A Peace Divided

by Tanya Huff

  When Beyvek slipped out from behind her, he gave her a hard shove, pushing her back into the remaining rear corner. Storing her out of the way much as Qurn had done with the plastic. She watched the Druin slide a metal rectangle into a fold of her robes, noted that Martin had dropped Commander Yurrisk into the OIC’s chair, swiveled it around to face the board, and settled himself at the helm. Then she took a moment to examine Beyvek.

  He had a rising bump over one eye, the bruising feathering back into his mottling, numerous small cuts on both hands, and a split nostril ridge—souvenirs of his fight with the Artek. He also wore no discernible expression . . . emotions either shut down or crippled. Given that he’d followed Commander Yurrisk from the Paylent and the Artek did most of the Primacy’s boarding, Torin bet on the latter.

  “In case you missed it, Lieutenant . . .” She kept all censure from her voice. Pure senior NCO to junior officer—respectful of what they could be, there to support what they were. “Martin here is a member of Humans First.”

  His gaze tracked up to her face. “So?”

  “You’re not Human, sir. Martin considers you a lesser species, not worth his time.”

  “He saved the commander.”

  Ah. “How is Commander Yurrisk, sir?”

  Beyvek’s nostril ridges shut, the split seeping blood. Emotions surged free—anger, terror, guilt, pain—and were quickly shut down again. “An enemy came through the air lock. How do you think he is?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Although she could make a good guess. “The report from the Paylent was almost entirely redacted.”

  “Twenty-five of us fought our way free and the commander stayed on our six all the way to the engine room. Did you know there’s an air lock between the rest of the ship and the engines in case of a blow-back?” His tone remained conversational. “Double hatches. But they got through. Three of us died immediately. Seven of us were injured. They kept coming. There were pieces. In pieces. People in pieces. The commander . . .” Anger. Terror. Guilt. Pain. Gone again. Torin could see his throat work as he swallowed. “Use your brain, Gunnery Sergeant. I know thinking’s against Marine SOP, but try. The commander kept us alive. Now, I’m keeping him safe.”

  “And the others from your crew?”

  “They’ll catch up.”

  “Did Martin tell you that?” She couldn’t work even a millimeter of give into the cord. “You can’t trust Martin.”

  “Sergeant Martin saved the commander. Brought him to the VTA.”

  “Commander Yurrisk needs more help than Martin can give him.” Torin met Beyvek’s gaze. “I can get him that help. I can get all of you help.”

  No one, not the most underexposed of the Elder Races, would consider Beyvek’s flash of teeth a smile. “Help? We got help.”

  “Yeah, some military therapists can be next to useless,” she agreed. “But none of us . . .” Emphasis on us. “. . . are military anymore.”

  He stared at her for a long moment as his nostril ridges slowly opened. “Once you’re in,” he said quietly, “you never get to leave.”

  Her arm twitched against the hold of the cord and she squared her shoulders against the weight she still carried as he turned his back on her. He wasn’t wrong.

  A rustle of fabric flipped her gaze over to Qurn in time to see her peel off a glove and touch the plastic with long, pale fingers. The plastic remained inert. She turned toward Torin’s scrutiny—Torin was ninety-nine percent certain she’d bit back the sudden intake of breath punched out of her lungs when flesh came in contact with the plastic—and said, “Your teammate, Ressk . . .”

  She rolled the name out so dismissively, Torin would’ve bet high that she hadn’t bought Werst’s impersonation of his bonded.

  “. . . believed he saw a pattern in it.”

  “Spill your guts, why don’t you,” Martin grunted, attention on the board. The DeCaal hadn’t been retrofitted with a hard light display, keeping Torin from seeing what he was doing.

  “It makes no difference.” Qurn drew the glove back on.

  Torin raised a brow. “You’re going to let him give an artifact with so much potential to a third-rate terrorist organization with delusions of grandeur?”

  Qurn looked up at her, her minimal features making her face almost as expressionless as Beyvek’s. “I’m not letting him do anything.”

  “Damned right.” Martin leaned back, grabbed the commander’s right wrist, and slapped his palm down on the screen.

  Around the time of the DeCaal’s commission, electronic field readers had been installed on ships below a certain size in an attempt to prevent the Primacy from using captured vessels against Confederation forces. One member on each ship’s crew had been designated as the key to unlock the ignition sequence. They had to be alive and reasonably healthy in order to match the same electronic field recorded originally. The field couldn’t be faked or duplicated. Unfortunately, battle killed indiscriminately and when the seventh ship lost its key in the middle of a deployment, Parliament declared the attempt too flawed to continue paying for.

  The Corps had given the Navy a lot of shit about it—they’d refused to allow Parliament to code their weapons the same way—but, to be fair, everyone Torin knew in the Navy had called it an asinine idea.

  Either the DeCaal had already been in the scrap yard when the feature was recalled or Commander Yurrisk had reinstalled it. Fifty/fifty chance.

  “Martin didn’t save Commander Yurrisk,” Torin said. “He needs him to unlock the ignition sequence. He’s using the commander to escape.”

  “He got him off planet.” Beyvek shrugged. He was better at it than a lot of Krai. “That’s good enough for me.”

  She needed more time. Craig had to be close.

  Torin leaned back against the bulkheads, the angle of the corner giving her bound hands enough room to work, the pressure keeping her shoulders still and attention off the attempt. Still no give. The bulkheads also kept her upright when the occasional wave of dizziness swept over her as her system worked at flushing the last of the Druin tranquilizer. “Since we’re all going with you, care to share a destination?”

  Martin snorted. “We’re going to a future without the Elder Races fukking us over.”

  “In what way?” Both Martin and Qurn turned to stare at her. Beyvek didn’t bother. “I’ll make it easier,” Torin said in her most patronizing tone. “We’re no longer at war. How are they fukking us over now?”

  Her most patronizing tone had been designed to get a response. Martin surged up out of his chair, remembering at the last instant he needed to keep the commander’s palm against the screen. “We died in their war!”

  “Yes, we did.” She’d grant him the we, he’d worn the uniform.

  “And what did we get out of it?”

  “An extended life expectancy, a presence on multiple planets, and membership in a civilization worth preserving.”

  Qurn’s mouth twitched.

  “I don’t do rhetoric,” Torin added. “Destination?”

  Martin returned his attention to the board and the bars of light flashing across it. “When we’re moving, I’m gagging you.”

  “You don’t care he’s withholding information?” she asked Qurn.

  “Not really.”

  “Lieutenant Beyvek . . .”

  “He saved the commander.”

  “Yes, sir, he did,” Torin agreed. “Now, where’s he taking him?”

  Beyvek glanced back at Torin, raised his weapon, then turned to face the back of Martin’s head. “Where are you taking him?”

  “To safety.”

  “You’re not a Susumi engineer,” Torin pointed out, “This ship’s canned equations are Navy. The Wardens can track them.” Ressk and Alamber could track them. The official tracking program was still being discussed in a Parliamentary committee. “If Martin do
es the math, we’ll all become the kind of statistics that discourage amateurs from jumping. We all die. The commander dies.”

  Beyvek’s shoulders stiffened, and his finger slid through the trigger guard. Naval officers understood the dangers of decompression better than most, but weighted against his instability . . . Torin bet that if any area of the ship still had self-patching up and running, it would be the control room and, besides, that close even the Navy could hit a soft target.

  Her foot in his back would fling him forward, taking him out while keeping his aim more or less on Martin.

  But then Qurn was there at Beyvek’s side while Torin’s eyeballs twitched and she fought to keep her knees from buckling as her brain insisted the room had begun to spin.

  “You need Sergeant Martin to help keep Yurrisk safe.” Soft, convincing, Qurn leaned in, her hand over his, and lifted his finger back to a resting position, pressing—no, stroking—it flat. “Remember how Martin carried our commander to the shuttle? He won’t endanger him now. Will you, Sergeant Martin?”

  “We’re going back to our entry point and through, a simple reverse equation,” Martin growled. “My people will meet us on the other side. They’ll have original equations Justice can’t track.”

  “And Sergeant Martin will take Warden Kerr with him, leaving the three of us on the DeCaal, so we can gather up the rest of the crew. Isn’t that right, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Safe,” Qurn said close enough to Beyvek’s ear, it twitched. When he nodded and the tension left his arms and shoulders, she murmured, “Well done.”

  Torin wouldn’t have believed Martin had he said the H’san liked cheese, and she sure as hell didn’t believe he had any intention of giving up the DeCaal. Humans First had lost their fleet, they needed another. Hell, she was pretty sure Qurn didn’t believe him either. Beyvek did. Or he believed Qurn, if not necessarily Martin.

  “Keep watch.” Qurn squeezed Beyvek’s shoulder and crossed to communications, pulling off her gloves as she dropped into the seat.

  Martin’s fingers staggered across the board where Craig’s danced, but Torin knew she was nearly out of time. She could feel the engine vibrations through the bulkheads and deck. Craig had to be close.

  If puking would slow things down, she’d happily spew the contents of her stomach over the deck.

  “I’m reading a second ship.” Qurn had removed both gloves to work the station.

  “Who asked you?”

  “A second ship,” Qurn repeated.

  “It’s C&C. Full of Dornagain.” Martin threw up both hands, then slapped them hurriedly back down as port engines fired and the ship lurched. “They land when the danger’s over and apply protocol. They’re harmless. Toothless. Useless. Besides, Wardens respect personal property.” Torin could hear the sneer in his voice. Mashona, back on 33X73 could probably hear the sneer in his voice. “Human Wardens are dogs licking the feet of the Justice Department. Dogs with no bite. You’re not allowed to blow up civilian ships, are you, Warden Kerr?”

  Torin remembered the Heart of Stone and, as the DeCaal left orbit, muttered, “Not anymore.”

  Puking did not slow things down.

  “Dumb-ass rules,” Werst muttered, ignoring the ladder from the shuttle lock and dropping straight down to the deck. At this point, pain was relative. Ryder’s longer legs had already taken him to the first hatch. “If we’d blown their ship up when we got here, they’d be shit out of luck right now.”

  To Werst’s surprise, Presit slid down the ladder’s outside supports like a vacuum jockey on alert, hitting the deck seconds behind him. “And you are being a good enough shot to be sure you are not blowing up the Susumi engines and irradiating the entire system?”

  “It’s not shitting through the eye of a needle, there’s three square meters to avoid.” To his further surprise, she kept up to him on the flat. “Even you could hit it safely.”

  “Then Justice ships are having to be armed, and where are the line being drawn between the Wardens and the military?”

  “You read the minutes of the Parliamentary committee.” Werst had endured a compulsory assembly where Commander Ng had shared their conclusions. If Ressk hadn’t had an illegal copy of the new Band of Jernine on his slate, he wouldn’t have survived.

  Silvered fur rose and fell and disappeared into the air filters as Presit shrugged. “Of course, I are having read it. The Strike Team’s primary responsibility remains the control and capture of mercenary groups during violently illegal activities. As the budget contains no provision for boarding parties, we find it to be preferable that the occasional mercenary vessel escape rather than the Wardens’ ships be armed creating a third fighting force.” Quote over, she snorted. “I are wondering what they are thinking you are doing if they are thinking you are not fighting?”

  “Politicians think?” Three strides ahead entering the control room, Werst dropped into the copilot’s seat as Ryder started the engines. “And Martin’s not getting away.”

  “The DeCaal are an Agressive class ship.”

  “Yeah?”

  He heard her sigh from the seat behind him. “Promise, while being a fine ship, are not being fast enough to catch it.”

  Ryder drew both hands, fingers spread, across the board, and Promise flung herself out of orbit. “We’ve a fair go,” he growled.

  “The Wardens are in pursuit.”

  “C&C,” Martin began.

  Qurn cut him off. “Not C&C. The Promise has left orbit, has corrected for rotation, and is following, all engines on full.”

  “Too bad you never got around to replacing the rear guns.” He slapped the commander’s dangling foot. Yurrisk showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Qurn seemed unconcerned, but as that could mean she didn’t care as much as it could mean he was in no danger from the drug, Torin wasn’t reassured. Pushing the commander’s foot out of his way, Martin swiveled the chair around to face Torin in her corner. “Looks like your team doesn’t want to lose you, Warden Kerr.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Torin shrugged. “. . . I owe Warden Ryder money.”

  “What happens if we space you?” He sounded as though he honestly wanted to know.

  “I die. They keep coming. You go to rehabilitation with extra bruises.” She swallowed. Carefully. The vertigo and accompanying nausea hadn’t completely faded. With the DeCaal down to bare bones, she’d thought it strange the puking protocols were still in place in the control room. It hadn’t been necessary to untie her so she could clean up the vomit. Although, given Commander Yurrisk’s vertigo and the DeCaal’s starboard wobble, maybe it wasn’t all that strange.

  When Martin returned his attention to the board, he snickered. “We’ve doubled our lead. That cobbled-together bucket can’t catch us.”

  “They’re fast.” Werst checked the DeCaal’s lead—again—and found it had more than doubled.

  “They are still not responding when I are hailing them. That are being very shortsighted. If they are not responding, they are not knowing I are offering them an exclusive venue to be telling their story.”

  “What do they care?” he asked. “They’ll still be going to rehab.”

  Ryder’s thumb drummed against his thigh. “If they make it to rehab.”

  Presit sniffed. “Rehab are being weightless against the exposure I are offering them.”

  As she began listing the ways Martin and his people would benefit from that exposure, Ryder threw up a new screen of equations and separated out the bottom line. “They’ll be one point nine seven seven million kilometers away by the time they reach the jump site.”

  That wasn’t good, Werst acknowledged with a grunt, but it wasn’t the end of the line either. “So we follow the jump. Not the first time you’ve had to do that.”

  “Or we get ahead of them.”

  Werst’s
nostril ridges closed. “You’re not.”

  “Only choice.”

  “I are not understanding,” Presit pointed out petulantly, having finally realized no one was listening to her.

  “Micro jump,” Werst told her, strapping in as Ryder began working the equations.

  “Oh.”

  He unstrapped and squirmed around. “Oh? That’s it? That’s your response?”

  “Of course not. I are going to be needing your data to be proving to my network the jump are having occurred.”

  “You’re weirdly calm. This has never been done before! No one knows how time will pass in Susumi on a jump that short.”

  She combed her claws through her whiskers; first the left, then the right. “I are having ridden the Susumi wave of a Primacy battleship with Craig Ryder at the helm of the Promise.” Then, in case Ryder thought that might be a compliment, she added, “Riding the first micro jump are being an excellent story to be adding to my portfolio. There are very likely more awards in my future.” Without being told, she pulled the crash harness over her shoulders and buckled in. “I are ready. Proceed.”

  “Holy fukking shit!” Martin reared back, the chair under him shrieking a protest at the abuse.

  Susumi alerts, proximity alerts, and radiation alerts screamed out warnings as the Promise appeared suddenly, emerging from Susumi space only a few thousand kilometers away, riding the exit wave ninety degrees across the DeCaal’s trajectory. Caught in the lateral disbursement of Susumi energies, the DeCaal rocked hard to port.

  Torin rolled with the motion, threaded her legs through the loop of her arms, and, on her way to her feet, drove her head into Beyvek’s nostril ridges. He gasped, snorted blood, and dropped. She saw Martin rise, swing his weapon around toward her, then all she saw for a moment was a flurry of red fabric. As it cleared, Martin flinched, slapped his cheek, and collapsed.