Kenla considered the instructions. “It will not be easy to watch unobserved, War Technician Chalmers.”
“I will do it,” her brother said.
Chalmers did not miss the glance she leveled at her brother. Wondering what it meant, he decided to keep an eye on both of them as well as the grain store tonight. He would, as Ronnie RayGun had said, “Trust but confirm.”
* * *
SPINDOG SHUTTLE: MISSION DAY 051
“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.” 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 and 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 that simply breathing had become 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.
* * *
CLARTHU: MISSION DAY 052
The hissing and grunting resumed.
“For God’s sakes!” Chalmers muttered, kicking the grunting little alien lizard-goat off his foot for the tenth time.
The goat—well, begroag—was a tiny, more stupid, and, if this one was a good example, more inbred cousin to the whinnies that the locals used as pack animals. Normally this would not have impacted Chalmers one bit. Normally.
But Murphy’s Law was in effect, and this begroag had decided Chalmers’ boot was a fine source of food or sex; Chalmers wasn’t sure which. Both, maybe? Every few minutes Chalmers was forced to kick it away, and it would get the hint for a little while before coming back at odd intervals to bite, then hump and shimmy against his foot. He was leaning toward the idea it wanted to make babies, simply because it was so utterly persistent. Nothing was that hungry. Horny, yes. Hungry…nah.
It was obvious the creatures had been domesticated for the same reasons humans—well, Terrans—kept goats, for food and keeping the weeds down, so it was definitely someone’s property. Which made it out of bounds for a more permanent solution than a boot to the head. He could think of no better way to piss off a farmer or herder than killing their livestock, so shooting the damn thing off his boot was not an option, even if he could do it silently.
The stakeout was one of the least onerous he’d ever been on. Unadjusted to R’Bak’s shorter days, he’d found it easy to stay awake well into the nine-hour night, even without the constant attempted boot-buggery of the begroag and despite the warm earthen berm he was stretched out and hiding on.
Jackson was on the far side of the village, watching the eastern approaches to the grain store. Ked was supposed to be watching the western side of the village, and Chalmers was watching him from what he hoped was a concealed position. Something had been off in the man’s responses after the duel, and Chalmers didn’t trust him. Kenla was still in the healer’s hut, recovering from blood loss, though she seemed awfully chipper for someone who’d been cut so many times. Chalmers had no doubt these people were hard. It remained to be seen if they were trustworthy.
Shaking clear of other concerns, Chalmers focused all his attention on what he could do. A moment later he was grateful he’d decided to pay closer attention. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something was different. Movement? He peered into the twilight, but couldn’t pick out exactly what had triggered the feeling.
He slowed his breathing, straining to hear.
A maddening itch started just above the top of his left boot, distracting him. He reached down to address the issue and found something wet, warm, and sticky left behind by the begroag. He brought his hand up and stared at glistening fingers in the dimness. Fighting the urge to shriek in horror, leap to his feet, fetch the nearest flamethrower, and burn his fingers, leg, and boots clean off, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Overcoming the urge to incinerate, Chalmers again tried to concentrate on the sound heard just moments before.
Among the shadows and blank darkness where Ked had hidden, there was a flicker of movement, then another, then Ked’s slim figure emerged into the dim light of R’Bak’s distant secondary star. He crouched, peering intently toward the storehouse.
Scrubbing his begroag-scummed hand on the rough soil of the berm, Chalmers slowly, and as quietly as he could, raised himself from the ground. As the begroag started to amble closer for another go, he set out toward the building more quickly than quietly, not wanting another sliming.
Ked, meanwhile, had moved from one shadow to the next, and was nearly at the door to the storehouse. The indig disappeared into shadow again before briefly reappearing alongside the black rectangle that marked the storehouse’s recessed entryway.
Chalmers could see another figure—Jackson—closing on the same spot.
A muffled cry and then a thump sounded from inside as the partners arrived within a few steps of each other.
Jackson drew his sidearm and glanced at Chalmers, who had decided to remain empty-handed in case he had to go hands-on.
* * * * *
Chapter 6 – Apologies Forthcoming
SKANNISA SANDFLATS: MISSION DAY 051
“Hands-on experience is essential, Jackson,” Chalmers said, glad the brush fire burning almos
t ten 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 appeared on the horizon. Then, quite literally in this case, they burned for orbit. The massive rocket engines of the shuttle had ignited the grass fire 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 pre-dawn wind as any strong desire to drive the buggy for 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 knew he wasn’t living up to the promise he’d made to be a better man and not lie about things, but damn it, he really wanted to drive the buggy.
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 god-forsaken 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.
“You acting like this thing is a saddle-whinnie, Chalmers,” Jackson said as he removed his pack and settled it behind the rear passenger seat. The cargo area was small, and he had to move the strap of a come-along to get it in place.
“Am not,” Chalmers said. “Though I would pay money to see you try to ride, city boy.”
“Look at you, talking shit like you some kinda John Wayne or something.”
“Naw, just a part-time redneck. We like gears and engines more than steers and horses and shit.”
“That why you rednecks have all them broke-down cars and refrigerators and shit on your front lawns?” Jackson asked as he loosened another come-along strap to make room so Chalmers could drop his pack next to Jackson’s own.
Chalmers chuckled. “Must be.”
The combined communications and GPS—or whatever—unit attached to Jackson’s pack pinged.
Jackson glanced at Chalmers, who nodded. The sergeant unclipped the carabiner securing the device to his bag and held it up. A touch of his thumb activated it.
“Gentlemen.” Murphy’s voice was clear and cool, like the pre-dawn air. “Are you ready?”
“As much as we can be, not knowing where we’re headed,” Chalmers said, keeping his tone as light and non-confrontational as he could, even as he wished for video so he could read Murphy’s expression.
“Sorry about that. OpSec has to be very tight on this one.” The major made a point of pausing.
Jackson and Chalmers both perked up at this, making a check of their surroundings. No one was close enough to listen in without being obvious about it or using vanishingly rare electronics.
“You’re to meet with a couple of the kinsmen from the Sarmatchani tribes. They’re from the next tribe over and have more contact with the settled peoples we are eventually going to have to get on our side. The tribesmen will help you make contact with the people of Clarthu.”
The device in Jackson’s hand lit up with a map and coordinates.
“Orbital SIGINT intercepted a radio transmission during our last movement near Clarthu. The same guys decoded the message, and it was a fairly accurate report of our movements and numbers during and since we seized the Kulsian vehicles and equipment.”
“Shit,” Jackson muttered.
“The indig tribesmen we’ve been dealing with say the villagers are predisposed to support us, too, which tracks generally with the HUMINT the SpinDogs have been sharing with us. Therefore, both intelligence streams believe it’s one, or possibly two, collaborators.”
“But how much can we trust the SpinDogs?” Chalmers asked.
Murphy paused again, clearly aware their hosts would know exactly what he was saying over their own comm system. “While the SpinDogs have been…less than entirely forthcoming on certain matters, they have fully supported the mission. I think this particular situation might have something to do with the RockHounds faction or the friction between the Expansionists and the Hardliners. Frankly, I don’t know.”
“The who?” Chalmers asked.
“Internal political blocs,” Murphy answered. “Well, the last two are entirely internal matters, the other not so much…” He trailed off.
Chalmers and Jackson both waited, knowing any information the major had was likely to be important background.
When he resumed speaking, it was clear Murphy was choosing his words with even more care. “The Expansionists are the political bloc of SpinDogs who want to take over here and are therefore, at least partially, responsible for supporting us. The Hardliners traditionally resist change and are opposed to almost all of the Expansionsts’ strategies and proposals. The RockHounds are an entirely separate group from the SpinDogs. They are essentially miners and prospectors who spend most of their lives in deep space. They have their own internal political fault lines, of which I am mostly ignorant.” Again, a thoughtful pause. “There’s a lot of complexity, and we’ve only begun to scratch the surface.”
“Poles,” Chalmers said, equally thoughtfully.
“What’s that, Chief?” Murphy asked.
“Just thinking we have to be wary of being used up like the Polish Paras in WWII,” Chalmers explained.
Murphy was silent for a long moment, then said, “There are some parallels, but I hope to keep everyone from dying because we over-extended and reached for a bridge too far. Or further.”
Chalmers smiled weakly. Murphy still intimidated the shit out of him, but it was good to hear the major recognize the quality of his assessment.
“At any rate, gentlemen, I need you to collect your tribal guides, obtain their best assessment of who might be radioing in our dispositions and why. With that information in hand—or not—you will then proceed to the village where you will locate and confiscate any radio equipment before our next movement. You will accomplish all of this while minimizing any damage to our future relations with the villagers as potential future allies. I am told tha
t Bruce—er, Lieutenant Lee—is done with her shakedown flights and will be standing off for emergency extraction during the meet with the Kedlak.”
“You suspect Kedlak’s people will give us trouble?” Chalmers asked, relieved there was some kind of plan to get them out if things dropped in the shitter.
“No, but I know I wouldn’t want to meet with a tribe of unknowns without some kind of extraction team, and I won’t send people to do things I wouldn’t do myself.” The major paused. “And before you ask, I considered having her loiter above the meet, but we don’t know precisely where the camp is, and I don’t want to spook them.”
“Spook them?” Chalmers asked.
Jackson shot a look at Chalmers the latter interpreted as, “Why don’t you pay attention to the briefings?”
Murphy, unaware of the silent byplay and apparently willing to overlook Chalmers’ ignorance, said, “The only people with air power on R’Bak are the bad guys, and we don’t want our first impression to be tainted by that association.” Murphy then added, “Look, I know this mission’s a dog’s breakfast, but I need you to execute, copy?”
“Copy that,” Jackson said.
“Any questions?”
“What kind of toast you want with that order?” Jackson asked.
“Blackened rye,” Murphy drawled.
“And how long do we have to accomplish the mission?” Chalmers asked, glad the major was cozy with one of them, at least.
“Oh, I’m sure two crack investigators like you can sew this up in forty-eight hours. In forty-nine and one-half hours the lead elements of our force will be transiting the valley in full view of the village. Gentlemen, I would really hate to level a village because of one asshole. Find the radio. Find the operator. I’m not too concerned about the condition of either, but stopping the transmissions is priority one. Hooah?”
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