Then Magnus heard her raspy voice. “I’m not completely helpless, trooper.”
“No,” Magnus replied, suddenly fearful of the woman he held. “No, you’re not.”
Low-power mode initiated, read his HUD. That meant environmental systems, servo assist, comms, armor defense resonance, navigation, targeting, and weapons systems had all gone offline. The AI would also hibernate. He’d have basic visuals, audio, air filtration, and whatever natural structural resistance his plating could provide. Not awesome. Definitely not awesome.
They needed to get off the street, and judging from the cackles rising throughout the city, they didn’t have much time.
* * *
“We need to find cover,” Magnus said. His voice sounded softer than before, but that could have been from the ringing in her ears. “Can you stand?”
Awen hadn’t thought of standing. But thinking about it made her tired. So tired. And she was hot. The air seemed to burn her skin in a thousand places. She touched her forehead and brushed aside rivulets of sweat, noticing then that she was clutching something in her other hand. She looked down at her blood- and dust-caked fist. She wanted to open her fingers to see what was inside, but they ached too much to move. The mwadim. He’d given her something just before…
Before what? What happened to him—and to the meeting? An image flashed in her mind: a misshapen maw and bloodshot eyes.
The mwadim is dead.
No. He can’t be. If the mwadim is dead, then that means…
The word—the one that terrified her more than any other—filled her mind. She had committed her life to reversing, to preventing, to eliminating it. War.
“I can stand,” she said, suddenly finding renewed strength.
“Good.” Magnus pointed through the wall of white smoke surrounding them. “That direction, there’s an alley. I’ll be right behind you.”
She nodded and felt him prop her up. Her legs ached, her back ached—everything ached. She was pretty sure something in her left leg was broken. Despite the agony, however, it felt right to stand. The pain meant that she was alive, which meant she was a survivor. War hadn’t won, at least not yet.
Awen took one step then another. She found her stride and then stumbled into a disjointed run. Her one slippered foot took the lead while the other bare foot crunched painfully through the rubble. As she ran, pieces of the falling sky bit into her flesh, the blackened remains still aflame. The smell of smoke seemed to smother her like a blanket, as did the horrific odor of burning bodies. She wondered if some of the ash was from… from whom?
Awen passed through the white wall, blinked several times, and saw the gap between buildings. She also saw Jujari, but they were all looking skyward. She ducked into the alley and found stacks of small freight containers, each marked with shipping script and connected by brightly colored graffiti. The stacks funneled her in a zigzag pattern and spat her out in an intersection. She stayed in the shadows and turned around to see the trooper running toward her, blaster extended, head on a swivel.
“We haven’t been seen,” Magnus said. “That’s the good news.”
“I assume there’s bad news, then?”
“Yeah. The mwadim’s building is swarming with Jujari, so our primary exfil is compromised.”
“So we can’t get back to the shuttle, then.”
“The fact is,” Magnus said, his black visor centered on her face, “I doubt the shuttle is intact anymore.”
Awen swallowed. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”
“The plan is to head to Zulu Niner, our secondary exfil. It’s three klicks north of the city. But without navigation, it’s going to be slow going, and without comms, I have no way of knowing where the rest of the platoon is. The mwadim’s building is too hot for us to go searching for anyone, so it looks like we’re on our own for the moment.”
“That all sounds bad.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not great,” Magnus said, poking his head into the intersection. He looked right and left then seemed to check the fading sun before reviewing the layout of the buildings.
“So, which way’s north?” Awen asked. Breaths were getting harder to take, and the heat was stifling.
“Best I can tell, that way.” He signaled straight through the intersection with the flat of his hand. “But we’ve gotta move fast.”
Curious, Awen looked at him then stole a glance down the right-hand alley. Packs of Jujari running on all fours raced across the far end, headed straight for the mwadim’s building. The left-hand alley was the same.
“Ready?” Magnus asked, and she nodded. “Let’s go.”
The two of them slipped from the shadows and through the intersection, Magnus keeping a hand on her back while he swept the area with his weapon.
“We’re clear,” he said.
The next alley had more of the same freight containers interspersed with what Awen could only imagine was food waste and excrement. She moved carefully, taking care not to knock anything over for fear of discovery. The pair of them moved to the next intersection where, again, the left- and right-hand passages opened to streets filled with Jujari. They paused long enough to catch their breath and then crossed to the third block.
Once safely across, Awen stopped in front of another freight box, this one highly reflective despite some scattered graffiti. She stopped when she noticed her reflection: torn robes, much of the fabric charred or missing, and her skin bruised, bloodied, and blackened. It dawned on her, however, that much of the blood came from cuts not her own. From other people, she realized. From the Luma and the Republicans. And Matteo.
The full weight of the incident in the ballroom hit her then, knocking her to the ground like a rogue wave at the beach. “They’re dead.” She convulsed, knuckles and knees trembling in the dirt. Then her stomach heaved, and she threw up. “Oh God,” she said, wiping her mouth. “They’re all dead, then, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know,” Magnus said, crouching beside her. She felt his hand on her back again. “But a lot of people died, yes.”
Awen felt hot tears running down her cheeks. What happened? The ambassador had threatened her, then the mwadim ordered her to the dais, and then… something had hit her, and she was lying beside the mwadim.
She felt the cylinder in her hand. He’d given it to her. He’d told her to… what? She couldn’t remember. Something important.
Awen suddenly felt sad. Her mission had failed—after six years of training, her first representation for the Luma had ended in ruins. Maybe her father had been right after all when he said, “Stop chasing the stars, Awen.”
So, this is what the void feels like. She pushed the tears from her eyes with her palms. Maybe… maybe this had been a mistake. Her thoughts moved back to Elonia, to the comfort of her house and her own bed. She wanted to slide into the dust and take a nap. Just a little sleep; that was all. Then she’d be able to run some more.
“SPLICK!” Magnus shouted. Awen looked up and saw him turn to face three Jujari stalking down the alley on all fours.
* * *
Magnus watched as the three warriors stood up on their hind legs and drew their swords. The good news was that there weren’t four. The bad news was that he highly doubted he’d be able to beat three at once without his primary weapon—he didn’t want his MAR30’s report attracting any more contact. He lowered its output, deployed the spring-loaded bayonet below the muzzle, and pulled his serrated combat blade from behind his chest plate.
“Awen,” Magnus yelled, “I want you to run.”
“Run? Put your gun down, Lieutenant. Let me try talking to them—”
“You’re in no shape to negotiate,” Magnus said. “And they’re in no mood to talk.”
“Lieutenant, I really think—”
“I said run!”
The Jujari charged. The narrow alley kept them grouped together, which Magnus used to his advantage. He fired three low-energy rounds, each bolt slamming a target in the chest. The charge wa
sn’t enough to kill them, but it went a long way in disorienting the targets and giving him enough time to strike first.
He ran forward and jabbed the first confused Jujari under the chin with his bayonet. The blade plunged through the jaw’s soft flesh and into the roof of the mouth. The warrior gave out a muffled howl, the air from his lungs forcing spurts of blood between clenched teeth. The Jujari batted at the weapon, snapping off the blade, and sent Magnus to the ground with his MAR30 still in hand.
The second Jujari blinked at the first, his hackles rising at the sight of his brother’s spilt blood. He looked at Magnus and raised his sword, sidestepping the first warrior. Magnus rolled away from the blade’s sweep and then used his knife to cut at the warrior’s rear tendon above the hock. He heard a faint snap as the sinew gave way, and the Jujari toppled over, cackling.
Magnus didn’t have time to terminate either of the first two assailants as the third bounded over them and dove at him. The Marine brought his MAR30 up and swung it like a club, the butt meeting the Jujari on the side of the head. The action, however, did little to faze the warrior. He snapped at Magnus, jaws clamping down on his shoulder like a vise. Pressed into the dirt, Magnus felt teeth pierce his armor and slide into his flesh. He yelled and thrust his knife between the creature’s ribs.
The other two Jujari joined in, despite their injuries, and fought to grab ahold of Magnus. He was going to have to use his rifle, but he knew the sound would mean summoning more warriors than he could handle. Frankly, he was surprised that more hadn’t found them already. A claw scratched at his thigh and punctured one of his reclamation bladders. Another mouth full of teeth snapped at his boot, paws threatening to shred his armor from his leg.
At that moment, each assailant’s head snapped back with a small burst of blood, and before Magnus realized what had happened, the fight was over. He crab walked out from under the carcasses and scrambled to his feet, MAR30 and duradex knife still in hand. He spun around to see Awen, bound and unconscious, held between two men clad in a patchwork of armor. A third and fourth man stood closer to Magnus and leveled blasters at him.
“Don’t do it,” one man said to him from under an old Repub helmet that was missing the visor.
Magnus only needed to raise his MAR30’s muzzle half a meter to draw a bead on him. But based on the assailant’s posture, he suspected he wouldn’t win the standoff. Still, he had to try. They had Awen, after all. And Midnight Hunters never went down without a fight. Never.
Here goes nothing.
8
Piper held her mother’s and father’s hands as they were escorted to the front of a security checkpoint. She felt people watching from the long lines, casting menacing looks at her. But I’ve done nothing to hurt them. Still, their hard faces made her feel embarrassed. Even the air felt angry at her, filled with murmuring.
“Right this way, Senator.” An armed security liaison led Darin into a narrow black-glassed corridor.
Piper looked between the panes of glass, wondering who watched from behind them. But she had nothing to hide. She stepped into the hall and walked with her chest out, Valerie two steps behind her. Piper wore her extra-puffy coat, a sweater, leggings, and oversized winter boots. Jammed inside her coat was Talisman, her stuffed corgachirp, and in her backpack were her holo-pad, an overnight kit her mother had prepared, and some snacks. “Everything else,” her parents had said, “is packed and will be waiting for us on Avolo Four.”
Which means what? she wondered as she exited the hall. It means we’re moving.
Her mind had been racing all morning, thinking of all the things a normal nine-year-old should be doing in this situation: hugging her friends, writing goodbye cards, having one more sleepover, saying thank you to teachers. But none of it was going to happen. The kids of other families who’d moved away got to do those things—military families, defense contractors, star system representatives. But Piper had barely been given the time to brush her teeth before leaving for the spaceport!
“Watch your step, sir,” the lead liaison said. “Watch your step, miss.” The uniformed man took her hand and helped her on board a hover skiff. Piper looked around. No one else in the terminal had one of these. Even the transport shuttle that had picked them up from their apartment had been fancy. That was because her daddy was important. And he was on an important mission. But what, exactly, she had no idea.
People stepped back as the driver pulsed the klaxon button. Piper wanted to try pushing it, but she knew someone would yell at her. She reached for the button anyway. Her long press startled the driver. He glanced down and followed Piper’s hand to her face, and she smiled at him.
“Piper!” Valerie yelled, pulling her back into her seat, but Piper caught the faintest hint of a smile on her mother’s face.
The skiff turned from the main terminal and diverted into a smaller corridor. Piper looked behind them to see the tiers of the big blast doors contract like an iris. “Where are we going?”
“A starship,” Valerie said through a tight smile, having fielded this question a hundred times already. “We’re heading to a starship.”
“Is it a big one?”
Valerie puffed her cheeks and looked at Darin, who just grinned. “You’ll see.”
“Dad,” she said, drawing out the word. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“You’ll see!”
The skiff passed by a series of long rectangular windows that looked out on a massive launchpad. It was the size of a small city. There, in the distance, serviced by what must have been thousands of busy ant vehicles and even smaller ant people, sat at least ten, maybe twenty, dark-gray starships. Their slender shapes and sweeping blue accent lines terminated in V-tailed fins and big engine cones. Each ship seemed like it was on a hospital bed connected to pipes and metal arms and bundles of string.
“Is it one of those, Daddy?”
“You’ll see!” Darin said, laughing.
By the time the skiff stopped, Piper had pulled Talisman from her coat and was showing him everything she saw, especially the big ships. The liaisons escorted the family into a private waiting room with a large window that looked down on a single vessel. Piper ran to the window and read the name printed in white letters near the ship’s cockpit windows. “Destiny’s Carriage,” she said softly. Her mind went to one of the many old stories she loved, back when speeders had wheels and were pulled by animals. “Is that ours, Daddy?”
“That’s the one we’re taking, yes, sweetheart,” Darin replied. Piper felt him stroke the top of her head. His hands were big and warm.
“It’s smaller than the others,” she said.
“And faster,” he added.
“But why smaller?”
“Because we’ll be the only ones on it.”
“The only ones?”
“That’s right.” Darin squatted beside her, looking out the window. “Just you, your mom, me, and the flight crew.”
Piper wrinkled her brow. “But what about all those other people we saw?”
“They’ll get on their own ships.”
“Any of them going to where we’re going?”
“Not that I know of, Pinky,” he said, using her favorite color as a pet name. “They’ll still find their way to wherever it is they’re going.” But for some reason, Piper didn’t think her dad was convinced of that.
* * *
The bridge of the Black Labyrinth was spacious, spartan, and dimly lit. Officers sat at their terminals and performed systems checks, incoming data dumps, and resource-allocation movement. The hum of the ship’s drive core became like a security blanket for the crew: were it ever to go silent, they would know the end was near. Barely audible above it were the incessant finger taps and hushed whispers of techs and the subtle whoosh of air venting.
The room looked out upon the remainder of the ship, an impossibly wide and imposing Goliath-class super dreadnought. The admiral stood alone at the observation window, hands pressed against the floor-to-
ceiling glass. The crew noted that he hadn’t moved in almost thirty minutes; some even took bets on whether he was sleeping. It wasn’t until the executive officer summoned him that the lone figure twitched.
“Admiral Kane, I think we have something,” the XO said.
“Actionable?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so. It’s video captured from the negotiation meeting.”
The figure at the window lowered his arms and turned. His bald head was dimpled with scar tissue, and he had one pale pink eye, the other a shade of brown so deep it appeared black. He wore an officer’s dress uniform, black from neck to toe but devoid of rank and insignias. Aside from his pale eye, the man’s only other outstanding feature was a gold ring, capped with a red stone, on his right pinky.
“Let’s have it,” he said, stopping in the middle of the bridge.
“Sir,” acknowledged the XO.
A holo-projection hovered in front of the admiral, displaying a camera feed from inside the mwadim’s pack tent. The view moved subtly from right to left, positioned about ten meters above and to the rear of the room. A woman approached the mwadim, then a Jujari alpha moved to intercept a portly Republic official, presumably the ambassador. Right then, bright light oversaturated the camera, returning a second later to the developing aftermath of an explosion. The admiral’s eyes darted around the image. He raised his hands and started to manipulate the recorded view, shifting it to see better. A second explosion lit the room.
“Sir, if you’ll look—”
“I see it,” the admiral interrupted, using his hands to zoom all the way to the dais. Amongst several other bodies, the mwadim lay at the back of the alcove along with a woman. The admiral rotated his hand, and the camera spun in to look down on the pair of bodies, the giant hyena dwarfing the woman at least five to one. He noticed an exchange between them, their hands meeting in the chaos.
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