by J. N. Chaney
Magnus also noticed that the condition of the buildings was worsening. Whereas the sandstone and metal they’d seen earlier had been in good condition, here it was covered in charred blaster holes and soot. The inook shrouds in the windows were yellowed and tattered, and the gentle blue glow of the force fields that held the elements at bay was gone. The smell was also worse.
“We are getting close,” Abimbola said, looking out the slats to his left.
“Definitely not the part of town we were looking for vacation homes in,” Magnus replied, referring to a joke he’d made when he was in the jail with Awen. Abimbola chuckled.
They’d driven another three hundred meters when a sudden single-note howl resonated from the convoy behind them.
“We are here,” Abimbola said.
“Border?”
Abimbola nodded, slowing the skiff to a stop. “You are going to want to keep your head down,” he said as he closed the hatch overhead.
“Copy,” Magnus replied, lowering his sunglasses and peeking between the slats in the windshield. Ahead, the city blocks were made of two- and three- and even four-story buildings, whose shrouds were mostly missing. The sandstone looked like it was ready to collapse. Doors were ajar, and the streets were emptied of Jujari. “Nice place.”
“Wait until you meet our hosts.”
“Can’t wait.”
Abimbola swiped a menu on the touchscreen on his dashboard. A holo-projection flickered to life, displaying the route west. It zigzagged several times before terminating at the compound Magnus remembered from the briefing.
“Here is the updated route from Rohoar. I sent it to your nav program,” Abimbola said, gesturing toward the holo-pad he’d given Magnus. “You and I can both update it as needed.”
“You sure it won’t get jammed?”
“Ha. I am not sure of anything save fate and death, buckethead. But it is a private network, and my code slicers are good. I should be fine.”
“Don’t you mean I should be fine?”
“No. I have no idea how you are going to be. I have Basket Case,” Abimbola said, giving his skiff a loving tap, “so I should be fine.”
“Of course.”
Magnus flicked the holo-pad on, and a projection of the city sprang to life, reflecting the route on Abimbola’s dashboard. The pad was cumbersome, and Magnus was sure it wouldn’t last the day. What I wouldn’t give for a Recon helmet with nav integration, unit comms, and the latest AI patch!
“We will soften this corridor first, then it is up to you to clear the way. Call in support as you need it.” Abimbola swiped to another menu and scrolled through ten profile images with descriptions beside them. “Again, these are the Marauders who were bloodthirsty enough to join you.”
Magnus matched the faces to his memory of the people he’d met in Abimbola’s hideout. He’d barely spoken a word to each, but he was grateful for their help. Of course, he wasn’t sure if he could trust them. But he’d trusted their leader and made it this far. If Abimbola had wanted to betray him, he could have done so plenty of times over. Of course, he still might, you noob. But Magnus had learned that part of operating behind enemy lines meant learning to take chances and forging unlikely partnerships. And—looking at Abimbola—this certainly met the criteria for unlikely.
“You have got my three best sniper-spotters here,” Abimbola said, swiping the profiles over so they’d appear on Magnus’s holo-pad. Their icons showed up in Magnus’s grouped-comms display. “Simone’s in charge. Then these three are your best mine techs, led by Cyril.” Another three icons slid into Magnus’s group. “He is just a kid, but there is no one better.”
“And those four?” Magnus asked, pointing to the remaining profile pictures on the dashboard.
“They will kill anything you point them toward, so make sure your people are not in their way.”
“Copy that,” Magnus said as the names were added to his list. He merged the Marauder roster with his existing list then selected all the names and typed in a title: Delta Platoon. It was the next available alphanumeric title for a platoon in his Recon company. He might not be Marine eligible anymore, but he’d still bleed Recon under the Jujari sun.
Magnus linked the group to his ear comm then touched Active on his pad. “Delta Platoon, this is Lieutenant Magnus. Confirm connection.” Magnus watched as each profile picture reported in, its status going to double green.
“Fire-team leads, sound off. Dutch?”
“Loud and clear, Lieutenant,” Dutch responded over comms.
“Simone?”
“I hear you, person,” an icy female voice said.
Magnus looked at Abimbola.
The giant Miblimbian shrugged. “Just let her do her job,” he said, his mic muted. “No problems.”
Magnus replied to the woman. “How about you just call me LT. Does that work?”
There was a pause, which turned into an abnormally long silence. Magnus double-checked the holo-pad to make sure the system hadn’t failed. Finally, the woman’s smooth voice came back.
“LT,” Simone said. “Maybe.”
Magnus raised an eyebrow while Abimbola gave him a thumbs-up.
“Cyril?” Magnus read.
“Shoot, I copy, sir, ten by ten, all the way,” a twitchy voice said. Magnus’s eyebrows went up. It was how he imagined a Quinzellian miter squirrel might sound if it could talk. “Ready to slice, ready to dice, or something like that. Ha.”
“He is a handful with words,” Abimbola said, mic still muted, “but he can make quick work of any explosive device in the galaxy. Or any terminal, for that matter.”
“And…” Magnus looked at the roster again for the infantry fire-team leader, hesitating at the name. “Galliogernomarix?” he said slowly, sounding out each syllable.
“You can just call me Rix, buckethead,” a burly bass voice said. “Can’t have you getting shot while you try to hail me.”
“And you can just call me LT.”
“Copy that,” Rix said without any attempt to hide his disdain.
“All right, listen up—”
Another voice broke through Magnus’s transmission. “Lord Abimbola, contact, twelve o’clock.”
Magnus peered between the front slats. About two hundred meters ahead stood a single Jujari, arms extended, one hand holding a keeltari long sword, the other waving what looked to be a sawed-off blaster.
“What’s it doing?” Magnus asked Abimbola.
“Gathering intelligence.”
The Jujari started howling then interrupted his call with short cackles. He turned slowly in circles, pumping his weapons in the air.
“Gathering intelligence?” Magnus asked.
“Correct. He’s sacrificing himself. And we’ll kill him. But his kinsmen will be watching to see where the death blow comes from. They want to make sure we’re the only enemy and that there aren’t snipers or air support.”
Magnus turned to Abimbola. “You have air power?”
“No,” Abimbola said with a smile, “but the Selskrit do not know that. They just think we do.”
“Copy,” Magnus said, chuckling.
Abimbola tapped the comm in his ear. “Take him.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Abimbola’s gunner. A beat later, a single shot belched out from the M109 turret above and behind Magnus’s seat. The skiff rocked back as the column of light streaked down the street. The Jujari was bisected, a large chunk disappearing from his midsection, as the bolt continued down the road. The energy blast struck pavement half a kilometer beyond and erupted in a plume of fire, debris, and thick dust.
The Jujari lay in two pieces, arms and legs twitching. His hand contracted, a finger squeezing off a burst of full-auto rounds from the blaster. They shot into the street and nearby buildings until the Jujari finally expired. One wayward blaster shot, however, pinged off an old awning that overhung part of the street. Its tattered remains and metal frame quivered until one end broke away from the sandstone. The metal arm
swung down into the street. The moment it touched the hardpack, the street exploded. Magnus and Abimbola winced as the concussion impacted the column of vehicles. Gray dust blotted out the sun, and the skiff’s cab darkened.
“You are sure you still want to do this?” Abimbola swatted the air with a hand and coughed. “Not too late to change your mind, you know.”
“I want to do it even more,” Magnus replied.
Abimbola clucked. “That is your cue, then. Clear the way, and we will back you up.”
Magnus charged his MAR30 and touched his fingers to his forehead in salute. “Dominate, liberate.”
“Dominate, liberate,” Abimbola replied. It was almost enough to make Magnus cry.
11
Moldark sat in the high-backed captain’s chair. He stroked the leather arms, affectionately feeling the skin of whatever beast had unwittingly given its life for his pleasure. He’d ordered the chair removed from the bridge and brought to the rear observation deck. The engineers had bolted it to the platform that looked out through the large windowed wall.
He liked to sit here, surveying the Republic starships. They spread out before him like pawns, each ready to do his bidding. Beyond them lay the Jujari ships. They will do my bidding, as well, and be none the wiser.
He sighed, taking in the beauty of the void. It felt as though he sat among the stars, untethered from the constraints of human flesh and metal starships. Here, before the wide window, he felt free, as his spirit did when it roamed the galaxies. Boundless. Eternal.
But being in the flesh, as they said, wasn’t all bad. It gave him voice in the physical realm again. It gave him a means by which to be feared. It gave him power. But more than anything, it gave him recognition. He could hear his name uttered by the lips of others.
Moldark smiled as he thought about how easy it had been to co-opt the human species. First, there was Admiral Kane, the egotistical maniac—but then again, the perfect host candidate for just that reason. Wasn’t Moldark much the same? Only, my motivations are purer. He steepled his fingers.
Moldark had done the admiral a favor, if anything. The poor man would never have been able to see his plans through or been strong enough to defeat the Galactic Republic. In the end, Kane would have been assassinated. Not outright, of course, but through some unfortunate accident. That was what all-powerful governing bodies did when an asset outlived its purpose. Wasn’t that what they did to me, after all?
The admiral would thank him if he could. When it was all done, perhaps Moldark would even let Kane come back for a moment to see all the work that his hands had wrought—the funeral pyres, the scorched planets, the extinguished stars. He could hear the glorious silence of retribution and stand in the ruins.
Then Moldark thought about how easy it had been to coerce the Luma master. In another age, So-Elku and Moldark might have been acquaintances. Maybe even friends. The elder seemed genuine in his pursuit of galactic peace—though his means were all wrong, strangled by an intolerance of violence and an acceptance of outliers that drove Moldark absolutely mad. He ground his teeth at the Luma master’s nearsightedness.
So-Elku had reminded Moldark of so many others—those who had gummed up the machinations of smarter, stronger people. People with true vision and the foresight to shape galaxies into their most efficient selves—their truest expressions, pure and unmarred by disorder.
The Luma were a threat, to be sure, more than Moldark cared to admit. He loathed their skills in the Unity. Such dealings were antiquated, leftovers of a bygone epoch. But the Luma were powerful nonetheless, which made So-Elku’s undoing all the sweeter for Moldark. With the Luma master out of the way, his plans could proceed unhindered. Perhaps our spirits will meet up one day, and I will express my respect for him, fleeting as it is.
“Sir?” a voice said from behind his chair.
“Captain Wallace,” Moldark replied. “And Executive Officer Brighton. How good of you to come.” He turned his chair slowly, examining the men’s faces with hungry interest. How long has it been since I’ve nourished myself?
“You wanted to see us?” Wallace asked.
Moldark nodded. “Yes. Have all of First Fleet’s ships arrived?”
“They have, sir.”
“Very good.” Moldark tapped the tips of his deeply scarred fingers together. “Very good.” He pointed at Wallace. “Now, Captain, I need to know where your allegiance stands.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Your allegiances.” Moldark pointed at him. Must I spell it out? “To whom are you committed?”
The captain looked at the XO.
“Don’t look at him,” Moldark spat. “Look at me.”
“With the Republic, sir. Of course.”
“I was afraid of that.” Moldark glared at the man, holding his gaze. For a moment, nothing happened. They were just two men locked in a staring contest.
Suddenly, Wallace began crying. “No,” he said, lifting his hands as if to ward off a bad dream. “No, please no.”
Moldark was hungry, and this soul would do just fine. He had no use for such indecision anyway. How has this man ever been promoted? Surely by some manner of nepotism or a bribe. Wallace didn’t deserve this posting. Leveraging the benefits of power just to raise up the undeserving—it was the quintessence of vanity. Moldark scorned it. And since supreme power had no rival, he would challenge it. He alone would make it right.
Wallace screamed as Moldark sucked out his life. The dark lord closed his eyes, relishing the taste, savoring the energy that surged into his soul and fed his body. It was exhilarating.
He opened his eyes again to see Wallace fall to his knees, hands shriveling like scrawny talons. The captain’s hair turned gray, then white, twisting like frayed strands of wire. Soon, the captain’s voice went ragged, trailing off into whispers. His eyes sank into dark recesses as his skin withered and fell off in flaky patches.
Satisfied, Moldark released his grip on the captain. Wallace’s corpse collapsed, his Republic uniform flopping to the ground. Bones rattled against each other with a muffled sound as the clothing sighed.
Moldark took a deep breath then put his fingertips together again. “And you, Executive Officer Brighton, where does your allegiance lie?”
The man looked between Wallace’s bones and Moldark.
“Don’t look to him,” Moldark said with a smile. He spoke like a doting parent might to a child who was unsure of himself. “You don’t need Wallace anymore. Just look at me. Where does your allegiance lie, Brighton?”
The XO swallowed but stared into Moldark’s eyes with a surprising level of confidence. “With you, my lord.”
“Ah! You see?” Moldark drew out each word: “Now isn’t that wonderful.” He stood, moved down the stairs, and placed a hand on Brighton’s shoulder. “The Third Fleet is yours, Fleet Admiral Brighton.”
“Fleet Admiral, my lord?”
“Are you not deserving of the title?”
“I am not one to question your authority. But what about you? I mean… what should I call you?”
These rank-and-file commanders were so predictable. What were they without their titles? They could hardly function if they did not know their place in the system. There was a certain romance to it, of course. Moldark could appreciate that. Still, the lack of imagination appalled him.
“Am I not your lord, as you’ve already said?”
“Of course, but—”
“Then call me Lord Moldark.”
Brighton dipped his head. “As you command, Lord Moldark.”
Moldark removed his hand and straightened his uniform. “Now, I think we need a new name for the fleet, especially since our commission from the Republic is about to expire.”
“Expire?”
“Yes, the Republic is releasing us after we carry out one final order. From then on, we will be operating on our own authority.” He paused. “On my authority.”
“Understood, my lord.”
“
We are…” Moldark savored the moment then tilted his head at Brighton. “The First Fleet of the Paragon.”
“First Fleet of the Paragon,” Brighton repeated with a twinkle in his eye. Moldark could tell he liked it. This man, this Brighton, was drawn to power. Moldark could feel the desire within him.
Good. Very good.
“And what is the Republic’s final order?” the fleet admiral asked.
Moldark’s hands shook slightly. The Republic’s last order had been to “await orders”—orders from the Circle of Nine. But those senators were no more. Brighton didn’t need to know any of that. Instead, the fleet admiral needed reassurance that the Republic was behind what was about to happen next, as fictitious as such assurances were.
Moldark touched two fingertips to his bottom lip. He could taste blood—taste the beginning of something glorious that the galaxy could never return from. Should anyone survive what was to come, they would tell of what happened for generations.
“My lord?” Brighton inclined his head, catching Moldark’s eye. “The final order?”
“To open fire on the Jujari fleet.”
“But, my lord, we are already engaged in light—”
“It’s a skirmish. The mere puffing out of chests.” Moldark tasted blood and pulled his fingers away from his mouth. “We are to make war, Brighton. War.”
“My lord?”
Moldark looked at his bleeding fingertips. Warm blood trickled down his chin. “You are to open fire on all of the Jujari ships, Fleet Admiral Brighton.”
Brighton hesitated, eyes darting to the floor. “But, my lord, I…”
“Is something the matter?” Moldark took a step toward his new fleet admiral, suddenly doubting the decision to promote him. Perhaps he was not ready after all. It would be sad to lose him, of course. He showed such promise. But there would be others.
Brighton shook his head and squared his shoulders, suddenly composing himself. “No, Lord Moldark. It will be done as you have ordered.”
“Good. Target engines first. I want the fighter squadrons scrambled as well. Disperse them evenly, attacking dreadnoughts and battleships at will. I want as much confusion as possible.”