by John Murphy
MISSION VERITAS
A BLACK SABER NOVEL
BOOK ONE
JOHN MURPHY
Booktrope Editions
Seattle WA 2015
Copyright 2015 John Murphy
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]
Cover Design by Derek Murphy
Edited by Deborah Natelson and Kevin Miller
Proofreading by Tricia Parker
Previously published as Mission Veritas, BookBaby, 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Print ISBN 978-1-62015-695-7
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-706-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902524
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Personnel
United States Sovereign
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Author Bio
Bonus Content
Author Interview
Author Essay
More Great Reads from Booktrope
To my beloved wife for putting up with me all these years, and for letting me bounce off crazy ideas. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.
To my sons who have each turned out to be better men than I was at their respective ages. I couldn’t have asked for better kids, but that won’t stop me from offering free (unsolicited) advice.
A special thanks to my early readers and the blog sites who took the time to review Mission Veritas.
PERSONNEL
Naval Transport Delaware:
Commander Andrew “Burdie” Burdette:
Commanding Officer
Chief Petty Officer Banks:
Ranking Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO)
Planet Veritas Outpost Station Blue Orchid:
Commander Alexandra Connor:
Commanding Officer
Master Sergeant Houlihan:
Ranking NCO
Mission Veritas Candidates:
Benson, Jeremy—18, male
Carmen, Brenda—19, female
Dohrn, Dana—18, female
Goreman, Amelia—19, female
Kerrington, Stiles—18, male
Killian, Vaughn—18, male
Mitchell, Tyla—18, female
Pima, Solandra—19, female
Sowell, Thomas—19, male
Spalding, Jeffery—19, male
Tucker, Ian—19, male
Vasquez, Alexander—19, male
UNITED STATES SOVEREIGN
MILITARY RANK STRUCTURE
Naval Ranks—Enlisted
E1—Crewman Recruit
E2—Crewman Apprentice
E3—Crewman
E4—Petty Officer Third Class
E5—Petty Officer Second Class
E6—Petty Officer First Class
E7—Chief Petty Officer
E8—Senior Chief Petty Officer
E9—Master Chief Petty Officer
Naval Ranks—Officer
O1—Ensign
O2—Lieutenant Junior Grade
O3—Lieutenant
O4—Lieutenant Commander
O5—Commander
O6—Captain
O7—One-Star Rear Admiral
O8—Two-Star Rear Admiral
O9—Vice Admiral
O10—Fleet Admiral
Marine Corps Ranks—Enlisted
E1—Private
E2—Private First Class
E3—Lance Corporal
E4—Corporal
E5—Sergeant
E6—Staff Sergeant
E7—Gunnery Sergeant
E8—First Sergeant and Master Sergeant
E9—Sergeant Major
Marine Corps Ranks—Officer
O1—Second Lieutenant
O2—First Lieutenant
O3—Captain
O4—Major
O5—Lieutenant Colonel
O6—Colonel
O7—Brigadier General
O8—Major General
O9—Lieutenant General
O10—General
Veritas – [ver-i-tas, -tahs] noun, Latin, “truth”
PROLOGUE
Annual Meeting of the Seminatore Society
Paris, France
Shrine to the Original Race–formerly known as Notre Dame
March 23, 2072
9 months, 23 days to Chrysalis
BARRETT KERRINGTON, vice president of the United States, was more the type to smile and knee someone in the balls, which is what the Carthenogens were likely expecting.
Barrett got up from his seat in the massive Gothic chamber and strode forward on the gilded purple carpet. He glanced up to see that the stained glass windows from centuries of Catholicism had been replaced with depictions of historical figures from the Carthenogen home planet, Carthogena.
His ornate black silk robe fluttered, enhancing the urgency in his pace.
Two hundred fifty similarly clad Society members glowered behind him. None of them wanted to make this walk of shame. Ahead, fifteen ivory-robed Carthenogens awaited him on the dais. His petition appeared futile. He hid his cunning delight behind a mask of somber worry.
He’d devised a gambit for this very day of his defrocking. He had known this was coming for some time. Rather than disappear like so many other gelded saps, he found a way to keep ten moves ahead and parlay his discharge into something much more enduring.
They were likely expecting him to go down in a big ruckus. He had to set them off-balance, disrupt their expectations. There would be no “ball kicking” today. Instead, he would delude them with slobbering, sniveling incredulity.
In thirty steps, he knelt on a riser and bowed his head in humble reverence—already, something out of character for him.
“May it please the Society that I should speak?”
Carthenogen Supreme Minister of Earth Huzan said, “It so pleases. Speak.” Huzan’s voice, normally monotone, bled with repugnance for those fallen from favor.
“Your Excellency,” Barrett began, keeping his eyes cast downward, “I fail to see any transgressions I may have committed.”
“You have not,” Huzan said.
“Your Excellency, then I fail to understand why I am being denied the position of president.”
“This is a matter of preemption, rather than punishment.”
“Please, Your Excellency, help me to understand,” Barrett said with a pleading quiver in his voice. He understood perfectly. He was being thrown overboard for someone more charismatic, more slick.
“You have nurtured a reputation within the Society and the citizens at large, Barrett. We need someone to carry a message that is less—abrasive.”
Barrett had blustering down to an art, an efficient tool in extorting cooperation.
“Your Excellency, I have been extremely loyal to Carthenogen…guidance. I have carried out every policy the Society has decided.”
“To be sure, you have been useful and effective,” said Huzan. “The Society is indeed grateful.”
“Then why, Your Excellency?” asked Barrett. “Why haven’t I earned the position? I have done innumerable things to benefit the Society, some of which were against my very moral fiber. All for you.”
“You no longer have a soul with which to bargain, Barrett.”
Minister Rooda interjected, “Whatever worth your human soul may have had, Barrett, yours was depleted on the vice presidency.”
Indeed, his soul was running at a substantial deficit.
“Your Excellency,” said Barrett, “if it pleases the Society, I can do so much more for you in a position of greater power.”
“We’ve already decided on the occupant of the position you desire,” Huzan said. “Your services are no longer of advantage to us. Retire quietly when your term is up and be grateful.”
There it was—exactly what he needed, to be relieved of responsibility. He would no longer be in the fishbowl. He’d be spared the expense of political capital on an election run, and would no longer be beholden to the whims of donors.
At the same time, he had an open acknowledgement of his good standing with the Carthenogens. He’d averted the ugly mistake of being forcibly removed from the Shrine. He’d dodged pariah status among his colleagues in the Society.
Still, he had one more gambit.
His head still bowed, he squeezed his eyes closed several times to force tears. Groveling wasn’t his forte, but he had practiced.
“Wait!” He looked into Huzan’s eyes, his trembling hands emerging from his robe. It was a startling breach of every protocol to look directly into the eyes of any Carthenogen, let alone the supreme minister of Earth. But startling was what he needed.
“I beg of you, Your Excellency!” he rasped.
An astonished murmur arose from the Society. Not known for showing any expression, every one of the Carthenogens on the dais looked surprised.
Minister Rooda’s spindly fingers shot out, pointing at Barrett. “There is no begging!”
Rooda’s timing was perfect. Barrett glanced desperately at his accomplice, his mouth flopping open, his hands still outstretched and trembling. The deposed would normally have been dragged off by now. Others might choose to walk away with a dignified stiff upper lip. Begging created drama. Doubtless, the Society members were on the edge of their seats.
Supreme Minister Huzan raised a hand to suppress the commotion.
“Your Excellency,” Barrett continued, “may I still provide—special service—to you?”
“Your service is done, Barrett.”
“But!”
“Done, Barrett!”
Barrett hung his head and struggled to lift his aging frame to a standing position. He slowly turned away. In a quick movement, he turned back toward the ministers.
“I know your true agenda!” For authenticity’s sake, Barrett had an edge of anger—another startling move.
Gasps of shock and excited babbling echoed through the cavernous halls of the Society. Everyone there knew the true Carthenogen agenda. They were, by their own silence on the matter, complicit. Barrett was teetering on heresy.
Huzan raised his hand again. The murmuring ceased. “Are you threatening?”
“I gave you the plans for Chrysalis,” Barrett said.
“Chrysalis is already underway.”
“In the short time I have left in my term, Your Excellency, I can arrange an event—a commencement of sorts. Something my…replacement…may campaign for, or against, as you see fit.”
Neither Huzan nor any other minister made a move to cut Barrett off. He had their full attention.
“The event,” continued Barrett, “will create a crisis. The crisis will permit your newly elected president to rally the nation—indeed, the world—and harness substantial power. The crisis will provide a compelling impetus for launching Chrysalis, and, at the same time, will quell your opposition.”
Barrett paused a moment, looked into Huzan’s eyes, and let out a sly smile. His hand reappeared from his robe as he held up two fingers, a daring gesture. “Two birds,” Barrett said, “one stone.”
Huzan pursed his lips, blinked twice—a good sign. They were sold.
“There are factions within your military that are troubling,” Huzan said.
Barrett had them. They had accepted his offer and were negotiating for more. Barrett was now free to navigate the global halls of power and wrest strategic favors.
“Yes, Your Excellency. That will take more time.”
CHAPTER 1
Bangkok, Thailand
United States Embassy
January 14, 2073
Day Zero of Chrysalis
A LOUD BOOM YANKED Vaughn Everett Killian out of his trance on the couch.
He sat upright and listened, adrenaline surging through him. Was what he’d heard real or had he been dreaming?
He glanced at the antique bookcase against the wall. No, it hadn’t fallen over.
A trickle of worry seeped into his otherwise crusty teenage indifference. He got up and approached the bulletproof windows in the family’s quarters, pulling back the sheer curtains and looking out across the small embassy lawn. Jutting over the walls surrounding the compound were tattered picket signs and poorly made effigies of what he presumed to be his mother, the US ambassador to Thailand. He could just hear the picketers’ muffled chanting through the thick glass.
Occasionally, there were protests in front of the embassy for one outrage or another. Usually the protesters’ numbers were anemic, with fewer than a dozen showing up. Today there were thousands milling about like so much gunpowder. The crowd stretched around the street corners, suggesting that there were thousands more protesters just out of sight.
A staccato of firecrackers gave Vaughn another clue about the explosion that had rousted him. To annoy people into paying attention to their whacked-out causes, protesters often made as much noise as possible. Vaughn had experienced their anger firsthand several times while being driven to school in the embassy’s armored vehicle. Protesters banged on the car, pelted it with God-knows-what, and shouted at him through the privacy glass windows, contorting their horrible, self-mutilated faces in rage.
Vaughn hated protestors more than he hated the cockroaches that surprised him on occasion when he turned on the bathroom lights. At least the cockroaches were just trying to survive. The protesters seemed like they had devoted their lives to making him miserable, as if they blamed him for things he had never done.
Vaughn let the curtains fall shut. Watching the hordes this morning was unnerving, like stepping into a room swarming with roaches.
He returned to the couch and tried to get the images out
of his mind. He hated embassy life and often felt imprisoned. But he hadn’t been asked for his opinion when his mother took the position as ambassador.
His only escape was the Fantasia console on the coffee table in front of him. He nudged it to check the digital time display. It was 11:30 a.m., Saturday morning. He had promised his fellow captives at school he would be up and on the World Net by noon to resume their game of Galactic Domination. He had about twenty-eight minutes before Jeff, Devon, and Joey could officially give him shit for being the last of their crew. If he were late, they’d make him carry their extra ammo, which would deplete his health points more quickly.
Knowing he still had some time to kill before the game, he chose to investigate the protesters, suspecting that the thought of them would nag him with worry and disrupt his concentration.
Vaughn grabbed the last two macadamia nut breakfast bars out of their box, ignoring the eight wrappers scattered on the coffee table and floor. He hiked up his grubby white T-shirt and stuck one of the bars into his bright red Coke pajama pants as he fumbled to open the other.
At sixteen, Vaughn Killian didn’t have any responsibilities at the embassy other than studying and staying out of trouble. The explosion, however, felt like trouble coming to find him.
He headed out the door of the private residence wing and approached the balustrade that overlooked the marble lobby. Saturdays were usually so quiet that he’d have to search for the embassy staff. This morning was different. He could hear a few people making noise, moving around, talking on phones.
The din had an agitated chord, more so than usual.
More firecrackers and chanting came from outside. Doubtless, the protestors were at the forefront of everyone’s mind. Much like the monsoons of summer, nothing could be done about them, but they couldn’t be ignored, either.
In a large alcove at the front door, Captain Leon, who was in charge of the embassy’s US Marine security detail, looked out through the ornate bulletproof windows. The captain was six foot even, a striking black man with an authoritative bearing. He was the most meticulous person Vaughn had ever met.
Normally, the captain wore “alphas”—a drab olive-colored uniform that resembled a suit and tie. Even on his off-duty days, Captain Leon wore a civilian sports coat and button-up shirt. Today, however, he wore digital camouflage fatigues pressed so crisp they could have stood at attention on their own.
