by Tanya Huff
“What?” Her statement, flat and emotionless, jerked him out of his spiraling thoughts.
She rolled her eyes again and slowly, deliberately, repeated herself. “There have been no arrests made.”
“The PLEs say the protesters panicked and have gone to ground. That’ll it’ll take time to root them out. Justice won’t send in Wardens.”
“Chief Justice Genesvah is Niln. The Minister of Justice is Trun.”
“So?”
“Don’t be stupid, Warden Ryder. They’re not Human.”
He leaned forward in the chair and frowned. “Why would a Niln and a Trun protect a di’Taykan?”
Her expression suggested that was the stupid she’d warned him about. “They’re not Human.”
“Torin is.”
“There you go.” Her screen chimed. “di’Rearl Stedrin has applied to the Justice Department. His interview will be scheduled once transportation issues have been dealt with. Huzzah,” she added flatly, “you have good news for Warden Kerr.”
“Yeah, another di’Taykan. Thanks.” Craig could feel her gaze locked on him as he stood and turned and headed for the door, her office too internal to require a hatch.
“Warden Ryder, when is Warden Kerr due to be decanted?”
He paused just inside the room. “I told you, late today. It’s why I came.”
“Of course it is.” That was the most sarcastic agreement Craig had ever heard. He was reluctantly impressed. “Twenty-one fifteen, twelve, seven, fourteen.”
Level twelve, corridor seven, compartment fourteen.
“Now get out of my office, some of us have work to do.”
* * *
• • •
“You ablin gon savit!”
Craig held a finger over his lips and then his palm out before Alamber could continue.
Frowning, Alamber took another step into the room, eyes darkening as he focused on the old slate in Craig’s hand. Craig had found the slate in the junk drawer. He never threw anything away. Torin never kept more than the minimum around. It had taken a while, but they’d made it work. Too old to connect to the station, the slate was both functional and useless and, more importantly, impossible to eavesdrop on. Using the blunted end of a piece of wire, he wrote: Paddison had my slate in contact with her desk. Could she have tapped it?
Alamber pulled it out of his hand, standing close enough his hair flicked against Craig’s cheek hard enough to hurt. Not unless she had code ready and waiting. Highly unlikely.
How high?
Very high. “You’ve caught the paranoia bug from the boss.”
Craig stepped back. He understood why Alamber was pissed, but he wasn’t going to put up with being scourged. “It’s not paranoia if you’re in a tank for over a tenday.”
Teeth bared, Alamber grabbed the front of his sweater and held him in place. “Might’ve been good had you remembered that before you decided to go undercover in a terrorist organization.”
“Hey!”
They turned as one.
Werst looked pointedly between them and then at the handful of sweater Alamber continued to hold. “What’re you two up to?”
“Craig’s infiltrating Humans First to find out who shot the boss.”
“Yeah, right. Gunny’d kick his ass. We’re heading to Musselman’s to play jik. Join us when you’re finished with whatever.” He flipped them the finger, on principle Craig assumed, and disappeared, yelling, “No, they’re fukking or fighting. I’m not using the jik table with the crack in it, so move your ass.”
After a long moment, Alamber released his grip and patted the puckered fabric flat with the palm of his hand. “Even Werst doesn’t believe you’re stupid enough to go through with such a sanlit plan.”
“Werst is wrong.”
“No shit. I should go to Commander Ng.” Alamber sounded furious, but his touch was gentle.
Craig wondered if the constant patting was intended as reassurance that Craig was still there. “We need to find out how deep this goes.”
“I know.”
“And there’s always the chance it was a personal invitation.”
Alamber pulled his hand free and walked across the room, voice steadying, hair still cutting jerky arcs. “I know personal invitations and that wasn’t one.”
“Lucky break for me, then. She’s terrifying.”
“So’s the boss.” He pointedly looked up at the Silsviss skull on the wall, and Craig laughed.
“Good point . . .” Pulling his slate from its clip, he crossed to Alamber’s side and nudged him with it. “Check anyway, would you?”
It had stopped being paranoia the moment that anonymous asshole had pulled the trigger.
* * *
• • •
SR was in the oldest part of the station, the only section to have a level twelve. Newer sections had no more than nine. Each section could survive for a limited time on its own should the station fail—where fail meant explode. The Strike Team’s section had four levels and only one lock leading to the rest of the station. To be fair, they had more explosives.
Commander Ng still lived in the quarters he’d occupied before he became a Warden. Could be lawyers claimed fancier digs, and he didn’t want to give them up. Could be he liked the neighborhood. Craig didn’t care, but Ng living away from the teams was one of the reasons Craig didn’t completely trust him. One of the reasons he hadn’t gone to him with this information.
He was self-aware enough to know the larger reason was personal. He’d spent a large part of his life doing things on his own. Solving his own problems. Depending on himself. He didn’t have a team out in the debris fields; if the shit hit the fan, he cleaned it up. Living in Torin’s shadow wasn’t a problem, but it was . . . good, yeah, good to be out on his own again.
Corridor seven was a narrow alley, barely broader than his shoulders, and six meters long. Compartment fourteen was the only compartment on the corridor, and it was barely three meters square, empty but for the circular hatches in each wall. Each hatch held a sign identifying it as an access into the environmental system, making this, Craig realized, a base chamber for the equipment storage. Were he back on the salvage station, there’d be a bed and a locker, and a pissed-off tenant demanding to know what the fuk he was doing.
The entrance hatch had been closed when he arrived, so he closed it behind him, the station maintaining lights at Human levels based on registered life signs.
Slouching against the far wall, he crossed his arms and waited.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
He’d give them twenty, then fuk you very much.
When the hatch opened, he half expected a Krai. It was mostly Krai who went into the guts of the stations where prehensile feet made climbing though conduits easier. He took a moment to recalibrate for Paddison. She wasn’t in flowers anymore; she wore trousers, tunic, and boots, and he hadn’t realized she was as tall as Torin.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Warden Ryder.”
He pushed off from the wall. “Why not?”
“I thought you were smarter.” She moved like Torin. Like Werst. Like violence had been coded into her DNA. Craig could fight. His muscle was working muscle, but he’d used his fists before Torin, and he’d learned new moves after. He didn’t stand a chance. Didn’t even know how he’d been thrown to the deck, her knee between his shoulders, one arm twisted back so far he could feel tendons start to pop. “Did my thirty in the Corps; close combat specialist. Instructor for the last ten. It’s all in my file, Warden, but you didn’t look. Applied to be the close combat instructor for the Strike Teams, but it seems I have an attitude.”
The sharp pain in the side of his neck came as a surprise. It probably shouldn’t have.
“Thanks to that feathered freak in the labs, we’ve got fast acting knock-out drugs th
at are too specific to use in the field. C&C’s requested permission to use them on prisoners who keep fighting, but the answer’s hung up in that zoo of misfit assholes on Nuh Ner they call Parliament.”
His lips were numb, and his tongue felt twice as large as it should, but he managed to spit out, “Trap?”
“Opportunity.” The pressure eased, and her voice came from farther away. “The trap happens later. You’re bait.”
At first he thought the banging came from inside his head, then he realized it was the bolt on a hatch slamming back and the hatch opening.
“He came?” Male voice. Young.
“No, you’re hallucinating.”
“But . . .”
“Give me strength.” A hand around his wrist and the deck slid by past his nose. “Take him.”
A new hand. Size and position of calluses said Krai.
“Now give me the harness.”
The straps fit under his arms and between his legs and he thought for a moment he was in Promise securing his crash harness. Curls brushed under his nose. Smelled like lavender. He liked lavender. There were pots of it growing on the station. Not this station . . . his slate . . . took his slate . . .
“No . . .” He flopped his hand from side to side in an ineffectual protest. As the harness snugged up and he was dragged through the hatch, he heard his slate hit the deck and a boot hit his slate.
It was tight inside the conduit. Shoulders snagged. Were yanked free. Boots, too. Snagged. Yanked. Krai worked through the guts, and Krai were smaller. Occasionally humans. He knew Torin used them when . . . when . . .
* * *
“This one feels that that the immersion has a certain similarity to the life-giving fluid of the egg.” Dr. Finz, one of the three tank specialists, cocked his head, and added, “Or in your case, Warden, to the womb.”
“Yeah, and there’s . . .” Torin spat toward the drain. “. . . a reason we don’t remember that.”
“You don’t? How sad. This one returns to my memory of the egg when this one needs a moment’s peace. Stand in complete stillness now so this one can scan.” He stepped back. “Use the safety bars, please. This one doesn’t want you face-planting on the floor and ruining a tenday’s work.”
“Not that fragile.” She didn’t feel fragile; she felt heavy, wrapped in gravity’s chains once again. After a tenday in the tank, she didn’t have much extra body mass, but what little she had sagged toward the deck. Her breasts hung off her chest like sacks of fat, which, technically, they were. They weren’t usually so obvious about it. The electrical currents that had been a constant presence while she healed continued to buzz just under her skin stimulating nerve growth and connection. It was an illusion, sense memory hanging on, and annoyingly similar to the buzz the data sheet had left behind. Another reason to hate the plastic.
“Everything looks good. You know the drill: shower, drink the liquid by your bed, then lie down and sleep.” The majority of his attention on his slate, he waved toward the recovery room as though Torin might have forgotten where it was. The yellow-and-blue feathers protruding from the top of his silicon gauntlet made it look like party wear. “No strenuous exercise for the next tenday,” he continued, turning his head to stare at her with his left eye. Although the Rakva were biocular, every one Torin had ever met used the one-eye stare for emphasis. “This one’s definition of strenuous, not yours.”
Fixated on getting into the shower, Torin grunted an agreement.
“Warden?”
Seemed a grunt wasn’t good enough. “I have heard and understood your instructions, Doctor.”
“And you’ve done this before. That’s not necessarily a good thing, Warden.”
Torin shrugged. Tried to shrug. The muscles of her back weren’t yet cooperating. “It’s a thing.”
“Indeed.” His crest rose. “This one will see you tomorrow morning for another scan. Go shower.”
The shower wasn’t significantly bigger than the tank, the spray on a preprogrammed pattern, both placement and temperature designed to remove all traces of the artificial exudate she’d been suspended in. Torin had always believed decanting should negate the station’s water conservation policies—regardless of station or policies. It didn’t, but it should.
Her skin felt soft and unlived-in and her calluses had been soaked off. She hated the unfinished feeling that came post decanting, but was all in favor of being alive so called it a draw. As the last of the water slipped down the drain, she skimmed the excess off her hair, now a uniform two inches long, and closed her eyes. Warm air swirled around her body. Others had described it as a caress. Torin preferred her caresses with more intent behind them.
It would be another fifty-six hours before she saw Craig, or anyone else. Fifty-six hours to ensure her immune system had rebooted and everything that was supposed to be stuck together stayed stuck. Fortunately, fifty-six hours of sleep sounded like a good thing because she hadn’t actually slept in the tank and both body and brain knew it.
The bed in the clean room had a soft, fuzzy surface designed to guard against bed sores on tender skin. Torin skipped the robe, arranged herself carefully on the bed, and sighed. Yeah, that felt . . .
The inside of her jaw buzzed. She sighed and touched her tongue to the implant’s on switch.
*Boss! Can you hear me?*
“What is it, Alamber?” Everything said, done, and sloughed off in this room was recorded. She doubted she had the control to subvocalize, but if she kept her voice low, she wouldn’t trip any alarms. Alamber shouldn’t have been able to make contact through the hospital firewalls, not that she was surprised he had.
*There’s a Humans First cell here on Berbar. Craig went after them on his own, and now he’s missing.*
“Fukking hell.” She grabbed the robe as she stood and shrugged into it as she crossed the room. “Crack the door and spring . . .” The latch slammed back, sounding like a bone breaking. Alamber had clearly disabled the alarms. Another quick touch to the inside of her jaw opened a broader, albeit specific, channel. “All Strike Teams on station, gear up. Assemble in my quarters. Now. Werst, I’ve got a job for you.”
* * *
• • •
Only U’yun and Alpha were on station.
“You were tanked,” Ressk reminded her. “We’ve been on station duty.”
“And we’re the new guys,” Yahsamus added. “Last in, last choice to send out.”
Torin swept a gaze around the room, watched everyone including the two officers straighten. “Two teams will be plenty. Now, listen up. Alamber . . .”
“We need to tell Commander Ng.” Elisk announced when Alamber finished. He folded his arms, nostril ridges half closed.
“Do you know how deep Humans First has their sweaty fingers crammed into the Justice Department?” Torin asked.
“No, and thank you for that imagery, Gunny.”
“I trust Binti explicitly, and I approved the Humans on U’yun. Commander Ng came with the job. I don’t believe he’s a member of Humans First, but I’m not willing to bet Craig’s life on it. I wouldn’t bet anyone’s life on it. Would you?” It didn’t sound like a threat. It wasn’t. Quite.
Elisk met Torin’s gaze for a long moment. “There’s going to be fallout.”
Torin’s lips pulled back. “Count on it.”
After another long moment, Elisk snapped his teeth together, his response repeated by the other two Krai in the room.
“Gunny’s right.” Binti swept a burning gaze around the room as the tension dissipated. “It goes deeper than Mimi Paddison, and if we don’t know how deep it goes, we don’t know who we can trust.”
Yahsamus cleared her throat. Elisk waved a hand.
“You can trust non-Humans,” Lorkin pointed out.
“Granted, and we can use that.”
“On what?” Ressk as
ked, helping Alamber sift through the station’s memory. “We’ve pulled up all the security footage from the area. Craig enters compartment fourteen. Seventeen minutes, forty seconds later, Paddison follows him in. No camera inside.”
“Fukking dead zone,” Yahsamus muttered.
Over the last couple of years, Alamber had been mapping the dead zones on the station. The Strike Team section had none, personal areas were inert not dead, but the older areas of the station . . . the file kept growing. Once they ended Humans First, Torin was going to push Commander Ng harder to have them eliminated. Provided Commander Ng was still around.
“Eleven minutes later,” Ressk continued, “only Paddison comes out.”
*And compartment fourteen is empty.* The picture on the big entertainment screen shifted as Werst held up his slate. *Must’ve used one of the maintenance conduits.*
“With Ryder’s shoulders?” Zhou wondered.
Torin considered it. The Confederation valued uniformity, and all government stations were built to the same specifications. She hadn’t been in these conduits, but she’d been in others. “Tight, but there’s enough internal flexibility he’d fit.”
“I don’t want to know how you know that, do I?” Elisk asked clearly not expecting an answer.
“I’m picking up nothing from his slate,” Ressk announced. “At the very least, I should be crossing his connection to the station sysop.”
*Yeah, this is why.* Werst held up a small piece of metal. *She crushed his slate, took the pieces out, tossed them in the nearest recycler. Missed this bit. And I can’t track him. I can smell him for about two meters, then the conduit blurs into a mixed stink.*
Fingers tapping out old codes against the wall, Binti stilled. “Have you tagged him, Gunny?”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Alamber answered before Torin could. “I can’t get into his implant.”
“You got through post-tank quarantine protocols,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I remember.” Eyes still on his slate, his hair flipped toward her. “If I can’t get through to his implant, it can’t be got.”