And they all started talking over each other with excited disbelief. Erik and Trace looked at each other. Trace smiled drily. “You’re all missing the point,” she said loudly. It cut through, and they turned to look at her. “You’re all missing the point.” More quietly, now they were all listening. “The Worlders, ninety percent of the human race, are about to become second class citizens in their own space.”
“They already were,” Klinger said bluntly. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Everything’s changed,” Trace corrected. “The war ended. Lots of Worlders told themselves they were only putting up with it because of the war. Once the war was finished, they’d stop putting up with Fleet kicking them in the balls, they’d take their place at the head of the table, finally. Now this.
“You all think you’re going to make a lot of money from this, if the LC’s correct. You may be right. I think you’re also going to have to start spending a lot of that money on shooting our own people, because they’re going to be pissed, and shooting at you. They’re already pissed. Worlders are about to become the tavalai. During the Chah'nas Empire. The second-class strugglers who did most of the work but were never allowed to make their own rules. And you know what the tavalai eventually did to the chah’nas.”
“That’s stretching it,” one of the executives scoffed. “Worlders make all their own rules, on their worlds. We don’t tell them what to do down there, they shouldn’t tell us what to do up here.”
“We tell them to pay us six percent of everything they earn,” Erik countered. “That’s not nothing.”
“Aside from Fleet Tax, what they do down there barely affects us at all,” said Trace. “What we do up here could get all of them killed, or conscripted, or enslaved, or something else entirely. They may run planets, but Spacers run the empire. And the empire just got a whole lot bigger, and a whole lot more dangerous.”
“How could it be more dangerous? The war’s over.”
Trace looked the speaker straight in the eye. “That’s what you think,” she said grimly.
* * *
They stayed up and talked for a long time. Dinner was served, then drinks, for executives, officers and enlisted alike. Somewhere in the middle of it, orders arrived on Erik’s uplink — be at Supreme Commander Chankow’s office, 0800 sharp. Erik told Trace, and Trace said that in that case, she’d get some sleep.
The company quarters had three spare rooms for their Phoenix guests. The marines organised a two-man nightwatch rotation, and pointedly informed their Major that it did not require her personal attention. For once, Trace didn’t argue the point. Erik walked in on her now, sitting cross legged on the floor by the bed in her marine-issue underwear, eyes closed and utterly motionless, hair damp from the shower.
He walked softly past and into the bathroom, pondering that there was only one bed, a double, and damned if he was sleeping on the floor. His father had raised him to be a gentleman on such things, but he’d start being a gentleman with Trace when she started being a lady. He was sure that everlasting peace would arrive in the galaxy first.
When he emerged from the shower, she hadn’t moved a millimetre. He placed his boots by the bed, neatly lined up, and found a hanger for his jacket in the closet. Then the armour pieces had to be arranged on the floor for easy access if he needed to kit up in a hurry — he was nowhere near as fast at it as the marines, though he was sure Trace would help if needed…
“The left shoulder piece is a millimetre out of alignment,” she said. He looked, and she still hadn’t moved… but a corner of her mouth was twisted upward. “And if you’re going to polish your boots before bed, could you do mine as well?”
Erik snorted. “Fuck you,” he said, and got into bed. But he was smiling.
* * *
Ten minutes later he awoke as the mattress shifted. Trace was lying just opposite, her back turned. The sheet was not high, and he saw that she had tattoos, strange foreign symbols in a line down her spine. Or he assumed they went all the way down — he could see the top symbol above her singlet, and the bottom one at the base of her spine. An old Indian script, he thought. Kulina had their origins there, like many of the people, ethnically at least. One of those ethnic enclaves that had somehow survived two centuries of mixing, in the tight claustrophobia of humanity’s living space following Earth’s destruction, and had taken a liking to Sugauli and its rugged mountains following the krim’s violent eviction.
Even with her back turned, he could see the hard muscle and power. Genetic enhancement meant Trace would have been athletic even before the combat augments that tripled the speed and power of her limbs. Add the micro-boosters that more than doubled the effect of exercise, and ‘ripped’ didn’t begin to describe it. Erik didn’t find it particularly attractive on a woman, but it was intriguing all the same. Where he’d grown up, pretty girls were soft. Trace was a pretty girl, yet she was soft like a freshly sharpened bayonet. Seeing that, at this range, changed the meaning of ‘pretty’. And ‘feminine’, for that matter. His mother would have been appalled.
“We can’t trust these people,” said Trace. How she knew he was awake, he didn’t know. Probably his breathing changed. He hoped he hadn’t been snoring. “They’re Spacer loyalists, ultimately. They’ll be happy enough to see a partnership with the chah'nas, if it preserves Spacer dominance within humanity.”
“And that’s not our side?”
Trace rolled in bed and looked at him, face against the pillows. “You think it is?”
“No. I just think that you seem quite sure who is not our friend. Trace, I’m not even sure what side I’m on.”
“We can’t know whose side we’re on because the divisions aren’t all apparent yet,” Trace said stubbornly. “But we can be damn sure who we’re against, and that’s all those at the top of Fleet Command who feel they can betray their oath to pursue their politics. Whatever their politics.”
Erik sighed. Ran a hand over his face and rolled onto his back. It was easier than looking at her, at this range. She was too intense. And it was too odd, to see his legendary marine commander like this, in bed, and notably female in a way he’d managed to avoid truly noticing until now. “Trace, we’re a renegade ship. We have no side. As its commanders, our first responsibility has to be the safety of our crew. How can we do that by continuing this fight?” He glanced at her.
“We bring them to justice,” she said. “The ones who planned this. Fleet Admiral Anjo, if that’s as far as it goes. Those above him if it goes that far.”
“Justice for the Captain? We’ve seen far worse crimes committed here than just against the Captain. We’ve seen the murder of several thousand innocents — tavalai, for sure, but innocents all the same. We’ve seen the violation of human sovereignty in secret deals. We’re seeing the subjugation of ninety percent of humanity in order to preserve the power of the dominant ten percent…”
Trace shook her head against the pillow. “I agree, but we can’t spread ourselves that widely. We’re just one ship. We expose what they did to the Captain, we let justice take care of the rest.”
“You think they’ll care?” He rolled his head to look at her. “Trace, the Captain was a known Worlder sympathiser. Fleet can make up stories. If those stories fit what people already want to believe, they’ll believe it. What court will prosecute Fleet Admirals for the Captain’s murder? A Fleet court-martial? What a joke. A Spacer civilian court? Fleet control those. A Worlder court? They have no jurisdiction.”
Trace looked troubled. She did not have a ready reply. That was at once gratifying, that he could gain the upper hand in an argument against her, and frightening, because he relied so much upon her council. Except here, where he might be on his own.
“The Captain’s murder was part of a larger war,” he said. “How outraged people are by it will depend on which side they’re on, not some abstract concept of justice. And even if we did bring some Admirals down, they’d just be replaced by others. Fleet is enormous, they�
��ve got no shortage of Admirals and wannabe Admirals.”
“So what do we do?” she asked quietly.
He took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Trace. I just… don’t know.” They lay in silence for a moment. Erik had not known the answers to things before. In those instances, his ignorance had not scared him particularly, because he’d known it was the ultimate responsibility of the smartest and wisest person he knew. Now it was all up to him, and that was both terrifying, and lonely beyond description.
“What do you believe?” she asked him. He frowned at her. “Why did you join Fleet? You could have stayed at home and enjoyed your riches. What motivated you to think you needed to risk your life out here? You personally, when millions of others could have done it?”
“You want the honest truth?” Because he didn’t feel he’d been entirely honest with anyone about it, perhaps not even himself. But this seemed the time for honest truths. “I don’t think it was concern for humanity. I mean, we’ve been winning clearly for fifty years. The only question was how much the tavalai were prepared to give up, and how much we were going to win by the final surrender. I think I came because I wanted to impress my parents. And because…” A deep breath. “And because when you grow up in a big, rich family where everything is given to you because you were lucky with your birth, you feel the need to have something that’s yours. That you earned, and were not given. Or I did, anyhow. So I suppose it’s ego. Self worth.” He gave her a wry smile. “All the stuff you Kulina spend a lifetime beating out of yourself.”
“Me too,” Trace said simply. Erik blinked at her, astonished. “Oh we try to deny it. All Kulina do. But the more I think on it, the more inevitable the conclusion becomes. Even Kulina have ego. If you wish to live a quiet life, to exclude yourself from the events of the galaxy, to sit in a cave somewhere and meditate, then sure, you can probably divorce yourself of ego and desire.
“But Kulina want. It’s unavoidable. We want to win. We want to achieve. And yes, we even want to survive, or at least for our comrades to survive. If you spend your life charging into gunfire, you have to want something out of it. I wanted to become Kulina, when I was a little girl. I wanted it so badly. And the instructors told me I should not want, and that became confusing. It’s still confusing. So I suppose I’m a bundle of contradictions like everyone else.
“The question is why do we want it. And that’s where I find my peace, as a good Kulina. I absolutely do not want a big house, fame and fortune. That’s not ego talking, I’m quite sure — because some Kulina parade their lack of want around like a medal, as though it gives them pride, and makes them better than others. I just don’t want it. Needless possessions give me anxiety. Fame is all garbage. Military fanboys and fangirls can’t tell you who you are.”
“Is it true you once locked a journalist in a toilet?” Erik asked.
Trace nodded. “Followed me in on a dock visit, while I was taking a pee. Tried to ask me questions from the neighbouring stall… this was just after I’d been awarded the Liberty Star. I slid out quietly without flushing so she didn’t know I’d gone, then got the key from the janitor and locked her in. They stopped following me after that.”
“How long was she stuck in there?”
“Don’t know and don’t care.” Erik grinned. “The point, for me, is motivation. I love being Kulina. I love the idea that I matter. In this huge, endless expanse of a universe where countless beings live and die without notice — I matter. That’s ego, there’s no escaping it. But it doesn’t bother me like it did, because the ego serves a greater selflessness. Humanity, and its protection and advancement. And I really have, I think. Objectively speaking.”
“You have,” Erik agreed. “Others might have done it also, but at a far greater cost. That, and winning formidable victories makes humanity look formidable, not just to present enemies but to possible future enemies. It all serves a purpose.”
Trace nodded. “So there’s no shame in doing this for ego. We all want self worth. If you save innocent lives because you want to feel good about yourself, well, innocent lives are still being saved. There’s no shame in ego where ego is earned in a selfless cause. The question is, what is your cause?”
“Protect humanity,” Erik said quietly. “Protect my family. Be one of those people. The ones who matter.”
Trace nodded. “So. Look around you now. The Captain brought us here. He was one of those people who matter. What would he do?”
Erik gazed at her. Her intensity was catching. “The Spacer cause is corrupted,” he said.
Trace nodded again. “Go on.”
“They may be right that Worlders would make irresponsible leaders. They may even be right that humanity can’t afford full democracy right now. But if they can only achieve their goals by murdering the likes of Captain Pantillo, and mortgaging humanity’s future to chah'nas strategic interests, then they’re taking humanity in an unacceptable and dangerous direction.”
“And the Worlders?” Trace asked. “Should we join with them instead?”
“The Captain was a Spacer. He sympathised with Worlders, but he wasn’t one of them. I know Worlder politics, it’s little better than Spacer politics. I don’t trust them either.”
“So,” said Trace. “What’s our role?”
Erik blinked at her. “Fight for humanity,” he said as it came to him. “Be the one who stands up for everyone, not just some faction. Don’t be anyone’s enemy, don’t stand against this or that. Stand for something. The entire species, whether they like it or not. And try to win as many people onto our side as will come, Spacer or Worlder, military or civilian.”
Trace smiled at him. “Now you’re talking.”
“I still don’t know what that means, in terms of actual action.”
Trace shook her head. “Combat command rule number one; get the basics right. You’ll never be able to control the specifics in a fight anyway. The number one basic is your objective, so get that right, and the details will fall into place.”
Erik smiled back at her. The responsibilities of the path before him were still frightening. But it no longer looked so lonely.
25
At 0645 Erik was woken by a blinking uplink icon on his retina. He opened his eyes and found Trace’s side of the bed empty. But the uplink icon was for Phoenix command staff, so…
“Breakfast in the kitchen,” came her voice in his inner ear. “Get up, duty calls.” Which was the kind of thing she’d say to a junior officer known for late starts. Erik got up and dressed, wondering grumpily if she pressed his buttons on purpose, or if it was just a happy coincidence.
The kitchen was on the far side of the sunken lounge, and was guarded by Private Arime, still in light armour and kit but without the helmet. “Good morning Private,” said Erik as he approached. “Get any sleep?”
Arime’s reply was made unintelligible by a yawn. Erik smiled, entered the kitchen and found Trace there unarmored as he was, plain jacket and pants plus a pistol in the waist band. With her was an unshaven man, tall with an undercut around the sides, narrow face and suspicious eyes. Erik headed for the coffee machine with no more than a glance at the stranger.
“Coffee?” he asked them both.
“Don’t drink it,” said Trace. “You shouldn’t either. Adjust your stimulant micros, Doc will tell you your response times will improve even on flight sims.”
“Ever flown a starship?” Erik asked her, finding the loose grind and scooping. It smelt wonderful, a luxury you couldn’t get on starships.
“No.”
“Well let me tell you, neither self-flagellation, nor a bed of nails, nor coffee deprivation, helps me fly any better.” Trace looked amused. “Going to tell me who your friend is?”
“That’s probably not wise,” said the man.
“Humour me,” Erik insisted, pressing the button. The coffee machine burbled pleasantly. Erik turned.
“You can call him Linley,” said Trace. She was sipping some dreadful vege
table smoothie concoction that looked like minced caterpillars. “He’s a journalist.”
“What kind of journalist?”
“Newtown Investigator,” said Linley. Newtown was the biggest human city on Apilai, Erik knew. “It’s a newspaper. I knew the Captain.”
“Great,” Erik said drily, with a glance at Trace. “That’s just great. How’d he get in here?” Which meant a bunch of things, mostly aimed at his marine commander. Things like ‘how’d you contact him?’ and ‘why didn’t you tell me first?’… and others in that vein. Though by now he was wondering if he should even bother. Journalists, in their present situation, were exactly what they didn’t need.
“There’s always unofficial ways in and out of big apartment quarters like this on stations,” said Trace. “You spend your life getting into firefights on stations, you learn the ins and outs.” And saw Erik’s unimpressed expression. “Linley was an army captain back when Fleet took Apilai. Two month ground campaign, wasn’t it?”
Linley nodded. “The tavalai weren’t much interested in fighting, but the sard left a couple of divisions on the surface to tie us down. I was Army Intel, the biggest thing we had to deal with was resupply from the sard forces, which our Fleet couldn’t always stop because they were spread too thin. I talked to your Captain a few times about it, from orbit. He remembered me.
“I came back after my term was up, set up in the colonial administration here for a while, getting the cities built. That was a bit of a mess, like colonial administration always is — I took what I’d learned to the Newtown Investigator, had a good background to write about all kinds of stuff. Got pretty involved in the local Congress, Apilai Congress has never been happy with lack of representation in Heuron Congress, but we put a lid on it because of the war. Kind of.”
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