“Hello Lisbeth,” said Jokono with a frown. “Something I can help you with?”
“Yes! I just wanted to see Stan, thank you…” and she moved to step past him. He stopped her.
“I’m sorry Lisbeth, your brother’s orders were quite specific.”
Lisbeth looked at him in disbelief. “Hang on, you work for me! You’re the head of Debogande family security!”
“And the senior member of the Debogande family present is your brother,” Jokono said calmly. “And actually…”
“Erik’s the senior member of the family?” Lisbeth retorted. “Says who? He’s not primarily serving the family interests out here — he’s the commander of Phoenix! The only family member out here entirely on family business is me! So that means I’m the senior Debogande here!”
“And actually,” Jokono completed his previous sentence, “my contract is with your mother. How best to serve that contract is up to my discretion, not yours. I’m sorry Lisbeth — this is a Phoenix matter, and your brother commands Phoenix. He’s ordered that no one sees Romki. That’s final.”
Lisbeth glared at him. Anger was not usually her style. And the last time she’d tried to boss around family employees with the ‘don’t you know who I am?’ routine, she’d been five, and her mother had scolded her so harshly that she’d cried. But the lesson had been learned — in the Debogande family, you respected people according to how well they did their jobs, and not whether their job performance personally benefitted you in any way.
But she’d worked with Stan Romki a lot in the past three months, helping him with his analysis of the captured hacksaws. And perhaps it was her mother’s insistence on respect for ability above personal charms, but she didn’t find him half as aggravating as some of the regular crew appeared to. And she couldn’t stand seeing him locked in solitary like this for doing something that surely, surely had some kind of reasonable explanation…
“Hello Lisbeth,” came Romki’s voice from out of the still-open door behind. “Please don’t worry about me, they’re treating me very well, and I did violate their rules so I have only myself to blame.”
“Stan!” she called past Jokono’s shoulder. “Stan, do you need anything?”
Jokono hit the door-close before he could reply. Lisbeth gave him a genuinely angry stare. Jokono looked pained, not having seen that expression many times before. But he did not apologise.
“There you go boys,” Lisbeth told the marines, handing over the food tray. It was a barabo nut fudge, in tasty squares. The crew had taken a liking to it, and the chefs said it was healthy. “I don’t blame you, you’re just doing your jobs.”
She gave Jokono a final glare and departed toward where Carla and Vijay were waiting for her at the end of the hallway.
* * *
“I’m less concerned with Romki being an ass than I am with the sard trying to kill him,” said Erik, chewing his thumbnail.
Just because Phoenix was docked, that didn’t mean the bridge crew shifts were any different. In fact, it meant that Lieutenant Draper, Phoenix’s second-shift commander, was getting a lot less sleep whenever Erik left his usual first-shift post to go attend to some matter on station.
“Tried to kill him twice, maybe,” Trace added. “The bomb might have been sard too.” The full first-shift crew were in their seats, watching scan, listening to coms, the same as they would in deep space. Trace had joined them, with Jokono and Lieutenant Dale, who had the most combat experience of any marine, including plenty against the sard during the war. They gathered about Erik’s command chair, holding to low overheads and screen supports in the crowded bridge. Standing was always uncomfortable on the bridge — seated was the only way to feel like you had any room, with all your screens and displays arranged about you. “If Romki didn’t arrange that himself to get away from his escort.”
“You seriously think that?” Kaspowitz asked her, a skeptical eyebrow raised.
“I might.”
“No you don’t.” Kaspowitz was one of the few on Phoenix who’d dare contradict her so openly. He thought she was starting to take her disagreement with Romki personally, and had told Erik so. She liked to pretend she was unemotional, Kaspowitz insisted, but in truth she was quite raw, and wrapped herself in thick Kulina armour to hide it. She’d broken the Kulina oath of unquestioning service to Fleet because she’d come to care about one man, and one ship and its crew, more than the oath that insisted she should have betrayed them. And now she was determined not to let that one man’s legacy — Captain Pantillo’s legacy, the father she’d never truly had — fade and die. Captain Pantillo had given everything to prevent civil war between Worlders and Spacers. Now that was Trace’s cause too, and she didn’t take kindly to Romki’s provocations.
“So what does Romki have to say for himself?” Erik asked Jokono.
“Oh, that conversation didn’t get much beyond him explaining to me how stupid I was and that I couldn’t possibly understand.” Jokono’s was the dry humour of a policeman who’d learned long ago to be amused by infuriating behaviour because that was easier. Erik thought he might be nearly as even-tempered as Trace. “But I don’t believe he’s capable of blowing anyone up, least of all people standing directly alongside himself.”
“I thought you didn’t make guesses?” Trace accused him.
“Getting a good read on a person’s character has a way of allowing you to narrow the possibilities,” Jokono replied, unruffled. “Romki’s no coward, he’s a very brave man considering he’s not a fighter beyond some chah’nas martial arts training. But he does value himself and his personal safety far too highly to attempt anything that reckless. Reckless acts are beneath him. He’s not one to leave things to chance.”
Trace listened with her nose wrinkled in distaste, but did not protest the analysis.
“So do the sard have it in for Romki?” Lieutenant Shahaim wondered from her Helm post at Erik’s side. “Or for Phoenix?”
“They killed Randal Connor,” Jokono reminded her. “Tortured him for information. Connor had no connection to Romki that we know of. As far as we know, they’d have done the same to Romki — tortured him and killed him. Which suggests that their interest in Connor and their interest in Romki is the same, and the only thing that links them is Phoenix.”
Erik frowned. “You’re saying they didn’t kill Connor to find out about his role in our peace conference?”
“Well who can say for sure?” said Jokono, with an expansive gesture. “But Romki certainly has nothing to do with the peace talks…”
“The sard don’t necessarily know that,” Trace interrupted.
“Yes, but attacking a tavalai recreational facility, evidently in search of one human occupant, seems a very public disruption even for sard. Sard have served the tavalai, and though tavalai influence here has reduced, the tavalai still built this station and have great status. Which indicates that the sard place great value on Romki, as a target, if they’re willing to upset the tavalai to get him. You don’t cause such a big disruption for someone who just might know something of what interests you. You cause it when you’re absolutely certain that person knows something of what interests you.
“Romki is quite well known for his knowledge of alien civilisations. He’s very disinterested in human politics by comparison. Even sard could discover this, with basic research, especially amongst the tavalai. Romki is particularly well known to the tavalai. Even famous, in some small academic circles.”
“So what’s your theory?” Erik pressed.
“No theory,” Jokono said calmly. “Just deduction. Sard are known to be very unsubtle in pursuit of their interests. If their interest was Phoenix’s role in human politics, then Romki was a very poor target. It seems unlikely. Which if true could mean that Connor was also not targeted for his interest in human politics.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. Something concerning Phoenix. Something about us that interests the sard. Probably not about
human politics, something else.”
“This ship was built by the alo,” Dale said grimly. “That might interest them.”
It was Romki’s pet theory — the alo having a hacksaw connection. Alo were on the human side of the Triumvirate War, sard on the tavalai side. Many tavalai found alo expansionism almost as worrying as the human kind, and speculated that the humans were really only puppets in the war, while the alo were the puppet-masters. Romki more or less agreed with them.
“It might interest them,” Erik agreed, glancing at his nav feed as Kaspowitz flashed the latest automated approach routines from the human ship Grappler. It had arrived twenty-one hours ago, its transponder stating its previous location as Cyranis, and clearly the ship that Randal Connor had told them about. The one carrying senior Worlder representatives, an advance party to discuss matters before the peace conference on Joma Station. “But if the sard had wanted to get information on Phoenix, they’d have been better off targeting our crew, not a passenger. I still feel we’re missing something. Something big. If you’re trying to run calculus without half of the data, you’re in real danger of getting misled by false conclusions. We need more data, I’m wary of too much guessing.” He glanced at Dale. “You’ve seen sard up close Lieutenant, more than any of us. Anything to add?”
“Don’t be fooled by sard,” Dale said grimly. “I’ve told all my marines when we fight them — they can seem stupid and primitive sometimes, but don’t believe it. Their maths are better than ours, for one thing.”
“Way better,” Kaspowitz agreed. “I’ve seen some of their navigation calculus off a captured ship. It’s insane. Their computing tech is the one indigenous technology they rock at.”
Dale nodded. “Sard play chess. Individual moves in isolation look reckless and suicidal. Only when you step back and see the whole game do you see how it all makes sense. They love maths and prime numbers, and they love patterns in those numbers. Everything is tactical, and everything we’ve seen them do so far is with some kind of big plan in mind. That’s not my prejudice — that’s just how they think. They can’t help it.”
“Excuse me, LC?” Erik looked to the speaker — it was Lieutenant Shilu on Coms, peering back past his heavy headrest. “I’ve just put in a second request to talk to Grappler’s captain, and again I’ve had no reply. The last request was thirty minutes ago.”
“What’s their range?”
“Now at thirteen seconds light, ETA on current approach path another seventeen hours. I’m getting an automated response, it just seems odd because according to Randal Connor, they’re here to see us, right?”
“Right,” said Erik, equally puzzled. “Maybe they’re worried about someone listening. Keep trying, if they don’t want to talk I suppose there’s nothing we can do. But keep an eye on them.”
“Aye sir.”
“And Major? Since we’ve got a situation on docks, it might be an idea to think ahead of time how we’re going to arrange our greeting party.”
Trace smiled at him benignly, like an adult to a small child who had just mentioned something obvious. Erik rolled his eyes and dismissed them.
* * *
Lieutenant Wei Shilu repressed a yawn as he stood on the late off-shift dock opposite Berth 30. On the berth display besides flashing lights, some barabo writing scrawled, then flipped unexpectedly to English text — Alberta Freightlines, Grappler, then its human-space registration.
“Hey look,” Shilu said to Lieutenant Alomaim alongside. “English. I didn’t know Tuki Station had any English.”
“They all think the humans are going to come and save them from the sard,” said Alomaim, glancing up-docks to where Second Squad were deployed in sections against inner and outer walls, watching dock traffic with weapons at ease. “They might make English compulsory next. Rather than learn to fight sard themselves.” He murmured low commands into his com, advising one of the sergeants.
Shilu felt very exposed out here, on the cold dock with no armour or weapons. Being surrounded by Bravo Platoon helped, Second Squad to his left, Third to his right, and First with their Lieutenant about and behind him. Even Heavy Squad was out, with full scary weaponry, chain guns and autocannon, in pairs against the inner-rim wall between barabo shopfronts. With three sard ships at dock, no one was taking any chances.
“Lieutenants, Grappler is at thirty seconds,” came Second Lieutenant Abacha’s voice in Shilu’s ear. Second-shift were still on duty on Phoenix, the LC and the Major supposedly asleep, though knowing them both, probably awake and watching from their quarters. With second-shift needed on the bridge, it had fallen to a senior but not too senior first-shift officer to forego sleep and greet their Worlder ‘friends’ from Grappler in person.
“Copy Phoenix,” said Shilu. Somewhere out there beyond the massive steel wall, the huge freighter was rotating into a one-G barrel roll in pursuit of its moving berth. Shilu repressed another yawn, and glanced at Alomaim. The man hadn’t yawned yet. How was it that marines always managed to make spacers feel inadequate? “Any guesses how Grappler just happens to be given a berth two from Phoenix?”
“We asked?” Alomaim suggested. He was a young man, barely mid-twenties, a brown face, serious and impassive. “Not many stationmasters out here would say no to Phoenix.”
“LC never asked,” Shilu said smugly. “It was just assigned. Someone knows, up in station bridge. Everyone’s watching us, and now they’re watching Grappler.”
“Right,” said Alomaim, watching some passing barabo civilians, trailed by a rolling luggage bot. “That’s why I’m not in bed.”
A siren wailed, then a crash of grapples, and the decking shook and squealed as enormous supports caught the freighter’s weight. Shilu noticed some barabo open cars careening across the dock, at speeds that would have gotten them arrested on a human station. They pulled up alongside Shilu, Alomaim and First Squad, some workers in orange jumpsuits, and some officials in the robes of barabo formal attire. Several listened on coms to station workers outside, working the grapples and umbilicals that fastened Grappler to station. Outside would be a scene of frantic activity, but here on the dock below the entry ramp, all was serene.
Finally, with another siren and flashing light, the main airlock door atop the ramp opened. The barabo waited for someone to emerge, seeming more interested in the heavily armoured marines, and the Phoenix bridge officer. Shilu smiled at them and nodded, and they grinned back with those big barabo teeth. Customs officials, station inspectors and the like. Not a weapon amongst them.
A minute later, they were still waiting. The head barabo in robes looked impatiently at Shilu, as though he might know the reason for the delay. Shilu returned a mystified gesture. It seemed to translate, for the head barabo barked instructions and several jumpsuited workers strolled up the ramp to investigate. They moved as unhurriedly as barabo always moved, chatting casually and chewing on something that on a human station would probably also get you arrested.
The workers arrived at the main hatch and waited, peering inside. One looked back at Shilu, as though wondering what he could call out in English.
“Hello Lieutenant Shilu,” came his uplink. “This is the LC, is there some kind of delay?” So of course the LC had been up and watching.
“I’m not sure sir,” said Shilu. “The hatch is open but no one’s coming out. I can’t go up there myself without being in breach of station protocol.”
“Barabo will take all day if you let them. Make some haste.”
“Yes sir.” Shilu made his way over to the group of puzzled barabo, and Gunnery Sergeant Brice and Private Cruze thumped with him in close protection. The head barabo saw them coming, with some alarm, and waved a hand at them to stop. Shilu and the marines stopped, and the headman yelled and waved his long arms. More barabo scampered up the ramp, with more urgency than the first pair.
“LC, I think they’ve got this,” Shilu reported.
“So how many barabo does it take to change an LED?” Cruze w
ondered. Atop the ramp at the hatch, more argument erupted, hands waving, exasperated gestures down the tube… where were the damn humans? And who was going to go and get them?
“Twenty,” Sergeant Brice replied. “One to change the LED and nineteen to make it unnecessarily complicated.”
After much heated discussion, the first two workers were sent into the access.
“You think they could have just done that first?” Cruze wondered. “Without ten others coming up to tell them?”
“Knock it off,” Alomaim told them. “Eyes open, watch your sector.”
More waiting. The new bunch of barabo clustered at the hatch and peered within, talking on coms. For the first time, Shilu began to feel it. Cold discomfort. What if…? But he couldn’t act on what if, he had to wait for something concrete. But, what if…?
“Lieutenant Alomaim?” he said cautiously. “I think this might be trouble.”
He’d barely completed the sentence when the barabo at the hatch all began shouting together, and staring at the one robed official with the com. His eyes were wide, and he looked alarmed. Then he began shouting, but one of the two workers returned at a run dashing through the mob of his companions and straight down the ramp. He ran fast, legs wobbly, eyes wide with fear.
“Yes I think you might be right,” Alomaim said grimly. “First Squad, prepare to move in. Second and Third, watch our backs.”
Shilu took off striding once more toward the barabo headman, and arrived just as the worker did and began gibbering in terror, hands and arms waving. Shilu activated his belt speaker, and blinked the icon for Palapu translation… but the earpiece gave him nothing but static, unable to make sense the worker’s fearful rush.
“What?” he demanded finally of the headman, and the speaker made that into a harsh Palapu demand. “What does he say?”
The headman stared at him. “Gone,” the speaker translated. “All gone.”
Shilu turned to look at Alomaim, but the marine lieutenant was already moving, First Squad jogging with a crash and rattle up the ramp as barabo wisely made way.
Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) Page 9
