“Only with yo momma,” Jackson muttered, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Wait, what the hell? Did I kill someone last night?”
“No, Kemosabe, you did not. Not for lack of trying, though.”
“I missed? He was so close.”
Despite the absence of the young man who knew the full story, Chalmers decided not to lie and instead took the high road and said, “Nope. You tagged them. Right in the chest.”
Just because Chalmers wasn’t lying didn’t mean he had to admit to Jackson that he had missed so badly as to endanger them both with the ricochet, or that he didn’t want to distract him from the impact of shooting someone, something Jackson had only had to do once before, if Chalmers recalled correctly. And that hadn’t been a woman. Not that it should matter when you are threatened with deadly force, but some folks needed reassurance they wore the white hats, even when they were entirely within their rights to defend themselves. And some guys, Chalmers included, had a hard time reconciling harming a woman with being the good guy.
“In the chest? And he ain’t dead?”
“Not yet,” Chalmers said with a shrug. “And if the way these freakish villagers are acting is any indication, she’s likely to live.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Chalmers answered, glad Jackson had missed his gender slip.
“How?”
“A couple of followers—I think they’re apprentices or something—took charge and have been working on her ever since.”
“Surgery?”
Chalmers shrugged. “I guess. I had to drag you in here while you were sleeping on the job.”
“Wait…her? I shot some chick?”
Cursing inwardly, Chalmers qualified his partner’s statement. “No, you shot an attacker, thinking they were about to kill you.”
“The healer?”
“The healer,” Chalmers confirmed.
Jackson shook his head in confusion. “So, the villagers weren’t pissed?”
“I know, right?” Chalmers said it with feeling. He’d sat up all night spinning his wheels between concern for Jackson and wondering when someone would come to kill them both.
“But one of our party offs the hetman’s kid and then I shoot their healer?”
“Yeah, it’s starting to make me think there is something seriously wrong with these people.”
“Starting?”
“Jacks, I am freaked out. Haven’t slept all night.”
“Wait…what did she knock me out with? I don’t feel like I was cracked in the head,” Jackson said, hands investigating his shaved skull.
“She used some kind of drug on you.”
Jackson looked more confused, not less. “Bullshit. That kinda shit only happens in movies.”
“What’s that, you getting knocked out by a woman? ’Cause I’m pretty sure there was tha—”
Jackson interrupted him. “Naw, man, a drug knocking someone out that quick.” The smaller man stood up and cracked his neck by the simple expedient of grabbing his head in both hands and twisting one way and then the other.
“I don’t know; doesn’t chloroform work that way?”
“Sure, but it’s risky as hell. Killed a lot of people even when used by doctors.” Jackson pulled his pistol, press-checked it, and popped the magazine. “I don’t feel any the worse for wear.”
“No shit?” Chalmers asked.
“No shit.” He looked a question at Chalmers, who gestured at the pack behind the bedroll Jackson had been lying on.
“Okay, but why is it important?”
Jackson shrugged as he rummaged in the pack for the box of ammunition. He palmed a cartridge and closed his pack up. “Aside from my mouth tasting a bit of ass, I don’t feel any real side effects, and any medic who can do that for our wounded would be worth their weight in gold.”
Chalmers nodded. “I see. Well, guess we oughta hope you didn’t kill her then?”
The question elicited another shrug from Jackson as he slid the fat .45 cartridge into the magazine. “Street rules: come at me, I go at you. Happened before, will happen again. Street rules.” He slid the magazine into the well and tapped it with the heel of his left hand to make sure it was properly seated, then holstered up.
“Copy that,” Chalmers said, wondering again what kind of life Jackson had come to the Army from.
Jackson crossed his arms over his chest then said, “Besides, her doctor’s bag probably has enough of whatever she used on me and maybe even more useful stuff. We can take samples back to the major.”
“And then what?” Chalmers asked. “The SpinDogs aren’t as advanced as the freakshows that brought us here, and I didn’t see anything that would let us synthesize tea like on the Enterprise.”
Jackson shook his head. “Your momma never accused you a thinkin’ too far ahead, did she? I want to make it past this shit-show and somehow make a life. To do that, I think we gonna need everything we can get: ideas, dope, weapons, allies, whatever. Every damn thing we can get. When you up against it, street rules apply.”
“Makes sense,” Chalmers said, unsure he still wanted to know what Jackson’s childhood had been like. He’d always known the sergeant was smarter, a little more ruthless, a better planner, and simply a better man than he himself was, but the hard edge to Jackson’s voice made Chalmers shiver. And neither the tone nor content of Jackson’s statement had been directed at him, but rather at an uncaring universe. It seemed to Chalmers at that moment that it was just possible Jackson could bend that universe to his will.
Maybe.
* * * * *
Chapter 8 – Mileage May Vary
AUKSKANIS MOUNTAIN CAMP: MISSION DAY 052
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, especially 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 Camp 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 the
n 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.
“Your guides,” the Kedlakis-Ur said, drawing him from his observations.
Chalmers put his tea down and smiled at her. “I thank the tribe, you, and our guides for the gifts of your aid.”
She cocked her head, lovely eyes narrowed on him. “The tribe is not involved. Solely the Kedlak.”
“I beg pardon. I misspoke.” Chalmers said the words without knowing what, exactly, he’d said that was incorrect. He’d thought the Kedlak were the tribe. He suppressed the urge to glance at Jackson and decided to shut the hell up. Clan politics, he decided.
The Kedlakis-Ur waved a hand. “There is nothing to pardon. My something will see you to Clarthu and help you uncover the traitor.”
“Thank you,” he said, restraining the urge to hit on her. Much as he wanted to chat her up, now was not the time. Not for the new, better Chalmers, anyway. Old Chalmers would have followed where this attraction led at the expense of just about anything.
“Travel easily and lightly,” she said. The Kedlakis-Ur then turned to the guides and nodded once to each, repeating the benediction. The bows they gave her were the most formal thing Chalmers had seen from an indig thus far.
The Kedlakis-Ur walked away, Chalmers trying not to stare after her in case it offended the young pair.
“Head’s up,” Jackson said, shoving Chalmers’ bag into the warrant’s hands with a quelling look that made the older man wonder what he’d done now.
He loaded the buggy while Jackson topped off the tanks from the jerry cans. Their guides looked on, impassive, as the partners prepared for travel. The rest of the camp paid them no more attention than they had the night before.
“A little less than one and a half cans left, Chalmers,” Jackson said, the impact of one knuckle drawing a muted bong from the partially-empty jerry can.
“Copy that. Should be plenty, so long as we don’t have to fight sand or something.” He looked a question at the guide.
“No sand,” the guide said, shaking his head. “No big rocks. Some small gravels when we get down the something, and then green lands to Clarthu.”
“Green lands, eh? Sounds nice,” Jackson said, looking at the sere beiges, browns, and grays of the mountains surrounding the camp. “Though I suppose, growing up here, anything would look green.”
Chalmers checked the tautness of the tie-downs keeping their packs in place, slung his M-14, and hustled to claim the driver’s seat. He really enjoyed driving the buggy. Driving it made him feel both useful and in active command of his own destiny. In control of something that was, in fact, hard to manage. Like exerting control over his lifelong inclination to lie and fuck things up, only safer.
His rush caused the slung M-14 to bang into the steering wheel and shoved him off balance.
Or maybe not so much safer, after all. Murphy’s Law always found a way of levelling those who started thinking too highly of themselves or their skills. Flushing, Chalmers removed the weapon, carefully slipped it into the rifle scabbard between the seats, and secured it.
“What?” asked Jackson with a grin. “I thought you were getting ready to lay on some dumbass redneck shit, driving with a gun in one hand like a wild man.”
* * *
CLARTHU: MISSION DAY 053
Grinning like a wild man, a villager trotted toward the partners, a bottle in one hand.
The partners had walked the village from one end to the other. Ostensibly searching for Ked—who they’d left near Clarthu’s main gate—but they were both hoping for some clue to leap up and tell them just what the hell was going on.
As the running local approached, Chalmers smiled, asked “For us?” and reached toward the bottle.
The villager swerved to avoid the warrant officer, shooting him a dirty look as he trotted the rest of the way to the gate, where he immediately handed the flask to Ked. Their guide had a leather strap holding a bandage to the wound on his head from the previous night’s misadventures.
“Was that the good stuff?” Chalmers asked absently, watching their guide talk easily, casually to the newcomer and a couple of the villagers guarding the main drag into town. The young nomad took a deep swig from the bottle.
“Is it the ‘good stuff’? Good stuff?” Jackson’s laugh was a derisive bark. “There’s no good stuff. Not here.”
“You know what I mean,” Chalmers said. He gestured at Ked. “What the hell is going on here, you think?”
Jackson shook his head. “I ain’t sure. Something stinks, though.”
Ked’s smiling face was suddenly painted a bright, wet red.
“Holy—” Chalmers shouted, gaping at the man that had been standing next to Ked. A good part of the man’s face was gone, or at least mangled beyond all recognition.
Chalmers blinked, his brain catching up even as the sound of the shot reached his ears: a large caliber bullet had entered the back of the man’s head blasting out a spray of skull, teeth, and skin. It was his blood, not paint, that had splashed all over Ked.
“Down!” Jackson bellowed, already yanking Chalmers into a crouch beside him.
That part of his brain not reeling from the sudden violence and death in front of them was amazed at how fast Jackson’s reflexes were. His partner was already kneeling beside the front wall of the hetman’s place, scanning for the shooter.
Ked was also in a crouch and moving to cover even as something raised a puff of brick dust against the wall beside him.
This time the sound of the sniper’s shot was drowned out as Jackson opened up right next to him. The four fast rounds from his M-14 made Chalmers jump. The warrant officer knew his hearing wouldn’t be the same after a few more close shots, but couldn’t care less, so long as Jackson kept the sniper from shooting again.
Chalmers risked a quick look over the wall at the area Jackson was firing upon. A largish stand of the tree-like grasses he’d almost hit on the way in lined a juncture of two of the irrigation canals about a hundred and fifty yards from the village. It wasn’t much as cover, but it had obviously provided great concealment up until the moment the sniper had fired. Now, though, a thin, whitish cloud of smoke marked the sniper’s hide.
Another puff of smoke. Chalmers ducked. Someone yelped off to the left and the sound of the gunshot rolled in a heartbeat later.
Chalmers risked another look as Jackson returned fire again. A sapling-sized blade of the tree-grass fell a yard or so above the smoke. Jackson was shooting straight.
He ducked back down as another puff of smoke erupted, this one from a few yards to the right of the earlier, slowly-dissipating ones. Either there were multiple shooters, or the sniper had displaced a few yards.
Chalmers had no
idea where the round went because he was busy flogging his brain for an approach to the stand that wouldn’t get him shot. One of the canals ran parallel to the low stone wall surrounding the village, flowing from the millrace that powered the village’s mill.
Ked and a couple of the villagers with him thumped backs-first into the wall to the left of the partners. One raised his rifle—no, musket—and fired. A flash in the pan, then nothing. The man cursed and lowered his weapon, which decided to discharge at that very moment. Thankfully the round didn’t hit anyone, just buried itself in the mud brick in front of him, but the misfire did throw the gun out of the frightened villager’s grip.
“Jesus,” Chalmers grunted.
Ked’s breechloader proved more reliable as the grinning nomad banged a round downrange at the enemy and dropped back to reload.
“Who’s shooting at us?” Chalmers shouted.
“Enemy,” Ked shouted back.
Rather unhelpful, Chalmers thought. “Try and leapfrog up to them?” Chalmers asked Jackson, hoping the answer wasn’t yes.
“Don’t like the odds without a better base of fire and some grenades,” Jackson said, far more calmly than Chalmers felt. The sergeant displaced a couple yards along the wall, popped up, and fired another fast semi-auto flurry before ducking back behind cover.
“What you want me to do?”
“Fuck if I—” A ragged clatter of gunfire from the far end of the village cut him off.
“What the hell!” Chalmers blurted, swinging his head that way.
A flat CRUMP came next, scaring the shit out of him.
“Mortar!” he shouted, unnecessarily.
“Get the buggy under cover!” Jacks shouted, his cheek still along the receiver of the M-14 as he laid down fire.
“Cover? Cover? There is no fucking cover!” Chalmers screamed even as he started toward the vehicle. It seemed to require far too much time in the open to cover the ground between buggy and wall, though that was probably because of the insufficient air wheezing through his fear-constricted windpipe and the fact that he couldn’t seem to stand up straight.
Man-Eater Page 8