and arms, locking him in place.

“I will rip your soul out and give it to Malal myself.” The Prophet leered over Ely. “He may enjoy the taste!”

A sense of calm came over Ely, and he wasn’t sure if it was the redline coming to claim him.

“Saint Kallen…you have the strength for this…I don’t…”

He felt a hand move down his arm, then join his hold on his hilt.

Ely ripped his weapon back with a flash of light. The Geist recoiled, roaring in agony, its bones losing coherency with each other and nearly falling apart.

He looked down at his sword. A glow of witch fire roiled down the edge.

Wield.

“For…for the Lady!” Ely struck out, slicing across the Geist’s body. Bones shattered, spilling bright-white blood onto the hull. He brought the sword back for a reverse strike to the Prophet’s neck.

The blade bit into the Geist’s nightmarish hands as the monster blocked a killing blow. Ely leaned into his sword, driving the edge deeper into the metal.

“You are nothing!” the Prophet shouted.

Ely shifted the Wield into his fist, then punched the Geist in the chin. Its jaw shattered and it fell to the hull. Ely wrenched his sword out of its grip, turned the sword over and raised it over his head.

Wield surged back into the blade as he impaled the Geist to the ship, twisting the blade as the Geist screamed.

The Prophet’s head twisted around the top of its spine to stare at Ely. Light grew in its shattered mouth and eyes, ready to strike, but Ely kept hold of his sword, not willing to risk the Geist going free, even if it cost him his life.

Santos chopped his sword against the Geist’s neck, decapitating it. The head bounced away, where Adalyn pinned it in place with a stomp. Her anchor burst through the skull, shattering it into thousands of gold flakes.

The Geist’s body disintegrated into smaller and smaller cubes, scattering with a wind Ely couldn’t feel.

Ely raised his sword before him, watching the Wield as it tightened around the blade.

“Mission…mission accomplished.” Santos gave Ely a quick salute with his sword. “Contacting the Crucible now.”

“How?” Adalyn pointed at Ely’s sword as the Wield flowed into the hilt.

“I had to ask for it…”

“You took it from the Geist,” she said. “It was overflowing with soul energy from this ship. Then that means…”

“Wield…it comes from souls.” Ely looked at her. “Did you know?”

“No. No one did.” The Maquis looked back at her lance.

Just beyond the moon, the Crucible flared to life. Ibarran Navy ships emerged one after another.

Ely’s skull ached as the fragment within came to life.

“Agh…Aignar. Compound. Compound!”

A chill flowed through him as his ghost administered the drug.

“Saint’s bones!” Risette shouted. She pointed behind Ely.

A giant alabaster ship hung in the void. Its hull was shaped like seashell, twisted into points, with an alien grace Ely found as beautiful as it was unnatural. It was several times larger than the Charon, and almost as big as the Crucible.

“The Ark.” Santos crossed himself. “I haven’t seen that in while. The Lady is here.”

A scar of light opened over the locus, blinding Ely. When it subsided a moment later, gold Armor and several of the Lady’s personal guard were there…all in a circle around a chrome being.

Stacey Ibarra held a hand over the locus, and a tendril of light danced up from the point, nearly touching her palm.

“Stop blocking the energy,” one of the guards said, and Ely winced at the sound of his father’s voice. “By order of Lady Ibarra, all of you, stand down!”

Lars wrenched his sword out, and energy flowed back down the line.

The Steel Sworn and Maquis grouped together. Duke was as nonchalant as he could be, but Adams was on her knees in prayer.

“I have it now…” Stacey Ibarra said. “Leave me.”

“Who is that?” Ely asked.

“What? You said you met the Lady.” Santos edged closer to Ely.

The silver-and-chrome version of Stacey Ibarra turned her face slowly to Ely.

+Don’t.+

Ely heard the word, but it wasn’t from Aignar.

“I did…I’m just a little fuzzy,” Ely said. “Maybe it’s the Wield.”

“They’re bringing in a shuttle for us.” Santos touched the side of his helm. “We’re to help evacuate the survivors on the Charon to Roanoke.”

“Duty never ends,” Lars said, snapping his holder to his leg.

Stacey nodded slowly to Ely, then turned her attention back to the locus, where souls roiled beneath her touch.

****

The surviving Charon’s shipmaster felt the Prophet die as the master Geist was severed from the ship. Being so deep in the stacks of the cargo protected him from the overload as the soul energy fought for a new equilibrium.

The emaciated Geist summoned the ship’s control to him. There was no precedent for this. Charons were precious resources, proof of their devotion to Malal. To even consider scuttling the ship against the moon to stop the Ibarrans from seizing it felt like blasphemy.

He connected to the Crucible and tried to send off another distress message, but it was still blocked by the infuriating Keeper fragment aboard.

The quantum field within the Crucible fluttered as more Ibarran ships came through…but in all the noise, the Geist detected a message. His instructions were clear and concise.

“For the master,” the Geist said. Going to a conduit pulsating with soul energy, he smashed his hands into it. Power ripped him apart and the Geist’s scream faded into the conduit.

The Geist’s face hung in the light, then turned away.

Chapter 22

Ibarra jerked awake. His body felt distant, almost numb. All he could see was a green haze all around him. His arms pushed out, his fingers turning against a curved surface.

Bubbles roiled around him and the fluid he’d been floating in drained through the bottom of the tube. A hatch snapped open and he fell onto a freezing-cold metal floor.

Ibarra groaned as pain made itself known. He coughed up a thin fluid, spitting out the last as he crawled to his hands and knees. There was a pinch on the back of his neck. He felt the harness then managed to crawl forward.

A pair of tight, silver-colored shorts protected his modesty.

He got to the base of a device and looked around. He was in a procedural tank farm, each cylinder holding a person being grown in a nutrient vat. A thick cable with tiny electrodes connected to the skulls of each procedural.

There were only six tubes, Ibarra noted. He wasn’t in one of the fields that the Ibarra Nation used to birth people by the millions.

He clawed up the side of the tube, his legs rubbery and unwilling to do everything he needed of them. The man inside the tank didn’t seem to notice.

“Sorry, buddy. Sorry that you’ve got to—” Ibarra narrowed his eyes at the man in the tank.

It was him—as he was in his mid-twenties. Ibarra touched his face, then went to the next tank. Him again. And again. And again.

He got to the sixth tank and froze.

“No…no…please, God, no…” He put his hands to the glass, then beat a fist against it.

Within the tube wasn’t another copy of Marc Ibarra. Instead, a girl no more than seven years old floated within. She had dark hair and Ibarra’s chin and nose.

A young Stacey Ibarra’s eyes fluttered.

****

Ely and Lars flanked the rear of a cargo shuttle as the ramp came down. Ibarran legionnaires went up the ramp and called out instructions. Two women in rags came down first, each supporting the other. They looked from Ely to Lars, disbelief on their faces.

Medics helped them onto the back of a truck as more refugees from the Charon trickled out of the ship. More ships came down outside the wrecked watch station outside Roanoke.

“How many?” Ely asked suit-to-suit with Lars.

“Thousands…most of the upper levels were already dead or drained by the Prophet. Lower levels were mostly human. Guess the Charon loaded up on another of our colonies before she got here. They’ll be relocated to the Nation. Same with the artifact colony,” Lars said.

“I’m glad Duke and Adams are in charge of that. The locals are in for a culture shock.” Ely waved to a teen girl that blew him a kiss.

“Not our circus. Not our monkeys.” Lars looked up. The Ark was visible over the moon, orbiting very close to the captured Charon. “You have Wield now…how’s your ghost taking that? I wondered if not having plugs would keep you from ever getting Wield.”

+It makes me feel all tingly.+

“He’s fine,” Ely said. “How are the Maquis? Losing Garcelle like that…”

“Armor mourn properly at the proper time. Maybe we’ll get a break in the action, maybe we’ll be going hard for weeks. Welcome to the Crusade,” Lars said.

A trill rose in the air from the cargo ship.

Ely raised his cannon arm up and moved toward the ramp. A pair of guards brought out a Dotari, carrying him under the arms. The alien’s quills were straight, its normally pale-blue skin nearly green, with age spots on his face and the quills closer to his scalp. The blunted beak was chipped on the edges.

The Dotari did a double take at Ely, then tore free of the guards and threw himself at Ely’s feet. The alien spoke in chirps and squawks, which Ely didn’t understand.

“It’s not like that.” Ely moved to one knee slowly. “We’re on the same side, right?”

“KrEEee-tick ta fadal. Ner, val-dar,” the Dotari said, rolling the last R.

Aignar downloaded a translation protocol for Ely’s benefit.

+If he asks you to go to a wedding…say no.+

“I saw him. I know it’s him.” The computer changed the Dotari’s words, making them sound tinny to Ely.

“What are you talking about?” Ely asked.

“He’s alive. On Takeni!” The Dotari hit a fist to Ely’s foot. “Admiral Valdar is alive on Takeni!”

THE END

The story continues in VALDAR’S LEGACY, coming soon!

Dear Reader,

Valdar’s alive? And he’s on Takeni, where one of the most famous battles of the Ember War took place? I won’t keep you waiting too long for the next book. Until then, please leave an honest review of Soul Invictus. Reviews help me as a writer and they are always appreciated.

-Richard

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Also By Richard Fox:

The Ember War Saga

1. The Ember War

2. The Ruins of Anthalas

3. Blood of Heroes

4. Earth Defiant

5. The Gardens of Nibiru

6. The Battle of the Void

7. The Siege of Earth

8. The Crucible

9. The Xaros Reckoning

The Ember War Saga Volume II: Terran Armor Corps

1. Iron Dragoons

2. The Ibarra Sanction

3. The True Measure

4. A House Divided

5. The Last Aeon

6. Ferrum Corde

Terran Strike Marines

1. The Dotari Salvation
2. Rage of Winter

3. Valdar’s Hammer

4. The Beast of Eridu

5. Gott Mit Uns

The Ibarra Crusade

1. Ashes Fall

2. Steel Sworn

3. Soul Invictus

4. Valdar’s Legacy (Coming soon!)

Terra Nova Chronicles

1. Terra Nova

2. Bloodlines

3. Wings of Redemption

4. Hale’s War

Ember War: Pathfinders

1. Light the Way

2. Belisarius

The Exiled Fleet Series

1. Albion Lost

2. The Long March

3. Finest Hour

4. Point of Honor

5. The Last Ditch (Coming 2021)

Also By Richard Fox

Til Valhalla

Hell’s Horizon

The Queen of Sidonia

The King of Sidonia

Through the Nether (Galaxy’s Edge Order of the Centurion)

FREE EMBER WAR SHORT STORIES

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VENT RATS

Chief MacDougall hunts a Toth loose aboard the Breitenfeld with the aid of Steuben and Lafayette. Can the Karigole set aside their hatred to catch the infiltrator alive?

IRON HEARTS

Elias, soldier of the Iron Hearts and pilots of a mechanized suit of armor, lies comatose in a hospital. His mind trapped within the prison of his failing body. With no other option but to watch their friend wither away, his fellow Iron Hearts concoct a dangerous plan to save him.

THE IRON WITHIN

On a frozen and war torn world, Pathfinder Birch rescues an Armor soldier trapped in his pod. With the enemy closing in cold leeching their lives away, Birch must find the strength and determination to save them both.

THE ANVIL

Before The Ember War, a young and disabled Kalen petitions to join the Armor Corps. When she's rejected, her iron heart won't let her give up.

SCHISM

When the Terran Union signs a treaty against Marc and Stacey Ibarra's wishes, the two immortals decide to abandon Earth.

GOING DARK

The Nebula Nominated short story of Doughboys: synthetic battle constructs designed decades ago to fight the Ember War. Strong, fearless, and fiercely loyal to their human commanders, in many ways they are the perfect soldiers and have continued to prove themselves on the battlefield long after the war’s end.

Doughboy wrangler Sergeant Hoffman learns just how loyal the constructs under his command are, and that a synthetic man knows what it means to be human.

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EMBER WAR UNIVERSE SUGGESTED READING ORDER

The Ember War Saga: Volume 1

The Ember War
Iron Hearts-Short Story (BookHip.com/FCAZPA)
The Ruins of Anthalas
Vent Rats-Short Story (BookHip.com/FCAZPA)
Blood of Heroes
Earth Defiant
The Gardens of Nibiru
The Battle of the Void
The Siege of Earth
The Crucible
The Xaros Reckoning*

The Anvil-Short Story (BookHip.com/FCAZPA)

Til Valhalla

The Ember War Saga Volume 2: Terran Armor Corps

Going Dark-Short Story (BookHip.com/FCAZPA)

Schism-Short Story (BookHip.com/FCAZPA)
The Iron Within-Short Story (BookHip.com/FCAZPA)
Iron Dragoons
The Dotari Salvation
The Ibarra Sanction
The True Measure
Rage of Winter
A House Divided
The Last Aeon
Valdar’s Hammer
The Beast of Eridu
Ferrum Corde

Gott Mit Uns

The Ember War Saga Volume 3: The Ibarra Crusade

Ashes Fall

Steel Sworn

Soul Invictus

Valdar’s Legacy (Coming soon!)

*Ember War Pathfinders (Read after the Xaros Reckoning)

Light the Way

Belisarius

*The Terra Nova Chronicles (Read after The Xaros Reckoning)
Terra Nova
Bloodlines
Wings of Redemption

Hale’s War

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The Earth is doomed. Humanity has a chance. Read where the saga began!

In the near future, an alien probe arrives on Earth with a pivotal mission—determine if humanity has what it takes to survive the impending invasion by a merciless armada.

The probe discovers Marc Ibarra, a young inventor, who holds the key to a daring gambit that could save a fraction of Earth's population. Humanity's only chance lies with Ibarra's ability to keep a terrible secret and engineer the planet down the narrow path to survival.

Earth will need a fleet. One with a hidden purpose. One strong enough to fight a battle against annihilation.

The Ember War is the first installment in an epic military sci-fi series. If you like A Hymn Before Battle by John Ringo and The Last Starship by Vaughn Heppner, then you'll love this explosive adventure with constant thrills and high stakes from cover to cover.

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