The Privilege of Peace

by Tanya Huff

  “Still scanning, Gunny. The Navy removes a lot of proprietary software when they decommission, and this is the first time I’ve used the rebuilt system.” Marie tapped a repetitive pattern against the board with her right hand while sweeping a continuous run of data boxes into memory with her left. “Ressk tweaked the long-range scanners in Susumi . . .”

  Torin glanced back at Ressk, who shrugged.

  “. . . but some things don’t fully compile until they actually run.” A section of the board flashed. “Still only one shuttle on a nipple, but no way of knowing how many trips he’s made to bring up reinforcements.”

  “I’ve picked up a message from Justice off the Susumi buoy, Gunny.” Lorkin spun his chair away from the communications console. “Cyr Tyroliz has demanded Susumi tech for the hostages. A ship, plus complete engineering and training programs.”

  “So much for the reports of him slaughtering everyone on the station.” Torin folded her arms and locked her knees to keep herself from leaning over the pilot’s chair. “Any word on how many hostages he has?”

  “That’s all the words they sent, Gunny.”

  “Hostages,” Binti muttered. “I hate having to shoot around hostages.”

  “They get cranky if you shoot through them,” Nicholin agreed.

  “At least we know one of the comm techs is alive. The Susumi packet,” Lorkin explained when all eyes but Marie’s turned to him. “Cyr Tyroliz’s demands weren’t sent via the panic button, and a Silsviss wouldn’t be able to figure out packet protocols by trial and error.”

  Nicholin waved that off. “They flew one of our VTAs.”

  “They have their own VTAs,” Marie pointed out, “and ours are point and steer. Once you know the principles involved, they’re not that hard.”

  “Cyr Tyroliz could have used the Confederation pilot,” Torin noted.

  “Take us to the station, or I rip you to pieces is pretty damned convincing.” Binti bounced a small red ball off the bulkhead, caught it, and bounced it again. “And—oh, joy—one more potential hostage.” Bounced and again. The three members of U’yun didn’t seem to notice. “It was in the seat pocket,” she said in response to Torin’s raised brow.

  “Belongs to the LT,” Nicholin explained. “He says it helps him think.”

  “All right, then. Bilodeau?”

  “I have forty-two life signs, Gunny. Sorting by body temperatures.”

  The stations had a crew of thirty-six, four shifts of nine. If there were no dead, that meant only six Silsviss on board. Torin doubted the station had been taken without loss of life. Eleven of the thirty-six had been former military, unlikely to react well to an unexpected boarding party.

  “Thirty-two have been identified within temperature parameters of Human, di’Taykan, and Krai. A single Human in communications. Two Krai in engineering. All others confined to quarters. Estimating ten Silsviss on station, four in central, two in engineering, the other four in various places around the outer hull.”

  “Inside the station?”

  “Inside of the outer hull, yes.”

  Estimating ten Silsviss on station. Because no one who’d ever taken a station back from the Primacy forgot there could be one or two enemy unaccounted for, tucked away where the scan couldn’t read. Assuming definitive numbers had a way of ending badly. Torin hoped the four missing crew had merely gone dirtside during their off-shift. She wasn’t planing to bet on it, however.

  “We going to fight, Gunny?”

  “Probably.” She remembered the valley and the Silsviss using their own weapons against them. She remembered the bodies, and her hand rose to the empty pockets in her vest. “Silsviss leaders are smart and ruthless, but it depends on how far into warlord headspace Cyr Tyroliz has fallen. Too far, and we’ll have to fight just to prove we’re worth listening to.”

  They watched the station grow larger on the screen, the only sound the ponk, ponk of the little red ball hitting the same spot on the bulkhead, over and over.

  Finally, Ressk stretched out a leg and caught it with his foot. “Enough.”

  Before Binti could protest—and everyone in the control room knew she was going to protest—Marie cut her off. “We’re in range, Gunny. Station’s docking computer is off-line.”

  “Can you dock without it?” Craig could. He could match speed and rotation and secure to the airlock like he’d done nothing more complex than park the tractor in the machine shed.

  Marie tossed her head and smiled, broad and bright. “If I had to, I could dock with three maneuvering jets and a visual link to an HE suit propped up in the open airlock.”

  “Good to hear.” Torin straightened and opened the top file on her slate. “What’s the pot up to?”

  “Nine tendays pay,” Nicholin told her. “Cap made sure U’yun bought in.”

  “All right, then. And who knows, this might be the time it pays out. Lorkin.”

  “Channel’s open, Gunny. Translation programming engaged.”

  “Cyr Tyroliz, this is Warden Torin Kerr. You have been charged with the illegal occupation of Confederation property and the illegal confinement of Confederation citizens. Once we determine the number, you will also be charged with the murder of Confederation citizens. If you surrender yourself and your associates, you will receive a fair hearing. Please respond.”

  Binti frowned as Lorkin closed the channel. “That’s a little less . . . emphatic, than usual, Gunny.”

  Torin showed her the screen of her slate. “Commander Ng wrote it.”

  “Okay, two points. The first, as far as the commander knew, everyone on board was dead. What’s up with the illegal confinement charge?”

  “If the Silsviss had slaughtered everyone, they’d expect the Navy to show up and blow them out of the sky. The commander assumed death by battleship wasn’t part of their plan. Therefore, everyone on the station couldn’t be dead.”

  “Okay,” Binti allowed. “Second point. This seems to indicate he doubts your diplomatic ability.”

  Ressk snorted. “She has a Silsviss skull on her . . .”

  The control panel blazed white, then went blank.

  “Shot took out our sensor array.” Blinking away afterimages, Marie thumped the edge of the panel. Shook her head. “I guess no one’s collecting on the is-this-the-time-they-surrender bet. Switching to backup.”

  “Shot?” Nicholin’s umber hair flipped around his head. “The stations are unarmed!”

  “Were unarmed,” Torin amended. “Aren’t now. Find the weapon.”

  “Weapons,” Lorkin told her. “Four of them.”

  “Wonderful.” Torin studied the schematic of the station and the points of light representing the Silsviss. “The four Silsviss near the hull.”

  “New energy readings at all four points,” Marie agreed. “Not our weapons, not Primacy weapons.”

  “The Silsviss had orbital weapon platforms when they were contacted,” Ressk reminded them. “According to the initial contact treaty, they were to be disassembled.”

  Internal dampeners compensated as Marie avoided another shot, but Torin could feel the artificial gravity pulling her left. “Looks like they put them aside for a rainy day. Points to the Silsviss for thinking ahead.”

  Binti slid into the seat behind the weapons board. “Can we shoot back?”

  After having been convinced the Strike Teams might need to face the occasional pirate in transit rather than risk losing them during the pursuit to their base, Justice had reinstalled the four weapons mounts that had been removed from the sweepers. Justice, being Justice, had improved the EMP, capped the charge on the pulse weapons, and allowed the missiles to be racked unchanged. Each ship had four. One per mount.

  “You’re not going to war,” Commander Ng had told the teams. “Try to remember that.”

  Tell the Silsviss, Torin thought as a sudd
en drop—relative to what the ship considered up—lifted her heels off the floor. “The station’s shielded against the EMP, and if we hole it, we put the hostages at risk.”

  “If we take out their sensor arrays?” Binti asked.

  “They don’t have sensor arrays,” Lorkin announced, updating the schematic. “Their weapons are self-contained. They just poked them through the hull.”

  “Just?” Nicolin demanded.

  “Yeah, okay, station’s still there, so it had to involve careful cutting wearing suits and shitload of sealant, but poked through pretty much sums it up.”

  Torin studied the schematic, turned it on its Y-axis, and worked the angles between weapons. “Cyr Tyroliz knows what he’s doing. We’d take too much damage if we tried to destroy them.” The Baylet arced hard to port as another blast came close enough to polarize the window. “Bilodeau, get far enough out they stop shooting at us.”

  “This was a lot easier when we didn’t have to announce our presence,” Marie grumbled.

  * * *

  • • •

  “You come in on this arc here, we jump here, we hit the maintenance hatch here.” Torin pulled the computer’s calculations into the hard light table, highlighting both the vectors and the target. “Wardens in HE suits are too small to ping the proximity alarm.”

  “You’ve done this before?” Marie demanded in a voice that made it clear she’d gone through OTC.

  “Alpha does this all the time.” Binti scoffed. When the three members of U’yun shot her identical expressions of disbelief, she shrugged. “Well, once as a Strike Team.”

  “While your ship was taking fire?”

  “It’s a standard maneuver when recon has to make a dark access to a station,” Torin told her.

  “Standard.” Marie looked around at the gathered Marines. “You people are crazy.”

  ELEVEN

  MOST OF THEIR TIME in Susumi space had been spent training. Craig had thought it was just Torin, but no, seemed all the team leaders toed her we’re better than the bad guys because we practice line. Turned out it was a military thing. Elisk, as a Krai, put the emphasis in different places—less running, more climbing—and while he stood by his belief that the assholes who spouted change is as good as a break like it was both original and meaningful were full of shit, Craig did more climbing and less running and almost enjoyed himself. Harris Zhou, the only other Human on the team, was almost as tall, half Craig’s weight, and surprisingly strong. Part of that was the Paradise advantage, part wiry muscle, and their sparring matches usually had an audience. Craig hadn’t been military and he’d never fired a shot at a sentient being, but he’d been living with Torin for years. He had a whole catalog of nonlethal dirty tricks and wasn’t averse to using them.

  With Alamber busy trying to find out just what the fuk Morris was up to, Craig and Technical Sergeant di’Ahaski went over the Promise, tightening both screws and code. Because Yahsamus had never spent time with any of the CSOs she’d run into over the years, he found himself talking about his past. Missing the family who, when push came to shove, had been unwilling to put their balls on the line.

  “You just cut them off? Sounds like you’ve got some unfinished business there.” When Craig glanced over at her, her green eyes darkened. “Gunny’s got as much hurin tied up in it as you do. Emotion and honor scrambled together,” she translated the unfamiliar word. “They betray you, they betray her. If you’d died, she’d have taken them out. Me, I’m an unbiased opinion and I think you should talk to them.”

  They played a lot of cards. Off-duty members of the Berganitan crew were encouraged to drop by. Unlike Torin, who relied on force of personality, Craig believed mates, however superficial the connection, were potential allies, and a man on his own couldn’t have too many of those. He put out word that the Mu’tuv were welcome although they hadn’t shown.

  All three di’Taykan reported that pillow talk in the communal beds involved speculation on Morris’ plans, but nothing solid. Hardly surprising since the four Mu’tuv di’Taykan remained in the Marine packet. The weapon Morris had mentioned to Torin had to be on the Berganitan, if only because the Mu’tuv’s shuttle was in the Berganitan’s largest bay. The di’Taykan among the docking crews were either avoiding physical contact with the Wardens—battleships had multiple communal beds—or keeping quiet. The docking bay itself had been declared off limits to the Justice Department.

  Commander Kahananui folded his arms, muscles straining against the fabric. “You’re not going in unless you can give me a good reason, Warden Ryder.”

  Craig mirrored the movement. And most of the muscle. “I need to know what armaments an elite commando unit brings to the party in case this goes to shit. You and I both know the odds of that happening. And they’re high.”

  The commander sighed, but stuck to the official line. “The Justice Department has no oversight on a military operation.”

  “You asked for our help.”

  “As I understand it, the general asked for your personal help because of your previous contact with the plastic. Yours as well as Wardens Werst and Kerr.”

  “I’m personally curious.”

  “No.”

  Alamber hadn’t yet gotten into the docking bay’s security cameras.

  “Would’ve helped if I’d have known you wanted in before Commander Kahananui watched me seal the system shut,” he muttered, slaving his slate to Promise’s board.

  Morris had brought an elite commando unit as backup. No way he’d have them sit around with their thumbs up their collective asses. Sooner or later, he’d turn them loose.

  Sucker bet that Morris would open dialogue with Big Yellow by declaring, “We have something of yours.” Sounded like a threat to Craig. Odds were low the next words out of his mouth would be, “And we brought it back to you.”

  “We have someone of yours” would create an entirely different situation. The general would be holding a sentient species hostage and the Strike Teams knew how to deal with that kind of crap. Craig almost wanted to see the differences between Elisk and Torin’s approach.

  During their entire time in Susumi, a Warden had been in the compartment with the plastic.

  Nothing had changed. The di’Taykan had continued to evoke a reaction, but a chemical reaction on its own was no more a sign of sentience than cell division.

  In eighty-nine minutes, they’d be leaving Susumi space and the packet containing the new information about the data sheet would be on its way—a copy to the Minister of Defense, a copy to the Minister of Justice. The Wardens hadn’t been included in Captain Carveg’s old orders, but Craig was certain they’d be mentioned in the new ones. They still had no idea what Morris’ plans entailed, how he planned to deploy the Mu’tuv, where and what was the weapon he mentioned to Torin. They still had no proof the data sheet was a prisoner and not a tool.

  Hard not to think that Torin would’ve had more success at getting to the heart of things.

  Craig paused at the hatch leading into the data sheet’s compartment and nodded at two of the MAA’s people standing guard—as much over the Wardens as the plastic. While allowing that the Wardens weren’t specifically covered under her orders, the data sheet was, and Captain Carveg had bent as far as she was going to.

  “Going in, Warden?” asked the Krai.

  Beside her, the Human shifted his weight from foot to foot. “How’s the interrogation proceeding?”

  Craig ignored the subtextual sniggering. As far as the security team was concerned, the Wardens had either been attempting to seduce a reaction out of a piece of alien tech, or they were trying to seduce a reaction out of the aliens responsible for a centuries-long war. The first made them a joke. The second, the next thing to traitors. Individual members of the military, Torin had explained, might carry individual opinions, but the military as a whole was as much a hive mind as the plastic.
It needed an enemy to function, and now that the enemy was no longer the Primacy . . .

  “Fuk it.” He thumbed the newly installed biometric pad, and entered the compartment.

  Krai classical music played softly in the background. Krai composers built arrangements on top of arrangements, some taking more than a tenday to play, and the team had agreed that it was the best choice to help alleviate the plastic’s isolation were it sentient and would do no harm were it not. Werst had declared the music a class conspiracy to bore the poor data sheet into numb complacency.

  There’d been no visible reaction to the music.

  “Numb complacency,” Werst had growled.

  Craig stepped close and traced his name on the smooth surface with a fingertip. Drew an arrow to where the raised image of his body would be were he Taykan. Did it again. And again. And again.

  His gut told him there was something there.

  “You can take the CSO out of the salvage biz, but seems you can’t convince him the debris field’s empty.” He frowned. “Yeah. Forget I said that.” When he exhaled, his breath misted against the glossy surface of the plastic. “Fuk, it’s not like I don’t know you’re dangerous. I was there. On the dais.”

  Stepping back, he ran a hand through his hair. “If you released energy, there had to be energy to release. You don’t get to fuk around with basic physics. We couldn’t measure it. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. We don’t know how to reach you. That doesn’t mean you’re not there. Yeah, fine. The di’Taykan can reach you, but . . .”

  *Craig! Look up.*

  He hadn’t realized Alamber kept an eye on the compartment, but it didn’t surprise him. The sudden yell from his implant, however . . . “Shit on a stick! Are you trying to kill me?”

  *Look at the top edge of the sheet!*

  Four symbols were centered along the upper edge. They disappeared. Reappeared two centimeters down. Disappeared. Reappeared another two centimeters down and picking up speed given the visual effect of tumbling down the middle of the sheet and falling off the bottom edge.