ELEVEN

TORIN FOUGHT TO KEEP the outer hatch of the air lock open, but without something strong enough to stand up to the force of its closing, she didn’t stand a chance. She could remember arguments among Marine air support—the dangers of a door that couldn’t be operated manually versus the dangers of a door that could. In the end, instinct had won as much as reason. A closed door was safer.

She stepped back as the clamps engaged and the light turned red again, turned, and felt the deck begin to vibrate under her boots.

Martin had started the engine.

Swearing, she dove for the inner hatch. Locked.

She’d left Firiv’vrak’s boarding pass attached outside.

The sudden surge up into the air almost dropped her to her knees. Hand slapped flat against the bulkhead, she managed to stay standing long enough that sitting became her choice. Knees up, boots magged to the deck, the pressure of her back against the bulkhead would keep her secure.

They’d cracked her jaw when she made Gunny and the implant upgrade that had made it possible for her to order C&C to the ground should have made it possible for her to contact her team even inside an ex-Navy air lock, on her way off planet. Should have. Didn’t.

The block had been lifted off Werst’s implant when the Druin-in-red had carried the plastic data sheet out of the anchor. Carried it all the way to the shuttle.

“Fukking plastic.” She let her head fall back and bounce once. Once more for the amount of trouble the plastic had been responsible for—where trouble meant not only centuries of carnage, but the discussion she’d be having later with Craig. He’d understand the situation, he understood the job; the lack of communication, not so much.

The inside of the air lock wore familiar patterns of wear—scuffs and dents in the matte-gray metal made by boots and equipment and people in too much of a hurry to be as careful as they should. The air smelled like the air on the plateau with undernotes of sweat and grime and age. Part of her found it reassuring, familiar.

The greater part of her wanted to write up the maintenance crew.

Unless the shuttle was in worse repair than it appeared or Martin was an idiot—both possible—he had to know she was there. On the one hand, he couldn’t space her. Safety protocols would keep the outer hatch closed so long as sensors read life signs.

On the other hand, when the inner hatch opened, he’d be ready for her.

On yet another hand, at least he hadn’t gotten away.

“What happened to your voice?”

Werst touched the scar on his throat. “Got put back together by an engineer. Everything works. You okay?”

“I’m good. He . . .” Ressk nodded down at Trembley. “. . . got that one . . .” He jerked a thumb at Malinowski. “. . . off me. He didn’t have a hope in hell of taking her out, but he gave me enough time to get a couple of solid hits in on the other one.”

There was a bruise rising on Ressk’s cheek. Werst sketched the edges with his thumb. “Chirtric dirin avirrk to take on all three.”

“Fuk you.” But he was grinning, so Werst counted it a win. “It was just Pyrus at first, the other two came out of nowhere. If Trembley hadn’t . . .”

“Yeah.”

“He was injured.”

“Yeah.” Werst held out a hand for half of Ressk’s zip-ties and knelt to secure Malinowski. “Deal with Zhang.”

Ressk shoved her over onto her back. “What do we do with Pyrus?”

The words the di’Taykan continued to repeat sounded like denial.

“Hang on.” When Werst got to the window, the fighting was over. “Mashona! Where’s Gunny?” He couldn’t raise her implant.

“On the shuttle. She went after Martin.”

*Of course, she did,* Craig muttered as he set their VTA down on the plateau.

*Her helmet are showing only dirt.*

*Of course, it is.*

“Fine. Plan B. How sane is Sareer?” Held by two Artek, she wouldn’t be happy. Werst didn’t care about her mood.

“How are we to determine sanity without a basis of comparison?”

He thought that was Keeleeki’ka. At this distance, in the artificial light spilling from the anchor, it was hard to tell. “Mashona!”

“Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I don’t have things to do.” Binti jogged over, bent down, and jumped back as Sareer snapped at her. “She’s fine. Why?”

“Pyrus is back on the Paylent.”

Sareer’s gaze snapped up to meet Werst’s. Turned out she had an extensive profane vocabulary. In multiple languages.

“True what they say about sailors,” Ressk muttered.

Binti grinned although Werst wasn’t sure if it was at Ressk’s comment or the profanity. Now the implants were working again, it could’ve been either. “I’ll bring her up.”

“What do we do with Trembley?”

Werst grabbed a piece of fabric out of the nest and dropped it over the corpse. “Gunny’s got body bags. When she gets back, we’ll treat him like a Marine.”

Both Commander Ganes and Mirish were unconscious, sprawled across the doorway. They rolled the commander carefully onto his back and, while Ressk secured Mirish, Werst retrieved the commander’s severed hand.

“Snack time?” Binti asked coming up the stairs behind Sareer.

“He’s Navy.” The wrist had been cauterized. Good. Well, good unless all the heat had cooked the interior. It didn’t smell cooked. Werst ran for the infirmary, tossed the hand into the empty stasis chamber and hit start. The things were supposed to be idiot proof.

Back out in the hall, Binti and Sareer stood waiting for Ressk to get out of their way. He kept spraying sealant on Ganes’ stump—although it had to have cauterized, too—and refused to move.

“It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” Sareer whispered as Werst crossed to stand behind his bonded.

He closed his hand on Ressk’s shoulder, thumb stroking the skin of his bonded’s throat. “It never is,” he said.

Arniz blinked awake, not entirely certain of where she was. Her unintentional naps weren’t usually painful. Though, to be fair, the pain was distant. Muted.

Inner lids slipped across dark eyes on the pale face above her. The clothes were black, not red. Another Druin. A different Druin. “Who are you?” Her voice sounded strange, slurred. Had she been eating rizkins? She didn’t think so. Her mouth tasted of copper, not mint.

The Druin cupped her cheek, gently moving her head. “I suppose that right now, I’m a Warden.”

“I see.” She didn’t. This Druin wasn’t speaking Federate. The voice Arniz understood came from the Druin’s slate. Also, her tail hurt. A lot. She shifted and hissed.

“It may be broken. I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about tails.”

“Why would you?” Frowning hurt, too. “Did we crash?”

“No.” The Druin blinked again. “You were shot.”

And it all came rushing back. “Martin.”

“Yes.”

“That ki seewin!” Arniz assumed the noise the Druin made was a chuckle. “One of your people was with Yurrisk.”

“I know.” The Druin’s hands were bloody. The air tasted of death.

Arniz tried to reach out, but couldn’t move her arm. “Why?”

“Why was one of my people with Commander Yurrisk? We don’t . . .”

At first Arniz thought the roar was in her head. When the Druin prevented her from thrashing, she realized it was a shuttle landing very close to the anchor. It took her a moment to recognize the higher pitched foreground noise as Salitwisi yelling about the planet being a Class 2 Designate.

She sighed. And had trouble breathing in again.

“. . . Niln with internal dam . . .”

“More than . . .”

“. . . many dead?”

“. . . two stasis pods upstairs.” Arniz knew that voice. It was Ressk. The Warden. “Get Arniz into one. Get Lows into the other. The dead can move on.”

“In the sun,” she whispered. The Druin leaned in. “Her name is Dzar. Put her in the sun.”

“We can do that. We’re going to immobilize and move you upstairs now.”

The spray tasted of jasmine. A Human-sourced plant originally, it had become a noxious weed in northern parts of the Niln homeworld. Too many of them loved the scent to be thorough about eradica . . .

“Because we have a landing pad that was specially designed for landing on. I don’t care if you’re Wardens. I wouldn’t care if you were the original inhabitants come back from an extended vacation! The shuttle goes on the pad!” Salitwisi sounded one extended vowel away from hysteria. Arniz wasn’t entirely unsympathetic.

“I miss being unconscious,” she sighed. The stretcher shifted. She didn’t remember being put onto a stretcher. “Can you put me out again?” she asked the Druin as Salitwisi declared he and only he would keep his hand on his ancillary’s wound.

“Maybe when we get you to the infirmary.”

On the other side of the room, Salitwisi turned every sibilant into a hiss. “Because Hyrinzatil is my ancillary, that’s why, you uneducated brute!”

Arniz winced and hoped whoever Salitwisi’d insulted had taken it personally and not as a reference to the Younger Races as a whole. An extended lecture on social prejudices would be all they needed right now. “Can you put him out?”

“Not my call.”

“Pity.”

“The stump’s cauterized and I’m pumped full of pain killers,” Lieutenant Commander Ganes slurred. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, sir. This is your bunk.” Not like Trembley was going to need it again. “Lie down on it.” Ganes was an adult and an officer and if he said he was fine, he was talking out of his ass. Werst had no intention of arguing with him. He backed him toward the bed, let gravity put him down, then grabbed both feet and swung them up before Ganes could protest.

The moment he was horizontal, Ganes blinked twice, tried for a third, and failed to get his eyes back open.

“Yeah, you’re fine.” Werst lifted the stump up onto the commander’s stomach—the sealant covered the burn, if not the lingering scent of cooked meat—checked pulse and respiration, hoisted a bag filled with medical supplies over the less bruised side of his back, and headed for the stairs.

He’d taken the commander’s hand from the pod and tossed it into a stasis pouch . . .

“Looks like a lunch bag.”

“I find one tooth mark on my hand and I kick your ass.”

“You’re welcome to try, sir.”

. . . then he and Ressk had helped move the two dead—Trembley and a young Niln named Dzar—into the small room next to the nest. They’d left the prisoners where they lay. They didn’t deserve any better.

Mashona and Ressk had escorted Pyrus and Sareer downstairs. Ressk had gone reluctantly, nostril ridges flared to draw in as much of Werst’s scent as he could, but he’d gone. Werst may have done some scenting as well. Led away with his wrists secured, Pyrus wept silently, but he knew where he was. Might have been why he wept.

Werst had stayed behind to take care of Ganes.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Malinowski, still in the nest room, ran out of Federate profanity and switched to what Werst assumed was a Human language.

“We have another three pods incoming with C&C.” At the bottom of the stairs, Ryder reached out and stopped a stretcher from ascending. The Katrien’s head rolled limply left. “Dog’s bollocks to hump them up and then down again, even with the AG.”

“Seems like a design flaw to have the infirmary on the second floor,” Freenim agreed, backing up to give the stretcher room to turn.

“And they’re all flawed the same way,” Werst told him, halfway down.

Freenim blinked. “Why?”

“We blame the H’san.”

“That’s what we do now,” Ryder added, speaking quickly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He pointed toward the closest common room wall. “Line the three who need stasis there—shorter run out to the C&C shuttle.”

Guiding the stretcher back into the common room, Freenim shook his head. “There’s going to be more than three.”

“Internal injuries get podded. External get sealed. The Warner-Lalonde’s heading in, full Med-op by tomorrow. We . . .”

*Everything with any potential to be medically useful has been unloaded.* Alamber broke in. He was on the group channel, but it was clear to anyone with half a brain he was talking to Ryder. *Go.*

Ryder caught Werst’s gaze. “I . . .”

Werst snapped his teeth. “Go!”

They’d needed all capable hands on injuries while medical supplies were being unloaded. Field dressings weren’t a problem, not for anyone who’d served in either Confederation or Primacy military, but these were Niln and Katrien, and Ryder was the only one who’d begun the civilian EMT course. Seemed salvage operators came in a multitude of species. Who knew? Gunny’d be all over the rest of them finishing it now.

He clearly wanted to be at the shuttle controls, ready to fly as soon as possible, but he’d done his job.

“Ryder finally going after Gunny?” Ressk asked as Werst spun around. “Your situational awareness sucks by the way.”

“I fell in a pit.”

“My point.”

Werst moved close enough for touch. “How’d he get the Navy to move so quickly?”

“Sicked Presit on them.”

“Ouch.”

Presit was nowhere in sight, but Dalan moved among the injured, camera up, red light announcing his mobile invasion of privacy. He skirted Salitwisi, still applying pressure to a stomach wound on a younger Niln even though death had stopped the bleeding.

Strike Team Alpha’s job had been to free the hostages and three of them were dead. Well, five, counting the two Martin had taken out before they’d hit dirt. It could have been a lot worse. Not that the gunny was going to accept that.

Of course, she was still on the job.

“Why aren’t you with Ryder? There’s four of them,” Ressk continued when Werst turned. “Beyvek’s in the shuttle, and Martin will have cut him free. Ryder’s still shit at close combat and I’m not saying Gunny won’t have taken all four out, but a little competent backup won’t hurt once he’s got a grapple on them.”

Ryder didn’t pull a trigger. That was the deal. He didn’t carry the dead.

“Can you fight?” Ressk demanded suddenly. “Chreen! Your injuries . . .”

“I can fight.” He could do what he had to. He’d have time on the shuttle to rest.

“C&C will be here before you hit vacuum.” Ressk pressed his forehead against Werst’s, then pulled away. “Go.”

So he went. The air in his lungs, air Ressk had breathed out.

The Polint had taken care of their own injured. Only fair, Werst figured; they’d caused most of the injuries.

Vertic had two of the mercenaries at her feet, the black and the red, Camaderiz and Netr-something. Dutavar knelt by his brother. Tehaven was on his side, breathing heavily.

“How many times do I have to say it! Your way isn’t the only way!” Tehaven snarled as Werst ran by.

Dutavar grabbed his brother’s wrist. “This is the wrong way.”

“You’re the wrong way!”

“Bertecnic!” Vertic’s sudden bellow made Werst’s blood throb against the scar. Ressk was right, his situational awareness was shit. He stumbled, caught himself at the last minute, and tried to move a little faster. His stamina was shit, too. And Ryder wouldn’t wait because Ryder didn’t know he was coming. Might not wait even if he knew. What the fuk did he think he was doing, charging off like he was the only one on the team who could throw a punch . . .

“Need a lift?”

This time when he stumbled, a big hand hauled him up into the air. He twisted around it, grabbed a footful of Bertecnic’s vest, dropped onto the Polint’s back, and held on with all four extremities. Distance that would have taken him another five, maybe ten minutes to cover, disappeared under Bertecnic’s undulating stride. Wasn’t Werst’s first ride on a Polint. He didn’t enjoy it any more than he had the first time.

“Durlan says to bring Gunnery Sergeant Kerr back.”

“Damn right.”

“She says the chain of command is a twisted mess without her.”

Durlan Vertic currently commanded five fully grown male Polint. If she decided to take over, she couldn’t be stopped. Twisted mess seemed accurate to Werst.

The ramp had started to withdraw when they reached the shuttle, so Werst jumped clear before Bertecnic had fully stopped. He slid into the air lock as the outer hatch closed and into the cabin as the inner swung shut. Then immediately into a seat as Ryder engaged the engines. Once they were high enough for the dampeners to kick in, he unbuckled and moved up to the copilot’s chair. Only to find it already occupied.

“Are you having invited him?” Presit demanded, punching Ryder in the arm.

“He invited himself.”

Ryder had the shuttle on the kind of angle that meant Werst had to hold on to the chair back to keep his balance. “But you invited her?”

“She also invited herself. I didn’t want to take the time to toss her out.”

“I are going where the story are being and Gunnery Sergeant Kerr are providing a career’s worth of story.” Under the self-serving justification, Werst heard concern. Which didn’t negate the self-serving justification as there was SFA the Katrien could do once they caught up. “Dalan are fine recording on the ground,” she continued, waving a dismissive hand, enameled nails gleaming in the light. “I are knowing better than to be trying to get anything but grief out of a trauma situation. It are all in the editing.”

“It?”

“Yes, it.” Her tone suggested that if he didn’t know what it referred to, she wasn’t lowering herself to explain.

“You might want to park it,” Ryder growled, eyes locked on the board. “There’s a storm in the upper atmosphere. I’m going straight through and it’s going to get . . .”

The shuttle moaned, twisted, and slid about three meters left.

“. . . bumpy.”

Torin braced herself as the shuttle dropped into place on the DeCaal, deck shuddering as the clamps engaged. It’d been neither the worst ride she’d ever taken, nor the most dangerous. That honor went to the trip from Big Yellow to the Berganitan in an HE suit, strapped into Craig’s salvage pen, blood running down her arm to fill her glove. In comparison, this ride was a welcome breather after a long day. “First-class ticket,” she muttered, standing and stretching as the engine powered down. She checked her KC. Turned to face the inner door. If Martin planned on leaving the VTA, he’d have to go through her.

“Warden Kerr.”

“Robert Martin.”

“You know who I am.” He sounded smug.

“I know enough. Throw down your weapons and open the door. I’m willing to accept your surrender.”

Several seconds of silence followed.

“Because the great Gunnery Sergeant Kerr only has to ask,” Martin sneered.

“Warden Kerr.” She smiled. “And I didn’t ask.”

The silence extended.

“You’re trapped in the air lock,” he said at last.

“You’re trapped in the VTA,” Torin replied. “It’s a matter of perspective.” If Craig grabbed air the moment the medical supplies had been unloaded, he wasn’t far behind them. She had to keep Martin distracted until the grapples were deployed.

“What do you think is going to happen when the inner hatch opens? You can’t kill all four of us before one of us kills you.”

Four? Martin, the Druin, Commander Yurrisk, and . . . Beyvek.

“Except . . .” He was laughing now. Laughter was good. Laughter took up time. He could chortle evilly for the next hour as far as Torin was concerned. “. . . you’re not allowed to kill us, are you?”

Only technically true, and Justice had worked hard to fill the Strike Teams with those who’d do what Justice wanted. Torin had been responsible for enough death—she touched her vest—that she’d prefer not to add to the total. “I can do anything I want to you, as long as I complete the paperwork. If I happen to only kill you, I can cope.”

“You’ll die right after I do.”

“Perhaps. You’ll be dead. You’ll never know.” Stalemate. The bully Werst had known wouldn’t trade his life for hers. “And I hate doing the paperwork; dying would let me avoid it.”

“You’d . . .”

“We haven’t time for this,” another voice snapped. Not Krai, had to be the . . .

The light in the air lock went off. The clamps holding the inner hatch shut disengaged.

Not smart. When the door opened, those inside the VTA would be silhouetted in the light. Torin hadn’t wanted to do it this way, but needs must. She took two long steps to stand tight against the bulkhead. A white line opened along one edge of the hatch, painting the floor just past the toes of her boots.

She slipped her finger through the trigger guard.

The lights came back on.

Temporarily blinded, she felt a sharp pain in her cheek and sudden cold spread out across her face. She squeezed the trigger as her knees buckled. Heard shouting, hit the floor.

Oh, yeah, she knew this feeling.

“There are being a saying among my people that a straight line are not always being the shortest distance between two points. You are understanding what I’m saying?”

“It would’ve been faster to go around the storm.” Ryder’s teeth were clenched so tightly Werst was impressed he managed to get the words out.

Presit gave a satisfied chirp. “That are what I’m saying.”

“Werst?”

He threw the diagnostic up into the air. “Another half an hour to match orbit and you’ll need to dead-eye the hookup when we reach the Promise. Sensor array’s completely out.”

“Please,” Presit sniffed. “Warden Kerr are being fine. Warden Kerr are always being fine. And I are having noticed she are having turned her helmet scanner off.”

“Gunny lost her helmet dirtside,” Werst told her.

Presit sniffed again. “Typical. She are never thinking of my visuals.”

Torin hadn’t entirely lost consciousness. She felt herself lifted onto a stretcher. Saw Martin carry Commander Yurrisk out of the air lock slung over a shoulder, one hand dangling level with Martin’s ass. Saw a whole lot of orange plastic go by and felt the hair lift on the back of her neck. The sight of so much plastic in one place made her hands twitch to hold the alleged weapon that had brought Martin to 33X73.

Her head wobbled on her neck as the stretcher rocked, the generator creating a weaker field along the left. Felt the contact the stretcher made with the side of the hatch. Felt it tip. Felt the surge of adrenaline at the prospect of falling, helpless.

A flash of red, barely seen over the curve of her cheeks, lifted Torin’s foot back onto the padding as the stretcher leveled out at the last moment. She could hear the generator whine, long past its time for a maintenance overhaul. It became easier to keep her eyes open. She still couldn’t move.

Up above, the interior of the ship showed the same signs of wear and grime as the air lock and loops of multicolored wire hung between the bulkheads. It resembled the interior of Salvage Station 24 and Torin considered the comparison to be a compliment—the salvage operators had children to keep safe. It was obvious Commander Yurrisk had done all he could to keep the DeCaal flying.

The control room looked to be in better shape. Not good shape, but better. Teeth gritted, she rolled her head to the left and saw four seats original to an Aggression class ship: OIC, helm, weapons, and communications. All four looked to be fifty percent duct tape. The weapons console and what looked like half of communications had been removed.

Qurn bent to lay the roll of plastic on the floor, realized there was no room, and propped it in a corner. “Fine, they wanted her dead,” she said, carrying on a conversation Torin had clearly missed the beginning of. “But you can’t tell me that your leaders wouldn’t prefer Gunnery Sergeant Kerr alive and converted to your way of thinking.”

“You think she’d convert?”

“Why wouldn’t she? Or don’t you actually believe your way is the right way for your species?”

“I don’t have to keep you alive,” Martin snarled and Torin realized two things.

One, Martin was Humans First. No question.

Two, for the first time since the team had left the station, she could hear the silence between words. The Druin didn’t need a translator. She spoke Federate.

Three things.

She could move.

She hit the deck on one knee, rolled under the stretcher, shoved it at the approaching Druin, and felt the unmistakable pressure of a KC muzzle against her spine. When she stood, the pressure moved from the base of her neck to the top of her ass, but it didn’t let up. Odds were high a round would go through her uniform at this range. If she caught a break and it didn’t, the impact could still shatter vertebrae.

“You said she’d be out for hours, Qurn.”

“If she were Druin, she would be. As she isn’t . . .” Qurn spread her hands. “The reaction is variable between species. Variable within species as well.”

“Don’t care. You.” Martin pointed at Qurn. “Cover her. You.” When the finger came her way, Torin raised a brow. “Get out a zip-tie. Beyvek, secure her.”

“The zip-ties are in my pack,” Torin said in her dear lord, you’re an idiot, but it’s in my best interests not to actually say that voice. “My pack’s dirtside.”

He searched her face, checking, she assumed, for the lie. She’d been a senior NCO in a company that luck of the draw had dropped into more hard combat than any other two; Robert Martin wasn’t nearly skilled enough to find anything but what she wanted him to find.

“Tie her with this.” Qurn detached a decorative red braided cord about a meter long from her sleeve.

“Yeah,” Martin scoffed, “as if that’ll . . .”

“It’ll hold her.” Qurn’s voice, on the other hand, said you can trust me. Our interests align, and I would never lie to you. It was remarkably effective and Torin made a mental note to ask Freenim about subharmonics.

Qurn tossed the cord to Lieutenant Beyvek, who caught it one-handed—the pressure of his weapon not letting up. “Hands behind your back.”

In his place, she’d have folded her forearms across the small of her back and secured them wrists to elbows. The last couple of years had taught her that was the only way to ensure certain people remained secured. Without her experience, Beyvek crossed her wrists and wrapped the cord in a diagonal pattern. Unfortunately, the Krai still built with rope and the more traditional had kept the old skills of net making alive. The binding felt like Beyvek had come from a traditional family. She could flex her fingers, there was no chance of her circulation being cut off, but regaining her freedom wouldn’t be easy.

When Beyvek slipped out from behind her, he gave her a hard shove, pushing her back into the remaining rear corner. Storing her out of the way much as Qurn had done with the plastic. She watched the Druin slide a metal rectangle into a fold of her robes, noted that Martin had dropped Commander Yurrisk into the OIC’s chair, swiveled it around to face the board, and settled himself at the helm. Then she took a moment to examine Beyvek.

He had a rising bump over one eye, the bruising feathering back into his mottling, numerous small cuts on both hands, and a split nostril ridge—souvenirs of his fight with the Artek. He also wore no discernible expression . . . emotions either shut down or crippled. Given that he’d followed Commander Yurrisk from the Paylent and the Artek did most of the Primacy’s boarding, Torin bet on the latter.

“In case you missed it, Lieutenant . . .” She kept all censure from her voice. Pure senior NCO to junior officer—respectful of what they could be, there to support what they were. “Martin here is a member of Humans First.”

His gaze tracked up to her face. “So?”

“You’re not Human, sir. Martin considers you a lesser species, not worth his time.”

“He saved the commander.”

Ah. “How is Commander Yurrisk, sir?”

Beyvek’s nostril ridges shut, the split seeping blood. Emotions surged free—anger, terror, guilt, pain—and were quickly shut down again. “An enemy came through the air lock. How do you think he is?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Although she could make a good guess. “The report from the Paylent was almost entirely redacted.”

“Twenty-five of us fought our way free and the commander stayed on our six all the way to the engine room. Did you know there’s an air lock between the rest of the ship and the engines in case of a blow-back?” His tone remained conversational. “Double hatches. But they got through. Three of us died immediately. Seven of us were injured. They kept coming. There were pieces. In pieces. People in pieces. The commander . . .” Anger. Terror. Guilt. Pain. Gone again. Torin could see his throat work as he swallowed. “Use your brain, Gunnery Sergeant. I know thinking’s against Marine SOP, but try. The commander kept us alive. Now, I’m keeping him safe.”

“And the others from your crew?”

“They’ll catch up.”

“Did Martin tell you that?” She couldn’t work even a millimeter of give into the cord. “You can’t trust Martin.”

“Sergeant Martin saved the commander. Brought him to the VTA.”

“Commander Yurrisk needs more help than Martin can give him.” Torin met Beyvek’s gaze. “I can get him that help. I can get all of you help.”

No one, not the most underexposed of the Elder Races, would consider Beyvek’s flash of teeth a smile. “Help? We got help.”

“Yeah, some military therapists can be next to useless,” she agreed. “But none of us . . .” Emphasis on us. “. . . are military anymore.”

He stared at her for a long moment as his nostril ridges slowly opened. “Once you’re in,” he said quietly, “you never get to leave.”

Her arm twitched against the hold of the cord and she squared her shoulders against the weight she still carried as he turned his back on her. He wasn’t wrong.

A rustle of fabric flipped her gaze over to Qurn in time to see her peel off a glove and touch the plastic with long, pale fingers. The plastic remained inert. She turned toward Torin’s scrutiny—Torin was ninety-nine percent certain she’d bit back the sudden intake of breath punched out of her lungs when flesh came in contact with the plastic—and said, “Your teammate, Ressk . . .”

She rolled the name out so dismissively, Torin would’ve bet high that she hadn’t bought Werst’s impersonation of his bonded.

“. . . believed he saw a pattern in it.”

“Spill your guts, why don’t you,” Martin grunted, attention on the board. The DeCaal hadn’t been retrofitted with a hard light display, keeping Torin from seeing what he was doing.

“It makes no difference.” Qurn drew the glove back on.

Torin raised a brow. “You’re going to let him give an artifact with so much potential to a third-rate terrorist organization with delusions of grandeur?”

Qurn looked up at her, her minimal features making her face almost as expressionless as Beyvek’s. “I’m not letting him do anything.”

“Damned right.” Martin leaned back, grabbed the commander’s right wrist, and slapped his palm down on the screen.

Around the time of the DeCaal’s commission, electronic field readers had been installed on ships below a certain size in an attempt to prevent the Primacy from using captured vessels against Confederation forces. One member on each ship’s crew had been designated as the key to unlock the ignition sequence. They had to be alive and reasonably healthy in order to match the same electronic field recorded originally. The field couldn’t be faked or duplicated. Unfortunately, battle killed indiscriminately and when the seventh ship lost its key in the middle of a deployment, Parliament declared the attempt too flawed to continue paying for.

The Corps had given the Navy a lot of shit about it—they’d refused to allow Parliament to code their weapons the same way—but, to be fair, everyone Torin knew in the Navy had called it an asinine idea.

Either the DeCaal had already been in the scrap yard when the feature was recalled or Commander Yurrisk had reinstalled it. Fifty/fifty chance.

“Martin didn’t save Commander Yurrisk,” Torin said. “He needs him to unlock the ignition sequence. He’s using the commander to escape.”

“He got him off planet.” Beyvek shrugged. He was better at it than a lot of Krai. “That’s good enough for me.”

She needed more time. Craig had to be close.

Torin leaned back against the bulkheads, the angle of the corner giving her bound hands enough room to work, the pressure keeping her shoulders still and attention off the attempt. Still no give. The bulkheads also kept her upright when the occasional wave of dizziness swept over her as her system worked at flushing the last of the Druin tranquilizer. “Since we’re all going with you, care to share a destination?”

Martin snorted. “We’re going to a future without the Elder Races fukking us over.”

“In what way?” Both Martin and Qurn turned to stare at her. Beyvek didn’t bother. “I’ll make it easier,” Torin said in her most patronizing tone. “We’re no longer at war. How are they fukking us over now?”

Her most patronizing tone had been designed to get a response. Martin surged up out of his chair, remembering at the last instant he needed to keep the commander’s palm against the screen. “We died in their war!”

“Yes, we did.” She’d grant him the we, he’d worn the uniform.

“And what did we get out of it?”

“An extended life expectancy, a presence on multiple planets, and membership in a civilization worth preserving.”

Qurn’s mouth twitched.

“I don’t do rhetoric,” Torin added. “Destination?”

Martin returned his attention to the board and the bars of light flashing across it. “When we’re moving, I’m gagging you.”

“You don’t care he’s withholding information?” she asked Qurn.

“Not really.”

“Lieutenant Beyvek . . .”

“He saved the commander.”

“Yes, sir, he did,” Torin agreed. “Now, where’s he taking him?”

Beyvek glanced back at Torin, raised his weapon, then turned to face the back of Martin’s head. “Where are you taking him?”

“To safety.”

“You’re not a Susumi engineer,” Torin pointed out, “This ship’s canned equations are Navy. The Wardens can track them.” Ressk and Alamber could track them. The official tracking program was still being discussed in a Parliamentary committee. “If Martin does the math, we’ll all become the kind of statistics that discourage amateurs from jumping. We all die. The commander dies.”

Beyvek’s shoulders stiffened, and his finger slid through the trigger guard. Naval officers understood the dangers of decompression better than most, but weighted against his instability . . . Torin bet that if any area of the ship still had self-patching up and running, it would be the control room and, besides, that close even the Navy could hit a soft target.

Her foot in his back would fling him forward, taking him out while keeping his aim more or less on Martin.

But then Qurn was there at Beyvek’s side while Torin’s eyeballs twitched and she fought to keep her knees from buckling as her brain insisted the room had begun to spin.

“You need Sergeant Martin to help keep Yurrisk safe.” Soft, convincing, Qurn leaned in, her hand over his, and lifted his finger back to a resting position, pressing—no, stroking—it flat. “Remember how Martin carried our commander to the shuttle? He won’t endanger him now. Will you, Sergeant Martin?”

“We’re going back to our entry point and through, a simple reverse equation,” Martin growled. “My people will meet us on the other side. They’ll have original equations Justice can’t track.”

“And Sergeant Martin will take Warden Kerr with him, leaving the three of us on the DeCaal, so we can gather up the rest of the crew. Isn’t that right, Sergeant.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Safe,” Qurn said close enough to Beyvek’s ear, it twitched. When he nodded and the tension left his arms and shoulders, she murmured, “Well done.”

Torin wouldn’t have believed Martin had he said the H’san liked cheese, and she sure as hell didn’t believe he had any intention of giving up the DeCaal. Humans First had lost their fleet, they needed another. Hell, she was pretty sure Qurn didn’t believe him either. Beyvek did. Or he believed Qurn, if not necessarily Martin.

“Keep watch.” Qurn squeezed Beyvek’s shoulder and crossed to communications, pulling off her gloves as she dropped into the seat.

Martin’s fingers staggered across the board where Craig’s danced, but Torin knew she was nearly out of time. She could feel the engine vibrations through the bulkheads and deck. Craig had to be close.

If puking would slow things down, she’d happily spew the contents of her stomach over the deck.

“I’m reading a second ship.” Qurn had removed both gloves to work the station.

“Who asked you?”

“A second ship,” Qurn repeated.

“It’s C&C. Full of Dornagain.” Martin threw up both hands, then slapped them hurriedly back down as port engines fired and the ship lurched. “They land when the danger’s over and apply protocol. They’re harmless. Toothless. Useless. Besides, Wardens respect personal property.” Torin could hear the sneer in his voice. Mashona, back on 33X73 could probably hear the sneer in his voice. “Human Wardens are dogs licking the feet of the Justice Department. Dogs with no bite. You’re not allowed to blow up civilian ships, are you, Warden Kerr?”

Torin remembered the Heart of Stone and, as the DeCaal left orbit, muttered, “Not anymore.”

Puking did not slow things down.

“Dumb-ass rules,” Werst muttered, ignoring the ladder from the shuttle lock and dropping straight down to the deck. At this point, pain was relative. Ryder’s longer legs had already taken him to the first hatch. “If we’d blown their ship up when we got here, they’d be shit out of luck right now.”

To Werst’s surprise, Presit slid down the ladder’s outside supports like a vacuum jockey on alert, hitting the deck seconds behind him. “And you are being a good enough shot to be sure you are not blowing up the Susumi engines and irradiating the entire system?”

“It’s not shitting through the eye of a needle, there’s three square meters to avoid.” To his further surprise, she kept up to him on the flat. “Even you could hit it safely.”

“Then Justice ships are having to be armed, and where are the line being drawn between the Wardens and the military?”

“You read the minutes of the Parliamentary committee.” Werst had endured a compulsory assembly where Commander Ng had shared their conclusions. If Ressk hadn’t had an illegal copy of the new Band of Jernine on his slate, he wouldn’t have survived.

Silvered fur rose and fell and disappeared into the air filters as Presit shrugged. “Of course, I are having read it. The Strike Team’s primary responsibility remains the control and capture of mercenary groups during violently illegal activities. As the budget contains no provision for boarding parties, we find it to be preferable that the occasional mercenary vessel escape rather than the Wardens’ ships be armed creating a third fighting force.” Quote over, she snorted. “I are wondering what they are thinking you are doing if they are thinking you are not fighting?”

“Politicians think?” Three strides ahead entering the control room, Werst dropped into the copilot’s seat as Ryder started the engines. “And Martin’s not getting away.”

“The DeCaal are an Agressive class ship.”

“Yeah?”

He heard her sigh from the seat behind him. “Promise, while being a fine ship, are not being fast enough to catch it.”

Ryder drew both hands, fingers spread, across the board, and Promise flung herself out of orbit. “We’ve a fair go,” he growled.

“The Wardens are in pursuit.”

“C&C,” Martin began.

Qurn cut him off. “Not C&C. The Promise has left orbit, has corrected for rotation, and is following, all engines on full.”

“Too bad you never got around to replacing the rear guns.” He slapped the commander’s dangling foot. Yurrisk showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Qurn seemed unconcerned, but as that could mean she didn’t care as much as it could mean he was in no danger from the drug, Torin wasn’t reassured. Pushing the commander’s foot out of his way, Martin swiveled the chair around to face Torin in her corner. “Looks like your team doesn’t want to lose you, Warden Kerr.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Torin shrugged. “. . . I owe Warden Ryder money.”

“What happens if we space you?” He sounded as though he honestly wanted to know.

“I die. They keep coming. You go to rehabilitation with extra bruises.” She swallowed. Carefully. The vertigo and accompanying nausea hadn’t completely faded. With the DeCaal down to bare bones, she’d thought it strange the puking protocols were still in place in the control room. It hadn’t been necessary to untie her so she could clean up the vomit. Although, given Commander Yurrisk’s vertigo and the DeCaal’s starboard wobble, maybe it wasn’t all that strange.

When Martin returned his attention to the board, he snickered. “We’ve doubled our lead. That cobbled-together bucket can’t catch us.”

“They’re fast.” Werst checked the DeCaal’s lead—again—and found it had more than doubled.

“They are still not responding when I are hailing them. That are being very shortsighted. If they are not responding, they are not knowing I are offering them an exclusive venue to be telling their story.”

“What do they care?” he asked. “They’ll still be going to rehab.”

Ryder’s thumb drummed against his thigh. “If they make it to rehab.”

Presit sniffed. “Rehab are being weightless against the exposure I are offering them.”

As she began listing the ways Martin and his people would benefit from that exposure, Ryder threw up a new screen of equations and separated out the bottom line. “They’ll be one point nine seven seven million kilometers away by the time they reach the jump site.”

That wasn’t good, Werst acknowledged with a grunt, but it wasn’t the end of the line either. “So we follow the jump. Not the first time you’ve had to do that.”

“Or we get ahead of them.”

Werst’s nostril ridges closed. “You’re not.”

“Only choice.”

“I are not understanding,” Presit pointed out petulantly, having finally realized no one was listening to her.

“Micro jump,” Werst told her, strapping in as Ryder began working the equations.

“Oh.”

He unstrapped and squirmed around. “Oh? That’s it? That’s your response?”

“Of course not. I are going to be needing your data to be proving to my network the jump are having occurred.”

“You’re weirdly calm. This has never been done before! No one knows how time will pass in Susumi on a jump that short.”

She combed her claws through her whiskers; first the left, then the right. “I are having ridden the Susumi wave of a Primacy battleship with Craig Ryder at the helm of the Promise.” Then, in case Ryder thought that might be a compliment, she added, “Riding the first micro jump are being an excellent story to be adding to my portfolio. There are very likely more awards in my future.” Without being told, she pulled the crash harness over her shoulders and buckled in. “I are ready. Proceed.”

“Holy fukking shit!” Martin reared back, the chair under him shrieking a protest at the abuse.

Susumi alerts, proximity alerts, and radiation alerts screamed out warnings as the Promise appeared suddenly, emerging from Susumi space only a few thousand kilometers away, riding the exit wave ninety degrees across the DeCaal’s trajectory. Caught in the lateral disbursement of Susumi energies, the DeCaal rocked hard to port.

Torin rolled with the motion, threaded her legs through the loop of her arms, and, on her way to her feet, drove her head into Beyvek’s nostril ridges. He gasped, snorted blood, and dropped. She saw Martin rise, swing his weapon around toward her, then all she saw for a moment was a flurry of red fabric. As it cleared, Martin flinched, slapped his cheek, and collapsed.

In the sudden silence, Qurn bent over Commander Yurrisk, one bare hand wrapped around his throat.

“Back away.” Torin’s hands remained tied, but they were in front of her now, holding the comforting bulk of Beyvek’s KC and at this distance she couldn’t miss.

“I’m checking his vitals!” Qurn snapped, sounding rattled for the first time. “I’ve never used the drug on a Krai.”

“Have you used it on a Human?”

“You’re fine.”

Relatively speaking, she was. Torin slung the KC’s strap over her head, pulled a zip-tie from her side seam, and dealt with Beyvek before pulling a second tie and moving to Martin. She secured Martin’s wrists and ankles with the ease of frequent practice—although she’d never practiced bound—while the bulk of her attention remained on Qurn. Torin neither liked nor trusted unanswered questions, and this was a chance to resolve at least one.

When Qurn suddenly stepped back into the minimal space between the seats just as Torin leaned in to check the board, her robes tangled with the weapon swinging forward off Torin’s shoulder. It might have been an accident, but Torin didn’t think so. A power play had been inevitable. They danced for a moment, Torin keeping Qurn’s hands busy in case she intended to try for another shot of the tranquilizer. The instant they gained enough floor space, she grabbed a double handful of fabric, lifted, and put Qurn down a half meter away, releasing her and regaining the KC in one extended move. “You’re not a member of the Confederation, I’m not certain what your rights are, but cooperating is in your best interest right now. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m an agent of the Primacy government.” Qurn’s hand began to slide beneath her robes. Torin cleared her throat and she froze. “I have identification.”

“And I have a need to see both your hands.”

“Of course. That’s not a problem.” She held them out in the universal gesture of I’m humoring you because you have a gun. Her colorless white skin had picked up pink tints from the red of her clothing and Torin wondered if Qurn’s fashion statement was not only a way to keep from leaving DNA evidence but also used to direct attention away from the minimal facial features of the Druin. In a less overt outfit, no one would recognize her. “My government,” she continued calmly, “sent me into the Confederation to determine if the peace is legitimate. We know so little about you. I observe. I interact. I’ve been with Yurrisk and his crew for the last four months.”

“You’ve got a good handle on the language.”

“I’m very good at my job.”

If she saw it as a job, then she wasn’t a fanatic. Point in her favor. “And you went along with Martin because . . . ?”

“Martin. Yes.” Qurn shook her head. “Humans First is a potential fissure in the peace process. If Martin took me to their leader, even as his prisoner, I’d have gained important information.”

“Which you’d have shared with the Confederation.”

She blinked. “Probably not.”

“Odds are high the leader would have had you killed.”

“I can be quite persuasive.”

“Wouldn’t matter. You’re not Human.”

“We have speciesists within the Primacy.” She blinked again, dismissively, looking for a moment very much like Freenim. “I know how to work within their parameters.”

“And what were Commander Yurrisk’s parameters?”

There was honest emotion on her face when she glanced over at the unconscious body. “In the beginning, he was a way to an end. Broken, desperate, and easy to manipulate. As time passed, I grew fond of him. I found I could keep him stable. I don’t often see the results of what I do, and it was good to be useful.” Qurn lifted her minimal chin, daring Torin to comment—although Torin doubted she realized she’d done it. No matter. No one who’d served with the di’Taykan worried much about interspecies relationships. “He needs help,” Qurn added when it became clear Torin wasn’t going to judge.

“I know.” Torin nodded toward Beyvek. “They all do. They’ll get it.”

“How can you promise that?”

“How can I not?” Torin shifted the muzzle of the KC to follow Qurn’s step sideways.

Qurn stilled. “I don’t blame you if can’t give me your trust.”

“Good.” Torin let the KC hang, then let the metal rectangle she’d lifted from Qurn’s robes slip out of its nest in the knotted cord and into her hand. Aimed it and pressed the slightly raised stud on one narrow end hoping she’d found the trigger.

Qurn flinched, a hand rising to her cheek, eyes opened impossibly far.

“Trust isn’t given,” Torin said as the Druin collapsed. “It’s earned.”

On the screen, the Promise had begun to come around. Her implant still out, Torin gave the com station a quick once over. Half a dozen blinking lights suggested Craig or whoever he’d brought with him, were trying to get through. Torin assumed she’d be able to figure out the communication controls in time, but as long as the DeCaal continued to race toward a preset jump point, she had a more important problem.

Leaning over Martin’s body, Torin studied the board. She’d been infantry, boots on the ground, and the only ship she’d ever flown was the Promise. The Promise’s controls were unique. Back when she and Craig had been trying to make a go of it as CSOs, Craig had insisted she learn to fly for safety’s sake if no other reason. Those lessons were very little help when facing a traditional Navy configuration.

Two things worked in Torin’s favor. First, Martin’s piloting skills were no better than hers and the navigation program had been doing most of the work. Second, vacuum was unforgiving, so the most important functions were designed to be obvious—in case of situations similar to the one she found herself in.

Vaguely similar, given the Druin, the big roll of orange plastic, and the red cord still binding her wrists.

A slide to the left shut off the stern engines.

A tap on the bar to the right fired the bow engines—the computer controlling the duration required to counteract their forward momentum.

As they slowed to a stop, Torin slid the power bar to the smallest non-negative integer.

The vibration under her boots faded.

The lights went out.

The air stilled.

“Shit.”

“. . . Kerr . . . communi . . . not . . .”

“That’s a slate signal. Werst . . .” Hands in constant movement over the board and through the hard light projections, Ryder flicked a screen to the right. “. . . match it.”

Werst, who’d been told in no uncertain terms to keep two readouts out of the red while they dropped the energy from the micro jump, leaned back and reached out with a foot.

“. . . just in . . . try . . .”

All three of them flinched at the sudden burst of static and Werst slammed his nostril ridges closed as a new cloud of silver-tipped fur wafted past his face. Turned out Presit hadn’t been as calm about the micro jump as she’d wanted him to believe. Surprise. He scowled at the frequency fluctuations. Should’ve sent Ressk up with Ryder. Or Alamber. He wasn’t tech . . . “There!”

“Promise, this is Warden Kerr. Are you receiving?”

The tension went out of Ryder’s shoulders. If Torin was on coms, she was in control of the DeCaal. “Receiving. Torin, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Martin and Lieutenant Beyvek have been restrained. Commander Yurrisk and Qurn, the Druin, are unconscious. My implant isn’t working, and I’ve powered down all systems along with the engines.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes, I shut off life support on purpose.”

“Hey, your warrior ways are strange to me.”

“Ass.”

“It are adorable how you two are flirting even though we are still likely to be dying!”

“You brought Presit?”

“Not so much brought.”

“Likely to die?”

“The theory about a micro jump accumulating more energy than a longer jump turned out to be accurate. We’re having a little trouble getting free.”

“A little trouble?”

“I’m on it.”

“And you’re the best.”

“Why was I the only one concerned about something that had never been done before because even Susumi engineers considered it to be too dangerous?” Werst grumbled as he finally got the two readouts to lock in the green.

“Because Craig Ryder are the only thing Gunnery Sergeant Kerr . . .”

“Warden Kerr.”

Presit huffed out an audible breath before continuing. “. . . Warden Kerr and I are agreeing on.”

“Likely to die,” Torin repeated.

“That are fact, not opinion.”

The alarm was not unexpected.

“Nothing to worry about,” Ryder muttered as the Promise tilted sideways. “Just the Polint’s quarters breaking off.”

“Just?” Werst matched Ryder’s tone.

“Everything’s sealed, that’s what the internal locks are for. We’ll pick it up later.”

“If we are surviving . . .”

“You’re surviving.”

“That are not being . . .”

“You’re surviving.”

The alarm shut off. Werst’s ears continued to ring in the sudden quiet.

The ancient pilot’s chair crackled as Ryder leaned back and rotated his wrists. “And we’re out.”

Presit snorted. “You are so wanting to be saying ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Yes, I am.”

Presit’s laughter sounded close to hysteria, but Werst wasn’t sure his sounded much better. He felt like he’d been running on adrenaline for a tenday. Or two.

“We’re bonzer now, Torin. Out of the energy stream, heading your way.” Craig flipped a timer up into the air. “How long before you’re showing a noticeable drop in temperature?”

“Slate says three hours and forty-seven minutes.”

“You may get a bit chilled, but it’ll be easier to grapple and link air locks than talk you through bringing the DeCaal back up.”

“The board’s locked to Commander Yurrisk.”

That explained why Martin had grabbed him. Loser.

“Like I said, easier.”

“The plastic’s probably blocking your implant, Gunny. Mine came back when Qurn humped it out of the anchor, yours dropped out when the air lock closed.”

“Range?”

“Variable.”

“That are being not only a lot of plastic, but the first technological artifact of the plastic we are having found. Do not be touching it . . .”

Werst saw a small, shiny black finger poke Ryder in the arm. Presit was up and moving around.

“. . . until both Dalan and I are being present. This are needing to be recorded on more than a helmet camera or a slate.”

“Yeah. No danger of that. Listen, Craig,” Torin continued before Presit could respond, “let Justice know Humans First will be waiting at the other end of the DeCaal’s jump coordinates.”

The corner of Ryder’s mouth closest to Werst twitched up. “I’d be stoked, but you’ve bunged the power and we can’t actually pull the coordinates.”

“Yet.”

“What about the Warner-Lalonde?” Werst asked. “They’re in-system.”

“No. If the Navy goes, there’ll be shooting and a debris field.”

“Justice it is, then.” The Promise tipped to port. Ryder waved Presit’s questions silent and to Werst’s surprise, she obeyed. “Besides, the Warner-Lalonde’s deck-deep in our medical emergency. When they’ve stowed the injured, you want to match up so they can transport the plastic and the prisoners?”

Werst glanced over at Ryder as the silence lengthened.

“Torin?”

Torin turned the helm’s chair and stared at Martin, a zip-tie holding him to the remains of the weapons station. He was conscious and struggling, muttering of revolution and revenge.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said at last. “The captain of the Warner-Lalonde is Human.”

Two high-level Justice bureaucrats and a Parliamentary under-secretary waited at the intake desk when Strike Team Alpha and their prisoners arrived at Berbar Station, the DeCaal towed in by the Promise. C&C had remained on 33X73 waiting for the arrival of a larger team and dealing with the hostages who’d refused to leave.

“Dead and injured from a university expedition and ruins that may or may not have been left by the plastic all piled up together on a Class 2 Designate.” Analyzes Minutiae to Discover Truth had sighed deeply. “I don’t even want to contemplate how many Ministries we’ll be dealing with before this ends.”

Not Torin’s problem.

The approaching Niln was. “Strike Team Commander Kerr, you are to release the Druin known as Qurn into our custody.” They handed her their slate.

Torin read the documentation while Wardens escorted Commander Yurrisk and his surviving crew into one room for processing, Martin and his mercenaries into another—although Camaderiz and Netroovens, the two minimally injured Polint, could only be detached from Vertic after she swore she wouldn’t leave the station without them. The documentation held very little of substance beyond proof that Parliament could move quickly when it wanted to and that while they had no evidence Qurn wasn’t her actual name, they weren’t taking her word for it either. Good thing; her words had been limited. Although they’d tried, singly and collectively, neither Freenim nor Merinim could convince her to expand on the information she’d given Torin on the DeCaal.

She was an agent of the Primacy government.

She didn’t seem surprised by her welcoming committee.

“We also require the weapons you removed from her.”

Or by that.

Torin smiled. “You’ll have to sign for them.”

“Of course.”

“Alamber.”

He stepped forward and handed the locked case to the Niln’s companion. “You know, it’d be great if we could . . .”

“No.”

“Really? Come on, now, that’s not . . .”

“No.”

Torin caught Alamber’s eye, and he let it go. It would have looked strange if he hadn’t protested at all, but he’d put minimal effort in. During the four days they were in Susumi, Alamber had analyzed everything in the case, and Torin would be willing to bet he and Ressk were halfway to at least one prototype. She’d carefully avoided finding out for certain.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again, Warden Kerr.”

She offered her own neutral perhaps as the-Druin-known-as-Qurn was escorted out. At heart, she’d always be a soldier and soldiers distrusted spies no matter their allegiance. Turning away from the hatch, she saw Commander Yurrisk staring through the glass of the intake room, eyes locked on the hatch where Qurn had disappeared. If, as she’d said, Qurn had grown fond of the commander, he, in turn, had grown dependent on her. Their interactions on the way back to the station had been recorded, access available only to their court-appointed therapists. The commander’s crew had been considered a threat to themselves and had been interacted with accordingly. Torin could see more therapy training in the Strike Teams’ future. Martin’s group, on the other hand, had been eyes on the whole trip. Brenda Zhang had sulked. Jana Malinowski had seethed. Robert Martin had declared he would never betray the cause.

“We’re done dying for the Elder Races, and if we’re for the garbage now they no longer need us, we have to fight back.”

Right off the pamphlet. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Can you sit on your ass and do nothing while our dead are disrespected?”

Even given the number of cylinders she carried, the living concerned Torin more. Werst had carried Trembley out.

Torin never met Private Emile Trembley, but she’d known him. She’d known a hundred like him. She hadn’t wanted Werst or any of her people to carry that weight, but she wouldn’t take away his choice.

“Warden?” Approves of Redemption, one of the intake officers, handed her a slate. Torin checked that the details had been entered properly—mostly for the young Dornagain’s sake—and signed off on the prisoner transfer. “Robert Martin wanted me to tell you that if you are not for us, you’re against us.”

Fair enough. Although being against murdering, delusional, self-absorbed fukwads was a low bar to clear.

“When I say us . . .” Approves’ ears flattened slightly. “. . . I am, of course, repeating the pronoun as he used it himself.”

“I got that. Thanks.”

Craig leaned into the conversation and smiled. “You can tell Robert Martin that he can . . .”

“Warden.” Commander Ng stood at the hatch. “Debriefing in conference three. Now.”

Presit and Dalan were already set up in the conference room. Presit waved, and Torin knew that behind the mirrored lenses, her eyes were gleaming. She’d spent most of the return trip interviewing the prisoners and had been first off at the station, dragging Dalan behind her and announcing she had people of her own to inform of her return.

“Just be ignoring me,” she said as they shuffled chairs away from the table to give the Polint space.

Werst muttered, “I wish.”

Commander Ng activated the table. He couldn’t have made it clearer that the Justice Department intended to keep their own records. “The Primacy wanted their people to return back across the line before debriefing, citing undue influence,” he began, sinking into his seat. “Then both sides wanted you debriefed separately, Confederation and Primacy. That’s not going to happen. Team debriefing, then individual as required. Standard operating procedure.” Exhaustion lurked behind Commander Ng’s eyes, and Torin wondered how long and how hard he’d personally had to fight. “We’re streaming this to a Susumi satellite for full transparency and have already sent your after actions through. Begin when you arrived at 33X73. Limit your adjectives.”

Even without adjectives, enough time passed that Alamber had sagged against Binti’s shoulder by the time Commander Ng began filling in the details external to the team’s report.

“Robert Martin approached Commander Yurrisk on Corlavan Station and told him his employer wanted a rumored weapon retrieved. Once the commander had the weapon in hand, Martin’s employer would pay more than enough to refit his ship.”

“And keep his people safe,” Werst grunted. “I guarantee those exact words were used.”

“Martin and his people would come along to take care of any necessary intimidation. Martin has admitted to Presit a Tur durValintrisy . . .”

“I are a celebrity. People talk to celebrities.” Presit combed her whiskers. “I are also very good at my job.”

“Martin admitted to Presit a Tur durValintrisy . . .” Commander Ng tried again. “. . . that his orders as a member of Humans First were to secure the weapon, then have the Polint kill the hostages.”

“He paid for their services,” Vertic said as attention shifted to her. Bertecnic fidgeted on her left, Dutavar—who’d rejoined them when the Warner-Lalonde transferred his brother to medical on Berbar—stood motionless on her right. “They’d have honored the contract.”

“A culturally difficult position,” Ng replied, saying, as far as Torin could tell, nothing at all. “We can assume Humans First intended the eventual discovery of the bodies to destabilize the peace.”

“I thought they were tired of Humans dying for the Elder Races?” Binti muttered, shifting Alamber into a more comfortable position.

“War would restore the status quo. Make them feel powerful again.”

The room smelled suddenly of chili. “Humans,” Firiv’vrak declared, “are weird.”

The commander spread his hands. “Not arguing.”

Craig leaned his chair back—theoretically impossible given the design, but he always found a way—and folded his arms. “A return to war would require an increase in weapon production. And we can all dux out who that benefits.”

It certainly gave Marteau motive, Torin acknowledge silently. “Fair point,” she said aloud. Craig’s brows rose. “You were right.”

He grinned. “Damned straight.”

“And we should dig deeper.”

Ng cleared his throat.

“We the Justice Department should dig deeper. Not we personally,” Torin clarified.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Martin had a pistol.” Hands flat on the table, Ressk leaned in. “We’ve taken down only one other person with a pistol, and he also had stolen guns.”

“And what dung beetle makes guns,” Craig muttered.

“Still very circumstantial, but . . .” Ng raised a hand, before Craig could protest. “. . . it’s adding up. I’ll put in the request.”

“Request?” Freenim steepled his fingers. “I understood you to be in command of the Strike Teams.”

“Justice needs to consider if there’s evidence enough to warrant an invasion of privacy,” Torin explained.

“We can’t kick the door down and force a confession,” Craig added when Freenim blinked.

Vertic nodded. “Because the door is steel and most likely trapped.”

“That’s . . .” It had been a long day. “. . . close enough.”

Alamber made a very Polint-sounding hum, clutched the edge of the table, and pulled himself upright. “What are the odds Humans First intercepted a message sent from an archaeological site to a university by accident?”

“Higher odds that they’re searching for specific terms,” Ng allowed. “Why?”

His hair flicked slowly back and forth. “That means a meat network. It’s harder to hack people.”

“You think a network of people searching for information relative to Humans First could keep the search a secret?” Torin asked him.

“No one has more than one piece, Boss. They don’t know about each other. They don’t know enough of the secret to tell.”

The front legs of Craig’s chair hit the deck with a crack. Half the people at the table flinched. “Shite. Sorry. It’s just, paying for that kind of a meat network . . .”

“Stop saying that,” Werst grumbled. “I’m starving.”

“. . . would take a lot of money.”

“You’ve made your point, Warden.” Ng was too self-possessed to glance at Presit, but the implication was there in the angle of his head. The last thing they needed was Presit digging into Marteau Industries before the Wardens could. “Martin also admitted that if the Wardens found out about the situation on 33X73, the presence of members of the Primacy there with him would ensure Strike Team Alpha would be sent to intercede. This is why Martin chose the Polint. They had the best chance of defeating you. It didn’t occur to them that you’d have Polint of your own.”

Nothing they hadn’t worked out themselves. Torin caught Vertic’s expression and bit back a smile.

“It should have occurred to them,” Freenim said, throwing up both hands. “You don’t bring . . .” The translator paused for the first time in days. “. . . jelly to a knife fight.”

Jelly?

“They had a lot on their minds,” Torin told him while the commander coughed. Craig was the only Confederation member trying not to laugh, but then his poker face was that good.

Werst snorted. “Humans First aren’t very smart even without the apostrophe.”

“They’re narrow-minded,” Torin corrected. “And bigoted. And . . .”

“Assholes,” Werst declared.

“Granted. But that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. If we keep thinking of them as stupid, we’re going to have trouble.”

“More trouble.” Freenim met Torin’s gaze.

She nodded. “More trouble.”

“According to Martin, Humans First believed Commander Yurrisk would understand the Primacy killing Strike Team Alpha where he might have objected to Martin’s Humans doing it.” Ng tapped Martin’s file closed as though he were tired of looking at it. “Leftover emotional connections from the war.”

“Would Commander Yurrisk understand killing the scientists?” Vertic asked.

“Unless the commander is willing to speculate, I assume we’ll never know.”

Werst drummed his fingers against the table until Ressk closed a hand around his wrist. The scientists had been shot with Werst’s weapon.

“Why did they need the DeCaal?” Binti wondered. “Humans First has ships. I mean, not a lot, not anymore, but why involve someone from outside the club?”

“We assume they were trying to keep their involvement less . . . traceable.” The file Ng threw up into the air listed times and ship registrations. “Jump buoys keep records.”

“Jump buoys.” Craig leaned back again, his opinion of those who feared Susumi space clear. Torin resisted the urge to keep tipping his chair until he landed on his ass, but only because she’d need him unbruised if they ever finished debriefing.

“What about Commander Yurrisk?” Ressk asked.

Ng squared his shoulders. “Rehabilitation will give the commander and his people the help they need.”

“He has a lot of people,” Torin pointed out.

“Four. Gayun didn’t survive his injuries.”

Torin raised a brow.

Everyone at the table looked at the commander. At Torin. And back at the commander again.

“Justice is not concerned . . .” He closed his eyes as though suddenly aware of what he’d said. “I’ll request we look into it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“I doubt that, Warden. I very much doubt that.”

•   •   •

“Alamber . . .”

He stepped further into the bedroom, turning from a silhouette in the open hatch to a pale, dark-eyed, emotionally compromised teammate. “You were captured.”

“Technically . . .”

Craig cut her off with a kiss on the back of her neck and slid toward the far edge of the bed. “He has a point.”

Torin sighed and moved with him, beckoning to the di’Taykan. “Get in.”

•   •   •

Nine hours later, after too little sleep, Torin found herself back in DA8 with her entire team—minus Dutavar who’d already boarded with his brother. Grouped together at the edge of the arm, they watched a Ciptran disappear into the Primacy’s lock followed, two at a time, by eight Dornagain.

“That’s just mean,” she muttered as the pairs of Dornagain slowly undulated forward, highlights gleaming in rippling fur, heads ducked low so as not scrape the upper deck.

She felt Craig shrug, his shoulder bumping against hers. “It’s an official delegation.”

“Not very balanced.”

“They’re balancing against the entire Primacy, not merely a single team. Pile enough Dornagain on one end of a lever and you can move a galaxy.”

“That’s . . .” She bumped back into him. “. . . pretty accurate actually.”

Both Ciptran and Dornagain were too large to intimidate and almost impossible to enrage.

“I’m surprised they’re not sending your military species.” Vertic had moved almost silently to stand beside her. “I’m surprised they’re not sending you.”

“I don’t think Parliament trusts Humans right now,” Torin told her.

Craig snickered. There was no humor in the sound. “You don’t trust Humans right now.”

“My people will be pleased about the Ciptran.” The scent of cherry candy wafted up from knee level.

Keeleeki’ka snapped her mandibles together. “Our people.”

The cherry scent grew stronger. “Whatever.”

As the outer hatch closed behind the last pair of Dornagain, Representative Haminem took three steps away from the air lock and huffed out an impatient lungful of air. “Well, come on, you lot. We’re already behind schedule.”

“Better get used to that, mate.”

He blinked at Craig. “I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate their speed. We manage quite nicely with the Lindur.”

“Lindur?”

“Trust me . . .” Firiv’vrak rose up until her head was even with Torin’s waist. “. . . you don’t want to know. They squish.”

“Most people squish compared to the Artek.” Torin held out her hand, and Firiv’vrak stroked both antennae tips across her palm. Proof of trust. The antennae were fragile, and Firiv’vrak’s outer mandibles could take Torin’s hand off at the wrist.

Keeleeki’ka had the beginning of a new design carved around the edges of the triangular break in her carapace. “Presit won’t allow me to hold your story, but I would if I could.”

“Thank you.”

Firiv’vrak reached back and tried to push Keeleeki’ka over. “It’s not that great an honor, trust me. She’s like nits under your belly plates.”

Until Firiv’vrak’s story was complete, Keeleeki’ka’s people, whom the government wanted to appease, would protect her. Torin didn’t trust governments either, so she found that reassuring.

Vertic stepped forward as Haminem shooed the two Artek into the air lock.

“The politician . . .”

“Ouch. Medic,” Werst muttered.

“. . . has assured me Camaderiz and Netroovoens will be released to the Polint in a very short time.” Her ears pricked forward. “In turn, I assure you they’ll be punished for what they had a part in. I have offered to hold them in my honor.”

“All of them?”

Vertical pupils dilated slightly. “Perhaps not Dutavar as he plans to continue in the military. Tehaven, however, wants to be as far from his mother as the law allows.”

“Still, four . . .” Binti nodded like she knew what she was talking about. “. . . decent beginning of a family.”

Metal protested as Vertic drew her left front claws along the deck. “If I get them all back.”

Torin touched her tongue to her implant. “Alamber.”

A hatch opened down the corridor and Alamber emerged, his hair waving languidly back and forth, one hand dragging Bertecnic out behind him, the other adjusting his masker. “Just saying good-bye, Boss.”

On his way down the corridor, Bertecnic lurched into the bulkheads. Twice.

Vertic sighed and gave him a shove toward the ship. “We may not see each other again, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr. Stay safe.”

“I’ll do my best, Durlan Vertic. You, too.”

Merinim stood with Craig as Torin and Freenim stepped slightly to one side. “Any idea of what’s going to happen when you get back?” Torin asked quietly. If their government had been willing they not come back at all . . .

“Arguments. Extended discussion.” Freenim blinked. “Yelling. The usual.”

“If there’s trouble . . .” He had her codes.

“Don’t be a stranger.” She had his.

If two senior NCOs, retired, couldn’t hold things together, it didn’t deserve to be held.

Twenty-seven hours later, Presit fell into step beside her as she crossed the common. Torin shortened her stride.

“Qurn are having disappeared into the halls of Justice. Her existence are being dealt with government to government.”

“Her existence?”

Presit waved a dismissive hand, nails glittering gold under the artificial light. Torin wondered where she’d gotten a manicure on Berbar. “Apparently, her existence are not a sure thing. I are not finding anyone leaking, but I are not saying I are not having noticed ripples in the smooth flow of information.”

It took Torin a moment to parse that. “You’ll keep investigating.”

“I are not investigating.” Presit wrinkled her muzzle showing small, white teeth. “I are, as Keeleeki’ka would be saying, looking for a story.”

“The plastic is gone,” Torin said, two steps later. “Our R&D wanted a look at it and didn’t get one before the Ministry of Alien Interference grabbed it. Better the military’s all over them than us.” The news had been filled with high-level military staff officers demanding they be given access to 33X73 and just as many scientists demanding they be kept away. Torin had already received two communications from General Morris and passed them both on to Commander Ng unopened. “I was a little surprised they didn’t want either Craig or me to touch it.”

“Maybe they are wanting to translate the data first, before it are becoming a being capable of further communication.”

The emphasis on communication made it sound like lying. “Maybe. Werst told them the pattern he thought he recognized looked like infantry maneuvers. They weren’t impressed.”

“Are you wanting to impress them? Is that why you are wanting to be touching it?”

“No. That’s not why.”

“Maybe they are not wanting to risk that much plastic coming to life. It could be becoming a very large being capable of communication.”

“Maybe they had political reasons I’m not aware of.”

Presit snorted. “Maybe water are wet.”

Arniz watched the insects swarming over Dzar’s body, wings flashing in the sun as they fed. She’d be sunwarmed bone in no time. Finally at rest. Hyrinzital lay on a bier next to her, but Katrien burial rites had called Lows and Mygar home.

She brushed her fingers lightly over the force field the Wardens had raised to keep the animals away, tasting ozone on the air. The largest Dornagain, Analyzes Minutiae to Discover Truth, had physically moved between members of the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry for the Preservation of Pre-Confederation Civilizations and had talked them around to allowing the platforms—her argument slow and ponderous enough that both ministries had surrendered more than agreed.

There was another anchor on its way and more scientists, funding easy to get when a potential plastic civilization had been uncovered. No one spoke of the potential weapon. She doubted anyone had forgotten it. The military had become strident about gaining permission to land. There was rumor of a H’san joining the new team.

Potential plastic civilization sounded ridiculous.

Harveer Salitwisi and Dr. Ganes were gone as well. One too broken to continue, one promising he’d be back. How long did it take to regrow a hand? Arniz had no idea. She vowed to be kinder to him and wondered if she’d remember.

She was staying until the end.

The first plastic had been found in a latrine and the Ministry of Alien Interference didn’t know the difference between a feces and a fragipan.

He allowed the Wardens access to his system without argument. With grace, even. They had a warrant, but he had nothing to worry about; he knew the limits of the law and what they could find.

The di’Taykan with the pale blue hair and the dark lines painted around his eyes was a bit of a surprise. He knew they’d allowed the Younger Races to try their luck beyond the harnessed violence of the Strike Teams. There was one in each of the C&Cs, but he hadn’t been informed of any in data forensics.

“It’s all yours, Warden di’Crikeys.” The Rakva stepped away from the desk, bright yellow crest displayed.

Alamber di’Crikeys. In person, in the flesh, he didn’t look much like the publicity pictures.

His presence explained why the Rakva Warden had been pleased to surrender the console.

He had nothing to fear from the Justice Department. They had no idea of where to begin. Of what to look for. Warden di’Crikeys, on the other hand, had learned his skills from criminals and this was, quite possibly, the only legitimate job he was qualified to hold.

He watched the di’Taykan settle into the very expensive chair and sigh happily as it formed around him. “Do you need me to stay here while you work?”

Warden di’Crikeys grinned at him, eyes lightening. “Planning to distract me? I’m good either way.”

If only Wardens Kerr and Ryder had been able to see where their loyalty should lie.

So unfortunate Strike Team Alpha hadn’t been destroyed on 33X73.

He should have ignored Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr, ignored the stories that built her up into a worthwhile foe, and concentrated on removing Alamber diCrikeys.

He stopped by his collection room on his way out, slid the ancient piece of H’san ceramic into a padded case, and tucked the small, pink plastic horse into his pocket.

Warden di’Crikeys wouldn’t find it all—he’d personally coded the plans for the pistol and destroyed the printer after the run—but there’d be enough. A connection. A payment. An assumption. Not all admissible in court, and his position would offer a certain amount of protection, but, in the end they’d force him from the shadows.

The hell they would.

No one forced Anthony Justin Marteau to do anything. He’d leave the shadows by his own choice.

“I thought working with the Primacy team, with Vertic, would remind you of everything you missed about the Corps.” Craig pulled his shirt off and tossed it toward the chute in the corner. Every pilot on the station wanted to buy him a drink, but he been pacing himself and was still remarkably sober. “I don’t want you to go back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not without me.”

“Not without you.”

“Aces. I’ve been thinking about the ruins on Threxie. Do you think we’ll ever find out what happened to the natives?” He turned to see Torin sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning. “What?” When she didn’t respond, he prodded her with a bare foot. “Torin?”

“Remember the animals in the ruins?”

“Not likely to forget, am I.”

“When I was fighting, before you tranquilized it, I got a good look at its front paws.”

“When it was trying to claw your face off?” He sat down beside her.

She leaned into his warmth. “The toes were long, and there was an extra digit on each foot.”

“A dew claw. Sure. Lots of animals have them. You grew up in the country, you should know that.”

“No, this was a visible thumb.” Holding her left hand up at eye level, she moved her thumb back and forth. “It was fused to the rest of the paw. Obvious. Useless.”

“Okay.” He waited. He was good at that.

“The plastic was in our heads,” Torin continued at last, still staring at her thumb. “Who’s to say it didn’t get into their heads . . .”

“The animals’ heads?”

“The animals’ heads,” she repeated. “It got in and changed them at the cellular level, changed them until they weren’t a threat. Bred them down. One generation, tool users. The next, animals.”

“Because they’d discovered a weapon?”

“Because they’d discovered a weapon.”

He leaned back on his elbows and stared at the line of her back for a moment. Or two. “You have a suspicious mind, luv.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah.”