Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Read online

  “There’s a ransom for me?”

  “Not yet, but once I let the proper channels know you are alive and have escaped that ugly scene at the mwadim’s tent, I suspect more than a few parties will pay a lot of credits for you.”

  “And him?” Awen asked, indicating Magnus.

  “Him?” Abimbola looked to the Marine. “Why do you even care about him? Isn’t he just the Republic’s hired gun who is supposed to watch your back while you are… what was it again?”

  “Browsing for a vacation home,” Magnus offered.

  Abimbola smiled. “How charming.” He looked back at Awen. “Trouble is, I really do not have the fondest feelings for Republic gunslingers. Something about them just makes me feel—oh, I don’t know… like I was stabbed in the back. No, no. That metaphor is too subtle. Perhaps stabbed in the face.” Abimbola indicated his facial scar, making a grand gesture of tracing the entire length with a fingertip. “So when I say I really do not have the fondest feelings, I do mean really.”

  “Then, you’re going to kill him.”

  Abimbola clucked, nodding as if remorseful. “That is about the measure of it, yes.”

  “I see.” Awen tried again to reach to the Unity but gasped as a fresh wave of pain crashed against her head.

  “I suppose you do have at least a little power in this situation, however,” he added, “though it probably does not seem very enabling.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I am going to let you decide how this buckethead dies. Blaster bolt to the head,” he said, making a pistol out of his fingers and placing it beside his own temple, “or something slower. And before you answer, I feel obligated to tell you that bucketheads killed a lot of the people I loved, so when I say that I can kill him slowly, I do mean that I have perfected ways to draw out suffering over several years.”

  “Ooo, he has! He has!” Turtle boomed. “Show her the room.”

  “Perhaps later,” Abimbola said. “Let us give her a choice first.”

  “And what if I don’t want to play your game?” Awen asked.

  “Then I will play one of my own.” The giant discarded the syringe and produced a poker chip from his pocket. “We will flip for it. Credit symbol, I kill him quickly. But house side up? Your friend will wish you had chosen for him.”

  Awen swallowed. She considered the man’s poker chip and the possibility that maybe, if he was a gambling man, he was bluffing. He might want something else. “So, what do you want from me?” She dreaded the answer that awaited her. She knew what happened to women who got lost on these off-world hellholes.

  “Clever girl.” Abimbola pulled a small cylinder from behind his back. Awen’s head hurt, but she recognized it from the mwadim. “You see, I really want to know what is on this stardrive. And I mean really. Unfortunately for me, however, you are the only person who can access it. So—”

  “So I open it for you, and you kill him quickly.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Here’s my counter,” Awen said. “I open it for you, and you let him go, then you collect the bounty on me.”

  “Awen, no!” Magnus yelled.

  “Strange,” Abimbola said. “And unnecessarily reckless, nearsighted, and stupid. Though I am not sure that—”

  “You’re not sure which you want more: to quench your insatiable curiosity about just what’s on that stardrive or to extract a little more blood from one more buckethead because you have a deep-seated vengeance complex, probably from when you were a boy. Am I right?”

  Abimbola stared at her. Awen noticed the faintest tic in the corner of his mouth. Gotcha, she thought.

  “And what if I refuse your counter? I feel you are a little short on leverage.”

  “You can refuse, of course,” Awen said. “And in that case, I’ll have no other option than to use my remaining power to kill both the buckethead and myself. No amount of your little medication can prevent me from suicide.”

  “Suicide that also kills him?” Abimbola laughed.

  Awen looked at him deadpan. “You’ve never seen a Luma go nova, have you.”

  “Ha! No. And I do not believe it. You are bluffing.”

  Awen took a deep breath and then forced all her energy into her next few words, knowing they could very well be her last. “Abimbola, I swear on the graves of my descendants that I, Awen dau Lothlinium of the Order of the Luma, will sever my connection with this realm of the cosmos and take every one of you with me. You messed with the wrong woman today.”

  Abimbola blanched and took a step back, the poker chip clattering to the floor. He looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. “What did… what did you say your name is?”

  10

  Magnus and Awen sat in a dune skiff behind Abimbola and Berouth—Abimbola’s driver and second in charge—as the vehicle raced away from the outskirts of Oosafar. The skiff’s headlights rose and fell along rippling ridges of sand like searchlights sweeping ocean waves for wreckage. Cold desert air whipped at Awen’s hair as she sat wrapped in a traditional cooshra, while Magnus enjoyed the peace of his helmet and MAR30 again—they were the only sure bets he had at the moment.

  The way Magnus saw it, he was a lone Repub Marine on a hostile planet, cut off from his unit and any chance of being rescued, and surrounded by Jujari intent on killing him for the assassination of their mwadim. That, and he still had a mission to complete.

  Great. Just great.

  “We are almost there,” Abimbola yelled over his shoulder. He tapped the nav screen that glowed on the dash. “Another four klicks.”

  Magnus could hardly believe the turn of events that had led to this moment. One minute they were strung up, Awen bargaining for their lives, and the next, they were being escorted to a rendezvous point by the warlord himself. She saved us, Magnus thought with a growing sense of irony and… What? his gut asked him. Admiration?

  He remained on high alert as they careened over the dunes, but the undulating movement combined with the skiff’s low hum lulled him into a reflective state. Not for the first time, he wondered who’d planted the explosives in the mwadim’s tent. The Jujari could have had a hand in it; factions within the dogs’ political structure were just as likely as with any other species. Maybe more, given their ruthless pack mentality. Still, something this calculated didn’t fit their MO, or what little he knew of it. The attack was brazen, yes. But it was also pristine. Maniacal was a better word, a study in controlled slaughter.

  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 be
nefits 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.