“That sounds right to me too Major,” said Lai. There was a hard note of challenge to his voice, as though daring any of Second Squad to disagree with him. “You’d know better than us anyhow.”
“No,” Trace said firmly. “No I wouldn’t. Your opinions matter. You didn’t just hand in your brains when you put on the uniform. I’m flattered that you respect my opinion, but don’t just replace yours with mine. This whole thing, the wars, the fighting, the service — it only works if you truly believe what you’re fighting for. So if you don’t believe it, tell me. And if you don’t feel this is your fight, and you’d like to get off the ship at some point, then I’ll do my best to accommodate that ASAP, and the LC has said he will too. At the moment however, given what they did to PH-2 and to the Captain, I can’t guarantee they won’t just whack you the minute they reach you. Because otherwise yes,” she looked back at Private Melsh, “we might not be making a station call for quite some time.”
“Major?” ventured Private Carter. “You’re saying HQ will just murder us in cold blood? Their own marines?”
“They’ve already done it,” said Trace. “Ask the guys on PH-2.”
They said nothing more. Most of them were unmarried with no children — most marines left that for when their tours ended. For some of them, that was a long time, but the human race was fertile either internally or externally for 150 years plus, so the window of opportunity was wide. But even without families of their own, they still had other family and relatives to return to. This situation was keeping them from all of that, and could quite likely get them killed, just when it was looking like they’d survived the war. Yet despite her encouragement, none of them spoke.
Hell of a thing, Trace thought. She loved the loyalty of these men and women, and for the most part shared it. But at a time like this, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for it, and wish that someone, anyone, would speak up, so that she didn’t feel like such a tyrant.
“One more thing,” she added. “And I’ve told others to spread this around. Keep an eye on the LC for me. And his friends in bridge crew, and his sister. Because amongst us marines, I can go to sleep certain that even if any of you disagreed with me, you’d never be a threat to me. I can’t be sure I’d say the same for the spacers. That’s all.”
14
Erik awoke at 0500 on the dot, after a few hours’ sleep, and checked the scans. Positioning was not radically different from last he’d seen them, ships in similar places. Abigail was twenty hours out from closest approach. He checked Lisbeth, and her uplinks informed him she was asleep, and in Trace’s quarters. Trace was still on the rock, with Bravo and Delta.
A new broadcast was coming through, from UFS Warrior. Coms had a recording, it was looped, playing endlessly. He opened it. “This is the warship UFS Warrior, to all vessels. The UFS combat carrier Phoenix has been declared a renegade vessel, by UF Fleet command. Repeat, the UFS combat carrier Phoenix has been declared a renegade vessel by UF Fleet command. UFS Phoenix is currently in hiding somewhere in the Argitori System. Do not be alarmed, UF forces and allies are here to help find and neutralise this dangerous fugitive.
“UFS Phoenix is under the command of Lieutenant Commander Erik Debogande, who is wanted for the premeditated murder of the Phoenix’s Captain Marinol Pantillo, and upon further charges of treason against the human United Forces. We urge all Phoenix crew hearing this message, remove this man from authority immediately. These charges stand only against Lieutenant Commander Debogande — I repeat, only against Lieutenant Commander Debogande. Remove him, and all Phoenix crew shall be considered innocent of all standing charges. Fail to do so, and Phoenix crew will be considered as guilty as the many they are currently protecting.
“Accompanying this transmission is video footage of the Lieutenant Commander’s violent breakout from holding cells in Shiwon, causing the deaths of ten military personnel.”
The footage began. It was the Shiwon holding cells all right, covered with bodies and blood. The camera did not spare any sensitivities. It was all Trace’s work, including the guard alongside Erik on his bed, head splattered across the wall alongside… and others. Numerous others. Dear god. Trace was no lone gun — like all modern soldiers, she was primarily a team operator whose real skill lay in group coordination and tactics under pressure. But even so, the gap between the average Phoenix marine, and these poor schmucks guarding the holding cells, was enormous. Many could have done damage like this. But Erik suspected only Trace could have gotten him out alive in the process. It was what separated her from most soldiers at any level — a laser-like focus on objectives. If she could have gotten him out without killing anyone, she’d have done that instead.
He called second-shift Coms. “Lassa, it’s the LC. Why wasn’t I woken when this transmission came through?”
“Didn’t think it would change anything, LC. Draper said let you sleep.” Erik snorted and cut connection. Probably right, sleep was more important. But still he’d have liked to know immediately.
He got up, popped a stim and threw on gym clothes. Outside his door, Private Carville scrambled to his feet from where he’d been sitting. Cocky kid from Lieutenant Dale’s Second Squad, spiky hair, chewing gum. “Hey LC. Gonna pump some iron?”
Erik frowned. “Private, were you sleeping in the corridor?”
Carville grinned. “No sir. Just dozing, you know marines, could sleep in a closet. I feel like hitting the gym too sir, let’s go.”
Erik rolled his eyes and threw a glance back into the bridge as he left, Carville following. The bridge looked calmly busy, monitoring a dozen things at once. Draper’s back, in the command chair. “You’re watching my back?” he asked as they walked. “Did the Major order that?”
“No sir,” Carville said cheerfully. “Just synchronising my location to yours. Nothin’ to it.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” Erik said drily, sidestepping traffic in the main corridor.
“Sir, how about you try out the marines’ gym today? We got some real cool kit in there.”
“You’ve got exactly the same equipment as the spacers’ gym,” Erik replied.
“Yeah but we use it better.”
Erik headed straight down the corridor, having no intention of heading around to back-quarter. Trace was spooked if she thought someone was going to jump him. And suffering from the usual marine prejudice about the reliability and loyalty of spacers. Still he got looks in the corridor, spacers looking at him sideways, with none of the casual calm they’d once used. Erik took a deep breath and tried to think of other things. It wasn’t like he didn’t have more important things to worry about than his personal popularity on ship.
The spacers’ gym had far less people than usual for shift-minus-fifty. Erik got on the treadmill, and figured that recent events had disrupted a lot of lives and schedules. He didn’t understand it himself, why people skipped gym when rattled. Routines kept him sane, and this one most of all.
He ran hard, Carville on the machine alongside, then did presses, the heavy resistance arms on the weights machine straining — no free weights on a warship, everything had to stay in place in 10-Gs plus. He did pretty well at it, which was partly inherited genes from his father, who was not a slim man, and partly the augments and micros that doubled the functional consequence of all exercise. In a sweaty singlet and bare armed, he was one of the bigger guys in the gym, but knew better than to think it counted for much. Carville was slimmer, yet could take him down in a gum-chewing heartbeat. Trace was smaller again, and could break his neck without effort. With augments, visible size counted for little — power came from speed, and when he and Carville took turns hitting the bag, Carville’s hands seemed to blur, and Erik nearly had the air knocked from his lungs just leaning on the leather. Marines were given an entirely different grade of physical augment, and trained endlessly for violence as spacers did not.
Kaspowitz came across from the treadmill, dripping sweat as Erik stretched down. “Hey LT,” said E
rik. He had to use rank, with Carville here. “And the Major told me you never exercise.”
“I never exercise where she can see me,” Kaspowitz corrected, with a glance down at Carville stretching. The Private grinned. “It’s humiliating.”
“Know the feeling, LT,” said Carville.
Kaspowitz looked at him a moment longer. Knowing very well what he was doing here, in the spacers’ gym, a marine private exercising with the ship Commander. Probably everyone in the gym knew, but Erik was studiously not looking. He’d also know who ordered Carville here, especially given how well he knew Trace. Erik wondered just who was running this damn ship, anyway? Lately he was feeling as much a passenger as Lisbeth.
Kaspowitz sat down also to stretch, and Erik joined them on the floor. “We’ve all seen the Captain’s last recording,” said Kaspowitz, trying in vain to touch his toes. It was a long way to reach, for him. “I was thinking — ‘this story begins where the last story ends.’”
Erik nodded. There’d been quite a bit of speculation about that, he’d overheard. It fit, given the Captain’s love of books and stories.
“Have you heard of Operation Urchirimala?” Kaspowitz asked. Erik shook his head. “It’s tavalai. They worship the old ruins of the Ancients… or maybe ‘worship’ isn’t right, tavalai don’t really do religion. But they love anything old, and the Ancients are the oldest. So ever since it’s been looking like they’d lose the war, they’ve been scurrying around transcribing all the old symbols from all the Ancients’ sites they’ve got, before the barbarian humans get them. That’s Operation Urchirimala — it means something like ‘Operation Recovery’… or close, my Togiri’s a bit rusty.
“Anyway, it’s a story. Tavalai love stories too, anything about their elders, the older the story the better. Now the chah'nas tell stories as well — they have the Po’to’kul scrolls, those things every warrior carries around with him. The longer it gets, the more phases of the warrior’s life it covers, the more prestigious it becomes. There’s lots of terms in the chah'nas languages for ‘marking the scroll’, like we say ‘turning over a new leaf’. Each marks a new phase of life, and you know the chah'nas, always climbing their damn caste hierarchies.”
Erik nodded, holding his toes without effort. “You talk about this stuff with the Captain?”
“Oh he knew way more than me. He’d have been a great scholar, could have taught this stuff in university. Anyhow, Merakis.”
Erik frowned. “Merakis? The temple world?” Everyone who’d been to school had at least heard of it. It had been in tavalai space, recently captured by the UF. Strategically it was unremarkable, and had no special interest to industry. But it had been important to the Ancients, who’d built some of the most amazing old structures there in all the known galaxy. And being so old, and so interesting, it had become important to the tavalai as well.
Kaspowitz nodded. “Chah'nas never found it that important, but the tavalai did, and the chah'nas were interested in controlling the tavalai. So they restricted tavalai access — you know the chah'nas, things are only as valuable as other people’s desires make them. You want something, they’ll take it away just to see how hard you’ll push to get it back, everything’s a contest to them. So Merakis became a symbol of control, the unofficial seat of power. Whoever had it, the legends say, controls the galaxy.”
“Huh,” said Carville. “That might be their legend. We don’t give a shit.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Kaspowitz. “We only just got it last month, when Kalida fell. Big push, caught the last tavalai there by surprise. And Fleet’s said no one’s allowed in since, everything’s restricted. Big rumours about secret Fleet missions there, but no one knows for sure.”
“And the Captain talked about this?” Erik asked. He had to force down the hurt feeling that the Captain hadn’t talked about it with him. Kaspowitz had known him far longer, and far better.
“Just that he found it very interesting,” said Kaspowitz. “He wondered what they were up to, and said he’d love to go. It’s the place where the stories of this galactic civilisation begin and end.”
“He said that?”
“Well no. But the tavalai caught there were involved in Operation Urchirimala. All archeologists, artists, academics, that’s the word. No soldiers. Recording stories, all the stuff they’d not had the guts to dig up for thousands of years because they hate disturbing old things.”
Erik nodded slowly, switching legs. “Yeah. That’s real interesting. I’ll have to check the latest Fleet orders on Merakis. Thanks LT.”
“No problem.” Kaspowitz got up. “Don’t be late.”
“Oh, one more thing,” said Erik as he recalled it. “The Captain said to the Major on the tape, something about ‘that man we’d talked about’. You don’t happen to know who that was?”
Kaspowitz shook his head. “No, a few of us were talking about that. But if he directed that straight at the Major, you can bet it was something he only discussed with her.”
“Yeah. Thanks LT.” Kaspowitz nodded, and left. Erik would have asked if he thought Trace was being honest when she said she didn’t know who the Captain was talking about… but one did not question the honesty of officers in front of the troops they commanded.
A minute later Erik got up with Carville and followed. Erik had a private shower cubicle in the Captain’s quarters — the only one that did on the whole ship — so he headed back to the bridge.
Just out of the gym, someone yelled to Carville, “Hey Benji! Got you that thing you wanted, right in here!”
“Oh hey, LC?” Carville scrambled up the side corridor. “Just one moment huh? Two seconds!”
He turned a corner. The door behind Erik opened, hands grabbed his throat and arms and dragged him backward before he could make a noise. Erik fought, got an arm free and caught a wrist — searing pain in his forearm as a knife cut him, and now the choke hold at his throat was tightening as he kicked and flailed in total darkness. He propelled his first attacker backward, they crashed into something, and he nearly lost control of the hand with the knife, surely headed for his throat if he did.
The second attacker hit him repeatedly in the midriff, trying to make him let go. Erik managed to get his teeth into the knife arm and bit as hard as he could, drawing a strangled yell. Fingers clawed at his face, and someone said harshly, “Give it! Give me the fucking knife!” As the two men tried to transfer the blade in the dark, and make it fast.
Combat training reasserted, with desperate fear, and Erik stamped on a foot, missed, then snapped his head back trying to headbutt the man who had him. The knife fell to the floor with a clatter, and Erik kneed the second man who bent for it, then kicked, then threw his first attacker back into a wall and swung, connecting with little. A body hit him and he went down against something hard, tumbled and wrestled with the man who fell on top…
Then a flare of light as the door opened, followed by the loudest expletive he’d ever heard as Carville leaped on them and began pounding the knife-man to a pulp with repeated, bone-breaking impacts and cries of pain. Erik had just acquired enough leverage on the man atop him when suddenly the weight was gone, Carville flung his attacker into a wall and began rearranging his internal organs.
“Benji!” Erik gasped. “Private! No, don’t kill him!” As Carville stopped punching. “That’s an order!” As others blocked the light in the doorway, and yells of alarm went up the corridor, calls for a medic.
“But sir!” Carville snarled, with a handful of jumpsuit beneath a lolling, balaclava-covered head. “I really, really want to!”
“Yeah me too,” Erik panted, as someone else helped him to his feet. “But I want to ask some questions first.”
* * *
Erik sat in one of the spare quarters off main corridor, ceta-b section, and watched a monitor. Behind him, Second Lieutenant Karle held his wrist so that his cut left forearm could stay vertical where Corpsman Rashni could staple it. Rashni had wanted him to go to M
edbay to do it, but Erik wasn’t going to miss the interrogation for anything, let alone see it delayed to wait for him. And Medbay was full of marines far more badly hurt than him, and they deserved the peace of mind to not see their ship falling apart around them as their commander was sewn up after a mutinous attack.
In the adjoining room, Petty Officer Lawrence was slumped on one of the wall chairs. Spacer Doraga was in Medbay with the seriously injured marines, with Doc Suelo cursing Private Carville for giving him another patient to care for. Some were suggesting that Suelo should direct resources elsewhere. The interrogator was Jokono, one of Lisbeth’s four security guys. Jokono had been a high level police inspector before joining the personal Debogande security team for a significant pay raise. Interrogation, he’d said, was something of a speciality. Kaspowitz and Shahaim were also here, first-shift having been delayed while second ran overtime.
Trace entered, sweaty in light under-armour shirt, and peered at the screen. “I leave you guys for just a few hours,” she said mildly. Kaspowitz smiled. Erik didn’t. Trace peered at his arm. “Oh nasty,” she deadpanned.
“Up yours,” Erik told her, eyes not leaving the screen.
“He said anything yet?” Nodding at the screen.
“It’s him, Doraga and Cho,” Shahaim said grimly. “Cho set up Carville, there was a bottle of pretty rare whisky he’s been after for weeks. Got his attention for five seconds, they grabbed the LC into a side room, would have knifed him. But the LC’s pretty strong, and they weren’t that good.”
“I’ve had a word with Benji,” said Trace.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” said Kaspowitz. “He’s a good kid.”
“He’s a marine,” said Trace. “He fucked up, and he’ll take his lumps like the rest of us, good kid or not. What’s the connection between these guys?”
“Just friends,” said Shahaim. “Haven’t been on the ship too long, two years max.” She paused. “One of their friends is Dufresne.”
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