In the Legion, we called it counterintelligence.
I hear the rumble of a repulsor truck pulling up behind me. I turn and see that our ride is here. There’s a koob driver and a canopied back. The vic is a lot like the one we hauled all those dead koobs in, only no wheels. The driver has covered the runners along the side of the truck with dangling pendants that clink together like wind chimes as it comes to a stop and beeps once, a wimpy horn that seems like it was supposed to be installed on a hoverscooter instead of a big hoss like this truck.
“Is… k’k’kik… our ride. Time to fight, Mookta.”
“Let’s mount up,” I call, checking the sling on my rifle and then looping it over my shoulder.
Lash puts a hand against my chest. He’s looking down at our shoes. “Hey. That holocam lookin’ at us?”
I turn. Sket. It is.
“Hopefully it’s not on, but it sure is looking our way.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to be famous,” Lash says, still staring at the ground. “Don’t ever let ’em see your face.”
I’m not sure what he means by that. He turns his back to me and the holocam, jogging for the rear of the truck before I can ask.
With my team where they need to be, I hustle over to get inside. Careful to make sure not to turn around and give a clear view of my face to the holocam if it’s still watching us.
Easy is waiting for me at the back of the truck. He lets down his hand and helps pull me up. “You gotta see this, Carter.”
The back of the koob truck is decked out with velvet pillows and expensive-looking woven rugs. Someone even hung a koob painting on one of the support frames the canvas cover is stretched over—it looks like a third-grader painted a rose with congealing blood. But, art is subjective, I’m told.
“What’s all this?” I ask Pikkek, who has settled into a lump of cushions and is smoking some kind of hookah that gives off an aroma of cedar.
The repulsors kick in and the truck starts moving. From the cab I hear what must be koob music. The best way I can describe it is a mix of airsac bass booming to a rhythm, punctuated by some throaty clicks, the ching of triangles and the occasional finger cymbal. Pikkek seems to be grooving to it as he looks in my direction upon hearing me ask the question.
“Mookta,” he says, holding out his arm and gesturing to the pillowy truck bed, “ride in style.”
40
I can smell the smoke in advance of reaching the target village. Not the subdued scent of woodstoves still releasing the last of their heat after cooking breakfast in the koob village. The big smell of beams become cinders—a village razed and left to burn.
Not the sort of thing I figured I’d be able to know from the smell of it—same goes for burning, decaying, or blown-open bodies. But you get an education of a different sort in the Legion. Really, anywhere there’s fighting. And it’s not something you forget.
“You guys smell that?” I ask.
Easy takes a sniff. “Yup. Looks like someone beat us to the target.”
Pikkek inflates his airsac, stretching out the bright purple skin and then letting the air out through his mouth while he breathes in through the nostril slits near his eyes. He lets out a satisfied sigh. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. Like he appreciates the smell. Enjoys it even.
“Maybe some left from k’kik… Big Die? Pikkek want to spill blawd.”
I give a half smile and shrug noncommittally. Pikkek is growing on me. Maybe it’s the pillow wagon he’s outfitted for us, or maybe I’ve just learned to appreciate someone who lives for the fight.
That’s a truth I don’t admit to anyone. I even try to deny it to myself, as though I can gaslight myself into thinking it’s true. Sometimes I can. But only for a while. I should be home. With my family. I should be. But… I can’t stop doing this.
I can’t stop fighting.
The report of an N-50 mounted blaster cannon claps across the Kublaren landscape. A scrubby, rock-filled stretch with a few trees nestled along the bottom of a few hills. Not quite desert dry, but not the cool of the mountains, either.
The heavy blaster cannon is giving off short, controlled bursts. It’s not engaged in a serious firefight. The shooter is either finding his range, or he’s being precise.
“Hey, koob,” Abers says to Pikkek. “Sounds like you might get your wish.”
The big Kublaren warrior smiles. “Goo-ahd.”
I key in my comm to reach Brisco and see what’s going on. Riding in the back of these rigs is a pain, even when it’s decked out for comfort.
“Hey, Carter,” Brisco says, still not showing any indication that he’s even remotely capable of treating this like a proper op. “What’s up?”
“You tell me. Morning brief said we were hitting a koob village. Early indications are that the job’s already done.”
“Right. Yeah. Meant to tell you about that.”
“So tell me.”
“Okay, well, the tribe here, the Kishi, are allied with the Pashta’k who control the Soob. The big winners after the civil war, right? Big Nee tried to get them to come around but, it was like, no way. Too many marriages and stuff. The other chieftains didn’t want someone like that operating freely in their midst, plus the Kishi are friendly with the zhee, so they agreed in a war council to take them out.”
“And the other tribes got here before our team, is that it?”
Brisco laughs. “Negative. Their war bands
