Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  Bowden turned the designator to the right and the laser receiver on the bomb followed it. He moved it back to the left, and it tracked left. Then he jerked it to the right, and the laser receiver went back to center.

  The tech nodded. “You have to be smooth with any corrections, or you will break the lock on the bomb.”

  Bowden looked to the soldiers to see if they understood. Renaldi was still frowning, obviously still annoyed about having to carry the box, but Dork’s mouth was open, and his eyes were wide. “It’s just like magic…”

  “Well, not really magic, just science and technology,” Bowden said. “Let me take you through how all this is going to work…”

  * * *

  “Okay, so what do we know?” Bowden asked two hours later.

  “After carrying the heavy piece of shit all day, the mule shoots a laser beam that we aim at the target,” Renaldi said. Bowden nodded, ignoring the soldier’s constant grousing. He’d learned hours earlier that acknowledging it only made the soldier bitch more. He remembered what one of his earliest chiefs had said: “A bitching sailor is a happy sailor,” and let it go.

  “The laser bounces off the target,” Dork said. “The bomb sees it, and it flies into the target and blows it up.” Bowden had almost been to the point of asking for someone else when Dork had finally figured it all out. Although the man could easily lug the box around, Bowden was less sanguine he could operate it correctly. Finally—on the last battery they had before having to recharge them all—the light had gone on for Dork.

  “And what do we need for the bomb to see the laser?” Bowden asked.

  “The correct angle,” Renaldi said. “It’s best if we’re on close to the same line as the attack run.”

  “And you have to punch in the right magic code into the box,” Dork said happily. Bowden had given up on saying “Pulse Repetition Frequency” or even “PRF.” Dork thought of it as a magic code, and that was okay with Bowden, as long as he entered the right code at the right time. As it turned out, Dork could remember a number pattern, he just couldn’t manipulate the numbers. Remember “1555?” No problem. Multiply eight times eight? Dork was more likely to give the answer “apple sauce” than “64.” If he wanted to think of it as a magic code, that was fine with Bowden.

  “And what’s the most important thing?” Bowden asked.

  “Timing is everything,” they both answered. “The box has to be on and pointing at the target at the correct time,” Dork finished.

  “And we care about that because?”

  “Because the battery only lasts ten minutes,” Renaldi replied, “and we’ll only have two because they’re damn heavy, and I ain’t carrying any more than that.”

  Bowden smiled. They’d go over it again every couple of days to ensure retention, but it seemed like at least the ground component of the attack understood its part of the mission.

  * * *

  “So,” Primus Hesheth asked, pushing his plate away, “the Terran captain-of-pilots got his newest batch of toys today?”

  “Just a few hours ago,” Primus Dolkar Kormak muttered, his own meal untouched.

  “So, you have complied. As we all have had to.” Hesheth’s tone and smile were facetious. “Do you wish me to pour out drinks of commiseration?”

  Erkuk Hesheth’s sardonic grin fell away when he saw the look on the more powerful Primus’ face. “Because we are ‘peers,’ I shall let your asinine japery go unaddressed.” Kormak paused, waited to see if Hesheth would challenge him. The lesser primus had the dignity of a self-soiling halfwit but was evidently not stupid; the man just stared. In shock, apparently. Good. Shock was needed if they were to change course before it was too late.

  “My Second Nephew Bramath was in here again, also,” Kormak explained, “pushing me to initiate our second production phase now. The third such entreaty this week, if you can believe it.”

  “Why does he feel it should be accelerated?”

  “Because he spoke to Murphy and heard starry glory in the hints of the other toys our new ‘friends’ may offer us. But any discussion of that can only proceed if we reveal our full production capacity.”

  “I believe you mean when we reveal our full production capacity, Primus.”

  “I said what I meant.” Dolkar put his fists on the table. “Hesheth, this will not end well.”

  “Of what do you speak?”

  “This alliance with the Terrans.”

  “You fear they shall fail?”

  “No. I fear they may succeed.”

  Hesheth squinted, as if that might help him better see Kormak’s point. “Yes, and, as we have conjectured, that is likely to give the shit-eaters on Kulsis a reason to pause, possibly to forego their coming Harvest. And in the meantime, with the Terrans leading the effort, we might secure and utilize the surface of R’Bak and its peoples. We would have almost a century to grow powerful and possibly fend off Kulsis come the next Searing. It would be the realization of a long-held dream.”

  “Would it?” Kormak muttered. “Listen to yourself; you are starting to utter the same starry opiates that have blinded the Expansionists, thanks to the whispers of these Terrans. And if their coalition should succeed at these first, simple steps? They will come to believe they can prevail against the Overlords of Kulsis. They will be incautious, will overreach—and that will be our doom.”

  Hesheth nodded slowly. “I have had similar reservations. It is certainly a far more uncertain enterprise than the Expansionists are now envisioning it to be. I agree that they are overly optimistic—”

  “Which is why they must not be allowed to go further with this deluded madness.”

  Hesheth stared at the tabletop; Kormak saw that the lesser primus had clearly heard the implicit call to internecine action. “So, what of Second Spin? Does Arko Primus Zobulakos agree that the current Expansionist plans must be…curtailed?”

  Kormak resisted the urge to spit. “He is ‘deliberating.’”

  “What has undermined his prior resolve to diminish the Expansionists’ power?”

  “The life of his fool son, Stabilo. The Expansionists detained the young idiot, pending ‘inquiries’ over the nonsense he perpetrated on the planet.”

  “So, our fate is in the hands of a weak-willed father who should be glad to be rid of a Scion so intemperate that he can neither conceal his actions nor contain his ambitions?”

  “If you do not see the greater complexities, Hesheth, then your sight is as dim as your thought. Zobulakos is not only thinking of his son. His dominion on Spin Two has been kept dependent upon our support since its inception. Largely at our insistence, you may recall.”

  “It was sound policy at the time,” Hesheth objected gruffly.

  “Indeed. It was sound policy up until a month ago, at which point unforeseen interlopers and events made a ruin of all our fine calculations.” Kormak sighed. “We were necessarily tepid in our support of Zobulakos’s maneuvers to accrue greater power on his own spin. He is now, not surprisingly, tepid in his commitment to moving against the Expansionists.”

  “In short, he is not for our cause.”

  “In short, he is for himself. Which means he will wait to see which way the shadow falls before he makes a move to support either side. However, I am certain he would be happier to join with us.”

  “So, if we make a strong start, a bold set of first moves—”

  “Yes, that might decide him. But regardless of Spin Two’s ambivalence, we must be decisive and swift in our actions. The Expansionists have ever been soft-headed and never more than now, as their various Family Primae strive for overall leadership. But the situation becomes more urgent the longer this disastrous alliance with the Terrans goes on. The more short-term success their coalition realizes, the more supporters they will gather from among the undecided. Their delusion that we could survive a direct confrontation with Kulsis will become universal, and so, complete. We must act now. Agreed?”

  The Primus of Family Hesheth
sounded resolved, rather than resolute. “The trend bodes ill indeed.”

  Dolkar Kormak kept staring at his nominal peer. “I did not ask you for your observations. I asked if you agree to act. Now.”

  The other sighed. “Agreed.”

  Kormak finally addressed the food on his plate. “I will eat as we make our plans.”

  * * *

  “Have all the cadre acknowledged receiving the revised estimate on the transmitter’s completion?” Murphy was sending them almost daily, now.

  “All but one: Captain Lee.” Pistol’s tone was concerned, almost brotherly.

  Frankly, Murphy was concerned himself. After that one clusterfuck dirtside, she’d spent an unusual amount of time with the Matriarch’s Family. He had the sneaking suspicion that she was almost using them as a refuge.

  “Shall I resend, sir? Perhaps call her to the CP?”

  “No,” Murphy replied flatly. “She’ll be going back to R’Bak for the next training cycle. If she wants to keep to herself right now, I intend to give her the time and space to do just that.” Even if I have to staple my lips together to keep from asking what put that tough-as-nails chopper jock into an apparent tailspin. “Has everyone else replied?”

  “Everyone except Chalmers, sir.”

  It rankled just to be reminded that Chalmers was technically part of the cadre. Had to be, since he was the only Lost Soldier with the necessary skillset and experience for counterintelligence and investigations. Murphy sighed. “Give him a few more hours, Pistol.”

  “Yes, sir. It would not be the first time he has been…slow to acknowledge a general communique.”

  Or to get with the program. For a guy who was supposedly a wizard at sussing out other people, he did a pretty crappy job when it came to handling his own shit. That had been obvious the first time Chalmers was being briefed by SpinDogs. Right away, he’d butted heads with them. Particularly the lead trainer, Stabilo, who was a piece of work himself. And if I hadn’t been there to short-circuit whatever antagonism had been building between them, well…”Has Chalmers at least confirmed he’s on schedule to deploy dirtside?”

  “Not yet, sir.” Makarov paused. “He hasn’t made things easy for us, has he, sir?”

  Murphy usually rebuked anyone who passed that kind of comment on a soldier under his command, but in this case, he could only sigh. “No, he hasn’t.”

  “But you believe he can determine which locals may be undermining our operations on R’Bak?”

  “Better than anyone else we have. Or at least, anybody else we can spare.”

  Makarov paused. “And do you trust him?”

  Murphy stared at the question. “Trust,” he replied slowly, “is overrated.”

  * * * * *

  Part Four: Chalmers

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  R’Bak

  “Trust but confirm. Trust but confirm. Trust but confirm,” Chalmers grunted the litany into his helmet.

  “What?” Jackson gasped.

  Chalmers didn’t answer right away, fighting for breath after saying so much.

  Their shuttle had been burning for what the SpinDogs termed, “a narrow drop window to orbital insertion.” This “Spaceman Spiff” speech translated roughly as, “An absurdly fidgety three-hundred-pound trucker will be sitting on your chest, gut, and bladder for at least thirty minutes; have a nice day.” By all accounts, the Dornaani ship on which they’d arrived in-system compared to their current ride much like a Ferrari compared to a Mustang. Both were powerful and looked pretty, depending on taste, but one certainly seemed a lot more refined than the other. Even so, the shuttle looked more advanced than anything Earth had been sending into orbit in his day, and it was certainly powerful enough to push his eyeballs through the back of his skull.

  He’d just decided that concentrating on speaking would at least take his mind off the struggle to breathe when the thrust suddenly cut back to something like one gee.

  Chalmers breathed in and out, repeating the process twice, just to be sure his ribs were in their proper place, before he finally replied, “I was just wishing we could have confirmed this thing was safe before being packed in like sardines.”

  Jackson pulled a face, his expression clearly visible through the visor of his space suit’s helmet.

  “What was that, Space Man?” Chalmers asked, more than a little freaked out by the fact that he was in a fucking space suit, too.

  “I fucking hate sardines.”

  Chalmers laughed. “I’m sure they love you.”

  “Naw, man. My pops, he used to make us get them on our pizza.”

  “On pizza?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure you’re talking about sardines? I heard of anchovies on pizza, but not sardines.”

  Jackson’s eyes were a little wild. “I’m talkin’ sardines. You know: those fish in oil. Stink to high heaven.”

  “Both are packed in oil. Anchovies are smaller, I think.”

  “Sardine, anchovies, whatever, man,” Jackson said, calmer for having something other than their predicament to talk about. “They used to stink like nothing else. Would make the whole house smell, even when he only got half the pizza covered with that crap.”

  “That’s…unnatural,” Chalmers said, meaning it. “In fact, it should be against the Geneva Conventions.”

  “I know!” Jackson sniffed, shook his head. “Miss that guy. Not the pizzas, though. Not those fish-smelling, nasty-ass pizzas!”

  “Pizza,” Chalmers said, reminded of the best he’d ever had. “Knew this place in SF made a killer slice: pineapple and ham.”

  “Fruit? You put fruit on your pizza? Talk about violating the Conventions, man. That’s just wrong, man. Just wrong. At least fish is meat.”

  “Fish ain’t meat, man.”

  “The fuck it ain’t. Who the hell asks the asshole who thinks putting fruit on a piece of pie is a good idea, anyway? No one, that’s who!”

  “For God sakesss—” Chalmers’ retort was pressed out of him in a distorted hiss as the pilot piled on the gees again, and the tremble of touching the top of R’Bak’s atmosphere started rising up through his gut.

  And then, suddenly, he was on the back of a whacked-out bucking bronco, trapped in an elevator plummeting straight to hell.

  * * *

  “Hands-on experience is essential, Jackson,” Chalmers said, jutting his chin at their ride and glad the brush fire burning almost three miles to the south wasn’t likely to be along their path. Of course, any of the more naturally occurring ones might become a problem.

  Wishing to limit their exposure to hostile eyes, the big, snub-nosed shuttle had landed in as sparsely settled an area as possible. The main mission, of course, meant they were still fairly close to one of the satrapies, as those states were the ones that protected Kulsian interests in their overlord’s absence. An anxious-looking SpinDog crew had thrown the two Lost Soldiers and their equipment out as soon as the vehicles from Camp Stark—including one serious dune-buggy—appeared on the dove-gray horizon. Then, quite literally in this case, they burned for orbit. The massive dual-phase engines of the shuttle had ignited the stretch of scrub that still smoldered in the distance.

  “‘Hands-on experience is necessary?’ You tryin’ to sell me that? Really?” Jackson asked, his expression making it all too clear he knew Chalmers was full of shit. Chalmers sensed his partner was arguing as much to distract them both from the oddly astringent brush smoke being carried on the morning wind as any strong desire to drive the buggy himself.

  “Look, dude, I drove these things all over Baja.” It was an exaggeration, of course. He couldn’t be sure, but Chalmers was reasonably confident he’d driven one for an hour or two one drunken week in Mexico. He’d done a lot of drinking on that vacation, as he’d been celebrating—or trying to forget—the demise of his second marriage. Come to think of it, he just might have spent more than a couple hours behind the wheel.

  He shook his head, unable to recall. There
had been lots of mescal.

  “Fine,” Jackson grunted.

  Chalmers nodded, more to himself than Jackson. It was fine. Even this shitty mission on a shitty desert planet was totally fine. He, more than any of the rest of the men and women stolen from their own times and places, was happy as hell to be anywhere but home. Sure, they might be at the ass-end of nowhere, but the fate he’d been facing at the end of the helicopter ride that had ultimately landed him here had well and truly sucked. Sucked bad enough to have made one Horace Earl Chalmers consider suck-starting a shotgun, truth be told. And now, here he was, about to drive a dune-buggy that looked so badass he thought he might get a hard-on just from looking at it.

  The all-wheel weirdness was every kind of post-apocalyptic Mad Max cool: seating for four with a steel tube chassis riding high on beefy shocks. The buggy made his hands itch with desire to drive it.

  He bent to examine the tires, which proved to be perfectly tailored to the sand, dust, and loose, stony soil composition of the terrain. They were even partially deflated to provide the best possible purchase, and a spare was mounted on each side behind a rank of jerry cans.

  And the cool didn’t end there. The large, exposed engine had made a satisfying growl when it was driven up to them by a gearhead from Camp Stark’s new motor pool. The grease monkey might have been ex-army, but just whose army it had been was hard to say; he’d had Cyrillic tattoos across his fingers. He also looked resentful at having to part with the stolen machine as he climbed into the truck that had accompanied him out into the godforsaken wastes and was now carrying him back to the forward operating base. Might have just been jealousy over the fact the two new arrivals were being given any kind of vehicle to complete their mission, but Chalmers doubted it. Neither fuel nor spares were easily come by, and their operation was being carefully controlled to avoid waste. Once the Lost Soldiers ran out of those logistical necessities, the vehicles liberated from the Kulsian cache would go from being indispensable to oversized paperweights.