The next voice that came over TACNET was that of Captain David Seaman, commander of the Labyrinth’s two Talon squadrons, Viper and Raptor, and the head of SFC—strategic fighter command. As a Goliath-class Super Dreadnought, the Labyrinth was capable of hosting thirty fighters. It was also the command ship, so Captain Seaman, and therefore Ricio, would take point on all fighter squadron activity for third fleet.
“Viper and Raptor squadrons, your commanders have received your target coordinates in order of priority and are feeding them to your Talons’ AIs now.”
Ricio already had the order packets ready to disseminate and punched Transmit at the captain’s word. His HUD displayed near-instantaneous receipt confirmation to all fourteen fighters.
“Stay on target, and happy hunting,” Seaman replied. “You are cleared to engage the enemy.” The captain closed out the channel, and Ricio resumed control of his comms.
Whether from fear or excitement, his hands trembled as he gave the final command and loosed his fighters. “You heard him, Vipers. Let’s get dirty.”
And just like that, the void’s most significant killing force was unleashed upon the Jujari.
7
“We’ve been granted permission to send a shuttle to Docking Bay One,” Rohoar said, looking up from the captain’s chair’s built-in data pad.
Magnus spun around from the main viewing window, where a blue-and-green image of Worru loomed. “Come again?”
Abimbola turned from Magnus and eyed Rohoar too.
The Jujari shrugged. “Did I say something unclear?”
“You were clear,” Magnus replied, stepping toward Rohoar. “It’s just that you said Docking Bay One.”
Rohoar double-checked the display. “That is correct, scrumruk graulap.” Rohoar had given Magnus that Jujari name back on Oorajee—it roughly translated as little hairless warrior. But given Rohoar’s humiliating step away from national leadership, the former Marine let it slide. It was, in fact, fast becoming a term of endearment—at least, that was how Magnus interpreted it. Doing so helped it feel less like an insult.
Rohoar repeated the information. “Docking Bay One. I don’t see the problem.”
“No one ever gets Docking Bay One,” Abimbola said. “Not on any Repub planet I know of.”
“Exactly,” Magnus replied. “It’s saved for galactic dignitaries.”
“And you are not a galactic dignitary?” Rohoar asked.
Magnus shook his head. “Not even close, buddy. At least not in the way that gets you a premium parking spot.”
“Unless you count being an outlaw as one of the requisites.” Abimbola grinned. “In which case, you get the best spot, buckethead.”
Magnus smiled at the jab then stroked his beard, lost in thought. “I don’t think it has anything to do with me, actually. I think it has everything to do with you.”
Rohoar recoiled. “Me? What for?”
“Think about it. A Jujari starship—following a diplomatic ambush and a newly begun war with the Republic—jumps into orbit over Worru and requests docking permission for a shuttle.”
“That’ll get you a spot up front for sure,” Abimbola said.
Magnus pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. “Seems a few people might be very interested in our arrival. Abimbola, can you summon the crew to the bridge?”
“All of them?”
Magnus smiled. “All of them.”
* * *
Magnus, Abimbola, and Rohoar sat in silence as the elevator doors opened in succession, delivering a new batch of riders to the bridge with each cycle. Dutch, Haney, Gilder, and Nolan saluted Magnus and stepped to the side. To his surprise, they’d refused transport to the Republic fleet when they were on Oorajee and opted to remain with him—something that would get them court-martialed upon their return.
Magnus tried to argue their decision, but Dutch, speaking for all of them, had respectfully declined his pleas. “We’ve come this far with you,” she’d said back in Abimbola’s headquarters. “We’re not leaving your side now.” As with Flow and Cheeks, the move was most likely career ending unless Magnus could help them fabricate some sort of story when all this was over.
Next came Rix, Simone, and Silk, the three most notable Marauders who’d fought with Magnus in his efforts to rescue the Marine hostages in the Western Heights. Apparently, Cyril, the code slicer and bomb tech, had wanted to come, too, but Abimbola said he was in no shape to fly. The three Marauders insisted Abimbola take them with him, and after several minutes of deliberation, the warlord relented.
“You’re not getting paid for this, though,” he said. “You’re doing this on your own.” They’d agreed, and only then did Abimbola let them on Rohoar’s shuttle.
And then there was Titus, the stranded Marauder Magnus had helped save under the gate in the Western Heights. According to Abimbola, the man had insisted he be taken along, as he owed Magnus a life debt. Magnus had last seen Titus sprinting away from his skiff—one overrun with Selskrit. The guy had been cool, calm, and collected, even in the face of certain death.
When Magnus overheard Titus’s conversation with Abimbola, he stepped in. “Let him come.”
Abimbola raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because you do know that if you keep collecting warriors like this, we’re going to run out of food.”
Magnus laughed. Feeding troops was a very real and often overlooked priority for any commander, and supply-chain management was far down on Magnus’s list of skill sets. “Believe me, Bimby. I know.” He patted the giant Miblimbian on the biceps. “But that’s why I have you.”
Last on the bridge were Valerie and Piper. All eyes watched them as they exited the elevator—one the epitome of elegance despite her cargo pants and tactical shirt, the other the picture of youthful innocence as she clutched her ratty stuffed corgachirp. Piper also held a new holo-pad that she’d acquired from Rohoar. The two had developed quite the bond over the last several hours, which had surprised everyone. Rohoar and Piper truly represented the opposite ends of the species spectrum.
“All right, listen up, people,” Magnus said with his arms folded. Abimbola stood beside him, while Rohoar stayed in his captain’s chair. “We’ve been given the green light to dock a shuttle on Worru. But something tells me we may get more than we bargained for.”
“How so?” Valerie asked, her hands folded over Piper’s chest in a protective posture.
“Let’s just say that I don’t think the Luma were expecting a Jujari destroyer-class starship to jump into the system.”
“Are you expecting resistance?” Dutch asked.
“No. But I also don’t want to go in without a plan, which is why you’re all here.”
“So what’s the plan, LT?”
* * *
Rohoar’s shuttle arrived at Docking Bay One without incident. There had been no orbital escort and no more communication with the traffic control tower than was to be expected. For all intents and purposes—besides the strange permission to arrive at Docking Bay One—this was a routine shuttle arrival. Still, something felt off.
“You okay there, buckethead?” Abimbola asked.
The two of them stood behind Rohoar as the Jujari piloted the shuttle to the landing pad. Surprisingly, Rohoar was a natural with the helm and, when asked, insisted that he came from “generations of starfaring Tawnhack.” Magnus doubted the statement’s validity, as the Jujari seemed like anything but starfarers. Yet their old ships, despite being rough around the edges, appeared to bear out at least some of Rohoar’s claims.
“Hey, buckethead. You good?” Abimbola repeated.
“Just on guard.” Magnus realized he was squeezing the back of Rohoar’s chair tightly enough to leave indentation marks when he let go.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Abimbola asked. “They’re Luma peacemongers, right?”
Magnus chuckled. “That’s exactly what I’ve called them.”
“Seems we agree, then.” Abimbola jabbed Magnus
in the ribs.
“Still, the last time I underestimated one of them, she saved my life.”
“Twice, if I’m not mistaken. Once in the street, and once in my jail.”
Magnus turned to the giant. “Yeah… that’s right.”
“But who’s counting?”
Magnus touched his in-ear comm, which Abimbola had supplied. “Team One, you ready?”
“Ready to check myself for fleas after riding with that Jujari,” Simone replied from the aft cargo bay.
“I am on the comms network too,” Rohoar said, powering down the drive core with a few taps on the dashboard.
“Good. Then you’ll know to get yourself a flea bath later tonight.”
“We have a job to do, people,” Abimbola said. “Just follow the plan.”
“Understood,” Simone replied. “Team One is good to go.”
“Team Two?” Magnus asked.
“Team Two, standing by,” Dutch replied.
“Good. Nolan, what’s your twenty?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. I’m in the head, belowdecks, sir.”
Magnus rolled his eyes.
“Hey.” Abimbola nudged Magnus again. “When you have to go, you have to go.”
“Copy that.”
Over comms for all to hear, a zipper closed, followed by the distinct forced-air vacuum of a toilet flushing. Water splashed in a sink as a man’s tenor whistle filled ten seconds. Finally, a door slid audibly open, and Nolan stepped out of the head and into the cargo bay.
“Hey, Nolan,” Dutch said. “Your comm channel is wide open.”
There was a pause. Magnus heard several people giggle in the background, including Piper.
“My bad,” Nolan said, and his comm went silent.
“We’re all gonna die,” Magnus said to no one in particular.
Abimbola placed a large black hand on Magnus’s shoulder. “Yeah, but we’ll have fun doing it.”
Just then, Nolan’s head appeared as he climbed the alternating-tread staircase into the bridge. “Here, Lieutenant.”
“Nice of you to join us.”
“Are you going to whistle a tune for us too, pilot?” Abimbola asked.
“Very funny.”
“Okay, Nolan, you have the helm.”
The warrant officer nodded and swapped out with Rohoar. “She’ll stay warm, Lieutenant.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He looked out the front window and then gave the camera monitors a quick glance. Magnus noted the presence of a boarding party waiting behind the hangar bay’s blast-wall window. He counted several Luma and twice as many Worruvian guards. “Keep the stabilizing thrusters firing for a few more seconds, Nolan. I don’t want anyone approaching the ship until Simone’s team is clear.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Magnus tapped his comm. “Simone, you’re clear to move.”
“On it.”
A dashboard indicator illuminated, presumably for the starboard door opening—Magnus couldn’t read Jujarian any more than he could speak it. He watched an exterior camera feed of Simone, Rix, Silk, and Titus making a dash to a cluster of freight containers on the opposite side of the ship from the blast wall. “You sure you know how to operate this thing even though it’s in Jujari, Nolan?”
The pilot nodded. “She’s laid out a lot like the Sparrow, actually. I don’t anticipate a problem.”
Magnus patted him on the shoulder. “Good man.” To Abimbola and Rohoar, he said, “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Magnus and Abimbola escorted Rohoar down the cargo-bay ramp and onto the tarmac, where a dozen nervous-looking Luma waited to receive them. He found himself looking for Awen’s face, but she wasn’t among them. Instead, all he saw was a tightly bunched cluster of robed mystics who’d probably never seen a Jujari in real life. He wondered how long it had been since Worru had hosted one of the notorious warriors. Maybe never.
The tension was amplified, however, by another two dozen armed Worruvian guards behind the Luma—which was why Magnus and Abimbola both openly carried blasters. Magnus held his MAR30 in low ready position, while Abimbola rested a bulky M101 double-barrel blaster cannon on his shoulder. The Miblimbian also wore his sheathed bowie knife on one thigh and his holstered BFT6 Tigress on the other.
Must be a damn fine sight striding out of this shuttle, Magnus mused.
For his part, Rohoar went weaponless—in other words, he didn’t have a blaster. But Magnus had seen Jujari maws and paws in action and knew that the former mwadim could handle himself anywhere in the galaxy just the way he was. Instead of carrying a weapon, the Jujari had found a ceremonial robe on the Bright Star and secured it around his neck. The long crimson cape gave him a royal air that was surprisingly dignified.
“Is that a traditional thing the mwadims wear?” Magnus had asked before they left the shuttle.
“No.” Rohoar had held the fabric up. “It’s a bath towel I found in a locker.”
Magnus gave a slight smile as the three of them walked up to the lead Luma on the tarmac.
“Greetings in the name of our great Master So-Elku and the elders,” said a diminutive man in maroon-and-black robes. He bowed, never taking his eyes off Rohoar, and spread his arms out. “The Order of the Luma welcomes you in peace. I am Elder Neevis.”
“Rohoar is Tawnhack, mwadim of the Jujari,” Rohoar replied, placing a fist on his chest. He had reverted to speaking of himself in third person, once again embodying his role as the mwadim.
Magnus wondered—not for the first time—if the Jujari leader had given up his throne to take up his son’s obligation to serve Magnus. Is it permanent? How long is Rohoar hanging around, anyway? They’d had to leave Oorajee so quickly that there hadn’t been time to discuss any of these details.
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Mwadim Rohoar of the Tawnhack,” Neevis said, mimicking Rohoar’s posture with a hand to his chest. “I will be your chaperone for the duration of your stay. If you need anything, please know I am at your disposal.”
“Rohoar accepts.”
Neevis bowed again. This time, his eyes darted to the shuttle’s cargo bay. “Is there anyone else on your shuttle whom you wish to bring with you?”
That was a strange question. Magnus didn’t like this guy, and it wasn’t just because of his beady eyes and spiked hair.
“No,” Rohoar said. “Rohoar is all.”
The elder’s eyes darted between the shuttle and Rohoar for a few seconds. “Very well.” Neevis straightened his back and smoothed his robes. “As for your escorts, their weapons are not needed here on Worru.”
“They will keep their weapons,” Rohoar replied.
“Ah, yes… but you see—”
“Neevis’s guards have weapons.”
The elder showed hints of having his feathers ruffled—a twitch in his eyes, a curling of his lip—but composed himself. “They do, and that is for all of our protection.”
“That is for Neevis’s protection. And these two”—Rohoar gestured at Magnus and Abimbola—“are for Rohoar’s. Rohoar knows how the Luma fear the Jujari.”
“I beg your pardon? Mwadim Rohoar, we—”
“And Rohoar understands. You look delicious to Rohoar.”
“Excuse me?” Neevis placed a hand on his chest as a look of shock flooded his face.
“Rohoar knows the perfect sauce for Neevis too.”
“Pushing it,” Magnus said under his breath, knowing that the hyena’s large ears could hear him just fine.
“Mwadim Rohoar…” The elder bit his lip. “I want to assure you that—”
“Rohoar is kidding, Neevis!” The Jujari barked in laughter. Magnus looked at Abimbola. The Miblimbian shrugged and started to laugh, as did Magnus. All three of them guffawed as the elder nervously tucked his hands into his sleeves.
When the laughter died down, the elder asked, “May I escort you to Elder’s Hall in the Grand Arielina? You will most certainly wish to have an audience with Master S
o-Elku, I presume.”
“That’s a yes,” Magnus whispered.
Rohoar bared his teeth. “This is what Rohoar wishes, Neevis. Yes.”
The elder gave a fake smile, blinking repeatedly. “As you wish. This way.”
8
Ricio had the initial mission objectives displayed on his HUD. Distances and coordinates updated in real time as his squadron approached the Jujari armada. Oosafar filled his window to the right, adorned with twin moons, Tlamook and Hormook. Dead ahead, the enemy had gathered their ships in a cone formation pointed at the Republic Navy.
Ricio’s AI displayed the first target, designated as Tango One, a Pride-class battleship. At least, that was how the Repub’s target classification system noted it. The starship only resembled a battleship in its size. Where a Pride-class’s mono-hull had elegant lines that raked back from a pointed prow, the Jujari vessel was blunt faced and modular. Its blocky sections were linked together by massive gantries and structural cylinders. If a Repub battleship looked sleek and lethal, its Jujari counterpart felt muscular and menacing. In fact, this was the general comparison Ricio made for every other ship type in the enemy’s fleet.
“First mission objective uploaded,” Ricio said over naval TACNET. “Looks like we drew a battleship, Vipers.” Ricio manually locked the enemy ship’s vector into his navigation system. The AI would do the same, but there were some things Ricio liked to do himself.
Suggested flight paths and attack vectors filled Ricio’s HUD. Tango One was the farthest ship to the right of the enemy battle group, toward Oosafar. Apparently, SFC had decided to nip at the enemy’s heels before assaulting the head. It was the most conservative approach, at least initially.
While working inward from the fringes might keep casualties to a per-minute minimum, those minutes eventually would add up, becoming hours and days. Sometimes, it was just better to be aggressive right out of the gate and get it over with—even if it meant heavy losses—than to fight the emotionally numbing and physically exhausting battle of attrition. Ricio hoped that command had some surprises up their sleeve. Otherwise, this was going to be a very long day—added to an already long deployment. He missed home.
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 74
