FOUR

“LOOK, ALL I’M SAYING is that Marteau mentioned selling weapons to the Primacy . . .” Craig leaned in and lowered his voice. “. . . and then there’s the Primacy up in our face with weapons.”

Torin nodded at a passing Rakva before she answered. “Like the commander said, it’s not against the law to sell weapons to the Primacy.”

“It should be.”

“Not arguing that.”

“It’s against the law to use those weapons to take hostages.”

“And there’s no evidence connecting the two,” she reminded him, stepping into the lift. They shared a descending handhold and, after a silent exchange, agreed to continue the conversation later. Emphasizing the lack of privacy in the enclosed space, a high-pitched Katrien argument bounced down from above; far enough above, the Katrien themselves were out of sight.

“I had Ressk fossick through Marteau’s public accounts and he’s doing better than most OutSector colonies,” Craig began again when they stepped out onto the level that accessed the least used of the station’s eight docking arms. “He’d have hardly noticed the cost of sending mercs to the H’san homeworld looking for weapons and could’ve sent more mercs off to Threxie with his pocket change.”

It took her a moment, then she remembered the planet’s log number; 33X73—Threxie. With any luck, the name would be considered part of Craig’s unique vocabulary and not stick. The look on Cap’s face had been priceless at their first meeting when he’d raised a beer and said, “So you’re the new Wardie.”

“Marteau admitted to Primacy connections,” Craig continued, his voice a low growl. “That’s three hits on weapons, two on Primacy. When does it stop being coincidence?”

“When we have evidence. He’s going to talk about weapons, Craig, he makes weapons.” Weapons that had protected the Confederation. Weapons that helped her do her job and bring her people back alive. “I’ve used guns and mortars, sammies and spikes all stamped with Marteau’s name.”

“So you give him a free pass, then?”

“No, he’s an asshole, but that doesn’t make him a criminal mastermind. He has the means, sure, maybe even the opportunity—easy enough to buy that—what’s his motivation? Marteau doesn’t have to go looking for weapons, so why risk involving the H’san? Or us?” Torin glanced over at the tight line of Craig’s jaw, nodded at a group of passing Krai in maintenance uniforms, and when they had the passageway to themselves, asked, “Why has Marteau got your nuts in a knot?”

Craig exhaled, ran both hands back through his hair, stepped out in front of her, and stopped. He didn’t look angry. He looked unhappy. “The war is over and, yeah, there’s plenty of shit kicking still going on, but Marteau doesn’t need to be making new boots. You see weapons as tools, Torin, more efficient than a rock, but essentially the same thing. Other people are going to see them as opportunities.”

She touched the Justice Department symbol on his uniform. “And it’s our job to stop them.”

“Yeah.” His hands were warm against her face, his lips warm when he leaned in and kissed her. “And you’re good at your job.”

As the warmth faded from her skin, she watched him step through the hatch wondering what she’d missed. “Not saying I approve of vigilantes,” she muttered as she followed, “but I’m all about taking the opportunity to destroy the plastic aliens.”

It made sense that Craig, one of the two Strike Team Wardens not ex-military, would be more concerned about Marteau than either the plastic or the Primacy.

•   •   •

Torin felt the shiver of contact through her boots and released a breath she didn’t remember holding. Primacy ships had rammed stations before, and the two accompanying Confederation battleships wouldn’t have been able to stop a last-minute acceleration.

The war, she reminded herself, had been over for years.

Compared to the centuries of fighting, there’d been peace for half a heartbeat.

A moment later, interrupting the faint, calming music trickling from the speakers by the air lock, the docking master announced that the clamps had been successfully engaged.

“What was your first clue?” Werst muttered.

“No sirens,” Ressk responded.

“Or lockdowns,” Binti added.

“And a total lack of explosive decompression,” Alamber said without looking up from his slate.

“Vacuum is an unforgiving bitch.” Craig moved closer to the air lock, his gaze on the numbers scrolling past on the door. “Stations are all about redundancy.”

Commander Ng sighed. “Speaking of redundancy, I summoned Warden Kerr, not the entire team.”

“Team,” Binti repeated, spreading her hands.

“The whole station knows there’s a Primacy ship stopping at Justice on its way to Parliamentary reconstruction meetings,” Torin told him when he turned to her. “Primacy 101 has been looping on the station entertainment system for the last twenty-seven hours.”

“They’re showing the docking feed at Musselman’s,” Werst said, standing on her left.

“Then why aren’t you there?” Ng asked.

Werst grinned. “Rather be here. One of five people with Primacy experience, thought you might need me.”

“Of course.” Ng brushed invisible dust off the sleeve of his uniform tunic. “And you, Warden di’Crikeys? Having no Primacy experience . . .”

Alamber’s fingers skimmed the surface of his slate. “Never met one, so I was curious.”

“If you’re trying to access the Primacy ship, stop.”

His hair flipped out as he looked up and grinned. “Boss already warned me off. Said she’d be annoyed if I started another war.”

Ng made one of his noncommittal noises. “And you, Warden Ryder?”

“I was there the last time.”

“Your interaction with the Primacy on the prison planet was minimal.”

“Yeah, but my minimal was talking, not shooting. That’s more talking and less shooting than anyone else on this station. Not to mention . . .” Craig nodded down the arm to the nipple where the Promise had been attached. “. . . they’re not throwing so much as an admiring eye on my ship without me there.”

“The Primacy representative will examine the quarters for their people before attaching, to ensure we’ve met their specifications.”

“And I’ll examine them before attaching to ensure they meet my specifications.”

Torin answered the commander’s silent question with her best nothing to do with me expression. Promise belonged to Craig, not the Justice Department; he had the final word on any refits.

The rebuild, after Promise had been damaged by pirates, had given a small salvage ship the capability to add and remove packets as needed—the same capability as the Navy’s battleships. The Marine packets, made up of living and training facilities for entire battalions were larger than anything Promise might require, but vacuum didn’t care about aerodynamics and while the size had been scaled down for the Justice Department packets, the principle remained the same.

Conversations faltered as the air lock lights cycled. Anticipation rose to a measurable force in the corridor, lifting the hair on the back of Torin’s neck. They weren’t in a prison this time, responses stripped to the bare bones of survival. Nor was this neutral ground. Berbar Station was significantly farther into Confederation space than the Primacy had ever jumped, and her defenses were minimal. They were about to welcome a recent enemy onto a station that housed a branch of their Justice Department and, if taken, would provide valuable information for further attacks. But it wasn’t government information Torin cared about, it was the thousands of people—people who not only worked here, they lived here. According to the numbers she’d pulled up while Craig snored into her hip, two hundred and seventy-four children, young of six of the eight resident species, called Berbar home.

She wouldn’t let anything happen to them.

The air lock finished cycling.

“What’s taking so long?” Alamber’s hair had started to twitch. Waiting silently had never been one of his strengths.

Ressk elbowed him in the thigh. “Maybe they’re reconsidering.”

“Maybe they’re nervous,” Binti suggested.

“Of us?” Werst snorted. “They’re not stupid, that’s encouraging.”

The telltales on the inner hatch turned green.

The team shifted into defensive positions.

Suddenly surrounded, Ng raised a brow.

“You were a lawyer before Justice tossed us in your lap,” Torin explained over the hiss of the releasing seal. “If they exit waving a subpoena, we’ll stand down.”

They exited waving two feathered antennae above six eyes, in turn above a meter-and-a-half-long, half-a-meter-high body encased in a brown-on-brown-patterned exoskeleton, four upper arms, and a multitude of short, variably jointed legs under chitin flaps. Mandibles clacking together, the Artek sped toward Torin, smelling of cherry candy.

As Ng jerked back, Torin stepped forward. “Firiv’vrak.”

The Artek, one of the Primacy’s warrior species, slid sideways as it stopped. “I have a voice for your ears this time, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr!” The mandibles clattered once more. “Or should I say Warden Kerr?”

Torin held out her hands, fingers spread, and brushed the ends of the extended antennae. “I think you’ve earned the right to call me Gunny, Firiv’vrak.” She looked up at Alamber’s quiet gasp and squared her shoulders as she turned to face the smaller of the two Polint stepping out into the passageway. “Durlin Vertic.”

“No longer durlin, Gunny. Like you, I’ve left the military.” The golden-haired Polint twitched at a soft fold of her teal jacket and smiled, only showing her lower teeth. “You’re looking good.”

“As are you.” The last time Torin had seen the young officer, the durlin had been unable to use one of her rear legs due to a deep burn from a spray of molten rock. Torin herself had been starved, scorched, and covered in seeping blisters. Good times. All things considered, the Primacy’s first three choices were no surprise and she felt the tension in her shoulders ease as she nodded at the reddish-brown male who pushed up close to Vertic’s hindquarters. “Bertecnic.”

“Gunny.”

With Firiv’vrak greeting Craig and the two Polint moving to Werst and Ressk, Torin turned her attention to the pair of Druin in civilian clothing who followed them. “Durlave Kan Freenim.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” Vertic might no longer be a durlin, but it seemed an ex-durlave kan was as much a contradiction in terms as an ex-gunnery sergeant. “You remember Santav Merinim. Although she’s santav no longer.”

The ex-santav’s inner lids slid across large black eyes. “Gunny.”

The Druin were taller than the Krai, but not by much, and Torin’s height gave her a clear view of the matching pattern dyed into the upper arc of their hairless heads. When she raised a brow, Freenim nodded. “Yes. We have been leetinamin.”

“Joined,” Merinim added over her shoulder, interrupting her reunion with Binti.

“Congratulations.”

Torin had no idea how the Primacy program translated the sentiment, but Freenim flushed, his skin turning from pale ivory to slightly darker ivory, and said, “The pouch will remain empty for a while, but it’s good to be with someone who understands.”

“Impossible to be with someone who doesn’t,” Torin agreed as Craig argued about the modifications to the Promise with Firiv’vrak. The Artek, as a species, had been active in all branches of the Primacy military, but they loved to fly. Firiv’vrak had been a fighter pilot and from what little Torin overheard, civilian flying just wasn’t the same.

The air lock, having cycled through again, reopened and another two Druin emerged followed by a slender Polint with variegated fur—the exposed skin of his face and hands matching the variegation—and, behind him, another Artek.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” Vertic folded over herself until she faced the air lock—Torin had forgotten how flexible the Polint were. “This is Keeleeki’ka.”

The second Artek, paler than Firiv’vrak, with raised patterns, paler still, on their carapace, ducked their antennae, and, smelling of licorice, muttered, “We’ve heard so much about you, Warden Kerr.”

“So much about all of you,” the variegated Polint added. His upper teeth showed as well as his lower. “For the entire nine days in terinmun.”

“Seven and a half,” Keeleeki’ka corrected.

“Ah. Seemed longer.”

“And this,” Vertic said sharply enough her voice cut off the buzz of conversation, “is Santav Teffer Dutavar. He volunteered.”

The efficient management of violence had fairly universal parameters, and all three of the Younger Races had a variation of never be first, never be last, never volunteer.

Given Vertic’s emphasis, it seemed those parameters were more universal than Torin thought.

“Still serving?” Vertic had mentioned both name and rank.

Broad shoulders moved inside civilian clothing as though he wanted to shrug it off. Claws showed on all four feet and both hands. “I am.”

Had he volunteered to be the military’s eyes on? Torin watched a ripple run through the fur on his haunch, black and gray and white and orange all shifting slightly as though he’d thrown off a fly in the enclosed, filtered interior of Berbar Station. “And you, Keeleeki’ka?”

“Not serving now. Never did.”

“But you volunteered as well?”

Both antenna flicked down, then up. “No. I was chosen.” The licorice scent intensified.

“Good. Good. Now you’ve all met.” The more elaborately dressed of the two Druin frowned at Torin for a moment, flicked his inner eyelids across both large black eyes, scanned the crowd in the corridor, and turned to Commander Ng. The other Druin, tucked close to his right side, clutched what appeared to be the Primacy version of a slate, and looked apprehensive.

“Warden Commander Ng.”

Ng nodded. Once. “Representative Haminem.”

“I apologize for the invasion . . .”

The other Druin winced.

“. . . but when our volunteers saw a crowd of people waiting . . .” Pale, long-fingered hands spread in what Torin assumed was a conciliatory gesture. “. . . they charged past me.”

“They were concerned for your safety?”

“Oh no, I’m sure they’d happily toss me out an air lock without a suit.” Representative Haminem seemed pleased about the animosity. “Were you not informed? All but two of our volunteers were part of the unveiling of the grand deception on the plastic aliens’ prison planet.”

“Volunteers?” Torin asked quietly.

Freenim’s head tilted toward her. “I assume we could’ve refused the council’s request. I can’t prove it, though.”

“Unveiling of the grand deception?”

“He’s a politician. And he’s not wrong about us being happy to toss him out an air lock. He’s going on to the restitution meetings.” After a short pause filled by the bass rumble of Bertecnic telling Alamber the story of how a tiny crippled Krai had punched him in the nuts, Freenim added, “I’d rather be shot at.”

“Who wouldn’t.” Torin ignored Alamber’s offer to examine Bertecnic’s nuts with the ease of long practice. Consenting adults. None of her business.

“Warden Ryder . . .”

The noise dropped off. Everyone in the corridor waited to hear what happened next.

“. . . you’ll accompany the Representative and myself while we examine the packets before installation.” As Craig nodded, the commander turned his attention to Torin. “Warden Kerr, IA-3 has been opened for our visitors.”

“Yes, sir.” She could see the half-dozen warnings he wanted to add flick across his face and appreciated him closing his teeth on all of them.

IA-3, the largest of the level’s interrogation rooms, was a right turn and four meters from docking arm eight. The passageway stretched empty in both directions as Torin stepped through the hatch, and she moved to the left so Werst could lead the Primacy team out of the arm. Half the station wanted a look at their recent enemies, but DA8 was used so infrequently, it seemed no one had been able to fake an official reason to be in the area.

She hadn’t been told why the powers that be wanted to keep their seven Primacy visitors isolated, although she assumed at least part of the rationale came from there being seven of them in the midst of thousands.

A high-pitched shriek snapped Confederation and Primary both into defensive positions. Torin turned to see a Human child race toward them, a Human male in wide-eyed pursuit.

“Luiza, get back here!”

“Bug!”

“Werst, keep them moving!” Torin would have put odds on a child heading for the Polint, who were furry and looked like they could be ridden. Dropping to one knee, she made a clean interception, the small body slamming into her outstretched arm.

“Bug!”

Torin stood and passed her to the Human male.

He held her struggling body with the ease of long practice. “I’m so sorry, Warden. There’s never anyone here, so when she’s bouncing off the walls, we bring her down and let her run with no distractions until she’s sleepy. When the CCI sounded, we were going to slide into IA-2, but she got away from me.” Adjusting his grip, he caught a foot heading toward his crotch—Torin was impressed by his reaction time—and added, “She met a Ciptran on the concourse about three tendays ago and she’s been fixated on insectoids ever since.”

“Daddy, bug!”

“She met a Ciptran?” The Ciptran, who were built a little like a giant praying mantis, gave lie to the belief that only social species achieved sentience. Torin had never seen two together or one in a good mood.

“It went better than you’d think.”

Luiza twisted herself around until she hung nearly upside down. “Daddy! Bug?”

“Artek. My people are called Artek.”

Her dark eyes widened as Firiv’vrak settled by Torin’s side. “Talks?”

“Yes, child. I talk.”

She straightened up so quickly Torin would have worried about whiplash on an adult and put both palms on her father’s cheeks. “Down? Please, down.”

“Warden?”

Torin glanced behind her, making sure Werst had the rest out of sight in IA-3. Then she glanced down. Firiv’vrak’s antennae waved slowly from side to side, but, otherwise, she was completely still, all four arms tucked close to her body, as nonthreatening as a giant insect could look. Torin didn’t trust the Primacy, but she trusted her history with this specific Primacy member. “It’s safe.”

Luiza’s father didn’t look entirely convinced, but he bent and slowly set his daughter on her feet, a finger hooked behind the crossed straps of her overalls. Luiza threw herself against his hold and got both arms as far around Firiv’vrak as she could reach.

Which put her soft, baby face right up against mandibles Torin had seen crush bone. Muscles jumped in Luiza’s father’s arm as he fought the urge to yank her back, glancing between his daughter and Torin as though checking for any indication that he should panic.

Luiza giggled as the tufted tips of antennae stroked skin and shifted around to pat Firiv’vrak’s carapace when her father reluctantly released her on Torin’s nod. She squatted to look at the many legs, but didn’t touch, then straightened, leaned forward, and licked along one of the swirls of darker brown.

Torin caught one word in five, but, given the disgust, it wasn’t hard to work out Luiza’s negative reaction to Firiv’vrak not tasting like she smelled.

“Luiza! We don’t spit on the deck!”

Amusement intensified Firiv’vrak’s cherry candy scent.

Embarrassment having displaced a good portion of his unease, Luiza’s father snatched her up and set her back on his hip. “All right, you’ve met the Artek. Now we have to let the Warden get back to work.”

Not for the first time, Torin noticed the same tone that worked on second lieutenants worked on small children.

“I know we’re not supposed to be here, Warden, but if we could deal with the consequences later . . .” He pressed a cheek against his daughter’s hair, looking resigned.

Firiv’vrak replied before Torin could. “It was a pleasure to meet a child.”

“And your pleasure has been noted.” Although Torin had no intention of reporting the security breach, the CCVs had recorded not only Luiza and her father’s presence in a restricted area, but unregulated contact with the Primacy. “You need to head for the perimeter hatch. Now.” There’d be Wardens waiting on the other side.

“Before it looks like we’re lingering.”

“A little late for that. Feel free to blame me.”

“Blame you?”

“Tell them I said I was expanding the parameters of the peace.”

“And that’ll . . .” His eyes widened. “Holy shit, you’re . . .”

A small hand covered his mouth. “Daddy! Swears!”

He pulled her hand away and shook his head. “Come on, baby girl. We need to go.”

A head of dark curls and a small hand appeared over her father’s shoulder as he hurried away. “Bye, bug!”

“Artek,” he corrected firmly.

“Bye, Arkek!”

“Close enough,” Firiv’vrak allowed. They stood silently for a moment, then Firiv’vrak rose and pivoted on her lower legs. “You are known in your Confederation,” she said as she dropped back to the deck. “We are also known for exposing the manipulations of the plastic aliens. There were many tests to prove we told the truth, that the images were real, that the manipulation occurred.”

It sounded as though the translator paused before deciding on tests. Torin wondered if there was a way to find out what other words had been considered.

“The young of many mammals fear us,” Firiv’vrak continued, as though she hadn’t just implied that the years after the prison planet had been less than pleasant. “It was good to see one who doesn’t.”

Luiza hadn’t cared that the Artek were Primacy. She didn’t yet know the concept of enemy. “Changing perceptions, one two-year-old at a time.”

Antenna brushed against the back of Torin’s hand. “Indeed.”

•   •   •

“Because this is the first joint venture between our two people . . .”

“Second,” Werst muttered.

Ng ignored him. “. . . we, the Confederation and the Primacy . . .”

“Does he think we’ve forgotten who . . . Chreen!”

Standing at the side of the room, Torin appreciated Ressk silencing Werst’s running commentary before she had to.

“. . . have agreed the mission to 33X73 must be documented.”

“Documented not only in case this attempt at cooperation fails,” Representative Haminem added, “but also should it succeed.”

At the back of the room, Vertic crossed her arms, one front foot clawing at the floor. “You believe we have a better chance of success if we’re being watched?”

“Yes.” Haminem moved a hand up and down in front of his narrow chest. A nod by any other name. “We do. Impartial witnesses bring out best behaviors.”

Not in Torin’s experience. “This wasn’t in the briefing packet,” she pointed out, not liking where things were going.

Haminem’s inner eyelid flickered. “Politics. And,” he continued, “there was an extended discussion about who to embed—those in favor of impartiality on one side and those in favor of experience on the other. There is, of course, no such thing as impartial experience that I’ve found in my own extended experience.”

If his phrasing had been intended to be funny, no one laughed.

“It’s in the briefing packet now,” Ng said bluntly. “Credentials and clearly stated parameters.” He squared his shoulders and met Torin’s gaze. “In the end, given the dangers involved, experience won.”

“Sir?” She really didn’t like where things were going.

Right on cue, the hatch opened.

“So, ex-Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, we are meeting again.” The Katrien paused just far enough inside the hatch to allow her camera operator to enter behind her. Confederation law required cameras large enough to be easily seen in order to prevent any perceived invasion of privacy. As lights on top of the camera indicated recording was in progress without the required signed permissions from everyone in the room, it appeared privacy applied as little to the Strike Teams as it did to the military.

Fluffing silver-tipped dark fur, the highlights too artfully natural to be real, Presit a Tur durValintrisy of Sector Central News and a reoccurring stone in Torin’s boot, waved a small hand that looked like a black latex glove emerging from the cuff of a thick fur coat, and declared, “We are not being at all surprised to be finding ex-Gunnery Sergeant Kerr are leading the first combined Confederation and Primacy law enforcement exercise. It are sure to be an eventful trip.” She paused, the finger she raised for silence hidden from the camera by her fur. At a nod from her camera operator, she adjusted the dark glasses that protected sensitive eyes from the light and turned to sweep a disdainful gaze over the assembled company. “That are being enough for now, this room are being too depressing to be shooting in. The government are clearly buying ugly gray paint in bulk. We are going to be getting individual interviews when we are having a more attractive background.”

Torin took a step closer to the commander. “Sir?”

“You will be the Combined Strike Team Lead while resolving the hostage situation. As lead, the material the Primacy has provided on their people on 33X73 has been added to your briefing packet.”

“Yes, sir. But Presit . . .”

Ng cut her off, pitching his voice under the dull roar of Presit working the room and the room reacting. “Not my decision, Warden. But better the devil you know.”

She released the breath she’d been holding a little too quickly for it to be called a sigh. “You’d think so.”

•   •   •

The Primacy had been able to identify the three Polint. The black, Camaderiz, was ex-military. He’d served the minimum time with no distinction, but he knew how to fight. The bay, Netrovooens, and Tehaven, the variegated, would know how to fight as well, but they hadn’t been trained.

“Not trained by the military,” Freenim amended, as they went over the information. “That doesn’t mean they don’t know what they’re doing. The Polint are strong, and fast; and those blades they’re carrying? They’re civilian weapons.”

Torin paused, pouch of coffee halfway to her mouth. “You arm your civilians?”

He laughed. “They arm themselves. The Polint will have been using them since they were small, the blades growing in size as they do.”

“All the Polint?” Torin asked him, brows up.

“Statistically unlikely, but all the Polint I’ve known. Mind you, all the Polint I’ve known have been military so . . .” He spread his hands.

Pacifist Polint weren’t like to join up. Torin frowned down at her slate. “They didn’t give us much.”

“There wasn’t a lot of time.”

“Single names?”

“Werst? Ressk? Like the Krai,” he continued before she could speak, “formal names among the Polint include lineage details. The odds are high that’s more information than my government wants the Confederation to have. Or it’s possible they were only able to find out the day names of Netrovooens and Tehaven in the time available and left Camaderiz short as well so it looked like a choice.”

Torin tossed her slate down onto the galley table. “If Justice needs full names, they can ask them when they’re brought in.”

“Prisoners.”

The Primacy didn’t take prisoners.

“Our orders are to keep fatalities to a minimum,” Torin reminded him.

Freenim spread one, long-fingered, pale hand out on the table’s surface. “Primacy prisoners will be returned to the Primacy.”

“That’s for politicians to decide. Not us.” She drained her coffee and added. “Our job, as a team, is to rescue the hostages. What about Druin names?”

He blinked, but after a moment followed Torin’s train of thought back to the earlier part of the conversation. “Descriptive.” Hand now against his chest, he added, “Freenim of Murglin on Shepten. That’s city and planet. If I was still on my home planet, I’d introduce myself as Freenim of Thoi in Murglin. Community and city.”

“Except that you made those places up.”

He grinned. “Of course I did.”

Torin tapped a fingernail against the screen of her slate. “There’s no information about the Druin in red.”

“I believe your people have a saying that covers the lack.” When Torin raised a brow, he raised his pouch of coffee in salute. “Space is big.”

“Is this all of them?”

“It is.” When the Human called Martin nodded toward the half of the common room crowded with scientists and their ancillaries, Arniz hissed.

Salitwisi slapped his tail against the back of her legs. She ignored him the way the murdering yerspit had ignored her.

The Krai, the voice out of the shuttle, crossed to stand beside the map table. The Druin in red positioned herself behind his left shoulder. “I’ll keep this brief.” His nostril ridges were nearly closed. He didn’t feel safe. Perceptive—Arniz wanted to pummel him. He was in charge, which made him as much at fault as the Human who’d killed Dzar. “I have a buyer,” he said, “who will pay a great deal for a weapon able to destroy the plastic aliens. Who found the debris?”

Arniz hissed and pushed between Tilzon and her ancillary to the front of the group. “He killed her.” She jabbed a finger toward Martin.

The Krai’s focus drifted past her. “One death to keep the rest safe.”

It sounded like a quote to Arniz. “One death for no reason!” she snapped. “And it wasn’t debris. It was molecular evidence and that’s all it was. There’s nothing here for you. Go back to where you came from!”

A few voices murmured agreement behind her.

Salitwisi grabbed a handful of her overalls and yanked her back. “Don’t antagonize them! They’ve already proven they’re willing to kill us.”

“You should listen,” Martin sneered. “Could be the smartest thing your lizard friend ever said.”

Part of Arniz acknowledged that was possible; the greater part wanted to scream insults and accusations at the Human. Or perhaps just scream.

The Druin’s hand in its red glove lay on the Krai’s shoulder like a splash of blood. His focus had locked onto Arniz. “Did you search for a weapon?”

“No!”

Before she could add that they hadn’t searched because the weapon didn’t exist, his lips drew back off his teeth. “If you haven’t searched, you have no idea of what’s out there, do you?”

Torin wasn’t surprised to find Presit waiting for her as she stepped through the hatch into DA8, heading for the Promise.

“I am seeing you are alone. Craig are having finally come to his senses and found a mate who are less likely to be getting him killed?”

“Craig is already on board.” Torin had no doubt that Presit not only knew where everyone was but had worked out how best to ambush them for her “story”.

“You are not being with him.”

“Like you, I have duties to perform.”

“Are there being trouble in paradise?”

“What? No.”

“That are being too bad. He are almost not entirely useless with a brush. What?” she demanded when Torin stopped and stared down at her own reflection in Presit’s mirrored glasses. “I are merely determining where the lines are being drawn before we are all being locked up together in the pitiless vacuum of space.”

“We’re in a station. We’re already locked up together in the pitiless vacuum of space,” Torin added when Presit waved an imperious demand for more information.

Black lips drew back off small, pointy teeth. “Oh, yes, now I are remembering how pedantic you are being.” She sighed and a fraction of the pretension fell away. “I are wanting to tell you that regardless of what I and my family are owing you for the return of Jammers’ body, I are going to 33X73 to be reporting on the first Confederation/Primacy joint venture. In spite of what certain politicians are believing, I are going to be entirely impartial.”

“You always are.”

Presit cocked her head and, given the position, Torin assumed she was being studied from behind the glasses. “I are pleased you are finally admitting to what are being my superior reporting skills.”

“I’ve never had a problem with your reporting skills.”

“And I are never having had a problem with your mate.”

She’d said it so sweetly, Torin couldn’t stop the snort of laughter.

Dalan a Tar canSalvais, Presit’s camera operator, waited at the air lock with Alamber who had the fingers of one hand buried in fur as he scratched behind one of Dalan’s ears. Tongue protruding slightly, Dalan sagged against Alamber’s leg.

“You are being in public,” Presit snapped. “I are not caring what you are doing if I are not needing you, but you are to be remembering that your behavior are reflecting on me.”

Dalan pulled in his tongue, straightened, and pointedly glanced up and down the empty arm. “And the crowds are going wild,” he muttered, looked over the top of his glasses at Torin, and winked. “Was recording all through the war, Gunnery Sergeant, was having been with the crew recording on Horlong 8. I are knowing when to be keeping my ass out of your way.”

Horlong 8 had been a disaster, due as much to bad officers as the Primacy. She was impressed he’d gotten out alive. “Then I’m glad to have you along, Dalan a Tar canSalvais.”

“I are just Dalan.” His muzzle was grizzled, his ears notched. There was a chance, if only a small one, that he could temper Presit’s . . . enthusiasm.

Torin noted Alamber’s expression and waved the two Katrien into the air lock. Whatever he had to say, he didn’t want an audience. As Presit’s voice rose, greeting Craig and giving the impression she hadn’t seen him for years rather than hours, Torin beckoned the young di’Taykan closer. “What is it?”

“There’s seven Primacy on board, Boss. Two Artek, two Druin, three Polint.”

“I can count.”

His light receptors flicked open, then closed. “And only six of us. We’re outnumbered, and the Polint are . . . large.”

“I’m not surprised you noticed.” She studied his face while he worried at the old piercing scars in his lower lip. “Is this about adding another di’Taykan to the team?”

He sighed. “Let it go, Boss. This is about ratios. If anything happens, they have numbers, size, and appendages on their side. I mean, three Polint, six more legs, two Artek, four more arms and a fuk of a lot of legs. And the cherry one, she’s a pilot. Me and Craig, we can fight, but . . .” His hair continued to flick back and forth as his voice trailed off.

Alamber had no history with the Primacy aside from what he’d seen on vids. He’d never served, didn’t have the undercurrents of at least you understand where the fuk I’m coming from—common ground no matter how deep or dark the currents. He hadn’t been on the prison planet, didn’t have the personal history of fighting beside most of their new team members.

“I can’t speak for the two I don’t know, but you have my word the rest are no danger to us. And don’t forget . . .” They winced in unison as a high-pitched voice demanded to know what was wrong with the ship’s air filters. “. . . we have Presit.”

His hair stilled. “She’s on our side?”

“There are no sides, Alamber.” Torin touched two fingers to the inside of his wrist. Without another di’Taykan on board, the necessary physical contact had to come from his non-di’Taykan teammates. “But we’ve built up more resistance to her.”

•   •   •

“I remember you.”

Presit preened. “I are hard to forget.”

“Yes.” Settled on her haunches, Vertic frowned. “Your dialect is causing my translator some difficulty.”

“Your translator isn’t alone,” Torin said, stepping out of the air lock into Promise’s control room. “Their dialect is a pain in everyone’s ass. Alamber, show the Katrien to their packet.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

Alamber stepped forward. Presit held up a hand. “The air filters are not being up to the number of species on board.”

Torin smiled. If Alamber, with the Taykan’s sensitivity to scent, could handle the combination, so could Presit. “Shed less.”

“You are always being so amusing. And I are not liking what you are having done with the place.” Presit curled a lip at the seats then extended her dislike to the lockers holding the HE suits. She’d shared Promise’s original cabin with Craig on the way to the prison planet and, given how that original cabin had been laid out, Torin carefully avoided thinking about the logistics. “That being said, I are preferring to remain here. If the harnesses are fitting the Krai, they are fitting me.”

“Presit . . .”

She huffed at Craig’s tone.

“. . . I’d prefer it if you strap down in your quarters until we’re clear. For safety’s sake.”

“Fine. For you.” She smoothed her ruff and glared at Torin. “But you are not hiding things from me this time, I are telling you that now.”

The last time, things had been hidden with Presit’s agreement for Presit’s own good. But Presit always edited her own story.

Torin waited until only Craig and Vertic remained, and raised a brow.

Vertic softened her shoulders and curled her claws in toward her palms, her posture deliberately nonthreatening. “I wanted a chance to speak to you alone before we begin the actual mission.”

Between preparation and overt observation, there’d been no chance on the station. Torin fell into parade rest and waited.

“I can’t leave,” Craig began.

“That’s not what I meant by alone,” Vertic interrupted. “You should hear this as well.” Her mane flattened slightly as she drew in a deep breath. “I realize I have neither experience nor training in police work, and I therefore will have no trouble with your command, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

“Thank you, Durlin.”

Her broad mouth curled up at the corners. “If we don’t refer to my previous rank, my people will be less likely to respond to it by default.”

“Of course.” Torin had missed the sense of security a good officer provided, the knowledge that the big picture would remain in focus while she concentrated on the details. Vertic had been an officer Torin had been happy to serve under during their combined escape and she’d matured during the intervening years, now exuding an air of confident authority.

Although exuding might be the wrong word given the overwhelmed air filters.

“Also,” her mane rose as she continued, “I checked into Samtan Teffer Dutavar’s service records, and he’s proven himself to be levelheaded when it counts. Not always a given with our males.”

Torin would bet big that Vertic had checked while trying to work out why he’d volunteered. And bet bigger that she hadn’t found out.

“Keeleeki’ka is a Sekric’teen, from Neesemin’c, the Artek homeworld. The Sekric’teen are a sizable collective who opposed the war from the beginning. Their scent is . . .” She licked her lips. “. . . tart. The exposure of the plastic aliens strengthened their position both politically and popularly, and they insisted one of theirs join the team. All that’s in the briefing packet. What isn’t included is the certain knowledge that if we don’t return, the Sekric’teen will rip into the government, and, with the media on their side, that’s the last thing our government wants. If we do return, they’ll want the story told their way, and the government’s not likely to enjoy that either.”

As a general rule, Torin had little sympathy for governments she’d spent years fighting against. “Damned if they do, damned if they don’t.”

“Unfortunately, that makes Keeleeki’ka more important than she seems.” Vertic shifted in place when Torin indicated she should continue. “I’d have preferred someone less inflexible in their view of how things work.”

“But her lot were right,” Craig pointed out.

“That’s what they’re inflexible about.”

Torin grinned at the dry disapproval in her tone. “Is there a chance Dutavar is here to keep an eye on her?”

“It’s possible,” Vertic allowed, rising to her feet. “But I doubt it. Our military seldom involves itself in politics. Now, as these seats most certainly aren’t configured for my body—nor did I expect you to rebuild the core parts of your ship for my benefit,” she added when Craig opened his mouth. “I’ll strap in with the others. I look forward to working with you again, Gunny. Captain Ryder.”

“Captain?” Craig asked quietly, watching Vertic’s signal move toward the quarters designed for the Polint.

“Your ship.”

“I like her. So you’re good with the rank thing? Just like that, then?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Torin dropped into the copilot’s seat. “You’ve always ranked me on the Promise.”

“Not my rank.” He turned toward her, gray-blue eyes searching her face. “Her rank.”

“My Strike Team.”

She had no idea what he was searching for or if he’d found it when he turned his attention back to the board. “All right, then.”

“You fought in the war.”

“We all fought in the war, one way or another.”

Arniz turned away from the screen and frowned up at Emile Trembley—who stood far too close, who smelled of warm, damp, hairless, male mammal, and who wouldn’t understand the data scrolling past as the last of the soil analysis finished even if an entire deceased plastic alien as well as a functioning example of the weapon that killed it were found. This was the first time he’d been assigned to watch her. The black Polint, Camaderiz, had remained silent. Arniz had thought him sullen until she realized that without the translation program on Martin’s slate, they had no language in common. Mirish di’Yaunah, the di’Taykan with the deep blue hair and eyes, had sprawled gracefully in a chair far too small for her, her complaints about the heat and humidity repetitive and dull. Trembley, however, liked to talk. “I didn’t fight,” she reminded him.

“I wasn’t talking about you. You were hiding at your university while we kept you safe.” The emphasis might have been a Human way of speaking, but she suspected Trembley was young. Firsters always spoke in a cascading series of absolutes.

“Hiding?” she snapped. “I wasn’t hiding. I was teaching and learning; knowledge being a component of what you were fighting to protect. So, to whom are you referring when you say we? I can’t read your mind, you know.”

Trembley’s mouth twisted up into what Arniz assumed—from the little she knew of Humans—was a smile, although it showed no sign of amusement. “Lucky for you, lizard. We . . .” He doubled down on the emphasis. “. . . are the Younger Races.” His chin rose. “And we have decided to keep fighting.”

“All of you?” She thought of Ganes, who’d stepped forward and been struck when Dzar was murdered. No, not all of them.

“Not yet. Some people are blind to their oppression. But soon.”

Possibly younger than Dzar.

This was what came of giving children weapons.

Before she could ask who or what the Younger Races were continuing to fight, the scanner trilled. She squinted at the screen and cut the power. “That’s it. No further signs of anything that might have once been plastic and no sign at all of what might have been responsible for the state of the sample we found previously.”

“No weapon?” Trembley scowled at her equipment.

Arniz snorted. If bad temper could improve performance, she’d have long since finished. Dzar’s murderers would be gone and good riddance to them.

“You had to have missed something.”

She sighed. “Follow me. Watch where you put those ridiculous boots.” He was used to following orders; she’d give him that. He stayed between the perimeter pins delineating an animal shelter and the foundation of a tower—neither visible to the uneducated eye. She stopped him well back from the edge of the latrine and pointed.

“It’s a hole,” he said.

“Yes, it is. Had I not been catering to the violent enthusiasms of an invading force . . . you lot,” she added when he looked confused, “we’d have performed a CPT, taken samples of varying ASTM dimensions, we’d have done gas tests in the bore holes, and, because I had an ancillary who needed the experience—until you murdered her—we may have used the FFP.”

“I didn’t murder anyone!”

“And yet she’s still dead.”

The acrid undertone of his scent spiked. “How many of us have died?”

“Oh, for . . .” Arniz ignored the boundary stake, knocked flying by her tail. “That’s a faulty comparison. The two things aren’t at all connected. The point is . . .” She cut off his response, unwilling to put up with his disconnect. “. . . this is a hole. We’re on a first-year mapping expedition on a Class 2 Designate and we have no business digging a hole.”

“Bullshit. You have a digger.”

“Yes, we do. That doesn’t mean we intended to use it. Nevertheless, in order to find an imaginary weapon, I not only had the digger excavate the latrine, but six centimeters of undisturbed soil outside of the dimensions of the latrine. I’ve done a full . . . well, not a full given the volume, . . . but a relevant analysis of every bit of soil taken out of the hole at the molecular level. There is no weapon here. Nor are there bodies, plastic or otherwise. Or parts of bodies. Or anything but very potent urea and evidence of fecal matter that supports the possibility of a predominately carnivorous species pre-destruction, some small amount of solid debris consistent with what we know about their civilization—which is less than we would have known by now had you not shown up and interrupted our work and starting killing people—and trace amounts of plastic in a single specific location.”

He stared into the hole, at her, and said, “Thrown out by a non-plastic-using civilization.” As though that one data point justified everything.

“Yes, all right, fine. But only three years ago, this planet was a Class 1 Designate. Class 1 allows orbital scans only. Class 2 allows scientific study at selected sites and a complete restriction on anything leaving the planet. I’ve distilled those definitions to the essentials, by the way. There are terabytes of rules the Ministry for the Preservation of Pre-Confederation Civilizations requires us to follow, and not following them to the letter will destroy careers. This is only the third year on-site research has been permitted, and this is the first year there’s been a dig at this particular site. There are things we’ve been able to surmise—that they were a non-plastic-using civilization being one of them. Unless the four sites currently being examined are, by some outlandish coincidence, four extremely large, historic recreations and we entirely missed the actual pre-destruction population centers.”

“What?”

“Highly unlikely, of course, because the orbital scans are really very thorough.”

Trembley shifted his weight from foot to foot, compacting the soil, dark brows drawn in. “Then why did you even mention it?”

“Every possible hypothesis needs to be considered.” Arniz retrieved the dislodged boundary stake and tried to push it back into place. An insect with long, delicate legs, thorax a shade darker than the soil, scurried away. After a moment, Trembley muttered under his breath and replaced the stake for her. “I don’t see why you need a weapon to destroy the plastic aliens.” She pulled the stake back out and shifted it two centimeters to the right, waiting pointedly until he threw his weight against it again. “By their own admission, they’ve completed their experiment and left the Confederation. Granted, their behavior was unforgivable, you lot would know about that, but they’re gone.”

“Yeah, you just keep your head in the sand with the rest of the Elder Races. Oh, no . . .” His voice rose as he straightened and picked up a peculiar accent. She had no idea who he thought he was imitating. “. . . we’re too socially evolved to be bothered again.”

“That’s not . . .”

He cut her off. “When they come back, we’ll be ready. Times are changing.”

“Into what?”

If Humans came with a neck pouch, he’d have inflated it. “Into times where the Younger Races won’t be the cannon fodder anymore.”

“I understand fodder. What’s a cannon?”

“It’s a . . .” He glanced around with his strange, brown-on-white eyes, as though the answer was on the plateau with them. “. . . it’s something the sergeant says. It’s a weapon, I guess.”

“You guess?” Anger pushed beyond background noise, she rounded on him. “You guess? You don’t know why Dzar was murdered?”

His scent spiked.

His palm felt like a stone, slamming into her chest.

“Shut up, lizard!”

Staring at the sky, catching her breath, that seemed like a good idea.

“You weigh her death against the millions of us who died in your war and you know what—you owe us.”

Ideology.

Or possibly rhetoric.

When, Arniz wondered, had it become us against them?

•   •   •

“And this was the only place the plastic residue was found?” Yurrisk slapped the edge of the map table, making the image flare.

If she hadn’t been sitting in a chair one of the ancillaries had dragged from the end of the anchor where the rest of the expedition was once again confined, she’d have lashed her tail. “It’s the only place the soil has been analyzed that completely.”

His lip rose. “You’re saying no more plastic has been found because no one has looked for it.”

“I’m not . . .” Arniz thought about it for a moment. “All right, fine, I am saying that. Essentially.”

“Then I want all your scanners calibrated to search for plastic residue.”

“I thought you wanted the weapon?” Ganes’ mocking question drew Yurrisk’s attention. Arniz was all in favor of mockery, but Martin had proven himself willing to kill and Yurrisk willing to allow it. Ganes needed to be careful. He was the only one who knew how to keep the tech functional. “Why would you expect to find a weapon with the residue? Do you think your mercenaries dropped their KCs every time they shot a Primacy soldier?”

All three Polint growled at the spill of words from the translation program in Martin’s slate and Arniz realized Ganes was attempting to divide and . . . well, not conquer, but divide at least. Clever. She may have underestimated him.

“You were Navy. Have you forgotten your training?” he continued as Yurrisk’s nostril ridges closed and his lips drew back. Arniz thought she saw the Krai’s hands tremble. “I always thought the Navy preferred you to keep hold of your weapons.”

“His Navy did. Our Navy also.” Qurn, the Druin in red, moved to Yurrisk’s side, her shoulder against his, the contact leaving him no room to move his arms. “But when it comes down to it, Dr. Ganes, no one cares what you think.” Her voice managed to be both precise and melodic. Arniz had no idea how. “We currently have no search parameters for the weapon. If your scanners find more plastic residue, more points of reference, we’ll have identified the layer of history we’ll need to excavate. Or, specifically . . .” Her narrow lips arranged themselves into what Arniz assumed was a smile. “. . . that you will need to excavate. Stop assuming we’re all uneducated and have no idea of what we’re doing. It’s annoying.”

Maybe not a smile, then.

Tail up, Salitwisi squeezed between the black and the variegated Polint. “And you want to use all the scanners?”

“Yes.” Yurrisk had calmed while Qurn spoke. “All the scanners. And all of you out there . . .” He expanded the image of the site and called up a grid pattern. “. . . scanning.”

Arniz frowned as she considered the changes that would have to be made. “The results will be scientific garbage.”

“But sufficient for my needs?”

She wondered what would happen if she said no. Would he know she was lying? Would someone else die to convince her to tell the truth? Had Dzar died so she’d consider that before speaking? “For your needs, yes, it should be sufficient.”

“Harveer Arniz does not speak for all of us!” Salitwisi’s tail rose higher, the tip tracing small arcs in the air.

Yurrisk showed teeth. “Be quiet.”

“But . . .”

Martin stepped away from the wall where he’d been leaning, arms crossed. “We don’t need you, lizard.”

Salitwisi’s tail dropped so fast Arniz thought he might have cramped his ass. In response to Martin’s signal, Camaderiz shoved him back into a huddle of scientists with enough force he took Lows to the floor with him. A warning, Arniz assumed, more overt than usual. The other expedition members had been locked in the anchor during the detailing of the latrine and whispered conversations while curled together in the nest at night had included complaints about minor bullying and wasted food, but no overt physical abuse. Yurrisk’s people seemed to have little midground between childish petulance and death.

“When you find residue . . .”

Attention drawn back to the common room, Arniz cut him off. “If.”

“When,” Yurrisk repeated.

“Science doesn’t work that way.”

“Commander? Why not go right to the ruins in the jungle?” Pyrus, the pink-haired di’Taykan, leaned over the map table and expanded the view. “Wouldn’t they have stored the weapon in a building?”

“Very likely,” Arniz answered, not caring she hadn’t been the one asked. “But without knowing where to look, you could be in there for years. We’ve found plastic residue on the plateau, we need more data points, it makes sense to look for it here first.”

Yurrisk stared at her.

She stared back. His eyes were a deep green, the same shade as the darker parts of his mottling. She’d expected them to be cold. Calculating. The sort of eyes that could see the death of an innocent and not care. They weren’t. They were haunted. She couldn’t tell how much of the present he actually saw. The disconnect made the scales on her neck itch.

“No tricks,” he said at last.

“No tricks.” Arniz pointed at Ganes. “He’ll have to do the calibrating.”

“Why him?”

She blinked. “Dr. Ganes is our engineer. It’s his job.”

Yurrisk stared a moment longer, blinked in turn, focused, then nodded. “Get it done.”

Having moved to stand behind him, Qurn kept her attention on her slate.

“That made no sense at all,” Salitwisi hissed after Arniz was sent back to the others and Ganes escorted to the equipment lockup. “What are you playing at?”

“They’re not leaving without the weapon,” Arniz told him.

“There is no weapon!”

“Given what the plastic has done . . .” She thought of Trembley’s millions who’d died. “. . . they won’t believe that. We’re stuck with them, and more of us will join Dzar if they think we’re being deliberately obstructive.”

He cradled his left wrist against his body. “But you said . . .”

“I know what I said. The longer we can keep them on the plateau, out in the open, the better the odds that the Ministry satellite will register an unscheduled shuttle, take a closer look, and realize something is wrong.”

“If any of those useless bureaucrats even looks at the data,” he sniffed.

“How long did it take them to show up when the Mictok opened that tomb?” When Salitwisi began to smile—nothing cheered him up faster than a rival’s misfortune—Arniz added, “Spread the word. No one turns this into a teaching moment. Let them believe they’ll get results.”

His tail tip flicked back and forth. “And the Druin thinks she’s educated.”

•   •   •

“Why does the jungle just stop?”

Arniz approved of curiosity, of a willingness to learn, and this was a teaching moment that had nothing to do with a nonexistent weapon. “It doesn’t just stop.” She indicated Trembley should turn and look at the tree line. “We assume the pre-destruction peoples continuously worked to keep the jungle from encroaching on the western city limits. With nothing to stop it post-destruction, it went over the wall and moved east. Over the centuries, it engulfed three quarters of the city before the drier, shallower soil here on the plateau slowed it, but it hasn’t stopped. Eventually, it’ll reach the edge of the cliff.” The dark line of jungle visible on the other side of the broad crevasse, vines and creepers tumbling down the rock, supported this hypothesis. “Some of my colleagues believe that the ruins on the far west of the city, those first covered, may have been preserved with little deterioration. I, personally, subscribe to the belief that said ruins have been pulled down by the weight of the cumulative years of vegetation. You can’t trust vegetation.”

He shifted dark glasses taken from one of the larger Katrien down his nose to frown over them at her. “Why not?”

“It’s too ephemeral.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Smarter than he looked to admit that, she acknowledged. “It changes too quickly. You can count on soil.”

“If the west side is better, why are you here?”

“It’s not better. And we’re here because our license from the Ministry extends to the tree line and no further. Had this season gone well, next season the university might have been permitted to breach the canopy.”

“So this season hasn’t gone well?”

She stared up at him. He flushed.

“Trembley!”

She hadn’t heard Martin approach. From the way his scent spiked, neither had Trembley.

“Enough talk. Get the furballs back to work.”

“Yes, sir!” Trembley jogged toward the high-pitched sound of a Katrien argument, boots thumping out a bass line against the packed dirt.

Arniz had placed her chair in full sun, close enough to where three ancillaries worked to be available if needed, far enough away from the hastily constructed cluster of terminals to avoid another conversation during which Salitwisi declared he could read the results as well as she could. When the sun disappeared behind a Martin-shaped shadow, Arniz tasted the air. The big Human wasn’t happy.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sitting. I’m old.”

“What were you doing with Trembley?”

“Teaching. You shot my ancillary, I’m making do.”

“You know nothing he needs to learn.” He knew how to show his teeth, she’d give the verbin kur that.

She watched him rejoin the tall, pale female Human by the edge of the grid and wondered why she couldn’t remember her name. She thought it might have something to do with melons. Had the female Human been an alkali soil, she’d have been able to remember her unfavorable physio-chemical properties, so there was nothing wrong with her memory. Now Zhang, on the other hand, that was a name she remembered. The word felt good in her mouth. Zhang’s first name, however . . .

“There’s something not right about this.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” she snapped at Ganes, who’d snuck up on her other side. “They’re a different species with a different naming structure.”

He blinked, twice, and raised both hands. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” Shells, she sounded like Trembley. And how could Ganes know what she’d been thinking about. “Of course it’s not right,” she muttered. “Dzar’s dead, and we’re being kept from our work by her murderers.”

“The Humans are holding themselves separate.”

Arniz took another look around. With the Katrien back at work, Trembley had returned to Martin’s side, his head down as Martin’s mouth moved. The other two were listening passively, hands on their weapons. She couldn’t see Yurrisk and Qurn, but Beyvek and Sareer, the other two Krai, were by the shuttle, the three di’Taykan were watching three ancillaries running scanners over on the northern edge of the grid, and the three Polint were racing in from the edge of the cliff. Tehaven, the smallest, with the variegated pelt, seemed to be winning. “Holding themselves separate from the Primacy?” she asked. “That’s to be expected, isn’t it? They’re all ex-military and they spent centuries slaughtering each other.”

“No, separate from everyone.”

“I don’t see it.” No one seemed to like each other very much, but they were working together. Where working could be defined as maintaining a threatening environment.

“You’re used to academic infighting,” Ganes told her. Unnecessarily. She’d been there. “I spent years working as part of an integrated team—Humans, di’Taykan, and Krai. Trust me. These Humans are not integrated.”

The Polint tended to remain close to Martin because of the translation program on his slate, but she doubted that’s what Ganes meant by integration. When he moved closer, she saw the darker blotches of bruising on his arms and a scab at the corner of his mouth. “Martin?”

For a moment she thought he’d pretend to misunderstand the question, and in all honesty it had been a bit anomalous, then he shook his head. “No, the Polint.”

“Why?”

“Multiple Niln, multiple Katrien, and I’m alone. They were emphasizing that.”

“And Martin was encouraging them.” It was exactly what she’d expected of the yerspit.

“No, surprisingly he wasn’t. They ignore me when he’s around.”

Martin had a big hand cupped around the back of Trembley’s neck and seemed to be shaking him gently. Like an elder with a hatchling. Arniz felt a bit ill thinking of Martin performing any kind of a parental function, but she couldn’t deny what she’d seen.

From the way Ganes stared, he’d seen it, too.

The Polint quarters had been the largest packet added onto Promise, a five-by-six-meter rectangle with food storage and preparation along one long bulkhead and sleeping mats laid out along the other. With the mats rolled up, it was the only cabin large enough to hold all thirteen of them.

With a single exception, Torin noted, the two teams maintained a careful separation. Alamber, having already decidedly lost a game of you show me yours, I’ll show you mine, had draped himself over Bertecnic’s back, and the big Polint seemed pleased by the contact. Other than that, the Primacy had gathered to the left and the Confederation to the right, nearer the hatch. Presit and Dalan stood by the far wall, opposite Torin, camera ready but not on, clearly waiting for something notable to happen.

Torin was impressed. Five years ago, Presit wouldn’t have waited.

The low buzz of conversation barely rose above the hum of the Susumi engines, the agreement holding that Federate and Prime alone would be used and that every word spoken would be translated.

Expression carefully neutral, Torin watched Vertic speaking to Dutavar. Her expanded briefing packet had compared Polint social structure to that of bees. A female chose a pod of three to five males, the most favored male eventually becoming fertile, the others remaining in close support. Torin wondered if Vertic was assessing Dutavar under biological parameters, recognized it was none of her business, and let it go.

“We’re ready, Dur . . . Vertic.” Freenim’s inner eyelids flickered. Torin appreciated the problem he had dropping the rank. Before Vertic could respond, had she intended to respond, 33X73 appeared in the center of the room.

“It are being a hard light mapping feature!” Presit gestured and Dalan, who looked bored even considering fur and mirrored glasses, raised the camera, the recording light on.

“We took into account that this would be our gathering place, and asked to have it installed rather than use a flat image.” Freenim reached up, touched the control panel set into the bulkhead, and adjusted both size and brightness. “Although we weren’t permitted to sync our slates to your ship.”

“Fukking right you weren’t,” Craig muttered. “Need more slates slaved to my ship like I need a third armpit. My slate’s plenty.”

“So we were informed.”

Freenim shot her a side-eye. The Taykan had no whites either and Torin was used to interpreting expression around the absence. Damned right her slate had full access to Promise’s systems. Craig knew; he chose to ignore it.

She walked to the planetary image, then around it, then indicated the half-dozen red dots in orbit. “The satellites belong to the Ministry for the Preservation of Pre-Confederation Civilizations and are entirely useless for defense. Or offense. Or early warning. I’m sure they have a function, but it has nothing to do with us. There’s one communication satellite used by all the scientific teams. It has Susumi access, but minimal bandwidth because the Ministry cheaped out and has nothing to do with us either. We’ll run communications through the Promise. The only ship in orbit belongs to the mercenaries as the universities dropped their teams off at the beginning of the season and won’t return until the season ends. That’s a little over eight tendays from now, planetary day at 29 and a half hours give or take a minute or two we’re not going to worry about.” For the moment, she ignored the planet itself. “Were I one of the mercenaries in this situation, I’d have set up an orbital alert.”

“If you were a merc, Boss, known space would be fukked.”

“You’d have set up a perimeter alert?” Ressk asked over the laughter.

“Valid point,” Torin acknowledged. “I’d have an orbital alert set.”

“You are having given this some thought, Warden Kerr.” Presit’s teeth showed. “Should we be being grateful you are being on our side?”

Torin raised a brow toward the camera, then turned her attention back to the room as a whole. “We’ll look for an alert when we’re close enough. For now, let’s discuss how much we’ll be able to see on the ground. Craig.”

“Through that much atmosphere . . .”

The map table showed it at six hundred and twenty-two kilometers with a high concentration of both moisture and particulates over the site in question.

“. . . our scanners’ll light up where the warm bodies are, but that’s it.”

“Wait!” Presit held up a hand, fur ruffling around her wrist. “You are saying the military are not having scanners that are being able to find the Primacy on the ground through any atmosphere our military can breathe?”

“No idea. This ship doesn’t have military scanners.”

“And are that not being just a little bit shortsighted?”

“This isn’t a military operation.” Torin answered before Craig could.

“I are just saying, it are being strange to me that the military are having better equipment to be killing people than you are having to be saving them.”

“The Justice Department and the military are continuing to define their levels of cooperation,” Vertic said smoothly, having moved to Torin’s side. “Just as the Primacy and the Confederation continue to work on theirs. Every new operation takes time to reach full efficiency.”

Presit combed her claws through her whiskers. “I are assuming Primacy officers are having training in dealing with the press?”

“Of course.” Her tone was so neutral, it was almost a threat. “If you’d continue, Gunny.”

“Sir.” She couldn’t prevent the involuntary response. Craig glanced over and frowned. “It’ll be boots on dirt, people. Unfortunately, this . . .” She expanded the map. “. . . is all the dirt there is. That’s the anchor, that’s an occupied landing pad, that’s a cliff, and that’s a lot of jungle.”

“They’ll have eyes on every square centimeter of open ground,” Craig added. “I’ll have to put us down in the trees.”

Freenim leaned in, shifted the perspective, and touched the map where it showed a break in the vegetation. “Here?”

“There,” Craig acknowledged. “Tight, but doable.”

“Eight point six klicks out.” Torin pulled up the relevant data. “On the way in, you could drop a recon team here, at five point three.”

“Would it be worth the extra burn for just over three kilometers?”

“It’s a jungle,” Torin told him. “Triple the time, minimum, to cover any distance.”

“Uh, Gunny . . .”

“Unless you’re Krai.”

“Your shuttle is Taykan built, and their stealth tech was adopted by your military.” Freenim expanded a side bar showing average temperature and humidity. “Under these conditions, five point three is sufficiently distant for horizontal flight to remain unheard on the plateau.”

Craig frowned. “And you know this how, mate?”

“It was part of my job.” He nodded at Torin. “As the opposing knowledge was part of hers. Infantry are vulnerable to air attacks.”

Bertecnic stood, tumbling Alamber to the deck. “What if we burned out a base camp closer . . . will they see the smoke?”

“We aren’t burning out a base camp,” Ressk snarled, nostril ridges closing.

By his side, Werst had begun to growl, the sound rising from deep in his chest. He’d been raised by the space port, on concrete and wire catwalks, while Ressk’d had a more traditional Krai upbringing, but trees were a part of their species identity.

Both male Polint scraped the deck with their front claws. Muscle quivered under golden fur as Vertic held herself still.

Alamber retreated to a safer position behind Binti.

Firiv’vrak chittered out a string of consonants the translator ignored while she and Keeleeki’ka—who’d been avoiding each other—tucked their legs in close and settled to the floor smelling of wet dog and cinnamon.

Dalan no longer looked bored.

No one in the cabin was armed. Even knives had been surrendered.

Not that it would matter.

“Enough!” Torin snapped, voice filling the empty spaces, impossible to ignore. “Relevant emotional context aside, we aren’t burning out a landing site because that would attract the attention of the Ministry satellites and if we want to get all hostages out of this situation alive, the last thing we need is a swarm of bureaucrats descending to complain about interference with biodiversity on a Class 2 Designate.”

In the long moment of silence that followed, everyone in the cabin considered the possibility.

Krai nostril ridges slowly opened. The sound of claws against metal stopped.

“Bureaucrats,” Werst grunted, like the word was profanity. “We’d have to rescue them, too.”

Bertecnic’s tail flicked from side to side. “No matter how little we’d want to.”

“Common enemy?” Freenim said quietly beside her.

Torin set 33X73 spinning. “Whatever works.”