He smiled.
“You never know,” said Bowie.
And then a new message appeared in the sunglasses’ HUD.
Congratulations, Mr. Bowie. Welcome to Team Nilo.
CARTER
INLAND KUBLAR
11
I’ve never been to a koob town as big as what I’m seeing here in Pekk. Outside of the coastal cities like the Soob, I mean. Inland, the koobs like to live in the mountains, building their huts from the green wood of the trees that grow high above the expansive deserts between peaks—where the cold brings snow, mountain streams and lakes.
Pekk is a massive sprawl of koob living. The craggy mountains the city is nestled in serve as a sort of wall teeming with the aliens. Some of which are herders, others trying to scratch out farms in the thin soil. All of them armed with more than a few seeming to just watch us roll in. Whether they’re sentries or simply lazy, I don’t know.
But there’s a lot of them.
“If these koobs wanted to kill us…” Easy says over comm, letting his words drift off. We all get the point.
Abers hisses. “Yeah, and here we come rolling right in the middle of them with a big ol’ chuck wagon of their dead.”
“These aren’t their dead,” says Winters. “This tribe and the Pekk tribe hate one another. Surber has us coming bearing gifts.”
“Messed up gift, if you ask me,” I say.
“I dunno,” Lana chimes in. “Someone dumps a truckload of vanquished foes on my doorstep, I wouldn’t be mad.”
There’s a pause over the comm before Easy says, “How are you not a legionnaire?”
“Can’t bench enough,” Lana says without missing a beat. “And their helmets would ruin my hair.”
We all get a kick out of this. Lana isn’t the type to get in a fuss about how she looks when stuff is going down. She wouldn’t be on the team if she were.
Our truck begins the arduous task of climbing the mountain road that leads into the village and I can hear its engine straining from the incline.
“Man,” Easy says again. “So many koobs.”
I don’t get a clear look at exactly what he’s talking about until I see from the back of the truck the teeming crowds looking down at us from walkways, homes, and other dwellings carved out of the mountains. The road we’re on is wide enough for us to turn around in, carved out below these rocky, koob-studded banks. Like it was blasted out—or more likely dug out; part of an old river or stream that has long since dried up or been diverted elsewhere.
“These are friendlies, remember?” I say, doing a quick count; one, two, three, four… yep. Way too many to dust and get out alive. These damn well better be friendly or we just rolled into our deaths.
“Ain’t friendly,” Lash says, meticulously cleaning his SAB. “Just not killin’ us.”
Abers joins the conversation, his sniper rifle resting across his lap. “Either way… I got my first four targets painted if it goes down.”
“Yeah, me too,” says the kid, Winters.
He doesn’t seem jumpy, more like he’s following the cool display by the other guys in the back of the truck. It’s not bad by any stretch, just not completely natural. Like he knows how he ought to behave but hasn’t been there enough for it to be second nature like it is for the marines and Legion.
I smile at both men. “Look at you two, killers. KTF, brothers.”
All of a sudden the truck stops short and I’m hurled into a pile of dead koobs. I can feel their corpse-juices squeezing out and onto my new robes where my elbow drives into the pile… and I can hear it, too. Like you’re squeezing out the last bit of gel from a ration pouch.
Nasty.
I’m about to ask Easy what’s going on when I hear him lay in on the horn.
“Sket,” he says under his breath, and then yells out, “Move it! Lak-k’kalikee!”
“Lana,” I say into the comm, leaving Easy to continue yelling at what I assume are some koobs blocking the road, “tell me what’s happening.”
“Bunch of koobs with slug throwers decided to walk out in front of the truck to cross the road.”
“We gonna have a problem?”
“I don’t think so. Just some macho-froggy posturing.”
“You, koob-o!” Easy shouts, and I can hear his voice in stereo over comm and from the front of the cab. “Lak-k’kalikee! That means, move your ass! I shouldn’t have to translate your own kelhorned language, croaker!”
“Don’t agitate them,” I say.
Surber chimes into my comm. “What is the delay back there, Mr. Carter?”
“Nothing serious yet, sir. Bunch of armed koobs decided they wanted to show us that this is their town. They jumped in front of the truck and are taking their sweet time crossing the road.”
“That’s a common cultural posturing among the Kublarens,” Surber says. “Tell your driver to floor it and catch up.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t need to repeat myself.”
“Copy.”
You prick.
I open up my squad comm. “Easy, Surber says to floor it.”
“Say again?”
“Floor it. He says the koobs’ll understand.”
Lash and Abers exchange an oh, here we go look. And I’m thinking the same thing. In my mind, this is the kind of reaction the koobs want. A little provocation to get us doing something stupid and then we’re riddled with blaster bolts. But my job is to do what Surber says.
“Okay, Carter,” Easy finally replies. “If you say so…”
“I did say so. Twice. Now move this truck!”
The bed lurches again as Easy jumps on the accelerator. But this rig is hardly a performance speeder. It begins moving, but it isn’t going to break any land speed acceleration records. I hear the engine roar and then listen for the telltale bump-whump of some koob going under the wheels.
But it doesn’t come.
“They moved,” Lana says, sounding impressed that Easy didn’t run anyone over.
“Good,” I say. “Keep up a steady pace. Don’t slow down or stop again until Surber does.”
We keep rolling, the increased speed jostling us up and down as we move over the rocky and occasionally winding road. We’re definitely gaining in elevation, and as we storm up the mountain highway I see a steady stream of small, single-koob transport vehicles, riders on lizard-like beasts of burden, or foot travelers all jumping from the side of the road and back into the center, as though they’d been pushed off the lane and were staring back at the offender, ready to heap curses on our heads.
“Don’t kill anyone if you can avoid it, Easy.”
“You wanna drive, Carter?”
“Not unless it’s got a linked weapons array, I don’t.”
Easy snorts. “Well, this rig sure as sket don’t have one of those.”
Lana cuts in. “Surber is slowing down. We’re here.”
I listen to the brakes squeal as our oversized hearse comes to a slow, grinding halt. The engine idles loudly for a moment and then I hear sled doors open and slam shut. Easy kills the engine.
“Surber is waving us out.”
“Joy ride’s over,” I say, moving to the back of the truck over the uneasy ground of dead koobs. Right at the edge, I recognize the corpse of the chieftain we shot up inside his sled, missing arm and all. He’s staring right at me, his goggling eyes hazed in death, like some kind of ghostly cataracts. “Time to clock back in and earn our paychecks.”
I hop down, feeling my weapons clatter against my body armor on their slings. I turn around the side of the truck in time to see Lana swing open her door and hop down herself, her boots sending up a little cloud of dust as she hits the rock street.
We’re at something like a house—maybe a koob manor because it’s pretty big. It’s at the absolute top
of the hill. I could see that when I first got out and looked down the winding road at all the buildings, village homes, and bazaar stalls beneath us. Pretty safe bet that this is the tribal seat, home of big chief for Pekk.
“Hustle and form up behind Surber,” I say, because I’m not sure why else we’d be here if not to provide additional security beyond what Errol and Wick can do.
I begin to jog but catch myself slowing down involuntarily. Surber is walking straight toward a saffron-robed older koob—obviously the chief. And that chief is surrounded by at least a hundred armed koob warriors.
“Okay,” Winters says into comms as he hustles along. “That’s a lot of guns waiting for us.”
“Keep moving,” I say, shaking off the momentary surprise at suddenly seeing so many potential threats.
We fall in line behind Surber and his bodyguards. Some of the koob warriors take notice of us, but Surber and the chieftain pay no mind. Nobody on either side speaks except for the two of them. They’re speaking koob in what I can only describe as warm and friendly. Like they go a long way back.
And maybe they do. Big Nee has been setting things up on Kublar for a long time. I practically just got here.
The chieftain is joined at his side by a servant holding a tray of steaming teacups. The head koob puts an arm around Surber and motions for the crowd of armed warriors to part, opening a pathway to the tall, square wooden compound’s grand opening.
Surber says something in Kublaren and then turns, finally acknowledging my team’s presence. “Carter. One of our warriors has been invited to join in the ceremony. Send in Winters.”
“Me?” Winters says.
And I’m wondering the same thing. Not that I want to be swept into some bizarre koob ritual where I’ll be forced to eat, drink, and smoke who-knows-what, but Winters is definitely the junior guy on the team. The least warrior of my warfighter crew.
“You heard him, Winters. Move up.”
The kid obeys, hustling and looking formidable in his expensive aftermarket armor and kit. Maybe that’s why Surber chose him. He looks the part, if flash is where you want things to count.
Winters disappears along with Errol and Wick inside the big meeting house’s front gate. Surber walks a few steps more with the chieftain, speaking the language with perfection, minus the obvious inability to perform certain clicks and sounds due to a lack of an airsac. He pauses, nods, presses a hand on the chieftain’s shoulder, and then walks back to where we stand.
“Guard the truck,” Surber says, his eyes darting to where it sits farther back on the road. “Chieftain Y’keed will have some of his honor guard with you. Same rule applies…” He’s speaking loud enough for all of us to hear now.
“If they try to put you out, show you up… don’t let them. It’s what the Kublarens call sitizt’ka. It’s a ritualistic test to see whether you possess the proper fertilization sacs.”
“What?” asks Abers.
“Balls, gentlemen. And you have my apologies for saying so, Miss Romnova. They want to make sure their potential allies have the balls necessary to do what comes next. Make sure you show ’em. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
And with that, Surber walks away.
“Sucks to be Lana,” Easy jokes.
“You couldn’t handle being me on your best day, Aguilar.”
It isn’t long before the armed koobs begin to waddle over toward us, each one hoisting a rifle up on his shoulder at the ready across his chest. I counted each of their three-fingers, and was pleased to see none of them were wrapped inside a trigger-well.
“Let’s meet our friends at the front of the truck,” I say, moving ahead to greet the incoming horde. “Who knows how they’ll react to what we’ve got in back.”
I send out a Kublaren greeting to the black-robed koob who looks to be the group’s leader. He’s overall a sort of mustard color with occasional brown spots and a light yellow airsac. I can see right away that he’s carrying a beat-up looking N-4 blaster rifle.
“Kika.”
The koob lets out a low croak, the way a human might growl “hmmm,” but otherwise doesn’t verbally respond. He walks in front of me and I’m a little proud of the fact that he has to look up to look at my face. Not that it presents much of a problem with the way koob eyes rest at the top of their heads, swiveling around. They can look straight up without moving their bodies.
This one is tall for a koob. But I’m tall for a human. And Lash, well, he’s massive and the other koobs are all watching him. Communicating in low croaks and clicks.
Big Lash doesn’t sell that he notices any of it. He just sits there, a statue with shades, muscles taut like he’s always pumped. If the koobs are gonna try any of that manhood testing, it probably won’t be with him.
The koob captain croaks out some decent-sounding Standard. “You-ah, have bot?”
“Translator bot?” I ask, looking around for a machine that I know isn’t with us. “No.”
“Maybe we-ah, no be formal, ya? K’k’k’k. We speak you-sa Standard.”
“Probably be a lot easier,” I say, and not to be a smart-ass. I’m having no trouble following what the koob is saying. “You speak Standard well.”
The koob nods. “You-ah… warri-aurs. Big battle, ya? Leejun ya?”
“I was. But we’ve got some marines and soldiers.” I nod to Lana, Abers, and Easy, and then wave my hand vaguely at Lashley. “And stuff. I was Legion.”
“No more Leejun?”
“Not for me.”
The koob clicks and inflates its airsac. “Leejun, tough fight. Big die. Big die.”
He turns over his N-4 and taps on some white letters written in koob. There are four hashmarks behind the words. “This-ah, how many leejonayers big die from this one blaster.”
I clench my jaw, hating the fact that a leej killer is standing right in front of me and I can’t do a kelhorned thing about it.
Evidently, the koob notices I’m ill at ease. He points to another string of text with even more hashmarks behind it. “This-ah one, is me.”
I’m not sure I hide the confusion on my face. My brows are definitely furrowed. “So who killed the legionnaires?”
“First ones. I give him big die.” He holds open his hand and wiggles his three long fingers, pantomiming some sort of explosion maybe. “Big die. This one first is chief of weak tribe. Not like Pekk.”
At the sound of their own tribe, the other Kublarens, who are standing around maybe following the conversation and maybe not, begin to croak and stamp their feet. A few of them send slug rounds into the air with their old automatic rifles.
“Okay,” I say, feeling some of the tension going out from how the koob went out of his way to say that it wasn’t him who killed those four leejes—now just bones and hashmarks. “So what are the marks by your name for?”
“Ik’k’rah,” the koob says. “The zhee.”
I nod. “Looks like you dusted a number of the donks.”
“Big die,” the koob says, nodding his head so that all of his upper body does a slight bow from the process. “Foreign-ars k’k’kik all big die. No match Kublakaren warrior in fight.”
The beating that Victory Company gave all those koobs years ago aside, this guy isn’t exaggerating.
That the Kublarens hated the zhee and those who gave cover for what was just a naked grab for territory was obvious. What was more subtle was the way this koob made a point of calling out foreigners. Koobs have never been keen on outsiders, something that dated back to first contact during the Savage Wars. Back then, they took out their hostility on the Savages. Wiped out a small lighthugger’s worth before the Legion ever chased ’em down.
And then the Legion, after a couple of skirmishes, found out the koobs were so angry with the Savages that they agreed to send warriors from virtually every planetary tribe out to hunt them do
wn. It was the earliest beginning of what was a slow inclusion into the Republic itself. Back when there was a Republic. I’m not sure what you’d call it now.
But foreigners. That was the tell. Because that meant me and my team just as much as it did the zhee. Never mind that we’re supposed to all be friends here on this mountain with our two great leaders laughing and croaking like old college friends.
Foreigners.
This was what Surber had taken the time to warn me and my team about. And now it was up to me to show him that we were different.
“Can I show you something?” I ask the koob.
The alien flicks its tongue out, moistening an eye. “What does leejonayer wish to show? K’kk’k.”
I turn and start walking towards the back of the truck, motioning for the koob to follow but for my team to stay put.
“What’re you doing, Carter?” Abers whispers into the comm.
“Gonna show him my balls.”
Easy jumps in. “Did you bring macros for him, then?”
I ignore the snickering from the squad at that one, and decide not to answer. If I tried to talk right now with the grin on my face, I’d probably break out laughing. But I pull it all together once I reach the big truck’s tailgate.
Black flies are back. Not as many as in the lower elevations, but whichever ones flew high enough into the mountain air—yeah, they’re happy they found the smell.
The koob licks its nostrils, leaving a thick layer of saliva over the opening. Maybe to cut down on the stench, I dunno. “What these-ah?”
I take Mel S. from my back and hand it to the alien. He looks over the shotgun appraisingly, like he admires it. I don’t blame him, but it’s not a gift. I take it out of his hands.
“Ain’t enough room on that gun for all the marks I made on Kublar,” I say, and then I reach in and grab the robe of the koob I was looking for. It’s Chieftain Skagga and his tongue is lolling out of his thoroughly holed body.
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 8
