Croma Venture: (The Spiral Wars Book Five)

by Joel Shepherd

  “I am unsure, Gesul-sa. Liala is not Styx. It is possible that she does not like to kill. I think that would be an unwise thing to presume, drysines have been much more moral than deepynines, but that has hardly made them pacifists. Liala is young, perhaps she is still figuring things out. But she is also Styx’s daughter, and Styx is directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of many millions, perhaps billions. Best that we do not forget.”

  Gesul thought about that for a moment, gazing at the buildings behind her. “And in my rapid rise to power,” he said slowly. “Do you think that I am here the master of my own destiny? Or merely a puppet dancing to Styx’s tune?”

  Lisbeth took a deep breath. “I’m not sure that anyone has risen to power unassisted, Gesul-sa, among your people or mine. Styx certainly engineered this particular piece of fortune. But that does not mean she will continue to rule your destiny.”

  “I wonder,” Gesul said solemnly. “She brought down Sordashan because she knew things of his house’s history he would rather not see revealed. Perhaps next she will threaten to do the same to mine, if I do not act in ways that please her.”

  “And what will you do then, Gesul-sa?”

  Gesul only smiled faintly, gazing into the misting rain.

  Erik strode into Assembly as the marines were putting their armour back into storage. The great, multi-storey space echoed with the thrum of many powerplants, the crashing of armoured footsteps, the whine of electric elevators carrying marines up to their higher levels, and the yell of voices. Erik had his cap on, which in Assembly constituted ‘cover’, and passing marines saluted with a whine of powered limbs, the only place on Phoenix they were required to. The salutes lacked enthusiasm, which was excusable given they were trying to get their armour stowed after an exhausting, upsetting and unsuccessful mission, and most ship command crew knew better than to bother them in Assembly at such times.

  Erik left the AR glasses in his jacket pocket, whatever its advantage of showing him exactly who was who in passing armour. For this moment he wanted direct eye contact. He strode directly to an armour suit he recognised — Lieutenant Alomaim, faceplate raised, supervising the loading of various Bravo Platoon marines onto up-bound elevators. Typically for Alomaim, the Lieutenant’s serious face betrayed no surprise.

  He saluted as Erik approached. “Captain.”

  “Lieutenant,” Erik acknowledged, returning the salute. “Which marines were the direct cause of the problem on PH-1 during the evacuation?”

  “Sir, the situation was confused. It’s difficult to say.”

  “Lieutenant, obfuscate or otherwise refuse to comply with my direct order one more time and I will have you up on charges. Do you understand?”

  Alomaim’s eyes widened, just a little, and he straightened further within his armour, an audible whine-and-rattle of powered segments. From Alomaim, it was a lot. “Yes Captain. There were a number of them, sir. I judged Second Section the primary cause.”

  “Sergeant Neuman?”

  “His privates took the Sergeant’s protests as licence, sir. All were out of harness when Phoenix’s acceleration hit. Private Rajesh is in Medbay with a broken leg. Lance Corporal Kamov from First Squad received a concussion from Second Squad’s unsecured armour after acceleration. Further damage was suffered by PH-1’s interior, courtesy of that unsecured load at high G.”

  “And Lieutenant Dale’s punishment?”

  “Sir, to the best of my knowledge, no punishment has yet been handed down. I believe Lieutenant Dale judged the infraction as understandable under the circumstances.”

  “Get Sergeant Neuman over here immediately.”

  Alomaim turned, sighting past numerous armoured bodies moving, stowing weapons, racking armour on this ‘deck’ level, climbing from steamy interiors dripping sweat. “Sergeant Neuman!” he yelled above the racket. “Front and center!”

  Neuman stomped over, still in full armour. That armour was scarred with the pockmarks and craters of smallarms fire, Erik noted. Lighter resistance than could have been the case, Tiga had said. The reeh hadn’t been trying to trap and wipe them out. They’d been herding them, forcing a withdrawal, then chopping the head off the snake at the very last moment. And Trace, of course, had been one of the last to leave. Damn her reckless propriety. She’d been warned forever that it would one day get her in trouble, and now that it had, he couldn’t even gloat.

  Neuman snapped a salute, eyes cold. “Sergeant Neuman reporting sir!”

  “You had a problem with my decision to leave the splicer, Sergeant?” Erik asked. Everything truly useful he’d learned about confrontations of military authority, he’d learned from Trace. Emotion had no place here. There was only command, cold, hard and final. And the knowledge that anyone breaching it, in combat, was likely to get them all killed. Against all things likely to get them killed, it was the commanding officer’s duty to fight or die. Against his own people if necessary.

  “Did you decide to leave her behind, sir?” Neuman asked, with plain hostility.

  “You will not question the Captain’s authority on this deck, Sergeant!” Alomaim roared in the Sergeant’s face. Only now realising the gravity of the situation that Erik had inconveniently created in the middle of Assembly, instead of sweeping it all under the rug until everyone’s tempers had cooled down. Erik knew the marines would have preferred that. He was in no mood. “You stow that right now or you will find yourself in some very serious shit!”

  About Assembly, noise was fading. Marines were stopping, listening. Erik did not look around to judge reactions, expressions. But he could feel their attention, some cold, some as hostile as Neuman’s, all pressing down upon him.

  “Did you see what happened to Makimakala, Sergeant?” Erik asked him. “That’s what happens to ships that wait. Makimakala had karasai trouble, couldn’t get them all aboard in time. Captain Pram waited, longer than he should have. Were you advocating his course of action for Phoenix?” Erik gestured around. “For all of us?”

  “There was not even an attempt, sir!” Neuman retorted. Alomaim’s threats had made no evident impact on his state of mind. The Sergeant’s face was red as much with emotion as the exertion of a ten-hour armoured deployment. “There was no warning, no attempt, nothing! We don’t just leave people behind, Captain!”

  “What kindergarten school of military training did you attend, Sergeant?” Erik snapped. “We leave people behind all the time. Failure to do so can result in the loss of the entire ship. You had no warning because you fucked up and lost situational awareness on the Major. And now in your grief and incompetence you want to kill all five hundred and sixty nine souls on the ship as compensation?”

  Assembly on recovery was never silent, but the only sound now was humming machinery. Everyone else was deathly still. For a moment Erik thought Neuman might strike him. In powered armour, that would crush Erik’s head like a melon. Furious tears spilled in Neuman’s eyes. A year ago, Erik might have taken sympathy on him. Now he could only hear Trace’s voice in the back of his mind, warning that soft and sympathetic younger man ‘don’t you fucking dare!’ He could have explained the situation in full, how he was only aware that Trace was missing well after Phoenix had left. But marines rarely understood what the hell happened on the bridge, and besides, Trace’s primary lesson to him about these situations was that apology was death.

  “Trying to get this ship killed is the enemy’s job,” Erik continued, with a cold intensity he’d once not been capable of. “Are you a closet reeh, Sergeant? Are you working for the other side?” No reply from Neuman, just trembling grief and rage.

  “Your Captain asked you a question, Sergeant!” Alomaim barked.

  “No sir!” Furiously.

  “You think I left the Major behind?” Erik asked him. Asked them all, as everyone could hear. “Fine. I did leave her behind. You know why? Because that’s what she fucking taught me to do. I was soft when I first acquired this command. A soft emotional sap, like you, Serg
eant. Difficult circumstances, tears rolling down your cheeks. You know what the Major would say? She’d say what she’d been telling me this last year non-stop — get your fucking act together and stop pissing on everything she ever stood for on this ship. She’d stare you in the face and tell you how disappointed she was to find that her marines have learned nothing from all those years she spent teaching them.

  “You want to punish someone for leaving her behind? You want to refuse the take-hold and try smashing your way into the shuttle cockpit to delay departure? Fine, punish someone. Punish me.” He reached to his jacket pocket, and pulled out his sidearm. Alomaim’s eyes widened. Erik flipped the weapon and presented it to Neuman. “Punish me. You’ve shown you’re insubordinate to rank, someone has to pay, and I’m the one who left the Major behind. Punish me.”

  Neuman just stared at the far wall, unable to even look at the pistol. Tears streaming down his cheeks. Erik held the pistol’s grip in his face for a good ten seconds, then put it away. Deciding he’d pummelled the Sergeant enough, he turned on all of those watching.

  “You think you knew her better than I did!” he said loudly. “Well you’re wrong. I know because she’s the only reason I’m qualified to command this ship. She made me what I am, and I will not allow this crew to disgrace her legacy, even if I have to bust all of your heads in person. Now get back to work.”

  It wasn’t the most inspiring speech, but Trace had never been big on inspiring speeches. She just did things, precisely, and required that everyone follow her example. Talking was for actors, she’d told him more than once. Stop pretending. Be it.

  And just when the marines were about to start moving again, figuring that was all the speech they were going to get, he added… “One more thing! Corbi Resistance thinks the Major is alive, and has been taken for study in the Rando Splicer. Resistance has what I heard described as ‘extraordinary assets’ in place on Rando that they very rarely use, but could conceivably be used to get the Major out of the reeh’s hands. The Resistance want a military, high-ranking alien to see what the reeh are doing, in the hope of getting help from outside. So what we’re going to do is work on the assumption that she’s alive, and with the Resistance on Rando. We’re going to deal with whatever bullshit the croma have lined up for us, and then, somehow, I have a feeling our next strategic target could be in the direction of Rando anyway. Carry on.”

  And into that stunned and increasingly hopeful silence, he said to Alomaim, “Tell Lieutenant Dale I need him immediately, right here.”

  “Captain,” Alomaim nodded, and turned to Neuman. “Dismissed, Sergeant. I’ll deal with you later.” Neuman stared, baffled, trying to process that new information. Erik ignored him. “Lieutenant Dale, the Captain wants you yesterday. Assembly main floor, he’s standing right in front of me.”

  Soon enough, Dale was pushing through the rejuvenated marines, all hubbub and activity, talking and exclaiming amongst each other with sudden hope. Dale looked tired and sweaty, unarmoured in black marine jumpsuit, AR glasses on as he monitored his units and sipped from a water bottle. He pulled on a rumpled cap as he approached, making himself fit for the salute that followed, which Erik returned.

  “Captain.”

  “Lieutenant Dale.” Erik gestured for Dale to come with him, with a last glance at Alomaim. “Thank you Lieutenant.”

  “Captain,” said Alomaim, with more trepidation for things to come than Erik had seen from him before.

  Dale walked with Erik, weaving through bodies and armour, heading for a side supply room, already full of racked Koshaim rifles and providing some privacy from the outside. “That last bit you said could have come first, Captain,” Dale suggested. “Might have made the whole thing smoother.”

  It was cocky and patronising. Dale had warmed to Erik enormously since he’d become Captain, but he’d never entirely lost the attitude of the old warrior who’d seen and done it all, to the one who hadn’t. Now more than ever, Erik was determined that it would stop.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, confronting the big, hard-faced man directly. “Why did you disregard my direct order regarding the disciplining of lower-ranking personnel?”

  Dale gazed back, wary but not intimidated. “It’s a marine company, Captain. You’re not a marine.”

  “On this ship, the location and mobility of all ship personnel is the Captain’s prerogative,” Erik replied. “Your refusal to move marines from Midships to the cylinder upon my order could have cost many lives in the event of a sudden manoeuvre, and cost Phoenix a large portion of its marine capability, jeopardising all future missions in service of the survival of the human race. In the future, should you choose to disregard my direct and legitimate order on this ship again, I will see you court-martialled and executed. I will carry out the sentence myself, with this pistol right here.” He patted his pocket. “Do you understand me, Lieutenant?”

  Dale barely blinked. But there was a pause, of just a few seconds, as he weighed what it all meant. “I understand you, Captain,” he said.

  “Good,” said Erik. “Now, you will require an immediate promotion to Major. You will hold the rank on the understanding that it is temporary, until we get Major Thakur back. Marine ceremonial procedures are your prerogative, Lieutenant. Get it done however you like, but get it done fast and properly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Erik nodded. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Dale saluted smartly, turned on his heel and left. Erik watched him go, thinking dark thoughts. He wondered what Trace would have made of it all. No more than B-minus, he thought, leaving the storage room and heading back through Assembly toward his quarters, then the gym, shower, a meal, various reviews, then bed. And he knew that it was his fate to suffer that she would always be riding him for something, whether she was present and alive, or not.

  23

  Trace blinked awake, with vague memories of having woken before. She recalled dark shadows, views outside a window, alien rooms and humanoid shapes at work. But now, something was different. Rapid descent, she could feel it in her stomach. The kind of descent that wasn’t natural or controlled. Things shook with the vibration of too much speed, such as unaerodynamic shuttles, overpowered with deep space engines, sometimes achieved in thick atmosphere. But she could not hear much beyond a dull rumble.

  She was mostly upright, strapped to something and held in place. Standard transportation position for prisoners, back-to-aft, positioned to take the Gs of thrust. To one side was a small window. Otherwise she might have been in a closet, surrounded by tubes attached to strange, alien equipment. The most lucid she’d been in recent memory, if she could even see all of these things, and analyse her situation. Prisoners were often transported sedated… probably what one of these tubes was for. Now the vehicle felt like it was falling, and the vibration suggested atmosphere.

  Abruptly, the lights went out. Then reestablished, only much weaker, faint emergency light on a backup power source, blue where humans typically used red. The vibrations grew stronger. If there were an outside window anywhere in the room beyond this closet, she might be able to tell from the light quality whether they were going through reentry, or were deeper into the atmosphere. But there was nothing. Maybe all reeh shuttles landed like this, but she doubted it. There was no telling where she was in the galaxy, or what had happened to get her there. She only knew that the machines keeping her sedated were failing, and her shuttle was apparently crashing. If it killed her, that would nicely solve the horror of captivity. If it did not kill her, she would need to be ready. She did not dare close her eyes lest she catch some glimpse of useful information, but she stared at the odd tangles of tubes on the closet’s opposite wall, and took her familiar, deep breaths. Her heart, also awakening from sedation and beginning to race, now slowed once more.

  A shockingly hard impact, and she could feel them slewing sideways, with a marine’s long experience of vehicles going wrong. This one h
ad been hit, and her meditations were probably wasted because now she was going to die. Faced with capture and study by who she thought had captured her, that was definitely preferable.

  A second impact made the first feel like a tap, and the thing she was strapped to broke, smashing her against the opposing wall…

  …and she awoke for a second time, entangled in various unidentified things. She thought she was upside down. She tried moving, and her shoulder hurt, then her wrist. Unimpressed she pushed harder, and determined from the pain that neither was serious. And yes, she was somewhat upside down, legs still strapped in but upper body loose and folded at the waist, head down in the mass of tubes, broken straps and other things.

  She got a hand to her face, and the pain in one was mostly the hot pins of bloodflow returning. She got the mask askew from her face that she hadn’t been aware she was wearing and tore it clear, then determined that she did not have the room to do anything other than pull her legs clear of the straps. A pelvis restraint complicated things… those tubes were to evacuate bodily waste, she realised. Just how long had she been in this hellhole, anyway? That she was naked save for her old marine undershirt barely seemed worth pondering. Logically, transporting sedated and restrained prisoners for several days would require something similar.

  She walked her hands and upper-body up the wall to gain an upright position, then got her hands over her head to grasp the back of the gurney she was strapped to, and got leverage in the claustrophobic space to wriggle herself out. There was liquid dripping on her brow that she was pretty sure was blood, but she had no time to ponder it now and began feeling about the closet door for access. No such luck — prisoner enclosures rarely opened from the inside, and the crash hadn’t been enough to shake it loose.

  Must get out. When she was out, surely other problems would present, but Trace had been trained from childhood to solve one problem at a time. To one side of a gurney was a smooth steel cylinder — an airtank of some kind. So the gurney was portable, probably she’d been wheeled around on it. She wriggled, got both hands on the cylinder and found the connections… pressed a lever and pulled, and it came away. Another twist to consider the leverage, then rammed it hard into the small window, end first.