“Kelhorned space rat,” I mumble as I hustle off to the truck. I’m more mad at myself than at him. I should have followed up a while ago. If Command has been trying to reach us and we’ve been silent… not good.
Hopping into the passenger seat of the big truck, I grab my datapad from the windshield to pull it out of the sun. The thing is blazing and all this heat probably drained the battery. I put it in the shade of the glove compartment alongside a neat stack of paper maps, hoping it’s cooled enough to begin its recharge cycle. I was planning on calling the wife and kiddos today.
I push my comm set into my ear and call in to Command.
“Stroke, this is Carter,” I say, still thinking that call signs would be better. But this mercenary army I’m a part of—they seem to like the personal touch. “Reporting in.”
I wait for a reply, hoping it’s not going to be an exec ready to chew my butt for something. The truck door is open and I’m swinging my leg outside. As hot as it is out under the Kublar sun, it’s nothing compared to the inside of this rig when it’s shut off. The cab is an oven. I can feel the sweat drying.
“Carter!” the response finally comes in—it’s not an exec. It’s Brisco. “What the hell, man?”
I stifle a sigh and grit my teeth. Call signs aren’t the only thing missing from this outfit feeling like a Leej-level fighting force. Big Nee has a… unique brand of organizing talent. He’s got former Legion and Marines, Army… navy featherheads, everyone you’d expect in the fighting force. But for other elements, he has no problem plugging in civilians. Like Brisco on the other end of the comm. The closest this guy ever got to serving was playing an FPS sim. But he’s apparently a genius when it comes to comm tech. So he runs the board.
“Yeah. Go for Carter,” I say, trying to get things to the point.
“We’ve been trying to get you on comms for the last twenty minutes.”
“Acknowledged. Go for Carter.”
“Carter, man, what’s going on?”
This time, I can’t hold back my frustration. “Nothing. Just a little comm trouble.”
“Like something technical I need to look at?”
“Like my boots need me to stomp a mudhole in someone and then walk it dry.” I look out the window at Easy. He’s at least busting his butt getting the last of the koobs cleaned up. “We’re just about done. Sorry about not checking in. All is good.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing, man,” Brisco says. “Not for long, Carter. There’s a koob convoy that rolled out of the mountains and our tracking algos say they’re definitely heading your way.”
Great. Just what we needed.
I take a stab at what’s coming. Koobs are predictable. “Bunch of koobs on technicals rolling through the dirt. So… dust ’em. The drone’s got a missile, right?”
“We aren’t sure which tribe this is. Can’t risk upsetting the balance. You know.”
I shake my head. This is another spot where things don’t exactly feel Legion in the private contractor business. Big Nee is running a complex game. Everything is a factor. KTF is applied in limited quantities. And only when boss man is sure that’s what is needed.
“Fine. So we’ll do what we can to finish loading up and get out of sight.”
“Not happening, Carter. I’m surprised you can’t already see the dust cloud. They’re like five minutes away.”
I jump out of the truck. Sure enough, there’s a hazy cloud coming our way from the southwest.
“Get your kits!” I shout to my squad.
It takes them seconds to notice the cloud and rush to the truck, throwing on armor and priming weapons. In less than a minute we’re a fully capable combat team, ready to seriously jack those koobs up.
Assuming that’s what it takes. And that this isn’t just another Battle of Kublar where we get to play the role of Victory Company. Only in miniature. Time will tell.
Sket.
I really should have called back home earlier.
02
“We shootin’?” Abers asks.
He’s already got some unlucky koob lined up in his sights. The discipline of snipers has always impressed me. The way Abers can lie perfectly still on the super-heated roof of the truck…
That’s not for me. I like to get in close. Remember how I said I’m willing to drop credits on my kit? Well, most of that goes to Mel S. She’s my shotgun, a special piece of mayhem I picked up at a Night Market toward the end of my time in the Legion. Well, until I re-upped to help Legion Commander Chhun drop Utopion. But that was more of a volunteer thing.
Mel S.—as opposed to Mel R., my rifle—is a combination ion blaster and slug thrower. It hurls big ol’ .70 cal turbined sabot slugs that bust through just about anything organic or machine. Great for killing biologics and even better for killing bots.
Plus, the thing has that sexy intimidation factor that makes people think twice about going a round with you. That’s what I’m hoping happens when these koobs come to town.
“Negative, Abers,” I call out, hoisting Mel S. onto my shoulder. “Control wants us to stand by in case these koobs are the ones we’re trying to make friends with.”
“Trying to make friends with any koobs is a bad idea,” Easy mumbles, holding his N-6 at the ready.
Lana has a sweet-looking sub-machine blaster. It’s light and easy on the charge pack. Great up close. Lousy for anything at range. I hear her say, “And yet here we are…”
Here we are. Five humans on a world notorious for hating everything that isn’t Kublaren. But from what I can gather, it’s that ingrained hatred for all the other species in the galaxy that Big Nee is looking to take advantage of.
Most koobs’ll tell you they only want to be left alone. Seeing one
