“I was eighteen years old when the Chiasm was destroyed over Kublar. I remember all those legionnaires who died on this planet because the MCR and the Republic were playing power games. And a lot more Kublarens died as a result of that struggle and the civil war that followed than any of us could imagine. Entire tribes were extinguished. And we’ve seen stories just like that countless times over the years. Worlds that are brought into the Republic only to be used by the Republic for the good of those in the House of Reason, who were only too happy to sacrifice the lives of the Legion and other branches of the military if it meant getting their piece of the pie. All the while posturing as peaceful and progressive. It has to stop, and what’s happening on Kublar right now is the budding spring of a revolution that will change the galaxy for peace and a better future for all.”
“You mentioned the zhee,” the reporter says again, picking up right where she left off without giving any pause or thought to what Big Nee just said.
And I get why. That’s probably the big story because the zhee played such a large part in the galaxy’s recent history. And things like this—a direct assault on their most sacred of places—well, other than what Legion Commander Keller did on Ankalor, that just wasn’t something that was done under the House of Reason. It’s shocking to see, really.
Nilo nods, waiting for the question to finally come.
“Were you involved in the attack on the zhee temple—called the ‘holiest site on Kublar’ by the Subiyook governing council?”
“First, I want you to think about what you just said: ‘the holiest site on Kublar.’”
“That was the council’s direct quote.”
“Yes, but it’s such a fitting portrait of how wrong what has happened here truly is. This is Kublar. It’s the home world of the Kublakaren. And yet, somehow, this structure which was built against their wishes and has stood here for less than ten years is the most holy site on the planet? Kublar has places like the Steps of the Chieftains, the Nine Pools, and a host of other Kublaren religious and historic sites that have existed for millennia. This kind of protected, selective thinking, forced by distant bureaucrats and toadied by quisling sell-outs, is why Kublar is fighting another civil war. And I’m proud to be here supporting the inland chiefs.”
“Was Black Leaf a part of that attack?”
“No. We’re not here to go to war with the zhee. We’re here to help the Kublarens win their planet back.”
My heart races a bit when Nilo says that. Because I sure as hell was involved in that attack. But I also remember the orders to make it look like an attack carried out by what was thought to be an allied tribe, so frustrated by the zhee that they snapped and burned the temple to the ground. So… what do I do with all that? Because, it’s a lie, but it’s also war. And if the enemy needs to believe something that isn’t true in order for you to better achieve victory… you lie your ass off.
In the Legion, we called it counterintelligence.
I hear the rumble of a repulsor truck pulling up behind me. I turn and see that our ride is here. There’s a koob driver and a canopied back. The vic is a lot like the one we hauled all those dead koobs in, only no wheels. The driver has covered the runners along the side of the truck with dangling pendants that clink together like wind chimes as it comes to a stop and beeps once, a wimpy horn that seems like it was supposed to be installed on a hoverscooter instead of a big hoss like this truck.
“Is… k’k’kik… our ride. Time to fight, Mookta.”
“Let’s mount up,” I call, checking the sling on my rifle and then looping it over my shoulder.
Lash puts a hand against my chest. He’s looking down at our shoes. “Hey. That holocam lookin’ at us?”
I turn. Sket. It is.
“Hopefully it’s not on, but it sure is looking our way.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to be famous,” Lash says, still staring at the ground. “Don’t ever let ’em see your face.”
I’m not sure what he means by that. He turns his back to me and the holocam, jogging for the rear of the truck before I can ask.
With my team where they need to be, I hustle over to get inside. Careful to make sure not to turn around and give a clear view of my face to the holocam if it’s still watching us.
Easy is waiting for me at the back of the truck. He lets down his hand and helps pull me up. “You gotta see this, Carter.”
The back of the koob truck is decked out with velvet pillows and expensive-looking woven rugs. Someone even hung a koob painting on one of the support frames the canvas cover is stretched over—it looks like a third-grader painted a rose with congealing blood. But, art is subjective, I’m told.
“What’s all this?” I ask Pikkek, who has settled into a lump of cushions and is smoking some kind of hookah that gives off an aroma of cedar.
The repulsors kick in and the truck starts moving. From the cab I hear what must be koob music. The best way I can describe it is a mix of airsac bass booming to a rhythm, punctuated by some throaty clicks, the ching of triangles and the occasional finger cymbal. Pikkek seems to be grooving to it as he looks in my direction upon hearing me ask the question.
“Mookta,” he says, holding out his arm and gesturing to the pillowy truck bed, “ride in style.”
40
I can smell the smoke in advance of reaching the target village. Not the subdued scent of woodstoves still releasing the last of their heat after cooking breakfast in the koob village. The big smell of beams become cinders—a village razed and left to burn.
Not the sort of thing I figured I’d be able to know from the smell of it—same goes for burning, decaying, or blown-open bodies. But you get an education of a different sort in the Legion. Really, anywhere there’s fighting. And it’s not something you forget.
“You guys smell that?” I ask.
Easy takes a sniff. “Yup. Looks like someone beat us to the target.”
Pikkek inflates his airsac, stretching out the bright purple skin and then letting the air out through his mouth while he breathes in through the nostril slits near his eyes. He lets out a satisfied sigh. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. Like he appreciates the smell. Enjoys it even.
“Maybe some left from k’kik… Big Die? Pikkek want to spill blawd.”
I give a half smile and shrug noncommittally. Pikkek is growing on me. Maybe it’s the pillow wagon he’s outfitted for us, or maybe I’ve just learned to appreciate someone who lives for the fight.
That’s a truth I don’t admit to anyone. I even try to deny it to myself, as though I can gaslight myself into thinking it’s true. Sometimes I can. But only for a while. I should be home. With my family. I should be. But… I can’t stop doing this.
I can’t stop fighting.
The report of an N-50 mounted blaster cannon claps across the Kublaren landscape. A scrubby, rock-filled stretch with a few trees nestled along the bottom of a few hills. Not quite desert dry, but not the cool of the mountains, either.
The heavy blaster cannon is giving off short, controlled bursts. It’s not engaged in a serious firefight. The shooter is either finding his range, or he’s being precise.
“Hey, koob,” Abers says to Pikkek. “Sounds like you might get your wish.”
The big Kublaren warrior smiles. “Goo-ahd.”
I key in my comm to reach Brisco and see what’s going on. Riding in the back of these rigs is a pain, even when it’s decked out for comfort.
“Hey, Carter,” Brisco says, still not showing any indication that he’s even remotely capable of treating this like a proper op. “What’s up?”
“You tell me. Morning brief said we were hitting a koob village. Early indications are that the job’s already done.”
“Right. Yeah. Meant to tell you about that.”
“So tell me.”
“Okay, well, the tribe here, the K
ishi, are allied with the Pashta’k who control the Soob. The big winners after the civil war, right? Big Nee tried to get them to come around but, it was like, no way. Too many marriages and stuff. The other chieftains didn’t want someone like that operating freely in their midst, plus the Kishi are friendly with the zhee, so they agreed in a war council to take them out.”
“And the other tribes got here before our team, is that it?”
Brisco laughs. “Negative. Their war bands are pushing for the Soob. This was zhee work.”
I don’t know exactly what “this” is, but the smell makes it clear enough. “So the… Kishi weren’t as friendly with the zhee as they thought?”
“Who is? But no. When that, uh, temple went up in flames… well, if you thought the zhee in Soob City were angry this morning, wait until word gets to them about what happened at the temple.”
Not much of this is making sense right now. I know there’s a bigger game happening than what I’m seeing. Nilo told me as much in our ride back from the temple op. But much of that was long-term stuff. A galaxy renewing itself, freeing itself from the yoke of the Republic which, though well-meaning, the Legion seemed intent on fastening around the necks of the planets who belonged. But Kublar will change all that. Give the galaxy new direction.
All that big picture conversation in the back of the sled wasn’t doing me any good right now. I was supposed to be leading my team on an assault through a koob village. And now… what?
“Brisco, I’m gonna need to know what my orders are here.”
“Yeah. Hold up. Mr. Surber is coming this way.”
“Carter?”
“Go for Carter, Surber.”
“Carter. Mister Nilo wants me to inform you that our plans are accelerating—a good thing. Verify that the Kishi village is destroyed and then send our assets to link up with Kublaren caravans staging to reach Subiyook City. You are to link up with Pekk warriors who will stay behind. Your liaison will know them. They’ll take your team to the next objective.”
“Roger that. Can you advise what or where that objective will be? We’re geared up for a fight and that’s about it.”
“All roads are leading to the Soob, Mister Carter. And all roads are leading to the fight.”
“Roger. Carter out.”
Mister Carter. I hate that Surber calls me that. It’s my stinking first name.
Lash is watching me, his fingers making a steeple and pressing into his lip. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Another change of plans?” asks Lana, knowing all too well that she’s right.
“Seems like it. We gotta make sure the Kishi village is wiped and then we’re being diverted to spend more time with our allies from the Pekk tribe.”
Pikkek gives off a click and his airsac bubbles a few times. “Thees is goo-ahd, too… k’k.”
The truck stops and the driver kills the repulsors, putting an abrupt halt to the music as well.
“Dismount,” I say, standing up to hop off first. An N-50 claps again, closer this time. “Stay frosty. Look alive. KTF.”
The Marines exchange a look and then Easy says, “Ready to KTF, bro?”
Abers nods. “You know it, Leej. I was born to KTF, son.”
“Let’s KTF, then.”
“KTF.”
“KTF!”
“Screw you guys,” I say. “Dumb Marines. Let’s go.”
I hop out of the back of the truck and sling my rifle, eyes squinting against the overhead sun despite my sunglasses.
“KTF,” I hear Pikkek croak from behind and then Abers and Easy break out into a laugh as they jump down after me.
I can feel the heat of those rays on the back of my neck and turn my ballcap backward to give it a little protection. The N-50 shouts again and this time I can see it. It’s mounted on the back of a wheeled technical truck and one of our guys is operating it. He’s firing into the smoking ruins of the village. I’m not sure at what. It doesn’t look like there’s a single stone stacked on top of another. It’s utterly flattened.
I wait to shout until the guy on the N-50 is between bursts. “What time did you get here?”
He’s shouting in his response. Making up for the noise of the N-50 he’s been jamming on. “About an hour ago! Recon team!”
“It was like this when you got here?”
“Yeah! Best we could tell, the donks rounded up the koobs, shot ’em all, and then piled up explosives charges. Blew most of the koobs to itty-bitties.”
He lets off another burst of fire.
“What are you shooting at?” I shout after the burst comes to an end.
“Donks used old tri-bomber ordnance. Some of it didn’t blow with the main explosion. You got a PIES bot to defuse?”
“Negative.”
“Well…” He sends another burst of N-50 fire at whatever he has his eyes on. This time he’s rewarded with a whole new boom. “Big Nee wants us to sweep the debris for intel before returnin’ to camp. Tryin’ not to get blown apart in the process, like them koobs.”
I can smell the pieces of koob flesh rotting in the sun. That fishy, rotten stench. “Roger that.”
“Carter.”
Lana is at my side. I walk with her a ways from the technical to escape the noise of more N-50 bursts.
“What’s up?”
“Pikkek has a bunch of Kublaren warriors with him now. They were waiting for us.”
I nod. “Command mentioned that. We’re riding with them to next phase.”
“Which is?”
“No idea.”
Lana shakes her head, her hair dancing around her mirrored sunglasses as she does. “Well. They seem to have a… present for you.”
I crack a smile. “Good to be the mookta.”
“We’ll see.”
I follow Lana to a platoon-sized element of Kublaren warriors. They’re sporting N-4s and a few slug throwers. Some of them I think I recognize from outside the Pekk chieftain’s place, but it’s tough to tell. I haven’t been in Kublar long enough to distinguish one random koob from another unless they have a particularly distinguishing feature like Pikkek’s size or a missing eye or something.
“Carter to Command. How copy?”
“I copy quite well, Carter, how copy you?” asks Brisco.
“Confirming Kishi site is destroyed and moving to link up with Pekk escorts. Carter out.”
“Copy that you’re out, Carter. Over and out.”
I sigh and don’t much care if Brisco hears it or not. He was probably trying to be a smart-ass.
This day. Already.
Lana is waiting for me. I jog to catch up to her and then reach a circle of koobs. My team is on the outside of the circle, mingling with Pikkek who gestures grandly at my coming.
“Mookta!” he shouts. “Mookta sitizt’ka!”
The other koobs croak and click, licking their eyes and firing their weapons into the sky. The circle opens up to reveal another Kublaren, down on its spindly knees, three-fingered hands laced at the back of its head. It’s wearing the maroon robes of a tribal elder.
“They seem to like you, Carter,” Lana says, smiling at me from beneath those large-framed sunglasses.
“Let’s see what this is about and then get going. I have a feeling today is gonna be one of those days where we’re constantly running short on time.”
“Mookta!” Pikkek calls again, waving his long arm to bid me to walk with him into the center of the circle by the prisoner. I follow and he gestures at the koob. Up close, I can see he’s older. Definitely an elder.
“Kishi elder?” I ask.
Pikkek lets out a series of clicks and says, “Chief. Big die now.”
That’s just the way things go on Kublar. You get caught by a rival tribe, there are rarely prisoner exchanges. Death is the expectation.
&n
bsp; “Okay, well, do what you gotta do and then let’s go, okay, Pikkek?”
“Pikkek… k’kik’k… no mookta. You mookta. You make big die.”
Oh man. Stupid backward customs. And now I’ve got to decide whether trying to explain why I’m generally against executing prisoners is something my conscience requires or if it will jeopardize the alliances Nilo has set up with these inland koob tribes.
I decide to give it a shot, moving in close to Pikkek with the hopes that no one else will hear what I say. His breath stinks like the dredging of a silt river bottom.
“Listen… in my culture, killing prisoners is not okay. Prison. Trial. Then kill them.”
Pikkek nods like he understands but says, “You make big die. Very bad if no. Means no sitizt’ka. K’kik… warriors no fight.”
I sigh and look into Pikkek’s eyes with the hopes that he’d show me some kind of other way through body language. But if he is, I can’t see it. He licks the eyeball I’m staring at and adds, “KTF, Leejonayer.”
In all this time, the captured Kishi chief hasn’t stopped staring at the ground. He seems resigned to his fate and I have to keep this part going. I unholster my blaster pistol, step around Pikkek, and shoot the chief in the head, causing a stream of phosphorescent yellow blood to pump out from the partially cauterized wound and into the dirt.
“Mookta!” cries out Pikkek.
The rest of the koob warriors do the same. In the background the N-50 gunner ignites another piece of unexploded ordnance.
Pikkek holds up two slender fingers. “Mookta. Two!”
The koobs take up this chant. “Mookta two! Mookta two! Mookta two!”
They’re pumping their rifles over their heads, stamping their webbed feet, and firing slug throwers and N-4s into the air with reckless abandon.
Easy strolls over to me, looking amusedly at the celebrating koobs as he passes through their midst. “Damn, Carter. You just went all Goth Sullus on that koob.”
I holster the pistol. “Spare me.”
“You runnin’ for koob president, or…?”
“Pikkek!” I shout, having to yell above the din. “We have to go!”
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 28