Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One

by Jason Anspach

  Never.

  I can see the firefight unfolding clearly before me. Black Leaf mercs are dug in around the museum, using its roof, steps, and alleys for cover. Piles of dead koobs serve as sandbags in the street, and I can see not only Pashta’k but also Republic Army forces using them for cover as they press an attack against the museum.

  A luxe sled or two is in sight, sort of in a no-man’s land between the forces. One sled is on its side, every window shattered. The other is on fire. The koobs and their Republic allies are leapfrogging toward the sleds, trying to set up a firing position from the cover of the big vehicles as a repeating blaster nest hammers at them from the roof.

  From the bodies near the objective, I can see this is a tactic they’ve been trying for a while but still haven’t learned their objective. Good for Hopper. His team, though surrounded, is making them pay for every inch of ground. But they look battle weary and have probably been fighting for hours given the state of the field.

  A drone zips overhead and performs a supply drop on the roof of the museum. Probably more charge packs—I don’t think Big Nee has much else for them right now. And like I said before, a nice strafing run by a buzz ship would end this right now. Break the local army and dust any koobs who felt like staying for the airshow.

  “Pikkek,” I call into the comm, as we zip along the main street that leads to where the battle formations are set and the fight is happening in earnest.

  “Mooktah ya?”

  “I need you up here, now. Break engagement.”

  There’s a bewildered and half-bellowing croak. “No run from Pashta’k!”

  “Not running. Attacking in a new direction. I need your team to help punch through the lines at the museum.”

  I don’t get an audible confirmation from Pikkek, but Abers fills me in on what he’s seeing from facing the opposite direction. “Our koobs are gettin’ on ’pulsors. What’s the play, Carter?”

  As we push down the main thoroughfare, the seeds of a plan form in my head. Of the three forces—Black Leaf, Repub Army, and Pashta’k koobs—only Team Nilo appears organized. If the army rolled in with a battle plan, it fell apart once contact was made. But then, anyone still serving in the Republic army on a place like Kublar is probably more politician than soldier. Someone holding out hope that the old order would find its way back to power. The type whose well-being depends solely on table scraps from the galaxy’s powerful and elite.

  What the mercs are up against are superior numbers that could have already won the fight if they had been willing to take the heavy losses necessary to overrun the museum and put an end to the fight. But they’re battling defensively. Trying to shoot their way to victory when all it would take is a simple charge.

  A charge.

  That’s what we’re gonna do. Not a blind rush at the thickest portions of the line, but an old school cavalry charge from antiquity. Fitting for a fight in front of a museum. We’ll move through the enemy lines as they’re occupied with their objective, hit them hard, and then be on to the next group before they can react.

  Best case, we cause enough confusion to get them to break. Worst case…

  Well, let’s not think about that right now.

  I relay the plan to the team as we close the remaining distance on the long thoroughfare that runs in front of the museum. That no one answers tells me that not only is my plan understood, but it’s viewed as crazy. Suicidal even.

  Maybe so.

  We’ll find out soon.

  48

  Our ATVs, weighed down with drivers, weigh over six hundred pounds. Which means when they drive over the top of the fleeing koobs, they’re getting pummeled by that much repulsor force. Better than being flattened by a tank, but I can’t imagine it feels good. Some of the koobs get up when we pass by, some of them don’t. We’re working hard to make sure the “don’t” column contains the most tallies.

  The Team Nilo defenders do everything short of giving us a cheer on arrival. They’ve been coordinating their defensive fire to allow us to crash through the ranks of koobs, now embedded and pressing their attack as if sieging the museum. Trying to gain the victory through attrition, one Black Leaf casualty at a time.

  We’re making a difference, though. And it’s above my paygrade to call this one of Oba’s miracles or not, but it feels miraculous that we haven’t taken any casualties yet. I chalk it up to the speed and precision my operators are working in and the chaotic smokescreen that is combat. It’s clear to me that the koobs and their R-A supporters weren’t anticipating an attack. Their flanks were exposed and unguarded. Tactical failures of the most basic variety. The stuff you don’t need to be an officer to know to do because it’s as simple as living anyplace where life is hard and rough: Watch your back.

  If there’s a flaw in my plan, it’s that I’m still driving. While I’m using my vehicle as a weapon, when we get up close in the midst of a pocket of attacking koobs, all I can do is swing Mel S. from my back and operate the shotgun with one arm. It tears through the surprised koobs, who usually are only just bringing their heads up from behind cover by the time we arrive. But it’s slower going than I would like. I know how much more damage I could contribute if I had both hands.

  Lana is doing her able best, emptying her subcompact with each engagement and reloading on the fly. Easy is in the same predicament as me, and Abers has swapped out his N-18 for an N-4. Pikkek’s koobs are fighting with a ferocity that has me impressed. They’re making holes with their slug throwers at range and many of them are swinging those obscenely sharp stone swords and tomahawks once they’re in close.

  I’d say that the melee is what’s causing the Pashta’k lines to fold and turn, but the credit for that truly goes to Lash. He’s spitting from his SAB, still soft-mounted to the handlebars of his ATV. He roars in like a space fighter on a strafing run, fearlessly charging the enemy and watching them break and clear a path for him to speed through. It’s crazy. The big guy bull-rushes and I’m not sure they even shoot back. They’re reacting like a demon from their prehistory—I’m assuming koobs believe in demons here—has entered the battle to tilt it out of their favor like we’re all living a myth.

  “Keep it up,” I shout into the comm, barely coherent.

  The frenzy of battle, the thrill of fighting through odds, has overtaken my admittedly rusty Legion training. I can feel it in all of us. We’re slipping into a place where the fighting takes control. The type where you keep shooting and yelling even after the foe has been vanquished. Where you squeeze the trigger until the charge pack is spent, yelling to compete with the sound of the blast.

  And then our luck changes. No, not changes. The gods of war have demanded a sacrifice in exchange for the victory we’ve been given. And they’ve chosen their offering.

  “Sket! Easy’s hit!”

  I have only a vague sense of where Easy and Abers are. Lash I can find thanks to the continual blaze of his SAB. Pikkek’s war croaks rise above the loudest battle din. I know they’re nearby, but I can’t find them.

  I need to get Lana to them.

  “Lana, I can’t see ’em!”

  “Museum steps,” she shouts.

  Easy’s ATV is slowly floating toward the front stairs of the museum. I can see Easy slumped over the front of the handlebars, Abers holding onto him, keeping him from falling off. I can also see we’ve disrupted the koob lines so much that we have a straight shot to the museum, fully capable of connecting with Hopper’s forces.

  “Push to the museum,” I call out to my team. “Let’s get these guys home.”

  Pikkek bellows something in Koob that I have no ability to translate. Pretty sure it means he’s not going to stop fighting as mobile cav.

  “Copy,” says Lash. “Take care of Easy. But these koobs’ll break if we keep this up. Gonna stay at it.”

  Okay. So I guess the chain of command thing
is optional at this point.

  But Lash is a capable operator. And while I still don’t know exactly what he did before joining Team Nilo, he’s proven again and again to be an elite warrior.

  “Copy that,” I say. “But if I need you at the museum…”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  We’re at the museum steps by the time the conversation ends. Lana jumps from the ATV and unslings her medical bag. She runs up to Easy while I take up a firing position, looking to provide security.

  It’s disorganized and random now. There are dead koobs and dead R-A soldiers littering the streets. Those still alive are nearly crashing into each other, running this way and that. Some caught up in the panic of an unfolding rout, others attempting to rally. All the while, Lash rips up and down the avenue with his SAB like a drag racer and the repeating blasters from the roof hammer those caught in the open.

  I find a few opportunities to shoot, switching from Mel S. to Mel R. I’m keeping an ear open to try to glean what I can about Easy, resisting the urge to pepper Lana with questions as she works. Easy needs her attention more than I need her assurance that the little hullbuster will be all right.

  A Republic Army soldier belly crawls through the dead. He’s unarmed, so I let him be, keeping an eye on him as I drop a koob firing one of those hybrid blasters. The soldier crawls over to the corpse of a dead koob, elbows wet with their fishy yellow blood. I see him reach for a rifle and I take my shot. The blaster bolt burns through the kid’s helmet and his head drops face-first into the pooling koob blood, red mixing with yellow. Death atop death.

  And more death.

  “Not me, man! Check on Easy!”

  I turn my head and see Abers seated on the steps and leaning against the powered-down ATV. He’s yelling as Lana checks him out. Easy is still slumped over the repulsor he was driving, clearly gone.

  “Easy wasn’t the only one hit,” Lana says, struggling to unfasten Abers’s vest. “Stay still or I’ll have Lash hold you down.”

  More targets appear, drawing my attention away from the drama unfolding just a few feet away from me. But Lash was right about continuing to seed chaos in the battlefield; the koob and R-A assault is broken and any pretense of rallying is gone. They were undisciplined and couldn’t withstand the heat of the battle once what was a clear victory was ripped away from their grasp.

  Even in defeat, an enemy is dangerous. While most of Pashta’k koobs are running, some are lingering, refusing to show us their backs. Taking quick shots with those rifles as they do that loping walk-hop. It’s this type I’m looking for, trying to dust them before they can dust any more of us. As the streets begin to clear like tidewaters pulling away from a beach, the carnage left in the retreating force’s wake is evident.

  Koob blood runs along gutters and into storm drains designed to handle the coastal rains that accompany the planet’s brief wet season. But it isn’t all yellow. The red blood of deceased Team Nilo guys and hapless Repub Army soldiers swirls in its midst. I’ve seen worse battlefields by far. But the aftermath of anything—be it a roadside bomb, targeted orbital strike, or even a simple ambush—is never pretty to look at.

  “Carter, I need your help,” grunts Lana.

  She’s struggling with Abers, who’s holding her by the wrists as if she were coming at him with a vibroknife in each hand. Only all she has is a skinpack and a pair of laser sheers.

  “Help, Easy,” Abers mumbles, his N-18 propped against the steps.

  Lana has no hope of overpowering the former Marine and I’m not sure she’s even trying. It looks more like she’s keeping tense to make sure Abers can’t do anything to her arms, because he’s somewhere else.

  I bound over and across the steps, hoping the guys on the roof and the rest of the firing positions keep me covered until the museum is fully secure.

  “Abers, buddy,” I say, “let Lana help you. You gotta let her take a look, man.”

  I take hold of his wrist, gently. The touch seems to trigger something because he lets one of Lana’s arms free. He looks up at me imploringly and pleads his case.

  “Easy’s hit.”

  “I know. So are you.”

  “Not bad. It’s not bad. But Easy,” he nods his head at the dead Marine, still slumped over the ATV, “he’s messed up.”

  That’s an understatement. He’s got a hole blown right through him. His legs are soaking wet with blood, which has dripped down the repulsor and pooled on the searing hot duracrete. Already, black flies are buzzing around the wound and lapping up the blood as it evaporates under the blazing Kublaren sun.

  “I know, buddy, it’s not good. We’ll do what we can, but we need to help you first.”

  “No!” shouts Abers, grabbing my rig and pulling me close. “No. You gotta help the worst hurt first. Easy’s hurt bad, man.”

  He looks over at his friend and breaks, talking through a racking sob. “He’s messed up.”

  I’m a big guy, and I could handle Abers, but he’s hyped up right now with enough adrenaline that it wouldn’t be easy. Or productive. He’s bleeding from somewhere behind his vest, I can see that much. How bad, I don’t know. But the loss of blood will translate to a—“Whoa!”

  Abers has both hands on me, one grabbing my vest, the other around my neck, choking me. He’s screaming at me now, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “Help him! Why the kel won’t you help him, damn you?”

  And then, just as quickly, his fingers go limp and his hands seem to wash away from me. My immediate thought is that he just up and died, but then I gather my senses and see Lana with a dermo still in her hand, its powerful narcotic plunged into Abers.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Fine. What about him?”

  She’s already checking when I ask. “Would have liked to find that out before giving him the pain meds, but this is better than waiting for him to crash. Let me work.”

  “Copy,” I say, and then get up to rejoin the fight. I don’t look at Easy again. Don’t think I can.

  “Carter!”

  I turn in the direction of the voice and see one of Hopper’s guys—Van Dop—coming my way. He looks like he’s been through hell, but his posture tells me the worst of it is over. He’s moving quickly, but not they’re-shooting-right-at-us quickly.

  “You and your team saved our asses.”

  I ignore the compliment beyond a fractional nod. “What’s the situation?”

  “Situation is we’re all jacked up. But the koobs are on the run. I still got snipers in that building—” he points to a nearby structure. “They say the koobs ain’t stopping. Running straight for the spaceport. I think they’re bugging out. Like, all the way out.”

  “Where’s Hopper?”

  “Dunno. He was first man down. Got him and the early wounded out the way we came in before they encircled us.”

  “Oba, why the hell didn’t you all get out?”

  Van Dop looks down. “Surber made it clear that wasn’t an option.”

  I spit, despite my mouth feeling dry. “Yeah.”

  There’s still gunfire in the city. Particularly from the ZQ and near the spaceport. I don’t have any orders to assume command, but with Hopper down, I take the initiative.

  “CCP inside the museum?” I ask, taking a guess.

  Van Dop nods.

  “Gather up what effectives you can. Have them get the wounded to the CCP after we’ve reset our perimeters. I have a feeling that what we’re hearing from the donks in the ZQ is gonna get close again.”

  “Sket.”

  “Just a feeling. But do it in case I’m not wrong.”

  “Roger. I’ll get on it.”

  “Good. I’ll call in to Command and see what I can find out.”

  We’ve been standing in the street jawing with no trouble. I look around and don’t see any hosti
les. The shooting in our section has gone to zero. We have control of the field.

  I take a step to return to the museum when a bullet smacks into the duracrete at my feet and bounces. I can feel it graze across my leg, causing me to jump. But when I land, I feel all right. No limp.

  The repeating blasters on the museum roof instantly roar back to life, sending torrents of fire into the shattered picture windows of some reading room slash wine bar across the street. A pair of Black Leaf men advance on the building and toss in fraggers. It takes all of thirty seconds to take down the Republic Army loyalist who decided to play hide and snipe.

  I climb the steps to where Lana is. She’s doing triage, telling Black Leaf men who bring her the wounded where to place them inside the museum. I don’t see Abers, but Lash is there. He’s got a big skinpack on his arm, covering most of the shoulder and part of the bicep.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m good.” Lash looks down at my torn pants. There’s a little bit of blood on my boot. “You?”

  “Scratch.”

  Lana stoops down, cuts more of the pant leg away, then flicks the fabric away, no longer interested. “That’s exactly what it is. Put a strip of skinpack on it and take one of the yellow pills to keep the parasites away. This is still Kublar, even if the city doesn’t look like it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I see that Lash has picked up one of those new weapons. He’s inspecting it like an arms dealer, doing everything short of fieldstripping it. I want to ask him about it, but I need to reach Command.

  Somewhere from the ZQ—an explosion.

  “Command, this is Carter. Museum is secure, over.”

  Brisco replies, sounding more pro than I’ve ever heard him. “Copy that, Carter. Museum has been secured. Stand by for Mr. Nilo.”

  Another explosion from the ZQ. I look over and see a fireball billowing up into the sky.

  “Carter,” Nilo says, his voice filled with relief. “Thank you. Sincerely.”