The Crucible (The Ember War Saga Book 8)

  The Crucible

  The Ember War Saga Book 8

  by

  Richard Fox

  Copyright © by Richard Fox

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.

  ASIN: B01LZZ9V7H

  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

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  IRON HEARTS

  THE QUEEN OF SIDONIA

  CHAPTER 1

  Captain Hale stood over the shattered body of a Ruhaald. The upper half of the body was smeared across the desert in a congealed black mass that stank of rust, the still-intact leg and hip armor twitching every few seconds. A wrecked Ruhaald fighter pinged as it bled heat into the already sweltering air. Hale turned his head to a line of doughboy corpses laid out next to a distant bunker.

  A pair of Marines behind him had rifles in hand, held low but ready to fight. Cortaro scanned the horizon as Orozco shifted his boots against the packed earth.

  “Egan, Standish and Bailey were alive when the Ruhaald took them?” Hale asked.

  “Roger, sir,” Orozco nodded emphatically, “I saw them get frog-marched into the transport. Didn’t seem hurt.”

  “None of them opened fire on the Ruhaald, just the doughboys?”

  “They were trying to help whatever was flying that thing.” Orozco motioned to the downed fighter with the muzzle of his rifle. “It all happened too fast. Doughboys saw the aliens and went berserk. I tried to keep them back but…”

  “Why would they take our Marines and leave their dead behind?” Cortaro asked. “Orozco said this dead one looked important when the shuttle set down.”

  “Hard to understand a new species you’ve just met,” Hale said. “Killing one of their leaders—or any of them—probably isn’t the best way to say ‘hello.’ No word from the Ruhaald since the stand-down order?”

  “Nothing new, sir,” Cortaro said. “Couple Eagles got in a scrape with their fighters over St. George a few hours ago. Ruhaald repeated their ‘no airborne craft, no hostile acts’ warning again.”

  A wall of shadow swept across the desert floor. Hale looked up as a Ruhaald battle cruiser blocked the sun. Lines of arrowhead-shaped fighters flew tight circles around the angular ship. Light smeared across its underside, a telltale sign of energy shielding.

  “You ever been in a fight without air superiority, First Sergeant?” Hale asked.

  Cortaro ran a palm over his side, where Hale knew the Marine had a long patch of scar tissue.

  “Sumatra, back when I was a buck sergeant. Bad couple of days.”

  An IR channel in Hale’s helmet hissed to life.

  “Roughneck-6, this is Phoenix actual. Return to base immediately. Code Gamma,” said the commander of the defenders in and around Earth’s capital.

  “Moving,” Hale replied, then cut the transmission. “First Sergeant, Phoenix reports enemy contact. We need to get back.” Hale looked up at the alien ship again.

  What the hell do they want? he thought.

  ****

  The Crucible’s heart no longer belonged to humanity. Most of the workstations, chairs and computers installed over the years-long occupancy had been ripped out and tossed into a mound against the control center’s outer wall.

  The tiers of dull basalt rings were as bare as the Xaros builders intended, all but the glowing probe in the bottom tier. Bastion’s probe floated within a thin force field, its normally smooth texture fraying around the edges. Square panels cluttered the space around the probe, each projecting thin holographic lines of alien text.

  All the panels connected to one of three evenly sized boxes rimmed with frost.

  Prefect Ordona floated between the holo-fields, his metal encounter suit boasting several mechanical arms connected to wide shoulders. His head was an overturned bucket with a thin red vision slit. Arms reached into the holo-fields, tweaking code. Ordona’s head swiveled around, watching the effect of his changes on the Bastion probe.

  One of the panels flickered and died with an electric snap. Claw-tipped hands snapped in annoyance. That was the fourth failure in the last several hours, likely due to yet another power surge from the Crucible’s faulty systems.

  Doors on the uppermost level opened and a Ruhaald stomped down the steps too wide and too tall for a normal-sized human. This Ruhaald bore a diagram of his species’ home system across his armored chest. The flesh within his clear helmet was milky-white—a sign of advanced age according to Ordona’s records.

  “I render appropriate greetings,” Septon Jarilla said.

  “Indeed you do,” Ordona said, continuing his work.

  “The occupation of Earth is complete. All surviving cities have at least one battle cruiser monitor. The humans were disciplined for breaching the no-fly order several times, all within the first hour of our restrictions.”

  Ordona twisted his head around to regard the Septon.

  “This is irrelevant to our purposes,” Ordona said. “What of the omnium reactor? The procedural technology?”

  “The reactor is well defended. Human warriors and their slaves repelled our initial assault. They’ve used the reactor to bolster their defenses.”

  “I sense hesitation. Provide your excuse for our delayed success.”

  Jarilla stepped carefully around the panels and peered into the force field holding the probe.

  “Her highness considers the lives of each of her children as jewels beyond price. Ruhaald lives are my responsibility. I could overwhelm those defending the omnium reactor, but it would be a massacre. My troops are not air breathers. Fighting in such conditions is difficult for us. We’ve much to learn.”

  “Sacrifices must be made,” Ordona said. “The fate of the least of your species is irrelevant to our mission.”

  “It is relevant to her. It is relevant to me. Perhaps you can explain why you do not have full control over this station?” Jarilla raised a thin tentacle and tapped the tip against the force field. Electricity snapped and singed the armored digit.

  “The humans modified their probe following the Toth intrusion into their system. The source-code modifications the Naroosha purchased from Dr. Mentiq were perfectly adequate to co-opt the probe in our home world and all the probes utilized by the other races that joined our grand endeavor. The Toth program will work…in time.”

  “We had control long enough to send your ship to Bastion with the ancient. Yet now the Crucible is a dead satellite?”

  “The probe had an independent memory partition. Most unusual. It tried and failed to regain control. I put up firewalls to isolate the program. The same firewalls block my control of several key systems. My efforts are focused on deleting the partition and rebooting the probe to a more compliant configuration. Both courses of action will result in the same end state. The Crucible will be ours.”

  “How much time? The humans will not sit still for this.”

  “At most, two days.”

  Jarilla bent at the waist and turned one of his wide black eyes to look into Ordona’s vision slit.

  “Then you can vent the atmosphere in the omnium reactor chamber. I wil
l not lose a life if there is a better alternative.”

  “Keep up the pressure on the defenders. Their use of the reactor is rudimentary. Do not give them time and space to learn more.”

  “This will be done. There is the matter of the Toth. The method of payment is most…unusual.” Bubbles escaped from Jarilla’s feeder tentacles. Ordona noted the Ruhaald nonverbal cue for disgust.

  “The Toth want what the Toth want. If our species are to survive the impending Xaros maniples closing on our worlds, we will need larger fleets. The humans barely managed to defeat this last attack with a few years to prepare. The Ruhaald and Naroosha have many more years to bolster our defenses. The Toth will provide us legions of human troops and crews, but only if we give them the procedural technology.”

  “Why must we consort with those traitors?”

  “The alternative is to assault a fortified human city and seize a fully functioning procedural farm. The casualties will be significant, which bothers that queen of yours. Sad that ideals impede progress.”

  Jarilla whipped a pistol off his waist and leveled it at Ordona’s vision slit.

  “You will not insult her!”

  Ordona’s helmet swiveled from side to side. “The comment is withdrawn.”

  Jarilla lowered the weapon, but kept it in hand.

  “The procedural technology is the final prize in our mission here,” Ordona said. “Once the gate is fully under my control, the Toth will send an invasion force to secure the human cities. Supreme Leader Rannik is most anxious to revisit this planet after the death of Dr. Mentiq.”

  “There is a procedural facility on this station. Why do we need more?” Jarilla asked.

  “The memory partition ruined the storage banks and scrambled much of the system’s coding. The units already in production will reach full maturity, but I cannot make more. Another of my kind is attempting to reverse engineer the process. I put his chance of success at eleven percent. The Toth do not want a possibility; they want a fully functional system. I do not wish to anger them upon their arrival.”

  “They will devour every last human in revenge for Mentiq’s death. The Toth are not known for their restraint. You know what the Toth did to the Karigole.”

  “This is not our concern.” Ordona pivoted in place and floated over to another holo-field.

  “She would see a better outcome for the humans. If they hand over the procedural technology and the reactor, we can leave with our mission accomplished. Scuttle this Crucible once we depart, take their jump engines. We have Malal and can create our own Crucibles, in time. Leave the humans to fend for themselves until the next Xaros attack. Let our enemies spend their strength on each other.” Jarilla holstered his pistol.

  “Possible. The final outcome will be the same. Ravaging Earth was not the agreement we made with the Toth, just the shared use of the procedural technology. You may pursue that course of action, but do not threaten my efforts here.”

  Jarilla took to the stairs, then stopped.

  “She feels that the Naroosha have not sacrificed as the Ruhaald have on this mission. If you could commit resources to the siege on the omnium reactor, it would be appreciated.”

  A staccato hiss came from Ordona’s encounter suit. “This environment is incompatible with Naroosha physiology. Our ships will control the void. For something so pedestrian as ground combat, we have you and your kind. This conversation is a distraction. Any further discussion and it may take longer than two days to assume complete control of the probe. Leave.”

  “I render appropriate farewells,” Jarilla said and marched up the stairs.

  ****

  The abyss pressed against Private First Class Standish, smothering his eyes with total darkness. The deck of the Ruhaald shuttle lurched beneath his feet and the grip of unseen guards tightened against his arms, which were bound behind his back at the wrists and elbows. Sweat dribbled down his face and ran over his lips as the hot, humid air clung to his skin.

  His battle armor weighed heavy against his body, the pseudo-muscle layer and support lattice rendered useless once the Ruhaald ripped the suit’s power pack away. Standish shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying to relieve the mounting stress on his legs.

  A snarl of wet pops sounded in his ear as a guard jerked him off balance.

  “Fine, fine…I’ll stand still,” Standish said.

  A cold tentacle touched his neck and slithered across his skin.

  Standish seized up. “No talking, I remember!”

  “Get stuffed, you bunch of fisho lookin’ cocks! Hurt him and I’ll kick you until I find a place to stick my—mmph” Bailey’s invective ended with a rustle in the darkness.

  The tentacle around Standish’s neck withdrew, but not before the tip poked at Standish’s face.

  Standish cursed silently and tried to figure out just how he’d landed in this situation. He, Bailey and Egan had been shot down fighting the Xaros near Phoenix, then taken refuge in a bunker manned by bio-construct doughboy soldiers. A fleet of Ruhaald fighters turned the tide against the invading drones, and one crash-landed near their bunker. The Marines rendered what aid they could to the aquatic alien. Things seemed under control…until a Ruhaald shuttle landed nearby and a high-ranking Ruhaald set foot on Earth. Standish’s memory went a bit hazy as he tried to piece together the chaos of weapons fire from doughboys and Ruhaald that left the Ruhaald leader, and a slew of doughboys, dead.

  The surviving Ruhaald took Standish and his two squad-mates prisoner after the firing had stopped and hustled them into their shuttle. Then the darkness.

  This can get worse. A lot worse, he thought. Pretty sure killing an ally commander is not how you make friends with these…whatever they are. I’ll get blamed. I know it. I was the lowest-ranked Marine out there.

  The shuttle rattled. The smell of salt water grew stronger. The grip on his arms tightened.

  Here we go.

  A bar of white cut across the darkness. Standish blinked hard as the shuttle’s ramp lowered and light assaulted his eyes. The guards pushed him forward and the Marine stumbled. He trudged forward, his unpowered armor dragging his steps like he was walking through mud.

  Cold, bone-dry air filled his mouth and nose. His boots hit the ramp with a metal-on-metal clang, then set down on what felt like loose sand.

  Standish shook his head and looked up. He was inside a flattened dome. Obsidian-black walls dotted with bolted-on lighting and blinking display panels stretched around the perimeter of the small stadium. He got a glance at blocky Ruhaald shuttles arrayed next to each other as perfectly as soldiers formed up for close-order drill to one side…and piles of bodies on the other.

  The dead were large and well-muscled, with mottled skin. Smoldering wounds created a fugue of burnt meat and vaporized blood that sent Standish’s stomach into knots. Standish looked over the many dead and didn’t see a single normal human in the pile. They were all doughboys.

  A guard grabbed him by the back of his head and shoved his chin down. Standish counted his steps as the Ruhaald frog-marched him into a corridor. Ruhaald soldiers trotted up and down the corridor, all carrying rifles made of irregular-shaped blocks and pulsing wires. Clicks and squeaks sounded through the corridor. The sound of distant gauss fire echoed off the walls.

  Two alien soldiers supported a Ruhaald, its armor pitted with craters and leaking brackish fluid that stank of low tide. The wounded Ruhaald lashed out at Standish, but his guards jerked him out of reach. Flecks of oily water sprayed over Standish’s bare face and neck.

  Not going well. At all, Standish thought.

  He twisted his head aside when an anti-grav cargo pallet went by, dead doughboys stacked atop each other, all marked with burnt circles against their torsos.

  The guard steered Standish down another, narrower hallway. The air was stale, cold. There was no hustle of fighters around them.

  They stopped at a wide doorway and waited as the doors crumbled to the side, like a wall of sand
failing against the tide. Inside, a Ruhaald held open a cell. The guards slammed the three Marines against the back wall of the cage and exited before Standish could even get to his feet.

  “Hey, you want to do something about this?” Standish struggled against the bindings around his arms and wrists.

  The cell door slammed shut and an energy field crackled to life around the bars. A single Ruhaald remained behind; it looked over the human captives and cocked its head to the side. The bulbous lower half of its helmet was clear and feeder tentacles writhed within as the guard leaned toward Standish.

  Standish backpedaled, stopped by the obsidian wall.

  The guard let off a series of clicks, then Standish’s bindings fell to the floor. The green-black cords curled together and burned away in a cloud of gray vapor. Standish got a sore arm up and waved his hand against his nose to combat the sudden stench.

  The Ruhaald backed away, not turning his back on the Marines, and left the room.

  “Where the hell are we?” Egan asked. “One of their ships?”

  “This is the Crucible.” Standish rubbed his shoulders and looked over their cell. “I got a good look at the place when we were running around, trying to get Stacey Ibarra to the control center back when we took it from the Xaros.”

  “Blimey, this is a cock-up, isn’t it?” Bailey sat on a metal bench and tapped on her forearm screen. She rolled her eyes when it didn’t respond, then removed the gauntlet with a click and set it next to her.

  “Either of you two diggers catch what happened?” The Australian Marine ran her naked hand through her short brown hair. “We were out there, trying to do one of them a solid, then some alien bigwig shows up and…Christ.”

  “The doughboys attacked.” Egan went to a small sink next to the only toilet and took a drink from the fountain. “Oro was trying to stop them, trying to warn us. Why would they do that?”

  “Bailey,” Standish rapped his fingers against the bars, “you remember when Steuben and Hale came back from Earth, right before we went to Europa to try and play nice with the Toth?”