Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) (6 page)

C
olonel Timothy Khola’s
cruiser landed on the pad within wide, pretty gardens on a hill. He left the cruiser, presented his ID to the marine guard who came to check it, then walked with his two officer companions toward the mansion. The neighbourhood was wealthy, as all neighbourhoods were on these green hilltops that overlooked the gleaming city of Shiwon. The city and ocean view were partly obstructed by tall, green trees, and the gardens stretched downhill to patios, swimming pools and flower beds, surrounded by high walls.

Fleet personnel bustled about, mostly officers on business. They were moving a lot of files and boxes, and furniture piled on the pavings beside big French doors. The mansion was Shiwon Fleet Administration, the personal residence of Fleet Admiral Paul Anjo. The third-most-senior officer in Fleet, even Anjo’s own home was filled with staff, on full-rotation service. And these staff looked like they were preparing to move house.

Khola entered the downstairs living room, wide and spacious, where civilian removalists were considering the furniture. A middle-aged black lady in expensive clothes fretted with them beside a sofa. An adult daughter held a grandchild nearby, chatting to a Fleet officer Khola didn’t recognise.

Khola went briskly upstairs, down a hall past more officers carrying boxes, to some big double doors guarded by marines. Both marines came to attention as Khola approached. He wore full dress uniform today, with medals. He didn’t do that often. The Liberty Star had an effect on all who saw it, even civilians. After one hundred and sixty one years of war, few humans didn’t know what it was. There were rumours of rare ones on the blackmarket fetching fortunes, for collector value alone. To serving personnel, they were worth far more than money.

The marines let him in unasked, and the two officers with him. Fleet Admiral Anjo was talking with several Captains and Commanders. About his office, more boxes, filling with files, pictures, framed commendations. Several shelves were approaching bare. Against the wall behind his desk, the twin flags of the Fleet Arrowhead on Crescent, and the United Forces Starburst about a blue sphere. The blue sphere was Earth, and rising above the northern-most point of the star, the silver wings of a Phoenix. Humanity, rising from the ashes.

All turned to look at the new arrival. “Colonel Khola!” exclaimed the Fleet Admiral in surprise. “This is an honour. To what do I owe it?” In Fleet seniority, Anjo was a whole five ranks above Khola — a stratospheric O-11, where Khola was merely an O-6. Yet while Anjo might receive more salutes, no one in Fleet was under any illusion who got the most respect.

“I have some special business, sir,” Khola said simply. “I would be gratified if we could attend to it immediately.”

Anjo’s eyes went wide. Special business, coming from Khola, could only mean the Guidance Council. Much of Fleet thought the Guidance Council was just a rumour, a tale to be told late at night. The administrative version of a ghost ship story, told to frighten junior bureaucrats into good behaviour. Select very senior officers knew better.

Anjo nodded to the officers about him, who left with respectful haste. One of Khola’s companions followed them out, and shut the doors behind him. Khola glanced at the boxes. Anjo smiled nervously. “I’ve been informed that the security standards in this neighbourhood are no longer up to scratch. You know, with things as they are.”

Khola nodded. Anjo had upset the Debogandes. The Debogande Family was known to employ some very serious muscle, much of it ex-Fleet. Anjo had pinned a murder on Alice Debogande’s son, then tried to kill him too when it all went bad. Worse, he’d tried to kill Major Thakur, and Thakur wore the Liberty Star just as Khola did. Many marines were furious, and Anjo, whatever his rank, was no marine. Anjo had set a precedent, of top officers murdering, and attempting to murder, their own. No one was especially surprised that High Command could do such things — one hundred and sixty one years of war had demonstrated that the universe, and Fleet Command, could be equally dark and dangerous. But even so, such behaviour could be catching. No doubt Anjo was nervous, and moving somewhere safer.

“Colonel, what kind of drink could I offer a Kulina that you might accept?” Anjo asked. Anjo was dark and portly. His uniform belt was let out several notches more than Khola thought seemly, even on a spacer.

“No drink, thank you Admiral.” He fixed Anjo with a calm stare. “I’m here to inform you that the Guidance Council has deliberated, and found the present situation intolerable. Fleet must maintain Spacer dominance over Worlders, but instead of uniting behind you, your actions have divided us. One of our most powerful industrial families, a family with a record of great service to Spacer causes and a great friend to Fleet, has now been made our enemy. Spacer Congress representatives are upset. My fellow marines are upset. Some Spacer captains involved in the initial pursuit of
Phoenix
from Homeworld were then, and are still now, on the verge of mutiny. Even many who were in the greatest disagreement with Captain Pantillo’s politics cannot accept on principle that one of their own could be dealt with in this manner.”

“Look,” Anjo said shortly, temper and fear rising as one. He jabbed his finger at Khola. “I was given
specific instructions
to deal with Pantillo. Immediately, that was the word I received. I know many of the Guidance Council were in agreement at the time, and only now, in hindsight…” He broke off, and strode to stare out a window at the green gardens. “I mean what did they think would happen? The war was ended, Pantillo was going to run for office from Heuron, where he’d probably win, and then a man with his war record, organising on behalf of the Worlders… well, only a matter of time until the Worlders gained full democratic rights at the top of our political system. Unacceptable, I was told. And so I dealt with it,
exactly
how I was instructed, only now does everyone see the impossibility of the situation I was placed in!”

“I quite understand,” Khola agreed. “But that does not change the present situation.”

“And how the hell did that
girl
get loose in the detention cells?” Anjo demanded. “I’m telling you, this was an inside job. I think I was set up, Colonel. And I’ll not take the fall for this alone, I can assure you.”

“There was no inside job,” Khola said calmly. “Major Thakur is Kulina, like me. Others may have her combat skills, but very few possess the calmness of mind to utilise them as she does. She was my student for one year at the Academy, and while her decisions have surprised and disappointed me, the outcomes once she made those decisions have not.” He paused. “And you will take the fall for this.”

Anjo turned to look at him. Lips pressed tight, trembling with hard emotion. “I will not,” he retorted. “I was placed in an impossible circumstance.”

“That is irrelevant,” said Khola. “We battle for human survival. Our own individual survival is unimportant. And fear not, Fleet Admiral Ishmael and Supreme Commander Chankow will meet the same fate as you.”

“I will appeal!” Anjo retorted. Khola had been warned of this, and it did not surprise him. Anjo had been climbing this greasy pole most of his life. Like so many of Fleet’s highest officers. “I will demand a full accounting of the decision making process behind my dismissal! It will not be pretty, Colonel. You go and you tell your Guidance Council that, before we take this any further.”

“There will be no accounting, Admiral,” Khola told him. “You misread the situation. Fleet needs a clean break from its current leadership. There can be no dispute, no ongoing proceedings leading to further debate and acrimony. It must be fast, and it must be final.”

Khola pulled his sidearm from its holster. Anjo paled. “Oh no no no,” he murmured. Tremors began in his hands, and he stumbled back a step.

“For the human cause, Admiral,” Khola said simply. “The only cause that matters. It must be by your own hand. You will leave a note admitting your responsibility and regret. Humanity’s future depends on it.”

“I won’t.” Anjo stumbled back against the wall for balance, face blank with terror. “I won’t, I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Please.” Begging, as his eyes filled with tears. “Please, my family is downstairs. You can’t do this. Think of them.”

“I’m thinking of us all,” Khola said calmly. “And I shan’t do it. You shall.”

In sudden fury, Anjo drew himself up. “I am a Fleet Admiral!” he yelled. “I have worked my whole life to achieve this position, and I will not be intimidated by some lowly Colonel with jumped up delusions of grandeur!”

The yelling would not help him, Khola knew. This was a secure room, and largely soundproof. Lieutenant Abrahms, who had departed the room before, had moved the marines on guard outside at the same time. No one would come. He nodded to Lieutenant Parrikar, who walked around Anjo’s desk to the drawer, and pulled out the Admiral’s personal pistol, just where intel had said it was. Parrikar handed it over to Khola.

Anjo grabbed a chair and tried to heave it at the window, but the chair was heavy. Khola grabbed it with a hand, then broke Anjo’s grip to make him drop it. Anjo lashed at his arm, but that merely gave Khola the leverage for an armlock that dropped Anjo to his knees. Anjo screamed, but Khola took a handkerchief from his pocket he’d kept for the purpose, and stuffed it into Anjo’s mouth. He then dragged the man, with Lieutenant Parrikar’s assistance, kicking and flailing to his desk chair, and put him in it.

The pistol was a snubbed K7, standard Fleet officer’s issue, and would not make an especially loud noise in a secure room. With augmented strength Khola locked Anjo’s left arm behind his back, forced the K7 into the right hand that Parrikar held ready. Parrikar then bear hugged Anjo to the chair to hold him in place, while Khola locked the arms, and forced the pistol hand around and stuffed the muzzle into Anjo’s mouth. Anjo tried to thrash his head, and Parrikar stopped that with a steel grip. The muzzle went in, to Anjo’s muffled shrieks.

“Clear!” Khola instructed, and Parrikar removed her hand from the top of Anjo’s head, just before Khola blew it off. Bits of skull and brain went flying, then stillness. Both marines dropped the Fleet Admiral, as the pistol fell, then a hand. Blood dripped thickly, and Khola removed the bloody handkerchief.

Lieutenant Parrikar looked at their handiwork, and surveyed the blood spatter on her hands. “Fuck,” she summarised.

Khola nodded, scrunching the handkerchief and scanning his uniform for blood. “Always messy,” he said distastefully. “The dishonourable always are.”

The doors opened, and more spacer uniforms walked in. They carried medical bags, and pulled on rubber gloves even now. “You two,” said their leader, “the washroom’s in there, make sure you’re clean before you leave. Anderson, go with them to be sure. We’ll take care of this.”

“Yes, forensically we won’t fool anyone,” Khola said drily, handing one of the new arrivals the bloody rag. “Do a good job or Lieutenant Parrikar and myself will meet a similar fate in some prison cell, I’m sure.”

The man opened his bag on Anjo’s desk, revealing an orderly arrangement of cleaning agents, cloths, magnifying lenses and tweezers. “Oh I’m sure they’ll know exactly who did it,” he told the two Kulina marines. “We’re just betting that at this point, they’ll understand the necessity.”

A
lice Debogande was not particularly impressed
by the sight of Rear Admiral Bedi. He was a little round man with a twitchy little face, who clearly had not seen any recent combat during his service. She had met Erik’s dear Captain Pantillo while he was still alive, and even at thirty years older than Bedi (her intelligence people told her) he’d looked far more spry and fit than this.

Alice stood beside her chair in the mansion’s lower sunroom, surrounded on all sides by glass, and beyond them, wide green gardens. Bedi’s accompanying captain was invited to wait by the door from the gardens. About Alice, ten personal security, well armed with weapons prominent. In the gardens outside, many more. The Debogande family house had aerial radar and defence mechanisms. If she’d been allowed, she’d have had anti-aircraft installed. But Fleet, of course, said no.

“Rear Admiral,” she said coolly, and indicated the chair opposite.

“Madame Debogande,” Bedi tried, and offered her his hand. Alice ignored it, and took her seat. Bedi recovered well enough, and sat also. As serving Fleet, he got to keep his uniform pistol, and even Alice’s security could not by law argue with that. But if he was armed, they would be too. Bedi ran his eye across the wall of holstered weapons around him. It was unsubtle of her, but Alice was well beyond caring about subtlety, with men such as these. “You’ve heard the news then?”

“I heard,” said Alice. “Fleet Admiral Anjo is dead. Apparently there’s even a note.” With dry amusement.

Bedi cleared his throat. No doubt he would benefit from a drink. None was offered. “He did show an appalling lack of judgement. Your son was an unfortunate casualty of it.”

“Not yet he’s not,” Alice said coldly. It terrified her, what had happened to Erik, and to Lisbeth. Yet on a level that she knew was most unwise, it made her proud beyond words. Family Debogande had once stood for proud and principled things. Following Earth’s destruction, when humanity had been reduced to a hundred million Spacers squeezed into overcrowded accommodations on stations or bases, a man named Junwadh Debogande, an ordinary stationhand originally from an African place called Burkina Faso, had emerged as a brilliant organiser of desperately needed industrial activity. When the Chah’nas Continuum had funnelled money and technology into those desperate few colonies, Junwadh had quickly risen to prominence, and been granted responsibility for a huge swathe of activity.