Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  He was about to contest the admiral’s assumptions when blaster fire emerged from behind the explosion. Moldark leaned forward in his chair. The bolts seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  “You see what I mean?” Brighton said from a small window in the corner. “It’s like weapons fire is just springing to life from the middle of the hallway. I’d say the enemy is cloaked, but no such tech exists.”

  Moldark sneered. “Yes. It does, Admiral.” So they’ve come for the child, Moldark concluded, leaning back in his chair.

  Brighton cleared his throat. “My lord?”

  Moldark was growing impatient with this species by the hour. “The technology does exist; you just don’t know about it. Do you see there, in the smoke?”

  “Sir?”

  “Look at the image. Focus on the smoke.” There was a pause as Brighton did what he was told. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing, my lord, there’s just… Wait a second. I see shapes or something.”

  “You do, yes. The enemy’s technology is good, but it is not perfect. Open non-lethal gas valves in the hallways you suspect the enemy to be in. The compressed air will help your men spot their targets.”

  The admiral nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  Moldark dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. “Where did they originate from?”

  “We’re working on that. But it must be from one of the hangar bays.”

  “And you don’t know which one?”

  Brighton shook his head. “We have no record of any unauthorized, unscheduled vessels making port.”

  “Of course you don’t, admiral. That’s the point of covert operations.” Moldark felt that Brighton should have had more intuition than he displayed. But then again, the man was human. Moldark sighed when Brighton didn’t seem to know how to respond. “Look for something out of the ordinary, perhaps an unusual event in the last hour.”

  “We did have a private maintenance vessel go nova about forty minutes ago—operational drive core containment breach. The ship was collecting spent containment canisters, standard procedure, when the deck sensors picked up a radiation leak. The ship was ordered to depart—emergency evacuation protocol. Then it exploded in near space. Hit two fighters, and our starboard side suffered minor damage.”

  Moldark leaned forward. “Bring up the records.”

  Brighton looked down. A data set replaced the firefight scene. “You should be able to see—”

  “I have it.” Moldark didn’t need to scan far—his eyes stopped on the ship’s hull number and registered name. “Admiral, you’ve been fooled.”

  “My lord?”

  “This ship, this—Geronimo Nine—is with the rebels. The same that left for Worru at the war’s start. It’s them, you fool.”

  Brighton’s lips parted, but he said nothing. Finally, the man composed himself and swallowed. “But I don’t understand.” Brighton checked the log. “There was only a captain and a service bot listed, routine pick up. And that ship couldn’t hold an entire raiding party.”

  “That’s because it didn’t deliver a raiding party. It was probably a small advance team. The boarding shuttles are somewhere else on board—registered and right under your nose, Admiral. I suggest searching all hangar bays individually, beginning with those closest to your incident here.”

  “Yes, my lord. Right away.”

  “Also, the shuttles would have come from a larger vessel, probably close by.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “It will be cloaked, like the troopers. I want Talons scrambled and running standard search grids, along with any other ships that can be spared. Start them behind the fleet and move away. Full sensor sweeps. Check on the planet’s shadow side as well.”

  “As you have commanded, so it will be done.”

  “And for your wellbeing, admiral, I recommend you do it expediently.”

  Brighton saluted, and then the comms channel closed.

  Moldark steepled his fingertips together and then turned his chair to see the battle. “How cunning,” he said to the distant enemy. “And brave. Yet so foolish. So very foolish.”

  He remained there for a moment then stood. The sound of his boots against the shiny floor echoed off the high ceiling as he approached his quarters. He waved the door open and found Piper sound asleep. Her chest rose and fell beneath the thin grey blanket, and her head lay encircled by a mess of blonde hair. Had he any affection for humans, she would be one worth caring for. Or was that Kane talking? Bastard.

  “Wake up, child,” Moldark said, allowing Kane to the forefront. He repeated himself several times, but Piper didn’t stir. Resigned to the fact that he had probably pushed her too hard, Moldark backed out of the room. Perhaps allowing her a bit more sleep would be wise—she would have more work to do soon enough. “Rest, granddaughter. Rest well.”

  25

  “Copy for Mr. Forbes?” Cyril said over VNET. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

  “I see ’em.” Forbes reviewed a camera feed overlaid in his HUD. A Paragon fire team meddled with a control panel on the other side of the north door.

  “More inbound,” Lieutenant Nelson added. A platoon joined the fire team—about forty troopers in total.

  “No, no, no! They’re attempting to override my control authority,” Cyril said. “Once the ship’s AI gets involved, we’re totally screwed. I don’t think Azelon and I can keep the door closed.”

  “Understood, Cyril. We’re prepped for this, so don’t you worry your fancy little fingers over it.”

  Cyril let out a timid laugh. “Copy that copy, sir.”

  “Heads up, gladia,” Forbes said over a channel that served both companies. Since Forbes outranked Nelson, he took lead on commanding both units in this combined engagement. “We’ve got some visitors. Taursar, first platoon, ready the AT3Ms and keep your heads down. They’ll be coming in hot. Hedgebore, you’ll have a direct line of fire into the corridor. Exploit it. Cyril, I need to know when the enemy gets curious about those other doors.”

  “Roger copy,” Cyril replied.

  Forbes took cover beneath his unit’s shuttle and ensured that he had good sight-lines on all three doors. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they’d be defending the ships on three sides.

  The fact that Forbes was on a Repub Super Dreadnought about to engage Marine units wasn’t lost on him. The whole thing felt surreal, like he’d woken up inside a bad dream caused by one too many glasses of bratch the night before. He wouldn’t know who he was shooting at, but chances were, he’d trained any number of these troopers before they’d become Paragon lackeys. That was hard to stomach. The Corps didn’t train you to open fire on your own.

  But then again, these weren’t his own anymore. Something had gone horribly wrong with the Repub—or at least with the fleets, which were now under the command of a lunatic. At least that was what he thought of Magnus and Caldwell’s intel. The hard part was recognizing that not everyone was complicit in the decision-making process. If you were a grunt, you took orders, put your head down, and got the job done. Of course, Forbes had always been an officer, or a POG—person other than grunt. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of how his orders affected his subordinates.

  The guys downrange didn’t have the luxury of knowing the why’s of every command decision. And that was probably true here as well, which didn’t make putting them down any easier. In another version of this moment, someone else could have been on Worru when Magnus and Caldwell arrived, and Forbes would be here, following orders that had come down the COC from a madman. Some days, you got lucky. And today, that was Forbes and the men and women under his command.

  Forbes took a deep breath and then spoke to both units again. “Listen, I know what a lot of you are thinking right now, and I’m thinking it too. You’re about to shoot at your own coming through that door, and you weren’t trained to fire on Repub armor. You’re thinking this is some crazy ass splick about to go down. And you’re right�
�you’re damn right it is. But you’ve got to remember that war is a messy business. And you didn’t sign up to be data pushers or caregivers. You signed up to be gunfighters.

  “Today, the thing that needs to be put down is on this ship. It’s threatening more lives than any of us can imagine, and whether we like it or not, and whether they know it or not, the Marines about to come through these doors are a part of the problem. We don’t have the time to talk it out with them and convince them who they’ve climbed in bed with; mystics know I wish we did. But it comes down to this moment, right now. If we don’t stop them, they’ll be instrumental in taking more lives than they already have.”

  “Sir, we’re getting elbowed out, sir,” Cyril reported on a private channel to Forbes. “Any second now and the splick hits the splick.”

  Forbes acknowledged the update with a ping to Cyril but focused on finishing his—whatever it was. “It’s not Marines coming through those doors. Remember that. It’s the Paragon. They might look like Marines, they might shoot like Marines, but they’re fighting for something different than we are. You put them down, and don’t hesitate, or you’ll be the one sucking air through a hole in your neck, and the galaxy needs you too much for that.”

  “We’ve lost control,” Cyril said.

  Forbes acknowledged and then gave his final commands. “Activate chameleon mode. Weapons free.”

  The blast door’s metal leaves rose open and revealed a platoon of Paragon troopers along both hallway walls. Those troopers closest to the door—the ones responsible for hacking the control panel—jerked back in surprise. Apparently, they hadn’t been expecting to find three alien shuttles in the hangar. Nor did they expect emplaced GU90 cannons to blast through their ranks. Four Paragon troopers were cut in half in the open moments. Their torsos hadn’t hit the ground before Forbes’ first platoon fired around the corners and drilled those waiting along the walls.

  Protective half walls sprung out along the passageway, giving the Paragon forces cover. But not all. At least a dozen troopers found themselves either in front of an armored plate or thrown off balance and spinning in the corridor’s middle. Hedgebore Company continued firing the large-barreled GU90, sending mega bolts of energy down the passage. One unlucky trooper was vaporized with a direct hit, leaving only his boots to topple to the ground.

  Forbes continued to fire into the passage as a flurry of NOV1 rounds lit up the enemy. Bodies fell from behind the half walls, making the passage’s floor almost impassable. Meanwhile, Forbes didn’t see any registered hits on his gladia. The eight remaining Paragon troopers fell back and disappeared around a corner.

  Forbes ordered a ceasefire and then told everyone to reorient, reload, and prepare for the next wave. The skirmish was easily won, but it had also been a surprise. Now, the enemy COs knew where the Gladio Umbra were, and Forbes knew the next assaults wouldn’t be so effortless.

  “Get ready on your sixes, ’cause I’m detecting serious, like, serious troop movement from the south,” Cyril said. “I don’t have eyes there, just piggybacking on life support sensors.”

  “Copy that,” Forbes replied. “Any idea on numbers?”

  “Negative, negative. Just, a big lot.”

  “A big lot.” Forbes tilted his head. “I’m guessing that’s more than a little lot?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It is.”

  Forbes brought up the company channel. “South door. Prepare to engage.”

  “Hostiles to the north,” Nelson said. Members of Nelson’s first platoon blasted the corridor with GUD90 rounds, showering the distant intersection with sparks. Troopers fell in the hallway, but several managed to race around the corner and set up behind the half walls. Forbes’s units joined the fight, firing their NOV1s down the hallway.

  “South door opening,” Cyril said.

  Forbes turned and ordered fire toward the new target direction. The enemy must have shared intel since the troops in the south corridor were already deployed behind the metal planks. “Don’t give them a chance to aim,” Forbes yelled. “Keep them pinned down, and make them pay for any attempt to hit us.” Green icons went down the chat field in his HUD as more NOV1 fire filled the north hallway.

  Suddenly, someone yelled, “Fragger!” Forbes turned to the north and saw a detonator roll into the middle space between the open blast door and the shuttles.

  “Cover,” Forbes ordered a split second before the ordinance detonated. A thousand small metal bearings hurled through the air, striking metal and personal force fields alike. Several hits registered on gladia, but none fatal. Personal force fields had been reduced by marginal percentages, but nothing that concerned Forbes. He rallied his gladia and urged them to keep up the pressure.

  A few aggressive troopers made it through the south door but were immediately met with auto turret fire. Two AT3Ms spun up and let loose a torrent of blaster rounds that riddled the Paragon Marines with holes. The enemy combatants shook as they fell to the floor, weapons clattering aside.

  “Where’s my GU suppression?” Nelson barked. “Those shouldn’t have gotten through.” Forbes agreed, but the troops massing to the south were considerable—he guessed two platoons at least.

  Two cannons swiveled in answer to Nelson’s orders. The barrels glowed orange as the emplaced weapons fired into the southern hallway. When the troopers were lined up, one round could take out five or even six people. But the enemy had already gotten wise, trying their best to stagger their advance.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Nelson added. “Keep that up!”

  “And here comes door number three,” Cyril said. “Prepare for red alert readiness.”

  “To the west,” Forbes said. “Prepare to engage!”

  Again, the blast door plates spiraled open to reveal another two platoons of Paragon Marines. NOV1s drilled hard into the tunnel, filling the space with blue light. But the enemy here had brought additional barricades along with some heavy ordinance.

  “SMDLs,” Forbes roared, marking the shoulder-mounted detonator launchers on VNET. Reticles gave second platoon something to focus on while Hedgebore Company managed GU90 fire on all three openings.

  Forbes watched two of the three Marines bearing the SMDLs go down in a cascade of sparks. But the third man lobbed four fraggers into the hangar in quick succession. “Cover!”

  All four grenades exploded at once, thanks to their symmetrical relay system, and blasted the gladia’s MB17 portable shields. Even the shuttles took some damage, but nothing that made Forbes concerned. More personal shields registered a sudden drop in integrity, and at least three NOV1s were blown out of commission. Those gladia unholstered their Vs and aimed.

  “I want fire superiority,” Forbes said. “That can’t happen again!” He lent his NOV1’s ferocity to the fight and took aim at two Marines who were attempting to break cover and advance.

  “Captain, sir,” Cyril cried, his voice strained. “Copy that. I’m picking up some strange vibrations to the north.”

  “Splick.” Forbes swapped out a new magazine. “These guys really don’t want us here.”

  “You—you know what it is?”

  “Trench Sweepers,” Forbes replied. “You’re picking up the sound of their tracks.”

  “Trench Sweepers? Nope, nope, nope. Can’t say I’m familiar with those.”

  “And I hope you never are, kid.”

  Forbes switched channels. “Listen up. We’ve got TS40s, maybe even 45s, bearing down from the north. I want recessed mines in the hallway floor before it shows its ugly face. West and south sides, you can bet you’re next. The further back we take them, the less we’ll have to wrestle with their cyclic guns. Taursar, you’re all on point for this; Hedgebore, we need you to carve us a pocket a few meters deep.”

  “We’re on it,” Nelson answered. Likewise, Forbes’ platoons responded with green icons.

  “Let’s pour it on!”

  26

  Awen could sense Magnus growing impatient. He wasn’t making
any critical tactical mistakes or anything—at least as far as she could tell. But the way his body moved made him seem uptight. She knew it was about Piper—obviously. The child was the whole reason they were here. But for Magnus, she knew, more was at stake than just the child’s safety. This was about restoring their relationship.

  Who was to say that they reached Piper and she didn’t want to come back with them? Or what if—mystics forbid—the little girl turned against them? Awen shivered at the thought of having to fend off any attacks from the child, much less cause her harm. But if it came to it, could she? Could you really strike her down, Awen?

  “Let’s just get there first,” Awen said aloud.

  “Come again?” Magnus said, pausing between shots with his blaster.

  “Nothing,” Awen replied. “Just talking to myself.”

  Suddenly, jets of compressed air shot out from the ceiling and compartments along the walls. The white plumes of cold air wrapped around the gladia’s bodies. The telecolos system had trouble keeping up with the infinite deviations in light deflection, and soon the plate armor was visible, displaying multicolored digital glitches.

  “Stealth is comprised,” Titus said over VNET. “Watch the incoming fire!”

  Sure enough, the enemy’s fire effectiveness increased as they put more rounds on target. Awen took a hit herself, but her power suit absorbed the blow without causing her any harm.

  “It is these infernal air valves,” Rohoar spat, swinging his paws through one of the spouts. Awen thought he looked like a puppy batting as a stream of water shooting from a spigot. “I curse them. I curse them all.”

  “We’re not cursin’ ’em or pluggin’ ’em,” Magnus replied. “There are just too many. Somebody got wise, so I think it’s time we do the same.” Awen saw Magnus ping Willowood and bring her in on a channel with Granther’s mystics. “I want each fire team to have their own shield moving forward. Willowood, can you cover our six?”