by J. N. Chaney
Sensing that Awen wasn’t going to reply and that she needed help in interpreting his meaning, he finished his quip. “Since we both know that the Jujari do not tend to talk to women of any outside species, I’m unsure why the Luma are so content to fold their hand this quickly.”
“I could say the same about you and the Republic,” she said without moving her head.
“How so?”
“The Jujari can smell a traitor by his pheromones.”
“Now, now, Awen, there’s no need for name-calling.” His voice was slick and condescending, like she was a small child to be reprimanded on the playground.
“It’s not name-calling when it’s your reputation, Ambassador. That, and I felt you should have fair warning.”
“Of what?”
“They’re going to disembowel you when I tell them to review your history of position changes,” she said with a smirk.
The ambassador laughed but with the faintest trace of apprehension. Sensing he was about to object, Awen reached into the fold of her robe and produced a microdrive. “Funny how grievances that get lost in bureaucracy still manage to find their way into the light.” She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that she’d rattled him. The tone of his next words traded superiority for authority.
“Your efforts—what are they, Awen? They’re futile. You and I both know that there is nothing—nothing—on that drive that will hold up against the Republic’s records.”
“That’s the interesting thing in all this, Ambassador. It doesn’t have to hold up to the Republic.”
“I don’t follow,” the ambassador said.
“It has to hold up to the Jujari. And that’s what you always seem to miss.”
His fists clenched. “Oh, be serious,” Bosworth seethed, spittle flying past the edges of her vision. “These savages are going to get the best deal in the galaxy. Their people will stop being murdered by their government and dying from backwater diseases. And they’ll be able to export goods for the first time in three millennia to worlds that have real wealth. Get off your high horse, Madame Emissary of the Order. You’re not ready to play with the big boys.”
Awen fought to keep Bosworth’s intimidation at bay. He was a worm—just an arrogant little worm. But despite the evidence she had, her mastery of Jujari culture, and her power in the Unity, the man made her feel small. And she scorned him for it.
Awen made to say something, but the torches around the room blew out, and a low hum emanated from somewhere behind the golden wall. It was the desert shofaree. Horns of the deep. Awen had watched the instrument played on many holo-vids smuggled off-system, but never in person. No race had the lung power or physical features to play it save the Jujari, and holo-footage didn’t do the instruments justice. Not by a long shot.
Originally used to shake their enemies—literally—before battles, the shofaree made the floor tremble. Awen looked down to see her clothing vibrate. Her body was consumed by the sound waves, her soul lifted into a dual state of wonder and fear. When the horns finally went silent, the blood wolf stepped in front of the curtain and turned his back to the gathered audience.
Awen’s heart raced. This was it.
“I’m picking up multiple frequencies,” Flow yelled over TACNET. “Ranging from four hundred hertz down to subsonic.”
“It’s gotta be ceremonial,” Magnus replied, unsure if his mic was working. He could hardly make out Flow’s voice amidst the noise. Magnus’s helmet rattled against his head, and he steadied it with a hand as he surveyed the room. The lamps and chandeliers had gone out, and only a muted version of the early-evening light filtered through the curtains. Then, as quickly as it had come on, the sound stopped.
“And here I was starting to get down to that,” Cheeks whispered, betraying the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice.
“It still doesn’t make your dance moves any better,” Mouth replied. Corporal Allan “Mouth” Franklin got his nickname because of his tendency to spout off whatever popped into his head—which usually just embarrassed the unit but occasionally made everyone laugh.
“Hey, I know we’re all hoping to score with Cheeks later tonight, but let’s keep it down until then,” Magnus reminded them. “We’ve got a job to do.” The Midnight Hunters joked when they were nervous. It was the easiest way to let off steam without literally blowing something up. Regular people wouldn’t get that—using humor when killing seemed sadistic, even maniacal. But the Hunters weren’t regular people, and for us it was just business. Still, now was not the time.
Magnus watched as Chief took center stage and faced the wide curtain. He barked and whined in a loud voice, chomping through a bunch of words in their native tongue. Magnus watched the time in his HUD, counting the seconds. After nearly a minute of rambling, Chief spread his arms, threw his head back, and cackled. All around Magnus, the rest of the Jujari warriors lifted their voices in a terrifying frenzy of demon laughter.
“Easy, Recon,” Wainwright said over general TACNET. “Easy.”
Magnus was grateful for the order because, truthfully, he wanted to shoot something. He’d been in a lot of tense
situations, but this was one for the history books. His chest was tight in anticipation of a fight.
“It’s all for show. All for show,” Wainwright assured.
The golden curtains slowly parted to reveal a single Jujari seated in an oversized cushion on a marble dais. Brightly colored fabrics spooled down from a counterpoint above him, spreading to the floor in a half circle.
“That has got to be the fattest damn dog I’ve ever seen,” Flow said over the platoon channel. The mwadim wore no sash or belt and lounged unapologetically with his belly up.
All at once, the Jujari lowered their heads and rolled them to one side in an act of deference. Interestingly, so did the Luma. Magnus shook his helmet. Why don’t you just roll over and let them maul you while you’re at it?
The mwadim nodded to the presenter, who then turned to address the pack of visitors. “The Jujari mwadim, blessed be he, welcomes you to his den,” Chief said, chewing the words as they escaped from between his fangs. “As he has gifted you with his presence on this day, what gifts do you, pack leaders of the Republic, bring of infinitely lesser worth?”
Several advisors motioned to the Republic ambassador, Bosworth. The fat man labored to lift himself from the cushion, smoothed his uniform, and approached Chief. “If it pleases the mwadim,” the ambassador said, offering a rolled parchment, “the Republic wishes to—”
Chief, dwarfing the man by half despite the ambassador’s considerable girth, snatched the scroll between two clawed digits and snarled.
Bosworth recoiled. “Uh, yes. Please accept it with… with our sincerest hopes that it procures a long and mutually beneficial relationship with the Galactic Republic.”
“He’s got to be pissing himself right now,” Cheeks said.
“I’m pissing myself for him,” Mouth replied. The two shared a nervous laugh.
“I’m moving to the left flank for a better view,” Magnus said. “The emissary’s probably up next, and I don’t have a clear view of the exchange from back here.”
“Copy that,” the Fearsome Four answered.
Slowly, very slowly, Magnus began a delicate chassé toward the left side of the room, careful not to stray too far from the platoons. He looked at Awen and then back at the ambassador, who fidgeted with his hands behind his back. If the Jujari were hungry, the man would be more than just a snack—he’d be a whole meal. Magnus smiled to himself.
Chief unrolled the scroll and reviewed its contents. Then, moving up the dais, he knelt beside the mwadim and whispered in his ear. The mwadim sat expressionlessly. If Magnus hadn’t known any better, he’d have said the Jujari leader was dead and stuffed like nothing more than a ceremonial trophy. Finally, the mwadim huffed. That was all it took. Chief turned, descended, and held the scroll aloft.
“To the Republic’s initial gesture of ten common cycles of
no taxation, one trillion credits of trade stimulus, and an outfitted Pride-class battleship”—Chief paused for effect—“the mwadim accepts.”
Whatever good cheer had spread among the Republic representatives was quickly overshadowed by the bloodcurdling cackles of the Jujari around the room. Faces blanched, and shoulders hunched. Magnus chuckled as he completed his quarter-circle route to the edge. Once there, he had a perfect side view of the platform, just in time for Chief to speak again.
“And you, Luma pack leaders—what gifts do you bring of infinitely lesser worth?”
Magnus looked to Awen. She held something small in her left hand and had begun to stand when the ambassador caught her arm. Magnus took a step forward and instantly felt movement from the Jujari around him. This was unexpected. The ambassador jerked her toward him, brushing her ear with his bloated lips.
“Looks like he’s making out with her ear,” Cheeks remarked.
“Pig,” Mouth added. “What’s going on?”
“Can’t tell,” Magnus replied, trying to decide whether to intervene. This isn’t good. But rushing the ambassador wouldn’t be a better alternative. Finally, after what seemed an interminably long time, the fat man let go. Magnus could tell Awen was spooked, frozen in a half-standing position. She swallowed, refusing to look at the ambassador.
“The Luma will not keep the mwadim waiting!” Chief barked. The room answered him with cackles that made the hair on Magnus’s neck stand up.
Finally, Awen straightened and moved toward the Jujari. Good. Keep going, little lady. Magnus didn’t care for any of the Luma’s politics, but he had to admire this woman’s bravery. Magnus wouldn’t have been caught dead in her position without his MAR30 and armor. He laughed to himself. Well, I probably would be “caught dead.”
Chief stood like a statue with his chin turned up and away, apparently unwilling to look at Awen. Still, she stood before him with something clenched in her fist. Neither party moved.
“Somebody pissed in his gravy,” Flow said over comms.
“Or maybe he just doesn’t play nice with females,” Magnus said.
Awen and Chief remained frozen. Suddenly, Awen’s companion stood up. Matteo, Magnus thought she’d called him. Again, Magnus felt the Jujari warriors shift on their feet, eager for a melee. These beasties are wound tight.
Matteo moved forward with his head bowed and stood slightly behind and to the side of Awen. Then he reached for whatever was in her hand. To Magnus’s surprise—and to Matteo’s, judging by his reaction—Awen kept her fingers clenched. Whatever it was, she was not letting it go.
The situation grew tenser as Magnus saw the mwadim lean forward. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the two Luma. A new round of cackles rose, and Chief still couldn’t bring himself to look down at either Awen or Matteo.
Matteo was urgently pleading with Awen now, and the room was growing frenetic.
“Magnus,” Wainwright called over TACNET. “What’s wrong with your asset?”
Magnus never had time to respond. A bloodcurdling howl emanated from the dais as the mwadim lurched forward and lifted his snout to the air. Magnus’s helmet’s audio sensors clamped down on the signal, but still, the sound pained his ears. Everyone in the room ducked—from Marine to Jujari, from Republican to Luma. Magnus winced and closed his eyes, hoping the display of bravado was almost over.
When the howl finally stopped, the mwadim was on all fours, facing the audience. Like the rest of his men, Magnus had just assumed the Jujari pack leader was rotund. Instead, the beast was nearly twice as large as any of the other Jujari, massive in every way.
“Let her come to Rawmut,” he growled. Matteo backed away, as did Chief.
Magnus couldn’t believe the scene in front of him. There was Awen, slender and unarmed, standing alone before the giant mwadim of the Jujari. The fragile peacekeeper of the galaxy was going toe to toe with the leader of the most violent species the galaxy had ever known.
To her credit, Awen appeared to have conquered whatever she had been wrestling with internally—whatever the ambassador had said to her. She brought the item forward and held it in the cup of her open palms. Then she ascended the dais and stopped a meter from the massive Jujari, whose fangs were as tall as her head.
“This,” she said, “is for you.”
Just then, Magnus noticed that the ambassador was seething on his cushion and pounding his thighs with his fists. Magnus pinged Wainwright. “We might have a situation here.”
“SITREP,” Wainwright demanded.
“It’s the ambassador. He’s agitated.”
“Can you get to him?”
“Doubtful,” Magnus said.
“We abide by your wisdom,” Awen continued, “as your will is perfect. However, I cannot in good conscience remain silent. I speak for your sake, Great Mwadim, no matter the cost to me.”
The ambassador was repeating something to himself, his face turning red.
“I want options, Lieutenant,” Wainwright ordered.
Magnus glanced over to see the captain step out of formation. “I’m not sure I have any, Captain. The ambassador’s going manic. Talking to himself.” Magnus looked back at Awen. Amazingly, she was still talking to the mwadim, despite the fat man’s misbehavior. But what she said next pulled the pin from the ambassador’s emotional grenade.
“Oh, Great Mwadim, this drive contains all the reasons you should be wary of the Republic’s proposed alliance.”
“Sabotage!” spat the ambassador, struggling to his feet. “Sabotage, I say! Stop her!”
Chief stepped in front of the disgruntled man. It was probably the only thing that saved Awen’s life in the end, for the ambassador had barely stood up when the first explosion detonated, and everything went sideways.
6
Awen hurtled into the mwadim’s chest then cartwheeled into a cluster of decorative urns. Her body felt like it was on fire, and she couldn’t catch her breath due to the pain. Blinking, she tried to focus on the ceiling. Her ears rang. Blood pooled in one side in her mouth, and the sharp smell of thermite bit her nose.
She heard blaster fire and screaming—so much screaming. The floor shook underneath her. From an explosion.
Explosions. We’re under attack. She had to tell the lieutenant. She tried to prop herself up, but the pain was overwhelming.
Another wave of sound and heat shoved her farther back. Small objects peppered her skin, and more pain racked her body. She was crying—she was sure of it—and she felt embarrassed. She felt exposed.
Something clutched her hand. Something big. A deep voice and hot breath rushed against her head, then the scent of burning hair.
“Guard it,” the voice said in Jujari. A warm paw pressed a cylindrical item into her hand, and another jab of pain pierced her palm. Awen heard a short confirmation trill from the item. “Never let them find it. Never let him.”
Awen smashed her eyes closed again and willed them back open. Focus. Come on, Awen! On the ground beside her lay the large face of the mwadim. A portion of his muzzle was missing, and his eyes and ears leaked blood. She could make out wet, labored breathing over the sounds of the assault.
“Swear it,” he hissed then coughed a spray of red over her. “Swear!”
“I swear it.” She wasn’t sure if it was her voice talking. Her throat burned, and it felt like someone was standing on her chest. “I swear it,” she said more confidently, but the mwadim had stopped listening.
Magnus’s first thought as he shook off the blast and moved to one knee was not for his platoon or even himself—it was for Awen. She was, after all, his mission; failing to execute his objective was not an option. What surprised him, however, was that he felt some measure of genuine concern for her despite his disdain for the Luma. Though, by the looks of his environment, there wouldn’t be many Luma left to aggravate him.
Focus, he commanded himself. OTF.
He brought his MAR30 to ready-up position as his instincts went through the OODA
loop.
Observe. TACNET was a frenzy of activity, and his helmet’s AI did its best to arrange the communications according to chain of command. Distinguishing between orders and the screams of the dying was nearly impossible. Yellow icons for wounded and red icons for killed in action lined the side of his HUD. But there was no indicator for Awen.
Men and women twirled about in the death dance, their arms flapping in a desperate effort to extinguish the fire on their skin. Even Jujari raced around, clawing, mauling, and biting, their coats alight with flames. Magnus thought to open fire on several Jujari who attacked the Luma—one of the victims had to be Awen—but he realized it was a waste of firepower since both groups of combatants were doomed. The only people he could logically defend were those who had a chance of survival: his men. Recon armor was a decent defense for this kind of incendiary assault, though it still seemed like the platoon had suffered more casualties than he could count. Awen, of course, wore only robes.
Orient. The once-ornate ballroom had become a hellhole in the blink of an eye. Fire licked every strand of fabric, which made Magnus feel as though he were standing inside the sun. Wind from outside fed the inferno until everything that could burn did burn. To his right, primary exfil looked accessible, but he didn’t have the best view. To his left was the stage and, most likely, Awen.
Decide. The warrior ethos taught that the last order was always the standing order until the objective was completed. For Magnus, that order was, Escort Emissary Awen dau Lothlinium to and from her meeting with the mwadim and protect her with prejudice. So he would find her and stay with her until she was safe or until he could no longer protect her.
Action. It was time to move, time to look for—
