Chapter 15: On The Rim Of The Wheel

Ishtar kept her rifle ready. Compact, sturdy, with a surprisingly long effective range for its short barrel length, Psychopomp Rag was a worthy instrument for channeling her radiance. And when her stamina was low, the weapon was chambered for a wide range of effective rounds that kept it relevant in nearly any fight. After Speck had flown around their entire area of operation, she decided on three hicap magazines of flechette rounds and two of micro railgun pellets. The rest of her reserves were standard ballistic, the favorite of most Harbingers as the basic bullets carried droplets of their light to the target, letting their own native power do the brunt of the damage.  

She stood on a catwalk over the hangar, watching carefully as the refugees gathered in what Cat promised her was this species’ version of order. 

“They look necrotic,” she’d said after they deployed. 

“By human standards they’re on the verge of death,” said Forge. 

“I’m glad someone read the mission brief,” Cat remarked. 

Ishtar had protested that she read it as well, but no one was listening. So, she did her own scouting while Forge droned about the exos they were taking on, and how their minimal metabolic rates were their primary survival mechanism. 

“Sounds like they’d make good commandos,” Euk had said. 

Ishtar could see it; squadrons of serpentine mamani soldiers moving quietly at dusk, their grey skin blending with the pale morning light, enemy scanners unable to detect their negligeable life signs. 

One stopped in the crowd and looked up at her, blinking with its sideways lids. Their hooded robes hid the shapes of their bodies, and the first time Ishtar saw a very young child wriggle out of its parent’s arms she almost yelped. It landed on its belly, squirmed out of its robe and bolted on eight arms. Then it reared up on the four limbs clustered at its haunches, using a stubby tail for stability, and pawed at Forge, who picked it up with a smile and handed it to its worried parent. It turned out to be the child’s father. The male’s of this species were smaller and seemed to have limitless energy, which one would never guess by looking at their vacant expressions and sleepy gate.  

The one in the crowd stared inexplicably, holding her eyes with its. She felt grateful for her skullfort. Among such unreadable people, she welcomed the hiding of her features. When this one refused to carry on or look away, she lifted the muzzle of her rifle and nudged it towards the ships. From head on, their faces looked long and skeletal. From her vantage point, they looked like the snouts of predators. The exo nodded, but instead of following her gesture, it vanished into the crowd. Ishtar shuddered. 

“Ish,” she heard Euk say over the comms. 

“Yeah.” 

“How’s it look?” 

“Good. I mean, clear. Sorry. Actually, I saw something weird. One of the refugees was looking at me. I gestured for it to move on and instead it faded into the crowd.” 

“These aren’t Terrans from Albion, Ish.” 

Eukary was right. “I know. I have no idea what I told it to do.” 

“Them, Ish. These are people.” 

“Sorry. I need to spend more time around exos.” 

“You spend as much time around them as I do, girl. Tell you what, if this individual you gestured to shows up, see it as an opportunity.” 

“Copy.”  

And show up they did, almost immediately. 

“You people move quick,” she said when her visitor came up one of the many smooth poles they used for stairs. The actual stairs, it seemed, had been installed as a courtesy to other species who might visit Matamat.  

She figured her visitor for a male, as he was slightly smaller than her, but clearly was not readily fatigued. He made a series of clicks and buzzes, then took a small device out of a pocket. A computerized voice repeated its words in Latin, the common speech of Albion. 

“I am...” the maman paused its clicks and buzzes, looking somewhat confused. His following clicks seemed to confound the translator. “I am Sam,” he eventually said. 

“Okay. Hi, Sam. I’m Ishtar, a Harbinger of Albion.” 

“I am a journalist.” 

“I’m a warrior. Good to meet you.” 

Sam stood quietly. 

Inside her skullfort, she rolled her eyes. “Are there many journalists in your society, Sam?” 

Sam looked at his translator and thumped it lightly, then with his four upper hands he delicately pried it apart and made some minute adjustments, then reassembled it.  

“Journalist is not the happy friend for what I make. I farm information into judgement.” 

“So, uhm, I’m guessing you’re a cop and not a farmer? We have specialized security off...” 

“No. I am all. Knowledge, decision, then violence or affection.” He looked at the translator again and shrugged. 

“I get it. Is that how your people handle law?” 

“Law is universal. Law is happy. So happy for love. I am especially hateful. I do not make love. Nobody likes me.” He looked like he was about to crush the translator in his hands. “I gain from bad money. Riffraff galactic promise.” 

She put up her hand. “You’re a specialist, and because your law tends towards passivity, people tend not to trust those in your profession. Am I right?” 

Despite the foreign composition of his features, she easily recognized his confusion. 

“I have questions for my people,” he said. “Will they be in a safe?” 

She smirked. “Yes. Your people will be safe, as far as Albion is concerned. You will find, though, that we aren’t without our problems.” 

He nodded in a slightly zigzagging way. “Nobody’s perfect.” 

“No. But we welcome you. I think our peoples have a lot to offer each other. I tell you what Sam, tell me how to find you, and when we’re all back on Albion, I’ll look you up.” 

He nodded again, then reached in his robe and brought out a small figurine of a bell.  

“I am the hammer,” he said. Then he made a harsh series of clicks the translator didn’t even attempt at and pulled out a miniature lawle. He gave her the bell. “These are a stinking badges. My stinking... This is my badge. It is mine, and I have me on it.” Another untranslatable curse followed by a moment of thought. “It is unique. Your half will match my face...” 

“I get it. Thank you, Sam.” 

He studied her in silence for a moment, then offered her a hand. They shared what Ishtar would remember as the most awkward handshake she had ever experienced. The Sam was gone, as quickly and quietly as he appeared. 

“That was cute,” said Euk. 

“Shove it,” Ishtar replied.  

She wondered why on Albion that random exo chose her. She gave herself a quick pat down, and didn’t notice anything missing. Several hours later the barges were full and away, and Ishtar was impressed at how deceptively organized the mamani were. Cat called them all to regroup at the mamani capital building. There were two other teams and six attack groups, all human. Ishtar preferred the Sentinels. 

“Captain Patal,” said one of the human men. “Attack Group Five. We were on orbital patrol at Bindhu.” 

Ishtar nodded. “You’re lucky we didn’t call you in.” 

“We were hoping you would. I am an acquaintance of Captain Sensus.” 

She sized the man up. Out of his armor he was likely no taller than five foot six. Still, he was sharp and alert, and held his rifle like he was ready to put an enemy down with it. Many soldiers just held their weapons out of habit, a thing that irritated her. 

“Ishtar,” she said.  

Captain Patal gave her a salute. “I wanted to thank all of you personally, and express my squadron’s wish for your friends to be found.” 

“Thank you.” 

She then distanced herself from the human support squads and wedged herself between Forge and Eukary.  

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“Did one of you put a ‘free hugs’ sign on my back?” 

Eukary laughed. “You have a friendly looking skullfort.” 

“Whatever. How long before we evac the execs?” 

“Cat’s working on that now,” said Forge. 

“Hey kids,” said Aster. She’d been talking to the attack groups, accepting their salutes and condolences. It relieved Ishtar to see she wasn’t the only one targeted. 

“Cat’s talking with their leaders,” Forge told her.  

“Is there a hold up?” asked Red Ten, captain of one of the other teams.  

Ishtar turned him and smiled. Red Ten was a legend. He was short and stocky like Reev, and every bit the rogue. Every time Ishtar had doubted stories of one of his ops, she’d found the story had been modest when compared to his actual mission reports. 

“Red.” She offered him her knuckles, which he met with her own. She noticed that his skullfort, with its hard lines and narrow visor, looked menacing in a cold mechanical way. 

I doubt he’s been harassed like I have.  

Red’s team was standing nearby. They all nodded quietly. 

“Most likely,” Eukary said, answering Red’s question. “Not sure what, though.” 

“Flea said he caught something odd on his long-range scopes before we inserted,” Red commented. 

“Think the Surge got here early?” Ishtar asked. 

Red looked at her. “Actually...” He looked over his shoulders and stepped closer. “Flea doesn’t think it’s the Surge that are invading.” 

“Speck didn’t catch anything strange,” said Euk. 

“And Speck’s the best combat pilot in the teams,” said Red, “hands down. But Fle knows optics better than anyone. And I know tactics. I tend to agree with him.” 

“The whole pattern is textbook Surge,” said Forge.  

“Exactly. Their bodies are machines, but their programming is animal. There’s always some sort of variation in their methods. Even a minute one. Their approach vectors, their formation, everything looks like something Eno would cook up for a can’t-sleep sim.” 

“So, the mamani are running from sensor ghosts?” asked Forge. 

“Or someone else is trying to scare them off.” 

The mortar blast came at the same time as the siren. 

In perfect unison and near silence, the Harbinger teams readied their weapons and marched to where Catalyst spoke with the mamani leaders. They were gathered in a circle inside a three-dimensional holo-map which had suddenly turned from blue to gold. Ishtar noticed casually that while they themselves had the pallor of corpses, and while their buildings and clothing were intolerably drab, the mamani liked brightly colored lights. 

“Those are their weapons,” said Red. “Cat, what’s up?” 

“It’s not the Surge.” 

Red turned and opened his arms, then turned back to face Cat and trotted into the middle of the holo-map. Different colored lights began to flicker as the mamani guns fired.  

“Who are we fighting?” Red asked. Ishtar hurried to his side. One of his team was there on his other side. Ishtar didn’t know her, and caught herself fighting to stand a little closer to Red. 

How would I feel if another team tried to push me away from Sensus? She nodded to the other woman and stepped closer to her own team as they gathered inside the map.  

One of the leaders spoke their clicks and buzzes, but the facility they were in had vastly superior translation tech than poor little Sam. 

“You’re not equipped to help us repel invaders,” said a tall mamani women with her hood down. Despite her necrotic aspect, she was stately and elegant. Ishtar imagined that by her peoples’ standards, she must be beautiful. 

A lovely cadaver. 

Red patted Thirteenth Apostle, his light repeater carbine. “We’re up for anything. Right, Cat?” 

Cat pulled back Lilac Sky’s charging handle. “No. We came to protect our assets and assist an evacuation. The op hasn’t changed.” 

Red sighed. “Cat, you are no fun. But, you’re right.” 

“So if it’s not the Surge...” Forge was cut short by an all too familiar sound. The blast shook the ground, though it hit far away. 

“The kzinti!” shouted one of the mamani leaders.  

“Great,” said Eukary. She pumped her shotgun. 

The map of the continent dispersed in favor of a live feed of their shoreline. Massive attack submersibles were rising from the waves, launching huge shells from their immense guns. 

“They waited till half our people were gone,” said the lovely cadaver, “and made a covert water landing. Bastards.” 

“Why do the kzinti want our world?” asked one of the other madams. 

“And why would they not attack us outright?” asked of the sirs. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said the lovely cadaver. Her long, hairless head drooped sadly. “Most of our soldiers have left. Only a few of our defenses are operable. We have to leave. Maybe...” 

Their names suffered no translation, but the lovely cadaver’s name elicited a most haunting string of trills from one of her male colleagues.  

“Our world is a husk,” he said. “There’s nothing to come back for. We will throw our lot in with Albion.” 

With the same chaotic efficiency as their populace, the mamani leaders and their staff made their way to their craft and were swiftly in the air. Meanwhile, the kzinti war machines rolled onto the shore and their blood red banner, three hundred yards across, was raised over the mamani capital. 

“This is weird, Cat,” said Red. The teams were all gathering around their insertion craft, all covertly inserted, watching the bloodless victory that happened under their noses. 

“Brutus is hungry,” said Euk. 

“Psycho’s a little peckish, too,” said Ishtar.  

Aster was petting her submachine gun like it was a cat. 

“Screw it,” said Cat. 

A silent cheer came from all the teams.  

“Recon only,” he said sternly. “I want to know what’s going on, nothing more. Direct action only if necessary. Tell your pilots to fly quiet and to fly high, and have the printers ready extraction craft. I have questions, people. Questions. Why do the kzinti want the mamani homeworld? There are far more desirable planets than this one, even in this region of space. And why did they fake a Surge attack to get it? We’re gone in six hours. Clear?” 

“Clear,” came the response.  

Weapons were checked, grenades were primed, and the Harbingers were on the move.     

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