Books One to Three Omnibus (Armada Wars)

by R. Curtis Venture

  “Where you folks headed?”

  “We’re on our way back to our el-zee,” said Caden. “I have some important people I need to get off the surface real quick.”

  “Seeing as how you guys pulled our buddies out of harm’s way, and took care of that fucking horror for us, it’d be a pleasure to see you safely back to your landers.”

  “Where’s the Bear?” Daxon asked. “I want to meet that guy.”

  “Bear Mtenga don’t stop for nobody,” said one of the Tankers, and he spat on the ground.

  “He’ll be off finding more Crusties to gut,” said Feior. “Can’t get enough of it, the crazy bastard.”

  “Well, anyone willing to go up against a skulker armed only with a metal bar is okay in my book,” said Daxon.

  Throam caught sight of movement behind the wall of troopers, and nudged Bruiser.

  “Check it out, big guy. They have one of you.”

  A Rodori was bringing up the rear, trudging towards them with the last stragglers from the Tanker squad, carrying a heavy flame unit with the same casual ease as Bruiser.

  “What’s your name?” Caden asked.

  “I am The Burning Flash of Envy’s Escape,” said the Rodori.

  Caden turned to Feior instead. “What’s his name?”

  “We just call him Burner. It suits him.”

  Throam watched as Burner trundled past the humans and walked straight up to Bruiser. They faced each other, silent, and Throam began to wonder if they were about to settle some old score.

  Bruiser said something, and his link either declined to translate, or it was not able to.

  Burner said something back, and his link remained silent too.

  Throam murmured to Caden. “What was that about?”

  “No idea.”

  “Never mind that,” said Eilentes. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Sergeant,” said Caden. “Just give me a minute to round up my guests, and we’ll be right with you.”

  “Take your time,” said Feior. “Word is the Crusties are falling back all over the city.”

  “Two minutes,” said Caden. He headed back into the building, towards the stairwell.

  Throam went over to Eilentes, wrapped an arm around her, and squeezed her to him gently.

  “That was amazing,” he said.

  She looked up at him and smiled coldly.

  “Now who’s the bad-ass hero?”

  “You are,” he said.

  “Size isn’t everything then.”

  She pulled away from him, pushing his arm off her, and headed after Caden.

  “Where you going?”

  “Left some kit up there,” she said.

  “Size isn’t everything?”

  Throam looked over his shoulder and saw one of the Tankers staring at him, a pained expression on his face.

  “She knows it is really,” Throam joked.

  “I don’t know fella, sounded like she meant it to me.”

  “Well… it still is.”

  “Damned right,” said the Tanker. “Don’t be telling me my whole fucking life has been a waste.”

  “No, man. You’re a machine.”

  Throam meant it. Like most of his unit, the Tanker was taller even than he, and his armour looked as though it were straining to contain his body. Throam could feel heat radiating from him, and for once he imagined what it must be like for Eilentes when she was close to him.

  “Ragnar Otkellsson,” said the Tanker. “They call me Overkill.”

  “Rendir Throam.”

  “What do you bench, Throam?”

  “Four-ten kilos at one gravity.”

  Otkellsson smiled. “Four-ten. What you using?”

  “Just the usual. Dianabol, test, tren.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Child’s things,” said Otkellsson. “If you don’t burn, your muscles won’t learn.”

  He fished in a pouch, and tossed Throam a sealed plastic bag.

  “What is it?”

  “The missing piece of the puzzle. Use that when you train and you might just push five-hundred. You can thank me later.”

  • • •

  “The Viskr have fled the system,” said Thande. “Not only that, but the reports we’re getting from Laeara suggest they’re pulling back from most of the border conflicts too.”

  Caden clasped his hands together, and felt his face adopt a smile before he could stop it.

  “That is the best news I’ve had all day.”

  “Glad I could cheer you up. I take it everything went well down there?”

  “Well enough. I met my objectives, in any case. I’m afraid the city is in a bit of a mess though.”

  “Hardly your fault.”

  “True. The remaining Viskr ground forces have surrendered, so hopefully there won’t be much more damage. You know: once the fires go out.”

  “We’ll have a full debriefing when you dock.”

  Caden decided not to tell her what he thought about having a debrief instead of a hot shower. But he had to admit, the thought of being back in the clean cocoon of Disputer was actually quite appealing.

  “I’ll let you get on,” she said. “I’m sure you’re eager to leave the battlefield behind.”

  “You’re not wrong, Captain,” said Caden. “I’m pretty much sick of Mibes now, and I have lost time to make up for.”

  “Is there somewhere you’d like us to drop you?”

  He thought about all the different places Maber Castigon might have found to hide. All the many, many worlds.

  “That’s the problem. I have no idea where I’m going next.”

  — 12 —

  The Natives are Restless

  Jidian Tarrow wanted to bang her head against the stupidly ornate desk. No, even better: she wanted very much to bang the proconsul’s head against his stupidly ornate desk. That might actually provoke a useful reaction.

  “If I might make a suggestion…?”

  The proconsul’s aide fixed her with a look that radiated contempt.

  “Shard Tarrow, you were ordered only to protect the governing body from any threat posed by our disaffected citizens. If the proconsul wants your opinion, he will certainly ask for it.”

  Proconsul Kalistine did not bother to look up from his holo. He allowed his underling to swat the nuisance Shard back down.

  Very well, she thought. It is your problem, after all.

  She went back over to where Crathus was standing, and looked out through the panes of the closed balcony doors. At the gates directly across from them, safely outside the perimeter of the House of Governance, she could see an angry crowd gesturing aggressively and mouthing what she guessed were impolite protestations. She saw very few humans amongst them.

  “More keep coming,” said Crathus. “This will get much worse before it gets better.”

  Tarrow placed her hand on the counterpart’s shoulder, and they looked at each other.

  “That’s how we like it.”

  Miall Crathus smiled.

  “The new Serrofite representative has made a demand, Sir,” the aide said.

  Tarrow turned her back on the view.

  Kalistine sounded aggrieved, as though the news were encroaching on his time. “They don’t take hints, these people. What is it this time?”

  “They are now calling themselves the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance, and state that they require an immediate cessation of all land clearance in the meadows.”

  “Ha!” Kalistine looked up from his holo, a smirk stretched across his face. “I suppose they want to move into the capital as well?”

  “It would not surprise me at all, Sir.”

  The aide’s smirk was a nastier reflection of Kalistine’s.

  “Kindly remind the representative of this ‘Alliance’ that my office will not hear Ordinary civilians. Like everyone else, if they wish to be heard they must petition one of the Raised to speak on their behalf.”

&
nbsp; “Of course, Proconsul.”

  And good luck finding a human of consequence who will stick their neck out for you, thought Tarrow.

  “If they don’t leave the vicinity of the House of Governance within one minute of being given this free advice, take stern measures to encourage them.”

  The aide bowed slightly before leaving the room, wearing her satisfaction like a mask.

  “You had something to say, Shard?”

  Tarrow started. Proconsul Kalistine had not once asked to hear her thoughts since she had arrived with Crathus; not even to enquire what measures she wanted to put in place to ensure his own protection.

  “I don’t pretend to understand the fine details of this situation,” she said. “But I have to wonder: why not give them back the territories they’re asking for?”

  “It’s perfectly simple. They ceded the land to us when they accepted Imperial rule. This world is a protectorate now, and they are the subjects of Her Imperial Majesty. They’ll do as they are told.”

  “It’s a big planet. They don’t seem to be asking for much of it back.”

  Kalistine inhaled deeply and sat back in his chair. He placed both hands on the edge of the desk, wide apart, and looked directly at Tarrow.

  “Serrofus Major is already one of the most self-reliant worlds in the entire Empire,” he said. “I want it to become the most successful, within my lifetime. Within my term. I want Maidre Shalleon and Ramm Stallahad and Damastion to look at us and wonder how we did it. Production is everything.”

  “So screw the natives, is that it?”

  Kalistine smiled. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. They are perfectly entitled — under the laws they agreed to live by — to raise their objections through the proper channels.”

  Crathus snorted. Tarrow and Kalistine looked at the same time, and Tarrow saw that her counterpart was still gazing out through the windows, her back to the office.

  “Your counterpart has something to say, perhaps?”

  “Just clearing my throat, Proconsul,” said Crathus.

  Kalistine gave Tarrow a look which suggested she might like to keep her subordinate on a tighter leash in the future.

  “These territories they want were being wasted,” he said. “Do you know what they grow? The only thing they seem to grow? Weeds. Vast areas of the same weed, in endless monoculture. It’s useless, yet they give great tracts of fertile land over to it.”

  “It’s my understanding that it’s not useless to them.”

  “Oh no, not at all. They hardly seem to be able to grow enough of it to burn up in all their barbaric little rituals. But of course what I mean is that it is not of any use to the Empire, and in this office that is what matters.”

  “So I gather.”

  Tarrow found herself liking the proconsul less and less with every passing second, and wondered how much trouble she might attract if her competence happened to slip just when his very life were at stake.

  “Was that your suggestion then? To give them back the land?”

  “Actually no. I was going to suggest it might be easier to resolve this if you simply raised one of the Serrofites.”

  This time, it was Kalistine who snorted.

  • • •

  Castigon knew that something was wrong, he just could not say what it was.

  Captain Borreto’s warning about the unrest on Serrofus Major had been the first Castigon had heard of it; he was not particularly interested in the political movements of the Empire these days. But he had seen plenty of civil discord in his time, and he knew instinctively that something different was happening here.

  The people in the capital were not just dissatisfied. They were… well if there was a particular word for it, he did not know what that word was.

  Whatever was going on it had so far worked to his advantage. Civic Security were being stripped away from their normal postings and redeployed to maintain order throughout the city. It had made his life so much easier, and he was not going to be ungrateful about that. Getting from the starport to the streets had seemed in his mind like it might be nigh on impossible. He had wasted hours on the journey from Lophrit thinking about how it might be accomplished, only to find the question barely had any meaning once he actually arrived.

  He hurried through the streets, a hood pulled over his head and down almost to his eyes.

  Castigon had heard of the Serrofites long ago, when he was still on active duty as a counterpart. The creatures’ societies had been pre-industrial when the first human colony ships landed on their soil, but they were an intelligent, adaptable species, and they had quickly established meaningful communication with the settlers.

  Clearly a lot had changed since then.

  As he hurried through the town, he saw shops and other businesses run by Serrofite proprietors, with dual script on their signage and displays. Many of them were dark, the doors bolted and the window shades closed.

  There were plenty of people out on foot — humans, for the most part — and they brushed past him often. They were quiet, hurried, and afraid. Whispers met his ears from the darker corners.

  Mastalekt, that was what the natives called themselves. But only them. Everyone else called them Serrofites, reducing their culture to a geographical marker. The Imperial way made them a thing, which might one day be scooped up and placed where it was more convenient for that thing to be.

  So had it been with him.

  He reached the public square in the civic centre, and found it empty. He crossed straight through the space, not bothering to keep to the edges, hurried under the peristyle on the far side, and passed out through an arched exit. Ahead lay the House of Governance.

  Now, he clung to the walls and the shadows they cast across the street. There was a crowd up ahead, congregated around the closed gates of the proconsul’s compound. There would be many eyes watching from within.

  The crowd was made up almost entirely of Serrofites. They teetered back and forth, looking as though their long, slender bodies were unstable on their double-footed legs. Many shades of blue and blue-grey skin combined to form a small, turbulent sea around the gates.

  “Ooracht!” They shouted, again and again.

  ‘Restitution,’ his link informed him. The sentiment was certainly one Castigon could get on board with.

  As he watched, the crowd began to simmer down. Someone was approaching from the main building, walking with slow dignity. The woman was tall and immaculately clad, her face impassive and features immobile. A bob of blonde hair framed her face.

  She reached the gate, waited for the nearest thing to silence she would get, and called out across the crowd.

  “His Excellency, the Proconsul of Serrofus Major, reminds you that Ordinary civilians may not petition his office—“

  Anger rose from the crowd, the noise building up again. She held up one hand, and it dropped back down.

  “The proper order of business, as I have told you before, is to address your concerns to a Raised citizen who will then negotiate terms on your behalf.”

  This time, the response was a wall of fury. It was almost a full minute before any single voice could be heard over the choir of dissent.

  “There is none who would speak for us!”

  Even through his link, the Serrofite’s voice was like hot gravel dropping on cold glass.

  “The same rules govern us all,” the woman shouted back. “None will be favoured.”

  “No Ordinary will be favoured,” the Serrofite retorted. “Favour is only for the Raised. And no Mastalekt shall ever be Raised.”

  The woman took a step back, and signalled to someone out of Castigon’s line of sight. He had already guessed who that might be by the time a troupe of civic guards filed across in front of her.

  “You have been given the only answer you will receive on this day,” she shouted. “Return to your homes and your families, and consider well what your lives are worth.”

  “To you, they are worth nothing!”
It was the same spokesman. “All we ask is that you stop burning the Sacred Meadows.”

  The woman, standing behind a pair of gates and a line of armed guards, stifled a snort of derision.

  “You have one minute to leave peacefully,” she called out.

  Castigon noticed movement in the centre of the face of the House, and looked up. The balcony doors over the main entrance were open, and three figures had emerged into the light from the dark room beyond the threshold.

  She was one of them.

  The male was without doubt the proconsul of this world, dressed as he was in such finery. To his right stood two women; one a combative-looking counterpart, the other a Shard whose career he had once saved. So much for that.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  Serrofites were beginning to leave, some grabbing on to others in attempts to convince them to make a stand.

  “Twenty.”

  Here and there small scuffles broke out as the Serrofites disagreed violently on how best to make their point before the deadline.

  “Ten seconds.”

  The guards brought up their rifles as one, and stepped back onto their right feet.

  “Five, four, three, two, one.”

  Those who had stayed scrabbled for cover, fleeing the gates. The guards fired token shots into the ground, sending up plumes of dust. Not one Serrofite stood in defiance.

  Castigon supposed idly that this display was exactly why they were no longer the masters of their own world.

  The blonde woman clasped her hands behind her back, smiled a cold, satisfied smile, and turned on her heel. Castigon watched her walk back towards the House, and by the time he looked back to the balcony the doors were closing.

  The whole compound, then, was on high alert already. He would need Tarrow to come to him.

  • • •

  Brant wandered casually to Tirrano’s work station and tapped her gently on the arm. He was already walking away before she turned to look, suspended her holo, and went after him. She found him waiting in the agreed spot: an alcove on a barely-used corridor.

  “A clandestine meeting,” she said. “How romantic you’ve become.”