The Ruins of Anthalas (The Ember War Saga Book 2) Page 4

  “Please,” Elias said.

  Cortaro plugged the device into Elias’s arm.

  “It’s anime. Cartoons are for kids,” Elias said.

  “I don’t judge.” Cortaro pocketed the Ubi. “Nothing personal, but I really hope I don’t have to see you on Anthalas. If you’re down there, then everything’s gone straight to shit … again.”

  “Cortaro, I never thanked you. For getting me out of the hospital. For saving me,” Elias said. A metal hand rested on Cortaro’s shoulder, heavy enough to stagger the Marine.

  “Sorry, new suit,” Elias said.

  “No problem. You stay healthy. Maybe we’ll find something that’ll win the war,” Cortaro said.

  “Huh, winning the war. I never really think about that. I always thought we’d be at war with the Chinese, not a galaxy full of Xaros,” Elias said.

  ****

  Torni and Orozco waited in the Breitenfeld’s armory, she leaning against a circular, three-foot-tall bio reader, he scrolling through a data slate. Torni glanced at her watch and sighed loudly.

  “They’re going to be late,” she said.

  “They were in med bay, clear on the opposite side of the ship, when we got this ‘hey you’ tasking,” Orozco said. “The ship’s about to embark and the crew is going nuts cleaning things and locking doors—whatever squids do. Getting from one side to the other is like swimming upstream.”

  “Gunney Cortaro isn’t a big fan of excuses. He says be somewhere at a certain time, he means exactly that,” Torni said. She shook her head at her watch and tapped her forearm computer to make a call. “If they’re screwing around somewhere, there will be hell to pay. Standish knows he’s on probation.”

  “For what? I thought the lieutenant gave you all a wink and a nod for that business with Elias, that armor soldier, and all those cops,” Orozco said.

  Torni blushed and crossed her arms.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about that,” she said.

  “I read the police blotter. Theft of military property, kidnapping, disrespect to a commissioned officer, reckless endangerment … what else was there …?”

  “Not supposed to talk about it. So I’m not going to say we’d all be in the brig if Elias had stayed in his coma.” Torni tapped a foot against the deck, staring at the hatch—which suddenly swung open as Yarrow and Standish burst through, both breathing heavily.

  “Twenty … seconds … to go,” Standish said, his hands on his knees and his head hanging below his shoulders.

  “What were you even doing in med bay?” Torni asked.

  Standish pointed a finger at the equally winded Yarrow.

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” the young medic said. “Lance Corporal Standish’s green blood cell count wasn’t high enough. He needed a booster.”

  Exposing the human immune system to an alien world full of potentially lethal and contagious pathogens was a significant risk for anyone who set foot on Anthalas—and the ship’s crew once the Marines returned. The Ibarra Corporation had developed nanite bloodstream cleaners decades ago that managed to put a significant dent in infectious diseases, but using the microscopic robots in and around the Xaros was forbidden. The Xaros hacked every computer system they encountered, and no one wanted to find out what the drones would do if they gained control of a human’s bloodstream.

  The Ibarra Corporation, with plenty of help from the probe on the Crucible, developed green blood cells. The new blood type was a mutated strain of white blood cells that would destroy anything and everything encountered by the host’s immune system following inoculation. The green blood cells hadn’t gone through the years of clinical trials normally required, but assurances from the alien probe and the immediate need for the green blood cells had cut through the red tape.

  “You should hear the docs,” Standish said. “‘Totally safe! Please report any instances of color blindness, loss of sphincter control and any death or death-like symptoms to your nearest medical professional.’ I did not sign up to be a lab rat.” Standish rubbed his arm where he’d been injected.

  “You want to sniff some flower on Anthalas and have the pollen turn your guts to pudding?” Yarrow asked.

  “Listen, new guy, you haven’t earned smart-ass remark privileges yet,” Standish said. He kept rubbing his arm, then moved his hands to his shoulder and chest. Standish growled through gritted teeth. “I took a shower, but it still itches!”

  “Great, Standish, the less we know about your hygiene issues the better off we all are.” Torni turned to a control panel next to the bio-mech scanner and tapped in her access code. “Let’s get a fresh suit out of storage.”

  “What? Why?” Standish asked. “We’re all fitted to our armor and ready to go.”

  “Lieutenant Hale says we’ve got a civilian specialist coming with us and she’ll need armor,” Torni said. “She’s on her way.”

  “Remember the last time we had to escort some specialist around the battlefield?” Standish asked. “Stacey Ibarra, granddaughter to the great Marc Ibarra, led us straight into a hornets’ nest of Xaros—twice—and we lost good Marines.”

  “And because of her, Standish, we beat the Xaros,” Torni said.

  “I know. I know. But running around up to my neck in murder droids with space Jesus-ette is beyond my comfort level,” Standish said.

  “Don’t.” Torni pointed a finger at Standish. “Don’t use His name in vain or make that comparison ever again. It isn’t true and you know it.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” Standish said. “Bunch of people from that new Church of the Rapture keep pestering me with e-mails, asking me to come testify to what I saw when Stacey vanished into that portal when we were on the Crucible.”

  “I get them too. Just block them and make your life easier,” Torni said. She tapped a command into the control panel. Against the far wall, a number lit up on a storage unit.

  “Come on, new guy,” Standish said to Yarrow, “we’re on heavy-lifting duty.” The two Marines went to the storage unit and pulled out a large cube with carry handles on both sides.

  “Wow, you guys were there for everything,” Yarrow said as he and Standish carried the cube back to the bio-mech station. “You saw the first Xaros on Earth. You got that probe out of Euskal Tower. Assaulted the Crucible. Got to see Stacey Ibarra go to Bastion as humanity’s representative. I spent the entire battle deep inside the Munich, taking care of civilians. Missed the whole thing.”

  “You got lucky, kid. Do I need to reiterate the whole horror and imminent death aspect to the tale?” Standish asked.

  “No, Lance Corporal, I got that. Why do you think I volunteered to join Lieutenant Hale’s squad? You’re in the middle of everything. This is the biggest thing to ever happen to the human race. I don’t want to be on the sidelines.”

  “Set this damn thing down next to the reader,” Standish said as he and Yarrow made it the last few feet and dropped the cube with a heavy thump. “Careful what you wish for, new guy. All that stuff sounds like fun until you’re the one in the middle of it.”

  “So what did happen on the Crucible?” Orozco asked. He unlatched the cube and inventoried the contents against a checklist on the underside of the lid. “Everything I’ve heard is secondhand. The Church of the Rapture has a pretty detailed account.”

  “The only reason they have that is because someone blabbed about the whole thing as soon as we got back to the Breitenfeld,” Torni said, looking at Standish.

  “What? Someone asked me what happened … and she was hot. How was I supposed to know Stacey would become the center of some kind of religious movement?” Standish said.

  “If you’d ever go to church you might gain a better appreciation for others’ beliefs,” Torni said.

  “Religious events are supposed to happen to other people—not to me—and they were supposed to happen a long, long time ago,” Standish said. “I don’t want the Gospel of Standish to be part of some holy catechism, especially not if people take my little joke of a re
ligious preference seriously.”

  “On no,” Torni said, rubbing her temples. “Please tell me you’re not still talking to Steuben about that.”

  “He’s curious, and the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is, technically, a recognized religion by the Atlantic Union. I’m not sure Karigole have a sense of irony, or humor. … Yeah, maybe I should come clean with him.”

  “Fresh meat!” Bailey said as she came through the open hatch. Lowenn was right behind her.

  “All right, Marines,” Torni said. “Standard for fitting a fresh suit to its wearer is ten minutes. Let’s get started. Ma’am, please step up on the sensor platform.”

  Lowenn smiled nervously and did as instructed.

  “Hi, everyone. I’m Helena Lowenn. Did Ken tell you why I’m here?” Lowenn asked.

  “Ken?” Orozco looked at Torni in confusion.

  “The lieutenant,” Torni said. “Ma’am, please raise your arms to the side and hold very still.”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am.’ Helena is fine.” Lowenn held her arms up and a bar rose out of the sensor panel beneath her. The bar ran up and around her body, scanning her with a thin green line of light.

  “Hold your breath … done.” Torni nodded at the control panel. “OK, need you to get your body glove on.”

  Standish took a vacuum-sealed packet from the cube. “Let me get you out of your clothes.”

  Bailey punched Standish on the shoulder.

  “By that, I mean, Corporal Bailey will escort you to the changing room,” Standish said, handing the package to Bailey.

  Bailey motioned to a door at the end of the room with a nod of her head and took Lowenn away.

  “What do you think?” Orozco asked.

  “I’ve got her file here,” Torni said. “She’s got some training … more orbital jumps than everyone but you, Orozco. So she’s got more tactical acumen than Stacey, which isn’t saying much.”

  “No combat experience? That’s not good,” Orozco said.

  “I don’t have any either, Sergeant,” Yarrow piped up.

  “Don’t worry about it, new guy,” Standish said to the young medic. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine on a planet occupied by the Xaros.”

  “This mission is sneak and peak, not run and gun,” Torni said. “I’m more worried about Standish’s mouth giving us away than Lowenn’s ability to shoot straight.”

  “You don’t think we’ll have any contact?” Yarrow asked.

  “Once we’re on Anthalas,” Orozco said, “we’ll be hours from extraction or support. We tangle with any Xaros and it’ll be a long time before the cavalry shows up. Let’s hope we come back with clean weapons and no stories to tell.”

  “She’s ready,” Bailey called out. Lowenn, wearing a skin-tight space suit, tried to tie her long auburn hair up into a bun as she and Bailey returned to the rest of the Marines.

  “Now I know why you ladies all have such short hair,” Lowenn said.

  “We’ll get you an auto net. It pulls it in tight enough to fit the emergency hoods and your helmet,” Torni said.

  “Or,” Bailey said, tapping a combat knife sheathed on her belt, “we can do a field-expedient solution right here and now.”

  “No. That’s just … no,” Lowenn said politely.

  “You’re wearing an Ibarra Corp environmental layer,” Torni said. “It’s rated for up to nine hours of hard vacuum. After that you’ll start taking radiation—how much depends on your exposure to direct sunlight and how long past your pumpkin time you’ve been out there.”

  “‘Pumpkin time’?”

  “Sorry, Marine-speak for when your radiation protection will start to fail. Let’s get you in your muscle suit,” Torni said.

  Orozco took out a black pair of pants covered by bands of fiber running over the thighs and down to the ankles. He held the pants open and helped Lowenn step into them. Orozco clicked a button on the waist twice and the pants tightened around the waist. A long-sleeved shirt with the same bands went over Lowenn’s head. Orozco and Bailey attached the top and bottom to each other while the pieces jerked Lowenn around slightly.

  “I feel like I’m a little girl getting dressed by my mother,” Lowenn said.

  “Step back up on the scanner. We’ll get it fitted correctly,” Torni said. “The pseudo-muscle layer will augment your strength, pulling with you. It will reduce the fatigue from wearing armor, but it won’t carry everything for you. Hold still.”

  “This is so neat. I saw a demonstration at—” Lowenn gasped and sounded as if she was being strangled as the pseudo-muscle layer squeezed her like a python around its prey. “Tight, too tight.”

  The suit relaxed and Lowenn looked down at her body, frowning.

  “I don’t feel like I’m wearing it anymore,” the anthropologist said.

  “That means it’s working as intended,” Torni said. “Hop down and we’ll get you in armor.”

  “How strong does this make me?” Lowenn asked.

  “You won’t be any stronger than normal, beyond being able to carry everything we put on you and maybe drag a fully armored Marine. Your suit will have its settings reduced until you’ve been through the ninety-hour course to learn how to use your suit correctly. For now, that suit just makes you more or less bulletproof,” Torni said.

  She looked at Yarrow. “OK, new guy, you’re on the clock. Get her armored up. Ready? Mark!”

  Yarrow hefted a thigh plate from the cube and placed it against Lowenn’s leg. It tightened against her quadriceps of its own accord as Yarrow attached wires and tightened straps behind her leg.

  “This is the new Mark III armor,” Torni said, “enhanced with graphene temperature diffusion that, in the lab, provides some protection against the Xaros heat lasers. Still, try not to get shot. There’s no protection from their disintegration beams. You’ll notice several knots around your shoulder, elbow, hip and knee joints. Those are tourniquet pulls. Don’t play with them. You might accidently activate the tourniquet lines and cut off all blood flow to everything past it.”

  Armor plates went against her legs, chest, back, shoulders and along her arms. Lowenn felt the weight of each piece as it was attached, then her pseudo-muscle layer rebalanced the load and most of the weight fell away.

  “Done!” Yarrow said. He backed away from Lowenn, holding his hands up by his shoulders.

  “Nine minutes and nineteen seconds,” Torni said. “Let’s inspect.”

  Torni reached under deltoid armor and pulled out a loose connection. “You didn’t use the safety snaps on the number six armor point. Drop and give me fifty, Yarrow.”

  The medic groaned and started doing push-ups.

  “Air line under spine plate twelve impinged,” Orozco said from behind Lowenn. “Another fifty. Beat your face.”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” Yarrow’s pace increased.

  The two non-commissioned officers found four more errors in Yarrow’s work, adding to his count with each one.

  “Sloppy, Yarrow,” Torni said with a shake of her head.

  “Damn, new guy, you’re going to be down there so long I’m going to get tired,” Standish said.

  Yarrow bent at the waist and took a quick breath to rest, then went back to doing push-ups.

  “Ms. Lowenn,” Torni said to her, “this is important. There’s an emergency release strap beneath your breastplate. Reach under there and find it.”

  Lowenn did as requested. “Got it,” she said. “Why would I need an emergency release?”

  “If you’re drowning, or on fire, you’ll want to shed the plates. You’ll still have problems, but carrying around the extra weight won’t be one of them. Pull the release, please.” Torni stepped back.

  Lowenn yanked the release and her armor shed off, hitting the deck with the clang of church bells.

  “When do I get the grav boots?” she asked.

  “After your armor is on properly,” Torni said. “Bailey, you’re up. Ready … mark!”

  *
***

  Captain Valdar’s ready room was nothing like the rest of the Breitenfeld. Valdar allowed his chief petty officers full reign to run the ship while he led it, and the chiefs kept their sections clean and orderly. The ready room was a mess of dirty overalls, an unkempt bed, loose Ubis and data slates that would have brought down the wrath of any noncommissioned officer on a sailor or Marine that let their personal standards slip to such a degree.

  Valdar sat on his bunk, looking at the collage of photos he’d tacked to the wall. Pictures of him with his wife and sons: them at a Christmas party, at a family reunion on the coast of Maine, school photos of his boys in ascending grade order, at his last promotion ceremony. In the middle of the photos, lying on a shelf, was a plaster of Paris slate with handprints from his wife and boys, the words “Stay safe, Daddy!” inscribed by toothpick before the molding set.

  He spent what little free time he had staring at the photos, holding the plaster his family had given to him right before his carrier battle group deployed to the South Pacific many years ago.

  Valdar touched a picture of David, his oldest son, trying to imagine what he’d look like if he were alive today.

  The door chimed.

  Valdar scowled at the bulkhead. He’d left his executive officer with instructions that he not be disturbed for a few hours. Unless there was a fleet of drones cresting around the moon, whoever was disturbing him would regret it.

  Valdar stood up and zipped his overalls shut, hiding a filthy white undershirt beneath it. He slapped the panel beside the door and readied a tirade.

  Hale was in the doorway, holding two covered trays of food.

  “Uncle Isaac,” Hale said. Most of the crew didn’t know that Valdar was Hale’s godfather, or that Hale and his brother grew up close to the captain and his sons. Hale had tried to keep calling the captain by his rank in private, but Valdar had insisted Hale use the name he’d used since he learned how to talk.

  “Ken,” Valdar said, glancing over his shoulder at the mess behind him, “now’s not a good time.”