The Kublaren attaché lets out a sharp hissing whistle as his airsac deflates. He then bellows something in his language that quiets his warriors down, but not by much. They’re still excited, only their enthusiasm has shifted from what I just did to whatever is coming next.
“Short drive, k’kik’k’k,” Pikkek says, hop-walking toward our waiting transport truck. “Then me turn to KTF-ah.”
The koob driver is standing outside the cab, his arms thrusting in the air in alternating jabs… “Mook-ta two!”
He breaks his revelry and hurries back inside to start the rig when he sees us coming this way.
It’s funny. The koobs are mean, sneaky, and violent. But I find myself kind of enjoying the atmosphere for whatever reason. Something about it reminds me of home. Home with the Legion. Just the way things on deployment worked. The way guys would just pull behind something that, to a civilian, would seem terrible.
Like killing an alien chieftain while he’s bound by shooting him between his froggy eyes.
Or like a time back before Article Nineteen. Before Ankalor and all that mess. I remember my platoon was engaged in a firefight with some MCR who had managed to capture a junior House of Reason delegate. Well, delegate-elect. Ran unopposed, handpicked by the senior delegate in that sector. Typical stuff for the most part.
Anyway. He thought he was safe and thought cruising through this city in the mid-core with just a pair of bodyguards and no armored sled or convoy would be fine. Would make him look hardcore. He had been a point in the Marines or something prior to running. And besides, the Legion camp wasn’t far away. So how dangerous was it out there really?
Turned out to be plenty dangerous. Sled gets ambushed at a traffic light. Bodyguards got popped behind the ears and left in the sled. Delegate grabbed and hustled to wherever. Whole thing caught on surveillance, though.
So my platoon is mobilized. Go out and bring him back.
We go screaming into the streets on combat sleds and it isn’t long before we catch up to the MCR. They’re trying to get their prisoner underground or something. Set up a blocking position but we tear right through it. Just mow those mids down, you know?
We break the lines, only more MCR are coming onto the scene and soon we’re pushing forward, running down the rebels who are trying to get away with the delegate but also dealing with some pissants in the back who are sending blaster fire at us and also at their own fleeing lines.
Chaos. But we thrive in chaos.
There was this leej, Scott Wakeman. We called him Raven because he had this badass tattoo of one on his back. Raven drops a knee because he’s got a good shot at one of the MCR who are hustling the delegate away. He squeezes the trigger. N-4 is on burst. The MCR is dusted, but then the delegate catches one to the back as well.
He’s dead.
We clean up. Army does an investigation, determines that those MCR who were firing into their own lines did the deed. It’s all a sad news cycle and the next guy up for Utopion runs unopposed in a special election and the galaxy forgets about whoever the Junior Delegate-Elect was. I don’t even remember the name.
But the point is… back at camp a few days later, I’m walking in to get chow with Raven. We all just came back from weapons training so we’re all eating together. Raven walks into the room and one of the boys stands up on the table and shouts, “Here he is!”
And then, I sket you not, the entire cafeteria starts chanting, “Reason Killer! Reason Killer!”
Because a couple of the guys swore the shots that killed that delegate were actually from Raven’s N-4. Like he forgot it was on burst and let one slip a little and… boom. Political assassination.
And Raven, he doesn’t freak out about it. He just kind of smiles and grabs his tray. And for months, every time he showed up the platoon would chant, “Rea-son Kil-ler!”
We’d just bust up laughing about it. And… why? Objectively, I get it. Raven maybe or maybe not straight dropped a House of Reason delegate. That’s a tragedy by all accounts. But we thought it was hilarious. I’m holding back a laugh right now thinking about the whole thing.
Why does that happen?
What is it about war and deployment that makes those things what they are?
And how can anyone else ever understand it?
Reason Killer.
Mookta Two.
Is there a life for me outside of all this?
41
The ride was short. Pikkek wasn’t kidding. We moved maybe twenty minutes and got out in the middle of nowhere. What Pikkek didn’t say was that his koob warrior friends from the Pekk tribe were riding with us. The ride out was a bit less comfortable crammed in next to a bunch of koobs than it was on the way in, even with the pillows.
But it wasn’t all bad, really. The koobs riding with us seemed eager to try out their Standard on my team. It didn’t take long before Abers and Easy were teaching them how to swear like Marines. And they learned to leave Lash to himself within five minutes of leaving the ruins of Kishi.
There were two jam-packed transport trucks in our caravan and now that we’ve dismounted, I can see a third truck, black and pushing its way through the rippling heat waves on the horizon. It’s midmorning and it’s already too hot.
“Brisco,” I say, resolved not to even bother with proper comm etiquette any longer. “This truck coming our way; you got eyes on it?”
“It’s us, Carter. This is why you’re here.”
“Meet and greet?”
“Meet, yeah. But not the kind of greeting you’re thinking of. You’re at full strength with those Kublarens. Big Nee only wants you on this, which says a lot about what he thinks of you. And I mean that in a good way. Trust me, you’re a star in this org now. Team Nilo. This is a huge element in the final plan.”
“Roger. Guess I’ll just keep rolling with the surprises.”
I can tell Brisco is smiling on the other end of the comm. “It makes it more fun that way.”
“That’s one word for it. Carter out.”
I stand next to Pikkek, thinking he’s the only one out here who might be able to tell me what’s going on. It’s frustrating. I thought this sort of thing was behind me after the success at the temple. But if the system has flaws, if Nilo hasn’t managed to put the right people in place to avoid these kinds of informational hiccups… maybe it’s naïve to think it’ll happen overnight. It’s not like the Legion wasn’t without its SNAFUs when it came to intel and the flow of information.
“What’s the word, Pikkek? What’re we doin’ out here?”
The big koob has his rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s inspecting the edge of a wicked-looking stone tomahawk. He swings it in a circle and I swear I can hear the wind being cut in two by that vorpal edge.
He’s looking straight at the approaching truck as he begins to speak.
“After tribe Annek and Moona fight leejon-ayers, k’kik… after Republic destroyer big die. Civil-ah war. Pekk tribe strong k’k… winning. Then… Republic come again… kik’kik… secret this time-ah. No leejonayers. Make Pashta’k to fight good. Fight best. Big die for Pekk.”
I nod, realizing I’m getting a version of the history of this planet after Victory Company’s Battle of Kublar that the House of Reason didn’t mean to have shared.
“Pashta’k welcome House Ree-sahn. Make big city… k’kik… Pashta’k work with Republic. Steal from Kublakaren. Big…” Pikkek pauses, searching for the word he means in Standard. “Big mines. Hide deep down. Big die for tribe who want stop. Pashta’k let zhee-kah come. No kill. But zhee kill Pashta’k rivals. Friends-ah.”
The black truck comes to a stop. Pikkek swings his tomahawk again and walks toward it. He looks back at me. “This-ah, changes… k’kik. Now Pekk give big die to zhee-kah. Pashta’k join Pekk. Or Pashta’k big die.”
I walk around to the back of the black truck
and see some Team Nilo mercs as they jump out of the back. I was hoping it might be Hopper, but he must be somewhere else this morning. I’ve seen these guys around camp before, but don’t know ’em.
“Carter, right?” says the first one, offering me a gloved hand to shake.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“Peter Spitzer. Transporting some, uh, VIPs.”
I peer inside the truck. Three zhee in white robes are still sitting inside, being hoisted to their feet with hoods over their heads by Spitzer’s team.
“VIPs, huh?”
“Roger that. Glad to be transferring them to you. Donks stink, man.”
I don’t mention that riding with koobs—dead or alive—ain’t much better. And I don’t mention that I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with these zhee, either.
“Hey,” Spitz says, “you’re friends with Hopper, right?”
I nod. “You could say that.”
“Did you hear what he’s doin’?”
“Last I heard it was cleaning up a battlefield. What?”
“Big Nee sent him into the Soob on some black op thing. That’s the rumor anyway.” Spitz looks off into the seemingly endless desert, hedged in by mirages and heat waves. “Kind of makes you wonder what you gotta do to get out of crap like this and into the sket, you know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
Spitz’s guys offload a crate and then Spitz says, “That’s it. We’re, uh, supposed to be out of sight after this. Orders. So… see you around.”
I shake Spitz’s hand again. “See you around.”
Spitz rejoins his team in the back of the black transport and leaves a cloud of dust to settle into the creases of my exposed skin.
“Carter,” Abers says, “what’re we doin’, man?”
“This whole damn op has been one giant audible,” I answer, “so let’s run with it and see where we end up. Help me crack open this case.”
A rugged black rectangle, the case isn’t locked. It flips right open when we press the release. Inside are rows of bots. The little repulsor models with holocams. They’re carefully packed between pliable foam inserts.
“Found the bots?” Brisco asks, again appearing in my ear via comm.
“This would be a lot easier if you could give me the steps ahead of time, Brisco.”
“Would that I could, my friend. But I’m getting them right before you. There are some, uh, concerns about our comms having been compromised and—”
He cuts away for a while and when he comes back online, he sounds a bit chastised.
“Forget what I just said. We need you to activate the master/slave function on the bots so they all follow the same directives.”
“Okay,” I say, looking down at the row of little drones. They all look identical. “Which one is that?”
“Pick one. Each can be programmed as the master of the batch. Just gotta do what I say.”
I grab one from the middle and put my thumb against the power switch. The thing is round and with miniature, recessed repulsor housings all over it. It’s so light it doesn’t even feel like I’m holding anything. Like if I squeeze my hand it’ll shatter. I’m worried I broke it just from pressing the power button.
“It’s flashing a yellow light,” I say.
“Good. Press the button five times.”
I count each depression. “Now it’s solid yellow.”
“Press and hold for three seconds. It’ll flash green.”
I do as I’m told, wondering why this task couldn’t be entrusted to someone else. Even a koob. They got fingers and as best I can tell know how to count; I’m mookta two after all. Guess I can’t confirm whether they can count higher than that unless I kill another chieftain. Maybe it really does have to be me.
“It flashed green and now all the others have a red light glowing.”
“Perfection. Press the button on yours for ten seconds. It’ll flash blue and the rest should turn solid green.”
I obey and everything happens like Brisco says, with the added event of the bots rising out of the case and beginning to hover about ten feet above my head. I can feel my bot trying to take off as well.
“Hey, they’re activated. Should I let mine go?”
“Yeah. It’s all automatic now. Those bots are going to start recording, so you need to get your team out of the shot.”
I turn and call out, “Mount up. Big Nee doesn’t want us on camera.”
“Fine by me,” Lash mumbles as he walks past.
We climb inside and watch from the back of our transport truck, sitting on cushions that now smell irredeemably like koob.
“What’re we watching here?” Lana asks. “Because if it’s an execution…”
“I dunno,” I say. “But that thought did cross my mind.”
One of the drones descends and hovers directly in the face of Pikkek. He’s talking, but in his native language. So I don’t make out ninety-nine percent of what he’s saying.
But an interpreter helps out over the comm.
“Hey, buddy!”
It’s Nilo. And the familiarity is, I dunno, off-putting. It’s that “hey buddy” you get from someone who you know is just using you to get something for himself.
Hey buddy, you still got that truck because I’m moving next week and…
Hey buddy, how’s that thing we were going to work together on only I disappeared and now I’m checking in to see the progress…
It’s that kind of “Hey buddy.”
“Mr. Nilo,” I say, not thinking it wise to give any other reply to my employer. “I take it you’ve been informed of our progress.”
“Just now, yes. And Carter, I know we had a talk about combat and battlefield efficiencies and I know that’s a weakness. We’ll get that fixed. You’re a big part of that fix. Things are happening lightning quick right now and unfortunately, you’re seeing my ass as a result.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Things are crazy in the Soob right now, but in a good way. And what’s happening here is going to push us over the edge. This goes as planned and Kublar is back in the hands of the koobs in a matter of days. Way ahead of schedule.”
“Right. I heard your interview a little bit before we left. Sounds like things are going well.”
“They’re going great. And I wanted to pop in personally because you probably feel like you’re getting stuck away from the real work. But you’re not. This is huge.”
“Yes, sir. I believe you, sir.”
Easy creeps up beside me. “Carter,” he whispers, “ask ’em what they’re sayin’.”
“Sir, what’s happening here? What’s Pikkek saying?”
Nilo seems only too happy to fill me in. He broadens the comm connection to reach my whole team, so they can all hear it. “He’s using his own words, but basically he’s giving a message to the Kublar from the Pekk tribe. About how the Republic forced them to be subservient to the Pashta’k even though Pashta’k was unworthy, because Pashta’k was willing to let the Republic take what it wanted from Kublar. Then he’s going on about the zhee. All that stuff. That part doesn’t concern us. It’s for the natives.”
I watch the three zhee prisoners in white. They’re milling about, bound with arms behind backs and hoods over their heads. Kublaren guards holding them, one on each arm. Pikkek turns to face them and the holocam is taking a shot that encompasses the prisoners as well as the big koob.
“The bot is translating Pikkek’s words into zhee,” Nilo says, adding softly to himself, “great shot. Excellent framing.”
Suddenly the zhee begin to stamp their feet, their obvious rage held in check only by the Kublarens and the binders.
“And that,” Nilo says, “is the message for the zhee. Pekk tribe just took responsibility for the destruction of the zhee temple. Pikkek is recounting how
the zhee cowered and begged for their lives as his tribe slaughtered them. Oh, and how the mares begged to give their services to the Pekk chieftain in exchange for their lives. That’s… that’s a huge insult if you ever find yourself needing to piss off a zhee.”
The team crack smiles and chuckle. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Okay, so watch this,” Nilo says.
Two of the zhee, smaller in girth than the third but obviously better muscled and conditioned, have their hoods pulled away. I can see the sun glint off their black eyes; their heavy lashes blink under the sun and then settle against Pikkek. They strain to reach him, but the guards hold them back.
The third zhee has his hood removed. He’s older. The fur on his equine face peppered with gray and white, his muzzle and mouth having gone completely white.
“That big guy is the zhee equivalent of a grand high priest,” Nilo explains. “Nabbed him at the compound. There are a lot of competing factions inside zhee religious culture, but as the only temple leader on planet, he’s the holiest zhee on Kublar. The other two are his holy bodyguards, empowered by the four gods to prevent all harm from coming to their leader.”
Pikkek is talking to them. Saying something that seems to calm them down. The two zhee look at each other. Pikkek swings his tomahawk through the air and for a second I think the executions are going to begin. But that’s not what happens.
The Kublaren guards loosen their bindings, step back, and toss a kankari knife into the dirt before each donk. The zhee look around, as though not quite believing what’s happening—expecting a trap—and then stoop to retrieve the wicked little daggers.
At once and as one, the pair of zhee lunge for Pikkek, their kankari knives gleaming in the sun. The attack comes so fast, my first reaction is that the koob is dead. Caught flat-footed and by surprise. But Pikkek uses those legs to spring to the side, vacating the space he’d occupied a moment before by the thinnest of margins and causing the zhee to stab at empty air.
Outnumbered, the big koob doesn’t hesitate to even the odds he’s placed against himself. He swings his tomahawk down onto the top of the nearest off-balanced zhee, who lets out a piercing bray that seems to silence itself almost as quickly as it started as the incredibly sharp stone weapon bites deep between the donk’s eyes. In a practiced, swift motion, Pikkek lands a kick on the dead-but-still-standing donk, sending him tumbling toward his partner and allowing the koob to wrench free his bloody tomahawk.
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 29