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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Each breath stabbed an icy blade into Cormag Dewar’s lungs. Wind sighed through the empty branches above him, and he slapped his gloved hands together as that same wind shredded the steamy plume of his breath. A faint silver light reflected down upon him, creeping into the darkness, and he looked up as a sliver of dawn broke over the distant mountains to the east.

A massive tree, its trunk thicker than his house, stood sentinel behind him. It was so tall its majestic crown had caught the dawn light well before the sun ever cleared the mountains from Dewar’s position there at its foot. Coils of silver bark wound high, braiding through each other, and the light of New Dublin scaled the uppermost branches’ shimmering surface with a brilliance that was almost painful to the eye against the still-dark heavens above them. Beyond the tree, night-wrapped mountain slopes fell away to the west.

Formations of militia made two lines behind long, tight-stretched ropes that marked off a wide corridor leading to a mound at the base of the tree. The ropes were whiter than snow, strung with red poppies, dark as fresh blood in the frail light, and Dewar stood atop the mound.

“Procession on time,” his earbud told him.

“Confirm. Cut radio traffic unless there’s a civil defense emergency,” he said, and there was a click in his ear.

“Say again?” Captain Lipshen asked. The IG officer wore considerably more cold-weather gear than the senior members of the New Dublin Militia gathered behind them, despite which his teeth still chattered.

“Hush.” Dewar put a finger to his lips. “You don’t want to miss this.”

In the distance, still deep in the mountains’ shadows, a river of light flowed slowly through a pass.

Dewar closed his eyes, listening as faint cheers carried on the wind.

“Bit pagan, isn’t it?” Lipshen asked. “Dawn torchlight parade to a sacred…oak tree? Will there be a druid? Always so interesting to be part of an outlying system’s customs.”

“This is Craeb Uisnig.” Dewar kept his tone level, conversational, despite an even stronger than usual temptation to strangle the Heart World cretin. “It’s so big the original settlers identified it from orbit. In fact, they made First Landfall not far away so they could come and see it for themselves. Once they did, they moved the main landing site to Tara City and created a permanent nature preserve around Craeb Uisnig. Access is forbidden except on Graduation Day.”

Lipshen looked up as a single silver leaf, smaller than a child’s hand, fluttered down, sparkling in the dawn. It slipped from light into the shadows nearer the ground, and Dewar sidestepped as it fell. It landed on the grassy mound, dull side up, and he looked down at it, then extended his right arm to the side and turned his hand thumb-down.

A worried murmur spread through the militia’s ranks.

“I miss something?” Lipshen asked, and Dewar sucked in a sharp breath. Then he clenched his jaw and exhaled slowly.

“Bad omen,” he said, not looking at the Heart Worlder. He picked up the leaf, kissed it, and slipped it into a pocket. “If it lands silver side up, the recruits will fare well during their service. Down, and the future’s not as bright.”

“Again, this is all a bit pagan.” Lipshen looked out at the approaching procession of torches. “Still, allowing systems…a bit farther from the Core to conduct their own basic training courses was an excellent idea from the Oval, don’t you agree? Less cost to the federal budget, more incentive on the recruits’ part, and they’re ready to be assigned to advanced training before they ever muster in. All they need is to be sorted and aptitude-tested for virtual instruction during their transit to the replacement depot. It really was a great initiative.”

“It was the Fringe Worlds’ idea,” Dewar said flatly. “Our draftees breezed through the Heart Worlds’ training and embarrassed too many drill instructors. And our casualty rates were too high if we relied on the Heart World systems to get them ready. So we decided to do it right. Do it ourselves. And this is the capstone exercise: movement to daylight. They’ll all transfer to the black sh—personnel transports later this evening. Last day with hearth and home.”

“More dramatic than some outlying systems,” Lipshen said.

“We consider it more solemn,” Dewar snapped. “Now be so kind as to keep future observations to yourself. President Tolmach’s conducted the ceremony for the last many decades, but he’s…taken ill. So this falls on me.”

Lipshen shrugged, and Dewar climbed three steps to a poppy-draped podium on a raised platform and checked a slate already in place. He tapped a gloved knuckle against the screen and his speech came up on a holo-prompter. He’d cribbed from many of Tolmach’s previous speeches, but there hadn’t been much variation in recent years. What could be said to young men and women about to leave their homeworld—most for the first time—and join a war that had already killed six billion? Over the years, Tolmach had learned to say what could be said far better than most, and it was not a subject that lent itself to improvisation.

The fact that Dewar was the one to give this speech would be a surprise to the recruits once they arrived at the end of the path. Fair enough—it had surprised Dewar, too.

Tolmach had been in a particularly foul mood since the sector leaders’ private meeting had adopted the draft Declaration of Secession. It was still completely “unofficial”—its very existence was a deeply held secret until the moment of its announcement came—but Dewar suspected the only reason it had passed was that Tolmach had stopped trying to prevent it and thrown his weight behind it, instead. Inverness, he knew, was part of the reason he had, but there were…other factors, as well. Factors that drove Dewar, as well. Yet his father-in-law’s vehemence against the Federation had been more overt in recent weeks, and that was a source of tension for Dewar, both as a family member and as the CO of the system’s defenses. And now, on exactly zero notice, he’d announced that he was too ill to preside over this year’s ceremony.

Actually, Dewar was fairly certain Tolmach felt just fine. Or as close to it as the old man ever came these days, at any rate. He suspected the sudden illness was mostly a ruse to put Dewar in his place for this ceremony, and there was only one reason for that: his daughter, Christina.

Most of Dewar was grateful for Tolmach’s gift, but a part of him…

Bad enough to send a child to war, but to be the last Crann Bethadh officer to oversee the process that sent his child to the death mills before secession ended it forever?

That stung. Dewar had gone through the ceremony himself, deployed off-world several times, and been here year after year, since his own service, to say goodbye to the recruits and welcome the remains—the few times they were recovered—and see them delivered to grieving families. Being part of that process for children not his own was difficult enough, but to send Christina into the same grinder…

Glittering leaves continued to fall, filling the air with the flicker of close stars before they dropped into the shadow at the mighty tree’s base. Craeb Uisnig itself wept for its children, he thought.

The procession’s lead ranks drew nearer, marching out of the darkness, and Dewar leaned forward over his podium to squint in disbelief as the fuming torchlight let him pick out details. There was a man in a black overcoat at the head of the procession, flanked by two torchbearers in combat fatigues whose pattern differed from the recruits’ plain field utilities.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Dewar muttered.

“Is that…Murphy?” Lipshen asked from behind him.

“Appears so.” Dewar gripped the sides of his podium.

“This is irregular, isn’t it? I knew Ishtar was back in-system, but I didn’t expect him to make planetfall so soon,” the captain said.

“Nor did I. I’m more interested to find out how he managed to get planetside, join the procession, and march all the way here without my hearing about it.”

Dewar glanced sideways at Patrick MacDowell, and his aide flushed and looked away in embarrassment.

The waiting lines of militiamen came to attention as Murphy and his two flankers—Dewar recognized Callum Murphy and the former slave girl—passed down the corridor between the poppy-laden ropes. They continued steadily to the base of the mound leading up to Craeb Uisnig and the podium. The three of them set their torches into metal cylinders in the ground, and then Murphy made his way up. The river of light flowed down the same passageway, then halted behind him. The column of recruits raised their torches higher, held them there in the silver-spangled dawn light flowing from Craeb Uisnig to greet them.

“Welcome back, Governor,” Dewar said as Murphy reached the platform. The admiral’s face was red and covered in sweat, and he winced as he covered the last few paces to the podium, but his breathing was remarkably steady. “Bit of a surprise to see you here.”

“I thought I’d join in,” Murphy said. “Everyone I need to speak with just happens to be here, and flights are restricted so close to—”

He looked up at the tree.

“It’s magnificent,’” he said softly. “Even more than I expected. I wouldn’t dare endanger it with a close landing, even if the airspace had been clear. And we do have a bit of time; O’Hanraghty’s getting some parts moving.”

“Time? What parts?” Dewar leaned to one side to be sure the rear of the procession had closed up with its leaders. “This ceremony has a process to it that I—”

Murphy gripped his shoulder and leaned over to speak into his ear. Dewar went pale and looked at him with wide eyes. Murphy nodded slowly, and the general swallowed. Then he nodded back, and Murphy looked down at that sea of raised torches. He beckoned with the fingers of his right hand, and Callum took the torch his father had borne from its holder and ran it up the mound to him. The admiral raised it aloft, held it for a long, slow thirty count, then twisted its base.

The flame went out…and in the same instant every torch snuffed out down that long, long column, and the river of light disappeared into the dawn.

Dewar looked at the holo-prompter. Then he tapped his slate with an oddly decisive gesture. His waiting speech disappeared, and he tapped the slate again to activate the mic drone floating before him. He cleared his throat, drew a deep breath, and began to sing.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

The lines of militia joined their massed voices to his with the third line. Crann Bethadhans were singers, and the a cappella harmony rose like slow, solemn thunder. At the end of the verse, the column of recruits joined their voices to their elders’, as well, until the entire valley rang with the stately majesty of the ancient, ancient words.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Silence fell once more, broken only by the sighing Crann Bethadh wind in Craeb Uisnig’s mighty boughs, and Dewar wiped a palm across his eyes, then crossed himself. He looked out across those young, expectant faces, felt them waiting for his words, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped back and motioned Murphy closer to the mic drone.

“Soldiers of Crann Bethadh, this is a unique time,” the governor said somberly, speakers carrying his words across the valley. “I thank the Class of 2551 for allowing me to join in your capstone exercise. Craeb Uisnig is even more than I’d imagined, and I am honored to be part of this ceremony. Of this tradition. Because tradition matters. It is what makes us what we are—who we are. Yet solemn as this tradition is, we must make some changes in what the graduates expect next.”

“What’s he going on about?” Lipshen hissed in Dewar’s ear.

“Just wait.”

The general tapped a code on his wrist comm and opened a live feed to Tolmach’s number.

“The League is coming,” Murphy said, “and it is my belief that they will attack New Dublin with a fleet much larger than the force that destroyed Inverness.”

He paused for a moment and looked across those young faces, and the silence was deeper than the sea as the glittering dawn light crept steadily farther down the massive tree behind him, wrapping that mighty trunk in braided fire.

“I hereby announce that a Declaration of Emergency is in effect,” he said then. “As Governor General of New Dublin, I now cancel follow-on training for the Class of 2551. Your service is required here, and we will assign you where you are most needed across the system. In addition, all Federation Navy vessels in-system are transferred to my command, effective immediately.”

“Now just a sec—” Lipshen started forward, but Dewar’s hand to his chest stopped him.

“I have not made these decisions lightly,” Murphy continued, “and responsibility for the consequences—good or ill—will be mine alone. But I’ve walked one dying world. I will not see that fate befall another if I have the power to prevent it. Every life in the Federation is worth fighting for. Every home under threat is a call to arms. Today, it’s time for you to defend yours, and I will be with you at every step. We will stop this attack…or we will die together trying. Long, long ago, another ancient Earth poet said, ‘a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.’ I do not intend to die here, but if it comes, I will die knowing that I did my duty before God and my own conscience, and what man can ask better than that?”

He looked out over those faces, Craeb Uisnig a mighty column of silver fire at his back, and every eye looked back at him.

“That is all,” he said quietly. “May God bless us all, and may God bless New Dublin.”

He stepped back from the podium. For a moment, only the sighing wind broke the silence, and then the cheers erupted, rising like thunder as the dawn light reached Craeb Uisnig’s base and those assembled men and women realized what he’d just said.

* * *

The cheering faded at last, and a very confused looking militia colonel crossed to Dewar. They spoke briefly, and the colonel nodded—slowly at first, then more rapidly. Dewar patted him on the shoulder, and then he, Murphy, and Lipshen moved to the rear of the platform as the mic drone floated to the colonel and he began giving instructions to the recruits.

“Admiral,” Lipshen had gone pale, and Dewar wondered if it was from the cold or from shock at Murphy’s announcement, “you can’t do this. These recruits and anything in the yards belong to the Federation. They’re expected in other systems. There’s a process for all of this, and this isn’t it.”

“The Governor General’s the chief executive,” Dewar said. “Seems to me he can do whatever he damn well pleases. So long as it’s legal.”

“Emergency powers,” Murphy said. “All authorized under Section Four of my Governor’s commission. And quite necessary in light of the current threat. General, can we head back to your headquarters? More planning’s needed, and I’m guessing you didn’t march out here.”

“I’ve a ground car,” Dewar said. “Let’s walk and talk.”

“Wait. Wait! I’m the IG here in New Dublin, and any declaration of emergency powers mandates an immediate report back to the Oval. In fact—”

Dewar straight-armed him in the chest, and the smaller man staggered.

“Sorry, Captain.” The general gave him a polite smile. “Murphy’s taking your spot in my vehicle. Maybe there’s room in another car? If not, feel free to join the graduates on the next leg of their march. You did want to experience the ceremony.”

Lipshen stood dumbstruck as the other two left him behind.

* * *

“I don’t believe it.”

Alan Tolmach hobbled over to his office window and looked out over the city as snow whipped across the sky.

“The tech readouts on the Fasset manifold fit his theory.” Dewar, his uniform jacket off, warmed himself by a fireplace. “I’m not sure I could swear the design’s Rishathan, but it’s sure as hell not anything any of our people here in the yards have ever seen. And I saw the video taken by the boarding parties.” He shrugged. “Serendipitous that they just so happened to be in the system looking for slavers when they came across the smuggler, instead.”

“‘Serendipitous,’ you say?” Tolmach looked at him darkly. “Didn’t know you knew what that word meant. Not sure you do, truth to tell, from the way you just used it!”

“We can go with it, unless you’ve a better one.” Dewar opened and closed his hands slowly before the flames as warmth crept back into his joints. “This aging thing is miserable. I don’t know how you deal with it.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Tolmach growled. He glowered at his son-in-law for a moment, then shrugged. “I take it the snake’s not happy about any of this?”

“He wasn’t when we left him at Craeb Uisnig, and I doubt he’s gotten any happier since.” It was Dewar’s turn to shrug. “On the other hand, I don’t think Murphy gives a rat’s ass about the snake’s opinion.”

“Which means Murphy’s gone rogue,” the President growled.

“Are you playing devil’s advocate again, or do you really doubt the man? His theory passes the smell test. The league has a secret yard complex; it’s somewhere in striking distance; and the manifolds were the last piece of their construction. If they have a combat-ready task force, they’ll deploy it before the Federation can react, and New Dublin’s the most likely target. So Murphy’s declared our recruits stay here, and his task force—and every other ship he’s managed to hang onto since he got here—is going to be our defense. We’ve been turning out those drone bodies of his for over three months, and the production rate is about to skyrocket now that he’s put the pedal down. If the Leaguies base their planning on what we had the last time they came to call, he’s about to kick their asses up one side and down the other. Like he said himself, it may not be enough, but it’s a whole damned sight better than what’d happen without him! You have a problem with any of that?”

“What if he’s wrong?” Tolmach asked. “He gets New Dublin all spun up, and then the Leaguies don’t show?”

“Then we’ve got our system defenses improved and we get to keep our kids home for a change. No harm.”

“Until the Federation yanks him for crying wolf and stepping on too many military toes. They’ll haul him home and install a complete stooge with orders to undo everything he’s done. Including holding the boys and girls here in-system.”

“And if he’s right and the League does come for us with this ghost fleet of theirs?”

“And if he’s right, God help us all.” The old man used a couch arm to steady himself as he limped back to his desk. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing at a chair in front of the desk, and Dewar settled into it.

“How far have you gone on that poison pill of yours?” the President asked.

Dewar’s mouth scrunched to one side of his face.

“Um. Forgot about that.” He frowned in thought. “The forgeries haven’t been delivered to the snake yet, but he’s got some documents. You don’t want to pull the trigger now, do you?”

“No. In fact, let’s cancel all that. The Federation doesn’t need a planted suspicion to panic over Murphy; he’s just given them plenty of reasons of his own. Damn it! Every time I expect him to act like the incompetent, selfish Heart Worlder I need him to be, he goes and delivers like an actual leader, instead.” Tolmach sat down heavily behind the desk and kicked his bad leg out to one side. “Why can’t he be incompetent?”

“If he were, we’d have no idea about the League’s ghost fleet.” Dewar leaned back and crossed his ankles. “If it’s real, that is.”

“If,” Tolmach sighed.

“How are the streets and alleys taking to his appearance at Craeb Uisnig?”

“They love him,” Tolmach said. “And the rank and file?”

“Love him, too. No one enjoys the movement to daylight march for the capstone—you know that. It’s designed to be tougher than hell, and the fact that Murphy joined in, with his son and that…girl of theirs, and marched the whole damned way with them…” Dewar shook his head. “Man’s got a way with words, too. Heart or no, he thinks like a New Dubliner. The system crews and militia are about as motivated to get with his plans as they could be.”

“No one’s mentioned that we might get wrecked because Murphy poked the League beehive?”

“Unintended consequences from the good deed of trying to rescue slaves.” Dewar crossed his hands over his sternum and began twiddling his thumbs. “Like the League needs a reason to kill us. Every man and woman on this planet knows they just need the means and the opportunity, and I think Murphy’s right about why they’ve been assembling this force out here in our neck of the galaxy. They see us as the Federation’s ‘soft underbelly’—compared to Beta Cygni, at least—and that means they were coming through New Dublin no matter what, Alan. All he’s done there is to maybe start the clock ticking a little early…and with, oh, forty less carriers or so.”

Tolmach grunted sourly, and Dewar raised an eyebrow.

“So where does all this leave us with our independence announcement?”

Tolmach propped his elbows on his desk and rested his face in his hands.

“On hold,” he said. “The sector conference has another five days yet, and I can hold ’em over indefinitely, given Murphy’s emergency decree. We’ll see if people can keep their mouths shut. But, frankly, the only way I see it happening now is for the attack to never materialize and then for the Federation to yank Murphy out. Otherwise, we become the elites having to explain a revolt against a Governor who’s finally doing all the right things, and I’ll let you guess how that’ll turn out.”

“If I’m going to be hung in Court Square, I’d rather it be by the Federation than by my own people,” Dewar said.

“I’ll be just as dead beside you, but if that happens, let’s have history view the event as tragic instead of righteous. I’m all for Murphy’s plan, and you’re in as well. Just need you to take care of that snake.”

“Allegations can’t be taken back, but I’ll see that everything’s fixed as well as it can be.”

“Good.” Tolmach puffed his lips and shook his head. “We live in interesting times, son. I still don’t know if Murphy’s a blessing or a curse.”

“I imagine we’re about to find out,” Dewar said.

* * *

Eira dropped her space bag at the foot of her bed. The tiny apartment was immaculate, with perfect hospital corners on the bed’s sheets and not a speck of dust to be seen. The lingering scent of disinfectant hung in the air. In fact, the only hint that anyone actually lived there was the Craeb Uisnig statue perched on one corner of her desk. The light in the glass globe’s base shone up from below, gilding the tiny leaves with a textured silver sparkle.

She opened the bag and took out a uniform top. She smoothed it out and refolded it.

“This is how you spend your first little bit of time off in like weeks?” Callum asked from the open doorway.

“Sergeant Major gave us six hours to repack and handle personal needs before we report back for duty,” she said. “We’ve been assigned to the Kolyma. You saw the notice?”

“Ship’s assistant engineer.” Callum puffed out his chest. “Guess the Admiral doesn’t need his best coffee boy on standby if the League shows up. Rather not be on one of Drebin’s ships, in some ways, but O’Hanraghty says they’ve come a long way since Scotia. And it’s nice to be considered marginally relevant for once. May I?” He motioned to one of the two seats at the small round table. “My feet are killing me.”

“You don’t have to ask, Sir.” She lifted a vac helmet out of the bag and did a quick function check on the seals.

“I should’ve listened to you about my socks.” He sat and bent an ankle over his thigh so he could squeeze the heel of his boot. “Marching. Ugh. I joined the Navy to avoid all that.”

“Sergeant Major had us hump the entire length of Ishtar’s core hull—back and forth, four times, in full kit—several times while we were in transit. Worked out at fourteen and a half kilometers each time, and that doesn’t count the hatches, the ladders—no lifts, Sir.” She smiled slightly. “We didn’t even have a ruck on the capstone march.”

“Are you calling me weak?” Callum asked.

“I’m calling you untrained, Sir. You’ll develop calluses. They don’t feel pain.”

She set down her helmet and went into the kitchen.

“I see you’ve got that statue out,” Callum said. “I still think it’s gorgeous, but it doesn’t really do the real thing justice, does it?” He flexed his foot back and forth. “It’s different on Crann Bethadh. People here are more…aware than back in the Heart Worlds. I went through the recruit depot at Olympia, and you’d think those people were reporting for a jail sentence. We joined that slog, and the recruits in it were brimming with excitement. Strange, if you think about it. They’re going to the same fight, but they were actually motivated.”

“It was the end of their basic training,” Eira said from the kitchen. Then she returned with two steaming cups of instant noodles and extended one to him. “I don’t have anything else, Sir.”

“You’re too kind.” He lifted his cup in ironic salute.

“And part of their ‘motivation’ is that it’s New Dublin custom to give graduates a two-day pass after the ceremony,” she continued. “Family, friends—”

“—and booze!” Callum wagged an eyebrow. But then he frowned thoughtfully. “They didn’t seem too upset when the Admiral canceled the pass, though.”

“The League’s coming. Better to be prepared and in place than sleeping off a hangover when the fleet drops sublight.”

Eira sat down and stirred a spoon through her ramen.

“You think they’re coming?” Callum asked.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. We’re assigned to Kolyma.”

“It matters to me, Eira.”

She stopped eating, then brushed her hair back behind one ear, exposing her slave mark, and looked at him steadily.

“At least we’ll be ready—as ready as we can be,” she said. “Inverness never had a chance. Everything was as normal and awful as ever one moment; the next…it was worse. The League’s known to K-strike planets, and sometimes the Federation does the same thing. The only reason anything survives in the dead zone between them is that sometimes the commanders think it’s better to launch a ground attack and seize resources. The people on less valuable worlds?” She grimaced. “Just targets, Sir. Just targets. That’s all I was on Inverness. Now I can fight back. So if we get steamrollered…at least we’ll go down fighting, like your father says. He gave me that…and I’m okay with it. I really am.” She shrugged. “Your noodles are getting cold, Sir.”

“Yeah.” Callum stirred his own cup, watching the little bits of carrots and peas floating in the chicken-flavored broth. “Dad and O’Hanraghty, at least they have a plan,” he said. “But plans and the enemy…you know how those work out.”

“How?”

“I don’t have a clue who first said it, but it was a long, long time ago,” Callum told her. “‘No plan survives contact with the enemy.’” He shrugged. “Makes you wonder why we even bother, but it works both ways. If the League shows up, they’ll have a plan with them, all neat and ready to smash us nasty Feds. And Dad and O’Hanraghty are putting together some surprises of our own for them—take that, Leaguies! But nobody’s got a clue how it’ll really work when the shooting starts. Should be interesting.”

Eira’s face fell.

“If it’ll be that bad, maybe I should have Steiner take my place as your security detachment,” she said.

“Nonsense. I don’t want anyone but you watching my back. For that matter, if it was Steiner, he’d have his passive aggression turned all the way up because he can’t fit his Hoplon suit into Kolyma’s engineering section with me. Besides, what would Logan have you doing back on Ishtar?”

“Cleaning things, probably.”

“There. Much better to have you along with me. Who knows? Maybe we’ll actually like Kolyma.”

* * *

“Lieutenant Callum Murphy and party of one reporting, Ma’am!”

Callum came to attention rather more snappily than usual before Lieutenant Commander Kunigunde Seydel’s desk. He told himself that was because he represented his father in front of an officer who’d become one of Admiral Murphy’s ship commanders under…irregular circumstances. He suspected, however, that at least part of it was that he knew that however well he executed the courtesy, Eira would do it better.

He watched from the corner of one eye and found he had not been mistaken in that expectation. Eira’s stiffly erect posture, squared shoulders, and level, straight-ahead eyes could have served as a recruiting poster. Or as an illustration in a training manual.

The blond-haired officer behind the desk sat back, blue eyes gazing steadily at them for a moment, then waved her right hand.

“Stand easy, Lieutenant. Corporal.”

For a moment, Callum wondered if Eira would remember that “Corporal” meant her. The single chevron on each sleeve of her perfectly pressed fatigues had been there for less than thirty minutes, after all.

She did remember, he saw, although rather than “stand easy,” she went to a rigid parade rest, hands at the small of her back, eyes still fixed steadily ahead at a point on the bulkhead two centimeters above the lieutenant commander’s head. Seydel looked at her for a moment, then shook her head minutely, and turned back to Callum.

“I wish I could say I was happy to see you, Lieutenant Murphy,” she said. She paused, as if inviting a response, but he simply stood there, waiting, and something like amusement flickered in those blue eyes. “Note that I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased to see you,” she continued after a moment. “To be honest, I’m rather desperately in need of another engineering officer at the moment, which is why I am pleased to see you. There are downsides to your assignment, however.

“From a purely selfish perspective, letting someone with your family connections get killed under my command would not be what they call a ‘career enhancing’ move. On the other hand, if you get killed, the odds are pretty good I’ll be killed right along with you, so I can live with that one. A more immediate concern is the fact that, for reasons I’m sure you’ll understand, not every man and woman aboard Kolyma holds a favorable opinion of your father. This is less because they were exceptionally fond of Commodore Drebin than because of the circumstances under which we came under the Admiral’s command.” Her mouth tightened and the eyes which had been amused turned cold. “The New Dubliners haven’t hesitated to draw comparisons between his behavior—and, by extension, our own—and your father’s, however. Three of my people spent several days in sick bay getting patched up after one of those comparisons—one of several, actually—turned physical. I’m sure you can understand why some of them might feel rather…ill-used.”

Callum decided that continued silence was undoubtedly the best course of action.

“I have made it plain to them that, first, your father’s actions were completely justified and resulted in the rescue of almost forty-five thousand Federation citizens our commanding officer had left to die. Any consequences of those actions for us are completely acceptable in my eyes.

“Second, that you are not he, and so are not responsible for those actions in the first place. And, third, that neither I nor the XO had better hear any reports of insubordination or slackness. Having said that, you had better understand that you are not he, as well. You are a very junior lieutenant, with limited experience, and it would behoove you to keep that in mind while interacting with people who have served together aboard this ship for upwards of four years, in many cases. Is there any need for me to expand upon that?”

This time, she clearly expected a response when she paused, and Callum shook his head once.

“No, Ma’am. I believe I understand you.”

“Good.”

Seydel’s body language eased a bit, and she let her chair come back upright.

“To be honest, Lieutenant, I was more than a little surprised when your father made you available to Kolyma. In light of what I understand about his ops plan, I would have expected him to want to keep you aboard Ishtar.”

“He didn’t explain his reasoning to me, Ma’am.” That wasn’t quite the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but Murphy hadn’t explained his reasoning fully. “What he did say to me, rather forcefully, was that my engineering training would probably be more useful to Kolyma than ‘one more green-as-grass, underutilized, underqualified lieutenant could be on a carrier flag bridge in the middle of a fight.’”

Callum allowed himself a fleeting smile, and Seydel actually chuckled.

“More seriously, Ma’am, I finished a course on ship propulsion systems—I specialized in the Fasset drive—at Harriman just before we deployed. I realize Kolyma doesn’t have a Fasset drive, but we did do a two-semester on Fleet fusion drives, as well. And probably more to the point, my mother’s family is a major player in ship construction back home.” From Seydel’s slight eye roll, she considered “major player” a gross understatement. “My grandfather believes in hands-on experience. I spent the better part of two years in power systems, yard-based and shipboard, for Venus Futures between high school and Harriman. We built most of this class, and I’m thoroughly familiar with both her layout and her systems.” He shrugged ever so slightly. “I guess Dad figured it was time to make use of some of the experience I do have.”

Seydel cocked her head thoughtfully for a couple of seconds, then nodded.

“I’d wondered about that,” she said. “That power systems experience of yours isn’t in your service jacket.”

Callum nodded in understanding, and she leaned forward and rested her hands on her desk.

“I’m going to get Lieutenant Pêşrew in here shortly. He’s my senior engineer, and I think he’s going to be delighted to see you. He’s been pulling watch-and-watch for two months now, ever since the power surge that sent your predecessor off to the base hospital. Before I do that, however, I want to share a thought I had about why the Admiral may have assigned you to this ship.”

“Ma’am?” Callum said cautiously.

“You may not be aware of this, Lieutenant, but I’m a Fringer—from Neues Bremen, in fact. I won’t go into how that may or may not have affected my feelings about your father’s actions in Scotia. I will say, however, that I understand the Fringer mindset, I know my people here aboard Kolyma, and from his record, your father understands the Fringer mindset better than most Heart Worlders would. And that, Lieutenant, is why I suspect that the Admiral sent you to us as a promise.”

“A promise, Ma’am?”

“A promise that he will stand by all of us in exactly the same way he would stand by his own son,” Seydel said, and her voice was very, very soft. “A promise that whatever Commodore Drebin might have done in Scotia, neither New Dublin nor the crews of the ships in the system are casually expendable in his eyes.”

It was very quiet in Seydel’s cabin as she held Callum’s eyes for a ten-count. Then she reached across and tapped the slate lying on her desk.

“Yes, Ma’am?” a voice responded.

“Please tell Lieutenant Pêşrew that it’s time for him to meet his new assistant engineering officer, Chief,” Seydel said, then sat back in her chair again with a smile.

* * *

“I thought it went a lot better that time,” Murphy said, rubbing his eyes wearily.

He and O’Hanraghty sat in the ready room off Ishtar’s flag bridge, cups of coffee on the table between them, and the collars of their uniform tunics were unbuttoned. It would be hard to decide which of them looked more exhausted, Murphy thought.

“It did go a lot better,” O’Hanraghty acknowledged. “Of course, most of it’s simulations, not actual ship movement, but they really are starting to operate as a unit. Carson and Cerminaro have done more with BatRon Seven-Oh-Two than I would have believed anyone could, to be honest.”

Murphy nodded. He’d pulled Commander Carson from Burgoyne when Drebin headed off to explain himself to the Oval. He’d suspected things might have gone…poorly during the lengthy voyage. Besides, he’d needed competent officers, so he’d brevetted her to the rank of captain and given her the battleship Foch as soon as he could get the ship back out of the yard.

Aurika Kuosaite, Foch’s assigned captain, had been Yance Drebin’s senior ship commander. She’d also been one of his cronies, and she’d taken advantage of the battleship’s scheduled deep-maintenance overhaul to make a “quick trip” back home to the Sol System long before the attack on Scotia. As nearly as Murphy could tell, no one aboard Foch had missed her, and Carson had done wonders to kick the dispirited ship’s company’s morale in the ass and get her people up and running.

Pryce Cerminaro, MacMahon’s CO, was next in seniority to—and a very different proposition from—the absent Kuosaite. He and Carson got along like a house on fire, probably because of how much they’d both despised Drebin, and their enthusiasm was spreading through the short task group Murphy had “borrowed” from its commodore.

“I think the truth is that, whether they wanted to admit it or not, every one of them was ashamed when Drebin cut and ran in Scotia,” the admiral said, tipping back in his chair and cradling a cup of coffee in both hands. “I think there are a lot of people in uniform—those who have actually ‘seen the elephant,’ anyway—who are ashamed, Harrison. More than I realized.”

“You think?” O’Hanraghty smiled crookedly. “Terrence, there’s only two kinds of officers who can spend much time at the front without being ashamed—the ones who are busy playing the game for their own profit and advancement, and the ones too stupid to pour piss out of a boot. Of course they’re ashamed. Drebin’s not the first system governor to cut and run instead of defending the people he’s supposed to protect. I wish to hell he were, but that’s the way things work out here, and he knew damned well when he ran that there’d be those back in the Heart—hell, in the Oval—who’d think he did the right thing. The smart thing. After all, why throw away ships just to protect Fringers? It’s not like they matter, is it?”

His crooked smile had turned bitter, and he shook his head.

“Too many of our officers are Heart Worlders, and somehow they’re the ones that always gravitate to higher command. The Fringe perspective’s not represented at the top. Hasn’t been for at least the last twenty, thirty years, and the Fringers—who, I remind you, make up a good fifty or sixty percent of our ships’ companies—know it. For that matter, I knew it when I headed off to the Academy from New York, full of piss and vinegar. But the people out here—they’re still people, Terrence. They’re our people. I know you know that, you understand that, but sometimes I think that despite everything, you don’t really grasp how extraordinary that is coming from a member of the Five Hundred.”

Murphy gazed at him. Maybe O’Hanraghty was right. Maybe that was because it was so clear to him. He knew what lengths he’d had to go to, the hoops through which he’d had to jump, to get this command, and he’d resented hell out of the corruption and the inertia and the plain blind arrogance he’d had to circumvent along the way. But in an odd sort of way, he’d never really considered his own motives for doing it in the first place. Clearing his father’s reputation, proving what he’d come to suspect, doing something to protect the people of the Fringe, the possibility of actual hastening the end of the dreary, unrelenting slaughter…

All of that had been wrapped up in it, but he’d never thought of that as anything that made him special. It was what a man of honor did if he was in a position to do it. Did believing that truly make him that different from other Navy officers?

Surely not. The man sitting across the table from him believed in those same things, didn’t he? Of course he did!

“I had an interesting conversation with Commodore Granger,” O’Hanraghty said after a moment, in a rather lighter tone.

“Really?” Murphy smiled.

He liked Granger. She’d buckled down to integrate BatRon 912 into his task force command, and BatRon 912 had increased his battleship strength by fifty-five percent. Actually, it had doubled TF 1705’s assigned battleship strength, although he’d come to think of Drebin’s ships as “his,” as well, over the last few months.

“Yeah.” O’Hanraghty sipped his own coffee. “I don’t think that ‘damage survey’ on Tiamat fooled her for a second, Terrence.”

“Really?” Murphy repeated. O’Hanraghty lowered his coffee cup and gave him The Look, and the admiral chuckled. “Actually, I sort of suspected she’d figured out what had really happened when I first spoke to her about that Zadroga conduit,” he admitted.

“Not much doubt about that, now,” O’Hanraghty said dryly.

“No?”

“Let’s just put it this way, she seemed mighty calm when the yard suddenly started throwing Tiamat’s drive fan back together around that ‘damaged’ inhibitor of hers. In fact, she’s asked to be part of the Hammer. I don’t think she’d have done that if she thought there was really anything wrong with Tiamat’s Zadroga conduits.”

“She’s a smart lady,” Murphy said mildly, and O’Hanraghty snorted.

“She’s smart enough she hasn’t questioned the yard’s downcheck because it covers her—and you, I suppose—for her…extended stay here in New Dublin. She’s also smart enough to make it clear in her official correspondence that she’s willing to risk operating with only the secondary inhibitor solely because of the nature of the emergency. But there’s no way she’d be willing to stress it as part of the Hammer if she really thought the primary was bad.”

“And smart enough to be a real asset when the shit flies.” Murphy nodded. “Her and Carson both. We’ve got some good people out here, Harrison. I hope we don’t get too many of them killed.”

“Best we can do is the best we can do, Sir.”

“I know.” Murphy stretched, feeling the fatigue tugging at the back of his brain. He glanced down into his coffee cup. He didn’t remember finishing it, but it was empty, and he ran a hand through his hair.

“Six hours until the next simulation?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir. I’ve got a few fires to put out, but nothing that requires your attention. Could I suggest you see about getting a little shut-eye in the interim?”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” Murphy said wryly. “Alert criteria in effect if you need to disturb me, though!”

“Understood,” O’Hanraghty said with a nod.

Murphy nodded back, then stood and headed for the side door to the sleeping cabin set aside for his use. There were times when an admiral didn’t need to be wasting any time getting to the flag bridge, and the cot waiting for him looked more inviting than usual at the moment.

The armor layer for his vac suit was laid out next to the cot, and he sat, removed his boots, and felt the weariness spread from the back of his neck through his entire body. He was sure he’d been more tired sometime in his life; he just couldn’t remember when.

The slate in the thigh pocket of his shipboard utilities pinched his leg, and he slipped it out. A slew of inbox messages pulsed on the screen, but if there’d been anything truly vital, O’Hanraghty would already have brought it to his attention. He started to toss it onto the bedside table, then paused as his eye caught a message heading.

It was from Vyom. From the timestamps, it must have been delivered on Calcutta’s most recent run from Jalal—the old FTLC was back on her regular route after delivering the refugees to safety—and he wondered why he hadn’t already seen it. He frowned thoughtfully, then sighed. He’d been running every second since the return from Alramal and this one was marked personal, not for the “System Governor’s” attention, so it had probably just gotten shoved to the back of the message queue by more pressing, official messages.

“Maybe it’s good news,” he sighed as he lay back on the cot. He swiped the message open, and the screen changed to Vyom. The background was someplace tropical, with palm trees and blue ocean waves, and his oldest son looked happy, with his hair waving in the breeze.

Murphy smiled slightly and tapped the PLAY icon.

“Dad!” Vyom said. “I hope you’re doing great things out there in the Fringe. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but the ship trials for the Cormoran-class went smoothly. None of that’s classified—Grandpa made sure the feeds carried the news far and wide. Something about an appropriations meeting. So, yeah…that’s going well.

“Mom’s neck-deep in work, of course, and planning for another event. She’s—”

“Just tell him already,” a woman said from off-screen, and Murphy’s brow furrowed as he heard the unfamiliar voice.

“And Reagan’s getting the same middling grades as always,” Vyom said quickly, then flashed a grin. “Enough suspense? Right. Well, you remember Ingrid. Tall. Blond. Gorgeous. So much fun to be around?”

“Stop it!” The woman laughed.

Vyom grinned again, wider even than before, and turned the camera to the tall, blond—and, yes, gorgeous—young woman standing beside him. She held up her left hand and an oversized engagement ring flashed in the tropical sunlight.

Murphy almost dropped the slate.

“She said yes!” Vyom hugged her and gave her a quick kiss. “No real rush on the wedding, though. Mom and Greta—my future mother-in-law; she’s great, too—are having high-level talks to plan the big day. Looks like it’ll be after your tour, so don’t think you have to go AWOL or something to make it back.”

“I can’t wait to meet you!” Ingrid said.

“What’s happening?” Murphy asked the empty cabin. “Wait…when did…?”

“So that’s the big news back on Earth,” Vyom said. “Can’t wait to see you again. Reagan’s already itching to come out there for a visit, but I don’t think Mom or I could pull ourselves away from work commitments for the trip. You understand. How’s Callum? Tell him to stay away from those farmers’ daughters!”

Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“That’s all I’ve got, Dad. Love you,” Vyom said.

“Bye, Dad!” Ingrid waved at the camera and the video ended.

“‘Dad’?” Murphy glared wearily at the blank slate and tossed it onto the table.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his tired brain sliding in a tractionless spiral as he tried to grapple with his eldest offspring’s latest escapade. He reached for the slate again, to fire back a message, then closed his eyes.

No, a tiny voice told him. Better to deal with that later, when he didn’t have little things like potential League invasions to distract him. And when his mind was actually working again. He shook his head and slumped back onto the cot.

“Give him a good talking-to later,” he mumbled. “Yeah. That’s the ticket. Later…”

He drifted off to sleep.


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