Turning Point (Galaxy's Edge Book 7)

by Jason Anspach

  “What is it?”

  “Hand it over,” Exo repeated, an edge to his voice.

  “Relax, pal.” Keel said, tossing the case to Exo, who caught it with both hands. “Maydoon’s hand? Or is it some secret weapon of your space wizard boss?”

  Exo sighed. “It’s the hand.”

  Keel nodded glumly. “Thought I’d run off with it and leave you and your boys behind?”

  Exo didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said that that was exactly what he was worried about.

  “I don’t know about your little rebellion,” Keel began before stopping himself. “Sorry. Your little empire. But as long as you’re willing to do the right thing by me… we don’t have a problem.”

  Exo kept his look hard, but then relented, nodding slowly. “Yeah. All right. KTF.”

  Keel blew out his breath in a laugh. “Sure. KTF. Legion-not-Legion. All that. Stick with me—trust me—and we’ll all be fine.”

  Voices shouted orders and warnings from around the corner, and heavy footsteps echoed down the now-abandoned streets of the bazaar.

  “Mids are coming,” Exo said, setting the case on the ground and priming his blaster pistol, freshened with a new charge pack.

  “Yup,” said Keel, casually looking at the side of his blaster pistol.

  “So don’t you think we ought to get some cover or duck down an alley?”

  The whining roar of a starship moving through low atmosphere began to fill the streets. Keel smiled as the Indelible VI raced along the avenue, strafing the advancing mids with a furious barrage of blaster cannon fire that utterly decimated the advancing soldiers. And when it reached the barricade itself, it sent the waiting vehicles to the scrap pile. Exo let out a long, awestruck whistle.

  Keel looked around. The patrons in the bazaars crowded the darkened streets and alleys, as if afraid to come out into the sunlight. More likely, they were worried about what Keel and Exo might do to them.

  The Six pulled around and slowed, rotating its ramp-side to face Keel. The ramp lowered, and pieces of paper and debris flew away with the ash from the wreck. The fires consuming the sled bucked and waved from the disturbance of the incoming repulsor engines.

  “You coming?” Keel shouted to Exo. “Or do you wanna wait for your shock trooper pals to come get you?”

  Exo hesitated, then shouted back, “I’ll go up with you.”

  The two men boarded the ramp, and the ship lifted off. Keel and Exo held onto the mechanical struts that served to raise and lower the ramp they stood on and looked down at the swirling smoke and carnage-wracked streets below. As they gained altitude, the bazaar’s patrons emerged from the shadowy streets, running toward the ruin in a mad dash to get their hands on the choicest pieces of salvage left behind.

  11

  The Carnivale

  Utopion

  X sat back in his seat, surrendering himself to gravity more than easing himself in. He let out a sigh, scanned the report on his datapad one last time, then tossed it onto his desk. The datapad made a particularly loud smack on impact.

  X sighed. How could this have happened? How could he not have been aware of it until it was too late?

  The datapad lay face down on the desk. X eyeballed it from beneath an arched eyebrow. It had made an awfully loud smack. He tilted the thin slice of technology up, just enough to see the screen. It wasn’t cracked. He let it back down. Gently this time.

  His hand went out, reaching for a cat that was not there. He needed it to be there. Needed for something soft and tactile to exist. To make itself available to him in times such as these. Impossibly hard times.

  He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared.

  These words, X knew, had proven their truth innumerable times since they had first been uttered in the ancient times. The proverb was one that X had lived and breathed. He was ever prepared, and ever patient.

  There had been surprises, sure. Chaos and randomness could never be fully accounted for. But in this three-fronted war that was developing between Legion, Republic, and—X scoffed despite himself—empire, X had believed that the lines were drawn in such a way that he could view the game board and see the next move.

  But now, the Legion had somehow—and the somehow was something he bloody well wanted to know—gotten word of the secret location of this Goth Sullus’s chief general. A man named Nero. A man who, if Legion Commander Keller was to be believed, was someone else entirely. A player. Someone whom the higher-ups in the Legion would all know. Would have, at one point, called a friend.

  And now the Legion had him. Sullus did not. And X, miserable fool, you just urged the Legion to strike at the zhee and topple the House of Reason. Though it certainly seemed like they had already made that decision prior to your speech. Yes. It very much felt like they were only giving you a polite listen.

  It had also seemed, in his meeting with Legion Commander Keller, that the Legion’s Dark Ops knew more about Goth Sullus than he did.

  But then, he admitted to himself. You don’t know much of anything about Goth Sullus. Or his fleet. Or what he wants.

  X jotted down a note to himself, with real ink on thick vellum, to see about increasing the Carnivale’s influence in Dark Ops. That had been a task left undone for too long.

  So… now… it seemed that the Legion was poised for victory. The zhee would fall swiftly and hard. There was no doubting that. With Keller’s carefully selected admirals and generals, with their sympathetic navies, armies, and marines, they would annihilate Ankalor the moment the zhees’ Republic-supplied planetary shield was brought down.

  And what then?

  How would the galaxy react to a conquering Legion that had, only months previously, allowed themselves to be swollen with an officer corps of appointed lackeys? How would the galaxy react to a Legion using its substantial military might to clean up—with extreme violence of action—the mess that the Republic’s government had caused?

  The mid-core would probably be all right. Life might or might not change. If anything, they’d be pleased to see the core world elites being put in their place; after all, they’d long clamored for just such an outcome in their clandestine support of the bumbling Mid-Core Rebellion.

  But the core would be a different story. Those worlds willing to fight—not that there were more than a handful of those—would do so. And those unwilling to touch a weapon themselves would nevertheless be sure to bring in every mercenary with a love of money and a blaster to spare. The Senate had already made steps in that direction by introducing the legislation to arm the zhee. The House of Reason had seen that as… reasonable.

  And those poor blokes on the edge, X thought to himself. What of them?

  Same war. Different name.

  By X’s estimation, it would mean a decades-long civil war. At a minimum. With two governments taking turns proclaiming themselves to be the true Republic. Of course, only one of them would have the Legion. But was that a good thing? There were too many variables. So much that could go awry. What if the Legion refused to relinquish power this time? What if, in defeating the Republic and this laughable toddler’s empire of Goth Sullus, the Legion itself became the real empire?

  X didn’t like it. Maybe it would go well. But usually these things did not.

  So how to prevent events from going where X believed they would go?

  He flipped over his datapad and examined the screen. As if, perhaps, it might contain some new information. Some new way of doing what needed to be done. But it failed to provide even a distraction he might use to put off what came next.

  X straightened himself and entered a very secure, very secret, and very off-limits comm key.

  A holographic projection of Delegate Orrin Kaar of the House of Reason appeared before X in one-sixteenth scale. X thought he picked up on something like surprise, but the savvy politician quickly assumed an expression of delicate, careful concern. X knew that his own projection was sitting somewhere in Kaar’s
office. That it had sat there before the delegate chose to accept the call.

  “This is Delegate Kaar. I’m sorry, who is this?” He spoke as though he were taking an unexpected call from a courtesy comm.

  Kaar came across as a kindly man thriving in that gap between middle age and doddering senility. A man who expressed in his personage an understanding wrought from decades of experience, with eyes that promised tested wisdom to those willing to listen. The sort of man who had accomplished much but was not yet done. The sort of man who compelled those in his presence to join him for one last ideal.

  X almost apologized for disturbing him. For reaching him at this supposedly secret key reserved for emergencies. Kaar was good. So very, very good. But X resisted, allowing a silence to fall between the two men.

  “Well then,” Kaar said, still congenial, but with a smile that hinted at annoyance. “This is a private key.” He moved to turn off his comm.

  “Delegate Kaar,” X said, blinking first. “We do actually know one another. And as you no doubt see from my transmission credentials, I serve the Republic through Nether Ops.”

  Kaar gave a thoughtful look, as though trying to remember. “I’m sorry. I simply do not recall. What is it you need my assistance with?”

  “It was at a Security Council briefing,” X said, wishing to press the issue and not allow himself to assume a position of lesser import or authority. This would raise the delegate’s hackles. That was the plan. “The zhee and MCR planned to destroy the House of Reason with a stolen Republic corvette. One of my agents here at the Carnivale was embedded with the rebels.”

  Kaar’s face darkened. “Do not presume my acquaintance simply because you were required to explain how your reckless and sloppy work endangered the seat of this government.”

  X sat in silence. He had an answer, of course. But Kaar didn’t care for answers or reasons. He was flexing his considerable political muscle. Showing X just how insignificant he was. And X, for his part, was happy to oblige.

  “Perhaps you’re calling to bring more dark tidings?” Kaar pressed on unbidden—and X knew he had him where he needed him. “What is it this time? Has the Carnivale discovered that the attack at Tarrago was done by a new group of rebels that they just happened to supply with the necessary ships and weaponry? Did you only have to stand by and watch them destroy the Seventh Fleet and take Tarrago and its moon in order to find this out? Is that not an accurate summation of the ridiculous actions of the Carnivale? Is that not the reason your department is the laughingstock of Nether Ops?”

  X quelled a rising desire to protect his ego and pride. His goal here wasn’t to be victorious in a pissing contest. And… winning a battle of egos was rarely without consequence. This call was for the long-term benefit of the Republic. And… the galaxy.

  “Delegate Kaar,” X said, doing his best to sound both confident and subservient, “the fog of war has made the best-laid plans into tragedy… in hindsight.”

  Kaar grumbled as though he wasn’t listening. “Set back relations with the zhee by years…”

  “It is relevant that you mention the zhee,” X said. “What men like you and I must ever and always do is to make the best decision with the information we have available. I know that is what the House of Reason has done in its arming and equipping of the zhee. But… what if the zhee were taken off the game board before you were afforded the opportunity to use them?”

  Kaar fixed his attention on X. Seeing him with an intent and purpose for the first time. “What do you mean?”

  “Delegate Kaar, I have information you’ll want to hear…”

  ***

  Stealth Shuttle Night Stalker

  Ankalor

  Major Owens walked down the center aisle of the sleek stealth shuttle—or rather, his holographic projection did. The major himself was still safe aboard the Mercutio, four hours away from reaching Ankalor with the rest of the Legion fleet. The six men of Kill Team Zenith lined the walls of the shuttle, three on each side, strapped into their jump seats with buckets on and kitted out to do some damage. In the seventh seat, the commander’s seat, was a Republic Army crewman, one loyal to the ideals and authority of the Legion. He wore a flight helmet with a black, opaque-looking visor going down to his nose.

  A momentary sense of déjà vu struck Owens—a memory of a mission he’d once undergone using Republic combat sleds. It flashed through his mind like a passing current on a stream. It had been a long time since he’d driven in a sled, or a stealth shuttle. The interiors of the two vehicles were remarkably similar. Whether that was a testimony to some Republic engineer’s ability to get as much out of R&D as possible, or the result of a bureaucratic desire for one-size-fits all, Owens didn’t know.

  The chief difference was that this shuttle had been modified to place a rotating N-80 blaster at the rear door ramp. Owens loved when the N-80s, most commonly equipped on buzz ships, spat out their special brand of hellfire. An N-80 was essentially eight N-50 barrels taped together and spinning to unleash a near-constant stream of blaster fire. They ripped apart the air and the enemy alike. Its inclusion required that most of the bay that would typically be used for speeders was converted to supply the power needed to keep the beast running.

  Far below the N-80, the shuttle, and Kill Team Zenith lay the city of Ankalor. The shuttle was maintaining a distant, undetectable, synchronous orbit, waiting for night to fall on the zhee city that protected the planetary shield generator. The planet was Ankalor, too. Ankalor was everything to the zhee who lived there. It was the planet, the city, and every village and hamlet in between. A traveler’s nightmare even without the locals looking to gut you, fillet you, and grind your bones into an aphrodisiac powder.

  “Legion base in the Ankalor Green Zone says that all is quiet,” Owens said, his holographic image flickering as it moved through the outstretched leg of one of the legionnaires of Zenith Squad. “Quiet for the zhee, I mean. Bring that shield generator down and get back into orbit before daylight. The hammer’ll be here to drop on them before the donks get the chance to order new parts.”

  “You heard the man,” hollered Captain Drayus, the leader of Zenith Squad. “Donks ain’t gonna get a pile of weapons and not try to use ’em on the rest of the galaxy. Ain’t nobody that stupid, ’cept the House of Reason. Now I wanna see each one of you kelhorns ready to KTF once we get planetside.”

  “Ooah!” shouted the Dark Ops legionnaires with him.

  Trident, a legionnaire Owens had grown to like while spending time on Deep Space Supply Station Nine, loosened his vibro-knife from its sheath. “Keep these handy if a zhee gets in close. Donks love knives.”

  Revo, newly promoted to sergeant and the junior man on the team, thumped his chest, patting his own knife. “Then the donks are gonna love it when I shank their shaggy asses with this one.”

  “Never pass up the opportunity to get a knife kill,” said Drayus, looking at the holographic image of Owens. “Ain’t that right, Major?”

  “Ooah, Mal.” Owens stood still a moment. “All right, Zenith. Just wanted to see you all face-to-face before the op began. I know you’ll do the Legion proud down there.”

  “Or die tryin’,” grunted Trident.

  12

  Chief Warrant Officer Della Cassius felt himself rocking in his pilot’s seat as his shuttle skipped through the highest reaches of Ankalor’s atmosphere. He quickly scanned all he could from the shuttle’s cockpit window and then glanced down at his instrument panel. All was clear. No ships detected by passive sensors.

  “How we hiding?” he asked his co-pilot, Warrant Officer Medgar “Hot Plate” Winnows.

  Hot Plate tapped a dimmed screen of black with red letters, causing it to brighten. He scrolled through a series of readings—detected scanning devices, their strength, and point of origin.

  “Scanners are showing separate readings from Republic UI-D33 and four different band waves of TQ early detectors. Probably aftermarket stuff used by the zhee. Legion’s peer
-scan showing strong but negligible chance of detection.”

  Cassius had never been spotted on a mission, and he’d flown hundreds of them for Dark Ops as a part of a special army wing known as the Gothic Serpents. The leejes might not have a high opinion of Republic Army in general, but they appreciated the Serpents’ flying enough to know better than to call them basics. Of course, that didn’t mean they didn’t still get called featherheads. In the end it was about professionalism. If you proved to the Legion that you were capable and professional, the branch distinctions didn’t matter much.

  “How negligible?” Cassius asked his co-pilot.

  Hot Plate sounded a wordless protest against having to answer.

  “How negligible?” repeated Cassius. “You were the one who made the bet.”

  Hot Plate let a long beat sit between the two of them before reporting, “Point oh-oh-one-nine.”

  “I’m sorry,” crowed Cassius, a smile showing in the half of his face not covered by his flight helmet. “I’m bad with numbers, Winnows. You know that. Is ‘point oh-oh-one-nine’ more than dot-oh-oh-three or is it less?”

  Hot Plate hung his head. “Less.”

  “Okay, that’s what I thought. But you said the Legion sensors on Ankalor would hit oh-three, easy. So when you said oh-oh-one-nine, I got confused…”

  Looking over at Cassius, Hot Plate said, “Are you finished?”

  “Not at all. This right here?” Cassius said, not taking his hands off the controls or his eyes from what he was doing, “This is a predictive indicator of the next four hours of your life until we get back to the station.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “And when we get back to the station…”

  “Do I really have to wipe my entire section of the list?” Hot Plate asked. “I thought you said you like all music.”

  “All music except for that.” Cassius smiled. The two men shared a playlist for use on long flights, a mix of their favorite music. Unfortunately—as far as Cassius was concerned—Hot Plate adored the crooning, nasal styles of twanging honk-tune musicians like Prettis Mahler, singing depressing songs about lost speeders, drunk and cheating wives, and living credit to credit. “Oh, yeah,” Cassius said. “It’s all gone.”