by J. N. Chaney
The first explosion was disruptive, shocking the room into chaos, killing as many stationary targets as possible. It sent the message that security had been breached and put everyone in a panic. The second explosion, caused by ordnance that wasn’t set off by the first blast, was meant to insult—if you weren’t dead yet, that was your chance to die. But the third was pure evil. For anyone left who was stumbling or crawling their way to an escape—and Magnus had seen more than a few nonmilitary victims crawling toward the windows—the third blast was meant to maim, shatter, and humiliate. It said, We’ve been expecting you; we’ve been watching you. You’re not safe, and no one is getting out alive. Magnus wondered if the Republic was behind it, then scolded himself for even considering that.
But you’re nothing if not thorough, right, Magnus? Always have to go digging.
Again, his mind tried to bring up images from the Caledonian Wars, but this was still not the time to wrestle those demons to the ground.
And when will that time come?
The Republic had had its eye on Oorajee long before his time. It was the unconquerable prize, and the Republic loved a challenge. But to forfeit such a gain on the eve of acquisition seemed downright stupid. There was no way they’d risk so much after so long. The Republic had nothing to gain from such a move—unless they wanted the conflict. Magnus remembered Awen’s words from when they met: “We don’t need a war on our hands.” But by the looks of it, that was precisely what they were about to get.
Magnus wasn’t so naive as to ignore the benefits of the military-industrial complex. He knew that expansion fueled more than just egos—it really did create peace in the galaxy, at least to a point. Splick, I have a career because of it. He was one of the few who could do evil things to evil people and still sleep at night. He’d also be the last to spit on his family’s sacrifices and their tradition of military service. However, the Republic seemed to be taking an unnecessary risk on Oorajee. It was one thing to contend for peace where it was probable—even sustainable. But war with the Jujari was… his mind searched for the right word. Suicidal.
The Luma weren’t without their motives either. He’d seen what they were capable of, seen their dark arts wielded in Caledonia. And he knew they hated the Republic. Awen was no doubt the embodiment of that bias. Okay, maybe not the full embodiment—she’d clearly stood up for him. She genuinely seemed to want to make the negotiations work, though she was probably more concerned with the Jujari side of things—the Luma were all about preserving the cultures they represented, even if those cultures’ ethics were at odds with the Republic’s. Still, those bombs were not Awen’s work.
So that left a fourth party, one he couldn’t draw a bead on. It had the brutality of the Jujari, the precision of the Republic, and the stealth of the Luma. For what? The only logical conclusion was, For all of it. Magnus figured this party wanted to take down the Jujari, the Republic, and the Luma in one move. But such an idea was crazy, and he felt embarrassed for daydreaming about it. Someone would yell at him any second—like his father. Maybe his CO. Definitely his brother. Thinking outside the box—daring to overstep convention—was what got him in trouble.
Isn’t that what they called it? Conventional?
They’d said it was what everybody had “always” done—those horrible things he’d seen on Caledonia.
So why’d you try to stop them? Why not join them?
Because he’d wanted nothing to do with those things they did—nothing to do with them. With him. The images came back now, forcing themselves in like a cold winter wind through the cracks of an old windowsill. Magnus stretched out his arms and braced himself against the cold, willing it back.
Stay away! Stay away from her!
“Stop!”
When Abimbola had heard Awen’s name, something in the man froze. He leaned in and asked her to repeat herself then asked for her parents’ and grandparent’s names. It seemed a strange thing to ask a captive for, and Awen seemed reluctant to give the names up, but the situation wasn’t exactly normal. When Awen finally shared their names, Abimbola had knelt.
He knelt, Magnus recalled in astonishment. There, on the concrete floor, the warlord had laid a fist to his chest and bowed in reverence, and Magnus realized the petite Luma emissary had held her own before two violent leaders in less than a day.
When Abimbola ordered that Awen be taken down, she refused to move until Magnus had been freed and his safety guaranteed. Magnus protested, but Abimbola’s security detail let Magnus down faster than he could form an argument. A little too fast, he thought as he recalled how hard he’d hit the floor.
“And his weapons,” Awen insisted. Abimbola nodded, and the guards returned Magnus’s armaments without hesitation.
They fear their leader more than an armed Repub Marine, Magnus noted. Copy that.
He stowed his kit and placed his helmet back on his head, firing up the AI and checking systems. That’s strange. Comms were down. He expertly double-checked the relay connection by bashing the side of his bucket with the heel of his hand. Still nothing.
The two of them were escorted across the warehouse and given brief access to private bathrooms. Awen was given the cooshra to cover her maimed robes and given bandages for the worst of her cuts, though Magnus knew she still needed proper medical attention. When they reconvened in what looked to be Abimbola’s war room—an upper-level apartment with holo-screens perched around a large central table—the warlord ordered tea and inclined his head to the open seats.
“Please,” he said. “Be seated.” The idea of tea hung in sardonic contrast to the rear wall made entirely of Republic trooper helmets. No less than a hundred, Magnus calculated, each charred, dented, broken, or cleaved. Stranger still, Abimbola offered Magnus a universal power cable to recharge his suit and his helmet.
“May I ask why you’re doing this?” Awen asked as she sat.
Abimbola settled into his oversized chair and played with a poker chip as he considered her question. “Your presence is fortuitous, a sign from the gods. And if time were not of the essence, I would give you the history that the question deserves. However”—his eyes darted to one of the monitors, which displayed the orbital positions of a growing number of ships—“it seems I will not have the opportunity. Suffice to say, I owe your family a great debt, one I will never be able to repay.”
“Well, I… I don’t know what to say,” Awen replied, blinking several times. “I’m afraid that without more backstory, I really can’t comment other than to offer thanks for your sudden kindness to us.”
“One day, we will speak of my home—the home of all Miblimbians,” Abimbola said.
Which explains his size, Magnus noted, confirming his earlier assumption.
“And I will tell you of Limbia Centralla and those who died, those who survived, and those who betrayed us.” Abimbola’s eyes shifted to Magnus and held his face in an overly long stare. The trills and chirps of incoming status updates filled the background, punctuated by the sudden tapping of a poker chip on the table.
“Yes. Well, then,” Awen said, obviously trying to relieve Magnus of the intense eye lock. “I look forward to the next time we meet.”
Just then, two women in silk robes and head coverings entered the room, placing trays in front of Abimbola. They poured three cups of tea then served them.
“Clearly, the gods are at work above us too,” Abimbola added, sipping his drink. The teacup in his large hand looked more like a miniature child’s toy than an adult cup. “They are about to rain down fire as quickly as they have given me the blessing of your company.” Abimbola gestured to the orbital display, which showed both Republic and Jujari designations appearing over the planet.
That’s not good, Magnus thought.
“So, it appears that as quickly as you have come into my life, you must depart. Oorajee is not a place I would recommend staying.”
“Can you help us get back to the fleet?” Magnus asked.
Abimbola’
s eyes hung on Awen’s face before snapping to Magnus, clearly put off by the sudden intrusion. “I could no sooner get you back to the fleet than betray all of my men. And were I to send you on your own, I fear you would not survive more than a few minutes, so I would fail to honor the blood of Awen’s ancestors. Also, I saw you bang on your bucket back there. I am guessing you tried to reach your unit? It is no use, as you no doubt discovered. All comms will be down indefinitely.”
“Yeah…” Magnus said slowly. “Jamming tech?”
Abimbola nodded. “Nothing is getting on or off planet unless the Jujari want it to. That, and you happen to be in the middle of the biggest scum hole this side of the Saffron system. The Jujari might not like outsiders, but at least they tolerate non-Repub types, so long as we stay out of their way. ’Round here, you have yourself a bona fide collection of every species imaginable, especially those who have threatened, avoided, or plotted against the Repub. That means that every signal junkie in the Dregs sniffed your boot-up signature before you even blinked at your AI.”
“The Dregs?” Awen asked.
“What we call our fair city. Or the inhabitants. Either one. Were you not safe inside Abimbola’s care, I would say the Jujari would be the least of your problems.”
“So we’re stuck,” Awen offered.
“You are never stuck,” Abimbola said. “Not when I have an Ezo.”
“An Ezo?”
“He will get you off planet and wherever you wish to go. He owes me… several favors.”
“But we can’t leave yet,” Awen protested. “We need to look for my team.”
Abimbola’s eyes dropped to his hands and then back up. “Miss dau Lothlinium,” he said somberly, “I suspect you are the only survivor, no small thanks to your man here.”
Magnus watched Awen’s face. She knows she’s the only survivor by now… right?
“No, there must be others,” Awen said, panic creeping into her voice.
Nope, guess not. Magnus felt genuine pity for her. He’d felt the same thing before but under very different circumstances.
“Listen,” Abimbola said, “my marauders have been scouting the area since the first blast. That is why they found you. But based on what they are reporting, there is not much left—of anything. And even if there were survivors, getting close enough to secure them will be impossible. Chances are the Jujari have already—”
Magnus waved the warlord off without Awen seeing. Abimbola registered the movement and, surprisingly, took it to heart.
“They have already tried to rescue those they can. It is best for you to leave, go back to your order, and regroup. In truth,” Abimbola said, leaning across the table, “I would take you myself. However, by the looks of things, I am going to be busy here for a long time. As you can see”—he turned to regard his trophy wall—“I never give up a chance to collect buckets.”
“But as you yourself said,” Awen interjected, “my man is the one helping me survive today, so I’d appreciate you exercising self-restraint in your habits.”
Abimbola regarded Awen then Magnus. “Then this little encounter of ours may be the first exception to my rule.”
“Your rule?” Magnus asked.
“Keep the can, kick the head.”
“Can’t say I’m not grateful,” Magnus said, raising his cup of tea. “Here’s to never meeting again.”
“Magnus!” Awen called.
He looked over to see her staring at him. He’d been daydreaming again. Dammit.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said through his external speaker, hoping the system hid the emotion in his voice.
“You weren’t responding,” Awen added. “I just… anyway, we’re here.” She pointed ahead as the dune skiff slid to a halt and powered down beside a small tent village. Only a few lamps burned, indicating the main entrance to the compound. Magnus scanned for life-forms but, to his surprise, found none.
“He should be along any moment,” Abimbola said.
“Seems rather quiet.” Magnus squeezed his MAR30. Had they just driven into an ambush? Because now is the perfect time. “You sure we’re at the right place?”
“Abimbola never gets the wrong place, buckethead,” Berouth said from the driver’s seat.
Magnus’s AI picked up motion to the right. “Awen, I’m getting non-bio movement over there.” He trained his MAR30 on a gap in some of the tent fabric.
“That is going to be his bot,” Abimbola said, vaulting out of the skiff and stretching his back. “Funny bugger, that one.”
Magnus slid out of the skiff, MAR30 still pointed at the incoming object. It finally materialized in his HUD, his AI comparing the image against its database of known entries. The list of possible matches began with late-model navigator bots, but scans remained inconclusive. “What in the world?”
“Told you,” Abimbola said.
The bot shuffled toward the skiff while its round head and two bulbous eyes surveyed each member of the party. It seemed as if someone had taken an old nav bot—generally known for being well articulated so it could squeeze into the copilot seats of most starships—and welded on a wild variety of very lethal, very out-of-place armaments. One forearm boasted a cluster of microrockets while the other housed the upper receiver of an XM31 Type-R blaster. Twin gauss cannons were inconspicuously housed on both shoulders, served with what Magnus imagined was ferromagnetic ammunition provided by feed belts that disappeared into the bot’s backplate. Much of the torso was covered with matte-gray-weave duradex plate armor, and a custom-molded translucent blast shield acted as a visor over its face. Magnus had no doubt that, given what they could see, there was even more under the armor that they couldn’t see.
“Hello,” the bot said in a chipper tone. “I am TO-96. Welcome”—his head turned toward the warlord—“Abimbola and guests. My master owes you precisely—”
“He owes me a vacation to the Meridian Palladium and his left testicle,” Abimbola said. “And if he does not get his sorry ass out here in—”
“Well, hello there, my finely tanned friend!” an overly benevolent voice said. A man emerged from a tent—stepping out from behind some sophisticated shielding—and walked as if floating toward them. He was dressed in a long gray leather coat, the tails of which nearly touched the sand. Beneath it, he wore a white knit turtleneck, black pants, and glossy black boots. A holstered SUPRA 945 pistol clung to his thigh, and a small data pad was stowed in his belt. His dark hair was swept meticulously to one side, like an ocean wave curling at midnight, and he stared at them with thin eyes and a wide smile.
Magnus didn’t like the guy. He was too pretty. But Ezo was also their only ride off this rock, and getting Awen to wherever she wanted to go meant he would be one step closer to rejoining his unit—or what was left of it. There was something else about Ezo, though—something familiar. Magnus couldn’t place it, but he had the strange feeling that he’d met the man before. And he hated that he couldn’t remember. It made him uneasy.
“I am here to cash in a fraction of your debt to me,” Abimbola said, squaring up with Ezo.
“What, no hello? No time for tea? Ezo’s hurt, Bimbo.”
Abimbola bristled at the nickname and had his own reply—the bowie knife sprang from his thigh as if drawn by the darkness itself and was laid across Ezo’s fluffy collar in the space of a single step. Berouth also had a blaster drawn on the bot, and the bot had its XM31 trained on Abimbola.
“Okay, okay. No time for tea,” Ezo said, palms up in surrender. “Next time, next time.”
Abimbola withdrew the blade and motioned to Berouth to stand down. “You are going to escort these two wherever they want to go.”
Ezo looked to Awen. “Well, well, well. Who do we have here?” He strode toward her and reached for her hand, but not before Magnus had leveled his MAR30 at the interloper.
“Watch it,” Magnus warned.
“Easy, easy, big bucket man! Ezo’s not going to hurt her; he j
ust wants to become acquainted. Sheesh.”
Magnus flicked off his MAR30’s safety. “There won’t be any—”
“It’s all right, Lieutenant,” Awen said, offering her hand to Ezo. “He’s just being courteous. Plus, he owes our patron his left testicle, which means if he does anything stupid, you can have his right one.”
Ezo froze with his lips a few centimeters from Awen’s hand. Magnus noted for at least the second time that day how much he was beginning to like her.
11
Geronimo Nine, as Ezo dubbed her, was the most substantial portion of Ezo’s makeshift village in the desert. Disguised to look like a city block’s worth of tents, the ship was only hibernating under rags, waiting for someone to summon her drive core to life. Once alive, the Katana-class freighter’s thrusters blew apart the pseudo town and launched skyward in a crimson streak.
The red hull’s inverted crescent shape drove its way through the atmosphere and then into the silence of the void. From the cockpit, located in the center of the concave sweep, the pilot and copilot could see only the tips of the primary NR220 blaster cannons that jutted forward. The rest of the hull swept aft and terminated in a wide bank of ion-propulsion ports that glowed a brilliant blue.
The Katanas were powerful ships to begin with, each one manufactured with more thrust than it needed even with its modular cargo bay filled. Ezo had taken advantage of this power-to-mass ratio and added military-grade armament, which included not only the twin cannons but also upgraded shield generators, plate armor, and three banks of quantum warhead-tipped K91 torpedoes. Just one could take out a heavy armored transport or even a small destroyer. Ezo assured his two new guests that Geronimo was not only one of the fastest private starships in the quadrant but one of the deadliest as well, thanks to his modifications. She was, by all accounts, a prized ship, and Ezo treated her as the gem that she was.
