Mel S. keeps booming and the koobs keep dropping.
Until it’s all finished. And there’s no more movement and we know—instinctively—that all of these kelhorns are long expired. I don’t even need to give an order. We all just stop, one by one.
“Hot momma,” Brisco says into my comm. “I saw the whole thing from the drone feed. You look like a kelhorned action movie star, Carter.”
“How’s the pay in showbiz?” I ask.
“They only want people who pretend to be legionnaires, Carter. Stick with Nilo for the big credits.”
“Copy.” I look over my shoulder to double-check on my team. The koobs didn’t get any shots off that I’m aware of, but you never know until you know. “How’s everybody? You good?”
“I could deal with a whole lot more than that,” Easy says in reply. “All good here, Carter.”
“I’m good,” Abers says. “Don’t tell me a Marine can’t hang with the Legion.”
I won’t tell him, but, no, a Marine can’t hang with a leej. That’s just science.
“Good,” mutters Lashley.
“I’m going to check for survivors,” Lana says, keeping her little subcompact repeating blaster ready.
“Easy, go with her,” I order.
“Roger.”
The two begin moving from truck to truck. And though I doubt anyone would have survived, I keep my eyes open just in case a sneaky koob kept breathing by hugging the floor and getting lucky.
Abers is standing on the top of our truck’s cab. “So what’re we supposed to do with these koobs?”
“Command,” I say into my comm. “What’s the word on the new body count?”
“Yeah,” Brisco says, as though he were just finishing something up before getting to me. “We’re gonna need you to pile these koobs into the truck as well.”
“Not much of them left, Command.”
“Well… that means they’ll be easier to pick up, right?”
I want to argue. It was what happened in the intensity of the firefight that we were selected for. Not the cleanup. I feel like a basic doing all this. But… the pay is good. And I’ve got a family to support. And then Melanie—my wife—we need this to work out.
“Roger. We’ll get ’em loaded up and then speed back in to staging.”
I can hear Abers swearing somewhere behind me. He overheard what’s coming next.
“Yeah, Carter,” Brisco says from the Command comm room. “That’s probably in flux, too. Check the northwest.”
I move around the truck to get a better view of what he’s talking about. There’s another dust cloud heading my way. Smaller.
“More koobs?” I ask, my adrenaline spiking for another potential showdown. There’s no way we don’t start off fighting if these new koobs roll up seeing a line of shot up trucks with fresh blood spilling out.
“Dude. You wish it was koobs.”
I pull out my macros. It’s just one vehicle. Black. Still shining despite the patina of Kublaren dust.
“I see. Carter out.”
I let out a heavy sigh.
“Guys, we’ve got a visitor from the exec board. I’ll give you one guess.”
Easy answers first. “Don’t tell me it’s Surber.”
I tell him anyway, and listen quietly as everyone swears and kicks dirt. I’ve yet to meet anyone on Kublar who likes Surber.
“Let’s get busy for when he arrives,” I say. “Start loading up these koobs into the truck.”
Begrudgingly, they get to work.
I open the door to the truck that now serves as Skagga’s coffin. He’s leaning back in the passenger seat, one eye still bulging, the other shot out. His blood is pooling on the floorboards. I grab his arm to pull him out of the rig and hear the muscles tear as it rips off into my hands.
I’m just standing there, holding the severed arm and watching as more of that neon yellow blood pours from Skagga’s side. I drop the arm and put my hands on my hips.
This job pays really well.
Ah. Who am I kidding? This sucks.
03
We’ve got all but one truck cleaned out by the time Surber arrives. But we had to sweat like a doro in heat to get it done.
I don’t think this fishy koob-stink is coming off my hands anytime soon, either. And my gloves… forget about it. They’re soaked in koob blood to the point of saturation. I always cut off the end of the glove that covers my index finger because I like to feel the trigger when I squeeze on it. Now that finger looks permanently stained yellow in every fold of skin. My nails are dirty on top and underneath, a mix of Kublaren dust and dried alien blood forming a sort of crust of nastiness.
We all straighten our stiff backs when Surber’s luxury sled—gleaming black with tan accents from all the dust on the nose and lower carriage—speeds in to our midst. The repulsors flare as the sled comes to a stop, coating my sweat-drenched skin with the fine, inescapable, and ever-present Kublaren dirt.
Easy begins a slightly exaggerated cough as he fans the air in front of his face, sending the dust cloud swirling.
The saliva in my mouth seems to turn to gritty paste and I spit it out onto the unquenchable hardpan at my feet. It’s been drinking up koob blood all morning, and still wants more.
A hiss sounds from the sled, and its two rear doors flip open like an eagle stretching out its wings. A man in a luxuriously tailored black suit with a white shirt and coral tie steps out. He’s holding a slim, black leather briefcase.
Always that briefcase.
His hair is slicked back and shines beneath the Kublar sun overhead. His expression is hidden behind a pair of silvene-framed sunglasses.
Surber.
He adjusts his jacket with a roll of his shoulders and then tugs on his cuffs to straighten his sleeves. Behind him his two bodyguards—Errol and Wick—step out of the vehicle. They’re slightly less dressy than their boss, wearing black jeans and a polo shirt under a black leather jacket, but that’s far fancier than anything else you’ll find this far
