Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3)

by Jason Anspach

  “The corridor has been an easy fight once we clear the resistance around the assault shuttle. When we breach the bridge door, let’s flood the room with fraggers and ear-poppers. Hull integrity can handle it, donks and MCR can’t. So pack extras this time. One of the instructors said we need to ditch at least one CQC weapon for a big old squad automatic blaster. It’s heavy and a pain to lug through the ship. But if I had that instead of my NK-4 in the bridge room, we would have completed the scenario successfully last time with minutes to spare. I’m sure of it.”

  “I can carry the SAB,” Kags volunteers. There’s a resolve in his face, and I see it in the other men as well. “I’m certified for that weapon from my time as a basic. I was part of a SAB crew before they grabbed me to work the twins on Kublar.”

  “Okay,” Owens says. “More than okay. This is exactly what I expect from this team. One more go today. Let’s kick this course’s ass.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Exo says dryly. “We’ll kick its ass. Kick it right in the stones. But this op needs more than one kill team on it. We all see that, right? Two teams, minimum. One for engine, one for bridge. Or, if you’ve only got one team, you kill the engines, exit in your shuttle, and have a fighter squadron blow the whole damn ship up.”

  “True enough,” Owens agrees. “But in Dark Ops, we don’t train for easy mode.”

  “Cap,” Twenties says, sounding like he’s about to change the subject. “I know you haven’t heard, but this all goes back to the Chiasm, doesn’t it? The guys we’re after, they’ll be on a Republic shuttle?”

  “No idea,” Owens says. “But I’ve heard scuttlebutt from friends on other kill teams that this training module is happening all over. So if it’s not precisely our personal vision quest, you can bet it’s damn big all the same. Ooah?”

  Ooah.

  25

  Makchurian space. Day of Rendezvous.

  Legion Commander Keller paces alongside the massive port windows of the Mercutio, then stops to examine a panorama of Republic destroyers and frigates. He can’t count them all, but he knows the number. Eighteen. An impressive display of Republic firepower, called out to this section of the galaxy because Nether Ops is sure, “primacy alpha,” that the biggest threat to the stability of the Republic since the Savage Wars will show up here. Just outside of Makchuria.

  The ships, all of them leaving their respective sectors of space thin should anything major flare up, were positioned by Admiral Ubesk so that any ship entering Makchurian space would be immediately engaged.

  Kill teams throughout galaxy’s edge have been training non-stop on a designed-to-fail evolution that involves breaching the ship, shutting down flight capabilities, and storming the bridge.

  Marines and frontline legionnaires are waiting in assault shuttles, ready to take the fight to whatever resistance is aboard the target ship—supposedly a Republic corvette—while the kill teams secure their objectives.

  There is the potential, Keller muses, for the corvette to have more Republic soldiers on board than MCR crew and defenders. God help any actual Republic corvettes unlucky enough to pop into Makchurian space today. Though none are expected.

  “I don’t like this.”

  Keller looks to his left and sees that the Mercutio’s captain, a man in the navy for life named Slooce Avery, had joined his portside vigil.

  “There’s more of the day behind us than in front of us,” Avery notes. He sets a mug of cold caff on the port window’s ledge. “My crew is growing fatigued, and the incoming shifts are as frazzled as the outgoing. Everyone is at high alert, and their nerves are getting shot.”

  Keller nods his agreement. “My legionnaires—not to mention the marines—have been squashed together in those assault shuttles all day long. They’re eating from ration packs and using the same for waste collection. Getting the trash collected every three hours. And I can’t authorize a chance to stretch out or get some air, because Nether Ops has this interdiction classified as Red Priority.”

  “Fate of the Republic,” grunts Captain Avery.

  “Damn well better be,” says Keller. “Have you heard from Ubesk? Has he had any luck getting a status update from whoever Nether Ops squeezed this intel out of?”

  “He’s still in meetings. But if this all turns out to be nothing… this time Nether Ops doesn’t get to shrug and walk away.” Avery folds his arms and assumes the angry captain demeanor Keller has witnessed so many times in his career. When enough has become too much. “I’m telling you, Commander Keller,” he vows, “this time the House of Reason will get an earful from all its admirals. And the Legion, too, I hope. We’ve left the edge of the galaxy completely vulnerable by gathering here. And this after what happened to the Chiasm.”

  “Hell to pay,” Keller agreed, staring once again into the vastness of space behind the bristling Republic destroyers.

  The empty space.

  With no corvette.

  And time winding down.

  ***

  You’re Tom. Aboard the corvette, Ankalor’s Pride.

  Tom. Do something, Tom. Figure something out now and make it quick. Because this is… this is worst case. This is where hope is abandoned.

  Do something!

  You keep telling yourself that. You keep willing Tom to figure out a way out of this mess. Even as Scarpia lazily explains the change of plans to you and Frogg.

  “The best-laid plans…” Scarpia says, as though this complete about-face is little more than a hiccup over dinner reservations. You thought seven, but they wrote down seven-thirty, and now you might be late to the show.

  Do something. Tom. Do something.

  It was all going so well. So well that you even let a sliver of hope enter into your life. Hope that got you through the conversion of the Republic corvette Revive into a massive bomb re-comissioned into the service of the Mid-Core Rebellion as Ankalor’s Pride. The MCR generals wanted something more symbolic, like Return of Liberty, but concessions had to be made for the zhee crew who would actually fly the ship into the House of Reason. Killing all those people. Destabilizing the entire Republic.

  Illuria’s message got through. Of that you’re sure. You’re sure because, while you sat with Frogg and Scarpia in the lounge, while private contractors worked feverishly to convert every section of the ship into a hold to be stuffed with explosives, while that was happening, you watched Scarpia as he spoke with Illuria. You saw how relaxed she was. How she spoke about the beautiful things she’d bought, and hinted at the naughty things that were only for Scarpia. And, you thought, perhaps she could see you, sitting there behind Scarpia, visible to the holocam. Perhaps she saw you, and the promise of those things was for you. For a time imagined, when this would be over, with Scarpia dead or captured, and she was destined to be happy with you.

  Because she believed that.

  What?

  That you were different. That you truly wanted her happy. That you were the one. The one who wasn’t there only to use her like some plaything. The one who cared. Who loved.

  But that was never the plan, was it, you sonofabitch? You used her. Used her to get the word out. Knew very well that if you survived, you’d never speak to her again.

  That was Tom.

  That was you.

  But she’s happy. Even Scarpia seems to notice. “Illuria, I haven’t seen you this giddy in so long. I think more shopping trips are in order once this business is behind us, eh?”

  She was happy, and that gave you hope. She was unburdened. She didn’t have the weight of that message on her shoulders because it was delivered. And she hadn’t changed her mind, because Frogg continued sulking. You know, instead of driving his knife into the soft underside of your head, just behind the chin. Pushing it upward until you could feel it pierce your tongue and pin it to the roof of your mouth while you gagged, slicing yourself further and choking on your own blood.

  That hadn’t happened. So you were feeling pretty optimistic. Feeling good that the kill teams were re
ady. That Makchuria was where this would end.

  That hope allowed you to formulate procedures for overriding the corvette’s necessary safety protocols. The ones that prevent a ship in hyperspace from slamming into a planet. Because who would want to do that?

  Hope let you look the other way when Scarpia had all the independent contractors—lured to this job with a pay rate that would set up their families for years—rounded up and placed in the airlock. Hope let you live with them being dumped into space to die painfully. No exceptions. No witnesses. No need for them to take up space and die with the rest of the zhee.

  When the House of Reason falls.

  But all that was okay, you told yourself. Because it ends at Makchuria.

  But now that opportunity is gone, and you need to do something.

  “You see,” Scarpia continues, “I told the MCR that the plan I’d designed was their best chance at success. You both are aware of what can happen when a plan isn’t followed neatly.”

  Frogg casts his eyes downward. These little backhanded jabs. These paper cuts from Scarpia. They’ll drive him to greater devotion. He’ll be more vicious. Ruthless. More fully realized. Scarpia knows this.

  “The MCRs aren’t willing to die on this mission. It’s not in their makeup, which I understand. But the zhee are. So the rendezvous at Makchuria is off the table. We are to meet the zhee at Ankalor. A shuttle from the planet will meet us, full of their crew and warriors. And we’ll depart on that same shuttle with the MCR and go our separate ways after a final jump.”

  “Ankalor has a minimum of three Republic destroyers,” Frogg says, an edge of concern in his voice. Not fear. Concern. Over another failure. Something he can’t afford to be tainted by, even if it’s beyond his control.

  “Indeed they do, Froggy.” Scarpia flashes his devil-may-care smile. “But this corvette has all the proper registration and identification. The MCR have acquired naval uniforms and will claim to be stopping to pick up a VIP from the green zone. So if a destroyer does take an interest in us, we’ll simply stall until the shuttle is aboard, make a pre-calculated jump to empty space, and then part with the zhee. All quite simple. A plan of my own making, though not as preferable as the first.”

  “Tom, what do you think of my plan?”

  Do something.

  “Tom?”

  What do the legionnaires say? KTF?

  That’s what you’ll do. You’ll be the suicide warrior who beats the other suicide warriors to the punch.

  “Hello…? Scarpia to Tom?”

  You become keenly aware that both Scarpia and Frogg are looking at you. Scarpia with amusement, Frogg with suspicious scorn. You make a show, as if you were lost in thought. You were. You were lost in thought. It’s not a show.

  “I’m sorry,” you say. “I was thinking about what you said. I know this wasn’t your first plan, but this is genius. Really. You know that I’d say otherwise if it weren’t so. I did when it came to the supply officer. Your second plan is every bit as good as the first, Mr. Scarpia.” You add the mister, because you think that’s what Scarpia needs to hear right now. “If anything, this plan is better.”

  Scarpia leans back in his seat and smiles. “It’s settled, then. Froggy, tell the crew that we are now prepared to jump for Ankalor.”

  You focus on that smile. Scarpia’s smug, self-confident grin. You start thinking of ways to detonate this horrific payload well before Utopion. You think of plans, contingencies, and potential obstacles. But mainly you think of Scarpia. And his smile. You wonder, will that smile remain plastered to his face, moments before he’s atomized in the final moments of all your lives?

  Will he smile then?

  You will, Tom.

  You will.

  ***

  Captain Eliyah Deynolds sits in her chair overlooking the bridge of the Intrepid, reviewing the never-ending reports that always wait for her on her datapad. There was a time when she would have locked herself in her office, emerging to rejoin the bridge crew only when she felt that enough fires had been put out. But experience has taught her that simply being with her crew develops a bond that is essential to swift and decisive action when the need arises. Her officers and crew are professionals. Trained to operate in the best navy the galaxy—the universe—has ever known. But even that can be improved upon.

  Captain Deynolds is present. She is accessible. Respected. One to watch.

  That she will be given command of a destroyer, perhaps even a super destroyer, in the mid-core is considered all but certain. And that will be fine.

  But serving at galaxy’s edge is also fine. If the core is where sailors learn to become politicians, galaxy’s edge is where they become warriors. And with the Intrepid alone to watch over the volatile zhee planet cluster; with word of the Chiasm still fresh on everyone’s minds, though it was months ago; with all of that… a warrior is needed on the bridge.

  Her number one, a Senate appointee, Commander Wulf Mercall, is not a warrior. Captain Deynolds knows this. Has observed this in how differently he’s treated by the legionnaires on board. She has never been the subject of such scorn. And she knows it had nothing to do with rank.

  The commander is an aspiring politician. So she rarely gives him the bridge. Even if that means sitting idly in her chair, denying what seems like the hundredth request to remove the massive corvette training ground the Legion has installed—not that the supply crew making the requests knows that’s what’s taking up so much of their precious cargo space.

  She denies the request without comment and takes a sip of steaming spice-leaf tea. With just a few drops of cream. Enough to cloud the drink and give it a velvety smoothness.

  “Captain Deynolds!”

  The voice belongs to an ensign newly assigned to one of Intrepid’s bridge sensor stations. Ensign Pollet, the captain reminds herself. The ensign sounds stressed, worried, excited.

  “Go ahead, Ensign Pollet,” Deynolds says calmly.

  “A Republic corvette has just jumped into the system. It’s holding just above Ankalor.”

  Oba, Captain Deynolds screams to herself. This is it. It’s happening. She calms herself. Controls the spikes of adrenaline. “Hail them. Commander Mercall.”

  “Yes, Captain?” The point seems surprised to be called upon.

  “Communicate with the corvette. See what they have to say. We have no reports indicating that any Republic vessels are scheduled to arrive over Ankalor.”

  “Captain,” the weapons officer calls out. “Shall I ready batteries for assault?”

  He must sense the tension on the bridge, Deynolds thinks. Tension that she must be exhibiting. “No, Lieutenant Rasham. Give no indication of combat readiness whatsoever.”

  She looks over to the commander, sees him engaging with a Republic uniformed human in what appears to be a friendly conversation. She hears hints of the subject. VIPs. Special pickups. Unscheduled.

  “Captain,” Ensign Pollet says from the sensor array, his voice low, as if whoever the commander is communicating with on the corvette might hear him, “I’m detecting a shuttle of non-Republic make leaving Ankalor on a projected course for the corvette. Confirmed by planetside observations.”

  This is a decision point. The captain knows it. She contemplates waiting on the commander’s report. He seems engaged in idle conversation. Deynolds’s first thought is that he’s being stalled. That, or the person in the corvette is an old friend from Academy.

  Wait, or act?

  The captain is a warrior commanding a destroyer on galaxy’s edge.

  The choice is clear.

  She stands up from her chair. Her teacup spills onto the luxurious carpet, splashing onto her mirror-shined shoes. “Connect me to the all-ship comm.”

  The communications officer’s hands fly across her console. “The comm is yours, Captain.”

  “Keep weapons offline,” Deynolds reminds Lieutenant Rasham before keying open her comm. “This is Captain Deynolds,” she announces. “All combat pers
onnel, scramble for immediate assault. Deliver-Actual.”

  26

  I’m in our squad room, bucket off and beginning to peel away the synthprene to examine the massive bruise on my shoulder. I slammed it hard into a bulkhead while diving for cover in our final training evolution of the day. The way I hit that solid impervisteel, I would have shattered my arm were it not for the armor. As it stands, my squad logo is blurred and scraped up from the impact.

  My hair is drenched with sweat. I flick my tongue across my upper lip. My stubble pricks against my tongue as I taste salt. I need to shave. After a shower.

  That’s all I really want, and I suspect that’s all the rest of the guys want after getting our asses handed to us on the corvette course one final time. But we were really close. Literally thirty seconds short. The instructors actually let us finish the scenario, only to tell us after the fact that we all, in fact, died.

  That was a kick in the stones.

  A shower will fix it. Maybe slap on a heated tissue reconstructor to take care of the bruise. Though sometimes I like to let the hurt linger. A little reminder of my own mortality and the need to stay focused.

  I’ve just begun to tug at my forearm armor when the all-ship chime sounds. Captain Deynolds isn’t the sort to give those cheesy all-ship bulletins like some skippers I’ve spaced under. If she’s going to all-comms, it’s because she’s got something important to say.

  “This is Captain Deynolds. All combat personnel, scramble for immediate assault. Deliver-Actual.”

  I knew from the way she said her name that something serious was going on. By the time she says the word “combat,” I’ve switched form armor-removal mode to armor-up mode. So has everyone else.