Magnus pulled himself into a large utility room filled with storage racks and maintenance equipment. He also spotted a mop sink and shower stall. Despite its advanced technology, Novian armor still couldn’t overcome the olfactory sense of a human nose, so Magnus thought it best to wash as much of the excrement off his suit as he could before proceeding into the headquarters. No sense giving up the element of surprise simply because the enemy smelled him long before they saw him.
When he was done with the shower, he moved to the doorway and scanned the outer hallway with IR. Several bodies headed his way, but they seemed to be holding holo pads, not weapons. When they passed, Magnus peeked out the door and down the hallway. After switching back to optical sensors, he noticed a placard that read Command Center.
“All right,” Magnus said. “Everyone up.”
The gladias emerged from the sewer access hatch one at a time and then rinsed in the shower. A few minutes later, everyone assembled by the doorway.
“What is the plan?” Abimbola asked.
“Awen, I want you and Nídira to keep any blast doors from closing off the command room. I have a feeling that if those things shut, we’re in trouble.”
“Certainly,” Awen said.
“Rohoar, Czyz, you’re leading the way in. We can’t afford for stray blaster fire to harm the consoles, so do as much damage as you can before they draw their weapons.”
“We shall slaughter without blasters,” Rohoar said, flexing his paws.
“Good.” Magnus pointed to the snipers. “Silk, Dutch, you’re in charge of knocking out any ceiling turrets. If there are any, and I’d bet several hundred of Bimby’s poker chips on it that there are, then it’s up to you to hit them before they hit us.”
“Copy,” Silk said.
“Doc and Haze, you’re covering our rear. Bimby, Titus, you’re with me. Everyone clear?”
Heads nodded.
“Good. Let’s stack up and prepare to move.”
The gladias lined up single file behind Rohoar and Czyz, ending with Doc and Haze. Magnus waited for the next round of personnel to pass before giving Rohoar the order to move out. Czyz opened the door for the other Jujari and then tapped him on the shoulder.
Everyone moved into the hallway and headed toward the direction placard. Rohoar turned left and headed down a long corridor that ended in a reinforced windowplex wall that looked into the command center. Three CENTCOM staffers were walking toward Rohoar while two troopers stood beside the entryway. A fourth staffer had just scanned his ID card over the lock to open the glass doors.
“Do it,” Magnus said to Rohoar.
The two Jujari burst forward and smashed through the unsuspecting staffers. The people screamed as their bodies were flung into either wall by an invisible force, alerting the troopers further down. Repub MC90 blasters came to the ready, but the troopers seemed to have no idea what to aim at. A beat later and the Marines were knocked unconscious—if not dead—as the Jujari shoved the fourth staffer forward and wedged his body in the closing door.
CENTCOM’s Command Center was a multi-tiered room that overlooked a twelve-meter-high holo wall. Each level was filled with glowing consoles and vibrant holo displays, boasting all manner of data routed in from across the galaxy. Only the first tier of operators seemed to notice the commotion. When their downed colleague’s head flattened against the ground, several of those watching shrieked in horror.
Rohoar and Czyz were inside and thrashing within seconds. They tore into the seated operators without discretion. Necks split, chests opened, and heads cracked as the beasts leaped down the levels, dispensing their unique brand of Jujari violence.
Silk and Dutch came next, scanning the ceiling as per Magnus’s orders. But, so far, no one had raised the alarm.
Several naval and intelligence officers unholstered sidearms and aimed at the carnage unfolding in the room, but like those Marines at the door, they seemed at a loss for targets. It wasn’t until one CO raised a comm’s device to his mouth that things got heated.
Silk cut off the reporting officer with a blaster bolt to the mouth just as the man finished yelling “Emergency” for the second time. He flipped backward, missing the majority of his face. A moment later, auto turrets dropped from the ceiling and chattered as they sought to acquire targets. At the same time, a klaxon sounded, and red lights spun up.
“And here come the doors,” Awen said.
Magnus stepped into the room just as giant blast doors moved in from either side. He glanced at Awen and saw her head dip. The doors began to shutter, sending a low rumble through the floor.
“We’ve got company,” Doc said, raising his NOV1 and firing down the hallway. Several Marines in Mark VII armor and MAR30s took a knee or set up beside hallway bulkheads, returning fire.
“Splick,” Magnus said. “Recon.”
“Your old unit,” Dutch said.
Magnus sneered. This wasn’t good. First the two at Elusian Base, and now these guys. Why had they been assigned security details on Capriana? Magnus didn’t want to see them, didn’t want to fight them, and definitely didn’t want them on this planet if it all went to hell. As much as he tried to ignore it, he felt the pull of the brotherhood—to find out who they were, where they hailed from, and catch up on the latest news.
“You good?” Titus asked as blaster bolts smacked the blaster proof windowplex.
“I’m fine.” Magnus shook himself out of his disbelief and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Keep those Marines back.”
“Roger that,” Doc shouted.
Dutch and Silk continued blowing the auto turrets from the ceiling as Abimbola and Titus assisted the Jujari in slaughtering the remaining operators. Rohoar was about ready to dispatch an intelligence officer in the center of the room when Magnus noticed the man’s console. “Wait,” he hollered to Rohoar. The Jujari withheld the death blow as the officer cowered in his chair. “Just wait.”
“Why spare him?” Rohoar asked.
Magnus ran down to the man’s console. “Look.”
Rohoar studied the holo but seemed unable to piece together Magnus’s intention.
“It’s the PDS terminal,” Magnus replied. He turned off chameleon mode, which clearly shocked the officer.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked.
Magnus pressed the barrel of his NOV1 to the man’s temple. “If you value your life, you’ll do as I say.”
The officer’s lips quivered. “Or you’ll kill me as you’ve killed everyone else?”
Magnus dismissed the question. “Activate the PDS.”
“What?”
“The planetary defense system. Fire it up.”
The officer squinted at Magnus, seemingly unable to fathom what was being asked of him. He sputtered several incomprehensible starts before finding his tongue. “But I must have senior approval for that.”
“Consider this all the approval you need.” Magnus pushed with his weapon. When the officer failed to move, Rohoar punched him in the head and kicked him off his chair.
“Rohoar!”
“He delays us. Now you can do it.”
“But we could have used him.”
“No.” Rohoar sniffed the air in his helmet. “He was worthless.”
Magnus maglocked his weapon to his back and then sat down to study the holo display.
“Room clear,” Dutch said over the sound of blaster fire in the hallway.
“Then we could use you back here,” Haze said, his voice strained.
Magnus knew the Recon Marines would give the gladias a run for their credits. Which meant he needed to figure out how to raise the shield and then get the hell out of there. He scanned the display and saw menus and readouts and status bars, none of which seemed to have the On button he assumed should be front and center. But he was a ground pounder by trade, not a Cyril.
“Azelon, you there?” Magnus asked over VNET. When no reply came, he tried again.
Then Azelon’s voice came th
rough. “—nus… sorry that… shielding…”
“Splick,” Magnus said. “Looks like I’m running solo on this one.” His eyes scanned the menu categories until he found a tab that read Core Status. “That sounds right.” Magnus selected it, and up popped more data than he’d seen in a year. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“This is a negative expression,” Rohoar said.
“Sure is.” Magnus searched for something that looked like an activation sequence or start-up checklist, but nothing stood out. He swore again as the sound of blaster fire grew behind him. “How you doing back there?”
“These bucketheads are just as aggravating as you are,” Abimbola said.
“Yeah, they’re the real deal.” Magnus tried another tab on the menu and scanned a live power grid schematic, hoping to find some sort of switch. But the deeper he looked, the more complicated the screens became. “Eh. I’m getting nowhere here. Anyone else want to try?”
“How can it be so hard to activate a shield?” Rohoar asked. “Shields are supposed to be easiest. Rohoar says, raise shields, and shields are raised. Rohoar says, lower shields, and shields are lowered. Rohoar says—”
“Yeah, yeah, we all know what Rohoar says.” Magnus waved him off with a hand. “But this isn’t Rohoar’s ship.” Just then, Magnus realized what he needed to look for, and then a knot tightened in his stomach. He found a tab marked Security, and then a sub-index marked Initialization Confirmation. The menu opened to a biometric input page, which included fields for a retinal scan, handprint, and voice activation. Magnus ground his teeth.
“Do we have a problem, scrumruk graulap?” Rohoar asked.
“A big one, Scruffy,” Magnus replied. “You see General McCormick lately?”
“Not since the elevator. Why?”
“Because that’s who we need to get this thing going.”
“Good news, Magnus,” Titus said, motioning from the entryway. “I think we found McCormick.”
“What?” Magnus stood up. “Where?”
Titus squeezed off a few more rounds. “He’s shooting at us.”
15
Blackman blinked against the light and brought a hand to his temple. His head hurt. It felt like someone had hit him hard enough to—to knock you out, Robert?
He blinked again and looked at the lines dangling from his arms. “Where the hell am I?” he asked no one in particular, surprised at the grogginess of his voice.
From his semi-reclined position, Blackman saw two medical professionals enter the hospital suite and move toward him. “Senator Blackman,” said a tall woman in a long white lab coat. “Nice to see you awake. I’m Doctor Bannon. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a skiff loader,” Blackman replied.
“You took a serious blow to your head, Senator.”
My head? Blackman blinked, trying to piece together his disjointed thoughts. There were secrets he was protecting. And an attack on Capriana. “Where—where am I?”
“You’re in the Forum Republica’s medical unit, sir. You’ve been out for almost two hours. Security found you—”
“In an elevator.” The memories were booming more vivid. “Proconsul Tower.”
“That’s right. Do you remember what happened?”
“No.” Blackman shook his head a little. “No—I mean, I do, but I didn’t see—” Blackman stopped. “Where is the general?”
“General McCormick?” said the other person, this one in nurse’s attire. “He’s right here.” The man pointed to a bed on the other side of a translucent partition that streamed with medical data.
“McCormick,” Blackman said. When the man did not stir, the senator shouted his name twice more.
“Sir, please,” the doctor said. “You’ve suffered a severe concussion, and you need your rest.”
“Rest?” Blackman tried to sit up and instantly felt a wave of vertigo hit him. He pushed against the dizziness and willed himself onto one elbow. “There’s no time. Wake him up.”
“But, Senator, we can’t just—”
“Wake him up,” Blackman yelled. “Or I’ll have you arrested.”
Bannon drew in her lips, perhaps stifling whatever rebuttal she had, and then nodded at the nurse. “Do as he says.”
The nurse produced a device from his belt and walked to the general. Blackman couldn’t see what happened next, but McCormick awoke, cursing and shouting as if he was back inside the elevator. The nurse stumbled backward as the general sat upright.
“Relax, Issac,” Blackman said. “You’re in the medical unit.”
“What?” McCormick looked over at him, eyes blinking. Then a look of recognition washed over his face. The general glared at the tubes and wires on both arms and then yanked them out, much to the chagrin of Doctor Bannon and the nurse. But neither professional seemed interested in fighting him.
“Leave us,” Blackman said, pulling the lines from his own arms. Monitors scolded him, and lights flashed. Bannon looked like she wanted to attend to the monitors, but Blackman waved her off. “And arrange an escort back to CENTCOM.”
“But, sir, you really—”
“Order the damn escort!”
Bannon nodded and then left with the nurse.
Blackman looked at McCormick as the man threw off the white blanket and swung his legs over the bed’s edge. “You think he’s coming?” the general asked, steadying himself. “You think Kane’s on his way?”
“Of course he is. We’re the ones who ordered the fleets to return.”
“That’s not what I mean, Robert.”
Keep it together, Blackman encouraged himself, sensing the conversation was about to get complicated. But his decades in the Republic Senate had conditioned him on how to dress up the truth in ways that kept people from noticing it. “Do I think Magnus is right? Is Moldark coming to wipe us out?”
The general looked away. “I really hate that name. I wish you’d just call him Kane.”
“But it’s not Kane that So-Elku had us try to assassinate.”
McCormick threw his hands up. “Another name I’ve come to hate.”
“Be that as it may, the Luma did us a favor, did he not?”
The general nodded. “Resulting in a failed assassination attempt. And if Kane figured out it was us, that may very well be what’s pushed him to do what Magnus claims he’s coming to do. Plus, I believe that Kane leveling Capriana would suit So-Elku just fine, given how desperately he seems to want to extend his brand of peace throughout the quadrant. A thousand credits say he wanted the assassination attempt to fail.”
The general had been rattled, and rattled leaders did unpredictable things. This wasn’t the time for unpredictability, so Blackman needed to regain control of the situation. Moreover, McCormick was getting far too close to the truth.
“Get ahold of yourself, Issac,” Blackman shouted, startling the general. It had probably been a very long time since anyone had yelled at him. “You sound like one of those damn conspiracy theorists right now! For the last time, the fleets are coming home because we ordered them to, not to even a score or satisfy some Luma leader’s secret agenda. And Moldark—or Kane, or whatever he wants to be called—won’t know that we ordered the assassination. You’ve gotta relax, Issac.”
The general hesitated for a moment, and then looked at his Marine Corp uniform folded neatly on a shelf. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He moved to the pile of clothes and studied them. It still seemed like there was something the general couldn’t shake. “So, Magnus is lying?”
“Lying, delusional—how should I know?” Blackman slid off his bed and then touched his forehead, fighting off a new wave of dizziness. “The man is either trying to earn his way back into the Corps or get some sort of strange revenge.”
McCormick pulled on his slacks and undershirt. “I still don’t like that we pinned Stone’s death on him.”
“It was expedient,” the senator said. “Not personal.”
“I know wh
at it was just as much as you do.” McCormick reached for his black jacket and slid his arms into it. “And I don’t like that we tarnished the Magnus name.”
“This is bigger than reputations and personal pedigrees, Issac. You know that.”
“It’s about setting things right for future generations—I know the talking points.” The general smoothed his uniform and worked his jaw once. “Do you think they’ll forgive us?”
Damn his sentimentalism, Blackman thought to himself. How had the Corps produced such a pathetic worrywart? “They don’t have to forgive us. They have to survive.”
A long silence passed between the two men as the general turned toward a mirror and examined himself. “And what if Magnus is right?”
Blackman hesitated to put on his senate coat. The general wasn’t letting this go. “But he’s not right.”
“But if he is, then there might not be anything left for us to redeem.”
“Then none of us will be alive to care, will we.”
“Really?” McCormick turned from the mirror and took two steps toward Blackman. “That’s your rebuttal? You’re ready to throw billions of lives away on some deranged form of nihilism?”
“Of course not. I’m just trying to be a realist, and so should you. For the last time, Magnus doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Your biggest concern should be which military tribunal to try Moldark in when he gets here, and where to spend all your credits once we shake out the dirt.”
“You make it sound so simple,” the general said, taking a deep sigh. Blackman wondered how many other people saw this side of the outwardly staunch military commander. He was a far cry from the brave intergalactic leader who commanded the most formidable ground force in the galaxy.
“That’s because it is simple.” Blackman checked himself in the same mirror that McCormick had. “The fleets are returning from a successful attack on the Jujari. You and Franks will take full credit for it and be lauded as heroes. Then we will use the momentum in our favor to restructure the Senate accordingly, ushering in a new age of sovereign rule and galactic peace.”
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 181