EIGHT

WERST SQUINTED DOWN into the underbrush beside the cleared road and couldn’t spot either of the Artek. Credit where credit was due: if a Krai, evolved to spot prey through shifting foliage, couldn’t see them, no one could. He flicked his helmet scanner back on, noted their position under a pile of debris, absently ate an egg sac that had been webbed to the tree beside him, and settled at ninety to the road. Minimal movement gave him a clear view both toward the anchor and toward the ruins. Thanks to the DLs, they’d have plenty of warning before they had company, but he preferred eyes on.

He plucked a catkin dangling in his line of sight and ate it to cut the bitter taste of the egg sac, resting his KC behind the angle of his leg to take advantage of his uniform’s camouflage. There were times when he couldn’t tell the difference between being a Marine and being a Warden; ass down, waiting for the shooting to start was one of those times.

Once the shooting started, even a H’san with their head up their ass could tell the difference. Wardens didn’t face enemy combatants, the battle field divided conveniently into us and them. Wardens faced us and those of us who need rehabilitation. Or possibly, us and those of us who think they’re serley hot shit and really aren’t.

He grinned.

Us and those of us who need to grow the fuk up and realize it’s not all about them.

Us and those of us who are mistaken about where the center of the serley universe is.

Us and . . .

*Werst. Tech just powered up.*

Angling his face into the trunk to block sound waves, he ducked his chin and replied, “In the anchor?”

*Not as I understand your anchors,* Firiv’vrak said thoughtfully. *The ground is vi . . .*

*Singing.*

*It’s not singing!*

He switched to the group channel, tongue probing the protrusions along the inner left side of his jaw. “Gunny, the Artek report tech powering on. Ground is vibrating.” Neither of them had said vibrating, but given the rising hints of spice and mint, the semantic argument was still going on.

*DLs are picking up SFA. Targets and hostages are moving deeper into the jungle.* Emphasis made it sound as though the jungle had gotten under Gunny’s calm. Werst grinned. *Martin, Trembley, and Lieutenant Commander Ganes remain in the anchor. Hold your position. We’re picking up the pace.*

“If the Artek are reacting to a perimeter defense, I should go take a look.”

She could tell him once again to hold his position, but they both knew neither Firiv’vrak nor Keeleeki’ka would recognize a Confederation perimeter pin if a H’san shoved one up under their collective carapaces.

*Keep our noncombatant on a tight leash.*

“Roger, Gunny. Out.” His tongue tip found a missed bit of catkin as he switched off group. He listened to the continuing argument as he descended. Off implant, he could hear a few clacks, smell a little stink. Best they got it out of their system.

Flattening, he crawled under the debris pile on elbows and knees, tucked into the space between the hard edges of their bodies, and pressed both hands and feet into the ground. “I don’t feel anything.”

He could smell damp, rot, and cinnamon, though.

Antennae touched his cheek. “We feel it.”

“I believe you.” On the prison planet, all three Artek had been the only species able to feel vibrations that had led them to the control room. “Can you find the source?”

Firiv’vrak shifted, Werst’s uniform stiffening under the pressure of a wayward leg. “It’s stronger that way.” Her antennae pointed to the forty-five.

“Not stronger, louder,” Keeleeki’ka clacked.

“For the last time; it’s tech, not a song!”

“Quiet.”

“You . . .”

Her outer mandibles were far enough apart, he could barely get his hand around them. “When I say quiet, you—you both—shut up. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Warden.”

Keeleeki’ka huffed a cool breath down his left side and, when he took his hand away, muttered, “Yes, Warden.”

“Good.” The debris had been stacked loosely enough he could scan through the spaces. When the area read clear of both asshole and held-hostage-by-asshole life signs, he crawled out into the open and stood. Open being relative. The piles of debris and the undisturbed underbrush were taller than he was. And the same color. He was nearly as well camouflaged on the ground as he’d been in the tree. He’d rather be in the tree. Of course, he would; he was Krai. A sudden wave of sympathy for Commander Yurrisk held him in place for a moment, then he shook it off. No time. Not right now. “All right. DLs will give plenty of warning before we have company, so we find the tech, we deal with the tech, and we return to watching the road. Let’s go.”

After a little jostling for position, Firiv’vrak moved to his left, Keeleeki’ka moved to his right, and they both moved out front, antennae held nearly parallel to the ground. Not that any of the assholes with the guns would notice, but professional pride put his feet onto patches of ground already destroyed.

At the crumbling remains of a wall he couldn’t quite see over, the Artek pulled the vegetation away and pressed into the angle between the worn stones and the ground. A blue beetle tumbled off a discarded vine, landing on Keeleeki’ka’s carapace. Her back end rose, the beetle slid forward, she twisted her head and snapped her mandibles together, the movement smooth and practiced.

“Tell me you didn’t eat that,” Firiv’vrak said, eyestalks swiveling toward Keeleeki’ka.

The scent of roast potatoes momentarily overwhelmed the smell of jungle. “I’m familiar with the concept of alien species.”

“Either of you familiar with shutting the fuk up?” Werst growled. “If you can’t find it . . .”

“On the other side of the wall,” Keeleeki’ka began.

“Vibrations are stronger at the base of the wall,” Firiv’vrak interrupted. “We can’t know what’s on the other side.”

“Yeah, well, there’s one way to find out.” Two quick strides, his toes found a hold, and he was up and over, Firiv’vrak following close enough behind him that a waft of cherry made him want to sneeze.

He slammed his nostril ridges shut, landed on yet more crushed vegetation, and wasn’t sure who was more surprised, Tehaven, the variegated Polint who had fukking awesome natural camouflage, or him.

As he ducked the first swing, the sudden, overpowering smell of lemon furniture polish nearly took him out.

“And most surprised goes to the Artek.” Werst grabbed a vine, climbed up out of the Polint’s reach, switched once, twice, three times as the vines were yanked out from under him. He went down with the fourth, back into range of six sets of claws.

Tehaven roared a challenge. His translator ignored it.

“Yeah, yeah . . .” The challenge gave him time to roll clear. Challenges were fukking stupid. “. . . yours is bigger.”

*Truth.*

*Alamber, off com!*

*Sorry, Boss.*

Up on one knee, Werst couldn’t take the shot without hitting Keeleeki’ka. “Get clear, you serley bug!”

She ignored him, flowing up and over Tehaven’s haunches as quickly as if she were on flat ground. Damp patches that might’ve been blood darkened the variegated fur.

*Werst, multiple targets returning. Get out, now.*

“Negative Gunny; Keeleeki’ka has engaged.”

*Say again!*

“Keeleeki’ka has engaged. And she’s kicking Dutavar’s brother’s ass.”

*That’s not possible!* Dutavar snarled.

“Hey, I’m here, you’re not. Suck it up.”

Claws caught the edge of the duct tape covering the cracked edge of Keeleeki’ka’s carapace. Muscles bulged as Tehaven used the torque of his twisted torso to fling the Artek off his back. She tumbled twice when she hit the ground, got her legs under her, and rushed back in.

A blue energy bolt took out the tree to Werst’s right. “The fuk, Firiv!” he snarled as his uniform kept him from being shredded by shards of wood.

*I’m better in a ship,* Firiv’vrak muttered from his implant. Another tree shattered six meters out.

“What the serley fuk are you shooting at now?”

*There’s a Polint and a di’Taykan incoming. I’ve slowed them down.*

The trunk of a third tree shattered. The crown dropped to hang up in a fourth, much larger tree.

“Stop defoliating the jungle!” Werst raced for cover as a line of KC rounds chewed up the ground where he’d been standing. The approaching di’Taykan, blue hair so either Mirish or Gayun, stood on Netrovooens’ back, holding the strapping that crossed his shoulders with one hand while the other continued to spray the area.

Vine to branch to vine to the tree Firiv’vrak’s ray gun had hung up; Werst ran up the trunk, dove through the canopy, and launched himself at the di’Taykan as Firiv’vrak sped past the deep red Polint’s front legs and slammed him in the knees. The timing was so perfect, they couldn’t have planned it better. Mostly because everyone knew plans went to shit when the shooting started.

Netrovooens stumbled and fell as Werst took Gayun—Gayun light blue, Mirish darker—to the ground. The Polint roared a challenge as he scrambled back onto his feet and took off after Firiv’vrak who led him away. If it came to number of feet on the ground, he’d never catch her. Had he gone for the stationary target, Werst knew he’d have been fukked. He knew how strong and fast the Polint were. A slash to rip off his helmet, a slash to rip off his face—game over.

Tehaven’s vocabulary had the translation program substituting bug for a dozen other words Werst bet were less neutral. Seemed that fight was still going on.

That left him with Gayun, who’d gotten to his feet and pulled a knife. He was Navy, not Corps, and he didn’t look all that familiar with knife fighting. In Werst’s neighborhood, a knife fight meant it was Foursday.

“33X73 is a Class 2 Designate,” he snarled as he raced in, braced a foot against Gayun’s thigh, climbed the side away from his knife hand, and slammed an elbow into the side of his head. “You’re under arrest for . . . for messing shit up.”

He twisted in the air, landed on his feet, and snarled as Gayun whirled around trying to keep his balance, staggering close enough he could see the light receptors in the di’Taykan’s eyes opening and closing. Opening and closing. “Go down and stay . . .”

The ground dropped away beneath them.

They exchanged a momentary, mutual recognition of shit hitting the fan and fell.

As the canopy retreated, Werst bellowed, “Go to ground!”

*Werst?* The weight of Firiv’vrak’s pause told him she’d turned in time to see him disappear. *Warden!*

It was a long way down.

“Now!”

Impact.

Pain exploded across his back, through his head, under his chin.

Then darkness.

The darkness didn’t last long.

The pain seemed to be hanging around.

He blinked, spit out a mouthful of light blue hair, and pressed his fingers into something soft—no idea of what body part—in search of a pulse. Alive and unconscious. Well, good. He’d still have the chance to kick their . . .

The darkness returned.

Turned out it was too much to ask for accurate intelligence from the Ministry. A muscle jumping in her jaw, Torin ducked through a door, lintel intact, unable to tell which of the surrounding pieces of buildings it belonged to. Length of day, ambient temperature, necessary supplements, radiation levels; all that was useful. Random pits in the jungle; that would’ve been more useful.

“Gunny . . .”

Torin looked at the piece of stone in her hand, had no memory of breaking it off the decorative carving on the side of the door, and without breaking stride, threw it so that it smashed against a fallen pillar. Half a dozen multihued insects scattered at impact. If the mercenaries thought they now had leverage, they were right. If they thought making it personal would strengthen their position, they were idiots. She checked her cuff again. “His life signs are strong.”

“We evolved falling out of trees,” Ressk growled, nostril ridges opening and closing as he ran to the end of a branch and swung into the next tree, his landing sending a black bird with purple highlights screaming up into the sky. “Of course, he’s fine. Bertecnic, path goes right of the dead tree. Your military right, for fuksake!”

Data streaming to Torin’s cuff indicated deep bruising in multiple sites both front and back and blunt force trauma to the back of Werst’s head. Only Krai bone could remain intact when a combat helmet shattered on impact. His pulse and respiration were labored enough for concern, but good enough not to turn concern to worry. The dropping blood pressure, however, that was cause for worry. The shattered helmet had clearly caused lacerations outside the area his uniform covered. Head. Throat. Either could be very bad.

The Justice Department had disapproved of the Strike Team’s uniforms using military medical tech, protesting that sending comprehensive medical data to the team leader was an invasion of privacy with the potential for bio-terrorism should it fall into the wrong hands. Although she’d made her opinion of that clear, Torin was aware that Captain Kaur’s more diplomatic report to committee had carried the day.

Ressk’s medical data noted elevated heart and respiration as well as increased muscle tension. All within an acceptable range after having listened to his bonded plummet into a pit.

Torin ducked a branch without losing speed, her boots slamming down on the crushed vegetation that marked the Polint’s path. They’d traded Werst for the ability to move at full speed.

*Ex-Marine Lance-corporal Brenda Zhang and ex-Navy Gunner Jana Malinowski have joined Tehaven at the pit.* The words tumbled over each other so quickly Firiv’vrak’s translator had trouble separating them. *They have rope . . .*

*So does Camaderiz, Boss. All three of them ran past the DLs on the road; he kept going when Zhang and Malinowski peeled off. He’s past the ruins now and out of visual.*

No point in asking if Alamber had forced his way into the mercenaries’ slates yet. He’d tell her when he had.

*Zhang and Malinowski appear to be arguing over who will descend into the pit.* Firiv’vrak clicked a pattern that didn’t translate. *I have a clear shot on Zhang.*

Werst needed medical attention. Torin weighed the odds of him receiving it against the odds of him being shot in the head. If they intended to shoot him, it would be a hell of a lot safer to make sure he was dead before going into the pit for the di’Taykan.

*Zhang has informed Malinowski that the Warden is a scout. That were the rest of the team in range, she’d already be dead.*

Zhang recognized the uniform. Which was the point of uniforms; couldn’t have a battle if no one knew who to shoot. The Justice Department had insisted that the Strike Teams be easily identifiable. While the other guys get to wear civvies and hide in plain sight, Torin grumbled silently, jumping a low wall. If the ground on the other side could hold the Polint, it could hold her.

In some ways, the job had been easier back when they’d been contract players.

*She’s tied off the rope, and is about to descend. Do I take the shot, Gunny?*

With Zhang down, Malinowski and Tehaven would go on the defensive. There’d be a standoff while Werst bled out.

*Gunny?*

“Negative on the shot.” Torin shouldered the weight of Werst’s life and lengthened her stride. “Bertecnic, pick up the pace!”

Blinked at the sound of shouting. Human voice. Female.

“Gayun is broken, but breathing.” She snickered. “B . . . b . . . broken but b . . . b . . . bleeding. The Warden cushioned his fall! Tehaven, go for a stretcher!”

Blinked at a rumble from above.

“Fukking hell. Language. Malinowski, tell him to go for a stretcher.”

“How?”

“I don’t care. Use interpretive dance!”

“Regular stretcher or AG?”

“What do you think? Gayun’s in the bottom of a hole!”

“So we leave him there. Why make the effort? He’s not one of us.”

“He’s on the same side we are as long as we’re on this shithole of a planet. Marines don’t leave people behind! Stretcher! Now!”

Blinked as a light shone into his eyes.

“So, you’re alive, eh?”

Was he? Good.

“Sarge, the Warden’s alive.”

Blinked at the voice. From a slate. Not using implants, must be using slates. Communication important.

“Bring him in, Zhang. I’ll send Tehaven back with both stretchers.”

A hand closed around his jaw. “Fuk me, that’s a lot of blood.”

He couldn’t remember how to snap. Remembered what sealant felt like, though. Warm. Then cool.

“You got enough juice left inside, you should be fine. You don’t, well, not my problem, is it?”

*Boss, I’m in Werst’s implant, switched it to group, and boosted the gain on his mic. As long as his mouth is open, we’ll hear what he hears.*

“But Martin has your military’s implant,” Freenim called out. “Wouldn’t he know that’s possible and have the implant physically turned off?”

Torin’s lips pulled back off her teeth. “Martin’s served with Krai. He knows better than to put anything organic in their mouths.”

Blinked at the light back in his eyes.

“Come on, Warden, I know you’re awake. Since we’re stuck in the bottom of a pit clearly not dug by the people from upstairs—unless they enjoyed primitive living and kept their ability to create seamless walls made of who the fuk knows what for the important things like, well, pits that look a lot like big empty, creepy cylinders—and because Gayun entirely sucks as a conversationalist, right now it’s up to you. Because this is the pits.”

Blinked.

“Oh, come on, that deserved better. It was funny, right? Look, if you’re going to die on me, I should at least know your name.”

*Werst!*

Blinked. “Ressk . . .”

Blinked again.

Thought he heard someone say, “Fuk me. You hear that, Sarge?”

Blinked . . .

The darkness settled in to stay.

“I’m confused,” Binti called out from behind her. “Why is it a good thing those assholes think they’ve scooped Ressk instead of Werst?”

“You heard them.” Zhang’s conversation with Martin had been enlightening. Martin’s crew knew Ressk was a member of Strike Team Alpha, they were familiar with his skill set, and were aware he had a better chance of understanding alien tech than anyone currently dirtside—regardless of how vehemently Alamber had protested that opinion. He’d continued protesting, his discontent a background rumble in everyone’s jaw, until Craig threatened to take the VTA up a kilometer and drop him on the anchor if he wanted to be there so badly. “They need Ressk,” Torin reiterated. “That need will keep Werst safe. He can fake it until we arrive.”

“They know we’re coming now,” Freenim said, a bland statement of fact. “They’ll retreat to the anchor.”

“So we change the plan.” Torin matched his bland. “We needed someone inside to open the door. Werst is inside.”

“Yes, fine, you’ll both soldier on regardless because senior NCOs don’t worry. They adapt.” Vertic snorted. “I, personally, am bothered about the depth of their knowledge, particularly concerning Strike Team Alpha. They know your strengths, they know your weaknesses.”

“They know individual strengths and weaknesses.” Torin stepped over one of the winged snakes, grounded by Bertecnic’s passing, and ignored Binti’s expletive. “They don’t know how we integrate them.”

*Sergeant Martin and Corporal Zhang are having indicated their knowledge are being several layers beyond what are being readily available to the public.* Presit’s claws tapped out a background rhythm behind her words. *It are obvious, to me at least, that they are being fed information. There are being no other possibility. I are willing to sift data on Strike Team Alpha—all of which I are having on my slate—and attempt to be finding the connection between the Justice Department and these mercenaries.*

Torin felt her brows rise. “All of which?”

*Besides my own sources, Commander Ng are having been most forthcoming.*

“Wonderful.” Torin was aware that Presit considered Strike Team Alpha to be hers; she wasn’t thrilled to find Commander Ng agreed.

*And, as our presence are no longer being a secret, I are able to bounce a signal through the Promise and into the net.*

“To cross reference.”

*Aw, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr are having expanded her vocabulary. That’s . . .* She broke off with a huff of air, and Torin sent a silent thank you to Craig. *Yes, I are able to cross reference.*

“Then see what you can find. I’m less concerned about the extent of their knowledge of the Strike Teams,” she continued, when Presit remained silent, “as I am about them knowing we have Primacy members with us.”

“But they don’t. Unless the Artek were seen . . .”

*We weren’t.*

“. . . my brother wouldn’t have told Corporal Zhang of the attack. Zhang is female,” Dutavar explained. “Tehaven lost the fight.”

*He didn’t lose it,* Firiv’vrak began.

Keeleeki’ka cut her off. *We went to ground as Warden Werst instructed before I could defeat him.*

Not for the first time, Torin wished the fight had been within the range of the nearest DL. Artek against Polint. That would have been something to see. “You have unexpected skills.”

*Hardly unexpected. I told Warden Ryder I carry the story of Tyar Who Defeated the Warlord. Stories worth carrying have substance.*

When Torin turned, Freenim shook his head. Seemed this was new information to him as well. If a durlave who’d served with Artek in the war didn’t know, the Primacy as a whole—Artek excluded—didn’t know. Facing forward again, she ducked a low branch and said, “Craig, go through that list of stories. Check for any other with potentially useful substance.”

*On it.*

“It doesn’t matter if the fight ended without a clear winner.” Without pausing his forward momentum, Dutavar snapped a slender tree off at the base and tossed it over a low wall. “. . . my brother will be shamed he didn’t win and won’t want to lose honor in front of a female.”

Bertecnic barked out a laugh, and smacked Dutavar on the rump. “Honor?” He sidestepped away from the return blow. “Like it’s ever that simple.”

“Simple?” Binti scoffed. “Zhang’s a female of a different species.”

“In a combat situation, it doesn’t matter.”

Torin tuned out Alamber’s enthusiastic agreement. “That must make for interesting battle plans.”

“Tell me about it,” Freenim muttered.

No one suggested Werst might surrender the information.

“Can Werst convince the hostiles he’s analyzing alien technology?” Merinim called out loudly enough Torin heard her external to the implant. The Druin, for all their shorter stride, had easily maintained the pace set by the Polint. “He punched the coffee maker.”

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Ressk growled above Binti’s laughter.

Torin glanced up to see Ressk directly above her. “Hold!” Infantry, as they said, could stop on a dime and give you nine cents change. She had no idea what a dime or cents were, but both the Confederation and the Primacy had planted mines—stopping on command beat taking one more step and losing body parts. Resettling her pack, she reached up and squeezed his foot. “Sitrep.”

His answering expression insisted he was holding it together, but his toes tightened around her fingers. “We’re twenty meters out from the bog.”

During their run to plant the DLs, he and Werst had mapped the bog at five hundred and seventy meters across. They’d been unable to ping either end. Combined experience in humping gear over various unfriendly landscapes had identified the area as an old river, silted up and spread out beyond its original banks.

“We can’t go around.” Vertic gouged a trench with one front foot as they gathered for another look at the map rising off Torin’s slate. “And it’s barely over a meter at the deepest point.”

*Torin, they know we’re incoming.* Craig sounded impatient. *Why walk?*

“At this point it’s just as fast. And considerably more subtle.”

*Yeah, yeah, they have hostages, no backing the bodgie gits into a corner.* His eyeroll was nearly audible. *They’ve got one of ours now.*

“I know.” He hated feeling useless as much as she did. “I’ll let you know when you can drop the shuttle on their heads.”

*Are she meaning that literally?*

“Until then, keep Presit off the coms.”

*Because I can do the impossible.*

She could hear the reluctant smile in Craig’s voice and answered it. “Yes, you can.”

“A meter deep is nothing,” Binti pointed out.

Merinim raised her hand. “Uh, Freenim may be a meter five, but just over a meter tall here.”

“Just over,” Binti repeated. “Over’s good. And you have boats. A kind of variable definition of boat, sure, but I want to see them in action.”

The Druin equipment had included personal flotation platforms. Freenim had explained the inclusion with the observable fact they were, as a species, short.

“We’re wasting daylight.” Torin clipped the slate back on her belt. “Ressk, find a path.”

“On it, Gunny. There’s a ruined wall that’ll take us a third of the way, water barely over your ankles. Bertie . . .”

“Don’t call me that,” Bertecnic sighed.

“. . . forty-five degrees to your left until your feet get wet. Two, maybe three meters. Move!”

“He’s motivated,” Vertic said approvingly as Ressk swung out in front again. “Danger to a bonded will inspire extraordinary effort.”

“Yes, sir. That’s how I explained it to Commander Ng.”

She heard Binti snicker behind her. “You figure Werst’ll hold off on kicking ass until we get there, Gunny?”

Torin felt her forward boot sink into the loam. “He doesn’t usually.”

“What were you doing out here?” Yurrisk shoved his face toward hers, teeth bared, eyes gone crystalline. “You need to stay where I put you. You need to hold the line. I didn’t clear you to leave the ruins.”

Arniz slid her gaze past his—he wasn’t seeing her, so what did it matter—lowered herself onto a piece of carved and broken stone, and waved a hand until she could catch her breath, trying not to inhale a cloud of tiny silver insects with each gasp. Who knew being dragged out of a pit would be so exhausting? All she’d done was dangle. “I was looking,” she managed at last, “for Hyrinzatil.”

Yurrisk whipped his head around to glare at the ancillary. “You were trying to escape, were you? Planned to circle around and use the shuttle’s com system to send for help? Thought I wouldn’t notice one lizard missing? I know how many enemies I have. No matter how many come, I’ll protect what’s mine.” He’d taken a single step toward Hyrinzatil, fists clenched, when Qurn’s gloved hand on his wrist brought him to a sudden stop. He swayed right and right again, took a deep breath, then said in a less terrifying tone, “Answer me.”

“I ran because an animal was attacking.” Hyrinzatil folded his arms, unfolded them, folded them again, tail tip lashing. Had he stopped there . . . but then he wouldn’t be Hyrinzatil if he stopped on the prudent side of the line. “It was the sensible thing to do.”

Arniz ached with how much she missed Dzar and the emphasis of youth, then she pushed the ache aside because Yurrisk had drawn himself up to his full height, his spine a rigid line, and Hyrinzatil’s primary was, as usual, useless, more concerned with a hole in the ground than the life he’d been given responsibility for. “Sensible only because Trembley was willing to fight,” she snapped. “Am I wrong?” she demanded as Hyrinzatil leaned around Yurrisk to glare at her. “The greater majority of predators chase running prey. If Trembley hadn’t been there, the animal would have caught and eaten you.”

“I don’t have to run faster than the animal, Harveer, I only have to run faster than you.”

“I should have let you stay lost in the jungle.”

“I wasn’t lost! And let’s not forget, I’m the one who found you and went for help!”

“Enough.” Yurrisk pointed at Hyrinzatil, the weary officer back at the surface. “Get in the pit. Assist in the removal of the plastic.”

“Removal?” Salitwisi, kneeling between the two ropes dangling over the most stable point of the crumbling edge, twisted around and glared. “We need to examine it in situ!”

Yurrisk took three fast steps, grasped Salitwisi’s tail with his right foot, and swung him out over the edge. “Then look at it in situ,” he said calmly over the shriek as he let go. “And you . . .”

Hyrinzatil opened and closed his mouth, tongue darting out to taste the air and disappearing again.

“. . . go in after him. Under your power or mine, I’m not fussy.”

“Go on,” Arniz said when the ancillary glanced over at her, willing to yield to her authority now, when his other options had run out. “It’s not deep, and there’s a pile of debris built up from all the in and out to soften the landing.”

Beyvek and Mirish di’Yaunah—both of whom turned out to be engineers although Arniz thought that might mean something different in the Navy than in academia—had been gratifyingly enthusiastic about her discovery and had brought quite a bit of fresh debris in with them. She’d kicked some in herself on the way out.

“Commander?” Beyvek’s voice rose up out of the pit. “We seem to have acquired a civilian.”

“He’s there to observe the plastic in situ.”

Arniz was too tired to prevent her smile at Yurrisk’s tone.

“That a Niln word for hole in the ground?”

“I assume so. Don’t let him delay you, Lieutenant, but don’t allow him to assist either. He wants to observe, let him observe. His ancillary is on his way.”

“Good. We could use another set of . . .”

“Great egg! Don’t touch it with your bare hands!” Seemed Salitwisi had survived the fall. “You need the prop . . . Awk!”

“You heard the commander, tail against the wall and observe.”

A meter from the edge, Hyrinzatil stood frozen in place. Yurrisk sighed pointedly. “Did you need me to assist?”

“Go on,” Arniz repeated. “I’m a lot further from the egg than you, and that hole wasn’t open to the sky when I discovered it. I went through the roof.”

Hyrinzatil shuffled forward, tail tip twitching. He balanced on the edge for a moment and, when Yurrisk stepped toward him, jumped.

Niln bones weren’t as light as the Rakva, but they were light enough to keep the mass part of mass times acceleration low. From the near instantaneous sound of both Beyvek and Salitwisi ordering him around, Hyrinzatil had landed safely.

“Did you have an observation to make?”

When she realized Yurrisk was speaking to her, Arniz snorted. “I’m surprised Salitwisi didn’t expect the figurative kick in the ass, but, other than that, no.” His response, given that Salitwisi still hadn’t internalized the current power structure, had been reasonable. No one had been hurt. Martin wouldn’t have been so restrained.

He waved at the black Polint waiting by the tree where the ropes had been secured, pointed at his eyes, then pointed at Arniz. “Camaderiz. Watch her.”

Camaderiz made a derisive sound and, while Arniz had no idea what she was likely to do except sit and feel old, she didn’t think the derision had been aimed at her. Nor did she think the Polint were as unaware as they pretended. It was highly unlikely the bright green item she’d glimpsed through the fur in Camaderiz’s ear was purely decorative.

“The Niln has a point,” Qurn said quietly. “Not her,” she added when Yurrisk frowned at Arniz. “The other, Salitwisi. To remove unfamiliar tech and expect it to keep working . . .”

“You don’t understand.” He took hold of her arms, gently, barely indenting the fabric, and met her gaze, nostrils open. “The Krai from the other pit, Ressk, he’s an advance scout . . .”

“For Strike Team Alpha. So you said.”

He shook his head. “Strike Team Alpha is a designation, nothing more. Ressk is one of her people. We have to get back to the safety of the anchor if we want to survive this. We’re dead if we stay here, and I can’t leave the plastic behind.”

Qurn stared at him for a long moment. “Who is she?”

Yurrisk frowned as Arniz silently applauded the Druin. Exactly the question she’d have asked.

“You said Ressk is one of her people,” Qurn prodded. “Who is she?”

“Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr.”

Pale lids flicked across both eyes. “The gunnery sergeant who exposed the plastic aliens?”

“The same. The same gunnery sergeant who saved a training platoon on Crucible, who got her people off Big Yellow even with the handicap of Commander Carveg. The same gunnery sergeant who brought the Silsviss into the Confederation. Who got a Marine armory out of the hands of pirates and who added a strong arm to the bureaucracy of justice. Do you know what they say about her?”

“That she’s trying too hard?”

“That she was only doing her job. And now, we’re her job.”

“So we leave. Take the VTA back to the ship and go.”

Arniz was fully in favor of that plan.

“We can’t. Without that weapon to sell, there’s nowhere we can go. We’ve barely enough fuel to get us to the meet with the buyer and, without the buyer, no way to get more. The buyer will pay us enough for a converter, and that will free us. We can’t leave, but if we stay—if we get to the anchor—we’re safe.” Yurrisk stared through the trees as though he could see the anchor in the distance. “Kerr is smart enough to understand the principle behind hostages. As long as we have them, she can’t attack. As long as we have them, she has to negotiate, and that’s not one of her strengths.”

“The strengths she does have seem to be working for her,” Qurn pointed out. “And there’s six or seven on a Strike Team. One of the others can do the negotiating.”

“The Strike Teams are weapons aimed by the Justice Department. Ex-military who can’t leave institutionalized violence behind.”

Hello, irony. Arniz moved a stick bug to safety on a bit of undisturbed greenery.

“They have no subtlety. They can’t charge in, guns blazing, and put civilians in danger. The civilians are a shield. So when we leave with the weapon, we take one with us.” He glanced over Qurn’s shoulder at Arniz. “Not you.”

She waved it off. “I’m crushed. Truly.”

“Ganes would be best. He’s Navy. He knows how this works.”

“He doesn’t seem to,” Qurn muttered. “Martin’s people barely stopped him from getting to the communications equipment.”

Again, exactly what Arniz would have said.

“That’s how it works,” Yurrisk insisted. “Ganes has been captured, it’s his job to make it difficult for the enemy. He doesn’t surrender. He keeps fighting. And fighting.” His nostril ridges slammed closed. “Stop fighting and everyone dies. Stop fighting and it’s over and lives were spent for nothing. Stop fighting . . .”

“Come back.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. After a moment, his nostril ridges slowly opened.

“Commander!” Beyvek’s voice pulled him around toward the pit. “The plastic wasn’t connected to the wall; it was hanging. There’s six holes and six hooks, hard to see because they’re the same material. The plastic itself is like a semirigid plastic curtain. I have no idea what’s powering it, but it shifted another symbol when we were taking it down.”

Arniz could see Yurrisk’s chest rising and falling, too quickly to be normal, but he had control of his voice when he asked, “Is it still functioning?”

“Can’t tell, sir. The moment the bottom edge hit the floor, it rolled into a tight tube.”

“Well, you couldn’t transport a semirigid curtain, now could you?” Salitwisi’s voice drifted up out of the pit. “Those who hung it here had to first bring it in. It clearly wasn’t built on site. If you insist on moving it, the odds of damaging such a priceless artiFACK! Uncalled for,” he muttered a moment later, barely loud enough to be heard outside the pit. “Totally uncalled for.”

“He’s annoying, but he’s not wrong, sir. Rolled, this thing is going to be significantly easier to transport. We’re securing the lines.”

“Well done. Camaderiz!” Both hands curled around nothing, Yurrisk mimed pulling motions. “Ready on the ropes.”

Camaderiz pointed at his eyes and then at Arniz.

“Not now!” Yurrisk made the motion again. “Now, you pull the ropes!”

Highlights rippling through ebony fur, Camaderiz shrugged.

“It’s not a weapon,” Arniz said, before the pissing contest could escalate. While she was all in favor of them fighting among themselves, even an elderly harveer with no experience in violence could see who’d win. With Yurrisk gone, Martin would have no restrictions, so best distract him before Camaderiz took him apart.

Yurrisk turned back to the pit, lips still off his teeth. “It will lead us to the weapon.”

Arniz shrugged and stayed silent. If there was a weapon, it might.

“Camaderiz.”

Other than the Polint’s name, Arniz understood nothing Qurn said. Camaderiz, however, clearly knew exactly what she was saying if his wide eyes, flattened mane, and sudden interest in the ropes were any indication. Qurn was Primacy. Arniz had forgotten that.

*Boss, Werst’s signal just dropped out.*

“He’s unconscious,” Ressk snarled before Torin could respond.

*I didn’t say he stopped chatting me up.* The words were flippant, but Alamber’s tone was kind. *I’m not reading the signal from his implant. I could hear muffled and unoriginal speculation about Strike Team Alpha from the people around the stretchers as they reached the anchor, then blip. No signal.*

Military grade implants kept functioning eighty-one hours after death. If Martin had stuffed his fingers into a Krai mouth to destroy the implant, well, he’d be a lot easier to beat with bloody stumps where his hands should be. And Werst’s implant would still be sending. They needed “Ressk,” so Martin wouldn’t have blown Werst’s jaw off. Only one option left. “The anchor has an implant blocker.”

“Why?” Vertic sounded confused.

“Best guess . . .” Without slowing, Torin ducked a branch too thick for the Polint’s machetes. “. . . one or more of the other scientists didn’t like the thought of Lieutenant Commander Ganes having sole access to certain tech.”

“He’s the only one with an implant. Who do they think he’ll be talking to?”

“They’re not thinking. They’re afraid he’ll use it to record them.”

“Your implants record?” The durlin hadn’t been an officer long enough for her attempt at mild curiosity to sound like anything but the suspicion it was.

“No, it’s against the Confederation’s privacy laws. But that doesn’t stop civilians from making assumptions and spreading rumors.”

Binti snickered. “I heard there’s a subliminal that’ll turn anyone with an implant into a mindless drone.”

“That’s not true here?” Freenim, on the other hand, had been an NCO long enough to make his mild curiosity entirely believable.

The only sounds were the whistle/chunk of Dutavar’s machete, birds, and insects. Even the surrounding foliage had stopped rustling.

Bertecnic broke first, his sputter turning to a deep belly laugh. A moment later, the other members of the Primacy team joined in.

“Your face,” Merinim giggled. She must have been referring to Binti’s face because Torin hadn’t turned, had locked her gaze on Bertecnic’s haunches, and started working on a way to deal with the worst case scenario.

*They couldn’t make a subliminal we couldn’t hear,* Firiv’vrak pointed out, still chuckling.

*Oh, that are being very funny. I are including it in the final edit for sure.*

Neither Presit nor Dalan had an implant; they couldn’t know how it felt the first time a tech cracked a jaw. Before going under, even the most badass sergeant fixated on the rumors. Torin had no intention of adding a new rumor and would have a word with Presit later. Or, she’d ask Craig to have a word. Although, now she thought of it, Presit had used illegal tech in the past and implants could definitely be built to record if someone ethically flexible got into the right position, so it was possible the Katrien would know if . . .

No. Not her problem. Not her job. Not even very likely.

She shortened her stride to avoid a low black mat of fungus, then tilted her head up toward the canopy when she caught sight of pale fronds between hanging vines and underbrush. “Ressk! We go around the bracken! Left or right, I don’t care, but we don’t go through.”

“Sorry, Gunny. I was . . .”

Taking the fastest route to Werst, Torin finished silently when his voice trailed off.

“So it looks like Strike Team Alpha’s here to rescue you.”

“What?”

Werst didn’t recognize either voice although he did recognize the familiar feel of antigravity shutting down. The Corps never used the AG stretchers in a war zone, too susceptible to EMP, but he’d caught a ride between the VTA and Medop a couple of times.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” the first voice sneered. “We’re not going to make it easy for them. Keep the Krai alive. There’s an artifact coming in we need him to take a look at.”

Blink.

Human. Male. Look way up. Short pale hair. Red cheeks. Robert Martin.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The second voice sounded overwhelmed. Angry.

“He fell down.”

Sounded like Martin hadn’t changed. Still a serley chrika. Mashing his tongue against the inside of his jaw, Werst pressed three times against the implant controls. One short, two long. Conscious, but injured. They had no code for captured; the Primacy didn’t take prisoners.

Which made Martin a bigger ass than an enemy they’d been at war with for centuries.

“Once again, I’m an engineer, not a medic!”

“Don’t care. You’ve already proven you can operate the autodoc; operate it again.”

“Trembley is Human. The autodoc was preloaded with Human parameters. It isn’t set up for Krai. Do you see a Krai on the science team?”

Blink.

When the light returned, Werst gritted his teeth and flopped his head to the right. Voice two belonged to a Human male. Dark skin. Narrow gaze. Warm hand.

“Yeah, and you were Navy.” Martin. Still sneering. “Fuk of a lot of Krai took the easy way and went Navy. Use your superior Human brain and figure it out.”

Blink.

Navy. The second voice and the warm hand belonged to Lieutenant Commander Harris Ganes. Good. He’d made contact with a potential asset. Go him.

“Warden’s name is Ressk, if you want to sweet talk him. Your choice if you keep the di’Taykan alive. I don’t care either way and Yurrisk will blame you. That could be fun.”

Fukking Martin.

Blink.

*Boss, targets and hostages are back in range of the DLs by the ruins. They’re carrying . . . a large roll of . . . It looks like plastic. Hang on. Yep. Pinged it. It’s plastic.*

“Briefing packet said this was a pre-plastic planet,” Binti argued. “Wiped out before they figured out how to stabilize hydrocarbons. You need to ping it again.”

*It’s plastic, Bin. Also bright orange. Danger orange. Do not advance orange.*

“Why would they warn the di’Taykan off?”

*Everybody loves us.*

“You wish.”

“DLs recorded a lot of rope moving past the ruins.” Torin cut off the banter. “Past the ruins, away from the pit Werst opened up. What would keep this lot, looking for a weapon to use against the plastic, away from a sudden pit? Another pit. A second pit that held a sizable piece of plastic.”

*The natives didn’t have plastic,* Craig continued, *so the plastic had to have come out of that second pit.*

“Then the plastic in the latrine that started this mess could be discarded scrap,” Vertic said thoughtfully. “Or, the plastic dug the pits as blinds in order to observe another social experiment.”

The plastic’s social experiments tended to happen on the scale of intergalactic war—but they had to have started somewhere. Torin definitely understood why the possibility of a weapon had everyone’s hands in their pants. Confederation. Primacy. They all wanted to get some of their own back.

Running blind in ankle-deep water so brown it was entirely opaque, she led the way along the top of a ruined wall, trusting her boots as much as her scanner. They were making good time.

“So the dumbass story about a weapon that can destroy the plastic is maybe not so dumbass,” Binti observed.

“And the destruction of this civilization?” Vertic wondered. “Populations failing worldwide at approximately the same time?”

“You were there when plastic spoke. Seemed to me it was . . .”

“A molecular, hive mind of shapeshifting manipulative, murdering, shitheads?” Binti offered.

“. . . pragmatic. Although Mashona’s not wrong. If the plastic became aware of a weapon here . . .” Torin let her voice trail off into the obvious implication. The edges of the stone underfoot crumbled. She shifted her stride back toward the center of the block.

Torin had taken point back at the water’s edge; followed by the three Polint, Binti on their six. The two Druin had sped across to the other side, ready to provide covering fire if needed. Their floaters had looked like a wad of thick paper when pulled from their packs, but had expanded out to two slick surfaces with honeycombed folds between them. For all their apparent fragility, they held the weight of a Druin and accompanying gear. Propulsion came from a single-use charge about a centimeter square. Torin wanted one. A larger one. Wanted one reverse engineered and made part of standard equipment. She also wanted aftercare for veterans without the cracks too many fell through, and for the violently antisocial to get some fukking therapy and take up flower arranging, putting the Strike Teams out of work. It didn’t look like she was going to get those anytime soon either.

“And if there is a weapon?” The undertones in Vertic’s voice, sharp through both translation and implant, reminded Torin how short a time the war had been over.

“If a weapon exists, and they’ve found it, we’ll confiscate it.”

*And have Anthony Marteau make a million of them,* Craig drawled. *That ought to polish his nuts.*

“Why does it go to your people?” Vertic asked coldly. “The plastic are responsible for as many of my people dead as yours.”

*Makes no difference; that fukker Marteau will sell to both sides.*

“I understood we were on the same side, Warden Ryder.”

*Yeah? Then forget I said anything.*

Fortunately for Torin’s decision to stay clear of Craig’s problem with Vertic, whatever it turned out to be, Alamber stepped in.

*Unclench before you turn your shit to diamonds,* he muttered, presumably to Craig, then added, *The roll’s about two and a half meters long and if it’s consistently the same thickness as it is at the edge, it’s around three meters unrolled. And I suspect it’s unrolled by now inside the anchor and being stared at by all the hostages and all the bad guys. Who are also all in the anchor.*

“They’ve secured their position.” Secured after a quick walk down a cleared road and a sunny stroll across an empty plateau. Torin squinted across the murky water, at the floating debris, at the slender trees growing up through water and debris both, at the visually impenetrable mat of vegetation waiting behind the Druin on the other side. She really hated jungles.

*I could drop the VTA on the plateau.*

“They’ll tell you to leave or they’ll kill a hostage.”

“They can’t kill all of them,” Binti pointed out, “or they have no bargaining position.”

This job, unlike her last job, came with no justifiable body count. “Doesn’t matter. We’re the good guys, we’re doing it the hard way.”

“We’re attacking the anchor?”

“They know we’re here; we’ll give them the option to surrender first.”

Bertecnic snorted. “Does that ever work, Gunny?”

“Hasn’t yet. Might someday.” Her scanner pinged. They were out of wall. She looked up as Ressk climbed to the top of a slender tree and rode it down across the four treeless meters that ran down the center of the bog—the path of the original river. As the tree reached the widest point of the arc, he jumped, catching the closest tree on the other side. The first tree snapped back, sending leaves and small branches showering down into the water and a small flock of birds shrieking up into the sky. The birds had been a good ten trees away; Torin hoped that wasn’t an indication of a predator large enough to use Ressk’s maneuver on the hunt.

Did the scaly mammals climb?

She dropped off the end of the wall, the water now over her knees and increasingly murky from the debris her boots stirred off the bottom.

Scanners showed the water either empty of living creatures or so filled with life-forms that individual readings were impossible. Torin didn’t like either option.

Bertecnic dropped into the water with a splash that sent ripples a good five centimeters up her legs. “Feels good!”

*Yes, you do.*

“Alamber.”

*Credit where credit is due, Boss.*

“Bruising. Minor lacerations across the back of your head. A piece of helmet went into your throat, just missed major blood vessels, and probably hit a few minor ones. Concussion. The helmet broke, but your head didn’t. If you weren’t Krai, you’d be dead.”

Werst watched Ganes finish inputting the data from his cuff into the anchor’s medical unit. Nothing much had hurt upon regaining consciousness this last time, so he assumed he’d been shot full of the painkillers in his pack.

“The piece of helmet is still in your throat. When Zang sprayed the wound, she sealed it in. My last field first aid course was a long time ago, but I believe that if I pull it out, the sealant will close behind it. Any chance you’ve got field experience to support that belief?”

He did. He mimicked a Human thumbs-up.

“Good. If I ignore species parameters and concentrate on repairing the blood vessels, make it structural rather than medical, there’s an outside chance I can use the autodoc to repair the damage to your throat.”

How far outside? Outside the room? Outside the anchor? Lieutenant Commander Ganes had been an engineer in Naval R&D. Dr. Ganes had gotten himself attached to an archaeological expedition as tech support—Werst was sure Ganes had a reason for the lateral move, he just didn’t care what it was. Neither career suggested extensive medical experience.

“The theory’s sound, and it should give you your voice back.”

Werst made a sound somewhere between a growl and a gurgle. His bonded’s name might be the last word he ever said. Well, fuk that.

“As long as you weren’t hoping for a second career in di’Taykan opera, I can get you operational. I can’t, however, replace the blood volume. You’ll have to be careful.”

Vague memories, recent memories of making a run for it, of throwing himself off the stretcher into a spinning room followed by the slow collapse of consciousness, supported the commander’s concern. But he gave himself bonus points for the attempt.

“I put Trembley on saline, but there’s nothing labeled Krai compatible and without Krai specs in the autodoc, I don’t know enough to adjust the content. We’ll have to replace blood volume the old-fashioned way with supplements and liquids taken orally.” Picking up another tube of sealant, Ganes leaned forward until his breath lapped against Werst’s ear. “You want my advice? When you can talk again, when Martin starts pumping you for information, keep pretending to be Ressk.”

Werst’s nostril ridges slammed shut.

Ganes lightly touched Werst’s bare shoulder. “It’s the name you gave Zhang. It’s not the name in the medical information I pulled off your cuff, but it is the name of your first contact. Martin seems to think he knows what Ressk can do. Werst will take him by surprise.”

Fuk taking him by surprise, Werst would take him by the throat. Cut off his air. Leave him barely alive enough to arrest.

“All right.” The commander took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s do this.”

When she stepped off the soft/hard flat/buckled bottom that had, back in the day, been pavement along the river bank, the water rose up above Torin’s waist. She held her KC in her right hand, finger flat against the trigger guard, bent arm at shoulder height, well aware that should anything attack, she’d have to depend on Freenim, Merinim, and Ressk on one side of the four meters of open water and Binti on the other. In other words, she was in no great danger.

Her uniform seals were holding and she could cover four meters of waist-deep water in . . .

“Sorry, Gunny.”

She’d lifted her weapon above her head before the chest-high wave of Bertecnic’s entry hit and decided not to waste her breath telling him not to do it again.

Her boot sank through silt and onto . . . The new surface had give. It had bounce. Rubber?

Natural rubber wasn’t high tech. It was possible the builders of the ruins had also built the water course, laying rubber to keep it confined where they . . .

The rubber moved. Rose. Twisted.

“Something touched my leg!” Water sloshed higher as Bertecnic reared.

Big enough to be under her foot and by his leg. Or there was more than one. “Prepare to fire!”

“I can’t see it!” Binti called.

Torin’s scanner continued to read everything and nothing.

The rubber jerked left. Torin shifted her weight to her other leg and stayed standing.

Twisted. Looked back . . .

. . . as a loop of something wrapped around Bertecnic’s lower body and dragged him down.

Bertecnic’s reddish brown fur was a little darker than the color of the water. The thing wrapped around him—thrashing body parts surfaced and disappeared again—matched exactly.

Feet swept out from under her, Torin curled her legs up, reaching for the knife in her boot sheath.

The Corps had underwater weapons; they shot a 120-millimeter-long, 5.65-millimeter-caliber steel bolt out of an unrifled barrel, had shit aim on dry land, and Torin wasn’t carrying one. Her KC could handle the dunking, but it wouldn’t fire, and an edge would do more against rubbery flesh than blunt force. She let her KC hang. When they got back to the station, she’d revisit the bayonet argument.

Her scanner pinged a proximity alert. No shit.

Arm around an undulating oval tube as wide as her torso, she drove her knife in, took a breath as they broke the surface, felt the tube jerk as a shot hit, and went under again, losing her grip on the knife.

Currents put Bertecnic’s fight to her left. She reached out, touched fur, touched a strap, touched the end of his machete—filled in Alamber’s response—drove her hand under the rubbery whatever-the-fuk was wrapped around his withers, felt something scrape against her arm, and grabbed the machete’s hilt.

Something rubbery and detached bounced off her chest. Bertecnic had taken a piece out with his claws.

She clamped her thighs tight enough to dimple the sides and used both hands to drive the machete through center mass. Jerked the blade to the right.

The thrashing turned her upside down. Sideways. Dragged her through the mud on the bottom. She grabbed for her dropped knife as the familiar hilt bounced off her cheek.

Slammed into solid muscle.

A big hand shoved her away.

She kept cutting.

When the heavy blade reached the edge, she hacked back through the other way.

The pieces separated.

The top piece jerked away. The piece her legs were around thrashed harder.

Sliding backward, her legs were gripped in turn by solid pincers.

She broke the surface again, sucked air through her teeth, twisted around as she went under, and thrust the machete through the segment behind her.

It stiffened. Either she’d hit something vital or it had finally realized it was in pieces. She kicked free as it sank. Her boots found the bottom and she straightened, blinking the water away from her eyes in time to see Bertecnic surge up into the air, swinging a clawed hand at a red-brown loop already missing triangular pieces.

He spat out a mouthful of water and gasped, “Did I hit it?”

“You did.” Her scanner continued to read nothing or everything. “Mashona, Bertecnic, Dutavar, Vertic—other side, single file, top speed!”

Blood, or whatever, in the water was never good.

“Ressk, Freenim, Merinim, lay down covering fire along both sides of them!”

She let the Polint’s bow wave help push her to shore, machete in one hand, knife in the other, her legs fighting the water with every step, the familiar sound of weapons fire a comfort.

She kept them moving until the ground only squelched.

Dragging her helmet off, Torin could hear Bertecnic still hacking up water and the rumble of Vertic’s voice. “Injuries?” she asked.

“Nicks in his legs—already sealed,” Vertic reported. “A strap cut nearly all the way through . . .”

“Guts,” he coughed, “under claws.” More coughing. “Hate it.”

“. . . and he’ll be taking an antibiotic as soon as he can swallow. You?”

Her vision was blurry, but clearing. Her mouth tasted like she’d been chewing raw liver, but she’d managed to keep from drawing any liquid into her lungs. Torin took a drink from her canteen, and spat as she checked her cuff, fully aware adrenaline could hide any number of injuries. “I’m good.”

She heard a sound that might’ve been Craig exhaling. He had access to the medical feeds, but never entirely believed them.

“Uh, Gunny?” Binti pointed at the backs of her legs. “What about them?”

*Them?*

Definitely Craig that time.

The pincers attached to her calves, one set on her right leg, two on her left, had curved arms approximately five centimeters long, were a paler red brown than the body of the beast, and looked like horn more than bone or teeth. Over the course of her career in the Corps, Torin had been both gored and bitten and seen more bone than she’d ever needed to. The triangle of rubbery tissue that held the curved arms together had pulled free of flesh with edges so intact, its separation had to be part of the design. Fine serrations along the inner edge of the curves made it impossible to pull them off without damage.

Polint hide was tough if Bertecnic had nicks.

*Torin?*

“Pincers. They’re clamped to my calves, they haven’t penetrated the uniform.”

*They look like mouth parts.*

She had no idea which helmet feed he was using, but he was right. Her legs hadn’t been clamped near either end of the creature—the places where mouths usually ended up—but Torin had been around enough to know how variable life could be. She rose up on her toes and dropped down again. “They’re barely affecting my movement.” More bruising, but that was all.

*Take a minute and get rid of them anyway.*

“Planned to.” Had Craig been with them, he’d have ripped the pincers away by now, and not only because he was their field medic. She tossed Bertecnic his machete and passed her KC to Ressk.

“Field strip it, Gunny?”

Hands on her weapon that weren’t hers weighed against Ressk’s need for distraction while they paused the run to Werst. She trusted Ressk. The water had been foul. “Do it.” She slid the point of her knife into the small triangle under the pincer’s hinge. Unable to lever it off, she worked the flat of the blade up tight against her uniform and cut through the serrations moving the blade around toward her shin. Horn, or bone, or teeth—none of them up to Marine Corps steel.

Merinim dropped to a squat beside her, held up her own knife for Torin’s approval, then mirrored Torin’s cut under the pincer’s other arm.

Torin took a moment to consider an ex-enemy combatant wielding a sharp object against her body and said, “It’s trying to reestablish contact behind the blade.”

“I find it slightly concerning how a detached pincer with an agenda no longer surprises me.”

“Likewise. Cut quickly.”

When they’d cut all the way to the ends of the arms, they pressed new bruises into Torin’s leg prying the pincers off.

The first triangular piece of flesh hit the damp ground, the pincers snapped shut, and a clear liquid oozed from the severed serrated surfaces.

“Tox screen on Bertecnic, now!”

Freenim had the kit out before Torin finished speaking and an instant later jabbed the prongs into the heavy muscle of the Polint’s front leg.

“Insects snack on both of us,” she snapped, cutting off Bertecnic’s profane protest. “That raises the odds Humans and Polint are more susceptible to this world’s poisons.”

The tox screen finished before they’d pried the other two pincers off.

“Slight irregularities,” Freenim announced.

“Could just be Bertecnic,” Merinim muttered, forehead against Torin’s thigh as she worked her knife around.

“Administer a general antitoxin,” Vertic ordered. “Unless you had another plan, Gunny?”

“No, sir.” Torin recognized an adrenaline-fueled need to be in control—if only minimally—when she heard one. “Mashona; anything?”

Binti had remained a few meters behind, weapon pointed toward the watercourse. “Nothing, Gunny. No visible friends, no visible dinner companions. Don’t know what’s happening under the surface, but that’s not our problem.”

“Come in, then.”

“On my way. You know,” she continued, jogging toward them, the impact of her boots marked by small fountains of dark water, “I hit that thing half a dozen times during the fight. I put at least one round into every part that surfaced.”

“Segmented nervous system.” Torin swallowed both antibiotic and antitoxin. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve seen.”

*I are once having seen a threesome that involved erotic cannibalism.*

*Pictures, or it didn’t happen.*

“Alamber . . .”

*What?*

After scanning her hair for life signs, Torin resettled her helmet, took back her KC, and ran a quick, involuntary check knowing Ressk would understand. “Dutavar, take point. Vertic, if you would, remain on our six. Bertecnic, thank you for the use of your blade. Middle of the line until we’re sure you’re not going to turn blue and fall over.”

“Your concern touches me, Gunny.”

“As it should.” She rolled her shoulders, settling her pack. “Let’s move; we’re racing the heat death of the universe here. Ressk, find us a path. Everyone else, watch out for those pincers as you pass.”

“Fukking snakes,” Binti muttered, falling in behind Torin’s left shoulder.

The creature had been more like a flatworm, if anything, but Torin let Binti have the last word. The profanity, at least, was accurate.

Werst curled his toes and rolled his shoulders, nostril ridges closing as his shoulder blades shifted and sent jagged lines of pain down his back. Then he swallowed. Took a deep breath. Let it out slowly . . .

Commander Ganes had expressive eyebrows.

He felt he should say something profound. Or not, if that’s how it went.

Then his stomach growled.

“Fuk, I’m hungry.”

The commander laughed—high-pitched and nervous, but Werst figured he couldn’t blame him for nerves all things considered—and crossed the infirmary, returning with a protein drink in each hand. “Now we know your voice works, we might as well find out if you leak.”

He didn’t. “Kill them to give these things a flavor?”

“I once watched a Krai eat the centerpiece at a diplomatic dinner. She was making a point, but . . .” The commander spread his hands.

“Doesn’t change the fact these taste like H’san sweat.”

“Fair enough. Any pain.”

“Not in my throat.” His voice sounded like he’d been chewing mortar rounds. The immediate area of the wound ached slightly. Nothing more. “Back hurts. So does my left heel. And left elbow.” His left side had probably hit bottom just before his right. “My right thigh keeps twitching.”

“You’ve got a bruise there as big as my palm.” Ganes flipped up the pale gray thermal blanket. “Another one overlapping your abdomen and the bottom of your right ribs. I expect it’s where Gayun made initial contact. You’re lucky you were close enough together the impact didn’t do more damage and that di’Taykan are light enough you weren’t crushed beneath him.”

Both bruises were an ugly purple against the mottled green skin. His back had to look worse. “Did Gayun . . . ?”

“He’s in stasis.”

Werst lifted his head far enough to stare between his feet at the pods. Two were occupied. “The other?”

“Dzar. Harveer Arniz’s ancillary. She’s dead. Martin shot her to make a point.”

“Asshole.”

“Yurrisk won’t allow us to return her to the sun.”

“Commander Yurrisk is . . .” Werst discarded a few descriptions and returned to the vague, but accurate, “. . . broken.”

“That’s not an excuse to . . .”

Werst cut him off. “It’s a reason.”

“Not a good one.” Ganes leaned forward, his hand braced against the edge of the stretcher. Snatched it back when the padding adjusted for his weight and Werst hissed. “I don’t know how much contact Martin will allow between us once you’re mobile. You saw combat, I didn’t; I’ll back your play.”

“My play, sir?”

“None of that, I’m a civilian now.” He sounded defensive. “The mercenaries are inside the anchor with the hostages,” he continued, speaking quickly, quietly. “Your Strike Team needs to get inside. You’re their ace in the hole.”

Fuk him; he was right. That was the plan. Scratching the tight skin at the edge of a bruise, Werst checked his implant. “Is your implant working . . . ?” He bit off the sir, matched volume and speed to the commander. “I have power, but no signal, and I guarantee the VTA’s scanning for me.”

“Before the mercenaries landed, there was no one else dirtside with an implant, and I haven’t . . .” Ganes ducked his head.

Embarrassed, if Werst had to guess. “Hey, you’ve been busy. Try a two seven three.” Two seven three was a distress call; too tight to be stopped by an anchor and eight klicks of foliage and designed to be picked up by any Confederation CP. They’d change it at mission end; no way Parliament would give the Primacy a free pass to their communication system.

“It’s on. I have power.” Ganes tipped his head as he pushed his tongue against the inside of his jaw, visible movement a tell that he hadn’t used his implant much. “No signal and I should, at least, be able to pick up the carrier wave from the Ministry satellite.”

Not a lot of reasons Martin would disable tech potentially useful to him. Easier to disable Commander Ganes if he didn’t want the other man listening in. Werst rolled his shoulders, the pain enough to sharpen his focus. Ressk was so much better at figuring out this kind of shit. “They’ve put a block on the anchor.” Yeah, that sounded right. “Can’t block the whole planet, so they blocked where you are. Explains why Martin locked you in.”

Ganes stared down at Werst. Over at the window where an insect flared against the force field. Down at Werst again. “They’ve blocked the anchor to keep me from contacting a theoretical rescue party?”

“Why not? You got a message out. That’s why we’re here.”

“Yes, but through my slate. Before they confiscated it.”

Werst shrugged and regretted it. “Or it’s to keep you from creating a weaponized signal you could send from your implant to theirs.”

Ganes frowned. “That’s not . . .”

“Not theoretical. We used a weaponized signal on some gunrunners. Okay, we sent it from the VTA, but same principle.”

“Not quite.” He shook his head. “And it wouldn’t work; they’re not using implants.”

“Then the block has to be there to stop you. Bad luck the fukker’s also blocking me.”

“All right. Why not. You can’t get word out, so we’ll assume Martin blocked the anchor.” The commander squared his shoulders, confidence rising as the engineer emerged. “The emitter needs to be central, but it doesn’t need to be very large. A slate with a decent processor could do it. You need to find out which slate, and disable it.”

“I need to? No. Ressk does the tech stuff, not me.”

“They think you’re Ressk.”

Werst sat up, carefully. “I can fake it. I can’t actually do it. It’s got to be you.”

Ganes held up his right hand. “I can’t leave the infirmary.”

The band around his wrist looked to be about two centimeters wide, half that thick, the surface matte black against the rich brown of Ganes’ skin. Could’ve been decorative. Humans wore those kinds of things.

“It’s an adaptation of a precision mining tool. Quite a clever bit of work, really.” His fingers curled into a fist. “I input the wrong code, I try to cut it off, I tug on it too vigorously, I go out the infirmary door, and the cutters activate.”

“Cutters?” Werst frowned. Put the pieces together and snarled, “You lose your hand?”

“He’s the only science type who might be dangerous. Navy, and an officer, but still.” Martin leaned on the side of the open door. “Can’t let him wander around, he gets into trouble. But he’s useful. And he might remember where his loyalties lie.”

How much had Martin overheard? They’d kept their voices low until that last reaction. Werst readied himself to jump. No chance of bleeding out, thanks to the commander. He could take Martin down.

“Is he fixed? Hard to tell with his lot.” Hands on his weapon, his chest pushed aggressively out, Martin crossed the room and sneered down at Werst. “We have a use for you, Warden Ressk.”

“Fuk you.” From his angle on the stretcher, Werst could see Ganes removing his identification from the data on the screen.

“That’s fuk you, Sergeant.” He gripped Werst’s elbow, digging his fingers into the joint. “You do what I tell you, and the hostages live. You don’t, they die.”

“Gre ta ejough geyko,” Werst growled, hand spasming. If he killed Martin, would Martin’s people kill the hostages? He couldn’t risk it.

Without breaking eye contact, Martin reached out and closed the fingers of his other hand around Ganes’ shoulder, dragging the commander around to face him. “Where’s the di’Taykan?”

“In the stasis unit.”

Werst was impressed by the way Ganes made a statement of fact sound like, fuk you. More impressive, given he’d been a staff officer.

“Why?”

“He’s too badly hurt for me to risk an amateur medical intervention.”

“I said you could let him die.”

“I didn’t care to.”

“You didn’t care to,” Martin mocked. “Did you fuk him before you fridged him? He’d have apprecia . . .”

The crack of Werst’s teeth coming together rang out like a gun shot.

Martin jumped back, KC in his hands. No one who’d served with the Krai ignored that sound. The butt of the weapon swung around and hit Ganes in the forehead. He dropped.

The serley chrika was fast, Werst reluctantly gave him that, the weapon now aimed at Werst’s chest before Werst’s feet were on the floor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one on Strike Team Alpha?” Martin sneered. “What part about your behavior having a direct effect on the hostages didn’t you understand?”

“The part where you . . .”

Commander Ganes grunted as Martin’s foot came down on his ankle.

Werst closed his mouth.

*One of the Krai who isn’t Yurrisk has left the anchor and is heading into the shuttle.*

“Which Krai?” Torin asked. “The engineer or the bosun?”

Firiv’vrak paused for a moment and Torin knew her antennae would be sweeping the air for clues. *Sorry, Gunny. No idea.*

Alamber sighed loudly, clearly intending to be overheard. *Up to me to magnify the image and match the mottling, then.*

“Why does it matter?” Bertecnic wondered, hacking a vine in half.

“Different skill sets, different possibilities,” Freenim told him.

*And it are important to be getting the names right in the credits.*

“Why would we have a linguist?” Arniz asked, staring at Yurrisk. “We were here to do preliminary studies, to map the plateau.”

Yurrisk waved at the plastic sheet, hanging from the ceiling of the common room. “To find the weapon, we need to decipher this language.”

“It’s an alien technology!” Salitwisi pushed between Yurrisk and Arniz. “It might not be language. Which is what linguists deal in. What we need, is to go back to those ru . . .”

When she saw Yurrisk’s lips pull back off his teeth, Arniz poked Salitwisi hard at the base of his tail.

He whirled around to face her, fists clenched. “What was that for?”

She sighed. “Don’t provoke the people with the guns.”

“I wasn’t provoking anyone.” He turned back to Yurrisk, and Arniz threw up her hands. “Was I provoking you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“You’re very provoking.” But he seemed almost amused, so Arniz started breathing again. “Sit down. Be quiet. It’s safer when you’re quiet.”

Salitwisi’s tongue tasted the air. “I’m not feeling very safe.”

“You’re not being very quiet. Sit!”

Arniz had begun to reach out for Salitwisi’s tail when he snorted and headed for the designated hostage area. She hadn’t been told to leave, so she stayed.

“We need Beyvek here for this. I saw Beyvek by the door.” He twisted around, gaze searching the common room. “Where is he now?”

“Martin sent Beyvek to the shuttle.” Qurn leaned closer to the plastic, the highlights on her eyes, orange. It was the first time Arniz could remember that the Druin’s focus wasn’t locked on Yurrisk.

“Sergeant Martin doesn’t give orders to my crew.” Yurrisk’s nostril ridges closed. Arniz stepped back. Suddenly, sitting with Salitwisi seemed like the smarter option. “You!” He pointed at Malinowski. “Where is the sergeant now?”

For a moment, Arniz wasn’t certain Malinowski would answer the question. She wasn’t familiar with Human body language, but a Niln holding Malinowski’s position could only be called insolent.

“He’s up with the Warden. In the infirmary.”

“Go and get him.”

Malinowski shrugged. “He told me to stay put.”

Yurrisk’s chest rose and fell. His fingers twitched below Qurn’s loose grip on his wrist. “Staying put is safer.”

“Yeah.” Malinowski’s pale lip curled. “That’s what he said.”

Taking another step back—because this was one of those times when staying put was definitely not safer—Salitwisi’s muttered complaints wrapping her in a familiar background buzz—Arniz realized that Martin wasn’t working for Yurrisk, regardless of what Yurrisk thought.