He’s dead.
We clean up. Army does an investigation, determines that those MCR who were firing into their own lines did the deed. It’s all a sad news cycle and the next guy up for Utopion runs unopposed in a special election and the galaxy forgets about whoever the Junior Delegate-Elect was. I don’t even remember the name.
But the point is… back at camp a few days later, I’m walking in to get chow with Raven. We all just came back from weapons training so we’re all eating together. Raven walks into the room and one of the boys stands up on the table and shouts, “Here he is!”
And then, I sket you not, the entire cafeteria starts chanting, “Reason Killer! Reason Killer!”
Because a couple of the guys swore the shots that killed that delegate were actually from Raven’s N-4. Like he forgot it was on burst and let one slip a little and… boom. Political assassination.
And Raven, he doesn’t freak out about it. He just kind of smiles and grabs his tray. And for months, every time he showed up the platoon would chant, “Rea-son Kil-ler!”
We’d just bust up laughing about it. And… why? Objectively, I get it. Raven maybe or maybe not straight dropped a House of Reason delegate. That’s a tragedy by all accounts. But we thought it was hilarious. I’m holding back a laugh right now thinking about the whole thing.
Why does that happen?
What is it about war and deployment that makes those things what they are?
And how can anyone else ever understand it?
Reason Killer.
Mookta Two.
Is there a life for me outside of all this?
41
The ride was short. Pikkek wasn’t kidding. We moved maybe twenty minutes and got out in the middle of nowhere. What Pikkek didn’t say was that his koob warrior friends from the Pekk tribe were riding with us. The ride out was a bit less comfortable crammed in next to a bunch of koobs than it was on the way in, even with the pillows.
But it wasn’t all bad, really. The koobs riding with us seemed eager to try out their Standard on my team. It didn’t take long before Abers and Easy were teaching them how to swear like Marines. And they learned to leave Lash to himself within five minutes of leaving the ruins of Kishi.
There were two jam-packed transport trucks in our caravan and now that we’ve dismounted, I can see a third truck, black and pushing its way through the rippling heat waves on the horizon. It’s midmorning and it’s already too hot.
“Brisco,” I say, resolved not to even bother with proper comm etiquette any longer. “This truck coming our way; you got eyes on it?”
“It’s us, Carter. This is why you’re here.”
“Meet and greet?”
“Meet, yeah. But not the kind of greeting you’re thinking of. You’re at full strength with those Kublarens. Big Nee only wants you on this, which says a lot about what he thinks of you. And I mean that in a good way. Trust me, you’re a star in this org now. Team Nilo. This is a huge element in the final plan.”
“Roger. Guess I’ll just keep rolling with the surprises.”
I can tell Brisco is smiling on the other end of the comm. “It makes it more fun that way.”
“That’s one word for it. Carter out.”
I stand next to Pikkek, thinking he’s the only one out here who might be able to tell me what’s going on. It’s frustrating. I thought this sort of thing was behind me after the success at the temple. But if the system has flaws, if Nilo hasn’t managed to put the right people in place to avoid these kinds of informational hiccups… maybe it’s naïve to think it’ll happen overnight. It’s not like the Legion wasn’t without its SNAFUs when it came to intel and the flow of information.
“What’s the word, Pikkek? What’re we doin’ out here?”
The big koob has his rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s inspecting the edge of a wicked-looking stone tomahawk. He swings it in a circle and I swear I can hear the wind being cut in two by that vorpal edge.
He’s looking straight at the approaching truck as he begins to speak.
“After tribe Annek and Moona fight leejon-ayers, k’kik… after Republic destroyer big die. Civil-ah war. Pekk tribe strong k’k… winning. Then… Republic come again… kik’kik… secret this time-ah. No leejonayers. Make Pashta’k to fight good. Fight best. Big die for Pekk.”
I nod, realizing I’m getting a version of the history of this planet after Victory Company’s Battle of Kublar that the House of Reason didn’t mean to have shared.
“Pashta’k welcome House Ree-sahn. Make big city… k’kik… Pashta’k work with Republic. Steal from Kublakaren. Big…” Pikkek pauses, searching for the word he means in Standard. “Big mines. Hide deep down. Big die for tribe who want stop. Pashta’k let zhee-kah come. No kill. But zhee kill Pashta’k rivals. Friends-ah.”
The black truck comes to a stop. Pikkek swings his tomahawk again and walks toward it. He looks back at me. “This-ah, changes… k’kik. Now Pekk give big die to zhee-kah. Pashta’k join Pekk. Or Pashta’k big die.”
I walk around to the back of the black truck and see some Team Nilo mercs as they jump out of the back. I was hoping it might be Hopper, but he must be somewhere else this morning. I’ve seen these guys around camp before, but don’t know ’em.
“Carter, right?” says the first one, offering me a gloved hand to shake.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“Peter Spitzer. Transporting some, uh, VIPs.”
I peer inside the truck. Three zhee in white robes are still sitting inside, being hoisted to their feet with hoods over their heads by Spitzer’s team.
“VIPs, huh?”
“Roger that. Glad to be transferring them to you. Donks stink, man.”
I don’t mention that riding with koobs—dead or alive—ain’t much better. And I don’t mention that I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with these zhee, either.
“Hey,” Spitz says, “you’re
