Magnus brought his left leg around and kicked Nos Kil. The blow was deflected. Magnus jabbed twice, air shooting out between his gritted teeth. Again, Nos Kil blocked. But Magnus could sense the man’s parries were weakening. He threw another left hook, left hook, right uppercut combination and felt his fists connect against Nos Kil despite his opponent’s attempts to ward them off.
Nos Kil retaliated with a less-than-powerful left hook, which Magnus deflected. It was followed by a right jab that Magnus batted out of the way. Nos Kil was wheezing now, blood and saliva streaming from his mouth. But still he fought on, kicking up at Magnus’s head. The attempt was strong but poorly aimed, and Magnus ducked beneath it, then pushed the leg aside, giving added momentum to Nos Kil’s kick.
The act made Magnus’s opponent wobble, and Magnus used it to jab twice at Nos Kil’s exposed face. Both strikes snapped the enemy’s head back, dazed eyes returning to look at Magnus.
“You should have killed me on Caledonia when you had the chance, Magnus,” Nos Kil said in garbled speech. He could hardly keep his hands up to fight.
“A mistake I’ll never make again, you son of a bitch.” Magnus took two steps back, raced forward, and leaped into the air. Then he threw himself into a somersault with his right leg extended and brought his heel down atop Nos Kil’s head. Magnus landed on his left leg, managed to stay upright, and watched as Nos Kil’s body dropped to the ground.
Magnus stood strong, chest heaving, body aching, nose and mouth bleeding. He looked over his downed enemy, filled with emotions that were hard to identify. He saw his brother’s face, saw Caldwell’s son, saw the young women who’d been victimized. And then he saw Piper, tender and innocent. He saw the tears streaming from her pleading blue eyes, the heaving of her slender shoulders. And then he focused on Nos Kil, knowing this beast would never hurt anyone again.
Nos Kil’s eye fluttered open. “You did it,” he said in a soft wheeze. By the looks of it, the rest of Nos Kil’s body had been paralyzed. “You stopped me. But you will never stop Moldark.”
“Watch me,” Magnus replied.
He was about to raise a foot and end Nos Kil’s life when the enemy’s bloodshot eye widened, staring at something in the near distance. Startled, Magnus turned to see a blaster bolt travel the short distance from barrel to head and fill the room with a flash of light and a concussive screech. Nos Kil’s head bounced once and then rolled to the side. A black hole above his lone eye—permanently staring in an unnatural direction—sizzled with superheated gore.
Magnus turned to see Caldwell holster his weapon and spit once on the body. The emotions the colonel had harbored toward Nos Kil all these years must have been fierce. Furthermore, few men of war ever got the chance to settle scores themselves. Most of them were paid back in distant lands at the hands of others—a blaster bolt from someone else’s rifle, a missile strike from an unseen orbital ship. But right here—right now—the colonel had the chance to settle this score for himself.
“You look like splick, son,” Caldwell said to Magnus.
“I feel like it too.”
“I can imagine. Can you walk on your own?”
Magnus shrugged his shoulders. “Unless you’re offering a piggyback ride.”
“Hell no. Let’s get you back to sickbay.” The two men walked from the cellblock and let Azelon close the security doors behind them.
* * *
Magnus passed another day in sickbay before Doc Campbell, Azelon, and TO-96 released him from their care. But they did so reluctantly—Doc especially so.
“You need another few days at least,” Doc said. “You just gave your body one hell of a beating after another.”
“Has anyone found Piper yet, Doc? Is Moldark dead?”
The man shook his head.
“Then we don’t have another few days, do we.”
“Listen, I’m not here to argue the safety of the crew or the ship. As far as I’m concerned, that’s your department. I’m just telling you as a medical professional, your body isn’t ready for anything else.”
“And I take your words under advisement. But I stopped doing what was best for myself a long time ago. No sense starting now.”
Doc made to object but Magnus raised a hand. “Fine. Just… do me favor. When you get a break, come back and let me treat you some more?”
“If I get a break, you mean.”
Doc sighed and stepped aside. “Go meet with your crew. Azelon says they’re waiting for you on the bridge.”
“You’re a good man, Doc.” Magnus patted him on the shoulder and limped by. “When I die, I’ll have ’em engrave something nice for you on my tombstone.”
“Like what?”
“Like, Here lies Adonis Olin Magnus. Doc told him not to, but he did it anyway.”
Doc chuckled. “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
* * *
Magnus walked onto the bridge as his five platoon leaders stood up straight. Dutch, Abimbola, Titus, Rohoar, and Awen greeted him as he stepped toward the captain’s chair. Each leader had several members of their respective platoons with them, all notable in their own rights. Sootriman and Ezo stood arm in arm, while Saasarr stood behind them. Berouth and Caldwell were on either side of Abimbola. Titus was accompanied by Zoll and Bliss; Rohoar by Saladin and Czyz. Awen and Willowood also stood arm in arm, their eyes bloodshot and tender. The newest face, of course, was Ricio’s. The man had helped save their lives, and he deserved to be here. The only people not present who Magnus felt should have been were Flow and Cheeks. But they still couldn’t be in the same room as any Jujari, so Magnus would debrief them himself.
Azelon and TO-96 stood on either side of the captain’s chair and welcomed Magnus. He sat down with a grunt, noting just how much his body ached. He was about to scold them for their projected misery. “Feels like a damned funeral in here,” he almost said, and then realized just how fitting the words would have been. Damn. “It’s good to see you all again,” he said instead. “I appreciate your patience while I… while the bots did their…”
“It is good to have you back, buckethead,” Abimbola said, breaking the awkward silence.
Magnus smiled. “Thanks, Bimby.” Then he lowered his head and took a deep breath, knowing the next words would be the hardest. “We lost good people on Worru. Andocs, Haney, and Val—” He caught himself, cleared his throat, then resumed. “Valerie. And we’re missing Piper.
“Any one of these losses on their own is significant, and I won’t try to minimize the grief we’re all feeling right now, myself included. Mystics know how hard this is. For everyone. I encourage all of you to mourn as you need to. It’s okay to cry, and you’re going to need to talk about it if you haven’t already—same as me. There’s no shame in that. The deep feelings we have for people… they serve to tell us just how important those lives really were.”
Magnus looked everyone in the face. He sensed they were trying to be stoic behind eyes moist with sadness. He nodded, more to himself than anyone else, and ran a hand over his face. “And at the same time, we have a job to do. We’re at war, and none of you are strangers to the costs involved. You all knew what you were getting involved with when you signed up, and the only guarantee we were assured was an equal shot at death. The galaxy’s going to splick and we’re the ones tasked with stopping it. So, until this thing is over, we all face it the same way—together and with courage.”
Epilogue
Ambassador Bosworth’s back ached from the interminably long shuttle ride to Elonia’s surface. He cursed Lord Moldark for not providing something faster for him, just as he cursed the wretched man for not giving him a larger starship. The journey to this revoltingly elitist star system had been gruelingly tiresome as it was. Added to it was the embarrassment of arriving at the Chancellor’s tower in a subpar vehicle. If Bosworth’s required skillset included impressing foreign dignitaries, then he was failing from moment one.
“Can’t this damned skiff go any faster?” Bosworth said, kicking the pilot’s crash couch from behind. His knee impacted the hard back and he swore through his bloated lips, spraying the pilot’s neck with dribble.
“I can assure you, sir, that I am flying your shuttle as fast as it will go,” the pilot said, placing special emphasis on the vehicle type in an apparent effort to correct the ambassador.
“Well it’s not fast enough, pilot. Make it go faster. The sooner I get off this blasted heap of mystics-forsaken metal, the better.”
The pilot did not reply but stayed focused on the course.
Satisfied that he had put the belligerent pilot in his place, Bosworth turned his considerable girth toward the shuttle’s aft, which was little more than an extended room behind the two pilot’s chairs, and found his bench seat once again. He plopped down, hoping the new position might alleviate some of his back strain. But it didn’t. Instead, he found himself cursing that his hemorrhoids had somehow gotten worse in the last few minutes—as if that was even possible, he sputtered to himself.
Suddenly, the ship dropped ten meters if not more. Bosworth felt his stomach push against the bottom of his gullet, and then slam into his pelvis when the ship righted again. “Holy hell, man,” Bosworth cried.
“Turbulence, sir. My apologies.”
“Apologies my ass,” Bosworth spat, muttering to himself. “Probably did it on purpose, the little cod-faced twit. You hear me?” Bosworth raised his voice. “You did that on purpose!”
Neither the pilot nor copilot responded.
Irritated that the two men had tuned him out, Bosworth went back to mumbling to himself. “I give him one grand idea. One that could gain him unimaginable leverage, secure him a blow against our adversaries.” Bosworth projected his voice toward the front. “And what does he give me? An incompetent flight crew, that’s what. Pieces of splick from a hornsperion buttlebuck’s anus. And two tin cans not worth their weight when melted down on Ki Nav Four!”
* * *
“Greetings, Ambassador Bosworth,” said the elderly Eloninan man, extending his flat hand toward Bosworth, palm down.
Bosworth returned the greeting by placing his upturned palm beneath the offered hand. “It is good to see you again, Chancellor dau Aminrain. Time has treated you well.”
“No better than it does all Elonians,” the chancellor replied.
“If only the rest of us were so fortunate.”
The chancellor seemed pleased by this nod to the Elonian’s naturally youthful bearing and gestured toward the grand salon in his top-level suite. As Bosworth walked into the spacious living room, he watched dau Aminrain wave over three young attendees.
“Would you care for some refreshment, ambassador? You must be parched after such a long journey.”
Bosworth hesitated. Had the chancellor just made a reference to the shuttle and starship he’d arrived on? As if to suggest that neither were capable of providing adequate food or drink for the ambassador? Bosworth wasn’t sure if he should refuse—which would only serve to affirm the chancellor’s implicit slight—or accept—which would confirm that Bosworth was, in fact, parched, due either to a lack of attending to himself or to his subpar transportation. Blast this politicking!
“Out of deference to my host, I am pleased to partake of whatever your chancellorship is inclined to drink.”
Again, dau Aminrain seemed pleased and ordered something in their native tongue. Bosworth ignored the transaction and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows that bordered the far wall. “What a beautiful view of the city you have here,” Bosworth said. “The sunset is particularly lovely.”
“Isn’t it though?” The chancellor strode up beside Bosworth and pushed his robes back to place his hands on his slender hips. Dau Aminrain was one kilo to every four of Bosworth’s, and it annoyed the ambassador to no end. The Elonian’s pointed ears, sharp eyes, and youthful face were echoed in the rest of his physique—lean, agile, and strong, even at his advanced age. The only thing that betrayed even a hint of the long passage of time were streaks of grey that snuck into his braided hair beginning at the temples. And it made Bosworth sick. Still, he had to keep up appearances, especially if he was going to skate by the chancellor’s investigative eye to accomplish his intended purpose here.
“Do you ever get tired of such things?” Bosworth asked.
“I should think not. If one does—failing to marvel at that which one serves—is one truly fit to lead?”
Bosworth found himself silently mocking the chancellor’s archaic speech, wanting to spit it back at him in a snarky tone. But that would not do. “I must concur. With such beauty, I would think it hard to forget one’s station or one’s obligations.”
Dau Aminrain nodded as if in appreciation of Bosworth’s verdict. “Well said.”
The attendees returned and handed Bosworth a steaming towel that smelled of lelandria. He accepted it, washed his face and hands as per custom, and then returned the used towel to the attendant. Then he accepted a slender glass of amber liquid. The chancellor had turned to meet Bosworth with his own tall glass and inclined his head, staring Bosworth directly in the eyes.
“To your long health, good fortune, and honorable fate,” dau Aminrain said.
“And to you,” he replied, touching the glasses together while holding the Elonian’s gaze. Only when Bosworth had taken a sip of the strong drink did the chancellor sip from his own glass. “Your falathriel is as good as I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you, ambassador. You’re very kind.”
Bosworth smiled and pulled the glass away to study the liquid. “Distilled honey from the ebony bee mixed with valerian nectar. Delicate, and yet not without its own sting.”
“You seem to know your Elonian drinks.”
“I like to know what I’m drinking and who I’m drinking with,” Bosworth replied, wiping his lips with his thumb and index finger.
“As do I,” replied the chancellor. “And yet you still have not told me of your purpose here.”
“No, I have not.” Bosworth let the statement hang in the air, quite pleased with the fact that the chancellor moved first. Therefore, he would suspend the man’s uncertainty for as long as he could. Bosworth raised the glass to his mouth and took another drink, savoring the alcoholic beverage by swishing it around before swallowing. “I have decided to stay for a while.”
Dau Aminrain cocked his head ever so slightly. “I fear I must implore you to explain, ambassador.”
It wasn’t unusual for an ambassador to remain in their state appointed residence for extended periods of time, but such things usually correlated with special events, like treaty renewals, formal dinners, or trade deals. For Bosworth to show up unannounced and without an obvious reason for being there, it was something of an oddity.
“Well, I have recently gone through a difficult time, as you’ve no doubt heard. On Oorajee?”
The chancellor gave the faintest hint of a nod.
Bosworth knew that news of his death, followed by his miraculous rescue, had reached Elonia already, just as it had to all systems within the Republic. “It seems my doctors have recommended a period of rest and relaxation to recover. They fear for my heart, you see, and have said that I required a stress-free stay somewhere.”
Bosworth couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the chancellor mumble “that’s not all they prescribed” as his eyes looked the man up and down.
“What was that, chancellor?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied dau Aminrain, swallowing the words with another sip of his drink.
“I’m sure. Be that as it may, I have decided there is no more tranquil place in all of the quadrant than my apartment here on Elonia. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The chancellor nodded once then waved to the view of the city. “As you know, your diplomatic residence is ever at your disposal, of course. Still, I would have liked to be made aware of this endeavor beforehand. Only then could we prepare a reception fit for
the magnitude of your arrival.”
Bosworth drew the corners of his lips back in a tight smile. He wanted to return the slight with a barb of his own. But doing so, he knew, would only draw the ire of the chancellor, and he needed this meeting to be as benign as possible so as not to raise suspicions about his true reason for being on the planet. “And yet you still managed to make time for me, my old friend. And for that, I am grateful.”
“Might there be an estimated duration for your stay here?”
“My doctors have said three months, though it could be more. You will see me come and go, I imagine. But there is no obligation on your end to entertain me. Though, if I might presume upon you, a dinner once in a while wouldn’t be objectionable.”
“No, it wouldn’t. My office will make the necessary arrangements.”
“Marvelous.” Bosworth tipped his glass back and finished the remainder of his drink in one gulp. “I won’t hold you up any longer then.” Bosworth looked to one of the attendants and shook his empty glass at her, then set it down on a nearby table. “I’ll be by for dinner at your earliest convenience.”
“I’m sure you will.” Dau Aminrain extended his hand, palm up. Bosworth placed his palm on top, then bowed his head. Several massive folds of skin appeared beneath his chin, and Bosworth could practically feel the chancellor laughing at him in disgust. He resisted the urge to lash out at the arrogant Elonian bastard, to dress him down as the ungrateful son of fortune and privilege that he was. But, again, that did not serve the ambassador’s purpose despite how much his flesh wanted to enjoy watching the man recoil under his withering verbal assault. Instead, he held the pose for the customary two breaths, and then looked back into the chancellor’s eyes. “Take care, chancellor.”
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 132
