“Time to start a new collection of buckets then.”
Magnus nodded. He hated that he was about to have more good Marines put down. But this was combat, and dying wasn’t fair. “You and Dutch focus on anything that comes out of those side streets. Titus, you’re with me on the main street. Colonel, we need any advice you can give.”
“They’re going to be setting sniper positions soon,” the colonel said. “So keep an eye out for those, both ahead and behind.”
“Dozer and I will handle that,” came Silk’s voice. “We’ll head up top.” Magnus approved, and then saw the two gladias run up and dart into a side alley opposite the oncoming enemy forces.
“The majority of the force is going to come from the center,” Caldwell said, pointing a flat hand down the main street. “They’ll keep us distracted and let the smaller flanking forces pick off our sides. Just don’t get distracted.”
“Copy that,” Dutch said, nodding at Abimbola.
“Let’s show them what Granther Company does under pressure. Dominate!”
“Liberate!” came the company-wide response.
“La-raah.”
Again, the entire unit repeated Magnus’s cue in unison.
Magnus leaned around the skiff and aimed at the closest Marine. The figure was propped against the side of a light post—terrible cover—shooting at something well behind Magnus’s frontline position—terrible practice. Poor kid was probably so green that this skirmish was popping his combat cherry. But he knew what he’d signed up for. No one joined the Marines to play with toy guns. And if Magnus didn’t take the kid out, the kid’s MC99 would take Magnus out—if he got lucky. His shield’s status still displayed 52%.
Magnus squeezed the trigger and his NOV1 let out a bolt in a deafening scream. The supercharged energy hit a Marine in the unprotected space under his arm and zipped crossways through his lungs. Magnus watched as the enemy locked up, unable to breathe, and pitched away from the light post, before collapsing to the ground.
Two more Marines went down under Magnus’s deadly aim—one laying atop a skiff who was drilled in the top of the head, the second taking two bolts in the chest plate.
“Advance,” Magnus ordered. “And watch the right flank!”
“We’re on it,” Dutch replied.
Taking advantage of the heavy fire streaming out from behind him, Magnus ran behind a small charging station. But even without the covering fire, chameleon mode gave him an unprecedented advantage, as it did all his gladias. Without his HUD’s advanced sensors, optics showed his forces as nothing more than flickering apparitions, given away only by the muzzle flash of their blasters. To the enemy, it must have seemed as if demons appeared from the darkness, dispensed death, and then vanished in a distortion of reality.
Dutch and Abimbola’s platoons worked together, one covering the side street from the opposite side of the main street while the other kept close to the mouth, throwing VODs down the lane. The exterior walls of the buildings lit up in brilliant flashes as the battle played out beneath them. Magnus noted civilians coming to look out their windows and then backing away seconds later. Others actually opened their doors to see what was going on. For highbrow Plumerians, seeing combat in their streets was probably the last thing they ever could have imagined.
“Stay inside, dammit,” Magnus yelled to a woman who poked her head out. Her eyes looked around frantically until Magnus lowered the intensity of his armor. He repeated the order to get back inside and she closed the door. Magnus raised his cloak again, and then returned fire on the Marines in the center of the street.
Two Marines leapfrogged along the sidewalk toward Magnus, advancing in textbook fashion—so textbook, in fact, that Magnus had an easy time of anticipating the precise moment of transition when one Marine stopped firing and the next was about to. He placed three rounds in the first Marine, causing him to sprawl face-first on the sidewalk. The second looked out to see what had happened, but took a blaster bolt in the helmet, straight through the visor. The combatant fell backward, his MC99 clattering behind him.
“Keep moving,” Magnus said, urging his unit forward. They needed to make better time if they were going to get off this rock. “Remember to retrieve and distribute any Repub energy mags you find over 50% full.” Magnus and Azelon had purposely designed the NOV1s to accept the standard issue magazines for just such an occasion.
“Son of a bitch,” someone yelled. The HUD showed it was Bliss.
“You okay, Bliss?” Magnus asked.
“Damn Marine just shot me in the ass!”
Magnus double checked Bliss’s position and saw that he was safe behind a skiff. The gladia’s shield was still above half power. “Must’ve been a lucky shot.”
“Must’ve been a big ass,” Ezo replied.
Magnus repeated his order to advance and then reopened a channel to the Spire, hoping to get Flow or Cheeks back on the line. But neither of them responded. Worse, not even Azelon replied.
“I couldn’t help but notice your attempt to hail the starship, sir,” TO-96 said.
“Any idea what’s going on up there?”
“Negative, sir. My apologies.”
“Just let me know the moment anything changes, ’Six.”
“Understood.”
Magnus leaned out, pointing his weapon downrange, just as a Marine darted for cover. The man never even saw Magnus’s blaster bolts coming. A staccato burst struck the assailant in the chest in a grouping no larger than Magnus’s palm. The force jerked the Marine backward, flipped his legs forward in midair, and slammed his back against the ground.
Magnus paused to assess Dutch and Abimbola’s progress. They’d successfully cleared one side street and were advancing on the next. But their progress was slow, and Magnus knew they needed to pick up the pace.
“Silk,” Magnus said. “Any chance you can divert your attention down here?”
“Just a second.”
Magnus looked up in time to see several blaster bolts streak between gaps in the buildings, headed down range.
“Okay, please repeat?”
“I said, can you divert some of your attention down here?”
“Can do, just—” Silk’s voice sounded strained. “Just give us another minute. There’s a small contingent of Marines trying to secure positions against you.”
“Keep doing what you’re doing then.”
“Roger that. We’ll assist you when we can.”
Magnus returned his attention to the main thoroughfare and picked his next target. The sun was beginning to warm the sky. Sunup wouldn’t be for another hour or so, but he’d wanted to be long gone before then. “Tough luck, Adonis. Just ain’t in your cards today.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Dammit, ’Six. Why are you still listening?”
“I’m always listening, sir.”
Magnus gave out a sharp single-breathed laugh. “’Cause that’s not creepy or anything.”
“I am delighted to hear that, sir. The last thing I would want is to be frightening, eerie, or disturbing. Additionally, sinister, hair-raising, spooky, scary—”
“’Six!”
“Sir?”
“You don’t need—” Magnus fired twice at a Marine who peeked around the tail-end of a skiff. “To elaborate!”
“Very good, sir. I was simply trying to establish a greater personal connection through a shared sense of mutual understanding given the intensity of the present scenario.”
“You know what else you can do? Use those gauss cannons on your shoulders and take out that skiff with all the Marine’s behind it.”
“Will that also produce a feeling of greater connectedness between us?”
“Yes. Now shoot the damn skiff!”
“Right away, sir.”
From the rear, Magnus heard the distinct report of TO-96’s twin gauss cannons. The ballistic-tipped projectiles broke the air overhead and slammed into the skiff with such force that the vehicle rebounded
off the street and flipped end-over-end. The blast sprayed Marines in an arc, several losing limbs in the process.
When the skiff slammed down into the street, Magnus ordered Granther Company forward. No sooner had he issued the command than several micro-missiles zipped overhead and took out no fewer than five more Marines who’d been exposed during the skiff’s destruction. The explosions lit the street up, washing the buildings in yellow light.
“That was a nice touch,” Magnus said to TO-96.
“Do you feel a greater sense of connection to me?”
Magnus laughed. “I sure do, ’Six.”
“I am happy my missiles could bring us together then.”
28
Ricio waved his hand through the space that the force field had occupied only moments before. To his amazement, the wall was gone, as if someone had simply flipped a switch and turned it off. At first, Ricio thought it was a gimmick. He envisioned himself attempting to leave his cell, only to have the person behind the controls restore the forcefield and cut his body in half. But that seemed unlikely.
He passed his hand through the space again and then waited, studying the threshold. When the wall failed to reappear, he tested it by extending his left arm out of his cell. He figured that if he was going to lose a limb, it might as well be his non-dominant hand. Still, the force field remained off. So Rico stepped out of his cell.
“Hello?” he said, turning around slowly in the cellblock. He looked at all the places that he imagined cameras might be, waving at the corners in the ceiling. “Anybody there?” But there was no reply. No one spoke over speakers, and no one rushed in to seize him.
The cellblock door was open to the corridor that ran to the control room, so Ricio moved down the hall. He was about to step into the room full of monitors when an enormous man emerged from a cellblock to his right.
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded. His bare and bloodied chest was decorated with a lifetime of Marine tats, and he was missing an eye. Ricio thought it best not to mess with him, but he also wasn’t giving up his identity to some one-eyed stranger.
“I’m someone who wants to know why we just got set free. You?”
The Marine growled. “Same.”
“Seems we have a common goal then.”
“For now. You Repub?”
“Eh, you could say that,” Ricio said, scratching his chin. “And you’re a Marine.”
The big man nodded. “You the one they took from the crash site?”
Ricio eyed the man more carefully. “Were you part of the Recon team deployed on the planet’s surface?” When the man grunted, Ricio raised a finger at him. “I was sent to save your dumb ass, you pathetic piece of splick.”
“Watch who you’re calling pathetic,” the man replied, stepping toward Ricio.
“Really?” Ricio put his hands on his hips. “Of all the insults in that sentence, you picked pathetic as the most objectionable?” Then to himself, he said, “No wonder they sent me to rescue him.”
The man charged Ricio.
“Hey now, big fella.” His hands were up and waving. “No sense in throwing our options away prematurely.”
The Marine slowed. “What options?”
“You know how to pilot a starship?”
The trooper seemed to consider this more intently than Ricio gave him credit for. Maybe he wasn’t a complete imbecile. “No.”
“Then I’m your pilot. And do I look like I can crush a man’s skull with my hands?”
“No.”
“Then you’re my bodyguard.” Ricio extended his hand toward the Marine. “Name’s Longo.”
The man looked at Ricio’s hand and then shook it. “Nos Kil.”
“I can see that.”
“Let’s move, jockey.”
“Copy that, buckethead.”
The two of them entered the control room, and Nos Kil immediately turned toward a workstation. He swiped through several menus on the holo display before Ricio asked: “What are you looking for?”
“Comms,” Nos Kil said, his eye and fingers working through the system architecture. “If we only have a minute before anyone comes to restrain us, I want to use it to get word to…” Nos Kil looked over at Ricio in a way that suggested the Marine wasn’t sure he could trust the pilot.
“To Moldark,” Ricio said.
“Yes.” Nos Kil sneered. “You mind?”
Ricio followed the brute’s eyes toward the exit. Apparently the Marine wanted to compose his transmission in private. Ricio shrugged and then stepped into the corridor just out of earshot. He wanted to chastise the tattooed war monger, arguing that they were on the same team, when he felt the words lodge themselves in his throat. Are we on the same team? he wondered. Given everything that Magnus had divulged about the Gladio Umbra’s desire to keep evil people from doing evil things, Ricio had his doubts—enough of them that he’d already given Magnus enough intel that Moldark would have him executed if he ever found out.
“What’s your name again, jockey?” Nos Kil yelled from inside the control room, snapping his fingers. “For my report.”
“Longo,” Ricio replied. For some reason he regretted hearing himself say his own name.
It was then that Ricio realized a startling truth. Betrayal wasn’t something that happened in an instant. It wasn’t a quick decision born out of an impetuous desire to shake things up. Instead, it was something that happened slowly, like the transformation that occurred within a chrysalis. No one knew how the worm transformed into a butterfly, but everyone could see the results when it emerged.
“Well?” Nos Kil said, poking his head out of the doorway. “Don’t just stand there. See how many enemies we’re looking at. Get us some weapons and a ship.”
“Right.” Ricio blinked, followed Nos Kil back inside, and then stepped to another workstation. He swiped through several screens until he found one that displayed a top down map of the starship’s levels. As Ricio took in the scope of the vessel, he realized it was far bigger than he imagined—nearly twice the size of a Repub battlecruiser. He couldn’t be sure without studying the schematics more carefully, but he guessed the ship might even rival a battleship or dreadnaught.
“What’s the holdup, jockey?”
“Nothing.” Ricio shook his head and played with the map, swiping through decks and expanding one that showed life signs. “This thing is massive. But looks like there are only two souls aboard.”
Nos Kil stopped finalizing his comms transmission. “Two?”
“That’s what ships sensors are saying.”
“But you just said the ship is big. That can’t be right.”
“Hell, I can pour us some coffee and we can have a meaningful conversation about it.”
The Marine glared at him.
“Another time maybe.” Ricio returned to his work and looked for a hangar bay. As it turned out, there were several. He chose one that harbored transport shuttles—hoping they would be outfitted with some sort of subspace drive—and then memorized the route.
“Found us some wings,” Ricio said. “Ten minute walk. All we need to do is—”
“I want to take out those two pieces of splick first. Where are they?”
Ricio hesitated. “They’re on the bridge. But the hangar bays—”
“Find us some weapons, jockey. If one of those is the man who did this to me”—he pointed to his eye—“then I need to return the favor before we leave.”
Ricio didn’t need much imagination to suspect that Magnus had inflicted Nos Kil’s injury. Which posed a new dilemma. Up until now, Ricio suspected he could comply with his captors, provide them with some limited but true intel, and then wait for an opportunity to escape or be released. The information he’d given Magnus would serve their little rebellion—probably give them a small advantage, at least for a little while—but there was no way Magnus’s crew stood a chance against Moldark. Then, once he was aboard the Black Labyrinth, Ricio would debrief with Fleet Admiral Brighton—o
mitting any of his minority treasonous acts—fill out the necessary documentation, and then head back to Capriana to his wife and son as a civilian.
But now Nos Kil wanted to take out Magnus. “Son of a bitch,” Ricio said.
Nos Kil turned toward him. “What is it?”
“They’ve got the armory locked down tight.” Ricio jabbed a finger at the holo, making up every word. “No way we’re getting in there. Better just head for the shuttle.”
“I don’t need weapons.” Nos Kil turned back to his own holo and brought up the ship’s schematic, then he identified the bridge and examined the route. “Come on, jockey. I might need you to hold him down.”
* * *
Ricio found himself walking behind Nos Kil, trying to think of every excuse he could to keep the Marine from attacking Magnus, but nothing reasonable came to mind. As his bare feet slapped against the glossy white floors that led to the elevator, Ricio wondered why his escape hadn’t triggered any alarms yet. Surely the bridge crew or the ship’s AI watched their progress.
Then he had a sickening thought—what if we’re walking into a trap?
But that seemed improbable. If their captors wanted them dead, they had plenty of opportunity to do it already. Plus, Ricio suspected that he’d already curried enough favor with Magnus to keep him off the execution list. And Magnus and his odd squad didn’t seem pathological. In fact, Ricio felt himself siding with the unlikely crew and their mission far more than he cared to admit. He liked helping them. And if he was being completely honest with himself, he believed in what they were trying to do.
“So what’s the plan?” Ricio asked as the lift slowed at the bridge level.
“Plan?” The dried blood and swollen eye socket on Nos Kil’s face made him look like something out of a horror holo. “How about, don’t get killed. And if you survive long enough, I’ll tell you what I need you to do once I assess the situation.”
“And here I was hoping you’d say something like, ‘You take the one on the left and I’ll take the one on the right.’ That’s how it normally works, right?”
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 123
