An Ancient Peace

by Tanya Huff

  “The whole pirate thing aside, we could use one who hasn’t slaughtered six people and not given a crap.”

  “He told you?”

  “He bragged about how he did it. If he’s my only option, I’d rather be alone.”

  “He isn’t and you’re not.”

  “I know.” A finger stroked the top of her ear. “So can we . . .”

  “No.”

  “You are being close to having run out of time.” Presit folded her arms and glared up at Torin.

  When they exited Susumi space, her ship had been waiting . . . not where they left it, but five hundred kilometers back of the jump point, safely away from the energy wave.

  “My pilot are not being entirely stupid. He are knowing you are having the equations to be jumping back where you are leaving from if you are returning Jamers to me as you are having promised. I are not wishing to be changed on the molecular or any other level, so we are having moved.”

  Craig and Torin had taken the shuttle over and once hooked in, Presit had come to them.

  Torin smiled at her reflection in Presit’s mirrored glasses. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  “I are not having the faintest idea of what you are talking about.”

  “I’m not entirely certain myself.”

  Presit threw up her hands, metallic nails glittering, and stomped over to Craig, the silvered ends of her fur flicking up and down with the force of the movement exposing her darker undercoat. “Why are you putting up with her again?”

  “Must be love.” He met Torin’s eyes over Presit’s head and winked.

  “It are certainly not being good sense,” Presit muttered. She sighed, combed her claws back through her whiskers, and turned to face Torin. The social aspect of the meeting had clearly ended. “So, I are not seeing Jamers with you.”

  Torin opened her hand and shifted the metal cylinder until she held it between thumb and forefinger. “Jamers was dead before we landed. Alamber found her body.”

  “She are being in that?”

  “She ar . . . is.”

  Toenail ticking faintly against the deck, Presit walked over and held out her hand. The cylinder was large enough, her hand small enough, she couldn’t close her fingers around it. “Her death are being an accident?”

  “No.”

  Presit growled low in her throat. “And you are not being able to tell me the details?”

  “If you knew the details, you’d have to tell them to your strectasin,” Torin reminded her.

  “And she wouldn’t be happy,” Craig added.

  “And when she are unhappy, she are being all about taking it out on the messenger. So I are giving up this story in order to be getting out with my pelt intact.” Her sigh suggested she’d given the potential loss of her pelt some consideration. Then her grip tightened on the cylinder and her muzzle rose, white points of teeth showing. “You are having brought whoever are having caused her death to justice?”

  Torin remembered her only sight of Sergeant Toporov, his body moving to ancient H’san programming. “He paid for it.”

  Presit tapped her nails against the cylinder. “That are not what I are asking, but I are allowing it to be your answer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I are not needing your sarcastic thank you, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” She tipped her head up, and although Torin couldn’t see her eyes, she knew Presit was studying her face. After a long moment, the reporter nodded. “So. Now what are happening?”

  “You’ll take Jamers to your strectasin. We’ll go back to work.”

  “Vortzma!”

  Torin had no idea what the Katrien word meant, but the delivery hurt her ears. From Craig’s reaction, she guessed it wasn’t a nice word.

  “That are not what I are asking, and you are knowing it.”

  “Change,” Craig said softly. “Change is happening,” he repeated when she turned to face him.

  Presit nodded. “Well, that I are not doubting if you are insisting on remaining with her.”

  “She’s stuck with me.”

  Presit nodded again. “Good.”

  Torin folded her arms and didn’t ask what she meant.

  Lanh Ng met them at intake when the Promise, her registration reset, arrived at Berbar, Justice’s station in MidSector Seven.

  “He doesn’t look happy,” Binti said behind Torin’s left shoulder.

  “He never looks happy.”

  “I don’t look happy,” Ng snapped, “because, as the only Human Warden, I’m stuck dealing with you lot. Who, I might add, are more trouble than the other three special operation teams combined. And don’t . . .” He pointed at Alamber. “. . . tell me it’s because you’re that much better than the other three teams combined. It’s true, but I don’t want to hear it. Intake forms.”

  Torin touched her slate to his.

  Ng studied the forms—perfectly filled out—and then studied the three prisoners—Alamber had wanted to list them as two and three quarters prisoners, but had lost the vote. “Process them,” he said to the Warden on duty, then pointed at Torin. “My office. Now. The rest of you, when Meticulously Records Every Detail is done with you here, stay out of trouble and keep your mouths shut. You’re in the air lock, the lot of you, don’t give me a reason to open the outer hatch.”

  Torin followed him to the vertical. They rode up to the admin levels in silence. She nodded at his assistant and followed him into his office and stood at ease in front of his desk. Ng hadn’t been military, he’d been a lawyer with Justice when he’d made his lateral career move, and he didn’t require military bearing. She didn’t exactly require it, couldn’t decide if her posture was habit or comfort, but fell into it automatically.

  He finally put down his slate and studied her face. She stared over his left shoulder.

  “You broke your face again. You should stop doing that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me with this in the beginning?”

  She’d included her reason in the sitrep. “Because I believed Colonel Hurrs when he said that taking it to the Justice Department, allowing the Elder Races to know what was going on, could lead to a civil war.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “We also had no idea of the grave robbers’ time frame, we only knew they were close. There was a chance that while the Justice Department deliberated over what should be done, they’d have weapons off world and begin another war.”

  “That wasn’t in your report.”

  “It only just occurred to me.” Meticulously Records Every Detail was not the only Dornagain in the Justice Department. The entire species seemed to be natural bureaucrats, and when they deliberated, they took enough time to analyze every possible option. Every potential option. The lunch order.

  “You do not know better than the entire Justice Department. You can’t go charging off on your own because you think the Confederation needs saving.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What does yes, sir mean?”

  “I do better work within a structure.”

  “Like the Marine Corps.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Or the Justice Department.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when you do better work, your team does better work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Although your definition of within a structure seems to be interestingly nuanced.”

  “Sir?”

  “Stop doing that, you know it pisses me off.” He looked down at the report, now on his desk, and flicked through the pages. “You broke the law when your team cracked those buoys. You know that, right?”

  “In the pursuit of lawbreakers when speed is of the essence, if there is no danger to any citizen of the Confederation, laws may be
set temporarily aside as long as a full report is made of each instance.”

  Ng stared at her. “Are you quoting the manual at me?”

  Torin stared back. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “I’m amazed you even realized there was a manual.”

  “I make myself aware of anything that’ll help me do my job and bring my people home.”

  “And cover your ass. Well, done.” He sighed. “You confuse the rest of the department. You know that, right? From Meticulous right up to the minister in charge. As a result, they’ve kicked your report, and everything it means and implies and insists on, back to me. And I am giving you and your team three tendays to pass the first-level Warden’s exams. You’re right, you’re not weapons.” His mouth twisted. “We’re not weapons, and if we reinforce the separation between the Younger and the Elder Races, that’s how they’ll continue to see us. Not all of them, but enough to cause significant problems.” He tapped the screen and the report flipped through to the final page. It took a while; Torin had been thorough. “In the end, I can essentially guarantee that you and yours will be treated as requested because, however you accomplished it, by stopping the sale of those weapons, you saved millions of lives and very probably stopped, if not a war, any number of armed conflicts.”

  “Those were our orders, sir.”

  “Were they? I’ll see that whoever has words with Colonel Hurrs mentions you followed them.” His lips lifted off Human teeth in a very Krai expression. “And someone will have words with Colonel Hurrs.” Head cocked, he leaned back. “As Wardens, you’ll have an entirely different relationship with the military.”

  “I thought you’d be happy about that.”

  “Oh, I am. Now, here’s the fun part.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his desk. “While I talk the Justice Department through the mess you’ve dumped in my lap, using small words and probably pictures, someone gets to tell the H’san all about trespassing and destruction of monuments and adventure time with their dead. Guess who that’s going to be, ex-Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?”

  “You, sir?”

  “I’m amused you think that.” He frowned at the report. “We need to find out who hired Major Sujuno. We,” he added pointedly. “Not you.”

  “I was only going to mention that her ship’s still in orbit around the H’san planet of origin. She could have left information on board.”

  Ng shook his head. “Thank you. We’ve never held an investigation before. Drop by the housing office, Wardens get quarters on station. Three tendays, level one. We’ll let you know when the H’san are available and there may still be a tribunal in your future. Now get out. And tell your di’Taykan to stop trying to suck up to my assistant, or I’ll do a more thorough background check on him.”

  With a jaunty wave to the Niln at the desk, Alamber fell into step beside her as they left the outer office. “So, how did not defaulting to war work out for us?”

  “Surprisingly well.”

  “Good.”

  “So far.”

  Torin gave Dion’s cylinder to the Justice Department, but she sent the DNA samples for the three Marines back to the Corps. She trusted them to do the right thing.

  Wardens’ quarters weren’t large, but they were larger than the quarters on the ship and, because everyone got the exact same amount of space, Torin and Craig, like Ressk and Werst, had both a bedroom and a sitting room.

  “Good thing. I don’t want that staring at me while I sleep.”

  “Him,” Torin corrected, adjusting the way the Silsviss skull hung on the wall.

  “Doesn’t make it better, luv.”

  “We don’t have to . . .”

  “No.” Craig cut her off. “You agreed not to put him on the ship, I agreed he deserved better than a storage locker. I’ll get used to it.”

  He wasn’t just talking about the skull. “We’ll be on the ship more than we’re here.”

  “Torin . . .” He tugged her around to face him. “. . . we have rooms on a station. Rooms that are a damned sight nicer than rooms we’d be in on the salvage station. I never planned for the two of us to live on Promise.” When she raised a brow, he smiled. “I know, but not full time. As long as you’re here with me, I’m good.”

  A few minutes later, on their way to the bedroom, his hand warm against the skin of her hip, Craig leaned back far enough to see the skull and said, “Wipe that smile off your face.”

  Yeah. They were good.

  All six of them had passed the first-level Warden’s exams before the H’san made time to visit the station.

  The meeting was to take place in the station’s park. The H’san preferred to be surrounded by living things and apparently living Wardens, lawyers, and support staff didn’t cut it. Torin arrived first, as ordered, stood on the mark Ng had shown her, and waited.

  The H’san had been appraised of the situation. They, or at least this H’san had read her report and she therefore, in spite of Ng’s threat, had no need to fill in any background details.

  Eventually, the doors hissed open again and a single H’san walked through, pausing just over the threshold to inhale and exhale.

  A living H’san looked a lot less like a zombie H’san than Torin had anticipated. She fought the urge to tug at her cuffs as they approached. She kept her thumbs interlocked, her shoulders squared, and her weight evenly distributed. She thought of Alamber’s hair, still not grown all the way in, remembered his pain, and Binti’s and Ressk’s, and found her desire to punch the first H’san she saw—amended to first living H’san—hadn’t waned.

  Alamber had made her get new clothes for the meeting.

  “You need an outfit that doesn’t look like it’s designed for ease of mayhem.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with what she’s wearing, mate.”

  The new clothes went with the scarf she’d bought on Abalae, currently draped loosely around her neck and falling to both sides of her left shoulder. Werst had helped her test the tensile strength of the fabric and, if she had to, she could use it to restrain someone.

  As the H’san settled in front of her so they were eye to their ridiculously large eyes, they folded their face into an expression of joy—Torin had spent the days before this meeting learning H’san expressions. “Please, relax.”

  She moved from parade rest to at ease, noting the warm and fuzzy feelings everyone in known space insisted they had around the H’san were absent. Fighting off a necropolis full of zombies seemed to be a game changer.

  Their expression sobered. “You fear I am here to punish you? It is true the Justice Department suggested we, through my speaking, be the ones to deal with what occurred on . . .”

  The planet’s name buzzed in her ears, not recognizable as a word.

  “. . . and to an extent, that is why I’ve come. Your report was very enlightening. We wanted, through my speaking, to thank you. All of you, through your hearing. By preventing Major Sujuno and the mercenaries she employed from removing our ancient weapons, you’ve prevented their use in a great many deaths. There is, after all, no other reason for weapons, is there?” The expression looked anticipatory.

  Torin stuck with the safe response. “No, there isn’t.”

  “And you and yours would know that. Thank you for lifting that responsibility from us.”

  “You’re welcome. Zegazt . . .” It was a title. Learning to pronounce it correctly without spitting had taken almost a full day. Ng wasn’t sure what the title meant.

  “The H’san liaison to Justice doesn’t use it, that’s all I know, Kerr.”

  “. . . have you, through your species . . .” Close enough syntax for government work. “. . . ever considered destroying those weapons?”

  They blinked at her, inner lid first, then the outer. “No.”

  “Why not?” She hadn’t been told she couldn’t ask qu
estions, and she wondered what answers the Justice Department expected her to get.

  Another blink. Inner. Outer. “It’s our past. We maintain it, through our holding. It remains ours, through our holding.”

  And that reminded her of her purpose at the meeting. “I’d like to apologize for the disorder we left behind when we prevented the weapons you won’t destroy from being removed and sold and used.” The disorder had been all she’d been willing to apologize for. One Who Examines the Facts and Draws Conclusions had supported her wording during the protocol meetings. The Dornagain were realists. Insanely methodical, but realists.

  The H’san’s face wore confusion momentarily on the way back to joy. “You have nothing to apologize for. We’ve already begun to take care of the disorder, and we’ll make certain that no one judges the entirety of the Younger Races based the actions of those few who tried to break our peace.”

  “It’s sad you have to.”

  An appendage waved. “Have to?”

  “It’s sad that you have to make certain that no one judges the entirety of the Younger Races based on the actions of those few who tried to break your peace.”

  That was definitely the confused expression. Torin maintained “speaking to a senior officer” neutrality as the H’san worked their way through her repetition to, “Yes. Sad. And it was a shame . . .”

  That expression wasn’t shame. Or sorrow.

  “. . . the scholar died.”

  Torin shifted her expression just enough to meet the H’san’s gaze and hold it. “It was a shame,” she said, as the inner eyelid slid halfway across and stalled, “that they all died.”

  “Of course.” Inner. Outer. No expression Torin had learned. “I only meant we’d have appreciated knowing one who put so much work into learning about our past.”

  Was she imagining undertones around appreciate? “Zegazt, if you could tell me, why hide the coordinates of your planet of origin only from the Younger Races?”

  “Ah. So what has happened won’t happen, of course.”

  “And now it has happened?”