Turning Point (Galaxy's Edge Book 7)

by Jason Anspach

  Yet Cassius didn’t emerge from that deep dark place called unconsciousness.

  So it was then that they humiliated him.

  As was their way.

  When the sled arrived deep in the no-go zones of the slums, Cassius was dragged out onto a quiet street that dead-ended in a courtyard of ruined old colonial warehouses. Down the way, two zhee children were throwing small knives at a dead cat in the gutter. They stopped to watch the Repub pilot being dragged into a dark building. The children knew they were never to go near that building. They returned to their game of knives, focusing intently on getting their throws just right. Not minding the screams coming from within the dark warehouse.

  For a time, there was nothing more. No feeds from inside the warehouse. No continuation of the important “breaking story” that was a man’s life. For two hours, there was nothing for the citizens of the Republic to be entertained by but overhead shots of the braying crowds. Two hours in which drone recon could have sent out a team to find the pilot. The Green Zone feeds showed a column of combat sleds and tanks—vehicles that hadn’t left the wire—sitting idle. Military experts, most of whom had never seen combat or served in the Legion, postulated about why that was the case. But any leej watching knew. They knew why those vehicles hadn’t moved, and they cursed the points and the Republic for it.

  Then a new holofeed came through. It starts inside the warehouse. It is a live feed, transmitted by the zhee who hold the pilot’s life in their clutches.

  The pilot is tied to a chair. One overhead, hot, white light is staring down onto his bloodlessly pale and blood-spattered face. Eye swollen shut. Left cheek caved in.

  The video records nothing about who Cassius is. Or was. It does not tell you that he is a husband. A father. A son. A brother. A friend. A neighbor. It does not tell you that he was once a kid who collected that thing we all collected that year when the galaxy didn’t seem such a dangerous place. Or that he broke his arm that summer. Or wrote a song once to a girl he loved. Or had hopes and dreams. Or was someone’s hope, someone’s dream.

  When the woman who bore him first held him and dreamed of all the things he might be one day.

  The camera records none of those things.

  It just records a man tied to chair. And it is immediately clear that something bad is about to happen. This is one of those videos that will someday—on whatever site you happen to be surfing, looking to be momentarily entertained and distracted—come with a warning.

  Beware. Graphic Content.

  Maybe it’s even blacked out.

  All you have to do is press a button on the screen, and it will allow you to see something you never wanted to. Or at least, that’s what you’ll think later when you can’t get the images out of your mind.

  You’ll wish you’d never watched.

  A large zhee comes into frame. He is wearing a black hood, so his features are hidden. But this zhee is not like all the other zhee. To him, they are inferior. To them, he is a leader. Someone to be admired. To be feared. To be obeyed. That is clear from the moment he walks into frame to stand near the captured pilot tied to the chair. Sitting beneath the glare of a lone hot white light.

  He begins to speak the zhee language.

  A translation appears at the bottom of the screen.

  “I come to you by the will of the Four. Your servant. Your pack leader. By now you will notice, my pack brothers, that the Republic has sent their Legion dogs to shoot and kill us once again. Just before dawn, one of our royal guardsmen shot down a dropship full of assassins come to slay us in silence. This”—he gestures to the bound man—“was one of them. He was sent to kill us in our sleep. And we have captured him.”

  Pause.

  The kankari knife comes out. This is the part where you should maybe turn the video off. You should stop it. You know the story. You know where this is going. You’ve seen enough dictators hanged. Or begging for their lives at their pathetic last. The Republic, and really the House of Reason, has a fun little habit of destabilizing petty potentates who end badly. Only to replace them with their own brand of tyrant. One who gives them a bigger slice of the pie.

  But don’t tell anyone that.

  “More are coming. The assassins will meet their deaths,” the large zhee says into the camera, in his own language. “In the streets. On the battlefield. In the skies above. Even now our powerful fleet is returning to deal with this menace, raining down fire and fury. And until that time I am asking you to rise up, brothers. Our ponies. Our colts. All zhee of all the tribes worshipping each of the Four are called now to the Whirlwind of the Centauro. It is time for the holiest of wars. The Centauro.”

  He turns to the pilot, who seems strangely calm given what looks certain to happen. Maybe they have drugged him. Or maybe they have beaten him to such a state that death seems a welcome escape.

  Who can say?

  When one watches these kind of videos… who really knows?

  “We have passed the place of bargaining and peace agreements that mean nothing to you. For you, for the Legion dogs attacking our palace at the rock of Kibbel Ba-Ram, there is only one kind of death that is acceptable. You have violated our ancient laws. Our rights. Our people. And this is your fate. The death of foreigners and thieves.”

  The hooded zhee says the word that indicates the technique.

  But there is no translation on screen.

  Long has the House of Reason claimed no such thing exists in such a rich, noble, and diverse culture as the zhee. And though the translation fails, the lie that it does not exist will be revealed. Scholars, and soon everyone who sees the feeds and watches the punditry, will know the word exists. And they’ll know its meaning, without needing to be told.

  Because they watched.

  Death by a Thousand Cuts.

  If it is done properly by a zhee of great standing and skilled expertise, the victim will survive each and every single pain-filled cut of the thousand.

  It takes hours.

  The last is a mercy to the pilot tied to the chair. Screaming and screaming.

  He was once someone’s dream.

  The last cut is the kindest. In a way.

  The zhee watching will take to the streets. Ready to spend the lives of others, no matter the cost, in the cause of the Four. They surge out into the maelstrom of the slums, ready to become the Centauro.

  The Holiest of Wars has begun.

  20

  Dog Company

  Fortress Gibraltaar

  As the battle entered its second phase within the trench system, beneath the mushroom cap of the base’s deflectors, First Team of the newly established Dog Company went forward to do their part in cracking the first bunker the unit had been assigned to take—a bunker they needed to take in order to reach the second ring of the trench works. But the ensuing firefight between the bunkered zhee and the leejes in First Team was merely a diversion. PFC Huzu, following Sergeant Major MakRaven and all the other legionnaires grouped into Second Team, were the main assault force. They were staging in an access trench that ran alongside the main passage to the first bunker.

  The push to take more than fifteen designated assault lanes had ramped up across the first ring. Legion counter-sniper teams had found positions in and under the base’s deflector shield, and were firing up onto the rock itself. Their objective was to knock down blaster turrets and take out any zhee snipers who tried to fire down at the advancing legionnaires in the trenches. Casualty collection points had been set up to the rear of the trenches, and medical SLICs were coming in under fire to pull the wounded out of harm’s way. The dead were stacked to wait until hostilities ceased.

  From behind the bunker’s dark firing slits, three N-50s blared forth in hot bright streams of blaster-dealt death. Legion marksmen carrying N-18s popped out from the Legion-held portions of the trench and tried to put shots through the firing slits. Traffic over the L-comm indicated they were getting kills, but of course the donks were stuffed full in there, a
nd the downloaded base plans the Legion had access to indicated there was an artery resupply corridor that could bring a lot more troops up into the bunker as casualties mounted.

  Captain Besson called in a fire support mission and got some artillery dedicated, but it did little more than leave blast marks across the duracrete surface of the trench before the bunker. Further and more extensive fire missions were denied due to the tremendous amount of requests coming in from all across the lines. In the end, there were no two ways about it. The bunker would have to be taken out head-on by breaching teams. One N-50 was more than murderous enough to knock down a company of legionnaires in armor; three was pure overkill.

  As the leejes in Second Team waited with their backs to the wall in the smaller trench, a tremendous explosion shook the duracrete all around theme. “Looks like they got theirs,” remarked Sergeant Franceschini—one of the scouts from Shadow First Platoon who’d been folded into the new Dog Company. “Must be nice.”

  “Aw, now don’t fret there, young sergeant,” said the sergeant major, winding up into one of his long-winded speeches. “You’re gonna get yourself a chance to die gloriously for the Legion any moment now. I was once on a defense at Tangor Ridge out along the zhee frontier. Whole place was filled with this plant they call Scotch broom. It’s wiry and thick and—”

  “Pushing now,” announced Captain Besson over the L-comm. Besson was leading First Team forward, broken down into a series of smaller teams, heading up the trench to grab cover and suppress the N-50s as best they could. In about two minutes, Second Team would flat-out rush the bunker from as close as the access trench could get. Then it was close in and lob explosives packs.

  While getting shot to pieces.

  “Almost time, boys. Say yer prayers,” continued the sergeant major without pity or remorse. “Any-who, we was up on the ridge and the zhee was a-comin’ out of the broom all night long, tryin’ to probe our lines. We weren’t much more than a platoon. I was a buck back then—that’s how long ago this was, if you young’uns can believe that.

  “So about dawn, I had this crazy no-account second lieutenant who was really not good for much when you came right down to it. But that don’t mean he was worthless. Because that boy was a stone cold killer. Never should’ve been an officer. That was just a waste of good shooter. But as I said, he was a straight-up no-holds-barred killer. All night long when we was supposed to be watching our sector, he just slept like he knew they weren’t comin’ for us. About dark the night before he says to me, ‘Sergeant, I’m gonna rack out. Tell me if anything happens.’ You know the type. Not a leadership bone in his body.

  “So I stand there all night waiting for the zhee to come through the wire and slit our throats, and about dawn they attack in full. ’Cept the attack is way down the line in someone else’s sector. And this LT hears the fire, gets up, and says, ‘Hey, Sergeant! They’re not comin’ through this way, so let’s counterattack their flank and roll ’em up.’ So of course I remind the officer that we’re a-’sposed to just hold the line in case they come through this way. Two minutes later he orders me out of the trench and goes running off down into the broom.

  “Well, for the next ten minutes it was just the two of us runnin’ around in there killin’ zhee. They had no idea we was even in among them. Hell, lookin’ back at it, we were most liked to get ourselves shot by our own up on the side of the volcano. Anyway, that boy was a killer. Killed a whole bunch of ’em. Stopped the whole zhee strike dead in its tracks. And there was a lot of ’em. They got freaked out and ran off after a while. But if they woulda kept pushing, they mighta broke through our line and got at those colonists. So he was right about that. In fact he was right… right up till he got killed in there.”

  “Killed?” said a legionnaire.

  “Thirty seconds, boys. Blasters up. Full tilt and get them bang bangs in close. Once you let ’em go, get down and throw up covering fire. So yeah, the LT… he was kilt deader’n stone. We got surrounded, and the zhee were shootin’ into the broom from all around us. Killed the LT and wounded me. They stabbed me real quick on the way outta town but didn’t cut nothin’ on me but a bit of muscle. We was dry on charge packs by then anyway.

  “Couple a minutes later some of our own came in and pulled us out. Thought I was dead that time. Might be today from the look of it, with how big a show the zhee are puttin’ on. But I must say: I’ve lived a good long life, unlike most of you. And so, for those of you about to die… I am much sorrier for you than myself. You have not been afforded the opportunity to die as many times as I have.”

  MakRaven fell silent. No one said a word.

  The order to assault came in from Captain Besson.

  Huzu and the other legionnaires leapt into action. They streamed out of the secondary access trench and into the main one that was being guarded by the three murderous N-50s. They ran right toward the bunker, N-4 in one hand, satchel charge in the other.

  The corridor was filled with blaster fire from all directions. The N-50s opened up in a hurricane of bright red fire, blasting the duracrete around the legionnaires to chips. Twenty meters ahead of the surging men was a holographic line, visible only in the Legion HUDs, showing the range they had to reach to lob the explosives for effect at the bunkers.

  Bolts seared the air around Huzu as his legs pumped hard to take him to the line so he could deploy his explosive. The leej next to him outpaced him, only to be taken down by a blaster bolt. Huzu had no idea if any of the other leejes were even still behind him, and he expected at any second to be hit by fire and meet the same fate as the man who’d just fallen. And that final bolt, the one with his name on it, could come from anywhere; everyone was firing at everyone. From behind him, he knew that First Team and Captain Besson were pouring down as much targeted fire as they could on the slits, even popping up to provide more targets for the zhee to shoot at while the assault team hustled forward under intense N-50 fire.

  And in that moment, Huzu felt like a legionnaire. Which was all he’d ever really wanted to be. Every moment up until this one, even when he’d completed Basic, or been in other situations, had felt like a debt incurred. A debt that promised the redeemer he was indeed a legionnaire. And now, in this moment, as scared to death as he was, he knew he was good for the debt.

  And to that young boy becoming a man… that was everything the galaxy had to offer.

  Huzu stumbled and fell, thinking he must have been hit so badly he didn’t even feel it. Thinking maybe an N-50 blaster bolt had gone straight through his armor and severed his spine, denying him the ability to feel his own passing. But he disregarded that thought and crawled forward under the continuing barrage of whining blaster fire.

  Someone was screaming unintelligibly over L-comm. They were either hit or directing fire.

  Five meters to the range line. Huzu struggled forward, feeling his body become distant and useless. He wasn’t hit; it was just the fear of being hit that was trying to carry him off and make him lie down and curl up. He concentrated on working all four limbs. He crawled forward as fast as he could, dragging his battle rifle with him, forcing himself to stay here for just one more moment.

  Another leej ran past him and dove for the line, narrowly missing being hit by a concentration of N-50 fire that shifted and raked the front of the trench. The leej pulled the cord on the satchel charge and flung it forward at the bunker.

  The throw didn’t make it. The charge bounced off and landed in front of the solid bunker wall. Its explosion blew the legionnaire back past Huzu.

  Huzu reached the line marked on his HUD. He made ready to hook his own charge into the firing positions within the bunker.

  “Not just yet, son!” cried Sergeant Major MakRaven, who had crawled up next to him. Blaster pistol in hand, the NCO reached over and pulled Huzu’s arming cord.

  “Now!” he yelled.

  Huzu flung it.

  The charge disappeared behind the dark slits of the firing windows from which the zhee blaz
ed away at Dog Company.

  The N-50s stopped at once.

  And then an explosion shattered the bunker from within. Duracrete was sent flying in all directions. The explosion was so powerful it knocked Huzu’s HUD offline for a moment. Sand and grit washed over him in a powerful wave, lifting his armored body off the floor of the trench. The force seemed to squeeze every cell in his body. Even the air in his lungs, which was guarded by the armor’s self-contained breathing system, was compressed beyond reach.

  The explosion was like a massive crack in time, space, and reality. And then a dull boom that seemed to hover over the world. And Huzu thought…

  This is what it feels like to die.

  For at least a minute after he picked up his bucketed head from the floor of the trench, all he could see through the HUD was swirling smoke. Light debris rained down on his armor, unfelt and yet distantly a part of him.

  Then he heard the sergeant major laughing over the rebooting L-comm. He looked up from the raining grit and swirling dust to see the old leej sitting on his butt next to him. Slapping one knee. And laughing. Shaking with laughter.

  “Don’t get any closer’n that, does it, son?”

  ***

  First Team, with Captain Besson on point, swept the shattered remains of the destroyed bunker. Its back half looked out onto a maze of trenches running into the second ring of the defenses. Some of the battle along the flanks was visible from here, and for a moment, once Sergeant Major MakRaven had come forward, he just stood in the shadows, observing the other battles out loud over the L-comm, as was his way.

  “Looks like Wurzt’s boys are having a tough time of it over there. And from what I can see, them zhee got a pretty good crossfire going on that trench it looks like they’re supposed to take. Gonna be hell to pay for those losses.”

  He clung to the wall, deep in the shadows, and observed the other flank. Snipers were still firing down from Gibraltaar Rock into the trenches.

  “They’re all mixed in over there. Whoever’s runnin’ that show down there is runnin’ it like a ate-up point. No clear lines. Look at that! You got a leej platoon about a hair’s-breadth away and firing off at something, and they don’t even see the zhee comin’ up on their right.”