Lashley is carrying a dead koob over his shoulder like he’s loading a sack of grain onto a freighter. Like it’s part of his workout routine. The corpse’s blood mixes with the blood of all the others the big man has humped over to the truck and stained his tank top yellow as a result.
That’s one thing you might notice out here. The dress code. It’s pretty much whatever you want it to be, which is nice after spending so many years confined to a box. I mean, when it’s time to fight, we’ve got our kits. Armored vests, a few aftermarket suits and helmets—things like that. But now? When we’re at least fifty clicks from the closest koob village cleaning up a battlefield?
Yeah. We can dress however we want.
Abers looks like a Marine stationed on Psydon—old-school unbuttoned olive flak jacket and black boots… pretty sure that’s by design. He’s a bit of a student of history. Lashley looks like he’s ready for deadlift day at the gym. Lana is wearing athletic stretch pants and an old army tee. Winters is decked out in an expensive set of merc armor (without the helmet), and I’m wearing my company Legion tee, cargo fatigues, and ballcap. Oh. And my Bander-Ryn shades.
I know. Expensive. Especially after I went on about how burning up credits on things like that keeps people broke. They’re my one luxury.
Other than my kit back on the truck. But that’s not really a luxury. On Kublar, that’s a necessity. Except all the way out here, fifty clicks from the nearest koob village. We’re supposed to have overwatch somewhere off in the distant mountain range or overhead via stealth drone to warn us of any surprises.
Lashley tosses his koob into the back of the transport truck and then turns, sweat pouring down from his bald dome, which glistens under the sun. He approaches another dead indig and widens his stance like a powerlifter getting ready to tackle the next superset.
“Hey, Lashley!” Easy calls out.
“What?” Lashley grunts out as he hoists the koob over his shoulder, a stream of fluid seeping out of the alien and onto the ground, which greedily drinks it up.
“Kid says that there’s a reason why bots just can’t be doin’ this and we all say he’s talking out of his after-market rear end.”
Lashley adds to the pile in the back of the truck. “So?”
“So we at three-to-one,” Abers fills in. “Carter won’t comment. Gotta be the neutral leader. Give us that clean sweep, baby.”
Something akin to a growl escapes from Lashley as he stoops to pick up another body. But he stops, bent over at the waist, and looks up at the rest of us from one eye, hands on his knees. “Can’t use bots.”
“C’mon, man!” Abers says, waving both hands as though he were disgusted to hear it. “I ain’t tryin’ to hear that.”
“Why not?” Lana asks.
Through it all, she seems to be the only one actually interested in finding out why Winters is so doggedly sticking to his assertion that bots can’t be used on this job. And I’ll admit, the thought’s crossed my mind, too. We get enough PT that we don’t need to come out to the koob desert for more. Bots would have been nice. We’d already be done.
“Bots remember,” Lashley says, and then scoops up another dead koob.
I’m feeling bad that he’s the only one working, so I stow my canteen and cradle my own bundle of stink. The others don’t seem too inspired by this. They’re still talking.
“Bots remember’?” Easy repeats, shaking his head. “So you wipe ’em.”
“No, he’s right,” Winters says, screwing the lid of his canteen back in place. “It’s almost impossible to totally erase a bot’s memory. It takes some serious skill. A good enough slicer can get it out if they have a mind to.”
“Blow ’em up, then!” shouts Abers, as though winning this argument will magically make the bots we don’t have appear to finish the job we’re stuck doing.
Winters shrugs apologetically. “Even then… you just gotta piece together a few fragments of the data crystal.”
Easy snaps his fingers. “Orbital bombardment.”
“Oba’s nose,” I say, using my special leej voice for when I want something done. A mix of disappointed father and half-raging drill instructor. “There’s no fleet up there waiting to send down an orbital strike on some imaginary bots! No bots! You’ve got no bots. But you’re going to have my boot up your ass if you don’t get the rest of these muckas into the truck.”
They get to work picking up bodies again. All except for Lana, who seems to be just sitting there. Thinking.
“Hey, Lana,” Easy calls as he passes by with a dead koob, its arms swinging like some macabre orchestral conductor. “I don’t see you helpin’. Pick up a leg if you can’t lift an entire koob.”
Lana gives a smug, teasing smile. “I’m a medical professional, Aguilar. I’m only here to make sure the Kublarens are dead.”
That’s not technically true. She’s here in case something happens to one of us. And she has been helping. I let it all slide though, because it’s funny.
Abers looks up to the clear blue Kublaren skies, shaking his head at her reply. “Maaaan… ain’t that some sket.”
I dump my koob corpse into the truck and double-time it back to the pile, trying to keep pace with Lashley.
“Hey, Easy,” I say. “Command’s been pretty quiet?”
“Say again, Carter?”
My stomach drops. I know Easy heard me right. “You’ve got your comm in, right?”
Easy straightens up, his blood-stained gloves tentatively reaching for his
