* * *
Bosworth had settled himself in his apartment and then headed for the bathroom. His strained muscles relaxed as he lowered his enormous body into the hot bath that he’d drawn. He savored the caress of the water against his skin and tried to let his thoughts drift in time with the water that filled the marble tub.
His survival of the bomb blasts that rocked the mwadim’s palace had been expected. But his capture and subsequent torture by the Selskrit had not. Nor had his failure to retrieve the stardrive. Kane had not been pleased. Moldark even less so.
But the new Paragon lord was something of an enigma to Bosworth. While Moldark seemed opposed to the Republic—the governing body to which Bosworth had committed his entire life—he also seemed in favor of the one thing that Bosworth loved more than the Republic.
Power.
And if there was anyone who was going to give Bosworth more power in the new regime, it was Moldark.
The Republic was, after all, merely a means to an end, at least in Bosworth’s mind. The positions afforded to those within its governmental structures were not representative despite how often the concept was lauded among the masses. Once elected or appointed, senators, ambassadors, and chancellors did what they damned well pleased. Successful campaigning was simply the right of passage—the thing that proved you could effectively seduce constituents into believing you despite your abject abhorrence of their trivial political planks.
But Bosworth had spent enough years within the stuffy halls of Capriana that he knew the Republic’s time was drawing to a close. As every civilization before it, this one would fall too. But it would have survivors. And if Bosworth had ever doubted his ability to survive, his time held hostage on Oorajee had dispelled those anxieties. He could, he dared believe, endure anything. Would endure anything. The Republic may fall, he mused to himself, but I will remain.
Bosworth figured that, to remain, one needed to worry far less about notoriety and far more about association. Those in the limelight spent fortunes on staying popular. They preened on holo displays, kissed ass whenever they could, and took every opportunity to distance themselves from the faults of their parties in order to present themselves as the purest of patrons.
But association was a more subtle craft, one well understood by diplomats. Since there was no election for their position, ambassadors only needed to concern themselves with how well they portrayed the power that they represented. Ambassadors themselves were forgotten as quickly as they were introduced, but their governments were not. This nuance afforded them a unique ability to either surf atop the wave of power when things were going well, or slide beneath the fallout when things were not—undetected by the watchful eyes of the populace that was more concerned with those they’d elected than those who’d been appointed.
Bosworth knew his name would never be remembered. And that was fine with him. So long as he was still standing with a hand on the controls when all the blaster fire had subsided. Moldark, he’d decided, was a means to an end, just as the Republic had been. If the Paragon’s leader was successful, Bosworth would run beside him. Until Moldark’s luck ran out—then he’d move on to whatever power overtook the dark lord. Stand in the shadows but speak to the light. The saying had become his mantra. For no one can discard what they cannot see, but neither can they resist what they always hear.
Bosworth felt himself slide deeper into the bath until nothing but the outline of his face protruded above the surface. The waters hid his naked form, much like the shadows. In the darkness he would be safe. They’d never suspect his meddling. They’d just blame it on everyone else.
* * *
Bosworth almost decided to drive the skiff himself. He missed the freedom and the endless horizons. But arriving at his destination without a driver would have raised suspicions. Of course, the driver would have to be dealt with, and Bosworth hated the hassle of killing people. But it was part of the job. Plus, unlike the false timeline he’d given the chancellor, he would not be on the planet long enough for anyone to discover the body.
The backseat of the luxury skiff was deep and spacious, allowing him ample room to spread out. He gazed out the window as the cityscape slowly gave way to rolling hills of green. The undulating countryside was dotted with grazing animals and simple farms that harkened to a bygone era. He tried to look over the steep mountains high above, but his eyes only caught glimpses of the stars in the fading evening sky before his neck strained from the effort.
The skiff’s gentle hum ushered Bosworth toward sleep more than once, but he fought it off with sudden jerks back to reality. He had to stay focused. “How much longer?” he yelled to the driver.
“Six more minutes, ambassador.”
“Very well.”
Bosworth sat up as much as he could, smoothing his coat and slacks with pudgy fingers. He settled his mind and reviewed his presentation, willing himself to believe every word of it. The key to lying was not mastering how to lie, it was believing the lie until it was true. Of course, one had to be intentional about parsing what things were truths because of belief and what things were believed because they were true. Failing to do so could get you in trouble with the wrong people. So developing a robust memory had been a pastime of the ambassador’s for as long as he could remember. Of course, his memory had been tested as of late. His torture on Oorajee had seen to that, as had his vile treatment at the hands of that damned Marine and his lady doctor.
When the skiff finally slowed to a stop and the driver opened Bosworth’s door, the stars were in full array, displayed in the small patch of black sky that stretched between mountain ridges. The country air was fresh and cool, pricking the ambassador’s skin and dispelling any lingering desire to nap.
“Shall I ring the residence for you, sir?”
Bosworth waved off the driver. “That won’t be necessary.”
“As you wish. I will remain here in wait.”
Bosworth humphed and then started up the stone path. The house before him was modern and pristine, boasting sleek lines and glass walls. Waterfalls cascaded from cantilevered escarpments on the second and third levels and gathered in small pools that fed various streams around the night-lit grounds. And wherever the water flowed, fragrant bushes let off their evening aromas held close to the ground by looming trees. It was, Bosworth decided, the small country palace of a well-to-do family.
He approached the security door and wondered if the thing was even locked. So far away from nothing, there seemed to be little cause for concern. Then he smiled to himself, noting the irony of his own presence here this night. He touched the security pad.
“Please state your name,” said a recorded male voice in a formal air.
“Galactic Republic Ambassador Gerald Bosworth,” he replied.
“Hello, Galactic Bosworth,” the low-level AI replied, repeating the annoying error that he commonly encountered. “Please wait to be seen.”
Within a few moments, the door slid open and revealed a fair looking Elonian man. He stood a head shorter than the ambassador and wore informal evening wear.
A voice further back said, “Who is it, dear?”
“Just a moment, Giyel,” the man said over his shoulder, then brought his eye up to meet Bosworth’s. “I’m afraid I don’t know you, Galactic Bosworth.”
The ambassador winced. “It’s Gerald Bosworth, Ambassador of the Galactic Republic.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “My apologies, ambassador. Sometimes the AI’s have trouble with titles.”
“As I’m aware.”
The man turned and summoned his wife. She appeared from the kitchen, wringing her hands in a towel.
“We have an ambassador at our door,” the husband said.
“An ambassador? At this hour? Here?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Bosworth replied.
The woman took her husband’s arm and smiled warmly. “Pleased to meet you, sir…”
“Bosworth. Gerald Bosworth. And you are Balin and Gi
yel dau Lothlinium?”
“We are,” Balin replied. “Won’t you come in, ambassador?”
* * *
Continue reading for BLACK LABYRINTH.
Black Labyrinth
Prologue
“Order all ships to hold their fire,” David Seaman said from his captain’s chair aboard the Super Dreadnaught Solera Fortuna.
“Yes, Commodore,” replied his communications officer.
“And tell the Ardent Eclipse to lower their aft shields to thirty percent.”
“Right away.”
The comms officer went to work while Seaman’s Flag Captain, Lani DiAntora, leaned into his ear. “Commodore, what do you intend to do here?”
In the short time that Seaman had known the woman, he’d found her to be inquisitive, analytical, and unafraid of senior officers—three things that tended to keep junior officers from being promoted. But she was also Sekmit, which meant these attributes were characteristic of their species, making them both trusted advisers and, at times, incredibly frustrating companions.
“Voknareth ilphin nockfarock,” Seaman replied in his best Jujari accent.
DiAntora tilted her head and twitched her feline-like nose. “Never surrender?”
“Never back down,” he corrected. “Especially when the kill is sure, so the saying goes.”
DiAntora stood upright and reviewed Ardent Eclipse’s position as it fled from a Jujari Pride-class Battleship named Behold the Glory of Mwadim Pethroga’s Victorious Might. The Ardent had already suffered severe damage, putting most of the Battlecruiser’s 2,000-plus sailors at risk. Ordering the vessel to lower its shields further was a death sentence. But the Ardent was also fleeing toward the safety of First Fleet.
“You intend to lure them in,” DiAntora said. Her cat-shaped ears flicked once, poking out of her human-like head of blonde hair.
“I do. Once they’re in range of our quad cannons, and too close to deploy countermeasures against our torpedoes, I want you to fire on it from our port side.”
“Aye-aye, Commodore.” Then, barely above the noise in the bridge, she said, “A well-conceived tactic—using the Jujari’s ambitions against them.” Seaman smiled at her appraisal. While he didn’t need it, and she would be out of line to give it without being asked, he liked knowing they were on the same page.
Seaman watched as the Ardent’s shield status dropped to thirty percent. If the ship’s commander survived this engagement, Seaman would be sure to submit his name for an award—if the Paragon did such things. With so much rapid change, it was hard to know what policies and traditions remained in effect and what had been abandoned.
As soon as the Victorious Might detected the shield drop, it began pummeling the Ardent with heavy artillery fire. Within seconds, the shields had been reduced to nothing, and blaster rounds chewed into the ship’s aft. The first salvo alone took out both starboard engines. The massive exhaust cones blew apart, showering the Ardent’s hull with chunks of debris.
Unspent reactor energy cascaded over the tail in purple and white flames, bursting with charges of electrical power. Seaman knew that if the ship’s crew didn’t get the reactor core’s output under control, the Ardent wouldn’t succumb to a Jujari attack—it would detonate from a containment breach.
Fortunately, the hemorrhage tapered off, but not before more blaster fire took out the port-side engines.
“Commodore, the Ardent is reporting complete aft engine failure,” the comms officer said. “They’re requesting permission to raise shields.”
“Negative.” Seaman stood. “Tell them to stand down and continue drifting.”
“Yes, Commodore.”
“Cutting it close, aren’t you?” DiAntora asked, keeping her voice just soft enough that the rest of the bridge crew wouldn’t hear. Seaman hated that she knew the right volume level to speak her mind without making it look like she was questioning his authority. She’d been at her job far longer than he’d been at his, and she seemed to be letting it go to her head.
“Life support is still nominal,” Seaman said with his hands behind his back. He was confident in his plan, and he didn’t need a Sekmit or anyone else questioning him at such a critical juncture—he didn’t care how long she’d been a Captain. “More importantly, however, the Victorious Might is still not committed. It will be, though.”
DiAntora purred—but whether in resignation or disagreement, Seaman could not tell. Only time with her at his side would give him the ability to know what she was thinking without speaking. And if they survived this, he’d enjoy getting to know her. Seaman always had a thing for Sekmit despite the stigmas that surrounded inter-species relationships. But if these recent days proved anything, it was that progressive thought was lauded, and the old ways were dying.
Seaman’s recent promotion from Captain and Director of Strategic Fighter Command to Commodore of First Fleet had come as a surprise, especially given that it was a field promotion. Then again, the Paragon was anything but predictable. Hell, it had only existed for the better part of a few weeks. But apparently both First and Second Fleet’s admirals had resigned their posts, and Fleet Admiral Brighton had insisted that the vacancies be filled by “those competent officers loyal to Lord Moldark.”
The Republic Navy would never have sanctioned such a unilateral move—not without approval from Capriana—which made saying yes to Brighton even easier, as this was indeed a once in a lifetime opportunity. With no other flag officers over First Fleet, his new rank as Commodore gave him command of not only his own Super Dreadnaught, but all ten carriers and dozens of support vessels.
The Victorious Might continued to track after the wounded Ardent, moving closer and closer into the target window. With the shields down, the Jujari ship fired torpedoes into the Ardent’s aft, blowing away vast sections of the Battlecruiser’s stern. But most of these were engineering sections, and Seaman had already ordered the commander to move his sailors amidships.
“Just a little bit more,” Seaman said to himself.
“Commodore, Captain Milhorn is hailing again, asking for permission to—”
“Belay that, Ensign. Tell them to remain as they are.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“You do realize that if this fails, you’ll be charged with gross negligence and dereliction of duty, responsible for willfully placing over 2,000 sailors in harm’s way.”
“And when it works, XO?” Seaman turned to look at her, staring into her deep green eyes. “What then?”
The Sekmit swallowed, narrowing her eyes at the main holo display. “We will have achieved a significant blow against the remaining Jujari forces over Oorajee. And we will be another step closer to their surrender.”
Seaman smiled, pulled up a ship’s schematic in a new holo window, and spoke in a calm, even tone. “As you will recall, Ardent is a Growler-class Battlecruiser. They were overbuilt in the stern in order to compensate for the drive core advances made around the turn of the century. As long as the captain keeps his sailors ahead of the reactor core bulkheads, which he has, that ship can lose up to thirty-five percent of its stern mass and still keep the crew alive, still return fire, still raise shields, and still maintain basic thrust-vector steerage.” He turned to face her. “Do you still think I’m being reckless?” DiAntora opened her mouth, but Seaman raised a finger. “That was rhetorical, Captain.”
“Understood. You wouldn’t have liked my answer anyway.”
Suddenly, Seaman noticed that the Victorious Might’s bow crossed the target window’s plane—the enemy was within range, and no amount of maneuvering could get them out in time.
“Tell the Ardent to raise shields.” He looked at DiAntora. “Open fire!”
DiAntora relayed the commands to weapons and engineering, and within seconds, Solera Fortuna’s port side was ablaze in blaster fire and torpedo flames. The weapons fire crossed above Oorajee’s stratosphere and assailed the enemy Battleship. Shields held against the first few seconds of blaster fi
re, dispersing the energy over huge spherical shells. But Seaman wasn’t commanding a squadron of Talons—this was a Super Dreadnaught, a ship feared in every section of the quadrant.
Within seconds, the Battlecruiser’s shields were knocked away, allowing the quad cannons and auto turrets to rake the hull. As small plumes of fire erupted along the ship’s port side, torpedoes found their targets, blowing up defense towers and sensor arrays. The second wave of torpedoes took out critical life support junctions, communications nodes, and power relay stations. The Victorious Might purged fire into hard vacuum. While the flames were snuffed out as soon as any combustible fuel was spent, the long trails of debris were flung into forever in all directions.
“It’s working,” DiAntora said as if she still couldn’t believe it.
“No, Captain. It worked,” Seaman said, feeling quite pleased with himself. The Victorious Might attempted to veer away from the assault, but another Paragon Dreadnaught was prepared to head it off. Seaman turned to DiAntora, sensing he may have gloated in a way that might harm any future they had together. “Though, I feel it worth noting that I take your reservations as wise council and not…” He considered the right word. “Skepticism.”
She flicked her tail one time and nodded at him. “As it was intended.”
Seaman nodded and then looked to the holo display. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what DiAntora meant by “it.” Wise counsel? Or skepticism?
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 133