Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) (15 page)

“Those ships were better than anything the tavalai have,” Erik said grimly. “Either they stole them, or they bought them, or were gifted them… whatever. They came from somewhere else. Who else makes ships as good as
Phoenix
?”

“Sard aren’t alone in other people giving them technology,” Kaspowitz cautioned. Meaning humans, of course, as
Phoenix
was alo-tech.

“Sure,” said Erik. “But we were only behind in the technology because we were so new in space. When the krim hit us, humanity was barely beyond the pressurised bathtubs of the early space age. But we internalised every technology given to us, we even started taking some of it in new directions that its inventors hadn’t thought of. I mean, humans went faster-than-light on our own. Not many species in the Spiral did that, most had it given to them by someone else. Sard in particular.”

“Weird that a species so good at maths is so dumb with tech,” Trace pondered.

“Maths isn’t science,” said Kaspowitz. “Science is a cultural institution of asking questions and using reason and experiments to challenge established norms. Sard are a hive mind, they’re internally uncompetitive, they don’t ask questions or get into debates, they just harmonise. It doesn’t produce great tech.” Trace nodded thoughtfully, no doubt thinking about that cicada-shriek in the cargo bay where they’d found Randal Connor.

“Anyhow,” said Erik, “it doesn’t matter how the sard got those ships. Or it doesn’t matter to our immediate situation. My guess is that the first ambush at Chonki were mercenaries, probably employed by Fleet Command, since Chankow and Co are having such trouble killing us themselves. The sard probably saw that ambush being set up, and came in quietly to stand off nearby and pick up the pieces.
Why
they came after us, I don’t know, and even our resident genius alien expert hasn’t a clue.”

“Do sard need a reason?” Trace wondered.

“Our main takeaway is that lots of people are trying to kill us,” Erik continued. “So what’s new?” Dry smiles from the group. “Now, there’s a few interesting ships on Joma Station.
Europa
is a Regelda Freightliners vessel, that’s of course a Debogande Incorporated company, or sixty percent owned by DI anyway.” Everyone nodded. Regelda Freightliners was well known to all Spacers. In any busy human system their ships would be ubiquitous on scan or station docking lists. “Station lists say she arrived fifteen standard days ago, which is a very long stay for a commercial freighter. We’ve also got no record of DI trading ties to anyone in Kazak, or regularly passing through Kazak… though I’ll admit our records are sketchy. Lisbeth agrees that she can’t think of any family interests here.”

“Looks like she’s waiting for us,” Shahaim surmised. “Or for you, more precisely.”

“Or better yet, for Lisbeth,” Erik added. Oh good god he hoped that
Europa
would check out as ultra-reliable, so he could put Lisbeth on board and kiss her goodbye. He’d miss her terribly, their time together on
Phoenix
had reminded him of just how proud he was to have her for a sister, but that last action had nearly gotten all of them killed. He could not protect Lisbeth out here, not even with all of this huge warship’s firepower and technology. Having the lives of everyone on
Phoenix
at the mercy of his mistakes was bad enough without having her here as well. “Also at dock we’ve got… what’s the Heuron-registered ship?” He clicked his fingers at Shahaim.

“
Edmund Shandi,
” said Shahaim. “Shandi was a founding father of the human settlements on Apilai. She’s registered to a Heuron Starfreight, which was heavily Worlder-owned before the ordinances. Don’t know what’s happened to it now.”

Erik nodded. “Right. So a Worlder civvie ship. She got here five standard days ago… now we lost about six real-time days on our little detour, but aside from us all being six days younger on this date than we would have been, I don’t think we’ve lost much.”

“That’s it?” Trace asked with concern. “We did all that advertising to everyone to come to Joma Station, and we only get two ships?”

“So far,” Erik cautioned her. He could not deny it was disappointing. He could see it on Trace’s face — rare for her, to let those feelings show. This was the Captain’s legacy at stake, and she took it personally. “Remember it’s dangerous to come out here. Fleet doesn’t like it, for one thing. And Randal Connor got
Grappler
to come out to Tuki Station, and look what happened to them.”

“We still don’t actually know who was on
Grappler
,” Shahaim reminded them. “Aside from the long-term registered crew, but we’ve no idea about passengers. Connor said it was senior Worlders. Maybe someone at Joma Station can tell us.”

“Right,” Erik agreed. “Everyone knew we were coming here. But getting here early could be real dangerous, given everything else that’s going on. Much safer to arrive late, and be sure
Phoenix
is already here, to give them some protection. And look — sure enough, we did get here late, thanks to our little sard encounter. Anyone who got here on our advertised date would have been ahead of us, and exposed. The others will be along in due time.”

Trace looked somewhat mollified at that, but still unusually anxious.

“Be nice if they did actually turn up,” Kaspowitz murmured. “Given what we went through to get here.”

“We all knew the risk,” Erik told him sternly. “We all discussed what might happen. We all signed off on it. You too, Kaspo.”

“I know that,” Kaspowitz said evenly. “But if we have to do it again, and tell everyone we’re going to some new destination to do more diplomacy, then given what’s now chasing us we’d probably not survive it…”

“LC’s right Kaspo,” Trace cut him off. “You agreed, and pointing out the obvious now seems like needless point scoring. Leave it alone.”

Kaspowitz took a deep breath, and said no more. Knowing Trace so well meant knowing when to cut your losses.

“So what we’re going to do here is much the same as we did at Tuki Station,” Erik continued. “We’re going to dock at the rim and set up a station rim presence. Lieutenant Shilu will be in charge of accommodation, he’ll be coordinating with Major Thakur as to exactly what’s needed and what station will give. Lieutenant Shahaim will be in charge of the money — spend it wisely please.”

“I’m the only one who would,” Shahaim said wryly, with an accusing look at Kaspowitz.

The Navigation Officer smiled. “No special requests Suli?”

“None.”

“Now,” Erik continued, “Second Lieutenant Karle will be responsible for finding us some more ammunition.” As understanding dawned upon the young man’s face. It was Karle’s first command meeting that Erik could recall, typically only the very highest officers were called. Karle had been second-shift prior to all this mess, but Lieutenant Paulson from first-shift hadn’t come up from Homeworld to meet them. Thus Karle was even more a stranger to first-shift than Erik was. “So, Rhea is a very large multiple-moon system, there are some quite sophisticated-looking fabrication plants on and around a few of them, and even a small shipbuilder out near the fifth moon, I forget what it’s called…”

“Dada,” said Kaspowitz.

“Thank you.”

“Barabo names are easy to remember,” Kaspowitz added. “Dada, Papa, Gigi, Poopoo.”

“You made that last one up,” Shahaim accused him.

“I might have.”

“And I want you to contact each of them,” Erik continued still without humour, “and find out if anyone can fabricate what we need.”

“Yessir,” said Karle, nodding as he thought about it. “Sir, our armaments are kind of secret, or at least the specifications are…”

“We only want ammunition. The ammo’s not secret, we’ve fired enough of it in the war to make a small moon. Plenty of specimens for study and reverse engineering, not all of them detonate.”

“But viper rounds always detonate sir,” Karle persisted.

“Not always,” Erik said firmly. “You think Fleet will punish us if we share those tech specifications with aliens? Maybe declare us a renegade vessel and try to kill us?”

Karle fought back a nervous smile as he grasped the point. “Um, yeah. I get it. I’ll tell them.”

“Vipers aren’t even the best missiles in service,” Shahaim added. “Tavalai use better. And we don’t need the guidance heads, we can do them ourselves. Just hull, engines and warheads.”

“You think private companies out here will sell us warheads?” Karle wondered.

Erik forced an encouraging smile. “Ask nicely. We’re still in barabo space, a smile and a drink goes a long way.”

T
wo hours from dock
, and Lisbeth was doing Skah’s maths lesson. She took it in the quarters she shared with Major Thakur, a necessity because Skah was easily distracted. Even now she had to flick his ear to stop him playing with a stylus, and concentrate on the puzzles she’d set him. Today it was simple multiplication, about what she figured a human child would be doing at the same age. Skah was plenty smart, but like a lot of little human boys would much rather have been running around with the marines and watching preparations for dock.

The Major interrupted them by entering with a meal, and sat on Lisbeth’s lower bunk to eat it. “Najor Thakur!” Skah announced brightly.

“Hi Furball,” said the Major with affection. “What are you learning?”

“Naths.” With a kuhsi’s sharp teeth, ‘m’ was a problem. ‘L’ wasn’t much better.

“Do you like maths?”

Skah shook his head, big ears flapping. “Boring.”

“Oh come on,” Lisbeth scolded. “Maths isn’t that boring. You’re very good at it.”

“I know,” he said. “Stiw boring.”

“Your Mommy’s very good at maths,” the Major told him around a mouthful of noodles. “She has to be good at maths because she’s a pilot. Would you like to be a pilot one day?” Skah nodded enthusiastically — he’d learned that gesture around humans, but his mother had to force it. “Then you need to study your maths, and you need to listen to Lisbeth. Is Lisbeth a good teacher?”

Another enthusiastic nod. “I rike Risbeth. Risbeth good teacha.”

Lisbeth laughed, and ruffled his ears. “Thank you Skah, I like you too.”

“Not Skah!” Skah insisted crossly. “Furbaw.”

“Come on then Furball,” said the Major. “Tell me your times tables. Do you know your fives?”

He was onto his seven-times-tables — and considerably more focused when performing for the Major, Lisbeth noted — when his mother entered in her blue pressure jumpsuit, pilot’s helmet under one arm. She went to Skah and put an arm around him, asking rapid questions in their native tongue, with many guttural coughs and growls, looking at his maths-work. Skah answered reluctantly, the very picture of a boy being told to be good and work hard even if he didn’t want to. The two humans smiled as they watched. And smiled more broadly still when Tif licked her hand to plaster down some unruly fur, while Skah squirmed in discomfort.

“Tif,” the Major asked her. “You go flying?” Indicating the flight suit.

“No,” said Tif. “Pre-per…no. Pre-par-a-tion.” And smiled, pleased she’d gotten it right. Tif’s health was as improved in the past few weeks as her son’s, her scratches and scars now fading beneath a healthy sheen of tawny-brown fur. Lisbeth thought she was quite gorgeous, with big golden eyes and dark highlights. Lithe and quick, she was a shade shorter than the Major, and moved with the fluid grace of a dancer. “Ship dock, we sit shuttew cockpit. Watch systen. Naybe quick go, if probren.”

“Yes, good idea,” the Major agreed. Lisbeth thought that must be procedure for all combat shuttles, docking at a station they weren’t sure was safe. But then, Tif was not a regular combat shuttle pilot — was not even military, in fact. Utilising her in military procedures was surely an issue.

“Najor, rook,” said Tif, and bared her teeth. Usually when Kuhsi did that at you, it was bad news, but not this time. One of Tif’s two big incisors had been missing since they’d recovered her from chah’nas custody. Now it was back, sharp and white, to make a full carnivorous grin.

“Prosthetic!” said the Major. “Doc Suelo does good work, yes?”

“Good work yes,” Tif agreed, and showed Lisbeth. “Nissing tooth bad for kuhsi. Rook bad. Kuhsi wonan with no teeth, no good.”

Lisbeth nodded — it made sense, given the size of them. For a young kuhsi woman to lose her teeth would be like a young human woman losing her hair. “Excellent Tif! You must feel normal again.”

Tif nodded vigorously. “Thank you. Thank awr
Phoenix
. And for ny boy. Snaw trobuw, yes?” Ruffling Skah’s ears. She looked emotional.

“No trouble at all, Tif,” Lisbeth told her. “Everyone loves Skah. He’s part of the crew.”

Tif looked more emotional. She leaned for a quick, playful nip at her son that between kuhsi passed as a kiss, and then left on her business. Lisbeth and the Major glanced at each other. There were many things unsaid about their kuhsi guests, mostly because no humans on the ship were expert on kuhsi, not even Romki, and also because with everything else that was going on, no one had the time to think about it. How Skah was an heir to Koth, the eighth biggest nation of the kuhsi homeworld, whose leader had been murdered, Tif insisted, by kuhsi who did not want the social changes that exposure to all these new aliens was creating.

It was dangerous for Tif and Skah to stay on
Phoenix
, but they were under threat of assassination anywhere else… or so Tif insisted. Tif seemed to feel safer here, and having three shuttles but only two full-time pilots,
Phoenix
was in dire need of her skills. For now, Tif appeared to have made the decision that the dangers here were worth it. Lisbeth wondered if the young mother had enough talent for scheming to figure that
Phoenix
, and perhaps even Family Debogande, might one day prove a very useful ally in reclaiming Skah’s rightful inheritance.

“Her English is improving,” the Major remarked.

“Ny Engrish better,” Skah said smugly. “I rearn Engrish fast.”

“I know, Jessica has been teaching you.” Private Jess Rolonde was in the Major’s Command Squad. No one had suspected she had a teaching bone in her body until she’d volunteered.

“Jessica a sowjer.”

“No, not a soldier,” the Major corrected. “A marine. All marines on this ship, not soldiers.”

Skah frowned. “Narines not sowjer?”

“Similar, but different. Marines fight on ships. Soldiers fight on planets.”

“Who better? Narine or sowjer?”

The Major smiled broadly. “Marines, Furball. Always marines.”

J
oma Station was under construction
. It had been under construction for the last fifty years, a near two-jumps from recognised tavalai territory. Kazak System was rich with potential, filled with joint barabo-tavalai mining and industry, and a busy transit point between barabo and tavalai space. Fifty years ago, the tavalai had begun to build Joma Station to replace all the minor stations that decentralised Kazak’s logistics industry, and local barabo government had put some funds in also.

But with the war going badly, the tavalai had progressively withdrawn scarce funds and manpower to the point that Joma Station was largely a barabo project… and like all barabo projects in Outer Neutral Space, it was now only three-quarters finished, and messy.
Phoenix
was assigned Berth 18, alongside the unfinished superstructure where Berths 17 to 8 crackled and sparked with ongoing welding and construction. The barabo were finishing the rim while the station was under rotation, which was the much more expensive and dangerous way to do it — zero-G was much more simple for moving huge, heavy components into place. But for
Phoenix
, being stuck up against an unfinished portion of dock had its advantages, from a security point-of-view.

Erik let Shahaim power them in, underside thrust rocking them at a simple one-G while sideways thrust sent them chasing the station’s rolling motion. A crash as great underside gantries caught the carrier’s enormous weight, and then thrust cut while gravity continued, only with three-quarters of the crew cylinder now inaccessible.

Erik and first-shift stayed on the bridge, as in the main-quarter corridors, chaos reigned with all of
Phoenix
’s crew crammed into one quarter and slowly disembarking. Marines went first to secure the dock and keep safe all the spacer officers and crew who would check the umbilicals before
Phoenix
would accept station air, water or anything. Then there would be station officials to deal with, including customs and finance, though on a barabo Neutral Space facility, perhaps not so much of the former. Erik had supervised the process many times as third-in-command, and was quite glad to now sit on the bridge and let others handle it, while the bridge crew performed final systems checks, and kept an eye on incoming communications.

“Sir,” said Lieutenant Shilu from Coms. “Message from
Europa.
” That was the Regelda Freightliners vessel. “Welcomes
Phoenix
to Joma Station, and invites us to a dockside meeting, Berth 26. Requests a time of our nearest convenience.”

“Sounds very formal,” Kaspowitz remarked, still scanning over the Rhea local system. Gas giant systems were always a fascination for navigators, with all their lunar orbits and gravitational intersections.

“Run it past the Major,” said Erik. “Get her most convenient time, then send it back to them, with compliments.” Gatherings on dock were a security issue, and security issues were Trace’s domain. Erik wondered what
Europa
had in store to warrant a formal dock meeting. He turned back to the more pressing matter of the station docking list. That one, he always reviewed with Shahaim, before dock, after dock and during dock. Particularly when two of the ships at dock were sard. “Those sard were already here when we were attacked. They couldn’t have been in on it.”

“Sard are a hive mind,” Shahaim disagreed. “They’re all ‘in on it’.”

Erik chewed a thumbnail, not willing to argue the semantics at this time. Hive mind or not, sard were not telepathic. “We’ll keep an eye on them. I’ve told the Major to tell the marines not to pick fights. This is a barabo station and we’ll only fight sard if attacked.”

Joma would have a hundred and twenty rim berths once completed, but only sixty were currently operational. Forty-four of those were presently occupied, most by barabo freighters, and seven by tavalai. The central hub held nearly a hundred smaller insystem vessels, and like all gas giant stations, Joma did most of its business transferring freight and people between the big FTL ships and the little sub-lighters.

“Sir,” said Shilu, “the Major reports no customs on dock, only a light local security presence and a few civvie spectators. Most barabo, but several kuhsi. Local freelancers, she thinks.”

Erik blinked at Shahaim. “Kuhsi do travel,” Shahaim reasoned. “If they wanted to go adventuring, this is one region of space that accepts species from anywhere.”

“Coms, make sure Tif is aware,” said Erik. “No telling who they’ll report to, if anyone.”

“Aye sir,” said Shilu.

“Not like we’ve been keeping her a secret,” Shahaim said. “She’s said she doesn’t want to stay on ship, either.”

“Yeah, I think she’s happy to fly the flag and tell all her enemies back home that she’s alive with Skah, and she’s teamed up with
UFS Phoenix
,” Erik murmured. “That’s what worries me.”

“Order her to stay aboard?”

“Too late now. A ship like this can’t hide, we’re too visible and Tif is a functioning member of the crew. We need the extra pilot, we have to wear whatever consequences come from pissing off various kuhsi. It’s not like we’re anywhere near their space anyway.”

“Aye,” Shahaim said warily.

“Sir,” came Shilu again, “
Europa
is requesting Lisbeth attend the dockside meeting also.” This time most people glanced at Erik.
Europa
was a Debogande Inc-owned ship… it raised possibilities.

“Sounds like someone might have come to meet you,” Kaspowitz suggested.

“Us,” Erik corrected with an edge. “Someone might have come to meet
us
.”

“Of course,” said Kaspowitz, in part-apology.

“Sir,” said Shilu again, sounding harried. Upon docking, the Coms Officer was always the busiest. As soon as a ship’s nose touched station, suddenly everyone wanted to talk. “Message from
Edmund Shandi
, the Worlder ship from Heuron. Request for a meeting with you personally, earliest convenience.”

Erik nodded — it wasn’t unexpected. “Confirm with compliments — earliest convenience yet to be determined.”

“Aye sir.” And almost immediately, “Sir, Stationmaster is messaging. Stationmaster wishes to meet with the commander of
UFS Phoenix
, at earliest convenience.”

“Repeat last reply,” said Erik.

“Aye sir. Sir, station media is reporting our arrival, I’m getting requests for interviews, Lieutenant Alomaim says there are some journalists out on dock and the number of civvie onlookers is growing.” That hadn’t happened on Tuki Station, by request to the Stationmaster. A bottle of fine Homeworld whisky had helped convince him to keep the dock clear.

“Might have to bump the Stationmaster up the meeting schedule?” Shahaim suggested.

“Gonna run out of whisky,” Kaspowitz muttered.

“Second Lieutenant Harris,” said Erik. “You’re going to assist Lieutenant Shilu on Coms for a while, help him shuffle through that backlog.”

“Yessir,” said Harris from up the far right end of the bridge, where the floor was starting to lean. “Sir, only… I’ve never worked coms before, I’m a gunner.”

“Oh you’re gonna love it, Bree,” Shilu told her drily. “It’s so much more fun than blowing stuff up.”

P
hoenix
main-quarter
was a mess of ongoing repairs to the broken water system, spacer crew hauling duffel bags to on-station accommodation, and main corridors filled with stationary armour, weapons and ammo so marines could access it in an emergency. Erik walked with Shahaim, Kaspowitz and Second Lieutenant Geish, their bridge posts filled by second-shift, and emerged from the crowd of
Phoenix
comings and goings onto Joma Station dock.

To one side of Berth 17, the dock section seal had closed, making a giant steel wall. The inner wall opposite the berth, where shopfronts, hotels and other establishments would typically welcome tired and thirsty spacers, was a mass of construction beams, clambering workers, power tools and showering orange sparks. The intervening dock was grey, unpolished steel, and covered in construction vehicles. Amidst them stood various barabo civilians, some talking, others taking vision with recording devices.