CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Murphy gazed into a mirror as he adjusted his dress uniform. The sounds of stamping feet and cheers carried through the walls.
“Almost time,” Dewar said as he leaned into Murphy’s room. He wore the deep green dress uniform of the New Dublin Militia. “Don’t worry about being perfect. Most everyone’s well on their way to being drunk, so I doubt they’ll notice if your ribbons are crooked.”
“Is every award ceremony on Crann Bethadh like this?” the admiral asked.
“Nope—just the good ones. And the higher the award, the more boisterous. Some are just happy to have an excuse to get shitfaced after the battle, and we did have to wait months for your triumphant return to get this going. You know. Guest of honor, hero of the moment—like that?”
“Let’s not go that far,” Murphy said.
“I’m no dwarf, but if you like, I can whisper that you’re only human along the way to the—”
Dewar broke off and turned his head to one side. He stood there, listening to his earbud, and his face tightened.
“They’re here?” Murphy asked.
“They are.” Dewar reached for his wrist comm. “The timing’s no accident. I can have them delayed until—”
“No.” Murphy shook his head. “They’ve done their best to keep their presence hidden since they arrived in-system. They’ve chosen this moment.”
“Bastards! Don’t they know what this means to us?”
“Better to attribute something to stupidity than malice,” Murphy said. “But here it could be a bit of both. Let’s drive on. We’re not unprepared for this.”
Dewar looked rebellious for a moment, one hand hovering over the comm. But then he shrugged and nodded.
“If they’re going to be stupid about it, they’re going to be stupid about it, and stupid is the one thing no one can fix.” He inhaled deeply.
“I know,” Murphy said sympathetically. “Believe me, I know.”
“In that case, right this way, Governor General.”
Dewar held the door for Murphy, and they walked down a narrow passageway. It ended in a shallow flight of stairs, and heavy curtains blocked their view of a loud gathering—fueled by the clink of silverware, glasses, and laughter—just beyond.
“Bastards!” Dewar hissed, tapping his earbud again. “They’re—”
“I can imagine.” Murphy held up his hand. “Like I said, they chose the moment—and they didn’t pick it on a whim. We’ll all remember them for it.”
“As you say, Sir.” Dewar squared his shoulders. “It’s not like you need an introduction. Just follow Tolmach’s cues.”
They climbed the steps and Dewar flung the curtains open. A blaze of spotlights poured down on Murphy, and he stepped forward. The crowd roared as it saw him and began chanting his name in rhythmic unison as he walked out onto a stage.
His eyes adjusted to the blinding, semi-solid torrent of light—mostly—as Tolmach made his way slowly up another set of shallow steps from the floor below. The President was more stooped than he had been. His cane struck hard at the stair treads, and the cheering grew even louder as Murphy reached forward to help him up the last few steps.
Tolmach smiled, the lines of his face deepening, as he gave Murphy a one-armed hug.
“Not what you’re used to, is it, son?”
Despite the smell of alcohol hanging in the air, Murphy couldn’t detect a whiff of it on the President.
“Awards ceremonies are usually a bit more somber,” he said. “Combat awards, particularly.”
“Well, you’re on Crann Bethadh, and we do what we want. Cameras are on, broadcasting this across a system-wide feed. We’ll turn them off afterwards, so don’t be shy about throwing a few back later. Just don’t try and go drink-for-drink with me. My liver’s been through more hell than you can imagine.”
“Wasn’t the plan,” Murphy said, looking out across the ballroom. Navy, Marine, and Militia officers, Crann Bethadh politicians, and several diplomatic contingents from across the sector sat around long tables. O’Hanraghty was at the nearest table, worry written across his face. “Speaking of plans, Dewar says—”
“Plans…they never hold up.” The President looked into Murphy’s eyes for a moment, then tapped his own earbud lightly and grinned the fierce, reckless grin of a far younger Alan Tolmach. “I hope you’re ready, boy!”
Murphy opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, Tolmach turned to face the tables and grabbed the admiral’s wrist with his flesh-and-blood hand. He raised Murphy’s hand high, and camera drones flashed over the audience. He clicked a switch on his cane.
“Crann Bethadh!” His words carried through the same drones. “We’ve a man amongst us!”
“Hear, hear!” rose from the audience.
“Admiral Murphy saved our world from the League. Damned near gave me a heart attack in the process, but I reckon I can forgive him for that.” Tolmach paused for chuckles. “But it wasn’t enough that he crushed the League here. After that, he chased them back to their cave and kicked their ass again!”
Fists banged on tables.
“Craeb Uisnig is sacred to us.” He touched the cutting on his jacket. “It’s the final memory of home for too many of our people before they’re lost to the war. So for us to take from her, for us to adorn another with her leaf…it’s the highest honor we have. Which is why, Terrence Murphy, Governor General of our home—I hereby give you my duilleog airgid.”
The room went suddenly silent as Tolmach touched the silver leaf on his lapel. He tugged, and it unsnapped.
The ballroom doors burst open, and Captain Lipshen strutted through them, flanked by two Federal Marshals and half a dozen troopers in Army-mod Hoplon armor bearing the Capital Division’s flash.
They were no surprise, but Murphy’s eyes hardened. The Capital Division was considered the elite of the Federation Army, but the Army never deployed to the Fringe. Its upper ranks, even more than the Navy’s, were dominated by Heart Worlders, and especially by scions of the Five Hundred. It was too important to “waste” protecting mere Fringers. And that was trebly true of the Capital Division, the most prestigious, sought after posting the Army offered. If the rest of the Army never deployed to the Fringe, the Capital Division never deployed anywhere.
But if the Five Hundred wanted an armed force they knew they could rely on, the Capital Division was the place to find it.
The Army Hoplons were armed, their weapons held low but at the ready.
The crowd murmured in confusion.
“Terrence Murphy!” Lipshen held up a cream-colored envelope. “By my authority as representative of the Federation, as entrusted to me by Fleet Command and endorsed for the federal government by the Attorney General’s office…I hereby terminate your position as Governor General of New Dublin.”
He walked down the center aisle, paperwork still aloft. The marshals followed him, one of them smiling unpleasantly as he pulled a set of handcuffs from inside his tunic. The heavy footfalls of the Army Hoplons at their heels echoed off the walls in the disbelieving silence.
“And I also place you under arrest,” Lipshen said. “For insubordination, graft, and misappropriation of Federation military equipment and personnel.”
He bounded up the stairs and leveled the warrant at Tolmach like a pistol.
Murphy only looked at him and tilted his chin a bit higher.
“This comes from Fokaides?” he asked.
“And the Prime Minister.” Lipshen smiled triumphantly. “Let’s not make a show of this Murphy. There’s a shuttle waiting outside. Cooperate, and I won’t let the marshals put you in cuffs for the camera as we walk out.”
“You slimy little shit.” Tolmach’s face twitched with anger. His voice was soft, but the drones were still live, and the words filled the silence.
“The paperwork’s in order,” Lipshen said. “I’d rather not have to take you in for obstruction, Mr. President.”
“I’ll do more than—”
Tolmach started forward, but Murphy stopped him with a gentle touch on the shoulder.
“So I surrender. Then what? You take me back to the Oval and everything that’s happened here gets swept under the rug? I sent back proof the Rish are supporting the League. I crushed the League here and chased them down to finish the job. I’ve captured or destroyed over fifty League FTLCs. And the Heart Worlds’ response is…my arrest?”
“We’re about done being polite,” the marshal with the handcuffs said coldly.
“Come now, Murphy. We can sort it all out back on Earth.”
Lipshen reached for Murphy’s arm, but the admiral grabbed a handful of the smaller man’s jacket front and yanked him up on his toes.
“Yes, we will sort it out on Earth,” Murphy said. “But not under your terms—under mine.”
He tapped the side of his leg with his free hand and doors opened on the long sides of the ballroom. A dozen Marine Hoplons stumped into the room, carbines up and aimed at the marshals and their Army counterparts.
“If you’re not dressed like me, I suggest you leave.” The volume on Logan’s suit’s external speakers hurt the ear as it echoed off the ballroom walls.
No one left.
“Mur-PHY! Mur-PHY! Mur-PHY!”
The chant rose like slow-growing thunder, and Lipshen swallowed hard.
“I have my orders,” he said. “We’re…we’re not afraid of you.”
“Mur-PHY! Mur-PHY! Mur-PHY!”
The chant swelled louder and louder.
“Don’t be a fool,” Murphy said. “Go back to your shuttle. No one will stop you. I’ll go to Earth and answer for what I’ve done, but I’ll go in my ship, not in your brig.”
Tolmach stood shoulder to shoulder with Murphy.
“Mur-PHY! Mur-PHY! Mur-PHY!”
The chanting voices filled the ballroom, roaring like an angry sea.
“You’re bluffing.” Sweat sheened Lipshen’s forehead. “Don’t add treason to your crimes!”
“It’s only treason if we’re part of the Federation, you mangy, sorry-assed excuse for a cur!” Tolmach snarled. “You’ve pushed us a step too far this time—you and your bastard masters! New Dublin’s done with all of you after this. The rest of the sector, too!”
Lipshen’s eyes went wide, and he reached for his sidearm. Two of the Army Hoplons lunged forward.
Tolmach thrust a sharp elbow into Murphy’s chest, catching him off guard and pushing him back a step. The old man hammered his cane down on Lipshen’s shoulder, sending the captain to one knee with a yelp of pain.
The Marine Hoplons barreled through tables toward the marshals and the charging Army Hoplons while guests scrambled out of the way.
“Stop—stop!”
Murphy reached for Tolmach, but the old man slipped out of his grip, snarling at Lipshen, and raised his cane again.
A single shot cracked.
Pain ripped through Murphy’s left side as the bullet tore through flesh, and Tolmach stopped. A growing red spot blossomed on his back. His cane fell, and he crumpled. Murphy caught him, and blood spread thick and hot across his arms and down his hands as he lowered the System President of New Dublin gently to the stage.
More gunfire—the staccato bark of Hoplon carbines—ripped across the ballroom, drowning the sound of screams as New Dubliners dove for the floor.
“You did this!” Lipshen stood over them, his pistol aimed at Murphy’s head. “It was all your—”
A shadow fell over the captain and he looked up as Faeran’s suit loomed above him. A mechanical hand closed around his wrist and pistol. Metal digits snapped shut, crushing weapon and arm alike, and he shrieked in anguish as she tossed him away, like a rag doll hurled through the air, to crash down among the overturned tables while the rest of the Marines made quick work of the Army Hoplons.
“Son,” Tolmach gasped. “Son, where’s my duilleog airgid?”
His breathing was labored, blood bubbles frothing from his lips with every word.
“Don’t say anything. We’ll get you to the medics—”
“Take…take my duilleog,” Tolmach whispered. “Light the fire…in the sky, Son. Tell…tell Cormag, he…”
Tolmach’s eyelids fluttered and he looked away.
“Medic!” Murphy shouted, eyes burning, but the ballroom had become chaos as more wounded were dragged away and his Hoplons ripped the Army Hoplons apart.
The admiral saw a flash of silver in a pool of blood. He grabbed the leaf from Craeb Uisnig, pressed it into Tolmach’s hand.
“This is yours.” Murphy’s voice cracked. “It’s always been yours. I don’t deserve it!”
Tolmach shook his head fiercely and thrust it against the younger man’s chest.
“Do,” he choked out through a mouth filled with blood.
He tried to say something more, but he could no longer speak. He pressed the leaf against Murphy’s chest again, weakly, and the admiral cupped his fingers over that suddenly frail hand…and the leaf. He looked down into those fierce old eyes as the fire in them dimmed at last, and nodded slowly.
“All right,” he whispered, touching the lined face with his other hand. “All right.”
Two minutes later, Alan Caelan Tolmach, President of the New Dublin System, died.