Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  No one slept for forty-eight hours. The locals—who, according to the Dornaani translator, called themselves the “Dogs”—agreed to a hastily arranged and incompletely defined alliance. Their Matriarch asked for a liaison, so Mara Lee was pulled out of suspended animation, briefed in a rush, and sent straight into twelve hours of virtual language training. With a ten-to-one time compression, she was hustled out to join the Dogs with the equivalent of one hundred twenty hours of “old Ktoran” language instruction and an overview of the kind of culture she might encounter. Downing marveled at her resilience and mission focus, and he experienced more than one pang of regret that they were going to have to leave her behind with about one hundred other Lost Soldiers. Their cryocells had begun to fail at an alarming rate, which augured a need to reanimate untold numbers of them before arriving at their final destination. A sober assessment of the shipped consumables dictated the only reasonable solution: unload as many as possible to ensure there was enough to feed those who remained.

  During those early, tense hours, the interlopers from the primary’s main world of Kulsis had split into two groups. One was pursuing the Dogs’ vessels that had been hiding in the third planet’s Trojan point asteroids. Apparently, the Kulsians had arrived earlier than ever before, so the Dogs hadn’t all returned to their out-system hiding spots yet.

  The other enemy formation was pushing out-system at what seemed to be maximum gees to examine the source of the first, unexpected transmission and the general area at which the Dog craft had aimed their lascoms. Within twenty-four hours, they would arrive at the asteroid habitats.

  Subsequent events and decisions were something of a blur. The preemptively launched Dornaani drones intercepted and eliminated the Kulsian ships that had attempted to establish line-of-sight communication back to their home system. The Dog ships fleeing from the Trojan Point asteroids began slowing, altering course; their pursuers kept after them. Olsloov pushed six gee constant to intercept the other Kulsian formation, disabled every ship without slowing or taking damage. A swarm of local craft from the asteroid habitats followed in its wake to finish that hurried job as the Dornaani ship released more drones and, its full complement in acceleration couches, arrowed in-system to finish the final act of the drama.

  Which had now just concluded. The drones that had eliminated the ships attempting to send to Kulsis and the second flurry launched by Olsloov bracketed the second formation; it had been drawn into the interlocking net of Dornaani remote weapon platforms by chasing the Dog ships from the Trojan points. The most difficult part of the operation was to ensure maximum containment before initiating the chaos of battle. After twelve hours, that had been accomplished and the fastest of the Dog ships from out-system—Mara’s among them—arrived just in time for the slaughter to begin.

  What no one had foreseen was that the Dogs had determined that it was not to be a slaughter, but a mass execution. Or as Trevor put it as they shrugged off the spacesuits they had worn to travel to the ship carrying the Dogs’ Matriarch, “They may be generations removed from the Ktor, but they are still just as cut-throat.”

  Downing nodded, glanced at the glass-shard glints marking the debris field where the Kulsian ships had died en masse. “‘Dead men tell no tales.’”

  Trevor nodded back. “Yup. Now, there’s just one last question we need to get answered.”

  Downing sighed. “Whether the Lost Soldiers we leave behind will fall into the same category.”

  Alnduul was waiting for them outside the airlock. “Was your meeting with the Matriarch successful?”

  Downing shrugged. “I’ll let you decide. Let’s go someplace where we can speak privately.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three

  Near 55 Tauri B 3

  Once Alnduul was seated—although it looked more like he was straddling a forward-leaning saddle—Downing rattled off the most important facts. “All spaceside Kulsian assets have been eliminated, including their recently-deployed satellites. Your drones destroyed the two planetside comm arrays capable of reaching the primary system. Which they call Jrar, I’m told. We have also established handshake and security protocols for data-sharing with the Dogs.”

  Trevor shook his head. “I’m still not sure about giving them so many schematics, Richard. If the Ktor ever come here and see old Terran weapons and vehicles in our new friends’ hands, that could cause the post-war pot to boil over and scald Earth. Far worse, this time.”

  Alnduul joined his hands, fingers steepled each to their opposite. “Among your own people, it would be a small minority who would remember military equipment made in your 1960s and all but forgotten a hundred years later…and before either of you gentlemen were even born. We do not know many details about the Ktor, but I am fairly sure that they do not make a habit of memorizing such data. Particularly none of those who would venture among the exiles they’ve sent out here into the Scatters. Such knowledge would be solely the domain of scholars. If them.”

  “And you’re sure you’ve sanitized the schematics? Not just the language, but the units of measurement?”

  Alnduul effected a human nod: after almost half a dozen years, it was still painful to watch him try. “As we speak, every element of the devices the Dogs will be replicating is being converted in every detail. Should anyone ever see them or the schematics from which they were produced, there will be nothing that suggests Terran origin.”

  For a moment, Trevor looked sheepish. “Yeah, and I’m a fine one to be asking opsec questions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I let it slip that we have cryocell technology.” He shook his head. “It never occurred to me the Dogs wouldn’t have it.”

  Downing nodded. “Completely understandable, lad. The Ktor who came here certainly must have used cryogenic suspension. Their exiles—er, Exodates—are restricted to slower-than-light drives, so they couldn’t have survived the multi-generational trip without it.”

  Trevor squinted at the tabletop. “Gotta wonder how they lost the technology.”

  “That is an unusual, even suspicious discovery,” Alnduul agreed with slightly pinched eyelids. “However, any inquiry would alert the Dogs to your knowledge of their origins.”

  Trevor screwed up his face. “Do you really think they’d be upset that our arch-enemies are the same people who kicked them off their home worlds? We have an axiom for that scenario: ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

  Alnduul’s eyelids tightened further. “That may obtain on Earth, but it might not here.”

  Trevor appeared at pains to remain deferential. “It’s pretty much a human constant, Alnduul.”

  “So it would seem. Yet, as you say, we do not know the events that led to their exile here. Nor can we be certain that various politically significant factions—both here and in the main system of Jrar—do not aspire to rejoin the Ktoran Sphere, or at least, elect to follow its teachings and tactics, and so, share the same presumptions and prejudices.

  “Which is why,” Alnduul continued, looking at both of them, “we must carefully consider the circumstances in which we leave Major Murphy and his detachment. If the Dogs have reason to be suspicious or dismissive of us as allies—or as effective protectors of our friends—then the moment we depart, they may attempt to put Major Murphy in a subordinate, or at least difficult, position.”

  “Or out an airlock.” Trevor’s face was as glum as his tone.

  Downing frowned but nodded. “Not out of the realm of possibility. The Hardliner faction we just encountered seems predisposed to ‘absolute’ solutions.”

  Trevor matched his nod. “They were the ones responsible for most of the mass executions that Lee witnessed, if I read those comm transcripts correctly.”

  “You did. They are,” Alnduul answered. “I suspect that, overall, their faction is more observant of Ktor cultural rituals and attitudes. From what you have conveyed, the Matriarch’s supporters seem more…welcoming?”

  Downing win
ced. “I don’t know that I’d use so cheery a term as that. I’d say ‘open-minded.’ From what I can tell, she was suitably impressed by Captain Lee. Not just her fighting spirit, but her composure and balance when the Hardliners broke from the plan. Diplomatically, that was a potentially disastrous moment.”

  Alnduul’s gills had widened, were stiff. “And how is Captain Lee, herself? She sounded…shaken.”

  Before Richard could answer, Trevor jumped in. “I don’t think Lee gets shaken, Alnduul. At least not where anyone else can see it. But she’s furious, and I think a little desperate.”

  “It is certainly reasonable that she would be furious over witnessing such senseless killing.”

  Trevor shook his head. “That’s not what she’s furious about. She just woke up and discovered everyone she’s ever known is dead, including her kids. Then she’s pitched right into a space battle alongside people who she doesn’t know, and now, realizes she can’t trust.” He shrugged. “After all that, most soldiers I know would be too rattled, too shell-shocked, to be effective. Not her. But I’ve seen the look in her eyes before, just like I’ve seen the sudden jerks and starts every time she moves her head. Too much more craziness and even she could unravel.”

  Alnduul nodded, looked back toward Downing. “Then should we awaken the one you have selected to be their commanding officer, Major Murphy?”

  Richard managed not to blink. “You mean, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Alnduul’s fingers rose and flopped: a shrug. “Companionship and comfort for Captain Lee.”

  Oh, bloody hell. “No, precisely the wrong move,” Downing snapped, glancing at Trevor and hoping to get off the topic quickly enough. “Captain Corcoran’s father—and I—did something like that, once. Just before we met you at Convocation. It was not…helpful.”

  Alnduul nodded. “Yes, I am aware. When you awakened Caine Riordan, you awakened another sleeper, Captain Opal Patrone, who became his bodyguard. I reasoned you did that to ensure that neither one of them awakened from the past alone.” Downing struggled to maintain an expressionless face as Alnduul turned his gaze upon Trevor’s grim one. “But…was that not helpful, that they had each other for commiseration, for solace?”

  Trevor’s eyes remained focused on Alnlduul; they had become carefully blank.

  As Alnduul’s gills rippled in perturbation, maybe confusion, Downing had to resist the impulse to drag the Dornaani out of the room before he could do any more damage. Bloody alien git, you’ve put your foot in it, now. Apparently, Alnduul had never understood the painful triangle that had grown up out of that dual reanimation. Trevor falling for Opal, Opal for Caine, and Caine’s affections already fixed on someone else—although initial memory loss prevented him from immediately recalling whom.

  But Alnduul did not read the present human social dynamics any more accurately than he had read those earlier ones. He pressed on. “Is it not helpful if there is a chance that the two might become emotionally, even romantically, attached to each other?”

  “No,” Trevor said in a calm, quiet, almost dangerous tone. “It is not a good idea. What you’re proposing would compromise the relationship between a CO and his subordinate officer. Wrong in more ways than I can explain to you. And if they are the only two Lost Soldiers awake, or in contact with each other, you are dramatically increasingly the likelihood of that happening.”

  “Besides,” Downing added hastily, “for human companionship to have been of any real benefit to Captain Lee, it would have had to have been available right now, in the immediate aftermath. Or before. No, it’s best we stick with the timetable we agreed upon.” Which had been buggered from the start. Lee’s skills had been needed so quickly that the optimal procedure—awakening and debriefing Murphy first, and then the cadre, and so on, down the ranks—had been promptly dumped in the tip. Which, of course, mucked up every step that was to have followed.

  Just like every other operation Downing had ever been on.

  * * * * *

  Part One: Murphy

  Chapter Four

  Near Spin One

  Murphy awoke with a start.

  Gray, utilitarian walls and lighting—although the lights were unusual, somehow. The air was canned: no doubt about it. And he was not lying, but reclining.

  Careful now; maybe you’ve been captured—

  “Take it easy, Major. You are safe and among friends.”

  English accent. Measured, the way medical personnel talk to people who may or may not be screwed up. Murphy struggled to rise up on his elbows. He felt slightly weak, had a momentary wash of vertigo, then the world righted.

  Two men were seated at the end and to either side of where he lay, which from his angle looked like a cross between a sick bay bed and a gurney. Labels were in English. They were both in what looked kind of like flight suits, but more bulky and more substantial. There were no markings on either.

  Not enough information to make any assumptions either way—which wouldn’t have been safe or wise to do anyway. So he said, “Murphy. Rodger Y.; Major, US Army. Serial number 984—”

  The two men—both tall, but one much older than the other—smiled. The older and thinner one waved a hand. “Yes. We know. In fact, my companion here—let’s call him Mr. Nephew—is still a reservist in your military. Different branch, however.”

  Mr. Nephew reminded Murphy of the SEAL in the chopper, but whereas that guy was a bear, this one was more a tiger: a little taller and leaner. But Murphy’s intended query—an attempt to sniff out if he really was affiliated with the US military—died in his throat as memory rose up. “The Blackhawk. What—?”

  Mr. Nephew nodded. “Went down in the Indian Ocean. November 17, 1993. Copilot and crew chief were KIA, although the copilot’s body was never found. The pilot and passengers survived.”

  Murphy frowned. “How? And why? Hell, the second missile wasn’t an RPG round; it was homing on us and made a contact hit. The front half of the chopper should have been gone—and me with it.”

  “As best we can tell, the second missile’s warhead was defective. Went off late and weak. Damage to the cockpit—and the copilot—was essentially from the impact. That’s why the pilot and everyone else close survived.”

  Murphy did not even nod. No falling into the trap of routine or casual exchanges. Hell, his training was to not communicate at all. But if these guys were working for hajis—No; something was off, but not something as simple as that. If this was theater, a bid to get him to believe himself in safe hands, then it was all at once way too good and way too amateurish.

  The two guys, particularly the big one, emitted service vibe as strong as he’d ever felt. And not service as pogues; these guys had been in the shit. And that was damn near impossible to fake. Just like the accents: they were too damned good. The older one was speaking in that kind of controlled cant of the Brits—King’s English, he’d heard it called—and the other had just enough of a twang that Murphy guessed he was from the mid-Atlantic states, probably Virginia or Maryland, possibly Delaware.

  But if these guys were impostors trying to inveigle his trust, then why were they such amateurs about uniforms? Their weird flight suits weren’t in anyone’s inventory, and they just looked wrong. Flight suits were fitted out with the kinds of loops and fasteners that you’d need in a plane; fatigues for ground pounders had buttons not zippers, more pockets in different places, and more places to hang or attach gear. Their suits had both—sorta—but also a number of flaps that didn’t make sense, as well as what looked like sealable collars and cuffs.

  And why no rank patches, no national or service branch insignias? Okay, so maybe they were playing the “intel neutral” game, but still, that was usually done by covering things up or removing velcroed patches. These suits looked like they had never had either affixed.

  So how was it they were so good at the vibe and the language, and so bad at the costuming? It didn’t make any sense. Unless they weren’t tr
ying to put on an act, which made even less sense. And was a whole lot more creepy, if true.

  And another thing— “You read out the whole date of the attack on us, year and all. Why?” He paused, ditching the prohibition against talking; it was more important to learn what was going on. “So, are we being recorded? Is this a—a sanitized debrief? Who are you guys with?”

  Mr. Nephew smiled slightly, shook his head. “We are not being recorded, although come to think of it, that might have been a good idea. And if anyone is providing debrief information, it’s not you conveying it to us: it’s we who have to convey it to you.”

  “Huh? What the hell do you mean?”

  The tiger-guy’s smile widened. “I’ll let my colleague—Mr. Nuncle—explain.”

  “Major Murphy, we mentioned the precise date of your crash because you’ve been unconscious for a while.”

  “Then why am I still in the same fatigues?” He could even smell the same heat-brewed body odor, but he wasn’t going to mention that. Come to think of it, he could also smell a faint salt-water tang as well… “Wait a minute, you didn’t even bother to change my clothes when you fished me out of the ocean?”

  Mr. Nuncle held up a helpless hand. “We most certainly would have. But we were not the ones who recovered you.”

  There was something in the older guy’s voice and the younger guy’s reaction that spiked Murphy’s wariness meter. For the first time, they grew slightly tense—just a moment, and just a shade of it—but it had been there. “Okay, what aren’t you telling me?” Wait: the date. “This has something to do with the date of the crash.”

  The older guy frowned sadly; his face got longer and a little older looking. “You are to be congratulated on your conjecture, Major Murphy. Our recounting of the date is indeed central to what you must learn about what has happened to you.”