Admiral and Commander

Book : Caineverse

by Charles E. Gannon, Chris Kennedy

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

A NEW NOVEL IN THE BEST-SELLING TERRAN REPUBLIC SERIES

It has been 15 Terran months since Colonel Roger Murphy and his Lost Soldiers were dropped in the 55 Tauri binary system. Since then, they have forged an uneasy alliance with space-dwelling descendants of the Ktor, liberated the earlier human inhabitants of the planet R’bak, and driven their oppressors from the neighboring system back into a few fortified cities.

But there’s another pivotal battle looming before them: intercepting the Harvester fleet sent by those same oppressors, the Kulsians. And time is growing short. The two stars are nearing periastron, which the natives of R’Bak call the Searing, due to the approach of the blistering F-class star. That’s when the Kulsians cross the 10 AU separating the systems to strip R’Bak of rare biological resources and destroy any powers that might become a challenge to future Harvesters. But Murphy has a plan to break that cycle of interstellar rapine. With the cooperation of both indigenous R’Baku and the mutually suspicious Spindogs and Rockhounds, the Lost Soldiers—now sporting the nickname Murphy’s Lawless—have pulled off a delicate scheme to capture an advanced Kulsian corvette. The objective: to improve the cutting-edge warship and use Spindog “autofab” technology to create a flotilla with which to repel the Harvester fleet.

But true to the source of the Lawless nickname, Murphy’s Law may be their greatest foe. Murphy’s worsening multiple sclerosis is becoming impossible to hide, and the corvettes are proving far more difficult to replicate than anything the Spindogs have ever attempted.

However, it’s the job of training and forging crews from the highly competitive Spindogs and Rock Hounds that is pushing both groups toward mutiny—and possibly murder. The only chance to bring all those forces together? Ex-Navy fighter jock Kevin Bowman—now known as “The Admiral”—who has his work cut out for him.

Problem is, both Bowman and Murphy are running out of time. Not only is the Harvester fleet coming earlier than expected, but it’s bigger than ever before. Much bigger. And its objective is clear: to reassert complete control over the system and annihilate Murphy’s Lawless, their allies, and any who would stand with them.

Release date: April 2, 2024

Publisher: Baen

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One

 

Spin One

 

“Ugh!” Major Kevin Bowden let the air out of his lungs in a rush as the seven-gee retroboost ended. Finally, he could breathe normally again. “It’s been a while since I was at that kind of acceleration, and you get out of practice fast.”

“We RockHounds don’t do it often enough to get used to it,” Malanye Raptis said. She smiled. “It is wasteful of resources.”

Bowden returned her smile. “Yes, but it was worth it.” The thermal signature had been brief and not pointed in the direction of any of the surveyors. “We did it!” he declared, and held up a hand for a “high-five.”

Raptis cocked her head and looked at Bowden’s hand.

“It’s a—” He looked at his hand for a moment, then he put it back in his lap and sighed. “Never mind. I’m just happy we made it back.” He glanced out the bridge windows of the hijacked Kulsian corvette. The RockHound packet and the stolen Kulsian lighter had maintained formation, and he caught a few glints of reflected light off the nose from the tugs that had been sent out to help recover them. No one—neither RockHound nor SpinDog—had ever piloted a corvette before; common sense dictated it be pulled in carefully.

“I’m relieved, also,” Raptis said. She chuckled. “I never expected this to work.”

“Which part? Stealing a Kulsian lighter, getting a Kulsian corvette to think we were damaged so it would approach us, or commandeering the corvette and bringing it back here undetected?”

“Each step was improbable; to have accomplished all of them . . . well, it strains belief.”

It was all part of the plan, not that Colonel Rodger Murphy had shared any more of it with Bowden than he needed to know. Bowden’s part had been to assist in the hijacking of the corvette that would be used as the template for replicating a whole squadron of copies to stop the coming Kulsian fleet.

“Yeah,” Bowden agreed. “And I’m not looking forward to that part of the debrief where we go over losing half of Tapper’s boarding teams and damn near everything else.” Several of those who’d made it back were still too badly wounded to move. Not only had that taken up a disproportionate share of the available living space, but they’d have to be carried off carefully, necessitating a hard dock when they reached the main SpinDog habitat, Spin One.

“But yet we succeeded.” Raptis’s voice was full of wonder. “Somehow.”

“Yeah, we did.” Bowden winked at her. “But I’m willing to bet that this was the easy part.”

“The . . . easy part?”

Bowden nodded. “Now we have to get the SpinDogs to all work together to copy a bunch of ships, and both the SpinDogs and RockHounds to agree on a plan for how to arm and fight them. And then we have to take on the Kulsians.”

“I’d rather fight the Kulsians than try to get the primae and Legate to agree on anything. It’s probably safer.” Raptis laughed. “Will Murphy be doing that or someone else?”

Bowden winced. “Murphy had Tapper brief the ship takedown; I’m willing to bet that the after-action report is going to be my job.”

Raptis reached over and patted him on the shoulder as the tugs began latching on to the ship. “You have my most sincere condolences.”

It didn’t take long for the tugs to attach and maneuver the corvette into the bay, despite its size and the spin of the core-hollowed asteroid that held the habitat.

Feeling suddenly sluggish in the 0.85 gee equivalent, Bowden shut down the comparatively massive corvette. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see if they need any assistance with the casualties.”

“They will certainly need someone to show them how to put the ramp down.”

“There’s

a ramp?” Bowden asked.

“Of course,” Raptis said. “How else did you think we would exit the ship? Through the boarding tube?”

“Well, I—” Bowden stopped before he embarrassed himself any further. The more I think I know about operating spacecraft, the less I find I actually do. The boarding tube was on the corvette’s main deck, almost four meters above the floor of the hangar—or, as the SpinDogs insisted, the docking bay. The bottom hinge of the ramp was a meter closer, but even at 0.85 of a gee, that was still quite a fall. And for the casualties . . . not good at all.

Raptis led him back to the cargo deck and through the various people who’d been on the mission in various capacities. They appeared to be just standing around—or lying, in the case of the casualties on their improvised stretchers.

“It’s right here,” Raptis said. She shooed a few people back and slapped a large yellow control button. A two-meter-wide section of the deck hinged down, becoming a boarding ramp that reached the deck of the hangar.

Bowden looked at the people waiting to debark and shook his head. How is it that they know how to leave the ship and I don’t? Probably because they haven’t spent all their time on the bridge of it trying to learn how to fly it. Aside from sleeping, he couldn’t remember much time not spent at the controls. Sometimes, he’d slept there, too; they’d had only three qualified pilots to get the three ships back to Spin One.

The ramp touched down with a clang, and Raptis stepped back.

“All ashore who’s going ashore,” Bowden said, motioning to the ramp. 

Horace Chalmers, one of the team that had infiltrated R’Bak Downport, raised an eyebrow at Bowden’s distinctly maritime order as he helped his friend Jackson to the ramp. The small African-American sergeant’s thoroughly bandaged head appeared mummified; he was still recovering from a fractured cheek and several other lesser injuries he’d sustained while capturing the lighter they’d used as bait.

Bowden watched Chalmers move slowly down the ramp as still-ambulatory members of Tapper’s boarding teams began carrying stretchers toward it. Major Mara Lee and the SpinDog healer who’d helped her with the birth of her child—Naliryiz—were near the bottom, along with some of the Terran medical personnel. Between that group and the rest of the SpinDog onlookers, three other Lost Soldiers stood facing away from the corvette, hands near their holstered pistols. Hopefully that’s just a precaution and not indicative of some new inter-Family tensions.

“Medics!” Major Tapper called. “Get a doctor in here now!”

Bowden turned back as Harry Tapper and Sergeant First Class Marco Rodriguez set down the stretcher. The man on it—a small, Vietnamese sergeant named Pham—was struggling to breathe. His mouth opened like a fish out of water, but nothing went in or out beside a small trickle of blood.

“Hold on, buddy,” Tapper said. “You made it this far. Just hold on.” Pham pushed against the restraints in a reflex to grab at his chest and spasmed. Harry kept his eyes on his soldier but bellowed, “Medic!”

Bowden spun back toward the ramp. The troops going down had run into SpinDog security types who had flowed around the medical team toward the corvette; they were apparently under orders to secure the vessel immediately. The cries from inside the ship energized the growing jam into a frenzy of motion; the groups in the docking bay jostled and squeezed past each urgently as those near the ramp tried to sort themselves into upward and downward lanes.

“Clear the ramp!” Bowden roared, pointing at Korelon; as Tapper’s respected XO, he could expect prompt obedience. “Get our people down to the deck!” He scanned the front ranks of the crowd in the bay, found Mara Lee’s eyes, and pointed behind her at Naliryiz. “And get her up here now!”

Mara nodded sharply, took the healer by the arm, and rushed toward the ramp, elbows out. In a command voice that couldn’t be missed, she yelled, “Out of our way!” Naliryiz was already ahead of her.

As she did, Korelon was ordering everyone on the ramp—regardless of which direction they were going—to jump down over the sides, leading by example.

The ramp cleared as the two women stormed upward. Seeing their approach, Bowden raced over to Tapper, who was still talking earnestly to Pham.

“Stay with me. Help’s coming.”

Pham stilled.

“No!” Tapper yelled. “Stay with me. Damn it, stay here!”

“What’s going on?” Mara asked as Naliryiz bent over the small Lost Soldier, hands already at work.

“We were taking him off, but he started struggling to get air into his lungs,” Tapper replied. “A second later, he stopped breathing altogether and jerked. Looked like he had a heart attack.”

“A heart attack?” Naliryiz asked as she moved her medical sensor to Pham’s chest and listened to its hardwired earbud.

“He grabbed his chest like he was in pain.”

“What can we do to help?” a medic asked as he arrived, trailed by two orderlies.

“Help him breathe,” Naliryiz replied. “He did not have a heart attack. More likely he has a blood clot that has reached his lungs.”

The medic put a device over Pham’s face with a rubber bag attached, and he began squeezing it.

“But he was wounded almost a week ago,” Tapper said with a frown. “No sign of anything since. And now it hits all of a sudden?”

Naliryiz nodded. “Your hard counterboost probably caused the clot to break loose. We must get him down to surgery. We can help him, but there isn’t much time.” She looked at the medic. “You—keep doing that.” She looked back to Tapper and one of his men. “Pick him up. Quickly. Let’s go!”

The group sped down the ramp and were soon lost in the crowd that closed behind them. Bowden kept hoping for another glance as they made for the hangar exit; no such luck. He turned back to the remainder of the team in the ship. “All right,” he said, “nothing else to see, or do, here. Time to turn the ship over to the replication experts.”

* * *

Colonel Rodger Murphy almost stumbled when the current of the crowd moving in the corridor abruptly changed from feeding into the landing bay to flowing out of it. Over the suddenly struggling heads and shoulders in front of him, he heard Mara Lee shouting, “Out of the way! Make a hole!”

Murphy pulled several SpinDogs back against the bulkheads, nodded for his adjutant to do the same. Janusz Lasko, the big Polish submariner who was also his bodyguard, frowned but complied: he didn’t like obeying any order that made him less able to protect his commander. In contrast, Murphy’s first “security overseer,” Max Messina, had always “failed to hear” any directive that impeded his mission: keeping the colonel alive. An annoying habit, but also the hallmark of a professional.

It was that very same, and very large, veteran of the Vietnam War who now pushed out of the crowd like a one-man flying wedge, almost staggering when he hit the open space Murphy and Janusz had cleared. With a nod, he pounded past, sweeping his arms to push any leaning gawkers back against the walls.

Right behind him, Tapper, Rodriguez, and Korelon hustled forward with a stretcher. The feet-first occupant was small: Pham, the senior NCO of the small group of North Vietnamese Lost Soldiers. He had various SpinDog monitors and tubes connected to his chest. Securing his head and watching his vitals, Naliryiz was half bent over him as they moved, oblivious to everything except her patient.

The crowd started backfilling the wake of empty space behind them . . . but more angry shouts cleared them back: Chalmers pounded past, arm around Jackson, whose head was a large, lopsided knot of bandages and medical tape.

“And where is Yukannak?” Janusz muttered. Like many large men, he was notably good-natured, which made his bitter tone all the more significant. Yukannak, a Kulsian collaborator, had betrayed the team shortly after the lighter launched from R’Bak Downport. And if the usually mild Polish torpedo loader wanted a piece of the traitor, then it was a surety that many less peaceful types would be after his

scalp. Or possibly more personal parts of his anatomy.

“Yukannak won’t be coming through here,” Murphy answered.

“Why not, sir?”

“Because I ordered him taken directly to a maximum security cell.”

Janusz nodded sharp approval. “Let the dog lick his wounds alone.”

“I’m not locking him up to punish him.”

Lasko frowned. “Then, why, sir?”

Murphy looked back at the man who was almost a full head above his own six feet. “To keep him alive. We still need him.”

Janusz’s eyes shifted to look over his commander’s head. “But—isn’t that him?”

A pair of survivors from the SpinDog boarding team hustled yet another head-swathed figure forward.

Murphy recognized the man’s light build. “Vat?”

The only response from beneath the con man’s bandages was a mumble-punctuated groan as he was half-carried away.

“That is Lieutenant Thomas?” Janusz wondered. “But there was no report that he was injured when they seized the lighter.”

“He wasn’t,” answered the broad-shouldered man who followed along behind.

“Report, Sergeant Roeder,” Murphy ordered sharply.

Tapper’s medical specialist started, peered around Lasko, straightened. “Beg pardon, sir. The lieutenant wasn’t part of the fight to grab the lighter; he’d already been drugged by Yukannak. But he got cocky when he interviewed one of the Kulsians from the corvette.”

“He got ‘cocky’? In what way, Sergeant?”

“Didn’t want restraints on the prisoner, but then leaned into him hard and personal. I wasn’t there, but scuttlebutt said it was about his dirtside girlfriend’s uh, unusual sex play. The Kulsian went ballistic.”

Murphy raised an eyebrow. Vat knew only one Kulsian: Yukannak. Furthermore, most of the intimate information Vat had gathered while at Downport involved members of the gay community. How he’d discovered useful sexual—or possibly romantic—leverage to facilitate the interrogation of an unknown Kulsian crewman was unclear. “And how did Vat get so badly injured? Did he send away the guards?”

“No, sir, but the Kulsian lost his shit so quickly that the guards didn’t dogpile him before he reached the lieutenant.”

“And they couldn’t pull the prisoner off before he rearranged Vat’s face?”

“That’s easier said than done when weightless, sir. And the Kulsian had great zero-gee skills. Our guys . . . well, not so much.”

Two more of Tapper’s boarding team appeared around Roeder, a prisoner held

between them, nursing a bandaged hand. When they’d passed, Murphy muttered, “I take it that was the interview subject?” Roeder nodded. “I’m surprised that he’s still alive.” Vat had a sharp, often vengeful temper.

The sergeant obviously thought the colonel was referring to possible payback from the guards. “That Kulsian wouldn’t be breathing now, except that Lieutenant Thomas gave direct orders that under no circumstances was the prisoner to be offed—er, seriously injured.”

Murphy glanced at Roeder. “Why?”

Roeder shrugged. “Don’t know. The lieutenant said the guy was a ‘ringer.’ Which were the last words he spoke before I had to immobilize his jaw.” The sergeant sounded grateful that he’d had a medical imperative to muzzle Vat for the trip back to Spin One.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Carry on.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Like Murphy, Janusz stared after Roeder’s receding back. “Colonel, what is a ‘ringer’?”

Murphy shook his head. “A person of special, even crucial, value.”

“But how would this common Kulsian crewman be a . . . a ringer?”

“That,” Murphy said with a nod, “is precisely what I intend to find out.”

 

Chapter Two

 

Spin One

 

As Murphy entered his briefing room, ops center, and HQ all rolled into one, his staff officer, “Pistol Pete” Makarov, glanced in the direction of the colonel’s office. “You have a visitor, sir. Major Korelon.”

Murphy nodded his thanks and, without breaking his stride, entered his sanctum sanctorum, hand extended. “Welcome back, Korelon’va.”

The RockHound officer was already standing. Either he’d remained that way since arriving or had jumped to his feet upon hearing Murphy’s voice. “I am sorry to intrude, Colonel Murphy, but I am scheduled to depart Spin One within the hour.” After shaking hands—a Terran gesture that did not come naturally to RockHounds or SpinDogs—he bowed sharply: the local equivalent of a formal salute. “I wished to express my gratitude.”

Murphy waved toward a chair. “For what?”

Korelon shook his head at the offer to sit. “For your help, your patience, and later, your support. You had little reason to trust that I would serve well under Major Tapper after our, eh, unfortunate first exchanges.”

Murphy smiled at the euphemism. “Are you becoming a diplomat now, Major? I don’t think I’ve ever heard an imminent knife-fight described so tactfully.”

Korelon smiled back. “In fact, my new assignment involves just such a shift in my duties. Legate Orgunz has indicated that I am to once again be a liaison.”

Murphy shook his head. “Then why are you departing? That’s the role that brought you here in the first place.”

The other nodded. “Indeed, but I will no longer be performing that role on Spin One. Rather, I am being sent back to the outer system.”

Murphy frowned. “Have you been pushed out of your position here? If so, I will speak with Legate Orgunz. Your work has been extremely helpful to—”

“No, Colonel. You misunderstand; I have chosen to return to the stations and outposts of my people. I am, to use your geocentric phrase, returning to my roots.”

Murphy glanced around at the well-fabricated bulkheads and the many comforts and amenities they implied. “That will be . . . quite a change.” By comparison, the dwellings of the RockHounds—small habitats bored through slowly rotating asteroids or holes cut into hangar-sized rocks—were extremely austere.

Korelon smiled. “My time here on Spin One has been pleasant, but that is part of the problem. In coming here to be an advocate for my people’s interests, I have drifted away from their ways, their daily tribulations. That must end.”

“But then how shall you continue your work as a liaison?”

The RockHound

shrugged. “I shall do what I did here, but in reverse. If we are to unify as a greater people—as the free spacefaring families of the R’Bak system—I must now be a liaison not for the RockHounds, but to them.” He glanced at the entrance. “I appreciate that you have much to do, Colonel, given our return. So I shall not take up any more of your time.”

Murphy raised a pausing hand. “Major, before you leave, a question or two. Specifically, I’d be grateful for any light you can shed how and why one of your prisoners attacked Vat during questioning.”

Korelon frowned. “You are referring to the Kulsian drive tech who emerged from an access panel after we took the corvette, I believe? If so, that is almost all I know about him. Which was clearly Vat’s intent.”

“He felt it necessary to withhold details from you?”

“Not just me, Colonel: from everyone. Even the mission’s commanders. Vat insisted that any further information about the prisoner be reserved for your ears only.”

Murphy felt his eyebrows rise. “Only mine? Do you have any idea why? Or what happened during the interrogation?”

Korelon smiled ruefully. “No, but the prisoner remained furious for several days.” He shrugged. “Apparently, the lieutenant made several unflattering remarks about a woman the drive tech mentioned.”

“Mentioned during the interview?”

“No, I believe the lieutenant learned of her while reviewing the prisoner’s personal effects.”

Personal effects? “Do you know what those effects were or where Vat secured them?”

“I am sorry to report that only Vat himself could answer those questions, sir. He was adamant that they remain secret until he spoke to you.”

“Did anyone else see those personal effects before the interview?”

“Just one of my men: Markaz. He accompanied Lieutenant Thomas during the search of the corvette’s staterooms and bunks. Most everything was on disks and chips, but the drive tech kept a sealed folder hidden in the false bottom of his footlocker.”

Murphy reflected on what a lowly Kulsian drive tech would feel necessary to conceal from his fellow crewmembers. “Who was Vat’s guard when he questioned the Kulsian?”

“There were two, but Markaz was in charge of security. Again, at Lieutenant Thomas’s request.” Korelon shook his head. “Markaz was deeply troubled that he became distracted. He submitted himself to me for disciplinary action.”

“Wait: he was distracted? By what?”

“By the lieutenant’s peculiar questioning, and that it became quite . . . personal.”

“Personal in what way?”

Korelon’s jaw became rigid. “I am not familiar with your codes of military justice, nor am I certain that Markaz’s perceptions are accurate. I am therefore reluctant to share anything that might place the lieutenant in an awkward position.”

Murphy shook his head. “Protecting the lieutenant’s honor is commendable”—particularly since he’s a Terran, and hardly your favorite—“but this may prove to be a counterintelligence matter of the highest importance. So I must insist: what did Markaz report?”

Korelon shifted his feet. “The lieutenant suggested that the woman was nothing more than a promiscuous piece of”—the RockHound faltered—“was a dalliance of no consequence, sir.”

Murphy felt the hazy puzzle pieces of Vat’s interrogation snap into sharp focus and almost fling themselves together. “And Markaz is sure that was what caused the prisoner to attack?”

Korelon nodded. “And with such suddenness that Markaz, one of my senior troops, was taken entirely off guard.” Korelon waited, grew uncomfortable as Murphy reflected on the details. “Sir? If that is all . . . ?”

“It is, Major. And thank you for coming by to tell me of your plans. It has been an honor to work with you.”

Korelon stood straighter, eyes wider: not in alarm or anger, but surprise. He bowed

 again, but it was deeper and he held it for at least two seconds. “The honor has been mine, Ektadori’u Murphy.” When he straightened, he saw the puzzlement on the Terran’s face. He smiled. “Ah. You are not familiar with that title.”

“I am not,” Murphy admitted.

“An ektadori’u is one who does not lead by rank alone, but by their wisdom, their presence, their example.” Korelon’s smile became rueful. “It is not always easy to be an ektadori’u, though, for one may be masterful yet not have commensurate rank. That is often . . . upsetting to those of higher station or rank.”

Murphy smiled. “That situation,” he murmured, “is not unknown among my people.”

Korelon grinned, started to move away, but as if remembering something, turned back. Very carefully, he came to attention and delivered a perfectly acceptable human salute.

Murphy returned it with crisp precision, but lowered his hand more slowly, casually. “Godspeed, Mr. Korelon. Don’t be a stranger. There’s always a meal and a drink waiting for you in Lost Soldier country.”

The RockHound grinned and slipped out of the colonel’s office.

When Murphy heard the office’s outer hatch seal behind Korelon, he called to Makarov. “Pete, I’ve got a question for you.”

The Russian major’s head tilted into view beyond the coaming. “Sir?”

“Are you familiar with the SpinDog title ektadori’u?”

Makarov, a professor of linguistics before the Soviet Army had dragooned him into becoming a translator, frowned uncertainly. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“Fine. I have a recording to make. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Very good, sir,” Makarov mumbled as he pulled Murphy’s door closed.

Murphy sat at his desk, called up the computer’s video recording program. It was no better than what he’d used sending messages back home from Mogadishu. When it finally signaled that it was ready, he tapped the ACTIVATE key.

“This communiqué is per authorization protocol code: Salsaliin. Vat, you should have been given this recording by my adjutant Timmy Uggs. When you receive it, Major Makarov should have been present as a witness. If that is not how this recording was presented to you, it means secure protocols have been breached and you must not reply to this message.

“However, if it was delivered according to the aforementioned protocol, instruct Uggs and Makarov to leave the room while you write down the location of the personal effects of the interview subject who attacked you. Place that note in a sealed folder, ask Major Makarov to reenter, and pass it to him without discussing or mentioning the contents.”

Murphy ended

the recording and copied it to a ubiquitous and unmarked SpinDog micro disk. “Pete?”

His office door—actually, a light-duty hatch—opened instantly. “Here, sir.”

Murphy held out the disk to the Russian. “Today, after duty hours, I want you to buttonhole Timmy and visit Vat in sickbay. Timmy is to give him this recording. Follow Vat’s instructions: they’ll be coming from me. He will give you something that is eyes-only to me.”

“Yes, sir. If you are still interested, I now have the full definition of ektadori’u.”

“Oh: right. Go ahead.”

“Roughly, it means ‘he or she who commands.’ But not in the typical sense of being dominative. Rather, it refers to what one might call ‘natural authority,’ a person who is innately masterful or persuasive.”

“And distinct from any consideration of rank.”

Makarov’s stare was almost offended. “Sir, why did you ask me for the definition if you already knew it?”

“I didn’t, really. It’s how Korelon said farewell. He didn’t share any more than that.”

Makarov’s eyes widened. “Sir, I do not believe you understand the full significance of his calling you by that title ektadori’u.”

“Well, he said it can cause resentment among higher ranks who aren’t as respected.”

“It signifies a great deal more than that, sir. It is also an oath.”

“You mean, an oath of service?”

“No, sir: more than that.”

“Damn it, Pete: among the Hound-Dogs what could be more important than an oath of service?”

Makarov was shaking his head. “It is an oath never to foreswear you.” When Murphy’s expression did not illuminate with understanding, he added, “Not many terrestrial languages have an equivalent, sir. To be called an ektadori’u is an oath never to harm or bear false witness against the person so titled—so long as they have not fallen from that high standard.”

Murphy frowned. “So if Legate Orgunz ordered Korelon to kill me—”

“Korelon would refuse. And accept the consequences.”

Murphy shook his head. “Damn, that’s a pretty messy arrangement.”

Makarov nodded. “That is why I said it is so significant; it is, as you say, potentially very messy. That is why it is so very rarely conferred. It also means that if you are unable to respond to a personal challenge, the person who named you ektadori’u will stand as your second. Or, if a challenger vastly outmatches you because of age or infirmity, Korelon would serve as your champion, in the medieval sense of the word.”

Murphy frowned. “Sounds like something I should keep between Korelon and me.”

“Pistol Pete” shrugged.

“Perhaps, but I suspect he must share it with certain others. For instance, I imagine Korelon must at least inform those—such as Legate Orgunz—to whom he has already given an oath of service.”

Murphy nodded. “Yeah, it’s probably common courtesy to give your boss fair warning: ‘Don’t order me to kill this guy, because I won’t.’ Keeps the high-ranking folk from being publicly disobeyed.”

“That makes sense, sir—but it is only my suspicion.” The Russian rose, frowning.

Murphy knew the look. “What else, Pete? Spit it out.”

“Sir, you asked for the closest equivalent term in our language. I would say it is ‘commander,’ but there is another word—almost forgotten, now—that is almost as accurate: ‘hortator.’”

Murphy suspected he’d blinked. “Come again?”

“Hortator, sir. It is Latin, sharing a root with the word ‘to exhort.’ Historically, hortators urged on citizen galley rowers or horses in chariot races. But over time, it came to mean a person with a natural ability to convince others to undertake important actions or endeavors. Partly due to their oratory and strength of personality, but also by dint of their integrity and example.”

Wonder if Korelon would still call me ektadori’u if he knew I was genetically defective and closing in on the end stage of multiple sclerosis? Given the Hound-Dog mania for eugenic perfection, it was doubtful. “Thank you, Pete. By the way, here’s the chip to take to Vat. After you have his reply and have brought it to me, you are to move him to a separate room and arrange for a round-the-clock guard. Staff that detail from the group Vat led while saving that town way out in the Hamain. It was called, uh . . . ”

“Ikaan-tel, sir. Also, it may be nothing, but while I was chasing down the definition of hortator, a very odd inquiry came in, someone looking for Korelon.”

Murphy looked up. “Who?”

“Oddly, not his own people. It was a representative of the J’axon Family. When I reported that Korelon had just left, the person asked me if he had missed his packet back to Pakir Station.”

Murphy considered. “And then?”

“Then they disconnected without thanks. Quite rude.”

Murphy nodded and stood slowly. “Major Makarov, I want you to do the following, as quietly and casually as possible.” “Pistol” Pete Makarov’s eyes widened as Murphy reached into his desk and produced two spare magazines for his sidearm. “First, do you still have access to the security feeds for all the traffic bays and their access corridors?”

“Yes, sir. The permissions for observing today’s mission return have not been rescinded yet.”

“Good. Review all the camera feeds. You’re looking for any that are not functioning or have been shunted to show an endless loop of empty corridors. While you’re doing that, stay alert for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Such as?”

“Such as anything not ordinary, Pete.” Chrissakes, a little initiative, please! “If you notice anything suspicious, contact me on the secure line, encryption protocol three.” Murphy moved for the exit.

“Sir, if I may: what is this about?”

“Possibly nothing, but Korelon didn’t tell anyone he was coming to see me. So someone could be keeping an eye on his whereabouts or—”

“Or whoever is following him might also be attempting to keep track of you. But why?”

Murphy shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I know a few places where I can find out—assuming I can go there without being observed. Which is why, if you get another of those strange inquiries, you tell them I’m in my office listening to a classified debrief.”

Makarov swallowed. “Yes, sir. Shall I tell Janusz where you are going?”

“Absolutely not. Keep him here, guarding the main hatch. Conspicuously. In the meantime, page Max Messina and tell him to be standing by. I may need him to meet me wherever I’m headed.”

“Which is where, sir?”

“We’ll know that when I get there—or if you see something suspicious on the monitors,” Murphy tossed over his shoulder as he left the ops center.

 

Chapter Three

 

Spin One

 

Murphy returned Max Messina’s nod as the large man gracefully slipped out of an accessway near docking bay three. The Lost Soldier checked to either side, tucked his .45 into the shoulder holster under his jacket, stepped next to Murphy.

Who asked, “Did Makarov manage to contact you?”

Messina nodded. “The major read me in on what he saw and what you need. I hang back here. I only go in if you call for me. Or Makarov sends me the go-code.”

Murphy nodded. “Any questions?”

Max sighed. “Just one. I’d expect this kind of stunt from some of the hardliners still angry about Dolkar’s execution . . . but Family Otlethes?”

Murphy shrugged. “I helped Primus Anseker uncover some of the accomplices behind the attempts to sabotage Bowden’s mission. Today’s celebration of its success gives him some extra political clout.”

Max glanced toward the docking bay and shook his head. “Bad use of clout.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Murphy secured the flap on his own pistol’s holster. “Lethal force is the last resort, Max.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Murphy nodded his thanks and entered his override code into the control panel for the official personnel entrance to docking bay three.

* * *

When Murphy had been summoned to witness the trial that deposed Dolkar, primus of Family Kormak and condemned him to death, economy had determined the method of execution. Rather than sending him out an airlock, Guild-mother and Breedmistress Shumrir, of the Otlethes Family, had the traitor euthanized so that his “consumables” could be recovered.

Apparently, this day it was more important to send a very public message than to harvest biological resources from the eleven people kneeling less than a meter away from the inner bay doors. Flashing lights painted spinning orange and red whorls upon the plexiglass pressure barrier between them and the gathered witnesses, signifying that the much larger docking bay beyond the inner doors was open to space.

As Murphy entered, only a few of the heads that turned remained facing him; he was a regular visitor to the facilities of the Otlethes Family. So he was somewhat surprised to feel a hand on his arm, pulling him to one side. He resisted until he saw the fingers around his bicep: tapering and finely boned. Decidedly feminine.

Naliryiz leaned toward him as she drew him away from the closing personnel door. “What are you doing here?” she muttered.

Murphy sighed. “Trying to keep your people from killing themselves.”

“What do you mean by that?” she hissed, guiding him toward the small observation gallery. “The only people who are going to die today are those who almost  killed us all! ...