A Peace Divided

by Tanya Huff

Not a rough hole, or a cellar built of stone blocks, but a room with smooth walls and—extrapolating from the one she could see—perfectly squared corners. The floor, where it wasn’t covered in a pile of organic debris, was as smooth as the walls, warmer than it should have been, and had a slight give under the pressure of her hand.

  “Apparently, it wasn’t only distribution of mass but final impact on a surface with a generalized elasticity. That,” she added as the tiny lizard settled inside her collar against the side of her neck, a cool patch of comfort that rapidly matched her body temperature, “is science for fell and bounced.”

  Still moving carefully, she stood, staggered as her tail adjusted to the new position with a cascade of pain, put out a hand to keep herself from falling, and touched the wall.

  The lights came on. She instinctively looked up to see at least half a meter of organic debris above the level of the opening she’d fallen through, one side sloped, clearly delineating her passage. The layer of the debris closest to the opening looked to be humus, densely packed enough that visible roots passed above it. Given her equipment and enough time, she could use it to date approximately how long the room had been buried.

  Educated guess—pre-destruction.

  Then she glanced around the room, and snorted. “Unless the builders threaded indestructible solar gathering filaments through the canopy, I call bullshit. The satellite surveys would have picked up an active power source . . . and everlasting passive sources are fictional. And bad fiction at that.”

  Illumination followed her as she followed the wall to the corner, brightening as she moved, dimming behind her. Her stride was approximately a third of a meter, and she took seven, eight . . . or was that ten? Did she miss two? Not important. It wasn’t a large room and, except for her, her little red companion, and the debris that had fallen with her, it was empty.

  The fourth wall lit up when she touched it, and she stared at the orange rectangle mounted in the center, sudden shadows throwing raised patterns into sharp relief.

  The team hadn’t included a linguist. They hadn’t expected to need one while mapping the plateau. Any symbols discovered were to have their location precisely recorded and high-resolution images acquired for further study.

  Arniz recognized nothing on the wall she could call language although some of the patterns had a familiarity that spoke to the commonalities of science. She touched three symbols she saw repeated multiple times and a unique symbol in the upper right corner expanded a full centimeter up from the background, moved, and became a part of the symbol below it, now also raised although not as high.

  Would a plastic life-form use plastic as a building component?

  Or . . .

  She stepped back.

  Was this particular building component made up of plastic life-forms?

  Was Yurrisk not so much delusional as right?

  Had the plastic aliens left a weapon behind?

  “Oh, get a grip,” Arniz growled, provoking an answering hiss from the lizard tucked in her collar. “There are a lot of plastic-using species in the universe, and there’s nothing to say that any species with the technology to get here while the pre-destruction society was still pre-destruction wouldn’t have been one of them.”

  Another unique symbol slid sideways through one of the repeated symbols, both of them morphing into new shapes when it emerged out the other side.

  “Stop it!” she snapped.

  Whether it had finished a pre-set program or whether it understood her better than she did it, it stopped.

  “Well, that’s mildly disturbing.”

  EIGHT

  WERST SQUINTED DOWN into the underbrush beside the cleared road and couldn’t spot either of the Artek. Credit where credit was due: if a Krai, evolved to spot prey through shifting foliage, couldn’t see them, no one could. He flicked his helmet scanner back on, noted their position under a pile of debris, absently ate an egg sac that had been webbed to the tree beside him, and settled at ninety to the road. Minimal movement gave him a clear view both toward the anchor and toward the ruins. Thanks to the DLs, they’d have plenty of warning before they had company, but he preferred eyes on.

  He plucked a catkin dangling in his line of sight and ate it to cut the bitter taste of the egg sac, resting his KC behind the angle of his leg to take advantage of his uniform’s camouflage. There were times when he couldn’t tell the difference between being a Marine and being a Warden; ass down, waiting for the shooting to start was one of those times.

  Once the shooting started, even a H’san with their head up their ass could tell the difference. Wardens didn’t face enemy combatants, the battle field divided conveniently into us and them. Wardens faced us and those of us who need rehabilitation. Or possibly, us and those of us who think they’re serley hot shit and really aren’t.

  He grinned.

  Us and those of us who need to grow the fuk up and realize it’s not all about them.

  Us and those of us who are mistaken about where the center of the serley universe is.

  Us and . . .

  *Werst. Tech just powered up.*

  Angling his face into the trunk to block sound waves, he ducked his chin and replied, “In the anchor?”

  *Not as I understand your anchors,* Firiv’vrak said thoughtfully. *The ground is vi . . .*

  *Singing.*

  *It’s not singing!*

  He switched to the group channel, tongue probing the protrusions along the inner left side of his jaw. “Gunny, the Artek report tech powering on. Ground is vibrating.” Neither of them had said vibrating, but given the rising hints of spice and mint, the semantic argument was still going on.

  *DLs are picking up SFA. Targets and hostages are moving deeper into the jungle.* Emphasis made it sound as though the jungle had gotten under Gunny’s calm. Werst grinned. *Martin, Trembley, and Lieutenant Commander Ganes remain in the anchor. Hold your position. We’re picking up the pace.*

  “If the Artek are reacting to a perimeter defense, I should go take a look.”

  She could tell him once again to hold his position, but they both knew neither Firiv’vrak nor Keeleeki’ka would recognize a Confederation perimeter pin if a H’san shoved one up under their collective carapaces.

  *Keep our noncombatant on a tight leash.*

  “Roger, Gunny. Out.” His tongue tip found a missed bit of catkin as he switched off group. He listened to the continuing argument as he descended. Off implant, he could hear a few clacks, smell a little stink. Best they got it out of their system.

  Flattening, he crawled under the debris pile on elbows and knees, tucked into the space between the hard edges of their bodies, and pressed both hands and feet into the ground. “I don’t feel anything.”

  He could smell damp, rot, and cinnamon, though.

  Antennae touched his cheek. “We feel it.”

  “I believe you.” On the prison planet, all three Artek had been the only species able to feel vibrations that had led them to the control room. “Can you find the source?”

  Firiv’vrak shifted, Werst’s uniform stiffening under the pressure of a wayward leg. “It’s stronger that way.” Her antennae pointed to the forty-five.

  “Not stronger, louder,” Keeleeki’ka clacked.

  “For the last time; it’s tech, not a song!”

  “Quiet.”

  “You . . .”

  Her outer mandibles were far enough apart, he could barely get his hand around them. “When I say quiet, you—you both—shut up. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Warden.”

  Keeleeki’ka huffed a cool breath down his left side and, when he took his hand away, muttered, “Yes, Warden.”

  “Good.” The debris had been stacked loosely enough he could scan through the spaces. When the area read clear of both asshole and held-hostage-by-asshole life signs, he cra
wled out into the open and stood. Open being relative. The piles of debris and the undisturbed underbrush were taller than he was. And the same color. He was nearly as well camouflaged on the ground as he’d been in the tree. He’d rather be in the tree. Of course, he would; he was Krai. A sudden wave of sympathy for Commander Yurrisk held him in place for a moment, then he shook it off. No time. Not right now. “All right. DLs will give plenty of warning before we have company, so we find the tech, we deal with the tech, and we return to watching the road. Let’s go.”

  After a little jostling for position, Firiv’vrak moved to his left, Keeleeki’ka moved to his right, and they both moved out front, antennae held nearly parallel to the ground. Not that any of the assholes with the guns would notice, but professional pride put his feet onto patches of ground already destroyed.

  At the crumbling remains of a wall he couldn’t quite see over, the Artek pulled the vegetation away and pressed into the angle between the worn stones and the ground. A blue beetle tumbled off a discarded vine, landing on Keeleeki’ka’s carapace. Her back end rose, the beetle slid forward, she twisted her head and snapped her mandibles together, the movement smooth and practiced.

  “Tell me you didn’t eat that,” Firiv’vrak said, eyestalks swiveling toward Keeleeki’ka.

  The scent of roast potatoes momentarily overwhelmed the smell of jungle. “I’m familiar with the concept of alien species.”

  “Either of you familiar with shutting the fuk up?” Werst growled. “If you can’t find it . . .”

  “On the other side of the wall,” Keeleeki’ka began.

  “Vibrations are stronger at the base of the wall,” Firiv’vrak interrupted. “We can’t know what’s on the other side.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s one way to find out.” Two quick strides, his toes found a hold, and he was up and over, Firiv’vrak following close enough behind him that a waft of cherry made him want to sneeze.

  He slammed his nostril ridges shut, landed on yet more crushed vegetation, and wasn’t sure who was more surprised, Tehaven, the variegated Polint who had fukking awesome natural camouflage, or him.

  As he ducked the first swing, the sudden, overpowering smell of lemon furniture polish nearly took him out.

  “And most surprised goes to the Artek.” Werst grabbed a vine, climbed up out of the Polint’s reach, switched once, twice, three times as the vines were yanked out from under him. He went down with the fourth, back into range of six sets of claws.

  Tehaven roared a challenge. His translator ignored it.

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” The challenge gave him time to roll clear. Challenges were fukking stupid. “. . . yours is bigger.”

  *Truth.*

  *Alamber, off com!*

  *Sorry, Boss.*

  Up on one knee, Werst couldn’t take the shot without hitting Keeleeki’ka. “Get clear, you serley bug!”

  She ignored him, flowing up and over Tehaven’s haunches as quickly as if she were on flat ground. Damp patches that might’ve been blood darkened the variegated fur.

  *Werst, multiple targets returning. Get out, now.*

  “Negative Gunny; Keeleeki’ka has engaged.”

  *Say again!*

  “Keeleeki’ka has engaged. And she’s kicking Dutavar’s brother’s ass.”

  *That’s not possible!* Dutavar snarled.

  “Hey, I’m here, you’re not. Suck it up.”

  Claws caught the edge of the duct tape covering the cracked edge of Keeleeki’ka’s carapace. Muscles bulged as Tehaven used the torque of his twisted torso to fling the Artek off his back. She tumbled twice when she hit the ground, got her legs under her, and rushed back in.

  A blue energy bolt took out the tree to Werst’s right. “The fuk, Firiv!” he snarled as his uniform kept him from being shredded by shards of wood.

  *I’m better in a ship,* Firiv’vrak muttered from his implant. Another tree shattered six meters out.

  “What the serley fuk are you shooting at now?”

  *There’s a Polint and a di’Taykan incoming. I’ve slowed them down.*

  The trunk of a third tree shattered. The crown dropped to hang up in a fourth, much larger tree.

  “Stop defoliating the jungle!” Werst raced for cover as a line of KC rounds chewed up the ground where he’d been standing. The approaching di’Taykan, blue hair so either Mirish or Gayun, stood on Netrovooens’ back, holding the strapping that crossed his shoulders with one hand while the other continued to spray the area.

  Vine to branch to vine to the tree Firiv’vrak’s ray gun had hung up; Werst ran up the trunk, dove through the canopy, and launched himself at the di’Taykan as Firiv’vrak sped past the deep red Polint’s front legs and slammed him in the knees. The timing was so perfect, they couldn’t have planned it better. Mostly because everyone knew plans went to shit when the shooting started.

  Netrovooens stumbled and fell as Werst took Gayun—Gayun light blue, Mirish darker—to the ground. The Polint roared a challenge as he scrambled back onto his feet and took off after Firiv’vrak who led him away. If it came to number of feet on the ground, he’d never catch her. Had he gone for the stationary target, Werst knew he’d have been fukked. He knew how strong and fast the Polint were. A slash to rip off his helmet, a slash to rip off his face—game over.

  Tehaven’s vocabulary had the translation program substituting bug for a dozen other words Werst bet were less neutral. Seemed that fight was still going on.

  That left him with Gayun, who’d gotten to his feet and pulled a knife. He was Navy, not Corps, and he didn’t look all that familiar with knife fighting. In Werst’s neighborhood, a knife fight meant it was Foursday.

  “33X73 is a Class 2 Designate,” he snarled as he raced in, braced a foot against Gayun’s thigh, climbed the side away from his knife hand, and slammed an elbow into the side of his head. “You’re under arrest for . . . for messing shit up.”

  He twisted in the air, landed on his feet, and snarled as Gayun whirled around trying to keep his balance, staggering close enough he could see the light receptors in the di’Taykan’s eyes opening and closing. Opening and closing. “Go down and stay . . .”

  The ground dropped away beneath them.

  They exchanged a momentary, mutual recognition of shit hitting the fan and fell.

  As the canopy retreated, Werst bellowed, “Go to ground!”

  *Werst?* The weight of Firiv’vrak’s pause told him she’d turned in time to see him disappear. *Warden!*

  It was a long way down.

  “Now!”

  Impact.

  Pain exploded across his back, through his head, under his chin.

  Then darkness.

  The darkness didn’t last long.

  The pain seemed to be hanging around.

  He blinked, spit out a mouthful of light blue hair, and pressed his fingers into something soft—no idea of what body part—in search of a pulse. Alive and unconscious. Well, good. He’d still have the chance to kick their . . .

  The darkness returned.

  Turned out it was too much to ask for accurate intelligence from the Ministry. A muscle jumping in her jaw, Torin ducked through a door, lintel intact, unable to tell which of the surrounding pieces of buildings it belonged to. Length of day, ambient temperature, necessary supplements, radiation levels; all that was useful. Random pits in the jungle; that would’ve been more useful.

  “Gunny . . .”

  Torin looked at the piece of stone in her hand, had no memory of breaking it off the decorative carving on the side of the door, and without breaking stride, threw it so that it smashed against a fallen pillar. Half a dozen multihued insects scattered at impact. If the mercenaries thought they now had leverage, they were right. If they thought making it personal would strengthen their position, they were idiots. She checked her cuff again. “His life signs ar
e strong.”

  “We evolved falling out of trees,” Ressk growled, nostril ridges opening and closing as he ran to the end of a branch and swung into the next tree, his landing sending a black bird with purple highlights screaming up into the sky. “Of course, he’s fine. Bertecnic, path goes right of the dead tree. Your military right, for fuksake!”

  Data streaming to Torin’s cuff indicated deep bruising in multiple sites both front and back and blunt force trauma to the back of Werst’s head. Only Krai bone could remain intact when a combat helmet shattered on impact. His pulse and respiration were labored enough for concern, but good enough not to turn concern to worry. The dropping blood pressure, however, that was cause for worry. The shattered helmet had clearly caused lacerations outside the area his uniform covered. Head. Throat. Either could be very bad.

  The Justice Department had disapproved of the Strike Team’s uniforms using military medical tech, protesting that sending comprehensive medical data to the team leader was an invasion of privacy with the potential for bio-terrorism should it fall into the wrong hands. Although she’d made her opinion of that clear, Torin was aware that Captain Kaur’s more diplomatic report to committee had carried the day.

  Ressk’s medical data noted elevated heart and respiration as well as increased muscle tension. All within an acceptable range after having listened to his bonded plummet into a pit.

  Torin ducked a branch without losing speed, her boots slamming down on the crushed vegetation that marked the Polint’s path. They’d traded Werst for the ability to move at full speed.

  *Ex-Marine Lance-corporal Brenda Zhang and ex-Navy Gunner Jana Malinowski have joined Tehaven at the pit.* The words tumbled over each other so quickly Firiv’vrak’s translator had trouble separating them. *They have rope . . .*

  *So does Camaderiz, Boss. All three of them ran past the DLs on the road; he kept going when Zhang and Malinowski peeled off. He’s past the ruins now and out of visual.*

  No point in asking if Alamber had forced his way into the mercenaries’ slates yet. He’d tell her when he had.

  *Zhang and Malinowski appear to be arguing over who will descend into the pit.* Firiv’vrak clicked a pattern that didn’t translate. *I have a clear shot on Zhang.*