Hopper’s giving them hell.
I relay the objective and route to the team.
“We’re gonna have to drive into that crowd to do that, man,” Easy says.
“Probably,” I answer. “And we need to do it fast. Any slowdowns and the koobs’ll have no trouble swarming us.”
“And they don’t have anything that can clear the street?” Abers asks.
“If they do, they’re not offering.”
“Hey, Pikkek,” Lash says, one arm on his handlebar, the other holding his SAB. “You got an idea on this?”
“Shoot them.”
The big koob’s answer draws a few chuckles. I’m about to solidify our apparent suicide run when he elaborates, though, pulling his ATV up next to me and using the flat of his palm as a rudimentary map, like he’s drawing up a play.
“You shoot-ah, Pashta’k. Big die. Drive this way.” He traces an invisible line with the tip of a long finger. “Circle-back-ah this way. Two… k’kik blocks. They no outruns.”
“Okay, but how do we get enough to follow us?” I ask.
Pikkek flares his airsac. “We tell them how.”
It sounds better than any other option we have. I don’t think we’ll get far plowing through a crowd of armed koobs unless we’re driving tanks. Which is another thing I wish Big Nee had.
“Any objections to the plan?” I ask the team.
Nobody answers. Democracy in action.
“Okay, Pikkek. Let’s do it.” I look to my team. “Ready to move?”
Nods come at me in reply.
“Lash… open up on ’em.”
If the big man has any reservations, he deals with them in the brief second that passes between my order and his action. The SAB sends a ruthless stream at the koobs, dropping several and causing even more to duck and scatter. Return fire zips overhead.
“That’s our signal to leave. Go!”
We take off like a biker gang running out on the bar tab, racing up the open street Pikkek pointed out. As we move, I can hear Pikkek and his koobs croaking their airsacs above the din. The cry is answered by the koobs in the crowd, taken up one by one until it feels like the whole city is shaking from the sound.
It’s unsettling. Particularly with the knowledge that the message is telling them which way to hunt us down. This must be how the leejes in the Battle of Kublar felt before that final attack.
We speed down the middle of the street, the wind causing my hair to flap around my ears and washing away the heat from my skin in a baptism of air. It seems like no part of this city is without damage. Sleds have broken windows and flaming hoods. Intact doors to businesses are nowhere to be seen. Trash receptacles are overturned; the bots meant to right them and clean up lie broken in the street. There’s no shortage of detritus to maneuver around.
Lana squeezes me tight enough that I can feel it through my armored synth-weave vest. “Followers!”
I can only hazard a backward glance. Koobs are riding in civilian and military trucks. Maybe I saw a Republic Army soldier driving, but I can’t be sure. But that we’re getting shot at, I’m sure of that. Bolts sizzle overhead. I drift the repulsor ATV to the right upon passing a tipped-over food cart, hoping it obstructs the shooter’s vision.
Abers is taking what for anyone else would be impossible shots from the back of Easy’s ride with his sniper rifle. Maybe he’ll dust a driver, but even slowing them down will be a help. We’re eight blocks from our starting point when Lana tells me that more koobs on foot have flooded the street.
Dodging a rolling scrap of sandstone blown from an errant RPG shot, I shout back, “Let’s try to not have a breakdown, then!”
Blaster fire is chasing us now, hoping to make up for the head start we got over the pursuing koobs. As the first turn in Pikkek’s route comes up, I want to go at it full speed. But fear of throwing Lana has me engaging brakes. Still, we fishtail around the bend, blaster bolts with a hell of an impact striking the street and sending up sizable chunks of duracrete.
I feel Lana wince.
“What is it?” I call.
“Nothing. Caught some shrapnel in the leg, I think.”
Turning around, I do a one-second inspection. I can see a slight trickle of blood seeping through her pants and rolling down her boots. That doesn’t look good, but it isn’t necessarily bad either. It’s amazing how much the human body can bleed. And while bleeding from a combat wound is never good, it can be misleading. Lots of fatal wounds don’t seem to bleed at all, while other wounds look like the stuff from horror entertainments but aren’t all that serious.
Ultimately, Lana is the one best equipped to determine the severity of the injury. She’s also tough as a destroyer hull, so there’s the chance that she’ll ignore it in an attempt to keep the op from delay.
“We need to stop?” I ask.
“Keep going. I’ll check it once we circle back.”
I’m expecting a breakthrough once we circle back followed by hard fighting with Hopper’s team to get them out of their position at the museum.
“Roger that,” I answer, relying on the comm to carry my voice to her despite the wind. “Whatever you need. Your skills are gonna be in demand once we reach the ob. Got a feeling.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lana says.
I know that tone. Heard it from my wife a million times. It’s the final, tolerate-no-further-discussion tone that has shipwrecked countless young husbands too foolhardy to ignore its warning. One that a more experienced man, like myself, learned long ago to heed. That doesn’t mean I refrain from getting the last word.
“Copy. Let me know if there’s a status change.”
She answers through gritted teeth. “I will.”
I smile into the wind, enjoying the temporary reprieve the corner has bought us. I’m pushing it, I
