At first, the little girl thought maybe the marriage was in trouble. Plenty of her friends’ parents at school had split up. She knew the essential ingredients of fights and affairs, though the motives still didn’t make sense. But this was neither an affair nor a fight because whenever her parents saw each other, they were attentive and affectionate.
Eventually, Piper started to wonder if she was the reason for their stress. She’d done plenty of things wrong in her nine years of life. Both parents had yelled at her for messes she’d made, things she’d broken, and attitudes she’d displayed. Again, however, their love hadn’t waned toward her. If anything, they’d been more loving in the past few weeks.
She sat balled up on her bed, playing a game on her holo-pad with a stuffed animal wedged against her chest. Her wispy blond hair danced around the edges of her freckled face, illuminated by the holo-pad’s glow. Despite their spacious apartment in the capital district of Capriana, Piper had preferred the close confines of her room these last few days. In here, she felt safe. The egg-shaped windows looked out on a rain-soaked evening, lights appearing like blotches in one of her watercolor paintings.
Piper heard the front door chime. “I got it!” she yelled, tossing aside the holo-pad but keeping the stuffed animal. Her mom was just stepping out of her own bedroom by the time Piper checked the view screen and swiped open the front door.
“Piper! Wait for me,” her mother scolded.
“Oh, hello.” A senate courier stood at the door, clearly not expecting a child to answer it. He was dressed in a white uniform and wearing a beret, both trimmed in light blue. “Is your father or—”
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” Valerie said, stepping around her daughter. “How can I help you?”
“I have a delivery for”—the man hesitated as he looked at Piper’s mother—“your husband.”
“A delivery? Couldn’t it be sent over—”
“Certified ahead of him. From the senate door. I mean floor, Mrs. Stone,” the courier replied while extending a tablet. Piper had seen many men trip over their words because of her mother’s beauty. “I assume you’re able to accept delivery?”
“Yes, of course.” Valerie pushed strands of blond hair behind her ears then hovered her hand over the screen and waited for the confirmation chime. When the screen floated an acceptance icon in midair, Valerie pulled her hand back and took the small orb from the courier.
“It’s coded to him,” the man informed her, smiling.
“I understand,” Valerie said while rolling the data drive around in her hand. “Thank you.”
“Have a good night, Mrs. Stone.”
“You too.”
Valerie stepped away and held the orb in her hands, staring at it. Piper swiped the door closed and looked at the orb too. “Mama?”
“Yes, my love?”
“What do you think it says?”
Valerie’s eyes moved from the orb to Piper then back to the orb. “It’s important news for our family.”
“Is it good news?”
Valerie hesitated again—too long for Piper.
“Mama, is it good news?”
“Yes. It’s good news,” she said. But for some reason, Piper didn’t believe her.
* * *
Darin, her dad, missed both dinner and her bedtime. But Piper wasn’t asleep when he finally came home. She wanted to get up and hug him but thought better of it. One more reason for him to be upset wasn’t what he needed at the moment. Still, she wanted to know what was on the drive, and she knew that her parents would be discussing it at any second.
Piper slipped out of bed, careful not to make a sound, and let a sliver of light stream through her door. She looked across the sunken living room to the kitchen, where a lamp hung over the center island. Her parents sat on either side, holding hands across the counter. They looked so perfect together. They couldn’t get divorced; they just couldn’t. Her mother was so radiantly beautiful. Piper knew she’d never grow up to be as lovely. And her father was so handsome; she was convinced her mother had found the only prince in all the land.
Piper’s father reached out and activated the drive. The orb started to glow a soft orange and then message contents displayed over the counter. Piper’s eyes widened as a pale-blue planet spun between her parents. Below it blinked a departure date and three passenger icons with “D. STONE, V. STONE, P. STONE” in bold letters.
Piper closed the door and grabbed the holo-pad from her desk. The motion caused the main menu to light up, and there, floating inches above her hand, were the date and time. Her heart froze. Wherever that planet was, they were leaving for it the next day.
5
Awen sat on a plush poovla in front of the pack. The rest of the Luma were seated on the cushions behind her, except for Matteo, who reclined to her right. The head delegate from the Republic sat to her left, and beyond him sat a cohort of other notables. The seating arrangement was a more “civilized” version of the canine pack gathering, a nod to when the Jujari freely roamed the open deserts. Impromptu rallies around rock escarpments or under locust trees had been replaced with this, the mwadim’s jaree-jah. Awen sat with her legs crossed, attentively focused on the golden wall of fabric ten meters in front of her.
“To be honest, I’m a little surprised they sent you,” said Gerald Bosworth III, the Republic’s ambassador to the Jujari and every other outlying world not currently in the fold.
Awen knew not to look at him. Not only would it be a sign to the ever-watchful Jujari that foreign representation was impure, but more importantly, she loathed the man. She’d watched him betray the wishes of more than one civilization upon entering the Galactic Republic’s care, hanging their needs out to dry the moment they were committed. As far as she was concerned, Bosworth, with his fat jowls and bushy unibrow, was the incarnation of all that was wrong with the Republic—and the beastly ethos she was called to stand against.
Sensing that Awen wasn’t going to reply and that she needed help in interpreting his meaning, he finished his quip. “Since we both know that the Jujari do not tend to talk to women of any outside species, I’m unsure why the Luma are so content to fold their hand this quickly.”
“I could say the same about you and the Republic,” she said without moving her head.
“How so?”
“The Jujari can smell a traitor by his pheromones.”
“Now, now, Awen, there’s no need for name-calling.” His voice was slick and condescending, like she was a small child to be reprimanded on the playground.
“It’s not name-calling when it’s your reputation, Ambassador. That, and I felt you should have fair warning.”
“Of what?”
“They’re going to disembowel you when I tell them to review your history of position changes,” she said with a smirk.
The ambassador laughed but with the faintest trace of apprehension. Sensing he was about to object, Awen reached into the fold of her robe and produced a microdrive. “Funny how grievances that get lost in bureaucracy still manage to find their way into the light.” She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that she’d rattled him. The tone of his next words traded superiority for authority.
“Your efforts—what are they, Awen? They’re futile. You and I both know that there is nothing—nothing—on that drive that will hold up against the Republic’s records.”
“That’s the interesting thing in all this, Ambassador. It doesn’t have to hold up to the Republic.”
“I don’t follow,” the ambassador said.
“It has to hold up to the Jujari. And that’s what you always seem to miss.”
His fists clenched. “Oh, be serious,” Bosworth seethed, spittle flying past the edges of her vision. “These savages are going to get the best deal in the galaxy. Their people will stop being murdered by their government and dying from backwater diseases. And they’ll be able to export goods for the first time in three millennia to worlds that have real wealth. Get off your high hor
se, Madame Emissary of the Order. You’re not ready to play with the big boys.”
Awen fought to keep Bosworth’s intimidation at bay. He was a worm—just an arrogant little worm. But despite the evidence she had, her mastery of Jujari culture, and her power in the Unity, the man made her feel small. And she scorned him for it.
Awen made to say something, but the torches around the room blew out, and a low hum emanated from somewhere behind the golden wall. It was the desert shofaree. Horns of the deep. Awen had watched the instrument played on many holo-vids smuggled off-system, but never in person. No race had the lung power or physical features to play it save the Jujari, and holo-footage didn’t do the instruments justice. Not by a long shot.
Originally used to shake their enemies—literally—before battles, the shofaree made the floor tremble. Awen looked down to see her clothing vibrate. Her body was consumed by the sound waves, her soul lifted into a dual state of wonder and fear. When the horns finally went silent, the blood wolf stepped in front of the curtain and turned his back to the gathered audience.
Awen’s heart raced. This was it.
* * *
“I’m picking up multiple frequencies,” Flow yelled over TACNET. “Ranging from four hundred hertz down to subsonic.”
“It’s gotta be ceremonial,” Magnus replied, unsure if his mic was working. He could hardly make out Flow’s voice amidst the noise. Magnus’s helmet rattled against his head, and he steadied it with a hand as he surveyed the room. The lamps and chandeliers had gone out, and only a muted version of the early-evening light filtered through the curtains. Then, as quickly as it had come on, the sound stopped.
“And here I was starting to get down to that,” Cheeks whispered, betraying the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice.
“It still doesn’t make your dance moves any better,” Mouth replied. Corporal Allan “Mouth” Franklin got his nickname because of his tendency to spout off whatever popped into his head—which usually just embarrassed the unit but occasionally made everyone laugh.
“Hey, I know we’re all hoping to score with Cheeks later tonight, but let’s keep it down until then,” Magnus reminded them. “We’ve got a job to do.” The Midnight Hunters joked when they were nervous. It was the easiest way to let off steam without literally blowing something up. Regular people wouldn’t get that—using humor when killing seemed sadistic, even maniacal. But the Hunters weren’t regular people, and for us it was just business. Still, now was not the time.
Magnus watched as Chief took center stage and faced the wide curtain. He barked and whined in a loud voice, chomping through a bunch of words in their native tongue. Magnus watched the time in his HUD, counting the seconds. After nearly a minute of rambling, Chief spread his arms, threw his head back, and cackled. All around Magnus, the rest of the Jujari warriors lifted their voices in a terrifying frenzy of demon laughter.
“Easy, Recon,” Wainwright said over general TACNET. “Easy.”
Magnus was grateful for the order because, truthfully, he wanted to shoot something. He’d been in a lot of tense situations, but this was one for the history books. His chest was tight in anticipation of a fight.
“It’s all for show. All for show,” Wainwright assured.
The golden curtains slowly parted to reveal a single Jujari seated in an oversized cushion on a marble dais. Brightly colored fabrics spooled down from a counterpoint above him, spreading to the floor in a half circle.
“That has got to be the fattest damn dog I’ve ever seen,” Flow said over the platoon channel. The mwadim wore no sash or belt and lounged unapologetically with his belly up.
All at once, the Jujari lowered their heads and rolled them to one side in an act of deference. Interestingly, so did the Luma. Magnus shook his helmet. Why don’t you just roll over and let them maul you while you’re at it?
The mwadim nodded to the presenter, who then turned to address the pack of visitors. “The Jujari mwadim, blessed be he, welcomes you to his den,” Chief said, chewing the words as they escaped from between his fangs. “As he has gifted you with his presence on this day, what gifts do you, pack leaders of the Republic, bring of infinitely lesser worth?”
Several advisors motioned to the Republic ambassador, Bosworth. The fat man labored to lift himself from the cushion, smoothed his uniform, and approached Chief. “If it pleases the mwadim,” the ambassador said, offering a rolled parchment, “the Republic wishes to—”
Chief, dwarfing the man by half despite the ambassador’s considerable girth, snatched the scroll between two clawed digits and snarled.
Bosworth recoiled. “Uh, yes. Please accept it with… with our sincerest hopes that it procures a long and mutually beneficial relationship with the Galactic Republic.”
“He’s got to be pissing himself right now,” Cheeks said.
“I’m pissing myself for him,” Mouth replied. The two shared a nervous laugh.
“I’m moving to the left flank for a better view,” Magnus said. “The emissary’s probably up next, and I don’t have a clear view of the exchange from back here.”
“Copy that,” the Fearsome Four answered.
Slowly, very slowly, Magnus began a delicate chassé toward the left side of the room, careful not to stray too far from the platoons. He looked at Awen and then back at the ambassador, who fidgeted with his hands behind his back. If the Jujari were hungry, the man would be more than just a snack—he’d be a whole meal. Magnus smiled to himself.
Chief unrolled the scroll and reviewed its contents. Then, moving up the dais, he knelt beside the mwadim and whispered in his ear. The mwadim sat expressionlessly. If Magnus hadn’t known any better, he’d have said the Jujari leader was dead and stuffed like nothing more than a ceremonial trophy. Finally, the mwadim huffed. That was all it took. Chief turned, descended, and held the scroll aloft.
“To the Republic’s initial gesture of ten common cycles of no taxation, one trillion credits of trade stimulus, and an outfitted Pride-class battleship”—Chief paused for effect—“the mwadim accepts.”
Whatever good cheer had spread among the Republic representatives was quickly overshadowed by the bloodcurdling cackles of the Jujari around the room. Faces blanched, and shoulders hunched. Magnus chuckled as he completed his quarter-circle route to the edge. Once there, he had a perfect side view of the platform, just in time for Chief to speak again.
“And you, Luma pack leaders—what gifts do you bring of infinitely lesser worth?”
Magnus looked to Awen. She held something small in her left hand and had begun to stand when the ambassador caught her arm. Magnus took a step forward and instantly felt movement from the Jujari around him. This was unexpected. The ambassador jerked her toward him, brushing her ear with his bloated lips.
“Looks like he’s making out with her ear,” Cheeks remarked.
“Pig,” Mouth added. “What’s going on?”
“Can’t tell,” Magnus replied, trying to decide whether to intervene. This isn’t good. But rushing the ambassador wouldn’t be a better alternative. Finally, after what seemed an interminably long time, the fat man let go. Magnus could tell Awen was spooked, frozen in a half-standing position. She swallowed, refusing to look at the ambassador.
“The Luma will not keep the mwadim waiting!” Chief barked. The room answered him with cackles that made the hair on Magnus’s neck stand up.
Finally, Awen straightened and moved toward the Jujari. Good. Keep going, little lady. Magnus didn’t care for any of the Luma’s politics, but he had to admire this woman’s bravery. Magnus wouldn’t have been caught dead in her position without his MAR30 and armor. He laughed to himself. Well, I probably would be “caught dead.”
Chief stood like a statue with his chin turned up and away, apparently unwilling to look at Awen. Still, she stood before him with something clenched in her fist. Neither party moved.
“Somebody pissed in his gravy,” Flow said over comms.
“Or maybe he just doe
sn’t play nice with females,” Magnus said.
Awen and Chief remained frozen. Suddenly, Awen’s companion stood up. Matteo, Magnus thought she’d called him. Again, Magnus felt the Jujari warriors shift on their feet, eager for a melee. These beasties are wound tight.
Matteo moved forward with his head bowed and stood slightly behind and to the side of Awen. Then he reached for whatever was in her hand. To Magnus’s surprise—and to Matteo’s, judging by his reaction—Awen kept her fingers clenched. Whatever it was, she was not letting it go.
The situation grew tenser as Magnus saw the mwadim lean forward. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the two Luma. A new round of cackles rose, and Chief still couldn’t bring himself to look down at either Awen or Matteo.
Matteo was urgently pleading with Awen now, and the room was growing frenetic.
“Magnus,” Wainwright called over TACNET. “What’s wrong with your asset?”
Magnus never had time to respond. A bloodcurdling howl emanated from the dais as the mwadim lurched forward and lifted his snout to the air. Magnus’s helmet’s audio sensors clamped down on the signal, but still, the sound pained his ears. Everyone in the room ducked—from Marine to Jujari, from Republican to Luma. Magnus winced and closed his eyes, hoping the display of bravado was almost over.
When the howl finally stopped, the mwadim was on all fours, facing the audience. Like the rest of his men, Magnus had just assumed the Jujari pack leader was rotund. Instead, the beast was nearly twice as large as any of the other Jujari, massive in every way.
“Let her come to Rawmut,” he growled. Matteo backed away, as did Chief.
Magnus couldn’t believe the scene in front of him. There was Awen, slender and unarmed, standing alone before the giant mwadim of the Jujari. The fragile peacekeeper of the galaxy was going toe to toe with the leader of the most violent species the galaxy had ever known.
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 4