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Chapter Forty-Five

Murphy stared at the three ships on the screen, two of which were decidedly worse for wear.

“It worked, sir,” Makarov said. Finally.

When the corvette had been taken over a week ago, the now fully recuperated Russian had only nodded. When, along with the lighter and the RockHound packet, it reached concealment among the second planet’s trailing Trojan asteroids, he announced it as if it was as a friend’s wake. When the small flotilla initiated a short, hard acceleration while the body of the planet obscured their exhaust from all known surveyor ships, satellites, and drones, he drew in a great breath. When, five days later, the craft reached the spinward Trojans of the fourth planet, it was as if he was finally expelling that same breath.

Two days ago, relying upon the distant gas giant’s brief cone of shadow as it interposed itself between their position and R’Bak, the tiny formation commenced a short, hard boost that set it upon the final leg of its return. Its silent coast to the cluster of asteroids in which Spin One was hidden had ended this morning as the ships had simultaneously initiated a final, crushing seven-gee retroboost. It generated a strong thermal signature, but so brief and so distant from any known surveyors that detection was extremely unlikely. But Makarov had simply watched the slowing blips on his tracking screen, counting down the diminishing velocity and then the shrinking distance.

The remote and manned tugs had gone out to secure them. Makarov did not react; he was too busy watching the passive scanners for any indication the three ships had been spotted during their final approach. Nothing. Even the Dornaani microsats that swept their adversaries’ known locations and platforms for the trace refractions of active lascoms found no such signatures among the diffuse particles that floated in the not-quite-vacuum of open space.

But now, the Russian had spoken and, with a sigh, repeated his conclusion: “It worked, sir.” And this time, he allowed hints of both disbelief and relief to creep into his voice.

“Update on the wounded?” Murphy asked.

“No change, sir. All stable.”

“I want our own medical personnel on hand for assessment and treatment, even if the Primae change their minds at the last second.”

“If they have reconsidered, how do you wish our personnel to proceed?”

“Straight ahead with drawn sidearms,” Murphy muttered thickly. “Warnings given but safeties off. And confirm that Healer Naliryiz will be part of the receiving team. I don’t trust any of the others when it comes to handling the more esoteric pharmaflora derivatives.”

“Sir, I regret to point out that while Primus Anseker gave his assurances on ensuring she would be present with our own medical team, those were personal assurances. He made it very clear he could not speak for the other Primae, most of whom have still not responded to your request either way.”

Murphy nodded sharply. “Noted. So if there is any attempt to obstruct her, the protocol is to start by appealing to reason. She’s learned how to use the medicinals from the locals themselves, and is the only SpinDog who’s actually used those compounds in the treatment of us Terrans.”

“And if reason does not prevail?”

“Then force will. Janusz?”

“Sir!”

“You heard what I told Major Makarov?”

“Yes, sir. Every word.”

“Good. Go get Captain Cutter. Relay those protocols to him. He is to arm you and two of your choice before you all report to interface bay C and link up with Healer Naliryiz of the Otlethes Family. You are her escorts and security detail. She is not to be interfered with.”

“And if someone tries, sir?”

“Then you remove them.”

“Do you mean with our hands, sir, or—?”

“Remove them by any means necessary. And Janusz: no comms as you head to Cutter, gather the team, or move to the bay. You are to show up unannounced and unexpected. Now, step lively, mister.” Janusz frowned at the unfamiliar phrase. “Go! Now!”

He did.

“Pete, have you had a chance to look over my Homeland Manifesto?”

Makarov nodded. “I have, sir.”

“Frank feedback, Mack: do you think it will fly?”

Makarov shrugged. “In a perfect world, it would, sir.”

Murphy hadn’t expected rave reviews on his proposal for establishing an autonomous territory—not to say, “reservation”—for the Lost Soldiers and any dependents. On the other hand, Makarov clearly had serious reservations. “Why only ‘in a perfect world,’ Mack?”

“I did not say only a perfect world, sir. I said that it surely would be accepted and succeed if this were a perfect world.”

“Care to explain what that means in practical terms?” Murphy pointedly adopted a tone that made it clear his request was actually a cut-and-dried order.

“Yes, sir. I believe there will be no dispute over us founding a community on the second planet, sir. But in regard to a protectorate on the surface of R’Bak itself…well, I just don’t know, 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, yet. If ever. And they need reliable interface with the surface.”

“Agreed, sir. But they are always alert to agreements or conditions that could change the balance of power in any of their relationships. And while your proposal would certainly secure that necessary interface, I suspect that some Primae would be less than comfortable having us in effective control of it.”

Makarov had a point—a good one—but it was one Murphy had already considered. “I suspect you’re right about your suspicions,” he replied with a grin. “But if they’re not going to get their own hands dirty dirtside, they’ve got only 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 dealing with a stew of locals that distrust each other and them. Or, two: they 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.” His frown suggested deep thought, not concern. “I would let this, uh, ‘sit for a while,’ Colonel. You have no need to present this to them in a rush.”

Murphy laughed. “Present this to the Dogs and the Hounds? Now? Sorry for the confusion, Pete; that’s not what I was thinking. Until we’ve tried cases with the Harvesters, this is all just a pipe dream.”

Makarov’s frown became one of perplexity. “Then why were you seeking my reaction to it, sir? With whom do you mean to share it?”

“Tapper. I told you about the deal I made with him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pete, I know deferential evasion when I hear it—especially from you. What gives? What’s the problem sharing it with Harry?”

The Russian stiffened. “Major Tapper is a good officer, sir. But he is also quite insubordinate—”

“In our army, we called that ‘proactive,’” Murphy interrupted. “Or, if you prefer, ballsy. We need that, particularly as we sketch out our collective future.”

“Very well, sir, but then why, at the very outset, did you not tell him that you had already been thinking of the same issues he had?”

“You mean take him into my confidence right after he went way over the line?” Murphy shook his head. “If I had done that, he could have gotten it in his head that I was ignoring—or worse yet rewarding—his behavior. Tapper is a good guy, but he reminds me of a mastiff we had when I was a kid. Give him the least hint that he got his way in a war of wills, and he’d try to become the boss.”

“That dog does not sound fully…domesticated, Colonel.”

“The really useful—and loyal—dogs never are, Mack. They are excellent followers when their forever-parents—us humans—give orders and enforce discipline with determination and conviction. But if that’s lacking, they reflexively take charge. Without that instinct, packs wouldn’t work or be able to reorganize mere minutes after losing their leader.” Seeing Makarov’s alarmed look, Murphy doubled down. “Give me one mastiff over a hundred pampered lap dogs any day of the week. Or century.”

Makarov shrugged. “Still, I do not understand your urgency to share your white paper with Tapper the minute he arrives. Surely it could wait a week, even a month.”

Murphy shook his head. “We made a deal. He lived up to his end of the bargain at great risk, and even greater permanent pain—because he’ll see the faces of the men he lost for the rest of his life. So the very least I can do is live up to my end of the bargain ASAP.

“And here’s the other ASAP factor: I want him to hit the ground thinking about how to create a home in this system. The more smart people I have working on this, the better the plan we’ll come up with. But Tapper’s got more than a good brain; he has absolute tenacity. So, once he’s determined to solve the problem, he won’t stop, and he won’t let go.”

Makarov raised an eyebrow. “You mean like a mastiff with a bone, sir?” They exchanged a grin. “The one drawback to a tenacious breed is that it may not relent even when a better bone is waved under their nose.”

“Pete, I’ve never met a tenacious man or dog that didn’t have more than their share of stubbornness, too; that’s just the flip side of the trait. So it’s the price you pay for all the positives. Besides, Tapper has another crucial quality that totally offsets the costs: he doesn’t simply accept conditions as he finds them.”

“I have observed that also, sir, but frankly, I feel he is overestimating the degree of unease among the others. They are unhappy, but not so deeply as he is.” Makarov shrugged. “It is only natural to project one’s own feelings—and the depth of them—upon others.”

Yeah, Pete, and right now, maybe you are projecting your level of complacency on the rest of the Lost Soldiers. In all probability, the median of Lost Soldier morale and attitudes was somewhere between the poles defined by Tapper and Makarov. Murphy’s only outward response was a shrug. “And if he is overestimating the dissatisfaction and unrest among the rest of our not-so-merry band? Well, in this case, I’m glad for it. Because even if these feelings are only stirring, failing to get out ahead of them now means risking that we won’t be able to stop them later. We can’t just keep kicking this can down the road.”

Pistol Pete sat straighter. “With all due respect, sir, we have not exactly been lounging about, sipping Stolichnaya and picking at caviar.”

Murphy leaned forward. “Yeah, we’ve all been busy. But firstly, some of us have been busy and dying. Second, busy or not, the universe doesn’t hand us crises in a convenient sequence and at manageable intervals. So, if Tapper’s anger is further downrange than the others, it is still a warning flag: the bow wave of dangerous seas ahead. So we start trying to solve it now. And the first step is the one that he put his finger on: we have to shift our focus from simply surviving to living.”

Pyotr leaned his chin on one palm. “When did you start reflecting on this, sir?”

“When did I start? Damn; probably about thirty days after we were all awake. It was plain that we couldn’t go along as we were—as we are—forever. But then, when Bo and Aliza got married—well, it pointed toward the other option open to us. The only one, really. To make this life our new life; this world, our world.”

“You mean R’Bak?”

Murphy leaned back. “That’s part of what we need to work out. And Tapper’s definitely one of the people I want on the job.” Because he and the others will have to finish it—and a whole lot more—if this damn disease puts me dirtways before I can put a bow on it. Which, Murphy allowed, was the universe’s undisputed specialty: being maximally inconvenient. But now, even if it was, with Tapper’s links to the indigs and Mara’s connections to the Dogs…

As if she was a devil—or angel—being summoned by the mere thought of her name, Major Mara Lee tapped her knuckles against the coaming. “Permission to enter?”

Makarov was on his feet before she’d finished, hardcopy in hand. “I shall take your outline to Major Tapper personally, sir.”

“I suspect he’d appreciate that. On your way. Major Lee, have a seat.” Mara did, but without meeting his eyes. Not like her at all. “Major, is everything all right?”

Lee looked simultaneously nauseous and disgusted. “Damn it, I feel like I’ve been teleported back to fuckin’ junior high.”

Murphy was too perplexed to do anything other than ask, “What do you mean?”

“Well, first I had to go to Naliryiz to find out what political risks prompted her to advise against being seen with you.”

“Yes…and now?”

Lee’s eyes widened in a strange mix of anger, frustration, and embarrassment. “And now she sends me back to you with her answer. God damn it, Murphy! Are we passing notes in homeroom, now? What’s next? You guys skip class and make out under the bleachers?”

Murphy didn’t like her tone, but this was also not the time to pull rank. All things considered, it was time to shift the mood in the other direction. “Mara,” he said quietly, “what the hell are you talking about?”

That seemed to calm her; anger deflated into exasperation. “Look, when you talked about going to the planet together, she told you it wouldn’t be prudent, right?”

“Yes.” But you already know that…

Mara watched his face, as if waiting to see a change there. When she waited through three full seconds of his undiminished confusion, she sighed: disappointed, but not surprised. She closed her eyes. “Naliryiz meant that you can’t go together openly.” Her eyelids parted, revealing a disbelieving squint. “Can you really be so blind, Murph?”

He started, not just at the realization of what Naliryiz had actually meant, but that he had completely missed it. Then annoyance rose up, and he could feel it ascending toward anger. “Well, shit: yes, I can be that blind. Particularly if being blind is a necessity. Chrissakes, Lee, if Naliryiz is suggesting that we—”

Mara held up her hand. “She didn’t say what she has in mind…which tells me that it’s none of my business. She’s only pointing out that whatever you two might, er, share needs to take place on the sly.”

“And that’s a good idea?” Murphy paused, backing away from the abruptly spiking anger. “She’s the one who pointed out what could happen if we risk that, not me. And she’s right, damn it. If open, eh, fraternization is a valid concern, imagine the backlash if it was done on the sly and then discovered.” He shook his head. “Our personal feelings don’t warrant risking everyone’s lives—and that’s exactly what could be at stake. Hell, that was her entire point.” He pushed down a surge of rage. “Except now, I’m the problem. Why? Because I’m sticking to the law she laid down? Because I’m willing to play the role of the dull and dutiful adult?”

Lee nodded. “I don’t disagree with a thing you said. I suspect that she wouldn’t, either.”

Murphy heard the hanging tone. “But…”

“But sometimes maybe you’re too much of an adult to see other possibilities, Murph.” She paused, then asked in a voice that could have been his sister’s, “Have you ever thought of that?”

He frowned. “No, not in those terms. But let’s say I did; let’s say I allowed myself to walk right up to the line Naliryiz has drawn and then decided, ‘screw this straight-and-narrow shit’—and crossed over. What then?”

“Then, either way—crossing over or not—you live with that decision, Murph.”

“One small problem: if I decide to cross over, then everyone gets to live with the consequences.”

Lee shrugged and smiled. “Not being an adult every minute doesn’t mean you will instantly run off and do something stupid. It might just mean daydreaming, pretending that things are different—and imagining what you might do if they were.”

Murphy nodded, felt his stomach sink like a millstone the instant he allowed those hopes and dreams to tug at him. If he let himself go down that primrose path of hoping that maybe, somehow…

Before he could reconsider the action, Murphy pushed his hand up as high as he could, as if he was trying to touch the overhead. “This is what happens when I’m not concentrating on keeping it together. On what I have to do next. On staying grounded in the real world versus the one I dream about.” He closed his eyes. After a dozen or so seconds, his bicep twitched: a precursor to the spasms that would follow if he kept his arm suspended motionless above him.

Keeping his eyes closed, he muttered, “That’s what snaps me out of any dream I allow myself to sink into”—a small spasm ran from his shoulder to his wrist—“what happens when I leave my mind free and floating.” Murphy brought his arm down before the larger spasms could start. When he was sure he was in control of himself, he opened his eyes.

And saw that Mara’s were on his, liquid bright. She nodded tightly and left without a word. Not that he blamed her. Hell, what was there to say?

Besides, there was no time for reflection or feeling sorry for himself. Before he could head down to personally congratulate the teams that had saved them all, he had one more meeting. And it was anything but routine. The outcome could put a dangerous strain on the Lost Soldiers’ most crucial relationship, or could mark the start of a beautiful—well, functional—friendship. But whereas most meetings led to resolutions that were someplace between those extremes, Murphy’s gut told him this wasn’t going to follow that comfortable paradigm.

It was going to be one extreme or the other.


Once Anseker was seated in Murphy’s office, he remained silent for almost half a minute. Then, without context or preamble, he announced, “I passed an observation gallery on my way here.”

Murphy just nodded.

“From its viewport, I could see all three ships.” The Primus shook his head and actually chuckled. “A Kulsian corvette. Hanging in space near this habitat. A year ago, if you had asked me to speculate upon what such a sight might portend, I would have confidently predicted the certain—and imminent—death of everyone on this spinhab.”

Murphy smiled, leaned back. “And now?”

“And now it signifies that your ‘insanely ambitious’ plans worked. Not by comfortable margins, and with no small amount of luck pushing them along, but they worked. This day is truly a turning point.”

“That’s more true than you know,” Murphy murmured, relieved at the direction this meeting was taking. So far.

Anseker’s glance was sharp, assessing. “You have more news?”

“Yes. We’ve been working on confirming what we’ve learned. And I wanted to share it with you first.”

Anseker nodded slightly. “I am honored.” His tone added, “as is only proper.” The Primus leaned forward. “What is this news?”

By way of answer, Murphy rose and walked to the stylized wall map of 55 Tauri’s stars and their respective planetary systems: a near match for what was in the larger conference room just down the corridor. “The smaller surveyor ships that have been scouring the approaches to R’Bak above and below the ecliptic apparently found nothing of interest; they’ve cleared the larger craft for final approach. And now that those big frames are heading farther in-system, they’re dropping closer to the ecliptic. So their line-of-sight comms will soon become less reliable.”

Anseker nodded. “Greater debris in the accretion plane degrades the coherence of their tight-beam transmissions. This is when surveyor flotillas typically commence a phase of final coordination with the Overlords back home.”

“Yes,” agreed Murphy with a slow smile, “that is exactly what they’re doing. In fact, the surveyors’ three highest-ranking officers are talking to the Kulsian leadership almost nonstop.”

Anseker frowned, perplexed that Murphy was speaking of certainties, not conjectures. Then his eyes widened: “The Dornaani microsensors?”

Murphy nodded. “Two days ago, the big frames moved past a microsat that lies back along the course they took into this system. With a few low-power thruster puffs, we repositioned it to coordinates between them and Kulsis; it’s just within the outer boundary of their comms’ tight-beam diffusion cone. A lot of their messaging is simply housekeeping traffic—from which we’re building a very complete roster of the surveyor flotilla. But we also discovered that the three commanders are also conferring with the Overlords regarding the composition of the Harvester fleet they’re assembling.”

“They would send such messages without encryption?” Anseker watched the smile form on Murphy’s face. “Ah,” he said, indulging in a smile of his own, “their encryption was no match for the repurposed Arat Kur translator, evidently.”

“We cracked their codes in about twenty minutes. At the rate we’re capturing their signals, we’ll have a complete list of the surveyors’ assets and plans within the next few days. And, by the end of the week, we should have extensive, if preliminary, intel on the elements they plan to include in the Harvester fleet.”

Murphy leaned back, attempted to keep the same casual demeanor he’d maintained while making his report—because this was the inflection point of his relationship with Anseker. Either the Primus would give in to the dominion reflex in an attempt to undercut the magnitude of the Lost Soldiers’ successes while reminding Murphy of their reliance upon the SpinDogs, or he’d accept them (gracefully or grudgingly; it didn’t matter) as essential partners…and so, maximize the chance that they would all survive the coming of the Harvesters.

But despite Murphy’s attempt to anticipate the Primus’s possible reactions—predatory delight, haughty withdrawal, reluctant satisfaction, or even frank approval—he hadn’t foreseen what he now witnessed.

Anseker’s proud posture eroded as he leaned back in his seat. Only once his shoulders were firmly settled against the backrest did he murmur, “That is all good news.” His expression did not change, except that his face became very carefully composed. He released a slow, almost inaudible sigh and glanced at his host. “You are always offering me a drink, Sko’Belm Murphy.”

“Yes. And you always say ‘some other time.’”

“I think it is now ‘some other time.’”

Murphy grinned, nodded, and moved toward the rarely opened cabinet that Max Messina had always insisted on calling the credenza. Light-headed with relief at Anseker’s relaxed congeniality and what it signified, he found himself wondering, Why didn’t Max just call it a liquor cabinet? Is he a Quaker or something?

Murphy pushed aside those almost giddy thoughts. Right now, he had one job: to figure out what the Primus of the Otlethes Family might like to drink…and seal the deal of finally moving forward as equal partners. Maybe even as friends—assuming a Primus enjoyed the luxury of having any.

Having sipped at several of the SpinDog liquors, Murphy reflected that whiskeys would be a stronger flavor than they were used to. Vodka would be the closest analog, and fortunately, he had a good one on hand.

Anseker waited until Murphy returned to his seat before sampling the Stolichnaya, and utterly failed to conceal his pleased surprise—or just didn’t bother to try. The Primus contemplated the glass, then Murphy, then shook his head again. “These plans of yours, both the ones that have resolved today and the ones we shall take up tomorrow: they are all insane, you know.”

Murphy smiled and savored a few drops of his own drink. “I know.”

“You should also know that, if the next set of plans fail, today’s successes will be forgotten. The RockHounds and the remaining Hardliners will come for both of us. And both our peoples.”

Murphy smiled crookedly. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

Anseker looked aghast. “Why not?”

“Because if our plans don’t work, the RockHounds and Hardliners won’t have enough time to tie enough nooses. The Kulsians will be the only ones doing any killing in this system. And they won’t stop to make distinctions between any of us.”

“That is very grim, Murphy. And very true. Indeed, only one comfort comes to mind.”

“And that comfort is…”

Anseker smiled. “That the bottle you are holding is not empty.”

Murphy smiled back. “Well…not yet.”


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