Commander Keller looks at Andien, still in the corner. “How about it, Miss Broxin? Did you get what you need to find the bastards who did this?”
Andien steps forward. “It’s too early to say if I’ve got exactly what we’ll need to find them, but I can say that we’ve recovered all that the Chiasm has to tell us.”
“Good.” Keller turns back to Bergh. “No sense waiting around. Get Captain Avery to start the bombardment. Patch me in directly to the bridge comm if he gives you the slightest hint of reluctance. Not that he will. Good man, that Avery.”
The lieutenant colonel excuses himself and leaves the conference room.
Andien addresses the commander. “I need to start digging into this. Time is of the essence.”
“Dismissed, Miss Broxin.”
The room is left with only legionnaires.
“Captain Owens,” Keller says, waking a datapad in front of him. “Were you satisfied with the performance of Captain Ford and Lieutenant Chhun?” The commander turns to us. “Those ranks have been made official now, by the way. I got that much done while you were on Kublar.”
“Thank you, sir,” we answer in unison.
Owens nods at Keller. “Yes, sir. Both performed at Dark Ops standards. They’re good leejes.”
I feel relief. I guess I didn’t realize it, but the stress of Andien dusting those herders before I did was weighing on me. Owens must have felt she was just a little faster to pull the trigger is all.
“Excellent.” Keller slides the datapad toward us. “Here’s a list of the survivors from Victory Company. Dark Ops team is six plus your command officer. That would be Captain Owens. As agreed, you pick the rest of your team. I’m going to warn you now, there’s not much to choose from. Most didn’t survive, and of the few who did, the wounds suffered are substantial. You need a team that’s ready to go now, because we’ve got work to do.”
I pull my chair next to Wraith’s, and we begin to look over the list with Cap Owens standing behind us. It’s a full roster, listing KIAs, MIAs, casualties unfit for service… we have to scroll for some time before we reach someone deemed fit for duty. And it’s my name, so that doesn’t really help.
I see Twenties’s name: Denino, Baeus.
My heart jumps to see a buddy that made it. The list says he’s medically unfit for combat, but I’m hoping it’s just his eyes. That should be fine in a day.
“That’s one,” I say, “Twenties. Specialist Denino.”
“Yeah,” agrees Wraith.
Keller enters the name on another datapad. He looks up. “Says he was in the infirmary for an eye infection, released to quarters.”
“He’ll be fine,” I say. “Best sniper I’ve ever seen.”
“Sounds good,” Owens says. “If it’s something that pills can clear up, let’s take him. Who else?”
“Masters and Exo,” I say.
Wraith relays their Legion numbers for entry.
I scroll, looking for more.
Doc Quigs is dead. So is Rook. Maldorn. Clauderro. All dead.
Devers is still alive, medically inoperative. But screw him anyway. I’d sooner ask a koob to join the team.
Sergeant Powell is listed as inoperative: medical. But maybe it’ll be like Twenties, something he can heal up from between jumps. “How about Sergeant Powell? He was Captain Ford’s right-hand man.”
“Don’t think so,” Wraith says, shaking his head. “He went down hard during the fight. I dragged him to a transport, but I have to think he’s out of the fight. Maybe for good.”
Commander Keller confirms with a few swipes of his datapad. “He’s undergoing extensive bionic reconstruction right now.”
“Need one more,” Owens says. He hasn’t argued at all. The trust he’s showing us in selecting this team is remarkable, but I guess that’s because he knows we’ll be the ones rubbing shoulders on breaches and in combat. His job is to plan and join the fight when needed. “If there aren’t any more, I can ask for recommendations from among the legionnaires on board the ship. I’m sure there are more than a few qualified.”
I nod, ready to agree to just that if Wraith is of the same mind. Then a name pops into my head. I blurt it out without thinking. “Kags.”
“Yeah,” Wraith says. “Kid can fight. Performed well alongside us.”
Keller checks the name against his list. “I don’t see a Kags anywhere on here.”
“He’s Republic Army,” Wraith says. “But he’s good. Fought as fierce as any leej. He’s fit. Mentally tough. Helped us take the Ohio-class… he’ll be an asset. Kid should’ve started in the Legion to begin with.”
The legion commander sighs. “Very unorthodox. Captain Owens?”
“Let’s do it. Having someone who can blend in easily with the basics could help. This whole thing with the Chiasm and Camp Forge was inside. I say go.”
Rubbing his face, Keller agrees. “He’ll need to stay behind for two weeks. I want him up to speed on Legion protocol and familiarized with the armor. Lieutenant Colonel Bergh was a DI. He’ll get him where he needs to be.”
“Great,” Owens says, clapping his hands together. “We’ve got a team. You two clean up and get some sleep. I’ll find out if we’re staying on the Mercutio or shuttle-jumping somewhere else. Be ready for hell at a moment’s notice from now on.”
“No…” Keller says, his brow furrowed almost to a scowl. “You’re a man short.”
I list the names in my head. Ford. Chhun. Exo. Masters. Kags. Twenties. That’s six. “Who?” I ask.
“Exo—Specialist Gutierrez—is no longer aboard the ship.”
“Sir?” Wraith asks. “He was with us right before I brought Lieutenant Chhun to our meeting.”
“He’s been shuttled off-ship for immediate court-martial on Utopion.”
“On whose orders?” I know I shouldn’t be talking to a legion commander like that. A case could be made that I’m on the fence straddling familiarity and insubordination.
Keller doesn’t seem to mind. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Who do you think?”
***
We burst into the medical bay as if we’re clearing a house. I’m on point, followed by Wraith and Owens. We’re all in our armor and we’re all hot. The first thing Devers must have done once the docs got him patched up was go after Exo. And one thing you have going for you as a point on a ship full of people looking to impress, is quick action. The shuttle jumped with Exo on board while we were killing koobs by the light of the silvery stars.
A bot regards us from behind a reception desk. “How may I help you?” it asks in a sweet, synthesized voice. Totally oblivious to the fact that three big, pissed-off leejes are practically foaming at the mouth in front of it.
“We need to see Captain Devers,” Wraith says. “Immediately.”
The bot pretends to look down at a datapad. They do things like this just to appear more human. In reality it’s running Devers’s name through its own connection to the ship’s network. “I’m sorry,” the bot says, programmed to sound compassionate. “Captain Silas Devers is recovering and unable to see visitors except during normal visiting hours: 0900 to 1500, Mercutio standard time.”
“What room is he in, for when we come back?” Owens asks.
The bot makes another show of looking that up. “Med-bay six, recovery room 14-A.”
“Thanks,” Owens says, completely insincere. “Boys, let’s go visit. Break down the door if you have to, damn point.”
The bot stands up. “I’m sorry, you are not allowed to—”
“Shut up, bot.” Owens palms the bot’s head and pushes it away, causing the machine to tip over into the wall with a metallic clang.
“I am required to report this incident to ship security.” The bot isn’t done yet.
Owens keeps walking. “Command override: Foresight Six. And shut up.”
The bot sits down. “Override acknowledged. Shutting up, sir.”
We move down the hallway to Devers’s recover
y room, passing confused nurses and orderlies, human and bot alike. They probably think we’re here to visit a friend, just a couple of leejes seeing a wounded buddy. Truth is, I really don’t know what I’m here for. Get Exo out of trouble, I guess. Devers got what was coming to him.
In fact, he got off easy.
When the door slides open, Devers actually cracks a smile at seeing us. “Oh, hey, Ford,” he says, somewhat weakly. “Hey, Chhun. It’s nice of you to drop by. Did you hear? They’re giving me a medal on Utopion.”
I get the distinct sense that Devers is still a little loopy from meds. I don’t care. I go right after him. “Did you arrange for Exo to be court-martialed?”
Devers sits up in his bed, looking at Wraith and Owens, who I assume he’s never seen before. He gets the hint that this is the question all of us want to know. “Yes, I did. Of course I did. Chhun, you’re new to the officer corps, so your NCO brain may still be catching up, but that sort of behavior is unacceptable. He assaulted a superior officer. That type of infraction cannot stand. You need to think beyond emotion and imagine the morale loss, seeing that sort of insubordination among the rank and file. To be honest, I was a little shocked neither of you made the report while I was under the bots.”
“We had unfinished business on Kublar,” Wraith says. “Call it off, Silas. We’re alive, and Exo is a big part of the reason. We barely survived your screw-ups.”
“My… my screw-ups! I’m getting a medal, Ford. A medal! Order of the Centurion!”
This guy… I don’t punch his teeth in. It’s probably the most restraint I’ve ever showed in my life. I keep telling myself, he’s loopy from meds. He’s an idiot, but not this big of an idiot.
“Fine,” Wraith says. “Whatever. Congratulations. But call it off so the legion commander doesn’t have to, because he will.”
“What do you mean he will?”
“It’s twarg crap and you know it,” I say. “You were conducting yourself in a manner unbecoming an officer. Take your medal, have your career, leave Exo alone. We need him.”
Devers looks my armor up and down. “Yeah. I see you’re in Dark Ops now. That was quick. But the answer is no. The Legion has rules, and the rules need to be obeyed.”
Sure. Just like the way you obeyed the rules for exiting a combat sled. I keep it inside.
“So that’s it?” Wraith says, disbelief coming through his usually calm and steady voice. “You’re willing to throw away your prestige just to get back at Exo?”
“I’m not throwing away anything, and Exo deserved to be shot on sight. A court-martial is lenient.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, hoping to hammer home the point Wraith subtly tried to make. “Legion Commander Keller wants Exo on our team. He files a counter-petition to your request for court-martial, people start asking questions about why a decorated Legion officer isn’t being trusted. They start asking questions. Word gets out from the survivors left alive, the basics and a few leejes—that you messed up. That your decisions caused men and women to die without need or gain.”
Devers waves it all away. “You’re delusional. I was appointed by Orrin Kaar. He’s one of the most respected men in the House of Reason. If Keller wants to make a big deal out of this, it’s his career you should be worried about.”
“All right,” Owens says, approaching Devers. “Screw this.” He wraps a massive arm around Devers’s neck and clamps down in a rear naked choke.
Devers’s eyes bulge, and the veins in his head begin to swell. He’s turns red, then purple. Support machines start to beep.
“Chhun, go watch for nurses. Keep them outside if they come near,” Owens orders.
I move to the door and look down the empty corridor. From the corner of my eye I see Owens bringing his mouth close to Devers’s ear. Cap doesn’t lower his voice. He’s making sure his every word is clear. “Listen up, you point space-rat. You’re gonna rescind everything about Exo. You understand? You’re going to blame it on a hallucination brought on by pain meds. And you’re going to do it the moment I let you go. Tap your fingers if that sounds good. If not… you won’t live long enough to collect your shiny medals.”
Devers frantically taps in agreement.
“Good,” Owens says, but he doesn’t let go. “You know I’m Dark Ops. You know what I do. This matter is settled. You bring this up again, give any of my men even a hint of trouble, and I don’t care how far down the line we’re talking, you’re going to wake up one night from your comfortable bed to see me standing above you. And I will kill you. That’s an oath.”
Owens lets Devers go, and the captain gasps for air.
A nurse comes running down the hall. I motion for him to come inside.
Wraith takes control of the situation. “Hey, you need to get a deck officer in here right away. Our buddy gave false information while under the effects of medication.”
The nurse hesitates.
“Lives are at stake,” Owens barks. “Move your ass!”
Devers manages to nod in agreement. The nurse takes off.
We stick around until Devers has called off the entire thing. As I prepare to leave, I tell him I hope this is the last time I’ll ever see him.
Wraith stops at the door. “Silas, when you look at that medal they give you, remember how many leejes had to die so you could pretend to be a warrior.”
Owens cracks his knuckles. “Also remember the part about how I’ll kill you if you ever cross us again.”
I think I’m in love with Dark Ops.
12
You’re Tom. This is Pthalo.
Pthalo is a world of blue oceans, dry brown coasts, and golden sunlight. Massive floating luxury estates migrate from one party to the next. Only the best and brightest maintain a residence on secret, tax-free Pthalo. The House of Reason likes it that way. It’s a reward for those who give so much to the Republic.
Arms dealers.
Drug dealers.
Crooked lawyers.
Syndicate financiers.
Everybody who pitches in and does all the stuff that needs doing but can’t actually be done—legally speaking, that is.
Pthalo is the place of hoard and pleasure.
And as the freighter Hoplyte—which you’ve been sleeping on for three days now as it hurtles through the void known as hyperspace—drops out of faster-than-light travel and picks up an intercept course for the surface, you begin to pack. Organizing things that have followed you to the freighter berth where you find yourself this morning. That novel you finished as best you could to keep your mind off all the ways you could disappear forever. And the Chiasm. And Camp Forge. And… And… And…
You don’t see the approach, you’re merely walking forward to the boarding area when the ship sets down. You hear the repulsors throb and the engines flare and then all is silent.
The crew has kept their distance throughout the journey, and you get the distinct impression it’s because they don’t want to know you, as opposed to they don’t like you. They don’t want to know you because knowing is dangerous. The crew is hustling about as you arrive.
The news you pick up on your data comm as the boarding ramp lowers to the deck says nothing about Kublar. Nothing about a destroyer cracked in half and burnt up in the atmo. Nothing about a camp full of the Republic’s finest who got hit by a massive bomb you piloted right into their midst.
Checking the news feeds, it’s as if those terrible things never happened.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
If they had never happened. Because now that you’ve had to live with them, you’d like to have never had them happen.
But they did.
The warm blast of air from sweet-smelling Pthalo hits you. You smell bougainvillea and salt water. The two mercs follow you, hauling their oversized bags full of weapons and gear. You’ve still got that blaster. The one with the silencer.
Beyond the boarding ramp and out from underneath the venting freighter you see the dazzle of sun on sea glittering
like a thousand million tiny diamonds. The ship has landed on the aft platform of a massive estate gliding across the blue waters between two distant peninsulas.
Lizard-like dragons the size of eagles dance and swirl in the suns above. The estate rises away toward the rest of the ship in sleek white ceramic and tinted portholes. High above, a tower, rounded and rectangular, juts out. The bridge, most likely. All kinds of toys adorn the deck. You take interest in those as though those things are interesting.
Why?
Because you’re sure the fear is showing on your face. And Scarpia, Frogg, Illuria, and the lawyer are waiting for you at platform’s edge. Smiling. Beaming. Looking at you like hungry wolves, or celebrating. The line between the two blurs.
So you watch all the toys around the platform. Small submersibles. Water jet craft. The latest in sail speeders. The promised pleasures seem unlimited.
“There’s our boy,” says Scarpia triumphantly, like a father welcoming home his son from university on some distant core world. “Fine job, my boy. Fine job.”
Frogg smiles. The smile is genuine, and the look in the eyes of the killer is winsome. As though something of value has been lost, and whatever it was, it is still oddly longed for. Ached for.
And then there is Illuria, who hands you a cold flute of cryopagne. Ice-cold wine that tastes like peach and effervesces like an undersea volcano. Her smile is genuine. Model perfect. She probably was one. Could still be. Her green skin screams lust and commerce while her four slender arms beckon and invite to some kind of hoped-for oblivion beyond dead starships and stranded legionnaires.
But that could merely be the pheromones talking.
“Let’s get below. We’ve got a whole fine dinner planned and then an evening you won’t forget.” Mr. Scarpia ushers everyone into the wide tunnel that descends below the ship. The two mercs peel off, and it’s just you and the target and his entourage. You’re keenly aware that you should make contact with your minders. The Carnivale.
Who?
Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3) Page 10