Tif looked more emotional. She leaned for a quick, playful nip at her son that between kuhsi passed as a kiss, and then left on her business. Lisbeth and the Major glanced at each other. There were many things unsaid about their kuhsi guests, mostly because no humans on the ship were expert on kuhsi, not even Romki, and also because with everything else that was going on, no one had the time to think about it. How Skah was an heir to Koth, the eighth biggest nation of the kuhsi homeworld, whose leader had been murdered, Tif insisted, by kuhsi who did not want the social changes that exposure to all these new aliens was creating.
It was dangerous for Tif and Skah to stay on Phoenix, but they were under threat of assassination anywhere else… or so Tif insisted. Tif seemed to feel safer here, and having three shuttles but only two full-time pilots, Phoenix was in dire need of her skills. For now, Tif appeared to have made the decision that the dangers here were worth it. Lisbeth wondered if the young mother had enough talent for scheming to figure that Phoenix, and perhaps even Family Debogande, might one day prove a very useful ally in reclaiming Skah’s rightful inheritance.
“Her English is improving,” the Major remarked.
“Ny Engrish better,” Skah said smugly. “I rearn Engrish fast.”
“I know, Jessica has been teaching you.” Private Jess Rolonde was in the Major’s Command Squad. No one had suspected she had a teaching bone in her body until she’d volunteered.
“Jessica a sowjer.”
“No, not a soldier,” the Major corrected. “A marine. All marines on this ship, not soldiers.”
Skah frowned. “Narines not sowjer?”
“Similar, but different. Marines fight on ships. Soldiers fight on planets.”
“Who better? Narine or sowjer?”
The Major smiled broadly. “Marines, Furball. Always marines.”
* * *
Joma Station was under construction. It had been under construction for the last fifty years, a near two-jumps from recognised tavalai territory. Kazak System was rich with potential, filled with joint barabo-tavalai mining and industry, and a busy transit point between barabo and tavalai space. Fifty years ago, the tavalai had begun to build Joma Station to replace all the minor stations that decentralised Kazak’s logistics industry, and local barabo government had put some funds in also.
But with the war going badly, the tavalai had progressively withdrawn scarce funds and manpower to the point that Joma Station was largely a barabo project… and like all barabo projects in Outer Neutral Space, it was now only three-quarters finished, and messy. Phoenix was assigned Berth 18, alongside the unfinished superstructure where Berths 17 to 8 crackled and sparked with ongoing welding and construction. The barabo were finishing the rim while the station was under rotation, which was the much more expensive and dangerous way to do it — zero-G was much more simple for moving huge, heavy components into place. But for Phoenix, being stuck up against an unfinished portion of dock had its advantages, from a security point-of-view.
Erik let Shahaim power them in, underside thrust rocking them at a simple one-G while sideways thrust sent them chasing the station’s rolling motion. A crash as great underside gantries caught the carrier’s enormous weight, and then thrust cut while gravity continued, only with three-quarters of the crew cylinder now inaccessible.
Erik and first-shift stayed on the bridge, as in the main-quarter corridors, chaos reigned with all of Phoenix’s crew crammed into one quarter and slowly disembarking. Marines went first to secure the dock and keep safe all the spacer officers and crew who would check the umbilicals before Phoenix would accept station air, water or anything. Then there would be station officials to deal with, including customs and finance, though on a barabo Neutral Space facility, perhaps not so much of the former. Erik had supervised the process many times as third-in-command, and was quite glad to now sit on the bridge and let others handle it, while the bridge crew performed final systems checks, and kept an eye on incoming communications.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Shilu from Coms. “Message from Europa.” That was the Regelda Freightliners vessel. “Welcomes Phoenix to Joma Station, and invites us to a dockside meeting, Berth 26. Requests a time of our nearest convenience.”
“Sounds very formal,” Kaspowitz remarked, still scanning over the Rhea local system. Gas giant systems were always a fascination for navigators, with all their lunar orbits and gravitational intersections.
“Run it past the Major,” said Erik. “Get her most convenient time, then send it back to them, with compliments.” Gatherings on dock were a security issue, and security issues were Trace’s domain. Erik wondered what Europa had in store to warrant a formal dock meeting. He turned back to the more pressing matter of the station docking list. That one, he always reviewed with Shahaim, before dock, after dock and during dock. Particularly when two of the ships at dock were sard. “Those sard were already here when we were attacked. They couldn’t have been in on it.”
“Sard are a hive mind,” Shahaim disagreed. “They’re all ‘in on it’.”
Erik chewed a thumbnail, not willing to argue the semantics at this time. Hive mind or not, sard were not telepathic. “We’ll keep an eye on them. I’ve told the Major to tell the marines not to pick fights. This is a barabo station and we’ll only fight sard if attacked.”
Joma would have a hundred and twenty rim berths once completed, but only sixty were currently operational. Forty-four of those were presently occupied, most by barabo freighters, and seven by tavalai. The central hub held nearly a hundred smaller insystem vessels, and like all gas giant stations, Joma did most of its business transferring freight and people between the big FTL ships and the little sub-lighters.
“Sir,” said Shilu, “the Major reports no customs on dock, only a light local security presence and a few civvie spectators. Most barabo, but several kuhsi. Local freelancers, she thinks.”
Erik blinked at Shahaim. “Kuhsi do travel,” Shahaim reasoned. “If they wanted to go adventuring, this is one region of space that accepts species from anywhere.”
“Coms, make sure Tif is aware,” said Erik. “No telling who they’ll report to, if anyone.”
“Aye sir,” said Shilu.
“Not like we’ve been keeping her a secret,” Shahaim said. “She’s said she doesn’t want to stay on ship, either.”
“Yeah, I think she’s happy to fly the flag and tell all her enemies back home that she’s alive with Skah, and she’s teamed up with UFS Phoenix,” Erik murmured. “That’s what worries me.”
“Order her to stay aboard?”
“Too late now. A ship like this can’t hide, we’re too visible and Tif is a functioning member of the crew. We need the extra pilot, we have to wear whatever consequences come from pissing off various kuhsi. It’s not like we’re anywhere near their space anyway.”
“Aye,” Shahaim said warily.
“Sir,” came Shilu again, “Europa is requesting Lisbeth attend the dockside meeting also.” This time most people glanced at Erik. Europa was a Debogande Inc-owned ship… it raised possibilities.
“Sounds like someone might have come to meet you,” Kaspowitz suggested.
“Us,” Erik corrected with an edge. “Someone might have come to meet us.”
“Of course,” said Kaspowitz, in part-apology.
“Sir,” said Shilu again, sounding harried. Upon docking, the Coms Officer was always the busiest. As soon as a ship’s nose touched station, suddenly everyone wanted to talk. “Message from Edmund Shandi, the Worlder ship from Heuron. Request for a meeting with you personally, earliest convenience.”
Erik nodded — it wasn’t unexpected. “Confirm with compliments — earliest convenience yet to be determined.”
“Aye sir.” And almost immediately, “Sir, Stationmaster is messaging. Stationmaster wishes to meet with the commander of UFS Phoenix, at earliest convenience.”
“Repeat last reply,” said Erik.
“Aye sir. Sir, station media is report
ing our arrival, I’m getting requests for interviews, Lieutenant Alomaim says there are some journalists out on dock and the number of civvie onlookers is growing.” That hadn’t happened on Tuki Station, by request to the Stationmaster. A bottle of fine Homeworld whisky had helped convince him to keep the dock clear.
“Might have to bump the Stationmaster up the meeting schedule?” Shahaim suggested.
“Gonna run out of whisky,” Kaspowitz muttered.
“Second Lieutenant Harris,” said Erik. “You’re going to assist Lieutenant Shilu on Coms for a while, help him shuffle through that backlog.”
“Yessir,” said Harris from up the far right end of the bridge, where the floor was starting to lean. “Sir, only… I’ve never worked coms before, I’m a gunner.”
“Oh you’re gonna love it, Bree,” Shilu told her drily. “It’s so much more fun than blowing stuff up.”
* * *
Phoenix main-quarter was a mess of ongoing repairs to the broken water system, spacer crew hauling duffel bags to on-station accommodation, and main corridors filled with stationary armour, weapons and ammo so marines could access it in an emergency. Erik walked with Shahaim, Kaspowitz and Second Lieutenant Geish, their bridge posts filled by second-shift, and emerged from the crowd of Phoenix comings and goings onto Joma Station dock.
To one side of Berth 17, the dock section seal had closed, making a giant steel wall. The inner wall opposite the berth, where shopfronts, hotels and other establishments would typically welcome tired and thirsty spacers, was a mass of construction beams, clambering workers, power tools and showering orange sparks. The intervening dock was grey, unpolished steel, and covered in construction vehicles. Amidst them stood various barabo civilians, some talking, others taking vision with recording devices.
At the bottom of the berth ramp, before protruding hydraulics from the inner part of the docking mechanism, Lieutenant Alomaim waited with Bravo Platoon’s First Squad. “No station officials, Lieutenant?” Erik asked.
“No sir.” Alomaim was in heavy armour, but his helmet was replaced by a cap, as was customary in places not yet proven unfriendly. Erik and his first-shift crew wore the same, with light, unpowered armour. “There were a few here earlier, but they left.” He nodded across the dock. “Journalists over there have been trying to ask questions. There’s no station security here at all.”
“Say no to the journalists,” said Erik, descending the ramp. “Be polite but firm.”
“Aye sir. That’s what the Major said. We’re heading to Berth 26 sir?”
“Yes.”
“Bit of a hike from here, we could commandeer a vehicle I’m sure.”
“I’m sure you could too, but I need the walk. And I’d like to take a look at this place.”
Alomaim nodded at the thin crowd once more, dissuaded from coming closer by the line of well-spaced marines. “There’s kuhsi over there sir. We’ve had a mike and translator on them for a while. They’re talking about our shuttle pilot and her kid, so I guess word is out. It’s nasty talk sir, lots of rude jokes, talk of rape.”
Erik looked where the Lieutenant was looking, and saw the kuhsi — four of them. “Fuck they’re huge,” Kaspowitz observed. Kuhsi males, probably local security for some company or other. No visible weapons, dark jumpsuits and jackets. Big ears and massive shoulders, arms folded and watching with golden-eyed contempt.
“I want you to frighten them,” said Erik. Alomaim raised his eyebrows. “Don’t harm, just frighten. No one talks about our crew that way in our presence. Make sure they know why.”
“Yessir,” said Alomaim, and gave some orders. Bravo First Squad formed up about the bridge crew as they set out walking up the dock. On their left, several marines casually broke formation to confront the big kuhsi. Marines in armour were imposing, but they were barely larger than these unarmored kuhsi. Words were exchanged, tinny and harsh on translator speakers. Kuhsi snarled back. The marines levelled weapons large enough to turn big kuhsi into red puddles, as surrounding spectators backed away in shock. The kuhsi retreated, slinking away with ears down.
“Makes you proud to be a man, doesn’t it?” Geish suggested drily as they walked on.
“They’re one beautiful, sexy, fucked up species, that’s for sure,” said Kaspowitz.
“I want Tif and Skah under armoured escort on station,” Erik told Alomaim. “We don’t even know if that’s political or not. More likely it’s just the usual messed up males insisting women don’t belong off their homeworld.”
“And flying shuttles,” added Gunnery Sergeant Connie Brice from Alomaim’s side.
“Exactly. Women get murdered for less on the homeworld. If these guys try anything, kill them. No one threatens our crew or our guests.”
“Aye sir.” Lieutenant Alomaim was the least experienced of Phoenix’s marine officers, but Trace had told Erik he might one day be the best, if he stayed in long enough. He was certainly the hardest to read, deadpan and businesslike even by Trace’s standards.
“Poor Tif,” said Shahaim. “Imagine being stuck in that gender system.”
“Imagine being outsized like that,” Gunnery Sergeant Brice added. “Augments remove much of the performance difference for us, but no amount of augments could let a kuhsi woman equal that.”
“Those guys were Scuti,” said Kaspowitz. “Southern continent, everyone’s bigger down there, males especially. But yeah, even your typical kuhsi male will have fifty percent bodyweight on little Tif.”
“Smaller always means faster,” said Shahaim above the thumping of many armoured boots on deckplate. “Tif’s reflexes are insane. What if her old boyfriend the ruler of Koth was running that pilot school for women precisely because he figured women would make better pilots? I mean, given that size difference, the women could be a lot faster, and better with the Gs too. That would threaten a lot of the old boys, I’d reckon — piloting’s a high prestige job on Choghoth.”
“Yeah,” Kaspowitz said grimly. “Could have helped get him killed, too. Imagine if women started flying starships — the single most important technical profession of the age, and kuhsi men can’t get near their women for ability? Would turn the whole status of kuhsi women upside down. Lots would kill to stop it.”
Ahead on the left, against the inner wall, Phoenix marines and spacers were gathered about a hallway through the construction work. A familiar figure in armour strode out to intercept them.
“How’s the accommodation?” Erik asked Trace as she fell in beside him, huge rifle racked over one shoulder.
“It’s fine,” she said. “The construction’s just on the lower levels, once you get the elevator up it’s all finished and good. Of course, having everyone on upper levels will reduce our response time between here and Phoenix. Wasn’t Lisbeth invited to this thing as well?”
“She’s helping Romki with his hacksaws again. She said she’ll grab a vehicle and catch up shortly.”
“What’s the schedule for Edmund Shandi?”
“We need to talk to everyone else first,” Erik told her. “Let’s leave the Worlders until we’re certain of our footing here. We can’t get any kind of talks going unless we’re sure no-one’s about to pull the rug out from under us.”
Berth 26 took nearly half an hour to walk, as shopfronts resumed along the inner wall, and the dock level became thick with stationers, mostly barabo mixed with occasional tavalai. Vehicles cruised amidst off-duty construction personnel in fluro worksuits and hard hats — interior workers, an advantage of building a station while it was operating, not everyone needed an environment suit. But there were no markets on the dock, unlike Tuki Station, probably a result of station management deciding that with construction everywhere, vehicles needed the space to drive and stalls got in the way.
There were non-human-sphere species here too, the occasional strange and barely recognisable face amidst the more familiar. One was reptiloid with a bony snout, while another pair walked hunched over with massive shoulders to fight
a much heavier gravity, flat heads thrust forward and low. The humans tried not to stare, while exchanging remarks about which species they might be — kratik and shoab respectively, it was agreed, probably attracted to Kazak due to its spacer trade. Tuki had been centred more about trade from its big, inhabited planet below, Vieno. Such trade was perishable, non-industrial and of less interest to distant aliens making long trips. Also, Kazak was politically central in a way Tuki wasn’t, and aliens on long trips could make contacts here that Tuki would not provide. But for all its greater importance, Erik found himself preferring the warmth and bustle of Tuki’s markets and lively traders. Joma Station was cold, half-built and lacked the colour and smiles.
Approaching Berth 26, Erik looked back to find a vehicle approaching behind — an open-topped buggy with fat tires, four heavy-armoured marines piled into the back with two more light-armoured — Lisbeth’s bodyguards Carla and Vijay — compressing the suspension. Lisbeth was driving, and Erik repressed a smile to see his sister in her borrowed spacer jumpsuit and harness, Phoenix cap on her head, driving these marines around like she was their CO. But it was sensible, because if they were to guard her they had to have hands free to shoot, which they couldn’t do while driving. Plus, in heavy armour it was nearly impossible to fit behind the wheel.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said on coms, hanging back so she didn’t break up the formation. The marines had trained her well. “Erik, why are you walking? I saw another couple of vehicles back there you could have borrowed.”
Erik smiled. “Borrowed? You’re a Debogande and you want to ‘borrow’ things?”
“Well okay, ‘rented’. And why are you walking anyway?”
“It’s called exercise, sis. You might try it.” Grins from the surrounding crew.
“Isn’t a half-hour stroll a little light to qualify as exercise for a Fleet officer?”
“Yes,” Trace agreed, with a pointed glance at Erik. “Yes it is.”
Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) Page 15