Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

“Some of that shit you sold might have killed people I knew,” she said quietly.

  “Maybe,” he admitted. He took his tray and stood. “I understand why you might not want to be my friend.”

  “Not all friends are great people,” she said. “Also, I believe there’s always a chance at redemption.” Bruce glanced at her watch, an old Timex digital. “I have fifteen minutes before takeoff. Can you get your gear into a cargo net?”

  He gawked at her in surprise.

  * * *

  “Cargo net? Da, I have one of those.”

  Vat followed Artyom to an apparently empty tent, only to find it full of stuff. Boxes of ammo, grenades, supplies…and cartons of some local plants? “Sergeant, where did all this come from?”

  “You know,” the Russian said as he dug around, “sometime things just appear here. I don’t ask why or how.” He moved a sack, which Vat thought said, “sesame seeds” in Taiwanese, to reveal a hemp cargo net folded on a pallet. “Amazing. There is net.”

  “Artyom…”

  “You going to help? This is heavy.”

  As he helped lug the net to the corral, Vat tried again. “Artyom, what would you do if someone found all of that?”

  “All of what?”

  He would have made a hell of an arms dealer.

  They arrived at the corral as the sun began to crawl over the horizon, but a light fog was clinging to the ground. It reminded Vat of a scene from a spy movie. It felt as shady as what he was trying to pull off. Lech and Sam came out from behind a fence, staring at the two men in confusion.

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “It’s a cargo net,” Lech said. Since he’d served in the Polish Navy, it made sense he’d be the one to recognize it.

  “Right,” Vat said. “Okay, quickly, get all the gear piled in the middle, but leave enough room so the net can be pulled up on all sides.”

  “Why are we—?” Sam started to ask.

  “Quit asking questions and do it!” Vat barked, giving them a true order for the first time. All three men looked surprised, but quickly moved to comply. Less than a minute after finishing, they looked up at the distinctive thumping of an approaching helicopter. Miizhaam and Salsaliin arrived with Illapt and Tevweret following behind them. They had expected a line of whinnies; a helicopter hadn’t been part of the bargain.

  Vat could see Bruce in the pilot’s seat as someone leaned out from the right-side door and waved. Bruce slowly lowered the helicopter to hover over them, a cable hanging down. With the men’s help, Vat got it attached to the cargo net. It wasn’t easy since his assistants had neither done it before nor even ridden in a helicopter.

  Vat stood back and signaled to the man above. The helicopter lifted the cargo net and moved sideways past the paddock of whinnies. He figured the helicopter would scare the hell out of horses, but the lizards just watched the hammering machine disinterestedly.

  Bruce set the craft down, first settling the cargo then angling to land next to it. Then it was Vat’s job to get his team of wide-eyed people aboard the huge, noisy, whirling death-machine.

  Artyom just shrugged and climbed in. Sam practically crawled across the grass, continually looking up at the blur of rotors. Lech started twice before committing. Illapt and Tevweret were amusing; both men half closed their eyes as they walked, trying to appear calm so they weren’t out toughed by the off-world humans.

  Last was the women. Neither wanted to approach the helicopter. Vat walked back and held out his hand. “You have to trust me,” he yelled over the idling machine. Of course, it was Salsaliin who ended up taking his hand and allowed herself to be led to the helo. Miizhaam slowly followed, though she looked terrified. Bruce gave him a thumbs-up once they had all climbed aboard. She had them airborne in seconds.

  The four locals, men and women alike, all gawked in stunned amazement as they rose into the sky. Vat was worried they’d freak out, but once they were flying, the four seemed to enjoy the experience.

  “This is amazing!” Illapt yelled, an ear-to-ear grin on his face.

  Vat had thought Blackhawks were loud helicopters; he’d never been in a Huey. It was noisy and rough. The engine behind his head roared like an enraged dragon. If it hadn’t been for the headset, he’d probably have gone deaf.

  “You doin’ okay, Lieutenant?” It was Bruce’s crew chief, Sergeant Elroy Frazier, whom she called El. He was the man who’d been signaling as they hovered. There hadn’t been time to meet him the previous outing. He was a massive black man with a permanent grin on his face. Another Vietnam-era soldier.

  “Just peachy,” Vat replied over the headset. The cargo compartment was nearly full, with boxes of ammo in the center between benches. El showed Vat how to talk to the pilot. He leaned toward the mic. “I really appreciate this, Bruce.”

  “You owe me, Lieutenant.”

  Vat grinned and agreed. She was pretty awesome in his book.

  Artyom was looking over the boxes with interest. Vat caught his eye and shook his head decisively. The message was clear; don’t even think about it. The big Russian roared with laughter, then nodded in understanding.

  What would have taken them days of riding, the helicopter covered in less than two hours. When they were about a half-hour out, Vat spotted an unusually pointy hill. It looked like a pile of rocks, just off to one side of their course. His examination was interrupted when Bruce rapped on the divider and pointed out her side door. Vat turned and looked. It took a second to spot the line of dust.

  “Trucks?” he asked over the intercom.

  “Sure looks like it,” El answered. “I’d say at least five of them.”

  “They have air cover,” Bruce said. “Check nine o’clock.”

  He shifted his gaze and saw it immediately: one of the satrap’s damned dirigibles. It was trying to turn toward them, probably not realizing how fast the helicopter was going. Now he knew for certain they were heading for the same place.

  “What are we going to do?” Sam asked, using a pair of binoculars to examine the column. “Five trucks, for sure.”

  “We help those people,” Vat said.

  The younger man met his gaze and slowly nodded. Vat took the glasses and examined the column. One of the trucks was towing a tank of some kind. Probably fuel. Shit.

  Soon the village came into sight. It looked pretty typical: a couple dozen huts, a few of them made to be easily broken down for transport.

  “Our village!” Tevweret yelled in amazement, pointing. “It took us five days of riding to get to your base!” El grinned from his fold-down seat by the door.

  Bruce circled the village, looking for a landing site, as locals poured out of the huts, staring up at them. Many were armed, and Vat was afraid they were about to come under fire. Bruce finally found a spot and lowered them until they were hovering just above the ground. Vat heard a loud snap, and she side-slipped to settle to the ground. The cable holding the cargo net which had ridden underslung the whole way from the base had been released.

  Thirty or more tribesman were waiting a dozen meters beyond the blades’ rotational diameter, weapons held ready without being threatening. Vat purposely had Illapt and Tevweret dismount the aircraft first. A big man yelled and raised his arms as he ran toward them.

  Bruce leapt out of her seat and rushed to the man, screaming. He looked alarmed and stopped. Vat saw her gesturing at the deadly blades whizzing overhead. She leaned close and said something in his ear. The man’s eyes bugged out, and he nodded profusely. Vat knew she had just told him what would happen if he ran into them with his arms high enough. Illapt was reunited with his father soon after, albeit a little more subdued than originally intended.

  The Huey idled as Bruce came over to Vat. “There you go,” she said. “You sure you’re okay with that trouble coming?”

  “Not in the least,” he answered. “But I’m not leaving these people to die, or the women to be raped. Period.”

  “I knew you were a good guy,” she said. “
Even if you didn’t.”

  Vat didn’t agree, though he kept his peace. “You aren’t going to get in trouble for this, are you?” he asked, gesturing at the supplies.

  “For what?” she replied and winked. Vat smiled, and she gave him a hug.

  It was then he noticed the difference in her posture, and the fit of her flight suit. He leaned in and said into her ear to be sure nobody heard, “How far along are you?”

  She pulled back, her eyes narrowing.

  It was his turn to wink. “Just a secret, between us.”

  “Not for too much longer. You be careful, Vat,” she said, and trotted toward her bird.

  “You, too!” he yelled after her.

  El was sitting in the door, feet dangling over the side. Vat gave him a salute, which the man returned crisply. In moments, the helicopter’s engine noise grew, and the brand-new model of the ancient Huey pounded its way into the air. Bruce spun it around, tipped its nose forward, and raced away as it climbed into the sky. He hoped he see her again someday, and her baby, too.

  For now, he was on his own.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  R’Bak

  “Lieutenant,” Illapt said, “this is my father, Bafguur, hetman of our village.”

  “Please to meet you, sir,” Vat said, bowing his head. “You may call me Vat. It is the way I prefer to be addressed.”

  “It is good to meet you too, Vat. My men have spotted the satrap’s forces in their smoking wagons. They will be here tomorrow. Are more of your soldiers coming in the thumping birds?”

  Thumping birds, not a bad way to refer to a Huey. “We are it,” Vat said and gestured to the three men and two women. It was apparent Bafguur was disappointed. “You have heard of our ability to fight?”

  “Yes, but four men and two women against the hundred or more the satrap will send?”

  “We are more than they are expecting.” Bafguur scowled, but Vat pushed on. “Your son could not guarantee you will fight. We came on the hope you will.”

  “If this is all you will send to help us, I do not know if I should. Maybe we should flee.”

  “You cannot outrun them.” Bafguur’s scowl turned to a serious frown. “You’ve heard stories of our abilities, have you not?” Bafguur nodded. “The offer I make is a simple one: commit to assisting us against the satrap, then the invaders from Kulsis, and we will defeat your enemies with you.”

  “Such a promise, you can make?”

  Vat smiled. “Yes.”

  “The satrap’s forces and their sky ship?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Then we will fight.”

  “Good to hear.” He turned and saw his team was unloading the cargo netting. One case had already been set aside. He patted the case. “Then this is for you. I need your ten best fighters.” Vat explained what he needed them for and opened the case. Bafguur’s eyes went wide when he saw the contents. The frown he’d worn since hearing how few people Vat had brought slowly changed to a grin.

  “For us to keep?”

  “If you fight alongside us, yes.” The grin turned to a big toothy smile.

  Murphy isn’t going to like this. He watched the hetman gently pick up the M3 and examined it. Yeah, he’s gonna be really pissed. “Get your men together; we have to work quickly.”

  * * *

  Vat had never handled the old M3, or Grease Gun, as the soldiers nicknamed it in WWII. They’d started phasing it in at the end of 1942 as a simpler, lighter, and less expensive replacement for the Thompson. If it had a downside, it was less accurate at medium range. It used .45 ACP, the same as the Thompson, so it had a good punch, but at a slower rate of fire. It also had 30-round box magazines, unlike his Thompson which had the smaller 20-round sticks. A Thompson could empty a 20-round stick in about a two-second burst. Vat had made sure to take only 30-round boxes for the new weapons.

  Due to his lack of familiarity, he let Sam and Artyom give instruction in the gun. Sam had trained with one and, ironically, Artyom had one for a time in Russia—part of the lend-lease exchange.

  “I do not like much,” the Russian admitted. The M3 looked like a toy in his massive hands. “The aim is strange.” Instead of the front sight being positioned at the end of the barrel, the grease gun forward site was at the front of the receiver, four inches back from the tip, and it was tiny, which made for a difficult sight picture. “Harder to hit things further away.”

  “It’s really a close-quarters gun,” Sam pointed out.

  “This close quarters, too,” Artyom said, patting one of his two AK-47s.

  “Why don’t you just help Sam get these men up to speed?”

  Artyom’s eyes gleamed, and he went back to work. Vat sighed and listened to their lesson for a minute before going to look over the rest of equipment. Everything had been disbursed based on the plan he’d put together. Villagers were busily getting wagons ready and their possessions packed. It was going to be tight.

  “Vat?”

  He turned around. It was Salsaliin. He looked around; there was no easy way to escape. “Yes?”

  “I spoke to my grandmother. She will talk to you.”

  He’d nearly forgotten his main reason for coming to the village. “Take me to her, please.”

  Salsaliin nodded and walked through the frantic activity of the village.

  “You want backup?” Sam asked.

  “No, I’m good. Keep up the training, conserve ammo, and follow up with Lech after he’s done scouting.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Salsaliin maneuvered through the chaos of the camp under duress. Vat saw dozens of the tribe’s members loading women and children onto modified whinnie saddles. Almost all their mounts were going to take the non-combatants away in the opposite direction of the advancing forces at night so no prying eyes would see. However, they couldn’t move everyone and everything, and they couldn’t do it fast enough to avoid the satrap’s forces.

  “If we run, we’ll have to abandon almost everything we need to survive,” Illapt had said. That was what had sold Vat on intervening. With the enemy forces breathing down their necks, he was glad now there hadn’t been enough whinnies at the camp. He and his team would still have been days away when the satrap attacked.

  Eventually, he spotted Miizhaam standing near a tent. Unlike many others, this one showed no signs of people being packed out.

  “This is our Atii, or old-one, Ooshwelo,” Miizhaam said.

  “I thought you said she was your grandmother,” Vat said to Salsaliin.

  “We sometimes refer to extended older family in such a way. If they have no surviving family, they are all our grandmothers. You should simply refer to her as an old-one.”

  Atii, Vat thought and mentally added it to the column of non-conforming wordforms. Miizhaam held the tent flap open, and he entered.

  The interior was dark and warmer than outside. A shape he’d thought was a pile of blankets moved, and he saw a head, stooped over and missing much of its hair. As his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, he could see she was looking at him.

  “Sit, please. You are the one from the stars,” she said.

  He sat, listening to her speak. Her voice was full of the inflections he’d been recording, the non-conforming elements. He slid a hand into his jacket pocket and activated the recorder, determined to get the most out of this situation in case he didn’t get all the answers he needed. He could at least get a good recording of all those strange language elements.

  “Yes,” he said and bowed his head. “It is a pleasure to meet Ooshwelo, the Atii.”

  Her face cracked into a slight smile. “Your speech in our words is pleasant to the ears, though it is obvious you have learned from the Fraa.”

  Vat blinked and thought. The word was similar to Fri, which meant new. “Fraa?” he asked.

  “New ones,” she said.

  “Are there many Atii?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Very few o
f us.”

  “Can I ask how old you are?”

  She smiled again. “I have seen one hundred and thirty-six years.”

  Vat’s first thought was she’s senile…but her demeanor and eyes said the opposite. So how could she be—? And then he realized: one hundred and thirty-six local years was only—only!— one hundred and two Earth years old. “You lived through the last Searing,” he said, his voice almost hushed. She nodded sagely. “You have traveled to the pole and back?”

  “No, I have never seen those lands.”

  He leaned closer. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “When you are Atii, you learn a few things.” She was quiet for a long time. He began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep, but then she blinked and spoke. “What would you like to know of this old Atii?”

  Old and Atii? It came out as a redundant statement, like saying an old old house. He couldn’t wait to listen to the conversation again. “I would like to know about the Daaj.”

  “Oh,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “Salsaliin mentioned your curiosity. I’m sorry, I cannot. You are an outsider.”

  He was disappointed—very—but he couldn’t argue with her. How could he? “Can you tell me why your language seems different than the rest of your people?” He gave her several examples. “Even your title, Atii, doesn’t match Ktoran in form.”

  Her smile returned, though more subtle this time. “You believe Atii is a title? How interesting. I would say you have much still to learn about us. I am glad you have come to help. I’m tired now, though; please go away.” She lowered her head and appeared to immediately fall asleep. He sat for a long moment then felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Miizhaam, gesturing for him to come. He got up and followed her out of the dark, warm tent.

  “Did you learn what you wanted?” she asked once outside.

  “No,” he admitted. “Do you think she will talk again? After the battle, and they bring her back?”

  “Back? She is not leaving.”

  “But we’ll be in a pitched battle!” he complained. “We cannot protect her.”