“Sir, I’m confused about the purpose of this meeting.”
I’m a little taken aback by Wraith’s forwardness. But I’m thinking the same thing. The 4th Legion commander and a Dark Ops commander are standing before us on a part of a ship I’m not cleared to even walk through unless I’m on assignment. I feel tired and sore. I want to go to sleep. And Wraith—he probably hasn’t even had the chance to get a bite to eat, unless there was one last ration pack in his kit.
A smile rustles from behind Captain Owens’s beard. “I need a Dark Ops kill team. Right now. Mercutio has four teams. I’m all that’s left of one. The other three kill teams are operating in the Ryori Cluster. Had to jump without them when we intercepted the distress beacon.”
Commander Keller takes over. “We need a team to head back to the planet. That’s as much as you can know and as far this discussion goes—unless you’re willing to leave the lives you know behind in order to commit to Dark Ops.”
“Sorry about the high-pressure sales,” Owens says, scratching his chin through his beard, “but this is too hot for you to sleep on it. We need more leejes like you in D-O.”
This is a lot to think about. Physically, mentally, I’m prepared for Dark Ops. Virtually every legionnaire is. There’s no special school. New operators are pulled directly from the Legion. If the Legion is reserved for the one percent of the one percent, Dark Ops is the one percent of the Legion. Still, I have a family back home—Mom and Dad, my brother Satteeah—and they probably think I’m dead already. They’re sure to believe that if I go into Dark Ops now. I won’t even bother asking for access to a shipboard comm to call home first. And what about my guys? The survivors. And then there’s Devers. It doesn’t sit well with me that a guy like him will be rewarded for getting so many good men killed.
“I’m in,” Wraith says. “But a kill team is seven. We’re three. I’d like to have input over which legionnaires will fill the team. That’s assuming Lieutenant Chhun is in.”
I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing come out of Wraith’s mouth. No pressure or anything.
Keller and Owens communicate in raised eyebrows and downturned lips.
“Fine with me,” Owens answers, crossing his massive arms at his chest. “After the op. If you’re in, along with Chhun, here,” he stares at me intently, “then our next stop is to get you both kitted out in Dark Ops black and report to the ghost shuttle. So what do you say, Chhun? Leak or leave.”
I don’t know how to answer. I feel like I’m being pulled by combat sleds in a half dozen different directions.
Commander Keller must recognize this. He puts his fists on his desk and leans forward, piercing my soul with his gaze. “Son, this is the opportunity to avenge what happened to the rest of the 131st. I can assure you that no finer opportunity will ever present itself for the rest of your life. You want to KTF? To make sure no nux-groping MCR ever thinks to try something like this again? You say ‘yes.’”
“Yes, sir.” I answer. The words seem to come out involuntarily. “I’m in.”
Owens claps his hands together. “Good. Here’s the plan. Ditch the dirty leej suit.” He looks me up and down. “Or in your case the shorts and flip-flops—way to dress up to meet the legion commander—and we’ll meet up with our fourth. Debrief on the way down. You can pick your team if you make it back.”
I incline my head. “I thought you said three.”
Without missing a beat, Owens answers, “Yeah, but that was before I could tell you the truth. Welcome to Dark Ops.”
09
The interior of a stealth shuttle is a lot like the inside of a combat sled. Jump seats are lined against the walls, enough for a kill team plus one. Two repulsor bikes are strapped to the cargo deck between the jump seats. There’s a third bike in the cargo bay underneath.
The three of us are kitted out in the black armor of Dark Ops. The Legion armorer fitted my bucket in under thirty minutes. I wish I’d had him a few days ago. Would have saved me from a wealth of future hearing trouble, I’m sure.
I examine the bikes. They look like typical repulsor bikes. No weapon systems I can see, and the sensor panels look to have limited comm-jamming and life-scanners.
I have a pretty good idea how we’re going to reach the Chiasm.
That’s where we’re headed. Orbital scans from satellites released from the Mercutio found the wreckage of the capital destroyer that I’ve jumped all over galaxy’s edge in.
Captain Owens’s briefing was fairly straightforward. All hell broke out on Kublar once the MCR and the Moona tribe made their big move. For us, that meant being overrun, nearly dying to the last man. For the rest of the planet it meant civil war. The delicate balance and alliances achieved through Republic-steered diplomacy and Kublaren-arranged marriages died with the senator. The tribes were now engaging in full-scale, total war against each other.
Genocide is the word of the day.
The Republic has vowed not to interfere. This will ingratiate them to whatever tribe emerges victorious, and then they can begin their plans for Kublar anew. But the Republic also needs data from the Chiasm. Emphasis on needs. It’s not a matter of keeping the tech and data out of enemy hands; an orbital bombardment on the crash site could have accomplished that. Something needs retrieving.
And down to the planet goes Dark Ops.
And down I go, with Wraith and Captain Owens, and one more.
I saw Andien, the “scientist” from Kublar, access the cockpit from the pilot’s ramp shortly before our shuttle took off from the Mercutio. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised—her skill set was setting off alarm bells long before our rescue—but I am. I ride out the shuddering reentry into Kublar’s atmosphere thinking about her.
These shuttles are thin, light, and all but undetectable. You won’t know that one is approaching unless you happen to spot it with the naked eye. It’s invisible to virtually every sort of monitoring technology. The closest the galaxy has come to true stealth invisibility. You can fold light and make a ship invisible to the naked eye, but scanners picked up that trick ages ago. Republic stealth shuttles got around the scanners, at least. Not that the koobs have the tech to pick up a cloaked starcraft anyway. Come to think of it, they’re more likely to spot us coming down in one of these than a cloak. And given how easily high-density blaster fire will chew through this shuttle’s hull… I’m feeling a lot less safe than I was when first leaving the docking bay.
At least we have the cover of night. That’s when Dark Ops does its best work. When the galaxy sleeps. And hopefully the koobs with it.
As the shuttle’s reverberations from reentry subside and we glide smoothly—stealth shuttles move so quietly that over seventy-eight percent all known species can’t hear them—I decide to test out how much Captain Owens will share about Andien.
“Captain Owens,” I say over L-comm. “Who was that woman who boarded the shuttle prior to departure?”
“You saw her? That’ll be a burr up her butt. Those types think they’re Dark Ops. Her name’s Andien Broxin. At least, that’s the name she’ll share.”
“We know her,” Wraith says, joining the conversation. “Pulled her out of a bad spot on planet. She’s the one who helped us hail the Mercutio.”
“Not surprised,” replies Owens. “She’s good in a jam. Nether Ops.”
I exchange looks with Wraith. “What’s Nether Ops?”
Owens lets out a sigh over his L-comm. “Take Dark Ops, remove the leejes and any sense of honor, and you’ve got a good idea.”
Doesn’t sound like the captain has a high opinion of Nether Ops. My curiosity is piqued. “Why haven’t I heard of them?”
“You’re not supposed to hear of them. If Dark Ops is the black sword that vanquishes the enemies of the Republic in blackest night, Nether Ops is the poison dagger. And they construe the word ‘enemy’ in the loosest way imaginable.”
“But you know about them,” Wraith observes.
“Yeah. I do. You
stay in the game long enough, you’re bound to get tangled up with them. On one side or the other.”
I rest my N-4 against the inside of my knee. “So what’s she coming down with us for?”
“She knows how to get whatever it is we’re after.”
“Wait,” Wraith interjects. “We don’t know what our target is?”
Owens shakes his head. “Our job is to get her into the ship and kill any koobs that get in the way. Nether Ops won’t actually tell us why.”
Wraith leans back in his jump seat. “You mean she won’t actually tell us why.”
“Nice to see Nether Ops doing all it can to promote harmony within the Republic,” I say.
“Yeah,” Owens says, the hint of a smile coming through the L-comm. “They suck.”
***
The shuttle drifts to a noiseless stop, its landing struts touching down on Kublaren dirt with barely a sound. These stealth shuttle pilots are something else. I haven’t had such a smooth ride since I’ve been in the Legion.
“We landed six kilometers east of the crash site,” the pilot informs us over the ship’s comm. “Sensors aren’t picking up any hostiles within three clicks—for whatever that’s worth in Kublar’s atmo.”
The shuttle’s ramp begins to lower. Like everything else on this bird, it does so quietly, if a little slowly.
“We’ll keep the engines warm for when you get back. Dust off is thirty minutes before sunrise, max, so don’t lollygag, leejes.”
Owens pounds against the cockpit door. “Hey!” he shouts over the comm. “You featherheads take off without us and I promise I’ll remote-det the blast bricks I stowed in the cargo hold.”
I laugh. And then stop. It dawns on me that I have no idea whether Captain Owens is serious.
We push the repulsor bikes, painted matte black for minimum visibility in the night, out of the shuttle. Wraith and Owens open the under-cargo hatch and pull out the third bike while I watch the perimeter. It’s sort of nice having a bucket again. A few days ago, I was squinting into the darkness, trying to see by starlight. The day-clear night vision now showing through my visor is much better. And a whole lot crisper than what I’m used to. Dark Ops seems to have higher-end kits.
So that’s nice.
I hear the soft imprint of Andien’s boots before I see her emerge from beneath the port wing of the shuttle. She walks right up to me and pulls back a loose strand of hair, caught in the wind and blowing across her face.
“Back on Kublar,” she says.
Maybe to me. Maybe to the galaxy.
I reply, on the chance that she’s talking to me. She’s standing right next to me, after all. “Yeah, well, I forgot my squad challenge coin. Had to come back down to get it.”
She smiles.
I press her. “So you’re a secret agent for some government program I never even heard of. That’s great, good for you. I don’t care that you didn’t tell me when we were escaping certain death. In fact, you getting us into the outpost probably saved all our lives. But… you were on Kublar for a reason.”
I stop there, allowing the sentence to work as a question.
Andien shakes her head, letting the wind carry away the strands of hair that continually flap across her eyes and forehead. “I was. Yes.”
“I’m sure you can’t tell—classified, Division X, all that—but I need to know: are you the type who allows legionnaires to die if it means catching your target, or were you here for something else?”
Who am I to ask questions like this? And what am I going to do if she tells me to space off? Kill her? I realize I’m relying on whatever camaraderie our dual survival through fire and rescue might have built up. There’s no reason for her to give me the time of day otherwise. If anything, she probably has instructions not to talk about this with a lowly leej—Dark Ops or otherwise.
She braces her arms against the chill of the night. A chill I don’t feel thanks to my new kit, but I damn sure did the last time I was on this dustball of a planet. “I was here to stop what happened,” she says. “No, that’s not entirely accurate. We didn’t know what would happen, only that the MCR took an interest in Kublar and some unknown tribal chieftains reciprocated. But… I know how your ship exploded.”
I stand in the darkness, waiting to see if that’s all she’s going to say. Not wanting to squeeze off the information she’s providing me. Talking has a way of messing things up. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.
“Massive antimatter reaction ordnance.” She names the explosive almost clinically, like a doc telling you the name of the terminal disease that has your number. “Two of them were stolen and we believe this is where they ended up.”
“Massive antimatter reaction ordnances,” I repeat. Wow. I’ve seen what those things can do. Bad guys dig in under a mountain, MARO brings the whole mountain down. For even one to explode inside the Chiasm, it’s a wonder there’s even a ship left to salvage.
“What about them?” The voice, whisper-soft over the external comm, belongs to Captain Owens. He and Wraith join us with the third bike.
“That’s what blew the Chiasm,” I say, wondering if I’m betraying some secret trust Andien was providing.
Owens’s reply is over L-comm. “She must have her panties all twisted for you, Chhun, because she wouldn’t tell me shit. She can ride with you.”
Andien looks at the three of us. “If you’re done with your little L-comm conversation, we should go.”
My stomach turns at the thought that she just heard what Captain Owens said. But Owens isn’t buying it. “She can’t listen in on L-comm,” he says. “Just a Nether Ops mind-screw.”
Andien doesn’t give a hint that she heard this over our secure comm, and I rest a little easier.
Owens, Wraith, and I each get on a bike and fire them up. Before I can motion for Andien to join me, she’s already approaching. I feel less secure in the privacy of my L-comm and decide that the prudent course of action is to avoid saying anything over the L-comm that I wouldn’t say to her face. Momma would be proud.
The bike hums, its repulsors every bit as quiet as the shuttle. Andien reaches into a saddlebag and pulls out a pair of augmented goggles. We speed away the moment she puts them on.
It’s dark, and we’re running with no lights, relying on our buckets to give us a clear field of vision. I imagine that for Andien, this ride must be like riding while blind. You just hope the driver knows what they’re doing. I use our private comm channel to see about continuing the conversation.
“So if you know what did the job, what are we down here for?”
In spite of all sorts of audio bafflers, I can still pick up the rushing wind mixed with her reply. “I can triangulate the manufacture of the MAROs with particle sensors—Republic ordnance always leaves behind a trace signature. Part of the fairness in combat statutes to better prosecute war criminals. We can trace a misfired mortar back to the bot that popped it off. But I need to hook into whatever’s left of the ship’s local registry. If there’s a clue about how the MARO got on board, that’s where to find it.”
“Can’t you just check the registry from the Mercutio? I thought everything runs through the sector flag ship for redundancy.”
Andien leans her head into my armor’s back plate, shielding her face from the wind. “What the Mercutio received is clearly falsified. But I can dig deeper with a local source-holo.”
“Assuming that anything is still intact. I’ve seen what one MARO can do. Let alone two in a confined space.” Technically, when I think about it, I guess I have seen what two do in a confined space. I saw the Chiasm erupt and heard the sky crack open. It wasn’t pretty.
“You leejes aren’t the only ones with highly specialized skill sets. All I need is an intact terminal port to run a ghost hunter through.”
That all went entirely over my head. I’m about to tell her that when I see Wraith and Owens swerve. Three humanoids have come up an embankment onto the tract of scrub land we’re using as a
road.
They’re koobs.
10
Wraith and Owens brake past the trio of koobs. I have more time to react and halt aggressively, whipping the bike sideways and placing myself in the path of the bewildered koobs. My N-4 is up before the first alarmed croaks escape their air sacs.
“Hands!” I scream. I don’t speak koob, but enough of them seem to grasp Standard. The N-4 probably conveys my meaning just as effectively. “Let me see your hands!”
The koobs just stand there looking dumbfounded. It’s dark, but not so dark that they’re blind to what’s in front of them. The stars are out, and obviously they saw well enough to travel. All three of them have old slug throwers slung across their backs. I hear the clanking of bells coming from behind them, and catch a glimpse of a couple dozen reptilian livestock. Koob shepherds. Great. I fill in Wraith and Owens over the L-comm.
One of the koobs, probably the eldest, takes a step toward me.
“Back up!” I shout. “Back up and put your hands on your head!”
The koob stops in mid-stride. He doesn’t raise his hands, but he also doesn’t go for his weapon. “Lee-jah!” the koob croaks out, followed by a series of clicks before returning to broken Standard. “Lee-jah. Republeek… big gud!”
Oh, man. Middle of the night, an entire planet, and we run right into a trio of herders. Leej luck. Never easy. And who knows where these koobs stand? Republic is big good now, while a leej has an N-4 pointed at your face, but if we move on… how many more koobs are out there? And how fast can they warn the koobs around the Chiasm’s wreckage that we’re coming?
My L-comm chimes and I attempt to split my focus between the koob’s prattling and Captain Owens.
“We don’t have time for this, Chhun,” Owens says. “Dust ’em.”
Three suppressed blaster shots erupt from behind me. Deet! Deet! Deet!
The koobs drop, and the ground licks up their phosphorescent blood as the last death rattles gurgle from their air sacs. Andien took the shots. Apparently she has low-light vision in her goggles. That or some sort of Nether Ops implants. Her eyes are an odd shade of blue. Whether she heard the L-comm or not, who knows. But she KTF’d. And she did it faster than me. And honestly, I don’t know if she’s that quick, or if there was a glitch in my mind that kept me from pulling the trigger the moment Cap said, “Dust ’em.”
Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3) Page 8