Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  “I still have plenty of gladias, and the enemy has lost their fight. We’ve got them holed up in the tunnel. They’re not going anywhere. The best thing you can do is prep for exfil. Now, get to work.”

  “Understood, sir,” replied Rohoar.

  * * *

  Magnus figured there were only one or two recon troopers left in the tunnel. Sure, it had taken four platoons of gladias to do it—equipped with superior weaponry and armor—but a win was a win, and losers didn’t argue about semantics. They’re too dead for that.

  “Easy there,” Magnus said to Dutch and Abimbola's platoons as the remainder of the company neared the opening in the ground. A single ladder led down into the darkness. Everyone was itching for a look into the chute. “I don’t need anyone getting their heads popped off, copy?”

  “Yes, sir,” everyone replied.

  Magnus noticed that Rix and Silk were closest. “Rix, pop an EMP. Silk, pop smoke. Let’s fumigate these critters.”

  The two gladias nodded. They pulled VODs from their suits, dialed in the desired settings, and tossed the devices down the tunnel.

  “Fire in the hole,” Rix said as he stepped away from the chute. Silk did the same, and the platoons waited for the detonations.

  The EMP went off first. A subsonic tremor moved through the ground and emanated straight out of the shaft. Magnus suspected all his units would be fine since the blast was contained by the ground. He was right.

  Next came the smoke. Silk’s VOD popped. Within ten seconds, white wisps of smoke emerged from the tunnel. With the troopers’ life-support systems offline, their rebreathers would be little use. Any survivors would be forced to remove their helmets and seek fresh air.

  Any second now…

  “Don’t shoot,” came a gruff voice from near the cave’s mouth. The man coughed, tossing his helmet out ahead of him. Magnus knew it was a test to see how trigger-happy the capturing force was—if it was more kill than capture, the helmet would get riddled with blaster rounds before it hit the ground. But Magnus held a hand up, wanting his gladias to keep their weapons checked.

  A hand appeared on the ladder’s top rung, then another.

  “Slowly,” Silk said, pointing her NOV1 at the trooper’s head. “No sudden moves, buckethead.”

  A trooper climbed from the pit, clad in all-black Mark VII armor with three white lines painted across his chest and shoulders. The man looked to be in his early thirties. He’d also seen a lot of action—Magnus could tell that simply by the way he moved on all fours, because it wasn’t a crawl. It was a stalk.

  “That’s far enough. What’s your name, Marine?” Magnus squatted to look the man in the face. But the trooper refused to look up. Magnus withdrew his V and placed it under the man’s chin. “Hey, I’m talking to you. What’s your name?”

  The man moved his chin away from the pistol’s barrel, avoiding Magnus’s attempts to get a good look at him.

  “Hey!” Rix yelled, suddenly pressing his NOV1 into the trooper’s side. “He’s talking to you, bucket brain!”

  “I’ve got this.” Magnus lowered his V, removed his helmet, and placed it under his arm. “Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing here, but—”

  “You don’t know who I am?” The man let out a low snort. “Now, that’s rich.”

  “Listen, pal. I’m gonna give you—”

  “Give me what? The same amount of time you gave me to walk away from those whores on Caledonia?”

  The trooper looked up, and Magnus froze.

  “Hi there, Adonis. Remember me?” The trooper started to laugh, a trickle of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth—from some old chipped teeth. “That’s right. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Get him up and outta here,” Magnus ordered.

  “What’s the matter, Adonis? You don’t want to catch up, for old time’s sake?”

  “Shut up, buckethead,” Silk said, putting her boot into the man’s side.

  “Whoa! We’ve got a feisty one here,” the trooper seethed.

  “No, Silk,” Magnus said, waving her off. “Not you.”

  “Wah-ho-ho! Adonis Olin Magnus, still the defender of the weak and the betrayer of his brother.”

  “That’s enough,” Magnus ordered. “Rix, Dozer, get this man secured.”

  “And just like that, you’re done with me, Magnus?” The trooper coughed up phlegm and blood that landed on Magnus’s white armor. “I guess things haven’t changed a bit, have they?”

  Rix and Dozer grabbed the trooper around the biceps and hauled him to his feet. The trooper winced. “Do they know, Magnus?”

  Magnus was already turning away to address the rest of his gladias.

  “’Cause I know. I know it all. And you know I do.”

  Magnus could feel his blood pressure rising and his face beginning to burn.

  “That’s right, betrayer. I know everything you—”

  Magnus spun on his heel and cracked his fist against the man’s face. Blood flew into the dirt as Rix and Dozer struggled to hold the man upright.

  “I have nothing to say to you, Nos Kil. You died on Caledonia, and that’s where you should have stayed.” Magnus looked at Rix and Dozer. “Get him out of here.”

  As the two men dragged Nos Kil away, Magnus could hear him saying, “Wait until they find out… just wait until they all find out…”

  * * *

  “Sir?” Dutch said, tapping the side of her helmet. “It’s for you.”

  Magnus reached down to retrieve his helmet and placed it over his head. Right away, he saw an urgent incoming transmission request on a private channel from TO-96. Magnus accepted the invitation, and a channel opened, this time with video.

  “Sir, it is good to see you in one piece, as it were,” TO-96 said. Azelon stood over his right shoulder, and the Spire’s main window filled the background.

  “What’s up, ’Six? Got a lot going on down here, so—”

  “Sir, I am sorry to cut you off, but we have a developing issue of concern here.”

  “Go on.”

  “There seem to be several ships entering the system.”

  “Several ships? That’s way more than a developing issue of concern.”

  “I agree, sir.”

  “What kind of ships, Ninety-Six?”

  “They appear to be Galactic Republic vessels from third fleet. One battle cruiser and a squadron of FAF-28 Talons, sir.”

  “A squadron of—are you kidding me right now, Ninety-Six?”

  “As you are well aware, my attempts to kid are lackluster at best.” Suddenly, a sensor image appeared in Magnus’s visor, displaying a massive battle cruiser and fourteen smaller starfighters. “Their current trajectories indicate that they are headed directly for Ithnor Ithelia. And, sir, while I cannot confirm this hypothesis, the data would seem to indicate that these ships are connected to Admiral Kane. Given the time dilation, I suspect that they followed Abimbola and Rohoar from Oorajee.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Yes, sir, I very much—”

  “How much time we got?”

  “Approximately one hour before the ships reach geosynchronous orbit and another ten minutes before the fighters could be at our location.”

  Son of a bitch. Magnus threw a hand in the air and moved it in several quick circles. “Gladio Umbra, it’s time to roll out. We’ve got a ship to catch.”

  * * *

  Continue reading for VOID HORIZON.

  Void Horizon

  1

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Kane?” Brooks asked. “And what’s with all this?” He gestured in a wild motion to the renovated cargo bay that Moldark had made into his personal chambers and observation deck. “And, mystics man, what did you do to your damn face?”

  Brooks and Davenport stood at the base of Moldark’s dais wearing full dress uniforms and exasperated faces. As fleet admirals of the Republic’s two other armadas, the men had demanded a
meeting with Moldark. And understandably so, since the rogue Navy commander had run headlong into a fight with the Jujari without anyone’s consent, forcing the admirals’ hands.

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Davenport added.

  “Yes,” Moldark said, rising. “I think you’re right.” He descended the steps one at a time, noting how the two men straightened as he neared. “What is it that you’d like to know first?”

  Brooks glanced at Davenport and then back at Moldark. “First?” The admiral’s lips sputtered. “A unilateral decision to declare open war on the enemy for a start! We all knew something might happen, but when you drove ahead like that? You forced our hand with that one, Kane.”

  Moldark stepped level with the men and noted how they slid their boots back. “The decision was made for me.”

  Brooks squinted at Moldark. “You’re going to need to do better than that if you wish to avoid your court-martial.”

  “I received instruction from the senator himself.”

  “Which senator?” Davenport asked.

  “Blackman, of course. He chaired a subcommittee on foreign policy, one with complete control over all Jujari affairs.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a committee,” Brooks replied, squeezing the beret under his arm.

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

  The man jerked back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, my dear admiral, that you lack the insight to determine where an elected official’s politics has meddled with the safety of his or her constituency. Blackman and his Circle of Nine ordered Third Fleet to open fire on the Jujari and its coalition of ships in the hopes of starting a war.”

  “Circle of Nine? I’m not even sure what to think of you right now, Kane,” Brooks exclaimed. “And don’t try to pin this on Blackman. Your actions will—”

  “Let him finish,” Davenport said, raising his hand. “What Circle of Nine?”

  “I obliged them,” Moldark continued, ignoring the question. “And now they have their war. But it will suit our agenda, not theirs.”

  “Our agenda?” Brooks asked. “And, yes, what is this Circle of Nine?”

  “The Nine have engaged in clandestine operations for as long as I can remember…”

  Davenport looked at Brooks. “Do you know about this?”

  Brooks shook his head and didn’t even bother looking at the other admiral.

  “As for our agenda, gentlemen, I’d like to point out that we have a trump card.”

  “I’m losing patience here, Kane,” Brooks said.

  Moldark waved the comment aside and began to walk around the men. “The Jujari war was inevitable, we all knew that. This part of the quadrant has been nothing but a pressure cooker since we were children. No one cares if the war starts. But delivering the first blow? That, gentlemen, is a card we will play before all this is finished.”

  Davenport turned to follow Moldark in his circuit. “You’re saying that if the people find out what the Nine ordered you to do, the populace won’t stand for it.”

  “Not if, admiral. When.”

  “You’re going to try and expose them?”

  “Indeed.”

  “This is a load of splick,” Brooks yelled. “Who do you take us for? I’m ordering your arrest, Kane.”

  “Worse still,” Moldark continued, “the Nine are in league with the Luma.” He felt the men pause in consideration of this. “I’d felt something shifting for a while now, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  “Now you’re implicating the Luma?” Brooks’s tone was incredulous. “You actually expect us to believe that some dark room of the senate has joined forces with those domesticated peace-mongers to—what? Wage war on the Jujari? I’m finding all this very hard to believe, Admiral Kane.”

  “You don’t need to believe me,” Moldark replied. “But you might find this interesting.” Moldark pulled a small tablet from his hip, held it in his palm, and hit play on a holo recording he’d been saving for this moment. A video appeared of So-Elku, the revered Luma Master, leading a contingent of robed followers against Kane and some Republic troopers. Moldark watched Brooks and Davenport look on in shock as the two forces collided. He let it play for another few seconds before shutting it off.

  “I had thought the Circle of Nine had been empowered by the Galactic Senate, working for the best interests of the Republic. I wouldn’t have followed their orders otherwise. But then I was sent the following from the Circle’s secretary.”

  Moldark displayed a second holo recording, this one captured on the shaking wrist-device of a senatorial staff member who lingered just inside the doorway of what looked to be a closed meeting. In it, So-Elku and some Luma elders stood behind Blackman and a table full of senators. The conversation was hard to hear, but Moldark knew the lines about conspiracy, war, and “destroying the Republic and replacing it with something new” had piqued their interests. Never mind that So-Elku had been speaking about Moldark—or at least a demented version of Admiral Kane. The two admirals were hearing what Moldark wanted them to hear.

  “This can’t be,” Davenport said.

  “And yet it is, admiral.”

  “But if that’s true, then—”

  “None of it’s true,” Brooks snapped. “You’re fabricating to cover yourself. And I, for one, have had enough. Fleet Admiral Wendell Kane, in accordance with Galactic Republic Navy Mandate 3.1 subsection 24, I hereby divest you of your command for treasonous actions against the Republic, unsanctioned acts of war against a—”

  “Enough,” Moldark said, his voice booming in the cavernous hall. He’d wanted his celestial presence to nudge these two fools toward his desires but their unreasonable natures—perhaps as bull-headed fleet admirals—had prevented it. Given more time, his influence would’ve taken hold of them, but he was done wasting time.

  Brooks’s mouth stuck open for a second as he seemed to consider what to say next. He looked to Davenport, presumably for support, but the other admiral looked just as confused.

  “Gentlemen,” Moldark said, regaining control of his tone, “I had hoped that your request for a meeting would end in you seeing my side of things. Together, we might have stopped this erroneous faction of the senate. I can see now, however, that I was too optimistic. Which is sad, because you both would have made fine additions to my plans.”

  Brooks made to protest, but Moldark could sense the man’s questions were outrunning his ability to vocalize any of them. Davenport, too, was unable to offer anything beyond pitiful stammering.

  “I believe we are done here,” Moldark said.

  “Indeed we are.” Brooks tapped the insignia on his chest and Moldark heard a comms chime sound. “Brooks to escort, I need immediate assistance in—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Moldark said. His elemental form reached out and touched the admiral’s chest. Instantly, the man gasped in shock. His arms and legs went rigid and his head was thrown back. The veins bulged on his neck as he tried to say something, but only garbled words drowned by saliva came out.

  Brooks coughed a spray of bubbles as he strained against Moldark’s invasive presence. Moldark drew upon the man’s soul, searching for every morsel of energy he could find and drawing it into himself. He watched as the admiral’s face aged in a matter of seconds. His hair grayed and fell to the floor while deep wrinkles crawled up the sides of his face and withered his cheeks.

  On his tiptoes, Brooks reached out and struck the shoulder of a fear-stricken Davenport. But Davenport wouldn’t save him. Instead, the second admiral backed away from the scene, his face contorted in horror.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Moldark said, his voice feminine and kind as if playing with a small child.

  “I want no part of this. I’m reporting you to—”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Davenport. You seem…” Moldark cocked his head to the side. “Afraid.”

  “I’m more interested in commandin
g my fleet than bowing to”—his eyes darted to Brooks’s trembling body—“to whatever it is you’re doing here.”

  “But I need good commanders. Are you sure you won’t stay?”

  Davenport hesitated, his eyes stuck on Brooks. “I suppose I could convey your orders. But more than that, I…” The man took another step back.

  Davenport was weak. Moldark sensed it. He had no imagination and was too afraid—too fearful. He would never make a good follower. No, he will not do at all.

  A second tentacle from Moldark’s true self lunged toward Davenport and drank deeply of the man’s feeble life force. The admiral spasmed, unable to scream, unable to escape.

  These humans were truly pathetic, like every other species who were takers. And they seemed willing to turn on each other so quickly, so long as whatever new option they entertained served their personal interests better than the previous one. So-Elku’s betrayal of Admiral Kane to the Circle of Nine was proof of this.

  This universe will thank me for their demise, Moldark thought to himself.

  When the life force of the two admirals had been extracted, Moldark released them. Their bodies fell to the floor and two simultaneous plumes of grey ash swirled up from their Navy dress uniforms. Moldark touched the new emblem on his chest, the three white bars of the Paragon, and summoned Fleet Admiral Brighton to his quarters.

  When the man finally appeared at the far end of the hall, Moldark looked down at the dusty piles of clothes, and said, “Have those taken care of. Also, detain both admiral’s escorts and question them. See if they are willing to join us.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Brighton’s eyes examined the ash gathering on his glossy black boots, and Moldark knew the man was thinking something more.

  “What is it?”

  “The remaining fleets, my lord. What would you have us do with them?”

  Moldark had, of course, thought about this. Drilling down through both fleets’ ranks until he could find commanders willing to do his bidding would take time and resources. Though, as he considered the human species and their prime motivators of fear and lust, he found himself second guessing just how long it might take.