Galactic Breach

by J. N. Chaney

  Magnus racked a round and noticed the Z had a fresh energy mag as well. He gripped the pistol with both hands and punched out so the barrel was pointed at the same shelf across the room. Valerie was the last person to have fired this weapon. He remembered her handling it with practiced ease. In hindsight, he found that startlingly attractive. He added the mystery of how the Z had taken so much damage and Valerie had not to his growing list of questions. He powered down and set the weapon beside the MAR30.

  After checking the blade’s sharpness—something he did out of ritual and not necessity, since the weapon was nearly indestructible—Magnus examined several fragmentation grenades that Abimbola had laid out. Missing were any of his unit’s VODs—variable-output detonators—though he wasn’t surprised. Those were Republic issued and hard to come by even within the Corps. However, Magnus did find three quantum detonators in a custom-lined munitions case.

  Treating it like an unstable core element, Magnus removed one of the fabled devices and examined it. The truth was, he’d never seen one up close. QDs were dangerous and expensive—one of the few munitions the Recon had not sprung for. Also, they were illegal. “These might come in handy,” Magnus said with a smirk.

  On the third and final table, he found a black backpack, a first aid kit with laser sutures, a few days’ worth of field meals, a flashlight, and a fire starter. There were several extra energy magazines for his primary and secondary weapons, a locator beacon, a field-grade holo-pad, and an over-the-ear comms device. The latter was a far cry from what he was used to with an integrated helmet AI, but it was better than nothing.

  Magnus looked across the tables and ran a hand over his short beard. “Time to get suited up. Time to OTF.” But the phrase sent a pang through his chest. Can I say it now that I’m no longer a Marine?

  Stow it, Magnus. Once a Marine, always a…

  He couldn’t finish the statement. If he survived what they were headed into, and if he could make contact with command—whoever endured the coming conflict—he knew he’d never be an active-duty Marine again. So he came up with something else—something that seemed fitting for subduing an enemy and rescuing whoever survived in his unit.

  “Dominate,” he whispered, staring at his MAR30. He tried to think of something else to complement it. Maybe another few words to craft a memorable acronym.

  Just then, he remembered Awen, bound somewhere near this very compound, making fun of the Marines and of him. “All you military guys love your acronyms,” she’d said. He smiled as he remembered the note she’d handed him with the letters NMB written on it. Naked monkey butt. He almost thought of using that as a mantra but decided against it. NMB was personal.

  “Dominate,” he said again, lifting his MAR30 and squeezing the stock and handle. The word wasn’t exactly poetic, and it certainly didn’t feel complete. But it did represent what he wanted to do to anyone threatening those he loved or had sworn to protect. Domination of the enemy—it was appropriate.

  But what would Awen say? he asked himself then wondered why that even mattered. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind—Awen and her infernal peace-loving methods of trying to save the galaxy. The question plagued him: What would she say about those in need of rescue?

  Then he had it. “Dominate,” he repeated, bringing the weapon to his shoulder and activating the holo-sight. “Liberate.”

  * * *

  “Well, look who we have here,” Abimbola said, standing behind a holo-projection in the middle of the darkened room.

  Several more control stations lined the room’s perimeter, but Magnus couldn’t make them out beyond blurry glowing lights. He looked down at his mélange of armor and wiggled in it. It didn’t quite feel right, but it would do.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” Magnus replied, “but I’m still not sure.”

  Abimbola dismissed the comment with a wave. “You look like a Marauder now.”

  “Like I said, not sure I should thank you for that.”

  Abimbola laughed then motioned for Magnus to join him. Magnus’s eyes were still adjusting, but he could make out Valerie on a stool and Piper beside her. The nine-year-old girl clutched the tattered remains of her stuffed animal. Talisman, she’d called it. By the look of the thing, it was about time she outgrew it, or there’d be nothing left to cuddle. A few more figures stood beside Valerie, and even more filled the room behind Abimbola.

  “Good to see you, LT,” came a familiar voice. Magnus blinked as a diminutive woman with short hair strode into view. She wore a hodgepodge of armor like Magnus.

  “Corporal Dutch,” he said, shaking her hand. Three more forms emerged, all in mismatched armor. “Private First Class Haney. Gilder.” Magnus felt his heart swell with every name he listed, and he shook their hands too. “Chief Warrant Officer Nolan. It’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, LT,” Dutch replied. The others nodded.

  Then Magnus got a lump in his throat. “Dutch,” he said, hesitating. “I’m not exactly sure how… I mean, as you probably know, my eyes…”

  “Hey, LT, you’re not out yet,” she replied with a wide grin. “When that time comes, then I’ll call you something else. Until then, orders haven’t changed. Copy?”

  “Copy,” Magnus said. Valerie must have slipped him some heavy meds, because he was feeling pretty emotional. He cleared his throat. “You’re all ready to roll?”

  “We are, sir,” Dutch replied, pounding her chest plate with a fist. Magnus felt a wave of gratitude. No one was forcing them to go on this mission, and there certainly wasn’t any Republic backing for it.

  “Thank you, Dutch. Everyone.”

  “Eh, not to worry. Abimbola’s given us armor and some new toys…” Dutch paused then lowered her voice. “Though his constant jokes against the Corps are getting a little old.”

  “I heard that,” Abimbola said.

  “Well,” Magnus said, looking the Marines and the sailor over, “seems you don’t have to worry about being mistaken for anything but Marauders now.”

  Abimbola thumped his chest with a fist. “And are they not blessed to be counted as such?”

  “Not exactly the word I had in mind. But anyone who gives me an M101 blaster cannon is all right in my book.” Dutch raised the bulky double-barreled weapon and tapped the upper receiver. Then she leaned in and whispered to Magnus, “Where did he get this? It’s brand new.”

  “Best not to ask,” Magnus replied with a wink. “What about the rest of the Stones’ crew?”

  Dutch paused and looked toward Valerie. Magnus tried to read their facial expressions, though the corporal’s hesitation said more than enough.

  “Abimbola says they’ll keep monitoring all bandwidths for communications,” Dutch replied. “But as of right now, we’ve had no contact.”

  “Let us get started,” Abimbola said, then cleared his throat.

  Magnus placed a hand on Dutch’s shoulder then looked at Abimbola. “Let’s do it.” He stepped toward the center table. As he got closer, he noticed several more bodies in the room.

  “A few of my Marauders seem to be interested in hearing what you want to do,” Abimbola said. “Mind if they stay?”

  “Be my guest,” Magnus replied. “Anyone who’s willing to help rescue Marines is—”

  “Not rescuing Marines.” Abimbola cut him off. “Killing Selskrit Jujari. They are different.”

  “Selskrit Jujari?”

  “Western packs. Pledge fealty to their own mwadim.”

  Magnus felt himself being scrutinized.

  “You know, Selskrit, Dingfang, Clawnip,” Abimbola continued. “No?”

  Magnus shook his head.

  “For the love of the gods, you really do not know anything about your enemies, do you,” Abimbola stated with no attempt to hide his disgust. “The Jujari you were meeting with were Tawnhack. Largest and most powerful of the packs. Most reasonable too.”

  “Reasonable?” Magnus said involuntarily.

&
nbsp; “Yes. Reasonable. We have negotiated with them for years. But the Selskrit, they’re something different. Not right in the head, you know?”

  But Magnus didn’t know. As far as he was concerned, all Jujari were not right in the head, and the fact that Abimbola saw differences between them made him not right in the head too.

  “The Selskrit raided the mwadim’s palace after the explosions, then the Clawnip took what was left. Fighting broke out between the packs. It seems the Selskrit took some survivors, probably to exchange for credits or ships or whatever they can barter from the Republic.”

  “And you think they have my Marines? Where’d you get your intel?”

  “Is he always this slow?” Abimbola asked Valerie, and she shrugged. “I see.” The warlord looked back at Magnus. “As I said, we have been trade partners with the Tawnhack for years. My sources thought we might like to know, and they passed the information on.”

  “So they just hand you information like this? Must’ve been a heavy price.”

  “More than you know,” Abimbola said, straightening. Magnus waited for the man to say more, but he didn’t, and Magnus didn’t feel he should push it.

  “So, do we have a location? Expected resistance? Estimated number of survivors?”

  “One thing at a time.” Abimbola turned to the holo-projection hovering over the table.

  Magnus moved closer and felt everyone else press in too. A topographical map clarified, and Magnus recognized it from his own briefing on the Jujari’s capital city of Oosafar. Abimbola manipulated the map with his hands, zooming in on a section of the city to the west.

  “We believe the survivors are being held in the Western Heights. Selskrit territory.” Abimbola zoomed in to a few city blocks. “This building here”—he pointed to a large house with an open-air square courtyard in the center, a sizable yard surrounding the building, and a walled perimeter at the street—“is our target. Three stories of sandstone and metal, most likely heavily fortified.” Abimbola zoomed in farther then snapped the image with his wrists and flipped the camera view to street level. A three-meter-high wall ran around the perimeter of the compound with two guard towers at the front corners. “It is twenty meters from this wall to the building on all sides. We have reason to believe they have posted sentries in the towers, more on top of the building, and”—Abimbola flipped to the overhead view again—“snipers in the surrounding buildings here, here, and here.”

  “How old is your intel?” Magnus asked.

  “Old enough for it to be wrong.”

  “How much of it?”

  Abimbola eyed him cautiously. “All of it.”

  Magnus didn’t like that answer and shook his head.

  “Listen, buckethead, the Jujari are unpredictable and can move fast. Even if we had a live feed on this whole twenty-block section, which we do not because of the jammed airspace, there is no way we could keep up with their unit movements.”

  “No need to get testy. I was just asking,” Magnus said, stepping forward. “So, two in the towers, say, three more on the roof—”

  “Five more on the roof,” Abimbola interjected.

  Magnus glanced at him. “Five more on the roof, another five inside,” Magnus said, and the warlord nodded. “And three snipers in the buildings. Brings our count to fifteen.”

  “Say, twenty to be safe.”

  “Twenty,” Magnus echoed with a slight shake of his head. He knew this would be a fraction of the resistance they’d encounter once they were in the Western Heights. No doubt, they’d be overwhelmed without careful planning. He examined the home more closely, trying to gauge its size. “Hostages?”

  “I was told fewer than ten.”

  Magnus swallowed. If that number was to be believed, it wasn’t good. His platoon had numbered sixteen, as had that of Captain Wainright—the CO for Alpha Platoon and operation commander for the security detail. Ten or fewer hostages, assuming those were all Marines who’d survived due to their Mark VII armor, was less than a third of the unit’s original strength. A third. And who knew how many of those were injured and might not endure the raid.

  Magnus ground his teeth as he thought about the stupidity of the original mission. They never should have been here, at least not with anything less than an entire task force—one that was in a secure location. The mission had been a joke from the start. He knew it, his Marines knew it, and Captain Wainright knew it, though the man never said a thing. In the end, he’d realized that the point of the whole thing had been politics. Magnus pictured himself walking into some senator’s office in Capriana and burning the place to the ground.

  “How far’s this from Tawnhack-controlled space?” Magnus asked.

  Abimbola zoomed out. “This is the current territorial mark.” A dotted red line appeared over a street that ran in a north–south direction. “It changes daily but not by much. Depends on who pisses where and who shoots whoever is pissing.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So, what’s that distance, then?” Magnus asked, pointing to the area between the border and the compound. “Ten blocks maybe?”

  Abimbola nodded. “About a kilometer.”

  Dutch whistled, and Magnus heard the others shift on their feet. He took a deep breath, which only made people shift more. “And how many of your Marauders have signed up for this?”

  “None.”

  “What?” Magnus asked. Is this some sort of joke? Didn’t Abimbola just say we want to sit in on the briefing and kill Jujari? He had the distinct feeling that he’d been duped, betrayed by his own assumptions. If he was going on a suicide mission without the Marauders, he’d be on his own; there was simply no way he was going to put Dutch and the others’ lives in jeopardy again.

  “At least, not yet,” Abimbola said. “You have to ask them first.”

  Magnus blinked. “Ask them?”

  “You think we are all going to risk our lives to help some buckethead rescue his unit’s survivors just because you order us to? Or maybe because of your good looks?” Pockets of laughter went up from the Marauders behind Abimbola. “Have you even seen yourself lately?” More laughter followed.

  Abimbola had a point. These warriors—whoever they were—were not Republic Marines. They could not be ordered around, told to lay their lives down for the greater good—at least, not by him.

  “Abimbola,” Magnus said, straightening. “Warrior to warrior, would you help me—” Magnus caught himself and considered the best way to parse this. “Would you help me kill some Selskrit Jujari for a day?”

  “What do you say, Marauders?” Abimbola asked without taking his eyes off Magnus. An instantaneous cheer went up behind the warlord. The man gave a wide smile. “Seems we will.”

  “Thank you, Abimbola.”

  “You can count on, let’s see…” Abimbola produced a poker chip and flipped it. He caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand. “Thirty of us joining you, including me—and I count for three.”

  “I’d say so,” Dutch said, and Magnus and Abimbola looked at her. “What? He does.”

  The two men chuckled. “Thirty is more than I could ask for,” Magnus said. Even with thirty Marauders and four of his own warriors, they were going to need a greater presence of force. Urban warfare was slow-moving and brutal. They’d need something to even the odds and make getting to and from the target manageable. “What about transport? Do we have armor? Personnel skiffs? Some mortars would be great too.”

  Abimbola winked then flipped the poker chip at Magnus, who caught it and opened his hand.

  “Which side is up, buckethead?”

  Magnus looked down. “The house.”

  “Then the gods say you have come to the right place.”

  5

  Awen stared inside the empty box for several seconds before closing the lid. With so much power emanating from the circle, she was sure that whatever the box contained must have been the source. She closed the lid and examined the pedestal, won
dering if maybe she’d missed something.

  “What do you mean it’s empty?” Ezo asked.

  “I mean, there’s nothing in it, Ezo!”

  “Nothing, at all?”

  “That does constitute the term ‘empty,’ I believe, sir,” TO-96 said. Ezo glared at him.

  “Why don’t you just come back, love,” Sootriman said to her, gesturing with her hand.

  Awen nodded, a sense of defeat hitting her with each step she took toward her… What are they to you, anyway? she asked herself. The word friends came to mind, but she didn’t know Ezo and the others that well yet. Did she?

  “You all right?” Sootriman asked as Awen stepped out of the circle.

  “I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess?” Ezo asked.

  “I don’t know. I just felt like there was going to be something in there. Something important.” Awen paused, considering the circle, the pedestal, and the box.

  “You’re disappointed, then,” TO-96 said.

  “Yes. There are places in the galaxy where the Unity intersects the physical realm in ways that make any separation between them feel thin. That’s the best way to describe it. And this place is the strongest I’ve ever felt that sort of anomaly. I just thought there’d be something in that box that—”

  “That explained it,” Sootriman said.

  “Exactly,” Awen said with a nod. She looked down in thought. “Something was in there—I know it. There was a dust outline in the shape of a rectangle.”

  “One of those books perhaps?” Sootriman asked.

  “Maybe. Hard to say. I don’t know why a book would produce such thinness.”

  “Logic suggests that it didn’t,” TO-96 said. “Even if someone had enchanted the book, as some of the mystics were purported to do to volumes, that effect is no longer present. By virtue of its absence, what you felt should likewise be nonexistent. Therefore, I propose that the thinness is the result of another factor, Awen.”

  She nodded, appreciative of the bot’s assessment. His reasoning did make sense, and she felt hopeful that whatever had been in the box maybe wasn’t as important as she’d made it out to be. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of defeat.