A Peace Divided

by Tanya Huff

  Martin peered over at the screen, although, given the angle of the sun, she doubted he could see the results from where he stood. “You should’ve known that from the initial data.”

  “The initial data was a statistical anomaly. Now it isn’t.” He frowned, but to her eye he seemed more thoughtful than angry. Of course, he hadn’t seemed angry when he’d shot Dzar, so what did she know about Human expression. “This latrine . . .” She waved a hand at the excavation. “. . . was a trench and not a particularly deep one compared to some I’ve seen. The first latrine was a hole in the ground; again, not particularly deep in comparison. Any structures built over them have disappeared. It’s entirely possible the structures were wood in order to make them easy to move when the latrines filled. There’s a chance the latrines were used in a specific rotation to fertilize a nutritionally poor soil, but given the destruction you’re responsible for there’s little chance of discovering . . .”

  “Destruction I’m responsible for?” His nostril ridges closed, his cheeks flushed a darker green, Yurrisk stepped forward, only to be brought up short by Qurn’s back. Arniz hadn’t seen her move to intercept.

  “Get to the point, Harveer.” Arms folded, Qurn looked near the end of her patience.

  Arniz sighed and waved emphatically enough to take in the entire plateau. “You’re looking at the historical level of the residue; well, out to the foundation stones of the city wall, at least. GeoPhys has turned up no evidence of intact levels belowground—no real surprise given the depth of soil out here—so it’s reasonable to assume there’s no hidden weapon.”

  Yurrisk laid his hand on Qurn’s shoulder but neither moved her nor moved around her. “Then explain the plastic.”

  “If we can’t come up with a weapon capable of destroying the plastic aliens,” Trembley said before Arniz could respond, “how could a civilization that shits in holes?”

  “Maybe they ate them.” Sareer, the most identifiable of the Krai due to the nine small rings piercing the outside curve of her ear, joined the group at the monitor. When all attention turned on her, she gripped her weapon like a security blanket. Arniz wondered who around the monitors she thought was dangerous. “The vids say Krai can eat the plastic aliens, and that would mean the aliens would get shit out.” Her voice trailed off under the weight of Yurrisk’s gaze. “Because this is a latrine. Right, Commander?”

  His expression softened into amusement. “According to the harveer, yes, it’s a latrine.”

  “Then maybe they were like us.”

  And continued softening into sadness. “Then we should pity them.”

  “I are having a theory!” Tyven hurried over, trailing her bonded. Arniz hadn’t realized she’d been close enough to listen in, but the Katrien had excellent hearing. Yurrisk’s features snapped back into what she’d started to think of as his crazy face as the two Katrien joined them. “Perhaps the foods of the pre-destruction are recombining in the digestive tract to be resembling plastic residue.”

  “It doesn’t resemble plastic residue,” Arniz sighed. “It is plastic residue.”

  “But how are you knowing for certain?”

  “Science.”

  Tyven’s shoulders slumped and even her fur seemed to flatten. “I are not being able to argue with that.”

  Sareer’s nostril ridges closed as Yurrisk ground his teeth. Muscles tensed, eyes flicking between Yurrisk and Qurn, she took a deep breath and said, “If the people here were a kind of Krai, we should think about where we’d hide the weapon.”

  “Parallel evolution!” Blood rose into Trembley’s ears when everyone turned to stare. “I saw a vid,” he mumbled, scuffing a foot in the dirt.

  “It’s possible,” Arniz allowed, absently waving away the perpetual cloud of tiny blue insects. Trembley’s surprise at being right was an expression familiar to every teacher in known space. “We don’t know what the builders on this world looked like because we haven’t yet found remains and none of the art in the ruins at the Mictok dig is representational.”

  Tyven nodded. “It are all being geometric in that part of the world. Repeated patterns. We are hoping to be eventually finding art on the ruins in the jungle.”

  “Then today’s your lucky day.” Yurrisk spread his arms. “If the weapon’s not out here, it’s in the jungle. In the ruins of the buildings.”

  “It’s not fukking rocket science,” Martin added.

  “No, it’s not; it’s archaeology and you don’t have the faintest understanding . . .” His hand closed around her throat, warm and mammal moist and so tight she could barely pull air past it.

  “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.” His breath lapped against her face. “If I find you’ve been deliberately delaying us in the futile hope of rescue, I’m going to bury you in one of your latrines.”

  “Why would I delay?” she gasped as he released her and she dropped to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Trembley’s boots move closer. “I want you gone.”

  “Martin.” Yurrisk’s voice held the Human in place. “This isn’t helping to find the weapon. Move them into the jungle. Now.”

  “Harveer Tilzonicazic is going to be unbearable,” Salitwisi muttered as he helped her to her feet.

  Arniz huffed out a reluctant laugh. As a botanist, Tilzon had wanted into the jungle from the moment they’d landed.

  The only ship in orbit around 33X73 . . .

  “Threxie.”

  Torin rolled her eyes. “I’m not calling it that.”

  . . . was an Aggressive class minesweeper, decommissioned by the Navy when they brought in the Avengers class. The exterior looked rough. It had no external packets attached, an extensive repair to one of the two shuttle bays had sealed that bay shut, and a large Krai symbol had been applied just back of the main air lock.

  Leaning on Craig’s chair, thumb rubbing against a familiar fold in the duct tape, Torin could see the sigils for out and tree as well as the emphatic curl that identified a command. “Get out of my tree?”

  “Yeah, that’s the polite translation, Gunny.” Werst shoved past Binti and leaned against the side of the second seat, where Ressk ran the minesweeper’s ID. “It means, fuk off, this is mine.”

  “It means . . .” Ressk paused, stared out at the ship, and shook his head. “Never mind. Close enough. It’s the DeCaal, all right. I’m impressed Commander Yurrisk found a minesweeper in one piece.”

  “Shoved to the back of the yard and forgotten when it was decommissioned.” Craig adjusted the scanners as he brought them closer to the DeCaal. “Navy yard at Ventris crammed the new in on top of the old. Strippers ran twenty-seven/ten, but I never saw much headway.”

  “I’m impressed your government allows the sale of old warships to civilians. Particularly given their emphasis that the Confederation is made up of peaceful peoples.” The translator perfectly reproduced Freenim’s sarcastic tone. It was a major improvement over the program Torin had used in the Corps. But then, no one sent in the Marines if they wanted to have a conversation.

  The entirety of Strike Team Alpha plus both Druin, Vertic, and Bertecnic filled the seats and all the empty floor space in the control room. Even Torin, who’d spent most of her adult life crammed into various types of armored transport with one more Marine than the transport could comfortably hold found it crowded. She admired how well Craig was holding it together. Not long ago, he’d reacted badly to the thought of sharing the Promise with her.

  Presit had banked half a dozen shots of the DeCaal when they’d first come into range and then left, muttering about overwhelmed air filters. The odds were high she’d also disliked not being the center of attention.

  “What’s wrong with the government unloading old ships?” Craig spun the pilot’s chair around to face the room. “Weapons are removed.”

  “And the peripherals?” Standing behind
Merinim’s chair, although their asses were narrow enough they could have shared, Freenim folded his arms. “Weapons are easy enough to replace if the mountings and the firing systems remain.”

  “Not the kind of weapons you’d hang off a minesweeper.” Torin thought of the cases stolen from MI and made a mental note to check thefts in other sectors when they returned to the station. Weapons were, after all, still being made.

  “A decommissioned ship isn’t in the yard because it’s full of holes. It’s stripped but solid. That kind of ship’s not cheap.” When Torin, Craig, and both Krai turned to look at him, Alamber’s hair flicked back and forth. “You guys have got to work on mastering that lateral slide from violence to economics. Big Bill had a sideline selling previous owner vessels—whether the previous owner agreed or not—and a spaceworthy ship that size? Very much not cheap. Add the cost of getting it up and running, plus the major outlay of replacing the Susumi engine—which I can guarantee was removed in the yard—and Commander Yurrisk isn’t going to have enough left to remount guns. Not unless he started out rolling in it.”

  Ressk thumbed his slate. “He didn’t. His line’s not wealthy. Not even close.”

  “You know this commander?” Freenim sounded like he didn’t trust coincidence.

  “Sure. We all know each other.” Torin cleared her throat and Ressk rolled his eyes at the warning. “Fine. No. I’ve got his Navy records.”

  “In my humble and yet informed opinion,” Alamber declared, ignoring the rising tension, “over the last three years Commander Yurrisk has spent everything he has to keep that ship flying. Explains why he’s threatening scientists.”

  “Does it?” Vertic’s hands closed over a seat back, her claws dimpling the padding.

  Alamber sighed expansively. “He has expenses. Someone’s paying him for applied violence. Destroyed plastic aliens.” He raised a finger. “Destroyed by what?” Another finger. “A weapon.” A third finger. “I’ll pay you the money you need to bring it to me, and you can keep your ship flying. If he’s as damaged as you lot think, he might not have any other options. Most people paying to ship cargo through Susumi want proven stability.”

  “Makes the commander highly motivated to find the alleged weapon,” Torin said after a moment’s silence.

  “And if there is no weapon?” Vertic asked.

  “Given the plastic, I doubt they’ll convince him of that.”

  “And if there is a weapon?”

  “We’ll confiscate it if he has it, but our mission is to save the hostages.”

  Her claws scraped against the floor. “Of course.”

  The green light flashed on the upper left corner of the board. “Scan’s done. No life signs. The commander must’ve been lurking in the VTA when Ganes got his shot, then.” A second light flashed as Craig shut off the first. “And there’s SFA in the way of security.”

  “If Alamber’s right about the cost . . .” Torin began.

  “Trust me, Boss, I’m right.”

  “. . . orbital security would be low on the list of systems to restore. War’s over. Who’s going to blow him up?”

  “You should.” Vertic moved closer to the screen, pushing between the seats. Golden hair rubbed off her sides, tumbled through the air, and was sucked toward the filters. “Destroy the ship to keep the mercenaries from returning and running.”

  “Not allowed,” Werst grunted.

  She reared a few centimeters, the crest of her mane brushing the ceiling. “You’re not permitted to prevent the enemy’s escape?”

  “Not by wholesale destruction,” Torin answered before Werst could voice his opinion of that particular restriction. “We’re not soldiers; we’re Wardens, dealing with civilians, governed by different regulations.”

  “Dealing with assholes, governed by bureaucrats,” Werst muttered.

  Torin raised a brow. He ducked his head, nostril ridges closing. “R&D is developing an explosive cartridge we can attach to the hull, by the engine.” She switched her attention back to Vertic. “If the engine is started before the cartridge is removed, or there’s an attempt to remove it without the right codes, they’ll be dead in space. The ship will be dead in space,” Torin clarified the idiom when both Druins’ inner eyelids flicked. She had no idea if, in this particular instance, the motion meant approval, disapproval, or dry air.

  “But they’re still developing this cartridge,” Freenim said thoughtfully.

  Werst snorted. “We’ll have it any day now.”

  “You don’t currently have it, though. That’s my point. Without a way to secure the ship within the restrictions of your Justice Department, how do you stop the enemy from escaping?”

  “We tag their ship so we can find them later.” Torin nudged Craig, and he tossed the specs of the tags into the air above the board—the spirit of transparency albeit not the letter as none of their Primacy companions could read Federate and only Firiv’vrak had bothered to learn numerical symbols.

  The look Freenim shot her suggested he was well aware of the subtext. “So you don’t stop them from escaping.”

  “We do our best to stop them from reaching their VTA and taking off.”

  “But not from leaving orbit.”

  “We find them later. We find them,” Torin repeated when Freenim spread his hands. “Craig, set the tag and let’s get dirtside. Those hostages aren’t getting any younger.”

  “On it.”

  “Wait!”

  Hands on the tagging system, Craig glanced up at Torin who nodded as Firiv’vrak appeared at the hatch, scuttled over the lip, and disappeared between the seats. Vertic shifted from foot to foot to foot and ended up on her haunches, forelegs in the air as Firiv’vrak forced her way past and up between the last two seats, trailing the scent of grapefruit and pepper. “I feel that reading!”

  “Feel?” Torin tossed a silent question at Freenim. Who gave the minimal shrug, NCO to NCO, that said he had no idea what Firiv’vrak was talking about.

  “I feel it here!” She waved her antennae as she slid into place between the copilot’s seat and the board.

  “You feel it in your antennae?” Space was big and stranger things had happened, Torin acknowledged. “What reading do you feel?” She didn’t recognize the string of numbers Firiv’vrak isolated on the board, but Craig did.

  “It’s background radiation, Firiv.”

  “No.” Unfolding her arm, she expanded the status line. “None of you were Navy, so you wouldn’t recognize it, but this is a Primacy wave. It’s used on exploration vessels, specifically to identify the composition of asteroids, of missiles, of debris. My best guess—they’ve tucked pieces of scientific equipment into the holes left when the sensor arrays were removed. Equipment that’s not specifically military, so it’s easier to buy and doesn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. If a solid item comes close enough to the DeCaal, it’ll send the analyses down to a slate—probably the Druin’s. No offense, Durlan, but I can’t see Polint males thinking of this.”

  Vertic waved it off. “None taken.”

  Warned, the mercs would, at best, use the hostages as shields. “So we don’t tag.”

  “Could we neutralize the wave?” Alamber asked.

  Half of Firiv’vrak’s eyes stalks turned toward him. “No idea. I’m a pilot.”

  “How close is too close?” Craig demanded his eyes on the proximity readings.

  Torin rested her hand on the rigid curve of his shoulder. If they were close enough for the wave to identify the composition of the Promise . . .

  Firiv’vrak extended her antennae, tips quivering. “I haven’t felt an interruption in the wave.”

  “That could just mean you haven’t felt it.” Craig’s hands hovered over propulsion. “Would you know if we triggered it?”

  “Yes. No. Probably.”

  “Two to one odds we haven�
��t triggered it, then.” Torin pitched her voice closer to command. “Let’s pick up the pace, people.”

  “Have you scanned for Primacy life signs on board?”

  Craig twisted out from under Torin’s hand to stare at Vertic. “No. Why?”

  “Because there are Primacy among the mercenaries.” Her gesture involved both arms, and still managed to include only her own people. “I’m sure your military has ensured you have the required algorithms on board. Why haven’t you used them?”

  “We never have,” Torin said before Craig could answer.

  Habit.

  As Wardens, they’d only ever been sent out after the Younger Races.

  Habit got people killed.

  “Will a scan interact with the wave?”

  “No.” Firiv’vrak’s cherry candy scent had returned. “As I said, science, not security.”

  “Do it, then.” As Craig set up the scan, Torin noticed Keeleeki’ka and Dutavar had followed Firiv’vrak into the control room. The full, combined team only fit because Bertecnic had opened the hatch to the head and backed in. “You could all watch this on your slates.”

  “Not like being here, Boss.” Alamber had perched on the back of his chair, boots on the seat, head higher than the tallest of the Polint, risking Craig kicking his ass if the boot prints marred the pleather.

  “Suck it up.” She straightened. “Everyone without a tactical reason to be in the control room, gear up and get to the VTA. Werst, you’re on Presit detail. Freenim . . .”

  “I’ll see that everything’s ready, Warden.”

  Vertic moved back to the open area behind the chairs, clearly not considering herself to be a part of everyone. It took Torin a moment to realize she hadn’t included Vertic as part of everyone either. It was one thing to ignore her rank and another to get past the certain knowledge that gunnery sergeants didn’t give orders to officers.

  “No Primacy life signs.” Craig leaned back in his chair. “If Alamber could neutralize the wave, they’d likely see it as an equipment failure, given the state of the ship as a whole.”