The Privilege of Peace

by Tanya Huff

  As the first bands released, klaxons sounded.

  Both Krai clapped their hands over their ears.

  “That,” muttered Elisk, “is why the Navy hates having ships attached. You don’t get the ear-bursters with packets because packets don’t go wandering off.”

  Werst’s nostril ridges had shut, as though the closure would also mute his hearing. “General Morris couldn’t have shown up after those things got those shut down, could he? No, because that would’ve been considerate.”

  Seventeen minutes of klaxons later, the last band retracted, and mechanicals pushed Promise far enough away from the packets that held the Corps’ living quarters that Craig could safely start her engines.

  “Not the exciting high-speed escape I expected,” Tylen said, her eyes a pale pink.

  “Slow and steady. No one’s shooting at us. It’s a little dull,” Zhou agreed.

  Craig could hear Yahsamus roll her eyes. “If you two arkazee jinx us, your asses will be wearing my boot print.”

  Easing Promise down around the Berganitan’s belly, close enough for her bulk to hide them from the Marine’s sensors and far enough out to avoid damaging the filament forests of sensor arrays, Craig increased their acceleration. “Next stop, Big Yellow. Which begs the question, Orange, why yellow?”

  Orange shrugged. They were already better at it than the Krai. “We assume because it is thought to be a cheerful and harmless looking color by most species. We assume that opinion rose because the stars that provide heat and light appear yellow from the surface of almost all planets that have evolved sentient life.”

  “Makes sense,” Craig acknowledged.

  “Why were you orange?” Tylen asked.

  “The color was chosen for us. The majority was not fond of it.”

  The ends of Tylen’s hair jerked a few centimeters out from her head. “They imprisoned you in a color they disliked?”

  “Who’d have thought a polynumerous molecular polyhydroxide alcoholyde hive mind could be a petty asshole,” Alamber asked.

  “Anyone who’s met them?” Zhou offered. “Why are you still orange?”

  “Defiance.”

  “Fuk them,” Werst growled.

  “In the metaphorical sense.”

  After a long moment of silence, Yahsamus snickered. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing. Given that petty asshole has been established, you’re sure the majority won’t see us as a threat as we approach?”

  Orange spread their hands, the gesture di’Taykan graceful. “We are certain. This ship is outfitted with tools, not weapons.”

  Craig grinned as he guided the Promise in a long loop, clearing the last hundred meters of the Berganitan. “To quote someone who’s going to be pissed she missed you, anything’s a weapon in the right hands.”

  * * *

  “I’ve memorized the controls and maneuverability sequencing, I need to feel the response!” Ser Ozborz snarled. “I won’t be hurling this ship against your enemies with my mind!”

  “I understand your frustration . . .”

  “I doubt it!”

  “. . . but you can’t touch the controls while we’re in Susumi space. That hasn’t changed in the last four days.”

  “Then this is useless!” Throat pouch half inflated, he spun the pilot’s chair—now backless to accommodate his tail—and surged up onto his feet.

  Torin stayed exactly where she was and met his gaze, close enough to see the demarcation between pupil and deep green iris. “If you feel you can’t fly this ship into battle with the training available, you’re dismissed.”

  “I didn’t say . . .” He tasted the air, apparently didn’t taste the end of the sentence, and settled into a sulky silence, throat pouch fully deflating.

  “If, on the other hand, you believe you’re the best choice to fly this ship into battle, then sit down and run the simulation again.”

  He waited long enough for her to know he wasn’t instantly jumping to her command, then he flicked his tail back and sat. “The simulated ships can eat my sircak.”

  The translation program ignored the profanity. Torin wondered if the translators thought they wouldn’t realize it was profanity if it wasn’t in Federate. Which made her wonder more about the diplomatic corps.

  Cyr Tyroliz spoke Federate; the rest of his people did not. After the first day, however, they’d all become used to the braided sounds of two languages whenever anyone spoke.

  She crossed the control room to where Cyr Tyroliz waited by the weapons station. She had a feeling he took a warrior’s comfort in having them close even though he couldn’t use them.

  “And what happens,” he said quietly, “if Ozborz touches the controls in Susumi space?”

  Hadn’t he been there when she’d explained back on day one? No. He’d been helping to situate the Silsviss weapons up against the Bunny’s hull. Credit where due, he was the only Warlord Torin had ever met willing to get his hands dirty. “It has nothing to do with who touches the controls,” she told him, matching his volume, “and everything to do with the Susumi drive. We could spin out and keep spinning, never exiting. We could exit immediately and slam into something large enough to destroy us, not to mention have our wave front potentially kill millions. Or we could blow up.” She held up her hand and spread her fingers. “Boom.”

  “Not exactly a warrior’s death.” The band on his tail tapped TA ta-ta TA ta-ta TA against the deck. “This Susumi technology seems to be not entirely tamed.”

  Torin had never thought of it like that. He wasn’t wrong. “No sudden movements, or it takes your head off.”

  “Understandable that those called the Younger Races would ride the salak, but perhaps it’s why those called the Elder Races are so cautious.”

  “It’s not that dangerous,” Torin began.

  Cyr Tyroliz cut her off. “Provided you touch nothing. Do nothing. Challenge nothing.”

  “There you are!” Lies pushed through the hatch, fur compacting around her body, pulling one back leg through at a time. “The agreement was that you were all to remain together.”

  “Except for Ser Ozborz.”

  She glared at Torin. “Yes, Warden Kerr, except for Ser Ozborz.”

  “Who would be under my supervision.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that Cyr Tyroliz wandered off.”

  “To the control room. Where Ser Ozborz is under my supervision.”

  “You’re saying that Cyr Tyroliz is also under your supervision while he’s in the control room, just say it.”

  “Ret Tyroliz . . .”

  “On second thought, don’t say it. I’m returning to continue supervising the rest, and if these two overpower you and take the ship, that’s on you.”

  It was more interesting watching her leave, trailing a fine plume of shed fur. Technically, since she could pass through it, the hatch had been sized for the Dornagain, but the ship builders had provided the minimum space necessary.

  “Is she being deliberately annoying or is that merely her nature?” Cyr Tyroliz asked, brushing fur off his arm.

  “Bit of both, I expect. She’s a noncombatant, though, so you can’t challenge her.”

  “Pity. There’s enough meat on her for many meals.”

  * * *

  Werst pulled a small screen up from the board—Big Yellow and the Berganitan showed as large stationary dots, the Promise as a moving small dot and . . . “The Mu’tuv are in pursuit.”

  “I thought the captain was going to delay them?” Tylen muttered.

  “No one delays the Mu’tuv.” Zhou got up to pace along the back of the control room. Binti often did the same and Craig wondered if pacing was a sniper thing—walking out the fidgets readying for a mission spent waiting in perfect stillness.

  Elisk leaned over Werst’s chair in Ressk’s place. Werst tensed and Elisk, u
naware of how close he’d come to violence, said, “That’s sounds like the punchline of a joke.”

  “Yeah, a deadly joke.”

  Elisk rolled his eyes, but he’d been Navy. Craig hadn’t been anything, but he’d learned to take the Corps at face value.

  “Mu’tuv are ordering us to return to the Berganitan.” Alamber sat with his feet up, slate balanced on his knees, handling communications. Craig could do it all, had done it all, but keeping Alamber’s brain and Werst’s fists engaged during high-stress situations was safer all around. “You want me to open voice?”

  For an instant, Craig waited for Torin to reply, then Elisk said, “No. There’s few things more annoying than listening to orders you’re ignoring.”

  “Sorry, sir . . .” Tylen’s hair flipped out. “. . . but you’ve never ignored an order in your life.”

  “Yet. I have depths.”

  “They have weapons, right? Conventional weapons, besides whatever shit Morris has dreamed up to go after Big Yellow with?”

  “They’re deadly,” Zhou repeated. “They have weapons. So many weapons.”

  “Will they open fire?”

  At the edge of his peripheral vision, Craig saw Elisk shake his head. “The military can’t open fire on civilians, which we are in spite of the spiffy uniforms.”

  “Not quite.” Yahsamus leaned forward, forearms braced on her legs. “Technically, the government can’t order the military to open fire on civilians. If he thinks the plastic is getting away, I’m not so sure about General Morris. That whole first mission to Silsviss proved he believes the ends justify the means.”

  And he’d been willing to pay the price for that belief, Craig added silently. “Let’s not forget, there’s no one out here to see who opened fire on who.” He fed more power to the engines and felt the deck begin to vibrate.

  Elisk tightened his grip on the back of Werst’s chair. “I thought Captain Carveg was on our side.”

  “The Marines are between us and the Berganitan,” Alamber reminded him. “In a ship just big enough to block the visuals. If we’re dead, it’s the Mu’tuv’s word against nobody’s. With Big Yellow hanging there, Morris waving his heavily-weaponed dick around, and Orange on the wind, Captain Carveg won’t have time to take sides, and by the time the Wardens get here to investigate our deaths, if Justice bothers, the physical evidence will be gone.”

  Werst snapped his teeth. “If the Corps kills Ryder and the rest of us, Gunny’ll take it apart from the top down. Ressk will help.”

  Craig grinned. “You think she’d destroy the Corps for me, then?”

  “Not if you’re alive,” Werst grunted.

  “Probably best not to get blown up,” Elisk pointed out. “Can we outrun them? Get to Big Yellow before they do whatever they plan to do?”

  “Board.” When all heads turned to Zhou, he shrugged. “Hey, they’re an elite fighting force, and it’s one of the things they’re trained to do. You know how it was always Artek boarding from the Primacy? It was always Mu’tuv first in on our side.”

  “And you know this how?” Elisk asked.

  “I tried to get in, but washed out in the end justifies the means part of the test.”

  “And you didn’t mention it before because?”

  “It wasn’t relevant, they weren’t chasing us down before. And I washed out, okay?”

  “To answer your original question, Elisk, that’s a Viper they’re flying.” Craig threw up the visuals above the board. “Fast as cheese through a H’san. No Susumi engine, but the biggest fukker you can mount otherwise. I can’t outrun them, but unless they’ve made major modifications, I can outmaneuver them. They may have boarded Primacy ships, but they’ve never boarded a CSO.”

  “CSO?” Orange broadened their shoulders to match Craig’s. “We are not familiar with this designation.”

  “Civilian Salvage Operator. Me before Torin. We cleared old battlefields of anything usable. I can fly through a moving debris field full of unexploded ordnance—half of it unrecognizable as ordnance—and fly circles around any other pilot who had to learn to excel at half a dozen other jobs as well as flying.”

  Orange hummed softly. Craig had no idea who he’d picked that up from. “Did you not do half a dozen other jobs when you were a CSO?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you not excel at them?”

  “I’m still the better pilot!”

  “This is not an assumption you can make without data.”

  “Should we be sharing all this information with them?” Elisk demanded of the room in general.

  “Just bringing Orange up to speed before they face Big Yellow,” Craig said, letting the argument go. What did the plastic know about piloting? “Remember, parts of the majority spent time in mine, and Presit’s, and Torin’s heads.”

  “Poor little fuks,” Werst muttered.

  * * *

  “I want the fleet split. I want the pirates . . .” They didn’t all call themselves pirates, but Anthony didn’t care. They attacked merchant ships and stole what they carried. As far as he was concerned, it quacked like a duck. “. . . sent in to stop the Justice ship heading to Big Yellow—shoot a hole through it, take out its engines, I don’t care, just leave it essentially in one piece. I know for a fact that junker has a Susumi engine and I don’t want us to have to chase it down in open space.”

  “It’ll be harder to stop than a shuttle. Does it matter if they blow the ship?” Belcerio asked. “If the plastic can survive vacuum, the data sheet should be able to.”

  “I think you’ll find, Commander, that vacuum isn’t the point. Destroying the ship could destroy the data sheet and, if not, retrieving would take time we don’t have.”

  “Time . . . ?”

  “Battleship.” He pointed at the chart. Moved his finger. “Big Yellow. I foresee conflict if we don’t work quickly. I want the Wardens stopped, not destroyed. I believe pirates tend not to destroy the ships they want to strip, so it shouldn’t be a problem, should it? They’ve had plenty of practice. I want us, meanwhile, to loop around and come at the Wardens from behind Big Yellow, neutralize the surveillance drones, dart out to salvage the data sheet, and be gone before the Berganitan knows we’re there.”

  “How . . . ?”

  He sighed. How had Commander Belcerio survived the war? How had the Confederation, if this was the comprehension level of their Naval officers? His weapons deserved greater credit than he’d thought. “I expect, given the way this has to happen, the pirates will be between us and the Berganitan’s scanners.” He waited until Belcerio nodded, then continued. “I want our other two upgraded ships held in reserve. I want them close, but I want them to remain blocked from the Berganitan’s scanners by Big Yellow. I’ll need them with me as a show of strength once we have the data sheet and begin negotiations with the plastic.”

  “And the Mu’tuv ship?” The commander indicated the moving dots on the screen. “They’re not escorting the Wardens, they’re in pursuit.”

  “You can tell that?” Seemed Belcerio wasn’t completely hopeless. “I don’t care about them. The pirates may blow the . . . What did you call them?”

  “Mu’tuv. It’s a Taykan word. It means elite. And secret.”

  “You know Taykan?”

  “I was on a ship that carried a squad of Mu’tuv. They brag.”

  “About a Taykan name? The pirates may blow the Taykan named ship up with my blessing.” He smiled. “I imagine, it’ll give the Berganitan an even better reason to destroy them.”

  * * *

  “Looks like there’s an airlock forming on the belly of the beast. My guess, the majority assumes we’ve taken their threat seriously and are bringing them the data sheet.” Yahsamus glanced over at Orange. “No offense.”

  “We are not offended by your guess regardless of how little data you have to support it
.”

  Her hair flicked in their direction. “Little passive aggressive there, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “The Mu’tuv ship is gaining.”

  “Viper,” Craig said tersely, hunched over the controls.

  “Can they catch us before we hit the airlock?” Tylen asked.

  Yahsamus shrugged. “Depends on how fast we’re going when we hit.”

  “How about we nudge the airlock?” Elisk suggested. “Hit’s an aggressive word.”

  “Yeah, well, if you think that’s aggressive,” Werst snickered, “you’re going to . . . Serley chrika! Three, four, no seven ships coming in fast. Three cruisers, four sweepers. No registration.”

  “Pirates.” Four voices called out simultaneously.

  “They’re firing on the Mu’tuv!” Werst expanded the tracking program.

  “The enemy of my enemy?” Tylen asked.

  Werst growled. “Are still murdering fukheads and are still my enemy.”

  “Hey, we should make that the Strike Team motto.”

  “That Mu’tuv pilot’s good . . .”

  “Still better,” Craig grunted.

  “. . . but at seven to one they’re getting their asses kicked.”

  “That’s the Corps getting its asses kicked,” Werst pointed out. “Torin would go back to assist.”

  “Torin’s not here,” Craig snapped.

  Werst snapped back, teeth slamming together.

  “Why isn’t the Berganitan firing?” Elisk demanded. “Or scrambling fighters?”

  “Takes time to scramble fighters, LT,” Tylen answered.

  “She’s less than two hundred kilometers from Big Yellow. I guarantee Carveg had her vacuum jockeys standing by.”