Chapter Two
Spin One
As Murphy entered his briefing room, ops center, and HQ all rolled into one, his staff officer, “Pistol Pete” Makarov, glanced in the direction of the colonel’s office. “You have a visitor, sir. Major Korelon.”
Murphy nodded his thanks and, without breaking his stride, entered his sanctum sanctorum, hand extended. “Welcome back, Korelon’va.”
The RockHound officer was already standing. Either he’d remained that way since arriving or had jumped to his feet upon hearing Murphy’s voice. “I am sorry to intrude, Colonel Murphy, but I am scheduled to depart Spin One within the hour.” After shaking hands—a Terran gesture that did not come naturally to RockHounds or SpinDogs—he bowed sharply: the local equivalent of a formal salute. “I wished to express my gratitude.”
Murphy waved toward a chair. “For what?”
Korelon shook his head at the offer to sit. “For your help, your patience, and later, your support. You had little reason to trust that I would serve well under Major Tapper after our, eh, unfortunate first exchanges.”
Murphy smiled at the euphemism. “Are you becoming a diplomat now, Major? I don’t think I’ve ever heard an imminent knife-fight described so tactfully.”
Korelon smiled back. “In fact, my new assignment involves just such a shift in my duties. Legate Orgunz has indicated that I am to once again be a liaison.”
Murphy shook his head. “Then why are you departing? That’s the role that brought you here in the first place.”
The other nodded. “Indeed, but I will no longer be performing that role on Spin One. Rather, I am being sent back to the outer system.”
Murphy frowned. “Have you been pushed out of your position here? If so, I will speak with Legate Orgunz. Your work has been extremely helpful to—”
“No, Colonel. You misunderstand; I have chosen to return to the stations and outposts of my people. I am, to use your geocentric phrase, returning to my roots.”
Murphy glanced around at the well-fabricated bulkheads and the many comforts and amenities they implied. “That will be . . . quite a change.” By comparison, the dwellings of the RockHounds—small habitats bored through slowly rotating asteroids or holes cut into hangar-sized rocks—were extremely austere.
Korelon smiled. “My time here on Spin One has been pleasant, but that is part of the problem. In coming here to be an advocate for my people’s interests, I have drifted away from their ways, their daily tribulations. That must end.”
“But then how shall you continue your work as a liaison?”
The RockHound shrugged. “I shall do what I did here, but in reverse. If we are to unify as a greater people—as the free spacefaring families of the R’Bak system—I must now be a liaison not for the RockHounds, but to them.” He glanced at the entrance. “I appreciate that you have much to do, Colonel, given our return. So I shall not take up any more of your time.”
Murphy raised a pausing hand. “Major, before you leave, a question or two. Specifically, I’d be grateful for any light you can shed how and why one of your prisoners attacked Vat during questioning.”
Korelon frowned. “You are referring to the Kulsian drive tech who emerged from an access panel after we took the corvette, I believe? If so, that is almost all I know about him. Which was clearly Vat’s intent.”
“He felt it necessary to withhold details from you?”
“Not just me, Colonel: from everyone. Even the mission’s commanders. Vat insisted that any further information about the prisoner be reserved for your ears only.”
Murphy felt his eyebrows rise. “Only mine? Do you have any idea why? Or what happened during the interrogation?”
Korelon smiled ruefully. “No, but the prisoner remained furious for several days.” He shrugged. “Apparently, the lieutenant made several unflattering remarks about a woman the drive tech mentioned.”
“Mentioned during the interview?”
“No, I believe the lieutenant learned of her while reviewing the prisoner’s personal effects.”
Personal effects? “Do you know what those effects were or where Vat secured them?”
“I am sorry to report that only Vat himself could answer those questions, sir. He was adamant that they remain secret until he spoke to you.”
“Did anyone else see those personal effects before the interview?”
“Just one of my men: Markaz. He accompanied Lieutenant Thomas during the search of the corvette’s staterooms and bunks. Most everything was on disks and chips, but the drive tech kept a sealed folder hidden in the false bottom of his footlocker.”
Murphy reflected on what a lowly Kulsian drive tech would feel necessary to conceal from his fellow crewmembers. “Who was Vat’s guard when he questioned the Kulsian?”
“There were two, but Markaz was in charge of security. Again, at Lieutenant Thomas’s request.” Korelon shook his head. “Markaz was deeply troubled that he became distracted. He submitted himself to me for disciplinary action.”
“Wait: he was distracted? By what?”
“By the lieutenant’s peculiar questioning, and that it became quite . . . personal.”
“Personal in what way?”
Korelon’s jaw became rigid. “I am not familiar with your codes of military justice, nor am I certain that Markaz’s perceptions are accurate. I am therefore reluctant to share anything that might place the lieutenant in an awkward position.”
Murphy shook his head. “Protecting the lieutenant’s honor is commendable”—particularly since he’s a Terran, and hardly your favorite—“but this may prove to be a counterintelligence matter of the highest importance. So I must insist: what did Markaz report?”
Korelon shifted his feet. “The lieutenant suggested that the woman was nothing more than a promiscuous piece of”—the RockHound faltered—“was a dalliance of no consequence, sir.”
Murphy felt the hazy puzzle pieces of Vat’s interrogation snap into sharp focus and almost fling themselves together. “And Markaz is sure that was what caused the prisoner to attack?”
Korelon nodded. “And with such suddenness that Markaz, one of my senior troops, was taken entirely off guard.” Korelon waited, grew uncomfortable as Murphy reflected on the details. “Sir? If that is all . . . ?”
“It is, Major. And thank you for coming by to tell me of your plans. It has been an honor to work with you.”
Korelon stood straighter, eyes wider: not in alarm or anger, but surprise. He bowed again, but it was deeper and he held it for at least two seconds. “The honor has been mine, Ektadori’u Murphy.” When he straightened, he saw the puzzlement on the Terran’s face. He smiled. “Ah. You are not familiar with that title.”
“I am not,” Murphy admitted.
“An ektadori’u is one who does not lead by rank alone, but by their wisdom, their presence, their example.” Korelon’s smile became rueful. “It is not always easy to be an ektadori’u, though, for one may be masterful yet not have commensurate rank. That is often . . . upsetting to those of higher station or rank.”
Murphy smiled. “That situation,” he murmured, “is not unknown among my people.”
Korelon grinned, started to move away, but as if remembering something, turned back. Very carefully, he came to attention and delivered a perfectly acceptable human salute.
Murphy returned it with crisp precision, but lowered his hand more slowly, casually. “Godspeed, Mr. Korelon. Don’t be a stranger. There’s always a meal and a drink waiting for you in Lost Soldier country.”
The RockHound grinned and slipped out of the colonel’s office.
When Murphy heard the office’s outer hatch seal behind Korelon, he called to Makarov. “Pete, I’ve got a question for you.”
The Russian major’s head tilted into view beyond the coaming. “Sir?”
“Are you familiar with the SpinDog title ektadori’u?”
Makarov, a professor of linguistics before the Soviet Army had dragooned him into becoming a translator, frowned uncertainly. “Give me a moment, sir.”
“Fine. I have a recording to make. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Very good, sir,” Makarov mumbled as he pulled Murphy’s door closed.
Murphy sat at his desk, called up the computer’s video recording program. It was no better than what he’d used sending messages back home from Mogadishu. When it finally signaled that it was ready, he tapped the ACTIVATE key.
“This communiqué is per authorization protocol code: Salsaliin. Vat, you should have been given this recording by my adjutant Timmy Uggs. When you receive it, Major Makarov should have been present as a witness. If that is not how this recording was presented to you, it means secure protocols have been breached and you must not reply to this message.
“However, if it was delivered according to the aforementioned protocol, instruct Uggs and Makarov to leave the room while you write down the location of the personal effects of the interview subject who attacked you. Place that note in a sealed folder, ask Major Makarov to reenter, and pass it to him without discussing or mentioning the contents.”
Murphy ended the recording and copied it to a ubiquitous and unmarked SpinDog micro disk. “Pete?”
His office door—actually, a light-duty hatch—opened instantly. “Here, sir.”
Murphy held out the disk to the Russian. “Today, after duty hours, I want you to buttonhole Timmy and visit Vat in sickbay. Timmy is to give him this recording. Follow Vat’s instructions: they’ll be coming from me. He will give you something that is eyes-only to me.”
“Yes, sir. If you are still interested, I now have the full definition of ektadori’u.”
“Oh: right. Go ahead.”
“Roughly, it means ‘he or she who commands.’ But not in the typical sense of being dominative. Rather, it refers to what one might call ‘natural authority,’ a person who is innately masterful or persuasive.”
“And distinct from any consideration of rank.”
Makarov’s stare was almost offended. “Sir, why did you ask me for the definition if you already knew it?”
“I didn’t, really. It’s how Korelon said farewell. He didn’t share any more than that.”
Makarov’s eyes widened. “Sir, I do not believe you understand the full significance of his calling you by that title ektadori’u.”
“Well, he said it can cause resentment among higher ranks who aren’t as respected.”
“It signifies a great deal more than that, sir. It is also an oath.”
“You mean, an oath of service?”
“No, sir: more than that.”
“Damn it, Pete: among the Hound-Dogs what could be more important than an oath of service?”
Makarov was shaking his head. “It is an oath never to foreswear you.” When Murphy’s expression did not illuminate with understanding, he added, “Not many terrestrial languages have an equivalent, sir. To be called an ektadori’u is an oath never to harm or bear false witness against the person so titled—so long as they have not fallen from that high standard.”
Murphy frowned. “So if Legate Orgunz ordered Korelon to kill me—”
“Korelon would refuse. And accept the consequences.”
Murphy shook his head. “Damn, that’s a pretty messy arrangement.”
Makarov nodded. “That is why I said it is so significant; it is, as you say, potentially very messy. That is why it is so very rarely conferred. It also means that if you are unable to respond to a personal challenge, the person who named you ektadori’u will stand as your second. Or, if a challenger vastly outmatches you because of age or infirmity, Korelon would serve as your champion, in the medieval sense of the word.”
Murphy frowned. “Sounds like something I should keep between Korelon and me.”
“Pistol Pete” shrugged. “Perhaps, but I suspect he must share it with certain others. For instance, I imagine Korelon must at least inform those—such as Legate Orgunz—to whom he has already given an oath of service.”
Murphy nodded. “Yeah, it’s probably common courtesy to give your boss fair warning: ‘Don’t order me to kill this guy, because I won’t.’ Keeps the high-ranking folk from being publicly disobeyed.”
“That makes sense, sir—but it is only my suspicion.” The Russian rose, frowning.
Murphy knew the look. “What else, Pete? Spit it out.”
“Sir, you asked for the closest equivalent term in our language. I would say it is ‘commander,’ but there is another word—almost forgotten, now—that is almost as accurate: ‘hortator.’”
Murphy suspected he’d blinked. “Come again?”
“Hortator, sir. It is Latin, sharing a root with the word ‘to exhort.’ Historically, hortators urged on citizen galley rowers or horses in chariot races. But over time, it came to mean a person with a natural ability to convince others to undertake important actions or endeavors. Partly due to their oratory and strength of personality, but also by dint of their integrity and example.”
Wonder if Korelon would still call me ektadori’u if he knew I was genetically defective and closing in on the end stage of multiple sclerosis? Given the Hound-Dog mania for eugenic perfection, it was doubtful. “Thank you, Pete. By the way, here’s the chip to take to Vat. After you have his reply and have brought it to me, you are to move him to a separate room and arrange for a round-the-clock guard. Staff that detail from the group Vat led while saving that town way out in the Hamain. It was called, uh . . . ”
“Ikaan-tel, sir. Also, it may be nothing, but while I was chasing down the definition of hortator, a very odd inquiry came in, someone looking for Korelon.”
Murphy looked up. “Who?”
“Oddly, not his own people. It was a representative of the J’axon Family. When I reported that Korelon had just left, the person asked me if he had missed his packet back to Pakir Station.”
Murphy considered. “And then?”
“Then they disconnected without thanks. Quite rude.”
Murphy nodded and stood slowly. “Major Makarov, I want you to do the following, as quietly and casually as possible.” “Pistol” Pete Makarov’s eyes widened as Murphy reached into his desk and produced two spare magazines for his sidearm. “First, do you still have access to the security feeds for all the traffic bays and their access corridors?”
“Yes, sir. The permissions for observing today’s mission return have not been rescinded yet.”
“Good. Review all the camera feeds. You’re looking for any that are not functioning or have been shunted to show an endless loop of empty corridors. While you’re doing that, stay alert for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Such as?”
“Such as anything not ordinary, Pete.” Chrissakes, a little initiative, please! “If you notice anything suspicious, contact me on the secure line, encryption protocol three.” Murphy moved for the exit.
“Sir, if I may: what is this about?”
“Possibly nothing, but Korelon didn’t tell anyone he was coming to see me. So someone could be keeping an eye on his whereabouts or—”
“Or whoever is following him might also be attempting to keep track of you. But why?”
Murphy shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I know a few places where I can find out—assuming I can go there without being observed. Which is why, if you get another of those strange inquiries, you tell them I’m in my office listening to a classified debrief.”
Makarov swallowed. “Yes, sir. Shall I tell Janusz where you are going?”
“Absolutely not. Keep him here, guarding the main hatch. Conspicuously. In the meantime, page Max Messina and tell him to be standing by. I may need him to meet me wherever I’m headed.”
“Which is where, sir?”
“We’ll know that when I get there—or if you see something suspicious on the monitors,” Murphy tossed over his shoulder as he left the ops center.