Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) (7 page)

When humanity began to win victories against the krim, humanity’s war footing had loosened enough to permit traditional capitalist enterprise once more, and Family Debogande had thrived. But they hadn’t just made money, as human interests expanded. They’d taken political stances that had at times cost them dearly — stances aimed at what the family perceived as humanity’s best interests at the time. The family had spent enormously of its wealth to promote those interests, and continued to do so today. At times Alice feared that her attempts to drum this legacy into her children had failed, with their unavoidably soft and comfortable lives. But they had not failed, at least, with Erik. Nor it seemed with Lisbeth.

But always, with the pride, came fear. She was the family statesperson, presiding over empires and principles, but she was also a mother. And she wanted her children safe, and desperately.

“Mrs Debogande,” Bedi tried again. He leaned forward in his chair. “Let me be plain. What that fool Anjo did to the
UFS Phoenix
has been an enormous embarrassment to Fleet. It has divided us against ourselves. Fleet against Fleet, and Spacer against Spacer. Now there will be a new leadership, and a chance to wipe the slate clean.

“
Phoenix
will be granted a full pardon, along with all her crew. Captain Pantillo, and the others who lost their lives in Homeworld orbit, will be given heroes’ funerals, and their names etched into remembrance walls with all our other fallen warriors. Now believe me, this will not be easy for us.
Phoenix
was forced into a corner, and she fought very hard. Harder than many of our senior officers believe was proper… I know, easy for them to say, but instead of retreating to deep space and waiting for Fleet to sort out its own command problems,
Phoenix
went to Heuron, for reasons yet not fully known to us, and did a lot of damage there.”

Alice frowned. “From what I hear, Heuron was already a mess due to the declaration.” The declaration was all they were calling it now, humanity-wide. The ordinances that relegated Worlders to second-class status in all human space. Fleet might be condemning Anjo, Chankow and Ishmael for
Phoenix
, but they weren’t condemning them for the declaration. Evidently that hadn’t been just their decision.

“They did a lot of damage at Heuron,” Bedi repeated, refusing to be drawn. “But
Phoenix
is currently dividing Fleet, and so we shall grant them pardon, so that Fleet can unite once more behind the new leadership.”

“Now that Captain Pantillo is conveniently dead and you no longer have to worry about him running for office,” Alice said drily. “How lucky for you.”

“Mrs Debogande, I must press upon you that if you have any contact with your son, you
must
convince him to accept Fleet’s pardon. Fleet will only make the offer once, and it comes with conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“That
Phoenix
’s crew must all retake the oath of loyalty, and swear alliegance to the new leadership. They will be allowed to remain together as a crew, they will have our word on that. But they must commit to the Spacer cause, and abandon any of this foolish nonsense their old captain was toying with, supporting Worlders to upset the existing order.
UFS Phoenix
must once again commit to being one of us. And not one of
them
. I can’t put it any plainer than that.”

“And should
Phoenix
refuse?”

“Then their renegade status will be reinstated. And Fleet will commit to do what we do to all renegade vessels. Hunt them down and destroy them.”

And wasn’t it just like Fleet, Alice thought, to turn an apology for trying to kill her son, into an attempt at blackmail. Make your son agree, or we’ll go back to trying to kill him. Some choice.

She took a deep breath. “I will do what needs to be done,” she said heavily.

“
W
ell this doesn’t feel
inconspicuous at all,” Stanislav Romki complained as he hung on a strap in the thrumming train carriage. About him were four
Phoenix
marines in light armour and weapons. About
them
, the train was crammed with colourful barabo, plus a few tavalai, all staring at them.

“You know, you complain a lot,” Lieutenant Tyson Dale remarked. Beside him, a barabo lady in a big green robe clutched a game bird of some kind that squawked and clucked. “Howdy,” Dale told her. The barabo blinked. “Dinner?” Looking at the bird.

Romki rolled his eyes. “She’s a diji-do, the bird is a sacrifice, she’ll be taking it to a chan-chala in the hope it will grant her family good fortune.” Lights flashed by as the train hummed past steel grey gantries. “And instead, she ran into you.”

“Good fortune right there, I reckon,” said Dale. He was bigger than most of the carriage’s barabo, save for a group by one door who towered over the others. Like his three marines, he wore glasses beneath his helmet, earpiece in, rifle pointed at the floor in one fist.

“She’s a diji what?” asked Private Tong.

“There are more than three thousand recognised religious forms on the barabo homeworld,” Romki said through gritted teeth. “Diji Ran is the third biggest, as you’d know if you read the basic material I provided for the ship-net before we arrived. They believe in fortunes and sacrifices, and they wear a figure-eight symbol around their necks.” He nodded to the woman’s necklace.

“I was busy reading my latest Juggs & Ammo,” said Tong.

Private Reddy leaned close, mouth open and staring at Romki like a drooling fool. “Gol-ly. You mus’ be some kinda real smart guy, huh?” Gunnery Sergeant Forrest sneezed laughter. Dale grinned. Romki fumed.

“Now now boys,” their Lieutenant said. “Marines are taught to handle explosive materials with care.”

The train arrived at a dark, crowded station with lots of bright overhead lights and flashing displays in various scripts. Barabo were carrying things everywhere, loads of garments, bangles, various arts and crafts, a load of wooden poles that Dale had no idea about. They hustled to get onto the train before it left, heedless of the marines’ rifles, and Dale used his armour to block one impact. When he looked about to make sure Romki was following, he found Romki had somehow edged ahead and was sliding through the chaos more easily than the heavy marines.

Dale hustled to catch up, halfway between annoyed at the lawlessness, and reluctantly intrigued. Stations were not ships, you were allowed a lot more loose items on the former than the latter. But in human space, the rule still remained that on stations, things had to be more or less bolted down, and loose clutter was kept to a minimum. If human station inspectors saw this crazy mess, they’d have had an aneurism.

The humans went with the flow of the crowd, as screens flashed odd messages that might be advertising, and live music thudded from just ahead. A group of barabo were busking on the platform side, mostly drums and other percussion… and damn good too, dancing and jiving with the typical barabo lack of restraint. Then they reached the upward stairs, as Gunnery Sergeant Forrest managed to get back in front of Romki with a stern look that the professor ignored. Romki wore his usual civvie pants and sleeveless vest with many pockets. He was far from a soldier, but as Dale was learning, he was also far more accustomed to this environment than anyone else on
Phoenix.

The station stairs opened onto a big steel canyon between apartment sides. Upper windows and advertising displays looked down onto a teeming market that made the stalls up on dock level look meek and organised. Products overflowed on all sides, cloth and silk, jewellery expensive and simple, exotic spices, honeys and other foods Dale couldn’t identify. A shouting barabo trader showed him a truly awesome set of stainless steel knives with curved blades. Another offered to spray some scent on him that smelled like tree moss. And always there were animals, from little long-armed things that shrieked to little four-legged things that shrieked, to jars of colourful insects to bouncing amphibians.

“You see Lieutenant,” Romki shouted from amidst it all, “if someone really wanted to kill me from within this crowd, there isn’t actually a lot you could do about it. So I asked specifically to come alone because alone, I can blend in and avoid notice. But with four big steel monsters tramping after me, I make a much more obvious target.”

“Yeah, well that sounds all nice to your exotic, alien-wandering ears,” Dale replied. “I bet you’d like to believe that. But you’ve never been hunted by the kind of folks now hunting you, so you’re not actually qualified to make that judgement.”

Dale still wasn’t sure what had happened that Romki was suddenly allowed to leave the ship. Word was that neither the Major, Hiro nor Jokono wanted him wandering, but now, suddenly, orders came that he was allowed to visit a tavalai contact who might have useful information. The Major had told Dale to stick with the professor like glue, and Dale didn’t think it was entirely Romki’s safety that concerned her.

Romki stopped by a stall selling precious stones, surprising a tavalai who was haggling with the owner. Romki chatted easily in Palapu, while the tavalai blinked in astonishment at the sudden appearance of this human — the demon race that had eaten half of all tavalai space in the last hundred and sixty one years. Possibly he’d never seen one in person before, and had least expected to see one out here, in Outer Neutral Space. Then he turned, and found four armed human marines standing behind and around him.

“Gidiri ha,” Dale told him. The tavalai just stared, halfway between bewilderment and defiance. Had to hand it to tavalai, Dale thought — they didn’t scare easily. He’d always found their expressions hard to read, with their big long heads and eyes so far apart, it was hard to know where to look. Alongside the tavalai, a barabo security man looked on, massive within a big leather jacket, like the little cluster on the train. One of the big mountain races, from the barabo homeworld.

“Man,” said Private Tong, looking at the same. “What do you think he lifts?”

“Whatever he wants,” said Forrest, still watching the crowds.

“Just up here on the left,” Romki told them, and thanked the stall owner. “Let’s go marines, double time.”

“No one says that,” said Reddy as they followed. “Do you say that Sarge?”

“I don’t,” Forrest admitted. “But I could if you’d like.”

They turned left between stalls, and up a hallway past a flashing display. On the right was a barabo hair salon, animated displays showing the latest styles, while in the main room, barabo women gathered in ecstatic clusters to examine the latest crazy-beaded and woven arrangement being tied into another woman’s hair. Their yelling conversation and shrieks of laughter were deafening even from the hallway. Beyond that was a smoking den, where barabo men reclined on chairs and puffed on water pipes, and the haze was so thick it rolled in waves across the hallway ceiling.

“How the hell do these people ever get anything done?” Tong wondered. “If they’re always stoned or putting things in their hair?”

“That’s why we run the galaxy now,” said Dale.

Romki smirked. “Is
that
what you think, Lieutenant? Well well.”

A corner, then on the left a big glass wall with turnstile pressure doors, and images of lake reeds and lilies on steaming water. “Hey, tavalai baths,” said Forrest, quite intrigued. Ahead, tavalai were entering with small bags of bathing gear. Inside, the air looked steamy. Tavalai preferred the pressure and humidity much higher, and loved the water. Dale had been on their stations newly captured, with the environmentals set to tavalai preferences, and if you removed your helmet too quickly, it was agony on the ears, and breathing felt like mouthfuls of soup.

“Just here,” said Romki, indicating past the baths, no doubt reading the Togiri script on the windows. On the right was a restaurant. Peering through the windows, Dale saw a tavalai layout — a smorgasbord of pots, lots of watery-looking things in rows, and big bowl seating where diners would sit in what looked to humans like uncomfortable proximity.

“It’s empty,” said Dale.

“It’s the wrong time of day,” said Romki. “Tavalai stick to routines, even on station time.” He went to the door.

“Wait!” Dale barked. Romki paused. Beyond him, the next cross-alley showed the grand market resuming, bustling crowds and shouting hawkers. Dale peered through the glass once more. Beyond the reed-mat partition, where the chefs would be, he saw nothing. “There’s no one here at all. I don’t like it.”

“Lieutenant,” Romki said with exasperation, “I can assure you that…”

“Woody,” Dale interrupted, “check the door.” Forrest went to do that, as Romki rolled his eyes with impatience… and the world went sideways as the restaurant blew up, glass and debris crashing over them, Dale’s ears ringing and lungs full of smoke.

‘Up’, he forced himself with effort, as thirty years of combat reflexes imposed themselves and guessed what was coming next. “Up!” he yelled, scrambling dizzily back to his knees and a firing crouch, unable to see a damn thing through the smoke…

“Contact!” Tong yelled, opening fire on something, and…

“Down!” yelled Forrest, as return fire came from the market end, red tracer ripping through the smoke.

Dale threw himself at the hallway’s opposite side, where glass surrounding the bathing house had collapsed, and sheltered behind the end wall. “Get cover!” he yelled, but his section had already done that, none as experienced as him but close enough. Rapid fire hit the wall and he ducked back, hoping one of them had grabbed Romki… and saw half-naked tavalai behind, shocked, crouched and staring, and too close to the line of fire. He gestured hard at them to get back and get down, and was uncertain as he did it that it wasn’t a tavalai shooting at them, and now he had a room full of them at his back.

Fire redirected, and Dale put his rifle around the corner, sighted, and saw a dark shape advancing, movements flowing but clearly mechanical, heavy weapon swivelling from one marine cover position to another as it came. He put a burst on it, saw it hit but immediately swing his way, and ducked back as more rounds tore at his wall. “Droid!” he shouted. “It’s a fucking droid!”

In heavy armour he’d have his Koshaim-20, twice the calibre and many times the hitting power of this light P-8. The Koshaim would tear a droid in half with a few shots, he’d even seen them kill hacksaw drones with accurate fire. The P-8, not so much.

“I got him flanked,”
came Reddy’s voice in his earpiece.
“Fire in three, two, one, mark.”
A hammering burst, Dale waited a moment for the droid to spin, then popped out and fired on full auto. The others joined him, and the droid staggered, lost pieces, then exploded in a fireball that demolished every surviving bit of glass in the hallway.

More fire cut past, but they were already in cover, and the bullets hit only walls — a second droid. Again Dale waited until someone else fired, then popped out to fire himself, as another marine opened up as soon as the fire came at him. The droid seemed averse to taking cover, and after repeatedly taking fire from whomever its weapon was not pointed at, it turned and ran. Dale ran after it, and cleared the smoke in time to see it racing into the near-deserted market, a long civilian coat flowing out behind. It moved fast, and Dale knew it was pointless to follow.

“Damn thing’s wearing civvies,” he said, backing up with rifle levelled in case it or a friend came back. “Everyone okay?”

“Good,”
Forrest agreed on coms.

“Good,”
Tong echoed.

“Yeah okay I guess,”
Reddy muttered. He was pulling himself out of the ruined restaurant wall, amidst broken tables, pots and food. Everyone else had gone left, away from the explosion — Reddy must have gone right, straight into the residual flames and smoke, because he knew he had to get the droid flanked on both sides.

“That was good stuff Spots,” Dale told him. “How’s Romki?” Everyone looked. “Fuck.
Where’s
Romki?”

T
race was late
, and not happy about it, having been in the
Phoenix
gym when word of the attack came in. Two squads of Bravo Platoon were already at the scene, amidst a bunch of red uniformed barabo police, and other station security. They clustered about the entrance to the hallway by the market, far too many to be useful, while stall owners packed away their wares, sensing there would be no more sales for a while and wary of leaving things unsecured.

Bravo’s commander, Lieutenant Alomaim, was arguing with a barabo police chief, firm and no-nonsense to the barabo’s hand-waving exasperation. “Major,” Alomaim said as she approached.

The chief saw her, and his translator-speaker squawked as he let fly.
“This my station! This not your station! I get access to crime scene! Tell your man let me access crime scene now!”

“Not a crime scene,” Trace replied to her own translator. “Act of war.
Phoenix
is a warship, weapons of war were used, military action ensued. You’ll get access when we’re done with it.”

That upset the barabo chief further.
“War, crime scene, no difference! This my station, this my scene!”

Trace held up her massive Koshaim-20 in her suit’s armoured grip. With power-assist she barely felt the weight. “This says it isn’t,” she told him, and walked past the armoured
Phoenix
security line.

Lieutenant Dale was standing in his light armour, as Corpsman Rashni dabbed at the small cuts across one side of his face. Glass fragments, Trace guessed. “Why always you?” she accused him with affection.

“Been asking that for years,” said Gunnery Sergeant Forrest, who looked much better, but had a hand wrapped. Privates Tong and Reddy were nearby, talking with Jokono and Echo Platoon’s Heavy Squad commander, Corporal Barry, who was probably
Phoenix
’s best explosives guy and had been summonsed for the purpose.