Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) (17 page)

Uncle Calvin took a left off the main corridor at C-Bulkhead, and led them into a recreation room of the kind
Phoenix
lacked — a few nice bolted-on chairs, a central holodisplay for games, even a small bar with a drinks fridge. Paying passengers demanded more luxuries than enlisted ones. Standing before the table, neat and perfect in his black marine dress uniform, stood a very fit man of approaching middle age. Brown skin, pronounced cheekbones, effortless poise. Trace stared.

“Major,” said Calvin Debogande with some caution. “I’m told you two are old friends.”

Lighter footsteps behind as Erik entered. Colonel Timothy Khola’s dark eyes flicked to him, deadly focused. “LC, get behind me,” Trace commanded, taking a step forward and across to interpose herself. Almost without realising it, her close-quarters automatic came to hand from her right thigh holster.

“Major, who…”

“Get and stay!” Erik silenced, and stayed. Trace’s eyes never left Khola’s. He appeared unarmed. Even in full armour, it only made Trace feel marginally safer.

Khola smiled. The expression never reached his eyes. “Svagata mitraharula, Trace bahini.” It was Nepali, today mostly lost, like so many of Earth’s once-common languages. The settlers of Sugauli had returned to it in part, as the natural language of a mountainous world whose primary inhabitants were Buddhist and Hindu, once the krim had been removed. Trace was not exactly fluent, but as Kulina one always knew the customs.

“You address me by my rank,” Trace instructed her old friend. “Or I swear I will kill you where you stand.”

Khola barely blinked. Beside them, both Debogandes stood very still. Lance Corporal Kamov attempted to move to Trace’s right for an angle, but Trace’s raised hand stopped him. Finally Khola nodded. “Major. To see you well is… unsurprising.”

It was praise, Trace knew. She also knew that given what Colonel Timothy Khola was, and had devoted the whole of his life to being, that his sole personal purpose for being here was to see her dead. But if that was his purpose, this was an odd way to go about it. “State your business.”

Khola took a long, reluctant breath. “I am here under the direct orders of ranking Fleet Command.”

“And who would that be, these days?”

Khola did not miss a beat. “Major, your actions deserve death, and as Kulina I am honour-bound to kill you. But the Kulina’s primary honour is in the service of Fleet, and Fleet have commanded me specifically otherwise in this instance.”

Trace smiled. “I can see it eating you. What have they ordered you to tell me?”

“Not you.” Khola nodded at Erik. “Him.”

“And his name,” Trace said with measured patience, “is Lieutenant Commander Debogande.” Kulina were disciplined and professional, and that meant always following protocol in formal settings. Kulina only did otherwise to people for whom their contempt was so great, killing would likely follow. Trace knew very well what formal disrespect from the Colonel meant, directed at her or her commander, and she would not allow it.

“It’s alright Major,” said Erik, and stepped to one side from behind her. Trace prepared her automatic for quick fire, knowing that Khola would read her posture. If he had a hidden weapon anywhere on his person, he only needed a split second to kill any of them. “I’ll hear what the Colonel has come all this way to tell me.”

“Fleet offers you pardon,” Khola told him. For all his discipline, Trace could see the words caused him pain. “The leadership has been split on the
Phoenix
question. The leaders saw the difficulties that their mistakes in handling the
Phoenix
question caused. The captains would not unite under that leadership, so the leadership decided to remove themselves from the equation.”

Erik frowned. “Remove themselves?”

“Fleet Admiral Anjo has committed suicide. He left a note, accepting all responsibility for the fallout from his actions, and admitting to ordering the unlawful killing of Captain Marinol Pantillo.” Trace heard Erik’s sharp intake of breath at her side. “He personally requested clemency for all those involved, including the crew of
Phoenix
and those Fleet personnel whom he ordered to kill your Captain. I do not know the fate of Fleet Admiral Ishmael and Supreme Commander Chankow, though it is believed that they may have entered into a pact to end their lives together if this point was reached. Whatever their mistakes, they are all intensely brave and patriotic men, and will receive full military honours.”

Erik said nothing, utterly stunned. Trace felt blank. She’d imagined this resolution, had fought for it — punishment for those who had murdered her Captain, and justice for him and all the crew of
Phoenix
, alive and dead. Yet this felt like no resolution at all. It was stunningly obvious to her what had happened, knowing the man before her, and seeing how it all fit together. And this justice tasted like ashes in her mouth.

“You killed him,” Trace pronounced very clearly, as though to dispel her own lingering disbelief. “Fleet Admiral Anjo. Didn’t you.” Khola just looked at her. “You don’t know what happened to Chankow and Ishmael because you’ve come from Homeworld directly. This ship comes from Homeworld, as does Calvin Debogande. Chankow was in Heuron, and Ishmael in New France, it’s not a straight line from Homeworld to here. You think they’re dead because Guidance Council ordered them killed, otherwise you’d have no way of knowing.”

“Major,” Erik said in disbelief, “the Guidance Council’s just a ghost ship tale…”

“It’s absolutely real,” Trace corrected him. “The Captain told me. Admiral Anjo was an intensely selfish man of no personal courage whatsoever. He’s as likely to kill himself as I am to start drinking. If Guidance Council wanted it done, they would have turned to their most trusted operative on Homeworld. Fleet Academy’s on Homeworld.
You’re
on Homeworld.” To Khola. “You stuffed that gun in his mouth personally, didn’t you. And pulled the trigger to end the Fleet Admiral’s screams.” Khola’s stare gave her nothing. That alone let her know she was right. “You couldn’t just let them retire because they knew too much, and had such big egos they wouldn’t go quietly, and wouldn’t stay quiet once deposed. Who replaces them now? Some spineless wet rag who’ll bend whichever way the Council blows?”

“Fleet Command has offered you full pardon,” Khola repeated blankly. “I have been instructed to give you one hundred standard hours to decide whether to accept it or not. It comes with conditions.”

“Wait wait wait,” said Erik, with more skepticism than Trace had feared. If ever there was a time to be skeptical, it was now, with Fleet assassinating the politically inconvenient left and right. “Fleet Command has authority to grant us a full pardon, but you don’t know who occupies the top ranks of Fleet Command at present? How can I accept the authority of Fleet Command when you can’t tell me who they are?”

“The constitutional authority resided, at the time I was given my orders, in the hands of Rear Admiral Bedi,” said Khola. “I have those orders in writing, with signatures, and your Uncle has seen them.”

“It looks okay to me, Erik,” Calvin said cautiously. “I reviewed the books as soon as I saw it, of course. It… it looks good. Erik, you won’t be defenceless once you come home, without
Phoenix
. The family is with you. Your mother strongly advises you accept this offer, as do I.”

A pause as Erik thought about it. “What are the conditions?” he asked finally.

“That you abandon the Worlder cause,” Khola said simply. “That you re-swear your oaths to Fleet, that you follow all orders from that point on and cease this politicking for the Worlders.
Phoenix
will be allowed to remain together as a crew. I’ve allowed the rest of your crew to reunite with you out here as a token of Fleet’s good will. The ship crew will not be broken up, and no hidden or surreptitious punishment will be handed out after the fact.

“And finally, that none of
Phoenix
’s crew, following retirement in the years ahead, will engage in politics on the behalf of the Worlder cause, or pursue any course that could be detrimental to Fleet, and the human cause. Should
Phoenix
fail to accept this offer within one hundred standard hours,
Phoenix
and all her crew shall be declared once more renegade, and an enemy to the human cause. All suitable actions against her shall then resume.”

J
oma Station’s
transit line ran around the upper side of the station rim. The enormous rim supports moved slowly past the windows now, massive alloy steel beams, curving slowly about the station wheel. From them extended a huge latticework of additional supports, becoming impenetrable chunks of new station in parts, all crawling with robotic beam constructors and welders, like enormous stick insects, showering orange sparks from their multiple joining arms. Suited workers moved amongst them like ants, walking on atop the beams with nothing but an endless drop into empty space if they fell.

Beyond the maze of ongoing construction, the starfield turned as the station spun, currently in daylight from the distant star. Rhea loomed near, bright orange with brilliant blue rings. Why they were that colour, Erik hadn’t taken the time to learn.

“Fleet are here,” he said to Kaspowitz. “I can smell it. There’s no way they sent Colonel Khola into an unprepared battlespace. They’re watching us.”

Kaspowitz looked grim. “You think they’ve got spies on station?”

Erik nodded. “They already paid one bunch of people to ambush us on the way here, they can pay others to watch us now.”

“We don’t know they did that,” Second Lieutenant Dufresne corrected. Erik had invited her to join them, figuring that one of the two reserve pilots should be getting some experience in the off-ship side of command. Lieutenant Alomaim and Bravo First Squad provided security, filling the entire first car of the transit train, as wary locals kept their distance. “Or at least, if it was Fleet, likely it was Supreme Commander Chankow. Who’s not there anymore.”

Erik considered her. “Does that make you feel safer, Second Lieutenant?”

Slim and pale, Dufresne looked uncomfortable in her bodyarmour. Erik didn’t think she’d worn it much before — junior pilots rarely got station duty outside of sitting in the accommodation block. “It’s not a question of feeling safe, sir. But they’ve given us a pardon.” Erik glanced at Kaspowitz. Kaspowitz made a wry grimace. Dufresne looked back and forth between them. “We
are
going to accept the pardon, aren’t we sir?”

“Out of curiosity,” Erik asked her, “how bad would Fleet’s behaviour have to get before you decided to call them on it?”

Dufresne frowned. “Sir?”

“They just killed their own commanders. For becoming inconvenient. Before that, they killed Captain Pantillo, and tried to kill us.”

Dufresne shook her head. “Supreme Commander Chankow and Fleet Admiral Anjo did that. And Ishmael, the big three.”

“You think their replacements will be better?”

“Colonel Khola says they give their word, sir.”

“They already gave their word, Second Lieutenant. It’s right there in the oath, loyalty and devotion to our uniformed brothers and sisters. But we’ve seen that for the High Command, Fleet oaths can become optional at any moment.”

“Sir, can you blame them?” There was anger in Dufresne’s voice, followed by the uncertainty of a young officer who wondered if she’d just overstepped.

“Go on,” Erik said calmly.

“Sir, Earth was destroyed. Ninety-nine percent of us were killed, nine-point-nine billion men, women and children. Humanity nearly ended. Never again, sir. My family raised me with those numbers drummed into my head. Never again. It’s a dangerous universe, and we have to do whatever it takes. No one likes war, no one likes killing, everyone would love to do the right and proper thing all the time if they could, I’m sure. But we don’t live in that kind of universe.”

Erik nodded slowly. It was a very good answer, he could not deny it. “It was a very long time ago. We number nearly five hundred billion now. Does one event a thousand years ago justify
everything
we might do out here?”

“Sir,” Dufresne said stubbornly. “If you don’t think it could happen again, why did
you
join up?”

Erik nodded slowly. It was another very good answer. And a very good question that he wasn’t sure he had a reply to. The transit train slowed as they approached a completed station section, then burrowed into a steel tunnel. Then halted, as the airlock doors behind closed and the tunnel about them was flooded with air. Ahead the inner doors opened, and the magnetic train accelerated once more, regretfully without the magnificent view.

An uplink light flashed in the lower corner of Erik’s vision — it was Second Lieutenant Karle. “Go ahead Second Lieutenant.”

“
Sir, just to inform you that PH-1 is loaded and we are about to depart.
”

“Very good Mr Karle. Just remember, Lieutenant Dale has thirty years of experience at this. On all security matters, I want you to do exactly what he tells you, when he tells you to do it.”

“
Yessir. I get the feeling he wouldn’t leave me much choice anyway.

Erik smiled. “You’re exactly right. Please tell Lieutenant Hausler not to frighten the local traffic too badly.”

“I’ll do that sir. See you soon.”

“Good hunting Lieutenant.”

And,
“I heard that LC,”
Lieutenant Hausler added before the coms cut. PH-1 was headed for Vola Station, where several shipyards had been very interested in the job offer when they’d heard the money on offer. The Vola moon was a closer orbit to Rhea than Joma Station and its Joma moon. Closer orbits were always faster to reach, but any emergency rescue from
Phoenix
would mean plunging deep into Rhea’s gravity well. Erik decided that he’d
never
like having his people away from
Phoenix
on shuttle missions.

“It’ll take a lot longer than one hundred hours for any local fabricators to make us some new vipers,” Kaspowitz remarked.

“Pardon or no pardon,” said Erik, “I’d like our magazines full before we head anywhere. Human space included.” Kaspowitz was studying him, as though wryly curious. “What?”

“When all our missing crew came out of
Europa.
Did you think for a moment maybe Commander Huang was on board?”

Marines doing security for senior officers usually did a good job pretending not to listen to these conversations. But now, many eyes glanced his way. Erik shrugged, pretending unconcern. “It crossed my mind.”

“Curious dilemma,” Kaspowitz suggested. Erik understood the unasked question too well. Would you be pleased, or relieved, to relinquish command at this time? Commander Huang had been on
Phoenix
for seven years, all of them as Pantillo’s second-in-command. Prior to recent events, she’d held infinitely more respect on the ship than Erik had.

And for a brief moment on
Europa
’s dock, he’d been terrified. Terrified that Huang would come down that ramp in person, declare herself to be
Phoenix
’s true commander and here to finish her old captain’s work in his name, and that all the crew would flock to her in preference to him. Which was insane, because in this situation he should have been thrilled to have someone infinitely more experienced in charge.
Phoenix
would certainly have been the better for it, and all her crew, Lisbeth included, would have been that much safer. He thought again of that terrifying instant when the three sard ships had jumped, and he’d realised that they were coming at him far, far faster than he’d expected, and that he should have left thirty seconds ago. Everyone had nearly died in that one lazy, presumptuous mistake, and his nails now dug into his palms as he recalled it. Huang would never have misjudged it that badly.

“Wouldn’t have mattered if she had come down the ramp,” Lieutenant Alomaim said coolly. “Lieutenant Jersey got left behind by mistake — Commander Huang did it on purpose. Crew wouldn’t have her back, sir. More to the point, the Major wouldn’t have her back.”

Which made him feel a little better. But only a little, because while the approval of marines was nice, they weren’t any more qualified to know who the best pilots were than he was to know who the best marines were.

The transit car came to a whining halt at what Erik’s uplinks told him was their stop. Bravo Platoon exited the train first to clear the platform… and immediately weapons came up, with yells and warning shouts over coms. Stationers on the platform shrieked and ducked, scampering out of the line of fire as two privates grabbed Erik and pulled him down, crouched on the train floor with weapons ready.

“You get down right now you bug motherfucker!”
someone was shouting. Sard on the platform, Erik guessed.

“Hold it!”
came Alomaim’s voice over the top.
“Everyone just hold it! They’re not armed that I can see, no shooting with the civilians on the platform!”
The train’s doors began to close once more, but someone hit the override and everything froze, an emergency alarm blaring with red lights.
“Everyone cool it, just back away! Translators on, just back away!”

Erik wanted to see, but couldn’t past his bodyguards. He pulled his pistol from its holster, his only personal weapon. If he ever had to use it, marines would consider themselves failed in their task of protecting him. Past the yelling civilians and confusion on coms, he could hear a high-pitched shrill, like cicadas in rainforest, only much louder.

“Okay, up! Kamov, move the LC now!”
And Lance Corporal Kamov gestured Erik, Kaspowitz and Dufresne up, the other two also with pistols drawn, eyes wide with alarm. They came out onto the transit platform, now mostly cleared of civvies. Marines stood in several groups, massive rifles levelled at the tall, thin figures of sard. Insectoid faces turned Erik’s way as he exited, multiple beady black eyes tracking him, and the cicada-shrill rose several pitches.

“Yeah, you turn that shit down!”
someone snarled — on coms it was impossible to tell who.

Erik and the officers were quickly whisked down a side corridor, one group of marines pulling off the platform ahead, the others falling in behind as they moved. He’d only counted seven sard on the platform, none of them armed.

“Lieutenant Alomaim,” he said. “Was that an attack?”

“Just an encounter, sir,”
said Alomaim on coms from somewhere behind him.
“Taking no chances today.”

They emerged from the access corridor onto the station concourse, an open floor with big information screens flashing colourful scenes at passing crowds. Now those crowds were staring with uncertainty at these thumping, armoured humans who came surging through their midst. Station security in dark-red uniforms moved to confront them, one of them shouting in Palapu as his translator-speaker joined in harsh, metallic English.

“You no point guns at peaceful sard guest! Peaceful sard guest want to catch train too! This not human station, this barabo station! You behave like civilised person!”

“Move asshole!” was Gunnery Sergeant Brice’s reply, and the security got out of the way before they were run over.

“Not a human station
yet
,” another marine corrected the security man with passing contempt. Erik wondered if it were possible that humans on Joma Station could outstay their welcome.

“I don’t think they were tracking us,” Kaspowitz said at Erik’s side as they strode, breathing hard. “That looked like an accident.”

“No chances with sard,” Erik replied. “Sard aren’t real sneaky, it’s not like they can follow us unnoticed, on this station. Manufacturing an encounter like that could be the only way for them to see where we’re going. And test our responses.”

“And then report everything they’ve seen to some other sard ship waiting out beyond the system rim,” Dufresne agreed close behind them. “I reckon we watch for any of those sard ships leaving the station, fair bet they’re going to report on us.”

And they still had no
real
idea as to why those three super-advanced sard ships were trying to kill them. More than any chance encounter on a train station,
that
put Erik’s nerves on edge most of all.

J
oma Station bridge
was on the upper rim on the far side of the station from
Phoenix
’s berth. Directly above it, with an elevated viewing level above the main rim, was the Stationmaster’s personal quarters. It was spacious, with the earthy decoration typical of barabo — a thick floor rug, wall hangings of what looked like decorated tree bark, and lots of leafy green pot-plants.

Erik, Kaspowitz and Dufresne sat in deep reclining chairs across a low table, while Lieutenant Alomaim remained standing with Private Cruz, armour tension tuned down to minimum so the whine and rattle wouldn’t be distracting. Out the wide viewing window, the huge upward curve of the station rim ended barely five hundred meters away, replaced with an intricate mass of scaffolding, crawling with robots and workers.

Opposite them were the Stationmaster, and the Captain of a station-defence warship, the
Rai Jang
. His name was Jen Fan, and he was concerned. “You not know why sard want kill you?” He spoke English quite well, and with great skepticism. His black beard and hair were neatly trimmed, and he had odd shaving marks in his neck that Erik hadn’t seen before. His uniform was black and grey, also most restrained for a barabo.

“We don’t know,” Erik replied. “We thought maybe our own commander, Supreme Commander Chankow, had paid them to kill us. Sard are sometimes mercenary.” Frowns from the barabo. “Mercenary… um, soldiers who fight for money.” Comprehending nods. Erik was not surprised to find senior barabo here speaking English. Everyone in this space was just marking time until the human Fleet arrived. “But now we hear that Supreme Commander Chankow is not in charge anymore, and might even be dead. So maybe he did buy those sard, and maybe they aren’t aware yet that he’s gone. I don’t know how that affects a contract, in the sard mind.”

Captain Jen nodded, intensely serious. Erik had not yet met a barabo quite so intensely serious. He didn’t see any harm in telling him this much of
Phoenix
’s affairs — everyone knew
Phoenix
was renegade from human command, even if the exact details of the dispute eluded them. And they would shortly know, if they didn’t already, that UF Fleet’s command had now changed, in highly-questionable circumstances. This much honesty would cost him nothing, and gain him a little trust at least.