CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I want that piece of trash’s head on a plate, you hear me?” Yance Drebin slammed a fist onto the oak desk in Murphy’s shipboard office. His newly reattached ear was lined with pink flesh where a stem cell binding had reknitted the body part to his skull.
“Of course I hear you,” Murphy said as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re screaming.”
Callum knew his own cheeks were flushed, but he couldn’t decide if that was an aftereffect of his time with the surgical robot that had repaired his nose or from the growing tension in the compartment. He stood to his father’s left against the office’s rear bulkhead, and Lieutenant Prajita Tripathi, Task Force 1705’s JAG stood to the admiral’s right. Sergeant Major Logan and O’Hanraghty stood to one side.
“Assault on a system governor is tantamount to treason.” Drebin drew a deep breath and tugged at the bottom of his tunic. “Given the circumstances, I’m willing to settle for a more merciful execution and have her shot before she’s ejected from the airlock.”
“There are details we should clarify,” Murphy said. “Lieutenant Tripathi, am I correct that Captain Drebin’s—”
“Governor Drebin, in this case,” Drebin interrupted.
Murphy glanced at him, then turned back to the JAG.
“That Captain Drebin’s decision to preserve combat power activated Section Nineteen of his appointment writ?”
Drebin’s head jerked back as if he’d just been punched.
“You are indeed correct, Sir.” Despite her name, Tripathi had straw-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. “His decision to transfer his command back to Burgoyne in his role as squadron commander and then withdraw his forces from the system made a Ms. Genovese the acting system governor. Unfortunately, Ms. Genovese was subsequently lost in the League attack. Along with the rest of the designated survivor list.”
“Most tragic,” Murphy said.
“Why are we wasting time with all this legalese?” Drebin demanded. “I’m back in Scotia. I’m the governor.”
Murphy pursed his lips thoughtfully, then waved one finger at the JAG, who cleared her throat gently. Drebin’s eyes swiveled to her.
“I’m sure you’re aware of Section Thirty-Two of the Colonial Settlement Act, Captain,” she said. “In the event of the loss of all designated survivors, executive authority falls to the highest ranked military officer in-system until such time as the federal government can appoint a new governor. Which, ah, would be Admiral Murphy at this moment.”
“Now, wait just a minute—”
“You don’t want to stay here, do you?” Murphy asked. “I understand this is just late fall, not even true winter. It was rather chilly down there. And I’m afraid you’d be a bit lonely.”
“Now, don’t be ridiculous. The first thing I want is justice for the assault I suffered—the unprovoked assault!—at the hands of that Fringe garbage,” Drebin said. “You’ve got the witnesses here. What are we waiting for?”
“Yes, about that.” Murphy tapped a stack of data slates on his desk. “The witness statements I have are…a bit contradictory.”
“Contradictory? How?” Drebin turned his reattached ear toward Murphy. “Wasn’t this put on right? I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“But let’s not beat about the bush.” Murphy leaned to one side to look at an antique wooden clock with golden hands. “Ishtar and her squadron are about to break orbit for New Dublin. That’s a problem, since my duty as task force commander is to safeguard the survivors, and obviously New Dublin is almost as exposed as Scotia was. And, of course, it’s not a designated refugee center, either.” He shook his head. “Fortunately, Calcutta has just dropped sublight, and she has the four emergency personnel pods I requested from Jalal on the racks. She’ll reach Inverness orbit in about twelve hours, which gives me additional options. I’ve decided to transfer the survivors from Scotia to San Gabriel, which is a designated refugee center and happens to be much closer to the Heart Worlds and thus a far safer destination for people who have already been through so much. Unfortunately, Calcutta has no parasite group, so I’m detaching your Burgoyne and two of your light cruisers—Indus and Tsangpo—to provide her with a security element during her voyage.”
“I’m lost.” Drebin flopped his arms against his sides. “Was I the only one to receive a massive head trauma down there?”
“Well, clearly I have to meet multiple requirements out of limited resources,” Murphy told him pleasantly. “I’d prefer to send more of your squadron along for security, but Calcutta’s racks have too little capacity for the rest of your squadron and the personnel modules. And it would be grossly unfair of me to not send you personally with her, since I’ve finished my report on the League attack here.” The admiral took a small golden rod from his desk and rolled it toward Drebin. “I’m sure you’ll want to get this into the proper hands as quickly as possible. I’ve cypher-locked the original, level two.” He smiled pleasantly; a level two cypher could be opened—or altered—only by flag grade officers. “I’m sure you can find someone on San Gabriel to forward it to the Oval. I’ll have draft copies sent to you, of course.”
“I don’t…I don’t understand.” Drebin picked up the rod and studied it.
“I’m sorry; I thought it was clear. You’ll dock Burgoyne, Indus, and Tsangpo to Calcutta as soon as she makes orbit and supervise the transfer of all the Inverness survivors to her personnel modules. And then you’ll take that report to San Gabriel and make certain that it goes straight to the Oval. I can’t trust anyone else with something so important, now can I?”
He smiled thinly, and Drebin swallowed.
“All the survivors?” he asked.
“All of them.” Murphy nodded slowly. “Calcutta’s onboard life support is limited and her spin sections are designed for much smaller crew numbers, I’m afraid, but the personnel modules are largely self-contained. A bit crowded, and spending such an extended period in microgravity is less than desirable, but it may actually be for the best, considering how physically traumatized some of them are. And I’m sure Calcutta’s captain can arrange exercise time for them under gravity aboard his ship in shifts. Of course, she’s a little long in the tooth, not as fast as a newer ship. Anticipate some time in wormhole space.”
“You’re going to leave that animal on the same ship as me?” Drebin’s eyes went wide. “Then execute her now! You can’t risk my safety by—!” He swallowed again harder, his face pale. “I’m…I’m at risk with any of them!” he blurted. “You can’t do this!”
“Actually,” Lieutenant Tripathi raised a finger, “the Federation Code of Military Justice is clear in that—”
“Your assailant won’t be aboard Calcutta, you’ll always have your quarters aboard Burgoyne, and Burgoyne’s zero-gee gym facilities will be available to you,” Murphy said. “No worries there. Now, I know you’ll have a lot of details to work out, given this sudden change of plans, so I’m sure you need to get started on that. Rest assured that I’ll deal with the assault issue here and that you’ll be informed as to its final resolution. Sergeant Major? Would you please escort Captain Drebin to the shuttle bay and be sure he gets off to Burgoyne safely?”
“Pleasure.” Logan grabbed Drebin by the arm and hauled the spluttering man out of the compartment. The door closed behind them, and Murphy sighed and looked at the JAG.
“Paperwork calls, Sir,” Tripathi said. “Loss claims, final survey information. If there’s nothing else? I think Logan’s got enough of a head start I won’t have to share a tube car with that…person.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Murphy said.
“If I may, Sir, this time it was my distinct pleasure.” She came briefly to attention, then followed Logan and Drebin out the door.
Murphy unsnapped his collar as she left. Then he tapped on a slate and a holo of a brig cell appeared over his desk. Eira sat on a cot, her knees pulled up to her chest.
“This one’s interesting,” O’Hanraghty said. “For one thing, she’s League.”
“Come again?” Callum asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Genomic data has her as born on Athenaea, an outlying League world that borders Rishathan space,” the chief of staff said. “According to Inverness records, she and her brother were captured during a slave raid some years back. The slave ship decided to skirt Fringe space—even they’re not stupid enough to cross into Rish territory—on the way to a feral planet beyond the blue line. One with no League or Federation presence. She was marked for the pleasure pits of some despot—that’s the brand on her face. And her ovaries were surgically removed. Not that uncommon for the slave trade.”
“The Federation allows this?” Callum demanded.
“We do not,” his father replied. “But many of the feral worlds do, and with the war against the League, we don’t have the resources to send task forces months or years away on humanitarian missions. That means anyone beyond the blue line is beyond our help or concern for the duration, and they’ve had almost sixty years for things to get even worse, Callum. That’s just the way it is. Doesn’t make it right.”
“But the slave ship carrying Eira and a few hundred others fell afoul of a Federation patrol,” O’Hanraghty said. “The farther out into the Fringe you get, the more likely you are to find…local arrangements, let’s say, with smugglers and pirates, Callum. Like your father says, that doesn’t make it right, but the people who live out there have to live out there, which means they’ve got to make some accommodations with the other people in the vicinity. In this case, the slavers were doing a little smuggling on the side, and they had a consignment for someone in one of our Fringe World systems. Unfortunately for them, there were regular Navy units in-system for a change.”
Callum stared at him, processing a lot of new information, and the chief of staff shrugged.
“Quick trial and execution for the slavers. The…cargo was turned over to Colonial, and they resettled her and her brother to Inverness. The only name on record is Eira. Seems single names were the custom back on her home world. She worked menial jobs to scrape out a living.” He shrugged again, eyes on the holo. “Nothing else of note in her file.”
Logan returned to the room and gave Murphy a quick nod. The admiral glanced at him, then turned back to O’Hanraghty.
“So what do we do with her?” he asked. “The allegations against her are rather severe.”
Logan’s heavy jaw worked from side to side, and Murphy looked at his son.
“Callum, what do you want to happen? And how’s your nose, by the way?”
“It was nothing, Sir. An accident.” Callum shook his head. “I don’t…can’t blame her. She was in that bunker for how long? Trying to keep her brother alive, then the lights go out, she’s trapped in there with the body…”
“Circumstances of the ‘accident’?” Murphy tapped a finger on his desk, still looking at Callum.
“The walkway was pretty slippery, Sir,” Logan put in.
“Slippery?” Murphy’s eyebrows arched. “You agree with that, Callum? Slippery.”
“Oh, definitely.” Callum nodded quickly. “Those duck boards must be from the lowest bidder. And I’m not used to snow and ice. For sure.”
“I daresay. I almost lost my own footing a few times.” Murphy frowned. “Is she a threat, or can she be an asset? I’m not inclined to do anything for Drebin’s sake, but she’s been through trauma that would break battle-hardened spacers. Or Marines.”
“You put her on the Calcutta for weeks or a couple of months and she’ll spiral out of control with no goal,” O’Hanraghty said. “We’ve seen this before. Being in a tiny box in one of those personnel modules with her own thoughts is not what she needs. She’s had plenty of that already.”
“How old is she?” Callum asked. “Old enough to sign a contract?”
“What are you getting at?” Murphy asked.
“Let’s not just throw her away,” his son said. “If she’s of age she can opt into service. And we’ll be in New Dublin for a while, so…”
* * *
Eira rocked gently on the brig cot. She’d spent so long in darkness that she’d expected light—any light—would be a blessing. But the incessant illumination in her cell was just as oppressive in its own different way as the black of the bunker.
Her mind drifted to Sam in their last hours together as the final glow lamp faded. In the darkness…
Something clanked. Then the bars rolled to one side and Murphy—the younger Murphy…Callum—was there, smiling at her.
She buried her face against her knees.
“Eira—just Eira, right?” he said. “You okay in here? Eat something?” He sat at the far end of the cot. “I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
“If they’re going to space me for assaulting a Heart, then there isn’t any good news, is there?”
“Stole my thunder,” he said, and she raised her head. “No charges.”
“No charges?” she repeated as if the words were in a foreign language.
“Nope.”
She looked at him, studying his nose. It looked no worse for wear, other than some slight bruising.
“I broke your perfect face,” she said.
“That was my fault. I should have known Logan was right around the corner and he was going to…take care of things. No harm, no foul, right? Although, I’ve gotta ask—how did you know it was him?”
“You’ve heard his voice?” she asked, and shrugged when he nodded. “Well, he really likes hearing it himself. He was all over the boards. Being God.” She waved that aside, and her eyes narrowed. “And he’s letting this go?”
The disbelief in her voice was palpable, and Callum shook his head.
“No, there won’t be any charges relating to the incident. Not at this end, for sure, and the Admiral’s fairly certain Drebin—well, we’ll let the admirals back home worry about him. And even if they can overlook everything that happened, he’s done. My family knows everyone in the Five Hundred, and he really, really pissed my dad off. He’ll be lucky if he can find work programming sanitation bots on a garbage scow.”
“He deserves worse,” she said. “Lots worse.”
“He does, but it’s not on us to give it to him. And that brings us to the bad news. The Admiral doesn’t want you to go back with the rest of the survivors, but Ishtar can’t transport civilian traffic to any place other than the nearest refugee station. Some weird wartime reg. So…I’m here to ask you to enlist in the Federation Armed Forces.”
“Do what?” She rubbed an eye and stared at him. “I wasn’t even born a Fed!”
“Yeah, about that. First, don’t call anyone a ‘Fed.’ It tends to make some folks angsty. Second, you can enlist, since you were a legal resident via resettlement without petition. I read up on all of this on the tube over, and I gotta say, immigration laws are ridiculous. But what it boils down to is that it’s either the Ishtar in uniform, or Calcutta in civilian clothes. Which would you prefer?”
“What would I do? In uniform?” She turned to one side and put her feet on the deck.
“Now, this is the best part, in my opinion. You’d be a 620W-X, which is Navy-speak for ‘needs of the service.’ And our needs for you would be as my assistant. The Admiral thinks I could use a subordinate. And other duties would include tasks from the Hoplon detachment. Sergeant Major Logan was very impressed with you. Something about being an ingot he could hammer into shape. Or something. Sure hope you like calisthenics.”
“I can stay with you? With Admiral Murphy?”
“That’s the idea. Unless you have some other special skills where you could be more value-added. Any engineering background? Programming? Drone wrangling?”
Eira shook her head.
“Hydroponics or protein resynthesis?”
Another shake.
“Read and write?”
Eira raised a hand and moved it in a so-so gesture.
“Then we know where to start. Come on. There’s some paperwork for you and—”
“Just let me stay with you,” she said. “Please. Murphy and Murphy. Just let me stay. As your servant. Your companion…anything.”
“No worries,” he told her. “No worries there…although I can already feel my mother giving me one of those looks. But same as it ever was during the war, right? We’re just building up a bit of a cadre as we go along. Now let’s get you to the adjutant for the contract. You can sign your name, at least?”
Eira nodded and traced an X in the air. Callum winced, ever so slightly.
“Lots of work,” he sighed. “But we’ve got some transit time to deal with it.”
* * *
The sound of bodies slamming against mats and the slap of leather against bags drew Eira down the dimly lit shipboard passage toward an open, outsized blast door. She reached it and paused, then tugged at the edge of her new uniform, drew a deep breath, swiped at her hair to cover the brand around her eye, and stepped through the opening into a cavernous bay.
Ishtar boasted three well-equipped gymnasiums for her eight-hundred-strong crew, but certain of her current passengers weren’t prepared to wait their turns to use them. That was why this cargo bay had been repurposed into a dojo, with practice mats and racks of dull training weapons. Almost four dozen Hoplons in workout gear sparred, drilled with weapons, or did rounds of burpees and pull-ups at a row of bars.
Three men sat on metal bleachers, watching the training with the perpetually dissatisfied “I’m not quite pissed” scowls of professional noncoms.
Eira swallowed hard and turned toward them.
“Whoa, there!” Faeran, who’d had her back to the bulkhead beside the door, watching the activity with a medic’s eye, saw her and waved her over. “You must be the Greenie. Wolf Mother, do you know what you look like?”
“The petty man said to find a s-major,” Eira said.
“The petty officer told you to report to the Sergeant Major.” Faeran shook her head. “And he let you do it looking like a soup sandwich. Bet he thought it was going to be funny when you walked into that chain saw.”
“Sandwich?”
“Come here.”
Faeran folded Eira’s collar down, buttoned all her pockets, and sighed at her unpolished boots.
“What have we got here?” She moved the hair away from Eira’s scars, and Eira slapped her hand away.
“Now I know who you are. Is it religious?” Faeran brushed the side of her fingers against the tattoos on her own face.
“Slave brand.” Eira’s tone was tight, and Faeran nodded slowly.
“Okay, you get one because you’re a Greenie. But you strike anyone off the mats, and it’ll go bad for you quick. The zero’s aide or not.”
“Sorry, Mistress. This is strange to me.”
“It’s corporal.” Faeran tapped the rank sewn onto her uniform. “Come on. Let’s get this massacre started. Stay strong. That’s the only advice you need with the Sergeant Major.”
The medic led her over to the three seated men. Logan spat tobacco juice into a plastic bottle as they came and gave Eira the once-over.
“Holy shit, Faeran,” one of the other men said. “Better get your aid bag.”
Eira stamped her foot against the deck and brought her left hand, palm out, up to her eye.
Logan spat again as the other men chuckled.
“You saw the puffies do that on Inverness?” Logan asked. “Put your damn hand down, Greenie. You’re not even using the right one.”
“This must be the new ‘personal secretary,’” one of Logan’s trio said.
“Master Sergeant Bridger, why don’t you and Sergeant Falco go roll around and then do push-ups until I get tired?” Logan asked. Bridger slapped the other noncom on the shoulder, and both of them stripped off their blouses and trotted over to an open spot on a mat.
Logan worked his dip from one side of his mouth to the other.
“How old are you?”
Eira looked down at her feet.
“Your ears work?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “No one ever told me my birthday. The doctor measured my bones and said I was close to nineteen, standard.”
“Okay, at least you’re old enough to be here.”
“You shot me.” Eira touched her chest, and Logan chuckled.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “If I hadn’t hit you with a nonlethal I know you would have killed that Heart piece of shit, and corpses get real hard to explain. Especially ones with lots of rank and titles. You got a bruise instead of the airlock or a noose. So you’re welcome.”
“Medic!” came from the mats.
“It’s always him,” Faeran snarled. “Such a bleeder.”
Faeran ran back to a pack by the door, and Logan stood.
“Steiner! What did I tell you about throwing elbows with no pads on?”
“Sorry, Smaj,” Steiner called back.
“Cortez! What did I tell you about getting hit by elbows?” There was no answer, and Logan scowled. “Ah, I bet he’s knocked out.”
Logan shook his head and sat back down.
“Back to you, Greenie. The zero wants you around him, and that’s his call. Not unusual for an officer to pick up someone like you during a long deployment away from home and significant others.”
“I’m no whore.”
“Never said you were. But I saw you tear that Heart apart, Greenie. I know what you’ve got inside you. That’s why I’m taking an interest in your well-being instead of ignoring you to the best of my ability, you follow?”
“Not really.”
“We’ll get to you properly addressing me later.” Logan shifted in his seat. “For now, take no offense to this, as none’s meant: you’re a pretty young thing. Even with that brand. You’re going to be a supernumerary to the zero and the principal. The perception from the colonists, from Leaguie spies—from anyone wishing harm on the principal—is that you are the staff whore, and you’re not a threat. Which is where they’re wrong, Greenie. You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”
“I can fight. I’ve done it before.”
“And you’ve got a killer instinct. That’s not something that can be trained; it has to be discovered. But fury and adrenaline alone get you only so far in a fight. Training will get you farther—a lot farther. So what we’re going to do is train you to be a bodyguard for the zero and the principal. You’ll be my secret weapon to keep them safe. Sound like a plan?”
“It sounds good. Very good. But the only thing I really know how to do now is the wash,” she said.
“Armies have had a lot of practice taking someone like you and getting them somewhat competent for the battlefield in a few months. We’ll get you up to standard.”
“Will I get a metal suit?”
“No.”
“But you said—”
“Hoplon armor takes years of training and it’s meant for shipboard actions and direct action against key targets. You learn to shine your boots before you worry about putting on the iron. Now…that brand. It has to go.”
“It’s a scar,” she said. “Scars are forever.”
“The zero can authorize the ship’s doctor to do a proto-skin graft. Expensive, but he’ll do it if you ask. And you’re no slave, Eira. Never again—you understand that?”
“Murphy was…I saw him talking to the medic and touching this part of his face.” Eira motioned to her brand.
“The zero was already on it. Huh.”
“Is Callum the zero? Because it was the Admiral with the medic,” Eira said.
“The Admiral.” Logan pursed his lips. “And here I thought the zero wanted his staff looking pretty, but it was the Admiral. Interesting. Heart Worlders aren’t against debt slavery, but that’s not here nor there, is it? Rest of this cruise to New Dublin, you’re assigned to the Hoplon detachment. It’s only the four of us with the principal, but I consolidate the rest of the task force’s complement here for training and to keep us civilized. Go grab a pair of strike gloves and report to that ugly mug over there by the bags. He’ll walk you through boxing drills to get you started.”
“Thank you, s-major.”
“Sergeant. Major. Two words.”
“Sergeant Major.”
“Better. We’ll see if you thank me in the morning. Now that we understand each other, this will be our final friendly conversation. Now move out. Draw fire.”