Galactic Breach

by J. N. Chaney

  “And do what with us?”

  So-Elku smiled, glaring into Senator Blackman’s eyes. “Whatever I want, Senator. Whatever I want.”

  7

  Magnus sat beside Abimbola in the front seat of a skiff that resembled a welder’s psychotic break more than it did a reliable transport vehicle. The monstrosity was three times the size of a dune skiff and sported rusting plate armor on all sides. An angled cowling with slats covered the cockpit, while a spiked battering ram protruded from the front. The skiff’s sides and rear were clad in reinforced metal with razor wire welded to the surface.

  Above and behind them, a Marauder in a shielded turret rested against an M109 twin-barrel blaster, a lit roll of snash hanging from the corner of his mouth. Another man sat inside the skiff at a holo-station with targeting screens. The images came from four different rocket bays around the skiff—two forward, two in back. Six more Marauders lay in wait in the rear cargo bay, their weapons at the ready.

  Magnus listened to the skiff’s engine growl against the sand and the wind. Like everything else on the contraption, the power plant was heavily modified, boasting nearly five times the energy of a normal skiff’s. As a result, not only could Abimbola’s ride carry the crew and armament with ease, but it also soared six meters above the ground. That meant less driving around debris and much more driving over it—or, as Magnus noted, through it. Hell’s Basket Case, as Abimbola had dubbed her—the moniker stenciled on the tail in red and yellow paint—was made for one thing: doling out death with extreme prejudice.

  Magnus looked to his right at the line of similarly constructed vehicles that angled toward the horizon, the dust cloud blotting out the sky behind them. Some of them were smaller, sporting missile silos that left little room for a driver. Others were monstrous troop carriers, their front ends donning hydraulic wedge plows used for tearing into and separating solid walls for entry. Still others had second levels for added weapons arrays and observation lookouts. To an enemy, this was a ferocious sight.

  * * *

  “So, you sure about this plan?” Magnus shouted over his ear comm. He wore a black bandana, sunglasses, and the armor Abimbola had provided. His MAR30 rested on his lap, the Z and several grenades in his chest armor.

  The giant beside him wore the same cut-off shirt and green pants as before. The skiff’s controls seemed so small in the shadow of his hulking body. Sweat beaded on the man’s smooth black skin, and the old scar that ran from head to collarbone was swollen in the heat. Against his seat, Abimbola rested some sort of enlarged blaster that Magnus had never seen before, presumably a piece from his home world of Limbia Centrella. Its main barrel, twice the diameter of any hand weapon Magnus had ever fired, was housed in a boxy vented stock with two assault grips.

  “You like it?” Abimbola asked as Magnus regarded the weapon.

  “She looks like a handful.”

  “Ha, she is. She really is.” Abimbola patted the weapon. “A BFT6, known as the Tigress where I come from.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s known as a wrist breaker where I come from. Better you than me.”

  Abimbola smiled and flicked the pair of dice that hung from his rearview mirror. “So, you asked if I am sure about the plan. Yes, I am sure about the plan, buckethead. We will enter the city from the east then meet up with the mwadim for permission. He will provide us with the intel from his sources.”

  “The Tawnhack sources?”

  Abimbola nodded.

  Magnus didn’t like the idea of using Jujari as HUMIT—human intelligence. SAVIT was more like it—savage intelligence. He also didn’t like meeting the new mwadim, whoever he was. Still, if working with these hyenas meant rescuing any of his unit, then it was worth it. He’d just have to suck it up and play nice with the puppies.

  “You should not worry,” Abimbola said, seeming to sense Magnus’s apprehension. “They want those hostages alive too. Means a bargaining chip in their pocket for Republic negotiations if you play it right. You will know what to do.”

  “Copy that,” Magnus said, suddenly wondering if the Tawnhack could be trusted when this was all over. “Who’s to say they don’t double-cross us and keep the hostages for themselves once we rescue them?”

  “You mean, double-cross you.”

  “What?”

  “You said we, but I have nothing to worry about. No double-crossing here. Just you.”

  “Perfect.” Magnus looked ahead at the city growing on the horizon. The city’s towers brought back all the memories from the ambush. His chest tightened. He’d almost died in those streets. So had Awen.

  Awen. He missed her. For the hundredth time, he wondered how she was. But to keep his heart from overextending itself, he reminded himself that Awen had been just a mission. One he’d carried out faithfully. Now he had a new mission—one he’d be just as dedicated to.

  “Stick to the plan,” Abimbola said again with his hand on the wheel and a wide smile spreading across his face. “Just stick to the plan.”

  * * *

  “I’d come with you, you know,” the senator’s widow told Magnus, clasping his hands. “I’d fight alongside you, as before.”

  They stood alone under a canvas awning, shielded from the morning sun. He’d just finished the briefing with Abimbola and was preparing to leave, filling his canteens from the well, when Valerie had found him. She’d snuck up on him—startled him really. But he tried to play it off. Magnus turned around and caught his breath yet again when he saw her. How could beauty be intimidating? He didn’t know, but hers was.

  “But Piper needs me more. I hope you understand.”

  “I do.” Magnus nodded.

  “You rescue your unit, you hear me? But then I need you back here. I need you to get Piper to safety—off this planet, away from here. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Stone.”

  “Valerie, please. Just Valerie,” she said, looking down. Her amber hair glistened in the light, threatening to blend in with the sand surrounding them. When her eyes returned to his, they were wet with tears. “I fear that family name has died in me. But we’ve had enough death for a long time. So no dying out there, understand?”

  What is this? Genuine concern? Or something else? Something… deeper? His heart pounded, the feeling of her hands in his sending an unexpected burst of dopamine through his system.

  Magnus blinked some sand from his eyes and cursed himself for thinking of this woman in any other way than as a traumatized victim of a war-torn galaxy. This wasn’t the time for… any of that. This woman needed help, needed to get her daughter to safety. And she only lost her husband… how many days ago? Call it a week. She’s mourning, bereaved. This is no romantic come-on by some tavern skirt. Get your head in gear, Magnus!

  “I’ll be back before you know it, and then we’ll have you and Piper on a Republic ship and on your way to Capriana.”

  “Not Capriana, no.” She squeezed his hands harder.

  “Not Capriana?” Magnus asked slowly.

  Valerie shook her head. “Somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

  Since when is Capriana not safe? What is this woman caught up in?

  “Just come back to me, Magnus. Promise?”

  The feelings returned. Damn those feelings! But before he could protest further, before he could even utter an answer, Valerie pulled herself up to his face and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were warm, her face fragrant. Then she let go, turned, and evaporated into the warehouse.

  Magnus reached for his canteens, but he’d knocked all three into the well.

  * * *

  Oosafar was close enough that Magnus thought he smelled it maybe ten klicks out. He trusted Abimbola’s knowledge of this place, but that didn’t make entering a hostile territory any easier. The other vehicles fell in line behind Abimbola’s as the convoy prepared to enter the city’s outskirts. If there was going to be any initial resistance, this was it. He’d laid siege to enough cities to know that plenty of fightin
g could take place before you ever set foot on the enduracrete.

  Magnus always got amped just before a firefight. He figured they still had a way to go before they made contact with any Selskrit in the Western Heights, but to him, one Jujari was just as dangerous as the next. He removed his Z from his chest holster, double-checked it, then stowed it. Out of pure habit, he powered up the holo-sights on his MAR30 and cycled through its three firing systems.

  There was plenty to worry about on this mission. There were many variables in play, not the least of which was a dramatically stronger enemy and unreliable intel. But more than anything, Magnus was worried about going in with an inexperienced unit. He was worried about jeopardizing Dutch and the others again.

  He didn’t doubt the Marauders could fight. Abimbola had surely seen to that. Whatever Abimbola’s past was on Limbia Centrella, it had made him one badass son of a bitch. But Abimbola’s Marauders were not Recon. Not by a long shot. They had violence of force, maybe, but no unit cohesion, movement orchestration, or tactical precision. Not even Dutch and the others had that sort of training.

  Disobeyed orders meant lives lost. Faulty steps meant lives lost. Dirty gear, jammed weapons, and missed commands—all of that meant lives they couldn’t afford to lose, lives Magnus didn’t want to lose. He was leading a ragtag bunch of miscreants, Marines, and a navy warrant officer on a suicide mission to rescue hostages he wasn’t even sure were still alive. And he’d promised a beautiful woman he’d get her and her daughter off the planet once he got back. Go for broke, Magnus. Go for broke.

  He reached for one of the canteens in his backpack behind the seat, undid the top, and took a swig. The water was hot. It was not even late morning, and already the sun was baking everything in the skiff—even with the constant headwind. He was going to be glad to get off this dust ball again.

  Just ahead, Magnus noticed a checkpoint. A tall sandstone gate swept down to each side of the road, forming a low wall that stretched out in either direction. The gate was elegant if nothing else. The Jujari had a strange contradiction about them—their penchant for beauty, in things like architecture, stood against their brutal barbarian behavior. He wondered how such a violent species could endure so long and amass—much less utilize—so much technology. They were truly an enigma. Perhaps that’s why Awen likes them so much, he thought then realized that statement might be taken as a slight rather than a compliment. Well, she’s an enigma too.

  Four Jujari emerged from two small gatehouses on either side of the thoroughfare, keeltari swords drawn and at the ready.

  “Let me do the talking,” Abimbola said.

  “Be my guest.”

  The drive core whined as it worked to slow the skiff’s momentum. The vehicle shuddered and sank to a half meter above the ground, a shower of sand and dust blasting in all directions. The Jujari sentries turned their heads only slightly as the wind matted their fur against their bodies. Magnus was aware of the rest of the vehicles clunking to a stop behind them and wondered if they’d be rammed. To their credit, Abimbola’s men eased the entire line of vehicles to a halt without a single bump.

  Abimbola unlatched several metal clasps and forced the slatted armor window away on its hinge. He gestured for Magnus to do the same. The sentries approached, two at each door. Despite how high Abimbola and Magnus sat, the Jujari still managed to meet them at eye level.

  “What business are you having done here?” snarled the lead sentry, the common speech garbled between his fangs.

  Abimbola dipped his head and tilted it away from the Jujari, baring his neck. “Me and the boys,” he said, thumbing behind him as he returned the Jujari’s glare, “thought we would do some Selskrit hunting.”

  The lead sentry chomped the air at the mention of the rival tribe’s name. The other three growled, their hackles standing up.

  “I do not suppose you want to join us?” Abimbola asked.

  “We would,” the sentry said, “if we had not already had our fill earlier in this day.”

  “Did you leave any for us, then?”

  “Perhaps.” The sentry looked at Magnus. “Who is this him?”

  “This him? Just another of my crew.”

  “He smells different.” The big Jujari sniffed the air some more. “Smells like Repub.”

  “This guy? Repub? Nah. You probably just smell the new armor he got. Picked it up off some dead soldiers not more than a few days ago.”

  The sentry eyed him. “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where did you find the soldiers?”

  “Out past Kellax Ridge. Some escape pods. You probably saw them go down, right?”

  The sentry paused, looking between the two men. Magnus felt his grip on his MAR30 tightening. He couldn’t think of a single thing that he liked about these beasts. “Very all right,” the pooch said, mixing his vernacular to sound far more affirmative than he probably meant. “Who are you going to meet?”

  “Rohoar,” Abimbola said.

  Apparently, this name meant something to the sentries. At once, they dipped their heads and bared their necks. Magnus raised his eyebrows and looked at Abimbola, but the warlord waved him off with a curt shake of his head.

  The sentries looked up and stepped away, waving Abimbola through. “You may proceed. And find happy hunting of our bastard kin.”

  “Thank you.” Abimbola flipped them each a poker chip. Magnus had no idea if the Jujari gambled, at least as humanoids did, but the beasts seemed appreciative of the currency. The warlord pressed on the accelerator, and the drive core jolted to life, the skiff lurching forward.

  “I guess Rohoar is a good friend to have,” Magnus said once they were through.

  “Friend, no. But we respect one another, and sometimes that is better than friendship.”

  “So, he’s one of the bosses around here, then?”

  “He is the new mwadim.”

  “The new mwadim?” Magnus stroked his beard. “The old one didn’t do so well in that blast.”

  “No, he did not. They are still mourning him and will for the next year.”

  “So, in the meantime, they picked a new one?”

  “No picking. Fighting. Whoever wants to be mwadim kills all challengers until no one challenges him or he dies. If he dies, combat resumes for the victor in the same way.”

  Magnus whistled. “Pays to have a good campaign manager, then.”

  “A good what?”

  “Campaign managers. Pay off your competition, put hits on…” He glanced at the giant’s blank face. “You know what? Never mind.”

  Abimbola glanced at Magnus then looked back at the road. “You are strange, buckethead. One minute, I think I like you. The next, I don’t think I like you. So you are like a dog to me.”

  “I’m… like a dog…”

  “Yes. If I like you, I keep feeding you. If I do not, I kick you. We will see how the day ends.”

  “Fair enough,” Magnus said, looking up at the buildings. “Fair eee-nough.”

  * * *

  The convoy drove through the main thoroughfare of Oosafar, weapons at the ready. Abimbola gave short instructions over comms to keep everyone focused. “No sudden movements, keep it smooth, and don’t look any Jujari in the eye.”

  Unlike the first time Magnus had been here, the city was alive with activity. Everywhere he looked, Jujari were barking, selling, wrestling, howling, trading, and eating. Pups kept close to their mothers. Adolescent males huddled in small packs. Older hyenas lounged in wide chairs with soft cushions on balconies that overlooked the street.

  The city was much fairer than Magnus remembered it. Parks stood like oases amongst the towering skyscrapers. Palms waved, and water gardens filled the air with the sounds and smells of waterfalls. It was cleaner, too, though the smell still threatened to overtake him. The first time in Oosafar, he’d had his helmet on to filter the air, at least at the beginning. Now the pungent scent of dog permeated the air.

  High overhead, Magnus
made out the white curtains in every window on every level of every building. He saw the subtle blue glow of the force fields that kept out the elements. The wind played with the fabric, making it move like ghosts. What did Awen call them again? Inook shrouds?

  The haunting movement took him back to the mwadim’s tower. A chill ran up his spine. Throughout the city, Magnus felt thousands and thousands of eyes studying the convoy. The thought of another ambush made him ready his MAR30 out of pure instinct.

  “Easy, buckethead.”

  Magnus looked at Abimbola. The giant reached over and placed a hand on top of his MAR30. “No need for that just yet. We do not want to start any wars we cannot finish.”

  Magnus lowered his weapon and looked out the right side of the skiff. “You don’t worry about an ambush?”

  “Sure. But those who ambush us are more worried about the mwadim.”

  “So you’re not worried about an ambush.”

  “Right.”

  Magnus chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  The convoy moved farther and farther until Magnus felt like they were in the city’s center. Something about the buildings felt familiar. And then he saw it—the ruins of the mwadim’s tower. The entire structure was a heap of sandstone and metal girders. The air was sharp, filled with stale smoke and burned hair. The buildings around it were black with soot, many of them bearing shrapnel pockmarks.

  “Look familiar?” Abimbola asked.

  Magnus nodded. “The mwadim’s tower.”

  “Former mwadim’s tower.”

  “Right.” Magnus strained to find the building he’d rappelled down with Awen in his arms. He picked it out because the grappling hook was still embedded in the sandstone, a gossamer-thin nanocable trailing in the wind. The more Magnus thought about it, the more he realized their escape had been a complete miracle. They’d been this deep in the city, yet not more than three Jujari had tried to prevent their escape. It was almost as if—

  He shook the thought from his head. No, the Jujari wouldn’t let anyone go free, not after what happened.