“I fear a dread illness has fallen upon the house of my father and mother,” he says, pacing before them with his proud shoulders hunched, his mane tied tight to the back of his head. Tharsus stands behind him like a scolded child. “An illness that has leeched the glory from our veins, the color from our banner. It was not brought by you.” He looks at his brother. “That blame lies upon the shoulders of another. But it was nurtured by you. Sustained by your torpor. I look at you, and do you know what I see?” He scans the crowd of them with wild eyes. “Do you?” The wind gusts mildly from the early morning sea, rippling their uniforms. “I see…Venusians.”
They shift in shame.
“I see clameaters. Men of war made into simpering sprites and disporting coxcombs. Where is the honor for your fathers and mothers?” he cries. “Where is the fury for your fallen brothers and sisters? The Ash Lord and his simpering allies, the Carthii, sent them to their deaths on Luna. Served us up to the Reaper like a Trimalchian feast. I watched as men and women you knew went to dark death. The Ash Lord betrayed us. It was no secret to you that I languished in the belly of the sea. No. It was known from our homeworld to Mercury.”
He paces in venomous silence.
“Yet you let me rot. You let your brothers and sisters perish. And here I find you fattening yourselves like mulling kine, as if Calypso herself had besotted you with wine from her tits. Was your idleness worth the price of your shame? What would your fathers say? What would your mothers think?”
He hangs his head and I find myself admiring the drama of the man. He knows how to play a crowd.
“I look at you and I weep. Such shame is upon me that only Lucifer himself would know the depths of my pain. We have lost our halos, my children, fallen from the grace of heaven through the fabled clouds and landed here in a boiling hell of debauchery and defilement while our enemies laugh at what we have let ourselves become.
“But all is not lost. The unconquerable will, the need for revenge, the immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield are strong in my heart.” He beats his chest so hard with his fist I feel it through the holo. “I will not rest till vengeance is mine, for I am Apollonius au Valii-Rath. Imperator of the Minotaur Legions. Man of Mars. Iron Gold. Today I ride forth on the wings of battle from this island prison to settle a debt and free myself from this foul affliction of shame. I ride to war. To glory. I ride for the head of the Ash Lord.” He lunges forward and lifts his razor. “I would not ride alone. So I say to you, my darkest devils, awake, arise, and reclaim your glory!”
A roar answers him that chills the deeper part of me. I turn off the holo and stand quiet in the echoing silence of the library as an ancient clock ticks on the wall. Sevro runs a hand along his fresh-shaven mohawk. “That’s our army?” he mutters. “They’re the scraps you leave behind when you eat a rack of ribs.”
“They’ll do,” I say.
“They’ll do,” he repeats. “On what do you base that? Apollonius? He’s barking mad. Riled up for a suicide run. They’ll get ripped to shreds out there, and we’ll be left holding our pricks against a fortress. We didn’t prepare for this.”
“How do you prepare for a kick in the balls?” I say. “You don’t. You suck it up.”
“That supposed to inspire me? His men are past their prime.” He glares at me. He’s been moody ever since we landed and saw the state of the Valii-Rath holdings. “And they ain’t the only ones.”
“You trying to say something?”
“Obviously, because everyone else is sucking down your myth like it’s milk from a cow’s tit.”
“Then say it. Go on. Thraxa won’t mind.” Thraxa looks awkwardly at her datapad.
“I’ve backed you this whole way. Someone mutters something, I knock them down and give them a good old speech. But you know why I’ve been loud as a mouse since we got here? I was waiting for you to realize how shit this is. They don’t have the manpower. Apollonius is insane. This is not going to work.” He crosses his arms and looks as if he’s marveling at his own stupidity. “I didn’t even want to come. It’s been a month since we got any news from home. A bloodydamn month.”
My anger flares. “Then why the hell did you come?”
“Because I don’t want to raise your kid,” he snaps. “I came to keep you breathing. And to keep the rest of them safe from you.”
The words knock the anger out of me.
“You think you need to keep them safe from me?”
“Don’t I? Look where you’ve led your best friends. Look how many gravestones follow us. And you know why that is?”
“Have a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”
“You take shortcuts. Straightest line through any field of shit, and trust that everything will be ripe and splendid.”
“Seems to have worked out fine enough. We—”
“Hold on,” he says, cutting me off. “Let me ask Ragnar if he agrees.” He looks around. “Oh, wait. He’s not here. Let me ask Pax. Oops. Lorn…oops. Pops…” He holds up his hands. “Can’t ask him either. You’re so hungry to end this that you’re gonna gamble the whole mine on one half-assed hand.”
“It’s not half-assed,” I say evenly. “It will work. You’re being emotional.”
He stares at me with wild eyes—my old Red eyes—and realization dawns in them. “Well, slag me sideways. You really are drunk on your own myth, aren’t you? I didn’t buy it when Clown said it. But you believe them all. You think you’re a god. You can’t die.”
“Someone has to end this. You can be a father on your own time. Right now, you need to sack up and do your job.”
“We shouldn’t be here.”
“All right, what do you have in mind instead? Run back to Luna with our tails between our legs? Turn ourselves in to the Wardens and watch as the Republic gets gutted by Vox Populi, then carved up by the Ash Lord and the Rim, whenever they decide to stop playing possum? That’ll mean we broke out a gang of mass murderers for nothing. That means Wulfgar died for nothing. My voice loses its composure. That means we’ve fought ten years for nothing. And then what do you think happens when the Rim comes?”
“This plan is wasted,” he says. “We should cut our losses. Go to Mercury with the fleet if we can’t go home. I don’t want to die for this fucker.”
“I’ve heard your opinion,” I say, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “Thank you for giving it, Imperator. I’ve considered what you’ve said and I’ve decided the mission is still a go. I want the men fed and the starShells loaded onto the assault shuttle by 16:00. Make sure they stay out of sight. Last thing we need is his legionnaires knowing who they’re fighting with.”
I wait for him to curse me, maybe hit me. His own fear of not seeing his girls again is making him irrational, a coward even. But he just stares at me and then slowly raises his fist.
“Hail Reaper.” He turns on a heel.
“Sevro,” I say before he reaches the door, the memory of Roque’s departure echoing. He stands there facing the wood. Looking at the back of my friend’s scarred head, I feel the distance between us. “I’m sorry you don’t agree with me. But I’ve told you everything I know. And I believe we have the initiative and the means to destroy their command structure.”
He nods. “Course you do.” He chews his lip. “After this, I’m done. I won’t be like you. Won’t be like my pops.” He looks at me, his eyes protective and spiteful. “My girls will have a da. If that’s selfish, I don’t give a shit. Let someone else be Ares.”
He leaves.
His words play at my doubts, but I don’t have time or room for reflection today. I look over at Thraxa. “You have an opinion?”
“Nah. Ain’t got the time. Shall I ready the men, sir?”
—
Two hours later, I stand in the shadow of the hangar bay where the Howlers make preparations on the Nessus and our ripWings. Over the clamor of loading gear and curses from Min-Min and Clown, I hear the distant roar of engines as the mobilized might, such
as it is, of House Valii-Rath lifts off the tarmac. Forty ripWings ascend from the concrete like ducks off a pond, their engines burning indigo and their shadows languorous and long in the late afternoon light. They fly due south. With them rise the five long assault frigates and assault shuttles, packed with Gray shock troops in grasshopper suits. A tardy trooper rushes to catch the last shuttle, carrying a forgotten token of luck in his hand. The crooked elongated legs of the grasshopper suit pivot backward along a joint behind his knee, then propel him in an inhuman jump to clear the five meters into the craft, where his friends grab his hand and hoist him in.
Apollonius comes to say farewell. He looks at home in his armor. Unlike the stark, muted grandeur of modern Martian gear, his favors the baroque of the Core. At the center of the purple chestplate is his Minotaur. “Hail Reaper,” he says mockingly. He closes his eyes and smells the air. “This is life, isn’t it?”
“Your men don’t know our presence?” I ask.
His eyes are still closed. “The dogs yap of masked men in the night carrying mischief.” He opens his eyes and smiles. “Mercenaries. Ronin. Sellswords. By any name they do suspect, except the one that’s true. But I would ask you to dissuade your diminutive accomplice from displaying any lupine flavors. My dogs do hate wolves.”
“We didn’t bring the wolfcloaks with us,” I say. “We brought two alpha mega nukes instead.” I search his eyes for some sign of duplicity. “My men don’t like the fact that you’re not coming with us.”
“Understandable. All suspect what they do not understand. But we understand one another, do we not, Reaper? Betrayal from friends cuts far deeper than the sword of a foe. We are both the spawn of a war god. Favored of his children, and stand astride the shadow of our lost brother, Achilles.” I make no sign of agreeing with him. He sighs. “If I am late, if I am naughty, destroy me.” He taps the scar where the bomb went in. “But you and I both know I lead my men into hell’s teeth. What commander would I be if I were not amongst them?”
That I can respect.
“In the darkzone your bomb imbed won’t respond to our activation signal,” I remind him. “As soon as you enter, it will be on a three-hour timer for detonation that can only be deactivated by us. If we die, you’ll follow. If you leave the theater of engagement, it is also programmed to detonate.” He listens quietly. “I’ll see you at the waypoint. If you make it, Gold.”
He smiles. “I shall wait on you, Red.” He extends a hand. Grudgingly, I take it. Sevro watches dourly from the ramp of the Nessus, no doubt misjudging my politeness for fondness. Apollonius releases my hand and backs away from me, singing loudly with his huge lungs as his Minotaur helmet rolls out of the neck of his armor to cover his head. The horns, long and twisted, stab into the sky. “ ‘Into this wild Abyss the warie fiend stood on the brink of Hell and look’d a while, pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith he had to cross!’ ”
With that, he rips up from the tarmac on his gravBoots and bends across the sky to join his departing legions. Rhonna comes to watch him leave. “Sir, Colloway says the Nessus is ready.”
“Are you?” I ask.
“Sir?”
“We need the Nessus’s firepower, but she’s got no maneuverability in atmosphere. She’ll be a slow cow. Colloway will be of better use in his ripWing. That means we don’t have someone to sync to the Nessus. Min-Min will be flying her. And she’ll need gunners. You’ve trained with firing systems, I presume?”
She grins. “Damn straight.”
“Good. Go find Winkle, he’ll give you access to the gunner chamber.”
She salutes. “Thank you, sir.” She leaps forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I won’t let you down, Uncle.” As I watch her run back to the ship, I wish I could say the same. But Sevro sowed doubt in me, and something else gnaws at the back of my mind. No one has seen the Ash Lord in three years. Why? He always led from the vanguard. What is he hiding behind that curtain of darkness?
“MINOTAUR-1 HAS CONTACT. Engaging enemy,” Apollonius says over the com.
On the sensor display inside my starShell, the curved edge of the Ash Lord’s darkzone blots out the corner of the blue-hued map. The mass of gold dots from Apollonius’s small fleet approaches the barrier. I listen to their com chatter as they detect hostile patrols and engage with full force. Two ripWings go down almost immediately; a third disappears into the darkzone. Apollonius’s squadron pursues. Soon their signatures disappear. Their massed assault will eat up the attention of the Ash Lord’s forces, and the bulk of the casualties. With the Nessus’s stealth hull, we’ll come in the back door and rip straight for the Ash Lord.
“Minotaur is inside the darkzone,” Char says. “Two minutes to breech.”
Inside the firing tube in the port side of the Nessus, my soft body is cocooned in the vestments of war. Thermal skin, pulseArmor, starShell—a twelve-foot-tall mechanized armored suit. I’m like one of those layered wooden toys they sell down by the wharf in Thessalonica, the ones that are painted with the faces of rosy-cheeked Reds and Violets. I bought one for Pax when he was young. It was our first and only trip to Mars as a family. He sat in Mustang’s lap, gasping each time he pulled apart the dolls to find yet another inside, looking to us hoping we saw the miracle as well. Seeing the joy in my wife’s face, I was witnessing another miracle. One, for a long time, I believed I would never see again. Love so potent, so whole and true, that it hurts, because even when you convince yourself that it will last forever, you know enough of the world to see how things break and fade, but somehow, some way, you believe this love will be the exception. That it alone will last.
An ache fills my chest. Not just at the memory, but in thinking Pax was ever so young and innocent. It seems like it was just yesterday, before we were pulled back to Luna. Where did the time go? I ask when I know the answer. I spent that time. And I spent it worlds away from those who needed my love.
I sense the claustrophobia now and the fear of the coming violence beyond the hull. The Nessus roars over the sea escorted by Colloway’s ripWings, my friends loaded in its spitTubes.
“Enemy contact. Six bandits inbound. They’ve seen us,” Colloway says. “Warlock Squadron engaging.” Colloway and his depleted Warlock Squadron race ahead of us to target the incoming patrols. They dance across the sensors, dots flashing in and out of existence.
“Bandits eliminated,” Colloway drones, his normal insouciance replaced by the hard-edged voice of a master at his craft. “Warlock-1 crossing into darkzone.”
I watch through the Nessus’s holoCams from my starShell as the ripWings cross the threshold into the darkzone ahead of the Nessus, disappearing from our sensors to be swallowed up by the looming black curtain.
“We’ll be deploying at their back door,” I say over my com to my starShell squadron. “Expect a firestorm, regardless. We can’t expect communications to work inside. You have full autonomy. Group up after initial threats are eliminated to reassess.”
“Copy that, Howler 1,” Alexandar says unnecessarily.
“How can you even breathe with your nose so far up Reaper’s ass?” Clown asks.
“I hold my breath,” Alexandar replies. “Far easier that way, my goodman.”
“No one can hold their breath that bloodydamn long,” Rhonna says from her gun turret.
“Ragnar could,” Sevro says.
“Well, Ragnar could lift a mountain with his gorydamn pinkie,” Clown replies. “And drink an ocean without needing to piss a drop, so powerful was his bladder.”
“What’s the quickest way to a Peerless Scarred’s heart?” Pebble asks. “Ragnar’s fist.”
Sevro cackles. “Unlike mortal men, Ragnar didn’t sleep. He merely waited.”
They make me miss my old friend more than I can say. Seems so unfair Ragnar died without knowing that Tinos would be saved, and Luna would fall. “Remember today what the Ash Lord did to our friend,” I tell my men. “Remember that he made Ragnar a slave. That he made him kill his own ki
nd for sport. A debt is owed. Two Grimmuses have fallen. Two yet remain.”
“Atalantia au Grimmus. Magnus au Grimmus,” they recite as a promise, and I hope Atalantia is here with her father so we can end their family’s saga once and for all.
Tongueless drones the death rattle of the Obsidians. It fills my ears with righteous dread and I feel the bitter winter plains of Ragnar’s homeland roll inside me. I wish I had my old friend here today. What I’d give to see him lead this charge on his old master. To see the Golds quake as they did before no other man.
“Hyrg la Ragnar,” Sevro snarls.
“Hyrg la Ragnar,” the men bellow back.
The Nessus plunges into the darkzone. The external cameras go black. My com silent with static. I am no father. No husband. I summon my anger. My hatred. I am Helldiver of Lykos. The Reaper of Mars come to rip the life from the last great warlord of Gold.
Yellow lights flash outside my suit on the firing mechanism’s launch alert console; I stare at it hungrily. Desperate for it to turn green and release me. I perform preflight checks on my interior dampeners and pulseShield, power my gravBoots, charge up the particle cannon on my right shoulder and the railgun that makes a stump of my left arm. A whine from the particle cannon draws energy from my suit’s main reactor on the suit’s hunched back.
The light goes green.
The firing chamber’s hooks push me forward into the mouth of the railgun. I clench my teeth together and lower my head. Then the hooks propel my suit into the clashing current and I launch forward at three times the speed of sound, punching through the darkzone, my heart in my throat.
I tear into a scene of death.
No time to orientate myself. Proximity sensors scream with incoming ordnance. A particle beam smotes the sky in front of me, a pillar of light as thick as a forearm and as bright as a sunbeam. The impulse sensors in the formaGel that surrounds my body communicate with the suit and bank me hard. I pass the particle beam and feel the heat even through the layers of armor. My evasive maneuver throws me into the path of an anti-aircraft battery’s fusillade. Fist-sized shells detonate in clouds of superheated shrapnel. A shell detonates to my right, spinning me through the air, my pulseShield screaming from the kinetic energy transfer. I boost out of my spin, diving blindly toward the sea.