SEVEN

“THIS IS WHAT I WAS LOOKING FOR! This is how you begin a new day!” Standing where the road ended in a series of broad steps covered in lichens and mosses, Yurrisk threw his arms wide as though he were introducing the ruins in front of him to known space.

Which he was, Arniz acknowledged silently. It had been millennia since the destruction, since eyes belonging to a sentient species had looked on the dark stone buildings and seen the shadows of the builders.

The use of the rarer, harder stone on a large, impressive building indicated a social hierarchy, an unfortunate requirement for sentience among every species who’d made their way to the stars. As Arniz understood it, fully cooperative societies missed opportunities for technological advances, but since she was no anthropologist, there was always a chance she’d gotten that wrong.

Both doorways were tall enough for most Humans, but narrow. While a short species could pass through a tall, narrow door, the rise of the steps required legs longer than that of the Niln, the Katrien, or the Krai. The width could have been a defensive decision, that theory supported by the difficulty in accessing the ground-floor windows which were horizontal openings a meter long by half a meter wide almost two meters from the ground. The windows on the second floor were isosceles triangles.

Architecture. Arniz’s tail rose. It wasn’t difficult.

Weighed against the implications of a defensive design was a clear love of nonrepresentational decoration; abstract swoops and curls visible on cornices and pilasters in spite of wear.

“We still have to find the weapon.”

Arniz blinked as Qurn’s voice brought her back to the road and exhaustion, and the presence of creatures with guns. She reminded herself that she hadn’t been clearing the way to the ruins but to what the ruins were thought to contain.

“It’ll be in there.” Yurrisk sounded like a true believer. Arniz could hear desperation under his words. “Just look at this place. It’s important. It looks like a government building, and government buildings hold armories.”

It might look like a Krai government building, although Arniz couldn’t see how given the whole arboreal living. It could have been a pre-destruction bakery.

Qurn pulled off a glove and laid the backs of pale fingers against Yurrisk’s cheek. “We’ll keep her flying.”

“Yes.” He pressed his face into her touch for a moment, then straightened, twitched his cuffs into place, and swept a slow, considering gaze around those watching. “You.”

Arniz considered glancing behind her. Decided she didn’t have enough energy to be the gravel in the tilth. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Find a latrine. Scan it. Find another. Scan that. The largest concentration of plastic residue will mark the definitive battle.”

That almost made sense. It had nothing whatsoever to do with where the alleged weapon might have been placed afterward, but, on its own, recognizing that it was speculation and not science, it wasn’t entirely without merit. She swayed, shifted her stance to stay upright, decided not to bother, and sank into a squat. Dreams of finding plastic bodies with familiar faces had woken her six or seven times during the night. When they’d been hustled out of the nest just after dawn, every muscle in her body had ached and her joints felt as though they’d been filled with grit. “I’ll need assistance,” she said. The air tasted bitter. “You murdered my ancillary.”

“I didn’t . . .”

“Fine. You allowed my ancillary to be murdered.”

“She threatened the lives of my crew.”

“Not the second murder.” Arniz slapped her tail against the ground. “The first.”

Leaning in, Qurn murmured by his ear.

“Of course,” he said when she pulled back, “Martin’s lesson.”

A quick glance showed Martin standing with one hand on his weapon, waving away insects with the other.

“That death expedited cooperation and not only kept us safe, but kept more of you safe.” His nostril ridges closed. “Although it didn’t stop the other from being an idiot. From endangering everyone. I’m sure she wouldn’t have considered being a hero if she knew what that entailed. Heroes are . . . Heroes don’t . . .” He swayed to the right, then right again. Arniz tasted the air. She’d seen him do that before. He swallowed and made a second sweep of the crowd. “You!”

Salitwisi had been staring at the structure in silent admiration, hand opening and closing around the place his confiscated slate should be. He jerked at the sound. “No, not me. This is actually architecture, not buried lines of rock and educated guessing. I’m . . .” Arniz could almost see him searching the most convincing way to make his point. “My specialty is architecture.” He clutched at the fabric over his chest. “No one on this planet is better suited to helping you right now.”

“And you agree with me that this is an important building?”

“Of course I do. Harder stone means it’s harder to work and a pre-tech society doesn’t spend that kind of effort for an unimportant building.” He twitched his tail in a way that clearly said how he felt about having to provide such rudimentary information.

Qurn cocked her head. “You want to explore the ruin for your own benefit.”

“Of course I do.” Tail lashing, he spread his arms. If Yurrisk had been introducing the ruins, Salitwisi was embracing them. “Our permit doesn’t extend under the canopy, and yet here we are. After this debacle, the Ministry will never allow me to return, so this is my only chance. Which doesn’t mean I’m not still your best chance of finding the hiding place of that weapon,” he added. “Secret passages, hidden doors, netan holes; you’ll never find them without my help.”

“Fine.” Yurrisk shifted and glared over Salitwisi’s head. “You . . .”

Hyrinzatil’s tail dropped, and he took a step back.

“. . . go looking for latrines. You can do the old lizard’s heavy lifting.”

“Oh, no,” Salitwisi protested, “I’m his prime. He’s mine.”

“Wrong. He’s mine. Until we find that weapon, you’re all mine.” Yurrisk’s nostril ridges closed. “All of you. Martin, send one of your people with them. I don’t want them sneaking off and sending a message.”

“I don’t think there’s much sneak left in the old lizard,” Zhang snickered.

“Is your name Martin?” Qurn asked quietly.

“You can’t . . .”

“Corporal.”

At Martin’s interjection, Zhang huffed out her displeasure and settled back onto a mossy log, shoulder to shoulder with Malinowski. Martin motioned Trembley forward. Without speaking, the younger Human grabbed Hyrinzatil’s shoulder and dragged him first to the stack of equipment and then, once he’d picked up a scanner, over to Arniz. She leaned slightly sideways into the warm curve of the ancillary’s leg. Perceived affection was less embarrassing than toppling over. Trembley took up position behind them.

“If they try anything, Trembley, shoot the old lizard.” Martin laughed. Arniz wasn’t seeing the humor. “That’ll keep the young one in line. Kids don’t care about their own safety.” Arniz could feel Hyrinzatil tense as Martin gestured rudely at Salitwisi. “And if this old lizard gets us lost in that building . . .”

“How could I possibly get you lost?” Salitwisi protested. “At the most, it’s six rooms long, two high, and two deep.”

“Yeah, well, he’s Navy,” Trembley muttered. “Vacuum jockeys can’t find their ass with both hands and a homing beacon,” he added when Arniz glanced up at him. When she frowned, he rolled his eyes. “Hey, I’m not the first to say it.”

“The building’s the front of a ‘U,’” Beyvek called from the roof. He drew the gaze and stiffened the postures of every one of the ex-military personnel. Arniz heard Trembley snap out of his slouch, heard the slap of his hands on his weapon. She wondered what it would be like to live like that, always assuming danger. Wondered if it ever wore off. Beyvek pointed toward the tall skinny trees rising behind and, in one corner, through the building. “There’s two wings off the back, Commander. Single story, longer than this front section. The courtyard between them has been chewed up by tree roots, but there’s hardly any other growth.”

“Something in this particular stone must be suppressing it. Feeding the skinny trees.” Arniz reached up and tugged at the scanner in Hyrinzatil’s hands. “Give it here.” Across the road, Tyven ran her hands over a thick root that flowed down the steps and dove into the ground, the slow movement of growth captured as living sculpture.

Hyrinzatil hung on—she remembered she didn’t like him much; he’d learned bad habits from his prime.

“It seems as though we have significantly more real estate to explore.” Yurrisk squared his shoulders, hands in fists by his sides. “I want eyes on every square centimeter of it. We will find that weapon.”

“Bet your ass,” Martin muttered. “So, Trembley . . .”

Trembley shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“. . . if this old lizard emerges from these buildings without us, for any reason, shoot your old lizard.”

Salitwisi actually shifted his attention from the building. “I’m not old!”

“Of course, that’s what you take away from that,” Arniz sighed.

“Pyrus!”

“Commander?” The di’Taykan’s hair moved listlessly, weighed down by the heat and humidity. He hadn’t done any of the heavy lifting, but he looked as if he had. In fact, both di’Taykan present looked frayed. The Taykan’s homeworld had nothing that could be considered tropical by right-thinking people and rather a lot of snow. Niln, like most reptilian species didn’t do well in snow.

“Go back to the anchor, take . . .” Yurrisk pointed at a pair of ancillaries. Arniz thought they were from the cartography department. “. . . them. I want every light you can find.”

“What about Ganes, sir?”

Having spent the morning forcing herself to keep clearing the road—to put one foot in front of the other, to lift another armload of debris—Arniz hadn’t missed him, but he wasn’t in sight. She tugged on Hyrinzatil’s overalls. “What about Dr. Ganes?”

“I heard he tried something last night.”

“Got into the anchor’s office. Got his ass kicked,” Trembley added.

“Ganes stays where he is, safely contained,” Yurrisk told the di’Taykan. “You stay with him, take advantage of the climate control in the anchor, and have Gayun bring the lights back.”

“Sir.”

“Mirish, you good for a little longer?”

She nodded, deep blue hair moving in counterpoint. “Yes, sir. I’m good for a while.”

“Glad to hear it. Pyrus, go.”

Even worn down by the climate, Pyrus moved like a dancer. Arniz took a moment to admire the lithe grace. The di’Taykan all moved like dancers. Dzar loved dance. She danced with an amateur Sand-and-Moonlight troop. Had danced. The ancillaries followed less gracefully, their notable lack of enthusiasm overlooked in the shadow of the ruins.

“Well?”

Tongue tasting the air, she tilted her head back and met Trembley’s gaze. “Well, what?”

“You were told to search for latrines.”

“I’m resting. Because I’m an old lizard and spent yesterday doing the kind of physical labor that reminded me of how far I am from the egg.”

“Get up.”

She felt Hyrinzatil twitch, and she glared at the young Human until he held out a hand.

“Do you need help?”

“Do I need help?” She wrapped her fingers around two of his and levered her legs straight, absently noting that her weight had no visible effect as she hung off the end of his arm. Humans were not only larger and stronger than many of the Elder Races—the Dornagain, the Ciptran, and the H’san being the obvious exceptions—but they augmented that strength with weapons. No wonder so few species trusted them. Of course, those same species had brought the Younger Races into the Confederation specifically to use those weapons, so the mistrust was disingenuous at best and blatantly hypocritical at worst. And that was without factoring the differences between Humans like Dr. Ganes who was almost civilized—the qualifier in place until she discovered just what, precisely, he’d tried last night—and Martin who wasn’t civilized at all. Trembley was young enough; he might still be . . .

“Harveer?”

She blinked both eyes, inner lids dragging, and realized she was still hanging off Trembley’s arm.

Hyrinzatil tasted the air. “Are you having a problem, Harveer?”

“I’m thinking. I know Salitwisi doesn’t do it much, so I don’t blame you for not recognizing it.”

“That’s not . . .” He blinked, inner lids flicking back and forth as indecision over how polite he needed to be to someone not his prime but still a full harveer flickered over his face.

“Let’s go.” Trembley shook her free and sighed. “Shit pits aren’t going to find themselves.”

Arniz rolled her shoulders and flicked the stiffness from her tail. “If they did, I’d be out of a job, wouldn’t I? Come on, then. We need to make our weary way around back.”

“Why?”

“Because no one shits outside their front door,” Hyrinzatil said, stepping back to give her room. He bumped up against Trembley’s legs in a stupid display of bravado and was kicked away.

“Careful.” Arniz shifted just far enough his flailing arm didn’t take her down with him. “If you’re too much trouble, he’ll shoot you. He is, after all, willing to shoot me.”

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Trembley muttered.

“Are you confused about who the old lizard is, then? Because Martin said . . .”

“I heard what the sergeant said.” He placed a hand in the center of her back and shoved. “Now move!”

“The latrines that go with these buildings, they’ll most likely be at or just beyond the open end of the courtyard.” Arniz led the way off the road. She paused, went around a hummock covered in pale moss, and continued her lecture. She’d been too long a harveer to waste what might be her last audience. “Sentient beings have relatively few ways of disposing of their own waste and, as we already know, the pre-destruction people used pits, that narrows the possibilities even further.”

“I heard some members of the Methane Alliance reabsorb theirs,” Trembley offered, stepping over a fallen branch she’d had to climb.

“Essentially the same thing you do on a ship or station,” Arniz pointed out.

Both Hyrinzatil and the young Human made exaggerated gagging noises.

How nice, she thought. They’re bonding.

“Two dead,” Torin growled, ducking under a branch, left arm up to keep the dangling snake from dropping onto the back of her neck.

Stalks snapped behind her under the sudden rapid movement of Binti’s boots. “Fukking snakes,” she muttered, then added, “It could be worse, Gunny.”

“And it could be better.”

“It doesn’t count as losing them if we didn’t have boots on dirt when they were killed.”

Since Binti knew how she felt about that, Torin let the comment stand. The primary mission directive had been to free the hostages, not free those hostages who were still alive. She knew the second part of that statement was the only part that applied. No one expected her to bring the dead back to life, but if politics hadn’t delayed them at the station, they might have arrived in time. Two more Confederation dead because of the Primacy. With the ease of long practice, she pushed those thoughts deep and locked them down.

*Boss? Zero implant use by the bad guys. The only thing I can read is a carrier wave from that science scanner Firiv’vrak mentioned on the DeCaal. We’re a go for conversation, and I can route the DL feeds to the slates.*

Binti snorted. “Little hard to watch a slate while humping through the . . . Goddamned, fukking snakes!”

*I will, of course, continue to paraphrase the action, so you don’t need to have eyes on. And if you’re bored, I do amazing aural.*

Up ahead, Bertecnic tripped over a hummock, propelling dozens of tiny red lizards into the air. Torin took it as confirmation the Primacy implants had fully integrated with the shuttle’s communication system. And that the translation program was having trouble with homonyms.

“Not while you’re working, you don’t.”

“Your word, Boss, my command.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“Why wouldn’t they be scanning?” Binti wondered. “Commander Yurrisk’s Navy, but Martin and two of his people are ex-Corps. You’d think they’d have a better grasp of covering their asses.”

“They think they’re in the clear until the next supply ship. They’ve no reason to scan. Given the state of the ship, they may not have the equipment.”

*Yeah, they’re not in helmets, but—come on—I could write something that’d work off a slate, bounce off their ship, and get kickass ground coverage.*

“You’re wasted in fieldwork.”

*Not getting rid of me that easily, Boss.*

She could hear him preening.

“Why aren’t they using their implants?” Binti asked. “All but one of the commander’s crew were high enough rank to have mustered out with them, and Martin made sergeant, so he’s got one for sure.”

“The Commander had a brain injury,” Ressk called down from above. With Werst taking his turn out front, he was pacing the group. “Whatever caused the injury could’ve damaged his implant and left him too neurologically scrambled for them to put it back.”

Torin nodded and carefully moved a red lizard off her sleeve. “That’s possible.”

“You don’t monitor your injured veterans, Gunny?” Merinim asked from behind Binti.

“We do—there’s a Ministry of Veterans affairs, both the Corps and the Navy do rehab, and there’s at least a dozen private programs—but the Confederation covers a lot of space, and some people slip through the cracks.”

“Some people slip through deliberately,” Binti muttered.

Merinim’s considering hum blended into the hum of small red wings. “And thus your Strike Teams were formed.”

“The Wardens don’t bring in injured veterans.”

“Not the physically injured, perhaps.”

Torin remembered the feeling of stability the Durlan’s mere presence caused. “Fair enough. And in the Primacy?”

“The engineered war with the Confederation forced an internal peace. There’s already signs of fractures, and most of our governments are concentrating on not going back to war with each other.”

“Sounds like you’d be better off still fighting us,” Binti said thoughtfully.

After a long moment, Merinim said, “Yes.”

The sounds of birds and insects filled the next half kilometer of awkward silence.

Although her shoulder continued to ache and the band of bruises across her hips occasionally pulled, they were on pace to cover the three klicks back to the drop clearing in a quarter of the time Torin and Presit had taken. First, because Torin, Werst, and Ressk had been over the ground before and had begun to learn the particularities of the jungle. Second, because in the Primacy military, Polint males were used to break trails. With the Krai in the trees scouting the fastest route, Bertecnic and Dutavar, wearing the Primacy equivalent of combat fabric over their lower chests and front legs—an apron/leggings combo secured over their withers—used size and strength and broad blades that were almost swords to take down underbrush, vines, and small trees. They switched out of the lead position every half kilometer. Watching them, Torin was grateful that the one time she’d met the Polint in combat, they’d used more conventional weapons.

“Trust me, Gunny, they’ve been cooped up on ships and stations for almost a tenday now. You want them to work off some energy.”

“I want them in shape to fight when we arrive.”

“That won’t be a problem. With the edge taken off, we’ve raised the odds Bertecnic will wait for orders and not charge in bellowing a challenge.”

“And Dutavar?”

“He made Santav Teffer; as I said, an unusual achievement for our males. I believe we can count on him to resist his instinctive urge to challenge the enemy. I take it this is a problem Confederation forces don’t have?”

Torin thought of the Silsviss. The big lizards gained rank by challenge and although their entry into the Confederation had been slowed by the end of the war, the offer hadn’t been withdrawn. “Not yet.”

Conditions by the Ministry for the Preservation of Pre-Confederation Civilizations—agreed to on Strike Team Alpha’s behalf by the Justice Department—had included a ban on clearing paths through the jungle by mechanical means. They’d never considered the damage one hundred and forty kilograms of sentient quadruped under orders could do.

The third reason for their speed was the lack of Presit.

Presit had declared her intention to accompany them, to witness and record.

“And gather material for your program.”

“That are being my job, Gunnery Sergeant. You are being required to be giving me full access.” Presit’s muzzle had wrinkled in a self-satisfied smirk. “Just like it are being the old days.”

The argument had lasted until she’d seen the size of the insect Bertecnic had twisted out of his foreleg and then she’d retreated to the shuttle, demanding Dalan section and brush every square centimeter of her fur. The insect’s moist, bloated body pulsed a deep purple as it humped toward the rotting debris on the jungle floor and sprayed blood a meter out when crushed between two rocks.

“I’d rather be shot at,” Freenim said quietly under the background rubble of translated profanity.

Torin agreed and instructed the Polint to stay out of the bracken as it was evident their blood had the same local food value as hers.

Presit had agreed to help monitor the DL feeds when Craig had informed her that they’d appreciate her insight on the Katrien among the hostages. Torin wouldn’t have been able to deal with the artillery barrage of Presit’s opinions, but if Craig could, more power to him.

Torin followed the two Polint, Mashona followed her, and, after Mashona, the Druin, who lacked both the ability to take the high road and the size to make it easier for those behind. On their six, Vertic kept her blade holstered along her side, tucked through the strapping the Ner used riding into combat. She carried her RKah diagonally across her chest in the same easy access position Torin and Binti carried their KC-7s. Like the sevens, the RKah used explosive charges to propel metal rounds out of a rifled barrel at high speeds. Anything more complex could be—and had been—taken out at distance by the enemy. With computer guidance off the table, infantry had been a skilled trade on both sides of the war. The RKah fired a higher caliber than the sevens; essentially, given differences in systems of measurement, as high as the KC-12s the heavy gunners carried. The Polint, with four clawed feet on the ground and ropes of muscle over shoulders, arms, and torsos, didn’t need augmentation. In the Primacy’s ranks, they were the heavy gunners. Torin could work with that.

The Artek flanked the path. Firiv’vrak had pointed out that she was a better shot with a ship around her, but carried two slender rods strapped to the sides of her abdomen and a double line of chargers along her thorax. Energy weapons were useless in infantry battles where both sides used EMPs, but for Justice work, it was only familiarity with the weapon that kept the KCs—and on this mission the RKahs—in play.

Keeleeki’ka, duct tape stabilizing the rear curve of her carapace, had refused to be left behind.

“I go,” she repeated, eyestalks drawn in close to her body, “where the story is.”

Torin abandoned diplomacy. “You go where I tell you to. You’re staying in the VTA. You’re not trained for this.”

“Neither is Firiv’vrak.”

“But she has had training.”

“You can’t keep me from the story. It’s why the council agreed to my presence.”

Presit applauded. “I are liking her persistence. I are being right beside her if not for the discovery of murderously large insect life. Which she, of course, can be ignoring being murderously large insect life herself.”

“Presit . . .”

“I, of course, am not requiring story. I are having plenty of story to go around. I are requiring facts and I are able to get them from the helmet scanners without needing to be risking my life.”

Keeleeki’ka rose onto her rear legs. “To risk a life in the pursuit of story creates shadows that highlight meaning.”

“I are having no idea what you are talking about.”

Torin ignored them both and turned to Vertic. “Could my keeping her safe in restraints derail the Confederation/Primacy cooperation attempt?”

Vertic spread her hands. “She’s a representative of a powerful lobby.”

No one was saying “more important than she appears” in either Artek’s hearing if only to keep Firiv’vrak from overreacting.

“Look at the bright side, Gunny, they’re hard to kill.”

“Gunny!”

“Don’t do that!” Binti stumbled, grabbed a vine to stop herself from tripping over Firiv’vrak, and snatched her hand back as soon as she had her balance. “Son of a . . .”

Torin ducked, and the partially crushed, yellow slug Binti flicked off her fingers flew past her.

“Gunny!” Firiv’vrak tapped Torin’s knee. “A herd of mammals are about to cross our trail.”

“Bertecnic, Dutavar; hold!” In the sudden silence that marked the interruption in Polint trail making, Torin heard nothing she hadn’t already begun to internalize as normal. “About to?”

“They’re moving fast, almost as fast as we do,” Keeleeki’ka said, from Torin’s other side.

“Wear a fukking bell,” Binti muttered.

“They look like the animals we fought in the ruins. Same hide. Same coloring. Same shape.” She tucked herself in behind Torin’s legs. “Smaller, though.”

“How many in the herd?”

“Fifteen.” Firiv’vrak’s eyes swiveled toward the left side of the path. “Maybe sixteen. They’ve excellent . . .”

Bertecnic dropped low and reached for his RKah as the first crossed no more than a meter in front of him.

“. . . camouflage.”

The scales that had appeared silver gray inside the ruins were greenish gray surrounded by foliage, light shifting the shades as they moved. Most of them were half a meter at the shoulder, but a few in the center of the herd were smaller. They all had the slightly out-of-proportion look of juveniles and none of them did more than glance at Bertecnic as they raced across the path. Now she wasn’t fighting an enraged parent, Torin could see they had curled their long front toes under during the upper extension of their stride, extending them again as their heels hit the ground.

“Locals passing.” Torin pitched her voice to carry to both ends of the march, both through implants and air. “We won’t be stopped long.”

“Any danger?” Vertic called.

“No, I think they’re juveniles.” The foliage closed unmarked behind the last, and Torin had to use the zoom on her scanner to see footprints, speed combined with the broad splay of their feet keeping them from sinking into the jungle floor. “It must take them a few years to get to breeding size.” She frowned at the uneven claw indents around the faint imprint of a front paw and tried to remember why they looked familiar. “Alamber.”

*On it, Boss. Sending images from your helmet scan down the line.*

“Those are big babies.” Binti leaned around Torin and stared at the place they’d crossed. “You think there’s something in here big enough to eat them?”

“If there is, high odds we neither smell nor look like it. Which is interesting as the insect life finds both Polint and Humans edible.”

“Nice of the Ministry to mention the possibility of large predators. Of course,” Binti added, “the Ministry didn’t mention the things large predators eat either.”

“Incomplete surveys aren’t that unusual. And we heard a group go by when were out before.” Ressk dropped down to a lower branch, Werst crouched on a branch over his head, knees raised, KC held across his shins. “They can’t be seen from up here unless they cross an open area and the little fukkers are fast. I think they’re livestock gone wild.”

“Livestock?” Merinim pushed her helmet back to stare up at Ressk. “Seriously?”

“There was a city here, right? That kind of population density eats a lot of food. Pre-tech means they probably had livestock inside the walls. The population’s gone. The walls are gone. That doesn’t mean the livestock’s gone.”

She blinked as a bug fried in the helmet’s adaptive shielding. “You’ve studied ancient civilizations?”

Ressk grinned. “I know food.”

“They have teeth and claws,” Keeleeki’ka protested.

He shrugged. “Maybe they preferred food that fought back.”

“Lots of food does,” Torin pointed out. “When my brother was eight, he had his arm broken by a goose.”

“I don’t even know what a goose is,” Binti admitted. “And I’m the same species you are.”

*Torin grew up on a farm.* Craig sounded amused. *In the country. Not yeast vats and hydroponics, but animals and seeds grown in dirt. She can identify multiple types of shit.*

“Multiple kinds of shit?” Binti folded her hands on her KC and rocked back on her heels. “Why did I never know this about you, Gunny?”

*She’s never taken you home to meet her parents.*

“True. She hasn’t. Why is that, Gunny? Are you ashamed of me?”

“Yes, that would be why. Listen up.” Torin raised her voice. “The parade’s past, let’s move. Best speed. Those hostages aren’t freeing themselves.”

“Humans are weird,” Firiv’vrak said, and, for a moment, the smell of cherry candy overwhelmed the smell of jungle.

With the occasional exception of the large roots, very little foliage grew around the outside edge of the building. Even mosses and lichens stayed nearly a meter away. Arniz tottered a little just because she felt like allowing Hyrinzatil to carry part of her weight—whether he wanted to or not. She missed sand and dry air and the way the dig had started, varying disciplines taking their time mapping the plateau, primes turning everything up to and including unpacking the supplies in the anchor into a lesson for their ancillaries, no one dying . . .

Trembley turned to walk backward in front of them. “Are you all right?”

“I’m exhausted and annoyed, and I don’t like jungles. The soil contains far too much botany. Why?”

“You were hissing.”

“Your superior has killed two ancillaries; I’m entitled.”

“Magyr picked up a gun,” Hyrinzatil began.

Arniz smacked him on the back of the thighs with her tail and tightened her grip when he tried to pull his arm away. “Which she didn’t know how to use.”

“That actually makes her more dangerous,” Trembley pointed out.

“In what universe? Because it’s somehow worse to be shot by accident than on purpose? Are you saying that Martin, twice her size and trained in violence, couldn’t have taken the weapon away from her?”

“No . . .”

“Good.” She cut him off before he added a but and she lost what little control her exhaustion was allowing her to maintain. “And don’t tell me Dzar’s death taught us not to fight you. We’re scientists and are all perfectly capable of applying the concept of consequences. Except for Dr. Ganes, none of us had seen a weapon fired; Martin could’ve shot and destroyed a . . . a chair.”

“I know.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

Trembley shrugged, stumbled over the edge of a canted paving stone, and said, “Lieutenant Commander Ganes said sort of the same thing last . . .” He jumped backward, fumbling to aim his weapon. “What the flying fuk is that? It’s got like a billion legs!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, how many, then?”

“How would I know? I’m not an entomologist.” It was about half a meter long, shiny bronze, and moving very quickly between the stone Trembley had tripped over and another triangular crack. “Don’t!” she snapped when he moved toward it. “They’re on the toxic list, I very much doubt you lot took precautions before you arrived, and we’ve already determined the native insect life likes how you taste.”

“Then why not let it taste him?” Hyrinzatil muttered.

“Did you miss the part where Martin killed two people for no reason?” Arniz took her hand off his arm and pushed her face so close to his, he had no choice but to recognize the scent of her anger. “Do you want to give him a reason to kill more?”

“No, but . . .”

“No buts. What has Salitwisi been teaching you? Honestly. And you . . .” Her tone jerked Trembley’s attention off the last few pairs of legs disappearing into the hole. “. . . stay out of the bracken, don’t stick bare body parts into dark corners, and rock any stones before you sit on them. And, since I would like to get out of the looming shadow of a depressing building built by long-dead enigmas, I suggest we get moving.”

“So, to you, me staying alive is only a means to keeping the sergeant from taking revenge.”

She sighed. “Your life, Emile Trembley, is as important to me as every other life. Empathy is one of the building blocks of sentience, and I’ve long considered myself a sentient being.” Sweeping her gaze over the two of them, she snorted and started toward the distant end of the building at the best speed she was still capable of. “Opinion, however, is still out on the two of you.”

The latrines were right where she expected them to be. Once a species began living in cities, quite a number of functions began to follow form.

“Look at the differences in the vegetation.” Arniz gestured at an area just inside the remains of the wall that defined the open end of the courtyard. “In the same way that the dark stone clearly only feeds the slender trees, look at the pattern, at the oval created by these plants with the tufted stems.”

“Doesn’t look like an oval to me, Harveer.”

Trembley nodded. “Or me.”

“Fine.” She sighed at the rigidity of youth. “Extended oval.”

“And there’s another bunch of those plants there, on the other side of the wall.”

“And there,” Trembley added.

She sighed again. “Yes, but they’re thickest here. Just the same way they were thickest over the latrines out on the plateau. Fortunately, because of the openings in the canopy, they’re getting enough sunlight and making identification easy for us. Dr. Tilzonicazic took samples, and I expect we’ll find that these particular plants prefer highly acidic soil given the amount of urea found in the one latrine I was actually allowed to do a comprehensive scan on, but only because it was done before . . .”

“Harveer?” Hyrinzatil dropped to his knees and ran his hands in under the edge of the patch of plants in question. “There’s no stone under these plants and the last slab has a finished edge. Wouldn’t that be a better determinant than plants. Plants die.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then can we drop the probes?” He stood and stretched. “I now know all I need to know about these particular shit pits—they haven’t any architecture.”

“That,” she said over Hyrinzatil’s head to Trembley, “is the problem with ancillaries these days. Narrow fields of study.”

The ancillary in question blinked, inner eyelids flicking back and forth at speed. “You study soil, Harveer. When my prime asked you to identify a spur of surface rock, you asked him if you looked like a geologist.”

“Which I don’t.” She brushed at a sap stain on her overalls. “Get started, then.” Perched on a curve of root, she watched him adjust the scanner and log the position before he sent the first electronic probe. To give Salitwisi credit where it was due, his ancillary appeared to have been well trained on this particular piece of equipment. She supposed that meant there was a way to use them architecturally, but she didn’t care and was content to give over control. With the scanner calibrated exclusively to find plastic residue, she had little interest in the results.

As Hyrinzatil swept the probe slowly back and forth, Trembley approached, weapon hanging across his back, holding two of the tufted, stemmed plants. “What are they called?”

“They haven’t a name yet. The Ministry will take the specifics Dr. Tilzonicazic sent them under advisement and eventually agree on a scientific designation. Don’t hold your breath.”

He pressed the plants together. The tufts interlaced and held, even in the face of a vigorous flailing. “I’m going to call them sticky stems.”

“Seems apt.”

“Do you think the Ministry will use the name?”

“Only botanists care what the Ministry calls things. Sticky stems is a name that the rest of us would use.”

“Really?” He beamed down at her with so much innocent pleasure on his face that she revisited the idea of poison sacs and a moment spent with her teeth in Martin’s forearm, wondered if she could prove corruption of youth to the Wardens, then realized she didn’t have to. They’d be after him for two murders.

Her tail twitched.

Martin had to know that.

Was he arrogant enough to assume there was enough empty space to hide his . . .

Head cocked toward the two-story part of the complex, she tasted the air. Tasted only jungle. Didn’t hear a repeat of the shout that had attracted her attention.

“Harveer! There’s no plastic residue in here.”

“That you found,” Trembley pointed out smugly.

Arniz felt it fortunate Trembley couldn’t read the complete disdain of Hyrinzatil’s expression. “If I haven’t found it, I can’t speak to its existence, can I?”

“If you can’t find it, Martin’s going to be pissed.” Trembley rocked back on his boot heels. “Likely order me to shoot you both.” He rocked back a little further and murmured, “But I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Good.” Arniz rubbed her temples. In spite of the constant humidity, her scales felt dry.

“All right. Fine.” Hyrinzatil set the scanner carefully on the ground and crossed his arms. “If you don’t consider the scanner and my analysis of its data sufficient, we should go get the digger.”

The digger had been returned to its charging station in the anchor. Ganes had been unable or unwilling to reprogram it to clear the road, claiming that as the only part of the site they had legal access to was essentially grassland, the digger wasn’t designed for rough terrain.

“The digger has destroyed one set of historical data, let’s not compound the folly.” Moving slowly, sore muscles having stiffened during her rest, she got down off the root and shuffled over to Hyrinzatil’s side. “This is still a Class 2 Designate. If we dig in here, if we disturb the site to that extent, the Ministry . . .”

Trembley’s raised hand cut her off. “We’re not worried about the . . .”

A high-pitched shriek cut him off. Arniz couldn’t tell if the sound was pain or anger, but it hadn’t come from the throat of a Niln or a Katrien, that much she could guarantee.

She turned toward the sound in time to see a large quadruped flung out of a first-floor window at the far end of the courtyard. It had claws and teeth and the gleam of scales although the air was scented with angry mammal.

And blood.

It got to its feet. Shook itself. Deep-red drops sprayed from a wound in its side, splashing black against the stone.

It took a deep breath, mouth open, tongue out.

Stared directly at her.

Started to run.

Hyrinzatil screamed, and Arniz could hear the snapping of stalks and branches as he ran.

The quadruped ran silently, although the motion of its front paws suggested it should be slapping at the ground.

She felt as though roots had poured from her legs and anchored her.

She would die here. Like Dzar had. And for no better reason.

Then she heard a crack. A clean sound. Like a pickax splitting stone.

The quadruped stumbled. Kept coming.

And Trembley was in front of her.

Instinct forced her legs to carry her aside when he fell, the quadruped on his chest, teeth snapping in his face. He brought his legs up, threw the quadruped off him, rolled onto his side, pressed the muzzle of his weapon up under its ribs.

She heard the crack again.

Oh.

Heard him fire his weapon again.

Of course.

The quadruped jerked. Stilled.

Trembley flopped onto his back, sucked in loud lungfuls of air, and bled.

Arniz dropped to her knees by his side, fingers of one hand sliding through blood to press the edges of flesh torn from his stomach together while the other hand searched her pockets for the tube of sealant. Sprayed it on his throat. Pressed and sprayed again.

His eyes closed.

“Don’t you dare die!” she snapped, over the near deafening pound of her heart. “I won’t have it!”

His tongue came out to wet his lips and on his next breath, his eyes opened and he said, “Because Sarge will take revenge?”

“Well, yes, for that as well, you stupid boy.” As the sound of boots against stone grew louder, as the sound of shouting separated into words, she touched her tongue to his cheek.

He smiled.

*No, the animal’s really most sincerely dead, Boss, but the kid’s still alive. They’ve made a stretcher out of branches and overalls and are carrying him back to the anchor. Anchor’s registered as a 277, so not full colonial version, but they have an autodoc in the infirmary that’s up to tissue repair.*

“Glad to hear it.”

Alamber had pieced together most of what had happened from the conversations the DLs had picked up as they brought Emile Trembley out from the rear of the ruins. One shot and then hand to claw? Whoever had been in charge of that boy’s training had a lot to answer for.

*Martin’s declared he’s going to stay in the anchor with Trembley. Not sure if it’s because he feels responsible or because he thinks he’s the best person to run the autodoc. He’s not, by the way. Not unless he’s taken a lot of medical training lately. Dr. Ganes is on the expedition roster as emergency medic.*

Vertic snapped a branch off a tree with enough force the crack sounded all the way up the line. “If these animals have a set breeding season, that means they’ll have also killed its mate and young.”

“The fukkers,” Binti muttered.

“There’s three Krai, Vertic. They won’t waste the meat.” It was a point, if only a minor one, on the positive side of the ledger.

“We’d all eat the meat, Gunny,” Freenim’s gesture took in his bonded, the Polint, and the unseen Artek. “Why of your people would it be only the Krai?”

“If there was time to test the meat for incompatibilities and then to cook it, I might eat it rather than allow the animal’s life to be wasted. Craig and Binti and Alamber only eat vat-grown proteins.” She grinned at the muffled sound of Craig keeping Alamber from broadcasting his eating preferences. “The Katrien . . .”

*This Katrien are not eating anything that are having been running about, and are having mates and young and a face! It seems Dalan are having eaten such in his misspent youth, but he are not eating such anymore.*

Not if Presit had anything to do with it.

“We have vat proteins on ships and stations of course, but planetside most species eat living protein sources. Previously living,” he amended, when Binti turned far enough to shoot him a disgusted expression.

“Not taking a life in order to live is one of the tenets of the Confederation. With a few terabytes of codicils.”

“There’s a terabyte on the Krai alone.”

Werst dropped to a foot grip, swung over the path, and up onto a broad branch. “What can I say? We’re efficient eaters.”

Torin raised the volume on the DL feed and listened to the accusations and counteraccusations. Their blood up, Martin had to threaten bodily harm to prevent Tehaven and Netrovooens from charging off on the hunt.

They’d covered five klicks, were still three out from the ruins and were almost close enough they’d have to trade speed for stealth. “Gather in, people.” When they all had a line of sight, she pulled out her slate and flicked up the hard light map. “Bottom line, we don’t want to have to attack the anchor. Even with the codes for the air lock, there’s still the mechanical security system. We couldn’t get past it without sending up flares and endangering the hostages.”

“Simple metal bars are surprisingly difficult to defeat. I believe your people called the mining colony Puhgit,” Dutavar added, speaking directly to Torin.

She remembered Puhgit. “Primacy attempts at entry were stopped by the metal bars, so you flattened the anchor.”

He didn’t deny the pronoun. “We’d have preferred to keep the anchor intact so that it could be used.” The shrug rippled down his torso and along his withers. “Time ran out. The Primacy wanted a new supply of the metal as much as the Confederation did.”

“Eighty-two people died. We took it back.”

“When seventy-eight people died.”

“And in the end,” Freenim interjected, “it was the plastic aliens that wanted us all to want the metal.”

Torin frowned. “No, I’m fairly certain the Confederation actually wanted the metal.”

Dutavar nodded. “Same.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Torin nodded and said, “Anyone else with experience attacking an anchor? Anyone else from the Primacy,” she clarified as Binti and both Krai raised their hands.

“My ground assaults were against more established colonies.” Vertic folded her arms over her RKah. “And, of course, Ter-deevan.”

“We have always fought together.” Freenim leaned into Merinim’s shoulder. “Ter-deevan, numerous other large infantry battles, two stations.”

Merinim nodded.

“I did a moon,” Bertecnic offered, crest up.

They ignored Alamber’s reaction as Firiv’vrak dipped her antennae and said, “I was vacuum all the way.”

“All but Ter-deevan,” Vertic reminded her.

“Almost all the way,” she amended. “I needed to requalify in atmosphere, so Command put me on strafing runs.”

Binti folded her arms. “You were shooting at us?”

“We were all shooting at you. You were shooting back.”

“Fair enough.”

“Back on topic, people. If our targets are in the anchor with the hostages, we won’t be able to get them out. They searched for that weapon until sunset yesterday, and since they’re not going to find anything, odds are they’ll stay out as long today. They’re spread out, separated in and by the ruins, out of sight from each other. We take them down, quick and quiet.” Torin swept her gaze around the team. “Nonfatally, if possible.”

“So they can be rehabilitated.” Freenim shook his head. “So strange.”

“A story can change,” Keeleeki’ka said, rising up and pointing at Bertecnic. “You have a large winged insect on your back. It appears to have a stinger.”

The insect achieved an impressive air speed propelled by a flicked claw.

“Even if they send the stretcher bearers back,” Binti said thoughtfully as Bertecnic ran his hands over every bit of fur he could reach, tail flicking jerkily, “Martin and Trembley will still be in the anchor.”

“Good.”

She frowned. “Did you mean to say good, Gunny?”

“Martin will kill an innocent without hesitating. We know that. If he sends the stretcher bearers back, the only hostage in the anchor is Lieutenant Commander Ganes.”

“I know he’s Navy, Gunny,” Ressk began.

“By definition, no innocent,” Werst interjected.

“. . . but we should save him, too.”

“Agreed. But given an opportunity, I expect he’ll be able to take care of himself.”

Dutavar swept another of the stinging insects away. “So, how would we get into the anchor, Warden?”

“We wouldn’t,” Torin told him. “Werst would. We take down all targets at the ruins, dress Werst in Yurrisk’s clothes, and send him to knock on the door. Martin will see the commander and we’ll have access.”

“I’ll have access,” Werst pointed out, settling into a squat on the branch beside Ressk. “Then what?”

“Then you take Martin out and we wrap things up.”

He nodded slowly. “That should work.” And showed teeth. “But only because we all look alike to you.”

“If you means Humans . . .” Binti spread her hands. “. . . then, yeah.”

“Your noses suck.”

“And our eyes take time to distinguish subtle variation.” Torin zoomed in on the ruins. “Alamber, add current positions of both targets and hostages.”

*Targets in blue, hostages in orange, Boss.* As well as the individual lights, eight arrows, three blue and five orange pointed at the ruins. *Those eight, I know they’re inside. Targets include Yurrisk, the Druin, and Corporal Zhang. Hostages are Harveer Salitwisi, Dr. Lyon, and three ancillaries. You’ll be the first on the list if I get visuals.*

All three Polint and one of the Human mercenaries were outside. Malinowski stood, feet on the road, at the stairs leading into the building. Standing guard. “I’m sending Werst and the Artek on ahead. Get them in place on the far side of the ruins—between the ruins and the anchor in case anyone makes a run for it. We still need you up high,” she said before Ressk could protest, “to lay out the fastest route for the rest of us.”

Vertic crushed another stinging insect and flicked the body away. “Why the Artek?”

“We don’t send one Warden to cut off a retreat.” Torin ignored Werst’s muttered protest. “And the Artek can keep up with him at speed.”

“The pacifist will be of no use in a fight.”

Torin caught a whiff of cherry candy. Firiv’vrak was amused. “If a fight overruns her position . . .” She captured as many of Keeleeki’ka’s eyes with her gaze as she could. “. . . then she will hide in the underbrush so that she will not put other lives at risk because I will go back to war with the Primacy before I allow that to happen. Do you understand me?”

Keeleeki’ka flattened closer to the ground. “Yes, Warden.”

“Sounds like the best options for all concerned,” Vertic said. “And I’d prefer to send out the Artek together.”

“I’m glad you agree.” Torin had planned to, regardless, but Vertic knew more about working with the Artek than she did and she’d have listened to an objection.

*What died in your ass?*

“Problem, Alamber?”

*Not me, Boss. Craig’s twitchy.*

“Craig?”

*It’s nothing.*

She doubted that, but whatever it was, she couldn’t deal with it now. “Keep it off the coms. Werst, position Firiv’vrak before you position yourself.”

“Not my first herlakir, Gunny.”

“Didn’t need to know that.”

“Standard operating procedure if there’s a chance of subvocalizing being overheard?”

“That’s why they’re standard.” She had no idea how the Artek’s implants worked, given the lack of ears, but then, she didn’t need to. “Discretionary contact only.”

“Discretionary contact; got it.” He stood and stretched.

Ressk stood beside him. “Discretionary?”

“Gunny trusts my ability to know when things are going to shit.”

“Gunny?”

“He’s not wrong.” She met his eyes. “Still not wet or cold.”

“Still likely to be miserable.”

“Recon go.”

He nodded and defied gravity, leaning out far enough to see both Artek. “Can you two follow me from down there?”

“Well, you are very slow,” Keeleeki’ka said, tucking her arms in and streamlining her body.

Firiv’vrak flattened her antennae along her back. “True.”

At least they were getting along.

Werst flipped them off, touched his forehead to Ressk’s, and jumped for the next tree. The rustle of his passage faded in seconds. The Artek made no sound at all as they disappeared.

“All right, people, let’s move.” Torin settled her pack. “Best speed for the next kilometer, then we regroup.”

Bertecnic slapped a palm against his chest, smearing the body of a stinging insect against his uniform.

“Fukking snakes,” Binti muttered, leaping sideways.

When Trembley had been carried off, Martin at his side and two di’Taykan holding the ends of the makeshift stretcher, when Beyvek had taken the body away and everyone had silently agreed not to ask what he was going to do with it, Arniz realized she hadn’t seen Hyrinzatil since he’d screamed and run off. When she opened her mouth to ask if anyone had seen him, she realized she was alone.

She could hear Yurrisk yelling inside one of the buildings and Salitwisi yelling back at him—or perhaps the other way around. She could taste blood on the air, knew Camaderiz guarded Lows and two ancillaries as they cleared the remains of a less solid structure just out of sight, but she could see no one. This would be the time to attempt an escape, to slip unseen back into the anchor, to make her way to the anchor’s office and the satellite communications without being heard upstairs in the infirmary, to send for help—or it would be the time were she significantly younger and considerably stupider.

Young enough to cover the distance quickly and quietly. Stupid enough to believe she wouldn’t be caught.

Smarter to find Hyrinzatil before he got himself into trouble, being as how he was both young and not very bright.

The remains of the wall that had once enclosed the courtyard had been crushed under heavy boots and claws, so the undergrowth next to it had had little chance of surviving intact. Having spent her entire working life learning to make as faint an imprint as possible on ancient sites, Arniz wasn’t happy about the damage, yet—honestly—after watching the digger excavate a latrine, destroying any scientific value, it was hard to care. She couldn’t locate Hyrinzatil’s path within the destroyed foliage and boot-sized patches of green pulp, so she moved farther away from the building, until the damage lessened to the point where she could see a trail of broken plants leading off into the jungle.

And if she could see his trail, Hyrinzatil had been flailing about like a nok in a sebitle.

Within the privacy of her own thoughts, she acknowledged that had terror not locked her in place, she’d have done the same thing.

She pushed aside a tangle of vines, ignoring the scattering of the insects that had been sheltering below it, and climbed a low wall, half expecting to find Hyrinzatil crouched on the other side. But no. It seemed panic had kept him moving.

“Of course, it had,” Arniz muttered. He wasn’t behind the next wall, or the next, and she paused on the top of the wall after that, breathing heavily and wondering just how much farther he could’ve run, a little surprised that even panic had motivated him to cover this much ground. Looking back, her trail to this point cut an obvious, if unexpectedly sinuous path. Looking ahead . . .

Looking ahead, the underbrush was undisturbed.

Either Hyrinzatil had tucked himself up at the bottom of a wall and she’d missed him, or she’d lost his trail.

“Well, if that’s just not the perfect end to the day. Next time,” she added, climbing wearily back to the ground, “he’s on his own. It’s not like I’m responsible for Salitwisi’s ancillaries,” she muttered as she stumbled against a hummock and the air filled with tiny, red, flying lizards. They should be responsible for her. She was old. “And tired, little cousin.” Scarlet wings whirred and a yellow tongue tasted the air. When it landed on her shoulder, she smiled. “And, also, glad of the company. We will, of course, have to part ways before I rejoin the others. I don’t trust Yurrisk not to make a snack of you.”

She couldn’t see the ruins; hadn’t been able to from her vantage point on the wall. Clearly overgrown lines of sight were to blame because she knew she couldn’t have gone that far.

She should have reached the second last wall by now. Be almost back to the ruins. Given the differences in growth that marked the differences in soil composition, the space between the walls, between these particular two walls, was most likely an interior space, and she enjoyed a lovely little daydream about actually being able to test and record and theorize.

She was too old for adventures.

She missed Dzar.

She should’ve reached the second last wall . . .

There was a flash of scarlet at the edge of her vision as the ground gave way beneath her.

Falling.

Screaming.

Pain.

Her eyes snapped open to see a blur of red and a green-gray square above that. She blinked, once, twice, and the flying lizard came into focus about ten centimeters from the end of her nose.

“I’m alive,” she told it. At the moment, that was all she was willing to commit to.

Everything hurt, but nothing hurt specifically. A constant throb, pain pulsing in time with her heartbeat, but no bright shards of agony. Arms, legs, tail; careful movement proved they all continued to function. Slowly, very slowly, she sat up and did nothing but breathe for a moment or two.

The air tasted stale and a little like ozone.

“I’m okay,” she told her companion as it settled back on her shoulder, tiny claws dug into the fabric of her overalls. “Not good, but okay. I landed flat, probably why I didn’t break anything.” A tiny tongue touched the side of her head. “And also why my tail feels like it’s going to become one big bruise.”

Enough light spilled in from above for her to see she was in a . . .

Room.

Not a rough hole, or a cellar built of stone blocks, but a room with smooth walls and—extrapolating from the one she could see—perfectly squared corners. The floor, where it wasn’t covered in a pile of organic debris, was as smooth as the walls, warmer than it should have been, and had a slight give under the pressure of her hand.

“Apparently, it wasn’t only distribution of mass but final impact on a surface with a generalized elasticity. That,” she added as the tiny lizard settled inside her collar against the side of her neck, a cool patch of comfort that rapidly matched her body temperature, “is science for fell and bounced.”

Still moving carefully, she stood, staggered as her tail adjusted to the new position with a cascade of pain, put out a hand to keep herself from falling, and touched the wall.

The lights came on. She instinctively looked up to see at least half a meter of organic debris above the level of the opening she’d fallen through, one side sloped, clearly delineating her passage. The layer of the debris closest to the opening looked to be humus, densely packed enough that visible roots passed above it. Given her equipment and enough time, she could use it to date approximately how long the room had been buried.

Educated guess—pre-destruction.

Then she glanced around the room, and snorted. “Unless the builders threaded indestructible solar gathering filaments through the canopy, I call bullshit. The satellite surveys would have picked up an active power source . . . and everlasting passive sources are fictional. And bad fiction at that.”

Illumination followed her as she followed the wall to the corner, brightening as she moved, dimming behind her. Her stride was approximately a third of a meter, and she took seven, eight . . . or was that ten? Did she miss two? Not important. It wasn’t a large room and, except for her, her little red companion, and the debris that had fallen with her, it was empty.

The fourth wall lit up when she touched it, and she stared at the orange rectangle mounted in the center, sudden shadows throwing raised patterns into sharp relief.

The team hadn’t included a linguist. They hadn’t expected to need one while mapping the plateau. Any symbols discovered were to have their location precisely recorded and high-resolution images acquired for further study.

Arniz recognized nothing on the wall she could call language although some of the patterns had a familiarity that spoke to the commonalities of science. She touched three symbols she saw repeated multiple times and a unique symbol in the upper right corner expanded a full centimeter up from the background, moved, and became a part of the symbol below it, now also raised although not as high.

Would a plastic life-form use plastic as a building component?

Or . . .

She stepped back.

Was this particular building component made up of plastic life-forms?

Was Yurrisk not so much delusional as right?

Had the plastic aliens left a weapon behind?

“Oh, get a grip,” Arniz growled, provoking an answering hiss from the lizard tucked in her collar. “There are a lot of plastic-using species in the universe, and there’s nothing to say that any species with the technology to get here while the pre-destruction society was still pre-destruction wouldn’t have been one of them.”

Another unique symbol slid sideways through one of the repeated symbols, both of them morphing into new shapes when it emerged out the other side.

“Stop it!” she snapped.

Whether it had finished a pre-set program or whether it understood her better than she did it, it stopped.

“Well, that’s mildly disturbing.”