Terran Armor Corps Anthology, Page 2

“You did well.”

  “Am I redeemed in your eyes?”

  “You are.”

  “Then I want what you promised.” Gideon’s face hardened. “I want my own lance.”

  “You’ll have your lance, but you must forge it yourself.”

  “Back to Earth? Training?”

  “Bring the Iron Dragoons back into the Corps.” Martel leaned against his armor’s leg and ran a hand over his bald head. “You will not fail.”

  “I am armor. I am fury. I will not fail.” Gideon nodded. “It’s been a long time since I was home.”

  Chapter 1

  Sunlight filtered through the memorial hall’s stained-glass ceiling. Images of angels accompanying great starships guarding Earth’s skies stretched from one end of the long hallway to the other. Marble benches ran down the length, each in front of a series of semicircular alcoves that made up the walls.

  Roland Shaw walked slowly, looking for an unoccupied space, passing by sitting mourners waiting for a particular nook to open up. The hallway was deathly silent despite the dozens of people. Roland had come to this memorial hall often enough to know people grieved in their own way, yet almost everyone chose to stay silent here, as if showing signs of life might scare away the spirits of the dead.

  A privacy screen slid open just as Roland passed, and a woman with a black veil hurried out of the alcove, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Roland stepped aside for her and looked to a Hispanic man sitting on the bench across from the new vacancy. He stared down at a statue of a skeletons wearing women’s and children’s clothing in his hands, a bag of fruit at his knee, lost in thought.

  Roland cleared his throat ever so slightly.

  The man gave him a nod and was half off his feet when he gave Roland the once-over, noticing the jet-black pants, ivory-white button-down shirt, and black coat over his arm.

  “You start work soon?” the man whispered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go. The dead will wait for us. The living have much to do.” He settled back down and motioned Roland into the alcove.

  Roland mumbled a quick thanks and stepped over the threshold. The privacy screen swung out of the wall with a hiss and closed behind him. The alcove was a polished obsidian wall. Flowers, an open bottle of liquor and a few small pictures lined the bottom of it.

  The noise-cancelling tech was so perfect Roland couldn’t even hear the air conditioner blowing chill air over him, or any other sound from the rest of the memorial hall. The designers meant for the place to be utterly private, and Roland felt a familiar swell of emotions in his chest.

  “Who would you like to visit?” a computer voice asked.

  “Lieutenants Thomas and Catherine Shaw, Atlantic Union Space Navy. Remains unrecovered.”

  There was a brief pause, then Roland’s parents appeared within the obsidian wall. His mother’s image was of her smiling and giving a brief wave, a video clip of her in a loop. His father was in uniform, stoic as ever. At eighteen, Roland was inching ever closer to his parents’ age when they had died, both in their mid-twenties. Details of their lives and service records scrolled up next to their faces. His mother’s final entry showed she died on Luna when the invading Xaros smashed the moon’s defenses. His father was lost to the void, reassigned at the last second to the 8th Fleet before it went on a mission to deep space where it was lost with all hands.

  “Hey, Mom, Dad, I just turned eighteen, so now I can do my term of public service. We’re the Terran Union now. Colony fleets are leaving all the time, really exciting stuff…I know, Mom, that you didn’t want me to ever join up after Dad died, but it’s the right thing to do. You both fought to keep Earth, and me, safe from the Xaros. Those things are gone forever, but there’s still plenty of bad guys out there. Yeah, I can do public service through the engineer corps or logistics, but both of you fought. I don’t think I could ever face you two again if I tried to duck out of a military term. So that’s my choice. I’m doing it to honor you both. Don’t be mad.

  “I’m busing tables for pocket money.” He lifted up his coat-draped arm slightly. “Robots can do that a hell of a lot better, something my boss mentions constantly. I need some real skills, and a military stint opens up a lot more doors for me. See, Dad? I can be practical.

  “They’ve built memorial halls in every city, on every ship and every planet. That way I know you’ll be with me and I’ll be with you. Ms. Gottfried at the orphanage was kind, but she was never either of you…Now I’m just rambling. I love you both.”

  Roland stepped back from the wall and the image of his parents faded away. The privacy screen slipped open and he hurried out, sharing a quick smile with the man on the bench before he walked down the hallway to the double doors leading outside.

  A gust of hot air greeted him as he left the memorial hall. Phoenix’s summers were a special kind of dry and miserable, punctuated by the occasional sandstorm. He felt sweat forming on his forehead and armpits almost immediately as he made his way to a nearby bus stop. Sunlight glinted from the surrounding skyscrapers, and lines of drones and air cars formed higher and higher tiers of pathways through the metropolis.

  Home to nearly twenty-five million people and the capital of the Terran Union, Phoenix was the largest city on Earth. Roland stepped beneath the bus stop’s awning and wondered—not for the first time—why the government hadn’t chosen a more temperate place to put down roots.

  Roland’s smart watch vibrated with an incoming call. He swiped fingers over it and the face of a doughy kid his same age and in the same black-and-white uniform came up.

  “Oh good, you’re not dead. Yet,” Jerry said.

  Roland spied the drapes behind Jerry.

  “Why are you at work? Our shift isn’t for another hour.”

  “Because Smith called us all in early and I’ve been trying to get ahold of you forever. Some VIPs made last-minute reservations and he wants the place looking more immaculate than usual. Get over here now before he loses his mind completely. Where the heck have you been?”

  Roland glanced at the bus schedule and frowned. If he caught the next bus, and the two transfers, he’d make it to work five minutes before his normal start time.

  “The memorial hall in Chandler. There’s no way I can get there quick. Cover for me.”

  Distant yelling came over the line and Jerry winced.

  “Smith just found some not-so-fresh chicken in the freezer. Take a frigging cab and get over here. I just heard Smith say the bigwig is Colonel Hale, the friggin’ hero of the Ember War, and Mr. Standish, the guy that owns like every liquor store in the solar system,” Jerry said. Roland’s head swayed back in surprise. “It doesn’t get any bigger than this. Get. Over. Here. Think of the tips.”

  “Hale and Standish? I’ll take a cab.” Roland snapped his forearm and his meager account balance came up. Enough for a cab to the restaurant at Euskal Tower, not enough for that and bus fare back to the orphanage.

  “Jerry, don’t you owe me like twenty bucks?”

  “Gotta go, bye.” Jerry cut the call as the yelling grew closer.

  “Risk and reward.” Roland drew a circle in the air over his watch and pulled up the taxi app.

  ****

  The view of the surrounding cityscape from the fiftieth floor of Euskal Tower, one of the few buildings on Earth the Xaros hadn’t annihilated, was one of his restaurant’s many qualities, but Roland paid no attention to the view when he stopped in front of a window and used his reflection to help adjust his tie.

  Deco’s prided itself on an all-human staff, from the maître d’ to the waitstaff, to all the cooks in the kitchen. Robots could do any and all the jobs faster, cheaper and with fewer mistakes, but enough of the clientele in Phoenix preferred the old-fashioned restaurant experience to warrant the choice. The manager had a soft spot for war orphans and was friends with Ms. Gottfried, hence Roland and Jerry had a shot at the much sought-after busboy positions.

  In the day and age of mass automatio
n, the opportunity for teenagers to earn any money was a rare thing indeed.

  Roland opened an unmarked door and hustled down a hallway adjacent to the busy kitchen where the entire waitstaff stood against the wall, ready for the Smith’s merciless inspection as he made his way down the line. Roland stopped next to Jerry and gave his own jacket a quick brush.

  “I will remind you all of our VIP protocols,” Smith said. “No pictures. No chitchat and absolutely no mention of who our guests chose to dine with. Deco’s has a reputation for discretion. You will keep to it or you will not work here.”

  The maître d’ sidestepped in front of Roland and frowned. He pinched something on the busboy’s lapel and removed a long blond hair that did not belong to the young man. Smith raised an eyebrow at him and Roland blushed in response.

  “Tanya will handle the VIP table,” Smith said, speaking of the restaurant’s senior waitress. “Jerry will bus.” Roland’s heart sank as he realized he wouldn’t get anywhere near Hale and Standish.

  Smith clapped his hands together twice and the waitstaff filtered into the restaurant just as the hostess came in from the front with six guests.

  Roland followed Jerry as the other busboy made his way to a curtained-off table just out of view of much of the restaurant.

  “Jerry, you got to let me take this one,” Roland said.

  “Are you crazy? Remember the last VIP we had? That Orozco guy that does all the commercials for Standish liquors? He slipped me a hundred on his way out. Imagine how much Orozco’s boss will give me.” Jerry rubbed his hands together.

  “I don’t want the whole table. Just let me fill their drinks up once. These are two heroes of the Ember War and this has got to be our last chance to ever get close to somebody that famous. We’re enlisting in a couple days, remember?”

  “I don’t know…Smith’s got his stick rammed up extra high tonight.”

  “I’ll give you my tips for the night. All of them.”

  “Well…when you put it that way. I’ll let you tag in after they get settled, deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Roland went to the bussers’ station and readied a pitcher with water flown in from Fiji. He started toward the table of six when Smith led two men in suits and a very proper-looking woman with her hair in a tight bun to the VIP table. Smith swept the curtain aside with a flourish and bowed slightly as the three entered. Roland got a good look at the backs of their heads, and nothing else.

  A waiter slipped past him and poked him with his elbow. Roland suddenly remembered his duties and went to his assigned table.

  As the night progressed, he kept an eye on the VIP room, waiting as Tanya slipped in and out with drinks and appetizers. Jerry came out with a half-empty pitcher and nodded slightly to Roland.

  Roland craned his neck toward the kitchen, where Smith had gone to check on the entrees. With no sign of the maître d’, Roland hurried over to Jerry and took the pitcher from him.

  “They’re almost done with their apps,” Jerry said. “Tanya’s cool with this, but clear that table before Smith sees you. Got it?”

  “Got it, got it. Table nine’s looking low on ice tea—cover for me.”

  Jerry gave him a light punch on the shoulder that sent the water sloshing around the pitcher.

  Roland peeked around the edge of the curtain to the VIP table. Hale looked older than the man in the news videos and The Last Stand on Takeni, the somewhat propagandized movie about how Hale and the strike cruiser Breitenfeld saved the alien Dotok from a Xaros invasion. The former Marine still had the bulk of a man who worked out regularly and the eyes of someone with iron resolve.

  Roland recognized Standish from the larger-than-life-sized statues the man had in front of all his liquor stores. In person, his well-coiffed jet-black hair and oversized gold watch were in stark contrast to the mental image Roland had of him as another Marine veteran that fought beside Hale. Standish’s suit shifted color slightly as he moved, adapting to the light and making him look like he was in the middle of a photo shoot dedicated to enhancing his features.

  The woman who accompanied them both stood against the wall, her eyes on a data slate.

  Standish drank the last of his water and set the glass down. Roland’s heart beat faster as a chance presented itself. He straightened his back, cleared his throat, smiled broadly and slipped into the room.

  “That’s what I told her,” Standish said. “I took a shower, but it still itches.”

  Hale chuckled and tossed back the last of his drink.

  Roland refilled Standish’s glass, utterly focused on not spilling a single drop on the tablecloth.

  “Standish,” Hale said, holding up his glass and looking at the lights through a thin sheen of amber alcohol still on the sides, “you never did tell me where you found the spirits you used to start your business.”

  “Trade secrets,” Standish said, “but since you’re about to take a colony ship to Terra Nova, I’ll let you in on it. Wait—what’s your name, kid?”

  Roland froze.

  “Me? Sir?”

  “No, the mouse in your pocket.”

  “Roland…Shaw. I just do water and clear tables and—”

  “Roland, I’m about to say something to my old commander and friend that I trust with my life. Word of this story gets out and then…” Standish pointed a finger at Roland and frowned.

  “No. Never, sir! At Deco’s we—”

  “Remember the first time we hit Phoenix and got Ibarra out from under this building?” Standish asked Hale. “Of course you do. What a crap day that was. While you were tossing grenades at Xaros from the back of that truck I hot-wired, I noticed a rather large liquor store was still intact. Once things settled down after the Battle of Ceres, I led a raid to liberate the contents before some army dogs or squids could get their filthy hands on it.”

  “Then you opened the black market for liquor across the fleet,” Hale said.

  “I found a market niche in need of my services,” Standish said with a twinkle in his eye as he took a sip of whiskey.

  “Gentlemen, if you’re done with your appetizers, I’ll take your plates,” Roland said.

  “How old are you, son?” Hale asked.

  Roland froze, his hand stretched out mid-reach for what little remained of Hale’s soup.

  “Old?” Roland felt sweat on his forehead and armpits.

  “You look like you’re about eighteen,” the retired colonel said. “Given thought to what branch you’ll choose when your term comes up?”

  “Not the Strike Marines,” Standish said. “The recruiter will lie to you. Tell you it’s nothing but hanging out on a void ship watching movies and that you’ll never have to walk anywhere since you’ll be space-borne infantry. They won’t mention the face-eating aliens on Nibiru or that you’ll have to singlehandedly save Phoenix from being nuked.”

  “What?” Hale gave Standish a sideways glance. “I thought Bailey and Egan were with you when that—”

  “Who’s telling the story here, sir? You or me?” Standish shook his head quickly, then wagged a finger at Roland. “Recruiters lie, kid. All of them. Constantly. You’ll know what you’re qualified for. Don’t accept anything less than exactly what you want. That’s the first and last time you’ll ever get to make a choice in the military. The rest of your time you’re stating a preference that will be ignored with a second thought.”

  “You’re still mad I made you go on that first Pathfinder Corps mission with me to the jungle planet?” Hale asked.

  “I still have the rash. You want to see it?”

  “Some friends from my orphanage went orbital artillery,” Roland said as he picked up their plates. “They say it’s kind of boring.”

  “As the former head of the Pathfinder Corps,” Hale said, “we always needed motivated individuals to help scout out new planets for colonization.”

  “And those with the talent to recover alien tech,” Standish said.

  “Which is why I needed
you on those first few missions,” Hale said. “You had a reputation for…foraging.”

  “I regret nothing.” Standish raised his nose slightly.

  The curtain swept aside and Smith glared daggers at Roland. Jerry was just behind him, his eyes wide with fear.

  “I am so sorry, gentlemen,” Smith said. “Our staff know better than to—”

  “We were the ones bothering him,” Standish said. “He’s doing a great job. In fact, hold on…” Standish twisted around to the woman. “Julie, do I own this place?”

  “Yes, you do, Mr. Standish.”

  “If Reggie here isn’t working until the day he goes to serve his term,” Standish said, picking up a fork and tapping it against the tablecloth, “I will be most perturbed. Capisce?”

  “Of course, Mr. Standish.”

  “Son,” Hale said and Roland turned to him with a jingle of china plates, “good luck out there. Take care of the men and women you serve with and they’ll take care of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Smith,” Standish rapped his fork against the side of an empty wine glass. “Break out the Cheval Blanc. My friend’s going on a long trip and I’ll not have him go thirsty.”

  ****

  Roland cleared a table as the last guest for the evening finally left the restaurant, well past midnight. As the premier restaurant in Phoenix, Deco’s catered to individuals from across the planet and the solar system, many of whom didn’t have their sleep cycles tuned to local time. The restaurant stayed open very late, as no one would pay for dinner while the sun was up.

  He set dishes into a cart and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. Standish and Hale had left hours ago, but the encounter was still fresh in his mind. That he was so close to his term of service and had no idea what he wanted to do hadn’t concerned him until the two veterans had asked him about it.

  Smith rapped a data slate against the hostess station, his signal that the receipts for the evening were tallied and it was time to disperse tips. Jerry, working two tables away, looked at his smart watch and bit his lower lip in anticipation.