Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  Nephew and Nuncle were seated at a very human-looking table. Still, Dornaani compartments were weird. The room didn’t really have corners, at least not the sharp, right angle variety: just a curving spot where walls and floor (or ceiling) joined. It felt a little like being inside a big, boxy egg.

  Nuncle smiled, waved him toward the empty chair opposite. Once Murphy was seated, the Englishman folded his hands, began in a sympathetic tone, “We are aware that this has been a terrible shock, Major, and that we’ve thrown a great deal of information at you. And on top of it all, you had a close call just an hour ago. So if, all things considered, you’d like to put off this briefing another day or two—”

  “I’m good, sir.” Seeing doubt, Murphy leaned forward. “Let me see if I can boil the situation down to the basics.”

  Nephew smiled. “Go ahead.”

  Murphy leaned back. “So, by the numbers. One: we’re stuck here.

  “Two: if the enemy sends a signal back to Kulsis, we’re dead.

  “Three: to stop them from signaling, we have to initiate ground ops to keep them from building a makeshift transmitter.

  “Four: we can’t get to the ground without the SpinDogs’ help, so we need to establish a workable modus vivendi.”

  “A what?” Nephew grinned, seemed surprised.

  “Look, I was gonna be a lawyer, once, yeah?”

  Nephew, still smiling, nodded. “Please: go on.”

  Murphy picked up where he had left off. “Five: you’re not leaving enough of us ‘Lost Soldiers’ behind to do the job on our own, and you aren’t leaving enough of the right kind of equipment.

  “Six: even if we did have the gear, we know squat about what’s down there. And the SpinDogs don’t have much info about the area where the OpFor is building the transmitter.

  “Seven: that means we need the cooperation of the locals to mount the operation and get the necessary gear.

  “Eight: we do that by recruiting the indigs, and with their help, grab an equipment cache the last bunch of bad guys left behind about eighty years ago. And in the bargain, we show the indigs that together, we can win.

  “Nine: we parlay that alliance, and infusion of modern gear, into strikes to seize other caches. That enables us to equip a large enough force to attack and destroy the transmitter.

  “Ten: and if we actually get that far, then we think about other plans.” Murphy leaned back. “Does that about sum it up?”

  Downing’s mouth was not smiling, but his eyes were. “More or less,” he muttered.

  Murphy nodded. “Good. Where do we start?”

  Nephew waved a hand at the universe in general. “We thought we’d leave that up to you. At least for this first session. You’re the guy who’s going to have to come up with the plans and wrangle the locals. So, what do you need to know more about?”

  Everything. But instead, Murphy answered, “Do the Dogs have dirtside informers?”

  “Firstly, it’s important to make a distinction between the SpinDogs and the RockHounds. The SpinDogs have contact with R’Bak, the planet. The RockHounds, being scattered throughout the system, have no planetary interface that we know of. So only the SpinDogs have planetside HUMINT assets. In fact, they have a class of people who are liaisons to select communities up near the poles. The locals who interact with those liaisons are known as Skydreamers, in their own towns. In most places, it’s considered legend.”

  Murphy frowned. “So, the SpinDogs travel down there routinely?”

  “Apparently.”

  “For what purpose? Can’t be volatiles; it costs less and is easier to harvest them spaceside.”

  Nuncle’s eyebrows raised; he clearly had not expected a space-savvy reply. “We believe they have an annual need for various consumables, which increases as the two stars near perihelion.”

  “Because that’s when the Kulsians arrive and the Dogs have to go into hiding.”

  Nephew nodded. “Yep. They’ve got to stockpile for almost a decade of zero access to R’Bak while the Kulsians are crawling all over the surface. And of course, the more the SpinDog population grows, the more they need.” He saw the perplexity that was evidently showing in Murphy’s face. “Yeah, you might expect that a civilization that’s been living in deep space habitats for centuries might have achieved self-sufficiency. But a one hundred percent closed bioloop is a lot easier to imagine than create. So even if they’re able to produce their own life support, potable water, and basic foodstuffs, they’re going to have deficits and gaps.”

  Murphy nodded. “Okay, so there are liaisons. And they could recruit informers. But they’d only be useful if they had a means of exchanging information routinely.”

  Nephew smiled. “Looks like you’re going to have people listening for, and triangulating on, planetary radio transmissions.”

  Murphy shrugged. “How else would informers be of any use to the Dogs?”

  Nuncle nodded. “I quite agree. Now, I believe you have met the rest of your cadre?”

  “I have, sirs.”

  “And are you comfortable with them?”

  Murphy nodded cautiously. “Harry Trapper and Bo Moorehouse are solid, sir. Not sure about Bowden, yet. He’s got ghosts—or maybe a skeleton—in his closet, haunting him. Can you provide any insight on that?

  “We know there was an incident, but the Dornaani were never able to pull up details.”

  “Redacted?”

  Nuncle shrugged. “Or deemed unimportant. Or some other reason. No way to say. What about Chalmers?”

  “Got to be honest, sirs, I’m not a fan.” Murphy kept his voice neutral. “You’ve seen his record?”

  “We have. Regrettable. But there’s no arguing that he was effective in his roles as investigator and interrogator. And he’s the only Lost Soldier we’re leaving with you who has any experience in intelligence or counterintelligence.”

  Yeah, sure, but that may have been because he had leverage back in Somalia—underworld contacts and dirt—that he won’t have here. But Murphy simply nodded and replied, “No arguing that, sirs. And the rest of my detachment, when are they scheduled for reanimation?”

  “Within the week, Major. And they may not come around quite as quickly; some of the cryocells are of more rudimentary designs than others. Their occupants take two, or even three days to get fully back to normal.”

  The words “rudimentary design” sparked Murphy’s next question. “Sirs, one of the linchpins of our alliance with the SpinDogs is the part I understand the least. Specifically, how can they replicate our technology so quickly and in such volume? I mean, it’s surprising enough that they are already cranking out our weapons and ammo, but whole helicopters? In just three or four weeks? How is that even possible?”

  Nephew shrugged. “Necessity is the mother of invention, Major. The Dogs have had to live in space to hide from the Kulsians, because if ‘Skypeople’ were anything other than a baseless and discounted legend on R’Bak, they’d have been hunted down and exterminated.”

  Nuncle nodded. “Our new allies have not been entirely forthcoming, but from what we know, they were expelled from R’Bak centuries ago. Their early days required that they find some means of expanding more quickly than their initial population could achieve. So, they developed robots that can be automatically reprogrammed and reconfigured to produce a wide variety of parts. Others can assemble an equally wide variety of devices. And they’ve had centuries to refine that technology.”

  Murphy shook his head. “Still hard to believe, but I guess we’ll see it in action.”

  Nuncle’s voice became quieter. “You will see it in action, Major. I’m afraid we’ll be on our way by then.” He stood and put out his hand. “As you come up with more questions, we’ll answer as best we can.”

  Murphy nodded, stood, shook both their hands, exited, and as he found himself back in the oddly smooth corridors of Olsloov, he suddenly felt further from home than the 152 light years that separated him from Earth.

  *
* *

  Alnduul emerged from a previously undetectable door in the small compartment’s bulkhead. His voice sounded both surprised and uncertain. “Do you really intend to ‘answer him best as you can?’ Is that wise?”

  Downing sighed. “‘As best we can’ includes an unspoken but invariable strategic caveat: ‘as best as the situation allows.’ Murphy is a professional. He branched to intelligence for two years as a first lieutenant. He understands.”

  “You sure about that, Richard?” Trevor’s voice was sharp, not jocular.

  Richard glared at his notional nephew. The sudden, reactive spurt of anger was a bow wave before the rising tide of guilt over what he had concealed in the past from his “nephew” and from others. “And what would you have me tell him? ‘Well, Murphy, if we did share everything with you, why, you’d just be more likely to get yourself killed, you poor sod. Because you’re over your head, here. In fact, a trained operative would take one leery look and bunk off if they were assigned to oversee this…this shit show. Staying here with a force of just over a hundred, eternally at the mercy of a mob of twitchy space dwellers? Who are the only thing standing between his command and a bigger mob of planet-rapers? Ah, but buck up, Murphy; better luck and times are sure to be just around the corner, hey?’”

  Trevor stared at his uncle. If the Englishman’s tortured outburst had moved him, he didn’t show it. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s exactly what I’d tell him. The damn truth.”

  Downing’s guilt was washed away by genuine anger. “Yes, I suppose you just might. Probably congratulate yourself, too, sitting on that lofty dais of moral superiority. So lofty that you’d never have to see the results. Murphy would be paralyzed by uncertainty, or he’d double- and triple-guess himself at every step. Or he’d inadvertently reveal just how much he knew about the SpinDogs and they’d deem him an unacceptable security risk. However it played out, he’d be headed into the gutter, along with the poor blighters shackled to him.

  “Fortunately, I’m just corrupt, duplicitous, and professional enough to tell him what he needs to know rather than everything we know or suspect. It’s a distinction you might do well to keep in mind in case I get cashiered by Dame Fate, Captain. Because God help those depending upon you if you haven’t yet awakened to reality.”

  Trevor’s eyes were wide—not in anger, but surprise. “Listen, Richard, you know I—”

  “Right now, we have one job: to figure out what we can tell Murphy and what we can’t in order to maximize his chances of living long enough to improve his odds of survival. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” murmured both Alnduul and Trevor.

  Downing stared at his hands. “This is a bloody awful list to make—all the things we can’t tell him—but I think we can agree on item one: the SpinDogs’ actual replication capabilities.”

  Trevor frowned. “You mean that each Family has their own, in concealed locations?”

  “That, too, but also their total capacity.”

  Trevor looked dubious. “I’ve got to say that I think those estimates are…inflated.”

  Alnduul’s eyes shuttered slightly. “I’m somewhat familiar with the logistical signatures of replication facilities. The ones Olsloov’s sensors have detected in this system are much greater than what would be required for their claimed production capability. Exponentially greater.”

  Trevor shook his head. “But eventually, he needs to be told that. I understand that he’s not a trained operator, and that if he lets that knowledge slip while he’s still vulnerable, the Hardliners might jettison him from the nearest airlock.”

  Downing nodded. “Which is one of the most important reasons we can’t tell him everything. But I take your point: we need to find some way to make sure Murphy will have access to the rest of our intelligence when he comes to have need of it.”

  Alnduul raised two, long walking-stick fingers that he started trailing like streamers in a gentle breeze: affirmation and assent. “I believe I have a solution for that.”

  Downing felt an eyebrow rising. “Which is?”

  Alnduul’s mouth half-rotated. “You would find the details quite dull, I’m sure.” His tone said that he knew otherwise.

  Downing smiled back. He may be a clueless alien git at times…but he certainly can be a crafty one, too.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Spin One

  Murphy checked his watch; he was already running late. He had to hit the CP, grab his dataslate, and get an update from his staff officer. From there, he had to track down Bowden and finally read him in on the mission to derail the completion of the enemy transmitter on R’Bak, and then head double-quick to the ops center the SpinDogs had set up to monitor Captain Lee’s mission up near the poles. Which had apparently gone sideways. By the end of the day, Murphy expected he’d have a headache, but at least he wasn’t starting with one.

  It was, in fact, the first day since emerging from the Dornaani virtual language training that he really felt like himself. The headaches were gone, but two irksome after-effects persisted. The first was that the world now seemed to be moving much too slowly, the way it does when you get out of a car that comes to a sudden stop after driving half a day at a hundred miles an hour. Not a surprising sensation, since virtuality’s event stream ran at ten times normal speed. Well, not speed exactly. It was more like the way time works in a dream; events occur, resolve, and you move on without any break. But whereas the human dreamstate is intermittent and free-floating, virtuality was unrelenting and focused.

  And it was that nonstop mental exertion which probably gave rise to the second after-effect. Now, if he was between tasks and his mind started to wander, he didn’t just get drowsy; he was catching himself in mid-fall from his chair, already half-asleep.

  Mara Lee had reported similar sensations, evidently, but he had no way to compare notes with her. She’d been dirtside well over a week and had almost completed training the first SpinDog chopper pilot, who would also become the liaison to subsequent student rotations. Assuming the ominous overnight report from R’Bak did not signify that one or both of them had been lost.

  Getting more pilots ready for the new Hueys couldn’t happen fast enough, actually. The satraps were little more than the Kulsians’ lackeys during the stars’ shared periastron—called the Searing—and had made definitive progress on their transmitter. Definitive in the sense that they had collected too many resources and expended too much effort for the site to be a decoy or a feint. In short, the Lost Soldiers now had a confirmed target. It also meant that a countdown clock was running to take it out before it was operational.

  But before he could mount that attack, Murphy had to get local support and intelligence. And unfortunately, Lee’s training base was thousands of kilometers away from the target zone. Besides, contacting and recruiting indigenous peoples was not in her job description. That fell to Harry Tapper and Marco Rodriguez, who’d have to be inserted directly into the area of operations. Establishing contact, turning that into trust, and then into an alliance was the necessary edge of the wedge to gather the forces needed. But the question of whether ground forces would be the primary tool or more in a supporting role was becoming more uncertain every day. Which was why Murphy needed to bring Bowden into the discussion and planning team before dropping by the SpinDogs’ ops center.

  His one-man staff, Captain Makarov, rose as Murphy speed-walked into the CP. “What’s the word, Mak?”

  “Mak”—clearly, he was still not fond of that nickname—frowned. “What’s the wo—? Ah, a colloquialism. Nothing unusual to report, Major.”

  Murphy nodded approval and gestured for Makarov to resume his seat or at least relax. The Russian remained standing; if he relaxed, the American couldn’t detect it. Typical for Makarov: he was stiff and wasn’t comfortable engaging in the banter, which was one of the few commonalities among all the Lost Soldiers. Whether that was because the Russian captain was a product of the 1980s Soviet military or because
he wasn’t really a soldier, Murphy had yet to determine.

  Pyotr Ivanovitch Makarov had been an interpreter in Afghanistan but had not come up the ranks in the Red Army. Rather, like many individuals who had rare but necessary specialties, he had been pulled out of his doctorate program in linguistics at Moscow University. Whereas many in his field had the cognitive ability to analyze languages, many lacked a natural ear for them. Makarov had both.

  He was recruited aggressively (as only the Soviets could) and was given the rank of captain out of necessity. It was the minimum ante for him to be able to carry out his routine duties in the rarefied circles in which he was to work: liaison to the Russian Embassy in Kabul, staff at general headquarters, occasional consultant to intelligence. During his first few months in-country, the closest he’d come to combat was hearing a couple of car bombs go off in the distance. Ironically, his first op outside the wire was also the one which brought him so close to the edge of death that he was among those dragooned by a Ktor.

  Murphy snagged his data slate, a folder containing the most recent recon images from the Dornaani satellites, and a full new water bulb. Even in space, the mantra was hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.

  “Sir,” began Makarov after a loud swallow, “there is a message for you.”

  “What is it, Mak?”

  “The SpinDog ops center sent a reminder. You are wanted there in thirty minutes.”

  Thirty minutes? What the— “Why did they move the time up, Captain?”

  “Sir, they did not.”

  “They told me to be there at local dawn, R’Bak time zone three.”

  “That is correct, sir.” Makarov swallowed again. “However, they anticipated that the major may have forgotten that R’Bak has an 18-hour day.”

  Oh, for the love of— “Okay, Mak. Let them know I’ll be there.”

  “Very good, sir. But before you go, there is one other matter that—”