Turning Point (Galaxy's Edge Book 7)

by Jason Anspach

  “Let’s clear the warehouse first,” said Chhun. “Don’t shoot unless you ID the target or you have to.”

  Rifles up, the team crept through the warehouse, their visors scanning for heat signatures or any other sign of where the target might be. Each man moved down an aisle that on closer inspection revealed terrible clues about what this warehouse had been used for.

  “Dude, there’s a pile of decapitated heads here,” said Masters.

  Chhun saw much the same. Zhee heads fixed in grotesque death stares, along with some humans and a few other species. His gaze rested on a simple handheld boring drill with sticky-looking spots of blood on the handle. Pieces of flesh and hair filled the grooves of the drill bit.

  “Lights ahead,” Fish called out.

  “Go in slow,” Chhun reminded his team.

  They emerged from their aisles and gathered outside of a walled partition built within the warehouse. Its door stood slightly ajar—probably where the two zhee they’d dispatched had left from.

  This might be it. Chhun adjusted his rifle to his shoulder and fought to push the butterflies in his stomach all the way down. Calculating, relying on his training, he positioned himself to take the point position.

  “It’d be nice to have a crawler bot that could look first,” Fish said as Chhun stood poised at the door.

  Masters and Bear were taking care to lift the door as they opened it further, so as not to allow any squeaky hinges to give them away.

  “Or toss in some ear-poppers first,” added Masters.

  The door was open.

  “Neither of those are an option,” Chhun said. They had taken no bots when they’d gone down to relieve the QRF, and they couldn’t risk any premature noise. “On me.”

  He burst into the room.

  It was dingy, with splattered walls and silt-like dust everywhere. A drop cloth was suspended at one end of the room, with portable lighting shining on the black background. In its center, the zhee war crest—a kankari dagger encircled by their alphabet—was prominent. A holocam was set up on a tripod, with no indicator light suggesting it was recording, and was pointed at a chair.

  In the chair was the Republic pilot—the one who had been beaten and carried through the violent mobs at the start of the day. He was dead. Covered in lacerations with a great pool of blood beneath his feet, spilling down from the chair, staining it, making what remained of his tattered flight uniform a sopping brown rag.

  A single zhee, not the target, looked up from his macabre work in surprise. He had been sawing away the pilot’s head.

  Nanoseconds turned into infinities. The target was not here, but this was certainly the place. Chhun’s first instinct was to shoot. A quick double-tap that would drop the donk. Stop it from desecrating Chhun’s fallen brother. But… the noise.

  In a fluid motion, Chhun let his rifle fall to his side, resting on its sling. He reached behind his back to feel for his Kublaren tomahawk—the gift from Masters—and sent the weapon spinning end over end toward the zhee butcher. The blade sank directly between the alien’s eyes, nearly cleaving its head in two. The rest of the kill team surged into the room as the donk fell to the floor dead.

  A questioning phrase in the language of the zhee came from an adjoining room. An aged zhee peered through a doorway to look inside. Its eyes went wide with shock. It looked stunned. Afraid.

  Victory Squad’s HUDs identified a positive match to the VIP.

  Bum Kali brayed in terror as he turned and ran.

  “That’s our guy!” shouted Fish. He ran headlong after the fleeing zhee.

  Chhun and the team followed, chasing Bum Kali through a series of rooms. The target was running in front of two armed zhee warriors, who used their backs as shields and fired blindly at the pursuing Dark Ops team over their shoulders. Blaster bolts sizzled between the pursuing legionnaires, kissing the walls with black scorch marks and sending overhead lights into showers of glass and sparks.

  The maze of partitioned halls and rooms ultimately led back into the main warehouse. One of the two zhee stopped to turn and send direct fire at the kill team. Fish dropped him almost immediately, then bolted ahead. In the cavern of the warehouse, new sounds came to the legionnaires over their buckets’ audio receptors. Movement and running and the wild, vicious screams of more zhee.

  Masters got a clear shot at Bum Kali’s remaining guard and took him down. But a new force of zhee was seeking to intercept. About ten armed donks were running to place themselves between their great leader and the kill team that sought him.

  Victory Squad fired on the pack, killing most before they could effectively aim. But one kept running, holding something in its clawed hand the legionnaire HUDs identified as a detonator.

  Fish was closest. He let his weapon fall to his side and ran full speed at the zhee, spearing him with an open field tackle. Fish and the zhee disappeared in an explosion that threatened to cave in chests and sent every being in the room hurtling to the ground.

  Chhun was the first to stagger to his feet. He pursued Bum Kali, teetering from side to side like a cantina drunk participating in a foot race. The zhee were all caught up in the blast, and what was left of Fish lay on the ground for Chhun to sprint over and past. Kali, though stunned, was far enough from the localized suicide vest’s detonation to avoid being physically injured.

  Kali wasn’t screaming now. He was only running. Trying to reach the outside. To find a place, a home, to disappear to. A safe house or tunnel where he could escape. Chhun’s body was reorienting. He was running in a straight line again. His vision narrowed so that Kali was all he could see.

  He sprinted, leapt, and came crashing down on top of the zhee warlord. Placing a knee on the donk’s neck, he roughly pulled his arms back and secured them with synth-wire before Bum Kali had a chance to grab for his knife—or a detonator switch of his own.

  Masters and Bear arrived. They hauled the protesting, vitriolic Bum Kali up, and promptly silenced him with an isolation hood—but not before Bear sent a massive fist into the zhee’s gut. “Lousy zhee bastard.”

  Chhun panted for air, breathing in the oxygen-enriched supply his bucket now fed him. He looked back at the carnage. At the horrible, violent remains of his brother. He looked at what was left of Fish and he felt… nothing. And it terrified him.

  “Major Owens,” he called over the comm, still somewhat breathless. “Target acquired. Requesting shuttle exfiltration.”

  26

  Task Force Whirlwind Assault Carrier Group

  Fortress Gibraltaar

  The main engine of the Hurricane was still smoking high above the aft cargo deck ramp of the assault carrier. Repair crews were up there with firefighting equipment, attempting to repair and control the damage at the same time. Beneath the massive sprawl of the carrier, within the forgiving shade of that long hot day, the bodies of the dead were being laid out. Wounded, critical supplies, weapons, and secure items were being offloaded and carried across the sands to the two sister carriers.

  In the distance, across the sands, lay a burnt-out drop ship. Men still stood around it, looking at it, or perhaps just making sure nothing of value was left.

  Sergeant Major MakRaven arrived at the body collection point aboard a small sled he had commandeered. Driving the sled was a legionnaire from a platoon that had been all but wiped out. The man had taken off his bucket, or it had been lost in the fighting. The sergeant major had his own bucket resting on his knee. The cool late afternoon wind that came out of the Ankalor wastes tossed his white hair and made his long drooping mustache flutter in the breeze. His eyes were tired, and his jaw was set firmly. He looked old. Old like some statue carved long ago, and forgotten in all the years since.

  On the back of the sled lay bodies. Among them PFC Huzu and Captain Besson.

  The driver pulled in close. Row upon row of dead legionnaires—shot, stabbed, or blown up—had been laid out the sands, hands folded over their chest plates, helmets, when they had them, staring s
kyward.

  A duty officer approached the sled, and the sergeant major stepped tiredly out of it.

  “Who you got, Sergeant Major?”

  MakRaven walked around the sled and handed the duty officer a tablet. “Here’s their pertinents, Staff Sergeant. Or at least all the info and records as far as I could pull off their buckets’ microchips. Some of it was compromised due to the condition of their bodies. But there’s enough for the count and the records.”

  The sergeant major and the driver unloaded the bodies and laid them down in a line next to all the others.

  From out across the desert another detail was coming in from the wounded bird down on the sands out there. They were carrying the general. As they got closer, the sergeant major heard the whispers of who it was they were bringing in, and he called everyone to attention. They saluted as the legionnaires laid the general down next to Huzu. Besson was on the other side of the private.

  For a long moment the sergeant major held the salute. And then, suddenly, with a quick snap, he dropped his hand. The rest of the legionnaires did the same, and resumed their work.

  “Ah, hell,” said the sergeant major, staring at the face of the dead general. It was the face of a young captain he’d once known. “I’m too old for this anymore,” he sighed to no one in particular.

  The wind picked up, blowing sand across the dead, and the sun continued its slow burn down behind cruel and jagged mountains.

  The sergeant major stood there. Remembering everything that had once been. When he was young. And a legionnaire.

  “Private First Class Huzu?” said a voice from behind the sergeant major. “Is that one Huzu?”

  The sergeant major turned, seeing another legionnaire NCO.

  “It was,” he said.

  “I just got a ping on his armor. I was his platoon sergeant over with the Two-Nine. We lost him during the battle.”

  “Well,” said the sergeant major tiredly, “I found him. Don’t worry, Sergeant. He gave a good account of himself. You trained him well. He didn’t forget nothin’. KTF all the way.”

  “Good,” said the man softly. And then bent down on one knee to touch Huzu’s bucket. “Good,” he said again to himself.

  The sergeant major could tell that the platoon sergeant, a creature as tough as nails, and a kind of father all at once, was hurting. But the two of them said nothing, and the wind continued its efforts to bury the dead in the sand. As though it, too, were sorry for all that had ever happened. As though it were offering the only grace it could provide.

  “Who was PFC Huzu, Sergeant?” asked MakRaven.

  The kneeling man just shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse and husky.

  “Just some kid who wanted to be a legionnaire,” he whispered.

  MakRaven heard that. Knew it. Had seen it more times than he could remember. Some kid from all the worlds of the galaxy, showing up scared and determined to be the one percent of the one percent of the one percent. Something honorable. A warrior without peer. He himself must have been that kid. Long ago.

  Then the old man he had become, who had seen all the things he had seen, spoke.

  “Well…” he said. “He definitely was that. He definitely was a legionnaire.”

  ***

  Aboard the Mercutio, Karshak Bum Kali, Grand Warlord of the Tribes, Most High Servant of the Four, Defender of the Pack, and Devout Disciple of the Thousand Cuts, was brought in under guard, shackled by ener-chains.

  There was a confident sneer on his lips. His zhee eyes, normally baleful and soulless, burned with a fierce anger and naked contempt. Even though he was in chains, and captured, it was clear to all he was in command. He was great in a galaxy full of less than average.

  He was brought into a large room deep in the belly of the Mercutio. Possibly close to the reactor. Or the hangar decks. Bum Kali didn’t know much about the inner workings of a Republic super-destroyer, but it was clear this was not the bridge.

  There was nothing but a chair. Most of the deck was cloaked in darkness.

  “Sit,” ordered one of the legionnaires over the armor’s audio. It was like listening to a soulless ghost calling from somewhere in hell. Even so, these men were much less fearsome than the monsters who had captured him and killed his honor guard. He did not fear, now that he was aboard the ship.

  Bum Kali gazed about as though he’d heard nothing from anyone. He had no intention of sitting. Or doing anything he was ordered to do by lesser beings. He knew exactly how to play this game. He’d been a prisoner of the Republic before. For many years in fact. And he had powerful friends.

  The legionnaire struck him savagely in his bulbous gut with the butt of his N-4. It was quick and powerful, like an automatic jackhammer springing to sudden and impressive life.

  Other legionnaires walked forward and helped the struggling Grand Prince of the Pavilion of Heaven into the simple chair within the belly of the Mercutio.

  Out of the darkness two figures walked into the bare blue light thrown from overhead.

  Legion Commander Keller, still in his dress uniform, unshaven. He looked tired. And cold. Dead cold. The man next to the Legion commander was a colonel. Bum Kali did not recognize him, but standing beside the Legion commander, the colonel seemed the event horizon of warmth and mercy.

  For a long moment Keller stared at the gasping Glorious Hunter of the Grodan Wastes. Master of a Hundred Thousand Suns, and the Inheritor of the Eternal Vigilance of the Zhee Herds. His look seemed unaware of all the titles Karshak Bum Kali had acquired during his long and violent rise to power. Or perhaps he simply did not care.

  Bum Kali collected himself. He remembered who he was and how much power he really possessed. Remembered all the influence he had acquired within the House of Reason. Far more than this pathetic soldier—no, civil servant—he was being forced to deal with.

  “Let me tell you, Legionnaire,” he spat with huffy disgust, “what exactly happens to me next. First… I am a political prisoner. And in accordance with the Sharlay Conventions established by the House of Reason, you are to treat me with kindness and respect due all species in the galaxy. I am to be afforded good food, clean water, a bed, safety, and access to counsel and the holo-webs without constraint or overwatch. Section 590.003.03 defined within the Sharlay Conventions grants me these rights. I am no longer an enemy combatant. I am a prisoner of conscience. And I wish to invoke sanctuary. Meaning… you should set me free now or face years in court and loss of rank. These, of course, are all enforced vigorously by the House of Reason. Even against the Legion. But you know this well, don’t you, you pig dog?”

  Keller showed no response to this. In fact, no one moved. Not the Legion guard. Not the colonel. And definitely not Keller.

  Bum Kali continued. He had cowed them, and now he warmed to the next phase of his demands.

  “But, Legionnaire, I am not finished with you. Of course I am not so foolish as to think you will release me now. You will in time, yes. And of course I will return to the battlefield. I promise to kill you all once I am set free.”

  Bum Kali smiled, knowing that this statement could not be used against him in trial. Because of the situation. Because he was under duress. And even then, he did not believe even a trial would happen.

  “This angers you, does it not?” he said. “It is destined. The House of Reason will save me from you, Legionnaire. And someday I will repay this insult by personally administering the thousand cuts to one of your brothers.”

  Bum Kali awaited a response. When none came, he pushed further, almost dreaming of some breakdown that he could boast and laugh about in years to come. “You see what has happened? You won today. Yes. But did you really, Legionnaire? Did you really? No. You did not.”

  Bum Kali shifted in his chair. Leaning forward to express just how much he was enjoying this. This, too, was a kind of thousand cuts for him to give to his new victims, his captors.

  A pleasant cruelty.

  “You will have your
way. You will make my home a military district. And… do you know what that will do? Do you, Legionnaire? Well, we will shoot you from buildings. Blow you up alongside roads. Blow up your citizens inside the Green Zones. You will die trying to keep our martyrdom sleds out of your bases. We will take your lives, your limbs, your very souls. We will make your children orphans, and your widows will lament that there ever was a Legion.”

  Bum Kali laughed. “And all that is until the Republic comes. For they will come… for us. Do not suppose me to be a fool and think that this is what the House of Reason desired for Ankalor. You have sealed your fate. You, Legion Commander, have ended the Legion.

  “In time, they will become our slaves. Some may even find a way into the lesser harems. And all the while the House of Reason will paint you as the oppressors, and us as the victims. That is what’s coming your way, Legionnaire. You will regret today. I promise you that. Every death. Every report. Twenty legionnaires killed by suicide bomber. A convoy of sleds shattered along the road during a night patrol. For years to come, you will read the reports of your little brothers being killed. And I want you to know now… It’s all your fault, Commander.”

  Abruptly Bum Kali leaned back in his chair, enjoying the seat now. It felt to him like a throne.

  “My pack brothers will rise from their chains. The House of Reason will see to it. We are a noble and ancient culture that needs to be protected… from you, Legionnaire. Our contribution to the galaxy is immeasurable. What have you given but pain and suffering to the races of the galaxy? You might find this hard to believe, but you are more hated than the zhee. To all the lesser races, you are the ones everyone hates. Do you believe that? Because it is the truth.”

  Bum Kali stopped, satisfied that his last attack had somehow been the cruelest.

  Keller stepped forward now. In the cold light of the ship’s belly, his face looked like the face of a serial killer who didn’t care about anything or anyone. It was the face of reality. Looking down on the zhee, he spoke.