Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Something’s right. It’s not biometric. Means we don’t have to haul her back here.” He tapped his temple for a moment. “Now, what’s your password, baby?”

  “Password? As in a digital password?”

  “She always liked things old-school.”

  Awen was stunned. Digital passwords had been phased out decades ago in favor of quantum security. The new measures were almost unbreakable unless a person had an excellent code slicer. “We can have Ninety-Six come back if you think—”

  “Nah, give Ezo a second.” Ezo cracked his knuckles and placed his fingers on the illuminated keyboard. He typed something then hit Enter. All at once, the login screen vanished, replaced by standard file architecture. “Sootriman, you’re so predictable.”

  “You guessed it? Just like that?”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “It was our anniversary.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yup.” Ezo grinned from ear to ear. “She still loves Ezo.” He leaned in and began swiping through the files. “Let’s see here…”

  Ezo moved into a section entitled Security System and then lists of dates and cameras. Ezo tapped his temple a few more times before choosing a date and opening the data set. He chose the camera grouping marked Den and started scanning footage.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” Awen offered. “Makes me wonder how many times you’ve done it.”

  Ezo answered absentmindedly, “Ezo knows what he’s doing. Here we go.”

  Awen leaned in as Ezo expanded a view of the main entry tunnel. A sudden burst of light and a muffled thud grabbed her attention. The smoke cleared, and several black-clad troopers moved into the frame, led by a single bald figure in a black navy uniform.

  “Kane,” she whispered.

  Ezo nodded, watching the footage.

  The troopers shot flares that bathed the tunnel in bright light, temporarily blowing out the camera’s sensors. Ezo jumped to another camera farther down the corridor. Kane pointed at several Reptalons, and the troopers responded by firing blaster bolts into the targets. Then flamethrowers appeared and bathed the walls in liquid fire, torching whatever moved along the walls.

  “He’s certainly methodical,” Ezo said.

  “He’s sick.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ezo continued to switch cameras to show Kane and his troopers moving down the tunnel, dispatching Reptalons as they went. They finally entered Sootriman’s inner sanctum. Awen watched in horror as Kane approached Sootriman and fired a shot at her. The large woman hardly flinched as the metal projectile missed her head by mere centimeters, biting a chunk out of her throne instead. The two continued talking until, without warning, Kane extended his weapon to one side and shot a civilian in the head.

  Awen let out a short scream and looked away. “Mystics! What is wrong with him?”

  “He’s evil,” Ezo said, still watching.

  By the time Awen had forced the bile down her throat and had her eyes on the screen again, Kane was shooting more people, dispatching them as easily as someone might rid a home of unwelcomed insects on a summer evening.

  Then there was a pause. Sootriman was on her feet, shouting something that the microphones could not distinguish from the screaming in the room. Kane waved his gloved hand, and a trooper shot Sootriman with a low-energy pulse, stunning her. Two more troopers ascended the dais, pulled Sootriman from her throne, and threw her down the stairs.

  Awen could sense Ezo’s body tensing. No wonder Sootriman didn’t say anything about this. It’s horrible. If this was hard for her to watch, it had to be brutal for Ezo. Kane knelt over Sootriman and had a discussion with her that neither Awen nor Ezo could make out. Kane nodded and stood upright. He looked at the trooper who’d shot Sootriman.

  “Pause video,” Ezo said. The holo-vid froze. He stared at the image, zoomed in, and pointed. “Ezo knows that one.”

  Awen looked from Ezo to the trooper. “You know that specific trooper? How? He looks like all the rest.”

  “No.” Ezo zoomed in farther. “There, on his chest. The semigloss rank designation. And the way he’s standing. We’ve seen him before. He was tracking us through Itheliana.”

  Awen froze. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Ezo took a deep breath. “Resume video.”

  The holo-footage played on as Kane left the den. The soldier ordered two others to haul Sootriman’s body away, following Kane. Then, as if possessed by a demon, the trooper raised his weapon and began firing. The people in the room tried to scatter, screaming, but other soldiers blocked the exits. The first trooper picked people off one at a time. Head shot after head shot after head shot.

  “Mystics! Turn it off, Ezo. Please.”

  “End video.”

  Awen swallowed. This is madness. Who does that? And to what end?

  Ezo closed out the holo-display, and the room went dark again, save for the light on his weapon, which spread across the table. “That’s who’s waiting for us.”

  Awen nodded. A shiver went up her back and down her arms. “We’ve got to stop him.”

  “We will.” Ezo reached out and took Awen’s hand. “And—mystics—we must.” A long paused filled the space between them before Ezo spoke again, this time tapping his earpiece to speak over comms. “Hey, Azelon. You copy?”

  “I can hear you, Ezo.”

  “We’re just about done here, and I need to check on one more thing. But before I do, would you happen to have space for a Katana-class light freighter on the Spire?”

  There was a brief moment of silence. Awen assumed the AI was reviewing TO-96’s archives on the ship type. Then Azelon finally replied, “Affirmative, sir. Are looking to bring one aboard?”

  Ezo winked at Awen and the smiled in one side of his cheek. “Ezo definitely is.” And Awen knew just the ship he had in mind.

  6

  It all went back to holo-games for Squadron Commander Mauricio Longo. He’d never say that openly, of course. Comparing the risky business of actual fighter combat—where real people died—to children’s games would be disrespectful. Still, his childhood memories were filled with long hours spent battling the Jujari over Oorajee. Never in a million years, however, did he think he’d get to lead a real squadron of Repub Talons into combat against the hyenas.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t exactly surprised by it. As he sat in his Talon’s cockpit, monitoring target information and paging through the AI’s proposed assault scenarios, he realized he was born for this. He was a sixth-generation pilot who stood on the shoulders of the Longo family legacy. The mere mention of his last name on any bridge, hangar deck, or ace bar elicited an attitude of reverence. Which was why he’d chosen to go by the name Ricio. If there was one thing he hated, it was being known for someone else’s achievements. And the Longo family shadow was long and wide in that department.

  “Viper Squadron, this is Viper One,” Ricio said over TACNET. “Form up on Viper Eight, wedge formation. We are”—he double-checked the fleet roster— “position one in the holding pattern. Stand by for command attack authorization.” Response pings scrolled down the side of his HUD as Ricio watched his squadron move into formation. The blue light of their engines flared across his curved window as he examined each ship in his care. Statistically, half of these ships would not survive, but he readied himself to fight as if he wouldn’t lose a single one.

  The FAF-28 Talon was the pride and joy of the Republic Navy, enjoying the latest developments in ion-engine technology, subspace drive-core research, advanced modular-weapons systems, and pilot-to-AI interfacing. Such additions to the Talon model had extended the short life expectancy of a pilot in combat by four minutes, or seventeen percent—a veritable lifetime as far as aces were concerned. The Talon’s slender black fuselage was largest in the rear, due to its twin ion engines and dual drive cores, while the cockpit sat in the aft third with a generous wraparound duraplex window. In keeping with the
ship’s name, its nose tapered to a narrow point.

  Even more evocative of the name, however, were the Talon’s two primary wings. They raked forward from the rear with a slight backbend midway, shaped like the wings of birds of prey from any number of worlds around the galaxy. Each wing also maintained some shallow dihedral that pitched them upward. In the opposite direction, two small stabilizers protruded from the fuselage’s lower aft to provide additional stabilization during atmospheric flight.

  For armament, the Talon sported two primary NR330 blaster cannons nested on either side of the lower fuselage. These were complemented by secondary T-100 blaster cannons in each wing tip—lower discharge but higher frequency. And in the case of light-bomber or antiship operations, the Talon’s underbelly allowed for up to four class-C torpedoes or two class-B bombs. In all, the aggressive starfighter epitomized the best the Republic had to offer, and Ricio was proud to helm one of them.

  His squadron had yet to leave the protective care of Third Fleet. They circled their patron super dreadnought, the Black Labyrinth, awaiting orders to engage the Jujari fleet. Fleets was probably a better word. In the last thirty minutes, the Jujari’s main contingent of vessels had been joined by two smaller battle groups made up of Sypeurlion and Dim-Telok starships.

  Suspecting that this might happen, command had equipped half of Ricio’s squadron for antiship strikes and the other half for standard antifighter operations. Such a load provided maximum tactical mobility. But it also meant a decrease in target specificity—meaning they’d most likely be tasked with multiple objectives instead of one or two. More objectives meant more details, and more details meant that more pilots wouldn’t be coming home. But he shook that from his mind. Not yet. Those numbers haven’t been calculated yet. They’re all just guesses. We’re the ones making the decisions.

  “Viper Squadron, this is Viper One…” Ricio held the TACNET channel open as he considered what to say. It wasn’t like him to be so spontaneous, but he wanted to address them before the Fleet Admiral got on the channel. The Admiral would be generic, but Ricio wanted to be specific. Statistically, he knew this would be the last time he saw half his pilots, and he didn’t want them hearing trivialities. Not today.

  Plus, this was a big day, one which needed someone to calm pilot nerves. This conflict had been brewing for generations… for three hundred years, he reminded himself. When the fleet had jumped into the system, everyone thought it would be a routine in and out. The Senate had arranged a fancy meeting with the Jujari mwadim and the Luma emissary. Everyone knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. But what Ricio wasn’t expecting—what no one was expecting—was war.

  “I know most of you grew up dogfighting Jujari Razorbacks on the holos, and that was the closest any of us thought we’d ever get. Well, not anymore. I’m not going to lie to you—I expect this to be the fight of our lives. And I expect the Jujari to come at us hard. Looks like they’ve got Sypeurlion and Dim-Telok backup too. But I also expect that we’ll go at them harder. The fact is, you have been fighting these bastard dogs since you were kids. You’ve played out this conflict a thousand times. You’re the best. The Repub knows that, I know that, and you need to know that. You’re going to outthink, outfly, and outfight every damn enemy you engage.

  “If you get tailed, say something. You see a squadron that needs breaking up, call it out. If there’s an opportunity, exploit it, but don’t ever leave your wingman. And when you need new energy mags or fuel cells, don’t wait for me. Fall back and reoutfit. My guess is that hangar ops will dispense with batch outfitting once the blaster bolts start flying. Get in, get out, and return to the line.”

  Ricio paused again, unsure of how to end his speech. He always felt awkward doing these, but he remembered how much it had meant to hear his COs genuinely rally the pilots when he was an ensign. Sure, some did a terrible job, and all the pilots rolled their eyes. But the good COs—the best ones—could make someone a better pilot and a better person. People would follow that kind of leader to hell and back. Sometimes, those speeches even made the difference between getting home and becoming space dust. And Ricio definitely wanted to get home. He’d often wondered why he stayed in the service so long after he’d gotten married and they’d had a son. Given the life expectancy of fighter pilots, Ricio had always felt it was irresponsible to keep flying. His family needed him. But they also needed the credits, and few other jobs paid out like this one—particularly in the event of his death.

  Where else would I make this kind of cred?

  The honest truth was, Nowhere.

  It was more than the money, though. Privately, he didn’t want to do anything else but fly. There was nothing like it. Flying a Talon was the closest thing to being a god that he could think of. That was precisely what the recruiter who’d come to his university had said. And damn, he’d been right. Everything about it was alluring. Even addicting. The power. The agility. The views. There was just no way he could settle for another job after this. If he couldn’t fly a Talon, he didn’t want to work at all. So the plan had been to fly this last mission and then call it quits. He knew it was bad luck to name your exit mission before flying it, but Lady Luck wasn’t married to his wife. He was.

  “A select few of you have been with me for a while now. And we’ve seen some action together. Caledonia. Po-Froslin. The moon base on Teslo Nine. But all of you—and I mean all of you—are the select few today. You will all be known as legends, and for those who make it home, you’ll be regarded as legends in your own time. Today, we will see combat together that will be remembered for generations. You are the greatest because you made it here. And wherever we go next, we go together. We will be the masters of Oorajee. Viper victory.”

  Fourteen other voices flooded TACNET as one, replying, “Viper victory!”

  No sooner had Ricio finished his speech than command overrode all channels and issued a fleet-wide communiqué.

  “All stations, all stations,” said a communications officer over TACNET. “Red alert. This is not a drill. I repeat, red alert. Pause for the fleet admiral.”

  The channel pinged, and a new voice sounded, one that Ricio was not expecting to hear.

  “Attention all personnel of the Republic Navy. This is Fleet Admiral Hal Brighton aboard the Black Labyrinth…”

  Fleet Admiral Brighton? Apparently, the XO had gotten a field promotion, which was highly unusual. But then again, several odd things had been happening aboard the Labyrinth over the last several weeks—things that Ricio couldn’t explain. Chief among them were items related to now former Fleet Admiral Kane. Ricio didn’t have any personal contact with the man, of course, but he’d heard stories that made him extremely uneasy about the officer’s ability to lead the fleet. They seemed more like something out of fantasy than reality.

  Then again, Ricio had also seen plenty of strange things during his time in the navy, and sailors could weave preposterous narratives concerning just about anything that was above their pay grade. But many of the tales about Admiral Kane came from reputable sources, and that was what made Ricio so uneasy. These sailors weren’t liars. He didn’t doubt that they’d seen and heard things that rattled them.

  For example, some of his contacts among the brass claimed Admiral Kane’s face had changed. It started with burns across his entire head. Then his eyes changed color. Even his voice was different, they said. It was rumored that he’d been going by a different name too.

  Then came the reports that he’d executed several officers on the spot for insubordination. When others asked why no one had reported the admiral, sources noted that the Senate had sanctioned his use of force. Such a claim seemed absurd to Ricio, but who was he to argue with the Galactic Republic’s seat of power? Apparently, all of this surrounded the Jujari meeting. And for whatever reasons, the Senate suspected that spies were operating at the highest levels of leadership. The admiral had simply been given the authority to do what needed doing.

  And then there were the rumors that Ad
miral Kane had gone to another universe. Some were calling it a parallel universe, others a metaverse accessed by quantum event horizons. This, of course, was the most outlandish rumor yet. But at least one or two Marines who’d been the admiral’s bodyguards had supposedly leaked news about the crossing to their navy counterparts. Secrets leaked when Svoltin single malt flowed. His sources swore on the mystics’ graves that the stories were true, and as far as Ricio was concerned, they might have been—but at the moment, he had a war to wage and a day to win.

  “All hands, battle stations,” Brighton continued. “I repeat, all hands, battle stations. We have received and confirmed classified orders from the Republic Senate to retaliate against the Jujari fleet and their allies in open naval warfare. The orders state, in no uncertain terms, that all Republic starships will and must engage any and all enemy targets without restriction in response to atrocities committed against the Galactic Republic. There will be no quarter. The enemy’s retreat or destruction is the only acceptable outcome.”

  Holy mystics, this is happening. Ricio could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  The fleet admiral continued, “Targets have been selected in order of priority and delivered to each fleet for dissemination. Redundancies have been attached to each order set should any element fail. Each fleet is commanded to execute orders with haste, and all fighter and bomber squadrons have been cleared for combat. Command attack authorization level alpha. I repeat, this is an alpha-level command attack authorization. Fleet Admiral out.”

  The channel closed, and Ricio sat in his cockpit, feeling the low hum of his Talon’s drive cores in his seat. His hands were tight on the controls, and he could hear the thump of his heart in his ears. He knew his squadron wouldn’t have been scrambled unless the threat was real, but hearing the admiral’s voice made it all the more so. This was it.