Man-Eater

by Griffin Barber

  “So, the Hardliners decide to make sure we failed. Spectacularly. They contacted their people on the planet—apparently they’ve got a network like the main SpinDog liaisons have—and activated a couple of dead drops. Murphy is pretty sure—”

  “Ergk?”

  “What’s that? Oh, yeah, Murphy and me had a long chat after the battle and a couple of rather interesting discussions with some people here. Something went on up there, on all of the SpinDog rohabs; something heavy. Murphy was vague on specifics, but I got his drift: the shit they tried to pull here became known up there and bad blood boiled over. Anyway, the guys who attacked Clarthu may not have been following direct orders from the Hardliners—they may have had some motives of their own—but they definitely got the mortar and shells from them.”

  “Huuu?” Chalmers asked, the desire to know more momentarily overcoming the need to avoid more itching.

  “How? Not sure of the delive—Oh, you mean how do we know?”

  “Essss.”

  “You know how exacting their copies of our weapons are, right? That’s why my .45 rattled like the ones I trained on at Basic despite the fact it was a SpinDog-made copy. Well, the mortar was straight US Army, circa Korean War, but no serial number. Not even the stamp that the SpinDogs put on their knock-offs. Meaning the Hardliners found a way to get the plans we shared with the SpinDogs to their own fabricators—probably black-market operators among the RockHounds.” Jackson shook his head. “Leastwise, that’s what we think. Not a lot of real evidence left. You fucked the tube up good driving through the crew like you did.”

  Chalmers heard another swig and swish as Jackson drank. Silence remained in its wake; Chalmers was unable to speak and struggled to avoid recalling the feel of Man-Eater as she bucked over the bodies. He wasn’t sure what Jackson was thinking, but hoped the silence was recognition of Chalmers’ sacrificial act, interposing himself between Jackson and the exploding shell.

  “Anyway,” Jackson said after another pull on the bottle, “I think Murphy is layin’ too little at the feet of the Hardliners, but he may just be taking a page from General Powell: tryin’ to avoid breaking up the alliance despite the shit our allies be pulling.”

  “Buuuht?”

  A theatrical sigh. “You talkin’ too much, Chalmers. Let me get a word in edgewise, man.”

  “Funk uuuuu. Wheeer frm?” Chalmers managed. His bonds were loosening, which might be of concern. He probably wasn’t supposed to scratch at any of his infected wounds.

  “Where were the weapons from? I already tole you,” Jackson was slurring a bit now, the drink obviously taking effect.

  “Mnnn.”

  “Oh, the men were militia from the villages in the regions north of Clarthu. Fuckin’ weekend warriors. Apparently, they were called up by the satraps’ local underlings—called vavasors—but hadn’t shown much enthusiasm for taking on the Clarthuuns or the Kedlakis until they got the gear from the Hardliners.”

  “Tang?”

  Jackson snorted. “Space OJ?”

  “Nnnmmm. Traneng,” Chalmers said carefully.

  “Training?” Jackson asked.

  Chalmers didn’t answer, fully occupied with suppressing a resurgence of the itch.

  “I’m just gonna take your trembling for a yes. We’re still trying to run that down, but it looks like some of the satrapies allow locals to guest-train on the equipment they keep stored in their city armories. We couldn’t ask questions of the mortar men, for reasons you know already. The rest either got away or got themselves executed by the Clarthuuns, who were straight pissed. Oh, and in case you’re wondering where we are that I’m able to knock back Wild Turkey like the good ole days, then wonder no more: we’re in the new camp. All of us. The Kedlakis-Ur and her people came, too, once they heard from Ked that vengeance had been taken for the affront to her niece—that’d be the little badass, Kenla—and we’d settled the rest of the matter for them.”

  Chalmers stirred.

  “And about the scores getting settled? Apparently that was part of the plan from the get-go. At least, according to the Kedlakis-Ur. The village hetman’s kid, the one Kenla killed? He wanted to take over from his pops but had been refused by the village council. So, he gets all angry and shit, and starts shopping the village to the, uh…the vavasors. Real dirtbag, this fucker.

  “Somewhere along the line, a vavasor puts him in touch with the local satrap’s fixer, who hooks him up with those RPGs. It was part of a deal to not only get control of the village, but as many of the nomads as he could convince to come over to their side. And, get this! He apparently approached the Kedlakis-Ur’s niece to negotiate a deal that would betray us all to the satrap. When the niece told him to pound salt, he attacked her.”

  Another pull on the bottle, then a bourbon-rasped, “I remember thinking, given how easy she was about dueling the hetman and controlling that fight to buy us time, that his rat-fuck son must have had a trick up his sleeve to even think about attacking Kenla himself. Didn’t make sense at the time, but then enter the drug the healer used to put me down.”

  Jackson coughed. Another slosh. Chalmers heard the bottle thump on the ground.

  “So…so then. What am I missing?” Jackson’s slur was fairly strong now. “So…so the healer, right? She’s pissed about her son—oh, yeah, the healer and the hetman were a couple back when. But she’d made her peace with the break-up. She wasn’t happy about her boy making deals with the enemy and then stealing her drugs to mickey the Kedlakis-Ur’s niece. Oh, no, not the kind of shit a wise woman or whatever can take lying down. Goes against her oaths and whatnot. So she’s pissed, right? But it’s her kid, right? So, she decides to get rid of the evidence that shows he’s working for the wrong side…and that’s when we show up and I put a round in her chest.” Chalmers heard Jackson’s hands scrubbing the stubble of his cheeks. “Fuck, me, but I’m glad I didn’t kill her…”

  Silence settled around them.

  Chalmers wasn’t sure he understood all of it, or that it all made sense, but what he did comprehend jibed with the behaviors he’d seen from the principal players in this little intertribal drama.

  “Cmmn?” he asked.

  “Common?”

  Chalmers nodded.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Chalmers. Maybe if I take that off.” Chalmers heard a thump, like the front pair of a chair’s legs hitting a wood floor after someone leaning back came fully forward. A clinking, as of scissors being taken off an aluminum tray, then, “Hold still.”

  Chalmers, helpless to do anything but, did as he was told. A few seconds later he was blinking into a lantern hung from one of the tent’s supports while Jackson got rid of the remaining bandages that had swaddled his head so tightly he couldn’t speak.

  Jackson sat, returned his chair to the preferred angle of lean with his boots on Chalmers’ bed, and allowed a big shit-eating grin to slowly spread across his face.

  “What?” Chalmers asked. Surprised at the lack of pain, he tried to raise an arm to touch his face and survey the damage, but Jackson hadn’t cut his hands free.

  “Nothin’,” Jackson slurred.

  “Wait, why am I feeling no pain?”

  “’Cause you’re in heaven?” Jackson ventured, fixing Chalmers with a leer.

  “Fuck you. We both know I’m going to hell when I die.” He blinked, struggling to get his hands free, still feeling no pain—at least from his face, despite talking. “Wait, why was my jaw tied up?”

  “Already told you. I wanted to get a word in edgewise.”

  “Jackson!” Chalmers shouted, the deep breath that followed and the struggle to get his arms free causing a harsh throb from deep beneath his ribs.

  Jackson laughed, hiccupped.

  “What the fuck, Jackson?” Chalmers wheezed.

  “You like that shit? I’m particularly proud of the alien fungus bit I came up with, though I think I might have over-sold the cracker shit Sonningen wanted to act out.” He looked a que
stion at Chalmers.

  “B-b-but, you said I was out for weeks?”

  “Jesus, man!” Jackson snorted, waving a dismissive hand. “You just lost a shit-ton of blood, had some deep lacerations, and broke two ribs. The crazy drugs they have here did for the lacerations, and you’re wrapped pretty tight around the chest. The face wounds are already pinked scars. You’ve only been out…uh, a little less than two days, I think.” He paused, thinking. “Yeah, two days. Shit did really get fuzzy at the end, there.”

  “Wait, so no alien fungus?” Chalmers asked, bewildered.

  Jackson laughed. “Fuck no!”

  “Untie me, then, you asshole!” The shout drove a spike of pain through his ribs. Chalmers decided not to shout, ever again.

  Jackson only laughed harder as he watched Chalmers’ face contort. “Nah,” he eventually gasped, wiping at tears, “I think I’m gonna enjoy this a while longer.” He reached down and plucked the bottle from the ground. Saluting Chalmers with it, he took a long swig, swallowed, and said, “Not every day I get to shut you up at will.”

  Jackson made a face as the liquor went down. Now calm enough to note the bottle wasn’t Wild Turkey, but some of the local rotgut, Chalmers let go of his earlier jealousy.

  He also didn’t repeat himself. Didn’t beg. Now that his temper had cooled, Chalmers knew better. Old Chalmers might have begged. More likely he’d have raged and cursed. But new Chalmers wasn’t about to beg. Not that Jackson wouldn’t accede to a properly worded beg-fest, but because that was exactly what Jackson wanted.

  No, Chalmers’ choice was about himself. New Chalmers had, ultimately, been better. Done better. He’d sacrificed his body to save Jackson from injury, and they both knew it.

  The whole purpose of Jackson’s charade was to distract them both from the changes wrought on their relationship by surviving the shit-show together. They both knew their lives had rested in the other’s hands in ways they never had before, that whatever sins Chalmers had committed in the past, they were just that, in the past, and he had done better with his present.

  Against all previous experience and expectation, Chalmers had made good on some of the oaths he’d sworn, both to himself and to Jackson.

  Neither of them could acknowledge what they had done for each other, not openly. To do so would break the unspoken contract. Jackson had come close to breaking it back in Kedlakis, but he’d been justified. Anger and honor wore a completely different set of responsibilities than gratitude, and it demanded a different set of rules. Gratitude was not to be spoken of, not to be displayed. Not between them.

  So instead they would continue this complicated dance, neither admitting to the other exactly what the other meant to them until one or the other was dead.

  And that was fine by both new and old Chalmers.

  Really.

  “Can I get a sip, Jacks?”

  “Sure, sure,” Jackson said, holding the bottle out to his partner.

  Chalmers reached, but his hands were still tied.

  Jackson fell out of his chair laughing.

  # # # # #

  About Griffin Barber

  Griffin spent his youth in four different countries, learning three languages, and burning all his bridges. Finally settled in Northern California with a day job as a police officer in a major metropolitan department, he lives the good life with his lovely wife, crazy-smart daughter, and needy dog. 1636: Mission to the Mughals, co-authored with Eric Flint, was his first novel. He’s written a number of shorts for various anthologies including Chuck Gannon’s Lost Signals. Second Chance Angel, co-authored with Kacey Ezell, is forthcoming in September.

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  The Caine Riordan Universe

  The Caine Riordan series and Terran Republic universe deliver gritty yet doggedly optimistic hard scifi in a world that is a believable and embattled successor to our own. For those who are not familiar with the series’ hallmark blend of exploration, alien encounters, intrigue, and action, you can find them all right here:

  The Caine Riordan series

  (Baen Books)

  Fire with Fire

  Trial by Fire

  Raising Caine

  Caine’s Mutiny

  Marque of Caine

  Endangered Species (forthcoming)

  Protected Species (forthcoming)

  Triage (forthcoming, with Eric Flint)

  The Murphy’s Lawless series

  Shakes

  Obligations

  Man-Eater

  Promises (coming June 17, 2020)

  Other works in the Terran Republic universe

  Lost Signals (Ring of Fire Press)

  Since that list includes a winner of the Compton Crook Award, four Nebula finalists, and two Dragon finalists, they’re not hard to find. Just go wherever books are sold. Want to learn more about the Caine Riordan series? Easy. Contact any of the publishers, or you can reach out to me at contact@charlesegannon.com.

  Want to see more of what’s going on in the Terran Republic universe? Check out http://www.charlesegannon.com for exclusive written and visual content.

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  And most important of all…welcome aboard; we’re glad you’re here!

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  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of the Revelations Cycle:

  Cartwright’s Cavaliers

  ___________________

  Mark Wandrey

  Available Now from Seventh Seal Press

  eBook, Paperback, and Audio

  Excerpt from “Cartwright’s Cavaliers:”

  The last two operational tanks were trapped on their chosen path. Faced with destroyed vehicles front and back, they cut sideways to the edge of the dry river bed they’d been moving along and found several large boulders to maneuver around that allowed them to present a hull-down defensive position. Their troopers rallied on that position. It was starting to look like they’d dig in when Phoenix 1 screamed over and strafed them with dual streams of railgun rounds. A split second later, Phoenix 2 followed on a parallel path. Jim was just cheering the air attack when he saw it. The sixth damned tank, and it was a heavy.

  “I got that last tank,” Jim said over the command net.

  “Observe and stand by,” Murdock said.

  “We’ll have these in hand shortly,” Buddha agreed, his transmission interspersed with the thudding of his CASPer firing its magnet accelerator. “We can be there in a few minutes.”

  Jim examined his battlespace. The tank was massive. It had to be one of the fusion-powered beasts he’d read about. Which meant shields and energy weapons. It was heading down the same gap the APC had taken, so it was heading toward Second Squad, and fast.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Jim,” Hargrave said, “we’re in position. What are you doing?”

  “Leading,” Jim said as he jumped out from the rock wall.

  * * * * *

  Get “Cartwright’s Cavaliers” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRZKM95/.

  Find out more about Mark Wandrey and “Cartwright’s Cavaliers” at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com/the-four-horsemen-books.

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  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy:

  Salvage Title

  ___________________

  Kevin Steverson

  Now Available from Theogony Books

  eBook, Paperback, and Audio

  Excerpt from “Salvage Title:”

  A steady beeping brought Harmon back to the present. Clip’s program had succeeded
in unlocking the container. “Right on!” Clip exclaimed. He was always using expressions hundreds or more years out of style. “Let’s see what we have; I hope this one isn’t empty, too.” Last month they’d come across a smaller vault, but it had been empty.

  Harmon stepped up and wedged his hands into the small opening the door had made when it disengaged the locks. There wasn’t enough power in the small cells Clip used to open it any further. He put his weight into it, and the door opened enough for them to get inside. Before they went in, Harmon placed a piece of pipe in the doorway so it couldn’t close and lock on them, baking them alive before anyone realized they were missing.

  Daylight shone in through the doorway, and they both froze in place; the weapons vault was full. In it were two racks of rifles, stacked on top of each other. One held twenty magnetic kinetic rifles, and the other held some type of laser rifle. There was a rack of pistols of various types. There were three cases of flechette grenades and one of thermite. There were cases of ammunition and power clips for the rifles and pistols, and all the weapons looked to be in good shape, even if they were of a strange design and clearly not made in this system. Harmon couldn’t tell what system they had been made in, but he could tell what they were.