Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3)

by Jason Anspach

  The first one he attacks by breaking the man’s knee from forcing it the wrong direction with a sudden and vicious kick. Legionnaire armor can’t do much about that. That guy goes down screaming to his other knee for the moment. At the same time Frogg reaches up and pulls, very gently, the center legionnaire, most likely a corporal who’s probably seen combat all across the galaxy. Frogg just gently tugs on the back of this guy’s helmet. The legionnaires call it a bucket.

  You remember that little detail as the grim and sudden slaughter unfolds before your eyes. You remember that as Frogg moves through these men like a sudden storm of vicious energy.

  As Frogg tugs on the legionnaire’s bucket, the legionnaire—the corporal—instinctively fights it. His reflexes take over, and he forces his torso and head away from the gentle pull, fighting it. Which is exactly what Frogg wanted him to do. Frogg slams his open palm forward atop the helmet, forcing the corporal’s head down toward the edge of the maintenance counter where the supply tech should have been napping. The downward force is so sudden and violent that the helmet, the bucket, makes a dull thump, but doesn’t crack. But the guy is stunned. Frogg leans on the armor with all his weight while using the desk as a fulcrum to keep the bucket stable. Half a second later there’s a small crack. A crunch really. That’s what a broken neck sounds like.

  You think that.

  You think… that’s what a broken neck sounds like.

  The last legionnaire standing takes two steps back and pulls his sidearm. The standard legionnaire blaster they carry when not in a combat zone. This blaster is smaller, lighter, a little bit bigger than a pistol.

  The legionnaire pulls it as Frogg falls to the floor and rolls straight at him. A moment later as the kid—it’s most definitely a kid—tries to target and fire, Frogg surges upward and slips the knife between the small gap in the armor between utility belt and chest guard. There’s just neoprene there. Black, thin neoprene.

  One move… one quick move with that wicked little blade that was supposed to be only for the supply officer… and the legionnaire just lost all his guts.

  As he falls to the deck, Frogg pulls the blaster from the kid’s hands. Hands now reaching for spilled guts.

  You can hear him moaning inside his armor.

  Just like the guy with the broken knee is screaming within his. But they’ll go to their comms soon. All of this happened fast. Unbelievably fast. But they’re still legionnaires. Frogg needs to finish this. He has to hurry, or we’ll be discovered.

  With the small, still bloody knife leading the way, a little smile across his grim little face, Frogg finds the gap between the kid’s helmet, they call it a bucket, and the chest guard. Then the throat is severed and the kid bleeds out, gurgling horribly.

  You have seen many terrible things in your time.

  Radiation burns.

  Blaster wounds.

  Torn limbs.

  But somehow this little tableau with Frogg standing above two of the Repub’s elite killing machines, this is somehow much worse.

  Because it’s your plan?

  Tom?

  But it’s falling apart. Because Frogg left a loose end. He left the legionnaire with the broken knee to scream. And the training will eventually win out over the pain. Has won out. Because those legionnaires have comms in their buckets.

  Tom would step in. Tom would help Frogg, because Tom would want these legionnaires dead. Because that meant mission success.

  A blaster fires. The legionnaire drops, a black hole in his helmet. Execution-style. You look at your hands and see the smoking blaster. You didn’t do this. Tom did this.

  Not you.

  Tom.

  Frogg chuckles at your handiwork.

  Frogg is the savageness the galaxy breeds.

  Frogg is the reason there’s a Legion.

  Kicking him out was their biggest mistake.

  Not because they needed him. Because they should have killed him. Put him down like the rabid animal he is.

  He wipes the knife on his thigh and nods toward the access hatch that leads to the supply stores.

  The target awaits.

  The alarm sounds, because Tom wasn’t quick enough in killing that first—last—legionnaire. And that legionnaire did work his comms. And the deck officer just got an alert.

  So there’s that.

  19

  Frogg still wants to find the guy. The supply officer. He’s somewhere deep in the stores of the station as klaxons are beginning to wail.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Frogg asks you. “Because we need to find one, fast. Two squads of leejes would be here in two minutes if I was in command.” Then he dashes off into the darkness of the warehouse and you know the supply officer is as good as dead. All you have to do is look at the three dead legionnaires on the floor.

  So… plan’s out the door. They know you’re here. There’s one option left, and you kept it in your back pocket because you’re that kind of guy. The kind of guy who’s been looking for an out since this whole thing began.

  That kind of guy.

  Tom.

  You access the supply administration panel and hope all the protocols are working. Because there’s a lot of ordnance down here. And of course you’ve done this duty. You were once briefed on worst-case scenarios in the boring world of supply. And one of these terrible nightmares is an ordnance explosion. An explosion that has the potential to set off more explosions. In deep space, even with atmospheric force fields and star cruiser-rated bulkheads… it’s all still quite dangerous once things start blowing up.

  You manage an old override code that’s still in use. Seconds later you’re setting off the automated fire control systems and logging a report of live ordnance “cooking off.”

  That should stop the legionnaires dead in their tracks from storming supply. Damage control teams will need to clear the area first.

  But that’s not the main goal of this little maneuver. If the system goes through all its checks, it’ll seal the emergency blast doors and activate the escape pods on this deck. Most escape pods have a one-jump capability, preprogrammed to the nearest base or friendly port in the event of the total destruction of the station. Since it’s automated, it’s tricky. Because what’s the use in jumping right back into Repub hands?

  Except you are Repub, screams some non-Tom part of your brain that’s been starving to death. You’re just a snitch, a spy, a plant, a mole. This is a deep cover operation and you’re not really playing pirates with Scarpia, Mr. Scarpia.

  You’re not really you.

  Blast doors slide shut across the yawning deck. You can hear them sealing in place. You pull your comm and try to raise Frogg, but he comes rushing back into the supply desk area just before the blast door to this section seals you in.

  “It’s done,” he says breathlessly, ignoring the fact that you almost cut him off. You’re sure he would’ve found a way out of this. He survives, at whatever cost. “How much time?”

  You tap in a few more commands, telling the system you’re trapped. The station AI will now attempt to save you.

  You look up from the console to Frogg. “Legionnaires are stalled but someone has to be watching the holocams. They see us, they’ll know what’s going on and override protocols.”

  Frogg turns and begins to shoot any holocams he can find. The blaster whines as shots smash into walls and leave behind burning cameras. You’ve got to hand it to him: he hasn’t lost his cool despite everything going sideways. You, on the other hand…

  Your heart is racing.

  Your hands are shaking as they fly across the console.

  There’s a real chance the legionnaires will breach and clear this room. Which means shoot anyone armed with a blaster first and ask questions later.

  “I’m not Tom!” you’ll scream just before some kid in legionnaire armor blasts you in the chest.

  It won’t mean a thing.

  You think of the other pleas that might save your life. �
�I’m a deep cover agent for the Carnivale! For Nether Ops. I’m one of you…”

  Sure you are.

  To them, all you look like is a pirate. An assassin. An arms dealer.

  Tom.

  On screen, you receive urgent directions to the nearest escape pod. The directions are accompanied by repeating flashing arrows in standard Repub gold graphics.

  A message tells you to make your way to the escape pod.

  Down the corridor, a panel slides open.

  Then the system screen locks, and your heart catches in your throat because if this doesn’t work, that blaster bolt to the chest becomes reality.

  Sorry… I wasn’t really Tom. But you didn’t know that.

  Goodnight, Tom.

  “C’mon!” you yell at Frogg, who’s literally watching the speedlift. Half of you wonders if he’s not hoping to blast it out with the first leejes to show up.

  Half of you hopes that they do show up.

  He follows you reluctantly and then skips ahead of you in a ferocious burst of speed. He makes the escape pod access corridor before you do.

  You peer in. The narrow catwalk threads the internal guts of the station. It passes flashing maintenance panels and machinery meant only for tech access. But way back in, there’s a pod powering up for escape.

  Standard Repub protocol is for it to disengage from the station and then jump to the nearest friendly port. That’s if the survivors indicate it’s not a maintenance failure or a temporary situation.

  Two minutes is all you’ll have to tell it to do something else.

  What are you going to tell it?

  “In,” you command Frogg and follow him toward the pod. The heavy security door is raised in the up position. It’s a three-person pod. That doesn’t make it roomy. It’ll be tight.

  Frogg throws himself in and you follow, finding an open gravity couch. The pod says, “Confirm there are no further personnel to commence launch.”

  “Launch!” you scream.

  The door slides down. All around you circuits and systems come to life; the pod has begun the build toward launch. Venting operations hiss as the disconnect happens, and the pod lurches forward into the launcher.

  “Hang on,” murmurs Frogg with a sick smile. “Never liked this bit.”

  Then the pod shoots away, spinning into deep space faster than the inertial dampeners can compensate. Some loose gear goes flying around the interior. Something smacks you in the face.

  You wonder if your knife is bouncing around. If fate is going to make you pay for what you’ve done. While you escape, because fate loves irony.

  If the station launches fighters, you’re cooked. You lean forward, fighting the gees and looking out the rear porthole at the spinning station now receding into the swirling depths of the nebula.

  “Protocol Alpha,” the pod announces. “Life support operational. Broadcasting rescue beacon. Powering up for emergency jump to Republic Station Starlyte.”

  “We can’t go there,” Frogg growls through gritted teeth.

  You pull yourself out of the couch as the pod continues its violent revolutions. Thrusters engage to compensate, but’s it’s having little effect. You’re on the floor and pulling off an access panel because you’ve got to change your destination.

  “One minute to jump,” announces the pod. The voice is programmed to be optimistic because, if you were using this pod for its intended purposes, you’d want to get out of there as soon as possible. But one minute might not be enough…

  You reach around blindly and find the main navigational computer housing in the darkness below the opened access panel. You run your fingers along its edge, looking for the data connect, but you can’t find it. You try another edge. Nothing.

  Your mind darkly imagines that it’s not the model you’re familiar with. That it’s some direct interface that can’t be disconnected from the pod.

  You stop your fear-running mind as cold sweat runs down into your eyes. You again begin searching the surface of the housing by touch alone.

  “Whatever you’re doing…” growls Frogg, still gripping his blaster like it’s some kind of safety blanket, “do it fast, or this thing jumps right into the biggest naval base this side of Antaris.”

  You find the data connector.

  And just like that you pull it out of the housing. And suddenly you’re not going anywhere.

  “Navigational malfunction,” the pod announces.

  You roll over onto your back. Sweat runs in rivulets off your body as fear and adrenaline compete to peg out your heartbeat at its max do-not-exceed setting.

  “Override,” you gasp.

  A long moment passes.

  You know the pod’s trying an emergency redundancy check. Hoping the navigational computer will start talking to the jump drive battery.

  The next bit’s tricky.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  The base could be launching fighters. You’ll never know. They’ll just target and—

  “C’mon,” you whisper.

  “Override accepted. Standing by.”

  “Set course for Gypsus V.”

  Waiting.

  “Searching memory database…”

  Waiting.

  Visions of Lancer search patrols and trigger-happy pilots fill your mind.

  I’m not Tom. Don’t shoot.

  “Warning! This navigational data may not be complete for current stellar minimum jump conditions,” the pod reports emphatically.

  “Accepted.”

  “An uncontrolled jump?” Frogg shrieks. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him display fear. “Are you crazy?”

  You nod. “Not technically. But close enough.”

  “This is your plan?”

  “No,” you gasp. “My plan was to leave quietly. But then you killed those legionnaires. So… this is our only chance.”

  “You had a hand in that, too. And if it were a quicker shot…” Frogg watches you with cold murder in his eyes. Then, like some prehistoric lizard, he closes them and leans his head back, letting his blaster go to the seat of the couch.

  You strap back in and realize now the blaster was pointed vaguely in your direction the whole time. Which is kind of worse than actually pointing it directly at you.

  “Execute jump now,” you speak into the ether of the pod. And a moment later the pod leaps away across inconceivable stellar distances. Never mind that you could be killed at any moment by some uncalculated obstacle.

  Never mind instant death.

  20

  We’re on Ankalor. Home of the zhee. One of their homes, anyway. They’ve got four. Most of the time those four worlds engage one another in open warfare, because only one world is the true origin world of that species, and each world claims to hold that high distinction. It’s the opinion of scholars that the zhee originated on yet another planet and conquered their four current home worlds not long after the Great Exploration began. But saying so out loud is a good way to get knifed.

  So I’m two minutes from dropping via stealth shuttle outside a zhee compound on the nasty side of Ankalor. Not because the supply officer who sold the MCR the MAROs is here. He’s on some space station dreaming about what to do with his money when his time in the navy comes to an end. We can get him any time. In fact, we probably won’t pick him up at all. A couple of masters-at-arms will do the job when the call is made.

  I bet the dude cries the moment they show up to his office.

  This raid isn’t about him, the supply officer. He’ll give us a name, and whether or not it’s the real one he was given when he sold the MAROs, it’ll be fake. And intel will trace it, looking for leads while we cool our heels for a few weeks, or rotate on another deployment.

  This raid is a chance to short-circuit all that. Our friend Andien, of Nether Ops, says there’s a zhee militia leader on Ankalor who knows the whole story. Knows our supply officer. Knows the buyer, who the buyer got the tip from, and who made the link and paid the b
ill in the MCR.

  Dude knows a lot.

  But Nether Ops hasn’t had any luck getting him to roll over. The zhee they’ve paid to talk with him only report back that he’ll talk when the Republic offers sufficient credits. And Andien’s undercover zhee ask for more money on top of that, because after tribe and family, money is what matters most to the majority of zhee. There are the fanatics, sure. But you’d be surprised how quickly even they can be flipped if you wave around enough credits. A zhee can always use his knife on the neck of an infidel to win his salvation later on down the road.

  I think back to my past encounters with them. Pretty basic control and urban warfare situations. Being inserted from the Chiasm to keep a new colony within the lawful confines of their approved state on whatever planet they’ve identified as a potential home world five. They’re a lot like koobs, only more adept with technology. Though no amount of tech will replace the primacy of their knives. Holy weapons for an unholy species. But again, don’t tell them that.

  So this militia leader wants money. We’re talking billions. A stupid amount, but at the same time, not outside the realm of possibility when you’re dealing with the Republic. Still, that amount isn’t exactly something that most agents have tucked away between the seats of their couches. The Senate Council or House would need to okay something like that, and by the time they really got to it, word would leak and the guy with the info would be dead. And Dark Ops can’t authorize or deliver that sort of payday either—not that we’d want to. Our preference would be to break the guy’s doors down and go in so hard that he offered to pay us to talk. Which, incidentally, is exactly what Andien asked us to come out and do.

  The shuttle is hovering high above our target compound, just to the south. The doors open, and I can hear the wind fluttering through, pushing around a few scraps of packaging from someone’s discarded ration pack. Probably Masters. The kid always eats on the way to an op. My stomach couldn’t handle it. It always rolls and skips until things actually start, and things get real. I’m fine after that.

  “Okay, I see two armed zhee on the rooftop.”