FIVE

THERE WERE STORIES OF SHIPS emerging from Susumi space, the crew dead of old age having traveled for a lifetime yet still arriving moments after they left. There were stories of ships jumping in and out, traveling no distance at all, their crews unchanged, centuries having passed since their departure. Susumi engineers declared both stories false. An error in the jump equation would lead only to an error in destination.

Light-years off course, unable to jump home.

A few thousand kilometers off course, attempting to share space with another solid object.

Torin disliked the engineers’ qualifier.

The jump to 33X73 would take four days. They’d arrive twelve seconds after they left. She had no idea how it worked, but she trusted the math. It was that or stay home.

Strike Team Alpha had never needed the simulators the Corps used in Susumi space. With full knowledge of individual skills and the way six individuals fit together into a whole, they could plan over pouches of beer in the galley and train in the area opened up when Torin and Werst surrendered their personal quarters. But all three Polint wouldn’t fit into the galley, and the “gym”—even at double the minimum—had never been able to hold more than four bipeds. Fortunately, the Polint quarters were large enough to knock off a few of the rough edges.

Torin watched Bertecnic take six running strides and stop abruptly a meter from the bulkhead. Werst used the momentum to launch himself off Bertecnic’s back, hit the bulkhead, flip around, grab the first of a dozen hanging ropes, and start back the way they’d come, avoiding Dutavar, who’d risen up on his hind legs and braced his palms flat against the ceiling. The Polint were too top-heavy for him to hold the position, but Dutavar was flexible enough to twist and land facing his one ninety, making him harder to escape than Bertecnic. Ressk still hadn’t managed it. Werst was trying for best two out of three.

Dutavar grabbed an ankle as Werst slapped the target.

“Tie,” Torin called, and the developing argument became a loud replay of the run.

“More civilized than the first time,” Vertic observed.

The first run had very clear delineations between us and them. As well as a clear imprint of Werst’s teeth in Dutavar’s foreleg after having been pinned under a hundred and fifty kilograms of angry Polint. Krai bone being one of the hardest substances in known space, Werst’s ribs hadn’t broken—which was why Torin had begun with this foursome. She trusted training and experience to stop Werst and Ressk before biting became biting and chewing, even when the Polint used their size against them. The Corps had strict policies against eating allies.

Turned out the Primacy held a similar position against disemboweling. Claws remained sheathed.

“They should be able to work together by the time we arrive,” Torin allowed. Shared military backgrounds allowed for shortcuts—even if those backgrounds had involved shooting at each other.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’d be happier if we could get a look at each other’s weapons.”

The weapons had been stowed behind a time lock; inaccessible until they came out of Susumi. Torin didn’t like it, but she understood. After four days, misunderstandings likely to lead to violence would have been dealt with nonfatally.

“At least we know how much damage each other’s weapons can do.”

“That’s very comforting.”

Vertic made a noncommittal noise and said, “How did your interview with the reporter go?”

Torin assumed Vertic had already debriefed Freenim. “Presit seems to think we should be angry.”

“All of us? Or specifically you and the durlave kan?”

“Specifically.”

“Because the two of you were essentially the same rank?”

“That’s what I assume. Werst! Don’t make me into your goddamned playground monitor; it’s Ressk’s turn.”

“And are you? Angry,” she added when Torin turned toward her.

Torin curled her right hand into a fist to keep from touching the weight of cylinders in a vest she wasn’t wearing. “Not at Freenim.”

•   •   •

“You’re not stupidly patriotic,” Torin said, stepping off the treadmill after ten kilometers and reaching for a towel. She’d been watching Dutavar use the resistance bands, waiting until exertion had worn off some of his prickly defensiveness—he’d share the gym, but he wouldn’t talk. “I can spot that kind of jingoistic crap a kilometer away. It’s not species specific.”

He grunted and leaned into the maximum resistance, patches of his fur dark with sweat. He smelled better than a Dornagain. Probably better than she did right now, Torin admitted.

“I understand why your military wants one of their own here.” She tossed her wrist weights in the bin. “You’ll be reporting back on our preparedness. They’ll want information on weaknesses that can be exploited should war begin again. The things a civilian wouldn’t notice.”

He thought he was giving nothing away, but she’d learned his tells watching him train. He’d have lied to her had they had this conversation back on the station. Physical honesty was a lot harder to fake.

“If a weapon to destroy the plastic exists, the more realistic among your superiors want you to get as much information on it as possible—pictures, scans, schematics. I guarantee someone highly placed and political suggested you grab it and run.”

His tail flicked once. Dismissively.

“They likely pointed out that there’ll be six Polint on 33X73 and six Polint can easily overcome the minimal opposition present because, of course, the other three, the three currently working for Robert Martin, will, in the end, choose to fight on the side that benefits their own species.”

His shoulders rose and his rhythm faltered.

Torin crossed to the cooler and pulled out a pouch of water. “We have those types on our side as well. Some day, if you’re very good, I may tell you about General Morris.” She preferred room temperature water, but she’d forgotten to get a pouch out before she started her run, so she drank it cold. Ex-Gunnery Sergeants didn’t make mistakes. “What I don’t understand,” she continued, leaning against the wall, “is why you volunteered for this shit job. You can’t fully integrate into the team because you’re serving military. You have to remain an objective observer. When you get back, no matter how much information you give them, your superiors are going to want more, and you won’t be able to fully reintegrate into your old unit because you’ve been behind enemy lines on your own. What were you up to? Not to mention . . .” She took another swallow of water. “. . . no one entirely trusts volunteers.”

The muscles in his back were so tense, he was going to hurt himself if he kept working the bands.

“If you’re trying to impress Vertic . . .”

“No!” Dutavar jerked toward her, breathing heavily, bands at full extension. “Our ship was in Susumi before I met her. My presence here has nothing to do with Vertic!”

Alien gender politics; Torin knew better than to get involved. “But it’s personal, isn’t it? Tehaven, down on 33X73, he shares your markings.”

Dutavar’s lip curled and, arms trembling, he slowly let the bands slide back into the bulkhead. “We’re the same color, so we must be connected? Is every human with brown hair and eyes personally connected to you, Warden Kerr? Is your universe so small?”

She shrugged. “Brown on brown’s the default in my part of the universe. Your particular pattern—the orange in the black, white, and gray variegation—Vertic tells me that’s rare. She says it only occurs in one family line. Rare enough that a variegated Polint there with Martin and a variegated Polint here with me is unlikely to be coincidence. Do not,” she snapped, “claw the deck padding.”

“Sorry, Dur . . .” Teeth cracked against each other as he shut his mouth around the Primacy rank, ears down, mane flat.

Not the first time he’d been told. Torin shifted until her posture became more gunnery sergeant than Warden and met his eyes. “Well?”

Claws emerged and disappeared again. His mane rose. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Torin waited.

“He’s my brother,” Dutavar growled reluctantly. “The youngest. He’s a damned fool and desperate to prove himself. Our mother wants him home alive. My superiors owed her a favor.”

“You didn’t exactly volunteer.”

“Not as far as my mother’s concerned, no.”

“And your orders?”

“Everything you said. Watching. Reporting. Get the weapon if I can, get specs if I can’t.”

“And your actual orders?”

“To bring my brother home alive.”

Torin threw Dutavar a clean towel. “I hope she knows you can’t guarantee his safety.”

“Do you have a mother?” he asked, rubbing at the moisture on his chest.

“Fair point.”

Craig shifted his knee on Keeleeki’ka’s back, his weight pressing her against the floor. “Stay down!”

“We’re on a ship in the between.” Her antennae flicked back and forth, a touch against his thigh and away. “A ship you control. Where would I go where you couldn’t find me?” Antennae relaxed into a sullen curve, she clicked her outer mandibles. “I only wanted to learn about you. About your worlds. About your Confederation.”

“In my control room?” A new scent overpowered the licorice and lifted the hair on the back of Craig’s neck. On ship or station, even considering the amount of ceramic, the smell of heated metal did not evoke a neutral reaction. Vacuum was unforgiving.

“This is the heart of your story.” Keeleeki’ka unfolded her upper arms, fanning out the multiple slender digits, reaching for nothing. “We only know what the council tells us about you and we know they lie.”

Civilian salvage operators, even ex-civilian salvage operators who’d become Wardens, weren’t big fans of the government. Craig eased his weight up. “Don’t run.”

Releasing his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the shell, Craig shifted his weight to his other leg, and straightened. His knee had barely cleared the carapace when the Artek slid out from under him and scuttled toward the control room hatch.

“Promise. Lock two.” The bolts slid home. Craig folded his arms and glared. “Not until we’re done, Keelee.”

Pivoting 180 degrees on her rearmost legs, Keeleeki’ka backed into the closest corner. “The others were your enemy, not me!”

“You’re the drongo who stuck her mandibles in where they didn’t belong!”

“I didn’t bite your ship!”

“I never said you did!”

“Keelee is not my name!”

“So I should click for forty minutes when I talk to you?”

“Yes!”

“Why didn’t you ask if you had questions?”

Keeleeki’ka’s wedge-shaped head swung from side to side. “Why would I believe you would answer? Knowledge is power. Why would you give power to me?”

“Knowledge also keeps you from making stupid mistakes. Like messing around in my control room!”

*Craig?*

He tongued his implant. “Torin.”

*I just got a ping that you locked the hatch. Everything all right?*

It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been unable to handle having anyone else on his ship. Limited air. Limited supplies. Unlimited sweat and a bung brain. He could hear the memory of those bad old days in Torin’s voice. “Everything’s aces. Keeleeki’ka’s up here giving me an ear-bashing, didn’t want to be interrupted.”

*Remember what Vertic told us.*

“That she’s not the officer you’re looking for?”

*What? No, that Keeleeki’ka is more important . . .*

“Than she appears.” Craig blew out a deep breath and ran both hands back through his hair. “Memory’s not that bad, luv.”

*If she’s willing to talk, see if you can get anything useful out of her.*

“About?”

*Anything. Except how to kill her.* Torin sighed and he knew exactly the expression she’d be wearing. *I know how to do that. Anything else. Knowledge is power.*

“So I’ve heard.”

*Record everything.*

“Teach grandpa to suck eggs.” With thirteen members of the Primacy Torin’s responsibility—however much she changed the definition of responsibility when referring to the six on the ship and the seven on 33X73—she’d be a fool not to want any conversation between the two halves of her team recorded. And Torin was no fool; any foolishness she’d brought into the Corps had been trained out of her. Replaced with responses more useful to war. He’d hoped he’d replaced a few more of those than it seemed as if he had.

*Craig!*

Keeleeki’ka had swiveled all eye-stalks in his direction.

“Sorry. Thinking.”

*I said, or I could listen through your implant.*

“Or you could continue turning recent enemies into a cohesive unit because you’re just that good. We’re not fighters, Keelee and I. We’ll be fine. No drama.” He tongued off his implant before Torin could reply. The pilot’s chair creaked a protest when he dropped into it and, as the familiar support wrapped around him, the stiff ache in the line of his shoulders relaxed. “All right, you want to find out about us, fine, we keep it fair. You and me. For every question I answer, you answer one of mine.”

Keeleeki’ka scuttled closer, upper body slightly raised, the weak points on her undershell exposed. Craig couldn’t decide if it was trust or carelessness. She smelled of acetone. There was a fair go that meant she was feeling smug. “We’re in your territory; you ask first.”

“Okay.” He couldn’t think of a damned thing. The smell of acetone grew stronger. “Okay. What makes the Sekric’teen different from the rest of the Artek.”

“Ah, a good question.” The smell changed to cedar shavings. Approval. “We hold the origin of our people.”

“You’re historians?”

Her arms and antennae waved in counterpoint. “Yes. When the council agreed one of us would go, I was chosen to hold this story.”

“Can you fight?”

“I hold the story.”

Yeah, that was helpful. He swung his feet up onto the board and crossed his legs, right heel in the paint-free divot he refused to have repaired. “Your turn.”

“I believe you asked two questions, so my first is this: Who is grandpa and why must he learn to suck eggs?”

“Historian?” Eyes on the two Druin working their way through the Krai’s climbing lines, Firiv’vrak rolled her antennae. “Inflexible, pedantic, hypercritical, unimaginative, bombastic, supercilious . . .”

Torin was impressed by the translator’s vocabulary.

“. . . opinionated pains in the thorax. The Sekric’teen had the lowest percentage of military involvement across our entire species. I knew nymphs cut off entirely because they bucked tradition and volunteered. On behalf of the Artek, I apologize to Captain Ryder for the lecture on our glorious history he’s no doubt having regurgitated on him as we speak.”

•   •   •

“We only know what the people who put the translation program together want us to know.”

Craig kissed her shoulder and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “Your brain goes sexy places post-coital.”

“The translator had no problem with supercilious, but paused before spitting out plastic aliens.”

“So the Primacy calls the little fukkers something else, no surprise.”

“You’re right. It isn’t. But why can’t we know what the Primacy calls them?”

He yawned, her hair moving with the force of his eventual exhale. “Why do we need to?”

“No reason.” She pushed his arm up under her breasts, and cradled it with her own. Whatever had been bothering him earlier seemed to have passed before they had to talk about it. “Don’t change.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he murmured sleepily against the top of her head. “You neither, my paranoid preciosa.”

“Spanish?” It had been a common second language among Craig’s Human friends on the salvage station.

“Spanish is sexy.”

“Craig . . .”

“No. You can listen to the Q&A tomorrow. Go to sleep.”

That night she dreamed of Staff Sergeant Harnett, her hands bloody as she threw herself at him over a wall of the starved Marines he’d enslaved. She twisted a muscle in her back as she jerked awake, but managed to keep from punching Craig in the throat.

•   •   •

“. . . and what you have to realize is that my people are essential in keeping the history of the Artek alive and it was because of our intimate knowledge of that history that we were able to notice our leaders were not acting as Artek always had, so we knew there had to be outside influences . . .”

Craig shook his head as he silenced the recording. “Her people spent centuries holding onto traditions with all eight to sixteen fingers and arguing that something was wrong. A lot of it’s devolved to rhetoric at this point, but being right has put them in an interesting position. A chunk of the Primacy want to elevate them to a kind of priesthood. And a bigger chunk resents the hell out of them for being right.”

“She told you that?”

“Didn’t need to, did she?”

No, Torin acknowledged, she didn’t. Get past the superficial physical and cultural differences and sentience was a one trick pony. And Craig could read everything he needed to know about a mark across a poker table between one card and the next. “What did she learn about us?”

“Bit of history, bit of politics. Then it got personal.” He grinned as Torin’s eyebrow rose. “She thinks it’s disgusting that mammalian embryos are internal parasites, and was appalled we didn’t use artificial wombs. Apparently, they’re a popular option in the Primacy.”

“Get the import license, we’ll make a fortune. Since you don’t need to listen to this . . .” She fished her shoes out of their compartment in the bulkhead. “. . . I’ll review it on the treadmill. Later, we’ll compare it to Presit’s inevitable interview and look for discrepancies. If someone’s been sent to sabotage the mission and prove the Primacy and the Confederation can’t work together, Keeleeki’ka is our wild card.”

“Her people were against the war.”

“Thus, wild card.” Her voice trailed off under the weight of Craig’s regard. “Look, I’d like us to be part of a new alliance, but I have to consider other possibilities.”

“And if it’s beer and bikkies all the way to the bottom?”

She stopped to brush his hair back on the way to the hatch. “Then we’ll have a party. But everyone’s safer if I assume death and destruction. And I need to keep my people safe.”

•   •   •

“Two thirds of this file is redacted.” Werst looked up from his slate and glared at Torin. “What the fuk happened on the Paylent?”

“My file is as redacted as yours,” Torin told him. “We’re all reading the same thing.”

They were all back in the Polint quarters, going over the briefing packets on the mercenaries together. Experience had taught Torin that one of the best ways to avoid conflict was to make sure everyone involved had the same information and be damned sure they interpreted it the same way. “Petty Officer Sareer, Lieutenant Beyvek, Lieutenant Gayun di’Dizon, and Seaman Pyrus di’Himur all in the image Commander Ganes got out, all among the fifteen survivors of the destruction of the Paylent.”

“It was a cruiser,” Binti said softly. “That’s three hundred enlisted, thirty officers.”

“That’s three hundred and fifteen dead,” Alamber added, his hair flat against his head.

Ressk snorted. “No surprise they didn’t re-up after that.”

“Any of you lot able to fill in the details?” Werst growled across the room.

“My people don’t . . .” Keeleeki’ka began.

Firiv’vrak cut her off. “Your people don’t fight. They all know that. Shut up. It wasn’t a boarding I was a part of, nor a ship whose honors I know.”

Werst’s lip lifted. “Three fifteen dead isn’t hon . . .”

“Enough.” Torin cut him off. “We’re not refighting it now.”

“We . . .” Vertic’s gesture included Bertecnic and Dutavar. “. . . were ground troops. We’d no more know about it than you would. Freenim?”

“No.” He glanced at Merinim and tapped the back of his left hand. She returned the gesture. “Neither of us have heard of it.”

“I guess you lot killed so many . . .”

“Werst!”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Sorry, Gunny.” Looked across the room, nostril ridges open. “Sorry. War’s a fukking waste.” Another deep breath. “A lot of Krai in the Navy.”

Ressk reached over and wrapped a foot around his ankle.

“Fourteen survivors mentioned a Commander Yurrisk, helmsman. Krai. All of them said they wouldn’t have made it without him.” Torin knew she was holding her slate too tightly. “Although what he actually did has also been redacted.”

“Heroes.” Vertic held her hand out, palm up. “Villains.” And turned it over. “Those who give the orders seldom want to know exactly how we carry them out.”

“Fukking right.” Werst lifted his pouch of sah, and everyone save Keeleeki’ka, Alamber, and Craig joined in the salute.

Torin had to force her swallow of coffee down before she continued. “Three years ago, an Aggressive Class minesweeper, the DeCaal was registered to Commander Yurrisk, who’d left the Navy with a medical discharge.”

“Details of the discharge redacted,” Ressk muttered. “A lot of detail redacted given the original file length. Poor fukker.”

“His registered crew, Sateer, Beyvek, di’Dizon, di’Himur, and Mirish di’Yaunah, di’Dizon’s thytrin. Seems safe to assume that when Commander Ganes took his picture, Commander Yurrisk was in the shuttle or still in the DeCaal in orbit. Robert Martin, Brenda Zhang, and Emile Trembley have all been keeping a reasonably low profile since they left the Corps. Trembley’s only been out for a year and there’s nothing in the public records. Zhang was cautioned ten tendays ago by security on an OutSector station after a public screaming match with a Katrien.”

“Cautioned or deafened, Gunny?”

Presit had declared she was perfectly capable of reading briefing packets without help, borrowed two bottles of Alamber’s nail polish, and disappeared into her quarters.

“Martin,” Torin continued when the laughter quieted, “has been fired from fifteen jobs in the last eighteen months. And Jana Malinowski, who saw more combat than the other three put together, has been arrested six times for fighting and has consistently skipped out on her court-appointed therapy.”

“Who would do such a thing, Boss?”

“Damned if I know. All four were basic infantry, no specialties, and Martin did legitimately make sergeant. Field promotion, just before his contract ended.”

Keeleeki’ka waved both antennae and all four arms. “I have a question. If Robert Martin is a sergeant and Yurrisk is a commander, why do you give Commander Yurrisk his rank but not Robert Martin?”

“Because for whatever reason they’re on Threxie, Commander Yurrisk is broken and Robert Martin is an asshole. What?” Craig tossed his empty coffee pouch in the recycler and reached for another. “More than just a pretty face. I can read between the lines, and I know how Torin thinks.”

“Poor fukker,” Ressk repeated.

“You’re very lucky,” Vertic told him.

Craig smiled tightly. “Yes, I am.”

Alamber’s eyes darkened and he glanced from Craig to Torin. When he opened his mouth, Torin glared it shut again. “Vertic, if you could cover the Polint.”

Vertic had no more personal information on any of the three than what had been in the briefing packets, but she went over the different fighting styles. “And while Camaderiz may be the only one with military training,” she concluded, “do not discount the other two. They can point a gun and pull a trigger and, if they have enough ammunition, no one will care about a lack of precision shooting.”

“What about the blades?” Ressk asked.

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t get close enough for them to bring the blades into play.”

There were a few snickers, but no one in the room doubted she was serious.

“If it comes to close quarter fighting, one on one,” Torin said, holding the attention of everyone in the room, “the Polint will fight the Polint. No arguments. And, while we’re on the topic of Polint fighting Polint, Santav Teffer Dutavar has information to share.”

His ears flattened.

“Or would you rather I did it?”

Arms folded, mane up, Dutavar glared at Torin.

Torin raised a hand and cut Vertic off. Then she waited.

“It’s no one’s business,” he growled.

“You know better.”

He did. She could see his mother’s instructions fighting the abilities that had kept him in the military longer than most Polint males. His lips curled back off the ivory slabs of his teeth. “Tehaven is my brother.”

“Are we supposed to be surprised?” Alamber asked as Dutavar swept a challenging scowl around the room. “You look like copies.”

“Netrovooens has the nearly same coloring as Bertecnic,” Dutavar snarled. “Do you assume they’re brothers?”

Alamber grinned. “Even with crappy slate resolution, I can tell Netro’s not a copy of Bertecnic. Not by, as it were, a long shot.”

When Vertic tried to silence the resulting commentary, Torin caught her eye, shook her head, and mouthed, let it go. Credit where it was due, Vertic seemed to understand the reasoning.

“Integration seems to be going well.” Freenim had crossed to Torin’s side during the initial flurry of speculation.

Torin opened another coffee. “It’s a di’Taykan thing.”

“I remember.”

“Still nothing on the Druin in red?”

“Surprisingly, no.” He blinked, inner eyelid sliding across the black. “Our government seems to have forgotten to load a full Druin population census onto our slates.”

Torin toasted him with the coffee.

“But Merinim says she dresses well.”

•   •   •

The bulkhead outside the Polint quarters rang under Bertecnic’s fist. Dutavar grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back with enough force his front feet came off the deck.

Torin moved toward them, mouth open to call for backup, and staggered sideways as Vertic raced passed her, the width of the passage not adequate for an adult Human and a running Polint. When she reached the males, Vertic grabbed an ear in each hand, yanking them first apart and then into their quarters. Bertecnic’s tail flicked out of the way at the last second as the hatch slammed closed behind them.

The silence was definitive.

And quickly broken.

“Do not be asking them about the Ner. They are getting emotional,” Presit added as Torin turned toward her.

The Ner rode the Polint into battle. Torin had faced them at the siege of Simunthitir and while they were small, they were vicious fighters and good shots—the latter remarkable as the Polint ran like cats. “The durlan and Bertecnic lost theirs before the prison planet, in the battle that destroyed Sh’quo Company,” she pointed out. “They were over it then.”

Presit combed her claws through her whiskers, right side, then left. “Then, yes, but now Dutavar are still being military and are having to leave his Ner behind. He are still being unhappy and that are reminding Bertecnic about being unhappy. They are not willing to be sharing being unhappy.” She snorted dismissively. “Competitive grieving.”

“Maybe they’ll bond over it.”

“Is that being what the young are calling it?”

•   •   •

“We can’t hide in the trees and pick them off one at a time; we’ll risk the hostages’ lives.” Torin folded her arms. “We can’t land on the plateau and swarm them; we’ll risk the hostages’ lives. We can’t bomb them from orbit; we’ll . . .”

“. . . risk the hostages’ lives.” Vertic didn’t join the chorus, but everyone else did.

“And we aren’t carrying the ordinance anyway. There’s a shitload more we can’t do,” Torin continued. “I know it. You know it. We’re done discussing it. Bottom line, doing the job means getting all the hostages out alive. Recon team will drop in this clearing here . . .” She tapped the image. “. . . Craig lands the shuttle here.”

“You and me on recon, Gunny?”

She wanted to put boots on the ground. Wanted to look up and see sky. Wanted to get from point A to point B over hostile terrain, with someone she trusted watching her back. Wanted her eyes on the mercenaries instead of on briefings. No one would argue her dropping with Werst—they were the only two members of the extended team with time in reconnaissance.

“You and Ressk,” she said, expanding the image until they could see through the canopy. “You can take the path of least resistance. Move faster.”

Werst shook his head, nostril ridges closing. “Ressk . . .”

“Was a Marine, like the rest of us. And he has better range scores than you do.” Torin held Werst’s gaze. “I convinced Commander Ng your bonding wouldn’t affect your performance in the field. Calling me a liar?”

“No, Gunny.”

“Good.” Ressk would likely have more to say about it, but she was done. “Get the lay of the land, max out the DLs, then head back. Top speed. DLs, look and listen,” she added in response to Vertic’s silent question. “Surveillance.”

“One of our people should go as well.” Dutavar’s mane lifted as Torin turned toward him. He was challenging? He was showing respect? She could not get the hang of the mane movements. “This is a joint mission.”

“Artek are frequently used in reconnaissance,” Freenim said. “They’re adaptable to a number of environments and hard to kill. As long as the three Polint remain unaware the Wardens have been joined by the Primacy, they’ll assume local insect life.”

“Which are large.” Alamber stared unhappily at hard light images of sixteen insects that ranged from half a meter to a meter long.

“Only nine are on this continent . . .” Torin deleted seven images. “. . . only four of those are poisonous, though not to all of us, and the med kit will have finished the inoculates in plenty of time.”

“Yeah, not exactly comforting, Boss.”

“Insects and snakes.” Merinim spun another screen of images, bright colors flashing. “This one has wings. It’s a snake. With wings.”

“Vestigial. It can’t get its entire body off the ground.”

“Since it’s big enough to swallow me whole, not really comforting, Gunny.”

“The Artek . . .”

“Are not trained for this,” Firiv’varic broke in. “Pilot.” Her antennae flicked toward Keeleeki’ka. “Civilian. You point me at a target, I can fight, but don’t expect me to know what I’m doing scuttling through the undergrowth on my own.” The scent of heated milk momentarily overwhelmed the air filters. “And don’t expect anything of her.”

Keeleeki’ka snapped her mandibles. “I’m here to witness.”

“Us die?”

“Enough.” Torin swept an uncompromising gaze over her team. “We rescue the hostages, we attempt to capture rather than kill the mercenaries, we do it together. And we do not question every word out of my fukking mouth. Is that clear?”

A low rumble of yes, Gunny and clear, Gunny ran through the room. Not exactly resounding, but Torin would take it. Craig, leaning on the bulkhead by the hatch, winked.

“I’d still rather avoid the jungle.” Vertic spread her hands, claws emerging. “We’re good climbers, but we’re heavy. Our people are more comfortable on rocks than trees. If we drop into the cleft . . .” She expanded the edge of the plateau. A waterfall poured out of the jungle one point seven three kilometers in from the advancing tree line. The anchor was barely visible. “. . . it’s a two-point-two–kilometer climb.”

“We’d still have to land far enough away the mercs won’t hear the shuttle.” Torin adjusted the angle. “And there’s jungle at the bottom of the cleft.”

“The river . . .”

“No room to land upstream, so we’re shit out of luck on a nice silent float.” Craig shrugged. “Trust me, I looked. Unless we want to announce our presence with authority and land on the plateau, it’s hack through approximately five klicks of jungle and then climb the cliff, or hack through eight klicks of jungle, skip the cliff.”

Vertic looked ready to keep arguing, visibly stopped herself, and nodded.

Torin threw up a meteorological report before the Primacy officer could change her mind. “It’ll be hot and humid under the trees, but they have three di’Taykan to our one and, as they’re not in uniform, they don’t have access to environmental controls. That’ll be to our advantage. There’s an impressive amount of pollen, so no one forget broad spectrum antiallergens before leaving the VTA.” She stepped away from the image and folded her hands behind her back. “All but one of the hostages are Niln or Katrien, so they’ll be easy to identify.”

“And small enough to be considered a food source by most of what’s in the jungle,” Ressk noted.

Bertecnic snorted. “So are you.”

“Not my idea to be here. They came willingly.”

Merinim brought up the information on the scientists. “Their license is only for the plateau. They’re not to explore past the tree line. Nondisruptive sensor sweeps only.”

Ressk spread his hands. “Because most of what’s in the jungle will kill them.”

“But the plateau is safe.”

“Except for the mercenaries.”

“I’d rather be shot at than swallowed.”

Everyone turned to stare at Binti.

“What?” she demanded. “I hate snakes.”

“So you are being the Strike Team’s sniper? You are providing long-distance cover for the dangerous jobs they do, that are being correct?”

“It is.”

Presit shifted under the intensity of Binti Mashona’s regard. “I are asking you to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

She was wanting to say, don’t be paying so much attention to me, but she are not being able.

•   •   •

“I are hearing congratulations are in order. For your bonding,” Presit added before either Krai could be voicing the question she could see on their faces. “I are imagining it are a great assistance to be having your bonded with you on a mission like this.”

“Can’t see why,” Werst grunted. “He’s useless in a fight.”

“And he couldn’t use polymorphism to create a set from an array.”

“What the fuk does that mean?”

“That you’re proving my point.”

“Sex is good, though.”

Ressk’s nostril ridges fluttered open. “Very.”

•   •   •

“Sure, it’s strange having all these other people on the team, but on the other hand . . .” Alamber’s eyes darkened. “. . . there’s all these other people on the team. Have you looked under Bertecnic?”

•   •   •

“Are you serious? Freenim will pouch when we decide it’s time to have children, and I don’t want to discuss it. We’re here to assist in the rescue of innocent hostages not talk about . . . that.”

•   •   •

“So you are being a pilot? Of small fighter craft?”

“I was.”

Presit sneezed at the sudden overpowering scent of cherry candy.

•   •   •

“Torin told everyone to cooperate fully.” Craig drew the brush carefully over Presit’s shoulder.

She frowned at the amount of fur in the air. “I am being very sure she did.”

“You two need to talk.”

Torin let her head fall into her hands. “Alamber . . .”

“Something’s got Craig’s nuts in a knot, Boss.”

“If you’ll stop sounding like Werst, I’ll talk to him after Vertic and I go over the order of the march.”

“You’re marching? It’s jungle. How do you march through all that . . . stuff?”

“Go away.”

•   •   •

“Exiting Susumi in three . . .” Craig held both hands over the board. “Two.”

Torin drummed her fingers on her knee. In order to enter the system unnoticed, the Promise was nearly a million kilometers away from the buoy and regulated safety. Torin trusted Craig significantly more than any Susumi engineer the Navy had ever used, but solid objects cared sweet fuk all about trust.

“One.”

The stars reappeared.

“Yay.” Binti twirled a finger, unsnapped her harness, and stood. “We survived again. Second seat’s all yours, Firiv’vrak.”

“Got bonzor eyes like Binti’s on board, might as well use them,” Craig had explained, back when they’d all started working together.

Neither of them had acknowledged that the extra heartbeat Binti’s eyesight might give them would make no difference if they exited Susumi bearing down on an asteroid, or a planet, or another ship. The only people with more superstitions about survival than Marines were civilian salvage operators.

As the Artek were unable to sit in chairs designed for bipedal species, Firiv’vrak rose nearly vertical on her rearmost legs and shuffled sideways into the narrow space between the copilot’s chair and the board, both chair and board supporting part of her weight. She didn’t look comfortable, but the growing scent of cherry candy said she was happy.

“I need that light at 521.” Both hands busy, Craig pointed with an elbow. “Slide it left.”

Firiv’vrak had piloted an unfamiliar VTA off the prison planet and close enough to the Promise to run a gangway between air locks. When she’d asked to learn the Promise’s controls, Craig, who’d been on that VTA, could find no good reason to refuse.

“Shitload of bad reasons,” he’d admitted. “I’m not going to hand her the keys and tell her to be back by 26:30, but she’s an ace pilot and I’m not going to insult her either.”

“That shuttle was made of plastic aliens. You could argue they were flying themselves and that she had nothing to do with it.”

“You can argue it, I won’t. She stinks of burning hair when she’s unhappy.”

The Artek didn’t perceive color like a biocular species and, although Confederation numbers were only a combination of ten symbols, they were ten symbols newly learned. She’d never be able to fly the Promise, which made keeping her happy a minimal risk scenario.

They passed the planetoid at the farthest edge of the system, close enough to its gravity well to pop proximity numbers out above the control panel.

Torin stood and leaned over Craig’s chair to get a better look. “Two hundred thousand klicks? Cutting it close.”

“Plenty of room. It’s a warning, not an alert. I’m using the planet to mask our emergent point if the mercs have a sweep going.”

“What are the odds?” Binti asked. She’d moved to stand against the HE lockers along the back bulkhead instead of taking another seat. “If Ganes hadn’t got word out, no one would know they were there. They’re in the clear if they’re gone before the university’s supply ship returns.”

“Bet your life on it?” Craig asked.

She smiled. “I’d bet yours.”

Firiv’vrak waved an arm, both antennae swaying in counterpoint to delicate fingers. “I’d bet. Four of a kind beats a full house. Royal flush beats a straight flush.”

When Torin glanced over her shoulder, Binti shrugged. “Four days in Susumi, Gunny.” Her smile slid into a smirk. “Couldn’t spend it all planning a rescue, reading briefings, and fluffing Presit.”

“Warden Mashona owes me a week’s wages and a duck.”

“Let me see that.” Arniz pushed Salitwisi away from the monitor with her tail.

When one of the recalibrated scanners got a hit just inside the point where the leading growth of the jungle met the plateau, Yurrisk had most of her equipment moved to where he could watch both the monitors and the excavation of another latrine.

Arniz suspected he didn’t trust them. “These aren’t similar readings,” she said, splitting the screen and pulling up the original data. “They’re identical readings.”

“Which means?” Yurrisk leaned forward, one hand shading his eyes as he squinted at the screen.

“Eventually it’ll mean that a great many people will be spending a lot of time trying to work out why, but, for now, with next to no information, I think I can safely say that identical molecular readings of what could be plastic residue in multiple latrines . . .”

“Latrines used by a non-plastic-using civilization,” Salitwisi added.

“. . . means, colloquially speaking, it’s the same stuff. There . . .” Arniz waved a hand in the general direction of the first unsanctioned hole in the ground. “. . . and here.”

“There’s more residue in the second latrine.” Yurrisk expanded the second reading.

“I’m aware.” Roughly, eleven times more. Her tail twitched with the effort of not hauling his hand off her equipment. He’d ruined the joy of discovery, the feecont. She should be teasing answers out of Dzar, guiding her to an application after years of study, not reciting the de con talbin to her spirit every night. “There’s more of everything in the second latrine,” she snapped. “It’s five times the size and most likely communal. Which we’d know for certain if we hadn’t abandoned science for a treasure hunt.”

“How do you even know it’s a latrine?” Trembley asked, frowning at the pile behind the digger. “It looks like dirt.”

“Darker dirt,” she told him, softening her tone. “Before my complicity in the destruction of an irreplaceable archaeological site . . .” She scowled at Yurrisk. “. . . I could have shown you the differences in vegetation caused by the nutrients available in subsurface rot.”

“But the rot . . .” Trembley began.

“Enough.” Yurrisk cut him off. “Is the residue at the same historical level?”

Arniz sighed and turned to face the Krai, arms folded over her field overalls. “What part of latrine do you not understand? The contents of latrines rot. We’re not plucking data out of the stratification of bedrock here, it’s shit and piss and whatever they—whoever the pre-destruction they were—used to wipe themselves clean. Easily identified by a high localized concentration of urea and sulfides, it’s why we start our ancillaries—like the one you murdered—on them.”

“Bodies get dropped into latrines.” Martin had suddenly appeared by Trembley’s side. For a big man, he could move quickly and quietly, and he clearly wasn’t happy about Trembley being part of this discussion. Possibly because there was half a chance the young Human was still intellectually flexible enough to learn, to move from archaeology 101 to taking a second look at the morality of murder.

“I bow to your greater knowledge of what happens to a body destroyed by violence.” She used the tone she’d perfected for her department head: so completely devoid of sarcasm, it verged on insult. “But that’s not the point. Anything we find in a latrine now will be among the last things that were ever put in there. So, technically, the answer is yes. It doesn’t matter that we found the two bits of residue at different depths, if a weapon ever existed, it existed immediately pre-destruction.”

Martin peered over at the screen, although, given the angle of the sun, she doubted he could see the results from where he stood. “You should’ve known that from the initial data.”

“The initial data was a statistical anomaly. Now it isn’t.” He frowned, but to her eye he seemed more thoughtful than angry. Of course, he hadn’t seemed angry when he’d shot Dzar, so what did she know about Human expression. “This latrine . . .” She waved a hand at the excavation. “. . . was a trench and not a particularly deep one compared to some I’ve seen. The first latrine was a hole in the ground; again, not particularly deep in comparison. Any structures built over them have disappeared. It’s entirely possible the structures were wood in order to make them easy to move when the latrines filled. There’s a chance the latrines were used in a specific rotation to fertilize a nutritionally poor soil, but given the destruction you’re responsible for there’s little chance of discovering . . .”

“Destruction I’m responsible for?” His nostril ridges closed, his cheeks flushed a darker green, Yurrisk stepped forward, only to be brought up short by Qurn’s back. Arniz hadn’t seen her move to intercept.

“Get to the point, Harveer.” Arms folded, Qurn looked near the end of her patience.

Arniz sighed and waved emphatically enough to take in the entire plateau. “You’re looking at the historical level of the residue; well, out to the foundation stones of the city wall, at least. GeoPhys has turned up no evidence of intact levels belowground—no real surprise given the depth of soil out here—so it’s reasonable to assume there’s no hidden weapon.”

Yurrisk laid his hand on Qurn’s shoulder but neither moved her nor moved around her. “Then explain the plastic.”

“If we can’t come up with a weapon capable of destroying the plastic aliens,” Trembley said before Arniz could respond, “how could a civilization that shits in holes?”

“Maybe they ate them.” Sareer, the most identifiable of the Krai due to the nine small rings piercing the outside curve of her ear, joined the group at the monitor. When all attention turned on her, she gripped her weapon like a security blanket. Arniz wondered who around the monitors she thought was dangerous. “The vids say Krai can eat the plastic aliens, and that would mean the aliens would get shit out.” Her voice trailed off under the weight of Yurrisk’s gaze. “Because this is a latrine. Right, Commander?”

His expression softened into amusement. “According to the harveer, yes, it’s a latrine.”

“Then maybe they were like us.”

And continued softening into sadness. “Then we should pity them.”

“I are having a theory!” Tyven hurried over, trailing her bonded. Arniz hadn’t realized she’d been close enough to listen in, but the Katrien had excellent hearing. Yurrisk’s features snapped back into what she’d started to think of as his crazy face as the two Katrien joined them. “Perhaps the foods of the pre-destruction are recombining in the digestive tract to be resembling plastic residue.”

“It doesn’t resemble plastic residue,” Arniz sighed. “It is plastic residue.”

“But how are you knowing for certain?”

“Science.”

Tyven’s shoulders slumped and even her fur seemed to flatten. “I are not being able to argue with that.”

Sareer’s nostril ridges closed as Yurrisk ground his teeth. Muscles tensed, eyes flicking between Yurrisk and Qurn, she took a deep breath and said, “If the people here were a kind of Krai, we should think about where we’d hide the weapon.”

“Parallel evolution!” Blood rose into Trembley’s ears when everyone turned to stare. “I saw a vid,” he mumbled, scuffing a foot in the dirt.

“It’s possible,” Arniz allowed, absently waving away the perpetual cloud of tiny blue insects. Trembley’s surprise at being right was an expression familiar to every teacher in known space. “We don’t know what the builders on this world looked like because we haven’t yet found remains and none of the art in the ruins at the Mictok dig is representational.”

Tyven nodded. “It are all being geometric in that part of the world. Repeated patterns. We are hoping to be eventually finding art on the ruins in the jungle.”

“Then today’s your lucky day.” Yurrisk spread his arms. “If the weapon’s not out here, it’s in the jungle. In the ruins of the buildings.”

“It’s not fukking rocket science,” Martin added.

“No, it’s not; it’s archaeology and you don’t have the faintest understanding . . .” His hand closed around her throat, warm and mammal moist and so tight she could barely pull air past it.

“I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.” His breath lapped against her face. “If I find you’ve been deliberately delaying us in the futile hope of rescue, I’m going to bury you in one of your latrines.”

“Why would I delay?” she gasped as he released her and she dropped to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Trembley’s boots move closer. “I want you gone.”

“Martin.” Yurrisk’s voice held the Human in place. “This isn’t helping to find the weapon. Move them into the jungle. Now.”

“Harveer Tilzonicazic is going to be unbearable,” Salitwisi muttered as he helped her to her feet.

Arniz huffed out a reluctant laugh. As a botanist, Tilzon had wanted into the jungle from the moment they’d landed.

The only ship in orbit around 33X73 . . .

“Threxie.”

Torin rolled her eyes. “I’m not calling it that.”

. . . was an Aggressive class minesweeper, decommissioned by the Navy when they brought in the Avengers class. The exterior looked rough. It had no external packets attached, an extensive repair to one of the two shuttle bays had sealed that bay shut, and a large Krai symbol had been applied just back of the main air lock.

Leaning on Craig’s chair, thumb rubbing against a familiar fold in the duct tape, Torin could see the sigils for out and tree as well as the emphatic curl that identified a command. “Get out of my tree?”

“Yeah, that’s the polite translation, Gunny.” Werst shoved past Binti and leaned against the side of the second seat, where Ressk ran the minesweeper’s ID. “It means, fuk off, this is mine.”

“It means . . .” Ressk paused, stared out at the ship, and shook his head. “Never mind. Close enough. It’s the DeCaal, all right. I’m impressed Commander Yurrisk found a minesweeper in one piece.”

“Shoved to the back of the yard and forgotten when it was decommissioned.” Craig adjusted the scanners as he brought them closer to the DeCaal. “Navy yard at Ventris crammed the new in on top of the old. Strippers ran twenty-seven/ten, but I never saw much headway.”

“I’m impressed your government allows the sale of old warships to civilians. Particularly given their emphasis that the Confederation is made up of peaceful peoples.” The translator perfectly reproduced Freenim’s sarcastic tone. It was a major improvement over the program Torin had used in the Corps. But then, no one sent in the Marines if they wanted to have a conversation.

The entirety of Strike Team Alpha plus both Druin, Vertic, and Bertecnic filled the seats and all the empty floor space in the control room. Even Torin, who’d spent most of her adult life crammed into various types of armored transport with one more Marine than the transport could comfortably hold found it crowded. She admired how well Craig was holding it together. Not long ago, he’d reacted badly to the thought of sharing the Promise with her.

Presit had banked half a dozen shots of the DeCaal when they’d first come into range and then left, muttering about overwhelmed air filters. The odds were high she’d also disliked not being the center of attention.

“What’s wrong with the government unloading old ships?” Craig spun the pilot’s chair around to face the room. “Weapons are removed.”

“And the peripherals?” Standing behind Merinim’s chair, although their asses were narrow enough they could have shared, Freenim folded his arms. “Weapons are easy enough to replace if the mountings and the firing systems remain.”

“Not the kind of weapons you’d hang off a minesweeper.” Torin thought of the cases stolen from MI and made a mental note to check thefts in other sectors when they returned to the station. Weapons were, after all, still being made.

“A decommissioned ship isn’t in the yard because it’s full of holes. It’s stripped but solid. That kind of ship’s not cheap.” When Torin, Craig, and both Krai turned to look at him, Alamber’s hair flicked back and forth. “You guys have got to work on mastering that lateral slide from violence to economics. Big Bill had a sideline selling previous owner vessels—whether the previous owner agreed or not—and a spaceworthy ship that size? Very much not cheap. Add the cost of getting it up and running, plus the major outlay of replacing the Susumi engine—which I can guarantee was removed in the yard—and Commander Yurrisk isn’t going to have enough left to remount guns. Not unless he started out rolling in it.”

Ressk thumbed his slate. “He didn’t. His line’s not wealthy. Not even close.”

“You know this commander?” Freenim sounded like he didn’t trust coincidence.

“Sure. We all know each other.” Torin cleared her throat and Ressk rolled his eyes at the warning. “Fine. No. I’ve got his Navy records.”

“In my humble and yet informed opinion,” Alamber declared, ignoring the rising tension, “over the last three years Commander Yurrisk has spent everything he has to keep that ship flying. Explains why he’s threatening scientists.”

“Does it?” Vertic’s hands closed over a seat back, her claws dimpling the padding.

Alamber sighed expansively. “He has expenses. Someone’s paying him for applied violence. Destroyed plastic aliens.” He raised a finger. “Destroyed by what?” Another finger. “A weapon.” A third finger. “I’ll pay you the money you need to bring it to me, and you can keep your ship flying. If he’s as damaged as you lot think, he might not have any other options. Most people paying to ship cargo through Susumi want proven stability.”

“Makes the commander highly motivated to find the alleged weapon,” Torin said after a moment’s silence.

“And if there is no weapon?” Vertic asked.

“Given the plastic, I doubt they’ll convince him of that.”

“And if there is a weapon?”

“We’ll confiscate it if he has it, but our mission is to save the hostages.”

Her claws scraped against the floor. “Of course.”

The green light flashed on the upper left corner of the board. “Scan’s done. No life signs. The commander must’ve been lurking in the VTA when Ganes got his shot, then.” A second light flashed as Craig shut off the first. “And there’s SFA in the way of security.”

“If Alamber’s right about the cost . . .” Torin began.

“Trust me, Boss, I’m right.”

“. . . orbital security would be low on the list of systems to restore. War’s over. Who’s going to blow him up?”

“You should.” Vertic moved closer to the screen, pushing between the seats. Golden hair rubbed off her sides, tumbled through the air, and was sucked toward the filters. “Destroy the ship to keep the mercenaries from returning and running.”

“Not allowed,” Werst grunted.

She reared a few centimeters, the crest of her mane brushing the ceiling. “You’re not permitted to prevent the enemy’s escape?”

“Not by wholesale destruction,” Torin answered before Werst could voice his opinion of that particular restriction. “We’re not soldiers; we’re Wardens, dealing with civilians, governed by different regulations.”

“Dealing with assholes, governed by bureaucrats,” Werst muttered.

Torin raised a brow. He ducked his head, nostril ridges closing. “R&D is developing an explosive cartridge we can attach to the hull, by the engine.” She switched her attention back to Vertic. “If the engine is started before the cartridge is removed, or there’s an attempt to remove it without the right codes, they’ll be dead in space. The ship will be dead in space,” Torin clarified the idiom when both Druins’ inner eyelids flicked. She had no idea if, in this particular instance, the motion meant approval, disapproval, or dry air.

“But they’re still developing this cartridge,” Freenim said thoughtfully.

Werst snorted. “We’ll have it any day now.”

“You don’t currently have it, though. That’s my point. Without a way to secure the ship within the restrictions of your Justice Department, how do you stop the enemy from escaping?”

“We tag their ship so we can find them later.” Torin nudged Craig, and he tossed the specs of the tags into the air above the board—the spirit of transparency albeit not the letter as none of their Primacy companions could read Federate and only Firiv’vrak had bothered to learn numerical symbols.

The look Freenim shot her suggested he was well aware of the subtext. “So you don’t stop them from escaping.”

“We do our best to stop them from reaching their VTA and taking off.”

“But not from leaving orbit.”

“We find them later. We find them,” Torin repeated when Freenim spread his hands. “Craig, set the tag and let’s get dirtside. Those hostages aren’t getting any younger.”

“On it.”

“Wait!”

Hands on the tagging system, Craig glanced up at Torin who nodded as Firiv’vrak appeared at the hatch, scuttled over the lip, and disappeared between the seats. Vertic shifted from foot to foot to foot and ended up on her haunches, forelegs in the air as Firiv’vrak forced her way past and up between the last two seats, trailing the scent of grapefruit and pepper. “I feel that reading!”

“Feel?” Torin tossed a silent question at Freenim. Who gave the minimal shrug, NCO to NCO, that said he had no idea what Firiv’vrak was talking about.

“I feel it here!” She waved her antennae as she slid into place between the copilot’s seat and the board.

“You feel it in your antennae?” Space was big and stranger things had happened, Torin acknowledged. “What reading do you feel?” She didn’t recognize the string of numbers Firiv’vrak isolated on the board, but Craig did.

“It’s background radiation, Firiv.”

“No.” Unfolding her arm, she expanded the status line. “None of you were Navy, so you wouldn’t recognize it, but this is a Primacy wave. It’s used on exploration vessels, specifically to identify the composition of asteroids, of missiles, of debris. My best guess—they’ve tucked pieces of scientific equipment into the holes left when the sensor arrays were removed. Equipment that’s not specifically military, so it’s easier to buy and doesn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. If a solid item comes close enough to the DeCaal, it’ll send the analyses down to a slate—probably the Druin’s. No offense, Durlan, but I can’t see Polint males thinking of this.”

Vertic waved it off. “None taken.”

Warned, the mercs would, at best, use the hostages as shields. “So we don’t tag.”

“Could we neutralize the wave?” Alamber asked.

Half of Firiv’vrak’s eyes stalks turned toward him. “No idea. I’m a pilot.”

“How close is too close?” Craig demanded his eyes on the proximity readings.

Torin rested her hand on the rigid curve of his shoulder. If they were close enough for the wave to identify the composition of the Promise . . .

Firiv’vrak extended her antennae, tips quivering. “I haven’t felt an interruption in the wave.”

“That could just mean you haven’t felt it.” Craig’s hands hovered over propulsion. “Would you know if we triggered it?”

“Yes. No. Probably.”

“Two to one odds we haven’t triggered it, then.” Torin pitched her voice closer to command. “Let’s pick up the pace, people.”

“Have you scanned for Primacy life signs on board?”

Craig twisted out from under Torin’s hand to stare at Vertic. “No. Why?”

“Because there are Primacy among the mercenaries.” Her gesture involved both arms, and still managed to include only her own people. “I’m sure your military has ensured you have the required algorithms on board. Why haven’t you used them?”

“We never have,” Torin said before Craig could answer.

Habit.

As Wardens, they’d only ever been sent out after the Younger Races.

Habit got people killed.

“Will a scan interact with the wave?”

“No.” Firiv’vrak’s cherry candy scent had returned. “As I said, science, not security.”

“Do it, then.” As Craig set up the scan, Torin noticed Keeleeki’ka and Dutavar had followed Firiv’vrak into the control room. The full, combined team only fit because Bertecnic had opened the hatch to the head and backed in. “You could all watch this on your slates.”

“Not like being here, Boss.” Alamber had perched on the back of his chair, boots on the seat, head higher than the tallest of the Polint, risking Craig kicking his ass if the boot prints marred the pleather.

“Suck it up.” She straightened. “Everyone without a tactical reason to be in the control room, gear up and get to the VTA. Werst, you’re on Presit detail. Freenim . . .”

“I’ll see that everything’s ready, Warden.”

Vertic moved back to the open area behind the chairs, clearly not considering herself to be a part of everyone. It took Torin a moment to realize she hadn’t included Vertic as part of everyone either. It was one thing to ignore her rank and another to get past the certain knowledge that gunnery sergeants didn’t give orders to officers.

“No Primacy life signs.” Craig leaned back in his chair. “If Alamber could neutralize the wave, they’d likely see it as an equipment failure, given the state of the ship as a whole.”

“He’s smart enough,” Torin allowed. “But we don’t have the time.”

“I’d feel better if we could tag.”

“I’d feel better if we got to the hostages while they’re still alive. Put her where you want to leave her, and lock her up, Craig. We’ll meet you at the VTA.”

“Not like you can leave without me.” He reached up and squeezed her hand. “I want you or Werst in the second seat, in case we run into trouble from atmospheric disturbances or surface-to-air missiles on the way down.” He grinned at her expression. “Your paranoia is catching.”

“Glad to hear that.”

Binti waited for her at the hatch to the VTA. “You think they know we’re coming, Gunny?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“I are well aware there are space restrictions, this are being a very small and very uncomfortable looking vehicle.” Presit’s voice didn’t so much drift out the hatch as jab through the opening. “But I are not seeing how those restrictions are applying to me. I are half your size, I are therefore allowed twice the space.”

“We could drop Presit by the anchor,” Binti suggested. “They’d surrender in an hour. Two max.”

“Tempting.”

Of the scientists, only Dr. Ganes was large enough to use one of the two laser cutters Martin brought out of the shuttle.

“Sized for Humans.” Tilzon patted the power pack a little sadly. Arniz had watched her wield a cutter on other digs and was just as glad she wouldn’t be flinging a beam around.

“Looks like you’re up, Doc.” Martin tossed one of them at Ganes, who caught it, nearly dropped it, and straightened as Martin laughed. “Too bad you’re not human-sized, lizard.”

“Truly.” Tilzon sighed. “I’m feeling the lack.”

“And the second cutter?” Yurrisk asked. Arniz recognized the tone. He wasn’t asking for clarification; he knew the answer and wanted to know if Martin did, too.

“We’ll keep it charged and ready to trade out.”

“We haven’t time to let it sit idle. We need to be gone, with the weapon, before their supply shuttle returns. One of you will use it.”

Martin folded his arms. “One of us?”

“They’re Human-sized, Sergeant.”

As expected, Yurrisk won the staring contest. Arniz doubted anyone could look into his eyes for very long.

“Malinowski!” Martin held out the cutter as she trotted over. “You’re taking down trees.”

“Fuk you, Sarge.”

“Yeah, well, next time, don’t complain about being bored.”

Arniz didn’t understand why Martin didn’t use the Polint. They were certainly large enough and looked significantly more bored than Malinowski had, constantly shifting from foot to foot. They were even carrying large, heavy-bladed knives. Almost machetes.

“Let’s go!”

Martin, Arniz noted, yelled for the same reason Salitwisi did. To attract attention to himself.

The three di’Taykan, hair clamped close to their heads, looked as unhappy about following Martin past the mesh of vegetation that marked the edge of the jungle as Arniz felt. As she understood it, they disliked both heat and humidity. Well, in that case, they’d certainly picked the wrong dig to terrorize.

Yurrisk seemed sympathetic. “No reason you can’t sit while you guard the scientists. The shade under the trees has to be better than standing in direct sunlight.”

“Guard the scientists doing what?” Salitwisi demanded.

Turning slowly, Yurrisk waved toward the jungle. “Guard the scientists as they clear debris away from the road.”

Salitwisi’s tail rose. “We have ancillaries for that.”

“They’ll be joining you.”

The road had been obvious on the orbital surveys. Before the flacid tail-wobblers had arrived, Salitwisi and his ancillaries had begun to slowly examine the point where the road met the city wall in hope of identifying a gate house. Or, at the very least, a gate even though the surveys showed no break in the wall along the cliff. A meter and a half wide, the road seemed narrow out on the plateau and ridiculously wide in under the trees. Yurrisk had insisted they clear it completely, shouting, “Because important items are kept in buildings by the sides of roads! What use is a weapon if you can’t get to it!” Then he’d sat down heavily on a rock and waved Qurn off.

Sareer and Beyvek swarmed up into the trees, swinging from branch to branch using both hands and feet. Arniz could hear them yelling out directions to Ganes and whichever human had joined him. They’d left their weapons leaning against one of the thicker trunks and looked so happy it was difficult to remember they’d been a part of Dzar’s murder and the . . .

It wasn’t kidnapping, not really, they hadn’t been taken anywhere. Arniz supposed they were being held hostage, but no one had actually tried to leave, so held wasn’t entirely accurate. Science performed under duress?

Manual labor performed under duress.

“What part about ‘drop the debris off the path’ do you not understand?”

Arniz peered up at Gayun, visibly wilting in the higher humidity under the trees, brilliant blue hair flat against his head. “I was thinking. You should try it some time.”

He raised his weapon. She touched the air with her tongue and smelled the sweat staining his clothes. “You’re lucky you got old. Too many p . . . p . . . people are dead.”

“Well, the old can’t work very fast. If you helped, you’d be out of the heat faster.”

Salitwisi, Tilzon, and the four closest grad students froze in place, branches and vines dangling from their hands, a slender tree resting on two sets of shoulders.

The end of Gayun’s weapon jabbed a circular bruise into her chest. Arniz staggered back, arms flailing.

“I’ve got this, Gayun.” The warm press of Trembley’s hand on her back kept her on her feet. “Find a breeze before you melt.”

Gayun’s eyes darkened, then he muttered something Arniz didn’t catch and headed back toward the plateau. She turned just far enough to watch him go, but not so far she lost Trembley’s support.

“If he wants, he can shoot you from out there.” Trembley gave her a shove forward. “Get to work. All of you, get to work!”

Although the ends had been cauterized by the cutter, the pieces of vine were heavy and wet with sap. It seeped through the periderm all along the length, viscous and unpleasant and sticky when dry. Lifting and carrying and lifting again, Arniz could hear insects over the cutting and gathering and muttering, although it sounded as though the birds had moved deeper into the jungle away from their intrusion. The air, only four meters from the plateau, tasted of moisture held in the folds of foliage, and of rot, flora and fauna falling to decompose and become a rich humus.

Three hours later, only six meters of the road had been cleared. It was farther than Arniz had thought they’d get even for a variable definition of cleared that included abandoned stumps and roots that buckled slabs of stone up at enough of an angle edges had been visible through the mats of vine. She closed her fingers around a gauzy insect trying to drink from the surface of her eyes and listened to Yurrisk as she pulled pieces of the body out of the dried sap on her palm.

“You’re cutting organics!”

“Yeah, but really fukking tough organics.” Zhang wiped sap off the side of the cutter, continuing the motion to scrub a damp, green stripe off her cheek. She didn’t seem particularly bothered by Yurrisk’s rising anger, but Arniz assumed she’d seen battle and that had to put a crazy Krai into perspective. “Everything gets bigger and thicker the farther in we go, and I’ve got three percent power left.”

“Two five here,” Ganes panted.

Martin looked ahead into the trees and back along the road as he said, “That’s it for today.”

“That is not it!”

Martin shrugged. “It’ll take six hours to charge the cutters back in the VTA. It’ll be dark in less than five.”

Arniz flicked the last piece of insect away and sank to the ground.

“Are you being all right?” Tyven, fur in random sap-stiffened clumps, squatted beside her. “You are having collapsed.”

“I sat quickly.” She reached out to pat the geophysicist on the arm and snatched her hand back as she thought better of it. “I’m fine. I’m tired.”

“I are . . .”

Yurrisk grabbed Tyven’s shoulder, hauled her to her feet, and shook her. “Where are the ruins?”

She twisted in his grip. “There!”

“Where?”

“There!”

It would have been funny had Tyven not been flapping back and forth, toes digging into the ground trying to keep her balance. Arniz tasted the air, the prevailing scents of dying vegetation and the bitter residue of the cutter overwhelmed by anger and fear. Both emotions coming from Yurrisk.

“Are you not seeing that ridge?”

Arniz could see only vegetation, insects, and shadows, but the Krai had eyesight almost as good as the Katrien.

“It’s a fallen tree.”

“No! It are being an intact wall.”

He stopped shaking her. “A building.”

“A wall,” she repeated. “There are being no more than a meter remaining. Maybe less. Maybe more. Organic cover are being deceptive.”

He shook her again. “I want buildings! Storage! They should be by the road!”

“How are you knowing? We are knowing almost nothing about those who are being pre-destruction!”

“Because this is a city, and not the best part of a city either, given communal latrines.”

“Everyone shits,” Arniz muttered. And Yurrisk needed to make up his retunin mind. One minute yelling and shaking, the next all quiet reason even while maintaining his grip on Tyven’s shoulder as though expecting her to hold him up.

“Cities, especially walled cities, have limited space,” he continued. “They’re not going to waste that limited space by setting buildings back from the road.”

Tyven waved her arms. “We are not knowing how many people this city are holding. There are maybe being small numbers and big properties.”

“The amount of work a city this size requires wouldn’t be practical for small numbers.”

“We are not knowing what is being practical for the pre-destruction people. We are having nothing to extrapolate from. We are only beginning to study . . .”

“You be taking your hands off her!”

Arniz turned in time to see Lows hit the ground, Gayun’s foot in his back, boot almost covered by fur.

“Lows!” Tyven fought to get to her bonded. Yurrisk had to hold on with both hands.

“I need buildings!”

And there was the yelling and shaking again.

“It are not working that way!”

Arniz hissed as she rose to her feet, cutting in before Yurrisk could respond. “According to the survey, the first intact buildings are five hundred meters in from the plateau. We’ve gone six. Barely. Why don’t you join your people on the high road to the ruins . . .” Sareer and Beyvek hadn’t touched ground all day. “. . . the three of you can spend the time looking for your weapon instead of landscaping. I thought Krai were all about climbing.”

Breathing heavily, hands opening and closing, Yurrisk glared down at her for a moment, then turned and vomited.

“I thought the Krai are not doing that?” Tyven muttered.

“What’s going on here?” Martin demanded, punctuating his arrival by crushing a round-bodied insect under his boot.

“None of your b . . . b . . . business, Sergeant.” Gayun stepped between the two as Qurn hurried past and handed Yurrisk a bottle of water.

“My business is keeping the peace, through force if necessary.” Martin sneered at the di’Taykan. “Looks like this is my business, Lieutenant.”

“Blades,” Yurrisk said, spat, and stood. “We need heavy cutting blades.”

“You are really not understanding archeolo . . .”

The force of Martin’s kick threw both Tyven and Arniz back. Spores exploded under Arniz’s head as she slammed into a round gray-green fungus. Trying to catch her breath, Tyven began to cough.

“The Polint have b . . . b . . . blades,” Gayun pointed back toward the plateau. “They’re more than just b . . . b . . . big knives, that’s for sure.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Cutting brush was not what the Polint were contracted to do.”

Yurrisk’s nostril ridges closed. “Then I suggest you convince them to amend the contract.”

“Boss, that medical discharge Yurrisk got?” Alamber passed her his slate. “I took a look at the details.”

“Wasn’t that redacted?”

“Sure, but the information’s still there if you dig deep enough and medical files all use the same encryptions. You manage to get into one file, you can get into all of them. Long story short, Krai bone still surrounds a delicious creamy center and Yurrisk’s got whipped.”

Vertic leaned forward and grunted. The VTA had been modified to hold the Polint, but the strapping had been designed for safety not comfort. “What’s he talking about?”

“Brain injury.” Torin frowned down at the screen. “Transient vertigo and acrophobia on top of what has to be a really messed-up head space given all the redaction.” Bodies could be rebuilt. Brains couldn’t always be rewired. “Werst, could he . . .”

“No. Live with ground dwellers, sure, but he’d never be able to live on a Krai planet, with Krai.”

“They’re arboreal,” Torin explained before Vertic could ask. “Natural forests where possible, concrete towers where it isn’t.”

“I’m not sure how perceiving the world as swaying when it isn’t would prevent him from living arboreally—trees sway in the Confederation, don’t they?”

“They sway when they sway,” Werst told her. “Not when they don’t. If they zig when you zag.” He slapped his palms together. “Impact.”

“I see.” Vertic tucked her thumbs behind the straps over her chest. “I see how fear of heights could be a problem, if the translator has defined acrophobia correctly, but he’s on a ship. A ship that goes into space.”

“He has both feet on the deck.”

“What if he looks out a window?”

“Both feet on the deck,” Werst repeated. “That’s what matters.”

Vertic shook her head. “That’s . . .”

“That’s what matters to the Krai, Durlan. If he loses his ship, he loses the only home he’s comfortable in.”

“So Yurrisk’s hiring mercs and holding scientists hostage because he picked up a brain injury while serving and psych dropped the ball. He can’t live with his own kind, so he crossed the line in order to keep his ship, the one thing he has left, flying.” Binti spread her hands. “You sure this isn’t a job for Veterans’ Affairs, Gunny?”

“Depends on how many hostages we find alive.”

“Hands and feet inside the ride, kids.” Craig cut off any response. “Atmosphere in three, two, one . . .”

“Brenda!”

“What?” Trembley, dripping sweat, leaned into her line of sight.

Arniz straightened, trying to work the kinks out of her back. They wouldn’t be able to keep going much longer. It got dark under the trees first and the road was as much a suggestion as a guide. “Brenda Zhang. It’s the shorter, female Human’s name.”

Trembley shrugged and slapped at an insect. “Well, yeah. So?”

“I have a theory that it’s harder to kill people who know your name.”

“Unless you kill them because they know your name. What?” Her expression pushed him back a step. “It’s just another theory. We’re here for the weapon. Nobody’s going to get killed.”

“Else. Nobody else is going to get killed,” she added when he looked confused.

His brows drew in and he looked back along the path, as though he thought he’d be able to see the anchor where Dzar still lay in a stasis pod in the infirmary, out of the sun. “That’s not . . .” He frowned.

She waited.

“Get back to work!” he snarled instead of telling her what it wasn’t.

Arniz knew guilt when she saw it. Guilt for watching beings smaller and older than he was work themselves to exhaustion. Maybe guilt for allowing Dzar to die and doing nothing to stop it, but maybe not. Age had taught her it was easier to acknowledge smaller guilt, however angrily, than larger.

Stomach growling, she staggered as she dragged a branch to the side of the road, tripped on the mossy edge of a slab, and pitched forward into the tree where Sareer and Beyvek had leaned their weapons. Hands out in full view, she backed away as quickly as she was able. No telling what Martin would do if he saw her near the guns, but her options weren’t good. He enjoyed hurting people.

“Are you being all right, Harveer?” Magyr, one of Tyven’s ancillaries steadied her as she stumbled.

“No. I’m tired and hungry and bruised.” Arniz didn’t know Magyr well. They hadn’t been here long enough, but she seemed intelligent and not particularly entitled which was the minimum Arniz required. She patted the young Katrien on the arm with the back of her hand to keep from clumping yet more fur together. “But then I expect everyone is.”

She trudged back to the debris she’d been clearing, paused when she realized Magyr hadn’t followed, and turned to find the ancillary still standing by the tree. Staring down at the weapons. Probably wondering why the horrible things existed now the war was over. Arniz certainly was. She’d never given them a second thought until she’d suddenly seen how quickly they could end a life. And yes, so could a rail car, she acknowledged, forcing her back to bend, reaching for another armload of cut vines, but a rail car would have been harder to acquire and significantly less portable. Although Arniz had no doubt that, if given a chance, Martin would happily use one to . . .

She tightened her grip on the vines when Magyr picked up one of the guns. Dropped them when the ancillary turned, holding the weapon in both hands. She heard a shout; it sounded Human, and she froze, unable to move either toward Magyr or away. Her mouth formed the words put it down, but she couldn’t draw in enough of the heavy, humid air to make a sound.

The shunk, shunk of edged steel cutting through organics stopped. Dragging her gaze from Magyr, Arniz saw Martin beckon Cameradiz over and ask for his blade. Cameradiz laughed, said something short in his own language, and handed it over, watching as Martin walked toward Magyr, the heavy blade, flecked green, held loosely in front of him.

In the distance, birds and insects maintained the background noise. On the road, silence.

“All of you!” Lips drawn back off her teeth, Magyr waved the weapon in a wobbly arc. “All of you who are not being us! You are going back to your shuttle and you are leaving! Now!”

“I have the shot, Commander.”

One of the di’Taykan. Arniz shuddered.

“No,” Yurrisk said as Martin drew closer. “Let the sergeant handle this. He’s here to keep us safe.”

Barrel of the weapon visibly shaking, Magyr pointed it at Martin as he stepped into a beam of sunlight.

One step. Two.

Kept it pointed at him as he left the sunlight behind.

Three steps. Four.

Arniz closed her eyes. But she still saw Martin swing, Magyr fall. She could smell the blood. Hear the screaming.

When she opened her eyes, one frantic heartbeat later, none of that had happened.

Standing close enough Magyr could lean forward and poke him, Martin put down the blade.

“You are leaving!” She held her ground, her ears flat against her head. “You are all of you to be leaving! Now!”

He said nothing, merely took another step. Over the wet snap of crushed flora, Arniz could hear Magyr’s breathing grow faster, shallower. In a parody of gentleness, Martin cupped one hand around the back of her head and cradled her jaw with the other, his dirty fingers pale against the dark fur.

At first, Arniz thought a branch had broken. Then Magyr fell, staring back over her own shoulder, her glasses resting skewed on her muzzle.

Martin caught the gun and glared up into the canopy. “Next, I’ll deal with the idiot who left a weapon . . .” His voice rose, growing louder and angrier. “. . . lying around like it didn’t fukking matter.”

Someone whimpered. Arniz didn’t know who. She was pretty sure it wasn’t her. Soon the whimper would become a wail. Then, if not stopped, a chorus of wailing.

A Niln cried out as they hit the ground. Arniz didn’t . . . couldn’t turn to see who it had been, but the whimpering stopped.

“I don’t appreciate arbitrary killing of our civilian workforce, Sergeant.” Silence followed Yurrisk’s comment. Arniz could hear a bird in the distance and Salitwisi breathing beside her. “We won’t find the weapon if we have to search the entire jungle by ourselves.”

“And we may need the combined expertise of the entire scientific party,” Qurn pointed out.

Martin ignored her, his gaze locked on Yurrisk. “You’d rather I let it pull the trigger? They don’t do that, though, do they? Pull triggers. That’s why they have us.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you killed her.”

“My job is to keep you safe.”

Arniz thought Martin sounded like he was delivering the punchline of a joke.

Apparently, Yurrisk didn’t. “I know. Thank you. But I will deal with my crew members’ carelessness. That’s not your place.” His sigh when he looked down at Magyr’s body sounded weary. Arniz fought the urge to throw a rock at the back of his head. “Leave her here until we finish for the day.”

Tyven pulled himself out of the weeping ball of fur he’d curled into with his bonded. “Sivern contra! You can’t . . .”

“I can.” Yurrisk turned, nostril ridges closed, lips off his teeth. “It’s not the dead you have to worry about. Never the dead. The dead are beyond pain, theirs and yours. The dead can be left where they lie because your fight is with the living, and the living never stop. Everyone, get back to work!”

Eyes locked on Yurrisk, Martin slowly leaned the weapon back against the tree and just as slowly picked up Camaderiz’s blade. “You heard the Commander,” he said. “Back to work. Now!”

One by one, in fits and starts, grief and shock in control of their movements, they went back to work.

Arniz bent to pick up another armload of chopped vegetation, heard Qurn’s quiet voice, and shuffled closer, bent over, old and harmless.

“. . . sell the weapon, can also repair the head on deck two. Or, unless you’re very attached to that field kitchen, we could rebuild the galley.”

Even allowing for species differences, her tone spoke of more than friendship. Primacy she may be, but Qurn was a part of Yurrisk’s crew. She hadn’t arrived with Martin. Arniz dropped her armload off the path and huffed in annoyance as she bent for another. If not for the two dead, an ache in her heart to accompany the ache in her back and arms, the whole experience—mercenaries, ship captains, ancient weapons, destroyed plastic aliens, inter-species romance—had all the plot points of a bad vid.

All they needed now was a daring rescue.