A Peace Divided

by Tanya Huff

  Two thirds of the tables and benches had been pushed toward the long inside wall. Given the occupants of said benches were all Niln and Katrien—the first constantly tasting the air, the second visibly shedding—he’d found the hostages. No help there although no danger either. Big piece of the room he could ignore.

  A table tucked in the outside corner held a Krai—Sareer—and two di’Taykan—deep blue would be Mirish, the pink Pyrus. Commander Yurrisk’s crew. Sareer glanced over, her nostrils flared. If the commander’s crew knew Strike Team Alpha the way Martin’s seemed to, his cover was blown. Other species might have trouble telling Krai apart, but Krai sure as chreen didn’t. She frowned and turned her attention back to her sah. Good.

  Fuk, he could use a sah.

  Commander Yurrisk, the Druin, and an elderly Niln stood by the large orange sheet of plastic-looking something. The commander’s fingers and toes stretched and curled constantly. He swayed to the right, then to the right again. Anyone with eyes could see he was out on branches that couldn’t hold his weight, one small step from a fall. The Druin beside him was an unanswered question. She didn’t move like Merinim, so probably hadn’t been a soldier, at least not recently. She didn’t move like she was helpless either. She made him think of vines; flexible, mistakenly perceived as fragile. Vines could bring a tree down. The Niln was Harveer Arniz, soil scientist, one of the hostages. She appeared to be tired but unhurt, not at all cowed, and fascinated by whatever the chreen they were staring at.

  Werst hadn’t seen that much plastic in one place for years. Even inorganics, blameless as far as starting wars went, had been replaced. Could be academics didn’t care. Could be they didn’t know. He had the impression they lived isolated from reality, even more than most civilians. He didn’t recognize the raised symbols on the sheet, but he’d gotten most of his education in the Corps, so subjects that didn’t contribute to surviving the war tended to be glossed over—although instructors usually substituted the word win for survive.

  They’d managed to hang the sheet from the ceiling about a meter out from the inside end wall. Most anchors Werst had seen used that wall as a pass through to the galley, but the panels remained up. One less exit to guard. One less exit he could use.

  Martin stood back a meter, a meter and a half, from the commander, Brenda Zhang beside him sucking on a pouch of water. He had a vague memory of Zhang declaring she had salvage rights to his weapons and that looked like his knife in her boot sheath. Good. When the fight started, if she tried to use it, the grip and balance would throw her off. Amateur. Martin was as big as he remembered. Maybe heavier, but that was a Human aging thing. He stood chest out, chin up, dominating the room with his height and weight. Still throwing it around, then. His face was red, the skin stretched tight, because they were near the equator and Robert Martin was too tough to need protection from UV. Idiot. How the fuk had he made sergeant? Although everyone but the hostages were armed, Martin was the only one with his hands on his weapon. Too many eyes on him for him to have his hands on his junk. Asshole.

  Unlike Malinowski, both Martin and Zhang wore modified combats. On the one hand, Werst knew how to exploit the weaknesses of the uniform, but, on the other, civvies were easier to get teeth through.

  Bad luck it’d been Trembley, the youngest and least trained of the Humans, who’d already been taken out of the fight.

  The distance Martin kept from the commander, the Druin, and the Niln . . . who walked into a bar. He snickered.

  “What’s so funny?” Malinowski demanded.

  “Your face.”

  “Fuk you.”

  The distance Martin kept looked . . . looked . . . Oh fuk, he’d lost the word.

  The room tilted.

  “Fall down,” Malinowski muttered, “and I’ll drag you over to him.”

  Toes flexing against the floor, Werst clenched his teeth against the return of the second protein shake he’d drunk before leaving the infirmary. Krai didn’t vomit. Krai didn’t waste food. His stupid body would not betray him, not now. A deep breath, cautiously drawn through nostril ridges mostly closed, and he straightened, took another step.

  The distance Martin kept looked supervisory.

  He was two meters out when Martin’s gaze switched to him and his lip curled.

  Werst maintained a steady fuk you expression.

  “If you’ve finished your threat assessment, Warden Ressk, make yourself useful.”

  Hating the sound of his bonded’s name in that serley chrika’s mouth, Werst showed teeth. “You might want to sound less revenik if you want my help.” Fukhead.

  “You might want to remember, I need your brain, not your fingers and toes.”

  “Yeah, because torture leads to clear thinking.” Moron.

  “Okay, I don’t need . . .” Martin nodded at the huddle of scientists. “. . . all of them. So start protecting the innocent, Warden, or I’ll thin the herd a little more.”

  Harveer Arniz hissed. Good for her. “What do you want me to do?”

  Martin nodded toward the plastic. “What is it?”

  “Orange. Looks like plastic.”

  “Listen tree fukker, I don’t . . .”

  “It’s a data sheet. Or at least it looks like one.” Harveer Arniz took Werst’s arm and pulled him closer. “We have to start somewhere, so we’re proceeding under the premise that it is what it looks like. I found it hanging in an underground room, and the decision was made to bring it with us . . .”

  Werst thought he heard one of the hostages mutter, “Stupid decision.”

  “. . . when we returned to the anchor after learning the Wardens had landed.”

  “This piece of ancient technology will lead us to the weapon,” Commander Yurrisk announced.

  “If we can learn to use it,” the Druin said calmly. In Federate.

  As Werst tensed, the commander visibly relaxed. “Which is why you’re here, Warden Ressk. None of the scientists . . .”

  “Hostages.”

  The commander tore his gaze away from the data sheet and turned to look at him with less crazy in his eyes than Werst had expected although the edges of his nostril ridges were quivering. “What?”

  Reminding himself he was supposed to be Ressk, Werst kept both tone and expression respectful. Always a chance that if he reminded the commander of what he’d gotten himself into, he could reach the decorated Naval officer buried under the trauma. Failing that, respecting the enemy was often seen as weak. He could use that to his advantage. “As a Warden, I don’t see them as scientists. I see them as hostages.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  Commander Yurrisk sighed. “You can see them as a vertak abquin for all I care. They can’t figure this thing out, but your reputation has convinced Sergeant Martin you can. He seems to have made a study of Strike Team Alpha. Can you?”

  “Probably.” Ressk’s answer. Ressk’s arrogance about this sort of thing. Ressk chubbing up in the presence of new tech. Although, odds were high that with his more unique education, Alamber would have better luck with this kind of thing.

  “Get to it, then.”

  The data sheet was approximately three meters by two and a half. Werst had no idea why they assumed it was a data sheet. It was alien. It could be anything. Hell, it was plastic. It could be a fukking family reunion. They were called sentient, polynumerous molecular polyhydroxide alcoholydes on the official documents and there were lots of molecules on a sheet that size. Enough for speech if they decided they had something to say. Needed Gunny or Ryder in here to kick their shape-shifting plastic asses into a conversation, though.

  The raised symbols were the same shade of orange as the background, visible only because they threw a thin, translucent shadow. As Werst watched, a symbol separated from a clump in the upper right corner and shifted down to the bottom left. Okay, sure, it looked
a lot like a data sheet, but even he knew function didn’t necessarily follow form. Weapons in the Methane Alliance looked like pudding.

  “Well?” Commander Yurrisk demanded. “Well?”

  Werst could feel the weight of the Druin’s stare on the side of his face. Why did she speak Federate? He raised a hand in the universal symbol for give me a fukking minute here and walked around to examine the far side. Ressk wouldn’t answer without all available information.

  The back was a big orange sheet of plastic. Looked a bit like a tarp. None of the symbols showed through and he was all alone. He’d have made a run for it had there been anywhere to go, but there was SFA in the way of escape routes. He walked slowly, reminding himself of where the Polint’s major blood vessels rose close to the surface, and emerged on the opposite side with every eye in the place locked on his position.

  His lips curled. He intended to snarl. He wobbled instead and barely stopped himself from grabbing the plastic to keep himself upright.

  Her gloved hand on the commander’s arm, the Druin’s inner eyelids flicked slowly across the solid black. If the tell held true across the species—or at least across his data set of three—she was considering new information. He was the only new information in the room.

  Aiming for distraction, he turned and thrust his face toward the plastic, inhaling loudly. “Petroleum,” he said, pulling back.

  “Well done. That’s what I told them.” Harveer Arniz sounded snippy enough, he doubted they’d listened. “While your nose isn’t exactly peer reviewed, it’s good to have confirmation. No one else bothered to check,” she added when he glanced her way.

  The anticipation in the room had grown to an almost physical presence, waiting for his words of wisdom.

  What would Ressk say? “I need to taste it.”

  “No.” Commander Yurrisk left no room for argument.

  Werst argued anyway. “Took a bite out of the plastic aliens on . . .” Fuk. Ressk hadn’t been on Big Yellow. “. . . the prison planet. I know what they taste like. Fastest way to see if this is them. And we might get a reaction. Get enough of a reaction, and you can ask them where the weapon is.”

  “Too dangerous,” Martin said before the commander could respond. “They’re not going to want anyone to have the weapon. It won’t be safe.”

  “We have to stay safe. The weapon will keep us flying.” The commander brushed a hand over his scalp. “I need the weapon. We won’t risk it.”

  So much for the possibility of a polynumerous, molecular, polyhydroxide alcoholyde distraction. “Fine. Then I need my slate.”

  “Your slate got smashed when you fell in the pit,” Zhang called out. “Pretty sure it got busted up when it impacted with your ass.”

  That explained the pull/pain/pull of a Polint-sized bruise while going down the stairs.

  “Werst’s slate . . .”

  From the edge of the hole, Torin watched Ressk pick up the pieces of the slate and cup them in both hands. Nostrils flared, he brought his hands up to his face, and inhaled. The two Druin at the bottom of the pit with him examined the walls, giving him his space.

  After a moment, Freenim shook his head. “I can’t see the color discrepancy, Mashona.”

  “Half a meter to your right.” Torin glanced over in time to see Binti cock her head and say, “No, wait, it’s gone.” Her head returned to the original angle. “And it’s back. It’s subtle.”

  “In your language that’s another word for invisible, right?” Freenim slid sideways, eyes on the wall. “Here?”

  “Another step. Yeah, there. You’re at the longer edge. Parallel side’s about half a meter over, stops about half a meter up and moves left toward the floor at close to a forty-five. Upper edge is about your shoulder height.”

  As Merinim moved to the parallel, Torin copied Binti’s head motion. Still nothing. Not with eyes alone, not augmented by the scanner. “Any chance the angled edge could be shadow. Or lack of shadow?”

  “Could,” Binti allowed.

  “Search for a connection between the underground rooms,” Vertic said, all three Polint a safe distance away from the edge. “Stealth surveillance doesn’t usually include moving from post to post in the open.”

  “Stealth surveillance?”

  “Can you think of another reason a species with superior technology would hide under a city of primitives?”

  Torin couldn’t think of another reason why she’d do it, but unknown aliens were another matter. “There was a tunnel under the ruins by the VTA.”

  *Just like that, then? You didn’t think about mentioning it earlier?*

  “Thought it was a skinny cellar and I got distracted by getting the hell out of there.”

  *We’ll talk. I’m running subsurface scans around the VTA.*

  “The plastic can look like anything, Durlan.” Torin heard Bertecnic pacing as he spoke, foliage crushed under foot. “Why hide? Those big beetles look pretty plastic anyway.”

  “We don’t know these things were created by the plastic.” A hand on Binti’s shoulder and a nod directing her gaze back into the pit kept her from turning with Torin. “There’s a lot of plastic in the universe. Most of it isn’t sentient.”

  “The data sheet could be millennia old and yet it didn’t shatter when rolled.” Vertic’s voice skirted and I’m an officer for the first time in days. “Precedent suggests that when a large and unexpected amount of plastic is found, the plastic is involved.”

  “Then why dig underground rooms?” Dutavar asked. “Why hide? The plastic could move about unseen.”

  Binti shifted, the motion enough to spill a fan of humus off the edge. “Why turn into a big yellow spaceship when their default color is gray?”

  “To catch our attention.” Torin stood and stepped carefully back from the edge to the line gouged in the dirt marking where the ground had scanned as solid. The line had been there when they’d arrived. “I can’t believe I’m asking this: is anyone carrying plastic?”

  “I am, Warden.” When she turned, Dutavar held out a small open container. In it, a three-centimeter white cube. “It’s organic,” he said. “Pre-discovery of the plastic. Carried by all active military personnel.”

  Torin stared at it for a long moment. “Bait.”

  He nodded. “Bait.”

  Odds were the military bias against volunteering information had kept him from informing her of what he carried. Or, he could have thought it was none of her business. They had, until recently, been enemies, and had known each other less than a full tenday.

  The piece was much smaller than the minimum density required for the plastic to achieve interactive sentience, but probably large enough to attract other pieces. The Primacy military was being proactive. Good for them. Or not. Torin honestly couldn’t decide.

  She could feel the anticipation as she reached for the cube. Even the ever-present background drone of insects seemed to have quieted.

  *Torin?*

  Craig could make her name sound like a hundred different questions. She appreciated the efficiency. “Nothing. No reaction.” It felt a bit like foam. A bit like firm tofu.

  “So you’ve come to believe these underground rooms were built by the plastic?” Vertic asked as Torin tucked the container into a pocket.

  “I believe in not leaving large unanswered questions blocking my retreat. Particularly, if I’m about to be shot at. If the plastic reacts to me, we’ll know.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” Bertecnic asked.

  Torin glanced over at him. “Hive mind, remember. And it’s been in my head.”

  Binti grinned. “So you’re saying that if it’s smart enough to maintain an interstellar war for centuries, it’s smart enough not to piss you off?”

  “That’s what precedent suggests.”

  Dutavar’s vertical pupils were thin slits in gray eyes. �
��Warden, if there’s a reaction, my government wants to question the plastic.”

  “It’s a lot less satisfying than you’d think.”

  *And I are having the right to the first interview.*

  “Only on our side of the line.” She removed her pack and reached for the rope. “And if your government has come up with a way to restrain the plastic, I’d like to hear about it. They’ll break into molecular components and can’t be held.” The assumption was that very high or very low temperatures would destroy them. The military was working on an electrostatic charge to hold them in place, but as none of the plastic they’d used in testing had risen up and complained, it all remained unsubstantiated theory. “Dutavar, secure and drop another line. If this goes wrong, we’ll need to get everyone up at once.”

  Dutavar nodded. “On it, Warden.”

  Two meters from the bottom of the pit, she swung out far enough to miss the puddle of blood and dropped. The floor absorbed most of the impact. Seemed it wasn’t only Krai bones that had kept Werst alive.

  Freenim caught her eye, then nodded at his bonded. The Druin readied their weapons.

  “Ressk?”

  “I’m good, Gunny.” He tucked the broken slate out of sight and stood. “Where do you want me?”

  “By the lines. In case one of us has to get out fast.”

  *Torin, for fuk’s sake, be careful.*

  “Always.”

  *I don’t think that means what you think it means.*

  Shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet—her body refused to believe the plastic couldn’t be fought—Torin held the white cube between the thumb and forefinger of her nondominant hand . . .

  “You’re lined up with the color change, Gunny.” Binti’s voice drifted down from above. “Dead ahead.”

  . . . and pressed it against the wall. White to gray.

  Nothing happened.

  Webbing creaked as one of the Druin shifted position.