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

  “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 just 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.

  Awen, since boarding Geronimo Nine, had disposed of her tattered clothes in the ship’s incinerator and then let TO-96 tend her wounds in sick bay. The bot had wanted to talk, apparently eager for company, but she was not in the mood and asked him to go silent. When TO-96 had finally cleared her, Awen traded the sick-bay gown for one of Ezo’s knit turtlenecks, a pair of leggings, and some leather boots Ezo had picked from a stash in the unusually spotless cargo bay. Then she gave the captain a course to lay and made her way to the main lounge to get comfortable.

  For a smuggler or bounty hunter or whatever he was, Ezo had done remarkably well with keeping the ship in top condition, which included interior cleanliness—something Awen was all too grateful for. While her work with the Luma often took her to worlds with much different standards from her own, Awen always appreciated returning to the order and predictability of Plumeria. Similarly, Ezo’s ship was tidy and surprisingly comfortable, much different from what she’d imagined a bounty hunter’s vessel to be. It even smelled fresh. Glowing white floors rounded up to polished metal walls and handrails, while the ceiling was regularly spaced with clusters of pin lights. Awen looked around, concluding that this is what illegal money and contraband can buy.

  She sat with her knees to her chest, back resting against the wall of a recessed couch. The nano-meds were doing their work, easing the pain and mending the frayed ends of whatever had come undone inside. The steady hum of the ship made Awen feel safe even though she knew the void was only a meter behind her.

  The void. She heard her father saying, “All you’re going to find is the void,” warning
her not to join the Luma, to stay on Elonia. But she hadn’t listened.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose as her mind wandered back, replaying the explosions in the mwadim’s tent—or at least what she could remember of the incident. She’d sensed the blast soon enough to cover herself and the mwadim with a partial shield but not fast enough to help anyone else. It had all happened so quickly. And now Matteo, Elder Toochu, and the rest were…

  Awen swallowed. Her mouth was dry. They were dead, and she hadn’t done enough to try to save them.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had worked so hard, and for what? For some idiots to rig the meeting and blow the prospect of peace into a thousand pieces? It felt so futile. The galaxy’s last great divide was about to be mended, the Jujari and the Republic finally at some sort of agreement. It had been in her grasp. My father would have understood me. He would have seen what was possible. He would have understood that I was right to leave.

  Awen wanted to cry, and she wanted to sleep. But her exhaustion was more than fatigue. It was a sudden urge to stop being a Luma, to go back home and do something other than whatever all this was—to try to forget everything that had just happened. And at the same time, she knew she couldn’t forget. She sensed that the faces of the dead would be with her for a lifetime.

  Awen was lost in her thoughts, head on her knees, when Magnus appeared with a steaming cup of something to drink. “Made you this,” he said, handing the metal cup to her. He had stowed his helmet and gloves and removed several of the bulkier elements of his armor, making him almost normal sized. He’s still too tall. She guessed it had something to do with his boots.

  “Thanks.” She savored the small warmth the cup provided.

  “I see the bot got you squared away.” He sat in an acceleration couch across from her. “Nothing too serious?”

  “Nothing too serious,” she confirmed. “Nanos doing their work. Just need to rest.”

  Magnus nodded. “Looks like you were able to salvage your necklace.”

  Awen instinctively reached for it. “Yeah, it’s the only thing I didn’t have to throw out.”

  “Not that you had a whole lot on to begin with.” Magnus’s face froze. “I mean, it’s just that you—”

  “Lieutenant.” Awen laughed then winced from the pain it caused her.

  At Awen’s interruption, the trooper sat back and rubbed his forehead, looking relieved. She noted that he wasn’t the hardest man to look at… for a buckethead.

  “Listen, about back there,” she started. “I wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

  “It’s nothing.” Magnus waved. “Just doing my job.”

  “Well, it may have been nothing to you, but it was something to me.” She dipped her head, trying to catch his eye. “So thank you.”

  Magnus looked up. “You’re welcome.” He glanced into his cup. “You know, I can say the same about you too. That concrete block and the way you threatened Abimbola.” He paused. “Can you really blow yourself up?”

  Awen laughed again. “Yeah. But it’s not the sort of thing you want to do more than once a day.”

  Magnus looked up, surprised for a split second. “Oh, splick, you’re kidding,” he said, suddenly smiling. “Sorry. Language.”

  “I don’t expect soldiers to be saints.”

  “Good, ’cause we’re not soldiers—we’re Recon,” Magnus said. “Anyway, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Awen took a sip of her drink, trying to think of something else to say. “Good tea.”

  “Yeah, it’s all Ezo seems to have. That and Svoltin single malt whiskey.” Magnus paused. “I mean, I could get you—”

  “No,” she said with a smile and waved him off. “The tea is just fine.”

  “Good. No one should ever see you drunk.”

  Awen raised her eyebrows and then realized he must have been talking about her being drugged. She didn’t remember much, but she guessed it was bad. “Abimbola’s?”

  Magnus nodded. “Abimbola’s.”

  “Mind if we keep whatever I said between us?”

  “You said something?” He winked.

  He was kind of cute; his baby face and deep-green eyes saw to that. She took another sip of tea and noticed the damage to his armor. “I’m so sorry. How are you?”

  Magnus glanced at his body. “Looks way worse than it is,” he replied. “This suit can take a beating.”

  “Even though you were leaking back there.”

  “Leaking?”

  “When we were tied up at Abimbola’s, I noticed the ground beneath you. Did you—did you wet yourself?”

  “Did I wet myself? No, I”—a look of surprise dawned on his face, then he pointed to his thigh—“the Jujari punctured one of my reclamation bladders.”

  “Reclamation bladders?”

  “Yeah, it’s how we—”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” she said.

  “What? No, I don’t think you understand.”

  “I get it, Lieutenant. Even the big boys get scared.” She winked. “How about the blood on you?”

  Magnus paused then appeared to give up on trying to justify his leak. “Jujari. Maybe some of my own. But the armor’s good at clotting. I’ll get treatment when I get back to my unit.”

  “TO-96 can check you out.”

  “I’m sure he can, but I’d rather wait.”

  “Suit yourself, Lieutenant.” Good-looking but still a naked monkey butt. Wait, where did that come from?

  “You can just call me Magnus,” he said.

  “I think we really should stick with—”

  “After what you and I just saw, I’d rather not stick with the protocol. Magnus, please.”

  “Magnus,” she replied. She found his assertiveness appealing even though it had to do with bending the rules. Maybe he wasn’t a dimwitted drone after all. “And you can call me Awen.”

  “Awen,” he replied.

  Hearing him say her name had more of an effect on her than she cared to admit. Did it show? She was suddenly extremely self-conscious and hid her face in the cup. You’re an idiot, Awen, and you have no time for this.

  “So, any ideas on who’d want to blow up a room of Jujari, Luma, and Republic officials?”

  “That is the big question, isn’t it?” Magnus sipped his tea. “Someone who didn’t want the alliance to happen. Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Someone who didn’t want the mwadim giving you that,” he said, indicating the stardrive on the table. Its slender form and elegant lines looked otherworldly, a soft blue light emanating from slits in its cylindrical housing.

  “That would imply that someone knew he had it and that he wanted to give it up,” she said.

  “Didn’t he, though?”

  “I don’t see how I could—”

  “Listen, Awen. I have my own opinions about the Luma. You have yours about the Republic. But if there’s ever been a Luma who truly believes in her work—I mean, who embodies the ethos of what the Luma stand for—it’s got to be you. The Jujari may be a bunch of—”

  “Easy,” Awen interrupted.

  “A bunch of dangerous galactic pack hunters.”

  “That works.”

  “But they’re not stupid. And the mwadim was their alpha. Which means he knew who you were—he knew who was coming to help his planet. I’d wager a thousand credits on the fact that he was going to hand you that stardrive with or without a bomb blast. Because he trusted you.”

  “But why give it to me at all?” she asked.

  “And that’s the other big question. I don’t know. But I’m guessing you’re going to make sure his death isn’t in vain.”

  Awen felt her face flush. Why his sudden confidence in me? Did he—

  “Hey, mind if I ask you what the ambassador said to you?”

  “The ambassador?” Awen’s mind raced. “Oh, when he grabbed my arm, you mean? Sure. He threatened me.”

  “Threatened you?”
/>   “He was upset that I was about to hand the mwadim a microdrive of the broken promises he’d made with other civilizations.”

  “I don’t follow. You’re saying the ambassador—”

  “Is a two-timing lowlife who only cares about his comfy credit account and where his next fatty mondollon steak is coming from. He only closes so many negotiations because he tells the incorporating worlds that they’ll get whatever they ask for. By the time leaders realize they’ve gotten the short end of the deal, it’s too late. And who’s going to stand up to the Republic when they send guys like you in as muscle?”

  “Listen, we just—”

  “I know,” she said. “You’re just the hired help. You don’t do any of the dirty work.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say. Our hands are plenty dirty. I was going to say that we don’t support evil when it’s exposed.”

  Awen believed him—not that she thought every trooper resisted evil, but she was sure that at least Magnus did. “You might be the exception, then,” she replied, chin raised.

  “There are way more good Marines than bad.”

  She didn’t know how to reply to that, so she didn’t.

  “We’re called in to do evil things to evil people. Not everyone gets that, and I don’t expect them to. But it’s my job, and I do it well.” Magnus looked down at his tea for a second then back at her. “Your records on the ambassador’s betrayal… they are legit?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Then I could see how he might be pretty upset. And I see how you’d mistrust the Republic.”

  Awen looked at him, genuinely surprised. “Thank you.”

  “Plus, the upside to this is you’ll never have to worry about Ambassador Bosworth again.” Magnus made the sound of a small explosion and spread his hands apart. “So, where are we headed?”

  “I told Ezo I need to get to Worru.”

  “Headed back to the Order,” Magnus concluded correctly. The Order of the Luma had its origin in the ancient city of Plumeria, now the capital of Worru and the galactic center for cultural learning.