“What’s the word?”
They exchange a look and then one of them says, “Word is we’re getting our asses kicked.” He looks at my meager convoy of ATVs. “This is it?”
“For now. Bigger force is en route, but they’re slowing down to wipe out the zhee marching on this city. Didn’t think you’d want to see a bunch of donks come this way.”
“Roger that. We wouldn’t.”
Lash leans to the side of his ATV, causing it to tip slightly from his weight. “‘Asses kicked.’ Wanna put that in a way we can measure? ’Cuz we about to go into the tyrannasquid’s den.”
“Zhee are hitting the spaceport, but we’ve repulsed them each time so far and each wave hits a little softer than before.”
The other guard adds his piece. “Took down the freighter, though. They’ve got rockets. Loads.”
I hear a ping in my comm. It’s Elektra. “Why have you stopped?”
“Gathering intel,” I answer.
“I can provide you with that.”
“Not from the perspective on the ground, you can’t. Carter out.”
The guards are chatting with Lash now. Which is rare. The big man is usually anything but talkative. But he seems eager to get as much detail as he can.
Lash notices I’m back from my diversionary discussion. “Two pronged assault. Zhee pushing from the ZQ to attack the spaceport. Koobs and Army from the Green Zone. They’ve surrounded the museum. Streets are a toss-up and changing by the minute.”
“Roger that.” I rev my repulsors. “Let’s go break Hopper and his boys out.”
46
“Oba, look at them all.”
Lana has perfectly captured what all of us must be thinking.
We’re about a click out from the museum and the streets ahead are dense with koobs. It’s like the entire tribe came out if not to participate in the fight then to at least be close to the action.
And it sounds like one hell of a fight. The sound of blasters and slug throwers exchanging fire echoes across a city that has otherwise emptied itself. If you’re out and making noise, it’s to fight. Anyone else still in this city is surely locked inside, keeping quiet. Hoping for it all to end.
I think about what it would mean for fighting like this to come to my neighborhood. To Mel and the girls. Would they be hiding in a basement or attic, lights out, praying for it all to pass over? Would I be there with them? Or would I go to the streets to fight? Would I leave them to fate?
It’s things like this that cause me to keep putting myself in situations like I am now. Credits are only an excuse. In a moment of clarity, I know when I’m bullshitting myself when I say how much I need this job in order to make ends meet. Because smaller houses are a thing. Sleds that move but don’t evoke envy from those you pass by are a thing. Public schools, secondhand holoscreens… all those things exist. Make your own lunch. Pour your own kaff. Patch your clothes.
Credits are motivators, but they’re not my prime motivator. I’m here right now, just like I was on Utopion when Goth Sullus fell, for reasons other than money. Because I know the kind of hell anyone still in this city is experiencing. And because I don’t want something like that happening to my family.
And yeah, it seems crazy to think that by making it a reality on Kublar, I’m somehow helping at home. But if this works the way Big Nee explained it to me… the galaxy is going to be a different place. A peaceful place.
But the koobs have to be free first. And that means dropping the tribe that toadied up to the House of Reason right in the streets that Republic tax credits built.
“We’re about as close as we can get to the museum without engaging,” I inform Command. “Advise: which direction is the convoy stalled?”
Elektra’s answer is cool and matter-of-fact. “Convoy is stalled and fighting two blocks south of the museum; progress blocked by improvised roadblocks.”
“Well, I forgot to bring an engineering corps with me.”
The frustration of not knowing what it is these people want has boiled over. Yes, we’re paid to do what we’re told. But what do you do when no one seems able to clearly tell you what the objective is?
“I understand your frustration,” says Elektra, shrugging off my outburst as if it didn’t happen; no hurt or offense in her voice. “We need you to fight your way to the museum front doors approaching from State Street.”
I look for the nearest street signs. Ahead, an armed koob takes notice of us. He’s limping and carrying a carbine. He pauses but thinks better of engaging. Or maybe he sees Pikkek and his commandos and assumes we’re on his side. He hobbles away clutching his stomach, phosphorescent blood slipping between fingers.
“Pikkek,” I call, unable to get my bearings. “You know this place? State Street?”
Pikkek licks his eye. “No visit… k’kik… bad tribe. Weak.”
“They don’t look weak to me,” Easy grumbles to himself.
This causes Pikkek to croak out a laugh. “Big die when fight starts-ah. You see. Big die.”
“When it starts?” Easy looks around incredulously. “Oba’s ass, what do you call this?”
But Pikkek only laughs again.
“Command. Which way to State?”
“Continue course for two blocks and turn left. You’ll reach an intersection where you’ll turn right. State Street loops to the museum.”
“If I go another block, I’m going to be up and into that crowd of koobs.”
I look ahead and watch the swarming collection of koobs. They’re looting without hesitation, breaking store windows and pulling out whatever they can. Others are tearing down poles declaring street parking ordinances and taking them away. There’s an electric hum of excitement and you get the sense that if you were to walk through the
