Books One to Three Omnibus (Armada Wars)

by R. Curtis Venture

  IF I CAN DO IT,

  SO CAN YOU!

  Join the Navy. Join the Fight.

  Those words felt like treason to her now.

  She climbed from the bed, rushed to the dresser and reached over it, tore away a wide strip through the middle of the recruitment poster and scrunched it up into a ball which she threw across the room. She grabbed the lower corners and pulled the bottom part of the poster away, gave it the same treatment, cursing it as she cast the ball of hateful paper into the far corner. She tried to reach the last remaining scrap, the topmost strip, and could not.

  IF I CAN DO IT,

  She sobbed, gasped, then swiped across the top of the dresser with her forearms. Pieces of memorabilia flew over the edge, scattered on the floor. The stupid, stupid reflow coil landed with a heavy bang, denting the wooden floorboards. She jumped back instinctively, moving her feet even though the heavy hunk of metal had already landed.

  She stared at the coil.

  Brex had told her about Papa’s tricks almost two Solars ago. He had busted their father’s little game wide open, in an effort to make Euryce cry. But she had not given Brex that satisfaction.

  It doesn’t matter, she had said. The things are just things. They still remind me of her, even though she never owned them.

  But she really had never owned them — never even touched them — and they really were just things.

  Just junk.

  Euryce turned away from the dresser and left the room. Lasan waited in the corridor, her worried face asking questions of its own, but Euryce ignored her and hurried to the front door. She went outside, sat on the top step, and cried.

  The door opened slowly then closed softly behind her, and Lasan sat down beside her. Euryce felt an arm around her shoulders, squeezing softly, and a face against the side of her neck.

  “It’s okay,” Lasan said.

  “It’s not okay,” Euryce sniffed. “She’s dead. Dead.”

  Euryce brushed hair away from her face, and the street trembled in her watery vision. She could not yet bring herself to look at Lasan, for the moment their eyes met she knew she would burst into tears again.

  “This is what happens in a war, Eury,” Lasan said softly. “People get killed. People we care about.”

  “Why does there have to be a war?” Euryce asked.

  Lasan did not answer, but squeezed a little tighter.

  “Why can’t they all just stop?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Lasan. “Everybody wants the same thing, and they have to fight for it.”

  “That doesn’t sound complicated,” said Euryce. “It sounds stupid.”

  “It is stupid. But that’s what happens.”

  Euryce raised her hand to wipe her nose on her sleeve, but Lasan produced a tissue instead. She took it gratefully.

  “I thought Roima would come back home when it’s all over.”

  “Everybody thinks that about everyone they know,” said Lasan. “She probably thought it herself.”

  “I’ll never see her again. She’ll never be home again.”

  “She doesn’t know she’s dead, Eury. Nothing bad can happen to her now.”

  “Nothing good can happen either.”

  “Well, that’s not really true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lasan smoothed Euryce’s hair, and Euryce finally felt confident that she could look at her without crying.

  “Well, she’s not really gone as long as we remember her. Like Grandmama, you know? Everything nice we say about her, everything good we do to remember her by…? Those are things she caused. That’s her carrying on.”

  Euryce nodded slowly. She felt very grown-up all of a sudden, and the urge to weep and wail had left her entirely. If not for the shame which nagged at her for destroying her own poster and knocking her mementos on the floor, she would have felt perfectly capable of picking herself up, returning to the family room, and watching the news reports again to learn what had really happened.

  Lasan stood up, and Euryce looked behind her. Mama and Papa were standing in the doorway, holding onto each other and looking down on her and Lasan. Papa was smiling at Lasan with proud, kindly eyes.

  “Come back inside, Eury,” said Mama.

  Mama reached out her hand, and Euryce took it. She got to her feet and climbed the top step, allowing Mama to lead her back inside the house. Once they were in the hallway she hugged Mama’s waist.

  “There, there,” said Mama. “It will all be okay, you’ll see.”

  Euryce waited until the hug ended naturally, then stepped back. She smiled ruefully at Mama, and at Papa, then returned to her room.

  Guilt descended upon her for the shameful scattering of mementos, draping over her shoulders like a shawl as impossibly heavily as it was impossibly thin.

  She stooped to pick them up, and one by one returned them to their rightful places. Those which had broken she set aside to be repaired, if such a thing were possible. Papa would doubtless be able to help with them.

  The younger, happier, more hopeful Roima Gotharom looked down on her as she set things right, still baring those dazzlingly white teeth.

  If I can do it, so can you.

  — 11 —

  Bruised Egos

  The ascent to Disputer was a sombre affair.

  With the Kodiak destroyed there was ample room aboard the lander for the three dead Shaeld Hratha and the haul of eggs. But the body bags laid out near them, and the empty seats, underlined the cost of the mission a little too well.

  Caden simmered quietly to himself, ignoring the jolts as the lander hit turbulence in the atmosphere. He watched Dyne — Dyne, who had been staring at his knees since they took off — and wondered how such an incompetent counterpart was still in the job. How in the many worlds had Kulik Molcomb tolerated his apathy? He had paid dearly for that mistake, Caden supposed.

  Dyne was dead weight.

  Without Bruiser, on the other hand, the mission might have failed. Without the Rodori’s determination, quick thinking, and quietly solemn loyalty, Caden would probably now be dead.

  And then of course there was the little matter of Bruiser’s tactical advantage. As far as Caden knew, he was the only person on the lander who could actually see living Shaeld Hratha. Caden had tried flipping through several of his visor’s vision enhancement profiles after Bruiser had killed the Shaeld in the splinter, but until the Shaeld Hrathan corpses were well and truly dead, and their hides ceased whatever biochemical functions provided their remarkable camouflage, not one of the overlays had detected their presence. Someone in Tech and Systems was going to have a job on their hands figuring out that little problem.

  Caden watched the Rodori try to maintain his balance while the lander bucked and tilted its way through the upper atmosphere. Bruiser was the only person still in his full environmental gear; before they had withdrawn from the splinters and retreated to the lander, he had informed Caden of a small breach in his helmet.

  Honest disclosure, Caden thought. Something Dyne would probably know nothing about.

  The simple fact had been that not even the Tankers were equipped with quarantine shells big enough to fully enclose Bruiser, and there was nowhere on the lander where he could be isolated from everyone else without causing problems when they all wanted to disembark. In the end, it had taken a group effort to find the tiny crack in his helmet, before someone sealed it shut with a little glob of metallic glue.

  Bruiser would have to wait in his full combat suit until they got to the carrier. Caden was just glad for him that Rodori did not sweat.

  “Looks like it’s a real mess up there.” The pilot’s voice. “I’m skinprinting to full black. Be ready for some tight evasives.”

  Caden hoped that Bruiser had not been exposed to the mist for too long. As things stood, nobody had the faintest idea how much exposure carried an actual risk of infection, or for that matter how long it would take before symptoms were evident.

  Momentum chan
ges tried to throw his body this way and that as the pilot guided the lander towards Disputer, and Caden judged from the multiple evasive manoeuvres that there was an intense battle in full swing. Between the relatively small size of the lander and the matte black of its skinprinted hull, the pilot’s moves, and probably a little good luck, he hoped they would not end up riddled with tungsten or torpedoed into oblivion.

  His faith in the pilot was rewarded. Touching down on the flight deck of the Disputer, the pilot announced their safe arrival over the comm and wished everyone a nice day.

  “Everyone to decontamination before you go anywhere else,” said Caden.

  Groans and sighs answered him.

  “I’m serious, guys,” he said. “This is not a game.”

  “You heard him,” Chun barked. “Decon, now. MOVE IT!”

  “Caden, does that include me?”

  “Everyone, Bruiser. We have no idea how long this thing can persist on surfaces like armour. You’re gonna have to stay in your suit until you’re in the isolation ward, but you should strip your kit while you’re in there.”

  Like his comrades, Bruiser also groaned.

  “Come on big fella. It’s not the worst thing that ever happened to you, I’m sure.”

  “That is a fact,” said Bruiser. He stomped down the ramp to the flight deck.

  Caden watched him go, then clicked his link.

  “Flight control? Shard Caden. I need a team down here equipped to topically sterilise some specimens and get them contained… I don’t know, that’s why I’m telling you; so you can give the right department a call. Yes. Thank you.”

  He ended the call, and stared at the bodies of the Shaeld Hratha.

  Ugly fuckers, he thought. Where in the darkest depths of the damnable Deep did you come from? What is it you want from us? Why have you not made any demands, or even declared war?

  He resisted the urge to kick one of them.

  Perhaps they are not what they seem.

  Don’t you start, he thought to himself. I was starting to get used to you being quiet again. The last thing I need now is all that doubt and uncertainty you seem determined to spread around.

  The Emptiness did not reply.

  Caden left the lander and made his way across the flight deck. The nearest decontamination chamber was easy to spot, signed as it was with the crest of Life and Rescue and ‘DECON’ stencilled in huge white letters above the hatch.

  As he made his way across the deck the plates vibrated and bucked beneath his feet. Disputer was still taking hits. He clicked his link again.

  “COMOP. This is Caden. What’s our situation?”

  “Still engaged with the enemy’s support fleet, Sir.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Begging your pardon, Sir, but if you recall it wasn’t just you down there. We’re waiting on recovery of the Pale Horse. It’s not exactly a cheap piece of kit, and picking it up is a tricky job—”

  “Okay, I get it. Thank you. How are we doing, battle-wise?”

  “Not bad, Sir. Tactical might have something else to say, but from what I can see those ships only have numbers going for them. Their combat decisions are, well, pretty stupid.”

  “Any more dreadships shown up yet?”

  “No Sir, but it’s probably not going to be long now. Hopefully we’ll have left the system by then.”

  “Thanks.”

  Caden reached the decon chamber, entered, and started the cycle.

  ‘Pretty stupid’, he thought. That was also how Santani had described the fleet at Woe Tantalum, albeit with different words. He wondered why Thande and the Eighth Fleet had had such a different experience at Meccrace Prime. After fleeing that battle, when they were retreating to Herses, she had described to him several tactical moves made by the stolen Viskr and human ships supporting the Shaeld Hratha. All of those moves had demonstrated not only an understanding of imperial procedures, but advanced planning and strategic insight.

  So what was different?

  Would you like me to point it out for you?

  Shut up.

  Data. He needed more data. Fleet — despite their notable silence on the topic so far — had almost certainly tangled with Rasa-controlled battle groups on several occasions, whether those ships were imperial or Viskr in origin. Someone had to have compiled the information already, and he wanted a good look at it. They could pretend everything was fine until the end of time itself as far as Caden was concerned; all that really mattered was that he understood the enemy.

  The decon chamber finished its cycle.

  Caden left the chamber via the hatch on the clean side, waited for the air lock to sweep him for any hazardous pathogens which might somehow have been missed, and then he was free to rejoin the general population of Disputer.

  “Dyne, where are you?”

  A momentary silence on the channel.

  “My quarters. Deck sixteen, starboard fore quarter, passageway nine.”

  “Time to have a chat.”

  “Fine. See you shortly.”

  By the time Caden found Dyne’s compartment he had rehearsed several truly great nuggets of verbal pain. He pressed the door chime and waited. When the hatch opened it was not Dyne standing in front of him, but a pretty ensign. She smiled coyly, slipped past him, and wandered off down the passageway.

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” said Caden. “Already? We’ve not been back for twenty minutes yet.”

  “A man has needs,” said Dyne.

  Caden stepped over the threshold into the compartment. The air smelled of sex. He watched Dyne pulling a sweater over his shoulders, down past the vicious scars on his chest, and fumed silently. The rehearsed nuggets melted away.

  “You know what I need, Dyne? From a counterpart?”

  Dyne sighed. “Go on.”

  “Reliability. That one is right up there, right at the fucking top.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Does it? Okay, good. I also need consistency. Honesty is a real plus. Oh, and if it’s not too much trouble, a certain degree of willingness to get between me and the enemy.”

  “You know,” said Dyne, “this is all very interesting, but whatever you think about my methods, you are stuck with me.”

  “That’s my point, Dyne. You don’t have any fucking methods. And we’ll see how stuck I am.”

  “What are you planning to do about it?”

  “Never you mind. All you should be concerned with is remembering how to act like a counterpart. Right now I’m thinking you need to go straight back to the War College.”

  “Get real. I’ve been in this game for a long time—”

  “It’s not just me, Dyne. Any other Shard would tell you the same thing.”

  “Molcomb didn’t.”

  “Molcomb is dead,” Caden shouted. “He died because you don’t take your job seriously. I don’t care what excuses MAGA trotted out to keep you in the role; you share the blame with Castigon.”

  “Do we really have to go through this again? Molcomb wanted us to separate; sometimes he just preferred to work that way.”

  “Kulik Molcomb was a drunk, and when he wasn’t drunk he was high on stims. Everyone knows it; you should be the last person who needs it explaining to them. Half the time he probably didn’t remember what he said three hours beforehand, and the other half he probably thought you were there when you weren’t.”

  “If he needed looking after so badly, he’d have been put out to pasture.”

  “We both know that’s not necessarily true,” said Caden. “What would a man like that do with himself? There was probably a good reason he was given nonsense missions for the past few Solars. I doubt it was ever intended that you would wind down with him.”

  Dyne stopped pottering about, and looked Caden in the eye.

  “So let me get this straight,” he said. “You think they’ve had me babysitting a doddering melt-brain in the twilight of his career, and become deskilled in the proces
s?”

  “That just about sums it up.”

  “You know what, Caden? I don’t think I want to have to listen to anything you have to say for a while.”

  “I’m afraid the universe isn’t obliged to meet your expectations.”

  • • •

  Admiral Betombe waited outside the conference chamber, seated in one of the plush chairs which seemed to be scattered with reckless abandon around the opulent administrative levels. Across the hallway from him, behind his desk, an admin assistant tapped away at his holos and pretended not to stare.

  Fort Sol had always been one of his favourite stations, but today everything and everyone around him seemed incredibly po-faced. The people walking about on these levels — the levels which were entirely devoted to the needs of Fleet Command — all looked as though they could do with a few weeks of shore leave. He had not seen a single one of them smile.

  Serious business only, here on the upper levels.

  He sighed. It was not the first time he had been hauled before a triumvirate, and worlds knew it would probably not be the last either. Every once in a while, some trumped-up imbecile at Command felt the need to try and advance their own career by pointing out another’s failings — imaginary or not — and ridding the fleet of them. Well, today was just another such incident. The last thing Betombe expected to be doing by the end of the day was clearing out his desk, so to speak.

  The doors of the chamber rolled open silently, and Fleet Captain Riese walked out. She went straight by without so much as glancing at him, and as she passed said only one word.

  “Admiral.”