The next person to unlock Savage tech to find whatever the next great leap was, courtesy of some found data drive receivers from one of those old Savage-era hulks the legions used to storm and burn… would live like a modern-age pharaoh for every day of the rest of their lives. Wealth beyond imagining was the starting point. After that the galaxy’s edge was the limit.
Fact.
“Savage artifacts?” clarified Bowie in the silence of the briefing location. His voice almost incredulous, just enough of a hint for someone to get rattled, but not enough to cause a fight. No one said anything but the tension was a thing that could be felt and probably not cut.
Reiser nodded. Clearly, he was uncomfortable. That was because he was smart. Or at least smart enough to know when they were both dealing with something very dangerous.
Bowie moved on. He knew they were expecting him to up his price in the next few minutes now that the big reveal… had finally been revealed. Savage artifacts demanded price renegotiation upward by a factor of one hundred. That was just industry standard for those who did the cloak and dagger part of getting. The fact that Jack said nothing and moved on meant he wasn’t bargaining with them. They’d pay him that rate.
He knew it.
And they knew it now.
“You want me to hit the museum and access the vault. Fine. No problem. Then I give you the all clear and you remove the artifacts. Fine. Again no problem. Is that correct?”
Reiser cleared his throat and ran the route access, starting over from what looked like an elevated insertion point on the roof.
“You’ll come in from above in a glider we’re going to release from a dropship. You flew the AN-16 during the Kasselgrov Insurgency two years back, right? That’s part of your skill set, right, Jack?”
Bowie nodded.
The roof of the museum expanded out across the display.
“The koobs check the roof every thirty minutes as of the last LP/OP update. They don’t maintain a constant presence due to zhee snipers currently operating a few blocks to the west. That may change in the next twenty-four hours as the counter sniper teams go to work in those neighborhoods. That’s why we need to do this right now, my friend.”
“Why not use the front door? They’re just koobs… Blast your way in, blow the vault, and take what you want.”
Bowie was pretty sure there was a good reason why that wouldn’t work, but he asked his question anyway. For one, he wanted to hear their answer. And two, asking would serve to remind them why he was so essential when it came to accepting his rate of pay.
Reiser seemed annoyed. But he went on to explain.
“Koobs are maintaining an inner security ring, established thanks to the high-tech gadgets of Team Nilo. This site is considered sacred because of the Kublaren antiquities located on the top two floors, and our contractor teams only got a cursory look at the vault access sixteen hours ago before we were not-so-politely asked to leave their ‘holy site.’ We also had to install their security perimeter and prove it wasn’t hackable by us. That perimeter prevents all access and can only be deactivated from within. The one moment we have to access the museum comes when a koob guard walks the roof. Take him out and we can enter through the rooftop access and get in the building. Closing the door will restore the perimeter security integrity. The koobs inside will be alert but they’re on guard duty. The objective is a point of honor, Jack. To them. They detect the slightest bit of external access and they will sound the alarm and every koob in the district will surround the building, ready to go all war on everyone not frog. Team Nilo personnel too. As the ruling tribe, the obligation to protect the shared heritage is higher than any alliance or loyalty you can think of, even tikrit. Mainly all of this is because of some ridiculous feathered headdress one of their ancient kings wore about a thousand years ago when we were fighting the Battle of Sor in the Nordheim Nebulae against a Savage fleet. They have no clue about the vault below. Or at least most of them don’t. They just know not to touch it.”
“Then whose vault is it?” asked Bowie.
“A competitor of Mr. Nilo’s who thought he could hide some artifacts out here on Kublar during the troubles with the Republic. Made a deal with the Kublarens to fund the museum’s construction in exchange for vault installation. It’s a no-go area for the koobs and, like I said, we’re anticipating some sophisticated bot security. You’ll be dealing with those once you’ve accessed the vault and confirmed the artifacts are on site. Then you call us in and disable the perimeter security at the front door. We’ll show you how. Mission done. We take possession of the artifacts and move off the objective in convoy.”
“The same competitor,” probed Bowie, “whose friends and family Nilo killed?”
“No,” said Reiser without emotion. “Different one. Apparently, a lot of these super-rich like to collect old hokey-pocus Savage junk. Why? I don’t know. It’s their thing. That’s above my paygrade, Jack. I, like you, am just here to get paid, and I don’t care who we have to kill to get whatever trinket some fat cat wants.”
“Hocus pocus,” murmured Bowie and studied the insertion site on the holo-display. It wasn’t a big roof, but it was enough to bring the AN-16 down on. He’d done it with less during a six-month war no one ever heard about called the Kasselgrov Insurgency. Naval intel had been fighting that dirty little secret for reasons that were never clear and not publicly known.
“So, after that it’s wetwork,” continued Reiser. “That’s also in your skill set. Jack.”
It wasn’t a question. And rather than a statement, the older spook made it sound like an indictment. Not to prove he was better than Bowie. But that he was right down there in the cloak and mostly dagger sewer of what it was they did for the galaxy. Hitting.
“How many?”
The number was twelve. Twelve koobs needed to die for the building to be clear before he could access the vault. Then open the front doors and create a breach in the Team Nilo–installed security perimeter to allow the transport teams to move in and remove the artifacts.
Mission done.
“What am I working with?” asked Jack.
Reiser smiled and showed Bowie to the table that contained his kit loadout.
“Though evidently you’re fairly capable with a blaster, we know, according to your skill set, Jack…”
Sarcasm.
“…that you prefer the high-powered sniper engagement system mainly in the form of the N-18 with Greiss Telemetrics. Unfortunately this is going to be close quarters. Up close and very personal. That means blasters are a problem because the koobs are keeping it near dark in there and our hit time will be sometime during the night. Tonight, most likely. Or early tomorrow morning. Koobs have better than human night vision and so they don’t mind the dark. Any light show from a blaster, even one with a sophisticated light suppressor, is going to be a disadvantage in there. So, we’re going old school.”
Reiser indicated a pair of pistols on the table. “These are Legion. I’m sure the Marines ran ’em for you and we’ve got a range set up to give you some time with them for the next few hours. 9mm. Slug throwers. The suppressor is integral and it barely allows sound, or flash. At less than twenty meters it sounds like a mouse fart. So, take out tandem targets walking patrol, quickly. It’ll make a sound that’s clear to the partner to keep their senses twitching and either sound the alert or start engaging with their own brand-new Black Leaf toys. Anyone on their own, you’re clear to engage and keep moving.”
Bowie picked up the weapon, checked to make sure it was clear, and ran a quick systems check. He’d run the Legion’s little puff puff before. It was a good weapon. But it absolutely required put-down hits in the pump and pipes to make sure the target couldn’t make much of a fuss after being hit. He’d need to make sure he had koob anatomy right to make that happen on the first and second shots. Otherwise they could start screaming… or croak
ing… and the whole thing might go pear-shaped.
“A couple of knives,” continued Reiser. “If that’s how you want to do it.”
They walked through the kit loadout.
“Blades are coated with a central nervous system nano-virus that will remain active on contact for up to twelve hours once we start the mission clock and pass the Go Phase Line. One cut or scrape, and the target goes fetal, whether they like it or not. Fifty percent chance of death by cardiovascular infarct within the first thirty seconds, so you might want to go ahead and stick it in the brain pan at the base of the koob skull and give it a quick twist for the fatality. Do not test the edge yourself. I repeat. Don’t, Jack. Like I said, the viral coating remains active for twelve hours regardless of how many froggies you stick. Cut yourself, Jack, and you’ll go fetal too.”
Bowie studied the knives. Standard graphite blade tactical with nice rough sandpaper grips. One tanto and two boot knives.
“What about the bots?” asked Bowie nonchalantly. He was expecting bot-poppers, the micro-grenades used by the Legion that set off a localized EMP blast. But Team Nilo had arranged something different.
Reiser picked up a small subcompact-light blaster. Then a fat silencer. He screwed it onto the barrel quickly with practiced efficiency.
“This is Black Leaf, too. Fancy and fun. The bolts this fires don’t do kinetic. They take out electrical systems by delivering activated photons in the bolt that basically explode on contact to create micro, two-meter radius, EMPs. This baby will shut down a warbot with a direct hit. We call it an EM blaster. Not available in stores.”
Reiser was smiling as he popped out the folding stock, activated the tri-dot laser targeting, and took aim at the wall. Holographic targeting scrolled around the point of impact along the wall in ghostly red data.
“That’s not telemetry. Or rather, it ain’t only telemetry, Jack. It’s there for the shooter in case things get real hectic. Range-measured power against the target and chance of off-line at impact. Adjust the sight picture and it’ll update as it scans the bot, telling you where you’re most likely to get a kill. Some of the old warbots were hardened via modular components against micro-EMP strikes. So, this will make that a lot easier. But like I said, it’s not just targeting… it’s actually throwing data spam at the bot’s sensors to confuse targeting and every other operational process the bot is running. Think of it as a line-of-sight hack attack even before it fires. Truth is you probably don’t need it. But let’s say the bot doesn’t go down with the first hit… this will mess with its systems and that might help you to acquire and fire in a situation.”
What situation? wondered Bowie.
“What about THKs?” asked Bowie, taking the weapon and sighting along it. It felt light and flimsy. He’d have to account for that when acquiring for target. He was used to lugging the N-18 up and firing. It wasn’t heavy, but his muscle memory was trained for that specific weight for every condition expected, and unexpected, in the employment of the weapon system. A lighter weapon, while nice on a long overland hump to a hit, might be a problem when trying to target inside a close-quarters environment with split-second acquisition. He’d have to go through some rifle PT to make sure he had its weight just right in his head. And muscle memory. Didn’t want jerk it up and be way off target in a sudden firefight. Best for it to come up slow and smooth into the engagement window.
Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast, some old hullbuster had once hectored him endlessly with. Yeah, he thought. Got it, Sarge. Still got it. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.
Lying on the table was a bando of bot-poppers after all. So Team Nilo was making sure he was more than ready for what was in the vault. With the subcompact EM blaster, these seemed like overkill. But you never knew. And honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d take the explosives. Even if he did need to clean the whole library first, he just didn’t know how much noise these things made and that could present a problem with regards to quiet and stealth.
He tabled the bando. He’d object later. And… he might not. Because… well… you never knew.
“Finally,” brayed Reiser. “We got a nifty tailor-made suit cut all special for super-spy Jack Bowie.”
Laid out on the loadout table was a synthprene wet suit. Or at least that’s what it looked like.
“Am I going to swim through sewers at some point?” asked Jack drolly.
“Hardy har hah!” replied Reiser lamely.
Hardy har har, thought Bowie and said nothing.
“Ain’t what you’re thinking, Jack. And I’m honestly surprised you didn’t recognize this. This ain’t no wetsuit. It’s the synthprene undersuit leejes wear beneath their armor. Only this one is a smartsuit. Latest from Team Nilo. It does everything Legion armor does regarding filtration, imaging, and comms. Protects you from all environments and still gives you enhanced sensory access. Scrambles passive detection and messes with targeting telemetry for anyone using a scope or running a drone. Line of sight is your only problem. Optical contacts that go with it synch and act as your HUD. Think… and it runs the systems. No tongue or second set of externals on the sleeve. This thing will listen to your thoughts and run the systems the way you want them run. Which is straight up crazy when you think about it, Jack. So, my advice… just don’t think about it. Just think you want to go to IR and it will throw that over your current visual spectrum. And yes, it tags and identifies your enemies and even runs a passive gathering sensor system that should identify your targets as much as a hundred meters away.”
Should, thought Bowie. Sounds like a wish instead of feature.
“Does it stop blaster bolts like Legion armor?”
“We wanted it to deflect blaster fire, but no. We aren’t there yet. It’ll ablate some, but I’ll be honest with you, Jack… don’t get hit. It’ll just seal up the wound with nanites and drug you, which… when you think about it and all… surrounded by a dozen of those froggy buggers… maybe ain’t the greatest situation to be in, tactically-speaking and all. Direct hit from a heavy and you’re going to be looking at a hole in your chest while you go into shock and bleed out. Roger, amigo? We’re looking at go-time at some point in the early morning hours just past end of today. So that gives you six hours for familiarization. Let’s get moving before we hit the Oh-Bee-Jay.”
We, thought Jack Bowie. He picked up the bando after all.
33
Go time.
The AN-16 dropped away from the rear cargo deck of a boxy utility-sized dropship that anyone on the ground might have mistaken for a bulk shipping distribution vehicle passing from one delivery site to the next. Never mind the street battles below. Commerce went on regardless over Soob City, recent economic boomtown. They simply had to dodge more surface-to-air missiles than before.
The dropship was common in the days leading up to the current crisis. Common on the thousands of civilized worlds that spanned the galaxy. What was not common was the small bat-winged glider that danced in the engine backdraft at the rear of the dropship at an altitude of five thousand feet. Again, common shipping traffic airspace altitude over Soob City. The glider disconnected and then dove for the deck of Soob City rooftops, silently streaking down into the labyrinthine maze of buildings old and new. Tall and small.
Any sensor pickups were either deflected or eaten by the AN-16’s absorptive nano-skin and thin profile signature. Designed for stealth and used for insertion over hostile, or even heavily debated, crisis zones, the AN-16 was a Dark Ops plaything that came direct out of Legion R&D. It wasn’t useful beyond getting a single operator into an operational theatre unnoticed, but, if that’s what you wanted to do, then the AN-16 was perfect for the job.
Unnoticed electronically, the craft was also visually hard to detect. It moved fast due to its design and, when needed, could slow to the pace of a man walking. Which was exactly what needed to happen in the next fifteen seconds if Jack Bowie was
to nail the LZ on the roof of the Museum of Kublaren History.
The glider came in over the silent ramshackle sprawl of ZQ to the west, avoiding tall minarets and dodging the wild collection of rattletrap comm towers, wires, and sensor nets the zhee were ever collecting and assembling to subvert normal communications. Bowie was flying by a set of simple controls directly in front of his face while effectively lying on his belly as the glider shot toward the roof of the museum. The koob guard was due to make his next patrol along the roof in less than seven minutes.
The glider danced around the side of a tall dropship parking hangar a few blocks from the museum and lined up for the rooftop LZ ahead. No lights. No catch-net. Bowie switched over to starlight optics and everything became a little bit clearer in the zero dark of not-night and not-dawn. He’d been using night vision and the depth perception wasn’t as good as this new mode. And the perception of distance and depth was absolutely critical for this next bit. The short field landing that needed to be stuck in one go.
Bowie didn’t bring in the passive repulsors until the glider cleared the lip of the building and was whipping along the wide rooftop of the museum. Then he slammed the repulsor braking lever forward a little more forcefully than needed and watched as the groundspeed indicator dropped like a rock. Forty dropped to twenty then ten, and Bowie yanked the nose of the glider skyward, tapping the repulsor batteries to cushion for a full and final stop. The batteries were a one-shot trick. They bled out all the braking and cushioning power they could lend to bring the glider to a dead stop on a dime. And then gently set the light craft down on the roof of the building with little to no fanfare.
Inside, the glider sensors and speed alarms, coupled with the constant traffic coming from Reiser and his ops team back in the warehouse, died in a second as Bowie listened to the composite hull of the glider settle onto the sandy grit of the rooftop in silence. It felt no more than a child’s toy that had finally been discarded.
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 23
