The Privilege of Peace

by Tanya Huff

  Bishami raised a hand, shifted half of the hard light image in front of her two centimeters to the left, and looked up. Her crimson hair began to flip back and forth, picking up speed, and her eyes darkened.

  Alamber glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing behind him. “What?”

  “You look like shit. What are you wearing?”

  He had to look down. “My uniform?”

  “Part of your uniform.” She cocked her head and drew in a deep breath through her nose. “When’s the last time you had sex?”

  “I’ve been sleeping communal, what do you think?”

  “Your scent’s off.”

  “Yeah, well, we had a little trouble on Seven Sta,” he snapped. “You may have heard.”

  Her expression changed so completely, he knew that had they known the same dialect, she’d have switched to Taykan. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realized the two of you . . .”

  “There isn’t two of us. There’s six of us.”

  “Good for you.” Her eyes lightened, and he went into her arms as she came around the desk.

  “I found the body.”

  She nuzzled under his ear. “I have an experiment running for the next twenty minutes, but after that . . .”

  “No . . . I mean, absolutely, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Right.” Detangling their hair, she stepped back. “The coding.”

  “Still need some help with it?”

  “Hell, yes. But why aren’t you searching for the person who . . .” Bishami frowned as she searched his face for what Alamber could only assume was the least traumatizing description. “. . . who injured her?”

  He wondered if down here in her labs where no one ever bled, she could even say shot. Or beaten. Or tortured. Or executed. Big Bill had been a traditionalist and fond of venting the airlock himself. He’d found the boss bleeding out on the grass years after he’d found his first body.

  “Alamber?”

  “I have ferrets running.”

  Her hair flipped back. “You’re hunting rodents? Oh,” she continued before he could answer, “I’m an idiot. It’s a search term. Human?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Of course they do.” Her hair curled around her ears. “There’s a chance I’m spending too much time in the lab.”

  “No comment.” He found a smile from somewhere. “I thought fixing your code might distract me while the searches run.”

  “It may bore you numb rather than distract you, but you can fix it with my thanks.” Arm around his waist, she steered him toward a terminal. “I’ll get you in. You haven’t the clearance to go deep, and I’ll sleep better maintaining the illusion you can’t wander through the brains of the station at will.”

  “What am I looking for?” he asked settling into the seat.

  “If I knew, I’d call tech in. It’s like . . .” Her eyes lightened as she stared up at the ceiling and were about three shades paler when she looked at him again. “. . . like a fine fabric catching on callus, a slight tug where there shouldn’t be one. Everything functions fine, but—now and then—it feels wrong.”

  “And tech can’t work with that?”

  “Tech’s a little short of abstract thinkers.” She kissed the top of his head, and left him to be absorbed by layer after layer after layer of ones and zeros.

  Numb would work.

  It took Alamber three days to find the problem. Bishami’s metaphorical calluses were catching because the extra pieces of code tucked in where they didn’t belong had been sloppily compiled. Big Bill would have skinned him if he’d built a backdoor so rough around the edges. If this was the sort of work produced by a standard education as opposed to on-the-job-training motivated by the possibility of pain, he hadn’t missed much.

  Packets leaving the station carried messages that separated and redirected at the first Susumi buoy. Alamber couldn’t track them past the buoy, but he could tease loose the two still in the system, open them, and break the appallingly simple cypher.

  There was a Humans First cell on the station. In the Justice Department.

  * * *

  Rubbing his palms against his thigh to get rid of the feel of the decontamination spray off his hands, Craig stepped out of the airlock entry that separated the hospital from the rest of the station and nearly ran Alamber down. They danced for a moment, got sworn at by a Niln trying to get into the airlock, and finally managed to shuffle into a bit of corridor out of the way of foot traffic.

  “Were you going in?” Craig stared into Alamber’s pale eyes and wondered if he was feeling all right. Their interaction had been as close to graceless as he’d ever seen from a di’Taykan. Had he stopped by since Torin’s tank had been brought home? The others had, but he couldn’t remember seeing Alamber’s ID in the log.

  Alamber glanced at the hospital entrance, eyes lightening as if to block the sight, his hair flattening. “No, I’m not going in.”

  “Okay.” Torin wouldn’t give a shit. She’d said more than once she didn’t like people looking at her when she couldn’t look back.

  “Have you got a minute?” His mouth twisted into something not quite a smile. “Or ten?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Between shift changes, Musselman’s had plenty of empty tables. Craig half expected Alamber to tuck them into a back corner or up by one of the screens where the sound of a cricket match would cover their conversation, but he went for centrally located, with enough empty space around them the server rolled her eyes when she came out from behind the bar to take their order.

  He set his slate on the table. “I can deal with directional microphones as long as I have a minimum of a clear meter for the full three sixty. Keeping people in the dark is harder, so . . .” He waved a hand. “No people.”

  Another time, Craig would have laughed, certain Alamber was fukking with him. Another time, Torin wouldn’t have been in a tank regrowing her spleen. When Alamber ordered a sevestin which might have been alcoholic, but tasted like dirty socks so who the hell cared, he ordered a portion of banderillas and a beer. Interesting that they hadn’t gone back to quarters if they wanted to avoid attention. He managed to chew and swallow a baby onion and a mouthful of beer before he asked what the fuk was going on.

  Alamber drained half the pale green liquid in his glass. “Humans First has a cell on the station.”

  “You’re shitting me. A cell?”

  “Isn’t that the right word? A cabal? A group? An infiltration.”

  “This isn’t about your Federate, Alamber.” He leaned in. Getting close to a di’Taykan would never arouse suspicion. “Lower your voice and show me the evidence.”

  The evidence was extensive and—also—not. Someone, and there was no evidence more than one person was involved, had buried the information downloaded from Torin’s tank in the regular communications traffic. He understood enough to see the path Alamber had followed. Couldn’t have followed it himself, but could do the basic math. He crushed a pickled chili between thumb and forefinger, studied the oil on his skin for a moment, then said, “How hard would it be to get this information?”

  “From the tank? I could do it. So could Ressk. It’s protected, but they don’t . . .” He waved a hand in time with the movement of his hair. “. . . expect to be cracked, so the security’s not as good as it could be.”

  Too many people could access Torin’s data. “Can you fix it, then?”

  “Sure. But, now?”

  “After.” Craig spun Alamber’s slate in place. “We don’t know this is Humans First.”

  “Who else would it be? It can’t be a lone nutjob, not with all the hidden communication happening.”

  “Fair enough.” He stopped the spin, handed Alamber his slate, and finished his beer. “Now, what?”

  �
��New packets will be diverted to the buffers, I’ll be notified, and I’ll take a look—maybe change a few things before sending them on. We can’t just stop them, or they’ll know we’re on to them.”

  That seemed obvious, so Craig nodded and asked, “Why tell me?”

  Alamber’s eyes went dark. “The boss got shot. Tanked. Whoever sent this . . .” He tapped the edge of his slate. “. . . has to be the person who released our schedule. Who let Humans First know we’d be on Seven Sta, where and when.”

  “Yeah, got that. But you should tell Commander Ng.”

  “We should.” Alamber grabbed the last skewer of pickled vegetables off the plate and pointed it at Craig. “Are we going to?”

  Torin would. Betrayal had driven Torin from the Corps, but she trusted the rank structure. Trusted that the whole would look after the parts. He’d always assumed it was as much habit as anything.

  Odds were high the rest of the Strike Teams would feel the same way. Binti, Werst, Ressk . . . they’d walk into live fire for Torin—had walked into live fire for Torin—but they’d all been military and, for them, with Torin tanked, the buck stopped at Commander Ng.

  Commander Ng was Human.

  Humans First had infiltrated the Justice Department.

  Who knew how far in?

  Craig had never been military. Neither had Alamber.

  “No,” he said. “We’re not. Can you find out who sent that message?”

  “If I can grab a few more, maybe. Probably.” He frowned and tapped his fingers against the broad belt slung diagonally around his hips. “I can find out where it was sent from at least. What about putting a guard in Med-op? What if they . . .”

  “Go after Torin in the tank?” Fukking hell, they’d thought she was safe when they brought her back to Berbar. “Could you get into hospital operations and change the mix she’s in?” Alamber hesitated, but nodded. “Could the person who wrote that code?”

  “Not if that’s the best they can do.”

  “Then we’ll let the terrifying tank supervisor do her job.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The day before Torin was to be detanked, Alamber finally pinpointed the terminal and the log-on ID that had been the source of all three messages. Craig had no idea if that made the operator of said terminal cocky or stupid, nor did he care. He could work with either.

  Each strand of hair twitching individually, Alamber folded his arms and glared. “Are you suicidal? I’m going with you.”

  “No, and no. Humans First, remember?” Craig dragged a henley down over his head and checked that his shoulders and arms moved freely. “Those assholes will snap closed when they see you coming.”

  Alamber opened his mouth, clearly decided now was not the time, and closed it again. It was news to Craig there wasn’t a time a di’Taykan wouldn’t respond to that kind of provocation. “They won’t be happy about you showing up. They hate you. You’re a traitor to your species.”

  In the third message, they’d copied the logs that listed the times he’d spent by Torin’s tank.

  “They’ve known me and hated me for a while now. When Torin makes the news, I’m standing beside her.” He frowned, propped his right foot on a chair, and bent to tie his boot. “Not during the Silsviss thing, but after. And this . . .” He straightened. “. . . is recon, nothing more. I have a valid reason to go to SR besides finding out if this person is a flunky or a player.”

  “You can tell that by looking at a person?”

  “I’ve played a lot of poker in my time. I know a bluff when I see one.”

  “Yeah, poker, that’s relevant.” Hair now cutting choppy arcs above his shoulders, Alamber folded his arms. “Torin calls that your bar fight shirt.”

  “It washes.” Craig would crack heads if he had to in order to get answers. He wasn’t telling Alamber that, although he doubted he needed to.

  “I’m coming as far as the SR link station.”

  “And if you’re spotted? If they see us together and I go on alone? They’ll know we’re on to them, and we need to know how deep the rot goes.”

  “Before we tell Commander Ng?”

  Craig lifted his lips off his teeth in a smile he’d learned from Werst. “Before we tell Torin.”

  Pale blue hair flipped back and forward, then stilled. “Fine. Go alone.”

  Leave me behind.

  Speaking of rot that went deep. If she hadn’t already died, Craig would’ve happily blown Alamber’s late vantru out an airlock. “You’ve got the harder job.”

  “How do you figure?”

  He wrapped his hand around Alamber’s wrist and squeezed lightly. “If anything happens to me, you have to tell Torin.”

  “Fukker.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mimi Paddison of SR was a late middle-aged Human who, if asked, would probably say she did the kind of behind-the-scenes job essential to the smooth running of the station, but as that job seemed to consist of maintaining the database of job applicants and recent hires and left her enough time to support a terrorist organization, Craig doubted it. On the other side of one hundred, she was tall, heavyset, and fond of flowered fabric—given her size and the size of the flowers, she looked like a much-loved sofa Craig barely remembered from his childhood. The uniformity of her skin color, at least the skin he could see, announced she visited the few remaining UV cubes that catered to Humans of a certain age. Her purple hair looked naturally curly and unnaturally purple.

  According to social media, her latest ex had been male, so Craig presented both dimples, flexed his arms as he leaned toward her desk, and thickened the accent he’d almost lost. “Per Patterson, g’day. Ta for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “It’s my job,” she said shortly. “What do you want, Warden Ryder?”

  “Warden Kerr has been trying to convince an old friend of hers to tuck on, and I’d hoped you could tell me if he’d applied. I’d like to have some news for her to barrack about when she’s standing again. They say you’re the one to talk to.”

  “Do they.” Paddison’s expression didn’t change, and there was no question in her voice. “You’ve been locked out of her account by the tank supervisor, haven’t you?”

  He nodded. “Tosser slammed me.”

  “Warden Kerr will regain access as soon as she passes cognitive testing. She’ll find out about her friend then.”

  Craig worked the dimples again. “I wanted to be the one to tell her. Give her a smile.”

  “Sucks to be you. Ever heard of inter-office communications? Did you assume I’d be dazzled by the personal touch?”

  So much for the dimples. “It’s timing. She’ll be decanted today.”

  “Then she won’t have long to wait.”

  “As a favor, then. I’ll owe you one. And it’ll be faster for you to run the search than to run me off.”

  “I’m sure.” She sighed so emphatically, Craig expected to see moisture fog her desk. “Fine. I need to see some identification.”

  He blinked. “But you know who I am.”

  “And what does that have to do with the price of cheese? You want me to do this; then you do it my way, a way that maintains order. You know what order does, Warden Ryder? It stops the decline into chaos. Now, show me some ID or stop wasting my time.”

  “If you put it like that, then.” He handed over his slate, open to his personal information, giving her no reason to switch screens and find that Alamber had ridden along. Craig didn’t know if Alamber thought he’d gotten away with it, or if he didn’t care that Craig had discovered his spyware—nor did it matter. Had Alamber suggested it up front, he’d have probably agreed.

  Thumb on the screen, she returned the slate. “Name?”

  “It was on the ID . . .”

  She rolled her eyes. “Are you hig
h? Not your name, the name of Warden Kerr’s friend who may or may not have applied.”

  “di’Rearl Stedrin.”

  “di’Taykan. Figures. Sit. Don’t sit. I don’t care. It’s going to take . . .” She glanced at the old-fashioned screen angled up from the center of the desk. “. . . twelve point seven three minutes to run.”

  “I can wait.”

  “Good. You’re going to have to.”

  He fidgeted in place for a couple of minutes, attempted to pace, ran out of room, dropped into the chair in front of the desk, and shoved both hands back through his hair. Enough stage setting. “You heard what happened to Torin? To Warden Kerr?”

  It felt like ten or fifteen minutes had passed before Paddison answered. “I heard.”

  “Fukking aliens.”

  That got her attention. One eyebrow lifted.

  “There were protesters outside the training grounds, we lost contact with three of them, two di’Taykan and a Human. Figured they were off fukking, but then Torin gets shot and conveniently it’s a di’Taykan who found her . . .” He hadn’t discussed this part with Alamber because this wasn’t recon. This was infiltration. Humans First, by way of Anthony Marteau, had wanted to recruit them, him and Torin, mostly Torin. Dead, Torin would be out of their way. Alive and joining in, she’d be a coup the Confederation might not recover from. “That was convenient, wasn’t it?” he continued. “A di’Taykan the only one close enough to see who it was. She almost fukking died.” Running his hands back through his hair again, he hoped he looked like a distraught lover and not someone who wanted to dive across the desk and squeeze out the names of every terrorist who’d cut their way into the Justice Department.

  He was bluffing with two eights, needing Mimi Paddison to believe he had the third.

  He got a good grip on the desire for violence throbbing in his hindbrain.

  The Parliamentary faction that wanted to lock up the Younger Races might have a point.

  Fuk’em.

  “There’s been no arrests made.”