Abers and Easy exchange fist bumps.
Marines.
“Actually, no,” I say, doing a quick inspection of everyone’s kit—not that I have any reason to doubt they’re prepared. “I wasn’t late. You all were early. As squad leader, it is impossible for me to be late. Because everything I do is on time and you are all on my time.”
Lana cracks a half-smile. “Anyone else getting flashbacks to basic with that speech?”
I wink and then look around the camp. Other teams are loading into transport sleds. There’s a steady stream of techs moving from the various habs to the secure command building where Brisco and nerds like him watch the battle from bots in the sky. Everything is pretty much in place and as I would expect it.
Except for the hulking koob I see milling about on the other side of a hab about twenty meters away. He’s looking around, mildly disinterested. Kicking rocks and cradling a slug-throwing assault rifle with a wooden stock inlaid with a variety of etchings, runes, and colorful paintings.
I’ve seen this guy before. He was at the chieftain’s home back in Pekk. The koob who wanted to know if we had the sitizt’ka necessary to be worthy of fighting alongside his tribe. As I recall, he spoke Standard.
“You lost, big guy?” I call out.
Lashley answers first, low enough for just me to hear. “Ain’t lost. Told me he was goin’ out on the op.”
The koob does its hopping walk toward me, obviously not wanting to shout a conversation across the camp.
I turn to Lash. “By himself?”
Lash shrugs.
The thought of a bunch of koobs wandering aimlessly through our camp isn’t particularly pleasant to me. Even if they are supposed to be our allies. So I make a note to kindly ask the big guy to round his team up. We’re supposed to roll inside the next twenty minutes.
“I fight,” the koob says, adding the usual clicks from his airsac. “Big die this tribe. K’kk’kik. Bad tribe. Friend of zhee. Of Republic.”
I nod. This much I already knew from speaking with Big Nee. With the exception of this particular tribal seat—whose name escapes me at the moment, which doesn’t matter because soon they won’t exist anymore—the entirety of the Kublaren tribal alliance outside the coastal cities have joined Nilo in his bid for an independent and self-governed Kublar.
“Okay, well, you should find your warriors because we’re gonna be moving out before long.”
The koob licks its eyeball and gives what passes for a smile and then shakes its head, along with the rest of its upper torso. “Pekk warriors ready. I fight with you.”
Even though we’re outside, the koob’s comment feels like someone let the air out of the room. Everyone except Lashley has something to say. More like something to mumble.
“Hell nah,” says Easy.
Abers just gives a disapproving growl like a dad watching his daughter’s boyfriend snag the last steak off the grill without asking.
Lana, at least, voices a legitimate concern. “Carter… I don’t know that I’m familiar enough with Kublaren physiology to treat any battlefield injuries…”
“I no big die,” says the koob.
Easy enough.
“Good plan,” I tell him. “But I haven’t heard—”
I’m not sure how I was going to finish that sentence. And the arrival of Big Nee’s black luxury sled prevents me from needing to.
Surber emerges from the rear passenger side door and holds it open for his boss. The rest of the team watches as Big Nee gets out, looking sleek but solid in a perfectly tailored slim-cut suit. Hard to believe our boss was embedded with us as Winters. Harder still that he gave us the deal he did after some of the crap we gave him.
Nilo went into that a little bit on the long ride from the zhee compound. How it was important that he participated in the fight, and how it didn’t bother him when the team busted his chops because he was aware of the difference in expertise.
“You improve by acknowledging your deficiencies, Carter. Pretending that I’m better at something than I truly am—that I’m somehow immune to legitimate criticism because I don’t like the way it makes my ego feel—that’s a pathway to failure. Or worse: mediocrity.”
I told him that he’d done pretty well, all things considered. He told me how many credits he’d sunk into training to be a warfighter. All the stuff the Legion puts you through free of charge, he paid for; learning at the feet of former leejes, Marines, and other Special Forces now in the private sector who made a career of selling their expertise to those who had the credits to pay for it. And Nilo isn’t short on credits.
A human woman wearing a blue business dress slides out from the sled behind Nilo. It might be air conditioned inside the vic, but I see her wilt in the heat before my eyes not ten seconds after she emerges. Her makeup is starting to glisten and her carefully styled hair looks like it’s sticking to her head.
“We have to make this quick,” she says to Nilo.
Nilo smiles genially. “Of course. But the message will have more gravitas if Kublar is the backdrop. Even if the interior of the limousine is more comfortable. And… you look amazing.”
The woman gives a big smile at this, revealing perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. She pulls out a holo cam and holds it ready in the palm of her hand.
“Surber,” Nilo says motioning for his right-hand man to come closer. “Show Miss Striffler where to set up.”
Nilo focuses his attention back to Miss Striffler. “We found an excellent view of the mountain range that will bring into focus the monumental achievement we’re on the verge of accomplishing here on Kublar.”
“That sounds perfect,” Striffler answers. “And, Mister Nilo, please call me Shayla.”
“Of course.” Nilo is dashing. Smiles to communicate a sort of wolfish knowledge. Not goofy. Friendly but not endearing.
