Collected Driblets of Baen at Dahak's Orbit at the Fifth Imperium for the Governor Snippet Collection Feed

Governor 06A - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 06A last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

The young woman hurried down an alley, a shawl over her blonde hair and a basket clutched in her hands. She passed a dumpster that reeked of rotting food and urine before she peeked around the corner into a street that was mostly empty in the early morning hours.

Inverness wasn't a bad world, so far as the Republic's Fringe went, but it wasn't known for its safety or friendliness. Or its warmth. Scotia, the system's red dwarf primary, had just crossed the horizon. It would take up nearly a third of the sky once it had fully risen, but even with it dominating the heavens, its weak light barely managed to keep the air frigid.

The young woman pulled her threadbare coat tighter and moved over a frost-covered sidewalk to a bakery window. The smell of fresh bread was a welcome improvement over the alley, and her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled as she waited, huddled next to a steam vent in the ground. A bit of warmth crept into her toes, and she wiggled them.

The window slid open, and a man with flour coating his hands and lower arms bent over.

"We don't open for another half hour, Eira," he said.

"But the fresh ones taste the best, Mr. Franco." Warmer air wafted over her from the window, and she smiled as her teeth chattered.

"Kills me to see you out here." He glanced back into the bakery. "Boss doesn't like you. You know that."

"He's not here yet," she said.

"No, he's . . . You want fresh, or day-olds? Hurry."

Eira placed a hand on the windowsill and had to pry its frozen fingers open with her other hand. Silver coins rattled onto the metal.

"Nine . . . twelve marks," Franco counted. "I can do four day-old or two fresh."

"I thought that was enough for five," she said.

"Governor raised the sales tax. Sorry. Four?"

"Four. Thank you."

The window shut, and Eira felt the last gust of warm air on her face. She turned away as a ground car rumbled past on the packed snow of the street. She bent over to stick her fingers into the steam grate and winced as the cold left her joints.

The window opened again and a white paper bag landed next to her. She snatched it to her chest and felt a hint of warmth within. Franco must have slipped her a bun fresh from the oven. She went back through the stinking alleyway, debating whether she should eat the warm one or keep going.

"But it'll be cold by the time I'm home." She put her back to the wall and took a bite from a golden-brown pastry. The taste of curried meat made her stomach rumble even harder, and she smiled as she watched steam rise from the half-moon she'd taken out.

A flash of white struck her hands and exploded into slush. She gasped in shock as pain lanced through her left hand. The pastry lay on the ground, jumbled up with the remains of a snowball and a small rock.

"Hey, Leaguie!" a boy shouted. "You steal that?"

Another snowball burst against the wall next to her head, and Eira ducked down, clutching the white bag to her chest. Laughter rose from a bunch of teenagers as another snowball struck her thigh.

Eira reached down and snatched the rock out of the remains of her meal.

She whirled and flung it at a pack of boys too old for Inverness's schools and too young for military service. The rock struck one of them just above the knee, where his winter wear was thinnest.

He screamed in pain and went down. While his friends tried to help him up, Eira ducked into a park and ran as fast as she could over the icy ground.

"Little bastards."

She stopped next to a hedge, panting, her breath coming out in puffs of steam. She shook out her left hand. It hurt, but at least the cold numbed the pain of the scratches the rock had left on it.

She opened the rickety door of a crumbling building and went up the staircase two stairs at a time. She stepped over a drunk and went into her apartment. The place was a single room with a mattress in the corner, with a pile of blankets and a weak heater next to it.

""Eira, that you?" a man asked from the pile.

"Of course it is, Sam," she said. "Got some breakfast."

Sam sat up. He was a bit younger than she, with skin lesions on his neck and upper chest. A brand of cursive text had been seared onto his stomach.

"What did you . . . have to do for this?" he asked as she passed him a bun so cold the filling had ice flakes in it.

"I did laundry for some of the soldiers of the garrison," she said. "Shined boots. Straightened up their barracks. Got coin."

"That one still after you?" Sam wiped sauce from his mouth. "You know. Tried to hurt you."

"I think he's still in the hospital," Eira said. "The sergeant said no court-martial. So he comes back, and . . ."

"You don't have to feed me so much," Sam said. "It's not like I'm moving around a lot."

"Get healthy and then you can start working, too." She tore off a third of her bun and pressed it into Sam's hands. "Now shut up and finish eating. And then I need to look at that leg of yours again."

Governor 05C - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 05C last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

“Am I in the military or a prison with strange rules?” he asked and went out the office's other door. It led to a narrow stairwell and up to a bar-lined walkway with four colored lines running down the middle.

The walkway extended over an open space where spacers and Marines waited inside painted squares, their bags piled in one corner. Drill sergeants in bright yellow berets barked orders as they prowled between the squares.

Callum felt self-conscious as he made his way down the walkway. He was an officer, yes, but being so high above the enlisted personnel made it seem like he was lording over them. He passed over a square where a drill sergeant gave specific and high-volume instructions on the proper way to walk in a single file line. Callum stopped, noticing that several had their hands cuffed in front of them.

“Hey, one of our lords and masters is playing spacer!” a man in the line shouted up at him. “Don’t worry, Sir, we’ll be good little sheep!” He snatched up a water bottle and hurled it at the catwalk. It struck a bar and broke open, spraying Callum across the arms.

A drill sergeant tackled the protester to the floor and a dog pile of military police followed on.

The man let out a "Baaa," and the brays spread to more and more draftees. The drill sergeants promised dire consequences trying shut down the chant, but the noise only spread and grew louder.

Callum shook water off his hands and increased his pace. The noise level behind him dropped as he went down another stairwell and found himself in a lounge that extended several hundred yards, with numbered gates on either side. Benches spread across it, filled with other officers and senior enlisted spacers and Marines who glanced at him, and then back to the walkway where the farm noises had settled down.

He passed a kiosk where a pair of elderly ladies offered cookies and coffee and found his departure gate, halfway down the concourse.

The benches were nearly unoccupied at Gate 37. A single woman in dark green Marine fatigues with a corporal's stripe and medic's caduceus sat next to a pile of long gun cases. Uniform tops were draped over the bench beside her.

"This is . . . the Ishtar, yes?" he asked her.

She raised her gaze slowly. A row of tattoos like shark teeth stood out along her jaw, one eye was a pale green, and the other was a dark prosthetic orb. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, and pale patches of replacement skin with dates inked to them stood out against her naturally olive complexion.

"Yeah. Ishtar, Sir."

"How long have you been waiting? Don't know if I have time to —"

"Nine hours." She stretched an arm over her head and leaned to one side. "Maybe we were waiting for you." She lowered that arm, raised the other one, and leaned to the other side. "Maybe we should check and see if the shuttle's here now."

"Nine? That's ridiculous."

Callum went to the gate and grasped the handle, but the door flew open and knocked him back before he could open it. He landed hard on his rear and winced in pain.

"Oops," a deep voice said. A massive man in a sweat-drenched undershirt and fatigue pants stood in the doorway. His craggy features and a nose left crooked by one too many breaks gave him an atavistic air. Another pair of Marines in a similar state stood behind him. "Best watch yourself, mate."

"He's a zero," the woman on the bench said.

"I mean . . . Sir," the big man said as he read Callum's name tag but made no effort to help him up. "Murphy but not Murphy. Not our principal."

"The secondary?" a whip-thin man with a tight beard asked from behind him.

"Suppose." The big man picked up a uniform top and wiped his face and neck.

"The secondary," the woman said. "Same ride."

Callum got up and brushed himself off.

"Any of you want to clue me in?" He glanced through the open door and saw an empty landing pad with three puddles of sweat on it.

"You're up." The big man slapped the woman on the shoulder and she stripped off her blouse, jogged outside, and began doing a round of calisthenics. "I'm Sergeant Major Logan," he said to Callum. "Chief of the Hoplon detachment assigned to Murphy, Terrence. One each."

"Hoplon? I thought you guys had the mech armor and all that," Callum said.

"We don't wear it all the time," a fair-haired man said as he plopped down next to Logan and looked over the weapon cases. "Steiner. Ugly there's Chavez." He tilted his head to the man with a goatee. "Faeran's out there, if she didn't say hi. She's like that."

"All that —" Callum gestured to his jawline. "That's a bit nonstandard. Right?"

"She's from the Fringe," Logan said. "Incorporation laws let her keep any religious markings. She was a shaman in training before she got drafted."

"Oh. Pleasant. Why are Hoplons assigned to the Ishtar? You guys are high intensity ground combat troops."

"You mean why are we assigned to your father?" Logan leaned back.

"He is my father, yes," Callum said a bit stiffly, and Logan's mouth twitched into a brief sneer.

"We were with our cohort to deploy to Beta Cygni," Steiner said. "Then we got 'Hey you'd' to be a personal security detachment for some Five Hundred princeling —"

Logan grunted and Steiner went silent.

"Seems the brass are worried your daddy needs some extra muscle around him," the sergeant major said. "The Fringe Worlds have been a bit restive these past few years. We'll be along to keep the locals from doing a Gobelins."

"Gobelins. That's where the planetary government declared independence from the Republic a few years back," Callum said.

"And where the locals built a guillotine for all off-world officials." Logan nodded. "Got messy. Got messier when we got things back in line."

"You sure? The planet was brought back into the Republic through negotiations." Callum sat down on a bench facing Logan.

"That's what the news told you." Logan shrugged. "I've got scars that say otherwise, but don't you worry, Sir. We've got you." He smiled.

"Six months busting our chops training in Australia," Chavez said. "And two days before we're supposed to go break League skulls in Beta Cygni, we get this duty."

"Why's your old man so important?" Steiner asked.

"I doubt he requested your . . . services," Callum said. "More likely it was someone else's idea."

"Because?"

"Because he's a Murphy." Callum shrugged. "Maybe you've heard of Henrik Murphy? Father of the Republican Navy?"

"We only care about the Navy when they're taking us somewhere or providing orbital support," Chavez said.

"Okay. What about the hero of the Battle for Steelman's Star?"

"Lots of heroes out there," Logan said.

"My grandfather is Kanada Thakore," Callum offered.

"What's a Thakore?" Chavez asked.

"One of the Five Hundred," Logan said. "Big one, too. You got an uncle in command of a task force out in Beta Cygni?"

"Rajenda Thakore. That’s the one."

"Makes sense now," Logan said. "But who'd we piss off to get a babysitting tour?"

"You know I'm his son," Callum said, his cheeks flushing with anger. "You figured that out on your own."

"What's he going to do?" Logan raised a palm. "Send us to war?"

"Terrence Murphy doesn't need 'babysitting'," Callum said. "I doubt any Fringe World is that bad. Though I did just have a water bottle thrown at me."

"Ooooh, a water bottle!" Logan stifled a laugh. "You need a hug? Granny back there with the snickerdoodles might oblige you. Wouldn't ask Faeran. She bites."

"He's not kidding about that," Steiner said.

Callum got a whiff of the Marines' body odor and noted that there weren't any shower facilities readily available.

"Two hours to the chow cart," Logan said to his men. "Clean weapons, then we can rack out." He slid a case from the pile, opened it and removed a heavy machine gun. He flipped the breach open and puffed air into the receiver.

"I'll just . . . wait here, then," Callum said.

No one replied. Nor did any of them speak to him while they worked.

Governor 05B - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 05B last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

“Yeah. . . here goes,” he muttered, and shifted the space bag straps on his shoulders and started walking. He passed small knots of families as they said goodbye to sons and daughters. Most of those in uniform were in their early twenties, and wearing uniforms that looked fresh from the printers, with bare cloth where ribbons and unit crests would be.

He did a double take at a Marine with a worn patch on his right shoulder as the man spoke to four children, a pair of elderly grandparents behind them. Republician Marines wore the patch of a unit they’d been in combat with, which meant this man was clearly a veteran. What was he doing here at a muster station?

The feeling of dread grew as he joined a line outside the terminal leading to a barred revolving gate manned by armed military police. Those in the line were silent, eyes locked on the gate.

Callum fought the urge to look back for one last glance at his mother and sister, but that felt as weak as it was useless. They were gone. The line moved forward slowly as the MPs did a bio ident scan on each person before they went through the gate. He glanced at his watch and guessed he wouldn’t be late.

Even the little time he’d spent in military training was enough to accustom him to hurry up and wait. Yet, for as much of his time the Navy wasted, they wouldn’t tolerate him being late for anything.

“Lieutenant?” a woman asked from one side.

“Yes?” Callum craned his head over, careful not to bump the spacer behind him with the hump of his space bags.

A heavyset chief petty officer with graying hair beneath a maroon beret gave him a quick salute. Her name tape read HUGGINS.

“This isn’t your line, Sir,” she motioned to a door near the barred entrance.

“No issue. I can—”

“Not. Your line. Sir." A small but severe smile crossed her lips.

“Must have missed the memo,” Callum said as he followed the petty officer. There was an awkward stiffness in her gait and she held a door open for him. Inside was a small office that smelled of old coffee. The spacer stepped around a combination scale-scanner and a tall desk, like she was going to check him into a flight.

“Bags to the scanner, if you please, Sir." She slipped off her beret and tucked it into a back pocket. “No offense meant, but regulations require me to offer you this opportunity to surrender any contraband with no legal repercussion or notations to your personnel file. Anything?”

“Some of my socks may be non-regulation,” Callum said as he dropped the bags on the scanner platform.

“Must be your first muster,” the petty officer said as she tapped on a keyboard. “Still have a sense of humor. ID, please.” She tapped a small slate on the desktop and Callum laid his palm onto it.

“This fast pass lane just for officers or. . .”

“The Navy decided long ago that its more senior members had better things to do with their time than go through a common muster. Most of the compulsories out there haven’t declared for needs or preference, so they have more paperwork to go through. Hand off, thank you.”

“Sorry, ‘needs’ or ‘preference’?”

Huggins stopped typing and gave him a funny look.

“You must not have gone to public school,” Huggins said.

“No. Mostly tutors and the like. Then the Sorbonne.”

“Must’ve been nice,” she muttered under her breath. “Needs or preference, Sir, is the first and last choice the Republic military gives to those serving their compulsory enlistment. Those who choose to serve at the needs of the military have their specialty chosen by the military and they serve no more than three years. Usually. After that they’re exempt from further compulsory service.

“Those that choose to serve at their preference pick their specialty—aptitude and service need dependent. They’ll serve three years plus twice the length of their training. . . and are subject to recall for twenty years after their initial enlistment.”

“That. . . doesn’t sound like a very enticing offer,” Callum said.

“Let’s see. . . Murphy,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “Callum T. Assigned to the Ishtar. New Dublin? That’s not in the Beta Cygni sector." She scowled at him for a moment, then composed herself. “Scan complete. No contraband. I’ll have your gear tagged and moved to your ship in just a moment. Those that serve at the needs of the service are more likely to be assigned to the combat-oriented specialties.”

“Which have higher casualty rates,” Callum said.

“And those that choose preference can learn valuable skills for the job market at the taxpayers’ expense,” she said. “This system’s been in place since the first decade of the war. It’s worked out well enough.”

“Which was your choice?”

“Needs,” she bent over and knocked knuckles on her pants leg and the metallic ring of a prosthetic limb came back. “Anyone under a hundred percent disability can refuse a medical discharge. I found a way to stay useful.”

Huggins placed a deep blue pamphlet on the desk top.

“Your initial muster receipt. Orders assigning you to the Ishtar and alcohol chits. Don’t lose those. Or sell them. . . Murphy. The task force commander on the Ishtar’s named Murphy.”

“The name's not that uncommon. Thanks, Chief,” Callum slipped the pamphlet into a pocket. “So now I . . .”

“Take this door, stay on the orange line and get to holding area thirty-seven and wait there. Transport will pick you up soon as it’s available. By regulation I’m required to tell you that any attempt to leave this facility in anything but an authorized and assigned military vehicle will result in arrest and a mandatory sentencing for desertion.”

“That’s necessary?”

“Good luck, Sir." She touched an earpiece and went out the front door back to the parking lot. The lock snapped shut behind her. A panel opened in the wall and a robot wheeled out and collected his bags, then vanished into a dark tunnel.

Governor 05A - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 05A last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Callum stuffed a pair of scuffed boots into a beige space bag with the Harriman Academy emblem, then flung open a drawer and packed the rest of the bag full of socks and undergarments.

“Shirts! Dress shirts. . . utilities I think I got those. Is it black shoes or brown on a carrier? What time is . . . ah hell,” he opened a closet and lifted a full non-military suitcase.

“At least you’ve got your head screwed on,” a feminine voice said from behind.

Callum spun around and wiped sweat from his brow, his younger sister, Reagan, stood in the doorway to his room.

“You want to help or gloat?” Callum went back to ransacking his dresser.

“You know Uncle Harry sent you a packing list like a week ago?” Reagan asked.

“Was busy. Had to fit two years’ worth of living into the time I had left. Do I need a pillow? The bunks on the ship should have pillows.”

“And then Mom sent the list to the printers and had all new clothes and gear made up for you?”

“She what?” Callum dropped his bag.

Reagan went to a hallway closet and opened it with a swipe of her hand over a reader. Three vacuum-packed olive green bags were nestled next to racks of fluffy towels.

“She mentioned something about going to war in clean underwear.” Reagan rolled her eyes.

“Why didn’t you—I mean she—”

“Because you’ve got nineteen minutes until the car comes to take you to Port Olympia,” she said. “She’ll meet us there and embarrass you with hugs and kisses before you cross the gates.” Her eyes welled up and she turned away.

“Reagan. . . don’t be like that,” Callum said. “It’s New Dublin! Two years holding down the orbital platforms and maybe light customs work." He put an arm around her shoulder. “And you know who’s in charge? Our dad. The man doesn’t go looking for trouble. He’s a politician at heart, not a fighter.”

Reagan sniffed hard and pulled away.

“It’s just that my friend Susan lost her brother in Beta Cygni, and now you and Dad are leaving and I don’t want you to—”

“Stopppp,” Callum pulled her into a hug. “This isn’t like that time Dad was out at Steelman’s. That was a total fluke. This is a nothing deployment. Heck, you and Mom can even come visit us.”

Reagan pushed him away.

“And spend weeks in a star liner listening to her complain about the food? I’ll pass,” she said.

“You can come by yourself. Crann Bethadh has skiing. . . and bears. Giant terrifying bears.”

"What's Cran . . . Cranny . . . what you just said?" she asked suspiciously. "You're going to New Dublin."

"True," Callum said. "But the only inhabited planet's called Crann Bethadh." His tone was more than slightly smug, that of an older brother impressing a younger sister, and she rolled her eyes.

"What language is that?" she challenged.

"I don't know," he admitted after a moment in a somewhat less smug tone. "But it's something about a tree. And they do have skiing! I know how much you enjoy that."

“No promises from me. You just do what you can to stay away from farmer’s daughters or getting all weird and deciding to live on the frontier selling organic candles or something,” she said.

“I like girls with a bit of culture. I won’t settle for anything less than a spoiled Heart World brat. So you just keep tabs on any of your friends from finishing school that— Ow! I need that foot.”

“Get your stuff, spacer!” Reagan thrust a finger at the closet. “And don’t you dare make Mom cry when she sees you off, because then I’ll start crying and—”

“New Dublin,” Callum picked up a bag under each arm. “Get that one for me, please. And it’s New Dublin! I might as well be posted to Centauri or Pluto for all the danger I’ll be in. It’ll be fine.”

The Murphy family limo stopped in an outer lane of the Port Olympia military terminal. Shuttle busses meandered along the curb to the main building, dropping off young men and women in midnight blue navy coveralls and digital pattern Marine uniforms.

Callum was the first out of the limo and he felt something in the early evening air, an almost palatable sense of dread. He slipped on a dark blue beret and adjusted it while looking in a window. The shape wouldn’t hold no matter how hard he tugged, and the head gear looked more like an Italian chef’s hat than the perfect slant and peak that his father sported. He gave up, comforting himself with the reflection that he only had to wear it through the lot and could remove it once inside the terminal.

A low chant carried on a breeze from one side of the fenced-in lot. Protestors in all black and with veils over their faces held up sticks with moving digital projections of anti-war slogans. One held a counter, displaying a number well over three billion and increasing by several dozen at irregular intervals.

“Ugh.” Simron, dressed for a boardroom meeting, got out behind Callum and straightened out the top of her pants suit. She shook her head at the protestors. “How unpatriotic. Don’t they know doing this gets them on hiring blacklists?”

“Maybe that’s why they wear the veils.” Callum went to the trunk and slapped it twice to signal the robot driver to pop it open.

“They think that will do them any good?” Simron sniffed as Callum hauled his space bags out of the limo. “Adorable. Callum, what are you doing? Don’t they have someone to carry that for you?”

“No, Mom, that’s not how the Navy works,” Callum hefted one bag onto a shoulder. “Reagan? You coming out?” He bent over to look inside the passenger compartment. His sister had tucked herself against the far side, knees drawn up to her chest and hair covering her face.

“Reagan. . . come on.”

“She did this when your father left too.” Simron gave Callum a quick hug. “Two years. Take care of your father. Don’t go looking for trouble and don’t come back with any medals. You understand? No medals.”

“I think I get one just for showing up today. Republic Defense Service or something.”

“Don’t get the one your grandfather had. Purple Heart, I think it was. And none like your father has for being brave when he shouldn’t have been.”

“Valor, Mom. Those are for valor.”

“Not a single one.” She wagged a finger at him. “Now. . .” Her face held firm but Callum could see emotion building behind her eyes. “Now go on and muster or whatever it is you do in the Navy. Sorry Vyom couldn’t be here, but he’s at a critical design meeting on Luna and I’m due for a telecom at the office soon. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Callum gave her another hug and lifted his other bag onto his back. He went to the window where Reagan was huddled and rapped on the glass. “I’m off. Can I have a hug?”

“No!” came her muffled reply.

“No boys while I’m gone. Vyom will back me up on this. Mom?” He looked up just as the opposite side door shut and the limo rolled away.

He watched it go for a moment, then inhaled deeply.

Governor 03B - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 03B last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

“I told you to leave that at home,” Simron said.

“You think a flag officer can just un-plug from command? Even your father was still checking his updates during the party. Those lens implants are expensive, but he has a bad habit of drifting off when he’s accessing information."

A small holo screen appeared over the case, the projection blurred from Simron’s vantage point.

“You keep going on and on about how O’Hanraghty has everything under control,” Simron said. “Maybe you should’ve hired someone from the short list that father put together.”

“No disrespect to Kanada, but there’s no one else like O’Hanraghty in the Republican Navy.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Simron raised an eyebrow.

“A good executive officer solves problems before they ever reach the commander’s attention,” Murphy said. “But some will always be beyond his control.”

The case buzzed in his hand.

“Just like— Here,” he handed the case to her and she glanced at the screen, then rolled her eyes.

“Ugh,” she said. “I’m not surprised. You get to deal with it. And you had better straighten this out while you’re in New Dublin. His last name and the Peter Principle can only get him so far.”

The limo landed gently at their building and Simron’s door opened smoothly. She blew Murphy a kiss and went inside.

The screen between Murphy and the driver lowered.

“Sir?”

“Seems I’ve been invited to an after party,” Murphy said. “Take me to the Spring Mountain Gaming complex. Private entrance.”

“Right away,” the limo door snapped shut.

Callum Murphy felt the world spinning as he lay on a cool tile floor. He knew he was perfectly still, but the flush of alcohol in his system made all of his perceptions a bit suspect. Drool seeped down one corner of his mouth and his feet kicked at the floor.

“He’s. . . cheatin’! That dealer. . . had a card in ‘is. . . fingers. Somethin',” his stomach heaved and he swallowed before its contents could go any further than the base of his esophagus.

A pair of shiny black shoes stepped in front of him.

“Did jou. . . rest him? Fer cheatin?” Callum tried to wag a finger and poked himself in the cheek.

“Yes, I’ll authorize the dose,” a voice said. “Go with a double.”

“Oh. . . hi, Dad,” Callum raised his head up then dropped it back down when the lights proved too bright. “Big. . . day ‘morrow.”

“Sir,” a new voice said, “that much Teetotaler will—”

“You heard me.”

Callum felt a bite of cold metal against his throat and heard a hiss.

“What’re you — What?” Callum’s brown eyes shot open as his heart rate soared. He sat up, panting as his vision went red, and his ears throbbed with pressure. A sheen of cold sweat slicked his face and he wiped his palms across his eyes several times. He tried protesting but only managed a high-pitched whine between gulps of air.

“Heartrate’s at one seventy and holding,” the new voice said.

“So he can have more?” Terrance Murphy asked.

“Not recommended.”

“Oh God.” Callum crinkled his nose as he smelled his own alcohol-permeated clothing. “This won’t ever come out. You know that, right?” He pinched the front of his soaked shirt and plucked it away from his body.

Murphy squatted down and looked him in the eyes.

“Son, I'm disappointed.”

“What? What did I . . . ?" Callum closed his eyes for a moment. "The Teetotaler will get the booze out of your system. Won’t fix your memory, though," he said, opening them again.

“Then allow me to refresh it," Murphy said. "You created quite the scene on the gambling floor. I’ve got a bill here for a ruined roulette wheel and new felt on two different blackjack tables.”

Callum brushed a hand across his lap.

“Funny, normally you get a hit of the drunk-no-more and your bladder. . .”

“The roulette wheel,” his father deadpanned.

“Oh yeah. . ."

“You also proposed to several waitresses and a security guard, saying you were going to war tomorrow and wanted to—”

“Okay, that I remember.” Callum put a hand to a temple. “Vyom will get all that honor, too. Can I get some water? Maybe something with electrolytes?”

“Get up.” Murphy hooked his son by the armpits and hauled him to his feet. It took a little effort. Although Callum looked a lot like a masculine version of his mother, was within eight centimeters of Murphy's own height “The concierge gave me a courtesy call to deal with your situation before they called law enforcement. Do you understand what almost happened?”

“A quick trip to the courthouse for an annulment?” Callum smiled.

“No!” Murphy shouted.

The door to the room shut as the other man left.

“Callum . . . you were so drunk that you would’ve ended up in either a jail cell or a hospital before the night was over. That happens and you'd miss muster when our carrier group spaces out tomorrow. Do you understand what that would mean?”

“I’d . . . catch the next transport to New Dublin?” Callum tried to smile and got a shooting pain through his temples.

“You’re a lieutenant in the Republician Navy and the flag lieutenant of an admiral who's deploying tomorrow,” Murphy said, putting his hands on his hips.

“No, I’m actually in the merchant marine . . . or should be." Callum said. "But I’m on orders for active duty, yeah. Missing muster prior to a deployment is . . . pretty bad. Court martial bad. But wouldn’t you—”

“No, Callum. Not even I could get you out of a mess like that. The Republic’s been at war for the next best thing to sixty years, and failure to report for duty when you’ve got orders to do so is not tolerated. Doesn’t matter what your last name is.”

Murphy took his son by the elbow and led him out of the room and into a hallway.

“War? Let’s be real here, Dad." Callum stumbled a bit as he kept pace with his father. "We’re going to New Dublin. I wouldn’t even know where— Come to think of it, I still don’t think I can find it on a star chart. It’s a dead sector. Not even on any of the main trade lines. Just a bunch of colonists squatting on land and pumping out kids.”

They exited onto an air car dock several dozen stories above street level. The giant projections of nearby casinos and night clubs danced in the night. Lines of airborne traffic meandered through the neon glow. Beyond them, the towering buildings of the Republic's capital rose into the night like Titans, glittering with the gems of lighted windows and bathed in floodlights, like treasure heaped in some god's jewelry case.

“I guarantee they don’t have anything like this out in the sticks,” Callum said.

“Son,” Murphy shook his head. “This is on me. This is my fault.”

“Don’t follow.”

“You have . . . you have no idea of what it means to put on the uniform. You’ve lived in the Heart Worlds your entire life. The war means nothing more to you than what’s in your news feed. That sound about right?”

Callum’s arms flapped against his sides.

“Sorry? Was I supposed to go join the ‘Public Marines' for summer break or something? I was in the reserve training corps in college like you asked, but I’m more interested in Fasset Drive construction and macroeconomics than shooting missiles. Merchant Marine’s a lot more attractive to me as a career than Survey Corps or the regular Navy. So I get the Navy hitch out of the way, then shift over to the Merchant Marine, like Gandpa wants. That a problem? After Vyom got a deferment I thought you didn’t—”

Murphy’s jaw tightened so hard Callum thought his father’s teeth would crack.

“I’m on your staff,” Callum said. “O’Hanraghty won’t let me screw up too much, right? Two years sitting on our thumbs in New Dublin and then it’s all over with,” he shrugged. “I’ll come back to captain a trader ship and you’ll be . . . a senator or something.”

“What did you mean earlier,” Murphy tapped a screen on the car dock safety rail, “when you said Vyom was going to get ‘the honor’ before you?”

“Did I? Must’ve been the meds playing with my—”

Murphy gave him a glare that fathers had practiced long before humans adopted speech.

“Vyom’s in Buenos Aries,” Callum snapped in response. “It’s a business trip . . . and just so happens to be where Ingrid’s from.”

“Ingrid. They’ve been dating for barely six months,” Murphy frowned.

“Which is a record for Vyom,” Callum said.

“No. Vyom can’t. . .” Murphy ran a hand through his hair. “What exactly is he going to do? Propose?”

“It’s just a suspicion,” Callum raised his hands. “He gets stupider than usual when he starts talking about Ingrid.”

“Does your mother know?”

“She practically set them up,” Callum said. “Ingrid’s the sole heir to another of the Five Hundred. Mom's probably got a list of focus-tested baby names picked out. I’ll just point out that she's done precisely zero to hook me up with an heiress.”

“You remember Jenny Schleibaum? When you were fourteen?”

“In my defense, snakes were still awesome back then. She didn’t see it that way.”

“Son—”

A beaten up taxi pulled up to the dock.

“You came in that thing?” Callum asked.

“We’re leaving in this,” Murphy said. “Keeps the paparazzi from knowing that a certain young officer came very close to embarrassing himself.”

The door creaked open and the cylindrical head of the robot driver spun around.

“W-w-where to?” came from a microphone.

“Is that smell from the seat or from me?” Callum’s nose wrinkled.

“Get in,” Murphy pushed against Callum’s shoulder, “and don’t be surprised when your pay stub has a bunch of zeros in it for the next few months. Silence costs money.”

“Eh. We’ll be in transit anyway. You hungry, Dad? Last chance for a decent nosh. What do they eat out in New Dublin? Grubs and rats?”

Governor 03A - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 03A last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

The stairs were narrow, and Murphy steadied his wife by the elbow as Simron's heels and a few cocktails made the descent more precarious than usual. The stairs delivered them to a garage with a long line of waiting limos, and a young man in the same uniform as the party servers opened a door to a vehicle with a custom hood ornament and enough chrome highlights to make it stand out even from the rest of the luxury.

“Dad doesn't do 'unostentatious' very well, does he?” Simron said, shaking her head with a crooked smile as she slipped into the back seat and kicked off her shoes. “He would have us in a Ducati 11, wouldn't he?”

Terrence closed her door and went around the back with the valet, and their muffled conversation lingered on the other side of the limo.

A window between the passenger and driver compartments lowered and the driver turned around and tipped his cap.

“Pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “Where can I take you?”

“Missing someone,” Simron replied, and squinted at her arm rest, searching for controls.

“I’ll get it."

The driver hit a button. The window opposite Simron lowered and she leaned toward it just as Murphy grasped the valet’s upper arm and shook his hand.

“You take care,” the rear admiral said to him, then opened his own door and sat down.

“Home now,” Simron said to the driver, then shook her head at her husband as the screen went up between the compartments.

“Now you’re chatty?” she asked. “I have to twist your arm to say more than five words to Dad’s chief finance officer and the new head of Stellara Lines—and I can’t believe what she was wearing—but then you get buddy-buddy with the help?”

Murphy had a faraway look in his eyes as he glanced out the window.

The limo rose up over the car line on counter-grav emitters in the wheel wells.

“Terrence,” Simron snapped, “care to explain?”

“What? Oh he was aboard the Carson,” Murphy said. “He wanted to. . . reminisce for a moment.”

“You never served aboard any Carson,” Simron narrowed her eyes slightly.

“It was one the ships we lost at Steelman,” Murphy said. “We rescued some of her crew after the battle. . . He remembered me on the bay floor when we opened his pod. Said I was one of his litter bearers when he was taken to med bay.”

“You remember him?”

“It was a long day, Simmy,” Murphy said gently.

“I suppose his status got him hired on for the night,” Simron flicked her hand twice and an emitter in a bracelet projected a screen showing her face. She adjusted the thin layer of the make-up liner with deft motions from her pinky nail. “He seemed all right.”

The limo passed out of the garage and lifted up to crisscrossing levels of air traffic strung through the skyscrapers of Olympia. The Republic's capital was notorious for its crowded airspace, and Murphy tensed as the limo slipped into a gap in the air cars and sped up as it rose through faster and faster bands.

The human in the driver’s seat was almost an affectation, he reminded himself. A networked AI handled their actual route.

“His arms are prosthetic below the elbow,” Murphy said. “You didn’t notice that the fingers on his left hand looked a bit arthritic? Low quality replacements.”

“This night wasn’t supposed to be a Republic Service Veterans’ lodge meeting,” Simron sighed, and changed the projection to several media feeds. Pics of the two of them arriving at the party and news articles scrolled up. “All positive coverage. . .you’re quite the war hero from these headlines.”

“You father ‘adjusting’ the algorithms again?” Murphy asked.

“You’re a newly minted rear admiral. New command. Medals from the Battle of Steelman’s Star. Don’t complain if we make your star shine a bit brighter. Helps the family. And aren’t you a hero?”

“No,” Murphy looked away. “We were losing a fight and I managed to turn it around. Any officer would’ve done the same.”

“But it was you that did it and there’s nothing wrong with telling people that. Besides, wouldn’t that valet back there think you were a hero?”

“I’m just glad he made it out alive,” Murphy said.

Simron pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s see if I’ve trained you right,” she said. “Who was the tech officer with the obnoxious cologne?”

“Lionel Fanx, Goodridge Shipping Conglomerate,” Murphy said. “He was with his assistant and not his wife for the evening.”

“That wasn’t his. . . he does like blonds. Anyway, he was going on and on about the Beta Cygni Sector and how your post is in New Dublin. What was he getting at?”

The limo’s speed leveled out as they slipped past penthouses. There was no traffic above them.

Murphy frowned. Travel in this high a band came with a premium toll. A waste of money in his opinion.

“Don’t even start about the cost,” Simron raised a finger. “I know you. Back to the guy that smelled like flour and vanilla.”

“The bulk of the Republican Navy is fighting in the Beta Cygni Sector. On the verge of a breakthrough—if you listen to the news—the same breakthrough that’s been promised for ten years, since we lost at Mangalore. New Dublin is almost two hundred light-years from Earth . . . in pretty nearly the opposite direction from Beta Cygni,” Murphy said.

“And?” Simron made a circular, warp-it-up motion with her hand, urging him forward.

“It was his way of implying I’m either not ready for a frontline deployment. . . or afraid of one,” Murphy huffed.

“Wait. . . you just let him get away with that?”

“Fanx was never in uniform. What do I care about someone that got a deferment and skipped out of his mandatory service?”

“Because,” Simron’s finger shot up and the news feeds vanished, “Fanx is from the Five Hundred and the heir to one of the more influential families in that group. His opinion matters, Terry. You can’t brush people like that off just because they didn’t go the same route you did, and you know who else hasn’t been in the military?”

“Don’t start,” Murphy said.

“Vyom, our darling firstborn son." Her face darkened with anger.

“I’m well aware of who he is,” Murphy sank slightly into his seat.

“The Republic is very clear that military service isn’t needed from those with key positions in our economy,” she said. “And Vyom is a rising star in Father’s company. He’s already the head of the new destroyer concept team and—”

“I never said Vyom wasn’t qualified for his position,” Murphy said. “He’s done very well for himself.”

“But you were against his deferment. Don’t deny it.”

“Family tradition,” Murphy said. “My grandfather and my father—”

“We’ve got Callum to follow in your footsteps,” Simron said. “Vyom can take after his other grandfather. And I’m glad you’re keeping such a close eye on Callum during your deployment. A deployment to a much quieter part of the war.”

“Speaking of,” Murphy slipped a matte black case from a pocket in his trousers.

Governor 02A - Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:07:56 -0500

"Governor 02A last updated Mon Nov 16 19:07:56 EST 2020

"Do we really have to do this?" Fleet Admiral Arkadios Fokaides growled. "The man's a damned fop, whatever the frigging newsies had to say about Steelman!"

The Terran Republic's Chief of Naval Operations was a man with exactly zero patience for fools at the best of times, and he was none too picky about who he assigned to the "fools" category. Although, in this case, Vice Admiral Yang Xiaolan reflected, he might have a better argument than usual. Yang had known Terrence Murphy for over thirty years, and he'd never impressed her as a suitable champion to uphold the Murphy family name. Not that he couldn't have been, just that he never had.

"The decision is up to you, Arkadios," she said now. "All I can say is that the arguments in favor of making Boyle happy are pretty convincing, and I think he's ready to go to the mat over this one."

"Probably because of how many credits Thakore's pouring into his goddamn party's slush fund. God, I hate politics!" Fokaides looked even less happy. But then he shrugged. "I don't suppose he can do too much damage."

The CNO had managed not to say "not even he," Yang noted. It had probably been hard for him.

"It's not as if he's going to have to defeat the entire Rénzú Liánméng Haijun by himself," she pointed out, and Fokaides gave her a moderately dirty look. Unlike some, she had no problem pronouncing the Terran League's Navy's proper name. The majority of the TRN's personnel, including one Arkaidios Fokaides simply referred to it as "the League Navy" or "the Leaguies" and got on with it.

"Of course he isn't," he growled back. "I just hate giving him the slot. It's not like he's earned it!"

Yang nodded. No one could really argue with that point, she reflected.

"I’m surprised Thakore didn’t push for his son Rajenda to get the position,” she said.

“Raw nepotism won’t play for Thakore,” Fokaides shook his head. “Besides, Rajenda has a combat command on the Beta Cygni front. We pull him out of that and it’ll look like he’s being politely fired.”

“So they give Murphy the position at New Dublin with a significant force to command. It looks good in the faxes," she pointed out in return. "Boyle's publicity flaks are right about the way Public Information can play up the 'a Murphy goes to war' angle. Especially — and I know you're not going to want to hear this — after Steelman."

Fokaides glared at her, and it was her turn to shrug.

"I know the entire thing got blown out of all proportion, and if I had to guess, it was only O'Hanraghty that kept him from stepping on his sword. That's the way even Murphy's after-action report reads, if you read between the lines. But whatever the reasons, that's how the public sees him now. And however much it may grate, we're going to need all the political support we can get for next year's appropriations." Fokaides fixed her with icy green eyes, and she shrugged again. "I don't like it a whole lot more than you do, but if it helps us get the budget we need, I think it's worth the investment."

Fokaides leaned back in his chair and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. That hair was still thick and dark, thanks to antigerrone, but he was eighty years old, and he'd been Chief of Naval Operations for almost twenty years. He'd reach mandatory retirement in another five, at which point Yang would step into his shoes. She was seventeen years younger than he was, and she'd been named Vice Chief of Naval Operations two years ago expressly to give her the experience she'd need when it was her turn in the hot seat. He hadn't picked her at random as his successor, either. He'd chosen her because she was smart and capable and because the choice was too important to leave up to the civilians.

And she's right, dammit, he thought. It just sticks in my craw. Wonder how much of it's because of how much I detested his old man? Fokaides didn't like admitting, even to himself, that personal animosity could play a part in a decision like this, but there was no point pretending that he and Bartholomew Murphy hadn't despised one another cordially. And Terrence Murphy was the spitting image of his father. Question is, is he as inept as his father was? Yang's right about the need to invest in political support, but Jesus I hate wasting even a light task force on a goddamn Murphy! Especially one who ran so scared before Steelman turned him into a "hero."

That had been the true core of his initial refusal to sign off on the entire deployment, he told himself . . . and hoped he was being honest when he did. But Murphy had already ridden his family's name when he chose to go to Survey instead of following a Battle Fleet track. At a time when the Terran Republic was locked in a death grip with the League, he'd decided to keep his own precious ass out of the line of fire, just like he'd done with his older son. What if he chose to do that again? What if the "Hero of Steelman's Star" reverted to his true colors when the odds turned truly crappy?

Yet every time he asked himself that, he came back to Yang's point. Very few Heart Worlders understood just how bad things had become. It wasn't completely true that, as one of the more irritating newsies had put it, the Fringe Worlds might be at war, but the Heart Worlds were at the mall. Yet the metaphor was reaching in the right direction. Fokaides knew the League couldn't sustain the current tempo of operations indefinitely. In the end, the Republic's larger population and far more massive industrial infrastructure had to win what had become an ugly war of attrition. But Arkadios Fokaides had been telling himself that for the last twenty years, and he suspected his predecessor had been telling herself that for at least twenty years before he'd become CNO. And somehow, half a century and more since the first shots were fired, the League stubbornly refused to lie down and die.

And it's been going on long enough that just convincing the Assembly to pay for the war is getting harder and harder, he thought grimly. And that's because the voters — the precious, pampered, useless frigging voters — don't care. Why should they? We've managed to keep the fighting outside the Heart Worlds, none of our critical star systems are at risk, so the way they see it, they don't have any skin in the game.

Unless their kids are the ones getting assigned to combat duty, of course.

"All right," he said finally. "You're right. We have to just swallow the pill and keep going, but I don't want him swanning around out there without someone to ride herd on him!"

"I think we're covered there, actually," Yang replied. Fokaides raised his eyebrows in silent question, and she snorted. "One of the reasons I'd convinced he's not a total idiot, really. He's requested O'Hanraghty for Chief of Staff."

"Has he?" The CNO let his chair come upright again. "That's encouraging. O'Hanraghty may be a dinosaur, but at least he knows his ass from his elbow when it comes to tactics."

Yang nodded in agreement. Harrison O'Hanraghty had graduated from the Academy only a couple of years after her, but he'd been only a commander when Terrence Murphy went off to Steelman's Star. He might not actually be the "dinosaur" Fokaides had called him, but he'd certainly managed to blot his copybook with enough senior officers to explain his career's glacial progress. His side trip through the Office of Naval Intelligence hadn't exactly helped him in that regard, either. Yang didn't know what he'd done to piss them off over at ONI, but she suspected he'd probably been poking his nose where it didn't belong. He'd done a lot of that in the last thirty or forty years. Which was a shame, because he truly did "know his ass from his elbow" operationally. If he'd just been able to stay out of trouble with his superiors and concentrate on that, he'd have had admiral's stars of his own by now.

At least he'd finally gotten captain's rank after keeping Murphy out of the crapper at Steelman's. And she'd made it quietly clear to him that if he could just go on keeping Murphy out of the crapper until they got Murphy's task force back intact, there was a commodore's star in it for him, as well.

"He does know his tactics," she said out loud. "And Murphy's already shown he's willing to listen to O'Hanraghty. I think the fact that he wants him as chief of staff shows he knows how much he needs to go on listening, too."

"I hope so." Fokaides sounded more than a little skeptical, but he also waved one hand in a brushing away gesture. "Either way, it's probably as close as we can come to disaster-proofing things. I guess we’re just going to have to hope for the best."

Governor 01A - Mon Nov 16 19:08:42 EST 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 19:08:42 -0500

"Governor 01A last updated Mon Nov 16 19:08:42 EST 2020

"Terry, we're going to be late!" Simron Murphy said.

"Can't be," Commodore Terrence Murphy said with what could only be described as a smirk. "I'm the guest of honor. They can't start it without me, can they?"

"Terry!" Simron shook her head and glared at him, but it was a remarkably mild glare.

"What?" He looked at her innocently. "It's true, isn't it?"

"No, it is not true," she told him severely. "The limo is already waiting. And they can, and will, start precisely on schedule, whether you're there or not."

"Oh, give me a break!" He rolled his eyes. "This is your brother and my father-in-law you're talking about, Simmy! Have they ever started a social event 'precisely on schedule' in their lives?"

She glared up at him. Her father's genetic heritage was obvious in her sandalwood complexion and shining black hair, but her eyes were a startling blue, courtesy of her mother's side of the family. Well, that and a little discrete genetic tweaking a generation or so back. She was a small, compact, gracefully moving woman. Not a great beauty in any classic sense, perhaps — her features were too strong, too sharp for that, especially in an era when biosculpt could transform anyone into a god or goddess. Yet she was astonishingly attractive and stood out in any crowd, largely because she'd chosen to eschew any improvement on nature. That made her almost unique among the Five Hundred, the alliance of families which were the backbone of the Terran Republic's elite society, and uniqueness was always its own cachet. Of course, the fact that a razor-keen intellect and a lively sense of humor dominated those sharp features was another factor.

Alas, only someone with very poor vision would have called Murphy handsome. At just under two meters, he was almost thirty-eight centimeters taller than his wife, with sandy hair and gray eyes set in a strong-jawed face that seemed to be made out of randomly assembled bony planes. At the moment, those gray eyes sparkled with mischief as he gazed back down at his wife with the insufferable air of someone who knew he'd just scored a telling point.

"Maybe not," she acknowledged after a moment. "But —" she raised one hand, index finger extended as she made a point of her own "— Dad is in charge tonight. Rajendra loves this sort of thing but he’s off-world on business. And Boyle will be there. That Boyle, and he won’t too impressed if the guest of honor – one of the guests of honor — comes dragging in an hour late."

"We'll be there in plenty of time," Murphy assured her, turning back to the mirror and adjusting the set of his cuffs. Then he brushed at one of his lapels. The softly shimmering sekyri was a Rishathan import that had cost a small fortune, but it was also the latest fad. Anyone who aspired to the first rank of fashion had to have it. And he had to admit that his coat's dark, cobalt blue did go well with his coloring.

"Terry, we really are going to be late if we don't get a move on," she said in a rather more serious tone.

"Personally, I'd rather stay home and not go at all," he said, turning to consider his profile and smoothing the cravat which had come back into fashion. "Politics." He shook his head with a sigh. "You do know how boring this is going to be, don't you?"

"Boring or not, it's important." She shook her head, her eyes darker. "This is a major step in your career, honey. You can't — we can't — afford to blow it."

Murphy made a noncommittal sound, and she grimaced. She knew her husband was more than smart enough to understand how important the endorsement of someone like Amadeo Boyle was. Boyle, the New Progress Alliance's party leader, stood at the very pinnacle of the Terran Republic's kingmakers. Although he occupied no office of his own, his NPA held almost a quarter of the Assembly's seats, and it was the NPA and its allies — especially the Future Cooperative Party and Jugoslav Darkovic's Conservative Coalition — who had put Prime Minister Verena Schleibaum into office. There might have been a half dozen people in all of the Sol System who could do as much for someone's political aspirations as Boyle, but there wasn't a single soul who could have done more.

"I know it's important," Murphy said now, "but I hate the entire political circuit. I've seen too many people get ulcers dealing with it. I'd really rather be —"

"Out on the bridge of a starship surveying new star systems somewhere," Simron interrupted, and smiled a bit crookedly when he looked at her. She patted his elbow. "Well, there's always time for that, too, but you said it yourself — you've got to have your ticket punched in more than one way to get where we both want you to get, and you have to get the order right. First you go to New Dublin and get that on the record, then you can go back to Survey. For a while at least. License some colony rights." She squeezed the elbow she'd patted. "I know you'd rather go back to Survey for good, sweetheart, but —"

She shrugged with an almost apologetic smile and it was Murphy's turn to grimace, but he also nodded. It might have been a bit grudging, that nod, but she decided to settle for it. Much as she loved her husband, there were times his . . . lack of involvement, for want of a better term, could drive her to distraction. Those were the times when he chose to take absolutely nothing seriously beside the far more important matter of how well his new waistcoat fitted or how the shade of his formal jacket's facings complemented his cravat.

What made it most infuriating was that he was one of the smartest men she'd ever met. He simply chose not to use that intelligence unless it was to get something he wanted, and, unfortunately, he seemed to want the political power that lay within his reach a lot less than he wanted to gallivant around the galaxy discovering new planets. In fact, she was fairly sure he saw the acquisition of that political power mainly as a way to push Survey's budget priorities, even if he didn't get to go play intrepid explorer himself. Yet for all his exquisite tailoring and general detachment, there was a sense of responsibility under that exterior. It was deeply hidden, almost as if he was embarrassed to admit its existence even to her, but it was there. Once he had political power, that responsibility would drive him to use it far better than all too many of the idiots who had it now.

She only wished he would enjoy it as much as the idiots did. He wouldn't, of course. But he would do his job well, and that was what really mattered.

Now he finished examining his appearance in the mirror, then turned and flashed her that wide, laughing smile that transformed his bony countenance as he offered her his arm. She shook her head again, eyes laughing back up at him, as she tucked a small hand into his elbow and they headed for the air car landing.

Kanada Thakore placed his palms against a darkly stained wooden rail. He brushed fingertips one way, savoring the feel of small scales against his skin, then moved them the other way and felt glass-like smoothness. Sharkskin wood was rare and scandalously expensive on Earth, imported from the Tesseract System, far beyond the blue line. He flashed a fake smile to a woman passing on the dance floor just below the raised platform he shared with a slightly shorter man. Amadeo Boyle wore a black suit run through with gold lustron threads and held a drink in his pudgy hand.

Music from a holo quartet carried perfectly over the low hum of conversation in the ballroom, speakers in the ceiling focusing just the right volume from the stringed instruments to Thakore’s ears.

He swiped his thumb down a finger and tiny sensors in his skin lowered the music for him and him alone as he listened to the dozens and dozens of conversations from his guests. Scions of major corporations, established families, and Terra’s intelligentsia were here. All the right people, and he was well aware of who hadn’t sent their RSVP for the event.

Waiters—all actual humans—in leggings and-high necked collars moved through the crowd carrying platinum inlaid trays with finger food or flutes of champagne. Droids could have done the job perfectly and cheaply, but paying the outrageous fee Authentic Limited charged to provide flesh and blood waiters to service the event was a flourish that would keep the newsies buzzing about the ball for days.

Everything was going smoothly. He flicked a nail against his middle finger and the time popped up on his synched contact lens.

Almost everything.

“Your boy’s going to be late,” Boyle swished thin black liquid in his glass and took a sip. “Not getting cold feet, is he?”

“Finish your singularity. His car’s landing now,” Thakore traced a tight circle over one eye.

“Your invitation said this was an un-linked event,” Boyle held his nearly empty drink to one side and waggled it slightly. A waiter with a tray of a half dozen different potent potables seemed to appear out of nowhere and took the glass. Boyle dismissed him with a wag of his fingers.

“For the guests; I’m the host,” Thakore said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you dipping into your link. What’s her name?”

“Money,” Boyle sniffed. “She never sleeps. Cruel mistress.” He shrugged, and the gold threads in his suit morphed into a dragon and snapped its teeth at Thakore.

A set of double doors opened and a couple walked in, arm in arm. They stopped just over the threshold, and camera flashes sparked from the scrum of reporters behind a red silk rope.

Drones would have covered most events, but this wasn't "most events," and there were live reporters behind those flashes. Turn down an invitation from Kanada Thakore to rub elbows, however distantly, with the cream of the Five Hundred? Of course they'd come! And their glowing, firsthand reviews as they gushed over it on the social feeds tomorrow would be worth every penny he'd spent to get them here.

A potbellied doorman in a pure silver suit rapped a staff against the marble floor.

“The Honorable Rear Admiral-select Terrance Murphy and Mrs. Simron Murphy!” he announced, and the attendees broke into polite applause.

"Your boy and your lovely daughter are finally here," Boyle murmured as the new arrivals entered the ballroom and began shaking hands and speaking with guests. Both wore broad smiles that would make any politician proud. "I suppose that means the festivities can commence."

He removed a small box from his coat and golden lines of flame danced down his arm as the lustron flexed. He squeezed the side and the lid popped up, revealing a pair of twined starburst studs.

“How’s this Navy nonsense supposed to go? I push the metal pin through his Rishathan silk shirt and beat my fist against it until it hits flesh?” Boyle asked.

"Don't be a pain in the ass, Amadeo," Kanada Thakore scolded. Aside from his coloring, he didn't look a great deal like his daughter. He was almost as tall as his son-in-law, with the broad shoulders and flat midsection of someone who kept himself fit on the microgravity handball court. His naturally dusky complexion was rather darker than Simron's because of the time he spent at the helm of the Amphitrite, his ninety-meter catamaran. “There’s a representative from Bureau of Personnel in the crowd drinking my best alcohol. Soon as we’re ready, he’ll read some scripted business and then my daughter will hand him the rank. Then he’s a real admiral.”

“Murphy knows what to do after that? He still remember how to salute? It’s been a while for him, yeah?” Boyle snapped the box shut.

"Whether or not he chooses to show it, Terrence is a very smart fellow. And don't forget the Murphy family name! He can be very useful to us, down the road."

Boyle grimaced.

"I know that — that he can be useful to us, at any rate. I'm not so sure about the 'smart fellow' bit, though. Oh," he waved one hand in a small throwing away gesture, "I know all about his aptitude testing and the Raymond Whoever Award and the rest of his towering scholastic reputation. But it doesn't matter how smart you are if you aren't willing to put that intelligence to work doing something useful. We have plenty of worker bees who can survey new star systems, Kanada!"

Thakore glanced at the shorter Boyle. There was something much too like disdain in the NPA party leader's expression, but there wasn't a great deal Thakore could do about that. For that matter, he wasn't positive the disdain was as unmerited as he'd like to think, and he hid a sigh as he looked back to watch his daughter and his son-in-law crossing the ballroom floor toward him.

They were a striking couple, Thakore admitted, and although he knew Murphy would have preferred to be almost anywhere else, no one could have guessed that from his pleasant smile, the way he paused to share pleasantries along the way as he worked through the crowd. One of the more maddening things about Terrence Murphy was that he was just as effortlessly charismatic — in a very different way — as Simron yet seemed blissfully unaware of what a useful weapon that ability to charm people could have been. Indeed, at times Kanada was tempted to agree with Boyle, but he'd worked too long and too hard to put all of the pieces into position. He wasn't about to walk away from it all now!

And he is a Murphy, Thakore reminded himself. It's been a while, but people remember his grandfather. That name recognition alone will be worth an extra five or six million votes when the time comes!

Personally, a military career had never appealed to Thakore. Why risk his talents and all the good he could do for the Republic by dying in a deep space fight? There were colonists for that sort of thing, and he had too many other, more important things to do running Venus Futures.

There'd been suggestions, over the years, that Venus should be renamed, christened with some new and exciting title more relevant to humanity's expansion into the galaxy. Thakore had shot them all down, because some intangibles were more valuable than simple relevancy. As the very name suggested, Venus Futures predated the Terran Republic itself. For that matter, it predated even the internal development of the Sol System, far less humanity's sprawling outreach to the stars. And the originally modest little corporation whose highest ambition had been to place a habitat in Venus orbit all those centuries ago had become one of the dozen most powerful transtellar corporations in the galaxy. VF had led the way in penetrating the Rishathan Sphere's internal markets and continued to dominate the Republic's trade with the Sphere, and it showed in its hefty bottom line.

More than that, it was poised to grow more powerful still, thanks to its position as one of the Terran Navy's primary suppliers. The endless, dragging war with the lunatics in the League was a terrible thing, no doubt, but there was that old proverb about ill winds blowing no one good, and there was no point pretending the war — and all those government contracts — hadn't done wonderful things for Venus Futures. Of course, other proverbs about war being good for business weren’t lost on him. And when the Navy officially ordered the first of the Cormoran-class carriers . . . .

Thakore rubbed his hands together.

That was one reason to put Terrence Murphy's face front and center during the appropriations process. Very few people were likely to forget that Terrence’s grandfather, Admiral Henrik Murphy, had been directly responsible for the Navy's transformation from a batch of simple peacekeepers — little more than the "Coast Guard in space" old Henrik had called it in his more disparaging moments — into the genuine war-fighting force the Republic had needed so desperately when the League launched its war of aggression. Nor had they forgotten Commander Henrik Murphy's role in pushing the Republic's frontiers steadily outward before rising to such high command.

A few bribes paid to the right news organizations and the algorithms would link stories of the new Cormorans to Murphy, and his obvious need to have the best ships out there to fight the League. So what if the ships ran into cost overruns during production?

Terrence was a throwback to that earlier point in Henrik's career. Everyone knew his true interest lay in exploration and survey, just as Henrik's had, which had made the string pulling to get him his new command a bit more difficult than usual. He even looked quite a bit like the old man, and as was the Murphy family tradition, he'd graduated from the Academy and gone into naval service when it was his turn. And despite his personal preference for survey work, he'd actually done fairly well at the Battle of Steelman's Star. Better than his father had at the Brin Gap, at least. Probably best not to mention that part of his heritage and concentrate on Steelman's, instead. Oh, the odds had been nowhere near as unfavorable as Thakore's PR machine had suggested, but he hadn't done badly. And with his name, "not badly" was easily transformed into "brilliantly" in the public's mind.

That would be worth the odd hundred thousand votes, even though the war was scarcely a burning issue here in the Sol System or among the other Heart Worlds. It was too distant, and after over half a century, it had been going on too long for that. It had turned into little more than background noise for the important things in their lives. Still, there were those, even right here in the Sol System, who followed the war news. They might not be among the Five Hundred, but they did have votes, and the fact that Terrence had "distinguished himself in combat" wouldn't be lost on them.

And won't Madison eat her heart out when we land the primary contracts for the Cormorans, Thakore thought now. Maybe she should have tried a little higher for Terrence when he was still on the market!

Madison Dawson, the CEO of Astro Engineering, had a daughter about Simron's age, but she'd clearly failed to grasp the significance of a family connection to the Murphys in the midst of humanity's longest, bloodiest, and most destructive war. It was, perhaps, fortunate that twenty-five-year-old Simron hadn't realized just how assiduously her father had thrown her and then-Lieutenant Murphy together, of course. She was a stubborn young woman, his daughter, and if she'd realized how hard he was pushing, her auto response would have been to push back.

A valuable asset, my son-in-law, he thought. I wish he gave a damn for anything besides his wardrobe and getting a ship's deck under his feet again, but still a valuable asset. He's a little too much[/i] like his grandfather in some ways, but it's probably just as well he doesn't have the old man's stubbornness.[/i]

Managing the career of someone as smart as Murphy could get tricky, and there'd been a time or two — especially right after he'd come back from Steelman's Star — when he'd seemed a bit . . . restive. A bit prone to resist his father-in-law's advice and counsel. In fact, there'd been a time there when Thakore had been afraid he'd pushed too hard. He hadn't counted on how Terrence had taken his own war experience to heart or how that experience might shape his response to the sorts of opportunities which naturally came the way of a man with his pedigree and connections. He'd even been critical of Venus Futures' pursuit of the military contracts which were its corporate life's blood, at least until Thakore sat him down and explained some cold, hard facts of life.

Someone had to build the Navy's ships, he'd pointed out, and it would be best for everyone if the "someone" in question had the resources, the engineering talent, and the proven ability to deliver that Venus Futures had demonstrated over the last several decades. And, inevitably, that meant Venus Futures — and thus Terrence's own family — would make a lot of money in the process. It wasn't profiteering, though! In fact, Thakore had been shocked — shocked! — that anyone would accuse him of that. But there was nothing wrong with making money, of being paid for delivering what the Navy needed when, where, and as it was needed. And it required a healthy cash flow to maintain the physical plant and human capital Venus Futures had amassed in the Republic's service.

Fortunately, Murphy had recognized the voice of reality when he heard it. He might be more focused on getting back into space — and on his wardrobe — than he was in driving Venus's opportunities, but Thakore could work with that. He'd been more than a little irritated, initially, by Murphy's insistence on adding another deployment to the pot, but he'd gotten over it, especially when the arguments Murphy advanced in favor of it had demonstrated that he understood — now, at least — the importance of political power.

He was the one who'd reminded his father-in-law that the Emergency War Powers Act had "temporarily" waived the constitutional requirement that federal system governors be civilian appointees approved by the local legislature and given the federal government the power to appoint them, instead. Olympia was still supposed to consult with the local government whenever possible, but the slowness of interstellar communications had clearly made that impractical in a wartime situation. And so, for the last fifty-odd years, the federal government had been routinely appointing those governors. And since the constitutional restrictions had been set aside, Olympia had taken to combining the office of governor with that of the system's military commander whenever possible. Especially in the systems closest to League space. So if he was on the list for deployment and Thakore could find one of those systems, preferably one that was a bit more important than the others, and get him appointed to it . . . .

Thakore had to admit he hadn't thought of that possibility. He'd actually been focused on keeping Murphy off the active deployment list and right here in the Core Worlds. And he knew damned well that the political angle wasn't the only part of it — to Murphy, at least. Thakore was pretty sure he wouldn't want to surrender his upcoming task force command and come home again on schedule. But he'd do it, and however much the delay irritated Thakore, he'd been forced to admit Murphy had a point. It would look good on his résumé, especially with the added gravitas of a system governorship in his pocket. In fact, Thakore had been a bit chagrined to realize it had taken Murphy to point out to him that a survey mission punctuated by a battle was an insufficient influence-buyer, even for someone named Murphy. Tickets had to be punched and merit badges had to be earned, and successful command assignments were the currency that mattered to a military establishment whose members had been at war their entire adult lives.

Thinking back on it, Thakore was confident that for all his apparent disinterest in politics, Murphy had also grasped just how far someone with the Murphy name could hope to rise, especially when that name was backed by Amadeus Boyle's political blessing and Kanada Thakore's enormous wealth. And he'd been right. With a second deployment — this time, as a task force commander, not simply a squadron commander — on his list of qualifications, there was no limit on the political career waiting for him when he returned to Terra. The premiership itself would probably be within his reach, after five or ten years in the Assembly's trenches, and that had to be a dazzling prospect for anyone. Of course, even someone as smart as Murphy might not notice who was pulling the strings behind his premiership if it was done adroitly. And Kanada Thakore knew very few people more adroit than he was or —

"Good evening, Papa," Simron said, smiling affectionately as she and Terrence reached him and she laid her free hand on his arm. "Sorry we're late. Someone had to be sure his cravat was straight."

"Really?" Thakore cocked his head at his son-in-law. "Any idea who that might have been, Terry?"

"Haven't got a clue," Terrence Murphy replied, and smiled.