Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel
Page 15
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“We can take turns keeping watch,” Harry said to Volo, who was still sitting next to the small fire. “In case something happens.”
“There’s no need, Lieutenant,” the SpinDog replied, preoccupied. He gently poked a dried branch into the flames and withdrew it before it caught. He repeated the motion. “Most animals on this planet won’t willingly approach a fire. It’s an ingrained behavior due to the Searing. As for the Sarmatchani, they will contact us or not.”
“There are only three of us, and we will take turns staying awake,” Harry said more firmly. “This isn’t a negotiation. I’ll go first and wake you up in two hours. When your two hours are up, you wake up Rodriguez. We repeat till morning and pick up the rotation tomorrow night. Got it?”
“As you wish.” Volo never looked up from the fire.
Harry frowned, although he was glad to skip the expected argument. He watched the younger man stare into the flames.
“It’s just a fire,” Harry said, wondering about Volo’s apparent fascination.
“I’ve never seen deliberately set fire before,” he answered absently, holding his hands out, palms towards the dancing flames. “In person, that is. It’s beautiful. And warm.”
“How have you never seen a fire?” Harry asked, so startled his irritation was totally forgotten. He looked at Rodriguez, who had crossed his arms and turned to face outwards. “It’s pretty basic. Everyone’s seen a fire.”
“Intelligent people don’t allow fires in space habitats,” Volo answered with a contemptuous look. “We conduct safety drills, but actual fire would be deadly in our habitats. Then there’s the matter of fuel. Even if I could gather enough material from the farm compartment, it would be too wet to set alight easily, assuming I survived the wrath of the Chief of Hydroponics.”
Harry had been genuinely curious, with no intention of setting Volo off, but now he had again aggravated his only connection to the locals, critical to the success of his mission. Before he could articulate a neutral response, Rodriguez spoke up.
“Makes sense,” the sergeant said over his shoulder. Harry looked up and caught the NCO making little “take it easy” hand motions. “Didn’t your brothers tell you what to expect?”
“The last person my father sent was my brother, Stabilo,” Volo said, shrugging. “He told me about the gravity, of course. He talked about the richness of the land, where water and food were unrationed. He briefed me on the tribes we seek. We trade some simple tech and orbital survey information in exchange for samples of useful botanicals, other biological samples and information about the R’Baku satraps who’ve pledged fealty to Kulsis.”
“Why haven’t you allied with them outright?” Harry asked. “Couldn’t you wipe the satraps off the planet and be ready for Kulsis yourself?”
“We are too few to control a planet while building the industrial base needed for orbital shipyards and munitions factories, all in the time available in a single cycle of the Searing,” Volo replied, briefly looking up. “The raiders from Kulsis still have space superiority. They could strike the planet and find our hidden stations in the asteroid clusters, and that would be the end. If your friends can help us seize the weapons and vehicle caches the Kulsians have seeded on the surface, we can interrupt the pattern that’s kept us in hiding since our arrival. If we stop the cycle for even a single Searing, we would have a chance. We could finally control our own planet.”
“You mean control along with the Sarmatchani, of course,” Harry said wryly. “We need the tribesmen, and we need their willing help, Volo.”
“Indeed,” Volo said moodily, stirring the coals. He seemed to have completely missed Harry’s semi-sarcastic remark. “Stabilo informed me he left on excellent terms with the local tribes and said they’d welcome our return.”
“Is that so, Sky Man?” a new voice boomed from just beyond the firelight, opposite the side where both Harry and Rodriguez sat. Harry elected to slowly rise to his feet. After a beat, Volo began to stand, but a lance, its metal head gleaming orange and silver in the firelight, was abruptly laid across the SpinDog’s shoulder. Footsteps crunched and a party of tall, hooded persons came into view. Volo sank back down, turning carefully to avoid the edge of lance head and still see behind him.
“You claim blood-ties with Stabilo the Liar?” the lance owner asked, stepping even closer. With an impatient shake, the tall man discarded the hooded robe which had obscured his face. Harry first noticed a magnificent graying mane and beard, only partially controlled with what appeared to be braids and fabric bands dyed some dark color. The man’s face was lean and weathered, like shiny, tough leather. The protuberant nose and sharp cheekbones gave him the cast of a wolf. Bright, dark eyes peered out from under his beetled brow, meeting Harry’s own, and they shone with intelligence and intent.
Harry held the newcomer’s eyes and nodded toward Volo before he continued giving the man the once over, noting the fine white scars that crisscrossed the calloused hand holding the lance. With an effortless twitch, the shaft of the lance snapped vertical, coming to rest on a dark metal ferule. Several other robed figures stepped closer, all armed. Most carried lances and wore long knives, almost the length of short swords. Two cradled wooden-stocked firearms whose bores appeared wider than the width of Harry’s thumb. None of them appeared particularly pleased to see the visitors.
“My name is Volo of the House Zobulakos,” the SpinDog announced haughtily. Harry watched as his slender ally found his feet and made a show of brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder where the lance had rested.
Volo was defiant even in the face of drawn weapons; Harry had to give him points for style.
“I am here representing the esteemed friend to all Sarmatchani, my father, Arko Primus Heraklis Zobulakos. This is a mission of great importance. What honorless prole names my brother a liar and interferes with the will of the Primus? Tell me, that I might inform your chief of this insolence.”
Harry tensed as two of the newcomers surged forward in angry reaction to the word “honorless,” but the tall man interposed his lance, barring their way.
“Father!” the shorter one objected, throwing back her hood, revealing a sharp featured young woman. She’d drawn her blade and balefully eyed the SpinDog. “Let me teach this arrogant weakling about honor!”
“Nay, Stella,” the broad-shouldered man said grimly. “Even my daughter must cleave to the law. This is a clan matter. And as to the stripling’s question…
“I, hight Yannis al-Caoimhip ex-huscarlo, Patrisero of the Herdbane, First among the Sarmatchani,” he went on, fixing his eyes first on Volo and then each of the Terrans. “I name Stabilo of the Sky People a liar, a cheat, and a coward. I call his people to account. Blood or treasure. At dawn tomorrow either will suffice.”
Harry didn’t say a word but heard a deep sigh from Rodriguez. These were the allies he’d been sent to find, all right. Just like every other joint operation with indigs, it was SNAFU.
Murphy’s Law was still in effect.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
R’Bak
I’m not too sure about this.
“Are you sure about this?” Rodriguez asked in English, standing a pace behind Harry. “I’m not particularly bad with a knife, but that boy looks like he’s been to school.”
Opposite them, waiting patiently in the wan pre-dawn light, was a broad-chested young man, perhaps twenty years old or so, if Harry was any judge. He’d been the male half of the two young people flanking the clan chief the night before, and his resemblance to the man in charge was unmistakable. An inch or two taller than Harry’s own six feet, the younger man stood confidently, having shed his rifle and pack. Unlike Harry’s camos, he wore simple trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, both of a grayish leather. The material was gathered below the knees and elbows with broad leather wraps, and his dark brown, shoulder-length hair was likewise bound. Behind him stood his sister, the one who’d indicated a desi
re to show Volo his own guts the previous night. As Harry watched, she passed a long, gleaming knife to her brother. The wooden handled weapon was shaped like a patcha skinning knife, and the drop point looked unsharpened above the tip, suggesting it was a slashing weapon.
The four of them were surrounded by the rest of the tribe, which stood inside a circle bounded by four large, wooden carts. The length of a prairie schooner, they were built with surprising skill, using a variety of metals for reinforcement and decoration. More than eighty meters away, a few of the younger members watched the clan’s massive beasts of burden crop the short grass and roots in the ground. The animals were a peculiar cross between reptile and mammal. They resembled Earth’s Komodo dragons, had those extinct beasts been covered in a scaled hide colored with alternating bands of tan and olive or stood shoulder high to a man, massing a couple of tons each. The creatures sported neck fringes they erected and shook when upset or aggressive, which seemed to be most of the time. They frequently whistled and bugled at their handlers, usually when the packs were loaded or when animals spotted a bit of choice forage. According to the chief, the whinnies, as they were called, would also eat anything and were sensitive to the smell of blood. Despite their objections, the youngsters along on the expedition didn’t get to watch the impending duel, but had to tend the beasts instead.
“We need these folks, or the mission is already over,” Harry said, looking away from the whinnies and back to his teammate. “Our kid, as touchy an asshole as he is, isn’t used to the gravity yet and doesn’t have much in the way of fighting skills, so if he dies on the little giant’s knife, we risk the SpinDog’ support. If we shoot our way clear, we’re done. This duel is the only way I can see to get the mission done. And I’m not going to order you to do something I’m not particularly glad to do myself. So yeah, I’m sure.”
Heh, listen to your pulse pounding already.
Okay. Mostly sure.
“If you waste Sonny, Daddy probably won’t be inclined to go with our plan.”
“Yeah, I’ll try to remember.”
“Well, then, remember the first rule of a knife fight,” Rodriguez cautioned him before handing over the Gerber BMF Harry had carried in Somalia and now on R’Bak.
“What’s that, Marco?”
“Losers die. Winners di-di to the field hospital. Only we ain’t got a hospital.”
The tribal shaman, or medicine woman, or whatever she was, stepped between the two, cutting off the smart-assed retort Harry had been about to deliver.
“Ha-Ree of the Far Star People will stand for the house of all the Sky People in this matter. Grevorg will stand for the Sarmatchani,” she proclaimed, both hands raised over her head. It had taken the better part of an hour to explain who Harry and Rodriguez were. The Terran’s advanced weapons awed the tribesmen, and constrained by their chief, the clan had offered no direct threat but neither would they yield their claim. The Sarmatchani had grudgingly accepted Harry belonged, in a distant way, to a high-status offshoot of the Zobulakos by virtue of being “from the sky.”
“If Ha-Ree should win, the debt by Stabilo is forfeit,” Harry heard her say, and jeers from the crowd answered her.
And I get a chance to persuade Daddy, after cutting his kid up in front of him, to start a revolt with me. What a fucking op.
“If Grevorg shall win, the life of Volo will be in his hands,” she said, keeping both hands in the air. Cheers rang out, leaving no mistake as to the preferred outcome.
Gotta love a friendly crowd.
Their response gave Harry a reason to scan the people around the circle. As far as he could tell, the men and women wore nearly identical external clothing, rather like the Inuit on Earth. The shaman’s shirt was different, overlaid with a vest, upon which was tied a variety of small sachets, bones and dried plants. She pointed to the hill behind them. “When the sun appears above the grass, the fight will begin. It will end when one fighter yields or dies.”
“I’m sorry for fight, star-man,” Grevorg said, seemingly sincere. Over his shoulder, the sister, not much shorter, glowered wordlessly at Harry as she passed her brother the knife. “Clan law says I must defeat you. If you yield fast, maybe I don’t have to hurt you. Much.”
The clan version of K’tor was different than what Harry had learned. The differences in pronunciation and slang were manageable, though, and he got the gist of what the fighter was saying. Grevorg was young, and young men were prone to anger. Harry would use that.
“I appreciate the thought, kid,” Harry replied a little dismissively. “I’ll return the favor.”
Grevorg simply narrowed his eyes, stepped forward a pace and settled into a blade-forward fighting stance. Harry reciprocated, but used his lead hand to guard the knife in his right. For several moments they watched each other, motionless, accompanied by the encouraging shouts of the Sarmatchani.
“The sun has arrived,” the shaman-woman pronounced.
Like quicksilver, the tall youth immediately struck, trying to score on Harry’s empty hand. Harry merely sidestepped, measuring his opponent’s speed. Grevorg tried again, extending his arm further, and Harry dodged again, smiling to goad the younger man. He could feel the adrenaline coursing, and he breathed carefully, willing himself to remain calm.
Several of the clan yipped, urging Grevorg on, and his next attack anticipated Harry’s sidestep. Harry merely leaned the other way, making the motion seem negligent and casual, causing a few of the watchers to laugh. Harry watched Grevorg grip his knife tightly, squaring fully up with Harry.
He’s getting angry. Good. We know what that’s like. Yes, we do.
On the next pass, Harry sidestepped, but this time, he used his own forearm to widen the gap and slashed at his opponent’s momentarily unguarded flank, scoring a hit. The leather tunic deflected some of the blow, but Grevorg stepped back a pace and dipped a hand to his side, testing the injury. It came away red. He inclined his head to Harry and smiled toothily, while the tribe screeched in excitement. Harry replied in kind, but a wet feeling on his wrist made him glance down. He saw his left sleeve had been opened from wrist to elbow, as neatly as if cut with shears. Underneath, a cut several inches long traced a red line along the thick part of the forearm. He flexed his arm a bit, and the midpoint of the cut gaped like a jeering red smile. Harry hadn’t felt more than a sting. Fortunately for him, the cut ran along the grain of the muscle, and function wasn’t impaired. Much.
Harry’s rage kindled, sending even more adrenaline surging into his system, making him feel preternaturally alert.
Sharp knife and a fast man with more reach. Gotta watch. Gotta think this through.
The two men tested each other’s wounds, shuffling inside the circle, searching for openings. Several more quick passes ensued, and Harry acquired three more shallow but productive cuts in exchange for only one deep slash to his opponent’s thigh. He reluctantly accepted that his opponent was both faster than him and learning quickly as well. Only minutes in, Harry was breathing like a slow bellows, but Grevorg was panting, growling in anger. Harry continued to fight his own anger down. Anger bred impatience, and he needed the other man to make the first big mistake. For obvious reasons, both men had carefully protected their face and neck during the fight, but if Harry wanted to win this, he had to do so before blood loss became the deciding factor. He needed to render Grevorg helpless and compel a non-lethal end to the fight. They shuffled in a circle, and Harry’s shirt grew sodden with blood.
Firearms, not knives, had been the focus of weapons training in the special ops community, but Harry had trained with the Negritos in the Mindanaoan jungle of the Philippine highlands. Their rough and tumble fighting style accepted punishment as the price to close with an opponent. Harry needed to give the kid a target he couldn’t pass up. All he needed was a spark.
“I see you’ve brought your sister along on a war party,” Harry said, trying a sneer on for size. “Is that for your convenience or mine, after I win?”
Kill him. Do it.
The urge to finish the stroke was strong, but he ignored the raging voice in his head, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
“Yield. Or. Die,” Harry panted into the sudden silence, his head swimming.
Grevorg bit his lip but remained mute, shaking his head once. Harry looked up at the shaman and then the chief, struggling to keep his knife steady. He could barely feel his hand now.
“You claimed blood or treasure,” he said, glaring at Yannis. “Here is the blood! How much more will you have? We may find it difficult to discuss the future of the Herdbanes if my hands are red with the last of your son’s lifeblood.”
“Father, n—!” Grevorg’s second spat, but their father raised a hand, looking angry enough to chew rocks. He stared at Harry, then at Volo, who was standing mute, watching from the sidelines.