“Big die,” he says.
“Sitizt’ka,” I say, thankful I was listening well enough to Surber’s cultural lesson to remember the name for this little ritual. I adjust my crotch.
The big koob begins to unleash an echoing, croaky laugh. He grabs himself where I assume his fertilization pouch is stored. “Sitizt’ka.”
12
We wait at the truck for hours. The sun dips low in the evening, ushering in the cool of the Kublaren night we’ve all grown accustomed to. Out on the coast, near the big cities, the nights are pleasant. A relief. But inland… you won’t exactly freeze to death, but you’ll for sure be shivering if you aren’t prepared.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” Easy says, “but I’m glad Surber brought us these koob robes because my arms are freezing.”
“That’s on you,” I say. “Should’ve packed an overnight kit in your ruck.”
“Yeah, but we wasn’t supposed to be overnight,” Easy protests, holding his hands to a fire the koobs graciously set up for us in a big steel drum.
Ever since I showed their boss man our handiwork, we’ve all been cool. Our two sides keep to themselves, but it’s friendly enough.
“That’s a garbage answer,” Lana says. “Be ready.”
“Okay, but technically I’m correct. We were supposed to bunk in our own beds tonight, not stand guard over a buncha dead koobs on top of a mountain.”
The job we were assigned to was supposed to be daytime work. Out in the desert. Hot and sweaty. Plan was to load up the koobs and make for the compound. But things change. And it’s a little disconcerting to me that Easy didn’t feel the need to be ready for it. That’s sure not the way it would have been in the marines.
“Lesson learned,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the sound of repulsors moving up the mountainside. “This job can be mundane, but we’re professionals and professionals should know better.”
“Yes, sir,” Easy says, playing up as if he’s sad to be told off. He adds, a bit more soberly, “Won’t happen again, Carter.”
I nod.
“Big ol’ repulsor van is moving this way,” Abers says. He’s watching through his spotting scope. “Black-out windows. No obvious markings.”
“Koobs?” I ask.
“Rig looks too nice for koobs.”
I key in my comm and go for command. “Brisco, this is Carter. How copy?”
“Hey, Carter,” Brisco replies, still completely disinterested in following any semblance of comm protocol or discipline. “What’s up?”
“Do you have eyes on us right now? We’ve spotted a repulsor-powered van, white, newer model, moving up the road to our location.”
There’s a pause.
“Uh, no visuals. Sorry. It’s okay.”
“Say again?”
“That van is probably us. Our guys. Don’t know who else it would be. It’s okay.”
Not in the mood to explain to Brisco how much of a problem words like “don’t know,” and “probably” are, I just end the transmission. “Copy. Carter out.”
“What’d they say?” Lashley asks.
I make sure the big man can see my sarcastic frown. “That it’s more of our guys… probably.”
“We have a lot of guns up here,” Lana says, moving away from the fire drum and behind the partial cover of our truck. She has her blaster in her hands. “That van doesn’t look like it can hold enough people to overpower us when you factor in our koob buddies.”
Easy primes his N-6. “Unless they’re just driving close enough to blow everything up.”
That’s a pleasant thought.
Abers is in the shadows, looking through the scope on his N-18. The van isn’t speeding, but usually the suicide-bomber types don’t make it obvious until the last second. A van roaring up the mountain would have been noticed and more than likely taken out below. At the very least called in to alert the Pekk chieftain’s men. But all those koobs are acting like nothing is going on at all.
Maybe it is a friendly like Brisco said, and we’re the only ones who didn’t get the memo. But that’s not something I’m willing to gamble on.
“I got a shot on where the driver should be,” Abers says. “Just say the word.”
“Not yet,” I reply and then step out into the middle of road, walking a few steps down the slope as the van glides toward me.
The vehicle’s headlights fill up my vision almost entirely, so that I have to squint and cast my eyes to the side to even get a hint of my surroundings, which are limited to the brightened street in front of me and the darkness of the night surrounding the boxy shape of the sled itself behind those blinding lamps. Still, I don’t let on. Don’t raise a hand to cover the glare. I know my team has eyes on the situation. Right now is about taking control of the situation.
I hear the repulsors cycle down as the vehicle comes to a stop, but those lights are still on high. The passenger door swings open and I can hear feet hitting the ground.
“Is this where we gotta park, Carter?”
I let my posture relax a bit. The lights on the van go out.
“Yeah, Hopper. I know you usually take a handicap slot, but this’ll have to do. How you been?”
“All good, brother. About to be a whole lot better, though.”
Chris Hopper is a former marine. Part of SOAR—Special Orbital Assault Regiment. They’re as high-speed as the hull busters get, them and the Recons. Not Legion, but damn close. They just can’t hump the armor is all.
Or at least, that’s my opinion.
Hopper, like me, is in charge of a combat team here on Kublar. We met in the services of Big Nee and hit it off during those periods of downtime at the compound. I’m happy enough to see him, but it’s unusual for the execs to put two teams together like this.
“Nice robe, by the way,” Hopper adds as he comes around the front of the sled.
“Thanks. Got it on sale.”
By now my team has relaxed and is sauntering down to my position, leaving Lana at the truck. Lash, Easy, and Abers begin mingling with Hopper’s
