Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) (21 page)

“I’ve still got sixty hours,” Trace retorted. “
Phoenix
is maximising her position.”

“There is no position. You either accept, or you decline. Myself, I’d find it preferable if you’d decline. That way we could both escape this hypocrisy.”

Trace considered her old mentor for a moment. “You don’t even care about my reasons?”

“I know that you had the very best of reasons,” said Khola. “
Personal
reasons. The Kulina are beyond personal reasons. What you did was anathema to everything the Kulina have ever been, and the worst insult to everyone who has ever called themselves Kulina.”

Trace frowned. It hurt, but she was used to pain. “Kulina serve humanity. You serve Fleet. Those two are not the same.”

Khola smiled coldly. “Spare me your childish equivalence, humanity would be extinct if not for Fleet. Fleet is the heart and soul of humanity — remove the heart and the body dies.”

“You know the alo have Fleet Command by the balls?” A flicker in Khola’s eyes. “You know the alo speak with deepynine accents? Their languages are related, on the foundational level.”

Khola considered her for a moment. “I’ve been at a very high level of Fleet Command for a very long time. My rank is only an 0-6, but that does not describe my influence in Fleet.”

“Guidance Council,” said Trace. “I know.”

Khola nodded. “In that role, I’ve learned quite a lot about our alien allies. More than you, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Trace said evenly.

“And the one thing that I’ve concluded above all else is that in this part of the galaxy, that we call The Spiral, we can either be pure and moral, or we can stay alive. We can’t do both.”

“I’m not talking about
morality
,” Trace retorted, jabbing an armoured finger at his chest. “I’m talking about strategy. We have a very good expert aboard who swears that the alo are a knife at humanity’s heart. You think I’m only worried about the moral dimension of that alliance?” She wasn’t entirely sure when she’d started arguing in Romki’s favour. Lately, with Erik, she’d been doing the opposite.

“I think you’re entirely worried about the moral dimension,” Khola said grimly. “Of everything. You forget, I know you. I know all my students, the best ones in particular. I make a point of knowing their motivations. And you, Ms Thakur, have always been driven by a concern for personal justice.”

“I am Kulina,” Trace growled, her eyes hard. “My only concern has always been the fate of humanity.”

“I know your father beat you. I know your mother drank and gambled. I know your eldest brother took dangerous work as a mining technician to escape the home, and it killed him. I know you sought a similar escape to the Kulina. Perhaps you believed in the concept, but mostly you valued the meditations on karma and selflessness as a way out, a way to stop thinking on the matters that bothered you.

“The Kulina are a crutch for you. A bandage on your personal wounds. And ever since, your career has been marked by attachments to powerful men, to replace the father you never had. Me. Captain Pantillo. And now Erik Debogande. Men who stand for something more, men whom you secretly believe can give you something you’ve always lacked. Emotional security. It’s always been about you, Trace. You think you believe in the Kulina teachings of selflessness, but you’ve been lying to yourself.”

“Hey,” Trace said coldly. “If you’re going to try and kill me, make sure you know who you’re killing. Don’t tell yourself this cheap back-alley psychoanalysis bullshit to make yourself feel better. Face it like a man. An assassin who kids himself that all his assignments are evil is a coward, unable to face the truth of his actions.”

“I don’t think you’re evil, Trace. I think you’re one of the best people I’ve known.” Trace stared at him, forcing herself not to flinch. “But those good qualities have made you forget what we are, and what oath you swore. And the Kulina are bigger than any of us. You accused me of not knowing the difference between service to Fleet, and service to humanity. Well you don’t know the difference between service to good, and service to necessity. Kulina abandon their attachments because they blind us to necessity. That’s the whole point of being Kulina. You forgot… or rather, you never learned it to begin with. And so we find ourselves here. I love you like a daughter, but I am Kulina, and I know there are things in the universe far greater than one man’s love.”

Trace tried hard to keep the tremble from her voice. “Your Fleet murdered a man who did more for the human cause in the Triumvirate War than all Kulina combined. That man was a warrior, but he was driven by love — the love for humanity, and the love of his crew.

“You used to tell us about orders, and how bad orders should be questioned and not just followed over a cliff. Kulina are about results, and you can’t get results following bad orders or bad commanders. Well Captain Pantillo got results, and Fleet fought him all the way. You prefer Fleet’s judgement? If Fleet had put Pantillo in charge we’d have won the damn war thirty years ago.”

“You exaggerate. Your personal attachment proves my point.”

“No. It proves that I’m the only one of us interested in siding with the
best
. To survive in this galaxy, we’ll need the best. But you prefer Fleet, because Fleet’s all you know. Fleet’s mediocre. That makes Fleet as much a danger to humanity as a help. Fleet crushes its best. As you’d like to crush me.”

Khola smiled coldly. “Such modesty.”

Trace barely blinked. “Try me.”

L
ieutenant Tyson Dale
liked little Vola Station a lot more than its big brother Joma. In orbit around the inner Vola moon, Vola Station had a maximum capacity of only several hundred thousand compared to Joma’s four million plus. But unlike Joma’s empty, echoing caverns, Vola had been completed a long time ago, and thrived with all the crazy activity that one expected from a barabo insystem hub.

Dale ran now on a gym treadmill just off the main rim mall — one of those central canyon-like features barabo station designers liked to slice through their station levels, a mixture of open space, inner-apartment views and markets. The gym was far enough back from the main chaos that the glass windows weren’t crowded with fascinated barabo staring at the humans, and he didn’t feel like an exhibit in a zoo. Though Lance Corporal Kalo and Private Chavez standing guard in full armour might have discouraged some of that. Local barabo security were keeping an eye on the humans too — not so visible inside the gym, but Dale was sure they were there, working out in the loose gym-clothes barabo wore. Vola Station security seemed far more active than on Joma, like the station itself.

His uplink flashed on his vision as he ran, and he blinked it open. “This is Dale,” he said aloud, concentrating to hear beneath the thumping rhythms of barabo music.

“Lieutenant,”
came Jokono’s voice.
“I see this link is reaching you direct… where is PH-1?”
Typically they’d relay all coms from Joma Station through
Phoenix
first, then PH-1, creating layers of impenetrable encryption. This link was coming from
Phoenix
to Vola Station direct, making it less secure.

“Lieutenant Karle and the techs are out at the fabricator plant to check out the new merchandise. Half of us stayed behind to maintain security presence on station.”

“So you have… two sections with you?”

“Two sections, eight marines including myself.” Spelling it out, because Jokono was a civvie, and still learning how marines did things. “I pulled myself out of First Section, Gunnery Sergeant Forrest has command of security for Lieutenant Karle on PH-1. Keeping our accommodation block on Vola Station secure has priority. The manufacturing site they’ve gone to inspect is entirely automated, limited threats there.”

“Yes, that’s very wise. All kinds of nasty things can happen to accommodation blocks on stations if no one’s guarding them.
” As the former-head of security on a much larger station than this one would know.
“You come home from your time away and someone’s either listening to your private conversations, or about to blow you up, or both.”

It had been expected that Rhea System manufacturers would take at least a hundred hours to fabricate new missiles based on Lieutenant Karle’s blueprints. But one manufacturer had given them a fifty-hour quote on the first batch — something about merchandise that had been intended for someone else… all very sketchy, but the specs had looked good. Not that you could trust that without the personal inspection that Karle had gone to give.

“So what’s up, Joker?”

“Well I was just having a drink with Joma Station security man, very friendly fellow. Doesn’t like all these new human covert security types arriving on his station — he’s much happier with Phoenix crew because at least they wear uniforms. He agreed to keep an eye on them for me, in exchange for a nice bottle or two, and he tells me there’s quite a few suspicious humans on their way to Vola Station. Some are already there, others just arriving.”

“Interesting,” said Dale, barely breathing hard despite his pace. His light weapon hung on the treadmill rail before him, swaying to the rhythm. To his side, the newly promoted Lance Corporal Ricardo ran as well, matching his stride. Beyond her, Privates Halep and Yu worked the weights, and the new guy, Tabo, talked with several friendly barabo by a water cooler between sets. Whatever the security concerns of venturing out on station without armour, marines had to exercise, and pushups on the floor of a hotel room only went so far. “You think they’re looking for something juicy?”

“Very juicy,”
Jokono confirmed. Dale had been informed of the ‘Supreme Commander theory’… but of course, they couldn’t talk about it on a less-secure connection.
“And it’s quite possible their intel is better than ours. Quite likely, in fact.”

“Thanks for the info,” said Dale. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Anything?” Ricardo asked him as he disconnected.

“Spooks,” said Dale. “Lots of Fleet spooks.”

Ricardo’s eyes widened. “Here?” Dale nodded. “Well Fleet can’t use marines, can they?” Some orders, marines would never obey, not even from Fleet Command. “Are we moving?”

“Yeah I’m moving,” Dale replied, nodding to his treadmill display. “Faster than you, too. Keep up Corporal.” Ricardo accelerated gamely. She was a six-year vet, the logical choice to replace Lance Corporal Carponi, who’d been killed on Heuron. Dale didn’t doubt Ricardo’s ability, but Carponi had been one of her best friends, and taking his place did not sit well with her.

They kept at it for another half-hour, then gathered up gear and changed back to marine fatigues without bothering to shower — there were enough vulnerabilities on an alien station without getting cornered naked in gymnasium showers. Lance Corporal Kalo and Private Chavez took up escort duty before and behind, thumping through the growing crowds in full armour — their gym time was on alternate rotations.

They entered the big mall, a vertical slice through overlooking walkways between levels, a great hubbub of markets down below, and many lively shopfronts up high. Crowds of barabo stood aside for Kalo, as restauranteurs handed out food samples, and music blared, and great holographic displays lit the open space to their right. It was only a few hundred meters to their hotel, and not the most secure environment, but at least it seemed to be mostly barabo here, with no sign of sard or even tavalai.

A young barabo appeared from the crowd and tugged at Lance Corporal Ricardo’s arm. “Lady! Lady!” He pointed urgently up a side passage. “Human lady! Human lady!”

“Yes I am a human lady,” Ricardo replied with amusement.

“Yeah,” said Dale, “I think that means he’s found another human, lady. Up that way. Hey kid. Doba!” The kid looked at him — like all marines, Dale had picked up bits of various alien tongues over the years just by listening. And a lot of barabo in Kazak System seemed to be learning English in anticipation of Fleet’s arrival. “Doba, human? That way?” He pointed up the hall.

The kid bounced with that all-body nod that barabo did. “Yes! Human!” He pushed past a display of rare plants and up the passage, looking back at them urgently.

“Great,” said Halep. “Coz that couldn’t
possibly
be an ambush.”

Dale waved them up, and they followed the kid up the passage, making a better semblance of combat formation as they went. “Chavez, keep an eye on our barabo tail.”

“Aye sir.” Meaning that station security had been following them every time they left their accommodation, and would be following them now. Relying, no doubt, on the fact that humans had trouble telling one barabo from another. The passage was thick with restaurants and the smell of cooking, chairs and diners overflowing among the pedestrians, dead animals hanging in display windows. Heck of a place to maintain combat formation, Dale thought. Would a barabo kid lead them into an ambush where so many barabo would die in the crossfire? Would a barabo kid even know he
was
leading them into an ambush?

Past Lance Corporal Kalo’s armoured shoulder, Dale saw a robed figure amidst a bunch of dining barabo about some tables. This figure looked different, with thinner shoulders than the barabo. The barabo kid ran up, and the cloaked figure pressed some money into his hand. The kid ran off, and Dale caught a glimpse of a human woman’s face within the cowl.

She beckoned him in, and Dale went, indicating Ricardo to guard out here. Private Halep went with him, and the woman led them between noisy tables and thick steam from the kitchen, to a dark rear corner. There in a chair, similarly cloaked, sat a human man, chewing a barabo sugar cane to blend in. Or maybe he just liked the taste. He pushed the hood back a little, and Dale saw a dark browed face, thick black hair, heavy-set gravitas and all-too-familiar from countless news reports. Supreme Commander Chankow himself, huddled and scared on this distant alien station, hiding from the very forces he’d once commanded.

Dale stared at him for a moment. Part of him insisted on saluting. The other part wanted to shoot him in the head. He settled for taking a seat, alongside the commander with his back to the wall where he could see the room. Halep leaned against a wall nearby, watching the diners and trusting Dale to keep an eye on Chankow. God knew what a private would make of this. It was hard enough as a lieutenant, when every impulse screamed at him to show deference. This had been the highest ranking officer humanity had for the last eighteen months of Dale’s war. And for the briefest moment, it drove home to Dale with the force of revelation just how huge a situation
Phoenix
and her now-deceased captain had fallen into. Not just a selfish indulgence, as those crew who’d abandoned
Phoenix
had insisted. But the kind of thing that shaped civilisations.

“Lieutenant. You’re
Phoenix
?” Chankow whispered urgently. His dark eyes darted furtively about the crowded, smokey restaurant.

He didn’t know who he was, Dale realised.
Phoenix
crew had once worn nametags on their uniforms, as per Fleet-wide regulations. But with so many people out to get them, and spying on them from station crowds, that had seemed too easy a gift of intel to their enemies, so the tags had been removed. “Lieutenant Dale, Alpha Platoon,
UFS Phoenix
.” It was an effort not to add ‘sir’ on the end. That this man deserved it less than a punch in the face did not make thirty years of service reflex just disappear. “What do you want?”

In Heuron System, Chankow had ordered
Phoenix
destroyed. Before that, he’d approved, in general principle, to have Captain Pantillo killed to keep him from running for office. It hung in the air between them, an invisible wall. But the fear in Chankow’s eyes could scale any wall.

“Protection,” said Chankow. And held up a hand to forestall the obvious retort. “Hear me out. I know things. A lot of things.
Phoenix
is in a tangle much larger than any of you imagine, and I can help you out of it.”

Dale wrinkled his nose, as though smelling something bad. Few marines were inclined to forgive those who hurt their friends. But equally few marines were stupid enough to throw away help this good. “How did you get here?”

“Private ship.” He nodded to the robed woman. “Lieutenant Raymond here helped me get out, heard the first rumours of what was coming. Without her and a few others in my staff, I’d be dead.” Dale stared expressionlessly. Chankow took a deep breath, his lip trembling a little. “Outer Neutral Space is the only place where renegades can go.” With a meaningful look. “Barabo worlds don’t mind a few humans settling. But I got here just as
Phoenix
entered the system, and I found
Europa
, and
Edmund Chandi
, and I knew the station would be crawling with Fleet spies. But they’d be watching the FTL departures, so we got a small ship here instead. I was going to hide until the coast had cleared.”

“They’ve found you,” Dale said bluntly. “My people tell me there’s a bunch of Fleet spooks on the way.”

“You can beat them!” the robed woman interjected. Lieutenant Raymond, Chankow had said. “You’re
Phoenix
marines, they’re only covert operations!”

Dale considered her. Loyalty, from a junior officer. He supposed even a rat like Chankow could fool some poor kid into risking her neck to save him. “I’ve got another mission,” he said. “What’s in it for
Phoenix
?”

A restaurant waiter was serving a noisy table nearby. Chankow leaned closer, glancing about. “On Heuron. Your Major Thakur went to meet with a man called Stanislav Romki.”

“I remember,” Dale said drily.

“That’s what triggered the attack upon Lieutenant Commander Debogande. And upon her. Our intel said Romki was elsewhere, and would not be back for a long time. Our intel was wrong.”

Dale nodded. “I already knew all of that.”

“But you don’t know why. Do you know that the alo were behind the chah’nas first sending aid to Earth?” Dale frowned. “When the krim first invaded Sol System,” Chankow explained. “Our first two hundred years of resistance. The chah’nas say it was their idea to intervene on our behalf. Our historians have accepted that chah’nas did it because they wished to destabilise tavalai rule, and create a war in that corner of space that would make tavalai look bad, and potentially gain the chah’nas a new ally in restoring their old empire. But humanity’s success over the centuries vastly exceeded the chah’nas’s best expectations.”

He shook his head. “That’s been the theory, but it’s only partly true. Chah’nas helped us for all those reasons, but it was the alo’s idea in the first place. They’re the true masterminds behind the chah’nas plan to push back the tavalai from the centre of Spiral power.”

“Why?” Dale asked suspiciously.

“We don’t know. But we’ve known for a long time there’s a very old AI connection. It’s one of the most well kept secrets. All the old hacksaw bases, stations, cities, manufacturing centres in our space have been either kept secret, moved, or even destroyed, to help keep the secret.”

Dale’s eyes widened. “There’s more than we’ve been told?”

Chankow nodded. “A lot more. Far more than most people know. Most of it is in space, and most of the exploring and charting is done by Fleet ships. It’s known by relatively few people, so the secret is easy to keep. Technologically it’s relatively useless to us, there’s not much useful tech left, it’s so old and all the good stuff was evacuated by the previous occupants, or destroyed in the old AI wars. But you have to understand the
scale
of the old AI civilisation, during the Machine Age. Most humans still don’t, we’ve been too preoccupied with our own affairs. The loss of Earth, revenge, territorial expansion.”