Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  Magnus smiled a silent thank you to her then found his voice. “We owe them our lives. And everything we do from here on, we do in honor of their gift to us. They will never be forgotten, and their legacy lives on with us. In every contest, in every advance, we stand on their shoulders. And we will make them proud.”

  “Dominate,” someone yelled from among the people.

  A beat later, it was answered by the masses. “Liberate!”

  Then again, “Dominate!”

  “Liberate!”

  The echo faded in the hangar as Magnus savored the beauty and the pain of the moment. Here he stood amidst the most unlikely group of warriors he’d ever met, all united around a single purpose. Whether or not they would survive the battles ahead, and whether or not they would remain friends when it was all said and done, remained to be seen. But for the moment, they were one, and the feeling of togetherness was as strong as any he’d ever felt before. Perhaps even stronger.

  He didn’t know if it was Piper, or if it was the uniqueness of their greater mission, but something invisible had joined them together. The intangible felt like concrete, the invisible more real than eyes could see. Despite their losses, despite the enemy’s strength, they’d won the day. They’d held their own, and they’d done it together.

  “Thank you,” Magnus said. “Thank you all.” Then he pulled Piper off his shoulder and smiled. “Nothing between you and me, Piper.”

  “Nothing, ever.”

  Magnus kissed her on the cheek and laid her back down on the stretcher. He looked to the medics and nodded.

  Suddenly, TO-96 looked at Colonel Caldwell and then to Magnus. Azelon, too, looked uneasy, shifting on her feet. Something was off.

  “What is it, ’Six,” Magnus said, breaking the silence.

  “We—Azelon and I, that is—are detecting a fleet-wide transmission, sir,” TO-96 said.

  “From who?” Caldwell asked.

  “It seems to be originating from the Black Labyrinth, sir—sent across all channels.”

  Magnus looked to Caldwell and Awen, and they looked as uneasy as he felt.

  “Would you like to view it?” TO-96 asked, looking to Caldwell.

  “On the bridge.” Caldwell looked to the leaders closest to him. “Company Commanders, with me.”

  Magnus acknowledged the request with a nod. Forbes, Nelson, Willowood, and the two bots followed Caldwell from the hangar bay as Awen grabbed Magnus’s arm. “Come find me when you’re done,” she whispered.

  “I will,” he said, wondering about the sudden urgency in her tone.

  “Something’s going on, Magnus. I don’t know what yet, but something’s not right.”

  He didn’t want to make her nervous by agreeing too quickly, but he felt the same way. The fact that she thought it too made whatever it was he felt seem even worse. “Got it. I’ll find you as soon as I’m done.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Once on the bridge, Caldwell nodded to Azelon. A window appeared in front of the main holo screen, and it contained the bust of a man Magnus knew all too well—an obese man with sagging jowls and bushy sideburns. What little of his pale skin wasn’t pink with new flesh was brown with scabs, some of which oozed puss.

  “Hello, enemies of the Paragon,” the man said. “I’m sure you need no reminder, but I am Gerald Bosworth III, former ambassador to the Galactic Republic, and now representative of the Paragon of Perfect Rule.”

  Magnus’s stomach tightened into a knot. The last time he’d seen this fool was on Oorajee, and nothing in Magnus looked forward to a reunion—even one as distant as this.

  “This transmission will, no doubt, be intercepted by the surviving members of the rebel team with whom I’ve had previous dealings. Of particular interest, I would like to recognize their famed Luma emissary, one Awen dau Lothlinium.”

  Just hearing the putrid wretch of flesh pronounce Awen’s name made Magnus want to shoot him. Bosworth’s patronizing tone was more than Magnus could take, and he was suddenly glad that Awen was not a company commander and, therefore, not present for this viewing—whatever it meant.

  “I’m sure you’re watching this, Awen. And I consider it an honor that you would. Firstly, because it’s you and your elders who I have to thank for ensuring I survived that awful accident in the mwadim’s palace. Had it not been for your oh so magical force fields, I would have suffered far worse a fate than this.” He gestured to his face.

  “Secondly, however, I’m delighted to be of service to you. I’m told it’s been a few long years now since you’ve seen your beloved parents. A shame, really. No child should be asked to suffer such a separation, certainly not when their family members are still living. So, I’ve done you a favor.”

  Suddenly, Bosworth’s face disappeared and was replaced by an image of two people dressed in lab coats working in a cleanroom. They seemed oblivious to the fact that they were being monitored. It could have been any two lab techs in any laboratory in the galaxy. But something about this couple’s body language seemed off to Magnus. They were hunched over and sullen. Like they were sad. Like they are being held against their will, he realized. But it was worse than that. Like they are working against their will.

  “Ah splick,” Magnus said aloud. He didn’t know where this was going, but it wasn’t good. And what was worse—Magnus knew Awen would have to see this eventually, and he dreaded the session. If these two people were her parents—doctors or something, if he remembered right—then Awen was about to have a severe breakdown.

  “Not to worry, dear Awen,” Bosworth continued. His face reappeared as the feed from the lab shrank in its own window. “Your parents are doing just fine. I’ve seen to their well-being personally. Although”—Bosworth paused and licked his lips—“it does seem that they—how should I put this?—have come under new management with regard to their professional expertise. You might say your father, in particular, is picking up where his father left off. I should think your friend Abimbola might have a few feelings on this, don’t you?”

  Magnus recalled the Miblimbian’s tale about his youth, told while he and Abimbola drove away in Hell’s Basket Case from Selskrit territory. While the implications of Bosworth’s reference as it pertained to Abimbola’s story eluded him, Magnus got a sinking feeling that he should have killed Bosworth when he’d had the chance.

  “Anyway, after you have your celebrations about today’s wonderful win, I think it wise that you and your little team of rebels have a chat about what to do next. You see, I’ve grown quite fond of your parents, Awen, and they, as it turns out, have grown incredibly fond of me. So much so that they’re willing to make some weapons for the Paragon, which is exceptionally generous—well, depending on your point of view, of course.

  “Now, as it happens, I’m not interested in keeping them locked up here forever. They tell me they’re nearly complete with their…creative genius, as it were, at which time”—he laughed—“I’ll have no more use for them. Of course, you’re welcome to them—by all means. Only, there’s something I’d like in return. Something lord Moldark misses very much.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Magnus said as he slammed his fist down on the closest console.

  “The girl Piper,” Bosworth said. “Her own ship, unescorted, sent to the following coordinates. You have three days. Or else I’m sad to say that your parents will be—what’s the word?” Bosworth leaned into the camera until his blistered lips filled the screen. “Terminated.”

  * * *

  Continue reading for IMMINENT FAILURE.

  Imminent Failure

  1

  “I want those fighters back onboard faster than a hooker running into an admiral’s lounge,” Colonel Caldwell ordered.

  TO-96 nodded and then opened a channel, and Ricio’s face appeared in a side window overlaying the bridge’s main display. “Commander Ricio, return to the Spire.”

  Caldwell gave the bot a stern look.

  The bot nodded as if
understanding the need to emphasize haste. “Like a morally ambiguous prostitute noticing gainful employment within an executive lounge full of overconfident ship commanders who believe they’re above the law and any preexisting intimate relationships.”

  “What?” Rico asked.

  “I believe the colonel wants you to hurry, sir.”

  Ricio grinned and gave a small chuckle. “Tell him we’re on our way, ’Six.”

  TO-96 looked at Caldwell. “They are—”

  “I heard the man, Brass Balls,” Caldwell replied, and then looked at Azelon. “We have room for Sootriman’s fighters, Smarty Pants?”

  “Only half, sir,” Azelon said. “And it will be very tight.”

  “Let her know we’ll ferry as many as we can. The rest are on their own.”

  “Right away.”

  The colonel watched as more Jujari ships impaled Moldark’s Third Fleet. In all his years in the Corps, in all his days aboard Navy ships, he’d never seen anything like what was unfolding before him. It began when a Pride-class Jujari Battleship named A Glorious Day for Liberating the Exiles of Rugar Muda rammed into the Paragon Battleship Emergent Horizon. The collision took out the enemy ship’s propulsion and, more than likely, its life-support. The force was so strong that even the Emergent’s conning tower tore from the main deck and fell backward.

  Seconds later, a Jujari Dreadnaught and two Battlecruisers rammed into Paragon ships, rendering them inoperable. Caldwell watched as hundreds of escape pods jettisoned from the Jujari vessels, but he didn’t need to count them to know that the majority of each ship’s crew had perished in the suicidal attempt to make the Paragon bleed.

  The first starship to make an attempt on the Black Labyrinth was a Jujari Battleship called Terrified Enemies Hide in Dark Caves Awaiting Dawn that Will Never Come. The most the battleship did was graze the Labyrinth’s starboard hull. Anti-ship cannons pummeled the Jujari vessel, making it pay dearly for the brash attempt. The guns pulverized its bridge and drilled holes in its hull before the Terrified finally broke off and succumbed to Oorajee’s gravity well.

  But the Labyrinth wasn’t free yet. Bearing down on its stern was a Super Dreadnaught equivalent and the last flagship in the Jujari’s fleet. Wherever the Enemy Runs We Will Hunt Down and Slaughter Them in Droves by Order of Maw Snarlick struck the Labyrinth on the port side aft. An entire engine cone was decimated in the collision, reducing the Paragon ship’s thrust capabilities by at least a quarter, Caldwell guessed. The Jujari ship continued to burrow into the Labyrinth, tearing a furrow down the port side. Eventually, two Paragon Frigates that had been ordered to defend Moldark’s Super Dreadnaught sacrificially, shoved the Maw Snarlick away.

  Then, the full weight of Third Fleet’s power leveled itself on the Maw Snarlick, blasting it apart in the largest display of ship fire Caldwell had ever seen. Whoever its captain, he or she was courageous, and one who had just purchased the Spire the window it needed to recover its fighters and exit the battle.

  “Thank you,” Caldwell whispered to the holo display. Never did he think he’d be thanking Jujari for saving his life. If anything, they had always been the enemy. And he’d killed his fair share of them in some brutal conflicts when he was fresh out of the academy. The truth was, he had hated them. Hated them bitterly. But if his short time in the Gladio Umbra had taught him anything, it was that everything was changing. He’d be damned if he was going to get left behind because he wasn’t willing to change—even if you are a stubborn ass son of a bitch. “May you rest in peace, and may your survivors find safe passage to calm shores.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” TO-96 asked.

  “Not for you, Ballsy,” the colonel replied.

  “Ah. Very good, sir.”

  Caldwell touched his in-ear comm and thought of Rohoar’s name. His biotech interface identified the recipient and pinged the Jujari.

  “Yes, Colonel Caldwell?” Rohoar said.

  “I know what your people are doing right now, son. And I know you have some kind of pack connection to them or something. So I was wondering if you could get through, to tell them…” Caldwell struggled to find adequate words, so he settled on the simplest. “Thank you.”

  “It is an honor for the Jujari to defend our home,” Rohoar replied. “But also to defend those who risk their lives for us. I will pass your words on.”

  “Thank you, son.”

  “Also, I am not your son. This is a strange miscalculation on your part.”

  Caldwell chuckled. “Duly noted. Caldwell out.”

  “Do you have a destination in mind, Colonel?” Azelon said, but Caldwell barely registered the question. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and watched the battle’s closing moments.

  What a strange few months it had been. Witnessing all this, let alone experiencing it at the helm of an alien warship from another universe, felt surreal. Then again, his career had been fairly exceptional. Caldwell figured that people lived their most exciting years in their twenties and thirties. Hell, that’s what he’d done—sow your wild oats and burn the midnight mags away—because no one figured they would live much past forty as a blaster-wielding ground-pounder. He’d been surprised to live past thirty. Yet here he was, at sixty years old, living out the most exhilarating days of his life.

  The Jujari fleet had less than a dozen ships remaining, all of which were heading to the far side of Oorajee in retreat. The Sypeurlion and Dim-Telok, likewise, had abandoned their role in the fight, fleeing back to their respective star systems. If Moldark wanted to, he could finish off the Jujari ships and assault the planet. But judging from the massive losses the Paragon’s Third Fleet had taken, and First and Second Fleets’ disarray, Moldark would need to regroup and reassess his priorities—at least, that’s what Caldwell would do.

  Then again, whoever Moldark was, he was not the strategist that Kane was rumored to have been. Though impatient and ill-tempered, Kane was at least intelligent and dogmatic, if not ruthless. In contrast, Moldark had shown a brashness that was much less representative of the Republic’s fine command tradition and more reminiscent of a fitful child. No starship commander would have ever let so many Jujari ships come in as close as Moldark did, which made Caldwell wonder about the man’s motives.

  The Paragon’s enigmatic leader had been so distracted by Piper’s rescue that he was willing to put his entire fleet in jeopardy against an already-won battle with the Jujari.

  “A destination, Colonel?” Azelon asked again.

  “He wants the child,” Caldwell said to himself.

  “I’m unfamiliar with that location, sir,” Azelon said.

  Caldwell ignored the misunderstanding and turned from the holo display. “We need to get Piper out of here. Let’s head back to metaspace as soon as all of Fang Company and Sootriman’s ships are secured.”

  “By your command, Colonel,” Azelon said.

  “Sir,” TO-96 said. “Incoming call from Lieutenant Magnus for you.”

  “On screen,” Caldwell replied.

  A video image of Magnus appeared on the main holo. “Colonel, I’ve got something from Piper that’s important.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She’s in sickbay here, in and out of consciousness still. But she’s starting to talk about her grandfather.”

  “It’s relevant?”

  Magnus nodded. “She seems to think so, and so do I. She says she tried to help him open a void horizon quantum tunnel to metaspace.”

  “Mystics. Can she do that?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. Awen’s not sure either. But in any case, she failed.”

  Caldwell let out a sigh. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “It is, but she was successful at helping him with something else.”

  “Which was?”

  “Convincing all three fleets to turn on Capriana.”

  Caldwell balked, then pulled his cigar from his mouth. “Come again?”

  “I know—it’s crazy if it’s true
. But it seems that Moldark is not only hellbent on crushing the Jujari but taking the fight to the capital too.”

  “You think she succeeded? You think he’s headed there next?”

  “I do, Colonel. And she seems to think so as well. With the Jujari force all but eliminated, I’ll bet he’s saving any cleanup work for later. The worst part is that Capriana’s not gonna be ready for him, even with all the damage the Paragon has taken.”

  Magnus was right. Caldwell looked at Azelon’s enemy force count in the main holo’s sidebar. First Fleet was still the strongest with 74 warships and 11 Talon squadrons totaling 165 starfighters. Second Fleet came next with 50 remaining ships and 75 starfighters. And Third Fleet, which suffered the most losses, held onto 32 ships and only 15 Talons. If all three fleets turned on Capriana, it was game over. Hell, even if a quarter of them did and the planetary defense shield wasn’t up, it was game over.

  “We’ve got to warn them,” Caldwell said. He stuffed his cigar back in his mouth. “They’ve got to raise the PDS if they have any hope of protecting the city.”

  Magnus took a deep breath and then started nodding. “For what it’s worth, I agree. But it does beg the question—”

  “How are we gonna pull that off?”

  Magnus smiled. “You said it, not me, sir.”

  “Damn.” Caldwell looked down. “My bridges are burned, Magnus. So are yours.”

  “Forbes and Nelson’s too,” Magnus replied. “Which means…”

  “It means we’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way, son. Face to face.”

  “We’re going to Prime then?”

  Caldwell chewed on his cigar and then spat out a chunk of tobacco. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Would you please define the destination Son of a Bitch, Colonel?” Azelon asked.

  “It’s Capriana Prime.”