Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Two

“The situation is pretty much in line with what we projected,” Murphy began with a nod at the wall-mounted situation map of 55 Tauri. “Our ongoing passive scans show that the surveyor ships continue to approach at an atypically high velocity. And, now that the enemy is closer, our sensors are giving us higher resolution results. They confirm that this flotilla has more stiffening elements than a typical surveyor force roster.”

Korelon, a RockHound and by far the youngest of the three locals in the conference compartment, frowned. “This is worse than we had thought.”

For a moment, Murphy found himself at a loss for words. Worse than we had thought? It had become axiomatic among both the Lost Soldier and local leadership that, once the jury-rigged intersystem transmitter on R’Bak had been destroyed, the overlords of Kulsis would respond to that ominous silence by accelerating the surveyors’ timetable and increasing their security elements. Maybe Korelon hadn’t been read in by the more senior RockHounds that he represented?

But Anseker, Primus of the Otlethes Family, simply stared at the younger man with something like a sneer. “Did Orgunz tell you to make those worried noises, Korelon? Even if they lacked substance?”

The RockHound flushed, eyes hard as he searched for words that would defend his statement yet remain sufficiently deferential to the most powerful SpinDog primus.

Murphy didn’t envy the younger man’s position. Korelon’s rank was far beneath Anseker’s and the other Primus at the table—Medrost of Family Erfrenzh. He was only present because he was already situated on Spin One as the RockHounds’ official liaison to its powerful Families. He had held that position for several years, during which he had adopted many SpinDog ways…including their rarefied airs.

But after a moment, Korelon sat back and asked with admirable calm and high formality, “Primus Otlethes, shall I convey your inquiry about my instructions to Legate Orgunz himself? For I am sure you understand I am not at liberty to share them without his approval.”

Before Anseker could bridle at Korelon’s riposte to his purely rhetorical question, Murphy leaned forward across the table. “Gentlemen, this is neither the time nor place for such matters. As I made clear at the outset, there is a shuttle waiting to take me to R’Bak, so we must keep the meeting brief.”

Anseker glared at the liaison, whose answering gaze was steady, if unreadable. “Very well, Sko’Belm Murphy…but only because you ask it.”

“Thank you.” Murphy suppressed a sigh of relief. They last thing any of them needed right now was yet another pissing match between the SpinDogs and RockHounds, particularly since the latter group’s typically decentralized authority had recently been conferred upon a rarely appointed Legate. Consequently, slights and insults would no longer be perceived as general, but aimed at that one person. Awkward, but a Legate was necessary to coordinate the RockHounds’ various contributions to the coming operations.

Primus Medrost had glanced warily between the two of them during the exchange. He was not Anseker’s customary wingman. That role belonged to his most powerful, breedline-linked ally, the Primus of the Usrensekt Family. But the decision to bring Medrost on this occasion made sense in terms of Anseker’s consolidation of power by strengthening alliances. The summons to accompany the preeminent Primus of all the Families to be the other SpinDog representative at such a crucial meeting underscored the importance of Medrost and his family, and so, amplified their prestige and influence.

Murphy nodded toward Korelon. “I will see that my chief of staff, Captain Makarov, sends you the latest updates we have on the surveyors.” Which you’ve already been sent. Twice.

Korelon’s glance was initially wary, but then relieved as he realized that Murphy was offering him a way to save face. “I would appreciate that, Colonel.”

Makarov made a note, might have been fighting not to smile.

After a final sideways smirk at Korelon, Anseker crossed his arms. “Perhaps it is too early to ask, but what is the final, er, ‘sitrep’ from the surface?”

“We’ve achieved all our nominal objectives.” The blank looks on the faces of both Medrost and Korelon told Murphy that Anseker had not shared any details of the planetside campaign. More reinforcement of his “dominance”; seeing he’s already in the know shows them how closely he’s working with the Lost Soldiers. Murphy managed not to roll his eyes. “Since seizing Imsurmik, the satraps of the Hamain have pulled back from the wastes and from most of the Ashbands, right up to the border on the Greens. Even the dominant satrapy—the J’Stull—no longer sends out patrols or probes; they rarely venture outside the walls of their capital. No other towns attempt even that much.”

“How long can they remain in such a state of siege?” Medrost asked, surprise in his voice.

Since the question did not come from Anseker, this was a moment when Murphy could invite Makarov to answer without risking insult. He nodded at Pyotr.

The Russian pointed to a map on the table, where red marks indicated the few self-isolating Fringeland and Ashband towns that remained in the hands of their original satraps. “Those that have survived this long have had the wisdom and the supplies to risk waiting for the surveyors to arrive. And they have just recently learned that they gambled correctly: our SIGINT—prostite; ‘signal intelligence’—indicates that the approaching surveyor flotilla has communicated that their arrival is imminent, albeit without any details.”

“That lack of detail is a tactical precaution,” Anseker added for the benefit of the other two. “Kulsis does not know what destroyed their first wave of coursers, so the surveyors must presume that if it was some unknown force, it may now be preparing to pounce upon them as well.”

Makarov nodded. “Exactly. And by messaging ahead, they have reassured the remaining satraps that they will soon have allies in orbit.”

Korelon crossed his arms, frowning. “Why did you leave any of these satraps in control? I am not familiar with planetary military strategies, but from the sound of it, you possess sufficient force to have eliminated all of them.”

Anseker did not look at Korelon as he spoke. “We asked Sko’Belm Murphy the same thing. He explained that complete conquest was not only uncertain, but not worth the risks it would entail.”

Medrost leaned in. “Such as?”

“Taking so many towns and small cities might involve long and costly street-to-street fighting. That could have inflicted demoralizing casualties upon his indigenous ‘war bands’ and might not have been fully resolved before the surveyors arrived. Besides,” the Primus added with a smile toward the Lost Soldier, “he made a convincing case for leaving at least some satraps.”

“Why?” Korelon was clearly intrigued.

Anseker gestured to Murphy, who pointed at the map. “Once the remaining satraps decided to bunker in behind their walls, they ceased to have any idea what was occurring on the other side of them. So as long as they saw an occasional vehicle or patrol, they knew we were still out there, waiting. What they couldn’t know was that it was a charade. A few hundred indigs were able to keep all those towns not only under observation, but in a state of near-terror. In the meantime, we pulled our own forces off-planet and the indigs withdrew the majority of theirs. By now, even the few hundred that kept the towns in check have dispersed into the wastes.”

Makarov added details. “This way, weeks before the surveyors arrive, all sign of them will be gone. All the vehicles have been hidden and all but a handful of the tribes have ‘gone to ground.’” “Pistol Pete” smiled as he used the idiom; he was inordinately fond of American expressions and slang. “Before the satraps will dare to conjecture that the disappearance of their enemies is not simply a ruse to bring them back out beyond their walls, they shall be seeing surveyor shuttles and landers overhead.”

“So,” Korelon said, nodding despite his persistent frown, “it was a strategy to cover your withdrawal.”

“It was a little more than that,” amended Murphy. “Firstly, the weaker the satraps are when the surveyors finally arrive, the less likely they’ll be to rush out in search of the indigs. They’ll have a lot of rebuilding to do…just as the surveyors start demanding more than the usual amount of assistance to prepare for the arrivals of the Harvesters.”

Medrost’s smile was both appreciative and icy. “So they shall never have the time nor spare manpower to seek the indigs until they are long gone.”

“Yes. And if any satraps start crying a river about how much they’ve suffered at the hands of ‘wild tribes,’ the Kulsians won’t have the time or reason to give a damn. Besides, they won’t find a lot of evidence to support the losses that the satraps will be claiming. Yeah, there’s evidence that the indigs went on the warpath, but with what long-term effect? The ones that took over the towns will be gone, and either the original satraps or new ones will have returned. Similarly, there won’t be any sign of the helicopters or armored vehicles that the satraps will claim beat them in battle after battle.” Murphy shrugged. “My guess is that the already-overworked surveyors will dismiss the tales as wild exaggerations or just outright lies.”

Even Korelon was smiling now.

Murphy paused for emphasis. “But all these outcomes were very much secondary objectives, compared to the primary reason for leaving the biggest satraps unconquered.”

Medrost nodded, understanding. “You need to keep the surveyors unsuspecting of what actually occurred.”

Murphy smiled and nodded back. “And as the Kulsians hear one wild story after another, they realize that they’ve got only one thing in common: no two are alike.”

Anseker grinned like a shark at the other SpinDog and the RockHound. “So the surveyors conduct a search—more than perfunctory, yet less than determined—and when they find only scattered evidence and inconsistent accounts, they turn their backs and begin shouldering the double load of work that awaits.”

He turned to Murphy. “My one reservation is that there will be nothing left of your indig army by the time we can return to R’Bak. Although the Ashbanders have less to fear from the satraps and the Harvester culling squads, they will have to remain hidden in the wastes during the Searing. That is an uncertain proposition.”

Even if Anseker’s concern for the Ashbanders was based strictly on their future utility, it was a decided step forward for a Primus who usually referred to them as “savages.” Murphy shrugged. “That’s why we prevailed upon you to stop replicating—er, autofabbing—weapons and ammunition during the last two months, and shift to simple, low-tech survival gear that they could not only maintain but copy.” He saw perplexity on Korelon’s face, shared the details. “Better pumps and water-drills, sun-stills, wind-powered lathes, small smelting furnaces, even crystal sets to monitor Harvester cull squads: because of those and a dozen other devices you replicated en masse for them, more of the tribes will survive this Searing than ever before.” He nodded at all three of them. “From the very start of the campaign on R’Bak, your combined autofabrication capacities were the foundation of our victories. And that will be even truer as we begin the next phase of operations.”

Anseker nodded back, but he was squinting. “And now we come to it.”

Korelon’s gaze went from the Primus to Murphy and back again. “Come to what?”

Anseker laughed lightly. “Ask him yourself. Ask him why he never misses an opportunity to speak about our autofabrication assets. Ask him why he has been inquiring which devices for the next mission can be produced most easily, in the greatest quantities, in the least amount of time.”

Medrost looked confused. “But would that not be necessary even if he was simply attempting to balance his requests with our capabilities?”

Anseker nodded. “Of course…and in so doing, learn a great deal about them.” Anseker stared at Murphy. “Is that not correct, Sko’Belm Murphy?”

Murphy smiled. “It is. And it was necessary, if we were to come to this day.”

Korelon frowned. “So is that today’s true agenda, Sko’Belm Murphy? To manipulate even us RockHounds into complying with your autofab demands?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Murphy admitted.

“No, Colonel. Either it is your intent or it isn’t.”

Murphy laid one hand flat upon the table; it was less likely to quake, that way. “You are wrong, Korelon. There’s a preliminary step that must be taken.”

“Which is?” Medrost asked.

“To inform you that, at our next meeting, you must be prepared to have a frank and revealing discussion about your autofab capacities. There is no longer enough time, or enough margin for error, to accommodate vague estimates or Family secrets. I can’t move forward with the coming missions unless I have precise and complete information about your replication assets.”

As Korelon flinched back, Medrost shook his head. “This is utterly unacceptable.” He glanced at Anseker—but that Primus’s calm, resolved gaze revealed that he had been Murphy’s collaborator in bringing them to this meeting. And for this express purpose.

Murphy put his other hand on the table and leaned forward. “I realize that every group’s autofab capacity is a strategic secret. But everyone’s in the same boat, now. We sail or sink together. Keep your other secrets if you must, but I need to ask frank questions—and get frank and accurate answers—about your replication resources.”

Korelon’s jaw was set like rock; he clearly did not trust himself to talk. It was Medrost who, looking from Murphy to Anseker in irritation, folded his arms and replied, “And if we do not agree to sharing that information?”

“Then we are just marking time until we die.” Murphy pushed up from the table to his feet. “We can’t finalize the only strategies that might save us until we know how deep your logistical and industrial pockets are.” He saw Medrost’s eyes shutter shrewdly. He pointed at him. “If you think that anything you might hold back now might save you later, you are utterly wrong. If we lose, the Kulsians aren’t going to cut any side deals—not that you’d ever think of trying that.”

They all flinched. Anseker’s response was clearly the product of genuine surprise. The other two reminded him of how faces in church changed when a minister’s homily grazed a guilty nerve.

“It’s no different from what you’ve assumed for centuries: that if the Kulsians ever found you, they would exterminate you. Except now, it won’t just be dispassionate genocide. It will be long, determined torture until they understand how their operations were derailed, and why, and by whom. And it won’t just be to our bodies; they’ll force us to choose between answering their questions or watching them inflict hours or days of agony upon our loved ones.”

Murphy walked to his waiting rucksack. “This is war to the knife, gentlemen. There are no contingencies, no ‘plan B’s,’ no reason to hold anything back or in reserve.” He checked his G-shock. “I’ll give you two weeks to get your grievances and suspicions squared away—at least enough so we can all work together the way we need to.”

Medrost turned red. “You will give us two weeks? To whom do you think you’re speaking, Mur—?”

Murphy pinned the Primus with a stare, continuing without a pause or change in tone. “I will set a time for the meeting. You will have the replication specs and data for presentation. You will come prepared to work together. And, if you choose not to, then here’s my advice: stay home and take a pill, or open your veins, or do whatever it is you people do to commit suicide. Because if you’re not at that meeting with the right data and the right frame of mind, the next best thing you can do is end it all now. For both yourselves and your Families.”

He shouldered the rucksack, noticing that even Anseker had grown pale. “You may have the room for further discussion, if you wish.”

“And you are leaving? Now?”

“Yes, now. To go dirtside and continue the work needed to stay alive. I suggest you clear your agendas and make that your sole task, also. Good day, gentlemen.”


Murphy did not dare walk too quickly, even as he rounded the corner leading to the interface bay from which the dirtside-bound transatmo would launch.

He discovered that the shuttle wasn’t the only thing waiting for him. Naliryiz was standing just outside the bay doors. Well, standing was the wrong word; it was more like she had posted herself there.

Before he could even wave or nod a greeting, she held him with her strange violet eyes and said, “So you are going to R’Bak again?” It had the structure of a question, but her tone was pure assertion.

He nodded as he closed the distance, noticing that she seemed to have gained weight. No, he revised: she had gained mass. She was more, rather than less, fit.

She put her hands on her hips as he stopped before her; she was blocking the door. “Colonel Murphy, when you are on the surface, do not do anything…” She paused, as if searching for a word; her English was extremely good but there were still some gaps in her vocabulary. She started over. “Do not do anything—”

“Rash?” he supplied helpfully.

“I was trying to find a gentler word than ‘foolish,’ actually.”

“Oh.” He studied her face in an attempt to gain any clue as to why she had felt the need to wait at the bay to deliver this message. But within the first second, he realized that her perfectly straight nose and high cheekbones were going to distract him, ensuring that his reply would take one of two unfortunate forms: meaningless babble or entranced silence. “So,” he said, looking away, “did Mara put you up to this?”

Naliryiz frowned. “My Family-sister knows better than that. No one ‘puts me up to’ any actions. But I know she shares my reservations, at least in part.” Naliryiz stepped closer. “You have been doing research.”

“I do a great deal of research.”

Hssst. You know what I mean.” Her voice lowered to a murmur. “You have made many requests for the records and reports of our liaisons to the surface, even those that are centuries old. They can have no bearing on the current situation, so your interests are obviously not motivated by present or future operations.” She nodded generally at his body. “You are trying to find the rumored cure before your access to the surface ends.”

“Well,” Murphy said with a sigh, “I won’t lie; if I had enough time and information to go searching for it, I probably would.” He shrugged. “But I don’t.”

Naliryiz crossed her arms as if she was suddenly chilly. Which made no more sense than the strange play of expressions on her face: relieved, but also crestfallen. “Then why have you been gathering so much research on R’Bak and its past?”

“Because we have only visited a very small portion of it, and, even there, we lack crucial data. For instance, if we had a better idea of where all the region-spanning tunnels are, we could assess how to use them when moving our forces from one salient to another when we return. And then there are all the ancient scrolls and tablets Cutter found in the archive beneath Imsurmik.”

Naliryiz nodded knowingly. “Yes, many of which are related to healing and medicines. And so might contain clues to the cure.”

“They very well might. But no one—not even your experts—can decipher most of those records. Old languages, guild scripts, forgotten words: translating it will take years, not weeks. If ever. But the more recent records have revealed a great deal about the Harvesters’ pattern of activity on R’Bak: the places they’ve avoided, visited, what they prize the most, where they find it.” He shrugged. “Besides, history furnishes the context in which to understand the present.”

Naliryiz tilted her head quizzically. “Are you becoming a philosopher, now, Colonel Murphy?”

“No,” he answered, “but I did major in history.”

She frowned, bewildered. “‘Majored’? How can you have a rank in history?”

He smiled. “No, no. ‘Majored’ means…well, what I studied while I was becoming an officer.”

“Ah! So you are a historian!”

Huh: I wish. “No, just interested in it. Besides, since arriving here, all my research has been purely practical. I’ve had about as much time to delve into general history as I have had to chase mythical cures.” He checked his G-shock—Seems like I do nothing but that—and smiled through his apology. “I’m five minutes late for the transatmo, and they’re holding it for me.”

She nodded, mouth slightly down at the corners. “Yes,” she allowed, moving so that she no longer blocked the bay doors, “you must go.”

Murphy qualified his statement: “Not that I want to.” Her frown became puzzled rather than sad, prompting him to add, “I’d much rather keep standing here with you, talking. Or whatever.” “Or whatever?” Murphy, could you be any more lame?

Maybe it was because she was not a native speaker, but Naliryiz apparently missed the awkward phrasing. She simply smiled. “Then return soon, so we may resume. And Colonel?”

“Yes?” he responded, moving toward the bay doors by walking backward—never a safe move for a man with MS.

“Do not do anything foolish. I would be very…aggravated if you did not return as you have promised.”

“I’ll be as careful as I can,” he answered as the bay doors groaned open behind him. Turning and striding toward the waiting shuttle, he discovered that his step was lighter than it had been in weeks.


Back | Next
Framed