Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3)

by Jason Anspach

  You smile and try to look impressed, bewildered. That’s a very Tom thing to do. To be charmingly bewildered. I mean weapons, blasters, armor, and military-grade hardware for rebels is all very fine and dandy. Even man-portable torpedo launchers. The occasional surface-to-space anti-ship missile system. Yes. Those are the kinds of things arms dealers and smugglers deal in. That Scarpia deals in bulk in these items was known. It’s why you were aimed at him, directly. Of course.

  So you behave as if you’re charmingly bewildered, impressed even, by the man who hijacked a Repub corvette out of a shipyard.

  But the game was to know the end user. To let the weapons arrive where they need to arrive. Then the kill teams, the legionnaire divisions, they could all arrive with the big warships, and everything could be had out in man-to-man combat and you’d be done with this op. You were only supposed to pass on the info. That’s what was promised when this all began.

  But a military naval vessel… that’s a whole different animal. That’s actually quite a big deal. Possibly bigger than anything X and the Carnivale were anticipating. Or were they hoping? It’s all getting very blurry. The lines are shifting.

  “That’s… impressive,” you manage. Because it is.

  Scarpia allows a smug little smile to cross his face below the ever-calculating dead eyes he cannot hide.

  You wonder if the eyes change when he’s with Illuria. Or does he regard even her so coldly? Does she see something the rest of the galaxy cannot? Is that her special gift?

  It’s just the pheromones, you tell yourself. You can take something for that. Frogg probably does.

  “And that’s where you come in, Tom. We need to get this corvette deep inside the MCR zone of influence and linked up with a pathetic little ragtag ‘fleet’ they’ve put together. Believe me, it’s all rather underwhelming.” Scarpia’s voice is dry, his manner droll. He takes a sip of the whiskey in the cut crystal tumbler he holds lightly in his manicured hand. “You being a navy man, you can manage the crew and get the ship there and delivered. Except you’ve got make a stop to pick up some serious armaments.”

  You agree to this, because what else can you do? But you do manage to probe. Gently. But you do. That’s what spies do. That’s what the Carnivale wants. That’s what the Chiasm, and Camp Forge, and all the dead legionnaires were for. This end-user moment, never mind the casualties.

  “And what is the MCR planning on doing with the corvette once I hand it over? If I’m handing it over?” you prompt in a very Tom-like way. Totally ever figuring the odds in your favor.

  “Ah… well… thankfully we don’t have to be a part of that, Tom. But it’s going to be pretty big. The plan is, as I understand it, and now that you’re in… why not. Now that you’re one of us… The plan is to jump into Utopion with a suicide fleet, and then smash the corvette right into the House of Reason. She’ll be loaded with a crustbuster, so there’s a good chance we’ll get a planetary crack out of this. In a hundred years, after the rads die down, whoever’s in charge will have a nice mine on what was once the galactic capital.”

  Never mind, you think, the seven billion you’ll kill doing something like that, Scarpia.

  You do allow yourself to be shocked. You lean back into the sumptuous overstuffed chair you’ve settled into. It would be absolutely phony to seem blasé about all this death and mayhem. For Frogg, yes, that’s his default setting. For you… no. You’ve got to have a little bit of self-preservation. A little of a this-is-going-too-far reaction. Got to.

  “Oh, come now, Tom,” says Scarpia after a sip of whiskey. After watching and gauging your reaction. “It’s not like they’re actually going to get away with it. Are you kidding? A fleet getting through Utopion’s orbital automated defense network? Impossible.”

  “Then why even try?”

  “Because they want to.” He sighs in exasperation. “And they’re willing to pay us a lot of money to help them. That’s what we do. We provide the fireworks. Who cares if the customer blows their toe off? Or tentacle, in some cases. Not our business. We’ll be well clear and living on our own planet after this. And I do mean the entire planet, Tom. That’s how much we’re making on this one.”

  You feel like you’ve blown it with all this concern for Utopion and the seven billion who live there. Scarpia was watching you. Watching for your reaction. Did he see Tom the guy who’s out for himself and all the money he can steal? Or did he see the other you?

  You lean forward. “I’m in.”

  “That’s good, Tom. Really good. And oh, by the way… on the way out there I’m going to need you to take care of something. A loose end has come undone.”

  You nod as though there’s nothing you’d like more than to do this because you’re really excited to get to that corvette and the planet you’ve been promised on the other side of this little deal. That’s what Tom would do. That’s what Tom would want.

  To keep up the character, to not throw up like you really want to, you think of Illuria. She’s out there, lying under the lazy sun in the barest of bikinis. You think of her skin. Her lips. The husky sound of her voice when she says “Tom.”

  “I need you,” says Scarpia. “To take care of the contact who sold you those wonderful bombs that took out that destroyer and killed all those leejes. Seems there’s a kill team on his trail. Can’t have it leading back to you.” Scarpia pats your knee. “Do that little thing for me, and then we’ll go pick up that corvette, Tom.”

  16

  Our team finally has the all-clear to bring in Exo. So we put on our civilian clothes and take to the streets.

  The sun is out. It’s beautiful, actually. But the weather isn’t doing anything for my mood. The last thing I said to Captain Devers was that I hoped I’d never have to see him again. Well, today was Silas Devers Day on Utopion. The “hero of Kublar” has returned to Utopion to receive his medal. The Order of the Centurion. That’s the highest honor the Republic hands out. Ninety percent of its recipients are awarded it posthumously.

  So of course it makes perfect sense to give it to Devers.

  I don’t get it. I mean, I do… I get what Legion Commander Keller said. The Republic needs a hero to make its citizens feel safe as word of what happened to us spreads across the galaxy. The real heroes are dead, or in Dark Ops, and you can’t exactly tour Dark Ops leejes throughout the Republic. You can do that with Devers, and from the early press photos of him shaking hands with senators and representatives, he’s set to be the Republic’s golden boy for the rest of his military career. Which will probably last just long enough for him to be assured a place on the Council.

  I weep for our future.

  The silvene lining, if there is one, is that Devers is out of the Legion. Of course, even the way that was handled ticked us all off. The official statement was that the House of Reason felt their Legion appointee had done all he could do for the Legion, and thought the Republic Navy needed him most.

  So they made him a commander.

  Yeah.

  Know the right people and you just get to skip right over lieutenant commander, apparently.

  Twenties reads the holostatement. “Guys, listen to this crap. ‘Commander Devers’s heroic exploits on Kublar, where he led the battered remnants of Victory Company of the 131st Legion (officially decommissioned), were critical in saving the Republic Army support staff and other military personnel from an overwhelming force. Devers, who began the action with the rank of captain, was awarded a field promotion to major by his senior officer, Major Jorleth Hilbert, when Hilbert was wounded in an ambush of nearly five hundred hostiles.’”

  “One hundred and fifty,” Masters corrects.

  “Two hundred tops,” chimes in Kags.

  Twenties continues. “‘Once in command, Major Devers’s tactical brilliance and staunch determination to keep his men alive saw him lead a campaign of evasion and destruction on the Mid-Core Rebellion and their allies…’ Blah, blah, blah. It goes on like this for a while, and now he gets to
get sailors and marines killed instead of just legionnaires.”

  “A hundred credits says he makes admiral before I make sergeant,” Kags says. “I’m not telling you guys anything new, but outside the Legion, merit and service are a distant third behind connections and power when it comes to career advancement.”

  “You sure our spotter saw Exo at this bar?” I say. “Because I’ve gotta imagine he’s in a sniper hide somewhere by the ceremony waiting to pop Devers in the brain.”

  Owens digs for wax in his ear, his massive bicep swiveling, making the tattoos on his arm dance and jiggle. “I should have popped that point’s head off when I had the chance.”

  “This is the cost,” Ford says. I can’t bring myself to call him Wraith right now. It’s odd seeing him without his bucket. He seems taller, somehow. “No one’s ever going to know the sacrifices made by Pappy, Rook, and Maldorn… not really. They can get medals. They can have holofilms and books written about them. But nobody will really know. Except us. We know. And like Legion Commander Keller said, this is how we stay in the fight. Let Devers soak up the fame. It would be a loss to the Republic to have any real leej in his place instead.”

  We continue our walk, considering what Ford said.

  “I heard they’re making a movie about Devers,” Masters finally says. “I wonder who’ll play me?”

  “There are a number of plus-sized actresses available for that part, I’m sure,” Kags says.

  “You take that back.” Masters stops in the middle of the street. He raises his shirt, revealing a concealed blaster pistol, but we all know he’s just showing off his abs. “I should be playing myself, looking like this. Captain Owens, I’m requesting leave now for when the studios start filming.”

  Owens calls back over his shoulder, “Just waiting for them to call and you got it, bro.”

  The levity brings back our spirits—plus we’re all pretty excited to see Exo again. Kublar was some heavy rocks, and he’s had to deal with it by himself.

  I can sense our swagger as we walk down the streets of Utopion—which are not made of gold, because all the gold lines the politician’s pockets. The sun is shining, we’re all wearing Eclipse-Martin shades, and Masters is right: we look like movie stars. We’re the fittest guys on the street, and we’ve got that leej confidence just exuding from us with every step. No, better than that. Leej plus one. We’ve got Dark Ops confidence. And it’s confirmed with every look and smile that catches us on our way.

  Cap nods at a cantina just up ahead. “That’s the one. Remember the plan. I get to talk with him first. You picked him, but I need to feel good about him.”

  I’m sort of dreading that. If Exo is in a funk, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and pick a fight with Cap. Just to make himself feel better.

  A kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, seems to recognize Owens. He runs up to him, and Owens gives him a credit chit. The kid runs off. Cap looks at me and says, “That was our spotter. Cheaper and more discreet than anyone we have on base.”

  Shortly before we reach the door, it swings open. An old man comes stumbling out. He walks right in the midst of us, we’re all so close together, and sort of squints at the intensity of the light. Then he straightens up. He has the swagger, too, and I can tell right away that this is an old leej. Apparently he recognizes the same in us. He winks at us and says, “When did this turn into a leej bar?”

  We laugh and go our separate ways.

  Ooah. I love the old leejes. And if we didn’t come to this bar for business, I’d ask him inside for a drink and a story.

  I remember once, when I had just gotten my Legion crest, I was at a graduation ceremony and there was this banquet with former legionnaires. Kind of a big deal on the planet where my Legion academy was located. I was part of the first class to have to pass a low-oxygen assault course. Basically, they put you in a room with a fairly standard assault and obstacle course and then thin the oxygen to the point where you feel like you’re running around on the peaks of Mount Witomco. It was awful, but I made it.

  So that night at the ceremony I see an old leej. He’s just sitting in a repulsor chair. That’s a thing about the old leejes. A lot of them won’t go for cybernetics. They don’t want to be half-bot. They’ve got a thing about the war bots used with and against them in the old campaigns. So I saunter up and say, in a friendly way, “Hey, old-timer, ever see this before?” And I show him my course certification pin. “You never got one of these did you?”

  I was trying to be funny.

  He looked straight at me and said, “You’re wrong, Leej. I did get one.”

  Well, that couldn’t be right because this course was brand new, and the leej in front of me was old enough to have fought the Savage Wars from beginning to end.

  “When?” I said.

  “Junico, 1980, RSE.”

  I felt like a fool. Junico, one of the final large-scale battles of the Savage Wars. Legionnaires dug into dizzying high mountain peaks fighting relentless Savage marines that just kept coming. And this old-timer was there. Yeah, he earned his low-ox pin that day. Anyway, I learned a lesson. It’s great to be a leej now, and it was great to a leej then. You get old, but you’re still a leej. Ooah.

  We walk inside the bar. This place is dark, and the light from the outside stabs at the darkness like a solar dagger then fades from view as the door closes behind us. I can see Exo at the bar, nursing a drink, his back to us. We all stay back while Captain Owens saunters up. It’s barely lit in this place, but Owens still has his shades on. He takes the stool right next to Exo and orders a bottle of beer.

  The guys all keep to the shadows, but I move forward, watching everything from the side, because I want to hear what they have to say. I’m in the shadows, too, and even though Exo is looking in my direction, he can’t see me.

  But I see him. Exo looks at Owens as if he’s in an empty bathroom and the dude took the urinal right next to him.

  Owens doesn’t say anything. He just wraps a paw around the beer and takes a long pull. When he brings it back down, he’s bulging out his bicep like he wants to arm wrestle. Exo, even though he’s wearing a spacer’s jacket, can’t let that go. I see him bring his own thick arms onto the table. Owens grins from behind his beard.

  “That ceremony today was funk vapor.”

  Exo nods at this. “Yeah, it was. But I think that sort of thing’s been happening for a long time.”

  Lifting up his beer, Owens says, “I’ll drink to that.” He drains the bottle and signals for another.

  “You in the Legion?” Exo asks.

  Owens pulls up his shirt sleeve to reveal a Legion tattoo. “Yep. You?”

  “I’m done with the Legion.”

  “Why’s that?” Owens asks, taking a sip from the newly served bottle.

  Exo shrugs. “Just… buddies are all dead or stationed who-knows-where. Barely avoided a court-martial because of the point who got a false medal today—I think they lost the paperwork about me. I’ve got two months left on my enlistment. Gonna run down the clock. See what the galaxy has for me.”

  “Sounds like a good excuse to drink.” Owens puts his beer down and looks Exo straight in the eyes. “But what if what the galaxy has for you is the bastards who blew up the Chiasm?”

  Exo was about to take a drink, but he stops halfway up. The glass just hangs there loosely, like it could slip out of his fingers at any moment. He puts it down and swivels in his seat to face Owens. “Say again?”

  Owens repeats himself, more slowly. “What if what the galaxy has for you is the bastards who blew up the Chiasm?”

  Exo squints. “Who are you? Because I know you’re not coming in here to mess with me like that.”

  Cap holds out his hand. “Captain Ellek Owens. You’ve been selected for Dark Ops.”

  Exo stares at the hand in disbelief. “By who?”

  “My team.”

  And with that we step out from the shadows and greet our wayward brother. Happy to have him back.<
br />
  Twenties shakes his hand, followed by Masters.

  I pull him in close for a hug. “Hey, man, let the point stay where he can’t interfere with the Legion any longer. Let’s make these MCRs pay for what they did. The galaxy’s gonna hear them howl.”

  “Yeah,” Exo says, pounding me on my shoulder. “I hear that, Sarge.”

  “Actually, they let me keep my field promotion. So that’s Lieutenant Chhun, soldier.”

  Exo smiles. “Well, if the lieutenant remembers, he owes Exo a drink for the time Exo blew up a tank before it could blow him up. So… make good, L-T.”

  I order a round for everyone, and then Kags comes in. “Hey,” he says to Exo, “glad to see you.”

  Exo stares blankly at Kags. “Are you kidding me? A basic made Dark Ops before me? That’s it, I’m out.”

  Everyone laughs, but I can tell that Kags still feels like he’s not quite part of the team. I catch Exo and dart my eyes so he can see the spot the kid is in.

  “Hey,” Exo says, grabbing Kags and bringing him under his arm. “You fight like a demon dog. I’ll go to war with you any day.”

  Kags smiles sheepishly as the bartender delivers a round of beers. I see Cap go for his comm as Twenties makes a toast.

  “To Victory Company! Their sacrifice was not in vain.”

  We lustily repeat the toast and throw our drinks back, only to see Cap with his arms crossed. “Interrogators rolled our target already. We’ve got our supplier. Shuttle leaves in two hours.”

  17

  There’s absolutely no way.

  That’s what you tell Scarpia. Not Mr. Scarpia. He told you to call him Scarpia.

  So you do.

  You’re inner circle now.

  Which everyone already knew, and for the most part that was okay. Except you manage to see Frogg watching you. Like you’ve somehow trespassed on sacred ground, or robbed a child of his most favorite prize. Or… come between a pit monster and its prey.

  You did.

  And you catch that look from the psychopath that thinks he’s your friend. So there’s that.