It all culminated here, on this new homeworld, on this day, and he was somehow fortunate enough to be at the centre of it all, third-in-command behind perhaps the greatest warrior of the latest and hopefully last ever war. Now he marched proudly, and allowed himself to take in the roaring crowds, the great banners hanging from the towersides proclaiming thanks, the heartfelt memorials, the patriotic songs. A little girl in a red dress jumped a barrier and ran to him with a flower. He gave her a smile and a kiss, took the flower and pinned it in his lapel with a wave to the girl’s beaming parents as she scampered back to them.
And just when he thought he was having fun, he thought again of all his friends who would have loved to be here and see this, but would never be seen by anyone again. And suddenly he was in tears.
2
After five kilometres of marching, the parade took a left exit and ended up in Victory Park. There MPs with loudspeakers urged everyone to disperse and head elsewhere, as the park couldn’t handle more than fifty thousand people, and several hundred thousand would be marching today.
Rifles were collected, and goodbyes were said, as some folks wouldn’t be seeing each other for weeks — Phoenix was now headed for perma-dock and half the crew had ground leave starting from now, while the other half would have to go up in a few days to prep the ship for long term stand-down. Erik had been expecting that he and third-shift would get the bridge duty, and was surprised that it went to Huang instead. Officers clustered beneath a huge fig tree, with handshakes and embraces, and Captain Pantillo went to Erik with a fatherly hug.
“Erik, good job these last few days. It all went well. I’m pleased.” And that was worth more than all the medals that Fleet Command was rumoured to be about to pin on them.
“Thank you Captain.” Pantillo was not a big man, tanned with Asian features that he claimed went back to someplace called the Philippines. His hair was greying, and he’d been alive for much of the war — one hundred and twenty seven standard Earth years, a very advanced age considering the reflexes required of a warship captain. “How does it feel, now that it’s all over?”
“Over,” Pantillo repeated, with a shrewd look. “Hmm. Well you know, something ends, something else begins. Give my best wishes to your parents, I suppose you’re going to see them now?”
“If I’m not there in less than fifty minutes, Mother will be calling Fleet Command asking where I am,” said Erik. Pantillo smiled. “She knows exactly how far a walk it is, she’ll be timing me.”
As it happened, he didn’t have to walk — an uplink signal flashed on his inner vision, and told him that a cruiser was on its way to a local transition zone, ETA ten minutes. Courtesy of Debogande Enterprises, of course, and initialled KD. That would be Katerina Debogande, Erik’s eldest sister and CEO of Debogande Enterprises. DE in turn accounted for slightly more than half of Debogande Incorporated — the core company, handed down in family tradition to the eldest child.
Erik rounded up two buddies from third-shift he knew had no family on Homeworld, plus one from Engineering second-shift, and ushered them toward the transition zone. As much as he looked forward to seeing his family again, a part of him dreaded it as well, and he did not want to be alone among the civilians. Besides, an invite to a Debogande family function could be a real boost to a young person’s life in any career, and all three friends accepted eagerly. They exchanged some more embraces and farewells as they left, but before they could properly depart, Erik was halted by Major Trace Thakur herself.
“Got room for one more?” she asked him, eyeing his group of three.
“Um… sure, it’ll be a big cruiser.” To put it mildly. “Why?”
“The Captain feels you should have protection. Lieutenant Dale will accompany you.” She glanced at Dale, who was tall, blonde and dangerous. The marine dress uniform did its best to civilise him, but Erik had seen the man bite the head off a live tulik in a drinking session. He was a killer bare-handed or with weapons, or with innocuous everyday items that could be used as weapons. His displeased expression suggested he’d much rather have gone drinking with his marines, and wasn’t as thrilled at this invitation to party with the insanely wealthy as some might have been.
Erik gave Thakur a puzzled smile. “Major, I’m just going to see my family, I really don’t think I need protection.”
“The Captain feels you do.”
Trace Thakur was a little below average height, had ethnicity going back to a more familiar-sounding Earth-place called ‘India’, and was kind of pretty but in no way delicate. Like all marines, she was the product of the best genetic engineering and bio-synthetic augmentations that money could buy. Unlike most marines, she was Kulina, the elite warriors from the world of Sugauli. Among other things, that meant she didn’t drink or gamble, and as far as anyone knew, hadn’t been screwing around either.
Some non-marines were surprised that a man like Dale could take a teetotaller seriously at all, but Erik had learned that if you wanted to make yourself physically unsafe around Phoenix marines, you needed only say something negative about the Major. Dale was a thirty year veteran, and had an impressive row of medals on his chest, yet despite ‘only’ ten years of active duty, Thakur’s was larger. Foremost amongst them was the Liberty Star, the highest award the UF could give. Usually you had to die to get one.
Erik smiled. “Of course. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Dale.” Dale grunted. “And what about you, Major? Would you like to come too?”
“There are many things in this life that I would like to do, Lieutenant Commander,” Thakur said cryptically. And she put a hand on Dale’s shoulder as she left, in thanks. It seemed to cheer him, but only a little.
“Come on then,” Erik sighed. “Let’s do it.”
The park perimeter was crazy with crowds, all the roads were shut to traffic, and the thronged pedestrians moved in a slow, shuffling sea, shouting, singing and shaking the hand of every uniformed person they saw. Erik’s crew cleared the park’s guarded exit just as the lights about the transition zone between road and sidewalk began to flash, and nearby pedestrians made room as the descending cruiser’s field gens prickled their hair.
Erik scanned his ID and its doors opened to admit them — they could have fit another four at least, but Erik wasn’t sure at his family’s reaction if he turned up with half of third-shift in tow. Doors shut and the engines whined, and they rose past park trees and gleaming towers toward a cruising lane.
“Any idea where it is?” asked Lieutenant Dean Chong, who sat Nav beside Erik’s command chair on third-shift.
“Somewhere with a good view,” Erik replied. He glanced at Lieutenant Dale in the rear seat. “Lieutenant, did they tell you why I needed protection?”
“No sir,” said Dale.
“Maybe worried you’ll choke on an olive,” suggested Ensign Remy Hale, who was from Engineering.
“I don’t think my olive-swallowing skills have deteriorated that badly,” said Erik. The cruiser reached an elevation where they could see past the towers to Memorial Avenue, cutting straight through Shiwon from Memorial Hill to the harbour like an arrow. Still the marchers marched, and the crowds cheered. No doubt it would go on for hours yet.
“I’m not sure even Lieutenant Dale could save you from a homicidal olive,” said Second Lieutenant Raf Corrig, who sat Arms. “It doesn’t seem his skill-set.”
Dale glowered out the window. Erik nearly felt sorry for him. Spacer officer corp tended to be well educated from fine urban institutions. The marines were blue collar brawlers and proud of it. Lieutenant Dale, despite his officer’s bars, had started off as a private after a rough childhood on a frontier world, and earned an officer’s commission by still being alive after twenty years in the field. The two cultures were chalk and cheese, and here was Dale, stuck babysitting smart-mouthed spacer officers as they sipped champagne and exchanged witticisms, when he could be drinking with his buddies in celebration of something that truly deserved it.
“Pretty g
irls at the family functions, Lieutenant,” Erik told Dale to cheer him. “Lots of pretty girls.”
Dale raised an eyebrow. “No doubt, sir.”
“Just don’t touch the ones called Debogande, or there’ll be trouble.” And Dale actually smiled, just a little.
Almost immediately the cruiser began to descend, and the dash display showed its skylane curling down between towers to a middle height but hugely wide building that directly overlooked Memorial Avenue. As they drew closer, Erik saw that the entire top floor was a domed glass canopy, and it was filled with people. Upon the adjoining landing pad, lights were beginning to flash.
“Well Erik,” said Dean, peering wide-eyed from the back seat. “Your mother’s certainly outdone herself this time.”
They landed on the pad beside the rooftop suite, holding their hats against the gathering sea breeze, and went to where guards opened the doors for them. Within were a cheering crowd of VIPs, and then Erik was swamped by his younger sisters Lisbeth and Cora, then with more grace, Deirdre and Katerina. And finally, and to even greater applause from the crowd, his father Walker, and mother Alice.
The rest passed in a blur, him introducing his shipmates to his family, his family to his shipmates, then speeches, handshaking, and far, far too many introductions. All he really wanted to do was go off somewhere quiet with his family and talk, especially with Lisbeth, whose entire engineering degree he’d only heard about through correspondence, and Cora, who was now running most of Debogande Incorporated’s enormous arts and philanthropy program at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. Deirdre and Katerina’s lives were still more or less the same as when he’d last had extended family leave, but Katerina’s two kids were older now and eager to see their uncle, and Deirdre had racked up more travelling lightyears than he had lately with the family law firm, and there was so much to talk about.
But instead it was meet this corporate leader and dear family friend, and meet that Spacer Congress Senator and even dearer family friend, and darling surely you remember so-and-so from what-its-name… and Erik would nod with enthusiasm he didn’t feel and shake another hand, or kiss another cheek. At least his friends seemed to be enjoying themselves — he’d cunningly introduced them all as ‘single’, with a pointed look around, and now each was suitably entertained by attractive women or, in Remy’s case, handsome men. Even Lieutenant Dale had struck apparently civilised conversation with several of the promised pretty girls, though Erik happened to know that each was heir to city-sized fortunes, and not truly in the market for a square-jawed marine Lieutenant whose retirement might earn him a plot of working frontier land and a pension.
After an hour he managed to free himself for a drink on an outdoor balcony overlooking the parade. Still it rolled on, and still the crowds cheered and the aircraft circled in low formation. The sunlight on his face felt so good, after so long shipside. You could do it in VR, lie on a simulated beach, or climb a simulated mountain, but it just wasn’t the same. The sea breeze teased a faint sweat off his brow, and that felt as good as a beautiful woman’s kiss. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.
Someone came through the door behind, and stood beside him. “Unfiltered air tastes different,” said his father. “Doesn’t it.”
Erik smiled. “It does. It’s always the little things.” Walker Debogande had also held a Fleet commission, in an earlier phase of the war. He’d been Walker Hussain back then, and the third child of Nilsen Hussain, head of one of humanity’s more successful energy companies. As third-in-line he’d been grudgingly allowed to go to the war, but instead of being his end, it had been his salvation, as his parents and two elder siblings had perished when the sard hit the colony at Promise. His fourteen year service cut short, he’d returned to run the company, which became so successful it had begun making powerplants for the Fleet. That had necessitated working with Debogande Enterprises and its formidable CEO Alice, who was fulfilling another large part of that order for everything but the powerplants. The two had hit it off, and the marriage had folded the Hussain family into the Debogande, and Hussein Energy into Debogande Incorporated.
“I’m sorry we had to do it like this,” said Erik’s father. “Well… I tell a lie, we didn’t have to do it like this. But you know your mother.”
Erik sighed. “I know. It’s okay Dad. We’ll get time.” His father put a rough arm around him, and squeezed. He was a strong man, not especially tall, but wide at the shoulders. His face was round, freckled and dark, with a grey-streaked beard and an energetic smile. A more African shade to Alice’s light-brown. People still liked to try and designate skin-tones and face-shapes with corresponding regions of old-Earth, but after so many generations away from home, the human race was all blending together. There were still some purely white, black or Asian people left, but those were rare, usually living on some exclusively settled world where they didn’t have to mix cheek-by-jowl with everyone else. Spacers, or those descended from Spacers during those long centuries where humanity had nowhere in particular to call home, were now various shades of ‘tan’, the exact details of which were usually customed in some gene lab prior to birth.
“We will, I promise,” said Walker. “That last fight seemed pretty bad.”
Erik nodded. “It was pretty bad. We lost a lot of ships.”
“You think it was worth it?”
Erik shrugged. “Who gets to decide that? In strategic terms, sure. We won, the war’s over. If we hadn’t pushed so hard, right then, it might have kept going, and we’d have lost a lot more in the long run. But if some little kid out there decides to hell with strategic terms, he just wants his daddy back?” He looked at his father. “Well who could argue with him?”
Walker sighed, and leaned both thick elbows on the balcony railing. They looked out at the passing parade. “Yeah. Fourteen years was enough for me. Of course, I wasn’t on the sharp end like you…”
“You were sharp enough. You know what it’s like.” Walker had sat Scan on a hauler. They weren’t armed, but they often carried arms into hot spots, where god-knew-what was waiting for them. All in all, Erik was sure he’d rather be on a ship that could shoot back. Phoenix was certainly that. “Besides, I’ve only done three on Phoenix. The other seven years I was staffing, babysitting docks or serving on Firebird. The most action Firebird saw was the occasional solar flare.”
“All valuable work.” Walker patted his hand. “How are the tavalai taking it, do you think? Will the surrender last?”
Erik made a dismissive face. “Oh they’ve been sick of this war for decades. It should have ended fifty years ago Dad, you know that.”
“Sure. But wars in space move slow.” They did. The logistics alone took an incredible time. Anyone could strike a system from space, but the deeper you went into enemy territory, the harder it became to get back alive. To hit deep into enemy space, you had to capture systems, not just skip over them. That took huge time, energy and resources. Doing it repeatedly, system after system, took decades. It wasn’t all high-energy combat and casualties, a lot of it was quite boring, months and years of preparations, skirmishes and reconnaissance, punctuated by huge explosions of terror and death. It took a very stubborn people to do it for a hundred and sixty one years. Until this surrender, it was thought that the tavalai were the most stubborn species in the Spiral. Now everyone knew better.
“Tavalai aren’t warriors, Dad,” Erik said tiredly. “Their organisation is incredible, I mean, if only we could run logistics like they do. But they’re bureaucrats. Their tech is good and they’re tough and stubborn as hell, but they just don’t go for the throat like warriors. They aren’t made that way. You know what I mean.”
“They aren’t prepared to risk everything to win,” Walker said sombrely.
“I used to hate them. When they hit Valinta and New Punjab, I wanted to rip them apart with my bare hands. But they hit military targets, they’re probably better at avoiding civvie casualties than we are.”
&nb
sp; “The sard aren’t. Nor the kaal.”
Erik shrugged. “Sure, and we’re allied to the chah'nas, so who’s worse?”
Walker looked at him warily. “Son, you know I respect your opinions. God knows you’ve earned the right to hold them. But I wouldn’t be talking like that so loudly around here at the moment.”
“I know. I know.” It was the army infantry now out on parade. Army were the biggest branch of the United Forces. They occupied worlds, and pacified resistance. It took a lot of soldiers, a lot more than manning ships. But the technical requirements were also lower, and they used a lot more brute force than sharp finesse. Most marines didn’t think much of them. “I could kill sard all day and sleep fine. Hell, if we could repeat with the sard what we did to the krim, I’d be okay with that. The kaal… they’re not as bad, but I can’t lose much sleep over them either. It’s just these stupid fucking tavalai Dad. They had no business fighting us and for the last sixty years at least they knew it. But they were just too fucking stubborn for their own good, and now it’s cost tens of millions of us, and hundreds of millions of them. It just… pisses me off.”
He’d gone aboard at Larakilikal Station, to help secure the facilities. Tavalai had fought to the last woman and man, their armoured bodies sprawled and blasted in the steel hallways, where Fleet marines had dropped them. A few had lived longer, their helmets off, their funny, frog-like eyes bulging, trying to get water on their skin to help the secretion process in healing. Some clutched religious artefacts, and others slate screens with pictures of family. He’d given a live one some water, and it had gurgled a thank-you, and patted his hand with clammy fingers. Sard would pretend to be dead, then blow themselves up to take a few humans with them. Kaal would like to, but lacked the nerve. But it never occurred to tavalai. In a century and a half of war, only a small handful of human prisoners had ever reported poor treatment at their hands. On Tirapik, the world below Larakilikal Station, some captured human freighter crews had been found living on a grassy compound on a hill. They were well fed and healthy, and demanded that their tavalai captors should be treated similarly.
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