Those big-city koobs are getting a taste for credits and the Republic’s standard of living. And all the trouble that comes with it.
“Wisdom of buddying up with the koobs aside,” I say, “let’s stay frosty and be ready to KTF if it comes down to that.”
The koob convoy keeps rolling forward. I can see the sun’s glint off the windshields. There’s a mounted .50 cal machine gun on the back of the thing, but no one seems to be on it at the moment. I count five trucks in all.
I’m really hoping Command identifies these guys, finds out they’re from some other, less important tribe, and then sends a missile into the middle of the column.
I’m hoping. But it ain’t happening.
“Why we gotta KTF, man?” Abers says from the top of the truck.
“Yeah,” Easy chimes in. “You’re the only legionnaire here. Lana is a basic—”
“Army,” interrupted Lana. “And my unit folded into the New Legion, thank you very much. So technically—”
“Still a basic,” Abers calls out from behind his scope. “The kid ain’t nothin’. Just a trust fund and a bunch of tactical training. No heart.”
“I got plenty heart,” Winters says. “I just wasn’t dumb enough to join the military, is all.”
“Ha!” Abers laughs. “And Lashley—man, what are you, Lashley?”
Everyone waits to see if the big man is willing to divulge his secrets. But he only grunts, holding onto his SAB as though it were as light as a simulation prop. I knew leejes who kept arm augments in their armor to hoist those things around.
Not Lashley. I think he could shoot two at the same time.
He’s gotta be Legion, right? Who else would be so hardcore?
“Button it up, guys,” I say. The convoy is getting close enough that I want everyone alert and only talking through the comms if it relates to the situation at hand. That doesn’t stop me from getting the final word in. “Stay frosty. KTF. Or, whatever inspirational phrase you hullbusters have. ‘Save me some crayons,’ I dunno.”
“You son-of-a—” Abers starts to say before the lead koob truck starts laying on its horn.
Lana steps up next to me. “Do they want us to get out of the way… or?”
I shrug my shoulders and stand my ground along with Lana up front. Koobs don’t much care if you’re male or female, unlike the zhee. But they do watch intently for signs of weakness.
We look anything but. Lana and I are doing what we can to show we’re good with a little parlay unless they’d prefer getting shot, and Abers’s gun is impossible to miss. Winters, Easy, and Lashley are armed to the ears and set up conspicuously around the truck, ready to use it for cover.
The koob trucks all come to a grinding halt, sending up a cloud of dust. Only two of them are mounted with machine guns, and neither are manned. Or koobed—if that’s even a word.
“Soft contact with the koob force,” I whisper into my comm for Command to hear.
“Yeah, we see it. Still don’t know who they are. Those trucks have any markings?”
The koobs are just sitting inside their trucks, watching. Engines humming.
“Negative,” I say.
“Well, try to find out what tribe they’re from.”
I try to blow out some Kublar dust from my nostrils. “Roger.”
Finally, the passenger side door of the third truck in the column swings open and out steps a koob wearing their traditional robes. He’s more of a mottled brown color, an elder. Probably not the Elder of the tribe, but most likely the one I’ll have to do the talking with.
I wait as the rest of the doors open up and more koobs step out. They’re mostly armed with Savage-era tech. Slug-throwing machine guns and rifles. That’s really all that’s left from that war that can be used by a species lacking a way to re-power the energy weapons. Still can be deadly, though.
A few of them have beat up–looking Republic weapons. And I wonder if those came from the cities, the MCR back in the day, or as salvage from the Battle of Kublar. I try to keep my cool at the thought. Kublar is a… touchy subject for us leejes. Even if we’re no longer active duty.
“Kika,” I say, pretty much exhausting my limited Kublaren vocabulary with the abbreviated greeting. About all else I know is “show me your hands,” “get down,” “which way?” and “don’t move.”
None of those are terribly useful unless I’m clearing a building. But then, the expectation was that I’d be doing more of that and less of this. Whatever this is.
“Kik ke kakay,” responds the frog-like koob elder, his eyes swiveling around as the rest of his warriors gather around him near the trucks. “We may speak Standard. Visit is to you, not you to my tribe.”
I nod. That’s a relief. I see if I can get the info Command wants right off of the starting line. “What tribe are you from, Elder… ?”
“Skagga.” The koob looks around, his purple airsac rapidly inflating as his bulging eyes fall on the contents of the truck. “What tribe is these big die?”
I turn and look at the mound of bodies, not knowing the answer. Desert flies have found the feast and are starting to concentrate over the corpses. Thankfully, Command is listening in and supplies me the answer. Well, an answer anyway.
“Tell him they’re your allies,” Brisco says into my comm. “Members of tribe Innik.”
“These are from tribe Innik,” I say, doing my best to look solemn. “We were assisting them but these were ambushed by zhee marauders. We are to return them to their village.”
All the koobs start inflating their airsacs rapidly at the naming of the zhee. That’s the body language of excitement for their species. The repeated licking of their eyes tips off that the excitement is mixed
