Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6

by Chaney, J. N.

  “We will.”

  Magnus closed the channel and then looked as everyone piled through the door into the substation. Rohoar and Awen were the last to enter, hesitating as Magnus neared. “What are you waiting for?”

  Rohoar nodded toward the troopers. Magnus turned to see Saladin’s online on his HUD. She lay amidst some boxes, now overrun by at least fifteen Marines. Most didn’t even seem to notice her—they were preoccupied with pursuing Magnus’s gladias.

  “Naf tilnik borga, dar leenmar niff,” Rohoar said. Suddenly, bright light washed out Saladin’s outline as an explosion sent cargo and troopers flying in all directions. The deck rumbled, fire billowed, and the enemy’s assault momentarily ebbed. Saladin had detonated her VODs in a sacrificial act to buy Alpha and Bravo Teams more time.

  Rohoar helped moved Magnus toward the door. “She has found her glory. Come.”

  Magnus stepped into the substation, followed by Rohoar and Awen, and then Titus closed the door and blew out the security panel.

  33

  Ricio paced the safety area beside his Fang, hands stuffed inside his Novian flight suit. He’d been monitoring VNET traffic since Magnus made contact with the enemy and wanted nothing more than to get in the fight. But doing so prematurely meant giving away the Spire’s location and jeopardizing Magnus’s chances of getting everyone home in one piece.

  TO-96 and Ezo, having returned from their mission to the Labyrinth, stood beside Ricio in the primary Fang hangar bay, awaiting orders from Colonel Caldwell. Likewise, Nolan had suited up and leaned against a gantry crane. The three men were ready to lead their respective squadrons while TO-96 commanded the company from onboard the Spire.

  “Based upon your heart rate and perspiration levels, I assume you are experiencing a high level of anxiety,” TO-96 said to Ricio.

  “No splick, bot.”

  TO-96 hesitated. “Are you agreeing with me?” The bot looked at Ezo. “Or have we changed the subject to biological excrement? I’m confused.”

  “Everything’s nominal with Commander Longo, ’Six,” Ezo said, patting the bot on the shoulder. “Leave him be.”

  “Understood.”

  “Commander Ninety-Six, do you copy?” Caldwell asked over comms.

  TO-96 stood erect and looked straight ahead. “I read you, Colonel, sir. Please continue.”

  “As I’m sure you know, we’ve got some fairly nosey ships poking around our section of the system.”

  TO-96 glanced at Ricio. “He means the Paragon forces are getting closer to us,” Ricio clarified.

  “Ah. Yes, Colonel”—TO-96 over-enunciated his words—“it seems the hounds are curious about all the birds in the hen house.”

  Ricio furrowed his brow and shook his head, mouthing the word, “What?”

  “Whatever,” Caldwell said. “It looks like it’s time we throw them off our trail.”

  “Ah. We shall endeavor to mottle the scent, disguising the forest trail with—”

  “Scramble the damn fighters, ’Six,” Ezo said.

  The bot nodded. Through the hangar’s rather robust audio system, TO-96 said, “All pilots, all pilots, to your fighters. This is not a drill. Scramble Red, Gold, and Blue Squadrons to intercept enemy vessels. I repeat, this is not a drill. Command level instructions to follow.” TO-96 looked at Ricio and said, “How was that?”

  “Turn off your damn channel, bot,” Ricio replied.

  “Ooo, my apologies,” said TO-96, his voice booming throughout the hangar with a squeal of feedback.

  “You heard the man,” Ricio said to Ezo and Nolan. “Let’s get ready to fly.” He patted both men on the shoulder and then jogged toward his Fang. As he buckled into the lowered cockpit platform, TO-96 walked over, looking as though he had something to say.

  “Commander Longo, sir?”

  “What is it, pal.” Ricio locked his harness and then started moving through holo screens to begin his pre-flight check.

  “I have never led squadrons into battle before.”

  “We’ve already gone over this. You’re gonna be fine.”

  “And while I appreciate that vote of confidence, I still feel obligated to say that I’m sorry.”

  Ricio pulled his helmet on but stopped short of securing the strap. “Sorry? For what, ’Six?”

  “If I’m inadvertently responsible for your death, I just want you to know it wasn’t personal. I quite like you.”

  Ricio blinked a few times. “Uh, thanks?”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” Then TO-96 reached out and patted Ricio on the shoulder like the other squadron commanders had done. “Have a sumptuous flight.”

  Ricio shook his head and gave a crooked smile as TO-96 turned and walked away.

  * * *

  Once outside the Spire, Ricio circled around to gather his squadron together. It felt good to be back in his Fang, and it felt even better to be headed back into combat. He pulled out the printed picture of his wife and son and wedged it under an indicator bezel. He’d managed to grab the keepsake from his Talon before Azelon had shot him down, and the Spire’s crew had recovered it from his flight suit before they incinerated his old clothes. The image’s corners were charred, and the picture creased, but as long as he had the photo, Ricio felt like he still had a connection to his family back on Capriana. He kissed two fingers and touched their faces.

  “All right, Red Squadron. Form up. We’re just waiting for orders from—”

  “Hello? Can all of the flying humans hear me?”

  Flying humans? Ricio scratched his chin and then lowered his visor to bring up his secondary HUD. “This is Red Leader Actual. I have you, Command.”

  “Ah, how nice to—”

  “This is Gold Leader Actual,” said Nolan. “I read you, Command.”

  “Oh, how nice,” said TO-96.

  “Blue Leader Actual. I read you, ’Six,” Ezo said. “Use the terms Ricio taught you—none of this flying humans splick.”

  “Very good, sir,” the bot said. “I was merely trying to lighten the mood by being less formal, however, if that—”

  “It’s war, bot,” Ricio interjected. “If you let us do our job, that will lighten our mood. Just give us our orders.”

  “Very good, Commander Longo. I’m bringing up a target priority list for your respective squadrons, which you can assign based on your personal preference. However, I’ve preemptively allocated pilot suggestions for individual assignments based on data gathered during training. Use at your discretion.”

  Ricio saw the data set populate his mission window. A quick scan showed that TO-96 had done his homework. Ricio whistled. “Not bad, ’Six. Not bad at all.”

  “Thank you, Commander Longo. Now, the Paragon Talons pose the most critical threat. Two squadrons of fourteen ships each—the same structure that we use—are within ten minutes of detecting the Spire. Beyond them, we have identified two Light Cruisers, three Destroyers, three Frigates, and four Corvettes, all of which, we believe, are in support of the Talon reconnaissance objectives.

  “As you are all well aware, we are in no place to take on such an enemy composition, especially when our primary mission is not inter-fleet combat but asset recovery. That said, Azelon and I have determined that our best strategy will be to lead the vessels away from the Spire and then feign an attack on the Labyrinth. Subsequently, this will place your Fangs in the prime location to escort the retreating shuttles.

  “Please note that Azelon is jamming Talon sensor sweeps in your direction. As long as you approach from the vectors I’ve designated, you should remain hidden until you engage the enemy.”

  “Copy that,” Ricio said. “Much appreciated.”

  “My pleasure, sir. I will be standing by for reachback, as well as to redefine mission parameters should assets or targets change on the fly, as they say. That means you might encounter unexpected—”

  “We all know what it means, ’Six,” Ezo said. “Anything else?”

  “Well, I believe the expression
is happy hunting, fellas.”

  Rico chuckled. “You heard the man, Red Squadron. Let’s go kill us some game.”

  * * *

  Ricio kept all of TO-96’s suggestions for target assignments, noting they were either exactly what he would have chosen or, in a few cases, even better. The bot had smarts—he had to give him that. His language skills and social tact on the other hand? Those were gonna need some work.

  All three squadrons were assigned various Talon groupings, each designed to cull the enemy’s numbers while also provoking the larger starships to follow the Fangs as they sped toward the Labyrinth. Once clear of the Spire, the Fangs would double down on their efforts to reduce any threats posed against the shuttles, then escort them back to the Spire.

  Ricio made sure his pilots had confirmed their targets then locked in his own. If they stuck to the math, Fang Company would eliminate the fourteen Talons during the first salvo. From there, they’d dash toward the Labyrinth, and then flip back to catch the larger ships in their hastened efforts to catch up. It was a simple plan, but sometimes those were the best ones.

  Ricio pushed his Fang forward, increasing speed through the NBTI. Now that he’d gotten the hang of controlling a starfighter with his mind, he doubted he’d ever be able to use manual controls again. The thirteen other ships in his squadron moved with him, forming up in pairs as they prepared to engage the enemy.

  “I don’t wanna see any missiles going hot, Red Squadron,” Ricio said. “We’re saving all the fun toys for later. Blasters only unless you get in a splick show.” Ricio placed his missiles and mines on standby so he wouldn’t be tempted. “Contact in thirty seconds.”

  The enemy had spread their squadrons out to form three lines stacked on top of one another. Each starfighter was four klicks from any other fighter in the grid. Rico lined up with his first quarry, a single Talon in the middle of the lowest line, and locked on. “Fangs, prepare to engage.”

  The grid seemed so far away at first. Rico felt like they’d never get there. Then, as the mission timer counted down to zero—the point of first contact—the grid expanded until it outgrew Ricio’s field of view. His target ship came up fast.

  “Open fire,” Rico said, then willed his primary and secondary blasters to shoot. The main barrel along the fuselage shook the ship as its large-caliber bolts ripped through the blackness. The wing-mounted blasters sent shorter but more frequent rounds downrange. But the physics of light speed ruled both weapons, so all rounds reached Ricio’s first target at the same instant. With its shields low, the unsuspecting Talon detonated in a cataclysmic explosion, leaving few fragments larger than a square meter intact.

  “Scratch one.” Ricio flew through the debris field and pulled into a climb, headed for the Talon directly above. Nine of his other pilots confirmed kills, while four reported Talons in various states of duress. It wasn’t a perfect surprise attack, but his squadron was full of new pilots, so he’d take any kills he could get.

  Ricio’s sensor system confirmed a lock on his second target. The pilot was attempting to raise shields, but not in time enough to save his life. Ricio brought his nose up until he was under the ship, then fired into the Talon’s belly. The energy rounds blew past the shield, ripped through the cockpit, and split the craft in half. Ricio veered away, throwing his body sideways in the seat, and watched the flaming wreckage whiz passed his port window.

  “Scratch two.”

  Red Squadron had taken out four more Talons—one away from an entire squadron. Combined with Gold and Blue Squadrons’ take, the total was up to twenty-two of twenty-eight total enemy fighters. Such large numbers were only because of Azelon’s concealment—Ricio knew that. They would not have that kind of hand again.

  Despite being severely outnumbered and outgunned, the remaining six Talons broke formation and flipped around on their pursuers with terrific speed. Their shields were up, and their weapons systems armed.

  “Watch your left flank, Red Three,” Ricio yelled.

  A Talon got two hits on Red Three’s shield but failed to do any critical damage. The Fang rolled away from the oncoming ship and got clear of its blaster fire. As the enemy starfighter sailed past the point of contact, Ricio locked on and fired his multi-rate wingtip mounted cannons. They whined like banshees and tore through the enemy Talon from stem to stern. The craft split apart, shedding its plate armor like a Lorlilliak mull drake shedding its skin in molting season. Ricio watched as the majority of the pilot’s body twirled through space and disappeared among the stars.

  The five remaining Talons put forth a valiant effort, but in less than twenty-five seconds, both squadrons were wiped out. Ricio couldn’t ignore the pang in his heart, knowing these were most likely pilots he’d known, or knew of. Hell, he’d probably trained the majority of them at one point or another. And had Ricio been in one of the Talons, he’d have been scared splickless by how his once-formidable squadron was decimated in less time than it took to piss out a beer.

  Ricio’s sympathy was cut short when one of the Light Cruisers and a Destroyer opened fire. “Red Squadron, break for the Labyrinth,” Ricio ordered. “Let’s return them to their fleet, but I’d like to see them limp back a little.” The pilots registered Ricio’s commands, and new target lock icons appeared along the sides of both enemy ships. Gold and Blue Squadrons targeted the other vessels in the search party, including the faster Corvettes. “Let’s light ’em up!”

  Ricio brought his Fang around and increased speed. His body pressed into his seat while his guidance system made micro corrections to stay clear of oncoming enemy fire. Enormous blaster bolts whizzed by his canopy, casting his cockpit in green light. When the statistical likelihood of a sure shot reached 90%, Ricio fired all his cannons. Blue rounds raced toward the Light Cruiser’s bridge. The enemy’s shield array absorbed the first volley, scattering the energy like a lightning storm over an invincible glass ball. But as Ricio continued to pour on the rounds, heating the barrels to red-hot, a hole tore open in the shields.

  Ricio’s Fang shot through the gap and entered the ship’s near-field space, then fired on the bridge. His accuracy was at 100%, and he would not fail. The cannons barked, shaking his ship, and the blue light struck the Light Cruiser’s forward bridge. Ricio’s rounds punched through the reinforced windowplex and blew out the entire command center. The bridge exploded, sending ripples of fire and electrical blasts along the bow.

  “Bridge disabled,” Ricio said with a bit of excitement in his voice. The blow was enough to keep the vessel from going anywhere, but Ricio knew the ship still had some fight left. “Watch those auto turrets.”

  Three Fangs raced along the cruiser’s hull, heading for the stern. They targeted the communications array, hoping to further disable the ship’s ability to connect with the fleet. One Fang was particularly unlucky and took several auto turret rounds. Fortunately, the fighter’s shields held, and the ship managed to roll out of the auto turret’s fire arc. The two other Fangs continued on their course and laid into the comms array, blasting it from the deck.

  Red Squadron left the Light Cruiser to bleed out and focused their attention on the two Frigates. “Let’s let them stay under power,” Ricio said. “But I want their primary weapons disabled.”

  His pilots acknowledged. Targeting icons appeared along the ship’s flanks as Red Squadron lined up for a strafing run that would take the Fangs across both Frigates from starboard to port amidships.

  Ricio ordered his squadron to pummel the first Frigate’s shield. They managed to bore a hole in short order, all the while dodging enemy fire. Once the starboard shield fell, the Fangs spread out and opened fire on the ship’s emplaced cannons. Ricio’s visor dimmed as several friendly and enemy blaster rounds collided. But in the end, the Frigates’ defenses were no match for the Fangs’ speed and power. One by one, each emplacement exploded on the starboard side, shooting flames and debris into space. The hard vacuum snuffed out the fires, but the bits of starship would float to in
finity.

  The Fangs flew up and over the enemy hull, then dove back down to line up on the second Frigate’s starboard side. Having seen the fate of its counterpart, the starship focused its firepower on Ricio’s squadron. But it didn’t last long. Ricio had made sure the first Frigate was directly behind them, which meant that the second Frigate was firing on the first. As soon as the two starships sent what Ricio could only imagine were expletive-filled transmissions to cease fire, Red Squadron fired on the second Frigate’s shield and made short work of it. The energy wall fell, and—like before—the Fangs tore into the starship’s flank.

  The pock-marked vessel tried to steer away from the attack, but the Fangs were too fast. Ricio led his squadron around the Frigate’s far side and then turned back to assault the port-side emplacements. While several Fangs took minimal damage, there was simply no way the mega-ton warship could keep up with the agile Novian fighters. When they’d finished with the Frigate’s port side, Ricio brought up the Labyrinth’s coordinates and sent the high-priority waypoint to his pilots.

  “Nice work, everyone,” Ricio said as he scanned the damage reports. “Now let’s lead them home.”

  34

  Forbes dove for cover behind an MB17 as two things took place simultaneously.

  First, the TS40 advancing from the south fell into the craters and struck the mines. While the Sweeper was out of commission, it blew open and caught the corridor on fire. Smoke and fire poured into the hangar bay despite the fire suppression system’s best efforts to quench it.

  Second, and more importantly, the TS40 advancing from the west breached the bay and opened fire with its M109s. Gladia had lined up on both sides, ready to take out the guns, but the Sweeper’s crew had been prepared for them. The moment the M109s appeared, their barrels pointed down, head-level with the members of second platoon. Helmets and heads exploded, blown back by the M109s twin barrels.