Galactic Breach

by J. N. Chaney

  “Awen.” TO-96 snapped her out of her thoughts.

  “Yes, Ninety-Six?”

  “The Novia are informing me that you need to leave.”

  Awen looked at the others then back at the bot. “But… what did we do?”

  “Do?”

  “How did we offend them?”

  “Ah, I see. There is no offense. Rather, they have detected a ship that has entered our orbit. A shuttle has locked onto coordinates east of the city near the wreckage of the Indomitable.”

  “A ship?” Ezo asked. “What kind of ship?”

  “It bears similar identifiers to the Galactic Republic ship that left here previously.”

  “Admiral Kane,” Awen whispered. Apparently, he’d returned for more of whatever had brought him here the first time. “He’s back?”

  “The data is inconclusive, Awen. However, the starship and shuttle are large enough to constitute an away team substantially larger than your present ability to defend against, should they be hostile.”

  “Hostile? You think… you think they’ve come to kill us?”

  “By my calculations, Admiral Kane should have every reason to suspect he terminated you in the rotunda. Instead, given our last encounter, I propose that this is a reconnaissance team, though well armed.”

  “Don’t the Novia have some sort of defense capabilities?” Ezo asked. “Can’t they just hold them back or keep us hidden until we can figure something out?”

  “No, at least not in the way that you consider defense. As I said, they’ve already determined that your best option is to evacuate the planet.”

  “Okay, Ninety-Six.” Awen took a deep breath. “We need ideas.”

  17

  Magnus moved along the right-hand sidewalk, sidestepping bodies and debris from the latest volley of turret and missile fire. Abimbola’s convoy had cleared yet another two-block stretch of road, dispatching more Jujari combatants and detonating two additional street-side explosives. Magnus doubled-checked his data pad to note their location.

  “We’re coming up on the compound,” he said, looking up. Rix, ten meters ahead, finished off a downed Selskrit with a pistol blast to the temple.

  “Fighting is bound to get more intense,” Abimbola replied, his skiff hovering four meters above the rubble-strewn street.

  “Copy that.” Magnus craned his neck to see if he could spot Simone on a building top across the road. “Overwatch, SITREP.”

  “Keep looking, Marine,” Simone said.

  Magnus continued to scan, his eyes moving farther down the street. “I don’t see you.”

  “Exactly. Third building down from your position.”

  Magnus still couldn’t see her. He had to hand it to her—she was stealthy, and she was fast. He liked that. “What d’ya got for me?”

  “The compound’s ahead. Given the amount of Selskrit inside, I’d say your assets are still there.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Not if you consider that my scout counted thirty-eight Selskrit and six snipers. And those are just the ones he can see.” That number was almost double what they’d expected.

  Someone gave a whistle over comms.

  “Seems the doggies do not want to share their toys,” Abimbola said, his enormous body still hunched behind the controls.

  “How you holding up on munitions?” Magnus asked.

  “Plenty,” the warlord said. “As long as we can keep rotating skiffs out, we are good.”

  Magnus was surprised to hear that response, given how much firepower they’d unleashed behind them. They’d left a one-kilometer path of destruction in their wake and expended more munitions than Magnus had seen since the Caledonian Wars.

  “Lieutenant Magnus?” Haney asked over comms.

  “Go ahead, PFC.”

  “Looks like Cyril is going to be just fine. He won’t be walking anytime soon, but he’ll survive.”

  Magnus heard several sighs of relief around him. “That’s good news,” he replied. “Tell him to sit tight. We’ll be heading out in no time.”

  “Roger.”

  “So, what’s the plan, buckethead?” the warlord asked.

  “Give me a second.” Magnus removed his sunglasses, wiped them, and then took off his backpack. He took a long drink from his last canteen. It was almost empty. He also broke off a piece of a field bar. It tasted terrible, but he’d had worse. Then he double-checked his supply of energy mags. Since the platoon had done less house clearing than he’d anticipated—with the skiffs taking the battering-ram approach—he’d expended less power than he’d expected. Which means more for later, he thought, his mind moving to the operation ahead.

  “Simone, I need you splitting up your fire team. We need to triangulate around the compound. I know it’s not safe to separate you like that, but—”

  “I’ve got it, Marine. We’ll put directional fraggers on our sixes for motion detection. Poor man’s lookout.”

  Magnus raised an eyebrow. Definitely not Marine sanctioned, but effective. “Fair enough. You’re looking for those snipers, and I want you calling in any unit advances along the side streets leading to the compound. Other than that, I want your barrels glowing red.”

  “You know, you get a bad rap, Marine. But I’m beginning to like your style.”

  Magnus appreciated the comment. “Rix, we need to stack up on that wall and take out the guard towers.”

  “Not if I beat him to it,” Simone said.

  “Fine with me, ’cause you ain’t going inside, mama,” Rix replied. “That’s all me, all day long.”

  “You’ll both have plenty of targets to add to your count, Marauders. Rix, we have a three-meter-high wall. Let’s leapfrog to the main building. If we can get through the front door, that’s our infil.”

  “And if we can’t?” Rix asked.

  “Your boss can punch a hole for us—as long as he doesn’t go overboard. We still have hostages to think about.”

  “Ready and waiting, buckethead,” Abimbola said.

  “Abimbola, I’m gonna need you barricading as many of the side streets as possible. And then we’re gonna need the fastest exfil you’ve got.”

  “With pleasure.” The giant’s smile practically leaped through the earpiece.

  “I don’t think I’ve gotta remind you people that since we don’t know where the hostages are being held, we’ve gotta use discretion with anything fired toward or within the compound. Copy?” The replies were slow in coming. Magnus realized this was where fire discipline and training made all the difference. It was one thing to randomly blow splick up; it was another to overrule adrenaline and make calculated moves under fire. “This is the mission, people. If we kill hostages, this is all in vain.”

  “We killed Selskrit! Nothing in vain ’bout that,” Rix replied.

  Point taken, Magnus thought, reminded of who he was leading. Despite all their bravado about killing Selskrit, he felt that the Marauders wanted to liberate the hostages too—at least, he hoped they did. Such a motive would go a long way toward powering them through what lay ahead.

  Magnus slipped on his sunglasses and emptied his last canteen. Tired of the constant chafing, he decided to rip off his forearm-and-bicep armor but opted to keep the tactical gloves. Then he slung his backpack and charged his MAR30. “Let’s move out.”

  * * *

  Magnus and Rix’s fire teams cleared the final two buildings where the street opened to the compound. When they were done, they found cover together on the same side of the road. The fortified compound in front of them was surrounded on all sides by two-story buildings, much like a plaza square. Aside from the compound itself, those uncleared buildings posed the greatest threat. Magnus hoped Simone would stay on top of her game that day.

  Inside the wall stood two guard towers, each with two Jujari holding MS900 sniper rifles. If Magnus had a credit for every time Republic weapons had been used against him in these last few years, he’d be able to retire.

  As if read
ing his thoughts, several blaster bolts snapped from the towers and blew chunks of sandstone at Magnus’s shoulder. He leaned against the building, holding his MAR30 to his chest until the fire stopped. “Simone, you have eyes on those snipers?”

  “Been waiting for you boys to get here,” she replied. “Just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “See the blue?” Simone said.

  Magnus stole a quick glance at the guard towers before several more shots peppered the building again. A thin blue wall surrounded each lookout position. “Force field,” he replied, recalling similar ones he’d seen on every window in the nicer part of town—only these were probably stronger. Much stronger.

  “If those are algorithmic,” Simone said, referring to the oscillating-frequency tech that could filter out matter and energy according to mass and velocity, “then there’s only one way we’re getting those pups down.”

  “Boom-boom,” Rix said, nodding at Magnus with a wide grin.

  “Someone’s got deep purse strings,” Magnus noted. “That stuff isn’t cheap.”

  “No, sir,” Abimbola echoed. Then, over general comms to all his units, he said, “I will give a month’s pay to any Marauder who can get me one of those shield generators intact.” The challenge was echoed by cheers and the clang of weapons banging on sides of skiffs.

  Just great. Magnus rolled his eyes. Thirty crazed Marauders going alorminium digging in the middle of a rescue op. Just what I need.

  “What’s the plan, Marine-Boss?” Rix asked.

  Marine-Boss? Do I detect a sign of respect? “We can’t get to the wall without getting those towers down. Even if we could, we’d be trying to breach the front gate in the open…” After a moment of thought, Magnus had an idea. “Abimbola, I need you on me.”

  “The Marine demands the Miblimbian to dismount and go to him on foot?” the warlord asked, general comms channel still open. The Marauders let out cajoling howls, taking advantage of the opportunity to rib the Marine. No one needed any reminding of the bad blood between the Miblimbians and the Republic.

  “Calm down, boys, calm down.” Abimbola stepped off his skiff. “The Marine just needs someone to tell him everything is going to be okay after he wet himself.” Laughs went up from the vehicles. “We will be back to Selskrit killing soon enough.”

  Abimbola approached Magnus, hugging the wall and flipping a poker chip.

  “Didn’t mean to insult you,” Magnus offered.

  “Please,” the black man said. “There is plenty of time to rectify that.”

  Magnus nodded but wasn’t exactly sure what Abimbola meant. “You see the gap between the sniper housing and the concrete base?” he asked, using his hands to model the guard tower’s composition. Abimbola chanced a quick look at the compound. That action was met with three blaster bolts that smacked the pavement ten meters behind him. He withdrew behind the wall.

  “I see it.”

  “Think you can drill down on that without overshooting into the compound?”

  Abimbola stole another look and flipped a poker chip again. More blaster fire exploded around him. “We will have to be pretty high. But… it should not be a problem.”

  “I just don’t want them overdoing it,” Magnus said.

  “I understand,” Abimbola said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We all know what happens when you Marines overdo it.”

  “Uh, thanks?”

  Abimbola removed his giant hand and marched back to Hell’s Basket Case.

  “Okay, Rix,” Magnus said, “when those towers are down, we’re on that front gate like a gumble bear on willick sap.”

  “Like what on what?”

  “Never mind. Just get there.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Simone, watch the surrounding buildings for any surprises. Once we’re in the open, I expect we’ll draw the attention of lots of new friends.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You ready, warlord?” Magnus asked.

  “Might want to step aside, buckethead. Coming through.”

  * * *

  Abimbola’s skiff sat in the open, taking rapid-fire sniper rounds from the MS900s. The blaster bolts ricocheted wildly off the plate armor, doing little besides leaving black marks across the surface. The Selskrit snipers helped the monstrous skiff look even more menacing, if such a thing were even possible.

  Abimbola punched the vertical thrusters, and the drive core let out a terrific whine that made Magnus and the others on foot cover their heads. Dust shot away from the pavement, swept aside by the skiff’s vicious down blast. The force pushed the skiff high into the air, enough that the M109 turret gunner could address the base of the guard towers at a steep angle.

  Abimbola held the skiff steady as the twin barrels erupted with a barrage of blaster fire that chewed at the first guardhouse’s base. Chunks of concrete spat from the sliver of space as the gunner expertly stitched the seam.

  But the skiff also provided a large target for the Selskrit within the compound. More blaster fire struck the skiff, and Magnus watched the thrusters struggle to maintain stability under the assault. The skiff snorted and bucked like a fitful bull-hound.

  That was when Magnus heard the distinct report of an LRGR fire from the compound. He looked up just as a ten-centimeter-wide hole flared from the turret’s rear metal housing. A red blossom of gore sprayed into the air as the M109 went silent.

  “Dammit!” Abimbola boomed over comms. Basket Case descended and backed into the street once more, its thrusters grinding away at the pavement.

  “Medic!” Magnus ordered.

  “Here, Lieutenant,” Haney replied, already rushing toward the skiff’s cargo-bay ramp. “I’m on it.”

  Magnus ran to Abimbola’s door as the warlord swung open the hinged plate. “You okay?”

  Abimbola spat over Magnus’s head, his face dirty with soot left over from when he’d been surrounded by molten shrapnel. “Damn Selskrit have an LRGR. Should have seen that coming.”

  “I should have seen that coming.” Magnus lowered his head. “Simone, did you see where that came from?”

  “I think so, Marine. But trying to sort out all that blaster fire is harder than it looks.”

  “If we go back up, you think you can source it? Take it out?”

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” Simone replied.

  “You’d better, ’cause it’s my hide on the line this time.”

  Abimbola widened his dark eyes at Magnus.

  “Yeah, Bimby,” Magnus said. “You heard me. I’m your new gunner.”

  * * *

  Hell’s Basket Case screamed as Abimbola maxed the vertical thrusters again. The mammoth skiff vibrated under Magnus’s rear end. His teeth chattered and hands shook on the M109’s handles. He sat stuffed in the turret as the sweltering heat baked him inside his armor. In that moment, Magnus noted just how accurate the skiff’s name was.

  As soon as the skiff rose above the top of the wall, the barrage of blaster fire from inside the compound resumed, this time with renewed force as the Jujari delighted, no doubt, in a second attempt to decimate a slow-moving target. He’d wedged a scrap of armor plating between the turret frame and the ballistic round’s entry hole in case a random blaster bolt followed the same path.

  Deafening pings filled the turret as Magnus spied the seam the previous gunner had started. It looked like some rabid animal had gnawed a fissure out of the edifice. He pointed the twin barrels as far down as they could go and lined up the laser sights. The last thing he wanted was a stray shot careening into the compound and taking out a hostage.

  Magnus squeezed both triggers. The M109 sprang to life under his grip. A sensation approaching ecstasy moved up his arms and shook his chest. His eyes followed the steady stream of red energy as it expanded the fissure below. Magnus muscled the weapon to keep it on target, his respect for the previous operator’s precision growing by the second.

  He wondered if Simone had found th
e LRGR yet. The cacophony from blaster fire made it impossible for Magnus to say anything intelligible over comms, much less hear anything. He supposed he’d know if she was successful if he survived the next few seconds. The mission hung on whether or not they could chop these towers in half.

  Almost there. The M109 shuddered under his hands, belching out more energy than his MAR30 could produce in several minutes of continuous operation. The barrels were bright red, smoke swirling in the wake of incoming blaster fire.

  Almost. Magnus realized he still wasn’t dead. Considering the fact that he’d doubled the previous gunner’s distance, he supposed Simone had found her target. That thought, however, was interrupted by the sound of a lightning bolt exploding inside the turret as a hole appeared next to his shoulder. The concussion wave shoved Magnus to the opposite wall and slammed his head against the metal.

  18

  Ezo stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the orb. “Can’t we use the… whatever it is to transport ourselves out of here?”

  “Yes and no,” TO-96 replied. “It is, indeed, a transport system. A multiverse quantum-tunnel generator, to be exact. However, it is not as simple as dialing in a few coordinates and engaging a drive core.”

  “But can we use it?”

  “Eventually, perhaps.”

  “How long is eventually?” Awen asked.

  “I am afraid that all depends upon you, Awen.”

  She placed a hand on her chest. “Me?”

  “The multiverse quantum-tunnel generator—”

  “Can we just call it something shorter?” Ezo interrupted.

  “How about the QTG?” Awen said, thinking of Magnus’s love of acronyms.

  “Are you trying out for the Marines now, Star Queen?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Clearly.”

  “The QTG, as you’ve termed it, requires an operator in normal space-time to control it.”