Qualea Drop (The Spiral Wars #7), page 25
Randrahan and Terez arrived, and Trace jumped from her platform and jogged to them. Randrahan laid the captured man on the concrete floor, back against a crate, as Styx approached with a clatter of steel footsteps. Randrahan stood well back, eyes wary, as a small, dark dot buzzed before the unconscious man's face. Styx had not been entirely revealing about the nature of her thirty-two assassin bugs, save that different bugs were loaded with different combinations of toxin. Some toxins killed, others stunned, while others carried antidote, but only to the stunning formula. The fatal formula acted too fast for any antidote to function.
Terez banged young Randrahan on the shoulder, indicating they should resume their guard of the perimeter. Randrahan seemed to process the unfairness of that -- that he'd just dashed across open ground to carry this idiot back, and now, thanks to the inequities of rank, didn't get to see the results.
He left, and Trace squatted by the unconscious man's feet. "Looks like the airborne guys are leaving," said Arime. The unconscious man showed no sign of waking, bald head lolling, mouth drooling. He was a big guy, tattooed, with the shoulders and arms of someone many hours a week in the gym. Trace had known marines who'd overdone that, usually men. 'Doesn't stop bullets', she'd told them. 'And if your gym-time starts eating up your craft-time, you're actually moving backward.'
"How long?" she asked.
"It depends," said Styx behind her.
"On what?"
"On the many things it depends upon." Trace nearly smiled. More fast footsteps, as Jokono and Romki jogged over from where they'd been covering. Jokono had a rifle, with which Rael had pronounced him a deadly threat against beer cans, bottles and anything else that didn't move or fire back. Jokono seemed to think himself somewhat better than that, having wielded such weapons before, back in his police days, on a few occasions against smuggling gangs on stations. Trace had reminded him that he wasn't a young man anymore, and that even if he were, using rifles against civilian criminals was still somewhere short of marine standards.
The rifle stayed for now, but Trace would have felt more comfortable if he'd settled for the service pistol that Romki carried. For all Stan Romki's various flaws, the one thing Trace did not have to worry about was him leaping into action with the delusion of marine-like capabilities.
The bald man suddenly wheezed, then coughed and spluttered. Blinked upward in the dark, unable to see without whatever nightvision visor he'd been using. Trace activated her rifle's laser targeter, to leave him in no doubt of what confronted him. It painted a red dot on his chest, and the bald man stared.
"Speak Hin?" Trace asked him in that. A slow, dazed nod. A hand felt for his earpiece, similarly missing. A moment ago, he'd been a part of what he'd no doubt considered to be a highly trained and capable assault team. Now this. "Why are you attacking us?"
The man growled something that the translator fouled completely. Trace frowned and looked at Romki. Romki looked nonplussed.
"Purist," Styx translated, now doubling as the galaxy's most over-qualified translator program. "He called you Purist scum."
"Well shit," Romki muttered. "He's a Zeladnist. Look there, on his neck. That tattoo is a swastika, that's a Zeladnist symbol."
"The swastika has historically been a number of things to human society," Styx replied. "Some of them inconsistent with the Zeladnist movement."
"Yes, well," Romki said testily, "unlike you, Styx, I've actually been out in this city, and I've learned things you can't learn by browsing the networks."
"Remind me," said Trace.
"It's the Purist War," said Romki. "Three hundred years ago. The Purists were humans-first nationalists, seriously unpleasant people. The closest human analog might be the Earth Front."
Trace frowned. "Why would they think we were alien-hating xenophobes?" Back home, Earth Front were certainly unpleasant. It was predictable that some humans, fighting wars against aliens for all of remembered human history, would sink into ideological hatred of every non-human sentience. That humanity would have died for good were it not for the assistance of other aliens, particularly the chah'nas, had little impact on their reasoning.
Trace disliked the Earth Front mostly because of their habit of popping up within Fleet ranks, and forming secret societies that undermined the integrity of Fleet lines-of-command. And because when one conceived of the universe as a place where humans were good, and aliens were bad, one abandoned all nuance concerning the shades of human morality, and the fact that some humans were assholes too. Forgetting that, she was certain now, was how humanity had paved the way for the quasi-tyranny of Fleet Command. Officers with Earth Front leanings had always been the ones who liked saluting, marching and ass-kissing a little too much, and she'd drummed a couple of non-coms out of Phoenix Company in her early days not so much for their beliefs, but because they'd started showing favouritism for others beneath their rank who felt the same way.
"And the Zeladnists fought the Purists in the Purist War," said Jokono. "And about a million humans and aliens died."
"Well... it's more complicated than that," said Romki. "But sure, basically. They were led by the Prophet Zeladny, he preached tolerance and brotherhood between humans and aliens. Which was, you know, probably wise, considering humans are only ten percent the population in Qalea, and less than that Eshir-wide."
"So this is the tolerant one?" asked Trace, gesturing sceptically at the uncomprehending prisoner. English, as far as they'd seen, appeared to have been completely forgotten on Eshir, save for the words that had entered Arabic, Hindi and other native tongues over a thousand years ago on Earth.
"Given who we are," Romki said drily, "and what we look like, perhaps it would be wise not to judge by appearances?"
"We could show him Styx?" Jokono suggested. Standing well back in the darkness, behind the surrounding humans, Styx's outline had not yet been glimpsed by the prisoner. "Show him we don't actually hate aliens?"
It had been necessary that only Phoenix humans had joined this party, for obvious reasons. No one on Eshir had ever seen a tavalai before, and the questions would have drawn a swarm of attention. Keeping and hiding Styx and Peanut was proving hard enough, though necessary, given they had no chance of success without Styx's capabilities, which she could not provide sitting on Phoenix at the rim of the solar system.
"I'm not sure that it would prove much," said Trace. "Anyone who's never seen a drysine could just assume she's an advanced robot who does what she's programmed." She kicked the prisoner's boot, reverting to Hindi. "We're not who you think we are. We don't hate aliens." The prisoner looked scornful. "Why do you think so?"
"We have proof," the Zeladnist retorted. "We have a contact. That's all I know. My leaders don't lie." Trace refrained from rolling her eyes. "What language do you speak?" Suspiciously.
"It's an alien tongue," Trace told him, on a moment's inspiration. "Spoken by friends of ours." He didn't believe her, it was obvious. But possibly if they could turn just one Zeladnist to their side... well, the Zeladnists were a powerful local force. With their old historical knowledge of Qalea, maybe they'd be some help in finding the Ceephay Queen's last location here.
"No Major," said Styx, apparently reading her mind. "The only way to gain the Zeladnists as allies is to reveal myself and Peanut. All large institutions on Qalea are infiltrated by the reeh, I've understood enough of how things work in my penetration of local networks to understand that. This secret could not be kept, and the reeh would descend upon us beyond Phoenix's capability to stop. Nothing happens at the high levels of Qalea society without reeh knowledge and at least tacit support."
"Yeah I know," said Trace, thinking hard. "But it's still an information conduit, and we shouldn't abandon it so quickly."
"Revealing me to the Zeladnists will be revealing me to the reeh," Styx repeated. "There is no way. Our best chance is alliance with the Purists."
"With alien-hating xenophobes?" Romki retorted, in genuine disbelief.
"The secret would be kept from the reeh," Styx reasoned. "The Purists who survive are remnants of a lost war, weak and scattered. It makes them safer. I have attained some network conceptualisation of where they may be found."
"Like where?" Romki snorted. If Stan Romki were going to hate any group of humans with more passion than he reserved for Fleet Command, it would be the alien-haters of Earth Front and their like. "I can't see them hanging around once they catch sight of you, Styx."
"We already have a contact," Styx countered. "Your friend Taj. I'd thought it obvious."
"You've proof of that?" Jokono asked warily. "I didn't pick him for the type."
"Old network connections," said Styx. "He's been out of contact with them for a few years, or mostly. But a statistical analysis reveals a high probability that Taj once had Purist leanings, at the very least. And I calculate a high probability that Taj is the contact that led these Zeladnists to us."
"Which means the Zeladnists will be after him as well," Jokono concluded, with a fast look at Trace. Trace thought hard. She liked Taj, but if he was caught up with the Purists... and she stopped herself. Personal wants and desires again, it seemed she could never shake them. Of course she didn't want to take the side of xenophobes against those preaching tolerance... but then she'd heard enough about the Zeladnists to know that they weren't often much better, they just had better PR.
But it shouldn't have mattered either way. She was Kulina, and she would do what was necessary for the survival of the human race, whether it agreed with her personal sensibilities or not. Like she had at Rando Splicer. Whatever it cost. Again. She took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the dread and despair.
"We'll go and collect Taj," she decided, "if he's still alive. We'll learn his contacts if we can. He may need persuading."
"And this one?" asked Jokono, indicating the puzzled prisoner.
"He's learned nothing," said Trace. "We'll leave him with the others."
"He's learned too much," Styx disagreed. "He's seen your faces."
"If they're following us from Taj, they already know my face at least," Trace retorted. "And since they nearly grabbed Stan, they'll have his face too. You don't need to take the most bloodthirsty solution all the time, Styx."
"I'll make it quick then," said Styx, and shot the prisoner in the chest. A single retort from the shoulder-mounts, it slammed the man back against the boxes, then he slumped, dead and bloody. Jokono jumped in shock, swearing as he turned away. Romki just squeezed his eyes shut, with the air of a man determined not to react to things that should not have been surprising.
Trace stared at Styx. Styx stared back, with that single, malevolent red eye. Reprimand her? Only an idiot would think the human psychological effects of a dressing down would hold the slightest consequence for a drysine queen. Threaten her? Even were it physically possible, Styx was far too important to the mission, and thus to the continued survival of humanity, for Trace to ever follow through with that threat, and they all knew it.
Trace walked to Styx, and stood immediately face to face with that red eye, impossibly multi-faceted in its strobing layers and crystalline depth, at this range in the dark. She could feel her muscles shaking with the involuntary shock -- even she was not immune, particularly not given what she'd seen in the past months, and she'd never in her life just shot a prisoner in cold blood. Until Pena. Her jaw clenched, and she stood between Styx's murderous vibroblades that could kill her with flick, and did not care that the drysine saw her emotion.
"Humanity needs the drysines, Styx," she said, her voice tight and hard. "But you need us too. You need our trust. You just spent a large chunk of that trust, right here. If you plan on having any relationship with humanity, in the aftermath of whatever we do here, you'd better think of how much of that trust you're going to need."
"If humanity has learned anything in the past thousand years," Styx replied calmly, "it's the necessity of doing everything it can to survive, no matter how hard or unpleasant. You are Kulina, Major. I should not need to explain this to you."
"It's not for you to decide the needs of humanity, Styx," Trace retorted, jabbing a finger hard at the crystalline eye. It felt faintly rough beneath her fingertip, a living texture, not synthetic. Styx did not flinch. "Humanity will tolerate drysine assistance that does not presume to lead us. Whatever you really think about who's superior, in that cold steel skull of yours, you're going to have to suppress it, or your chances of winning human trust are zero. Drysine numbers are small, humanity's are large. We exterminated one alien species, Styx. Don't forget."
"So did we," said Styx. "Had we chosen, we could have exterminated many more. But I take your point."
15
Rika's breathing echoed harshly in his helmet. The visor graphics showed him life-support, oxygen and nitrogen mix, a full seven hours worth on main tanks, two on the reserve. Or he hoped it would be seven, as on his last trip out, the recyc had glitched and he'd ended up with four. Lieutenant Alomaim's voice was in his earpiece, with additional Lisha translation across the bottom of his visor, adding to the visual clutter. Gyros, attitude, powerplant, coms. Armscomp was deactivated for now, despite the big anti-armour rifle in his suited grip. The marines weren't real keen for him to be shooting at anything with them in the vicinity.
Two minutes to release. Flight mode activate, he blinked on the big left icon, and gave the required flick of his unoccupied left fingers, and felt the control system switch. Now the flight thrusters would work by relative hand and foot motions, the kind of thing you could do in free-flight that you couldn't in gravity, where hands and feet were needed for other things.
Rika felt his heart beating fast, but not so fast as actual fear. Mostly he just didn't want to stuff up and embarrass himself. The Major had put a lot of trust in him, and Bravo Platoon had invested personal time and effort to help him get it right. Back on Rando, the first operations of the evacuation mission would be starting about now. The corbi were about to become a free people once more. A free people would need a Fleet to defend them. A Fleet would need marines. If he could get even halfway as good as Phoenix Company marines, he'd be the first and best of those, as the few that the Corbi Resistance had now were poorly trained and rarely used. If only he could get through the next few hours without screwing up.
Somewhere behind, PH-3's hold doors were opening. With his suit's armoured feet locked into braces, the rowed steel seating lifted away in sections, then the rearmost marines were jetting backward. He saw them peeling off on the visor's rear view window, one and then another, and finally it was his turn, and he kicked feet lose from the braces and applied light thrust. His view of the shuttle bulkhead vanished in a spray of white, and then he was out... too fast, someone behind pushed off with an armoured hand, and he cut thrust and looked about, trying to orient.
Already the marines were moving, forming into three sections plus Heavy Squad, spreading wide to form the rough circle that marine platoons used when approaching potentially hostile structures. For a brief moment of panic, he didn't recognise any of the suits around him, obscured by puffs of white as thrusters engaged... but then augmented reality kicked in, illuminating each marine with a green ID window and showing exactly who they were. And here to his right was Private Jenner, which meant that over here would be... Corporal Rizzo, Commander of Heavy Squad, to which he was currently attached.
But he pushed thrust to catch up, and sure enough the suit kicked forward, and with a few anxious nudges he made some sort of formation off Rizzo's side. Another fast look around for position, and he found Private Wu on the other side, looking straight at him, and now raising a questioning hand from his huge, shielded autocannon to give a thumbs up. Rika gave one back, breathing more easily now. He was in position with Heavy Squad in the formation center, further back with the rest of Bravo Platoon spread before him, like a giant concave net. Up there would be Lieutenant Alomaim... he searched the green ID tiles and sure enough, Alomaim's name appeared, alongside Master Sergeant Brice, who'd recently been promoted from what the marines called Gunnery Sergeant. Why there were so many different kinds of Sergeant, Rika didn't know.
Momentarily secure in his formation, Rika allowed his attention to drift from position, attitude and formation to look for the first time beyond, and see where he was. Ahead was a giant ball of dirty ice. The humans said it looked like something called a snowball... Rika didn't know what a snowball looked like, he was from central Talo, where the temperature was never below freezing even in winter, and had never seen snow. The iceball was huge, filling all the space before the marines. It had to be at least four tarans across. The roughness of its surface seemed incredibly fine and clear, far clearer than anything would appear on Rando. Space had no atmosphere, and in a vacuum, everything looked sharper. It wasn't very bright through. Instead of glaring white, the ice was dull. Rika could not see the Keijir System's star behind him, but out this far its light was very dim. Any planet out here would be frozen like this one, only bigger.
"Rika buddy," came Corporal Rizzo's laconic drawl. "How you doing?"
"Hi Corporal. I'm fine." Rizzo was a character, so laid back he sometimes seemed half asleep. In between training sims and suit maintenance, he'd introduced Rika to a kind of music called jazz. The other marines called him Cat, which was apparently an animal like a fir, only lazier.
