Because all those things messed sket up. You don’t forget the force that accompanies that kind of firepower. Plus you had those idiots in the House of Reason who felt that if the Legion were such powerful combatants, what the hell did they need air support for? Not that they gave any to the Army or Marines, either.
That changed after Article Nineteen. Especially once Legion Commander Chhun took charge. But that was only a brief stint for me, fighting until Utopion fell and then opting out after that because… bills. Still, it was nice.
And I get it. I get why Big Nee can’t supply tactical air support at the level we need right now to wrap this operation up. Ships and shuttles, bombers and bombs—all of that is really expensive. Even for a guy with pockets as deep as Big Nee’s. You don’t just buy a space force or a fleet.
But I can’t help but think the situation on Kublar would go a hell of a lot easier if we could send more than a few missile-equipped drones into the air. Then again, the donks and the planetary government don’t have any air power to speak of either. So at least there’s that.
If we can’t benefit from a bombing run to take out hostiles embedded in hillside defensive positions, neither do we have to worry about them doing the same to us.
Things have pretty well turned sour since Pikkek’s knife fight. Here’s what I know, most of which I wrung out of Brisco while receiving painfully vague orders. The knife fight was meant to whip the zhee who had settled inland into a frenzy. It was cut in with a propaganda film that showed the Kublarens destroying the zhee temple and ended with a Kublaren vow that the inland tribes would now march to destroy the remaining zhee in Subiyook City, challenging all “cowardly zhee” to overcome their trembling and come out from behind their mares to fight.
That worked like magic. Enraged zhee from across all the inland settlements have been marching for the Soob. My job was to oversee a joint force of Black Leaf mercenaries and Kublaren allies as they visited the zhee settlements and made sure there was nothing left for them to come back to.
A week was allocated for that. But then the situation in the Soob changed. Some kind of plan to destabilize the city went better than expected, and Big Nee took a gamble that he could flip the local tribe against the zhee and House of Reason loyalist government. It worked… until it didn’t.
So now forces in the Soob are getting hammered. Hopper among them.
You following so far?
Good.
That leaves my team plus Pikkek and some koob warriors he’s personally selected to make for the Soob and provide relief to an element trapped at the Kublaren history museum. That’s approximately twenty fighters, most of them koobs, being sent in to stem the tide of zhee, Rep Army loyalists, and their koob toadies.
Hence… close air support would be nice.
But at least Big Nee hooked us up with our own fleet of repulsor-powered ATVs. I’m racing through the Kublaren hardpan at nearly two-hundred kilometers per hour, the wind trying to pull the air out of my lungs unless I angle my head down to take a breath. Any shifting dust feels like tiny needles as we scream through it, so I’ve got my “tactical scarf” pulled up over my face like a bandit ready to clean out a bank for every last credit.
It’s thrilling. Although from the way Lana is gripping my waist and trying not to fall off, I’d guess she’s formed a different opinion. Sucks riding on the back.
It isn’t lost on me that twenty of us are too few for what we’re ostensibly supposed to do and I’m fully expecting Surber or Nilo to give last-minute instructions once we link up with Hopper. But that’s something to worry about when it happens. For now, anticipating any variations in terrain is enough. Every dip or raise in elevation is magnified by the speed, and while only a minor course correction is needed to move around the natural topographical variations, you have to actually see them in enough time to react.
“More donks ahead,” Easy calls out. “Nine o’clock!”
A slow-moving caravan of old, smoking trucks rumbles through the scrub, sending up a blooming cloud of dust in its wake. Not the first one. Since we’re moving over twice as fast, we catch up and zip past almost before they have time to figure out who we are.
The koobs in our outfit make it pretty obvious, though. Holding on with one hand, they fire their slug-throwers into the caravan as we zip past. I see a few of the donk trucks swerve, but I’m not sure they hit anything. At least the koobs seem happy about getting some shots off.
By the time the donks respond and pull their old, rusting rifles to take shots at us, we’re long gone. I don’t hear the report of their weapons and I don’t hear any bullets snapping nearby. But it doesn’t hurt to make sure the others are all right.
“Everybody get through there all right?”
“Yup,” answers Lash.
Since no one else offers a different take, I go with that.
“Pikkek, how about your team?”
“My team, ki’k… is your team-ah, Mookta Carter. We… k’kik’k… are living.”
That’ll have to do.
“Copy that. I counted four technical trucks in that column. Anyone else?”
“Four trucks,” confirms Lana, “and I’m pretty sure I saw some donks with RPGs riding.”
“Me too,” says Abers.
“Roger. Calling it in now.”
I key the comm for Brisco. “Brisco, got something.”
I have fully surrendered any semblance of comm discipline.
“Watcha got, Carter?”
“Another zhee caravan. You got location ping?”
“Even better. Got visuals. Yeah… I see the caravan.”
“Confirmed four technical trucks mounted with repeating blasters or equivalent. Visual confirmation on RPGs.”
“Do you know how many?”
“Sorry. Forgot to pull over and count.”
“Okay, easy. We’ve just been burning through missiles snuffing out these zhee columns. Trying to be selective with what we have left in case we need them in the city later.”
I want to ask why they’re not already being used in the Soob if things are as hot as Brisco made it sound earlier. But then, it’s clear that while Nilo has a vision, it isn’t accompanied by the soundest military strategy. He’s clearly learning as he goes along.
Still, what he’s managed so far is remarkable. I shouldn’t take that away from him. The Republic tried for years to get Kublar unified. Big Nee is on the verge of doing what all those legionnaires, soldiers, marines, and tax credits couldn’t do.
That’s saying something.
“I just call it in, Brisco. You press the button.”
“Yeah, I know. Okay. We’re gonna wipe ’em out. My drone will stay with you to the Soob, but this is the last of its ordnance.”
“Copy that.”
“Hey, Carter.”
“Yeah?”
Brisco lowers his voice, like he doesn’t want to be overheard by whoever is around him. “It’s bad in there, man. Be careful.”
I grit my teeth. “Thanks.”
45
The Soob is burning when we reach the outcroppings. Specifically, the Green Zone is on fire. And the docks. And the spaceport. And the ZQ.
So, all of it, I guess.
Only the fires are just part of the chaos. Not the final act. There is still fierce fighting happening throughout. Explosions balloon above the skyline, climbing up the façade of multi-story buildings erected by real estate speculators. Windows shattering with each concussive blast.
A lot of fortunes have been lost today already. But I’m thinking a lot more are about to be made before the day is up.
There’s no checkpoint or city defense to slow our progress. The fighting is still too fresh and intense to allow for that. Or maybe the army, the koobs, the zhee… maybe it’s just not on their sensors at this point. Maybe they haven
’t fought their way past however many Black Leaf mercs are set up inside the city.
I can see that we have some air support, snipers bringing death from aerial platforms. They’re firing at a near-constant clip, so clearly their overwatch is rich in targets. But still, that’s one kill per trigger pull, maybe a couple more if the angle is right. We’d be better served to ditch the precision of snipers in exchange for a hard-mounted N-50. But the engineers evidently weren’t prepped for something like that. Meaning we’re going into a grind saw with nothing capable of dishing out serious punishment. No buzz ships and certainly no capital ships.
To make matters worse, our progress is being slowed by a stream of refugees pouring from the city. We got eyes on the vanguard of that helpless column of civilians about two miles out from the city limits. The first waves were those who had private sleds or repulsor bikes. Then came the foot travelers. Mostly human mixed with a diverse sampling of other species—but no zhee and no koobs.
They seem committed to the fight for the Soob.
“Hey!” yells Abers from the back of Easy’s ATV. “Back off, punk!”
A frantic-looking Kimbrin is pawing at the front of their vehicle. I’m no mind reader, but I’m guessing this guy wants to see about hitching a ride. Trouble is, we’re heading in the opposite direction.
Abers levels his rifle at the Kimbrin. “Last warning. Leave.”
This seems to do the trick. Emphasis on seems.
We weave through the refugees, gunning engines where we can but not running people over outright. First because these are civilians and second because if we make a move like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those who’ve been eyeballing our rides as means of escape took the opportunity to jump us.
The Kimbrin steps in front of Easy’s ATV again, and this time he has a few buddies. They try to surround the repulsor. Abers uses his rifle like a club and domes one of the aliens, dropping him in a heap. Easy pulls his pistol and aims it at the Kimbrin going for the ATV’s handlebars.
The alien doesn’t stop, and Easy pulls the trigger, putting a hole in the assailant’s head.
Then I hear the rapid-fire bark of a slug-thrower firing from my rear. I turn and see a dismounted Pikkek sending a spray of fire at the last remaining Kimbrin, who tries to run but is cut down even as he turns. A few refugees nearby are hit as well.
A collective scream of panic erupts from the crowd. Pikkek fires his weapon into the air in short, staccato bursts. The sound of gunfire causes the crowd to disperse like a school of fish from a predator. A huge gap opens as they nearly trample each other to get away from the one thing they most wanted to escape—shooting.
“Go!” I order, and my team shoots the gap and puts distance between ourselves and the refugees, who close up ranks the moment we break through.
“Command, this is Carter,” I say into my comm.
“Go for Command,” answers a female voice. Elektra, I think. The shot caller for the Soob. I’m now out of Brisco’s jurisdiction.
“My strike team has reached Soob city limits. Advise route to objective.”
“Copy that. There is no point of entry without some fighting. We’re sending you past the spaceport—we have a semblance of a line and some clear roads you can travel to objective. Over.”
“Roger. Let them know we’re coming.”
The last thing I want is to show up only to get dusted by some jumpy mercs. Not that I hold it against them. The jumpiness. They’re fighting an entire city and likely getting attacks from all sides.
“Copy. We will let them know the when and where. Command out.”
I get on the comm and tell my team what’s coming next before giving instructions. “Lash, I want you on point. Pikkek, keep your team to our rear just to be sure the mercs at the spaceport don’t get confused and open fire at us.”
“We shall follow you… k’kik… Mookta!”
“Hey, Mookta,” Easy chimes in. “Any chance we’re gonna be gettin’ on a ship once we reach the port? Just about had my fill of Kublar.”
I look at smoke and still-burning fires that strain skyward from the spaceport. Someone—probably Team Nilo—had landed a good-sized freighter. Maybe that’s how they secretly brought in the sleds that Hopper’s team reportedly had. Now it’s shot to hell and listing to one side, its prow prostrated onto the deck. Landing struts destroyed in the fighting. It looks like a black and gray whale, offering prayers to the shining Kublaren sea at the opposite end of the city.
“I’ll see if we can get some leave after this,” I say, not entirely sure how serious Easy is.
Things are scaling up from security and ambushes to full-scale fighting. And while it isn’t like we had a contract clearly detailing our expectations and responsibilities—there’s no opportunity to tell Surber that something isn’t our job—I can’t say that something like this is what any of us expected. In fact, this feels altogether too much like my first tour with the Legion, when the House of Reason continually sent us to handle things meant for the infantry. Because fewer men fighting somehow makes it seem less dangerous. Less of an invasion. A public relations war of optics.
“Gotta survive first,” Lash grunts, adding his genial opinion to the conversation. “Then think about headin’ home. Don’t get the order twisted or you won’t make it.”
“Lash is right,” I say. “This is going to be brutal. So… KTF.”
I wait a beat and then add the Republic Marines’ motto, “Demons on deck…”
“Hell to repel,” chime in Easy and Abers, the pleasure in their voices clear.
“Ha,” Easy laughs. “You did know it. I knew you wasn’t that dumb.”
“I may surprise you yet.”
A pair of Black Leaf mercs wave their hands to get our attention and then motion for us to make a turn at their location. Their faces are smudged with soot and greasy with dirt and sweat from fighting under the Kublar sun. I stop in front of them.
“What’s the word?”
They exchange a look and then one of them says, “Word is we’re getting our asses kicked.” He looks at my meager convoy of ATVs. “This is it?”
“For now. Bigger force is en route, but they’re slowing down to wipe out the zhee marching on this city. Didn’t think you’d want to see a bunch of donks come this way.”
“Roger that. We wouldn’t.”
Lash leans to the side of his ATV, causing it to tip slightly from his weight. “‘Asses kicked.’ Wanna put that in a way we can measure? ’Cuz we about to go into the tyrannasquid’s den.”
“Zhee are hitting the spaceport, but we’ve repulsed them each time so far and each wave hits a little softer than before.”
The other guard adds his piece. “Took down the freighter, though. They’ve got rockets. Loads.”
I hear a ping in my comm. It’s Elektra. “Why have you stopped?”
“Gathering intel,” I answer.
“I can provide you with that.”
“Not from the perspective on the ground, you can’t. Carter out.”
The guards are chatting with Lash now. Which is rare. The big man is usually anything but talkative. But he seems eager to get as much detail as he can.
Lash notices I’m back from my diversionary discussion. “Two pronged assault. Zhee pushing from the ZQ to attack the spaceport. Koobs and Army from the Green Zone. They’ve surrounded the museum. Streets are a toss-up and changing by the minute.”
“Roger that.” I rev my repulsors. “Let’s go break Hopper and his boys out.”
46
“Oba, look at them all.”
Lana has perfectly captured what all of us must be thinking.
We’re about a click out from the museum and the streets ahead are dense with koobs. It’s like the entire tribe came out if not to participate in the fight then to at least be close to the action.
And it sounds like one hell of a fight. The sound of blasters and slug throwers exchanging fire echoes across a city that has otherwise emptied itself. If you’re out and making noise, it’s to fight. Anyone else still in this city is surely locked inside, keeping quiet. Hoping for it all to end.
I think about what it would mean for fighting like this to come to my neighborhood. To Mel and the girls. Would they be hiding in a basement or attic, lights out, praying for it all to pass over? Would I be there with them? Or would I go to the streets to fight? Would I leave them to fate?
It’s things like this that cause me to keep putting myself in situations like I am now. Credits are only an excuse. In a moment of clarity, I know when I’m bullshitting myself when I say how much I need this job in order to make ends meet. Because smaller houses are a thing. Sleds that move but don’t evoke envy from those you pass by are a thing. Public schools, secondhand holoscreens… all those things exist. Make your own lunch. Pour your own kaff. Patch your clothes.
Credits are motivators, but they’re not my prime motivator. I’m here right now, just like I was on Utopion when Goth Sullus fell, for reasons other than money. Because I know the kind of hell anyone still in this city is experiencing. And because I don’t want something like that happening to my family.
And yeah, it seems crazy to think that by making it a reality on Kublar, I’m somehow helping at home. But if this works the way Big Nee explained it to me… the galaxy is going to be a different place. A peaceful place.
But the koobs have to be free first. And that means dropping the tribe that toadied up to the House of Reason right in the streets that Republic tax credits built.
“We’re about as close as we can get to the museum without engaging,” I inform Command. “Advise: which direction is the convoy stalled?”
Elektra’s answer is cool and matter-of-fact. “Convoy is stalled and fighting two blocks south of the museum; progress blocked by improvised roadblocks.”
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 32