Dirty Deeds

by Mark Wandrey

  “Love that name,” Mika said with a grin.

  “Me, too,” Murdock agreed. “We’ve had them gathering intel as the HecSha seem to leave them alone. They don’t consider hatchlings, as they call them, a threat.”

  “Mistake,” Tully said.

  Murdock nodded and continued. “Some of the intel they have includes news from the outer settlements and small enclaves. The aliens did a sweep through them before they knew what happened, confiscating weapons and valuables, but the aliens have left them alone since. Only a few thousand people live out there, so I guess they don’t consider them worth messing with.”

  “Except for our island,” Dod grumbled.

  “They knew it was full of mercs,” Murdock said. Several people asked how. “I’ll get to that. Anyway, we’ve had them working around the IT center to gain entrance, and today we finally got lucky.”

  “Did they get my chip in?” Greenstein asked.

  “Yup,” Murdock said.

  “Yes,” Greenstein said and pumped his fist in the air. Smiles all around.

  “The first bit of intel has just started coming in.” Murdock gestured to the little stolen Tri-V. An icon flashed for a few seconds, showing the projector was coming to life, then a series of file icons appeared.

  “Holy shit, Greensleeves,” said Kelso, the former marine. “Looks like your programming worked after all.” The marine had been the least confident in the hacking plan, believing the pups would better be used in recruiting. Dandridge wanted them doing more scouting for infiltration. Dod had wondered a couple times if the kids could deliver strategic explosives. Horrified, Murdock had vetoed that idea immediately.

  “Yeah, Kelso,” Greenstein said, “you can do a lot with crayons when you aren’t eating them.” That got a round of guffaws from everyone, even Kelso. Greenstein was busily scanning the list of file icons when he suddenly snapped his fingers. “Operational Orders,” he said, pointing.

  “Got it,” Murdock said and instructed his slate to open the file.

  “ENCRYPTED” flashed on the Tri-V over the file.

  “Shit,” Murdock said.

  “Send the file to me,” Greenstein said, and took out his own slate. Murdock touched a control and the file copied onto the other man’s slate. “Remember the chip your pups lifted off the HecSha commander a couple days ago?” Murdock nodded. “I bet the key is on that chip.”

  “Shouldn’t they have changed the encryption key by now?” Murdock wondered.

  “Yes, they should have,” Greenstein agreed, “on any new files. If these are the initial orders, they might not have gone back and re-encrypted the older files.” He did something with his slate and closed his eyes, using his pinplants to manipulate the data.

  “Hey, Greensleeves,” Kelso said, “you never told anyone where you got your callsign.”

  “None of your business, Jarhead.”

  “He got it in flight school,” Mika said. Greenstein opened his eyes and fixed her with a glare. She grinned as she continued. “He hacked the main school computer and was selling test data. Got caught with little pockets sewn into his flight jumpsuit, full of credits and data chips. A lot of ‘green’ up his sleeves.” The pilot’s cheeks burned red, and he closed his eyes, pretending to ignore all the laughter. Murdock nodded; he’d figured those two had shared a bed once or twice in the past. A small amount of bad blood there.

  “Just concentrate on the job,” Murdock urged. A few seconds later, the other man snapped his fingers.

  “Got it,” he said, and sent the file back for Murdock to display.

  “Orders—Operation Tiamat”

  “Tiamat?” Dolan asked. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Multi-headed dragon,” Dandridge supplied. Murdock nodded; he’d been trying to remember where he’d heard the name. “But why that name?” He looked at Greenstein. “They used Tiamat?”

  “No,” the pilot replied, “my translator used it. The actual word is Ka-ku-aSha.” He shrugged. “The translators often punt if they can’t make up their minds on a meaning.”

  Murdock shrugged and turned back to the file.

  “Operational Theater—Valais—Minor Human Colony

  “Order 1 - Secure colony by neutralizing all defensive and offensive capabilities

  “Order 1a - No Human merc units are to be allowed to survive.”

  Following was a map, including the island were Murdock and the others lived.

  “Bastards,” Mika said, to unanimous agreement. The orders continued.

  “Order 1b - Human population is to be subdued

  “Order 2 - Evaluate Human GalNet analogue, copy and transmit all data

  “Order 3 - Secure all planetary credits to offset conquest costs

  “Order 4 - Secure all planetary industry for exploitation

  “Order 5 - Secure all planetary food sources for exploitation

  “Order 6 - Set up contingency depot for supply of further operations outside Valais

  “Order 7 - Capture and hold any Human vessels which enter the system

  “Order 8 - Hold all objectives until relieved

  “Order 9 - In the event order 1b cannot be met, all Human habitation is to be eliminated.”

  “Holy fuck,” Dod said.

  “Can you tell who gave the orders?” Murdock asked.

  Greenstein looked back at his copy and did something, then looked up. “You aren’t going to believe this,” he said.

  “Try me,” Murdock said.

  Greenstein read from his slate. “These orders are issued as part of Operation Tiamat by the authority granted to General Peepo under order of the Galactic Mercenary Guild high council.”

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” Dod said.

  * * *

  By the time the meeting broke up an hour later, the link that had been installed by Vince and his young spies had offered up several more tantalizing files. They began to see that life outside Valais was no better. In fact, it might be much, much worse. Operation Tiamat involved a massive invasion of Earth itself by thousands of Tortantula troopers. MinSha forces, along with another half dozen races, were also involved, all being led by Veetanho strategic leadership.

  It also yielded more details on the forces against them here on Valais. Two companies had been sent, one Xiq’tal, and one HecSha. He knew that in principle, not in numbers. Eight squads of crabs in two dropships, so he had about twenty more crabs after splashing one of the dropships. No more surprises from them. Eight squads of HecSha in two more dropships, and they were all alive and dangerous.

  He’d been the most worried about space assets. What might they have up in orbit waiting to rain down death in the form of Order 9? One escort frigate. He snorted. Damned ship must have been crowded with all those alien mercs. Two races as well. The ship was named A’Choo, and that gave him a smile. Aliens. It was crewed by Maki, the little monkey-looking fuckers who only tended to fly ships. While it wasn’t big, it had nuclear-tipped missiles. They were intended for space combat, though they could flatten cities just as well. He put it aside for the time being; nothing to be done about it here on the planet’s surface.

  Murdock was still reeling from the news that the Mercenary Guild had turned on humanity, and the attacks were being led by Peepo. The Veetanho Peepo ran a merc pit on Karma Station. He’d seen her once or twice, and she’d seemed nothing more than a retired merc herself, running a lucrative pit operation in her twilight years. Now she’d come out of retirement to enslave humanity.

  The question of how such an operation could be funded was answered. The Mercenary Guild was the richest of all the guilds, rivaled only by the Cartography Guild, which operated a million stargates. The only guild that could interfere in favor of Valais was the enigmatic Peacemakers, who always reminded Murdock of old west Texas Rangers. The Peacemakers were few in number, and lighter on resources. In a galaxy of thirty-seven merc races, who had millions of troopers, the Peacemakers might number in the ten thousands. Many of thos
e were likely bureaucrats or other technicians, too. Only the field agents—enforcers they were called—wielded real power and were dangerous.

  “If they haven’t intervened, does this mean the Peacemakers endorse this action?” Dandridge wondered.

  “Who knows?” Dod said. “I’ve seen Peacemakers a dozen times in my travels; they were always snooty, high-falutin’ types who didn’t give a warm bucket of spit about you or what you were doing. Unless you crossed one of their laws.”

  “That’s what doesn’t make sense,” Murdock said. “Humanity has always been careful not to cross the line and break any of them.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Bombard from orbit, use weapons of mass destruction against exclusively civilian targets, commit genocide…” he trailed off, not sure he knew the others.

  “Make AI computers,” Greenstein said.

  “Own, trade, or use Canavar,” Mika offered.

  “Right, still,” Murdock said. “We didn’t do any of them.”

  “At least not that we’re aware of,” Ripper said. The room fell into a broody silence.

  The meeting broke up without anything constructive being accomplished. Murdock spent the morning cleaning his pistol and circling back to the same thing. Order 9. How the fuck was he supposed to conduct a resistance with that hanging over the civilian population’s head? Galactic Union law proscribed against genocide, yet the praying mantises had done it against Iran in 2025. Nuked the place flat, killed millions. All for revenge against the Jihadi for killing a handful of MinSha guards. The bugs had an overdeveloped sense of revenge.

  Looks like the merc guild gets to break the rules whenever it suits them, he thought as he reassembled the pistol by touch. So, if they can just kill us if we’re a pain, how do we get rid of them? Dolan was going by with a can and grumbling. “What’s up?” he asked the tanker.

  “Fucking ants are back,” he said.

  They really weren’t ants. They were the planet’s analogue of ants, though. They were hard to kill little fuckers who bred like crazy, and if you tried to stomp them in groups, they released a noxious cloud of stink worse than any ever smelled in a merc latrine anywhere in the galaxy. The only way to deal with them was powerful pesticide delivered in one major blast to kill them all at once.

  He watched the man walk into the kitchen, where the ‘ants’ kept showing up and thought. What they needed to get rid of the aliens was a bug bomb, one big enough to clear out the infestation before they could execute their Order 9. But how?

  Murdock checked his slate. They had fewer than a hundred men and women willing to fight. Well, they said they were willing, anyway. It had taken a week of careful recruitment, which was the main job of the fishermen who’d set them up in the hideout. About half of them could likely use a gun, based on the details gathered about them. The rest would take some work. The biggest problem was, even if they were willing and able to shoot, what would they shoot with?

  Thanks to a couple of quiet trips back to Margarita Bay with the now carefully hidden skiff, the resistance had a grand total of twenty-nine guns of various types and capacities. He knew for a fact nineteen of the guns could kill a HecSha; two more might if you were lucky. Only fifteen would have a chance of downing a Xiq’tal. Hurt or disable, and it might be nineteen. They barely had enough for each of his nine core combat vets to get two apiece. They needed firepower.

  Murdock finished assembling the Ctech HP-4’s main action, then fit the custom-made handle in place. It fit perfectly, snapping its latching lock with the solid, well-made click you expected from a factory job. Only this wasn’t a factory job. He turned the weapon over and looked at the butt plate. “Manufactured by BBW Outfitters, Unlimited, under license from Ctech Industries, Manatee, FL.” He grinned and picked up his slate.

  “Vince, meet me in two hours.” He had an idea.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  The afternoon was getting on, with the huge red-tinged sun of Gliese 1214 falling behind the mountains. It had rained earlier, like it did most days, then the sun came out and the temperature climbed to a comfortable seventeen degrees Celsius. Snow cloaked the mountainsides and was glowing red as the sun fell.

  Murdock glanced around the building corner, a big sack over one shoulder. Lots of people these days were out and about with sacks like his, used to gather anything valuable that could be traded with the few remaining fishing ships. Food was in short supply, especially protein-rich foods.

  The greenhouses on the hills behind the city were ramping up production, including new ones under construction. He had to wonder who was managing it. Still, you couldn’t feed people on hydroponic vegetables alone. There was precious little animal farming on the planet. Why bother, when endless quantities of fish were at hand. With most of the fishing fleet at the bottom of the bay, and the outer settlements sending little to the capital, the problem of potential malnutrition now loomed large.

  The next block was devoid of all activity. The businesses along this street all sported “Closed Until Further Notice” signs. One, an importer, read “Seized by Order of the Occupying Authority.” However, the one he was interested in appeared unchanged. Murdock slipped back around and checked his slate. A text message flashed there. “All clear.”

  A block away, Vince and a pack of wolf cubs were creating a small distraction to be sure one of the wandering patrols of HecSha mercs didn’t surprise him. Murdock nodded, pocketed the slate, and calmly walked out into the street. He lit another stump and puffed as he walked.

  All the way down the block he clenched his teeth on the cigar and hoped nobody saw him. Despite the pledges of support from the detainees at the amphitheater, there was always a chance one of them would decide it was better to sell him and his resistance out than to continue surviving on thin fish soup and dwindling survival rations.

  He’d decided not to return to the detention center after the one visit. Vince reported the aliens now had numerous cameras set up. If the kids had spotted security, it meant much more must be in place. Instead, the kids dropped off and picked up notes from the detainees. Two days after his visit he’d gotten a note from Sheela.

  “M,” she’d called him, not using his name. Smart. “I’m sorry for how I reacted the other day. I was just scared. We’ve talked with others, and you’re right. We’re safe enough here. Do what you must, and please be careful. See you soon, Love S.” He’d kept the paper note in his pocket ever since. Despite this, he hadn’t sent back a reply; he’d deemed it too risky.

  Murdock reached the middle of the block and the doorway there. It was unchanged from the last time he’d been there, weeks ago. “BBW Outfitters, Unlimited,” the sign said. There was an additional sign next to it. “All customers welcome.”

  “Huh,” he grunted and tried the door. It opened easily, and he slipped inside.

  The interior was completely unchanged, a large floorspace with what looked like a glass display case running along the far wall, and a screen above. As soon as the door closed, a Tri-V display of a woman’s upper torso appeared. As before, she had blazing red hair and an alluring smile.

  “Welcome back to BBW Outfitters, Unlimited, Mr. Murdock,” it said in a sultry voice.

  Damn, he thought, if I had to sleep next to her I’d be in trouble. “Hey, Red,” he said. “How’s business?”

  “Improving, thank you,” the Automated Customer Service Program, or ACSP, said.

  “I bet,” Murdock said under his breath.

  “I’m sorry, please restate the request,” the beautiful woman on the Tri-V said.

  “Nothing,” Murdock said.

  The program looked at his cigar. “I’m sorry, could you please extinguish your smoke? It is a potential problem to our manufactory.”

  “Sure,” he said, and dropped it into a holder in his coat.

  “Thank you. How can we assist you today?”

  “Yes,” Murdock said, “I need guns.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly come to the righ
t place!” The machine seemed eager to help. “Please state the nature, type, and quantity.”

  “I’d like fifty of the Ctech BR-26 rifles with 100,000 rounds.”

  “Belt-fed or magazine?” Red asked.

  “All magazine, but ten conversion kits. Ammo 70,000 in magazines, the rest in hundred-round belts.”

  “Continue,” the machine said.

  “I also need handguns and armor…” Murdock went on to list everything he’d memorized, the computer program asking him to clarify at various points until he was done.

  “Is that everything, Mr. Murdock?”

  “I think it will do for now,” he said with a smile.

  “Your total will come to 188,300 GCU. As you are a return customer, we’d like to offer you our premium customer discount of 10%! This makes your total 169,470 GCU.”

  “Very generous of you,” Murdock said, “but I notice your prices have increased since I was last in?”

  “Yes, we’re sorry to admit, due to the recent increase in demand, we were forced to increase our prices in order to maintain both the quality of our merchandise and a reasonable, though small, bottom line.”

  I bet it’s small, Murdock thought. As small as an Oogar’s balls. “Please hold the order for me? I need to check on available funds.”

  “Naturally,” the program said. A Tri-V over the case came alive and displayed everything he’d ordered with the figures listed below, including the 10% discount. An icon of a spinning gear appeared. “Please give us eleven hours’ notice of your order’s anticipated delivery date to allow ample time to fabricate them for you.”

  “You’ll manufacture all the arms on site?” he asked, eyes widening in surprise.

  “Most of them,” she said and gave him a sly smile. “The exact details of our licenses with various arms manufacturers are strictly confidential.”

  “That’s only fair,” he said and nodded to the Tri-V, feeling a little silly at treating it like a living person. “I’ll be in touch.”