“Why not? It’s your head you’re sticking in the lion’s mouth. If it gets bitten off, they don’t have to follow.”
“You think they wouldn’t?” He chuckles. “The Twins were my idea.”
“And the Rim’s weapon,” Ajax says. “I came to make sure you don’t die. Not lie to you.”
“Right. Well. Whether in ruin or victory, I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
He grimaces at the dragoons who eye him with suspicion. “You’re the only one. Astounded Flavinius let me on board.”
“He works for me, not the other way around,” I remind him.
“Long as he knows that,” Ajax mutters. “Praetorians are an uppity breed.”
Rhone might have squadrons of centurions micromanaging the pre-assault preparation, but he is still barking himself hoarse flying back and forth down the lines. “It’ll be a hard brake and drop! Mouthguard in, Stravinius! Do you want to eat your teeth? Shellmen, chug your prep juice and get to the tubes! Don’t inject till the yellow light! Aquilifer! Shine that dragon! You want them to know who’s killing them or not! You fight for Luna today! I want that dragon spotless! Boomer boys, you’ll be following the drills soon as they hit fifty meters. Centurions, straighten those lines. I want this tight!”
Grays peek at me as I pass, their eyes not on my shining gold armor but the snow-white cape that flutters behind me. Each hopes their unit will receive the charmed cloak. Rhone nods to me as he buzzes past overhead. His men expect him to receive the cloak. He knows better. Politics aren’t limited to the rostrum of the Two Hundred. Still, he grimaces as I approach the outsiders in the hangar—my Red Helldiver corps—and doff my cape.
As I crossed the hangar, I saw them suffer the spit and curses of the armored Grays stomping past. They are small men and women, but they are hard as old leather. Many are exiled Martian Gammas I leased from Lady Bellona for this operation. Others are Votum miners from Mercury. They kneel and I motion them up. I keep my tone conversational.
“My friends. For too long, your loyalty has made you lepers when you should be hailed as patriots. Today you avenge yourselves for the persecutions you have suffered. You avenge the Gammas who were butchered in the assimilation camps. Operation Polyphemus relies upon you. So does our Society. You are the foundation upon which all else is built. I see that. Help me make others see that, and we will make a Society better than the one we were given. I expect this back, goodman.” I wrap my cape around the shoulders of their headTalk. The man trembles with pride and looks up with a fierceness I’ve scarcely ever beheld. “Be brave. Be steady. Now go, sons of Gamma, and dig us a path.”
The small Reds roar like lions and rush to climb their drills. Two hundred of the machines fill this hangar alone. I walk the line giving words of encouragement. At the base of each drill, berserkers in heavy armor take mushrooms from their centurion—a lone Peerless for every ten berserkers. Most of the Golds are novus homos—new men, young killers desperate to make their mark. Lured by my name, my games, and my evocation of a more honorable past, my promise of a brighter future, and hopes of elevation, they flooded to me after my speech in the Coliseum, eager to render service and apply all their skills toward the reclamation of Mars.
They are expendable, so I prepare to spend them. Wisely, I hope. Following their berserkers up the ladder, they salute nobly from the top rungs before sliding into the carry pods and sealing the hatches. Win or lose, I will not see many of them again.
As the notice lights on the ceiling flash yellow, I fall in with my drop century and rush to our tubes to let the Oranges fit me into the loading rack. Rhone lines up to the loader to my left. I grab Ajax as he heads for the loader to my right. “Today we show Atalantia we are not her pets,” I say.
He looks wounded. “You think that’s why I’m here? Lysander. I couldn’t give two shits about you standing up to Atalantia.”
“Then why?” I ask.
“She killed your parents.” His voice deepens with raw emotion. “I saw it in her eyes. She orphaned you. That is unforgivable. Family does not do that to each other. So, we are family now. You and I. And family sticks together. Come ruin or victory.” He bumps my forehead with his own. “See you in hell, little brother.”
He loads into his spitTube. I load into mine, bellydown, headfirst. I ratchet into the firing chamber. It is dark. Echoing. It has not vented pressure yet. I do not feel alone like I did the last time on Mercury. But still I feel sick. I pop my helmet and retch. There are stains down below. Old retch stains. From Darrow’s hard-nosed Rain veterans. That consoles me. I can’t wipe my mouth. My arms are locked in. I feel a moment of panic. I order my helmet back on with a voice command. I try to find the Mind’s Eye. It evades me. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be here. I have to be here. Noble thoughts flee. No more peacemaker. No more politician. No more feeble seed.
I am Iron. I am Death. I am Gold.
“SPITFIRE: TEN MINUTES!”
23
VIRGINIA
Grim Glory
IN ITS INITIAL MOMENTS, Lysander’s charge is the picture of glory. His new destroyers—not lemons after all—surge out in front of the Lightbringer as soon as Phobos’s orbit brings the moon into alignment with his fleet. Haughty and shining, Lysander’s destroyers race into range of our guns. Oro begins to fire and the darkness of no-man’s-land turns to light. First, the light of particle beams, lancing and primordial. Second, the light of rail slugs, blurred and dull. Third, the light of drones and missiles, glinting and canny. Fourth, the light of the enemy’s flak, dusty and meager. Then all the light all at once as the enemy replies in kind.
Lune’s fleet disappears from the sensors in the energy wash of the conflagration. The first minute claims two destroyers. Overloaded by the volume of fire, the destroyers’ shields turn opaque before the ships collapse inward. Their hulls peel open like burning paper, shredding away to reveal their twisted skeletons as they hurtle forward, their momentum unchecked. Imagining the hell on those destroyers, the screaming of shield sirens, the buckling bulkheads, the fire, and the vacuum, I pity the crews for having to suffer the cost of a boy’s highborn ambition.
Glorious in its early thrust, Lysander’s initial charge veers toward disaster as another destroyer is knocked out of formation and nearly collides with the Lightbringer behind it.
Yet even as the Blues report damage to the enemy, I see Lune’s gruesome logic at work.
He gambled he could lose destroyers to gain kilometers, and despite the best efforts of my Blues, his gamble is…working. Not one destroyer is spared a shield failure or damage to its hull, but Lune’s charge has soon passed the halfway mark to Phobos. The closer his ships come to Phobos, the less able the OBC guns are to hit them. Fewer guns by the second have a clear line of barrage, and we begin to feel the absence of Char’s fleet. Another destroyer falls out of formation, slit down the center like firewood by the combined fire of Phobos’s three space-facing citadels, including Bastion One. I shout for my Blues to analyze the debris for bodies. There should be armored infantry spilling out across space.