Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  Nos Kil, for example, had been purchased easily enough. The man simply wanted freedom. That and a chance to unleash the violence within.

  Commander Longo also seemed to comply without hesitation. He’d dreamed of battling the Jujari since he was a boy. Who was Moldark to stand in the way of that?

  And then there was Admiral Brighton, a man who seemed only too happy to hold onto his meaningless life when confronted with the fate of his superiors. Plus, Moldark had promoted him. How could the human refuse?

  Moldark knew these men were not alone. There would be hundreds more. Perhaps thousands. But he didn’t need those kinds of numbers. There wouldn’t be time for it.

  “What would you have us do about the remaining fleets, my lord?” Brighton asked again.

  “The admirals are not expected back to their ships for another quarter hour, and the conflict is progressing smoothly enough. Why don’t you invite all fleet command staff to retire to the flagship for… consultations. Tell them that the three fleet commanders will be making a special presentation.”

  “What sort of presentation?”

  Must I explain everything? Moldark remarked inwardly but reminded himself that such slowness was endemic of this species. “There won’t be any presentation, Brighton. You will schedule private meetings to alert key staff of the Circle of Nine’s existence, and you’ll outline the Nine’s treasonous acts and their collusion with the Luma. Then you’ll inform them of Brooks and Davenport’s involvement and their subsequent removal from command. Next you’ll tell their subordinates that after we annihilate the Jujari, we will set our sights on Capriana. We will make those responsible for corrupting the Republic pay for their transgressions, and then destroy all those who have stolen from the innocent.”

  Brighton loosened the collar around his neck. “And the ones who don’t seem agreeable?”

  “Some we will detain.” For sustenance, Moldark noted. “The rest we will dispose of. Then move to their next highest-ranking officers. Those we cannot convert directly we will supplant by those already loyal to Kane’s causes.”

  Brighton was slow in responding. The man’s eyes looked between the two piles of dust and uniforms again.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Good.” Moldark noted how the man’s fear had brought him back in line. But fear was only so powerful with these humans. So Moldark decided to leverage the other motivator. “Need I remind you, Fleet Admiral Brighton, that you are now the most powerful senior officer in the entire Navy?”

  The man’s eyes darted up to meet Moldark’s as a small smile crept across the admiral’s lips.

  There it is, Moldark mused. “Admiral, it is no longer the Republic Navy you lead…”

  “But the Paragon Navy,” Brighton said as if the words themselves filled him with power. “It shall be done, my lord.”

  Moldark nodded. There it is indeed.

  2

  “How much time before they get here, Azie?” Magnus said over a command comms channel. His boots trampled through the jungle outside the alien city of Itheliana while sunlight from the leafy canopy flickered over his armor. He led Granther Company east, fresh from their victory against Admiral Kane’s rogue Recon troopers. With any luck, they’d make it to the shuttles just in time to get off the planet and get to safety on Azelon’s Spire.

  “The Republic ships will reach the Spire’s position in twenty-three minutes, forty-one seconds,” replied the AI, still aboard the starship in orbit over the planet.

  Magnus did the math in his head as his bioteknia eyes displayed the remaining distance to the shuttles. It had taken them nearly half an hour to get out of the city, which meant that by the time they’d secured the team on the shuttles and returned to orbit, the enemy ships would be in a full-out conflict with the Spire, or—worse—with the shuttles.

  “Remind me of our vessel’s defensive capabilities again?”

  “If we have never covered those properties before, how is it a reminder?” Azelon asked.

  “Humor me.”

  “Light shielding.”

  Magnus waited, expecting Azelon to go on. When she didn’t, he simply said, “That’s it?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Sir,” TO-96 said, chiming in over comms. “I would like to point out that your heart rate and blood pressure are abnormally high.”

  “Of course they’re abnormally high, ’Six.” He’d been pushing the team hard, urging them to get out of Itheliana and back to the shuttles as fast as they could. But he was growing impatient. Between those Gladio Umbra injured in the firefight and the rogue Repub Recon prisoner they’d taken, their progress was much slower than Magnus would have liked. They’d been forced to leave Baker and Lugt’s corpses in the wreckage. “The company has just survived its first brush with the enemy. And now, I’ve been informed that the Republic has somehow managed to send a squadron of FAF-28 Talons and a battlecruiser through an event horizon—”

  “A quantum tunnel, sir,” TO-96 interjected.

  “Whatever. And they’re about to hunt us down while we sit in shuttles with no armament. Meanwhile, you two bots helm an alien starship. That tends to get one’s heart rate and blood pressure up, ’Six.”

  “Well, sir,” TO-96 in a cheerful tone, “the good news is that you are making marvelous time. Your team is working in a well-coordinated effort to usher the injured gladias and your prisoner to the shuttles. You should arrive in less than five minutes at your current rate.”

  “Are you saying we get extra points for teamwork?” Magnus said with a sarcastic air.

  “No.” The bot paused over comms. “I was only trying to be encouraging, sir. I did not mean to infer the presence of a reward system. I see now that doing so—only for you to discover the absence of any such system—could be demoralizing.”

  “Nope,” Magnus said. “You already demoralized me a long time ago, ’Six.”

  “Oh my. I’m terribly sorry, sir. When was that?”

  “When you asked me to touch your missiles.”

  “You’re a bad man,” Awen said over comms. Magnus had forgotten anyone else was on the command channel.

  “If it makes you feel any better, buckethead,” Abimbola said, “he said the same thing to me when we first met.”

  “So the truth comes out,” Magnus replied, grateful for the humorous moment. He needed something to relieve the stress.

  “I fail to see what truth you are alluding to,” TO-96 said.

  “That you ask everyone to touch your missiles when you first meet them,” Ezo replied.

  Magnus feigned personal offense. “And here I thought I was special.” Several people laughed over the channel. It reminded him of being on TACNET with the Fearsome Four, of making jokes just before the splick really started to fly—like it would in a few minutes.

  He switched to the full company channel. “Let’s keep it moving, gladias. We’re almost there.”

  Magnus hadn’t needed TO-96’s comment about their ETA to the shuttles—his HUD took care of gauging and displaying the distance. He just hoped that they’d be able to get everyone loaded and figure out a way to get back aboard the Spire before things went sideways. The last thing he wanted was a squadron of Talons doing a strafing run on two overloaded shuttles trying to break out of a planet’s gravity well. They’d never survive it. They’d be as easy to pick off as pregnant Gossian parliamentary pigeons—the only thing left would be feathers and broken eggs.

  Magnus noted an incoming private channel request from Awen. “Go ahead.”

  “Hey, I know you’re worried about this, about getting back to the Spire. Just wanted you to know you shouldn’t be.”

  Well that got Magnus’s attention. “And how’s that?”

  “Azelon can take care of herself.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t share your unbridled enthusiasm.”

  “I’m serious,” Awen replied. The ex-Luma ran close enough to him that he looked over a
nd saw her through some ferns, holding Piper’s hand. “You remember the story about when I first left the system with Ezo and Sootriman, right?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Azelon destroyed all the threats by hijacking torpedoes. Some sort of next-level override tech that she has.”

  “I remember you mentioning it, yeah. But forgive me if I don’t share your faith in her right now. These are Talons we’re talking about.”

  “I know what they are.” Awen sounded defensive.

  “You might know what they are, but I don’t think you know what they can do. Not like I do.”

  “Well, I don’t think you know what Azelon can do.”

  “Is this what you refer to as a pissing contest?” a new voice said over their private channel.

  “Ninety-Six,” Awen blurted out. “You’re not supposed to be monitoring this line!”

  “It’s a private channel,” Magnus reminded him. “That means no bots allowed.”

  “I am sorry, truly,” TO-96 admitted. “But given how deeply I am integrated with the system, I’m afraid such a request is impossible.”

  “We’re always listening,” Azelon added.

  “Splick,” Magnus said. “’Cause that ain’t creepy at all.”

  “To be fair,” TO-96 said, “both of your points have merit. Azelon has a high degree of advanced tactical maneuverability and weapon systems superiority, as Awen observed.”

  “See?” Awen said. Magnus could have sworn she stuck out her tongue at him.

  “Likewise, Magnus is correct in his assertions that the FAF-28 Talon is a formidable fighter platform, representing the very best of the Galactic Republic.”

  “Told you so,” Magnus said. He put a hand on a dead tree that lay across his path and vaulted over it.

  “All things considered, however,” the bot continued, “Azelon feels assured in her abilities to safely cover your retreat, so long as you—”

  “There they are!” Awen pointed to the shuttles, half hidden by trees.

  “Everyone load up,” Magnus ordered. “Alpha and Bravo platoons, shuttle one. Charlie and Delta, shuttle two—and you’ve got the prisoner. Awen and Piper, with me.” He raced to the foot of his shuttle’s ramp and started pushing people up. “Nolan?”

  “Right here, sir.”

  Magnus looked and saw the former Navy pilot swing around the side of the ship. “Let’s get her fired up.”

  “Right away.”

  Magnus continued to watch both shuttles fill with his warriors. Their custom Novia Minoosh armor returned to its neutral state, dispensing with chameleon mode to reveal the gleaming white telecolos covering. Their armor plates were charred in some places, having taken blaster fire or indirect damage from the conflict with the rogue Recon team. No mission plan survives contact with the enemy—he’d learned that lesson long ago. Then there was that second critical moment in any mission where the unexpected caught up with you. This moment was that moment. And it always brought with it waves of doubt. As the last of his ship’s passengers ran up the ramp, Magnus wondered if he was going to lead everyone to safety or if this was the one mission—the one decision—that was going to get everyone killed.

  ’Cause you’ve killed your own before, right Magnus?

  He watched the other shuttle’s ramp begin to close as its final passengers marched up. It was Nos Kil, arms bound behind him, pushed at gunpoint by two Jujari gladias. Son of a bitch.

  Maybe boarding the shuttles and trying to race back to the Spire wasn’t the right call. Instead, maybe they needed to scatter and hide—let Azelon defend the Spire, and rendezvous with her later. Then again, taking on even a single Talon from an indefensible position was suicide. That bird would tear their whole company apart in just a few passes.

  “Nolan?” Magnus said over comms. “What’s our time to liftoff?”

  “Thirty seconds, sir.”

  He shook his head and stepped into the cargo bay. He was getting that sick feeling in his gut, the one that said, You idiot. You’re going to get everyone killed! But he stuffed the voice down inside his soul and ground his teeth. He was a leader, and teams needed a definitive voice. Indecision killed faster than blaster bolts.

  “Everyone, strap in,” he said. Then he removed his helmet, mag-locked his NOV1 to his back, and made for the shuttle’s bridge. The drive core cycled up in its tell-tale whine, sending small vibrations through the ship’s hull.

  “Nolan?” Magnus projected his voice as far forward as he could without actually shouting.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Nolan replied, his voice coming from the pilot couch.

  Magnus stepped into the bridge. “I want a holo of the enemy ships’ positions.”

  Dutch sat beside Nolan and brought up the requested information. A holo projection snapped to life, hovering above the command console. It showed Ithnor Ithelia’s curved edge, adorned with a representation of the Azelon Spire with a bracket and basic ship data. Further away were fourteen small fighters, along with a battlecruiser that looked to be half the size of the Spire.

  Magnus swore under his breath. Unless Azelon had something up her sleeve, this was going to be a bloodbath.

  “Engines online,” Nolan said. “Commencing liftoff.”

  “Get us out of here,” Magnus said, feeling the slightest wave of relief.

  Nolan moved the vertical throttle sliders to maximum. But nothing happened. The ship should have lurched skyward with how forcefully he’d pushed them.

  “What the hell, Nolan?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Stand by.” He brought the sliders down, waited a beat, and slid them up again. Still, nothing happened.

  “Nolan!”

  “The system isn’t responding. I don’t… I’m not sure…” His eyes searched the readouts. “It seems the other shuttle is experiencing the same difficulties.”

  “Dutch, comms,” Magnus said. “Hail Azelon.”

  “Patching through…” Dutch tapped a few things on her side of the command console. “Channel’s open.”

  “Azie, we’ve got a ship malfunctioning down here.”

  “Negative, Magnus,” Azelon replied, her voice calm, as if she was trying to sooth a child to sleep.

  Dutch looked over her shoulder at Magnus with her eyebrows lifted.

  “What do you mean, negative?” Magnus asked.

  Just then, Awen stepped into the bridge. “What’s going on? Why aren’t we taking off?”

  “I’d like to know the same thing,” Magnus replied. “Azie?”

  “I have temporarily grounded your shuttles, Magnus,” the AI said.

  Magnus tightened his grip on Dutch and Nolan’s seatbacks. “Temporarily ground—? On whose orders?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then Azelon said, “Logic’s.”

  “I think you’re going to need to explain yourself,” Awen said.

  “I will, in due time.”

  “How about like right now,” Magnus demanded.

  “Negative, sir.”

  Magnus jerked his head back. “Negative? Dammit, Azie.” Magnus pounded his fist on Nolan’s seat back. “Listen, if you’re going to pull something like this, then—”

  “Sir, I recommend you leave the shuttles and take cover in the forest immediately. Statistically speaking, your chances of survival will increase by forty-four percent if you do so.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “I calculate one-hundred percent fatalities if you remain with the ships in the event the enemy enters atmosphere over your location.”

  He pulled his helmet out from under his arm and looked to Nolan, Dutch, and then Awen. “Well, looks like we’re going out for another stroll.”

  3

  Ricio could hardly believe what he was seeing. He prompted the neural interface to expand the image on his HUD until a strange starship filled the holo.

  “Is everyone else seeing this?” he asked over TACNET.

  “Viper Two. Affirmative, commander,” the pilot said. The
rest of the squadron updated the comm chat with green icons.

  “Damn,” Ricio whispered to himself. This whole mission felt… surreal. In fact, the last few days seemed like something out of a holo movie. First, his squadron had been ordered to attack the Jujari fleet—a command that had fulfilled a childhood fantasy of his. It pitted Talons against Razorbacks in an epic battle that had put the video games of his childhood to shame. Then, without warning, he was ordered back to the Labyrinth where he met with Fleet Commander Brighton in private quarters once used as a common area in the aft of the ship. A single captain’s chair stood atop a dais before a massive wall of windows that looked over the orbital war.

  As if the repurposing of the large space hadn’t been odd enough, the meeting was interrupted by Admiral Kane’s appearance. The man walked past him and ascended the dais to sit in the chair while Brighton stood on the ground below him.

  The encounter rattled Ricio, more than he cared to admit. The admiral had stared at him with oil-black eyes. His face and head looked as though he’d survived a horrible fire. But it was Kane’s gravelly voice that gave Ricio chills—like another presence spoke from inside the man. He couldn’t help but wonder what horrible accident the admiral had lived through. Or…

  Perhaps the rumors about the man’s otherworldly possession were true. Of course, Ricio didn’t believe in such things. Those were the fairytales reserved for the Luma. But given how dramatic his appearance was, Ricio was slower to write off the rumors than he cared to admit.

  “Is there something the matter, Commander Longo?” Brighton said to him.

  Ricio snapped his eyes off Kane and looked to Brighton. “Uh, no, Fleet Admiral. I was just—”

  “Admiring the view?” Kane said.

  Ricio wasn’t sure how to respond. That was, until he saw Kane gesture toward a holo display of a strange starship rotating in front of his chair.

  “The view, yes, Admiral Kane,” Ricio replied.