Galactic Breach

by J. N. Chaney

  “’Six! What about the people on board? Can’t you just—I don’t know—scuttle it or something?”

  “Awen, the chance of their crew surviving beyond a week in this solar system after their engines have been disabled is approximately one billion, three hundred eighty million, six—”

  “It’s a lot! I get it! But is there any other way?”

  “I am sorry to say that I have already calculated the most ‘humane way,’ as you would say, to terminate the enemy, and this is it.”

  Awen stared at the display as the three torpedoes converged on the enemy ship. There was a white blast of light followed by several internal explosions, each of which snuffed out in seconds. Large pieces of the ship spun away from each other as a dense cloud of debris expanded in every direction. It was over in less than five seconds.

  “Target terminated,” Azelon reported.

  Awen sat in her couch, squeezing its arms. She heard herself breathing forcefully then tried to control her breathing. She relaxed her body and melted into the oversized padding. All those lives. Snuffed out in a flash of light. She wondered how many they’d just killed—wondered what planets they called home and if they’d known, when they woke up for their day’s shift, that it would be their last. How many more were asleep and never saw it coming? Perhaps that is a strange mercy.

  She rubbed her hands over her face, suddenly aware of just how tired she was. The past few hours were a blur. Was it really only this morning that I entered the Unity again and discovered the QTG? And now here we are, fleeing the system and about to head home.

  “How far are we from the tunnel?” she asked TO-96.

  “Less than thirty minutes, Awen.”

  “And no other ships?”

  “None detected, no.”

  She reached up and unbuckled her harness. “Let me know when we’re getting close. I’m going to check on Sootriman and Ezo.”

  “As you wish, Awen.”

  “Oh, and Ninety-Six?” She turned to look at him. “Thank you. For saving us back there. I know you did what was best.”

  “It is my pleasure to protect you, Awen. You are most welcome.”

  * * *

  There were no buttons in the elevator—it was all controlled entirely by voice communication with the ship’s AI. It felt strange to Awen, but it made sense. Why use antiquated technology when superior technology was available?

  “You have arrived at deck four, section seven, Awen,” Azelon said as the elevator slowed to a stop. “Serving sick bay.” The doors parted, and Awen stepped out.

  “Thank you…” Awen wasn’t sure if she was supposed to reply or not, but she did it anyway. Just in case. It never hurts to be extra kind to an AI.

  The gleaming white hallway was evenly lit and curved to the right.

  Azelon spoke again. “Seventeen meters, second bay on your right, Awen.” Dotted blue lights appeared in the floor, designating a walking path.

  “Thank you, Azelon,” Awen said, more comfortably this time.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Apparently, she was listening after all. And watching.

  Awen walked along the glossy floor, following the blue lights. She turned to face the door, and it slid open with a soft whoosh. A transparent wall separated the entry room from the rest of sick bay, which was laid out in an octagonal pattern. Individual operating suites filled each side, lined with sleek screens and ceiling-mounted sensors.

  Ezo was standing over Sootriman in one of the darkened rooms. She appeared to be sleeping. Her clothes had been removed, and her hair was gathered in a bun. White elastic-like fabric covered her breasts and groin. The woman’s body floated in midair, encircled by a dozen rings of light that reflected in Ezo’s eyes. The halos rotated slowly, each one radiating into Sootriman’s flesh. Thousands of tags with Novia script protruded from the rings, rotating with the halos while remaining horizontal to the observer. The characters appeared to change, constantly updating.

  Awen moved around the wall and into the octagonal space. She approached Ezo so as not to startle him. Ezo looked up at her with glassy eyes.

  “How is she?” Awen asked.

  Ezo shrugged. “Can’t say.” His voice was tight. He ran a hand through his hair. “The ship started doing this as soon as the launch was finished. All sorts of Novia writing—diagnostics or something. I don’t know. I don’t have a clue.”

  “Hey.” Awen moved beside Ezo and placed an arm around him. “It’s going to be okay, Ezo.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve got a feeling about it. All this…” She gestured to the wondrous sight in front of them. “The Novia, they know what they’re doing. They’re not going to let her die.”

  “I sure hope so.” Without warning, Ezo put his arm around Awen and leaned his head on top of hers. Her heart warmed. Then she felt something warm and wet touch the top of her scalp. A tear, she supposed.

  They stood there, arm in arm, for several minutes as the glowing rings continued to rotate around Sootriman’s body. Even in unconsciousness, she was beautiful. The woman’s deeply tanned skin, long black hair, and large gorgeous body made Awen never want to see her frail self naked again. This woman—this warrior goddess—had become her friend. Awen hated that Sootriman had been shot and that something permanently bad might have happened to her. But Awen meant what she’d said: she believed the Novia would make the woman well again.

  “You still love her, don’t you, Idris?”

  She felt Ezo lift his head off hers—maybe because she’d used his first name. She’d never done that before.

  Ezo took in a long, slow breath. “I do. As much as we fought, as much as we disagreed, there’s still something about her that I just… I don’t know. I can’t explain.”

  “With that divorce filing, did you really forget to pay your taxes?”

  She felt him laugh before she heard the sound. “Maybe not as much as I let on.” He ran a sleeve across his cheek. “She was there for me when… after the war was over, she was all I had.”

  “She shared some of your story with me.”

  He nodded.

  “Now it seems that you’re all she has.” Awen paused then pulled away to look up at him. “You want to know how I really know she’s going to be okay?”

  “How?”

  “Because you’re still standing here.”

  Another tear slid down his cheek. “Thanks,” he said and pulled her into an embrace.

  “Hey, listen. You keep doing this sort of thing, and you’re bound to lose your reputation as a hardened criminal.”

  They laughed together. “Seems we’d better keep this to ourselves, then,” Ezo said.

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “I won’t tell anyone either,” TO-96’s voice said over the room’s speakers.

  “Dammit, ’Six!”

  * * *

  Awen left Ezo with Sootriman and turned left out of sick bay. She walked toward the elevator, her heart filled with the prospect of going home. TO-96 had informed her and Ezo, over the sick-bay speakers, that they were nearing the quantum tunnel.

  “It’s time to return home,” the bot said.

  The words made her smile. Ezo grinned, too, though he was still melancholy as he looked at Sootriman.

  “She’s going to be all right,” Awen had insisted again. “Trust me.”

  She rode the elevator toward the bridge, lost in thought. It had taken over three months to reach this moment, and in truth, she’d thought it would never come. But none of that mattered. It was worth the wait.

  She felt the elevator slow. A soft chime played above her, then Azelon said, “You have arrived at the bridge, Awen.” When the elevator doors opened, Awen gasped. Someone she’d never seen before was standing next to TO-96.

  28

  Surprisingly, the Tawnhack didn’t fight Magnus’s offer of assistance. Instead, he used Magnus to gain his feet. It took all of Magnus’s remaining strength not to buckle unde
r the Jujari’s considerable weight. He felt like an adolescent trying to give an adult a lopsided piggyback ride.

  Burdened by the Jujari, Magnus felt like the convoy was twice as far away as it really was. Blaster fire peppered the ground, striking less than a meter in front of him. Other shots zipped by Magnus’s ears, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He gasped, inadvertently inhaling a deep breath of the Jujari’s body odor.

  “Mystics, you stink!” Magnus said, his head wedged in the blood wolf’s armpit. The Jujari looked down at him, seeming to register the comment, but neither of them had time for a discussion.

  Magnus noted that the convoy was advancing toward them. The skiffs’ return fire had also picked up. He dared not look back; he could only hope that the Selskrit were in retreat.

  Then, without warning, his legs gave out. Magnus hit the ground as the Jujari toppled over him. His head and face were buried in the hot sand as the beast forced all the air out of his lungs. He tried to wiggle free, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, but it was no use.

  The Jujari grunted. With an arduous moan, it rolled off of him. Magnus gasped. He blinked sand out of his eyes and pushed himself up. “Let’s not do that again.”

  The pair were back on their feet again, but the blood wolf was moving more slowly. The beast must have been shot, maybe even several times. Magnus knew from experience that the Jujari could take several hits before going down. Heck, maybe I’ve been shot too but have so much adrenaline in my system that I won’t feel it for at least another minute.

  The Jujari’s body stench was enough to make Magnus want to vomit. Blood, sweat, and offal was a powerful combination. Still, the pair lumbered forward toward the convoy, now not more than a dozen meters away. Magnus felt the Tawnhack pick up the pace as they neared. Hope must have lit a fire in the beast’s belly.

  “Just a few more steps,” Magnus said in encouragement.

  “Well, do not just sit there!” Abimbola said over comms. “Help that buckethead out!”

  Marauders piled out of the two nearest skiffs and ran around to the front, helping relieve Magnus of his burden. He accepted the help with gratitude and looked back at the Jujari, catching his eye. There, in that moment, Magnus saw something he’d never seen from the warrior race before: gratitude.

  “Let me know when you are loaded, buckethead!” Abimbola said.

  Magnus turned and saw that the Selskrit had broken through the gate and were spreading out, using the compromised skiffs as cover. They were actually pushing them!

  “Come on, Marine,” someone said from inside the nearest vehicle. Magnus turned. It was Titus, the man from the stranded skiffs. “We’ve got room for one more.” He offered Magnus a hand.

  “Thanks, Marauder,” Magnus said, clasping the man’s forearm in a smack of dust.

  “No, thank you.”

  * * *

  “You fought well today, buckethead,” Abimbola said with a smile. The two of them sat in the cab of a new skiff that Abimbola had commandeered. The dried blood on their bodies filled the compartment with the scent of rust. The warlord’s black skin had turned a reddish brown from it, while Magnus’s armor was caked in the stuff. His MAR30 and Z were going to need serious baths.

  “And that crazy thing you did back there for that Tawnhack?” Abimbola whistled. “Mama. You in for something big after that, I tell you what. You fought very well. Very well.”

  Magnus didn’t know what the warlord meant by that last part, but he appreciated the words of encouragement—though he doubted he would be free of sarcastic remarks for long.

  “In fact,” Abimbola continued, “I think you fought better than any Marine I have ever seen.”

  Magnus was surprised at what seemed to be yet another genuine compliment. “Thanks, Bimby.” He was about to return it when Abimbola continued.

  “But you were not fighting me, of course. I have killed every Marine I have ever fought.”

  And there’s the backhand. Magnus knew it couldn’t have been a full compliment. He chuckled. “Then I’m glad I wasn’t fighting you.”

  “Because you would have lost.”

  “I’m sure I would have.”

  Abimbola took a long breath and shifted his weight in his seat. Silence filled the cab, sustained by the sounds of the drive core and the wind.

  “Thank you for helping me,” Magnus finally offered.

  “Like I said, all we wanted was—”

  “To kill Selskrit. I know, I know. But you could have done that anywhere in the Western Heights. Instead, you and your Marauders helped us rescue some of our people. So, thank you.”

  Abimbola looked at Magnus then turned back to the road. “You are welcome, buckethead.”

  Magnus watched the sand race by. “Rix… is he gonna be okay?”

  “My medic said he will survive.”

  “Good, good.” Magnus looked out the passenger side window. “He fought well out there.”

  “I am sure he did. He is one of my best. And the bucketheads you rescued—are they some of your best?”

  Magnus nodded. “Flow and Chico are two of my best operators, yes. The captain is a legend in our battalion.”

  “So you rescued your people’s heroes, which makes you a hero too.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Where I come from, if you save the savior, you become the savior.”

  “Interesting concept.”

  “It is not a concept,” Abimbola said. “It is the way of the universe.”

  Magnus met the warlord’s eyes. Everyone was entitled to their own view. But he had to admit, that concept had a certain prestige to it. In the Repub, if you saved your CO’s ass, all you got was a handshake and a good old, “Let’s keep this between us.” If some unlucky private was dumb enough to report the incident, having seen it firsthand and all, maybe you got a medal—and the private got demoted to where all demoted privates go: back home.

  “So who did you save?” Magnus asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re the big boss around here. Which savior did you save?”

  The warlord shook his head. “It does not work like that here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Here, the only person you save is yourself. And if you live long enough to have allies, you try to save them too. You must become the strongest person you know, or else you die.”

  “Rough way to live,” Magnus said.

  “Yes, buckethead. Rough way to live.”

  Sand pelted Magnus’s face as they drove through a small desert dust swirl. “So, why’d you let us go, really?”

  “Let who go? When?” Abimbola glanced at him.

  “Awen and me. Back when we first met. You said it yourself—you kill every Marine you square off with. But you let us go because of Awen. I’d like to know why.”

  Abimbola worked his jaw. “That is between—”

  “You and her. Maybe part of it. But you and I just spilled blood together. Where I come from, that means we have something in common now. We may still be enemies, but we stared death in the face together, and we lived to talk about it.”

  “That means something where I come from too.” Abimbola sighed. “Her grandparents…” His eyes glazed over as his hands kept steering the skiff. “They gave their lives to protect me.”

  “Awen’s?” Magnus furrowed his brow, trying to sort through the implications. “Wait—where? On Limbia Centrella?”

  Abimbola nodded.

  “You’re saying there were Elonians on Limbia Centrella?”

  “Indeed.”

  There was another long pause. Magnus’s curiosity was really piqued by this point. Awen’s species had a long history of sticking to themselves. Some called them elitists; others called them aloof. So far as Magnus could tell, Awen had probably defied her parents—maybe her entire planet—by leaving to join the Luma. Elonians just didn’t do that sort of thing, at least not that he’d ever heard of. Joining the Luma was one thing, but going to a pl
anet like Limbia Centrella would be unheard-of.

  “Why would Elonians ever go there?” Magnus suddenly realized his tone could have been more tactful. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “They had come to heal our people. When I was a boy, our world was attacked.”

  “A simikon invasion or something, right?”

  “Yes. The insects also brought a blight with them,” Abimbola said. “A plague.”

  “I remember reading something about that once. I don’t remember much.”

  “I remember everything.”

  Magnus pursed his lips, feeling the fool. Tighten it up, Magnus. “I can’t begin to imagine what that must’ve been like.”

  “No, I suppose you cannot.” Abimbola absentmindedly touched the scar on his face. “The insects wiped out two continents before we were able to stop them. The Republic”—he spoke the word from between his teeth—“were called in to help us. And they did.” He straightened a little. “To their credit, they helped us drive back the enemy.”

  “So you won? You beat them?”

  Abimbola nodded. “But we could not beat the plague. The scientists said it came from the simikons’ excrement. It got into our water supply. Every plant absorbed it; every animal carried it in their muscle tissue. It was inescapable. So my people starved. We asked the Republic to come back, but they could not be bothered. They had already gotten their accolades, already been patted on the back by one another for helping the lowly Miblimbians. So the galaxy cheered the victors while we suffered.”

  Magnus nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. I watched my parents die. Their bodies rotted from the inside out. And there was nothing I could do. I was seven years old.”

  “Mystics…” Magnus whispered. There were few things in the universe worse than seeing your parents die when you were a child. “I’m—I’m sorry, Abimbola.” Magnus shook his head. He couldn’t imagine what this man had seen—what he’d lived through when he was only a boy. “So… how’d you survive?”

  “How did I survive…” Abimbola shook his head and spat on the floorboard. “How did I survive? I survived because the gods decided I was different.” He glared out the side window and took a few deep breaths. “After my parents and siblings died, people started wondering why I had not been infected. News spread quickly because…” His voice trailed off.