by Tanya Huff
“The Justice Department doesn’t deal in supposition, Warden Ryder.”
“Money. Weapons. Plastic. He also collects plastic.”
“Since the revelation, a surprising number of people do.”
Werst responded before Craig could. “Are you shitting us?”
“No.”
“People are strange.”
“Not arguing.” Ng glanced down at his slate. “We’re developing a permit system.”
“Marteau recognized the pistol.” At the time, Torin had thought his reasons valid. She still thought his reasons were valid, but Craig clearly didn’t, and he had a distance from Marteau’s business Torin would never be able to manage. She’d spent too long with a KC-7 in her hands.
“As Warden Ryder reminded us, Per Marteau makes weapons.”
“That he intends to sell to the Primacy.”
“Say what now?” Alamber demanded, the question bracketed by two sets of snapping teeth.
Ng glared both Krai into a final snap and lowered lips before saying, “We are no longer at war with the Primacy. Per Marteau is breaking no laws. What’s more, he was under no obligation to inform us of his business ventures as full disclosure covers only his military contracts. Give me a reason and I’ll try to open an investigation, but your job is to deal with situations as they arise . . . and we currently have a situation. This is the one visual Ganes got out.”
“Robert Martin.” Werst pointed at the closest Human. “He was on Ventris same time I was. Three intake groups ahead.”
“And you remember him?” Torin asked as Ng flicked Martin’s military ID up off the conference table. There were two possible reasons Martin had been so memorable and, given where he’d ended up, and that neither Werst nor Martin were di’Taykan—Torin suspected the first reason didn’t apply.
“Warnings went around about him. He was a bully.” Werst drew his lips back off his teeth. “Broke a di’Taykan’s arm on Crucible. It was an accident. Fukker knew how to work the system. Good shot, followed orders, didn’t suck up enough to be noticed. Wanted into the heavies, but psych washed him out. That was the last I heard of him.”
Ressk snorted. “Surprised he wasn’t a lifer.”
“Sounds like the type who makes general,” Binti added.
“The other three Humans are Emile Trembley, Brenda Zhang . . .” Ng flicked two more pieces of military ID into the air. “. . . ex-Marines, enlisted for only one contract, nothing special about them except that along with Martin, they’re the only Marines in the group.” The last Human ID joined the other three. “And there’s an eighty-three percent probability the fourth Human is Jana Malinowski, ex-Navy gunner.”
Only half of Malinowski had been photographed.
“The Krai,” Ng continued, ignoring the interruption, “are ex-Petty Officer Sareer and ex-Lieutenant Beyvek. The di’Taykan are Pyrus di’Himur pink, Mirish di’Yaunah dark blue, Gayun di’Dyon bright blue. Mirish is Gayun’s thytrin and four of the six ex-Navy personnel visible in Ganes’ image served on the Paylent. We’ve requested information on the Paylent,” he added dryly.
Torin expanded the original. Ganes hadn’t captured much of the shuttle. “That looks like an old Navy VTA; there could be a dozen mercs still inside.”
“Two dozen if they’re friendly,” Binti said.
“Yeah, yeah, comrades in arms sharing war stories. Who cares.” Alamber leaned in under the nine pieces of military ID and pointed. “Are those Polint? Like you met in the prison?”
“They are.” Torin answered. “The biped behind them, dressed in red, is a Druin. Both species are Primacy military.” She took a deep breath and turned to Ng. “Confederation and Primacy, working together.”
He inclined his head. “As I said.”
Alamber had his head tipped sideways, enough light receptors open to make his pale blue eyes look dark. “Not so much working together as being shitheads together. They’re all armed. I think the Polint even have swords. Also, not a euphemism.” He tipped his head a little further. “Although it could be.”
Ng cleared his throat and Torin glared Alamber vertical. “The Navy has informed the local Wardens that the mercenaries’ ship is still in orbit around 33X73. The VTA is still on the surface. As Warden Kerr noted, the intercepted message notes only that the scientists found destroyed plastic, not a weapon, so we can assume, given the passage of time, there was no weapon to hand over and the mercenaries are holding the scientists hostage until said weapon is found.”
“So this time the Navy has a reason to keep its thumb up its ass,” Werst muttered.
“Apparently. And as long as no one does anything stupid, that gives us some time. Data’s been sent to your slates.”
The data included bios of the known mercenaries as well as of the scientists, the geography around the site, and extensive site plans from both Alcanton University and the Ministry for the Preservation of Pre-Confederation Civilizations.
Binti frowned at her screen. “This says there’s four other science teams on planet.”
“It’s a big planet.” Ng dropped all images back into the tabletop. “The other four aren’t involved. You have fifty-four hours to . . .”
“It’s a four-day Susumi jump,” Craig protested. Odds were good he’d hooked into Promise’s navcom the moment he had a destination and worked out a set of quick and dirty equations. “We can load up and plan in the jump. Time matters in a hostage situation.”
“As pleased as I am that you’ve internalized at least some of your training, Warden Ryder, fifty-four hours.”
“That’s . . .”
Torin cut Craig off, gaze locked on Ng’s face. “That’s how long it’ll take representatives from the Primacy to arrive. We can’t go after their people without them.”
“As they can’t go after ours without us,” he agreed.
“And we’ve all worked with the Primacy before. Which is why we’re here, out of rotation.”
The silence that followed didn’t last a full three count before it shattered.
“We broke out of prison with the Primacy, Gunny, we didn’t work with them.”
“And not the whole fukking Primacy either; six . . .”
“Eight.”
“Still . . .”
“Yeah, I’m blocking that shit.”
“The whole fukking mess was all but over when I rocked up, and I’m blocking that shite.”
“Before my time, Boss, but this should be Ch’ore’s run.”
Torin held Ng’s gaze while the noise rose and fell.
When the tangle of voices finally quieted, he nodded and said, “Which is why you’re here: specialized skills.”
Lifted from the battlefield, Confederation and Primacy troops had been imprisoned in a maze of underground tunnels. They’d been kept separate, the entire system automated, and each had assumed the other had put them there. It wasn’t until Torin led a group of Marines in an attempted escape and ran into a Primacy group attempting the same thing, that they learned differently. There could have been blood in the tunnels, but they’d chosen to crawl out from under the weight of the war they’d been fighting and see each other as allies and not enemies. They’d still nearly died, but that hadn’t been on the Primacy. The young Primacy leader had proven the qualities that created a good officer weren’t confined to the Confederation Marine Corps.
Binti, Werst, and Ressk had been there with her. Binti and Ressk the only other survivors of Sh’quo Company, and Werst the last of his recon unit. One other Human. One other Krai. And three di’Taykan. Although only two of the di’Taykan had made it out. Torin closed her hand into a fist to hide the way her fingers trembled with the effort to not touch the pockets of the dead on the combat vest she wasn’t wearing. Seven lives to balance the hundreds she couldn’t save.
“Survival isn’t exactly a specialize
d skill,” she said over the sound of their names.
“And disingenuous doesn’t suit you, Kerr.”
Fair point. “Do we know who they’re sending?”
“We do not.”
“Number?”
“They’ve been told there’s six members on the Strike Team they’ll be joining.”
“So, seven,” Ressk said thoughtfully.
“They’ll be in Confederation space and vastly outnumbered,” Torin explained when Ng frowned. “Outnumbering us, even minimally, is something they can control. Species?”
“They’re refusing to say.”
“That’s nuts,” Alamber snorted. “Why wouldn’t they share?”
“They don’t want us too prepared,” Torin answered. “They have to work with us on this, but they don’t trust us. Anyone they send will be expendable.”
Ng stared at her, ignoring the reaction from the others around the table. When it died down, he said, “Expendable?”
“If anything goes wrong, they’ll be blamed.”
“By who?”
She held his gaze. “By those who weren’t there when it happened.”
“And one of the serley chrika will be spying for the Primacy.”
“No.” Torin turned her attention to Werst. “I expect they’ll all have been instructed to find out everything they can.”
“We would’ve been,” Binti agreed.
Ng sighed. “Their presence will be as much about public opinion as it will be about saving the hostages. We need to assume the Primacy is acting in good faith and that however expendable Warden Kerr believes their operatives to be, that they’ll at least know their asses from their elbows. Should they have either. A translation program for Prime, the common language of the Primacy, will be added to your implants. We’ve provided them with the Federate equivalent.” He laid both hands flat on the table. “Given the species of the mercenaries, assume Polint and Druin. I want as much prep as possible completed before they arrive. This is a hostage situation; you can’t go in guns blazing.”
Under the table, Binti’s foot pressed against Torin’s. “Unfortunately, sir, that’s what we do.”
Ng stood and swept a weighted gaze around the table. “Not this time.”
“Guess the war really is over,” Werst said as the door closed behind the commander. “Never thought we’d be teaming up with the Primacy on purpose.”
“At least it’s mercenaries,” Craig muttered as he tipped his chair back on two legs, balanced his slate on his knee, and began to read, “and not Humans First again.”
FOUR
“LOOK, ALL I’M SAYING is that Marteau mentioned selling weapons to the Primacy . . .” Craig leaned in and lowered his voice. “. . . and then there’s the Primacy up in our face with weapons.”
Torin nodded at a passing Rakva before she answered. “Like the commander said, it’s not against the law to sell weapons to the Primacy.”
“It should be.”
“Not arguing that.”
“It’s against the law to use those weapons to take hostages.”
“And there’s no evidence connecting the two,” she reminded him, stepping into the lift. They shared a descending handhold and, after a silent exchange, agreed to continue the conversation later. Emphasizing the lack of privacy in the enclosed space, a high-pitched Katrien argument bounced down from above; far enough above, the Katrien themselves were out of sight.
“I had Ressk fossick through Marteau’s public accounts and he’s doing better than most OutSector colonies,” Craig began again when they stepped out onto the level that accessed the least used of the station’s eight docking arms. “He’d have hardly noticed the cost of sending mercs to the H’san homeworld looking for weapons and could’ve sent more mercs off to Threxie with his pocket change.”
It took her a moment, then she remembered the planet’s log number; 33X73—Threxie. With any luck, the name would be considered part of Craig’s unique vocabulary and not stick. The look on Cap’s face had been priceless at their first meeting when he’d raised a beer and said, “So you’re the new Wardie.”
“Marteau admitted to Primacy connections,” Craig continued, his voice a low growl. “That’s three hits on weapons, two on Primacy. When does it stop being coincidence?”
“When we have evidence. He’s going to talk about weapons, Craig, he makes weapons.” Weapons that had protected the Confederation. Weapons that helped her do her job and bring her people back alive. “I’ve used guns and mortars, sammies and spikes all stamped with Marteau’s name.”
“So you give him a free pass, then?”
“No, he’s an asshole, but that doesn’t make him a criminal mastermind. He has the means, sure, maybe even the opportunity—easy enough to buy that—what’s his motivation? Marteau doesn’t have to go looking for weapons, so why risk involving the H’san? Or us?” Torin glanced over at the tight line of Craig’s jaw, nodded at a group of passing Krai in maintenance uniforms, and when they had the passageway to themselves, asked, “Why has Marteau got your nuts in a knot?”
Craig exhaled, ran both hands back through his hair, stepped out in front of her, and stopped. He didn’t look angry. He looked unhappy. “The war is over and, yeah, there’s plenty of shit kicking still going on, but Marteau doesn’t need to be making new boots. You see weapons as tools, Torin, more efficient than a rock, but essentially the same thing. Other people are going to see them as opportunities.”
She touched the Justice Department symbol on his uniform. “And it’s our job to stop them.”
“Yeah.” His hands were warm against her face, his lips warm when he leaned in and kissed her. “And you’re good at your job.”
As the warmth faded from her skin, she watched him step through the hatch wondering what she’d missed. “Not saying I approve of vigilantes,” she muttered as she followed, “but I’m all about taking the opportunity to destroy the plastic aliens.”
It made sense that Craig, one of the two Strike Team Wardens not ex-military, would be more concerned about Marteau than either the plastic or the Primacy.
• • •
Torin felt the shiver of contact through her boots and released a breath she didn’t remember holding. Primacy ships had rammed stations before, and the two accompanying Confederation battleships wouldn’t have been able to stop a last-minute acceleration.
The war, she reminded herself, had been over for years.
Compared to the centuries of fighting, there’d been peace for half a heartbeat.
A moment later, interrupting the faint, calming music trickling from the speakers by the air lock, the docking master announced that the clamps had been successfully engaged.
“What was your first clue?” Werst muttered.
“No sirens,” Ressk responded.
“Or lockdowns,” Binti added.
“And a total lack of explosive decompression,” Alamber said without looking up from his slate.
“Vacuum is an unforgiving bitch.” Craig moved closer to the air lock, his gaze on the numbers scrolling past on the door. “Stations are all about redundancy.”
Commander Ng sighed. “Speaking of redundancy, I summoned Warden Kerr, not the entire team.”
“Team,” Binti repeated, spreading her hands.
“The whole station knows there’s a Primacy ship stopping at Justice on its way to Parliamentary reconstruction meetings,” Torin told him when he turned to her. “Primacy 101 has been looping on the station entertainment system for the last twenty-seven hours.”
“They’re showing the docking feed at Musselman’s,” Werst said, standing on her left.
“Then why aren’t you there?” Ng asked.
Werst grinned. “Rather be here. One of five people with Primacy experience, thought you might need me.”
“Of course.”
Ng brushed invisible dust off the sleeve of his uniform tunic. “And you, Warden di’Crikeys? Having no Primacy experience . . .”
Alamber’s fingers skimmed the surface of his slate. “Never met one, so I was curious.”
“If you’re trying to access the Primacy ship, stop.”
His hair flipped out as he looked up and grinned. “Boss already warned me off. Said she’d be annoyed if I started another war.”
Ng made one of his noncommittal noises. “And you, Warden Ryder?”
“I was there the last time.”
“Your interaction with the Primacy on the prison planet was minimal.”
“Yeah, but my minimal was talking, not shooting. That’s more talking and less shooting than anyone else on this station. Not to mention . . .” Craig nodded down the arm to the nipple where the Promise had been attached. “. . . they’re not throwing so much as an admiring eye on my ship without me there.”
“The Primacy representative will examine the quarters for their people before attaching, to ensure we’ve met their specifications.”
“And I’ll examine them before attaching to ensure they meet my specifications.”
Torin answered the commander’s silent question with her best nothing to do with me expression. Promise belonged to Craig, not the Justice Department; he had the final word on any refits.
The rebuild, after Promise had been damaged by pirates, had given a small salvage ship the capability to add and remove packets as needed—the same capability as the Navy’s battleships. The Marine packets, made up of living and training facilities for entire battalions were larger than anything Promise might require, but vacuum didn’t care about aerodynamics and while the size had been scaled down for the Justice Department packets, the principle remained the same.
Conversations faltered as the air lock lights cycled. Anticipation rose to a measurable force in the corridor, lifting the hair on the back of Torin’s neck. They weren’t in a prison this time, responses stripped to the bare bones of survival. Nor was this neutral ground. Berbar Station was significantly farther into Confederation space than the Primacy had ever jumped, and her defenses were minimal. They were about to welcome a recent enemy onto a station that housed a branch of their Justice Department and, if taken, would provide valuable information for further attacks. But it wasn’t government information Torin cared about, it was the thousands of people—people who not only worked here, they lived here. According to the numbers she’d pulled up while Craig snored into her hip, two hundred and seventy-four children, young of six of the eight resident species, called Berbar home.