Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2)

by Joel Shepherd

  Erik thought he might have quibbled — the Triumvirate War had been fought to free humans from alien threat, not to keep all humans equal. But it wasn’t the time. He nodded. “The Captain thought so,” he said diplomatically.

  “Right,” Connor agreed, slumping hard back in his chair, nodding with satisfaction. “Right, he did. And he died for it. And for him, I’ll tell you what I’d never tell any other Fleetie — damn right I know a lot of Worlder contacts. Big contacts, Heuron Dawn, Worlder Council, you name it. People who would be prepared to listen to you. If you could get some compromises from Fleet? Wind back some of these new ordinances?” He nodded sharply. “Only Phoenix could get those kinds of concessions, I reckon. Worlders might just agree to press pause on their plans if you could get that from Fleet. Now that most actual Fleet officers are listening to you even more than Fleet HQ.”

  “Press pause on their plans?” Erik questioned. “What plans?”

  “Oh Worlders have got plans,” Connor said grimly. “Your Captain knew. Fleet thinks we’re defenceless at the bottom of our gravity wells — we’re not. We have assets. Fleet thinks they can piss us off with no consequences, well, they’re about to learn differently.

  “Now there’s a ship arriving here in a few days. Should jump in any hour now. Human freighter, name Grappler. Worlder representatives, knew you were here.”

  “How did they know that?”

  Connor spread his hands expansively. “You guys have only been yelling it to everyone who’ll listen! Just trust me that I know, never mind how. Now you’re setting up this big meeting in Kazak System, Joma Station wasn’t it?” Erik nodded. “And there will be Spacer representatives there?”

  “Yes. Can’t say who, but senior people.”

  “Can you guarantee they’ve come to talk?”

  “I can guarantee that if they weren’t interested in a compromise deal with Worlders that would avoid a civil war, they wouldn’t have come at all.”

  Connor nodded slowly. “Good enough. Anyhow, keep an eye out for the Grappler. Their passengers will want to talk to you in advance, discuss the Worlder position. Then maybe we can talk your Spacer friends into doing something to avoid a bloodbath for once.”

  3

  Barabo stations were unlike anything Erik had seen before. Human station docks were kept clear of clutter, but here the main dock before the station berths was filled with irregular market stalls. Tuki was small by human standards, barely half-a-million population on a single rotating wheel with fifty primary berths, but the markets made it feel crowded.

  Erik and Kaspowitz walked in the centre of First Squad, Delta Platoon, Lieutenant Crozier at Erik's side, while about him exotic animals whooped and howled, sellers and buyers shouted and waved their hands, and burly security guards stood by displays of precious stones and eyed the crowds with suspicion. Most here were barabo, some shirtless, some in flowing robes or sleeveless tunics, some with hats or crazy hairstyles, in all different colours and types. Such a varied people, Erik thought in amazement. He knew that before the Earth was lost, humans had been a varied people too, but Phoenix’s resident academic, Stanislav Romki, was clear that humans had never been quite this varied.

  “Pretty clear what Connor’s doing out here,” said Kaspowitz as they manoeuvred between armoured marines. He stood nearly a head taller than most, gangly in his own light armour. “Worlder resistance told him to see if he could find some financial and political backing out here. Don’t imagine he’s had much luck, the last thing the barabo want to do is upset Fleet.”

  “You think he’s bluffing with that talk of Worlder battle plans?” Erik asked.

  “Probably not,” Kaspowitz said grimly. “The Captain thought it would be a full scale civil war if it wasn’t stopped. He wasn’t some strategic idiot, he must have known the Worlders had something up their sleeve.”

  “Yeah,” Erik muttered. “But what?”

  “Guess he didn’t get around to telling us that before he died.”

  Also scattered through the markets were random tavalai, with their broad shoulders and protruding, flat heads and wide-set eyes, and the occasional kaal, like thick walls of grey muscle lumbering through the crowd. All were merchants or other harmless types, and made a clear space for the armed and armoured humans. Tuki had not demanded that Phoenix crew disarm when on dock. Barabo military vessels did not stray far from their core systems, and were reluctant to enforce their rule over places like Vieno for fear that someone would take that as provocation.

  Barabo were five thousand years in space — new by Spiral standards, and had escaped the AI scourge during the Machine Age. Tavalai had discovered them instead, and given them a helping hand into space. Grateful to be found by tavalai and not sard, whose territory also adjoined, barabo had taken to space with curiosity but no particular drive or ambition. Barabo were lively, chaotic and almost entirely self-interested. Humans found it hard to understand, because barabo were smart, and made good tech when they chose. But they simply found themselves more interesting than the rest of the galaxy, and looking around, Erik thought he could possibly see why.

  When the Triumvirate War had begun, human space had been a long way from barabo space. When humans had begun drawing near, some of the more determined barabo had demanded that their tavalai friends and mentors deserved barabo assistance in the war. Ships had been built, and a small fleet sent to help — all largely destroyed in several disastrous actions against the hardened and brutally efficient human forces. Barabo had quickly decided to leave the fighting to the tavalai, in the hope that when humans eventually won, as had probably seemed inevitable, they’d not be too hostile. Tavalai had been the true guarantors of security in this neutral space, but the tavalai conditions of surrender had left them with barely enough ships to maintain security in their own remaining space. Outer Neutral Space was now largely unsecured, and a big, wandering warship like Phoenix found no one telling her she couldn’t do exactly what she pleased. So far, at least.

  “LC, this is Phoenix,” came Lieutenant Lassa’s voice in Erik’s ear. “PH-4 is on her way up, Lieutenant Jalawi says they have cargo holds full of seafood. Should make a pleasant change for a few days at least. ETA ninety-four minutes.”

  “Thank you Phoenix, the LC copies.” Actually Phoenix’s chefs were out securing other sources of fresh food as well, but it was thoughtful of Charlie Platoon to help them out on their brief R&R visit to Vieno’s surface. Thoughtful, and self-interested.

  “You know,” said Lieutenant Crozier, “I think we have a selfless duty to inspect those kebabs.”

  “Amen,” said Private Rai nearby. The kebab stall they passed had a small queue, with spiced meat roasting on open flame — unheard of on a human station. The air pollution alone would have had someone booked… but it smelled delicious.

  “Sure,” said Erik, smiling. “On your own time.” They deserved some nice things, after all they’d been through the past weeks. All the marines carried rifles at casual, muzzles at the deck. Polite but alert was the drill. Anyone who tried to push between them to get through was blocked and coolly instructed to go around, so as not to violate the secure perimeter around the LC.

  “So did you check out those volunteer kids?” Erik asked the Lieutenant.

  Crozier smirked. “Yeah. They’re off a freelance freighter, done some martial arts and weapons training. Doesn’t make you a marine, unfortunately.” She peered at a cage containing a prowling, cat-like animal that snarled at passers-by.

  “Theoretically,” Erik asked, “how long would it take to train a new marine on the job?”

  “Well that’s just the problem,” said Crozier. “We’re not a training ship. Trainees need special environments where they can’t make a mess. Everything we do ‘on the job’ has fatal consequences if you fuck it up. And trainees are supposed to fuck up, that’s how they learn. So understrength we may be, but I’d rather keep it that way.”

  Erik knew what she meant. Training spacer crew on th
e job was a little easier than marines, but Erik’s Academy scores were some of the highest anyone had seen. The regular crew of Phoenix were also elite, and did not take well to the idea of welcoming anyone less qualified into their ranks. With a quarter of Phoenix’s spacer crew missing, everyone was working overtime, and sleep, recreation, and sometimes tempers were suffering. But Erik sympathised when most of them said they’d rather keep it that way than work alongside people who’d do a substandard job.

  Marine strength was down more like ten percent than twenty-five, but as Crozier said, marine skills were more exacting and less forgiving. And then there was the question of augments, the various physical enhancements that all Phoenix marines possessed that brought them up to the superhuman levels required. Augmentations could be had out in these territories for a price. But for humans, it was unlikely, and probably unsafe and substandard too.

  “Though if you could find me a fifteen-year-experience Squad Sergeant to fill in for Third Squad,” Crozier added. “That’d be nice.” Staff Sergeant Kono had recently been Delta’s Third Squad Commander, until Trace had lost Command Squad’s veteran First Sergeant and taken Kono to compensate. Crozier understood, and knew Command Squad’s priority was higher than Delta’s, but still griped about it. Sergeants like Kono didn’t grow on trees.

  “Plenty of people lost worse than you, Lieutenant,” Erik told her.

  “Yes sir. Well aware.”

  “If Third Squad needs a Sergeant, promote someone.”

  “Thinking on it, sir.”

  “Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good, Lieutenant,” Erik told her. Captain Pantillo had said that a lot.

  “No sir. So when are you going to take the promotion to captain, sir?” Erik just looked at her, to let her know she’d gone too far. He didn’t have to answer questions like that from marine lieutenants. Marine majors, on the other hand…

  “Yo!” said Master Sergeant Wong on coms up ahead. “We’ve got spiders, dead ahead.”

  “Keep walking,” Crozier said calmly. “Real careful, everyone. Let’s not jump at shadows, but real careful.”

  Sure enough, amidst the milling foot traffic between stalls ahead, there stalked five thin, spindly shadows. Back-canted lower legs, elastic limbed, they did not walk across the deck, they flowed like water. Many-eyed heads turned their way, inset mandibles flickering. Creepy as hell, to human eyes.

  “Five of them,” Crozier murmured. “That’s neutral. Don’t trust it though.”

  “They don’t look armed,” Wong added. “Merchants, it looks like.”

  “They’re sard,” Crozier disagreed. “Merchants, soldiers, no difference.”

  Sard socialised in groups. Brilliant mathematicians, their societies were ruled by numbers. The only emotions they appeared to feel were toward those numerical arrangements, not to the individuals who comprised them. Sard had compassion for patterns, not people. Those who deviated from acceptable patterns, meaning most non-sard civilisation, could find themselves subject to ‘rearrangement’.

  They hadn’t been in space much longer than the barabo. Endlessly tolerant of dangerous things, tavalai had found ways to impress and control them, and when Spiral politics turned bad for tavalai, had used them to do the various dirty things that tavalai found distasteful to do themselves. Tavalai were undoubtedly far ‘better’ than sard, from a human perspective, but when an aggressive dog mauled you, did you blame the dog, or the one holding its leash? If sard had been the first instinctively aggressive and violent species humanity had encountered, humans might have been more tolerant of them. But they were the second, after the krim, and the krim had been tavalai-sponsored as well. The krim had exterminated Earth, and after five hundred years of struggle, humanity had exterminated the krim, down to the very last child. Most humans would happily have done the same to the sard, just as precaution against what most knew was possible, should sard power grow.

  These sard passed by in single file, mouthparts flickering as they tasted the air. Taller than humans, though not as strong, even augmented. Individually, Fleet marines handled them comfortably. But the larger their numbers, the more sophisticated and clever sard tactics became, and they would sacrifice individual formations for overall success as humans would never do. Erik heard the whine of their vocals as they passed, like a cicada shrill, with rhythmic chirps at harmonic intervals, creating mathematical code that took human computers to decipher, but sard understood instantly.

  “Yeah, keep on walking, bugs,” Lance Corporal Kess muttered.

  “Is it true they’ve got eyes in the back of their heads?” Private Haim wondered.

  “Watch where you’re going or you’ll get my boot in the back of yours,” Crozier told her.

  * * *

  The entrance to Jigi Trade and Freight was a lobby with green walls and open water displays. Again it violated a bunch of human architecture regulations, but it was increasingly clear that those were anathema to barabo. The effect was an indoor jungle, and as the lobby attendant beckoned them past the welcome desk, inset speakers made jungle sounds and the buzzing of insects.

  Lance Corporal Kess’s Third Squad remained in the lobby, while the white-robed attendant beckoned the rest into a large office. The office had its own lobby, with a water fountain in the middle, and intricately carved wooden panels on the walls. More attendants gestured them to wait, while one went into the main office, and fetched their contact — ‘Ben Guring’, Phoenix’s computer had insisted Erik pronounce it.

  She emerged, a big barabo with a big grin, and a big mop of dreadlocked hair tied in a bunch above her head. She wore big dark brown robes with intricate gold trim, and many bangles chimed and clanked upon her arms as she swept them wide in welcome.

  “HELLO!” she declared to the room, with great extravagance. “Hello! Hello!” Erik repressed a grin. Barabo could be… unrestrained. Ben Guring seemed most pleased at the opportunity to use her one human word.

  “Hello,” Erik agreed, turning the translator mike on. He offered her a handshake, barabo-style, palm flat and fingers locked. “I am Erik. I am in charge of Phoenix.” The speaker at his collar translated that into Palapu. Surnames and exact ranks were pointless — the translator would mangle them. For all their simple cheerfulness, barabo were not stupid, and could figure the details for themselves. “This is Kaspo, from Phoenix’s bridge crew, and this is JC. She is in charge of the marines here.”

  “Erik De-bo-gan-day, yes?” Ben Guring grinned at him with those big teeth. “Do not worry, we all know family De-bo-gan-day here.” As the translator took over. “And JC… another woman marine? I thought that this was rare for humans?”

  “Tradition,” Jasmine ‘JC’ Crozier explained, shaking the barabo’s hand in turn. “With technology, there is no reason why women cannot be marines. But there is tradition, and some tradition does not change, even if technology does. Some tradition goes backward.” There had been more female marines seven hundred years ago than now. Erik knew it bothered Crozier more than it bothered Trace.

  “Ohhh,” said the barabo, knowingly. “It is the same with barabo, just the same. I have five sisters — one of them wants to play the zarp, two make themselves busy with many babies, and one only thinks of colchee and karom. So I am the only one who makes money, yes?” She boomed laughter. “So they all ask me for money, and I say no! Come, come!”

  Erik had no idea what any of that meant except the babies and money, but smiled and followed Ben Guring into her main office. Crozier joined him, removing her helmet to reveal cornrow hair and a discoloured top half of her left ear where it had been regrown after shrapnel removed the original five years ago. The other seven marines remained in the office lobby, and accepted tea from an attendant with a tray.

  “So,” said Ben Guring. “Your mother ship arrive. Very nice ship. Very good cargo.”

  “What cargo?” Erik wondered.

  “Oh no!” said the barabo, grinning. “Mother tell me, don’t tell Erik! Better for Erik
if Erik not know. I not upset Mother Debogande, so I not tell.”

  “Yes that sounds like my mother,” Erik conceded. And it did make a certain amount of sense. Phoenix was a renegade from all human law. Of course everyone would suspect that Alice Debogande would assist her son, and probably would have sympathy with his cause, having supported similar in the past. But so long as no one could prove it…

  “So I sell cargo on market, make you credit with Nari Bank.” Ben Guring rummaged beneath some papers for a slate reader. “I get you best price, I guarantee you find no better. Credit is… see here, sixteen million, and a bit more. So credit to Phoenix is thirteen point six million, and Jigi Trade and Freight get other twenty percent. Commission, yes?” Big grin. “So you all good with bank, yes? Much credit, you go around barabo space and pay for things, no problem.”

  Because otherwise, they’d have had to resort to piracy. Or whatever you called it when you just turned up at station and demanded all services, and showed them your very big guns when they asked for the cheque. Merchanters had bank credit and built up tabs with stations. Barabo warships would be covered by barabo government, such as existed, as human warships had all expenses covered (within reason) by Fleet and Spacer Congress… in human space, or on official human business. Out here, no one picked up Phoenix’s tab, and no one took human credit anyway. Thanks to this little bit of blackmarket trade, they now had some reasonable funds in the bank. Not that Debogande Inc was the first human entity to do this with barabo, whose financial governance was anarchic. The corporate joke among humans was that the official symbol of the barabo financial regulator was a shrug.