by Tanya Huff
As the commander introduced them, Marteau extended his hand.
It took Torin a moment, and had she not spent deployment after deployment listening to Sergeant Hollice expound on Terran customs and popular culture, she’d have had no idea of what to do. Before Marteau could withdraw his hand, she clasped it in hers.
He had interesting calluses. Familiar calluses. He knew how to use his own weapons: an insight as reassuring as it wasn’t. On the one hand, the Corps’ weapons were vetted at source. On the other, Anthony Marteau had never been Corps, or even Navy, and Torin disliked the idea of armed civilians—given her current occupation, they’d likely end up shooting at her.
“I’m pleased to meet you Warden Kerr, Warden Ryder.” Marteau’s smile was a toothy challenge.
She wondered if he smiled like that at the Krai, but she had no way to tell if he’d regrown fingers. When she released his hand, he extended it again toward Craig who shrugged and copied Torin’s response—although the movement of their knuckles suggested Craig had given in to the temptation to posture. Craig was a big man who still did most of the maintenance on his ship. Marteau had to be stronger than he looked.
“Your weapons are beyond the screen.” Ng walked to the desk, turned, and indicated a blue square illuminated on the deck. “We need a body scan to proceed, Per Marteau.”
“I would rather you released the screen.”
“And I would rather not compromise security. Your bio signature won’t be entered into the system—one use only.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I?”
“If you want to inspect your stolen property before it’s released, then yes, you will.”
Marteau looked thoughtful as he aligned his feet parallel to the sides of the square. “I’m curious; inorganics?”
Ng frowned. “What about them?”
“I assume they don’t need to be scanned?”
His frown deepened. “No.”
“I see. Then I can only conclude that a thief could defeat this system with a suction cup arrow and a string.”
“That what went down at your place, mate?”
Marteau twisted to face Craig, his expression patronizing enough it set Torin’s teeth on edge, but not so much she could call him on it. “I have an MI security system installed on that warehouse, Warden Ryder. A much smarter system than the one in use here, and the thieves who defeated it are clearly smarter than the Wardens on site as those Wardens haven’t yet worked out how the theft occurred.”
“Maybe Warden Kerr and I should put eyes on it, then.” Craig’s voice had dropped into his chest, a low rumble.
“I’d appreciate that.” The toothy challenge returned. “I believe the lack of familiarity with weapons I manufacture may be hindering the investigation by Wardens Vesernitic and Nubaneras. The Niln were not among those willing to fight for the Confederation.”
“Wardens Vesernitic and Nubaneras are investigating the theft, not the weapons.” Ng jerked his head toward the screen. “Kerr. Ryder.”
Their bio scans already on record, Torin stepped into the lockup, Craig a meter behind. During the battle on V667, Torin’s company had been swarmed by tiny insects every dusk and dawn, insects that buzzed as they collectively walked their thousands of feet across any bare skin. Back home, it had been easier for the Human Marines to depilatory their heads than try to get all the bugs out of their hair. Passing through the screen felt like a return to V667.
On the inside of the security screen, the lockup smelled of new weapons and Dornagain.
Ng waited for Marteau to pass through, then followed. Torin led the way to the dozen crates.
“I appreciate you recovering these, Warden Kerr, Warden Ryder.” Fingertips splayed around the company logo on the closest crate, Marteau leaned in. The locks released. “I have a personal override on everything that goes out of my factories,” he explained. “I see they were considerate thieves,” he added, stepping back, “and did as little damage as possible. I have to appreciate that.”
At Ng’s signal, Torin opened the crate. Orders were to keep Marteau’s involvement with the evidence to a minimum, reminding him that these weapons weren’t currently his.
Marteau raised his slate. “I assume there’s nothing missing, but I’m sure you understand that I need to know you’ve recovered everything that was taken.”
Commander Ng folded his arms. “Or you could assume I had the contents verified.”
“I could.”
He didn’t. Torin and Craig shifted weapons and ammunition around in the shielded crates while Marteau scanned serial numbers. To his credit, he worked quickly and efficiently.
“I believe it’s all here.” Eyes locked on his slate, he watched the numbers scroll by. “I’d have had a much larger problem if they’d broken up the crates and sold the KCs off one by one.”
Behind Marteau’s back, Torin shut Craig down with a look, before he voiced his no fukking shit expression.
As Craig closed the last crate, Marteau drew in a deep, obvious breath. “I enjoy the family perfume,” he explained when he noticed he’d attracted attention. “It’s the solid lubricant introduced into the metallic matrix during the microstructure phase. My father and my grandmother always smelled of it. New processes make it less prevalent on the manufacturing floor, but I’ve always found the smell reassuring.”
So did Torin. Only without the jargon.
“Speaking of new processes.” Ng indicated the pistol, resting in its own containment field. “Do you recognize this?”
Marteau moved closer, stopping only millimeters short of the security perimeter. “I believe this is a pistol, isn’t it?”
“You know what it is?”
“I, like my father and grandmother before me, have studied the weapons of Human history.”
“Except that this weapon was wiped from Human history,” Torin pointed out.
“I’m a third-generation weapons manufacturer, Warden Kerr.” Marteau smiled. “I have resources the general public does not. Personal resources.”
“We’d like to see those resources.” Ng had a reputation for getting straight to the point; just one of the reasons he’d been given command of the Strike Teams. Torin wondered if the early hour had added the I don’t have time for this shit emphasis.
His attention back on the commander, Marteau’s smile grew distinctly patronizing. “I said personal, Commander Ng.”
“I heard you.” Ng nodded at the containment field. “Was this pistol manufactured by Marteau Industries?”
Marteau’s expression was a mix of annoyance and amusement. “I’m not personally familiar with every individual weapon Marteau Industries manufactures, Commander. MI supplies a great many weapons to both branches of the Confederation military and has for centuries. I am, however, aware that the pistol, speaking generally and not specifically, is illegal under the articles the Terran government signed in order to be welcomed into the Confederation. Which would make me very stupid should I admit this specific pistol came from MI.” He slid his hands into his jacket pockets. They were deep, Torin noted. Deep enough to conceal an illegal weapon? “I am not stupid,” he continued, “however, as you have no reason to take my word for it, I assume Wardens Vesernitic and Nubaneras will take time from their investigation of the theft to check accumulated manufacturing data and the molecular signature of my raw materials.”
“You assume correctly.” Ng didn’t bother matching Marteau’s conversational tone.
“I might be better able to ascertain its maker if I could take it . . .”
“It doesn’t leave this facility.”
“I see. Then I’d like to speak to the gunrunners you have in rehabilitation.”
“You’d have to apply to both the Justice Department and the gunrunners for permission. Unfortunately, your assistant and the Parliamentary
Secretary were adamant about the time constraints you’re currently under.”
The microshifts in Marteau’s expression suggested an unfamiliarity with being denied. “I won’t need more than a moment.”
“Processing will take a minimum of eighty-one hours and there’s no guarantee permissions will be given,” Ng said blandly.
After a long moment, Marteau nodded, once. “I bow to my assistant and the Parliamentary Secretary and their knowledge of my schedule. I’m sure you’ll eventually encourage your prisoners to talk.” As Torin understood it, they couldn’t get Haar to shut up. Although he hadn’t said anything useful. Or without profanity. “I expect you’ve already waved dinner and a dildo at the Krai and di’Taykan.”
Torin had years of practice ignoring stupidity. Craig had never bothered. “If that’s a joke, mate,” he growled, “you have one hell of a poker face.”
“I do, don’t I.” Sliding his slate into an inner pocket, Marteau headed back toward the security screen. “I’d rather not wait until the case is closed in order to have my property returned.”
Ng fell into step beside him. “The Justice Department will do its best to expedite the process. Many Pieces Make a Whole has the forms you need to fill out.”
“I’m sure Many Pieces Make a Whole does.”
The disdain was almost obvious, masked barely enough for denial. To be fair to Marteau, not everyone enjoyed bureaucracy.
Tiny insects buzzed against Torin’s skin. She remembered Glicksohn scratching insects out of the two-centimeter circle of stubble on his jaw where the depilatory wore off first and Chigma clutching his mug of sah with both feet, scowling at the floating scum of the drowned.
As Marteau stopped at the podium, Many Pieces Make a Whole drew herself up to her full height, leaving him with the choice of stepping back, staring at her paler stomach fur, or tipping his head up at a painful angle. He stepped back. “This will only take a moment, Per Anthony Justin Marteau, CEO of Marteau Industries. There are forty-seven forms in total.”
That was about half of what Torin had anticipated. Someone wanted to go back to bed.
“Please place your slate on the desk, Per Anthony Justin Marteau, CEO of Marteau Industries. The contact will facilitate the upload.”
“I think you should be warned, Commander, I have unbreakable encryption.”
Ears flattened—reaction either to Marteau speaking to Ng instead of her or to the assumption she’d need to break an encryption to do her job—Many Pieces Make a Whole purred, “My mistake, it seems there are sixty-three forms.” She paused pointedly. “Slate on the desk, Per Anthony Justin Marteau, CEO of Marteau Industries.”
“I can’t be the only one who finds the recitation of name and titles annoying,” he declared, setting his slate on the podium. When no one answered, he added a quiet, “Tough room.”
The sound of claws emphatically transferring documents, nearly drowned him out.
One hand maintaining contact with his slate, Marteau turned and swept a measuring gaze over first Torin and then Craig. “I’m sure you’re both wondering why I asked to meet you.” His tone suggested the curiosity should be killing them. A lot of things had tried to kill Torin; curiosity about Anthony Justin Marteau was not one of them. “I collect Human history, plastics for the most part.” He smiled as though he were sharing something important with them. “I’d like you to come and touch my collection.”
Torin was impressed Craig limited his reaction to a derisive snort.
“The Wardens’ time is spoken for,” Ng replied, reading Torin’s reaction off her face and shooting her a silent warning. “Our Strike Teams need to move out at a moment’s notice. Having them away from the station complicates that.”
“I’m sure they have vacation time, unless the Justice Department doesn’t follow government regulations.”
“The Justice Department . . .”
“We touch your plastic, we have to touch everyone’s.” Craig interrupted. He frowned, folded his arms, and thrust out his chin. Torin hid a smile and suspected his reaction was as much a result of how that had sounded spoken aloud as of his dislike of Marteau.
Marteau swept a pale gray gaze over Craig from head to foot and back again. “I can pay significantly more than everyone for your time.”
“Not interested, mate.”
“I have a number of the oldest Human artifacts currently in private hands. I think everyone should be interested in discovering how far back the infestation goes.”
The plastic aliens had started the war. Maintained the war. Had they also been responsible for Humans agreeing to fight the war?
Marteau smiled. Not a challenging smile. Or a salesman’s smile. A smile that spoke of fellowship and actually reached his eyes. “I see you understand, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”
“Warden Kerr,” Ng snapped, “and Warden Ryder have interacted with artifacts held by the Human Historical Resource Council.”
Some of what had survived the diaspora had been very strange. A few members of the Human Historical Resource Council had been stranger.
Still smiling at Torin, Marteau said quietly, “I’d like to know what you discovered, if you can tell me.”
They’d touched one hundred and twenty thousand and thirty-two items made predominantly or entirely of bioplastic. Calling the aliens organic plastic was redundant, the Council had informed them. Given that all plastics were composed of a high percentage of carbon, they were all, by composition, organic. “I discovered that calling the aliens bioplastic is never going to catch on.”
“I meant . . .”
“I know what you meant. It was all inert.”
“I see.”
“Besides, if the plastic had cocked up our past . . .” Craig folded his arms, sleeves stretched tight over his biceps. “. . . they’d have tucked into Human brains. You won’t find them in you-gart containers.”
“I . . .” Marteau frowned. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Most don’t,” Craig agreed. “Most sleep at night. A little knowledge and all that shite. Now that’s settled, question for you.” He jerked his head back toward the crates. “That kit’s new. Why make more weapons if the war’s over?”
“I’m in the business of making weapons, Warden Ryder. I make fewer sales to the Confederation military, true, and there’s too few Strike Teams as yet to make a dent in my inventory, so its fortunate that peace has opened up new markets. Many of the Primacy member species are less civilized than the Elder Races consider us to be.” His reassumed mask of rich industrialist did nothing to hide his disdain.
As someone who’d fought and killed and seen her people killed and worked to keep her people from being killed because the Elder Races were too civilized to fight their own battles, Torin understood where Marteau’s disdain came from.
Many Pieces Make a Whole rumbled deep in her chest.
On the other hand . . . “You’re selling weapons to the enemy.”
“I’d think that you of all people would know the war is over, Warden Kerr.”
She knew. She also knew better than most it wasn’t that easy. “Selling to the Primacy will make you no friends.”
“I disagree. My employees—and many of them are veterans—are happy to have work. The Confederation’s guaranteed income doesn’t fill your day or give you a reason to get up in the morning. Also . . .” He waggled a finger in a you know better kind of way. “. . . I’m sure I saw an interview where you announced that we—the Confederation and the Primacy—need to learn to work together. I have weapons to sell; they’re willing to buy.” He sketched a circle in the air. “I’m making connections. For as long as I can do that legally . . .” His eyes narrowed. “I see you haven’t heard. Parliament is considering a bill to make all weapons manufacture illegal. They want the Younger Races disarmed.”
“Anyone with a functioning bra
in wants us disarmed,” Craig muttered.
“I agree, Warden Ryder. And if you can tell me how to disarm every one of the Younger Races simultaneously, I’d love to hear your plan because I somehow doubt the socially misaligned persons your Strike Teams deal with would hand over their weapons on command. I don’t believe you can stuff this particular genie back in the bottle . . . which is what I’ll be telling the ministers when I meet with them.”
Craig drew in a breath. Torin pressed her elbow against his ribs. Marteau wasn’t finished, and she wanted to hear what he had to say.
“I think it would be naive to assume the weapons the government has allowed the Younger Races are the only weapons there are.”
The H’san had a built a storage facility for their pre-Confederation weapons within a planet of their dead. Torin knew for a fact the weapons still worked.
Given his expression, the commander had known of Parliament’s plans.
“Sir?”
He tipped his head slightly to one side. “You hate politics, Warden Kerr.”
He wasn’t wrong.
His back to the Dornagain, Marteau swept a surprisingly sincere gaze over the three Humans. “I know what I’m talking about when I say many weapons aren’t particularly difficult to make. I don’t have to tell the three of you that legal weapons are necessary to keep illegal weapons in check.” His volume dropped; for emphasis, Torin assumed. Or he was unaware of how well the Dornagain could hear. “I also think it’s naive to assume that the Younger Races will never need to defend their position in the Confederation now our services are no longer required.”
Ng folded his arms, mirroring Craig. Torin remained standing easy. “The structure will hold, Per Marteau.”