Federation and Empire

By Eamonn Murphy

Federation and Empire is a series of short stories that chart the future history of mankind following the gift of the FTL drive from an alien species. The cast is varied: a freelance space pilot and his maverick crew, telepathic twins and their sentient cat, a wise president, a genetically enhanced policewoman, and a criminal of the same breed. They’re all involved in the diaspora of humanity to the stars. Here are tales of colonisation and crime, of slavery and revolution. Good old-fashioned science fiction!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nomadic Delirium Press
• Release date: Jul 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005472597

Eamonn Murphy

Eamonn Murphy was born and bred in the south-west of England many years ago. He grew man-size but retained childish interests like science fiction, fantasy and comic books. Never settling to a career he earned beer money on building sites and in call centres. He has a perfectly useless degree in Humanities and History from the Open University. Now, aged, bent and broken, he lives in a quiet cottage with a nice lady where he types reviews for sfcrowsnest and stories for small press publications. Website at https://eamonnmurphywriter298729969.wordpress.com/

Book preview

Federation

and

Empire

by

Eamonn Murphy

Published by Nomadic Delirium Press at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Federation and Empire is a publication of Nomadic Delirium Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including physical copying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists.

Federation and Empire is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Cover illustration copyright 2020 by Laura Givens

Cover design by Laura Givens

First printing July 2020

Nomadic Delirium Press

Aurora, Colorado

http://www.nomadicdeliriumpress.com

Dedicated to my mother Joan Lilian Murphy (nee Gosling) - a true socialist.

PART ONE

FEDERATION

Contents

Faith

The Scorpii God

Fifteen Hundred

Sneezy

Sneezy and the Wilderboar

Mister Chauhan

Campaign Trail

Sneezy and the Government Man

Sneezy and the Ecologist

Slave Ship

Sneezy and the Pre-Cog

Faith

Are you sure you want to sign up, Father Daley? This is not really a job for a priest.

The recruiting sergeant gave the candidate a bemused frown then brightened suddenly. I expect there are still some vacancies for chaplains, if you want to serve your flock out there on the front line.

I am no longer a priest, said Daley. His hand moved instinctively to the crucifix dangling at his chest and he suddenly realised it was no longer there. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. I want to be a soldier. He shifted his shoulders slightly to ease an ache and tried not to think about the pain in his legs and arms when he moved. He was bruised and battered, having come to the Space Marine recruiting centre straight from the hospital.

The office was still dusty from a missile attack the previous day. Scorpii fighter craft had attacked like a swarm of hornets, levelling the tower next door and damaging adjacent buildings in the process. There was gaping hole in the brick wall behind the sergeant and a pile of rubble beside it waiting to be cleared up. A cable ran from his desk computer to an obviously jury-rigged junction box laying in a spaghetti tangle of wires ten feet away. The formerly plush offices of the U.S. Navy (Space Corps) were in disarray but then, so was the whole world. The Scorpii had seen to that.

The sergeant was a slightly chubby man with a crew cut grey hair and an honest, clean shaven, open face. He might have been mistaken for some affable, middle-aged car salesman but for the determination showing in his wide, thin-lipped mouth and a hint of steel in his blue eyes. He leaned back in his swivel chair with a show of nonchalance and put his feet on the table. The lower half of his left leg was synthi-steel.

You’ve left it a bit late, Fa...Mister Daley. Most guys signed up the day after the attack on the east coast, a week ago. What kept you?

Vincent Daley sighed. I was in hospital. Look sergeant, you don’t need my life story. Can’t I just sign on the dotted line and go off to boot camp like everyone else?

The sergeant smiled. Ah, but I know your life story, Vincent. Everybody knows about the famous Father Daley who rose from the slums of Boston to be the Pope’s right-hand man, the pro-life campaigner whose television campaign got Wade vs Rowe repealed. But what I want to know now is why you suddenly want to kill aliens rather than save souls.

You’re a recruiting sergeant. Why the Hell do you care?

The big man swung his legs down off the desk and leaned forward. My name is Hank. Look, Daley. Part of my job is to make a sort of rough psychological assessment of the recruit to ensure you’re mentally fit for combat. If you ain’t, the guys alongside you may die. So spit it out. What’s happened to change you.

Daley looked haunted. I have lost my faith.

Hank leaned back and regarded him thoughtfully. Cataclysmic events can do that to a man. Was it the Scorpii attacks on Day One when they hit the east coast? Day One had been less than a week ago but the sergeant already spoke of it as if it were a part of history, which it was.

Daley nodded absent-mindedly, a faraway look in his eye. There was a lot of damage done that day.

There sure as Hell was.

Not all of it was caused by the Scorpii.

*

Father Vincent Daley elbowed his brother lightly in the arm. You show some respect for Don Staffieri, he admonished.

He knew that Patrick Daley, who now weighed almost thirty stone, would hardly feel the elbow. His brother was devouring a large plate of spaghetti bolognaise and Father Daley considered lecturing him for the thousandth time on the sin of gluttony but decided to skip it. On a short visit back home from the Vatican there was no point in ruffling feathers needlessly, and pointlessly. Patrick had booked the table in Giuseppe’s Famous Restaurant for his brother and Don and then unexpectedly decided to join them, cancelling a business trip to do so. Vincent appreciated it. As for eating, whether it was soya bolognaise or soya steak (only the very rich could afford real meat), Patrick would never change.

His brother nodded to indicate their dining companion. You expect me to knuckle my forehead and kiss his ring?

Vincent laughed at the old joke. Don Staffieri, a Boston property developer, had been his best friend in High School, where they had suffered, laughed and learned together under the stern discipline of the Christian Brothers. His first name was a joke perpetrated by his late father who had been a big fan of the old Godfather movies. He said that if he called his son Donald - Don for short - the boy would always get respect. What he got, of course, was incessant ribbing.

Now the Don placed his fork firmly on the red and white check table cloth and cleared his throat to speak. They were at the window table nearest the door of the cosy, family establishment. The décor was all soft carpets and plush velvet curtains with old black and white photos of Italian American icons hung on the walls: Frank, of course, Dean, Brando, De Nero, Coppola and Scorsese. Outside small electric cars could be seen gliding silently back and forth on the busy main road. Vincent reflected that he was just old enough to remember the fumes and din of the internal combustion engine. Perhaps he had even tasted real beef. If so, the memory was long gone.

I was being serious, said Staffieri. Joking about little green men is all very funny, Patrick but something is happening. The government is keeping a lid on it.

Like they did with Area 51, mocked Patrick.

It’s not a very tight lid, said Vincent. The story is all over the papers. In contrast to his gigantic, balding brother he had an athletic build, slim and well-muscled. He had played football at Notre Dame and kept in shape since with regular visits to the gym. He also retained a full head of dark, straight hair with startling blue eyes and handsome features a film star might envy. Many said his good looks were the secret of his fame and success as a television evangelist for Catholicism. Giovanni’s had offered to put his picture on their wall, alongside the actors and singers but he had firmly declined.

It’s in the papers, agreed Staffieri, and other media too, but there’s no real information. Just a lot more UFO sightings than usual. I tell you, something’s going on.

Something’s always going on, said Patrick. There’s an awful lot of bad shit going on down here on Earth without having to worry about outer space. Looney pro-abortionists are making death threats against my brother. That concerns me a lot more than aliens.

Vincent waved a hand dismissively. It’s just a few noisy extremists, Pat. It won’t come to anything.

Don Staffieri pushed his half-finished pizza to one side and took a sip of wine. He had not kept the slim figure of his youth but fought middle-age spread as best he could. I should have thought the feminists were happy now that His Eminence has been persuaded, mostly by Father Daley, to change the Church’s stand on contraception, though I admit it took them long enough.

Vincent smiled and touched the crucifix at his chest, the symbol of his faith. Rome is not hasty in these matters.

Contraception’s not the issue. A lot of militant feminists don’t like your anti-abortion stance and they hate the fact that the politicians responded by changing the law.

How is my niece? said Father Daley. He tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. Christine Daley was the black sheep of the family and Vincent tried to practice Christian forgiveness when she erred but it was difficult. He hated to see his brother hurt.

Patrick sighed. Your niece, Vincent, is as militant and as feminist and as crazy as ever, alas. It started with drugs; that made her go all anti-establishment. Then she dropped out of college. Then she started taking up with extremist political organizations. She phoned yesterday and I told her you were in town but I haven’t actually seen her for months.

Vincent laid a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder. It’s her rebellious youth phase, Patrick. She’ll straighten out one day and give you a gaggle of fine grandchildren. Just wait and see.

I’d like that, obviously, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Overpopulation and declining resources have been a problem for the past fifty years, at least. It’s about time to cut back on the breeding.

Vincent laughed. Maybe Don’s little green men will solve the problem by eating us all.

Staffieri tapped the table in agitation. This is a serious issue!

Maybe, agreed Patrick reluctantly. Tell me about it when I get back from the John.

Father Daley moved his chair back so big brother could move past him and into the restaurant aisle. Patrick grunted as he stood up then shuffled sideways clumsily, like an injured crab.

Jesus! I should lose some weight.

Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.

That was their last conversation before the explosion.

*

Vincent Daley blinked his eyes and peered through a blur of yellow light. He was barely aware of his body and felt relaxed, calm, indifferent to everything. For a few seconds he wondered vaguely if this was the first step to the Afterlife. Despite his serious theological training countless bad jokes and cartoons had subconsciously prepared him for pearly gates and white clad, bearded Peter asking him if he had been good.

Slowly he became aware that the light was a commonplace fitting in a ceiling of white polystyrene tiles and that he was led on his back in a bed. He turned his head to the left and saw a harried looking black woman of middle years and advanced obesity dressed in a nurse’s uniform. He realized he was in a hospital.

More slowly, he realized that the hospital was in crisis. It was bedlam. There were patients on trolleys parked in between the beds and several nurses were rushing about trying not to look flustered. Many of them had blood spattered on their uniforms. Several patients were sobbing and a few were screaming.

Daley tried to sit up and the room span. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed quickly, held still and gripped the tubular steel frame of the bed hard until the feeling passed. The nurses had enough to do without cleaning up his vomit.

Turning his head to the left he saw a young man on a trolley, still in street clothes. The left leg of his jeans had been ripped off to reveal wound in his thigh, gaping open, red like the misshapen maw of some creature from a horror film. The teenager had Mohican hair and a ring through his nose, clearly one of the diehard rebels resisting the popular return to 1950’s values that was sweeping the country, and the world. He was tapping away at a hand held device, a frown of concentration on his face.

Excuse me.

The youth turned to regard him. Wassup, dude?

Father Daley shifted to a slightly more upright position and was again overcome by nausea. When the feeling passed, he managed to croak, What happened?

Alien attack, dude. Right down the eastern seaboard. They hit Manhattan first but were strafing Boston even before the news got out.

Aliens?

The UFO’s that have been sighted for the past few weeks. The Man was trying to keep it all hush hush but no chance of that now. They hit us with some kind of bombs or missiles. Nobody’s sure yet. They didn’t hit very hard though, a few shots in each city, small explosions. Theory is, this is just a show of strength and they’ll be demanding our surrender shortly.

Daley was still not himself and couldn’t grasp the situation. UFO’s?

Little green men, dude. Take me to your leader! The youth put his hands to his head and wiggled his fingers in a crude impersonation of alien antennae."

Aliens. Little green men. Don had been right. The priest shook his head. It’s bad then.

It’s terrible. Look around you, man. People are dying.

Dying. The word acted like a trigger on Daley, pushing him into action. He was a priest. He had an obligation to the dying. This was Boston and there was a large Catholic population. If people were dying, they needed him.

I have to help. He pushed with his arm and attempted to sit up, clenching his fists against the wave of nausea.

The youth cried out in alarm. Stay still, man. You’ve got a bad head wound there.

Daley reached a hand to his head and felt a bandage. It was slightly wet.

Doesn’t matter. I’m a priest. I should help. He struggled to a sitting position and flung back the bed sheets. He managed to swing his legs out and put his feet on the floor. Another wave of nausea and dizziness meant he had to grip the metal bedstead again to keep focus, his knuckles white.

You really should stay in bed, dude.

Father Daley shook his head defiantly and rose to his feet. The room spun. There was a blur of yellow light and then the lights went out.

*

When he next woke up the ward was calmer and there was a tall, lean man in a dark blue suit sat by his bed reading a newspaper. He had one long leg crossed over the other and the plain, black lace up shoe that was in the air turned slow circles, like a radar disc scanning for a signal. Father Daley looked up and saw a long, narrow face with blue eyes, a straight nose and a thin-lipped serious mouth.

If you’re not a priest you’re a policeman, he said.

The tall man grunted and put down the newspaper calmly. The latter.

Are alien attacks a police matter? I would have thought you’d leave it to the military.

We all chip in, the man replied dryly. I’m Lieutenant Kowalski. The policeman leaned over and shook the priest’s hand. I’m not here about alien attacks, Father.

But…that was the cause of the explosions, wasn’t it?

Kowalski shook his head slowly. That was the cause of all the other explosions, Father, but the one that got you was a bomb.

Daley forced himself to sit up. The nausea was not nearly as bad now and his head was clear. He could think, and remember.

My brother, Patrick?

The policeman shook his head sadly. I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead. His body actually shielded you from the bulk of the blast. You were thrown across the room and sustained bruises and a bad concussion.

Don?

Mister Staffieri also died. I’m sorry.

Daley sat with his eyes closed for a minute or so, absorbing this. His lips moved in silent prayer for the souls of his brother and his best friend. As a priest he was accustomed to the idea of death, the theory of it. He had lost his parents a few years before but that had been expected. This was not. He felt like he’d been kicked in the guts. He recalled the anodyne words of consolation he had spoken on similar occasions to others and found they didn’t help. It was different when it happened to you. Knowing the theory was very different to the actual experience. Eventually he composed himself by putting his grief in a separate mental compartment to be dealt with later, like some document in his in-tray that could be put off for a while. Father Daley had always been an efficient administrator.

You said it was a bomb.

Kowalski nodded. And you were the target.

His best friend and his brother had died for his beliefs. Militant feminists?

Or pro-choice fanatics, a rose by any other name. The policeman shrugged. I hate to say it, Father, but there are fanatics on both sides of the debate. Pro-lifers used to bomb abortion clinics and kill people. Murder is not very pro-life in my book.

Daley glared at him. I was never in favour of that, though I might point out that people working in such clinics have made a choice. A baby in the womb has not. It’s the most innocent thing in the world.

Apart from original sin, of course, Kowalski said dryly.

God damn you! Is this how you normally treat grieving relatives?

The policeman stood up, still calm. I beg your pardon, Father. The conversation took a wrong turn. I am sorry for your loss, really. I…I guess I’m still in shock from the alien attacks. There are hundreds dead.

Daley took a deep breath and muttered another prayer. You’re a lapsed Catholic aren’t you.

Kowalski raised an eyebrow. It shows?

In your cynicism. And your surnames a clue.

Kowalski suddenly looked very tired. A cynic is just a fallen idealist. Police work can do that to you.

And the bigger an idealist he was the bigger a cynic he becomes. I’ve seen it many times, Kowalski, in policemen, priests, doctors. We start out with a vocation to help people and end up disappointed with the human race. He swung his legs round and put his feet on the floor. You must have had a hard time the last few days, lots of grieving relatives to notify. I’m sorry I lost my temper.

The policeman was gazing out of the window. There’s more bad news, Father.

Daley noticed the cop didn’t want to meet his eye and he knew it must be serious. He took a deep breath. I’m not sure I can take any more.

Hold onto your faith, Father. It’s what you need at times like these.

Don’t mock. Daley said it quietly, looking down at his feet.

Kowalski shook his head. I’m not mocking. I envy you your faith. I wish I still had mine, and some sense of underlying purpose, of some meaning to it all when the world falls apart. I hate to tell you what I’m about to tell you.

Daley could see that the man was in deadly earnest. Go on.

Your brother wasn’t planning to stay with you for the meal, was he?

Daley was surprised. How do you know that? No, he had a business meeting but cancelled it to spend time with me. I don’t often get to Boston.

The table was booked for two, the policeman continued. He wasn’t meant to be there, just you and Don Staffieri. We found out that a woman rang the restaurant to confirm the booking that morning and specifically asked for how many. The restaurant people assumed it was somebody’s secretary double checking. I presume you always sit in the same place at Giovanni’s?

Yes. The window table furthest from the door. A woman, you say?

Kowalski nodded. She either planted the bomb herself or arranged for someone else to plant it. She’s part of a radical feminist pro-choice organization, one of those small bands of five or ten crazies that focus on one issue and let it take over their lives. One track minds. Animal rights fanatics, anti-fur campaigners and the like. I don’t know why pregnancy is such a big issue for this lot as they seem to hate men.

Daley thought the policeman was waffling to put off the bad news. He leaned forward eagerly. Who was this woman. Have you caught her?

Kowalski nodded. She’s in custody being charged as we speak. She has confessed. I think she feels guilty. She should.

Who is she?

Christine Daley.

What!

Lieutenant Kowalski looked out of the window again, unable to meet the priest’s horrified gaze. Your niece planted the bomb to kill you and accidentally murdered her own father instead.

Father Daley gazed open mouthed at the policeman. He could not speak.

*

The recruiting sergeant took his feet off the table. I’m sorry, Father. That’s a terrible story.

I told you, I am no longer a priest, said Daley tonelessly. My letter of resignation is on its way to the Vatican."

The big man shook his head. If your faith has been replaced by a death wish I’m not sure the space corps is the right place for you.

I am qualified in physics, astronomy, maths and all the necessary subjects. Daley smiled sardonically. Notre Dame was a pretty good school. He slapped the desk suddenly. Damn it, sergeant! I want to do something. My family is dead except for my niece, who’s in jail. Patrick’s wife was out shopping and died in the alien attack. There’s nothing left for me now except to fight for Earth.

The sergeant gazed silently at the man opposite for a full minute and finally nodded. "Okay, Mister Daley. I’m approving your application. Get your kit bag. The next bus for boot camp leaves in an hour. Frankly, I don’t like it much. I feel cynical using a broken man like this but Earth is up against it and needs must when the Devil drives."

Daley stood up and managed a mocking smile. Don’t feel too guilty. A cynic’s just a fallen idealist, right? And the Devil will get us all in the end.

He turned and headed for the door.

The Scorpii God

I met god, Your Holiness, said Tom Devlin. Or at least, a god."

Pope John Paul III frowned. He touched his nose with a black index finger and his nostrils flared. Then he exhaled noisily.

That’s blasphemy, Tom.

It’s the reason for the war,

The U.S. Ambassador to the Vatican and the Pope were meeting in a small private room in a secluded section of the papal apartments. They were old friends. Tom Devlin was a Boston catholic who had served as Ambassador for the United States to a number of different countries around the world under both Republican and Democrat administrations. Most recently he had served as Earth’s representative to another world.