Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  Murphy held the mace out at arm’s length and looked at it. He looked back at Max. Who shrugged. Murphy returned the shrug and pushed deeper into the room.

  Two steps in and the purpose of the mace became clear. Two women, garbed similarly, caught sight of each other, rushed together, and as if they were play-fighting at swords, clashed their maces. The dull clank was quite loud and almost everyone in earshot shouted. The shout didn’t sound like a word because it wasn’t, it was just a distracted roar of approval. Kind of like ardent fans rooting for their favorite team.

  Which seemed to be relatively close kin to this mace banging ritual, which always occurred between two individuals who had some similarities in their markings: insignias that identified them as military or security personnel or some equivalent thereof. So: banging maces was apparently about “warriors meeting and letting the world know it.”

  By the time Murphy caught sight of Anseker Otlethes, he’d grown used to the din, and was able to hear the Primus’ shout to join his party. Somehow, without being alerted, the attendees obstructing the path between them melted back to the margins.

  Murphy arrived with a small bow which was returned by the half-dozen people with the Primus, including Guild-mother Shumrir and Naliryiz. Anseker looked disappointed. “Major! Will you not use your fethshern?”

  Murphy followed Anseker’s eyes to the mace. “You mean…this?”

  “Yes! Of course! It will be an insult for you not to be magnanimous in sharing your glory.”

  If the reference to a fethshern had confused him, encouragement that he “share his glory” was utterly baffling.

  Before Anseker could frown, Naliryiz intervened. “The fethshern is how warriors greet each other after a great victory, which is what we celebrate at an Acclamation. The clash of a leader’s fethshern is much sought after by those of lesser renown and rank. You are one of the great victors of this day. Sharing clashes with your fethshern is a great honor.”

  “Ah,” said Murphy.

  Anseker frowned anyway. “False modesty so profound as yours could be mistaken as a sign of arrogance.”

  Murphy was now totally flummoxed. “Sorry, come again?”

  Shumrir seemed to understand Murphy’s confusion. “In our culture, the very proud might affect an unwillingness to clash fethsherns out of ‘concern’ for making the lesser warrior look ridiculous in comparison to the greater one.”

  Murphy had to spend several seconds figuring that out. “Wow,” he murmured.

  Anseker caught the surprised sound. “Clearly this is unfamiliar to you.”

  “It takes arroga—uh, pride to a whole new level, Primus. In my experience, I mean. In my culture, one congratulates or one shuns. There’s really nothing much in between. Some might exaggerate their congratulations as a form of mockery, but that’s the closest any of our interactions come to what Shumrir just described.”

  Shumrir looked oddly satisfied. “The directness you describe could be quite refreshing.”

  Murphy had his balance again. “Besides, Primus, I didn’t do any of the fighting. Not one bit of it. For me to claim any honor…well, it would be like trying to make their deeds mine. I just gave orders.”

  Anseker looked genuinely shocked. “This is true? A war leader’s capability and cunning is not deemed as worthy of honor as valor upon the battlefield?”

  Murphy wasn’t sure how to answer that without leaping into a potential minefield…so he just shrugged.

  Anseker stared then shook his head. “I see no dissembling in you, so I can only presume you speak the truth. If so, it is a strange truth…at least, one very unlike our own.”

  “I hope to mend my ignorance of your ways,” Murphy put in, seeing an opportunity to score some points and get away from the dicey intercultural slalom in the same act.

  “I am sure you shall, Major. Now, even if you take no share in the honors of your victory, I would hear of the next steps in your campaign.”

  Whew, back on safe ground…I think. “Firstly, I ask your forbearance if any of my synopsis repeats information you have already heard.”

  “He apologizes so much,” a rather frail woman murmured too loudly to Naliryiz. “Was he elevated from a lower class?”

  “At any rate,” Murphy went on, suppressing the urge to grit his teeth, “today’s destruction of the transmitter achieves more than preventing a message from reaching Kulsis. It signifies an enormous strategic reversal in that part of R’Bak, specifically the Hamain and the Ashbands immediately to its northwest.

  “Twenty-five percent of the satraps that provide support and survey and gathering services for the Harvesters in their most profitable region are now on the deep defensive. This also means that, at least in this region, there is no reason not to establish more routine planetary interface.

  “The short-horizon CONOPS…” Murphy saw blank stares. “Um, our immediate concept of operations is to continue to recruit from the local tribes, overrun the towns of the smaller satraps, isolate the larger ones, and cut off and eliminate any columns or patrols they send further than bowshot.”

  “That will take many warriors,” Anseker observed sagely.

  “It certainly will,” Murphy agreed. “Fortunately, the satraps have not only oppressed but occasionally hunted the local tribes, even when the Harvesters are not present to ‘cull’ them. Those tribes are eager to repay the favor.” Too eager, in fact. “Frankly, we have more volunteers than we can organize. The task of turning indig warriors into half-trained soldiers is going to require as many of my men as our combat operations.” More, actually, but no reason to add that detail here.

  Anseker nodded slowly. “I hope the tribes stay by your side when the Searing grows and they know the Kulsians are approaching. Whatever loyalty they feel toward you is unlikely to be as great as their fear of the Harvesters.”

  Murphy nodded. “However, they might stand with us if, when the Searing comes, the Harvesters still have not arrived to collect the plants they prize or cull the R’Baku they find objectionable.”

  “As we hope. But there are still no clear plans for ensuring that the Kulsians will not return to this system as they always do.”

  “Well,” Murphy murmured, “I didn’t say they wouldn’t come to this system…just that they’d never make it down to the surface of R’Bak.”

  There were a few knowing looks, but mostly startled eyes. A military type without any insignia of rank or unit nodded. “That would sway many if it could be made to happen. Only the satraps and their chosen lackeys have any love for the present order.”

  Another in the circle observed, “You speak as if you intend to expand your operations on R’Bak.”

  Murphy nodded. “As much as I hate to say it, I don’t see an alternative. Dolkar Kormak was correct in at least one of his assertions: this was never going to end with a return to the status quo. Unless the Kulsians discover evidence of a global disaster, they are going to know that something in this system selectively annihilated their bush-beaters…er, ‘coursers.’ And given what I’ve been told, the enemy Overlords will not stop investigating until they know what that was.”

  The group was atypically silent and somber before Anseker drew himself up and asked, “Clearly, you have a plan to defeat or deter them. But I cannot foresee how we might fend off the Kulsian fleet when they arrive.”

  Murphy nodded. “I appreciate the Primus’ directness. I am sure he does not wish me to address specifics during these festivities, but, very generally, let me posit a scenario. Let us suppose that the second group of intruders from Kulsis arrives as expected—the surveyors, I think you call them?”

  “Yes,” Naliryiz answered, “they are responsible for arranging to buy the desired exoflora from the satraps, prospecting more themselves, and organizing the transport that will convey these goods to the downports from which they will be sent to orbit.”

  Murphy nodded. “So, let us make a safe conjecture: that they are given the additional task of discoverin
g what happened to the coursers. However, upon arriving, they not only fail to find any sign of the coursers’ ships but cannot contact any of the raiders on the planet, either. When the surveyors finally venture dirtside, they discover R’Bak almost entirely unchanged, except for the Ashbands north of the Hamain. There, new satraps hold power, who apparently replaced the old ones, recently toppled by a wave of war bands from the wastes. What do the surveyors do then?”

  The frail woman—a Breedmistress, judging from her cloudy eyes—answered. “As you suggest, they would begin to investigate more closely, both there on the planet and here in space.”

  “And how long do you think their investigation would last, particularly if it produced no ready evidence or answers, and their work as surveyors was falling far behind because of all the personnel tied up in solving the mystery of the missing coursers?”

  Smiles sprang up. “I doubt they could afford to spend a whole year on it,” Naliryiz mused. “The surveyors are not numerous enough to conduct an exhaustive search of the system. And the Harvester fleet does not have the time to seek, identify, and collect what it means to carry back to Kulsis; that is what the surveyors must complete before it arrives.”

  Murphy nodded. “And so, a year after their arrival, but as much as a year before the Harvester fleet arrives, the surveyors will have to turn their attention to their primary job in this system. And, in rushing to complete those tasks in only half the usual time, they are likely to grow inattentive to anything else. Very inattentive.”

  Anseker’s eyes had become sharp, hawklike. “And how would you take advantage of that interval of ‘inattentiveness,’ Major Murphy?”

  “I would launch a surprise attack upon the surveyors’ ships.”

  Confused faces ringed him. “Attack them where?” one goggled. “On the ground? Where they almost never go?”

  “No,” Murphy replied. “In space.”

  Anseker was clearly struggling against incredulousness. “But…we do not have the warships needed for such an attack.”

  Murphy smiled. “You do not have the warships yet,” he emphasized. “Nor do you have access to the Kulsian secure codes, since monitoring their communications is another necessary asset to ensure the success of such an operation.”

  Anseker’s eyes were narrowed, careful, assessing. “And yet again, you believe that lack can be corrected.”

  Murphy bowed slightly. “Primus Otlethes, I am sure of it. Now, if you will excuse me, I would take this opportunity to dance with Naliryiz.”

  He caught up her hand and, without waiting for a response, drew her on to the dance floor. She said something in a Family-specific argot to the group they’d left behind as she trailed him at arm’s length.

  He drew her to the middle of the floor, where the crowd was thickest. She smiled expectantly…but frowned when she realized Murphy had only stopped long enough to make sure that Anseker’s social cluster could no longer see them. He resumed towing her gently to the opposite side of the room.

  “Major Murphy, where are we going?” she asked over his shoulder.

  “Captain Lee tells me you can pilot a spaceship. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but—?”

  “And given your family rank, my research strongly suggests you could requisition one at a moment’s notice if you needed to.”

  “That is a distressingly accurate conjecture. But I do not understa—”

  Murphy stopped just before they cleared the far side of the dance floor, turned, and looked her straight in the eyes. “I need you to pilot me somewhere. It will take about a day each way. I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way to do it. And you’re the only one I trust. Will you take me there?”

  Naliryiz blinked at the rapid-fire requests and revelations. Then she nodded. “Yes. I will.”

  Murphy sighed in relief, smiled. “Good. Let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  55 Tauri B, Deep Space

  The SpinDog craft was approaching the coordinates that had appeared on Murphy’s computer screen. It was moving so slowly that the star field appeared frozen, unchanging.

  Naliryiz sighed. “But there is nothing here, Major Murphy. The scanners are still empty.”

  He nodded, but coaxed, “Give it another minute. Continue to approach.”

  And sure enough, at that moment, the scanners lit up with a hard contact only 127 meters ahead.

  Naliryiz started back from the controls. “That is not possible. Nothing, not even an object so small as these instruments show, could remain unseen by multispectral scanners within the last one hundred kilometers.”

  Murphy smiled, looked sideways at her. “You need to spend some time with the Dornaani.”

  “You mean your mysterious allies and benefactors? What is their role in this?”

  “I’ll tell you some time,” he answered as he unstrapped and guided himself slowly over the back of his acceleration couch and into the after compartment.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To put my helmet on so I can go out and get that thing.”

  “Are you sure it is safe?” She sounded worried.

  Murphy turned and smiled at her. “Trust me, if we were in any danger from that object, we’d have been dead long before now. Do me a favor and keep track of my vitals. I’ll be back soon.”

  * * *

  Naliryiz was waiting for Murphy just beyond the inner airlock hatch. “Well,” she asked, “what is it?” She stared at the nondescript ovoid in his hands; it wasn’t much bigger than one of the propane containers his Dad had used to fire up the grill back home.

  “I think it’s a buoy of some kind, with a small payload compartment attached here at the bottom. But I can’t be sure of that without trying to open it.”

  “Well, do so,” Naliryiz said. She sounded testy. Or anxious. Maybe both.

  Murphy looked at her. “There’s no reason to be scared.”

  Naliryiz’s face was stern. “I am fearful, but not for me. That is an alien object. And you mean to bring it back to Spin One. You may not do so until I have tested it for alien pathogens and other harmful anomalies. If you do not allow me to do so, you shall not bring it on the station.”

  Murphy shrugged, uncoupled the container, and removed the radio-sized device he had expected to find within. “Knock yourself out,” he said.

  “You wish me to do myself harm?” she asked, horrified amazement in her voice.

  Murphy laughed. “God no, that’s just an expression.” He smiled gently when he noticed her hands were clenched and bone-white. “Run all your tests. I don’t have to be on R’Bak for a few days, so no rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  * * *

  R’Bak

  The collected cadre of the Lost Soldiers was silent for a moment, enjoying the scene of a desert tableau dominated by their forces. Two Hueys thup-thup-thupped in the distance as three dust plumes continued to disappear over different parts of the horizon. An interface shuttle—probably Murphy’s—passed overhead, thrusters rotating into vertical mode as it descended toward the small FOB behind them.

  Moorefield returned his gaze to the horizon. “I like that view.”

  “Sir,” Chalmers started, “you mean that? You like seeing our guys heading away?”

  Bo smiled at him. “When they’re moving out to surround the satraps in their towns and make their lives narrow and miserable before we come and roll over them? Hell, yes, Chief.”

  “And the longer they live in fear and uncertainty,” Bowden added, “the more likely someone inside those walls will cut a deal with us. Maybe even ‘depose’ their satrap.”

  Bruce rested back on her elbows. “Gonna be extra stressful for them, living blind and deaf to what’s happening out in the Ashbands. With all the Hueys coming online in the next month, they won’t be putting up many balloons to keep watch for anything coming over the horizon. Or, if they do, they’ll have just that many fewer balloons.”

>   “Owning the skies is a wonderful thing,” Harry Tapper mused philosophically. “Particularly since that gives us the opportunity to see when they’re planning to send out a caravan, or a patrol, or a convoy. All for us to cut off and seize.”

  Jackson looked around the group. “All you officers seem to be forgetting how much training we’ll be doing throughout all that.”

  Moorefield shook his head and laughed. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten a bit of that, Sergeant. I’m just trying not to think of it.”

  Tapper nodded. “So many of our people are going to be tied up with training that we won’t be able to reserve more than a squad or two for absolutely crucial missions.”

  Chalmers raised an eyebrow. “It’s going to be that bad?”

  Tapper shrugged. “Look, the good news is that we’re getting recruits faster than we can organize them. But the bad news is that, well, we’re getting recruits faster than we can organize them. And because the Ashbanders speak some weird dialect that’s half debased Ktor and half something else, we’ve got a language gap down here. So, we’re going to need local trainers.”

  Moorefield nodded. “They’re the first guinea pigs who’ll go through our training python. And then they’ll have to turn right around and help train more indigs.”

  Bruce frowned. “And don’t forget the message we got from Pistol Pete yesterday: that we’re all getting ‘O bumps.’” She glanced apologetically at Chalmers and Jackson. “‘E’ and ‘S’ bumps, too, as I understand it.”

  Jackson checked the faces around the group. “Someone want to clue me in, since Chalmers doesn’t bother to share the memos with me.”

  Bruce shrugged. “Murphy is leveling out ranks and titles. He says it’s confusing to the locals that some our titles and ‘O’ ranks aren’t consistent. For instance, as an Air Force captain, I’m an O3. But in the Navy—” she nodded at Bowden, who nodded back “—an O3 is a lieutenant.”