“Well, I forgot to bring an engineering corps with me.”
The frustration of not knowing what it is these people want has boiled over. Yes, we’re paid to do what we’re told. But what do you do when no one seems able to clearly tell you what the objective is?
“I understand your frustration,” says Elektra, shrugging off my outburst as if it didn’t happen; no hurt or offense in her voice. “We need you to fight your way to the museum front doors approaching from State Street.”
I look for the nearest street signs. Ahead, an armed koob takes notice of us. He’s limping and carrying a carbine. He pauses but thinks better of engaging. Or maybe he sees Pikkek and his commandos and assumes we’re on his side. He hobbles away clutching his stomach, phosphorescent blood slipping between fingers.
“Pikkek,” I call, unable to get my bearings. “You know this place? State Street?”
Pikkek licks his eye. “No visit… k’kik… bad tribe. Weak.”
“They don’t look weak to me,” Easy grumbles to himself.
This causes Pikkek to croak out a laugh. “Big die when fight starts-ah. You see. Big die.”
“When it starts?” Easy looks around incredulously. “Oba’s ass, what do you call this?”
But Pikkek only laughs again.
“Command. Which way to State?”
“Continue course for two blocks and turn left. You’ll reach an intersection where you’ll turn right. State Street loops to the museum.”
“If I go another block, I’m going to be up and into that crowd of koobs.”
I look ahead and watch the swarming collection of koobs. They’re looting without hesitation, breaking store windows and pulling out whatever they can. Others are tearing down poles declaring street parking ordinances and taking them away. There’s an electric hum of excitement and you get the sense that if you were to walk through the crowd from the back to the front, you’d wind up at the museum in the midst of a fight. All this time, the firing hasn’t slackened.
Hopper’s giving them hell.
I relay the objective and route to the team.
“We’re gonna have to drive into that crowd to do that, man,” Easy says.
“Probably,” I answer. “And we need to do it fast. Any slowdowns and the koobs’ll have no trouble swarming us.”
“And they don’t have anything that can clear the street?” Abers asks.
“If they do, they’re not offering.”
“Hey, Pikkek,” Lash says, one arm on his handlebar, the other holding his SAB. “You got an idea on this?”
“Shoot them.”
The big koob’s answer draws a few chuckles. I’m about to solidify our apparent suicide run when he elaborates, though, pulling his ATV up next to me and using the flat of his palm as a rudimentary map, like he’s drawing up a play.
“You shoot-ah, Pashta’k. Big die. Drive this way.” He traces an invisible line with the tip of a long finger. “Circle-back-ah this way. Two… k’kik blocks. They no outruns.”
“Okay, but how do we get enough to follow us?” I ask.
Pikkek flares his airsac. “We tell them how.”
It sounds better than any other option we have. I don’t think we’ll get far plowing through a crowd of armed koobs unless we’re driving tanks. Which is another thing I wish Big Nee had.
“Any objections to the plan?” I ask the team.
Nobody answers. Democracy in action.
“Okay, Pikkek. Let’s do it.” I look to my team. “Ready to move?”
Nods come at me in reply.
“Lash… open up on ’em.”
If the big man has any reservations, he deals with them in the brief second that passes between my order and his action. The SAB sends a ruthless stream at the koobs, dropping several and causing even more to duck and scatter. Return fire zips overhead.
“That’s our signal to leave. Go!”
We take off like a biker gang running out on the bar tab, racing up the open street Pikkek pointed out. As we move, I can hear Pikkek and his koobs croaking their airsacs above the din. The cry is answered by the koobs in the crowd, taken up one by one until it feels like the whole city is shaking from the sound.
It’s unsettling. Particularly with the knowledge that the message is telling them which way to hunt us down. This must be how the leejes in the Battle of Kublar felt before that final attack.
We speed down the middle of the street, the wind causing my hair to flap around my ears and washing away the heat from my skin in a baptism of air. It seems like no part of this city is without damage. Sleds have broken windows and flaming hoods. Intact doors to businesses are nowhere to be seen. Trash receptacles are overturned; the bots meant to right them and clean up lie broken in the street. There’s no shortage of detritus to maneuver around.
Lana squeezes me tight enough that I can feel it through my armored synth-weave vest. “Followers!”
I can only hazard a backward glance. Koobs are riding in civilian and military trucks. Maybe I saw a Republic Army soldier driving, but I can’t be sure. But that we’re getting shot at, I’m sure of that. Bolts sizzle overhead. I drift the repulsor ATV to the right upon passing a tipped-over food cart, hoping it obstructs the shooter’s vision.
Abers is taking what for anyone else would be impossible shots from the back of Easy’s ride with his sniper rifle. Maybe he’ll dust a driver, but even slowing them down will be a help. We’re eight blocks from our starting point when Lana tells me that more koobs on foot have flooded the street.
Dodging a rolling scrap of sandstone blown from an errant RPG shot, I shout back, “Let’s try to not have a breakdown, then!”
Blaster fire is chasing us now, hoping to make up for the head start we got over the pursuing koobs. As the first turn in Pikkek’s route comes up, I want to go at it full speed. But fear of throwing Lana has me engaging brakes. Still, we fishtail around the bend, blaster bolts with a hell of an impact striking the street and sending up sizable chunks of duracrete.
I feel Lana wince.
“What is it?” I call.
“Nothing. Caught some shrapnel in the leg, I think.”
Turning around, I do a one-second inspection. I can see a slight trickle of blood seeping through her pants and rolling down her boots. That doesn’t look good, but it isn’t necessarily bad either. It’s amazing how much the human body can bleed. And while bleeding from a combat wound is never good, it can be misleading. Lots of fatal wounds don’t seem to bleed at all, while other wounds look like the stuff from horror entertainments but aren’t all that serious.
Ultimately, Lana is the one best equipped to determine the severity of the injury. She’s also tough as a destroyer hull, so there’s the chance that she’ll ignore it in an attempt to keep the op from delay.
“We need to stop?” I ask.
“Keep going. I’ll check it once we circle back.”
I’m expecting a breakthrough once we circle back followed by hard fighting with Hopper’s team to get them out of their position at the museum.
“Roger that,” I answer, relying on the comm to carry my voice to her despite the wind. “Whatever you need. Your skills are gonna be in demand once we reach the ob. Got a feeling.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lana says.
I know that tone. Heard it from my wife a million times. It’s the final, tolerate-no-further-discussion tone that has shipwrecked countless young husbands too foolhardy to ignore its warning. One that a more experienced man, like myself, learned long ago to heed. That doesn’t mean I refrain from getting the last word.
“Copy. Let me know if there’s a status change.”
She answers through gritted teeth. “I will.”
I smile into the wind, enjoying the temporary reprieve the corner has bought us. I’m pushing it, I know. But I can’t help my
self. It’s the adventurer in me.
We’ve settled into a wedge formation as we move through the open street. There are still signs of earlier destruction, but it’s not as bad here. Like most of the fighting passed over this place in favor of other, less fortunate blocks. Broken glass litters the sidewalks. Most of the sleds parked on the street have busted out windows. Just a few though, and none of them were lit on fire this morning.
I see our next turn approach and ping Pikkek on the comm. “We’re at the halfway point. How’s it looking?”
“Good!” The big koob sounds excited. “Big die!”
The clamor of a fight, which hasn’t faded once since we arrived, seems louder over the comm.
“Pikkek, are you engaging the enemy?”
I get a croaking laugh in reply. “Roger that… k’kik… leejon-ayer! Hurry back-ah… or all big die over!”
I shake my head, wondering whether this diversion—which had drawn away some of the Soob Kublarens—was the tactical move I thought it was, or whether it was just the excuse Pikkek needed to open up on a rival tribe without interference from his allies.
Nothing to do now but finish the circuit and see if our avenue to reach Hopper has widened as a result of our efforts. We swing the next (and last) turn just as the koob technical trucks whip around to run behind us. But we’re around the corner before they have the chance to fire.
“Heads up,” I call to the team. “Straight shot before we rejoin Pikkek. He and his koobs have engaged the forces in the street. And watch for ambushes just in case the Soob forces manage to guess where we’re heading and jump our route.”
“Copy,” I hear Abers answer back for the group.
The repulsors are still in formation. I resist the urge to check on Lana again and turn to inspect the others. Lash has mounted his SAB over his handlebars, driving one-handed. Easy is driving with both hands, full concentration on keeping the ride as smooth as possible for the sniper riding on the back of his ATV. Their setup definitely violates whatever safety manual was written up by the vehicle manufacturer. Abers is sitting backward, knees gripping the side of the ATV like he’s riding a horse. The sniper is leaning against his buddy’s back for further stabilization, his heavy N-18 ready to take aim at the first koob who manages to get in his sight picture.
We’re as prepared for trouble—front and back—as we can be given the circumstances. We push on. Move forward. The only way we can go. But I find myself wondering what difference the five of us are supposed to make. Even with our Kublaren support, we’re not many. And based on what I’ve seen in the city fighting, Hopper needs a company to relieve him, not a QRF. But, when you’re in the thick of it, some help is better than no help at all.
Still. Given what I’ve experienced so far, I have the distinct feeling there’s something more here than meets the eye. Something Nilo hasn’t seen fit to tell us. More Black Leaf secretism (is that a word?).
As we push to the end of our diversionary route, I’m waiting for the other boot to drop.
47
“Pikkek, we’re making the last turn.”
“Ya, ya,” answers the big koob warrior. “Drive… k’kik’k… behind bullets-ah.”
No sket.
We speed around our turn, the last leg in our race over. We’re back where we started. Only now there are significantly fewer koobs mobbing the streets than when we’d first begun. And what remains is either hunkered down in cover fighting Pikkek’s warriors or lying dead in the streets, which are reflecting the sunlight under the brilliant sheen of their yellow blood, poured out in excess.
Everyone else either took after us in the chase or fled the scene, looking for a safer place to join in the fight. Because the fighting against Hopper and his team is still ongoing. It doesn’t sound like it’s faded in the slightest.
The firefight between rival koob factions seems to have taken the larger Pashta’k force completely by surprise. From what I gathered, this tribe was better adept at winning favor from the Republic than they were at winning wars. And even though the official stance of the House of Reason was to remain neutral during the Kublaren civil war that followed Victory Company’s amazing stand at the Battle of Kublar, it’s obvious now that the Republic picked a winner.
Abers takes a shot with his N-18 and then calls in a report. “They’re comin’ after us hot, boss.”
That’s to be expected. We weren’t exactly trying to lose them, and they’d have to be pretty dense not to figure out where we were heading. If they were smart, they would have let us go and fortified whatever positions they have set up to fight Hopper. Who knows, maybe they did. Maybe they have the bodies to spare.
It occurs to me that my eye in the sky, Elektra, hasn’t said a word to me since I cut her off earlier. I guess it cuts both ways, because I haven’t bothered trying to reach her, either. At the same time, the repulsor shuttles the airborne snipers were using as gun platforms have all bugged out. Maybe low on fuel, maybe needed elsewhere. But in any event, I need to coordinate now. The last thing we need is to reach Hopper’s position only to get blasted by the very guys we’re trying to pull out.
“Command,” I call into the designated comm channel. “You still with us?”
There’s a long enough pause that I start to think they may not be. And then Brisco pops on the line.
“Hey, Carter.” He sounds stressed. “You guys reach the museum yet?”
“Negative. ETA is five minutes, give or take a few depending on how many koobs we have to run over to break through.”
Brisco doesn’t laugh. “Mr. Surber is breathing fire, Carter. Get there now.”
“Tell Surber we’re on it. These things take time unless you like your operators ventilated with bullet holes.”
“You’ve run out of time, Mister Carter,” Surber says, breaking into the comm channel. “Secure the museum immediately.”
There’s a thousand things I want to say. Most of them not fit for innocent ears. If there’s one thing that marks this entire operation… well, I guess it’s a sket-load of credits. But if there’s another thing, it’s the way corporate expectations don’t mix with sound military planning and tactics. In too many ways, it feels like I’m working for points again.
Surber continues, not wanting to end the transmission without pouring on some of the old charm. “Your team has been plucked from dire life circumstances and given opportunities undreamt of through Team Nilo. That comes with an expectation that—”
“Cut it, Surber,” I snap. I feel Lana squeeze my sides. An unspoken warning against telling off the boss. One I reluctantly heed. “We’ll get the job done. Just stop distracting us with lectures in our ears while we’re trying to KTF.”
Surber doesn’t answer. I try to picture a chastened version of the man standing somewhere in the Team Nilo war room but can’t. A humbled Surber is like a hot ice cube or honest politician. Not possible.
And that’s for the best, because we’re screaming past Pikkek while he engages in a gunfight with the Pashta’k koobs who felt like sticking around. They’re wielding a type of rifle I haven’t seen before. Reminiscent of an N-6 but definitely not just throwing bolts. It’s leaving big holes in whatever it hits and while it has the tracer effect of a blaster bolt, it gives off the crack of a gas propelled cartridge system.
Pikkek’s team is dishing it out much worse than they’re taking it, but the ones who’ve caught a slug from those new weapons have holes in them that aren’t going to be patched up.
How the city koobs got these is a mystery for later. Right now, I need to focus on my driving. And hope that Brisco has told the museum defenders not to blast me to shreds on sight.
My comm pings and I’ve just about had my fill of Surber. There’s a point where credits aren’t enough to put up with the grind, and Surber is pushing me rapidly to that point.
“Carter, I know this is a
big ask. But I need a favor.”
It’s not Surber after all. It’s Nilo.
I’m not sure how to answer. What do you say when the rich and powerful ask for a favor? I’m not dumb enough to agree to something before I hear what it is, so I just say, “Go for Carter.”
“Listen, Carter, that museum holds a key—several keys—that are of untold value. Not just in credits, but in their ability to help us fix what’s wrong with the galaxy. You remember what I said in the sled the night we hit the temple. How Goth Sullus did the right thing in the wrong way. Carter, this is a moment the galaxy won’t get again in our lifetime. We can make sure people are free, safe, and at peace. Kublar is a changed world after this fight. Mark my words. The rest of the galaxy will be the same, but I need you to secure the museum.”
I open my mouth to talk but find myself having to dodge a burning hunk of something that dropped from the sky. Maybe the fallout from an explosion. Maybe from a koob playing catch from a rooftop.
We barely make it. But in the silence, Nilo must think I’m debating what he’s said.
He gives the final sell.
“This isn’t an order. I won’t order you to die because we miscalculated our push into the Soob. This is me asking someone I need in my organization—and I can see now the mistakes I’ve made not having guys like you in my ear for military planning—to get something that only you can get done. Credits are never going to be an issue again for you, Carter. The question is, do you believe in what we’re doing here? For the galaxy?”
That is the question, all right. And I think I answered it already. The endless wars of the House of Reason, the despotism of men like Goth Sullus… we’re better than that. The galaxy is better than that.
“All you had to say was the credits part,” I answer. Because experience has taught me that true believers are always the ones who get the shaft when it comes time to divvy up the treasure.
“Copy that,” Nilo says. He doesn’t sound disappointed by my answer. Relieved we’re still in, if anything.
But the truth of it is, I and my guys never had any intention of breaking away, no matter how hard the fight. Hopper is in a fix and so is his team. You don’t just shrug your shoulders and walk away at that.
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 33
