by Tanya Huff
“I hope you’re right, Commander.”
“Your forms have been uploaded, Per Anthony Justin Marteau, CEO of Marteau Industries. We will require all eighty-one filled out, three copies made, and each copy signed, where indicated. All signatures must be original.” The high-end slate looked tiny within the cage of claws. “Have a pleasant day.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and silently took back his slate; smart enough, Torin noted, to keep his required number of forms from rising to triple digits.
“If you’ve seen what you needed to, Per Marteau . . .” And you have, added Ng’s subtext. “. . . I’ll escort you to your ship.”
“I only need another moment, Commander.” He turned his attention back to Torin. “I’d like to give you my contact information, in case you or Warden Ryder change your minds.”
“About?”
“Touching my plastic.” A dimple flashed outside the edge of the facial hair. “Not a euphemism.”
“We can find you.”
“I don’t doubt you can. I am, however, surrounded by people who filter my contacts, and I’d like to keep you from a hundred conversations where no one believes you’re who you say you are.”
“I’d only have one.” She let the implication hang.
“Per Marteau, if I could remind you of the word adamant.”
“I’m not finished here, Commander.”
Torin stared at his offered slate, stared past him at the commander’s I want him off station expression, then snapped her own slate off her belt. “Fine.” He couldn’t get further than a temporary file outside the firewalls.
A certain gleam in his eye suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. He had the arrogance to assume he—or his people—could break her encryption, but he’d never had the tutelage under Big Bill Ponner that made Alamber’s countermeasures so vicious.
Information exchanged, he slid his slate into an inner pocket, crossed to where Ng waited by the hatch, and turned. “I’d like to assure you the offer to touch my plastic remains open, to both of you, and I remain hopeful we’ll meet again. If we don’t, be careful out there.”
The soles of his very expensive shoes were soft enough that Ng’s heels drowned out the sound of his footsteps as they walked away.
Craig’s shoulder pressed warm against hers. Many Pieces Make a Whole tapped her claws against the desk. The faint scent of ozone from the screen drifted past, caught in the currents from the air recyclers. Finally, they heard the lift leave.
“Offer to touch his plastic remains open,” Craig muttered. “And doesn’t he have a personality like a hat full of assholes.”
“He’s . . .”
. . . now the Confederation no longer needs us.
. . . assume that the Younger Races will never need to defend their position in the Confederation.
The pause stretched a little too long.
“Torin?”
“He made some good points.”
. . . a chance to find out how long the plastic aliens have been screwing with us. I’m sure that’s information you’d like to have as well.
It was.
He transferred the eighty-one forms to his PA’s slate as she fell into step beside him, traded for a quick synopsis of pertinent happenings while he’d been off ship. Of his three PAs—travel, business, and social—Orina Yukari had been with him the shortest amount of time and was already using the contacts she made through him to line up a better position. It was easy enough to train a new PA and much harder to deal with one who’d learned too much.
“We have a scheduled jump on the coreward buoy for 1800, and Minister Weta’na has sent regrets and will not be able to join you for a meal after you address the council.”
No surprise. Why would a member of the Elder Races agree to eat at the children’s table? He stepped through the hatch into the small outer office and crossed toward the inner. “And Per Honisch?”
“Her office has agreed to reschedule, but the administrator has personally approved your suggestion to, and I quote, put eyes on at Justice. She adds that the Wardens, and particularly the Strike Teams, operate with a shocking lack of oversight.”
“I’m thrilled she approves.” He stepped through the inner hatch alone, considered continuing to his quarters, and crossed to his desk.
Gunnery Sergeant Kerr had an excellent poker face, but she wasn’t entirely unsympathetic.
Had she—and Ryder—accepted his invitation, they could have discussed her misplaced need to serve and protect a corrupt government. But not unsympathetic wasn’t enough, not on its own, and, in spite of the possibilities, she was too dangerous to leave in play. Still, it had been worth a shot. He could have ended up with Kerr and Ryder under his control, the original plan easily adapted to taking out a different Strike Team. The fewer Strike Teams the better, as far as he was concerned.
Ryder wasn’t worth much, but he was Human.
“Sir.” Yukari appeared in the open hatch. “The pilot reminds you that until you’re belted in, we won’t be permitted to leave.”
The law was ridiculous. Years ago, a shipboard gravity generator had failed when disengaging from the station and a few people had been hurt and now he had to strap in until the all clear. Yet another shining example of the Elder Races’ disregard for personal responsibility.
Waving Yukari back to her own seat, he dropped into his desk chair, secured the straps, and lifted a double plastic tube out of a tray on his desk. Fused together now, the smaller tube had once slid in and out of the larger. With dozens scattered through every collection of ancient Human items, he felt comfortable traveling with them despite their age.
He thumbed his desk on. “Yukari. I want a message sent to the Justice Department the moment the station has returned control of the ship.”
“Sir?”
“I’m donating the stolen weapons to their armory. I want the Strike Teams to use the best equipment available rather than the best a government budget can afford. I’ve kept them alive for years, I’m proud to keep doing so.”
“That’s a large donation, Per Marteau.”
“It’s an investment, Yukari. Long-term.”
Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr was not the only Human Warden and should she be taken out of the equation, some of the others might be more . . .
. . . amenable.
“Are we expecting a supply shuttle, Harveer?”
Basking in the midafternoon sun, Arniz opened an eye and squinted up into the arc of brilliant violet. “Supply shuttle?” She’d been dreaming of her first turl. Of claw caressing scale. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Harveer Arniz, I didn’t intend to interrupt your nap.”
“Nap?” Both Arniz’ eyes snapped open, inner eyelids closing to block the light. “I wasn’t napping. I was considering this morning’s finds and saw no reason to do it inside. Or with my eyes open. Nor do I need to explain myself to you.” She waved away a small cloud of tiny blue insects—the most persistent of the insects on the plateau and off the menu on a Class 2 Designate—and held out an imperious hand. “Now, help me up. I’m not used to this gravity.”
“But it’s the same as . . .”
“Not at my age.”
“Of course, Harveer.” Dzar got a good grip, tail stretched out as a counterweight, and pulled.
This part of the planet had nothing so comfortable as a sand pile and, while being hauled to her feet, she wasted energy envying the Mictok team who were mapping ruins within the desert that covered the interior of the smallest continent. They had sand. Nine point two million square kilometers of it. Arniz scowled at the leading edge of jungle and gave thanks that their current license kept them out on the plateau. The humidity under the trees would be appalling. She hated feeling damp.
Eventually, she found herself on her feet staring up at a bright spec
k in the sky. The child had good eyes, she’d give her that, to have picked out the speck even higher up and not assumed it was a bird. As she watched, the shuttle dropped straight and fast and that meant a military pilot—they all flew like they still expected to be shot at on the way down with no regard whatsoever for the comfort of their passengers or the security of delicate equipment. Arniz had filed a complaint with the university about the young Krai who’d dropped them off at the beginning of the dig season, not that she expected anything to come of it.
“Harveer?”
“No, Dzar, we’re not expecting a supply shuttle, and the university’s budget most assuredly doesn’t extend to additional visits.”
“Do you think something’s gone wrong?”
“Most of the time.” The afternoon was far too warm for boots, so she stuffed her slate into a pocket on her overalls and stretched the stiffness out of her toes. “Have you got anything running you can’t leave?”
“Me, Harveer?”
“No, I’m talking to the geologist, sanitarian, and silvoculturalists that Dr. Linteriminz said we couldn’t afford this trip.” The cheap invic. “Yes, of course you.”
“This morning’s samples are still running. I don’t like to leave them, but . . .”
“But you can. Good.” She’d gone half a dozen steps before she realized Dzar hadn’t moved. “Well, come on.”
“Where?”
“If strange shuttles are landing on a Class 2 Designate, I want to see who comes out of them. Scientific curiosity.”
Dzar grinned. “If you say so, Harveer.”
“Sass.” Arniz tucked her hand in the crook of the younger Niln’s elbow and touched her tongue to Dzar’s cheek, making it clear she’d appreciated the comment.
By the time they reached the anchor, 493 meters from their site and an exact 100 meters where the Katrien geophysicists, Dr. Tyven a Tur durGanthan and Dr. Lows a Tar canHythin, had mapped the outer edge of the ruins on the plateau, the shuttle’s descent had become a background rumble. Like thunder in the distance, Arniz noted as Dzar ran inside and brought out a stool. Like a storm coming in.
“They’re moving fast.” Gaze locked on the shuttle, Harveer Salitwisi’s tail whipped back and forth.
“Water is wet.”
He turned, inner eyelids flicking once across the black. “What are you talking about, Ganes?”
Standing apart from the group of gathered scientists, and half a meter taller than the Niln and the Katrien, Dr. Harris Ganes shrugged. “I thought we were stating the obvious.”
Arniz snickered as she settled onto the stool. Credit where credit was due, Dr. Ganes accepted Salitwisi’s rudeness better than she would have. Had Salitwisi snapped out her name without the honorific after only having known her for four tendays, she’d have snapped back. Had Dr. Ganes addressed Salitwisi in kind, dropping the harveer, they’d never hear the end of it. “Dr. Ganes.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Do you recognize the ship?”
“It’s a military design,” he said, turning his attention back to the sky. “But that doesn’t mean there’s military in it.”
“As technical support, oh, apologies, site engineer . . .” Salitwisi sketched the most sarcastic set of air quotes around the word engineer Arniz had ever seen, even given she’d spent eight long years teaching firsters. “. . . you didn’t think you should contact them?”
The heads of Salitwisi’s three ancillaries, two Niln and a Katrien, swiveled in unison from their mentor to the Human.
“I did. They didn’t reply.”
And back again.
“Are you certain you had the right channel?”
And to Ganes.
“I’m certain.”
And back.
“And they didn’t reply?”
“That are being illegal,” Lows pointed out, interrupting the flow.
“It could be they’re trying to surprise us.” Arniz spread her hands when half the group turned toward her and smiled as sweetly as she could manage, her words dripping sarcasm. “A pleasant surprise.”
Ganes grunted. There was really no other word for it, emphasizing the unfortunate fact that Dzar wasn’t the only person on the dig without a sense of humor. Arniz watched how he stood, head up, gaze locked on the shuttle, the scholar and scientist disappearing behind the kind of training that allowed one sentient being to kill another. Or one hundred to kill one hundred. Or a thousand to kill a thousand. The Younger Races had been badly served by the Elder. While it had been necessary for the survival of the Confederation, that didn’t make it any less sad.
Bow to stern, the shuttle was uninterrupted gray, scarred and ugly with years of hard use. It groaned as it touched down on the cleared and clearly designated landing site—which showed a decent spatial sense at the very least.
Ganes stepped back. Once. Twice. “We should take cover in the anchor.”
“Take cover? Don’t be ridiculous, Ganes.”
As Team Lead, Salitwisi spoke for them all. Arniz was perfectly capable of speaking for herself, but she remained silent, tucking her arm into Dzar’s as she stood.
Concrete slabs laid by the first crews in to protect the planet’s surface pinged and popped as they cooled. A small flock of birds rose in the updraft created by the sudden, localized dry heat. The group of scientists ambled closer to the landing site, most of them chatting, enjoying the break, the difference in their day. Harveer Tilzonicazic had her head bent over her slate, a pair of ancillaries steering her around obstacles. Arniz suspected Tilzon had done some serious sucking up to her department head in order to bring two—although, to be fair, given that they were doing little more than mapping, the xenobotanist had been busy, plants being right out there in the open. They’d barely uncovered anything that could be considered architecture, however, making the more pertinent question why Salitwisi had been permitted to bring three. Most of the architecture on the plateau had been worn down to ground level, some of it only definable by soil analysis. If anyone should have gotten an extra ancillary, it should have been her.
“Harveer, you’re pinching.”
“Nonsense.” But she loosened her grip on Dzar’s arm.
Ganes had his slate in his hand, his thumb on the screen. Probably leaving a big, sweaty thumbprint as furless mammals did.
The first person out of the shuttle was Human. Much taller than Ganes, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the angle between the two significantly greater than the angle of Ganes’ torso. The skin not covered by black fabric was a pale shade of nondescript beige, unpleasantly pasty in comparison to Ganes’ lovely deep brown. A long time ago, Arniz had a TA from the eastern province who had scales that same warm shade of brown along his spine. Surrounded by the area’s greens and grays and pale creams, he’d dressed to emphasize them. She’d been a lot younger then and a little jealous.
The new Human had close-cropped hair and large boots. Either Ganes had very small feet or they were disproportionately large boots. Large enough to be kept outside the city limits.
She leaned into Dzar’s space, her sense of smell having lost the ability to deal with the nuance of other species a decade or more ago. “Male?”
Dzar tasted the air. “I think so.”
The Human moved quickly down to the insulated slabs, then more slowly toward them. He was followed by another three, one darker beige, one lighter, one a light brown—as many Humans as Arniz had ever seen in one place—then a pink-topped di’Taykan, two Krai, another two di’Taykan under deep blue and brilliant blue, respectively. She’d often wondered about how the colors fit with the Taykan ecosystem, but hadn’t time to do research purely for curiosity’s sake. There was never enough time. Less now in the later part of her life when time had begun to move faster.
“Those aren’t scientists,” Hyrinzatil muttered.
“Don’t be a bigot,” Salitwisi snapped at his senior ancillary. “Many of the Younger Races are very clever. No offense, Ganes.”
“And yet, I’m offended. But he’s right. They’re not scientists.”
Tilzonicazic looked up from her slate. “I won’t speak with reporters.”
“Reporters?” Arniz snorted. “What makes you think they’re reporters?”
“We’re on a Class 2 Designate. We’re the first to study this hemisphere. That’s news.”
“News access is restricted,” Arniz began.
Salitwisi cut her off. “And isn’t maintaining that restriction Ganes’ job? You handle communications, don’t you?”
“What am I supposed to restrict them with, strong language?”
“Tell them to leave. It’s my understanding most reporters are sentient beings.”
Ganes shook his head, denying Salitwisi as much as the comment. “Those aren’t reporters.”
“Oh, please, you can’t tell that from . . . what the skisik is that?”
That was a large quadruped covered in reddish brown fur with darker extremities that looked as if a mad scientist—insane, not angry, Arniz qualified silently—had removed the head of a large feline and stuffed the upper half of a biped into its place. It wore a vest on its upper body, muscular arms ending in broad hands with three thick fingers and the thumb required for fine manipulations. As it descended the ramp, she could hear claws against the metal. A thick mane no more than six centimeters long surrounded a face with a short, broad muzzle over a heavy jaw. From where she stood, Arniz couldn’t see if they had tails, so she shuffled closer, dragging Dzar.
Another quadruped followed. And one more after that. The first, a deep, plush black and the second a mix of color—white and brown and gray and black and surprisingly attractive if a tad busy.
Dzar’s arm stiffened under Arniz’ hand. “Those three are definitely male.”
“I hadn’t asked.” She hadn’t needed to. The second quadruped to reach the ground had reared.
Her tongue tasted the air. “I don’t like it, Harveer.”
