by Nick Cole
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
The Battle of Kublar
A long, long time from now...
Galactic Outlaws
01
02
03
04
05
06
07
08
09
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
More Galaxy's Edge
Honor Roll
Coming Soon...
GALACTIC OUTLAWS
By Nick Cole
& Jason Anspach
Copyright © 2017
by Galaxy’s Edge, LLC
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
All rights reserved. Version 1.0
Edited by David Gatewood
Published by Galaxy’s Edge, LLC
Cover Art: Scott Flanders
Cover Design:Beaulistic Book Services
For more information:
Website: GalacticOutlaws.com
Facebook: facebook.com/atgalaxysedge
Newsletter: InTheLegion.com
Kublar orbit.
“It’s hot out here. I’ve never seen so many—Oba!” A shudder reverberated through the hull of the drop shuttle. “Hang on back there!”
Captain Ford—Wraith to his fellow legionnaires—grabbed an overhead safety bar. His legs went out from beneath him, and he hung from the bar as Republic marines tumbled across the deck. The roughnecks rolled over a few wounded legionnaires and Repub-Army basics—the lucky few who were extracted from Kublar before orbital bombardment. One Navy corpsman shielded a severely wounded legionnaire with his own body, doing his best to prevent a vicious-looking gut wound from becoming further injured or contaminated.
Boom!
The lights on the shuttle flickered as blaster fire strafed across the shuttle’s shield array.
“Damn it!” the pilot shouted from the cockpit, the words accentuated by the sharp sounds of incoming blaster fire. “Tibeel, get that tail turret firing! They’re chewing us up!”
The pilot sounded like he was on the verge of panic, a far cry from the usually calm and matter-of-fact tone Wraith was used to. He’d heard pilots talk through crashes as if they were reading a technical manual, right up to the point of impact. Whatever was going on outside must be really bad.
Wraith looked down the corridor to the rear gun emplacement. The Navy gunner was sprawled, unmoving, on the deck.
The shuttle stabilized, and Wraith eased himself down from the bar and onto the deck. He ran past marines helping one another up and crawling for jump seats. “This is Captain Ford.” Wraith’s voice was dispassionate. “Your gunner’s no longer combat effective. I’m moving to take his position. Call out priority targets.”
“Pick one!” the pilot shouted back.
“Copy.”
Wraith guided the twin control arms to raise the weapon from its resting position. He looked through a superimposed targeting reticule on the emplacement’s viewport and swept for targets.
He had never seen so many starfighters. The MCR must have bought up every Preyhunter starfighter in this sector of the edge and loaded them into the Ohio-class cruiser they’d salvaged from who-knew-where. They were everywhere. Spinning and looping in furious dogfights with Republic tri-fighters launched from the super-destroyer Mercutio. Others buzzed the Republic drop shuttles returning from the planet’s surface. A trio of rebel starfighters focused their blaster cannon fire on a shuttle, sending it into a brilliant gaseous explosion that quickly extinguished itself in the darkness of space.
Wraith clenched his jaw at the bad luck of the legionnaires and basics inside that shuttle. Plucked last minute from certain death on the planet below, only to get atomized in the rescue craft.
The Preyhunters zoomed past the debris, the lead starfighter waggling its wingtips as it closed the distance to Wraith’s shuttle. The targeting reticule flashed and beeped, and Wraith pushed his thumbs down on the firing buttons.
Green blaster cannon bolts streaked toward the lead spacecraft. The pilot attempted to nose down away from the fire, but wasn’t quick enough. Four consecutive bolts ripped along the top of the starfighter. The first blew apart the cockpit canopy, killing the pilot, and the next three scorched holes in the craft’s fuselage, causing a breach and explosion.
The other two Preyhunters banked away, one left and one right. Wraith went left, leading the craft with well-placed shots that blasted away a wingtip cannon and disabled a main thruster. A Republic tri-wing starfighter swooped in and finished off the Preyhunter before roaring past Wraith’s shuttle, close enough for Wraith to make out a mole on the pilot’s cheek.
“Nice shooting!” said the pilot over the comm. “We’re sixty seconds to entry at the Mercutio’s docking bay. Keep those insurgents off our tail just a little longer and—”
A crack sounded across the comm, and the ship shuddered violently. Wraith felt as though the temperature increased a good fifteen degrees. An onboard alarm gave a looping, ominous warning. Eht-eht-eht-eht-eht-eht…
“What’s going on?” he asked.
The co-pilot answered. “God—we came within ten meters of flying right in the path of one of the heavy emplacement blasts from that Ohio cruiser. Overloaded Mero’s control panel. He’s dead. No stabilizers online. Sensory array cooked. Request tractor guidance.”
Wraith realized the co-pilot wasn’t talking only to him. The traffic controller for the Mercutio’s docking bay answered. “Too many targets to obtain an early lock. We can pull and drop from your angle once you are in range. Will deploy deck netting on entry through hangar bay shield.”
“Acknowledged,” answered the co-pilot. “Be advised, life support is disabled, and we have an onboard fire.”
The MCR fighters were keeping their distance from the Republic super-destroyer. Wraith couldn’t see a target in range.
The co-pilot noticed as well. “Captain, you’d better get strapped in. We’re approaching high, and once we enter the hangar we’re going to drop like a bot in water. It’s gonna be bumpy.”
The port hangar openings on a ship this size were large enough to pull in the big bulk freighters. Dropping from the top of the shielding would leave a few marks. Normally a tractor beam brought the ship in close to the deck, where repulsor plates could float it to a stable landing once the beam lost contact. This… was doing it the hard way.
“Copy.” Wraith left his emplacement and made his way back to the jump seats.
Most of the marines and leejes were strapped in, save for the corpsman who was struggling to secure his wounded patient to a built-in stretcher beneath the shuttle’s recharge station. Wraith knelt to assist, then patted the legionnaire’s shoulder armor as he rose to strap himself in. “Hang on, buddy.”
The drop shuttle boomed and shook as the Mercutio’s tractor beam locked on and began to pull th
em in. Apart from the landing itself, this was when they were most vulnerable, moving in a straight line with only the Capital ship’s bristling laser batteries and fighter escorts protecting them from enemy Preyhunters. Just like the sleds in the ambush back on Kublar.
“Hang on back there!” the co-pilot called over the all-ship comm. “Once we enter the docking bay, we’re going to drop like a nib-stone.”
“We’re all gonna die, aren’t we?” a grimacing marine asked.
“Probably,” Wraith replied.
The ship’s interior lights darkened for the landing. The co-pilot announced that the shuttle’s nose had entered the hangar, and seconds later, the tractor beam lost its lock and the drop shuttle went into free fall.
Wraith’s stomach lurched up into his throat. He gripped the restraints crossing his chest and braced himself for the landing. A twisting, screeching shriek reverberated throughout the craft as the shuttle plunged into the impervisteel cable netting installed beneath the retractable hangar deck plates for just such an occasion. As if they were on some core-world amusement ride, the craft bounced up, and the accompanying twangs and snaps of broken netting gave a good indication of just how hard they’d fallen. When the drop shuttle stabilized into a steady up-and-down rhythm, Wraith released his harnesses and headed for the shuttle’s disembark door.
“Where you going, man?” asked the same marine who had spoken before. “Ship’s not gonna blow up, is it?”
Wraith pulled the manual override and waited for the shuttle’s door to slide open like a curtain revealing the stage. “War’s still on, Marine.”
He hopped over the small gap of netting and landed on polished black deck plate. The hangar was buzzing. A squad of Repub marines sprinted past and loaded themselves into a Spiker assault-boarding shuttle. Signal landing bots guided in new shuttles and damaged tri-wing starfighters—a lot more starfighters than shuttles—while tow-sleds pulled the craft into the side storage hangars, clearing as much space for incoming landing crafts as possible.
Wraith looked around the hangar for survivors from the battle below. He saw a few basics and legionnaires being whisked away to the medical bays. Only a few. How many had still been down there when the orbital bombardment started? How many had already died before the shuttles even arrived?
Wraith watched the fierce dogfight happening just outside the hangar bay. He winced every time a drop shuttle took enemy fire. The legionnaires inside those shuttles—if there were any—deserved better than to be dusted inside a tin cup, unable to fight back.
“Captain Ford!”
Wraith turned—and saw a corpsman and leej medic sprinting off with Captain Devers, who looked dead.
Wraith replied to the legionnaire who’d called his name. “Lieutenant Chhun, I’m glad you made it out.”
“Thank you, sir,” Chhun said, stepping forward, his N-4 still in his arms. Behind him was Exo, who was probably due for a world of hurt if Devers survived.
“Same goes for you, Exo,” Wraith said.
“Thanks.”
“Sir?” Chhun said, his face stained with blood and dirt and sweat. “What now, sir?”
“Always make ‘em pay.”
SEVEN YEARS LATER
A long, long time from now, at the edge of the galaxy…
Galactic Outlaws
Prisma Maydoon has come to the frontier star port at Ackabar with her faithful servant, KRS-88, seeking to employ a bounty hunter and obtain justice for her murdered family.
Meanwhile, Republican Legionnaires have arrived to destroy a secret hideout of the Gomarii Slavers and establish the iron fist of Republic Law over the frontier star port.
Arriving by freighter, Prisma finds a full-scale evacuation in progress…
01
The Viridian Cyclops settled toward the dry, grit-blasted concrete of the landing bay. Maneuvering thrusters flared from her ungainly bulk. Captain Hogus pivoted the ship so the cargo-loading ports would face the big blast doors that opened out onto the central loading ramp. The only other ship in the massive bay was a forlorn light hauler that looked parted out. Its markings identified it as the Obsidian Crow. Perhaps it would provide the Cyclops with a few spare parts for the next run out to the edge.
The Cyclops was an old Tellarian heavy freighter that should have been out of commission twenty years ago. Its main jump engine took up the entire lower deck, a half saucer rife with spot welds and jerry-rigged bypass cables, leaving scant room for paying cargo. Its bulbous upper deck had been converted to make up for that deficiency; the twin passenger blisters had been refitted for bulk cargo. Crew quarters remained, however, and a cockpit cupola protruded from the left blister. The ship still bore the scarred yellow eagle-and-sword markings of the old Tellarian Spinward Trading Company from the early days of the Republic. That company was long gone from the trade lanes that spanned the galaxy, no doubt absorbed into some Republican mega-contract.
The massive tower of Ackabar Port housed docking bays on nearly every level. A central core contained the heavy cargo and passenger lifts leading down into the city proper. It was the frenetic activity coming from the direction of these passenger lifts that drew the attention of the one-eyed captain of the Viridian Cyclops. Civilians and cargo personnel were streaming past, racing in panic toward other ships in other bays.
“Ackabar Ground,” called Hogus into the ether, ignoring the chattering of his wobanki first mate. The jungle-brained catman was efficient, but he was always bothering his captain with status reports, announced by the hundreds of red lights and sensor warnings flashing in constant distress across the cockpit. Hogus had learned to ignore most of the flashing lights. He already knew the ship was falling apart; it had been falling apart when he’d stolen it six years ago.
He patted the hyperspace computer. As long as that beauty held, he was good. He always patted it twice when he needed to reassure himself that it had held together before, and would hold together for at least one more run.
He flicked on the masters for the landing lights, then brought down the gears using the backup levers on the overhead control panels.
Wocks and ka-chucks reverberated throughout the battered freighter.
“Freighter landing in Bay Sixteen.” It was Ackabar Approach Control. “Please identify via voice. We are currently experiencing problems with our transponder identification system.”
“This is Captain Hogus.”
The Cyclops settled to the floor of the bay with a sudden drop, her three massive landing gears absorbing her weight, her hydraulics sensors crying out overstress and low-power warnings. Typical. Hogus stood to crane his neck back toward the rear of the freighter, visually inspecting the craft from the rear window spread in the pilot’s cupola.
“No fires,” he muttered with a smile. “This time.”
The wobanki babbled on about a malfunction in the engine vent housings. Hogus slapped at the cat, who growled back menacingly.
“Ignore it!” roared Hogus. “She always does that!”
Then to Ground Control, “Ackabar Ground, what in Tarkedes is going on here? It’s like the Festival of Callus without all the drinking. I’m half expecting to see a Dolomian bull goring people to death with one of its heads!”
A bullitar chasing civilians was the only explanation he could come up with for why everyone was running. As though this were all just some ancient festival of revelry known only to the arcane histories of this particular backwater. As though every port to an old smuggler like him was in a state of perpetual festival.
But the words that came from Approach Control froze Captain Hogus’s blood.
“Republic problems.”
The abrupt message conveyed everything.
Hogus knew, at that very minute, that everyone was doing exactly what he was considering doing right now. Dumping everything and getting the hell off port and into a takeoff climb, with the nav computer crunching jump solutions for anywhere but here. Sure, Ackabar was technically a Republic protector
ate, but it was deep into the outer rim. Practically the galaxy’s edge. The Republic couldn’t do much out here. Hadn’t since the Yranian Revolt. Before that, even.
The wobanki chattered. Clearly he was all in favor of putting the gears back up and preparing for an emergency takeoff. They hadn’t seen any Republican corvettes in orbit, but the Legion usually showed up first in drop ships to take control. Then the big corvettes jumped in and set up the blockade. No traffic in or out until all tariffs were paid in full. And warrants executed. Of course.
Hogus had at least sixteen warrants that he knew of.
“Wait just a minute,” he mumbled, rubbing his jowly, unshaven chin. “Just wait a minute.” He was thinking. Then he was unbuckling his considerable girth and climbing out of the captain’s seat in the tight cockpit. He set the auxiliary power inducers to standby. “Might need those,” he muttered. He cycled the masters and set them to standby as well.
Down the main corridor of the Cyclops he thundered, his blaster banging his beefy leg. The wobanki was still babbling neurotically from the cockpit.
“Well then, get out on another ship! There’s money to be made here!” Hogus shouted over his shoulder.
“Captain!”
It was a small voice. A high-pitched soprano. And it brought him to a dead stop. The girl had that effect on him. Commanding him. He mindlessly obeyed because… He didn’t know why. He just knew that he was helpless, and that he hated it. He didn’t work for her. She was just some patrician brat from a family that wasn’t so patrician anymore.
Then he remembered his transport contract was paid, which meant he was done with her. She was no longer his problem. Ignoring her, he took off running toward the back of the ship, though he knew she and her damned bot were following him.
“Captain!”
Demanding.
Authoritative.
