We’ve settled into a wedge formation as we move through the open street. There are still signs of earlier destruction, but it’s not as bad here. Like most of the fighting passed over this place in favor of other, less fortunate blocks. Broken glass litters the sidewalks. Most of the sleds parked on the street have busted out windows. Just a few though, and none of them were lit on fire this morning.
I see our next turn approach and ping Pikkek on the comm. “We’re at the halfway point. How’s it looking?”
“Good!” The big koob sounds excited. “Big die!”
The clamor of a fight, which hasn’t faded once since we arrived, seems louder over the comm.
“Pikkek, are you engaging the enemy?”
I get a croaking laugh in reply. “Roger that… k’kik… leejon-ayer! Hurry back-ah… or all big die over!”
I shake my head, wondering whether this diversion—which had drawn away some of the Soob Kublarens—was the tactical move I thought it was, or whether it was just the excuse Pikkek needed to open up on a rival tribe without interference from his allies.
Nothing to do now but finish the circuit and see if our avenue to reach Hopper has widened as a result of our efforts. We swing the next (and last) turn just as the koob technical trucks whip around to run behind us. But we’re around the corner before they have the chance to fire.
“Heads up,” I call to the team. “Straight shot before we rejoin Pikkek. He and his koobs have engaged the forces in the street. And watch for ambushes just in case the Soob forces manage to guess where we’re heading and jump our route.”
“Copy,” I hear Abers answer back for the group.
The repulsors are still in formation. I resist the urge to check on Lana again and turn to inspect the others. Lash has mounted his SAB over his handlebars, driving one-handed. Easy is driving with both hands, full concentration on keeping the ride as smooth as possible for the sniper riding on the back of his ATV. Their setup definitely violates whatever safety manual was written up by the vehicle manufacturer. Abers is sitting backward, knees gripping the side of the ATV like he’s riding a horse. The sniper is leaning against his buddy’s back for further stabilization, his heavy N-18 ready to take aim at the first koob who manages to get in his sight picture.
We’re as prepared for trouble—front and back—as we can be given the circumstances. We push on. Move forward. The only way we can go. But I find myself wondering what difference the five of us are supposed to make. Even with our Kublaren support, we’re not many. And based on what I’ve seen in the city fighting, Hopper needs a company to relieve him, not a QRF. But, when you’re in the thick of it, some help is better than no help at all.
Still. Given what I’ve experienced so far, I have the distinct feeling there’s something more here than meets the eye. Something Nilo hasn’t seen fit to tell us. More Black Leaf secretism (is that a word?).
As we push to the end of our diversionary route, I’m waiting for the other boot to drop.
47
“Pikkek, we’re making the last turn.”
“Ya, ya,” answers the big koob warrior. “Drive… k’kik’k… behind bullets-ah.”
No sket.
We speed around our turn, the last leg in our race over. We’re back where we started. Only now there are significantly fewer koobs mobbing the streets than when we’d first begun. And what remains is either hunkered down in cover fighting Pikkek’s warriors or lying dead in the streets, which are reflecting the sunlight under the brilliant sheen of their yellow blood, poured out in excess.
Everyone else either took after us in the chase or fled the scene, looking for a safer place to join in the fight. Because the fighting against Hopper and his team is still ongoing. It doesn’t sound like it’s faded in the slightest.
The firefight between rival koob factions seems to have taken the larger Pashta’k force completely by surprise. From what I gathered, this tribe was better adept at winning favor from the Republic than they were at winning wars. And even though the official stance of the House of Reason was to remain neutral during the Kublaren civil war that followed Victory Company’s amazing stand at the Battle of Kublar, it’s obvious now that the Republic picked a winner.
Abers takes a shot with his N-18 and then calls in a report. “They’re comin’ after us hot, boss.”
That’s to be expected. We weren’t exactly trying to lose them, and they’d have to be pretty dense not to figure out where we were heading. If they were smart, they would have let us go and fortified whatever positions they have set up to fight Hopper. Who knows, maybe they did. Maybe they have the bodies to spare.
It occurs to me that my eye in the sky, Elektra, hasn’t said a word to me since I cut her off earlier. I guess it cuts both ways, because I haven’t bothered trying to reach her, either. At the same time, the repulsor shuttles the airborne snipers were using as gun platforms have all bugged out. Maybe low on fuel, maybe needed elsewhere. But in any event, I need to coordinate now. The last thing we need is to reach Hopper’s position only to get blasted by the very guys we’re trying to pull out.
“Command,” I call into the designated comm channel. “You still with us?”
There’s a long enough pause that I start to think they may not be. And then Brisco pops on the line.
“Hey, Carter.” He sounds stressed. “You guys reach the museum yet?”
“Negative. ETA is five minutes, give or take a few depending on how many koobs we have to run over to break through.”
Brisco doesn’t laugh. “Mr. Surber is breathing fire, Carter. Get there now.”
“Tell Surber we’re on it. These things take
