Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  Ricio held two fingers to his lips, kissed them, and placed his fingertips on a pair of printed pictures wedged under his ship’s main diagnostic display. One image was of his beloved Marguerite, taken while they were on their honeymoon on Triber-Westfall. The other was of his son when he’d graduated from the mock-pilot school for children. Philando had only been five, but he’d puffed his chest out like he was a grown man, proud of the badge pinned to his child-sized uniform. He would make a great pilot one day—Ricio was sure of it. I just hope I live to see it.

  Warning indicators flashed on his HUD as three pairs of enemy Razorbacks circled Tango One, apparently anticipating Ricio’s attack vector.

  “Viper Two through Seven, prepare to engage hostile fighters bearing two two nine mark four eight.”

  Six confirmation icons went green, followed by Viper Two saying, “Copy that, commander.”

  “Viper Eight through Fifteen, you’re Charlie Team. You’ve got the battleship. I want your first volley focused on their engines, as most of their power will already be diverted to their forward shields. Let’s get her dead in space before slitting her throat.”

  “Understood, sir,” Viper Eight said.

  “And watch those turrets,” Ricio added. The Jujari's version of the quad-barrel auto turret was notoriously efficient. But they did have one weakness. “Keep your speed up and stay lateral. No head-on assaults until they’re taken out.”

  “Roger that.”

  Ricio watched as the top half of his squadron increased their speed and headed toward the back of the enemy formation. Other than a few stray blaster shots, the fighters were left alone—the armada’s main guns were too busy firing on their Repub counterparts, leaving the fighters to fend for themselves. Ricio wished the starships well then said, “Viper Two through Seven, on me.” He peeled off from his current vector, three pairs of Talons in tow.

  The Pride-class battleship grew larger with each second as Ricio accelerated to attack speed. His AI acquired targets and disseminated them to the other six fighters, automatically prioritizing them by pilot. Ricio’s display showed the Razorbacks preparing for the engagement, too, their underbelly thruster-fins unfurling to form two weaponized wings near the bow. The ship’s dingy-bronze main body was arched and ridged like a dog’s back and had two engines on either side of its boxy stern.

  Unlike the Repub, the Jujari tactic was to move in triplets. The first trio of Razorbacks rolled right, toward the battleship’s stern. Viper Five, Six, and Seven—Bravo Team—would have an even ship-to-ship dogfight. Meanwhile, Ricio’s sensors locked on the left-most trio. The other two Razorbacks were handed to the rest of what his AI marked as Alpha Team: Viper Two and Three, with Four picking up any slack.

  Ricio’s AI tracked the three Razorbacks as they rolled over the battleship’s bow. “Watch those turbo turrets,” he reminded everyone. As if prompted by his words, the turrets erupted in automatic fire. A blistering barrage of blue blast bolts filled the void directly behind Ricio’s fighters, trailing them by less than ten meters. Way too close, Ricio noted.

  Meanwhile, the Razorbacks circled around Ricio’s flank, executed an about-face with a half roll, and opened fire with their blaster cannons. The simple maneuver had been called an Alcion for so long that no one even knew where it had gotten its name.

  “They’re trying to pin us against the battleship,” Viper Two exclaimed over Alpha Team’s closed channel. His ship’s shield absorbed several glancing blows on the port side.

  The enemy’s maneuver was simple and had been performed quickly—both things that Ricio admired. “Full thrusters!” He shoved the throttle lever forward and felt his Talon suck him into the seat. He had yet to fire a shot, and already, the Jujari had the upper hand. Ricio had been overconfident and underestimated the enemy. It was a noob mistake—one he wouldn’t make again.

  As soon as Ricio and Alpha Team were clear of the turbo turrets, he initiated a Paraguutian Cobra maneuver: a quick flip along the Talon’s horizontal axis while the craft was still traveling forward. The maneuver was named after the desert reptile on Paraguu that flipped over on a pursuing enemy. The lizard acted like it was wounded, only to launch a surprise attack with sharp teeth and venom sacs. Nasty suckers.

  The fighter maneuver brought his weapons to bear on the trailing Razorbacks. The other six Talons followed his lead, flipping on the enemy. They traveled backward just as fast as they had been moving forward.

  As soon as Ricio had target lock, he squeezed the main trigger on his flight yoke. Twin streams of red blaster fire erupted from the NR330 cannons nested inside the fuselage. The force vibrated his cockpit. The first volley reduced the shields, while the second tore into the cockpit, no doubt killing the hyena-like pilot. Ricio watched as the lead ship exploded in a short-lived fireball that was swallowed by hard vacuum. He’d gotten lucky—very lucky.

  “Scratch one,” Ricio said.

  He watched as the next Razorback lost its shield, compliments of Viper Three and Four, but not before spraying them with a barrage of return fire. The two ships attempted to dodge the incoming blaster bolts and broke off in a lethal game of chase. Viper Four’s shield was below fifty percent—the Talon was flying slower than his wingman too. Viper Three, meanwhile, acquired a lock on the Razorback and fired a torpedo. The missile followed the retreating craft and went straight through the arched fuselage, hitting the mid-body drive core. The explosion was massive, forcing Ricio’s helmet visor to dim against the bright light.

  The third enemy ship took heavy fire across its port side, reducing its shield. Ricio joined Viper Two in the attack, barely missing a heavy blanket of enemy fire. Ricio rolled right while Viper Two rolled left, allowing the enemy fighter to split between them. Rico executed another Paraguutian, still maintaining momentum from his original trajectory away from the battleship. As soon as he had a target lock, he squeezed his trigger. Blaster fire from both his Talon and Viper Two’s tore off the enemy’s port wing and chewed up the fuselage with such force that the Razorback went whirling into an uncontrolled spin. Though it was not as satisfying as an explosion, the ship and pilot were lost to the void.

  “Good shooting, Alpha Team,” Ricio said. “Status, Viper Four.”

  “Starboard engine at twenty percent, sir. One of those hits sent a power surge through my shields.”

  “Understood.” Ricio swiped a glance over Viper Four’s icon in his HUD, soloing it for direct communication. “Get back to the Labyrinth for repair.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  Ricio immediately pulled up Bravo Team’s progress on his HUD. The remaining three Razorbacks had been dispatched. But so had one of his Talons.

  “Bravo Team, report,” Ricio said over general comms.

  “We’ve lost Viper Six,” Viper Five said.

  Ricio felt the all-too-familiar dread in the pit of his stomach. His underestimation of the Jujari had just cost him a pilot—and in the opening salvo too. He stretched his fingers in his leather gloves and then grabbed the controls again. “Provide cover for Charlie Team. Let’s take out those turrets.”

  Ricio pitched his Talon forward again then brought the vessel around to bear on the Jujari battleship. He maintained speed, targeting the two turbo turrets near the stern. He could also see Charlie Company beginning their second pass on the battleship’s engines. Apparently, the first pass hadn’t completely taken them all out, which meant the battleship’s captain would be diverting power to the aft shields, making Viper Squadron’s job all the harder.

  “Sooner rather than later,” Ricio said to Alpha and Bravo Teams. He couldn’t risk losing another fighter this early, and getting too close to the Jujari battleship would all but ensure casualties.

  Ricio’s AI notified him of target lock, and he squeezed off a single torpedo on the aft-most turret. Out his cockpit window, the rocket-propelled missile streaked its way across the horizon’s black canvas, bypassed the energy shields, and found its mark on the battleship’s port
side. The turrets had been on fighter overwatch—too busy with the Talons to pick up the torpedo. Several plumes of orange flame and debris bubbled out from the side and then dissipated as the explosion’s fuel was spent.

  Ricio bared his teeth in a triumphant sneer. “Just like that, Vipers. Keep it coming.”

  He felt confident that the battleship’s turrets would be switched out of fighter-overwatch mode and begin tracking all targets indiscriminately. It would make sending any more torpedoes troublesome, but it didn’t matter. His squadron had a hole for shield penetration.

  “Port side, aft section.” Ricio’s finger tapped the air in his HUD, marking the spot on the enemy’s hull. “All ships in position, open fire!”

  His Talons focused their blaster fire on the charred hole. For the first few seconds of their assault, blaster fire struck the energy shields, like large stones thrown into a purple sea, and rippled out in all directions. Ricio was getting close enough that he could actually see the waves along the transparent field. But the shield was weakening.

  “Come on!” Ricio pulled his second trigger, activating the wingtip-mounted T-100 blasters. “Activate secondary weapons systems!” Those fighters flying beside Ricio opened up with their wingtip weapons too.

  Faster than Ricio had expected, a hole opened up in the shields. The next blaster bolts sailed through and drilled the side of the battleship. Ricio watched with excitement as the Talon’s combined firepower cut deep into the enemy ship, causing mini explosions all around the wound. He even noticed secondary and tertiary explosions emanating from the top and bottom of the hull deeper in. Suddenly, the aft shields disappeared.

  “Take out the engines! All remaining ships, focus fire on the breach, and take out the aft turrets!”

  Like fire wasps swarming a wounded Boresian taursar, Ricio’s Talons dove on the ship, widening the burning hole on the hull’s port side with every shot. Then they pulled up and skimmed the surface, flying danger close. Talons strafed the turbo turrets, taking out one at a time, before pulling up on the starboard side of the ship, only to circle back for more.

  By the time Ricio had finished his second pass, Charlie Team reported that the engines had been destroyed. Likewise, all aft turrets were out of commission, and the battleship was falling away from the rest of the fleet. In another few minutes, the Jujari vessel would be pulled into Oosafar’s gravity well and meet its end—either as a fireball in the skies or a relic in the dunes.

  “Viper Squadron, fall back,” Ricio said, a smile creeping along his face. “And stay clear of the forward turrets. She may be mortally wounded, but she’ll still try to pull you down.”

  Confirmation indicators lit up his HUD. Ricio banked away from the battleship and waited for his squadron to fall in. They’d been lucky that the enemy fleet hadn’t sent more Razorbacks. That meant the Jujari were playing things conservatively too.

  He pulled up the next order set. His eyes widened as he scanned the brief. Apparently, CFS did have a surprise up their sleeve. Ricio studied the position of the Carrier-class dreadnought identified in his navigation computer. “Great mystics…” he said under his breath.

  Taking down a carrier would mean rendering the enemy fleet’s fighters incapable of refueling and resupplying in orbit—instead, the fighters would be forced to do so on Oorajee’s surface. But like Repub ship-positioning doctrine, the Jujari carriers were heavily guarded and covered in the center of the fleet. Ricio wasn’t sure if they could pull this off.

  “If you need more energy mags, torpedoes, or fuel cells, now’s the time,” Ricio said over TACNET. “Because we’re going after a carrier.”

  9

  “To what do we owe the great pleasure of hosting such an esteemed guest?” So-Elku said, spreading his arms toward Rohoar, almost as if he meant to embrace the Jujari but then thought better of it.

  Smart guy, Magnus thought. The Luma elders and Worruvian guards stood in a semicircle behind So-Elku, all facing Magnus and his two friends.

  “Master So-Elku,” Neevis said, stepping in between the Luma master and the Jujarian mwadim, “may I present—”

  “Nonsense! I know who this is. The whole galaxy knows who this is, Neevis. It is me you should be presenting to him.”

  “Master?”

  There was a momentary pause as Neevis looked from So-Elku to Rohoar and back again. His brow was furrowed in a nervous expression.

  “Well?” So-Elku spun his finger in circles, insisting that Neevis turn to face Rohoar. “Go on, then.”

  “May… may I present—”

  “Louder! More confidently.”

  “May I present to your mwadimship the head of the Order of the Luma, Master So-Elku.”

  Magnus winced as Neevis bowed. The man looked as if he might fall over or throw up. Maybe both. But the entire thing was just a charade on So-Elku’s behalf. Only a complete idiot would be unable to spot the Luma master’s insincerity. Magnus actually felt bad for Rohoar—but only for a second. He guessed that the Jujari sensed So-Elku’s guile. And more than that, Magnus knew Rohoar could take care of himself just fine. He’d sooner shred the Luma to pieces than suffer the man’s flattery for much longer. Magnus liked to think that it was only for the sake of Piper’s safety that Rohoar had not already devoured the man.

  That would be something to watch. Magnus stifled a grin.

  “Mwadim Rohoar, what brings you to our humble planet?” So-Elku asked, hands clasped in an overly earnest gesture. Magnus looked around the ornately appointed room, the domed ceiling, and the lush garden beyond. Humble, my ass. Though the trees in the garden would make for some ideal cover…

  “Rohoar is here to ascertain whether or not the Luma may assist the Jujari in finding safety for her tribes against the Republic.”

  “What?” The Luma master pulled his head back in surprise. If So-Elku wanted Rohoar to repeat himself, however, he’d be sorely disappointed. In his short time among the Jujari, Magnus had observed that they hated repeating themselves.

  When Rohoar didn’t respond, So-Elku interlaced his fingers and frowned. “This is because of the Republic assault on your ships, isn’t it? We’ve heard rumors.”

  “It is because of the Republic waging war on our people,” Rohoar corrected.

  “Quite so, quite so…” So-Elku pursed his lips, taking his time to respond. “And where would you suggest we help move an entire planet’s worth of inhabitants? That is, surely, no small feat. I’m doubtful it can even be accomplished.”

  “The Luma assisted the Caledonian relocation, as they did the Septarians during the Diamond War.”

  So-Elku raised an eyebrow. “Well, those were very small relocations, which—”

  “And the Luma relocated the populaces of three planets in the binary star system of Pel-Ell in less than two months common. Six other planets, three of whose populations are at least thirty percent larger than Oorajee’s, also saw relocations within the last two years in the Feddamallarin system.”

  Rohoar had clearly done his homework. The Jujari weren’t as dumb as they looked. And if So-Elku’s momentary flash of astonishment was any indicator, he realized that.

  “Clearly, the great Jujari mwadim knows a considerable amount about our peacekeeping efforts. Such knowledge must’ve come with practiced study and attention to detail…”

  Magnus could already hear the slick-talking politicking of a well-oiled statesman. It made him sick. If Rohoar had been serious about needing help—which he wasn’t—such an interaction would have been not only disheartening but downright demeaning as well. Magnus wondered how many other similar conversations had taken place with species in need.

  “And as such,” So-Elku continued, “you obviously know that our resources are spread thin due to the Kiltar revolt in the Onyx system, which has also displaced billions of Lepeedu on two planets and six moons. Even if we wanted to help you—which, I assure you, we do—there is simply no way we could for at least another six months.” The Luma master placed hi
s hands together in prayerful entreaty. “I’m so very sorry, Mwadim.”

  Rohoar opened his mouth to speak, but So-Elku cut him off. “The most I can offer, at the moment, is sanctuary for you and your crew until such time that we can devise a new strategy, one that preserves the lives of as many of your people as possible against the Republic’s war on your planet. It is a terrible, terrible thing they are waging. Terrible.”

  “My crew is few,” Rohoar replied, “and we will return to my ship.”

  “So soon? Would you not at least stay for a meal? Dinner after vespers, perhaps?”

  While Rohoar considered the proposition—one Magnus knew the Jujari would turn down—a peculiar thing happened. Somewhere inside Magnus’s mind, a voice spoke to him. It was as clear as if someone stood twenty centimeters away, yet as he looked around, he could see no one standing that close. Leave now, Magnus, the voice said.

  So-Elku glanced at Magnus as if noticing something. “Is everything all right there, soldier?”

  Magnus concealed his emotions with the help of years of military discipline. He was about to reply when Rohoar said, “Do not address my Marauders.”

  So-Elku snapped back to Rohoar, cleared his throat, and reoffered the invitation to dinner.

  You must leave now and get to Ki Nar Four, said the voice, growing more assertive. It belonged to a woman. Older but strong. You all need one another.

  Mystics, I’m going crazy, Magnus thought. This was his mind’s way of telling him that he needed to slow down, to rest. He hadn’t had a vacation since…

  You’re not going crazy, Magnus.

  Wasn’t a voice in his head telling him that he wasn’t going crazy proof that he was, in fact, going crazy? This wasn’t good. The only problem was that the voice was far too real to be ignored.