Unsure what the man was talking about, Chalmers looked at his pant leg, noting for the first time the oily, glittery sheen on the fabric from just below the knee to the top of his booted foot. In short, it looked like a glittered-up and oily stripper had humped his lower leg and the top of his foot for an hour.
“What the?” Chalmers cried, dropping Jackson’s arms. The unconscious man’s head thumped hard on the packed earth floor, but Chalmers was too busy trying to figure out how to get the stuff off his leg without touching it to give his friend’s comfort much thought.
“The scales of begroag are pretty when still moist, no?” The man was laughing again.
Furious, fed up, and just a little frightened by how little he knew of this place, these people, and these times, Chalmers stomped around swearing at the top of his lungs for the next little while. The tirade included choice words from four different languages and a couple he made up on the spot to better describe his disgust in the best possible fashion. It didn’t achieve anything other than making him feel better, but that was enough. Eventually he ran out of words, if not steam, and stomped back to the still-unconscious Jackson and the indig.
“All right, Laughing Boy, get his legs.”
“Laughing Boy?” The man asked, all trace of humor gone from his face. “I am a man. Full warrior of the clan. You, who are not a full warrior, do not call me boy.”
Chalmers stared at him, grinding his teeth. Eventually, he threw his hands in the air and said, an edge of hysterical laughter he hated in his voice, “If you would tell me your name, I would not have to give you insult!”
The man cocked his head, considering whether or not to continue taking umbrage. Chalmers let his hand settle on the holstered pistol at his belt, fully ready to shoot anyone who gave him the least bit more shit.
But the man’s good humor returned as he smiled and said, “Artzhimaklid is my name, War Technician.”
“All right, Archie, get his damn legs. Don’t want another begroag to come along and decide to ride him like a pony.”
“Pony? What is pony?”
“Small riding beast.”
Archie chuckled at that. “Watch his head.”
Navigating the narrow passage, the pair carried the unconscious man into the hetman’s home and placed him on the bedding Jackson and Chalmers had set up there before the stakeout. Kenla and the hetman were still asleep. Something about her victory over the man had made them all a guest of his for however long her wounds required to heal.
Speaking of which…Chalmers checked and saw that Kenla had not stirred from the makeshift bed in which the healer had treated her. Wishing there was someone he could talk to other than Archie, Chalmers led the way back outside and returned to the storehouse.
It wasn’t until they had Ked laid out in his own bedroll that Chalmers realized just how weird the whole situation was. Within barely twelve hours, Clarthu’s four visitors had killed the hetman’s son, stabbed the hetman near to death, and shot their healer. Oh, and said healer was clearly reporting their movements to the enemy while the son of the hetman had either sold something or, more alarmingly, been bought to the tune of an anti-armor weapon and ammunition.
Something was wrong. No, so many things were wrong that Chalmers couldn’t sort out just what he should focus on.
* * *
AUKSKANIS MOUNTAIN CAMP: MISSION DAY 051
“Focus on the mission,” Chalmers told himself as the indigs of Kedlakis continued to gather. He tried not to shove too hard at the onlookers as he came around the buggy to stand next to the passenger side.
Being surrounded by so many armed strangers would make anyone nervous, and Chalmers already had a suspicious nature. Even if they’d had an extraction team and pair of Blackhawks ready to rain death on anyone who stepped out of line, he’d have been anxious. As it was, Captain Mara Lee—call sign “Bruce”—was supposed to be paralleling them in the next valley over, ready to come in hot should they call for her, but that was cold comfort. Chalmers respected the pilot, but even if she could get to them in two minutes, anything more than a minute was an eternity in close quarters battle. Things were so tight with the indigs that if anything popped off, they were done for.
“Is that Kedlakis-Ur?” Jackson asked Mayal, nodding in the newly-appeared woman’s direction.
The young warrior nodded but quietly added, “The Kedlakis-Ur, yes.”
Jackson glanced at Chalmers, who gave a slight nod and started pushing against the crowd to make room for his companion. The sergeant climbed out of the buggy and stood in the space provided as the Kedlakis-Ur approached. By the time he was standing next to Chalmers, the Kedlakis-Ur was before them, the crowd had parted for her without a command.
She was thick-wristed and sleekly muscled. Tall and powerfully built in the way of ranchers back home, her long, dark hair was bound in what looked like a complicated network of braids that were allowed to fall down her back after passing through a yellow stone ring. A real man-eater.
Chalmers liked the type.
“Greetings, Kedlakis-Ur,” Jackson said. “I am Sergeant Jackson, and this is Warrant Officer Chalmers. We were told you are expecting us. We bring the promised gifts.”
The woman studied them both for a long moment. Chalmers didn’t usually feel uncomfortable when women looked at him, but there was something about this woman’s regard that left him with the sense he’d been weighed and found wanting.
“I am the Kedlakis-Ur. Welcome to the camp of the Kedlak. You have my protection and welcome.” The woman’s voice was gravel on rose petals. The kind you wanted to hear raised in song.
Chalmers and Jackson waited for more, but the woman stood silently regarding them.
“We…ahh, have the promised gifts,” Chalmers said, after the silence had stretched too long for comfort.
The woman nodded, and Chalmers gestured.
Jackson climbed into the back seat and grunted as he pulled the bag of SpinDog-approved goodies from the foot well. Never ones to trust REMFs—especially someone else’s REMFs—to provide everything they might need, Chalmers and Jackson had both added a few hopefully high-value items from their personal rucks.
The Kedlakis-Ur gestured for a young man at her right to pick up the pack when Jackson dropped it at her feet. The youth easily hefted the pack and slung it over his shoulder, retreating toward one of the nearby tents.
The indigs crowding the Lost Soldiers began to disperse. Their steady withdrawal made Chalmers more nervous rather than less. He wasn’t sure if the behavior was due to the indigs observing some unknown social formality, but it seemed odd the indigs didn’t hang around to see what these outsiders were offering their chief and, ultimately, them. It made him feel as if it were Jackson and Chalmers themselves the locals had come to see…like they were a low rent freakshow that hadn’t lived up to the barker’s claims.
Chalmers was anxious enough that when he looked back at the Kedlakis-Ur and found her staring at him, an electric jolt ran from the base of his spine to his skull. She really was quite attractive, with eyes of a deep, burnt amber that he’d never seen the likes of before. His earlier discomfort was gone, leaving a different sort of ache in its place.
“We thank you for your protection and welcome,” Chalmers mumbled, hoping he didn’t misspeak. “And hope you will accept the gifts offered.”
“They will no doubt prove sufficient, War Technician,” the Kedlakis-Ur said, turning away. Chalmers, released from her magnetic gaze, stumbled forward after her, noting the same delicate, sage-like scent in her wake and a very feminine sway to her hips under the wide belt she wore.
She walked them toward the tent to which the younger man had taken their offering.
Jackson nudged the warrant, giving Chalmers one of his patented “what the fuck?” looks. Chalmers just shrugged and followed the woman into her large tent.
The interior was more like one of the surgeon’s barracks-tents from M.A.S.H. than the Arab chieftain’s harem ten
t he’d half-expected. Sure, it was decked out with all the amenities the upper class could get, but there was still something unmistakably military—and spartan—about the interior.
They were offered seats on low benches that Chalmers recalled were multi-purposed as racks for stowing tents when on the move as well as frameworks for hasty defenses that, when filled with earth, made excellent barricades. The benches bore cushions that doubled as containers when traveling, and currently stored other fabrics and filler that could be sat upon without damaging them. Indeed, from lamps to seating, everything the nomads made for themselves had multiple purposes. It said something about their mentality that Chalmers sensed must be important.
“Be welcome in my tent,” the Kedlakis-Ur said, once they were seated. “Please take food and drink.”
“Thank you, but we are neither thirsty nor hungry,” Chalmers said, grateful he’d retained the SpinDog briefing on this, at least. They were to refuse the first offer, and second, but refusing the third offer of food and water would give grave insult.
“Please, you must be weary from your travels, we have plenty.”
“We are healthy and strong, and our travels short.”
“I do not doubt it, but comfort is offered, and for it to be received would be our pleasure.” She clapped her hands, and the young man who had taken charge of their bag at the buggy entered with a large, shallow, and elaborately-chased silver bowl in his hands. If the fine silverware was incongruous against the bandoliers and still-slung rifle across his back, the Kedlakis-Ur gave no sign.
“We would not deny you your pleasure,” Chalmers said.
He could feel Jackson relaxing at his successful completion of the ritual, and cast his own patented look the sergeant’s way, the one meant to tell his partner, “See, I’m not completely clueless.”
Unaware of the silent byplay, the young man came forward and offered the bowl, which was filled with alien fruits and what looked like jerky. Chalmers took a selection of both and ate enough to, he hoped, avoid rudeness, not because of any distaste for what was offered—it was quite tasty, the fruit in particular—rather, getting a case of the R’Bak Runs was high on his list of shit to avoid, if he could. The SEAL, whatshisname, had reported it as a thing, despite the conditioning medications the SpinDogs had given them. It made sense to Chalmers there’d be something about the food that was hard on Terran digestion, given that R’Bak was a lot farther from Kansas than the Mog, and acclimating to what the warlords had fed their guests there had put some folks in line for the latrine for days. Even the smallest amount of the wrong food could make a man wish he were dead.
He filed such concerns under, “the things a soldier had to do to survive,” and moved on.
“Your messenger did not offer many details of what would be expected of us in the coming days,” their host said, gracefully plucking what looked like a green grape the size of a tangerine from the bowl and biting into it.
Chalmers smiled and wished, not for the last time, that he knew more about this place and these people. “The mission changed not two days ago. Even we did not know what was to be done until Major Murphy told us.”
“You do not answer the question I did not ask,” she said, a broad smile lighting up those exceptional eyes.
Chalmers returned his own, more cautious grin. All his raging successes with women had been short term. Once they got to know what he was really like, they always grew to hate him. It was one of the things about this second life he hoped to change. “To be honest, we need guides who can—” he paused to be certain of the word: verb tenses were such a bitch, “—introduce us to the people of Clarthu.”
“And then?” she asked, taking another bite of the fruit. The juices made her lips glisten. They were nice lips.
“Then we will find the one who reports our movements to our common enemy.”
“‘We will find?’” the Kedlakis-Ur asked, arching an eyebrow that had a thin scar running its length.
“It is hoped your guides will help us track down the spy, yes.” Chalmers finished less confidently than he’d hoped, unable to gauge just what this woman wanted from him.
“The people of Clarthu will not look kindly on us something in their something,” she said, too quickly for him to understand.
Chalmers glanced in puzzlement at Jackson, who said, “Can you clarify, Kedlakis-Ur? Do you mean they will not like us, collectively, interfering, or that they will not like your people interfering?”
The Kedlakis-Ur finished her fruit and licked the last of the juices from her fingers before responding. “Both. But they will not want interference from my people. We are seen as something to them.” When she saw that Chalmers had lost her meaning, she explained the term, “A thing or person that is needed, but not wanted.”
“I see,” Chalmers said.
“I will give you the help you ask for. The guides will be told to try and avoid something the villagers,” Chalmers figured out the word he’d missed as “antagonize” a beat or two after she said it.
“Our thanks, Kedlakis-Ur.”
“For now, take your ease. You will sleep here.”
“Do you not want to see our gifts?”
She waved dismissively. “It can wait until after you’ve rested. I will select your guides while you rest.” She stood with the same fluid grace she’d exhibited from the first.
Chalmers got an elbow in the ribs as he watched her leave.
“What?” he complained, rubbing his side and glaring at Jackson.
“Please don’t let a need to dip your wick get us in trouble, man.”
“I won’t,” Chalmers said, swallowing against a suddenly-dry throat. “She’s something, though.”
“No doubt.” Jackson’s smile cracked his concerned expression. “No doubt. Still, we need to watch our shit. These waters are deeper than Lake Michigan, and we don’t know half what we should.”
Chalmers nodded and cocked his head. “Speaking of which, you notice she didn’t seem too concerned with the bribe we offered?”
“Nope. Definitely has her own reasons for helping us.”
“We should report in; let Murphy know we’ve made contact, and that she’s agreed to assist us.”
“Copy that. You want to, or should I?”
“Go ahead,” Chalmers said, looking out the tent flap in hopes of catching another glimpse of the Kedlakis-Ur.
“Quit thinking with that dipshit between your legs, Chalmers. You’ll get us both killed.”
“I won’t jeopardize the mission, man,” Chalmers said, earnestly.
Jackson looked askance at him.
“What?”
“Man, what the fuck is up with you?”
“What?” Chalmers said, more defensively than he meant to. The genuine concern in Jackson’s voice made the man’s question a real one, not a jab of their usual banter, to be deflected and laughed off.
“Time was you’d have told me to go fuck myself and gone on to get us in a world of shit. It was how you rolled.”
“Well,” Chalmers said uncomfortably, “I’m trying to change.”
The reply silenced Jackson, but only for a moment. He muttered something Chalmers couldn’t quite make out.
Chalmers thought about letting it ride but remembered the promise he’d made to himself. “What was that?”
Jackson’s expression was a cracked mask of barely-suppressed emotion. He did an even worse job of controlling his voice, which throbbed with rage. “Now, Chalmers? Now? You choose now to change? I’d have thought you might have made better choices before. Before we were in this—this…situation. You see, Chalmers, I know. I fucking know.”
Chalmers couldn’t answer, knowing his partner’s anger was fully justified, that he—the man he’d been before—fully deserved it, and he could only begin to pay the bill his old ways had run up among his friends, family, and colleagues. He sat silent, hoping Jackson would unload, yet desperate his partner would not explode.
“I know,
Chalmers,” Jackson repeated, jabbing a finger hard into Chalmers’ chest. “Murphy told me when I woke up. I know I wouldn’t have even been on that God-forsaken helo if it weren’t for your shitty play with that warlord. I know you fucked me. The only thing that stopped me from putting a bullet in your head when we woke up was the fact you were in it with me, and I kinda hoped you might catch a bullet meant for me. More than that, though, I wanted the option of fucking ending you myself if you fucked up again. That, and my momma taught me it’s always better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” Jackson’s tirade was getting loud, but Chalmers dared not tell the sergeant to lower his voice.
“And!” Jackson nearly shouted the word, eyes wild. “And if there was ever half a chance of surviving this fucked up situation it would be helped by knowing the man beside me, even a shithead like you. And even knowing just how his shit floats, you asshole!”
Scarred hands drew into tight, angry fists as Jackson lowered his voice and rasped on, “But, God help me…but I’ve also come to realize you know how to paddle up Shit’s Creek like no one else. And…and…” The sergeant heaved in a great, shaking breath before releasing it more slowly and continuing, “And…the way I see things, that’s what we need to survive right now: someone who knows how to paddle.”
Chalmers, overwhelmed with an unfamiliar emotion he eventually identified as gratitude, nodded and looked away from his partner’s still-smoldering gaze.
“Dick,” Jackson said.
Chalmers nodded, meeting his partner’s gaze again. “Trying to be better, man.”
“Whatever, man, just make sure you don’t fucking forget to paddle while you’re trying. Paddling against the shit is the one thing that’s kept you alive so far,” Jackson grunted roughly.
* * *
CLARTHU: MISSION DAY 053
Jackson grunted roughly as he sat bolt upright, then shouted, “Whotoleyoutoputhathere!”
Chalmers snorted. “You having crazy butt sex in your sleep again, Jackson?”
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