Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3)

by Jason Anspach

  But now is not the time to think of such things.

  Instead you’re walking along a curving hall that twirls down around the massive ship. You pass staterooms and lounges with the latest in comfort and entertainment. The party pauses beside a wide viewing wall that looks out into the shallow coral depths below.

  “Oh, look,” moans Illuria in her deep velvet voice. She dances toward the window. “They’ve come out for you, Tom.”

  Tom.

  Tom.

  Your name is Tom. Even when she says it.

  Beyond the window, the murria have come out. Undersea humanoids that inhabit this world. Children, really. Even you’ve heard of them. They want nothing to do with the Repub. Instead they swim among the coral and sunken ruins of some ancient civilization, cracking shellfish and sunning on the rocks. Singing their haunting songs in the twilight.

  They are aliens, and yet there is something so primal and ancient about them. Like some glimpse into a past one cannot remember.

  They come up into the central column beneath the passing ship, somersaulting and twilling in the bubbles from the engines, only to return to the white sandy depths and pink coral below. They are beautiful. Especially the females. Innocent and childlike. Their narrow features and elven eyes cast that knowing look you saw in the Planetary DataNet when you looked them up on the way here.

  Their eyes unsettled you then—the way their pictures looked out at you from the datapad. As though they knew your secrets. It unsettles you now as they come close to the windows and watch the party. Watch you.

  “I wonder what they taste like,” murmurs Frogg at your elbow, face pressed up to the glass. He watches them like a dead-eyed shark.

  Scarpia laughs and tousles the short man’s hair. The violent psychopath’s hair. Scarpia is the kind of man who makes pets and playthings, and even friends, of such monsters. He is that kind of man. He is that kind of monster.

  This is the lesson you learn as you watch the murria play, hoping they don’t signal Scarpia somehow and tell him they’ve looked inside your soul and seen nothing. Hoping they don’t rat you out.

  But they’re right.

  Your soul, or whatever you want to call it, it’s gone. It’s been gone. Lost or taken. Started disappearing on Ankalor, and finally up and left on Kublar. So if they did, if the elven swimming children beyond the glass suddenly told on you… well, you’d agree. And Scarpia would say…

  … We already knew that, children. That’s why we chose him for the job.

  That’s the first disconnect.

  The first moment when you feel… disconnected from who you are, were, and Operation Ghost Hunter. When you feel like that other guy you’ve been becoming all along.

  The first moment when you really are Tom. Doer of dirty deeds done for profit. Snuffer-out of the innocent if the price is right.

  That’s the moment of disconnect, when you’re confronted by the innocent children beyond the glass. The moment when you could slip away and just be Tom forever and never go back.

  “It’s like they can see right inside us,” croons Illuria.

  And did you just feel one of her four hands on your shoulder? It was electric.

  ***

  The days that follow on Pthalo are days of sun and sea as Scarpia’s estate—he calls it Smuggler’s End—drifts through the outer banks of a chain of desert islands. On some days you arrive over old ruins unlike anything the Ancients left anywhere across the galaxy. These are not enigmatic pyramids set high in the hinterlands and nigh-unreachable wastes of all those other planets. No, these are like strange sunken cities just below the water line. Ten to twenty feet down sometimes. Tall columns and sculpted angular roofs wait just beneath the seafoam green waters that are clearer than any color at all. The water is pleasant and tastes of salt, and it’s warm to swim in, even in the dark.

  Gorgeous multicolored fish swim in and out of the ruins, and so do you. Occasionally you spear one and haul it back up onto the floating estate where Chef Tyrol prepares it, often raw with just a bit of citrus and some coarse Malasian fire salt. Frogg accompanies you, and of course he always wears a wicked, jagged-edged diving knife, but that’s because Scarpia’s woman, as he calls Illuria, like to dive too. You try not to watch her in her barest of bathing suits, but it’s hard not to, even for Frogg, whose loyalty to the man known as Scarpia is like nothing you’ve ever seen. Scarpia, who does not dive, but always waits above and greets you like returning heroes with flutes of cryopagne and listens enraptured as Illuria gushes about what has been discovered in the translucent dreamy depths just below.

  “Did you see any monsters down there, my dear?” Scarpia always asks her, tongue in cheek.

  She turns a brighter shade of green, rolls her languid eyes, and replies. “You and always with your monsters. No, my love,” she teases him. “The only monster we saw was the one we saw when we came back on board.”

  And then Scarpia makes horns on his head and growls as he lumbers about the firepit where sometimes Chef Tyrol roasts the fish on fragrant planks and serves them with succulent fruit or roasted potatoes crusted with salt and strange herbs.

  Sometimes.

  Those are some days.

  Other days are spent wandering the coast and lonely foothills of the small islands you pass. Taking thermogliders off the deck of the estate, and “a survival pack”—which is what Scarpia calls a knapsack with wine, cheese, and a crusty sourdough batard— you all soar out in the two-seaters toward the small island you’ve chosen for the day’s adventure. The gliders repulsor-assist the water landing in the small coves, and the crafts are so light you’re able to beach and then drag them into the soft white sand.

  Then explore.

  What are you hoping to find here among the dry grass, red rocks, and strange small lizards? Sometimes arrowheads. Sometimes some strange array of stones left by that other lost civilization that lived beneath the waves. Sometimes those things in the vast yawning silence that is this world.

  And sometimes, toward the end of the day, as the winds began to sweep in from the sea and you top the ridge of the hilly island you’ve been threading your way toward all day… sometimes it’s not what you’re trying to find… it’s what you’re trying to lose.

  It starts out as a game you play.

  Lose yourself in this role of Tom.

  Why?

  Because if this role bombs, gets even one bad review… well then… they’ll just space you somewhere along the way. Won’t they?

  So it starts out as losing yourself in someone you aren’t. It starts out that way. Except… what’s the old saying? Tell a lie long enough, begin to believe it.

  And so those disconnects happen on the happy, lazy, indolent days of exploration and luxury. The disconnect of never again having to be yourself. That scared, frightened man who’s been gone too long and done too many “done” things in the name of the Republic doesn’t have to be here anymore. You never have to be him again.

  You can be Tom now.

  Everybody loves Tom.

  Scarpia treats Tom as a kind of son. Tom is good-looking and athletic. Kind and friendly. Everything a father could ever want of a son. And it’s clear, as the next operation is being discussed over those wine and cheese lunches of indolence and luxury on lost desert isles, it’s clear that Scarpia has high hopes for Tom. He has inside tips for Tom. Dreams Tom should consider if all goes well.

  And Frogg loves Tom, even though Tom is oft-plagued by visions of nasty little Frogg, small bad teeth bared, pinning him and raising that wicked diving knife before plunging it down and down again and again because that’s surely where this is heading. You see that, right, Tom? You see Frogg, you see he’s a psychopath. And not just a “Hey, that guy’s a psycho” psychopath. But a real live nightmare diagnosed as such by the Legion and subsequently drummed out because he was too violent, deranged, and murderous.

  Too violent for the Legion. That’s really saying something.

  No. Frogg
is nothing but friendship. He tells horrible stories of the things he’s done and seen, and at times, when your skin is crawling and you’re doing everything within your power not to run shrieking from his presence and subsequently blow your role as Tom, at times Frogg shows insightful moments of incredible and brilliant self-diagnosis.

  And this makes you love him. Pity him. Try to question your own findings and make a friend of him. Because a psychotic killer like the unlovable Frogg would be a great ally if you were ever to take up full-time Tom.

  Think about that, won’t you?

  You do.

  And Illuria…

  There’s this moment. This moment when you’ve reached cliff’s edge of some small and nameless desert island. It’s on the other side, away from Scarpia’s floating pleasure estate. This view looks out onto nothing but the wide empty ocean that stretches toward every corner of this world.

  That might seem boring. But for some reason it’s not. You see her standing at cliff’s edge as the day begins to fade. Far out to sea, the east surrenders to the coming purple of twilight. The first star comes out. Everyone is there. This is not some silly moment just the two of you have. Frogg is there, searching for rocks to toss into the sea. Scarpia has stepped away to do some business comm. Stepped to the other side of the hilltop because he is doing business and though you are part of that business you cannot know all the business. You’re not that inner circle. Not yet.

  But promises have definitely been hinted at.

  Tom is going places, my dear boy.

  But there is this moment when you see her staring out to sea. Her perfect chin lifted. Her chest forward. The very essence of her life force seeming to search for something out there. Some other thing the constant happiness and sultry inherent sexuality have never confessed to wanting in all your firepit conversations and island adventuring. This other part makes you think of a lost little girl, searching for something she knows she’ll never find.

  And you want to go to her and comfort her… as Tom.

  13

  I’m sitting on a shuttle bound for Utopion, capital world of the Republic. The name seems to have stuck. Utopion. I remember it was called Liberinthine for a while when I was a kid. They’d change it all the time, naming it after just about anyone so long as they were famous and agreed with the ruling class on all points deemed essential. I don’t think the planet was ever named for a leej. At least, not that I’ve ever heard. It’s not exactly my field of study. And if they did, you’d think it would have been after General Rex, seeing as how he was responsible for ending the Savage Wars.

  But… Rex didn’t exactly do what the Republic wanted once he formed Dark Ops.

  Anyway, he’s dead and gone now, and the Legion is the one branch of the military that won’t identify him as a traitor. He did it right, though. Him and everyone who served with him. There was a rumor once that Pappy knew Rex. Pappy said all that traitor stuff was crap, which was enough for us.

  Anyway, ooah for faithful leejes.

  The Legion came into being a long time ago. Not long after the Savage Wars broke out. That was, what?—two thousand years ago? Anyway, the Legion was formed because people were dying all across the galaxy. And the Legion got strong. Strong enough to win the fight. So strong, that the Senate and House—it was just the House back then, it didn’t become the House of Reason until later, when it absorbed the High Court—they were afraid the Legion would take control of the galaxy. The Legion could have, back then. Probably not now, though we’d put up a hell of a fight. It would be close.

  So the Legion’s commander at the time made a deal for the peace of the galaxy, while maintaining the Legion as independent military body. The Legion would work under the House and Senate but was free to serve as a check and balance should someone take power over those fine—and by fine I mean scummy—institutions that posed a threat to the Republic’s constitution. That was the deal. The Legion will protect the galaxy so long as the House and Senate don’t try to assume command of the Legion. Some of us feel like that deal’s getting strained more and more with each new point that comes in. I’m one of those somebodies.

  That’s some history, but a school lesson isn’t why I’m on the shuttle. We’re finally on our way to add Exo to the team… after one more op. Because there’s always one more op.

  Getting the okay to get Exo took longer than we hoped for. Exo spent a good three weeks in a brig near the Republic Strategic Command compound. He’s out now, but he doesn’t know he’s wanted for Dark Ops, doesn’t know we’re coming. Cap Owens has a guy keeping an eye on him though. Word is that Exo’s visiting the pubs, and I don’t blame him. What happened to him sucks.

  We wanted to be there sooner, it just didn’t work out that way. There was a Dark Ops team pulling sniper overwatch for the legionnaires in some hellhole called Pory Bory. I’d never heard of it either, just another place where idiots arm themselves with stims and blaster rifles and attempt to bring down the galaxy. One of those places always engulfed in war, where your enemy has probably seen more combat than you, but isn’t as well trained.

  Dark Ops there couldn’t kill the bad guys fast enough, and they needed a break. Cap volunteered us, said he wanted an opportunity to watch how our entire squad worked. We impressed him. Twenties was a machine. Nineteen confirmed kills in the week we were there. Ooah. Badass. We rotated out and left for Utopion after picking up Kags from his advanced Legion training. I think he likes his new spot in the Republic’s war machine.

  So I’m in the shuttle. Triple-checking my breaching gear. That’s my station now: breacher. I blow, splice, or otherwise open the door so our shooters can storm a room, kill the bad guys, or snatch our target. It’s stuff we’ve all done as leejes in the past, but we’re crazy methodical about it. If we’re not fighting, we’re training to fight. I was close to these guys before, but we’re reading each other’s minds now.

  We’re all waiting for Cap Owens to give us our briefing. We have one op to snatch a high-value target, HVT, on Utopion. Then we get to have our family reunion with Exo.

  Wraith is fiddling with his blaster pistol. He loves that thing. Loves it. I think he’d use only a pistol, just for the challenge, if our lives weren’t on the line with every op. Kags is alternating between pushups and squats on the deck. Kid is a bundle of endless energy, and this is how he deals when he starts to get too amped. Masters and Twenties are in the middle of a conversation that just got interesting, so I listen in.

  “No, no, no,” Masters says. “See, that’s the crap they teach in the schools. But let’s consider: the schools also teach that the House of Reason and Senate are interested in more than looking the other way so each branch can get mutually rich, right?”

  “Yeah, but—” begins Twenties, but Masters cuts him off.

  “Right. And they talk about the need for appointed officers to join the Legion so our ‘outdated’ warrior code can be adapted to meet ‘modern galactic sensibilities.’”

  Twenties shakes his head. “Right, sure, but that’s not the point. What you’re saying is—”

  Masters holds up a finger. “No, no. Don’t jump to conclusions yet. It only sounds crazy. But my dad would tell me this growing up, and I heard it from more than one chick at a cantina, girls from all over the galaxy. And they know what they’re talking about. They have wombs.”

  “Some of ’em don’t,” I say. “Egg-layers.”

  Masters gives me a stay-out-of-it look. “Most of them do. And that’s also the point. Women know things, man. They understand stuff to be true at a foundational level.”

  “You sound like someone who’s never met a woman,” Kags calls out from in between reps.

  “I’ve met plenty. Ask your mom if you need a reference.”

  Twenties takes a deep breath. “Masters, two things. First, you’re an idiot. You fight like a wild drusic, but you’re still an idiot. You cannot tell me that you believe every sentient being in the galaxy comes from a common ancestry.”
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  I smile, eager to hear Masters’s response. The kid is full of two things: impure thoughts about the opposite sex, and conspiracy theories.

  “I’m not saying all,” Masters says, holding up a hand in an attempt to show his reasonableness. “I’m saying most. I’ll prove it to you.”

  Twenties folds his arms. “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

  Masters begins an interrogation of sorts. “What is the name of our species?”

  “Humans.”

  “Correct. Who first discovered hyperspace?”

  “Humans.”

  “Yes. And who colonized the galaxy?”

  “Humans again?”

  “Yes!”

  I stand up to stretch. “I’m not seeing where this is going, Masters.”

  Masters looks up, wounded, at me. “You’re killing my moment, Lieutenant. Now, what do we call a species that, while not human, looks human?”

  “Humanoid?” guesses Twenties.

  “Exactly.” Masters leans back as if he’s just scored the winning stroke. When he sees that we’re not following, he rolls his eyes. “C’mon, guys. Humanoids? It’s not because humans are terrible specists who use ourselves as the model of how life should be, like the government tries to guilt-trip you into thinking. It’s because almost every species is part human.”

  “How?”

  “Humans discover hyperspace. The exploration starts after that. Who goes on the exploration? Humans. But what kind of humans? Okay, men. Right. Men. And when these ships full of men—because, statistically, the women did not leave on these trips at nearly the same level, and the number of males to females was incredibly lopsided, that’s a fact—these ships were full of men, and those men arrived on planets and built their shelters and got tired of waiting for ships with women to show up and got lonely and…”

  I stare at Masters blankly. “You’re saying that almost every species in the galaxy as we know exists because lonely men started sleeping with whatever native animal was on the planet they landed on?”

  “Exactly.” He interlocks his fingers behind his head and leans back. “And some of these species—surprise!—were sexually compatible. Now when the other dudes saw that nasty Nate had a kid that looked pretty much human, they followed suit. Well, in a few generations, all that was left was the new species, right? And by the time the next human ship arrives—when our exploration really got going—you’ve got all these humanoid populations. And no one knows that humans started it because they were all breeded out.”