“You’ve run out of time, Mister Carter,” Surber says, breaking into the comm channel. “Secure the museum immediately.”
There’s a thousand things I want to say. Most of them not fit for innocent ears. If there’s one thing that marks this entire operation… well, I guess it’s a sket-load of credits. But if there’s another thing, it’s the way corporate expectations don’t mix with sound military planning and tactics. In too many ways, it feels like I’m working for points again.
Surber continues, not wanting to end the transmission without pouring on some of the old charm. “Your team has been plucked from dire life circumstances and given opportunities undreamt of through Team Nilo. That comes with an expectation that—”
“Cut it, Surber,” I snap. I feel Lana squeeze my sides. An unspoken warning against telling off the boss. One I reluctantly heed. “We’ll get the job done. Just stop distracting us with lectures in our ears while we’re trying to KTF.”
Surber doesn’t answer. I try to picture a chastened version of the man standing somewhere in the Team Nilo war room but can’t. A humbled Surber is like a hot ice cube or honest politician. Not possible.
And that’s for the best, because we’re screaming past Pikkek while he engages in a gunfight with the Pashta’k koobs who felt like sticking around. They’re wielding a type of rifle I haven’t seen before. Reminiscent of an N-6 but definitely not just throwing bolts. It’s leaving big holes in whatever it hits and while it has the tracer effect of a blaster bolt, it gives off the crack of a gas propelled cartridge system.
Pikkek’s team is dishing it out much worse than they’re taking it, but the ones who’ve caught a slug from those new weapons have holes in them that aren’t going to be patched up.
How the city koobs got these is a mystery for later. Right now, I need to focus on my driving. And hope that Brisco has told the museum defenders not to blast me to shreds on sight.
My comm pings and I’ve just about had my fill of Surber. There’s a point where credits aren’t enough to put up with the grind, and Surber is pushing me rapidly to that point.
“Carter, I know this is a big ask. But I need a favor.”
It’s not Surber after all. It’s Nilo.
I’m not sure how to answer. What do you say when the rich and powerful ask for a favor? I’m not dumb enough to agree to something before I hear what it is, so I just say, “Go for Carter.”
“Listen, Carter, that museum holds a key—several keys—that are of untold value. Not just in credits, but in their ability to help us fix what’s wrong with the galaxy. You remember what I said in the sled the night we hit the temple. How Goth Sullus did the right thing in the wrong way. Carter, this is a moment the galaxy won’t get again in our lifetime. We can make sure people are free, safe, and at peace. Kublar is a changed world after this fight. Mark my words. The rest of the galaxy will be the same, but I need you to secure the museum.”
I open my mouth to talk but find myself having to dodge a burning hunk of something that dropped from the sky. Maybe the fallout from an explosion. Maybe from a koob playing catch from a rooftop.
We barely make it. But in the silence, Nilo must think I’m debating what he’s said.
He gives the final sell.
“This isn’t an order. I won’t order you to die because we miscalculated our push into the Soob. This is me asking someone I need in my organization—and I can see now the mistakes I’ve made not having guys like you in my ear for military planning—to get something that only you can get done. Credits are never going to be an issue again for you, Carter. The question is, do you believe in what we’re doing here? For the galaxy?”
That is the question, all right. And I think I answered it already. The endless wars of the House of Reason, the despotism of men like Goth Sullus… we’re better than that. The galaxy is better than that.
“All you had to say was the credits part,” I answer. Because experience has taught me that true believers are always the ones who get the shaft when it comes time to divvy up the treasure.
“Copy that,” Nilo says. He doesn’t sound disappointed by my answer. Relieved we’re still in, if anything.
But the truth of it is, I and my guys never had any intention of breaking away, no matter how hard the fight. Hopper is in a fix and so is his team. You don’t just shrug your shoulders and walk away at that.
Never.
I can see the firefight unfolding clearly before me. Black Leaf mercs are dug in around the museum, using its roof, steps, and alleys for cover. Piles of dead koobs serve as sandbags in the street, and I can see not only Pashta’k but also Republic Army forces using them for cover as they press an attack against the museum.
A luxe sled or two is in sight, sort of in a no-man’s land between the forces. One sled is on its side, every window shattered. The other is on fire. The koobs and their Republic allies are leapfrogging toward the sleds, trying to set up a firing position from the cover of the big vehicles as a repeating blaster nest hammers at them from the roof.
From the bodies near the objective, I can see this is a tactic they’ve been trying for a while but still haven’t learned their objective. Good for Hopper. His team, though surrounded, is making them pay for every inch of ground. But they look battle weary and have probably been fighting for hours given the state of the field.
A drone zips overhead and performs a supply drop on
