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Chapter Five


Spin One


It was several days before the few white spaces on Murphy’s day-planner overlapped with any of the equally scant ones on Kevin Bowden’s schedule. As the former fighter-jock slid into the chair across from his desk, Murphy once again considered telling him about the strange visit from the RockHounds. But he kept coming back to the same reason not to: Bowden was going to have to work so closely with both them and the SpinDogs that he’d be under a constant microscope. If he did or said anything that even faintly suggested information derived from the back-channel contact with Murphy, that could make Kevin’s job that much more complicated. Or maybe impossible.

“So where do we start with the replication process, boss?” Bowden asked brightly.

“Firstly, I have now been multiply corrected regarding that term.”

“‘Replication’?”

Murphy nodded. “They consider that ‘our’ term, even though it is their technical and legal label for it. They prefer autofabbing. Or even fabbing, for short.”

“Okay, then that’s my new vocabulary word for the day. Frankly, I don’t care what it’s called. Just that we get it going ASAP.”

“The good news is that the prep work is already underway. The engineers are already going over the corvette in detail, as well as the schematics and repair manuals they found on it. Their guess is about two weeks before they’ve got enough data to feed into their replica—autofabbers to start producing the simplest components. But—”

“But the SpinDogs and RockHounds aren’t coordinating with each other.” Bowden’s smile was unsurprised. And rueful.

Murphy nodded. “Hell, that’s just half the problem. The SpinDog Families won’t cooperate with each other.”

Bowden nodded. “None of them have ever done anything like this before. Everything with them is at arm’s—or dagger’s—length. This requires shoulder-to-shoulder teamwork. Not their strong suit.”

Murphy nodded. “I don’t envy you your job, Kevin.”

Bowden blinked. “My job? Sir, you’re the one who’s got the real pull with the primae—”

Murphy kept nodding. “Which is exactly why it can’t be me working as both cheerleader and chief cat-herder to get the corvette into production. As it is, I am always at the ragged edge of representing a challenge to their dominion.”

Bowden smiled sourly. “Yeah, they hate it when any of us are right.”

“Indeed they do, but me most of all, because I’m the closest thing to being their peer.”

Bowden nodded. “And if you’re right too often, you look like a more dominative leader than they do. Yeah, okay: I get it. But there’s another challenge in store for us—well, me, I guess.”

“There are many. Which are you referring to?”

“That we’re not repl—damn: autofabbing—the corvette directly, but a modified version of it. I’ve continued to identify more system upgrades that we’ll want to borrow from the schematics the Dornaani left us. Most of them are also simpler to manufacture. But—”

“But, once again, the Families will feel we’re making their technology look inferior.”

“Sucks to be them,” Bowden answered, “and now, me, too—since I’m the one who has to convince them that including those systems is actually their idea. Anything else, sir?”

Murphy lifted an eyebrow. “In a rush, Major?”

Bowden smiled. “Not me, sir, but Harry Tapper is. He was already waiting outside when I walked in.”

Murphy smiled. “Typical. SEAL time.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Kind of a mantra among the frogmen, as I understand it. Being ‘on time’ means being someplace ‘fifteen minutes before fifteen minutes before’ you’re actually due there.”

Kevin rose in the direction of the door-hatch. “Well, hats off to them. I’m going to gather my staff. Should be interesting, since they don’t know they’ve volunteered for the duty, yet.”

No sooner had Bowden left than Harry slipped in sideways; the hatchway was that narrow and his shoulders were that wide. “Grab a seat, Major.”

Harry sat, face carefully neutral. “Thank you, sir. I read your white paper on a social contract for all us Lost Soldiers.”

“You are being far too kind, Harry. ‘Social contract’ is a very grand term for that very loose collection of ideas. Which is why I dubbed it a Homeland Manifesto.”

“And if I didn’t know you better, sir, I’d say what you just said is an awkward attempt at false humility. Frankly, it’s a very good start. But I do have one major problem with it.”

Murphy leaned forward. “Good. What is it?”

“The date, sir.”

Murphy frowned. He’d expected Harry Tapper to be full of insightful suggestions, stubborn insistences, helpful revisions. But—“What date are you talking about, Major?”

Harry leaned forward, too. “The date at the start of the whole document, sir. According to that, you started writing this almost a full Terran year ago!”

“And . . . ?”

“And why the hell didn’t you tell me? Tell all of us? Why did you just let us go merrily along, reminding us of oaths sworn to changed or even dead nations whenever we balked at yet another crazy mission that was equal parts desperation and death wish?” He leaned back, tagged on a belated, “Sir?”

Murphy sighed. “Firstly, drop the ‘sir,’ Harry. Right now, we’re just two soldiers who are putting aside our ranks to speak as citizens of some as-yet-to-be-determined nation or province or territory of our own design.

“Secondly, let me answer your question with a question: When, in your considered judgment, would have been the right moment to mention that I was considering a social contract for the Lost Soldiers?”

“Right away, sir—er, Murph.”

“I prefer ‘Rodg,’ but whatever. As to ‘right away,’ what should I have said? That although one of the individuals who dropped us here swore the same oath of service to the same nation that most of us had, we were cutting ourselves loose from that? Hell, Harry: in those early days, that connection to Earth was the only tie that bound us together as something other than an armed rabble. And we couldn’t risk appearing—or acting—that way. If we had, the SpinDogs would have exploited that disunity to dominate us. They would have picked us apart through a nuanced combination of threats and bribery. And probably burned us up as foot soldiers as quickly as they could, since they certainly wouldn’t have welcomed us into their gene pool.”

Tapper’s frown was displeased: whether with Murphy’s reasoning or his failure to anticipate it was unclear. “Okay, so not right away. But sooner, much sooner, than now.”

Murphy gestured beyond the bulkhead toward the universe of infinite possibilities. “I could cite a dozen reasons at every major inflection point why it would have been ill-advised. However, there was a constant, a criterion that we hadn’t yet met: indispensability to the SpinDogs. They wanted the technology that the Dornaani AI has managed to dole out in penny packets. If they could have pushed us aside—while we were standing next to open airlocks, probably—to get at that data, they would have. The danger of losing all that technology was the stick that kept them at bay.”

Tapper squinted. “And the carrot?”

“Us. Our understanding of that technology and the best ways to wield it, from the most specific tactical applications to its most sweeping strategic implications. Yes, we were singing for our supper—long enough for both the SpinDogs and RockHounds to realize that we were collectively the goose that had laid an unprecedented number of golden eggs: both technological and operational. And that’s what finally happened the moment the corvette you grabbed was safe in Spin One’s docking bay.”

“So, now we’re more like black swans,” Harry said with a shrewd smile. “I could still come up with a few quibbles over your timetable, Murph. But I can concede this without reservation; you got us here, and we’re talking about building a life. So it’s just Monday Morning quarterbacking to pick at the particulars. Especially since I’m not sure I could have played it as close to the chest—and the limits of our capabilities—as you did.” He scratched his ear. “Which is why I’m still trying to figure out why you’ve shown me your Manifesto first. From your seat, I’ve looked like a bit of a bull in a china shop.”

Murphy shook his head. “Only because you needed what this Manifesto promises; something to really live—and therefore, really fight—for. And now that it’s time to set forth the shape of the society in which we’re going to live, I know that you’ll bring the same professionalism and determination you’ve brought to the battlefield to this nation-building exercise.”

Tapper rolled his eyes, smiling. “Murph, you’re making me blush, but I’m still not going to the prom with you.”

Murphy grunted. “No loss; you probably can’t dance worth a damn. But back to business. There’s a catch.”

“There always is.”

“For now, don’t talk about this with anyone other than Makarov.”

Tapper frowned. “Why?”

“Why else? The SpinDogs. If they got wind that we were thinking of how to build a separate nation—”

“They wouldn’t be happy. Might panic and start thinking about how to rein us back in.”

Murphy nodded. “We’ll expand the discussion group slowly. In the end, we need to hear from everyone. We’re not about to create a pluralist society by executive fiat.”

“Yeah,” Harry mused, “that certainly would make it the fruit of a poisoned tree. Okay, for now, I’ll keep it to myself. But then, how do we reassure the other Lost Soldiers who are feeling like we’re risking our lives for no good reason?”

Murphy smiled. “See? You’ve just given yourself your first job. Think about it and tell me what you come up with. And Harry?”

“Yes, Murph? Or are we back to ‘sir’?”

Murphy shrugged off the question. “I want to thank you for making sure that the survivors of the corvette’s crew got back here alive. I know there was a lot of . . . sentiment for a different outcome.”

“You do have a way with words, sir. But don’t thank me; thank Korelon. My guys weren’t the problem and we had a clear understanding of the intelligence value of prisoners. But the RockHounds were pretty ready to paint the bulkheads red. Korelon kept them in line.”

“In no small measure because of your cult status among the survivors.”

“Whatever you say, sir. Anything else?” Tapper had already half stood.

“Yes: Stella and your children. They are going to have first priority for relocation, if that’s what all of you wish. But if you do, I’ll need to know which of the two choices you settle upon.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s the very least I could do. Don’t make yourself a stranger, Harry.”

They exchanged lazy salutes, after which Murphy wandered over to the still-open door. “Mack,” he mused, using another of Makarov’s nicknames, “you heard all that, yes?”

“I did, Colonel. Should I have shut the door?”

“No, I wanted your opinion. Assuming we actually survive to found a community of our own, do you foresee any pushback from the Families up here?”

“Do you mean the departure of the Lost Soldiers from the spins, or the locations you’re suggesting for us to live?”

“The latter. I know the Families will be relieved to see us go. And it takes a lot of political pressure off our allies, in particular.”

“I agree, sir. As to the locations, I doubt there will be any dispute over us founding a community on the second planet, sir. V’dyr is of no value to them, and frankly, is not entirely hospitable to us. Of course, that is its virtue as well: it is a shirtsleeve environment that no one else is using. Except the Kulsians, and then, only during the Searing.”

“And the protectorate on R’Bak itself?”

“Well . . . I am less certain about that, sir.”

Murphy synopsized his reasoning. “No skin off the backs of the Hounds or Dogs. They’re not going to be looking to live dirtside for a long time, if ever. And they need reliable interface with the surface.”

“Agreed, sir. But the Families are always alert to agreements or conditions that could change the balance of power. And while your proposal would certainly ensure reliable interface with the planet, I suspect that some primae would not be comfortable allowing us to be in control of R’Bak Downport.”

Makarov had a point—a good one—but it was one Murphy had already considered. “I suspect you’re right about the primae’s reactions. But if they won’t or can’t get their own hands dirty holding on to Downport, they’ve only got two alternatives. One: they cut their own deal with whoever is in power at any given time and deal with the inevitable caprice and chaos of wrangling a stew of satraps and blackmarketeers that almost distrust each other as much as they do off-worlders. Or, two: the primae strike a bargain with us and thereby secure a reliable conduit for all their needs.”

Makarov smiled sourly. “And if this were a perfect world, populated by perfectly logical persons, they would obviously choose the latter. But it is not a perfect world.”

Murphy grinned. “Thanks for the tip.” He moved toward the main hatch.

“Sir, do you need an escort?”

“No, I’m staying in Lost Soldier country. I’ll be in Interview One if you need me.”


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