Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  Being surrounded by so many armed strangers would make anyone nervous, and Chalmers already had a suspicious nature. Even if they’d had an extraction team and pair of Blackhawks ready to rain death on anyone who stepped out of line, he’d have been anxious. As it was, Captain Mara Lee—call sign “Bruce”—was supposed to be paralleling them in the next valley over, ready to come in hot should they call for her, but that was cold comfort. Chalmers respected the pilot, but even if she could get to them in two minutes, anything more than a minute was an eternity in close quarters battle. Things were so tight with the indigs that if anything popped off, they were done for.

  “Is that Kedlakis-Ur?” Jackson asked Mayal, nodding in the newly-appeared woman’s direction.

  The young warrior nodded but quietly added, “The Kedlakis-Ur, yes.”

  Jackson glanced at Chalmers, who gave a slight nod and started pushing against the crowd to make room for his companion. The sergeant climbed out of the buggy and stood in the space provided as the Kedlakis-Ur approached. By the time he was standing next to Chalmers, the Kedlakis-Ur was before them; the crowd had parted for her without a command.

  She was thick-wristed and sleekly muscled. Tall and powerfully built in the way of ranchers back home, her long, dark hair was bound in what looked like a complicated network of braids that were allowed to fall down her back after passing through a yellow stone ring. A real man-eater.

  Chalmers liked the type.

  “Greetings, Kedlakis-Ur,” Jackson said. “I am Sergeant Jackson, and this is Warrant Officer Chalmers. We were told you are expecting us. We bring the promised gifts.”

  The woman studied them both for a long moment. Chalmers didn’t usually feel uncomfortable when women looked at him, but there was something about this woman’s regard that left him with the sense he’d been weighed and found wanting.

  “I am the Kedlakis-Ur. Welcome to the camp of the Kedlak. You have my protection and welcome.” The woman’s voice was gravel on rose petals. The kind you wanted to hear raised in song.

  Chalmers and Jackson waited for more, but the woman stood silently regarding them.

  “We…ahh, have the promised gifts,” Chalmers said, after the silence had stretched too long for comfort.

  The woman nodded, and Chalmers gestured.

  Jackson climbed into the back seat and grunted as he pulled the bag of SpinDog-approved goodies from the foot well. Never ones to trust REMFs—especially someone else’s REMFs—to provide everything they might need, Chalmers and Jackson had both added a few hopefully high-value items from their personal rucks.

  The Kedlakis-Ur gestured for a young man at her right to pick up the pack when Jackson dropped it at her feet. The youth easily hefted the pack and slung it over his shoulder, retreating toward one of the nearby tents.

  The indigs crowding the Lost Soldiers began to disperse. Their steady withdrawal made Chalmers more nervous rather than less. He wasn’t sure if the behavior was due to the indigs observing some unknown social formality, but it seemed odd the indigs didn’t hang around to see what these outsiders were offering their chief and, ultimately, them. It made him feel as if it were Jackson and Chalmers themselves the locals had come to see…like they were a low rent freakshow that hadn’t lived up to the barker’s claims.

  Chalmers was anxious enough that when he looked back at the Kedlakis-Ur and found her staring at him, an electric jolt ran from the base of his spine to his skull. She really was quite attractive, with eyes of a deep, burnt amber he’d never seen the likes of before. His earlier discomfort was gone, leaving a different sort of ache in its place.

  “We thank you for your protection and welcome,” Chalmers mumbled, hoping he didn’t misspeak. “And hope you will accept the gifts offered.”

  “They will no doubt prove sufficient, War Technician,” the Kedlakis-Ur said, turning away. Chalmers, released from her magnetic gaze, stumbled forward after her, noting the same delicate, sage-like scent in her wake and a very feminine sway to her hips under the wide belt she wore.

  She walked them toward the tent to which the younger man had taken their offering.

  Jackson nudged the warrant, giving Chalmers one of his patented “What the fuck?” looks. Chalmers just shrugged and followed the woman into her large tent.

  The interior was more like one of the surgeon’s barracks-tents from M.A.S.H. than the Arab chieftain’s harem tent he’d half-expected. Sure, it was decked out with all the amenities the upper class could get, but there was still something unmistakably military—and spartan—about the interior.

  They were offered seats on low benches that Chalmers recalled were multi-purposed as racks for stowing tents when on the move as well as frameworks for hasty defenses that, when filled with earth, made excellent barricades. The benches bore cushions that doubled as containers when traveling, and currently stored other fabrics and filler that could be sat upon without damaging them. Indeed, from lamps to seating, everything the nomads made for themselves had multiple purposes. It said something about their mentality that Chalmers sensed must be important.

  “Be welcome in my tent,” the Kedlakis-Ur said, once they were seated. “Please take food and drink.”

  “Thank you, but we are neither thirsty nor hungry,” Chalmers said, grateful he’d retained the SpinDog briefing on this, at least. They were to refuse the first offer, and second, but refusing the third offer of food and water would give grave insult.

  “Please, you must be weary from your travels, we have plenty.”

  “We are healthy and strong, and our travels short.”

  “I do not doubt it, but comfort is offered, and for it to be received would be our pleasure.” She clapped her hands, and the young man who had taken charge of their bag at the buggy entered with a large, shallow, and elaborately-chased silver bowl in his hands. If the fine silverware was incongruous against the bandoliers and still-slung rifle across his back, the Kedlakis-Ur gave no sign.

  “We would not deny you your pleasure,” Chalmers said.

  He could feel Jackson relaxing at his successful completion of the ritual and cast his own patented look the sergeant’s way, the one meant to tell his partner, “See, I’m not completely clueless.”

  Unaware of the silent byplay, the young man came forward and offered the bowl, which was filled with alien fruits and what looked like jerky. Chalmers took a selection of both and ate enough to, he hoped, avoid rudeness, not because of any distaste for what was offered—it was quite tasty, the fruit in particular—rather, getting a case of the R’Bak Runs was high on his list of shit to avoid, if he could. The SEAL, whatshisname, had reported it as a thing, despite the conditioning medications the SpinDogs had given them. It made sense to Chalmers there’d be something about the food that was hard on Terran digestion, given that R’Bak was a lot farther from Kansas than the Mog, and acclimating to what the warlords had fed their guests there had put some folks in line for the latrine for days. Even the smallest amount of the wrong food could make a man wish he were dead.

  He filed such concerns under, “the things a soldier had to do to survive,” and moved on.

  “Your messenger did not offer many details of what would be expected of us in the coming days,” their host said, gracefully plucking what looked like a green grape the size of a tangerine from the bowl and biting into it.

  Chalmers smiled and wished, not for the last time, that he knew more about this place and these people. “The mission changed not two days ago. Even we did not know what was to be done until Major Murphy told us.”

  “You do not answer the question I did not ask,” she said, a broad smile lighting up those exceptional eyes.

  Chalmers returned his own, more cautious grin. All his raging successes with women had been short term. Once they got to know what he was really like, they always grew to hate him. It was one of the things about this second life he hoped to change. “To be honest, we need guides who can—” he paused to be certain of the word: verb tenses we
re such a bitch, “—introduce us to the people of Clarthu.”

  “And then?” she asked, taking another bite of the fruit. The juices made her lips glisten. They were nice lips.

  “Then we will find the one who reports our movements to our common enemy.”

  “We will find?” the Kedlakis-Ur asked, arching an eyebrow that had a thin scar running its length.

  “It is hoped your guides will help us track down the spy, yes.” Chalmers finished less confidently than he’d hoped, unable to gauge just what this woman wanted from him.

  “The people of Clarthu will not look kindly on us something in their something,” she said, too quickly for him to understand.

  Chalmers glanced in puzzlement at Jackson, who said, “Can you clarify, Kedlakis-Ur? Do you mean they will not like us, collectively, interfering, or that they will not like your people interfering?”

  The Kedlakis-Ur finished her fruit and licked the last of the juices from her fingers before responding. “Both. But they will not want interference from my people. We are seen as something to them.” When she saw that Chalmers had lost her meaning, she explained the term, “A thing or person that is needed, but not wanted.”

  “I see,” Chalmers said.

  “I will give you the help you ask for. The guides will be told to try and avoid something the villagers,” Chalmers figured out the word he’d missed as “antagonize” a beat or two after she said it.

  “Our thanks, Kedlakis-Ur.”

  “For now, take your ease. You will sleep here.”

  “Do you not want to see our gifts?”

  She waved dismissively. “It can wait until after you’ve rested. I will select your guides while you rest.” She stood with the same fluid grace she’d exhibited from the first.

  Chalmers got an elbow in the ribs as he watched her leave.

  “What?” he complained, rubbing his side and glaring at Jackson.

  “Please don’t let a need to dip your wick get us in trouble, man.”

  “I won’t,” Chalmers said, swallowing against a suddenly-dry throat. “She’s something, though.”

  “No doubt.” Jackson’s smile cracked his concerned expression. “No doubt. Still, we need to watch our shit. These waters are deeper than Lake Michigan, and we don’t know half what we should.”

  Chalmers nodded and cocked his head. “Speaking of which, you notice she didn’t seem too concerned with the bribe we offered?”

  “Nope. Definitely has her own reasons for helping us.”

  “We should report in; let Murphy know we’ve made contact, and that she’s agreed to assist us.”

  “Copy that. You want to, or should I?”

  “Go ahead,” Chalmers said, looking out the tent flap in hopes of catching another glimpse of the Kedlakis-Ur.

  “Quit thinking with that dipshit between your legs, Chalmers. You’ll get us both killed.”

  “I won’t jeopardize the mission, man,” Chalmers said, earnestly.

  Jackson looked askance at him.

  “What?”

  “Man, what the fuck is up with you?”

  “What?” Chalmers said, more defensively than he meant to. The genuine concern in Jackson’s voice made the man’s question a real one, not a jab of their usual banter, to be deflected and laughed off.

  “Time was you’d have told me to go fuck myself and gone on to get us in a world of shit. It was how you rolled.”

  “Well,” Chalmers said uncomfortably, “I’m trying to change.”

  The reply silenced Jackson, but only for a moment. He muttered something Chalmers couldn’t quite make out.

  Chalmers thought about letting it ride but remembered the promise he’d made to himself. “What was that?”

  Jackson’s expression was a cracked mask of barely-suppressed emotion. He did an even worse job of controlling his voice, which throbbed with rage. “Now, Chalmers? Now? You choose now to change? I’d have thought you might have made better choices before. Before we were in this—this…situation. You see, Chalmers, I know. I fucking know.”

  Chalmers couldn’t answer, knowing his partner’s anger was fully justified, that he—the man he’d been before—fully deserved it, and he could only begin to pay the bill his old ways had run up among his friends, family, and colleagues. He sat silent, hoping Jackson would unload, yet desperate his partner would not explode.

  “I know, Chalmers,” Jackson repeated, jabbing a finger hard into Chalmers’ chest. “Murphy told me when I woke up. I know I wouldn’t have even been on that godforsaken helo if it weren’t for your shitty play with that warlord. I know you fucked me. The only thing that stopped me from putting a bullet in your head when we woke up was the fact you were in it with me, and I kinda hoped you might catch a bullet meant for me. More than that, though, I wanted the option of fucking ending you myself if you fucked up again. That, and my momma taught me it’s always better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” Jackson’s tirade was getting loud, but Chalmers dared not tell the sergeant to lower his voice.

  “And!” Jackson nearly shouted the word, eyes wild. “And if there was ever half a chance of surviving this fucked-up situation it would be helped by knowing the man beside me, even a shithead like you. And even knowing just how his shit floats, you asshole!”

  Scarred hands drew into tight, angry fists as Jackson lowered his voice and rasped on, “But, God help me…but I’ve also come to realize you know how to paddle up Shit’s Creek like no one else. And…and…” The sergeant heaved in a great, shaking breath before releasing it more slowly and continuing, “And…the way I see things, that’s what we need to survive right now: someone who knows how to paddle.”

  Chalmers, overwhelmed with an unfamiliar emotion he eventually identified as gratitude, nodded and looked away from his partner’s still-smoldering gaze.

  “Dick,” Jackson said.

  Chalmers nodded, meeting his partner’s gaze again. “Trying to be better, man.”

  “Whatever, man, just make sure you don’t fucking forget to paddle while you’re ‘trying.’ Paddling against the shit is the one thing that’s kept you alive so far,” Jackson grunted roughly.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  R’Bak

  Maybe it was the way Jackson had cleared the air, but Chalmers woke feeling pretty damn good about things. Could have been that, could also have been that he’d only had to hit the latrine once during the night, and there’d been no discernible difference in that visit to the usual, despite overindulging in some of the local fare before bed. It was good. Halfway between Tex-Mex and some of the Palestinian food his neighbor used to make.

  The stuff he’d been helpless to resist had looked like a whitish celery stalk, tasted like honeyed lemons, and smelled like really good chocolate. He’d mentioned the stuff was the perfect Valentine’s Day gift, but Jackson’s dark stare had forced him to put away any thoughts of trying his theory out on the Kedlakis-Ur. Their host had been generous with her time and company, and Chalmers woke to the very real desire to spend more time in the camp, if only to discover whether the Kedlakis-Ur was truly a man-eater or just looked like one.

  Seeking diversion from the nascent erection brought on by thoughts of the tribal leader, Chalmers sat up and looked around.

  Jackson was standing just outside the tent, drinking something hot from an earthen mug.

  Chalmers rubbed the sleep from his eyes and joined the shorter man under the awning.

  “Morning,” Jackson said.

  “Morning,” Chalmers returned, yawning. The nights were short, but blessedly cool in the highlands, and the lingering cold did as much to wake Chalmers as the mug of hot liquid Jackson handed him.

  “Any new instructions from command?” Chalmers asked. He sniffed, glad the fragrant tea covered the scent of stale sweat and dust that had permeated his clothes.

  “Only to repeat that the timetable is tight, and we will need to move fast once in Clarthu. The unit left Cam
p Stark yesterday at 0500 and is on schedule.”

  Chalmers nodded. “We really don’t know enough about the villagers to guarantee even a qualified success, do we?”

  “Not yet, no. I plan on picking the guide’s brain while we drive.”

  “Speaking of which, any idea who the Kedlakis-Ur is sending with us?”

  “I think we’re about to find out,” Jackson answered, nodding toward the three figures just emerging from the chief’s tent. The Lost Soldiers had been hosted there for another, later meal after their initial interview, and then treated to entertainment from a pair of young singers accompanied by the Kedlakis-Ur on a stringed instrument that looked positively medieval. Jackson and Chalmers had nodded along like two Catholics at a Baptist church on Sunday, unfamiliar with the words, but grooving to the music and feeling the sentiment. When the party had ended, the pair of them had been escorted here, to what they presumed was a guest tent of sorts, as it had none of the embroidery and decoration the Kedlakis-Ur’s had, but was comfortable enough.

  One of the figures accompanying the Kedlakis-Ur was the young man who had served them the night before, the other was a woman about the same age as the man. Both were armed with breech-loading rifles and wore matching expressions of, if not anger, then intensity. As they drew closer, Chalmers realized the pair looked a lot alike, though they could just have a strong clan resemblance rather than be siblings. Their erect carriage and self-assurance gave the impression of competence.

  Then again, Chalmers had always made a point of looking competent, too. Especially when fucking around.

  He supposed that in this case, though, appearances would not be deceiving. Those that had to hunt, gather, and fight to survive were less likely to successfully hide any failings. He dimly recalled some nomad group on Earth leaving those too old or infirm to make river crossings and such-like behind to die.