Mission Critical

by Charles E. Gannon, Chris Kennedy, Mike Massa, Chris Kennedy

Genres: Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera; Space Exploration

Synopsis

Soldiers lost in time, 152 light-years from home, with a daunting task for survival — Taken from their planet and their century, they are not just the Lost Soldiers: they are Murphy’s Lawless.

Major Rodger Y. Murphy should have died when his helicopter crashed off the coast of Mogadishu in 1993. Instead, he woke up in 2125, 152 light-years from home. Murphy and 100 other “Lost Soldiers” have been retrieved and awakened by two officers of the Consolidated Terran Republic: Trevor Corcoran and Richard Downing.

Promising to return, Corcoran and Downing leave the twentieth-century castaways with a daunting objective: establish a base of operations on the main world of R’Bak using local allies they have yet to recruit and enemy equipment they have yet to seize. They haven’t been back yet.

But the company of misfits and ne’er-do-wells who have taken the nickname Murphy’s Lawless rise to the challenge!

Release date: January 3, 2023

Publisher: Baen

Print pages: 400

Sample

 

Chapter One

Colonel Rodger Murphy tapped the secure opening tab twice, the first touch releasing the lock so that the second could activate the mechanism.

Within the gray bulkheads, infrequently used motors growled to life. The compartment’s faux-rock blast covers slid back, revealing the two stars that comprised the 55 Tauri binary system. The approaching F7 primary known as Jrar now appeared almost two-thirds the size of the orange K3 secondary Shex, although that may have been partially due to the intensity of the larger and hotter star’s light. After a moment, the two-inch glass polarized enough to make the double-glare bearable.

Major Mara “Bruce” Lee folded her arms. “How long can we stay here?”

Murphy shrugged. “Ten minutes. The REMs aren’t so bad at this distance and there’s a gel-layer embedded in the glass that picks up a lot of the large-particle radiation.”

Captain T. J. Cutter peered into the riot of untwinkling stars. “Where’s R’Bak? I know we’re on the same side of the sun—damn, Shex—right now, but to me, everything is just stars.”

Murphy smiled. “You and me both.” He gestured toward the left-hand margin of the cosmic mural that crept constantly, slowly downward. “I wouldn’t have any idea if I didn’t have Makarov showing me charts so I can keep track of our shuttle traffic and line-of-sight commo windows.”

They gazed at the stars in an easy silence, but there was a thread of expectation underlying it; Murphy hadn’t told them why he had asked them to meet him. No time like the present. “I want to share something with all of you. I wish Bowden and Tapper were with us—and even that pain Chalmers. But in a few hours, I’m going to be gone, too. So I guess it’s now or never.”

Bo raised an eyebrow. “What gives, Colonel? First the other guys go back dirtside, and now you’re following them? I thought the handful who didn’t get up here for the wedding were supposed to be extracted by the end of next week.”

Murphy shook his head. “Several had to go back to tie up loose ends, and Kevin had to finish training some pilots, as well as gathering data for the simulators we need to use as long as we’re hiding out here.”

“That’s a lot of new, and changed, plans,” Bo said. He studied the faces around him. “And no one thought to tell me?”

Mara smiled. “You were busy…on your honeymoon.”

Bo, badass tanker that he was, blushed just a shade shy of crimson. “Oh. Yeah. Right. That.” He stared at the slice of velvet black where R’Bak was located. “Y’know, with all the rush to get spaceside for my wedding, I didn’t stop to think that it would be the last time I’d see R’Bak for…well, years, maybe.” He shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this, but it was starting to feel a little bit like home.”

“More than a little, for some of us,” Mara muttered.

Cutter glanced up. “What do you mean?”

Before Murphy could answer, Bo jutted his chin at the approximate location of the planet. “Harry has a wife and child down there. The tribe has adopted him—formally, if I understand what he told me.”

Cutter’s face was creased in confusion. “But his family—they were cleared to come up here, right?”

Murphy sighed. “They were. But there’s been some unexpected push-back.”

“Nothing’s ever simple with SpinDogs,” Bo muttered.

“Or RockHounds,” Mara added.

Cutter raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re a lady who’s in the know, Major.”

Lee rolled her eyes. “Not so much. And yet, more than I’d like.”

Bo murmured, “The real problem is that Harry doesn’t want to come back at all.”

Murphy shrugged. “Can’t say I blame him. He’s making a life for himself, over a hundred and fifty light-years from home.” He glanced at Bo. “Not a lot of us can say that, yet.”

Cutter was staring hard at the stars, as if they’d just affronted him. “Not like there’s been a lot of time. Or opportunity.”

“No, there hasn’t,” Murphy agreed, “but after a certain point, it really doesn’t matter how good—how unavoidable—the reasons have been for not building a life. Times before, when soldiers were away for years, at least they always had something to go back to—a spouse, kids, a city, a town, even a war-ravaged country: something. But here?” Murphy gestured at the featureless gray bulkheads. “We’ve got none of that. And I’m not sure we’ll ever really fit into life on these spins. Particularly since neither the SpinDogs nor the RockHounds think we’re a good fit for their culture, and vice versa. Hell, that’s about the only thing they canagree on.”

Mara smiled, but her eyes drifted sideways toward Murphy, faint worry in them. “So…what was it you wanted to share with us?”

He smiled back at her with a slight shake of his head. Her gaze relaxed, which meant she’d read the reassurance buried in that gesture. No, Mara, the MS hasn’t gotten bad enough to reveal it to the other cadre—yet. He returned to the crate he’d lugged into the compartment, moving its other contents out of the way until he could lift out a heavy, squarish object wrapped in cloth. He brought it over to the others, making sure they were all in front of the observation panel.

“What is it?” Mara asked. She sounded surprised and curious.

Probably because she always knows what’s in the wind before anyone else, Murphy reflected with a private smile as he held it concealed for one more moment. “Makarov and I and a few others have been working on this for the better part of the year. We always kept hoping we were done, but sadly, there was always more to add. I just hope we really are finally finished.”

He drew back the cloth. Bo was already in a position where he could look over Murphy’s shoulder, and he expelled his breath in a long sigh when he saw what the object was: a square plaque with a long list of names etched into it. The metal’s surface was almost granular instead of smooth, betraying its humble origins as a hull replacement plate.

As the others gathered close, they became as still as they were silent. Because each of them knew all those names. All the Lost Soldiers who, like the rest, had wanted so badly to go home, but instead, had permanently departed this battlefield in a fashion familiar to—and too common among—warriors since the beginning of time.

Cutter cleared his throat, sounded more grim than touched as he murmured, “It’s a nice memorial, Colonel.”

“Have you decided where you want to put it?” Bo asked, reaching out to run his fingers over a cluster of names. He’d been the CO for the Lost Soldiers’ first real engagement and had yet to come to terms with the number who had fallen there.

Murphy sighed. “Finding the right place for it has been troubling me. If you have a country you call your own, then you set aside a town square, or a spot in a cemetery: a place where the names will remain across the years, so that they will not be forgotten. Hell, even if you’re the crew of a ship without a home, you could put it at the foot of the binnacle, for all to see, for as long as the ship remained afloat.”

He grimaced at the featureless walls of the compartment. “But this spinhab is never going to be any of those things, for us. We’re just guests in a community of control-freak exiles hiding inside a long, rolling rock.”

He stared down at the plaque. “We need a place of our own, a place where we can put this plaque so that it has some meaning to those who come after us. Assuming we last long enough for that to matter.” He found a way to smile. “And on that cheerful note…”

Murphy returned to the crate and pulled out the remaining contents: a bottle of genuine Terran whiskey and glasses. As he poured out each measure, he said, as much to himself as them, “After every casualty we took, I wanted to do this: to mark their sacrifices with words and a drink and a permanent memorial that had their name on it.”

He raised his glass. “So, for all the ones commemorated on this plaque, I say: here’s to absent friends and comrades. Missed every day, and we’ll never see their like again.”

The others raised their glasses with a muted chorus of “Hear, hears,” and sipped rather than threw back the shots. This real whiskey was not merely hard to come by; it wasn’t to be found anywhere within a hundred light-years, let alone this system.

“God willing, we’ll never have to do this again,” Bo breathed. But his voice echoed what they all accepted: that such a happy outcome was very, very unlikely.

Mara cradled her glass in both hands. “How’s the situation on the ground?”

Murphy glanced at Bo, who took up that tale. “Pretty much what we were aiming for before we had to pull out. The indigs are in control of the Hamain and most of the Fringelands along the Greens. The satraps are panicked because they’ve always been able to rely on one ironclad truth: that when the Searing comes, so do their Harvester allies. They only had to follow the Kulsians’ orders to get their coffers filled. Now, they’ve got nothing to show their masters but empty hands, so they aren’t sure how they’re going to pay their troops and keep their power after the Harvesters leave. A few are wondering if they’ll come at all, or whether that’s good or bad—since their first order of business might be replacing the satraps. With extreme prejudice.”

Cutter nodded. “Yeah, from the time the locals learned that the reavers—excuse me, ‘coursers’—couldn’t warn the Overlords about how things went sideways, they’ve started double-guessing everything. But they are all sure of one thing: if their bosses show up, they’re gonna be pissed as hell.”

Mara smiled coldly. “Sucks to be a satrap.”

Murphy nodded, took a pull at his drink. “Yeah, but it could suck even worse to be us. It’s not likely the inbound surveyor flotilla will have the time or resources to untangle what actually destroyed their coursers: namely, us. But, when the Harvesters arrive, they’ll have ample time and reason to start a thorough investigation. Sooner rather than later, they’re going to realize that the disruptions weren’t random, despite all the confusion and contradictions we’ve sown in our wake. And if that happens, and they decide to cast a wider net that includes the whole system…well, we can forget surviving to the end of the year.”

Bo nodded. “So far, we’ve been fighting a bunch of gun-waving whack-jobs. Any battles after this—on the ground or in space—will be against professionals with good equipment and decent training.” He sipped at his whiskey. “Like you say, Colonel, it would suck to be us.”

“Which has me wondering why you’re going back at all, Colonel,” Cutter said with a frown. “Kind of moving in the wrong direction, aren’t you?”

Murphy smiled. “Along with a few other people, I’m taking the last transatmo planetside to wrap up some loose ends. Then we gather most everyone still on R’Bak and take the already on-station shuttle straight back here.” When Mara stiffened at the qualifier “most everyone,” Murphy shook his head at her. “That includes El—eh, Sergeant Frazier. Last word is that he’s doing a lot better, thanks to the local, er, experts. But the last phase of his rehab requires the facilities up here.”

“And the shuttle you took down?”

“That’s truly the last boat out, mostly for the ground crew. The only people staying behind are Chalmers, his team, and a small group that will be setting up new landing fields in remote areas so that when we return, we can operate out of locations that the Kulsians have never visited. We’re leaving them one small passenger transatmo for emergencies.”

“That last boat out,” Mara almost whispered, “that’s the one Harry will be on?”

Murphy nodded. “I promised him he wouldn’t have to return until the very last minute.”

“I’m surprised he agreed to return at all,” Bo murmured.

Murphy nodded. “In that matter, his sense of duty won a narrow victory over his personal inclinations.” This time. He glanced at his G-shock. “If I don’t get moving, I’m going to be late for a meeting with our hosts.” He waved toward the observation panel. “According to the SpinDog techs, you can safely spend another few minutes here.” He tossed back the last of the whiskey and strode out of the small observation compartment, the plaque secured tightly under his arm.

Chapter Two

“The situation is pretty much in line with what we projected,” Murphy began with a nod at the wall-mounted situation map of 55 Tauri. “Our ongoing passive scans show that the surveyor ships continue to approach at an atypically high velocity. And, now that the enemy is closer, our sensors are giving us higher resolution results. They confirm that this flotilla has more stiffening elements than a typical surveyor force roster.”

Korelon, a RockHound and by far the youngest of the three locals in the conference compartment, frowned. “This is worse than we had thought.”

For a moment, Murphy found himself at a loss for words. Worse than we had thought? It had become axiomatic among both the Lost Soldier and local leadership that, once the jury-rigged intersystem transmitter on R’Bak had been destroyed, the overlords of Kulsis would respond to that ominous silence by accelerating the surveyors’ timetable and increasing their security elements. Maybe Korelon hadn’t been read in by the more senior RockHounds that he represented?

But Anseker, Primus of the Otlethes Family, simply stared at the younger man with something like a sneer. “Did Orgunz tell you to make those worried noises, Korelon? Even if they lacked substance?”

The RockHound flushed, eyes hard as he searched for words that would defend his statement yet remain sufficiently deferential to the most powerful SpinDog primus.

Murphy didn’t envy the younger man’s position. Korelon’s rank was far beneath Anseker’s and the other Primus at the table—Medrost of Family Erfrenzh. He was only present because he was already situated on Spin One as the RockHounds’ official liaison to its powerful Families. He had held that position for several years, during which he had adopted many SpinDog ways…including their rarefied airs.

But after a moment, Korelon sat back and asked with admirable calm and high formality, “Primus Otlethes, shall I convey your inquiry about my instructions to Legate Orgunz himself? For I am sure you understand I am not at liberty to share them without his approval.”

Before Anseker could bridle at Korelon’s riposte to his purely rhetorical question, Murphy leaned forward across the table. “Gentlemen, this is neither the time nor place for such matters. As I made clear at the outset, there is a shuttle waiting to take me to R’Bak, so we must keep the meeting brief.”

Anseker glared at the liaison, whose answering gaze was steady, if unreadable. “Very well, Sko’Belm Murphy…but only because you ask it.”

“Thank you.” Murphy suppressed a sigh of relief. They last thing any of them needed right now was yet another pissing match between the SpinDogs and RockHounds, particularly since the latter group’s typically decentralized authority had recently been conferred upon a rarely appointed Legate. Consequently, slights and insults would no longer be perceived as general, but aimed at that one person. Awkward, but a Legate was necessary to coordinate the RockHounds’ various contributions to the coming operations.

Primus Medrost had glanced warily between the two of them during the exchange. He was not Anseker’s customary wingman. That role belonged to his most powerful, breedline-linked ally, the Primus of the Usrensekt Family. But the decision to bring Medrost on this occasion made sense in terms of Anseker’s consolidation of power by strengthening alliances. The summons to accompany the preeminent Primus of all the Families to be the other SpinDog representative at such a crucial meeting underscored the importance of Medrost and his family, and so, amplified their prestige and influence.

Murphy nodded toward Korelon. “I will see that my chief of staff, Captain Makarov, sends you the latest updates we have on the surveyors.” Which you’ve already been sent. Twice.

Korelon’s glance was initially wary, but then relieved as he realized that Murphy was offering him a way to save face. “I would appreciate that, Colonel.”

Makarov made a note, might have been fighting not to smile.

After a final sideways smirk at Korelon, Anseker crossed his arms. “Perhaps it is too early to ask, but what is the final, er, ‘sitrep’ from the surface?”

“We’ve achieved all our nominal objectives.” The blank looks on the faces of both Medrost and Korelon told Murphy that Anseker had not shared any details of the planetside campaign. More reinforcement of his “dominance”; seeing he’s already in the know shows them how closely he’s working with the Lost Soldiers. Murphy managed not to roll his eyes. “Since seizing Imsurmik, the satraps of the Hamain have pulled back from the wastes and from most of the Ashbands, right up to the border on the Greens. Even the dominant satrapy—the J’Stull—no longer sends out patrols or probes; they rarely venture outside the walls of their capital. No other towns attempt even that much.”

“How long can they remain in such a state of siege?” Medrost asked, surprise in his voice.

Since the question did not come from Anseker, this was a moment when Murphy could invite Makarov to answer without risking insult. He nodded at Pyotr.

The Russian pointed to a map on the table, where red marks indicated the few self-isolating Fringeland and Ashband towns that remained in the hands of their original satraps. “Those that have survived this long have had the wisdom and the supplies to risk waiting for the surveyors to arrive. And they have just recently learned that they gambled correctly: our SIGINT—prostite; ‘signal intelligence’—indicates that the approaching surveyor flotilla has communicated that their arrival is imminent, albeit without any details.”

“That lack of detail is a tactical precaution,” Anseker added for the benefit of the other two. “Kulsis does not know what destroyed their first wave of coursers, so the surveyors must presume that if it was some unknown force, it may now be preparing to pounce upon them as well.”

Makarov nodded. “Exactly. And by messaging ahead, they have reassured the remaining satraps that they will soon have allies in orbit.”

Korelon crossed his arms, frowning. “Why did you leave anyof these satraps in control? I am not familiar with planetary military strategies, but from the sound of it, you possess sufficient force to have eliminated all of them.”

Anseker did not look at Korelon as he spoke. “We asked Sko’Belm Murphy the same thing. He explained that complete conquest was not only uncertain, but not worth the risks it would entail.”

Medrost leaned in. “Such as?”

“Taking so many towns and small cities might involve long and costly street-to-street fighting. That could have inflicted demoralizing casualties upon his indigenous ‘war bands’ and might not have been fully resolved before the surveyors arrived. Besides,” the Primus added with a smile toward the Lost Soldier, “he made a convincing case for leaving at least some satraps.”

“Why?” Korelon was clearly intrigued.

Anseker gestured to Murphy, who pointed at the map. “Once the remaining satraps decided to bunker in behind their walls, they ceased to have any idea what was occurring on the other side of them. So as long as they saw an occasional vehicle or patrol, they knew we were still out there, waiting. What they couldn’t know was that it was a charade. A few hundred indigs were able to keep all those towns not only under observation, but in a state of near-terror. In the meantime, we pulled our own forces off-planet and the indigs withdrew the majority of theirs. By now, even the few hundred that kept the towns in check have dispersed into the wastes.”

Makarov added details. “This way, weeks before the surveyors arrive, all sign of them will be gone. All the vehicles have been hidden and all but a handful of the tribes have ‘gone to ground.’” “Pistol Pete” smiled as he used the idiom; he was inordinately fond of American expressions and slang. “Before the satraps will dare to conjecture that the disappearance of their enemies is not simply a ruse to bring them back out beyond their walls, they shall be seeing surveyor shuttles and landers overhead.”

“So,” Korelon said, nodding despite his persistent frown, “it was a strategy to cover your withdrawal.”

“It was a little more than that,” amended Murphy. “Firstly, the weaker the satraps are when the surveyors finally arrive, the less likely they’ll be to rush out in search of the indigs. They’ll have a lot of rebuilding to do…just as the surveyors start demanding more than the usual amount of assistance to prepare for the arrivals of the Harvesters.”

Medrost’s smile was both appreciative and icy. “So they shall never have the time nor spare manpower to seek the indigs until they are long gone.”

“Yes. And if any satraps start crying a river about how much they’ve suffered at the hands of ‘wild tribes,’ the Kulsians won’t have the time or reason to give a damn. Besides, they won’t find a lot of evidence to support the losses that the satraps will be claiming. Yeah, there’s evidence that the indigs went on the warpath, but with what long-term effect? The ones that took over the towns will be gone, and either the original satraps or new ones will have returned. Similarly, there won’t be any sign of the helicopters or armored vehicles that the satraps will claim beat them in battle after battle.” Murphy shrugged. “My guess is that the already-overworked surveyors will dismiss the tales as wild exaggerations or just outright lies.”

Even Korelon was smiling now.

Murphy paused for emphasis. “But all these outcomes were very much secondary objectives, compared to the primary reason for leaving the biggest satraps unconquered.”

Medrost nodded, understanding. “You need to keep the surveyors unsuspecting of what actually occurred.”

Murphy smiled and nodded back. “And as the Kulsians hear one wild story after another, they realize that they’ve got only one thing in common: no two are alike.”

Anseker grinned like a shark at the other SpinDog and the RockHound. “So the surveyors conduct a search—more than perfunctory, yet less than determined—and when they find only scattered evidence and inconsistent accounts, they turn their backs and begin shouldering the double load of work that awaits.”

He turned to Murphy. “My one reservation is that there will be nothing left of your indig army by the time we can return to R’Bak. Although the Ashbanders have less to fear from the satraps and the Harvester culling squads, they will have to remain hidden in the wastes during the Searing. That is an uncertain proposition.”

Even if Anseker’s concern for the Ashbanders was based strictly on their future utility, it was a decided step forward for a Primus who usually referred to them as “savages.” Murphy shrugged. “That’s why we prevailed upon you to stop replicating—er, autofabbing—weapons and ammunition during the last two months, and shift to simple, low-tech survival gear that they could not only maintain but copy.” He saw perplexity on Korelon’s face, shared the details. “Better pumps and water-drills, sun-stills, wind-powered lathes, small smelting furnaces, even crystal sets to monitor Harvester cull squads: because of those and a dozen other devices you replicated en masse for them, more of the tribes will survive this Searing than ever before.” He nodded at all three of them. “From the very start of the campaign on R’Bak, your combined autofabrication capacities were the foundation of our victories. And that will be even truer as we begin the next phase of operations.”

Anseker nodded back, but he was squinting. “And now we come to it.”

Korelon’s gaze went from the Primus to Murphy and back again. “Come to what?”

Anseker laughed lightly. “Ask him yourself. Ask him why he never misses an opportunity to speak about our autofabrication assets. Ask him why he has been inquiring which devices for the next mission can be produced most easily, in the greatest quantities, in the least amount of time.”

Medrost looked confused. “But would that not be necessary even if he was simply attempting to balance his requests with our capabilities?”

Anseker nodded. “Of course…and in so doing, learn a great deal about them.” Anseker stared at Murphy. “Is that not correct, Sko’Belm Murphy?”

Murphy smiled. “It is. And it was necessary, if we were to come to this day.”

Korelon frowned. “So is that today’s true agenda, Sko’Belm Murphy? To manipulate even us RockHounds into complying with your autofab demands?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Murphy admitted.

“No, Colonel. Either it is your intent or it isn’t.”

Murphy laid one hand flat upon the table; it was less likely to quake, that way. “You are wrong, Korelon. There’s a preliminary step that must be taken.”

“Which is?” Medrost asked.

“To inform you that, at our next meeting, you must be prepared to have a frank and revealing discussion about your autofab capacities. There is no longer enough time, or enough margin for error, to accommodate vague estimates or Family secrets. I can’t move forward with the coming missions unless I have precise and complete information about your replication assets.”

As Korelon flinched back, Medrost shook his head. “This is utterly unacceptable.” He glanced at Anseker—but that Primus’s calm, resolved gaze revealed that he had been Murphy’s collaborator in bringing them to this meeting. And for this express purpose.

Murphy put his other hand on the table and leaned forward. “I realize that every group’s autofab capacity is a strategic secret. But everyone’s in the same boat, now. We sail or sink together. Keep your other secrets if you must, but I need to ask frank questions—and get frank and accurate answers—about your replication resources.”

Korelon’s jaw was set like rock; he clearly did not trust himself to talk. It was Medrost who, looking from Murphy to Anseker in irritation, folded his arms and replied, “And if we do not agree to sharing that information?”

“Then we are just marking time until we die.” Murphy pushed up from the table to his feet. “We can’t finalize the only strategies that might save us until we know how deep your logistical and industrial pockets are.” He saw Medrost’s eyes shutter shrewdly. He pointed at him. “If you think that anything you might hold back now might save you later, you are utterly wrong. If we lose, the Kulsians aren’t going to cut any side deals—not that you’d ever think of trying that.”

They all flinched. Anseker’s response was clearly the product of genuine surprise. The other two reminded him of how faces in church changed when a minister’s homily grazed a guilty nerve.

“It’s no different from what you’ve assumed for centuries: that if the Kulsians ever found you, they would exterminate you. Except now, it won’t just be dispassionate genocide. It will be long, determined torture until they understand how their operations were derailed, and why, and by whom. And it won’t just be to our bodies; they’ll force us to choose between answering their questions or watching them inflict hours or days of agony upon our loved ones.”

Murphy walked to his waiting rucksack. “This is war to the knife, gentlemen. There are no contingencies, no ‘plan B’s,’ no reason to hold anything back or in reserve.” He checked his G-shock. “I’ll give you two weeks to get your grievances and suspicions squared away—at least enough so we can all work together the way we need to.”

Medrost turned red. “You will give us two weeks? To whom do you think you’re speaking, Mur—?”

Murphy pinned the Primus with a stare, continuing without a pause or change in tone. “I will set a time for the meeting. You will have the replication specs and data for presentation. You will come prepared to work together. And, if you choose not to, then here’s my advice: stay home and take a pill, or open your veins, or do whatever it is you people do to commit suicide. Because if you’re not at that meeting with the right data and the right frame of mind, the next best thing you can do is end it all now. For both yourselves and your Families.”

He shouldered the rucksack, noticing that even Anseker had grown pale. “You may have the room for further discussion, if you wish.”

“And you are leaving? Now?”

“Yes, now. To go dirtside and continue the work needed to stay alive. I suggest you clear your agendas and make that your sole task, also. Good day, gentlemen.”

 

Murphy did not dare walk too quickly, even as he rounded the corner leading to the interface bay from which the dirtside-bound transatmo would launch.

He discovered that the shuttle wasn’t the only thing waiting for him. Naliryiz was standing just outside the bay doors. Well, standing was the wrong word; it was more like she had posted herself there.

Before he could even wave or nod a greeting, she held him with her strange violet eyes and said, “So you are going to R’Bak again?” It had the structure of a question, but her tone was pure assertion.

He nodded as he closed the distance, noticing that she seemed to have gained weight. No, he revised: she had gained mass. She was more, rather than less, fit.

She put her hands on her hips as he stopped before her; she was blocking the door. “Colonel Murphy, when you are on the surface, do not do anything…” She paused, as if searching for a word; her English was extremely good but there were still some gaps in her vocabulary. She started over. “Do not do anything—”

“Rash?” he supplied helpfully.

“I was trying to find a gentler word than ‘foolish,’ actually.”

“Oh.” He studied her face in an attempt to gain any clue as to why she had felt the need to wait at the bay to deliver this message. ...