A Peace Divided

by Tanya Huff

  Torin took a step closer to the commander. “Sir?”

  “You will be the Combined Strike Team Lead while resolving the hostage situation. As lead, the material the Primacy has provided on their people on 33X73 has been added to your briefing packet.”

  “Yes, sir. But Presit . . .”

  Ng cut her off, pitching his voice under the dull roar of Presit working the room and the room reacting. “Not my decision, Warden. But better the devil you know.”

  She released the breath she’d been holding a little too quickly for it to be called a sigh. “You’d think so.”

  • • •

  The Primacy had been able to identify the three Polint. The black, Camaderiz, was ex-military. He’d served the minimum time with no distinction, but he knew how to fight. The bay, Netrovooens, and Tehaven, the variegated, would know how to fight as well, but they hadn’t been trained.

  “Not trained by the military,” Freenim amended, as they went over the information. “That doesn’t mean they don’t know what they’re doing. The Polint are strong, and fast; and those blades they’re carrying? They’re civilian weapons.”

  Torin paused, pouch of coffee halfway to her mouth. “You arm your civilians?”

  He laughed. “They arm themselves. The Polint will have been using them since they were small, the blades growing in size as they do.”

  “All the Polint?” Torin asked him, brows up.

  “Statistically unlikely, but all the Polint I’ve known. Mind you, all the Polint I’ve known have been military so . . .” He spread his hands.

  Pacifist Polint weren’t like to join up. Torin frowned down at her slate. “They didn’t give us much.”

  “There wasn’t a lot of time.”

  “Single names?”

  “Werst? Ressk? Like the Krai,” he continued before she could speak, “formal names among the Polint include lineage details. The odds are high that’s more information than my government wants the Confederation to have. Or it’s possible they were only able to find out the day names of Netrovooens and Tehaven in the time available and left Camaderiz short as well so it looked like a choice.”

  Torin tossed her slate down onto the galley table. “If Justice needs full names, they can ask them when they’re brought in.”

  “Prisoners.”

  The Primacy didn’t take prisoners.

  “Our orders are to keep fatalities to a minimum,” Torin reminded him.

  Freenim spread one, long-fingered, pale hand out on the table’s surface. “Primacy prisoners will be returned to the Primacy.”

  “That’s for politicians to decide. Not us.” She drained her coffee and added. “Our job, as a team, is to rescue the hostages. What about Druin names?”

  He blinked, but after a moment followed Torin’s train of thought back to the earlier part of the conversation. “Descriptive.” Hand now against his chest, he added, “Freenim of Murglin on Shepten. That’s city and planet. If I was still on my home planet, I’d introduce myself as Freenim of Thoi in Murglin. Community and city.”

  “Except that you made those places up.”

  He grinned. “Of course I did.”

  Torin tapped a fingernail against the screen of her slate. “There’s no information about the Druin in red.”

  “I believe your people have a saying that covers the lack.” When Torin raised a brow, he raised his pouch of coffee in salute. “Space is big.”

  “Is this all of them?”

  “It is.” When the Human called Martin nodded toward the half of the common room crowded with scientists and their ancillaries, Arniz hissed.

  Salitwisi slapped his tail against the back of her legs. She ignored him the way the murdering yerspit had ignored her.

  The Krai, the voice out of the shuttle, crossed to stand beside the map table. The Druin in red positioned herself behind his left shoulder. “I’ll keep this brief.” His nostril ridges were nearly closed. He didn’t feel safe. Perceptive—Arniz wanted to pummel him. He was in charge, which made him as much at fault as the Human who’d killed Dzar. “I have a buyer,” he said, “who will pay a great deal for a weapon able to destroy the plastic aliens. Who found the debris?”

  Arniz hissed and pushed between Tilzon and her ancillary to the front of the group. “He killed her.” She jabbed a finger toward Martin.

  The Krai’s focus drifted past her. “One death to keep the rest safe.”

  It sounded like a quote to Arniz. “One death for no reason!” she snapped. “And it wasn’t debris. It was molecular evidence and that’s all it was. There’s nothing here for you. Go back to where you came from!”

  A few voices murmured agreement behind her.

  Salitwisi grabbed a handful of her overalls and yanked her back. “Don’t antagonize them! They’ve already proven they’re willing to kill us.”

  “You should listen,” Martin sneered. “Could be the smartest thing your lizard friend ever said.”

  Part of Arniz acknowledged that was possible; the greater part wanted to scream insults and accusations at the Human. Or perhaps just scream.

  The Druin’s hand in its red glove lay on the Krai’s shoulder like a splash of blood. His focus had locked onto Arniz. “Did you search for a weapon?”

  “No!”

  Before she could add that they hadn’t searched because the weapon didn’t exist, his lips drew back off his teeth. “If you haven’t searched, you have no idea of what’s out there, do you?”

  Torin wasn’t surprised to find Presit waiting for her as she stepped through the hatch into DA8, heading for the Promise.

  “I am seeing you are alone. Craig are having finally come to his senses and found a mate who are less likely to be getting him killed?”

  “Craig is already on board.” Torin had no doubt that Presit not only knew where everyone was but had worked out how best to ambush them for her “story”.

  “You are not being with him.”

  “Like you, I have duties to perform.”

  “Are there being trouble in paradise?”

  “What? No.”

  “That are being too bad. He are almost not entirely useless with a brush. What?” she demanded when Torin stopped and stared down at her own reflection in Presit’s mirrored glasses. “I are merely determining where the lines are being drawn before we are all being locked up together in the pitiless vacuum of space.”

  “We’re in a station. We’re already locked up together in the pitiless vacuum of space,” Torin added when Presit waved an imperious demand for more information.

  Black lips drew back off small, pointy teeth. “Oh, yes, now I are remembering how pedantic you are being.” She sighed and a fraction of the pretension fell away. “I are wanting to tell you that regardless of what I and my family are owing you for the return of Jammers’ body, I are going to 33X73 to be reporting on the first Confederation/Primacy joint venture. In spite of what certain politicians are believing, I are going to be entirely impartial.”

  “You always are.”

  Presit cocked her head and, given the position, Torin assumed she was being studied from behind the glasses. “I are pleased you are finally admitting to what are being my superior reporting skills.”

  “I’ve never had a problem with your reporting skills.”

  “And I are never having had a problem with your mate.”

  She’d said it so sweetly, Torin couldn’t stop the snort of laughter.

  Dalan a Tar canSalvais, Presit’s camera operator, waited at the air lock with Alamber who had the fingers of one hand buried in fur as he scratched behind one of Dalan’s ears. Tongue protruding slightly, Dalan sagged against Alamber’s leg.

  “You are being in public,” Presit snapped. “I are not caring what you are doing if I are not needing you, but you are to be remembering that your behavior
are reflecting on me.”

  Dalan pulled in his tongue, straightened, and pointedly glanced up and down the empty arm. “And the crowds are going wild,” he muttered, looked over the top of his glasses at Torin, and winked. “Was recording all through the war, Gunnery Sergeant, was having been with the crew recording on Horlong 8. I are knowing when to be keeping my ass out of your way.”

  Horlong 8 had been a disaster, due as much to bad officers as the Primacy. She was impressed he’d gotten out alive. “Then I’m glad to have you along, Dalan a Tar canSalvais.”

  “I are just Dalan.” His muzzle was grizzled, his ears notched. There was a chance, if only a small one, that he could temper Presit’s . . . enthusiasm.

  Torin noted Alamber’s expression and waved the two Katrien into the air lock. Whatever he had to say, he didn’t want an audience. As Presit’s voice rose, greeting Craig and giving the impression she hadn’t seen him for years rather than hours, Torin beckoned the young di’Taykan closer. “What is it?”

  “There’s seven Primacy on board, Boss. Two Artek, two Druin, three Polint.”

  “I can count.”

  His light receptors flicked open, then closed. “And only six of us. We’re outnumbered, and the Polint are . . . large.”

  “I’m not surprised you noticed.” She studied his face while he worried at the old piercing scars in his lower lip. “Is this about adding another di’Taykan to the team?”

  He sighed. “Let it go, Boss. This is about ratios. If anything happens, they have numbers, size, and appendages on their side. I mean, three Polint, six more legs, two Artek, four more arms and a fuk of a lot of legs. And the cherry one, she’s a pilot. Me and Craig, we can fight, but . . .” His hair continued to flick back and forth as his voice trailed off.

  Alamber had no history with the Primacy aside from what he’d seen on vids. He’d never served, didn’t have the undercurrents of at least you understand where the fuk I’m coming from—common ground no matter how deep or dark the currents. He hadn’t been on the prison planet, didn’t have the personal history of fighting beside most of their new team members.

  “I can’t speak for the two I don’t know, but you have my word the rest are no danger to us. And don’t forget . . .” They winced in unison as a high-pitched voice demanded to know what was wrong with the ship’s air filters. “. . . we have Presit.”

  His hair stilled. “She’s on our side?”

  “There are no sides, Alamber.” Torin touched two fingers to the inside of his wrist. Without another di’Taykan on board, the necessary physical contact had to come from his non-di’Taykan teammates. “But we’ve built up more resistance to her.”

  • • •

  “I remember you.”

  Presit preened. “I are hard to forget.”

  “Yes.” Settled on her haunches, Vertic frowned. “Your dialect is causing my translator some difficulty.”

  “Your translator isn’t alone,” Torin said, stepping out of the air lock into Promise’s control room. “Their dialect is a pain in everyone’s ass. Alamber, show the Katrien to their packet.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.”

  Alamber stepped forward. Presit held up a hand. “The air filters are not being up to the number of species on board.”

  Torin smiled. If Alamber, with the Taykan’s sensitivity to scent, could handle the combination, so could Presit. “Shed less.”

  “You are always being so amusing. And I are not liking what you are having done with the place.” Presit curled a lip at the seats then extended her dislike to the lockers holding the HE suits. She’d shared Promise’s original cabin with Craig on the way to the prison planet and, given how that original cabin had been laid out, Torin carefully avoided thinking about the logistics. “That being said, I are preferring to remain here. If the harnesses are fitting the Krai, they are fitting me.”

  “Presit . . .”

  She huffed at Craig’s tone.

  “. . . I’d prefer it if you strap down in your quarters until we’re clear. For safety’s sake.”

  “Fine. For you.” She smoothed her ruff and glared at Torin. “But you are not hiding things from me this time, I are telling you that now.”

  The last time, things had been hidden with Presit’s agreement for Presit’s own good. But Presit always edited her own story.

  Torin waited until only Craig and Vertic remained, and raised a brow.

  Vertic softened her shoulders and curled her claws in toward her palms, her posture deliberately nonthreatening. “I wanted a chance to speak to you alone before we begin the actual mission.”

  Between preparation and overt observation, there’d been no chance on the station. Torin fell into parade rest and waited.

  “I can’t leave,” Craig began.

  “That’s not what I meant by alone,” Vertic interrupted. “You should hear this as well.” Her mane flattened slightly as she drew in a deep breath. “I realize I have neither experience nor training in police work, and I therefore will have no trouble with your command, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

  “Thank you, Durlin.”

  Her broad mouth curled up at the corners. “If we don’t refer to my previous rank, my people will be less likely to respond to it by default.”

  “Of course.” Torin had missed the sense of security a good officer provided, the knowledge that the big picture would remain in focus while she concentrated on the details. Vertic had been an officer Torin had been happy to serve under during their combined escape and she’d matured during the intervening years, now exuding an air of confident authority.

  Although exuding might be the wrong word given the overwhelmed air filters.

  “Also,” her mane rose as she continued, “I checked into Samtan Teffer Dutavar’s service records, and he’s proven himself to be levelheaded when it counts. Not always a given with our males.”

  Torin would bet big that Vertic had checked while trying to work out why he’d volunteered. And bet bigger that she hadn’t found out.

  “Keeleeki’ka is a Sekric’teen, from Neesemin’c, the Artek homeworld. The Sekric’teen are a sizable collective who opposed the war from the beginning. Their scent is . . .” She licked her lips. “. . . tart. The exposure of the plastic aliens strengthened their position both politically and popularly, and they insisted one of theirs join the team. All that’s in the briefing packet. What isn’t included is the certain knowledge that if we don’t return, the Sekric’teen will rip into the government, and, with the media on their side, that’s the last thing our government wants. If we do return, they’ll want the story told their way, and the government’s not likely to enjoy that either.”

  As a general rule, Torin had little sympathy for governments she’d spent years fighting against. “Damned if they do, damned if they don’t.”

  “Unfortunately, that makes Keeleeki’ka more important than she seems.” Vertic shifted in place when Torin indicated she should continue. “I’d have preferred someone less inflexible in their view of how things work.”

  “But her lot were right,” Craig pointed out.

  “That’s what they’re inflexible about.”

  Torin grinned at the dry disapproval in her tone. “Is there a chance Dutavar is here to keep an eye on her?”

  “It’s possible,” Vertic allowed, rising to her feet. “But I doubt it. Our military seldom involves itself in politics. Now, as these seats most certainly aren’t configured for my body—nor did I expect you to rebuild the core parts of your ship for my benefit,” she added when Craig opened his mouth. “I’ll strap in with the others. I look forward to working with you again, Gunny. Captain Ryder.”

  “Captain?” Craig asked quietly, watching Vertic’s signal move toward the quarters designed for the Polint.

  “Your ship.”

  “I like her. So you’re good with the r
ank thing? Just like that, then?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Torin dropped into the copilot’s seat. “You’ve always ranked me on the Promise.”

  “Not my rank.” He turned toward her, gray-blue eyes searching her face. “Her rank.”

  “My Strike Team.”

  She had no idea what he was searching for or if he’d found it when he turned his attention back to the board. “All right, then.”

  “You fought in the war.”

  “We all fought in the war, one way or another.”

  Arniz turned away from the screen and frowned up at Emile Trembley—who stood far too close, who smelled of warm, damp, hairless, male mammal, and who wouldn’t understand the data scrolling past as the last of the soil analysis finished even if an entire deceased plastic alien as well as a functioning example of the weapon that killed it were found. This was the first time he’d been assigned to watch her. The black Polint, Camaderiz, had remained silent. Arniz had thought him sullen until she realized that without the translation program on Martin’s slate, they had no language in common. Mirish di’Yaunah, the di’Taykan with the deep blue hair and eyes, had sprawled gracefully in a chair far too small for her, her complaints about the heat and humidity repetitive and dull. Trembley, however, liked to talk. “I didn’t fight,” she reminded him.

  “I wasn’t talking about you. You were hiding at your university while we kept you safe.” The emphasis might have been a Human way of speaking, but she suspected Trembley was young. Firsters always spoke in a cascading series of absolutes.

  “Hiding?” she snapped. “I wasn’t hiding. I was teaching and learning; knowledge being a component of what you were fighting to protect. So, to whom are you referring when you say we? I can’t read your mind, you know.”

  Trembley’s mouth twisted up into what Arniz assumed—from the little she knew of Humans—was a smile, although it showed no sign of amusement. “Lucky for you, lizard. We . . .” He doubled down on the emphasis. “. . . are the Younger Races.” His chin rose. “And we have decided to keep fighting.”