Governor Pressfield banged the flat of her hand against the table, which was amplified to sound like a gavel strike. Council members overseeing the various bureaucratic elements not deemed essential to the defense of Kublar—transportation, tax and consumption, inclusive recreation, and more—rose and left the building.
The colonel cleared his throat as those who remained moved together so as not to have to talk across the room. Chieftain Looma, naturally, remained. And so did the zhee. Colonel Deage could only guess that the wutti who usually sat on the council was killed or incapacitated in the morning’s fighting. In any event, he wasn’t going to bring it up. The last thing this council of war needed were the blood oaths of a shamed and beaten zhee.
“Colonel,” Governor Pressfield said upon retaking her seat at the council head, “I had asked for you to provide a list of difficulties this council of war would need to address if the Legion failed to respond to our call for help.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Deage said, resisting the urge to rock back and forth on his feet. He felt a nervous energy that came from wanting to be back at regimental headquarters to get things in motion. Time was of the essence. But the military served at the pleasure of the Republic, and it was they who would ultimately make the battlefield decisions. “Defense of the inner ring of the Green Zone is in place. Good and Heater Companies have all defensive checkpoints fully staffed and have not reported any attempts by hostile elements to strike at the heart of the city.”
“Very good.”
“That said, ma’am, there is now a large, armed element of Pashta’k Kublarens who put down the zhee revolt coming out of the ZQ.”
The zhee council member brayed at this.
“No such thing occurred,” the zhee whinnied in Standard. “The zhee chose to retreat upon the arrival of Black Leaf mercenaries, knowing that the wisdom of the Four Gods demands vigilance against new threats.”
Nobody challenged this beyond a condescending croak from Looma that the zhee was likely unable to read—the zhee weren’t known for cultural awareness. It agitated the colonel that so much of the damage to the Soob was the result of the zhee rather than the inland Kublarens or the Black Leaf mercenaries, whose numbers weren’t confirmed but estimated at less than a hundred soldiers. The Republic had taken a licking this morning and it was at the hands of those who were supposed to be here working with them.
“Nevertheless,” the colonel continued, “those armed Kublarens need to be accounted for. Intel suggests that they’re using a weapons system that deals out a hell of a bad time. We can assume that the inland Kublarens will be armed with the same. But they’ll be engaged outside the city. We need to decide what to do with the Kublarens armed inside.”
“Chieftain Looma?” asked the governor.
“Pashta’k defend… k’kik… zhee-ka killers. Much die. Big.”
The zhee brayed at this but was silenced with a wave of the hand by Governor Pressfield. That the zhee so quickly allowed himself to be quieted by an infidel female spoke volumes to the colonel. They were desperate and afraid.
“Big die… k’k. Take help. Still Pashta’k. Still Pashta’k. Still! Pashta’k!”
The chieftain’s message was clear. His tribal Kublarens had accepted aid from the Black Leaf mercenaries, but their loyalty remained to their chieftain.
“Then we can count on your elders and warriors getting those weapons off the streets?”
Chieftain Looma nodded. “We give… k’kik… to Pashta’k warriors. Not old ones. Feeble-ah ones.”
“It would seem,” said Governor Pressfield with a barely suppressed smile, “that Mr. Nilo overestimated his ability to gain Kublaren allies on the coast.”
“Fitting that you bring him up, Governor. While I can commandeer civilian transports, the House of Reason left us without offensive airpower. My infantry alone has been left to defend the capital. We have rocket teams to deal with airborne insertions now that we know they have transports of their own, but we’ll be in trouble if they’ve managed to scrounge up anything with teeth.”
Governor Pressfield nodded. “Black Leaf’s founder has made what’s happened here a public spectacle. He’ll want to look good for the holocams he’s now invited to Kublar. If he has air power, we’ll find out soon enough. Our primary goal should be eliminating him. And then the alliance of Kublarens he’s formed inland.”
Pressfield turned to the zhee, introducing him to the council. “This is Yark the Undenied. He is the new acting Grand Wutti of Subiyook City. His people are marching even as we speak to make sure the Kublaren enemies who desecrated the zhee’s holy temple are destroyed, and Black Leaf along with it.”
“Only blood will pay the debt for this sacrilege,” snorted Yark. “All zhee on Kublar will give last breath to see vengeance. The Four Gods demand such!”
Colonel Deage rubbed his chin. “Will that be sufficient to stop the numbers of Kublarens moving this way from inland?”
“Census numbers indicate that if every zhee settled outside the capital, males and females, colts, are to answer the call to battle as Yark has said they will, then we will have a numerically superior force in facing the inland Kublarens, who are only sending their warriors plus whatever Black Leaf mercenaries are held in reserve outside the city.”
Good. This was good. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough of a plan that Colonel Deage felt he had something to at least try.
“With your permission, Governor, I’d like to begin preparations to push the Black Leaf mercenaries out of the city. We’ll cut them off from the docks and deny them the opportunity to escape. I have a special forces team on standby to destroy the ship that inserted them.”
“Proceed, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Governor.” Colonel Deage held up a finger. “There is one other possibility that needs to be considered. Should the inland Kublarens delay their march and allow the zhee to reach the city without a decisive fight, the population here will be unsustainable. That may allow the enemy to starve us out through a siege—a tactic that has withstood the test of time. I’m not confident that the alliance of zhee, Pashta’k, and Republic species on planet will be able to coexist without violence in such an event.”
Governor Pressfield smiled. “A valid observation. However, I have information that will allow—no, force—Black Leaf into attacking the city. We need only be prepared for that attack.”
Colonel Deage waited for the governor to elaborate, but soon saw that she was keeping this intelligence close for the time being. Which, sadly, was something he’d gotten used to. He would never go so far as to say the Legion was correct, and that violating the oath to protect the House of Reason, Senate, and Republic was the right course of action. Oath-breakers belonged in the deepest pits of hell.
But sometimes… damned if he didn’t get where they were coming from.
“Governor, unless you have further need of me…”
“You’re dismissed, Colonel.”
32
Bowie
The Soob
“Things are going to hell in a handbasket as Soob City turns from economic boomtown to war zone under siege, Jack.” Reiser was talking. Stating the obvious. “The local koobs, aaaaand their brand-new contractor friends, have things under control. Just barely. Air quotes around that part, my friend. Control at this point… is merely an illusion. And honestly it could go either way real quick-like if you read me. This thing ain’t settled yet.”
This last-minute meeting called Bowie out of rest and rehabilitation in his near-rooftop suite back at the Grand Intergalactic. He’d left obscene comfort and sophisticated pleasure to get to this meeting in a warehouse not six blocks away. But of course, the whole of the Soob was now little more than a live fire war zone, or a police state under martial law from various competing factions. Bodies in the street, alien and human, were a now common sight. A terse communique coming o
ver his smart comm, informing Bowie that an unmarked armored sled would be picking him up in five in front of the Grand Intergalactic, had been the only advance notice he’d received for this meeting.
During those twenty-four hours in which the koobs, and their new Black Leaf mercenary friends, pushed the vicious zhee back into their quarters, Bowie and the Tennar, Honey, had merely holed up inside the palatial suite above it all, drank expensive champagne, slept, eaten the occasional cold lobster—hers raw, his sautéed in truffle butter—and conducted other more amorous exercises while the violence and mayhem went on across the war-torn cityscape.
Outside, it was dangerous now. In fact very dangerous.
Spies and hitmen were no longer needed in the block to block, house to house, and, at times, brutal room to room fighting underway with heavy weapons and all kinds of military goodies to dislodge the zhee from their warrens and fortified nests. Heavy weaponry and heavy kit were the order of the day. Stealth, subterfuge, and assassinations were for less chaotic times. Not now… Now it was war, and it wouldn’t end until there was a clear winner.
And that meant everyone on the losing side was either dead or in one of the ad hoc internment camps going up. This was no place for a spy.
Or, at least that’s what Bowie told himself as he lay there popping pain meds and trying to get ready for whatever Team Nilo threw at him next. Maybe something off-world and away from the mess Kublar was quickly turning into in order to become something else. Something new.
Something better?
Team Nilo, Nilo, or whatever this was, smelled like a group of dreamers with big plans and lots of credits to compete with the planetary trade cartels or… even the latest iteration of galactic government. Or what used to be the government.
Who knew?
That’s why the strange comm message telling him to be at the warehouse didn’t seem as strange as it might have been amid all the chaos and street to street murder. But it was still off. Jack Bowie had been explicitly told by Elektra that he’d be out of action for the next three days to a week. The message to the contrary came as a bit of a shock. But not completely surprising.
Everyone, as far as Jack knew, including Elektra the Shot Caller, was ex-military. People used to the schedule and orders changing moment to moment. Chaos and miscommunication went hand in hand in every military branch Bowie had ever heard of.
Bowie merely shrugged at the change of mission, read the message once more, and went to find a clean shirt and pants to make the meeting in. He didn’t have many left in his leather travel bag. But the hotel concierge had taken care of what he did have, so he at least had something to slip into.
Athleisure wear in the middle of a war zone screamed private contractor. But he didn’t have many choices. He should’ve asked for some Team Nilo fatigues. He could at least have looked nondescript in those.
He strapped on the holdout and the two knives and a few other tricks and made for the suite’s door, telling the sexy little Tennar he’d be back shortly. Unsure if he would.
“Be careful,” she said almost forlornly as the door slid closed. Her naturally sunny demeanor made the warning sound like a best wish instead of what it was. Maybe a goodbye forever. But whatever it was they had going on, it hadn’t been serious enough to be that. It had been fun. Light and easy in ironic contrast, like some necessary medication to the condition of the situation. And so it had to end light and easy.
If it was ending…
Now, on the other side of the unmarked sled–ride, Bowie found himself in the warehouse, overwatched by a team of contractor-types, getting a multimedia presentation of the planned mission Reiser seemed a little too proud of.
“This is our target, Jack. Museum of Kublaren History. Zhee went in there yesterday and trashed the place. Then the koobs showed up and had a big shoot-out. Final score… a lotta dead zhee. Koobs put up the win, but just barely. Thanks in no little part to us here on Team Nilo.”
Jack Bowie cleared his throat for no reason at all. Reiser’s game faltered for a second.
“So,” began Bowie, jamming up the narrative flow of the proposed op. If only because he needed a moment to think about what he was actually seeing, and what had been said so far. “The contractors and the new slug throwers… they are… Team Nilo?”
Reiser looked officiously uncomfortable with the question.
“That’s currently need-to-know, right now, Jack… and uh… you’re not need-to-know. Just stick with the presentation and do your bit and we all get to the bonuses, my friend. Never mind about what’s going on out there with the koobs and their instructors.”
Silence.
“What if I need to know?” said Bowie flatly.
Reiser stopped and put down his laser pointer with a barely concealed impatience. He picked up a fresh cup of kaff and took a short sip to regain some of what he’d lost. The briefing, though held in a dark yet surprisingly clean and new-smelling warehouse, had come complete with a complimentary craft service table sporting hardboiled eggs, fresh pastries, and even hot-brewed kaff of the expensive variety.
“These guys really know how to war,” Reiser had remarked when showing Bowie to the briefing and letting the taller man know he could avail himself of the tasty sundries provided. It was hard to say what Reiser had been more impressed with, and was trying to impress with… the side table of food, or the slick briefing tech.
It all felt very important to the man. That much was evident to Jack Bowie.
The briefing presentation being projected showed the museum in digital render from top down. Now as Reiser spoke, the presentation began to scroll down and then iris into the infiltration route to the objective.
Reiser hadn’t even used the word “infiltration” yet. But Bowie had been through enough of these types of operations and planning briefings to know which way the mission, and it was definitely a mission, was going to go.
Infiltration.
Kill a bunch of people along the way.
“Clean” had been the working term back in the groups he was active with while attached out of Repub Navy.
“Three stories below the museum, beyond what will appear to be an antiquities storage room,” continued Reiser, “you’ll find a secure high-tech vault in the basement. We need you to access that vault and bypass its security systems. Once inside, you should expect bot sentries of some sort to respond violently. Then we suspect you’ll come to a secure chamber full of very rare antiquities. That’s when you call it in secure and we come in and remove the antiquities via armored convoy. But we—”
“What kind of rare antiquities?” interrupted Bowie. He’d done plans, devices, military hardware, even intellectual property… but never antiquities of any sort, and these were “very rare” ones at that. Considering the amount of trouble Team Nilo was going to even during the planning and briefing stages, the nature of the target itself seemed important. This mission gave an appearance of being separate from the rest of the players. Secret. Off the books. This was something new for Team Nilo. Or at least in Jack’s limited experience since he started playing ball. It spoke of layers. Yeah, this is where Intel and the Spy lived. That was part of the job. But—interesting that it was only peeling back now. Something didn’t…
“Listen. Jack…”
Reiser looked around at the contractors and seemed to have some internal conversation for a half a second with himself about how far he was willing to go. How much he was willing to tell. Maybe he was even having it through some kind of comm in his ear with someone else monitoring the meeting. Who knew? Whatever the outcome, the older spook seemed to reach a conclusion and resign himself to a path forward. A decision to tell all. Or, at least… as much could be told. And in the process make it seem like it was everything.
“Savage, Jack. There are Savage artifacts down inside the vault we need you to access and clear.”
The words hung flatly in the air between them, the presentation tech’s projection lights catching dust motes flying through the half-lit darkness.
The implications of what Reiser had just admitted were clear and known to all without needing another word spoken about a subject that made people uneasy due to its nature. Savages. Savage artifacts were as dangerous, as deadly, and as valuable, as it gets.
Dangerous how? Oftentimes they were merely hazardous to one’s health. Who knew what bizarre chemicals, strange viruses, or lethal yet fantastic effects the seemingly ancient and randomly inexplicable tech devices could produce under unknown circumstances? Miracles and wonders? Plagues straight from Pandora’s box? The Savages had reached a level of science that made modern galactic research seem like Stone Age voodoo. Savage artifacts were inherently dangerous in and of themselves.
You fooled with them at your own expense.
Deadly? People killed for them. Plain and simple. And “people” meant government entities too. Savage artifacts held the keys to quantum leaps in black site R&D. The Republic had reached its pinnacle largely due to their ability to reverse engineer pieces of Savage tech and use them against the larger enemy. The Legion had been particularly adept at this during the Savage Wars. Their L-comm was still unbreakable as a result. Still.
Savage tech was something that every faction wanted. And the factions that discovered those potential leaps were likely to see a hundred years of field dominance based on a successful research application alone. People killed for that, and they paid a lot of money to the best at killing to get that killing done. Getting anywhere near a Savage artifact increased your chances of dying violently based on that factor alone.
And valuable? How much would you pay to live forever? To jump across the stars at near instantaneous speeds, making the hyperdrive look like a whip and buggy? Print synth like cheap plastic? Those and a thousand other rumors and myths had been linked to Savage artifacts in all the years since those freaks had hauled themselves out of the great sub-light darknesses between the stars. And where the rumors and myths were saying what might be possible should one be found, they were also pointing at all the leaps galactic government and corporate firms had made using Savage research and tech to attain dominance.
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 22