But never mind. You tell Scarpia there’s absolutely no way anyone, right now, and especially after what happened on Kublar… there’s no way anyone is getting onto a Repub Navy base. Or supply depot. No way to take out a supply officer, dirty or not. Security protocols after Kublar have got to be incredible.
“Of course not,” Scarpia dryly remarks as he holds his cut crystal tumbler up for Frogg to freshen. The glance of casual murder Frogg casts your way is enough to make you shiver. Except you can’t. Not in front of these killers. These cutthroats. These pirates.
Shiver your timbers and they’ll know you’re not Tom. You scream this at yourself as you listen to Scarpia’s insane plan to “tie up a loose end” on a locked-down Repub supply depot.
That’s what he calls taking out the dirty supply officer. Tying up a loose end.
And there’s some distant part of you, even though you are, were, are a naval officer, and you’ve commanded battery fire on unseen enemies, there’s something you should feel about “tying up a loose end.”
Outrage?
Nope.
Indignation?
Nope.
Nothing?
Check.
You feel nothing about casually arranging someone’s murder. You even provide a nuance to Scarpia’s plan. Yes, not to put too fine a point on it… you provide a nuance. To a kill.
Lovely.
And once again you try to tell yourself that you’re almost clear of this mess and then the kill team full of big bad legionnaires can come rolling in to clean things up.
Keep telling yourself that, Tom.
The plan Scarpia wants to pull is to run a distress call from a disabled freighter that needs to dock at Supply Station Ootani somewhere out in the Jack Taar Nebula. That’s where the guy operates from.
When he’s not selling out his fellow Republic servicemen by providing the MCR with the bombs that will kill them.
But you don’t care about that. No, you do. Tom doesn’t. So you don’t. Because Tom wouldn’t.
Scarpia just wants to fly one of the old bulk freighters in there and blow it up on the hangar deck. You fly it in, and get off just moments before detonation. Just like the Chiasm.
Except they’ll be all over that. Or at least, that’s what you tell Scarpia. After what happened to the Chiasm, they’ll be double checking everybody trying to dock, declared emergency or not. No unauthorized landings allowed, and if there has to be one, it’ll be watched like observation bots. Only by squads of legionnaires. If there’s the slightest hint of trouble they’ll blow your ship to pieces. They’ll blow any ship to pieces that seems even vaguely suspicious.
And, you add, do this same little plan again and it’ll be a pattern. Dark Ops gets real interested in plans. Dark Ops knows too much of the plan already. And knowing more, of course, will draw more intelligence assets later in the operation. Whereas going unnoticed might make a difference. Could make it a success or a failure. The end game, in particular.
Scarpia listens in silence, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t like being told that he’s not always brilliant. That his plan is actually uninspired and bad. He enjoys praise and adoration. Not phony versions of such, of course. He enjoys genuine praise for his honest efforts. That might be what he would call supplying rebels with illegal arms and creating terror, destruction and loss of life: honest efforts.
But who’s to say what’s wrong? Isn’t that what the Repub House of Reason is always going on about in its constant march toward Social Perfection?
What’s wrong with anything?
Well, point of order here, you think. Blowing up an entire supply base to get one guy is… well, it’s wrong.
But so was blowing up the Chiasm and Camp Forge. And that didn’t stop you.
So are you reluctant because this is wrong? Or because you feel bad about the wrong you’ve already done? Even though Tom does not feel bad.
So maybe that’s why you’re casual about getting only the supply officer. Maybe that’s the win in this situation. Just get the one dirty guy, and everyone else on the base—what, what maybe about five hundred, give or take?—get to go on living.
“So what are we gonna do about this scumbag then, mate?” Frogg asks you. He enjoys this little play of yours only because it might cause you, golden boy, to fall from favor in Scarpia’s eyes.
Hopes are high.
“You,” I say.
“Me?” says Frogg with comically wide eyes.
“You and I are going to go in as freighter pilots. On a ship that’s legitimately broken. We need rescue. We go through all the procedures. And yeah… we make it pretty clear we’re down-and-out ex-military doing arms deals out that way. We’ve even got our own junky freighter. Except we’re not carrying anything we can get busted for. Then once we’re past security, it’s knife work. And we get off the station with a ship that suddenly works.”
Frogg likes that because… well… two reasons.
The killing.
And it makes him the star.
He smiles at you.
You thought so.
Like a shark might.
Don’t let them see you shake.
***
You’re going in hot. The freighter that Scarpia has put together for you—or torn apart, really—drops from hyperspace in an uncontrolled jump. Never mind all the systems alarms and collision alerts. You’re just barely trying to keep this tug from flying apart.
Frogg stares impassively out the front of the cockpit, studying the supply depot that hangs, as though suspended in the clouds, somewhere deep in the Jack Taar Nebula.
The main engines suddenly go offline, and you’re steering by small bursts from the maneuver thrusters and maintaining forward momentum inbound for approach to Ootani Station.
“This is freighter Hoplyte calling Ootani Approach. Mayday. Mayday. We’ve lost our engines and have a reactor leak. Need emergency repairs immediately.”
No answer.
The ship is shaking itself to pieces as the floating diamond-shaped station with the long docking tail looms larger and larger against the swirling maelstrom of the nebula. Luckily there’s no traffic in the area.
And no reply from Ootani Station.
Other than that, most everything’s going according to plan, and though you aren’t much of a pilot, you’ve managed not to kill yourself and Frogg. Yet. Portside thrusters go offline after a circuit bus shorts out across the rear of the flight deck.
Frogg pans his head to look at you as you engage the inertial dampeners to slow your approach. His look is deadpan. His delivery the epitome of droll.
“Fun, huh?”
“Ootani Station, this is—”
“We read you, Hoplyte. This is a restricted station. Jump to Dulataar Reef. They have repair facilities to accommodate most ships. Good luck.”
The inertial dampener batteries max out at that moment and explode across the rear hull. Just like they’re supposed to. This too is part of the plan. Part of the show.
The next seconds are tense because all you can do is drift. Once you drift far enough to violate their space, all you can do is hope they don’t turn the auto-turrets on you. And if they let you drift on by, all you can hope is that they come out to retrieve you.
Any other action is mission failure.
You’re supposed to be a desperate crew flying a piece of junk. So of course you’ve actually got to be desperate and flying a piece of junk. Sensors rarely lie.
Frogg jerks his head to the side quickly. A quirky little maneuver that seems to say, “Well, that’s that.”
You reach over and flick the masters to flood the life support generator with space. This is normally done only in the event of a fire. There’s no fire. But deep space has a way of frying those generators, and the station’s sensors will no doubt detect a fried life support system.
A moment later the generator goes offline and the station looms larger. You try not to look at the auto-turrets tracking you.
<
br /> “Ootani Station, we’ve just lost our—”
“Yeah, we see. Stand by for tractor beam. We’re bringing you in, Hoplyte.”
A moment later the powerful yet invisible tractor beam from the station grabs the freighter. Our ship reacts as though it’s being strangled and rattled apart at the same time. The beam draws us into the gaping maw of the now-massive station docks.
Frogg pulls out the small blaster he’s brought, wipes it once with a cloth, then pushes it under the seat. He stands as the upper decks of the dock loom over the freighter. Deep shadows fall across the cockpit, and the only light that remains comes from the few working instruments.
“I’ll get 1D-20 ready. Meet you at the boarding ramp,” Frogg says as you finish lowering the landing gear and shutting down the ship.
Out on the deck, three squads of legionnaires—all on station duty—hustle on the double to meet the arriving freighter. The Repub isn’t taking any chances after Kublar.
***
At the bottom of the boarding ramp stands a Repub Navy officer, bored and uninterested. Because he can afford to be. Because he’s got thirty elite killers backing him.
He holds out his hand for your manifest.
You hand him the data comm.
After a moment he looks up from the screen.
“Really, you’re not carrying anything?”
You shrug and smile and do your best to act like you’ve been caught for something.
Like a real arms smuggler shouldn’t. But you do.
“We came out of the cluster with a load of rice. Sold it all and we’re heading back to Denku.”
“Rice?” the officer repeats, not even trying to mask his disbelief. “Sensors indicate your ship has holds standard and hidden. None of which are large enough for rice to be transported in sufficient bulk to generate profit.”
He says the word “profit” like it’s something that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Obviously you realize this guy is a point. Came from a made family and never had to do an honest day’s work in his life. You hated guys like that. You got your commission the old-fashioned way. Tom hated guys like that, too.
And you’re Tom. So it’s okay to hate this guy. Because Tom hates this guy.
But these guys were always the ones in charge, and you learned the game a long time ago. Act like they’re as smart as they think they are. Let them believe the lie for you.
“I won’t dispute that,” you say. That’s step one: Admit that he’s caught you. “It was specialty rice.” That’s step two: Try a lame excuse for him to see through so he can feel superior about taking the bait you’re dangling in front of him.
He snaps his fingers, and a legionnaire NCO steps up quickly.
“Sir?” the legionnaire sounds off smartly.
“Bring in a scanning team and go over this ship. Use long-chain carbon detection. I’m interested in knowing how special this rice is. Or was, as it were.”
You know the legionnaire just wants to execute the order, but most points can’t help but keep talking. So that everyone can know how special they are. This one continues. “My guess is it wasn’t rice. My guess is they were hauling blasters and other ordnance for MCR scum. We’ll see if I guessed right in a couple of hours.”
The officer turns back to you. “Until then… the two of you and your bot can enjoy holding.”
18
Holding is a large room with minimal station services and some ancient bolted crash seats. This is where they send people to wait out the time it takes for the Repub Navy to get a scanner team down to the hangar and go through an entire ship. But of course you knew that. You were counting on it.
Frogg goes to check station access and begins hacking into the local network while you deal with the bot.
1D-20 is a standard maintenance servitor that specializes in ship systems. It would be an obvious choice for any freighter crew. And of course, a trundling bot like this shouldn’t arouse suspicions. It didn’t.
“Gimme the package, D20,” you order the thing.
“Wot package, sire?”
For some reason it’s coded to respond this way. With the accent. It was an annoyance the entire jump out, just not enough to get you to dig up a manual on its programming language and reset the parameters. Instead you decided to live with it. And possibly, if any Repub personnel get interested in this bot, they’ll focus on the language and not a deeper, actually useful interest that wouldn’t be so great for your plan.
“The one I gave you before the jump,” you remind the bolt-headed bot.
Its visual systems light up in a programmed attempt to facilitate non-verbal interaction. Once, long ago, that had all been very important to the people who made bots. Humanizing them. Now no one cares, right?
A moment later a concealed compartment slides open from its grease-covered trash can torso. It wobbles back and forth, approximating some sort of low-bar joy.
“Shall I reactivate the ship now, sire?”
You sigh and ignore the poor stupid thing as you inventory the tools you’ve brought to do the job.
Two knives. A lock breaker. And two Repub maintenance tech uniforms.
“Sire?” persists the bot. “Shall I reactivate the ship now?”
You know the bot isn’t capable of picking up your non-verbal cues. So instead of sighing again you say, “Not yet. Stand by.”
“Very good, sire.”
“I’m into the net,” whispers Frogg.
You begin to dress in your maintenance uniform. Quickly. It’s just a coverall. A moment later you roll out the folded hat and don it. You check yourself in the reflection provided by the viewing port that stares out into the swirling red and purple nebula—then you reach over, swipe some grease off the junky little bot, and apply it to the uniform, brushing some across your cheek for good measure. It helps complete the look of a tech who’s spent a shift doing the pedestrian maintenance work that passes so invisibly on any given station.
“Where is he?” you ask Frogg as you slide the carbon-forged, diamond-edged knife into your boot. Are you really going to stab this supply officer to death? Of course. It’s better than Scarpia’s plan to ram the station with a suicide freighter. This way… some people live. And, you justify, this guy’s selling Repub equipment to criminals and insurgents who’ll kill Republic soldiers.
Killed Republic soldiers.
What?
Killed them. It’s already done. And you helped. So it’s just a bit of unofficial justice. But when do you come to justice? Is it when Frogg discovers that you’re not Tom? Does justice come then?
You shake away the thoughts. Reasons. Excuses. You don’t need them. And you’re fine that you don’t. Or at least Tom doesn’t need those reasons. Tom just sees the end of things. To Tom, the big planet-sized payout after the arms deal is the end of things.
But that’s not what you’re interested in, is it?
“Level thirty-six, right now,” murmurs Frogg, giving the location of the guy the two of you are going to kill. “Supplies shop fourteen.”
You do the route in your head. Reach the core access system and go seventeen levels down. No one hangs out down there. No legionnaires. No blasters. Do the guy and get back to the hangar. 1D-20 should have the ship up and running, because the ship isn’t really all that broken once a few things are set right.
As a former deck officer, you know there will probably be only two legionnaires on duty watching the scan. Maybe not even that. Sometimes the leejes get called away and navy troopers take over security. Barely. Station duty is as boring as it gets.
And no one suspects the bots. Especially not a 1D-20. Especially not this 1D-20. It’s a moving trash can with an annoying vocal interface and an oddly hopeful demeanor that only comes off as bothersome.
The ship’s emergency takeoff will catch the Repubs by surprise, and the jump is already computed. It’s not super safe given the gravitational field of the station… but it’s been done before. The margins are e
nough to take the chance.
Or at least that’s the plan.
When Frogg is dressed, he picks up the lock breaker hacking tool, and two minutes later you’re beyond the blast door. The station won’t know about it for another twenty minutes when it conducts a redundancy scan. Asynchronous readings will be caught then. So time, as they say…
You set your smartwatches as 1D-20 rolls off on his mission.
A minute later you’ve reached the main core’s transportation hub, where a speedlift arrives. Another long minute passes as you watch the floor slide by. Then the door opens, and you’ve got eighteen minutes before the watch officer is alerted that holding is empty of her guests.
The exit the lift into what should be a duty station for cargo techs. You expect to see a bored tech, most likely napping. As a navy officer you’ve been to enough supply depots, retrieving ship’s stores, to know what to expect. Instead you find three legionnaires.
And yeah, you freeze—because you’re not really a killer. More of an assassin, you suppose. But even that is more theory than fact. Still, you know that you need the jump. The shadows. The rooftop with the long-range blaster rifle.
You need distance.
Up close and personal is more Frogg’s game.
The legionnaires turn and dismiss you as just two more techs. They seem to be down here waiting to pick up something for the squads back on their decks. Maybe new neoprene suits, or calibrated targeting crystals for this week’s skill maintenance training on personal sidearms. Who knows?
Frogg kills all three of them.
Like that.
Their first mistake is turning their backs on him. What they perceive as a small, chubby little maintenance sergeant is actually one of them. Was one of them? Yes. Was. He was too violent. A major. Gifted in hand-to-hand combat and knives. If they knew that above the dishonorable discharge digital stamp in his file there was a citation recommendation—Order of the Centurion no less, no award though, for the tunnels of Murlon—well… they never would’ve turned their backs on him.
Of course, if they knew all that, we would be dead. Not them. But they don’t. So we live on.
Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3) Page 14