by Nick Cole
He remembered fighting the Dark Wanderer. Passing the final test of the Master. Being fully initiated into what was called the Crux in the days that followed. There had been no defeating that monster… and yet he had. Even though the Crux had been much greater in that Dark Being from the “other,” beyond the reality of this present galaxy.
He had killed the thing with a weapon. Not the Crux.
A sword.
The blast doors irised open just a bit.
He could see the shiny black boots and leg armor of the dark legionnaires waiting to get to him. Some of them fired a few shots that skipped off the deck around him.
The torch.
The gift from the black giant who’d captured an entire starship on his own. The torch the man had given him out of loyalty and respect when they’d awarded the loyal shock trooper a medal for his actions. These men trying to kill him were not representative of all those legionnaires, pilots, and service people who’d rallied to him to fight the injustice of the House of Reason and the Galactic Republic. These who were trying to kill him were just the chaff. Weeding themselves out.
He fought off a wave of nausea and pain and stood erect and tall. Now they would face him in full.
Goth Sullus closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he sensed the blast doors finally heaving themselves open. Then he reached out, pulled the torch he’d left on the pedestal into his grip, and activated it.
The twisting fiery blade sprang up from its central housing like a shining beacon in the darkness of the galaxy.
***
When the dark legionnaires saw what they were facing… they stopped.
These were men who’d fought at Tarrago. And for the Legion when they’d served the Galactic Republic in a hundred conflicts across the galaxy. Often against overwhelming odds.
They were brave.
They were deadly.
They’d never faced anything like what they saw when the blast door opened.
Goth Sullus began to strike them down with the burning torch in his hand. He dodged in and among them, hitting the first few with savage slashes that melted armor and separated men from their limbs and weapons.
The man in the dark robe slashed and smashed in a whirlwind fury of burning blows from his fiery brand. Aimed blaster fire fled from him in harmless directions as he slew them en masse, only occasionally pausing to issue some gesture that sent a man skyward, or into a comrade.
The captain in charge of the assault saw only one final option as the men under his command were cut down.
“Wyvern Six, this is Assault Leader!” he practically shouted into his comm as he cowered behind a pillar. “Strike our position now!”
Two tri-fighters, loyal to the cabal, were on station and ready to actually hit the private decks of the emperor with concentrated blaster fire. The deck would be instantly holed and exposed to the vacuum of space, because the Imperator wasn’t at battle stations and the deflectors weren’t up. The deck would vent, and the shock troopers, those that weren’t being sliced into burning pieces by the whirling dervish the emperor had become, would survive the vacuum because of their armor’s zero-oxygen capabilities.
They would survive. But the emperor would not.
“Stand by, Assault Leader,” replied the tri-fighter pilot. “Inbound for strike. Weapons hot. Secure for rapid decompression.”
The assault leader in charge of the shock troopers cast a quick glance out the emperor’s massive meditation viewing port as he shouted for the men to secure themselves. He could see the two deadly fighters turning for approach to target in tight strike formation. Side by side they’d smash straight through the hull with concentrated fire, probably killing a good many of his men in the process.
But this was the only way.
***
Goth Sullus laid waste to the troopers, who now realized the folly of their blaster fire and tried to rush him. The three that remained flew at him, and in an instant Goth Sullus pivoted and swept the burning torch across their midsections, slicing all three in half.
And then he sensed the hostile intent, the menace, of the approaching fighter pilots.
He had only seconds before they fired.
Focus, he heard the Master say.
So many times.
Focus.
He flicked off the torch.
“With the Crux, nothing else is needed.”
He drew everything he had left, all of it, into his open palm. He closed his eyes and felt, saw, both pilots leaning forward to target their fire. The hum and scream of their fighters echoing like a drowning ghost throughout their tiny cockpits. The targeting and intercept data scrolling across their HUDs.
He closed his fist.
The two fighters smashed into one another and exploded. The sound of their sudden demise and released energy penetrated the massive hull of the battleship.
“With the Crux, nothing else is needed.”
Officers and loyal shock troopers were swarming his deck now. They’d come for him. Come to rescue their emperor. The traitors were being shot down even as they tried to surrender.
“With the Crux, nothing else is needed.”
Casper.
Reina.
Rechs.
The Republic.
The once-mighty Legion and its formidable legionnaires who were like the heroes of old. They would’ve fought the Devil himself in their day.
Gone.
Even whoever he’d once been. All of it… all of it was gone now for the emperor.
With the Crux… nothing else is needed.
And finally, one last thought, as order was restored and the traitors shot down without mercy or indecision. One final thought before the last of all that he once was slipped off and away like a half-remembered dream told by another on a distant planet. Maybe it was a confession. Or an absolution. Or the truth.
It was just a whisper. So low it might have even been a thought.
What I have done, I have done.
The End
The thrilling world of Galaxy’s Edge explodes in the furious first book, LEGIONNAIRE.
01
The galaxy is a dumpster fire.
That’s not the way the Senate and House of Reason want you to hear it. They want me—or one of my brothers—to remove my helmet and stand in front of a holocam, all smiles. They want you to see me without my N-4 rifle (I’m never without my N-4) holding a unit of water while a bunch of raggedy kids from Morobii or Grevulo, you can pick whatever ass-backward planet garners the most sympathy this week, dance around me smiling right back. They want me to give a thumbs-up and say, “At the edge of the galaxy, the Republic is making a difference!”
But the galaxy is a dumpster fire. A hot, stinking dumpster fire. And most days I don’t know if the legionnaires are putting out the flames, or fanning them into an inferno.
I won’t clint you. I stopped caring about anything but the men by my side, the men of Victory Company, a long time ago.
And if you don’t know how liberating it feels to no longer give a damn, I highly recommend you find out.
Four years ago, when my Legion crest was so new the ink hadn’t dried all the way, I would have cared. I would have sat in this combat sled and chewed the inside of my mouth until it bled. I see LS-95, so new he hasn’t proven himself worth a nickname, doing it right now. He’s sitting on the jump seat across from me, perspiration glistening under the red light, as the sled speeds toward some village on the dark side of who cares.
I lean across the divide that separates us and punch his slate-gray armor square on the shoulder. “Hey. KTF.”
He nods hesitantly. It’s obvious the kid’s embarrassed that his nerves are showing. He puts on his helmet. The bucket hides his emotions from his comrades.
“KTF. Why do you leejes always say that?”
The question comes from the sled’s turret gunner. Regular Republic Army, black and tan fatigues and a one-size-fits-all woven synth-steel helmet, polarized goggles pulled up on the top. We call these types “basics.” We made his Repub-Army butt take seat six the moment we entered the sled.
Twenties, LS-81 to Leej Command, took over on the twins. Combat sleds are quick and agile, and that doesn’t allow for heavy firepower. Their only defense is a twin medium-heavy blaster turret manned just aft of the cockpit, capable of a 360-degree field of fire. If a gunner is skinny enough, the twins can be pulled back to shoot straight into the air, too.
All we see of Twenties are his legs slowly rotating as he moves the turret in deliberate, sweeping patterns. He’s looking to open up on any native even thinking of springing an ambush. This may surprise you, but we rolled out of Camp Forge without the heavy armor of our MBTs. Legionnaires aren’t supposed to need that kind of support on a Joint-Force (JF), low-contact, diplomatic mission. Legionnaires are too good at what they do. Save the MBTs for the brass at CF.
Ooah.
Truth is, there is no safe op. A well-executed ambush always has a chance to cause some damage, even if we spot ’em early. Unless we KTF.
Unlike the Repub-Army gunner, Twenties won’t lock up. Won’t miss.
Maybe that’s not fair to the basic sitting in seat six. He looks like he just transported from academy yesterday, but maybe he’s a dead shot. He ain’t a legionnaire, though. And for us, that’s three strikes in itself. He’s looking at me with those wide and innocent eyes. Eyes that haven’t seen war except through a holoscreen or an FPS arcade sim. He’s sincere in his question, so I answer him.
“You survive our trip to market, Basic, I’ll let you know.”
The sled fills with laughter, some of it clean and organic, guys with their buckets off. Just like a regular night at the barracks. Other laughs are filtered through the micro-comm speaker of the legionnaires already wearing their buckets. Those guys sound like a bunch of bots laughing at a joke about fluid changes.
Exo, LS-67, acts like he’s got the chills, rubbing his arms. Helmetless, he makes his teeth chatter and pulls up his synthprene undersuit as high as it will go on his neck. “That’s ice cold, Sarge. Straight Parminthian.”
I shrug.
A buzz emits from the onboard comm speakers. Each sled has two drivers, with room for a field commander in the front section. The tail end fits six men and the turret gunner. Right now all eyes are fixed on the relay screen built into the wall separating us from the drivers. The red cabin lights dim to near non-existence as a gray-haired legionnaire flickers on screen from the cockpit. He’s cradling his helmet in one arm, gently rubbing an old scar on his neck as though he’d just stepped out of a tightened noose.
LS-13, rank major. The CO of Victory Company. To us, he’s Pappy. His holo transmission is going to the back of each combat sled in real time.
“Victory Company, this is Pappy. Listen up.”
The major’s voice is always strained and hoarse. Not from yelling. He brushes a hand across the scar, still pink and angry from a CQ scrap in some dusty shack two decades ago. Word is it still hurts, too. Enough that he cuts away the regular synthprene suit so it doesn’t touch his neck. The major probably should have died back then, but Pappy don’t die.
“We’re still speeding through the plains and are about three clicks to the hills. Moona Village is what passes for a major town on Kublar. According to Republic intelligence, the village elders are supportive of Kublar’s newly appointed Republican senator.”
Kublar.
That’s where we are. I’d almost forgotten. The past eight months have been nothing but a series of rotations between a planet in galaxy’s edge and Chiasm, the capital-class destroyer we’re jumping all across the edge in. Jump in system, drop shuttles to clean up whatever mess the locals have made for themselves and the Republic, jump out, repeat.
Pappy’s hoarse briefing continues.
“Republican intel says that the Mid-Core Rebels are working hard to establish relations with the Kublarens. Trying to find an ally. No signs of MCR supplying the koobs with arms, but expect at a minimum small-arms fire and maybe some old-tech heavy battery emplacements.
“But I do mean old-tech. Savage Wars era. Central Command decided that speed and overwhelming blaster power would carry the day if the koobs get stupid, and Pappy agrees. Rep-Int says to expect an open-arms greeting, but we know better, don’t we, boys? Be ready, and if things go south, KTF. Pappy out.”
The display goes dark. I move to the control console and key in the forward holocam. The combat sleds are in convoy formation, carefully spaced to avoid catastrophe should a tac-bomb detonate beneath us. I rotate the cams. Moona Village is another thirty-minute drive, but we’re already passing a few of the small dwellings in its orbit, scattered among the foothills of the mountain. Kublaren herders wearing tattered black and brown robes watch the convoy pass, their frog-like neck sacks expanding with each breath and flashing a sudden deep purple that contrasts with their dust-colored skin. Three-fingered hands clutch herding staffs, and every other koob has a decrepit hard-matter projectile rifle strapped to his shoulder.
That won’t do much against legionnaire armor, but I don’t expect it’ll keep them from trying if they’ve got a mind for a fight.
Koobs love fighting. It’s in their DNA. They allied themselves with the Republic in the Savage Wars, centuries ago, and were used to great effect throughout the conflict thanks to the tactical genius of men like General Rex.
Some koob kids are doing their peculiar run/hop alongside the combat sleds. I hear a request to “dust ’em” come from a leej up on the twins. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who preferred a legionnaire take the place of the basic assigned to the twins.
“Negative. Do not engage.” The voice belongs to LS-33, a newly appointed captain, his commission straight from the House of Reason. These guys are the worst. They’re not soldiers, just politicians seeking to climb the ladder. But they love giving orders. Wouldn’t you know that Captain Devers is the OIC for Magnum and Doomsday (that’s us) squads. At least he’s riding in Magnum’s CS today.
Small victories.
“Copy,” the legionnaire answers.
Unwilling to pass on an opportunity to elaborate, Captain Devers adds, “Kublar is a type-VII planet identified as a potential R-1. This world will bring substantial revenue and stability into the Republic once they’ve fully embraced Republican ideals. Do not aggravate. It would be better if—”
Pappy breaks in. “Maintain L-comm discipline.”
There’s a pause, and all anyone can hear is the static hum over the L-comm.
“Copy.” The hurting ego in Devers’s voice is palpable. I’ll bet my last ration pack he records a whiny holo for Colonel LaDonna to be sent the moment long-range comms clear up.
“Pappy shut that point down!” Exo shouts, his voice jovial. My legionnaires, none of them government appointees, all share the sentiment. It’s a beautiful thing when a real leej officer shuts down a point, short for appointee. I should maintain respect for rank, but screw those guys. Surest way to die in the legionnaire corps is to be placed under the command of a point. It’s no secret.
There’s a rhythm to life at galaxy’s edge. Long bouts of inactivity.
Boredom.
Routine.
And then, whether you want it or not, whether you’re ready or not, things go sideways. But sideways is where legionnaires earn their pay.
The comm spikes with a shout. “Those koob kids got something!”
A thundering boom sounds.
Strong enough to cause the sled’s repulsors to hop and send vibrations along the interior hull. The forward cam catches a ball of flame engulfing the command sled. Pappy’s sled. I see the vic jump into the air, spiraling like a football, right before a storm of dust and rocks
obscures the cam and the feed cuts out.
“Buckets!” I scream.
Those of us without helmets on quickly pull them snugly over our heads, watching as our interior displays boot up in .08 seconds, plugging us into the legionnaire battle network. It’s a special net just for us. Rep-Mil has no access no matter how much the Fairness in Combat Committee begs and complains. It’s untraceable and an impenetrable fortress to any code slicer dumb enough to risk messing with it. The moment my helmet is online, I’m hearing chaos over the legionnaire and Repub-Army bat-net, with commands and counter commands coming fast and furious. Someone from the L-SOC attachment is issuing an override, requesting a command update. I’ll leave that to one of the captains.
“Doomsday squad,” I call through my helmet’s mic. “Switch to local channel Fear-Beta-Nine. We need to drown out this chatter and focus.”
Without hesitation, the four legionnaires sharing the back of the sled send hands to the sides of their buckets, keying their transponder frequencies. A legionnaire’s helmet is the most expensive part of our kit. Each is custom built and costs about the same as a luxury sled, though that’s mostly due to the requirement that they be produced by Repub contractors who have a forty percent profit margin built into their figures.
I’m in the wrong line of work.
Still, the filtration system, clear-vision visors with instant thermal or UV optic overlays, bone conduction headsets, exterior interface, tongue toggles, DSK AI, and voice enhancers aren’t cheap.
Twenties screams from the turret. “One of those koob kids put a charge on the C-S! Sket! Incoming fire!” I can see his legs while the turret moves in spasmodic motions as the twin repeating blaster barrels search for targets.
Dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat!
The twins open up as Twenties finds hostile targets. He’s crouching and bouncing on his legs with every burst. “Get some! Get some! I see you, koob! I see you, too!”
Dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat!
The outside of the sled is alive with the spewing of pressurized, explosive rapid-fire bolts, red streaks of energy sizzling through the air.