Dirty Deeds Read online

  “Earth is what it is,” he said.

  The alien gave him a queer look then laughed. “It is an unusual world,” he agreed, “as are the ones that spawned most merc races.”

  “You non-mercs don’t quite get us, do you?”

  “No,” Ja’blu agreed, “not at all. To kill for money is a strange concept.”

  “Oh, we don’t kill for money,” Murdock said. The captain watched him curiously. “We kill for fun; the money is just a fringe benefit. Thank you for the ride, Captain.”

  He headed for the customs office. As he was outside the populated areas of the starport, he fished out one of his Bongani cigars and brought it to life with a plasma lighter, a gift from Zeke Avander years ago. A passing technician gawked at his flagrantly uncouth behavior. Murdock smiled and blew a smoke ring.

  Earth’s government dealt with visitors by classifying them into six categories. Humans resident to Earth, Humans not resident to Earth, Human mercs, non-Human mercs, known aliens, and unknown aliens. A known alien was one who’d visited Earth in the past and had been documented, which meant there was a record of their Yack. From long years of practice, Murdock went to the Human merc line and waited, the remainder of the Bongani stashed in a saver sleeve.

  “Next,” a woman said and waved. She wore the blue uniform of ECSP, Earth Customs and System Patrol. The last line of defense for Earth, Murdock thought with a dry chuckle. Right. “Name?” she asked. He put his Yack, or Universal Account Access Card, on the counter, and she slid it into her terminal. He noted ESCP still hadn’t purchased slates. The computer was probably made by a federal works program of some sort.

  The machine chewed on his card for a minute, then beeped and popped it back out. She took the card and looked at it suspiciously. After rubbing it with her other hand, she jammed it back in again. This time the crappy little Tri-V lit up with his image and merc registration.

  “Murdock, Abraham Alphonse,” she said.

  “Just Murdock is fine,” he told her. She gave him the look.

  “Mr. Murdock, reason for visit.”

  “Returning after contract,” he said. She made a noise as she tapped old-fashioned mechanical keys and manipulated a mouse—a no shit—mouse. “I’m with Cartwright’s Cavaliers.” She looked at him with a more skeptical gaze, then punched some more keys. Her eyebrows rose.

  “Mr. Murdock,” she said, “according to this, you’re dead.”

  * * *

  It took eleven hours for him to clear customs, by which time his patience was just about shot. He’d given two voice checks, three retinal prints, and a genetic sample. It finally took a meeting with the Houston Spaceport ECSP office director.

  “Mr. Murdock, Commander Cartwright reported you lost on contract in the Chimsa system more than six months ago.” Director Canston showed him the official report, which marked the fifth time he’d been showed the document. “Death during HALD operation while assaulting Planet Chimsa, System Chimsa.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t dead,” he said again, in response to the director’s assertion. “This can’t be the first time this has happened, for cryin’ out loud!”

  “No, it has happened a few times,” the man admitted, “and most of those times it was someone trying to sneak on planet using a dead merc’s identity.”

  “You done checked my DNA and shit,” he said, slapping the table and holding up the bandaged hand where the sample had been taken. The tech was none too gentle, nor skilled at the procedure, either. “I don’t know what more I can give you.”

  “We have a series of questions based on your merc records, sent to us by MLO in Sao Paulo.”

  “The Merc Liaison Office?” he asked, to which the man nodded. “Why the fuck do we even have a Yack if you don’t trust it?”

  “They’ve been forged,” the man admitted, “and it’s become more common lately.”

  “No shit?” Murdock asked. The agent nodded. “Okay, fine.” He took out his personal slate. “Send me the questions.”

  “I’m afraid our system isn’t compatible with Union tech,” he said, apologetically.

  “Swell,” Murdock grumbled. The man handed him a clipboard with several printed pages of questions. What year did Abraham A. Murdock graduate high school, and what was his VOWs score? He quickly wrote 2064, the date he left high school at seventeen, since he’d never graduated, and 1012 for his VOWs, then went on to the next question.

  “The MLO said you were fired from Titty Twisters,” Director Cranston said after reviewing the answers.

  “Yeah, well, that’s their opinion. Call it a mutual parting of ways.” The director chuckled.

  “Well, the rest of the questions were correct.”

  “No shit.”

  “There’s no reason to be rude, Mr. Murdock. You have to see it our way.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Okay,” Cranston said, nodding. A side door had opened, and a young agent came in with Murdock’s duffle and a bag. Inside the bag were the weapons he’d been carrying when he’d hit customs. Cranston handed him his Yack. “Welcome back to Earth.” The old merc snorted, and Cranston continued. “We’ve overridden the legal record and show you as returned. You’ll have to visit Merc Guild Headquarters to change your status from dead to living. Your personal accounts are all gone, unfortunately, so all there is for you is your Union Yack account and your cash.” He spread his hands. “I’d recommend seeing a lawyer.”

  Murdock collected his stuff, making sure it was all there. The young agent glared as Murdock counted the credit chits. Satisfied, he emptied the customs bag into his pockets, holstered his sidearm, and slung the duffle over his shoulder.

  “Good luck,” Cranston said. Murdock left without a word.

  His ship had landed before noon; it was now the middle of the night. He stopped at the freight office to be sure his few valuable possessions were properly stored. After verifying, he left the terminal and found the closest flop he could. Fifteen credits lighter, he crashed out and got some rack time. The Cochkala’s ship time had his biological clock in the wee hours of the morning. He set his watch to wake him at 06:00 and was asleep in minutes, too tired to smoke.

  The next morning, he went to the main office of Cartwright’s Cavaliers, their operations center at the old Houston Hobby International airport. The main terminal had been converted into a museum dedicated to the Four Horsemen, Earth’s first successful mercenary units. The old administration building next to it was the Cavalier’s working facility. He went to the employee entrance and scanned his Yack. Not surprisingly, it didn’t work. “Fuck,” he grumbled and punched the “Voice” button on the access panel.

  “Visitors need to come around to the main entrance,” a bored voice said.

  “Do I look like a damned visitor?” He leaned closer to the pickup so it could see his Cavalier’s blue camo uniform top, complete with first sergeant’s bars and name plaque. Under his name was the customary set of hash marks denoting contracts he’d served. There were a lot of them.

  “I don’t show an Abraham Murdock,” the voice said.

  “No, because I’m listed as dead. You gonna let me in nor not? For crying out loud, call Hargrave. Or better, ring up the kid, Jim Cartwright, in his tower, so we can get this straightened out.” The door swung open and a middle-aged woman in the Cavalier’s office duty dark blue uniform stood there, a skeptical look of surprise on her face.

  “May I see your Yack, sir?” He handed it to her and she inserted into a quite modern-looking slate. After his encounter with the ECSP the day before, it was comforting to see. When he’d been lost in combat, the Cavaliers were still struggling to climb out of bankruptcy. “Finger?” she asked, offering the slate to him. He put a digit on the flashing reader. It flashed green, verifying he matched the data on the card.

  “So?” he asked, spreading his hands.

  “Sergeant Murdock,” she said, “you were reported as lost in the Chimsa system.”

  “I know that,”
he grumbled.

  “I’m Lieutenant Jordan, base officer. We only have a skeleton crew here right now. Commander Cartwright and the rest of the company is on a contract.”

  “Well, okay then.” Rain started to fall. “Can we talk inside, sir?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said and stood aside for him to go in.

  She took him up to her office. The last time Murdock had been in the offices, there were hundreds of personnel there. They’d been busily preparing for deployment. Like Lieutenant Jordan said, the place was practically deserted. The only area with sizeable staffing was procurement and logistics. As they walked, she explained the details of the commander’s change in operations from Earth to Karma.

  Murdock fished out the partially-smoked Bongani and held it up. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Yes,” she said. “As for the rest of the Cavaliers, they’ll rotate back here in a few months after the next couple contracts are over.”

  “Kid’s got good instincts as a commander,” Murdock said. The lieutenant nodded, and he grudgingly stashed the saver back in his bag. “Hargrave keeps him mostly in line, as well.” She nodded again. “Can you tell me what happened on Chimsa? All I got is we completed the contract.” They reached her office and both took seats. An assistant came in and brought coffee, apparently having been requested before she’d gone down to let him in.

  “As you know, the mission went to hell from the minute Traveler transitioned into Chimsa.” She explained how they’d lost the ship but managed to land a force and secure the defense of their client. Then a massive Tortantula strike force had attacked. Commander Cartwright ended up using an ancient thirty-meter-tall Raknar to maul the attack force.

  “That hunk of junk was ten thousand years old,” Murdock said, shaking his head.

  “Twenty thousand,” she corrected, and he whistled. “It wasn’t more than an impressive diversion, but it still paid dividends. The spiders went ape-shit trying to kill him, and Hargrave came in from the flanks and cleaned them up.” Murdock laughed and shook his head in amazement. God-damned kid and his giant robots. Then she went on to explain the subsequent battle against the Canavar, legendary monsters from the same era as the Raknar. It was all too much.

  “They got back, hired more people, and headed back out,” she said, finishing her story. “What about you, Top? You were on Commander Cartwright’s dropship. Report was, the missile took out the cockpit, flight crew, and yourself.”

  “Flight crew yes, me no. I was in a Mk 7 CASPer, and more than a little lucky. Suit wasn’t badly damaged, just the radio and some actuators. I salvaged life support from the flight crew…” his jaw muscles worked, “and then managed to tap into the dropship’s O2 tanks. All in all, I floated there for three weeks.”

  “Wow,” was all she could say.

  “Yeah. Some elSha salvagers found me floating in the debris field after a space battle. I convinced them to take me to another system. I’ve spent the last six months working my way here.” She shook her head in amazement. “Almost went to Karma.” A shrug. “So, what now?” Lieutenant Jordan tapped virtual keys and the Tri-V on her desk lit up. It showed the file of one Abraham A. Murdock—deceased. She sighed.

  “In accordance with your contract, Sergeant, your combat casualty policy was paid to your designated beneficiary.” His eyebrows knitted as he thought. All mercs got one of those policies as part of their contract; they were required by the guild. Unless you actively changed it, the beneficiary stayed the same. He couldn’t remember who the hell he’d settled as his. “That means no position, no pay since your reported loss.”

  “I was kinda thinkin’ that would be the situation.” He drained his coffee and put a computer chip on her desk. She looked at it curiously. “My CASPer, aside from a few weeks of my ass juices and some nicks and dings, is good. I fixed it up en route here. There’s the claim chip to get it at the starport freight desk.”

  “I just told you you’re shit out of luck, and you give us back the CASPer?” He nodded. “You could have just said it was trashed and nobody would have been any the wiser.”

  “Not the way I operate.” She looked at the chip for a long moment, then shoved it back across her desk to him.

  “I’m just a lieutenant,” she said, “so I can’t authorize any payout. I also can’t input your old CASPer back into inventory. It’s a capital asset and was written off when you didn’t come back. So, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t exist. It’s the least I can do, because your file is frozen, so I can’t enter anything about your service.” She stood and offered him her hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Top.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  Sheridan Arkansas, population 2,952, hadn’t really changed much over the years. First incorporated in 1887, and named after Lieutenant General Philip Sheridan, it had reached the end of its population growth by the early twentieth century and had never spent more than a few years over 3,000 souls. Even first contact with the Galactic Union hadn’t changed it much, at least not for the better.

  Murdock walked down North Rose Street, puffing on a Bongani, his distant memory playing the game of hide-and-go-seek his mind liked to do with something he hadn’t seen in fifty years. He’d been born in Little Rock and moved to Sheridan with his mother at the age of four when his parents divorced. Things were the same, yet different. When he reached the intersection of West 7th, the feeling of familiarity reached an intensity that made his teeth itch. The houses were a lot shittier now than he remembered, though.

  The third house down, he came to his objective. The ranch-style structure had been built in the 1940s, just after WWII. It had been upgraded a couple times. After Murdock’s mother died, it had downgraded several times. The grass was dead—no mean feat, to kill grass in Arkansas—the windows were filthy, and the garage was half collapsed. Two cars sat in the driveway, one a late-model domestic beater, the other an alien-made aerocar. It was as out of place as a penguin in the desert. He stashed the partially-smoked stogie, went up to the house, and knocked.

  “Jus leave the pizza, I done gave you mah Yack already.” He knocked again. “Wut da fuck,” someone said, and he heard footsteps. A second later, the door jerked open and a huge beefy man was standing there. “Who da fuck are you?”

  “Where’s Ruth?”

  “I said who da fuck are you?” The man looked Murdock up and down and snorted. “You one a her ex-boyfriends? Well, I’ll tell you what, you can just turn ya ass—gak!” Murdock had the guy by his neck and was backing him up into the house before the other man knew what had happened. He let his duffle slip off his shoulder to land on the filthy carpet as he moved.

  “You gonna tell me where Ruth is, or do I have to knock your rotten teeth out?” The man’s eyes were wide with terror as he gestured down the hall with a thumb. Murdock released him, and he collapsed to the floor, taking out a cheap glass and plastic coffee table on the way down. An expensive brand-new alien-made slate had been on the table, and was unharmed by the collision. An equally new Tri-V set rested on top of a dilapidated Earth-made 3D active matrix plasma display as old as he was.

  Murdock stepped over the idiot, leaving him flopping there and gasping for breath, and went to the bedroom door, pushing it open without knocking. A big lump lay in the middle of the old, worn-out bed. Murdock kicked the bed frame hard enough to smash it against the wall.

  “Whadafuckinhell?!” the woman blared and sat up.

  “Wake up, Ruth.”

  She looked around with eyes bleary from sleep and alcohol, or whatever drugs she was on. “Who dat?” she asked, looking at him in confusion. At sixty-five, she looked a lot worse for wear than his seventy-nine years, and she’d done nothing more dangerous than screw losers like the one gasping for breath in the living room.

  “It’s your brother, Abe.”

  “Abe, dey said you’s dead.”

  “They were wrong. What did you do with all the money, Ruth?”

  “Spent it, I di
d!” she said proudly, and flashed him a smile full of gold. It looked like one of her teeth had a red diamond in it. “You high-falutin’ merc, you took off, flew all over the galaxy, galivantin’ here an der’, and got rich, left us all here.”

  “I took care of mom until she died, that was all I was obligated to do.”

  “Wut about me and your brother? Ain’t you not your brother’s keeper, likein’ it says in da’ Bible, Abe?”

  “No, I’m not. You made your own choices. I left you the house and everything. You let it go to shit. Where’s Joshua?”

  “Dead,” she said, and snorted. “He done got mixed up in a sparkle-selling ring and was shot.” Murdock shook his head. The house said it all; she wasn’t lying. She’d blown his payout on crap mostly. The car looked good enough, but he doubted he could sell it before someone caught up with him. She probably owed more money than she had left. He turned to go. “Only good thing you evah did for this family is die, you sunuvabitch.” She spat in his direction and it landed on the sheets. “Maybe if you die again they’d pay again?”

  “Go drink yourself to death, you worthless cunt,” he said and went back out the door. The unnamed boyfriend caught him right on the side of the face with a roundhouse punch. Murdock rocked back a step, and his head spun. It hurt, a little. He was a pretty big guy, probably worked construction. At maybe forty-five, he was likely banging Ruth for the free ride, no pun intended.

  “You gonna git you an ass wuppin’ now, boy!” the man yelled and swung again. Murdock’s left came up and blocked the blow, the man’s forearm slamming into Murdock’s with enough force to crack bone. Not Murdock’s bone; his were hardened by nanite therapy so he could operate a CASPer without killing himself. The boyfriend yelled in pain. Murdock was at least thirty years the guy’s senior. The boy had made a serious mistake.