Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  The hetman gestured with a scarred hand for the off-worlders to follow.

  “He look like Ked to you, too?” Jackson asked quietly, pointing with a stubbled chin at the retreating back of the hetman.

  “Who?” Chalmers blurted before realizing his partner meant the male half of their indig guides. He shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. But then they’re all bound to be cousins or some shit.”

  “No wonder you’re so cool with them. I forget how you rednecks are all related,” Jackson shot at him. The sergeant pushed his way through the heavy leather curtain covering the first dogleg of the entrance to the hetman’s home.

  Remembering his promise, Chalmers swallowed a shitty remark and followed past the tight corners. Initially he’d thought the construction was intended to restrict airflow and keep the interior cool, and it probably helped with that, but now Chalmers suspected the primary intent was as a choke point in the event of an attack.

  He was rounding the final corner when someone outside started shooting. A pretty big gun, from the sound of it, and a distinctive report.

  A report he’d heard once before, almost a month ago on Spin One…

  * * *

  “How many shots?” Chalmers had asked, glancing from the display to the SpinDog briefing officer who had the most personal experience with the tribes in their probable area of operations. He’d been brought over from Spin Two to share his knowledge.

  The officer nodded at Chalmers’ question. “Most of the native long arms are single-shot breech-action, but there are more advanced arms in production, and the satraps and their lackeys have not been able to keep control over all of them.”

  Chalmers listened, but his attention was back on the display. A rifle-armed woman was belly-crawling toward what looked like a cross between a turkey and a toothy lizard: it was one freaky-looking predator. Despite the awkward appearance, however, it was definitely a predator. The opening of the video had shown the alien things chasing down and dispatching one of the woman’s equally-alien looking livestock with a single bite to the back of the critter’s short, muscle-bound neck.

  Preoccupied, the bird-thing slashed the belly of its prey with one claw, then thrust its smooth head fully into the gaping wound.

  Chalmers, aware of the mixed company, carefully did not verbalize the crack every soldier ever would make on seeing the images.

  The woman in the display carefully rose to one knee, leveled her long rifle, and took aim while the thing had its head inside the other thing.

  The predator withdrew its bloody maw, a massive piece of organ meat distending the scaled throat as strands of bloody tissue quivered and stretched all the way back into the wound cavity. It was easy to imagine the sound of that mouth snapping closed around a human victim, given how wide and powerful the man-eating jaws were.

  The woman fired.

  The thing seemed to flinch. The dun rocks behind it were suddenly painted with oddly-tinted blood.

  The shooter wasn’t watching. She was already reloading, breech open, trigger hand reversing and dropping a palm-length cartridge into the breech.

  “Jesus, what is that gun, a fifty?”

  There followed a brief explanation and comparison of Kulsian versus Earth’s “Imperial” caliber nomenclatures. The briefers were two dudes and a tall, spindly woman he had a hard time not staring at.

  “So not quite fifty caliber,” finished Stabilo, the lead briefing officer and higher muckety-muck. Or the son of one. Chalmers didn’t know and didn’t like him. First, he was handsome, and second, he said everything with an air of certainty that rubbed Chalmers the wrong way.

  On the screen, the bird-thing stumbled, possibly already dead on its feet.

  The woman shot again, just to be sure.

  * * *

  A second, throaty almost-fifty-caliber roar sounded well after the first, as if the shooter wanted to be sure their target was dead. Or maybe, wanted to give them enough time to realize what was happening to them.

  Jackson just about bowled Chalmers over trying to get back inside the hetman’s home. They’d both thought it was safe to come out, but were jacked up on adrenaline and fear, eyes wide and nuts tight when the shot cracked the quiet. Jackson had only succeeded in shoving the Warrant Officer back toward the entrance before bouncing off Chalmers and onto his ass.

  “We good?” Jackson asked, getting back on his feet almost instantly.

  Chalmers swallowed and nodded.

  When in the shit, Jackson somehow always found cover first. Growing up rough on the South Side of Chicago did that to a kid. Chalmers didn’t begrudge it; following his partner’s nigh-preternatural instincts had saved them both more than once.

  The pair blinked a few times in the harsh afternoon light. Unlike most terrestrial towns that had a square, Clarthu was fronted on all but one side by the low buildings the briefings told him were villagers’ favored abodes in the Ashbands of R’Bak. The fourth side, where a place of worship would normally sit, was taken up by the village storehouse.

  By the time Chalmers’ vision adjusted, Larn was already entering the trench before the door to his neighbor’s place, two armed villagers on his heels.

  There was some muffled shouting, but no more shots from inside.

  A heavy local rifle—the kind Chalmers expected—was tossed out the open door. It landed in the dust, breech open and empty. A woman emerged a second later, her hands up. She offered no resistance as several villagers pulled her from the doorway.

  “Damn,” Chalmers said, hastily holstering his sidearm as he recognized the woman.

  It was Kenla.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  R’Bak

  Jackson picked up on the identity of the shooter a split second later. “Shit.”

  Chalmers nodded, wished he could understand any of the angry words being exchanged. None of which were spoken by the shooter, who remained serenely aloof in the thicket of murder-eyed villagers.

  “Where is Ked?” Chalmers asked quietly.

  Jackson shrugged, eyes on the woman and her captors.

  “Order!” the hetman shouted.

  The villagers quieted instantly.

  Such discipline impressed Chalmers. In the Mog, a shooting like this would have the whole city rattling off rounds, but the R’Baku didn’t seem to have a khat-analog, thank God. Then again, rampant stimulant use wasn’t the only reason people felt the need to get trigger-happy, not when simple greed with a side of racism and religious fanaticism would do in a pinch.

  Chalmers blinked back memories of Somali kids leaving their shot-to-shit homes and only begging for chocolate or digging through UN trash barrels for goodies. When you were a third-generation bullet-dodger used to scavenging for basic necessities, it was easy to miss the big picture, let alone see the root causes of a fucked-up life. Chalmers reminded himself—as he’d had to a few times before—that he was here for a specific mission, not to fix everything.

  Beyond the tableau and visions of old memories, he caught sight of a sweating Ked jogging into view from between a couple of buildings.

  “What was he doing?” Chalmers asked.

  “Not his job, that’s for sure,” Jackson replied.

  “You sure?”

  Jackson’s eyes didn’t leave Ked. Lips thinning, he shrugged and said, “Fuck. No way to know.”

  “Right,” Chalmers said, eyes sliding back to the hetman.

  Larn was in the process of almost reverently disarming the woman.

  She said something Chalmers didn’t hear.

  Larn nodded, said something equally quiet. The crowd started to hurl what sounded like threats at the woman, showing the hetman’s control was not as complete as it seemed at first. Kenla was smart enough to remain still, her expression frozen in what Chalmers took to be resignation.

  “What should we do, Chalmers?” Jackson asked, head swiveling between Ked and the mob around his sister.

  “I don’t know,” the warra
nt officer said, certain only that he didn’t want to be between the villagers and the target of their anger. He looked again for Ked and saw the warrior shoving his way through the crowd to get to the woman.

  Two of the larger villagers pointedly blocked his path. One pushed him. Ked’s expression darkened, anger overcoming his initial shock and surprise. The villager ended up flat on his back.

  “Shit, we gotta do something, right?”

  “Damn it,” Chalmers said, watching Ked use a slick move to dump another of the locals on his ass.

  “Stop!” Larn barked as several of the villagers turned to deal with the threat charging into their midst.

  But Ked was already putting down the next man who laid hands on him; only a few bodies separated him from Larn and Kenla.

  Larn wasn’t having it, though, and pushed the still-unresisting woman behind him.

  Chalmers was moving, but knew he was too late to do anything but witness whatever came next.

  Thankfully, Ked hadn’t completely lost his senses and tried to get around Larn rather than through him, as he had the other villagers. The older man barely moved, but Ked stumbled away, blood spurting from his nose.

  “Cease!” Larn shouted, raising a hand to stop two of his villagers trying to grab Ked. “If you wish to challenge my authority, you must do it properly, Kedlak.”

  Challenge my authority…

  Like a homing pigeon arriving unexpected but with surety, those words summoned a memory—one of the few useful ones from the long briefing sessions with the most arrogant SpinDog he’d yet encountered…

  * * *

  “Stabilo, I’m not challenging your authority.” You self-important prick. “I’m trying to get a proper answer.”

  “And I am giving you your answer, Chalmers,” the SpinDog said, glancing past the “class” toward the hatch at the back of the chamber.

  He wanted to call bullshit, but Chalmers wasn’t willing to turn his head and see who was there. Murphy, probably, and the warrant officer really didn’t want another run-in with the major if it could be helped. But a straight answer could mean the difference between life and death, or, more to the major’s interest, success or failure.

  The initial team—a SEAL, a Vietnam-era Army Special Forces soldier, and Stabilo’s own brother, Volo—were already boots on the ground. Chalmers assumed the SEAL had accepted—or been forced to accept—two datapoints Chalmers couldn’t take for granted. First, that Volo’s life was important enough to the SpinDogs to act as surety of their intent to see the mission through. Second, that Stabilo’s family had the full cooperation and endorsement of all SpinDogs. Chalmers knew better. Just because some political boss said everyone was pulling for you, it did not necessarily follow that anyone but the boss was actually pulling for you. Even the boss was suspect until proven otherwise. Especially given the nature of most SpinDogs’—hell, most humans’— rise to power. And Chalmers had worked under his fair share of shit-climbers.

  These data points in mind, he needed to know a lot more about who they would be working with once he and Jackson became the next boots on the ground. “So how do we know we can rely on the locals?”

  “Because my family, your hosts, and it being the sole chance of success, assure you of it,” the SpinDog said, leveling another quelling look at Chalmers.

  Chalmers suppressed a snort. This guy was more arrogant than just about anyone he’d ever met, and he’d been around a lot of arrogant bastards. Almost every single officer he’d ever interrogated as a suspect, for example.

  “All right, and why is it you are so sure?” Chalmers asked, in his best, “don’t bullshit a bullshitter” voice.

  If looks could kill, Chalmers would have died right there, been painfully resurrected, and killed a few more times. Stabilo’s glare only ended when Murphy cleared his throat. The young SpinDog’s gaze flicked up to the older Terran and back to his tormentor.

  Chalmers couldn’t help but smile beatifically.

  “Rest assured, the people of Clarthu will be amenable to contact,” Stabilo tried again.

  Chalmers shook his head and looked to Murphy.

  “Warrant Officer Chalmers has a need to know, Stabilo.”

  “Very good, Major Murphy.” Chalmers didn’t miss the way Stabilo’s lip started to curl before the younger man got control. “We’ve been in contact with the villagers for generations. They provide us information and certain biologicals we cannot easily obtain elsewhere; we provide them with certain technological items they cannot make themselves.”

  “Like what? How much? How often?”

  “I am afraid I cannot answer those questions with specificity.”

  Chalmers shook his head again, hoping the major would jump in and stomp the local into a more cooperative mood.

  But Murphy, rather than piling the pressure on, asked, “Maybe if you explain exactly what you want, Chalmers?”

  Chalmers answered Murphy directly, ignoring a fuming Stabilo, “I need to know what these people value so I can either predict which way they’ll jump if someone offers them a deal to sell us out or where to apply pressure if I have to question one of them regarding a crime they commit.”

  “Question?” Stabilo’s smile was a razor. “I think you overestimate how civilized these people are. There is no ‘rule of law’…as I think you call it?”

  Chalmers nodded.

  A wider, predatory smile from Stabilo. “No, none of that. Like as not, if accused of some crime, the average R’Bak nomad will insist on trial by combat.”

  “And the villagers, the city-dwellers?” Chalmers asked.

  “Most will have ground staked out for such, and formal judges to rule in those cases where both parties die as a result of the trial by combat.”

  * * *

  “Trial by combat! I demand trial by combat!” the woman shouted in answer to something Larn said to Ked, who was still prone on the ground.

  “Who will stand in the circle?”

  “I, Kenla Aksinos, will stand for myself in this. Your son raped me. I avenged myself upon him. I am innocent of wrongdoing under the laws of both the Kedlak and the Clarth.”

  The hetman raised his voice as well, arms lifted to silence the gathered people. “I dispute your right to vengeance, as you provided no proof to the people of his wrongdoing. As my son’s widows are both with child, they cannot stand in the circle. Therefore, I will face you myself.”

  “Shit,” Jackson muttered. “Does that mean—”

  “She killed his son?” Chalmers said, finishing the thought.

  The villagers shouted bloodthirsty encouragement to their leader, and the mass of them started toward the staked grounds at the far end of the village.

  Ked, forgotten in the drama, climbed to his feet and edged through the crowd to join Chalmers and Jackson. His expression was guarded but calmer than that of either of the off-worlders.

  “What the hell, Ked?”

  The indig nodded toward the last of the locals as they departed, bringing one finger to his lips to ask for silence.

  Chalmers and Jackson waited impatiently for the last of the villagers to leave the small square before the hetman’s dwelling.

  “You wanted to check the homes, no? Look for radio of collaborator who communicates with the City?”

  “What?” Jackson asked.

  “You mean you arranged all that?” Chalmers asked.

  The indig’s shrug was eloquent. “My sister wish revenge.” He gestured at the hetman’s residence. “She will make the fight last as long as she can, but we waste time.”

  Jackson’s eyes were a bit wild. “She’s not likely to survive, is she?”

  Ked shrugged again, and the bone charms decorating his bandoliers clicked as he moved to the hetman’s door. “Honor demanded this action.”

  Chalmers hurried after. “But not of you?” he asked, hearing Jackson follow.

  Ked’s surprised glance told Chalmers he’d put a foot in it. “Of course not. Kenla was attac
ked by Lornsos. As she is not with child as a result, she avenged herself, removing the stain to her honor.”

  Chalmers shook his head. “But the trial?”

  He shrugged. “She is better at blades than I.” He bent and led the way into the hetman’s home.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  R’Bak

  The central room where Larn had received them was as they’d left it: quiet, comfortable, and spartan. Ked quickly crossed to the curtained alcove at the back where the hetman slept, presumably.

  “What size thing do we search for?”

  “A very small chest. Might have a crank on it.” This much, at least, he’d accepted from the SpinDog briefer: while the Kulsians had some machinery that was far more advanced than what he was used to, they were not likely to give any high-end technology to the indig collaborators this far from centers of power. The rig was supposed to look something like a transistor radio, with a hand crank similar to those on AM/FM survival sets from Chalmers’ own era.

  Ked rummaged around in the alcove while Chalmers searched the main chamber and Jackson watched the entrance.

  It didn’t take more than two minutes to search. The villagers were maybe one step up from nomads themselves, and even the hetman’s possessions offered very little in the way of hiding places.

  “Nothing?”

  Ked shook his head. “Nothing.”

  In the end, splitting up to search several additional houses still didn’t produce the radio. Chalmers stalked out of his third, still empty-handed. Even if they’d had a Gestapo-like disregard for the personal property of their allies, hastily tossing a place was no substitute for a careful, thorough search.

  They needed time they simply were not going to have, not if the noises rising from the dueling ground were the bad sign they seemed to be. The ritualized, chant-like shouts had become more frenzied since the three had split up. Any long fight was a hard fight, Chalmers knew.