Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3)

by Jason Anspach

  Abo smiles back at you.

  So do the Endurians.

  “And bringing the money here would be suicide. The zhee would jihad if they knew they could get their hands on those weapons, or the credits.”

  “Yeah, I know. And then they’d take that fine piece of Republic tech and probably strap it to a sled, drive it into a market on some capital world, and blow up a dozen noodle bars and nail salons and bray… Hajeh!”

  Hajeh. Holy smiting.

  Abo laughs and does a few more bumps of H8. So do the Endurians. They look tired.

  “So you want the credits IRL, and I want the bombs.”

  “Ordnance,” reminds Abo.

  “Roger. I want both. Credits I have.”

  “Then let’s arrange a meet… after you convince me you’re not Dark Ops sent in to bust me. I’m sure Dark Ops could fake a records jacket for offenses… moral. Gambling. Contraband. Yeah, all that just screams why you’re here to do business with me. Like it was made to look that way for me.”

  You smile and look away. Dark Ops is nothing compared to Nether Ops. People in the know… they don’t even know about Nether Ops. It’s wacky.

  “We like to weaponize our imaginations,” X said when explaining the Carnivale. “We go about things… differently here, my dear boy.”

  When you come back, you come back with the double-blind story, manufactured for just such an occasion.

  “Since you dialed into the RepubNet,” you say, “go ahead and look up an Admiral Rulal.”

  Abo leans forward to a datapad and taps in a few strokes. He’s probably using someone’s hacked ID from his duty station.

  “Says here he got smoked on Zasor six months ago.”

  “That’s right. And I smoked him.”

  “And…”

  “If you’ll look through his last command staff structure, you’ll see I was one of his staff officers. The admiral was dealing arms. He made you look like a zhee street vendor. We were doing deals with the Kandari, the Brotherhood, and even some outfits supplying the MCR. The admiral got greedy and tried to cut everyone out. Tried to get us all killed, too. Just to clean things up. So I iced him. And then we all got discharged to cover it up.”

  “I don’t see that in here. It’s a nice story, but folks’ve been making up nice stories since the first campfires. And if you iced an admiral, you’d be awaiting execution.”

  “True. Unless that admiral was directly related to someone in the Council and they wanted it kept quiet. As in, they were on the back end of our profits. Start a summary court-martial on a bunch of staff officers, and your political enemies start asking questions. I was caught. Red-handed. If you can crack Dark Ops, or get someone to talk… they’ll tell you it was all covered up. But here’s how you can tell all of that without going to any trouble. All six staff officers were given dishonorables. You ever hear of anything like that before? All six of us?”

  Abo smiles dumbly, like maybe he has, and maybe he hasn’t.

  “So go ahead and check it out. And then we meet. Dock ninety-four tomorrow, with credits and ordnance. We do the deal, and we both fly away happy.”

  You get up and you leave, and you’re just hoping that someone, some zhee, messes with you on your way back to your terrible hotel. Because you are wired tight on H8 and you’re ready to unload on anyone.

  But somehow the night senses this and no one comes even close. You make your room and drink scotch in the dark. Smoking and waiting for dawn.

  You message Frogg for the six million.

  Dock ninety-four.

  He says they’ll be there.

  And…

  “Pack your bags.”

  ***

  The shuttle that picks you up is high luxury. You were expecting some kind of freighter. Some crew of part-time pirates and full-time lowlifes. Instead you get the luxury shuttle and Frogg. Former legionnaires of the very professional variety are everywhere. Polite. Friendly. Armed with subcompact light blasters dialed up to eleven. And each one could kill you dead in about a hundred different ways that don’t require a blaster.

  So there’s that.

  You watch Ankalor recede as the shuttle races out over the burning deserts, and it’s clear from the get-go that this ship is staying in the atmo. No jump to light speed yet.

  Not just yet.

  No.

  An hour later the ship circles a high desert encampment, all white safari tents and high-tech equipment crates. Parked down below is a large starship, and next to that is a small Republic Navy shuttle. A supply shuttle, to be precise.

  Yes. You’ll want to remember all these details in the report you’re no doubt going to give soon if they don’t kill you out here. X will want to know all about this, and you’re hoping for that opportunity.

  But… they’re always watching.

  Out here in the high desert where even the zhee don’t bother to migrate in their ceaseless quest to cause mayhem everywhere. Why, it would be a courtesy if they even buried your body out here. Frogg and Co., that is.

  You’ve been sitting in the passenger section of the lounge. Massive square portholes gaze out into that unending burning wasteland that is the hinterland of Ankalor. But inside the shuttle it’s cool and air-conditioned, and you and Frogg have been talking across the aisle while nursing large tumblers of Faldaren scotch.

  He’s been telling you all about himself. Which is good. Good for that report you hope to be giving soon and then your work is done. Just another sleazy arms dealer, exit stage left. Send in the kill teams. That was all that was asked. Intended. And it has been delivered.

  No more Tom.

  X said so.

  “Dear boy, at the Carnivale we just do the gathering. Not the wetwork. So go in and be a good fellow and find us this Scarpia. You’ll need to get real close, so do whatever it takes, because we’ve got to know the end users. And then the legionnaire boys can go in and dispose of the target. That’s all we’re asking, and then you’ll be back in the navy with some secret commendations no one can ever look at. Get close to this fellow, as close you can, then start to feed us info.”

  X smiled from behind his desk as he puffed on a pipe he had to keep relighting. Tweed jacket. Spectacles. More academic than spymaster. A desk down in the deep basements of the old sector on Utopion littered with antiques. Fancying himself a living relic of a mostly forgotten history.

  But now you’re sitting with the murderous Frogg. And he’s telling you all about his horrid life.

  “Was an orphan. Joined the Youth Legion and got a commission in some no-name little fight you might have heard about called Bunker’s Station.” His eyes are far away and dreamy.

  Bunker’s Station was a real slaughterhouse. For both sides. That the man talking to you isn’t maimed for life speaks volumes about what kind of soldier you’re drinking with.

  “Got a taste for it then,” he continues. “Killing work. Knives and such.”

  Not all wounds are visible, of course.

  “Was just a way for me to work out my rage.”

  Everyone knows, and since you’re still part of the collective known as everyone, you know, too, that the Legion went native on Bunker’s Station. Had to. They were cut off for six months.

  They went native and just murdered everyone.

  “Was so much easier to solve your problems with a bit of the knife than file reports about it all. Reports no one is going to read when you really get to thinkin’ about it all.” Frogg takes a big gulp of the scotch, and his bulging eyes fall to half-mast. “Made major before they figured out something wasn’t right with me. Psychiatric bot with updated software. Couldn’t dupe ’em any longer. So out I went. Six months later I’m in a jail cell on some no-name world, and so is Scarpia. If you can believe that! Well… I knew he was a prince among men, except we weren’t in no palace. Raving lunatics and rapists in there, I tell you. I watched his back for three days down in the lower cells where the guards wouldn’t even come. We got out together.
He’d paid my bail and hired a mouthpiece. Then he offered me a job.”

  The shuttle settles to the ground, lightly. Barely. Just like the scotch you’re holding.

  “He’s a good man, Tom.”

  Who’s Tom?

  You are.

  Frogg seems to notice you haven’t reacted to the use of your alias. You play it off by continuing to drift dreamily into your scotch. The shuttle is venting. You can hear the soft whine of the boarding ramp.

  You glance out the porthole at the wide, burning desert. It’s going to be very hot out there. It’s a terrible place to die.

  “Tom?”

  You come back looking slightly goofy. He doesn’t notice you’ve hardly touched your drink. You’ve just been listening to his tales of horror and mayhem. All told matter-of-factly. The CV of some deranged lunatic laid out for your consideration over scotch.

  “It’s time to meet the boss, Tom.”

  After six months of playing the scoundrel, you’ve finally arrived at the nowhere-end of no-place and now you’re going to either meet the person who will kill you, or, most likely, be killed by you. Indirectly, of course. Someday some legionnaire boy all juiced up on Repub glory and ready to add some more trigger time will do the honors.

  Not your business. You’ll be you again.

  “We just do gathering, my dear boy.”

  Scarpia is an enigma. No one has really ever seen him as far as the intel the Carnivale has acquired is concerned. He’s a ghost.

  Hence the op name.

  Ghost Hunter.

  At the bottom of the boarding ramp you meet a rather unexpected fellow. Unexpected because he’s not some low-life arms dealer or vicious alien crime lord of the giant squid variety. He’s just a man. Slim. Unassuming. Hair thinning to balding. Nice smile. Deep-set eyes that have seen far too much.

  They remind you of your own.

  “It’s good to meet you, Tom,” says the arms dealer, who is responsible for at least five million dead, according to Nether Ops intel. “Froggy tells me you’re a man to watch. Gin and tonic?”

  This is Scarpia.

  This is the man in charge.

  You follow respectfully as the entourage crosses the little encampment they’ve set up here in the shadow of the big hauler. The wind crosses the desert and pulls at everyone’s clothes. The mercenaries. Frogg. Scarpia. The man in the suit… and the girl. A Cassari. Beautiful green skin. Four slender arms and a body to die for. She has long, luxurious dark hair that falls across her shoulders and chest in curly tresses. She wears the barest of gossamers, and when the wind passes, there’s little to discover.

  Except that’s not all true.

  Of course, Cassari have their legendary pheromones. But her smoky eyes are haunting and alluring. Both at the same time. And though she greets you and calls you “Tom” and that’s not really your name, it starts a fire inside you that cannot be easily quenched. Because the way she says it… well, the way she says it, you’d like to be Tom.

  But maybe that’s just the pheromones talking.

  So you remind yourself that these people are more than likely going to shoot you and not bury you. It’s a sobering thought. It helps to focus and remind.

  Out here.

  In the desert.

  They could just shoot you and fly away and no one would ever know.

  “Can I get you a drink…? Tom?” Her smoky voice is deep and soft at the same time.

  You manage a nod. And then a deferential, “That would be nice, thank you.”

  You’re all in a tent. In the desert. Luxe leather couches surround a holotable.

  “Now,” begins Scarpia. “Let’s talk about how you’re going to blow up a nasty little Repub destroyer that’s giving my clients a hard time.”

  You sit down on one of the couches as Scarpia busies himself with the display. It shows the ship, a planet you don’t recognize called Kublar, and some legionnaire base. Camp Forge.

  You try to act as if everything is just fine as she hands you your drink.

  “Here you go… Tom.”

  Because that’s who you are.

  07

  She was right.

  Illuria.

  She was very right.

  Here you go, Tom. Just pop off and blow that destroyer to high heaven with the MAROs you just acquired for us.

  Or at least, that was the gist of how Mr. Scarpia—Scarpia to you now—put it.

  What’s the plan?

  That’s what you ask after you make all the usual protestations about just being a supplier. Not a contractor.

  “Except you’re ex-navy and this perfect!” cries Scarpia like he’s just found the lead in his production of Hamlet. “And it’s really, beyond all the money I’m going to pay you, it really is an opportunity to shove the Repub’s face in it for what they’ve done to you, Tom. Taking out a destroyer says don’t mess with Tom Delo. That’ll teach ’em! Right, my boy?” Scarpia seems genuinely happy for you to have this opportunity.

  Bit of trivia. Both X and Scarpia call you “my boy.” That’s odd, and it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just interesting and it’s what you’re thinking about as they—Frogg, Scarpia, and the man in the suit—go on to tell you how, exactly, you’re going to blow a Repub destroyer called the Chiasm.

  It’s a suicidal plan… but you’re in, in with Scarpia, if you do it.

  Get as close as you can, said X when all this was just talk. Did you ever think you’d get here? You must have.

  “After this,” says Scarpia as he puts his arm around you and you walk out into the purple desert twilight evening, the smell of grilled meat in the air. “After this I’ll have a lot more work for you, Tom.”

  “Do whatever it takes, my dear boy,” said X before all this began.

  And… what other choice do you have?

  ***

  How do you blow up a Republic destroyer?

  Not should you.

  But how?

  Because you passed “should” a long, long time ago. When X said, “Do whatever it takes, my dear boy.” You passed it then.

  Scarpia has asked you, mainly because you were, are—no, were for intents and purposes of espionage—you were a Repub Navy officer. You’ve commanded shuttles and small craft. You know the protocol.

  To do what?

  Rendezvous with a destroyer named the Chiasm in orbit around some cruddy little planet called Kublar. Land with parts and spare crew. Detonate the bomb. And deliver another right down on top of Camp Forge. Camp Forge is the legionnaire base on Kublar. You couldn’t obtain the special delivery system the MAROs need, but well, that’s what the shuttle is for. And gravity will do the rest, with a little help from a glider drone.

  Scarpia will arrange for travel. He will have the tech and ordnance ready. He will get the necessary documents and subterfuges in place. You, Tom, will do the rest. This is your baby. Your plan. To destroy a Republic warship and a legionnaire base.

  And you can’t help but think, as you wait for the necessary components, biding your time with these madmen, that the whole thing is almost simple, really.

  ***

  The approach to the Chiasm is straightforward. You flash the standard codes and impersonate a Repub officer who’s less than excited about commanding a shuttle coming out to resupply a big front-line destroyer. There’s a long pause during code authentication, but in the end they clear the shuttle for landing along the port-side hangar.

  Scarpia’s ex-legionnaire mercs are dressed as two pilots and two techs. They’re really in charge of the show right now. You, you’re just the front man. You’re Hamlet in this production, too.

  The shuttle passes through the force field and flies out across the deck. Assault transports and support craft assisting in operations below are going through preflight, rearming, and maintenance. It’s pretty busy on the deck. Seeing all the techs working, you’re suddenly made aware that they’re moments from dying.

  Because of some operation. Some espionage
operation that’s trying to stop the deaths of tens of millions. A good seven thousand crew, a couple hundred gunners, and almost a thousand leejes, marines, and other soldiers are going to die today—if you do what you’re supposed to do to get close to the target. Mr. Scarpia. Just call me Scarpia, Tom.

  And another thousand more on the planet below. Don’t forget about them. We have to do them too, to make this look legit. The front-line legionnaires running ops and manning Camp Forge… they’re going to die in the hours, days, and weeks that follow. They’ll die because no one will be able to pull them out of firefights, or provide close air support, or even feed them.

  The ones down there are already dead. They’ll just die a lot slower.

  Whatever it takes, my dear boy.

  Scarpia is the biggest of fishes. He must be caught. Never mind the bait we’ll need to cut up.

  The shuttle sets down and the merc in charge nods at you. Frogg has provided a perfect Repub Navy LT uniform. You pick up your datapad, place it under your arm, adjust your headgear, and saunter down the ramp like any junior grand officer would.

  “We weren’t expecting you,” says the deck officer on duty in the hangar.

  Two Lancers are spooling up and heading toward the flight line. Their lift repulsors throb and hum eerily as they head for the massive force field that protects everyone from open and deep space just beyond its invisible barrier. The ground crew salutes, and both pilots give the Tally Ho salute back. Then they’re gone off the deck, diving for the planet. Not knowing that they’ll never return to the Chiasm, a ship that is just two minutes from going boom.

  Because right now the mercs are setting the master arming switch and initiating the countdown on the first MARO inside the supply shuttle.

  The deck officer checks the manifest and makes a face. He senses something is wrong. He knows something is wrong when the mercs come down the boarding ramp in HOLO suits. High-Orbit, Low-Opening. State-of-the-art legionnaire planetary orbital infiltration suits. They look like deep sea divers. Weapons and gear are secured across their bodies. Between the four of them they’re pushing a repulsor cart with a large glider drone atop it.