The Last Aeon, Page 2

  Chapter 2

  A mule ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics and cold, dry air flooded the transport. Chief Santos felt the bite against his bare skin from where he stood at the fore of the compartment. The many Rangers packed tight in there with him didn’t seem to mind.

  The hangar beyond opened up to a magnificent sunset; the system’s two primaries—a large yellow and smaller white star—hung just over the horizon. Long shadows stretched from slate-colored mountain peaks and cut across a valley leading to the base of the mountain Santos had just landed inside.

  A sergeant in gray-scale fatigues and a black beret stomped up the ramp, his breath fogging in the air as he looked across the personnel crammed into the Mule. His eyes carried the faraway quality of one that spent too much time in combat.

  “Rangers! Welcome to Umbra. Welcome to the fight. Police your gear and follow me.” He half turned and swung an arm forward.

  The soldiers grunted and cursed as they tried to untangle themselves and their packs from each other, hurrying after the sergeant, each departure lessening the pressure on Santos and the rest.

  A Ranger swung her pack onto her shoulders. “Good luck,” she said to him and tapped her fist to her heart in a salute.

  Santos managed a nod and a half smile. Acknowledging Saint Kallen was strictly forbidden these days, especially after what happened on Mars.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Stay safe out there.”

  “Like that’ll happen,” she muttered and hurried out of the Mule.

  He picked up his rucksack, decidedly less heavy than the gear the Rangers were carrying, and walked to the edge of the ramp. The hangar was alive with activity as techs loaded munitions onto a pair of Eagles, both sporting dents and scorch marks from battle damage. Troops moved about in loose formations to exits. Loaders in powered exoskeletons moved crates to waiting hover sleds. The shouting of sergeants and chief petty officers turned what looked like chaos into a ballet of moving pieces dancing on the edge of chaos.

  “Chief Santos?” A man in dirty overalls and with dark hair mostly run through with gray looked up at him from one side of the ramp.

  “That’s me,” he said. “How’d you know?”

  The tech tapped the back of his skull, indicating Santos’s plugs. “You don’t blend, sir,” he said. “Master Sergeant Henrique. I’m your lance technician chief. Captain Gideon sent me to pick you up.”

  Santos nodded and went down the ramp. As a junior Armor soldier, he had no illusions about his importance, but he thought at least one of his lance mates would have come to pick him up, not a suit tech.

  “Where is the captain?” Santos asked as he followed Henrique through the busy hangar.

  “He dismounted and went to some powwow with the brass,” Henrique said. “Captain gave the Kesaht a bloody nose in the valley. He’d still be out there, but it’s almost sundown.”

  “How does that matter?” Santos frowned and looked to the horizon and the suns nestled within layers of golden bands.

  “They didn’t tell you about Umbra?” Henrique asked.

  “I didn’t get much. Personnel showed up, handed a bunch of us orders, and told us to get through the Mars Crucible ASAP. Kind of a surprise. Graduation wasn’t for another two months.” Santos shrugged the shoulder holding the rucksack, alleviating the bite of the strap somewhat.

  “You didn’t finish training?” Henrique did a double take.

  “Well, that last field op is sort of a waste of time, so I’ve heard. I’m ready. Where’s my suit?” He flashed a very wide—and very fake—smile.

  “Cagnar nas callas,” Henrique muttered in Portuguese. “The Corps cut off its nose to spite its own face.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Nothing, sir. Welcome to the Iron Dragoons. You’re filling some awfully big boots. Just don’t want you to end up like the last guy.”

  Henrique hefted Santos’s pack off his back and tossed it into the rear of a hover cart. As the cart took off around the corner, the Armor soldier looked back for a last glimpse of the sunset.

  ****

  Santos bounded up the corrugated metal steps leading to a catwalk spanning across a makeshift cemetery—not one for the departed, but for Armor suits standing inside maintenance bays shaped like coffins missing their lids.

  He noted blaster score marks on the breastplate of one, the half-blackened unit patch of the Iron Dragoons and bubbled paint from a Kesaht blast. When he passed a factory-fresh suit, the smell of grease and the glint of new optics made him smile.

  An Armor soldier was a few suits away, facing away from Santos, but the plugs on the back of his head marked him out as one of Mars’ champions.

  With a stomp of his foot, Santos came to a stop and rendered a perfect salute.

  “Warrant Officer 1 Mateo Santos reporting for duty, sir!”

  The other Armor turned around, snapping straight a metal prosthetic hand. Aignar clumsily returned the salute.

  Santos’s eyes widened as he looked at Aignar’s robotic hands and the speaker in his throat, but he regained his military bearing a moment later.

  “Jonas Aignar. They said we had a replacement inbound. Didn’t think you’d be so…squeaky.” The man’s mouth and jaw didn’t move; all his words came from his throat speaker.

  “I’m fully rated,” Santos said. “Top of my class in marksmanship and tactics. Sure, we didn’t get our final evaluations, but—”

  “Let me see your ORB.” Aignar’s salute hand bent into a fist.

  Santos removed a slate from his pocket and swiped it on. His Officer Record Brief, a chronological list of his entire military career, training and assignments, was already loaded up.

  Aignar’s eyebrows perked up.

  “Jesus, kid. You’re still pissing Martian water. No prior service. You assessed straight to Knox and then Mars.” Aignar looked up from the slate and shook his head.

  “Is that…bad? Plenty of Armor come through that way.”

  “They don’t go through and miss the last maneuver exercise before going downrange. This ain’t training, kid. No place to tip your toe in and test the water. You’re in the deep end with the sharks. Kesaht out there aren’t fooling around.”

  “I’m ready,” Santos said, swallowing hard.

  “Sure you are.” Aignar handed the slate back to the junior soldier. He banged a metal wrist against the railing and got Henrique’s attention on the ground level. “Cherry needs to plug in,” he shouted down.

  “It’s an honor to be with this lance,” Santos said. “I heard all about the fight on Barada, Balmaseda, and even—”

  “Let me stop you right there, kid. The Iron Dragoons go back a long way, to old horse cavalry in the American army. Recent past has been a bit…checkered. You know about the Templar?”

  “They defected to the Ibarra Nation. Some sort of jailbreak on Mars? I was doing gunnery quals on Titan when all that went down. Sounded like a real mess. Ibarran spies. Lots of naissance checks for the support crew. I’ve got my plugs, so there shouldn’t be any doubt I’m loyal to the Union. I’m no proccie the Ibarras could have tinkered with.”

  “Being true born’s no guarantee,” Aignar said. “You keep to Saint Kallen?”

  “I was raised original Catholic,” Santos said. “I know what Kallen did, but I don’t believe in her that way.”

  “One less thing to worry about. You know whose spot you’re filling?”

  “Sure don’t. Orders said Iron Dragoons on Umbra.” He shrugged.

  “You’re either out of the loop or General Laran’s done a great job of blotting out his name from the records. You seen that vid from Balmaseda, the Black Knight on the bridge holding off Sanheel?”

  “A couple hundred times. That Armor’s a legend for how he…” Santos frowned. “Wait…if he…oh. Oh!” He twisted around and stared at the new suit of Armor. “Wait. Really? Seriously?”

  “Gideon’s going to love you. I can feel it.” Aignar raised a shoulder and scratched t
he side of his face against his coveralls. His jaw was off-kilter for a half second until he knocked it back into place with a tap of his metal fist.

  “His name is Roland Shaw. He’s a traitor and a coward,” Aignar said. “He’s gone from the Terran Union and the Corps. Never speak of him. Don’t ask the captain about him. He’s the enemy now. If we ever cross paths with him, you put him down like you would any Kesaht. Understand?”

  “We’re going to fight Ibarrans?” Santos asked.

  “Not here. Not unless they show up looking for a scrap. Bastards here are giving us enough trouble for the system. But there’s a reckoning coming for the Ibarrans. All of them,” Aignar said.

  “The Terran Union is humanity,” Santos said. “My father was there—I mean, he fought in the Ember War. The Ibarrans are targets. All of them. Roger that.”

  “You’re the fourth Iron Dragoon. You’ll earn your spurs with us or die trying,” Aignar said.

  “I am Armor,” Santos said, his eyes set firm. He looked down the line of suits in the cemetery. “Who’s the third?”

  “Cha’ril. She’s on maternity leave,” Aignar said.

  “What? How did that happen?”

  “She’s Dotari, but I’ve heard the mechanics are pretty similar.”

  “No. I mean, why—but if she’s…They never mentioned stuff like this in training.”

  “Welcome to the ‘real’ army. Training’s over with. Enemy’s plenty real. Now let’s get you plugged in. Captain will be back soon and we’re not going to be here much longer, not with nightfall coming.”

  Chapter 3

  Cha’ril groaned and leaned forward. Man’fred Vo caught her and sprinkled water over her hair quills. Vapor rose from them as she began panting.

  “You’re doing great!” Man’fred Vo said as he raised a spoon up to her beak. “Ice chips?”

  Cha’ril slapped the spoon away and snapped at his face.

  “The apex is free,” a nurse said from the other side of the nest.

  “It’s finally out?” Cha’ril squeaked.

  “It’s beautiful.” Man’fred Vo hugged her tight and helped her roll over.

  The egg lay on a padded tray, the shell white and speckled with deep-blue spots. A Dotari nurse wiped it clean as another ran a sensor wand over the top. The egg was oval-shaped, almost as long as her forearm.

  “Everything is viable,” the nurse said. “Congratulations.”

  “The spots…my mother said my sisters had the same pattern,” Man’fred Vo said and gave Cha’ril’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “I hate you. Oh, how I hate you right now,” she said.

  “They all say that.” The nurse let out a staccato hiss of a laugh.

  Cha’ril propped herself up and shifted against the edge of the nest bed. She stared hard at the egg, her fingers opening and closing.

  “You wish to hold it?” the nurse asked.

  “I am…I am of the warrior list,” she said. “It’s bad luck. Isn’t it?” She looked up at Man’fred Vo, her eyes pleading.

  “I am on the same list,” he said. “We know the stories. The Tragedy of Gol-rin. Uella’s Lonely Nest.”

  “Then I will take this to the incubation ward,” the nurse said. “Transport back to the home world is ready. You’ve arranged for a ward?”

  “Our mothers,” Cha’ril said. “But we want the incubation slowed. Long enough for our service terms to end.”

  “Easily done.” The nurse put a palm to the egg. “The first Dotari laid on Mars. Congratulations.”

  The nurse pushed the cart away and Cha’ril lurched forward, but Man’fred Vo pulled her back.

  “We agreed,” he said.

  “Your blood isn’t hot with maternal instincts like mine,” she said, slumping forward.

  “You are…” he pushed her quills to one side to see her skull plugs, “you are special, my star. The Armor would let you leave?”

  “I’ve read the mutual defense treaty a dozen times,” she said. “The humans insisted on a clause allowing Dotari mothers to end their service in the event of pregnancy. Seems human females experience worse labor than us.” She scooted to the edge of the nest and got to her feet carefully.

  “Then you could take it,” Man’fred Vo said. “Go back to the home world with our egg until it—”

  “Would you leave your squadron now?”

  Man’fred Vo let out a low trill.

  “Your father is a great pilot. A renowned war hero. Your duty is not done to the Dotari or our alliance with Earth. Neither is mine. I am Armor…my lance needs me.”

  “Your lance is a dirty nest,” he said. “The human Armor just went through a civil war, one that isn’t over. Earth promised they’d keep Dotari out of the conflict with the Ibarrans, but you’re in a joint lance. You could end up fighting that…that Roland. That one our ushulra will never speak of.”

  “I should just abandon the humans when they need every Armor they can throw into the fight?”

  “You don’t owe them—”

  “We owe them, Man’fred Vo. I’m alive because a Strike Marine sniper chose to save my mother and me when I was a baby in her arms. Marines bled and died for that decision. We live because the Breitenfeld saved us on Takeni. How can I turn my back on them now?”

  “Then transfer to a Dotari Armor battalion. Don’t risk getting in the middle of their vendettas.”

  Cha’ril winced as her hip bones popped.

  “We’re in the war against the Kesaht with Earth—the rest of the Vishrakath’s alliance too if they attack our ships,” she said. “There’s no safe place for me. Or you. Is that what this is about?”

  “After the Ibarrans almost killed me during their escape.” His quills rustled with annoyance. “Flying fighters gives one a sense of invincibility. When an explosion tears that fighter apart and an ejection seat saves your life…It made me think.”

  “Armor is not a safe assignment. Even in a Dotari battalion,” she said, pulling a robe over her shoulders.

  “I want us both to be there when our egg hatches…but at least one must be there,” he said. “For the egg. For our child.”

  “So one of us must leave the fight now…or we both survive the war.”

  “If you were a pilot, I could protect you in the air—”

  “And if you were Armor, we’d fight shoulder to shoulder. I am Armor. I must fight.”

  “I cannot leave my wing.”

  “Then…”

  “I swear,” he said, swinging his legs over the nest and folding her hands into his, “I will be there when our baby reaches into the light.”

  “We can promise all we want. The war carries its own fate for us. It’s not that I doubt you, my joined, but I did think you died during the Ibarrans’ escape.” She slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Then if one of us is lost?”

  “The other leaves the war. Returns to the home world and is a parent to our child.”

  “Agreed,” Man’fred Vo said. “This…this is not a conversation I ever thought I’d have with my joined.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have fought so hard for my hand!” She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.

  “It was love at first sight. I regret nothing.”

  “It was my pheromones.” She clicked her beak.

  “No. It wasn’t,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  Chapter 4

  The briefing room aboard the Warsaw was little different from other Terran Union capital ships: semicircular rows radiating away from a small stage and holo tank. Ship’s officers and a pair of Armor from another lance mingled about the room. Roland stood next to Morrigan as she leaned against a row of seats, arms and legs crossed.

  “It’s bloody shite is what it is,” said the Irish Armor.

  “You’ve never been on full commo lockdown before?” Roland asked. “Happens all the time in my…my old unit.” He cleared his throat nervously. His defection from the Terran Union to
the Ibarra Nation was sealed after he broke out of a Martian prison and fought Union Armor to rescue Lady Ibarra from a Qa’Resh facility. Despite this, he still felt out of place amongst those he now fought beside.

  “Wasn’t necessary before we brought Earth’s Templar and a few hundred…ach, what’re we calling them? Have to be polite all of a sudden.”

  “Sleeper agents,” Roland said. The soldiers, sailors and Marines who had once been loyal to Earth had become full-on Ibarrans after the rescue team activated dormant commands in some of his fellow prisoners. Seeing them change so quickly and easily had been a little hard for Roland to accept.

  “Now we have to get our mission orders just before we step off,” Morrigan said. “No time for rehearsals. No time to hit the range and shoot up proper targets.”

  “If you lived in a constant state of preparedness, there would be no need to worry,” said one of the pair of Armor soldiers as the two came over. Both were Asian men with shaved heads, their skull plugs glinting in the light.

  “If I want crap from you, Umezu, I’ll squeeze your head,” Morrigan said.

  “We have our duty,” said the other Armor, Araki by his name tape, “and that is all we must concern ourselves with.”

  “I can’t tell if the Nisei lance are fatalists or posers,” Morrigan said.

  “Discipline equals freedom, Morrigan,” Umezu said. “Send us through a drop pod to scout a planet? We are ready. Assault Phoenix and bring the Union to its knees? Give us a landing zone.”

  Morrigan made a dismissive noise and rolled her eyes.

  “How is the Black Knight adjusting to the Nation?” Araki asked Roland.

  “I had the nickel tour before the legionnaires and the Warsaw got me off Mars,” Roland said. “The hardest thing is the Basque language, though everyone switches to English when they realize…” he added, tapping his skull plugs.

  “Basque.” Umezu shivered. “Almost no mutual intelligibility with English or the old Atlantic Union languages. It’s like when my uncle tried to teach me Japanese.”

  “Nisei…” Roland looked at their lance insignia on the men’s arms, a torch held up on a blue field.