Chapter Seven

Gettys had found he held a great respect for this Chumley. He knew rather very little about the portly Brit, but this didn't diminish what he felt for the warrior. And that's exactly what Chumley proved himself to be. It was hard not to find amusement in his character, the large RAF moustache, a rounded physique and the thick British accent, all topped off with the remnants of a safari type getup which a naval sword hung from the belt. Chumley explained that once on shore he realised he best not be captured by the enemy wearing garb that would give away his allegiance and role, but the sword… well, he couldn't break with either tradition or respect for his fallen sailors and kin.

They'd been with the Englishman and his group for about four weeks now, that time had proven enough to both the new comers how organised and efficient Chumley was. He was smart enough to know not to ambush enemy convoys or do damage to their supply routes in the region. So, Chumley would lead his men outwards, possibly hundreds of kilometres from their "base" to launch attacks. It'd take 6 days of walking for one little mission that involved laying mines around the location of an oil drilling facility. It'd taken out at least three of the Autobots and such an attack caused their number to swell in the region. That's when Chumley retreated his troops 10 days form that area to another where they were able to raid a large stock pile of resources, fuels, food, water. The robot guards of that facility were rather small in statue and both didn't seem too fussed about being there. It was a relatively quick raid, Chumley ordering them to prize petrol and water ahead of all else. They'd been noticed by one of the guards, who began the charge towards them. Chumley had jumped into the action quicker then a man his size should have been able. He swung out with that naval sword and sliced the fingers from the approaching robot. He then followed through with a quick jab through the eye of that machine and into what ever passed as its brain. It went down swiftly, twitching in an unsettling manner before its optics blackened and it "died". The other was unnerved by the brutality visited upon his kin by such an inefficiently proportioned flesh creature and so came at Chumley with a little more forethought.

Chumley revealed he carried more then a sharpened piece of metal and fired at the small beast with a laser rifle, its brains being blasted out the back of its head casing. It too, expired. Chumley then had four of his group get to work stripping down these creatures to pillage its amazing technology. The need for its plating was pressing – as they'd discovered the amazing alloy reflected most sensor sweeps and would protect them from unwelcome optics. The weapons it carried would also be put to good use against its own kind. It was how, Chumley explained later, that he'd come into contact with the laser rifle. They'd essentially dissected a smaller robot that had been executed by larger Autobots – for whatever reason the humans didn't know nor care. Of course, the exercise of "harvesting" was costly and it took more then a few to carry the pieces back to the base. One of Chumley's number had been a "tinkier" in peace time. While he had no formal training, and had actually left school at the age of 13, he did have an uncanny knack for figuring things of a robotic nature out. He was certainly very good at taking an Autobot weapon and grafting its components to a human sized one, giving a 202 a laser fuelled edge.

While that had all been very exciting, the long walk back to the base certainly didn't fill Gettys with joy and belief in the long term goal of victory – Nick was also less then impressed with the increased physical activity. Yet, Chumley led by example. Marching ahead of his band quite briskly but with a good level of caution, occasionally turning and encouraging his men onwards with British colloquialisms and metaphors.

Gettys wondered again what path his life would have taken if not for his criminal failings. Jail certainly wasn't something crooks aimed for. Its what he couldn't understand about some of the young punks these days, the viewed going to jail as some kind of twisted criminal right of passage. It was far from that! It was a hellish place where dignity and self-respect usually didn't exist, especially if you were some new fish who's crime wasn't' anything to chill the blood of your fellows. Gettys had been afforded a good deal of respect for the most part, given who he was and what he'd achieved, but as the years went by, and fellows died of age and… well… "incidents", people who knew who he was and what he had done were few and far between. Even the original guards and wardens who knew his identity had either moved on or passed away. He picked up another steel pipe and stuffed the highly flammable explosive putty into the shaft, inserted a wick and then capped it, adding it to the pile. It was a boring job, one which he found his mind wandering frequently. Nick had been given "expansion duty" which was a nice way of saying "go dig a hole in that cliff and make a few more rooms". His complaints during were a lot less then "hygiene duty" and "gather fire wood duty". Gettys gave a sly smile and laughed softly as he picked up another pipe. Nick had freaked out when he had been told by Chumley to head alone into the woods to sift through ash and debris to find burnable wood. Chumley was definitely no fool he knew Nick had no want or desire to do any job that involved standing or moving of any kind, so the portly Brit had given him a job where the youth would begin to fathom all manner of horrible ends after running into one of those creatures lurking in the woods. So Nick was only to happy to then end up with digging holes after the leader responded "well, the only other task we have is…"

Clever man, that Chumley.

Gettys figured he'd had to be given he'd probably experienced a number of wayward youth in his ranks over the years.

The criminal added another pipe bomb to the pile.

It was kind of nice to not be in charge. To do mindless busy work where he wouldn't be held accountable for the actions of everyone of his crew.

--

When evening came, Gettys found he'd filled six banana boxes with the small makeshift incinerary devices. He wasn't sure how effective they'd be against a larger of the machines, and chances are, some probably wouldn't even work – there wasn't exactly a quality control officer sitting at the end of the conveyer. A woman of about 45 came and got him for dinner and the two walked in silence back to the small cooking area – which they kept away from their "living quarters", for both fire safety reasons and in case something saw the smoke.

"So… I hear you were in prison".

The woman was so abrupt in her statement he had to wonder if maybe she had a brain injury, judging by the lack of hair on the right side of her head and a series of unpleasant scarring it was probably a plausible explanation.

"Yip".

He said as matter of factually as possible.

"Nick says you were a gangster".

"Yip".

"Seriously?"

"Yip".

"Take it you don't' want to talk about it?"

"Question is, do you want me to talk about it?"

She looked at him for a moment and contemplated on his words.

"The commander wants to see you after dinner".

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Dinner consisted of a thin soup made from potatoes and broccoli. It was filling, warm and the over dosing of pepper made it rather tasty. They ate in relative silence, the slurping and gulping and occasional burp the only real sounds shared. They only had enough for two meals a day and so this time was spent about food, not about conversation – Lord knew they had enough time during the day to natter to each other.

After they'd cleaned up their plates and placed them neatly away, extinguished the cooking fire and then carefully stacked the remaining soup in a small makeshift fridge – a big box with chunks of snow, they were able to retire for the night. To either sleep or engage in recreational activities which basically meant checkers, monopoly or scrabble. Chumley, in his spare time was working on a chess set – but spare time for the commander was few and far between.

"Gettys, let us converse".

The criminal looked up at the commander. He left his space at the monopoly board and followed the British citizen out on to the tarmac. They walked in silence for about five minutes before Chumley recounted his thoughts to the ex-con.

"My father was a criminal. A big game hunter who would pooch animals illegally from all manner of protected reserves. He decided to increase his interests and started after everything from Panzer tanks to Russian aircraft… not the wisest of moves during the Cold War, I assure you. When I was 10 he was sent to a Russian Gulag. I never saw him again. I spent the next few years of my life being a right royal hooligan. It took the words of my mother on her death bed to straighten me out. I entered the navy at 17 and as far as I'm concerned, I am still a sailor in Her Royal Highness' fleet!"

He paused.

"What I'm trying to say to you, lad, is, I don't know why you did what you did. But right now, your criminal history doesn't mean a lot to me or, I can assure you, to those Autobots. They don't care if you lived a spotless life, or were a homicidal maniac, to them you are human and that's all the excuse they need to enslave or kill you. My invitation, to you, good sir, is this – fight with us as you have been, give assistance when asked and work when needed, help us, your species to push back these metallic invaders and I for one will not consider your spotted past, and nor will any of the others. Your young friend, I imagine, only told of your foibles to try and get you both relieved from my duty, but right now, we need all the man power we can get to fight those devils. What say you, sir? Fight with us, your kin, against those monsters? Or take those criminal skills of yours elsewhere?"

"If I wanted to have left, I would have".

"Jolly good show! I will ensure not a word more is said about this unsavoury topic! You are dismissed!"

Gettys didn't really care either way that Nick had ratted him out, and frankly, the words of his new commander didn't bother him. He wanted his home back. Maybe this was his way to repay the universe or God or whoever, for all the shit he had pulled in his life. He was in this for the long term now. Prison was meant to be "paying off your debt to society"; Gettys could never understand how sitting in a concrete cell with bars day after day for a set number of years was paying society anything. But here he really was now paying a debt to society. He'd pay it off by fighting for the very people who would oftentimes shun or fear him. Gettys no longer had the prerogative to be a criminal, or to call himself such. That life was far behind him. It was a dead life. He had to live now to ensure humanity lived.