Governor, page 1
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
GOVERNOR
DAVID WEBER
RICHARD FOX
Governor
David Weber & Richard Fox
For more than fifty years, the Terran Republic and the Terran League have been killing one another. The death toll has climbed ever higher, year after year, with no end in sight. But the members of the Five Hundred, the social elite of the Republic’s Heart Worlds, don’t care.
Rear Admiral Terrence Murphy is a Heart Worlder. His family is part of the Five Hundred. His wife is the daughter of one of the Five Hundred’s wealthiest, most powerful industrialists. His sons and his daughter can easily avoid military service, and political power is his for the taking. There is no end to how high he can rise in the Republic’s power structure.
All he has to do is successfully complete a risk-free military “governorship” in the backwater Fringe System of New Dublin without rocking the boat. But the people sending him to New Dublin have miscalculated, because Terrence Murphy is a man who believes in honor. Who believes in duty—in common decency and responsibility. Who believes there are dark and dangerous secrets behind the façade of what “everyone knows.”
Terrence Murphy intends to meet those responsibilities, to unearth those secrets, and he doesn’t much care what the Five Hundred want. He intends to put a stop to the killing.
Terrence Murphy is coming for whoever has orchestrated fifty-six years of bloodshed and slaughter, and Hell itself is coming with him.
IN THIS SERIES by DAVID WEBER and RICHARD FOX
Governor
BAEN BOOKS by DAVID WEBER
HONOR HARRINGTON
On Basilisk Station
The Honor of the Queen
The Short Victorious War
Field of Dishonor
Flag in Exile
Honor Among Enemies
In Enemy Hands
Echoes of Honor
Ashes of Victory
War of Honor
Crown of Slaves (with Eric Flint)
The Shadow of Saganami
At All Costs
Storm from the Shadows
Torch of Freedom (with Eric Flint)
Mission of Honor
A Rising Thunder
Shadow of Freedom
Cauldron of Ghosts (with Eric Flint)
Shadow of Victory
Uncompromising Honor
EDITED BY DAVID WEBER:
More than Honor
Worlds of Honor
Changer of Worlds
The Service of the Sword
In Fire Forged
Beginnings
MANTICORE ASCENDANT:
A Call to Duty (with Timothy Zahn)
A Call to Arms (with Timothy Zahn & Tom Pope)
A Call to Vengeance (with Timothy Zahn & Tom Pope)
THE STAR KINGDOM:
A Beautiful Friendship
Fire Season (with Jane Lindskold)
Treecat Wars (with Jane Lindskold)
House of Steel: The Honorverse Companion (with BuNine)
***
The Sword of the South
Empire from the Ashes
Mutineers’ Moon
The Armageddon Inheritance
Heirs of Empire
Path of the Fury
In Fury Born
The Apocalypse Troll
The Excalibur Alternative
Oath of Swords
The War God’s Own
Wind Rider’s Oath
War Maid’s Choice
Hell’s Gate (with Linda Evans)
Hell Hath No Fury (with Linda Evans)
The Road to Hell (with Joelle Presby)
WITH STEVE WHITE:
Insurrection
Crusade
In Death Ground
The Shiva Option
WITH JOHN RINGO:
March Upcountry
March to the Sea
March to the Stars
We Few
WITH ERIC FLINT:
1633
1634: The Baltic War
Governor
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Words of Weber, Inc. and Richard Fox
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-9821-2540-0
eISBN: 978-1-62579-809-1
Cover art by David Mattingly
First printing, June 2021
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Weber, David, 1952– author. | Fox, Richard, 1978– author.
Title: Governor / David Weber and Richard Fox.
Description: Riverdale, NY : Baen, [2021] | Series: Ascent to empire ; vol. 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2021011110 | ISBN 9781982125400 (hardcover)
Subjects: GSAFD: Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3573.E217 G68 2021 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021011110
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
To Professor Jennie Kiesling
Thank you for the introduction
And
To Alice Weber
You said I could
CHAPTER ONE
“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 discreet 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 Federation’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 Terrence 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. Rajenda loves this sort of thing but he’s off-world on business. An
“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 Federation’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 Darković’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 archaic outfits complete with leggings and high-necked collars moved through the crowd carrying platinum inlaid trays with finger food or flutes of champagne. Robotic units 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 Terrence 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.”
