“Mr. Abers,” I hear called over the comm. It’s Surber. “Once again, you’ve shown us why we were right to invest in you and your skills. Exceptional shooting.”
Abers frowns, the slightest look of disgust on his face. But it goes away pretty swiftly. “Thank you, sir.”
“Let’s keep eyes on the rest of them in case they try to flank,” I announce over the comm.
“Do that,” Surber says, but I can tell he’s not all that concerned. “But we’re entering the Lowak valley to pay a visit to the Pekk tribe. The zhee aren’t going to follow too close once we get past the hills ahead.”
“Copy,” I say. “Sounds like that’s it for dusting donks today, gang.”
“If all goes well with the Pekk,” Surber says, a definite note of cheer in his voice, “you’ll be afforded the opportunity to ‘dust more donks’ sooner than you might think.”
I see Lashley look up. Not at me. At the roof. Like he’s trying to see through the canopy to the sky. And then I see him silently mouth the words as if in prayer:
“KTF.”
BOWIE
THE SOOB
05
The morning sun hit Bowie hard. He’d been on Kublar three days and had yet to get used to it. It was a hot, dry world. Though there was some humidity here along the coast in the Republic’s burgeoning Prosperity Zone. Subiyook City.
Or the Soob as some called it. A strange collection of religious zealots, flesh peddlers, corporate adventurers, and of course, the worst creatures of all… House of Reason politicians holding on to the local power they still had, even after the fall of Utopion. About as far from what people thought of when they thought of rustic, hostile Kublar.
“But what’re you gonna do,” Bowie told himself as he shoved untraceable credit chits into his jacket pocket. Then a folding tanto knife into his belt. A smaller blade into his low-cut boot. And finally one in his pocket. That one really wouldn’t do anything in the way of fighting or killing. But it had a corkscrew and you just never knew.
“You never do,” he chuckled, looking around the cruddy little seaside motel he’d selected as a base of operations in the K’keeb district of Subiyook.
“You never know.”
Outside, across the district, the zhee brayed their call to daily prayers. Even the defiant little koobs didn’t dare transgress these streets. The zhee wouldn’t hesitate to cut deep and many for such blasphemy. But ensconced inside his dingy little motel, he was safe to collect everything he would need for all that must be done today.
Which was optimistic at best. But that’s what he was paid for, a certain sense of optimism despite the odds. Years in Naval Intel, underfunded, over-tasked, and outgunned, had taught Lt. Commander Jack Bowie to always expect the best and prepare for the worst. Especially of himself in both cases.
He stuffed the Python blaster in his shoulder harness.
“You never know,” he said again.
Which was something that anyone who knew him would hear him say several times a day. He said it almost unconsciously now. Like a mantra, a chant, or mere punctuation. Some who claimed to know him would have sworn it wasn’t even on purpose.
It was more of a warning to himself in these uncertain times now that all semblance of government, order, and path into the future had collapsed after the Republic’s brief war with the Empire. There was no such thing as a safe bet. But had there ever really been?
So… you never know.
Because, in his line of work, you never really did know who was out to get you. Who was setting you up for the double cross to either the MCR—not that they were much of a threat any more, some other intel agency, a rogue national actor, or just someone with a score to settle.
Naval Intel’s main job for the Republic had been misinformation. “Weaponized imagination,” some nice old admiral who was more academic than bridge officer had once explained to Jack Bowie. “We play games with what people know. That way, we control everything. Which really helps when you think about it,” the oldster had said upon reflection. “Because when you don’t have as many super-carriers and full battle fleets as everybody thinks you’re supposed to have, it all comes down to controlling the flow of information.”
How’d that work out for you? Bowie thought as he put a few pieces of his gadget-like kit together, concealing everything under a perfectly tailored suit cut in Utopion’s latest style. No tie, of course. Just an open-collared dress shirt that stretched over his six-foot-two frame. He’d been a swimmer and never lost the body.
That had been his job with Naval Intelligence when he was a fleet officer attached to the Marines. Sent out to gather, collect, confirm, and pass on. Operating with the Special Operations Teams Oceanic Group. Dropped onto unstable worlds, operating offshore in deep water, infiltrating onshore to keep the Republic informed. Getting shot up nine times out of ten. Having enough backup zero times out of always.
Fun, huh?
And occasionally he got tasked for darker off-book things that needed doing when you didn’t want to get Dark Ops from the Legion involved, or, make a deal with the devil and summon up some freak from Nether Ops. Naval Intel was still part of the Fleet, after all. “We’re not savages for Oba’s sake, dear boy,” that old academic had once lectured him when he’d been sent off to terminate a village headman on Rhiodor.
Then he’d gotten out because his career was ended for all intents and purposes. Months before the final battle that turned the galaxy upside down. An emperor kills the Republic. The Legion kills the emperor. Now what? And… truth be told, there was no money. And so he’d turned independent.
Now, six months later, the emperor was still dead, the House of Reason wasn’t a thing, and he was on Kublar with a briefcase full of Ice. One of the most
