All of this was observed from behind the tinted windows of the lead utility sled in the convoy. Air-conditioning washed ever the team leader. A steely man who was clearly ex-military of some sort. Non-ballistic impact helmet. Dark glasses. LCE barely fitting over a muscle-swollen tight tee and arms bulging.
“Pull over here,” the man said softly to the driver. Another ex-military type, though a little wirier. The driver cleared the street in both side views and with the external cams, pulled alongside the curb.
Dead koobs lay in the street ahead and nearby.
Along the rooftops clusters of koob warriors, armed with a mish-mash of weapons, seemed cautious and ready to fling a volley of darts at anyone who dared show their head.
“Here goes nothin’,” said the team leader and picked up a mic from off the dash that connected to external speakers on the outside of the utility transport sled.
“Let ’em know, Hopper.”
He cleared his throat.
Then, “Attention, Kublarens. We are here to assist you in your defense.”
The team leader made a face at the driver who seemed dispassionately professional behind the shades he wore. He was scanning the street ahead. Every driver in the ten-vehicle convoy, along with their TCs, were doing just the same.
Just because the reps at Team Nilo said this would work, and were paying to see if it actually would, didn’t necessarily mean it might not go horribly wrong. The koobs were little more than Bronze Age savages who just happened to exist in a time of technological hyperdrive connected wonders.
Right?
“We come in peace and we’re here to help,” said Hopper once more into the mic. Beyond the cool interior of the sled, the empty streets shimmered in the late morning heat.
Already the koob corpses were beginning to bloat.
“Gonna smell out there,” noted the driver.
Hopper didn’t acknowledge this and repeated the message once more. Just to make it clear. Then he switched over to the translator function and said it twice, the software making the clicks and sounds of the Kublaren language.
Then...
Grim koobs gathered along the rooftops above the street. Staring down in hard anger at the alien convoy.
“I’m exiting the lead,” said Hopper after tapping the comm on his vest. Now he was talking to the whole team executing this mission in the middle of a Soob City–wide meltdown.
“Look at that one over there,” pointed out the driver. “I think he’s got an old N-1. I wonder if that thing even works anymore?”
The team leader gave a hard look that indicated they had more to worry about than the Kublarens’ collection of museum-quality ancient weapons. Then he exited the sled, leaving his own rifle in the cab, with his hands up over his head.
He felt stupid and deserving of anything that was about to happen to him.
He walked out into the middle of the street and now he could see that the koobs had taken to nearly every rooftop. Airsacs inhaled and puffed even tighter.
“They’re pretty worked up,” he muttered under his breath over the group comm.
“You would be too, Hopper,” said a squad leader at the rear of the convoy. “Donks are in hardcore mode right now with no end in sight. Gonna be a long day and a lot of Kublaren dead on the other side of this. So yeah… they’re ready to start killing too.”
There was a pause in the dull hum of the comm the team all listened to.
“Atterly, do me a favor and shut up,” hissed Hopper. He didn’t like being told what he already knew. He didn’t like that Atterly was right on every point. Yeah, the koobs were ready to strike back and it didn’t really matter at this point whether it was a donk, a human, or even some zoid from the Silica. They’d probably do anyone right about now.
Which is right where they needed to be to accept the offer that was about to come their way.
Hopper made a large circle with his hand, and then—he had to get this next bit right because the meanings in Kublaren could go about a hundred different ways—he pointed toward his gills.
Or rather his throat. Where their airsacs would be on him.
No one moved.
He performed the hand gesture for negotiations once more.
Or so he hoped he did.
Some of the koobs were already rearing back with their slug throwers and for a half second Hopper knew deep down in his heart that this had all gone extremely terribly bad. Again. Just like at the temple.
And that he was going to pay the price for someone’s ridiculous planning.
Just like at the temple.
Nice…
He was ten meters away from his rifle when a big fat koob of incredible age pushed forward and croak-bellowed from the rooftop he was on.
The cry echoed off the silent walls and buildings of the koob-held neighborhood. As if almost a counterpoint to this, the sound of distant blaster fire and screaming could suddenly be heard.
Black smoke curled into the sky.
The koob bellowed in his croaking, clicking language at everyone along the rooftops, and a throng of koobs stepped forward to lower the tribal elder to the street via knotted rope.
No easy feat.
Moments later, though, the immense elder was down and waddling across the dirty street toward the team leader. Croaking and bellowing as he came.
In his ear the Team Leader got a translation from one of the linguists back at Team Nilo and watching via drone feed.
“He’s saying he will negotiate. Stand by…”
The giant walking frog-man waddled up and jabbed his feather-and-tooth adorned staff comically at the team leader.
“He’s saying you give prize first,” informed the translator back at ops. “That’s their custom for parlay.”
“Roger,” whispered Hopper in his comm.
He tried out some of the Kublaren he’d learned—basic stuff, all military commands. Specific for what was coming next.
“Follow me,” he said in a transliteration of the koob
