by Tanya Huff
Dirt pattered against the floor.
Binti called a sitrep back to the Polint.
Werst remained an injured captive.
By some freak chance a soil scientist might or might not have accidentally discovered a weapon to use against the plastic.
Still nothing.
“Gunny?”
“Wait.” She pressed harder. Felt the cube give. No, not the cube . . .
“Good thing you’re fast.” Ressk caught her left hand and hit the tip of her finger with a shot of sealant before she could add more than a couple of drops to the puddle of blood on the floor.
*Torin?*
Ressk checked her thumb and released her. “Let it go, Ryder. It just clipped her. It’s not bad enough for you to kiss better.”
“Is that a door, Gunny?”
“That’s a door, Mashona.” Torin flexed her finger, the analgesic in the sealant already numbing the pain. “And we’ve got a passage heading toward the anchor.”
“Disable the communications capability on one of the confiscated slates,” Commander Yurrisk interrupted Martin’s refusal, his tone pure officer shutting down a lower rank. “He can use that.”
Werst kept his lips over his teeth and hid his relief that the bullshit he’d been spouting had had the required result.
“He can wave his dick at it for all I care at this point,” Martin muttered. “Malinowski, upstairs. Eyes on the plateau. Zhang, get Warden Ressk a slate.”
“Which slate, Sarge?”
“Not Ganes’. Otherwise, I don’t care.”
The Druin in red, Werst still hadn’t heard her name, handed him a pouch of water. “You need to replace fluids, Warden Ressk. You must be parched after that . . . speech.”
She sounded amused.
That was . . . probably not good.
“I’ve got a ping at 500 meters, Gunny.”
“Not far enough.”
“Could end at another door,” Freenim pointed out. “Could end at a junction. There’s only one way to know for certain.”
Torin stared down the passageway, mentally flipping through options. If it brought them closer to the anchor unseen, the time spent on exploration would be worth it.
The size of the passageway was a problem. If it came down to life or death, she and Binti could squeeze through, but it was low enough and narrow enough movement wouldn’t be comfortable, easy, or quick. Not a hope in hell of the Polint fitting, but if they were as fast as Vertic implied, they’d be better as a distraction out on the plateau.
Waste of resources stuffing a Krai under a jungle.
As far as exploration was concerned, that left the Druin.
“Would you be this hesitant about sending us after a potential weapon had we not so recently been enemies?” Freenim asked quietly beside her.
“Been enemies, not are enemies.”
“You’ve put the years of war behind you so easily?”
Easily? No. However . . . “I allow you behind me with a loaded weapon. I’m more than capable of sending you down a passage created by the plastic a millennia ago.”
He nodded, understanding her definition of trust. “But if we’re the first to see what’s down there, you’re aware we may gain an advantage we could take back to our government.”
Did he want the politics of her decision on record? Presit was always listening and when Presit was listening, Dalan was recording. “I’m aware we can’t trust the plastic,” she said. “The tunnel registers as inert and, in the end, that means absolutely nothing. It could get us closer to the anchor, but my experience says it will definitely fuk with us.” She remembered the trip through Big Yellow, Crucible, the prison—the bodies she could lay directly on the plastic. In Big Bill’s favor, that whole shitstorm had nothing to do with sentient, polynumerous molecular polyhydroxide alcoholydes. Except that the war the plastic had engineered had created Captain Cho and his crew. She thought about the war and about her dead. About the Primacy and their dead. “Worst case scenario, we can’t break into the anchor, we come back here, and you go in. Best case, we let science deal with it after we’re gone.”
His inner eyelids crossed the glossy black in a slow blink. “And if the tunnel had been large enough for you?”
“Same answer.”
“And if the weapon to destroy the plastic is down that tunnel?”
“We’re not here to fight the plastic,” Torin reminded him. “We’re here to rescue the surviving hostages.”
Freenim met her gaze. “The plastic was responsible for the deaths of millions on both sides of the war. If we have a chance to take their war to them . . .”
“The dead are dead.” Torin fought to keep her hand from rising to her vest. “Here and now, I—and through me, you—am responsible for saving the lives of those hostages.” Turning away from the tunnel, she raised her voice. “We’re done, people. Let’s move!”
Her implant indicated a private channel. *You’re walking away?*
Craig. He sounded so neutral she wondered if he disagreed with her decision. Although, on a private channel, he had no reason for diplomacy. She watched Ressk reach the top of the pit. Beckoned Freenim and Merinim forward. Freenim hesitated, then nodded and obeyed. “You heard my reasons.”
*Still, big decision. Surprised you didn’t run it by Vertic first.*
“It’s my decision, not hers.” The two Druin went up attached to the same line, their weight incidental to the Polint pulling on the other end. Torin ran the other line through her belay loop, gave the signal, and walked the wall as she rose.
*No shade on your decision, Torin, but there’s an officer in the field.*
“You’ve never cared about that.”
*You do.*
“I did. Now, it’s my field.”
Later, when they’d wrapped up, they’d have to talk about the relief in his huff of air. *I love you.*
“Never doubted it.”
*Oh, come on, Boss! You expect me to clear two frequencies simultaneously?*
Correction, semiprivate channel. “Yes, I do, because you’re just that good.”
*Yeah, whatever. Don’t do it again.*
Vertic waited at the top of the pit. “So we’re walking away from a potential weapon,” she said as the ropes were rolled and stowed.
It was a statement, not a question. Torin settled her pack on her shoulders. “We’re doing our job.”
“If the plastic interferes . . .” When Torin turned to face her, Vertic shrugged. “We have clear evidence they were here. We have no clear evidence they all left.”
“If the plastic interferes,” Torin repeated, “we melt them into slag if we have to burn the jungle down to do it.”
“Not so adverse to vengeance, then.”
Torin concentrated on opening her fists, releasing the crushed webbing. “Not at all adverse to removing whatever keeps me from doing my job.”
“And again, nothing on this one I can use.” Werst tossed the slate down with the other two. “I need programs that can run both a mathematical and a spectral analysis . . .” What the fuk, it sounded good. “. . . not games and music and letters home.” He channeled Ressk’s pissiest expression, the one he used when every new addition to R&D tried to treat him like a stupid grunt. “And I need a scan that analyzes tech signatures instead of extrapolating buildings from two rocks and a post hole.” Credit where due, Nerpenialzic—whichever of the huddled Niln ancillaries he might be—kept clear directories.
“That’s the third slate you’ve rejected,” Martin growled.
“Yeah, I can count.” Turning to face the big Human—having that much angry mass at his back made his fingers twitch toward an absent weapon—he saw movement from the corner of his eye, and paused. The top line of eight symbols on the data sheet—and while other patterns were random, that was defin
itely a line—changed, one after the other. A ninth symbol appeared at the end of the line, disappeared, and reappeared down in the lower right quadrant, symbols there arranging themselves around it, one disappearing to make room.
“What did it do just now?” Every word out of Martin’s mouth sounded like a criticism. Asshole.
Werst showed teeth. “You were looking right at. Eyes not working?”
“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t an answer, I’m killing a lizard.”
And he would. He had. So far, the Katrien had been safe; Werst knew most Humans had a soft spot for small, fur-bearing mammals even when those small fur-bearing mammals were as irritating as fuk and reported certain statements totally out of context. Martin seemed true to species, but eventually he’d run out of Niln.
“It looks like it figured something out. The figuring.” He pointed to the upper line. “The solution.” He pointed to the new symbol. “I can’t begin to understand what it means because I don’t have my slate. Or a slate that’s worth more than shits and giggles. You got that, right?”
The random Katrien who’d been assigned to record—older, female, high odds she was Dr. Tyven a Tur durGanthan, one of the geophysicists—jerked when she realized she’d been addressed. “I got that. Yes.”
“Good. That’s very good.” He mimicked the tone Gunny used to reassure civilians caught up in unexpected violence. Not the tone she’d used on other Wardens and nothing like the tone she used on the Katrien she spoke to most frequently. “Don’t worry about specifics. Keep the whole thing in focus, we can break it down later.”
“I know.”
No shit; it wasn’t complicated. Unfortunately, he needed to kill more time and those useless instructions had taken care of . . . not a lot. Gunny couldn’t move the team across the plateau until after dark and the days on Threxie were too serley long.
“You know what I need?” He kept himself from folding his arms as he met Martin’s scowl. Folded arms would slow his reaction time in a fight. “I need Lieutenant Commander Ganes’ slate. He’s an engineer, so he might have something useful, and he’s military, so he’ll be using subroutines that actually make sense.”
“You’re not getting Ganes’ slate.”
“Why? If you disable the communications, it’s the . . .”
“Sarge smashed it when Ganes tried to get a message out,” Zhang said around a mouthful of half-chewed fruit. “Couple nights ago, he broke into where we had them locked up. Actually, had it in his hand when I caught him. Go me, right?”
“By all means, go you.” Werst sighed. “I’m getting nowhere using the lame-ass abilities of civilian slates, so disable the communications on another military slate and let me work with an OS that makes sense.”
Martin stayed quiet long enough Werst thought it might have worked, that he might have been able to add military vs civilians into his us vs them mindset. Which would put Werst firmly on the us side. Although . . . He glanced past Martin, past Zhang, to where Commander Yurrisk, his crew, and their random Druin sat together in the corner. Separate. Humans. Non-Humans. Ganes carefully isolated from his fellow scientists. If Martin hadn’t added Polint mercenaries to his crew . . .
The data sheet shivered, a fine ripple rolling from top to bottom.
“Fuk me.” Werst stepped back, trying to focus on the entire thing as all the symbols began to move. To regroup. It almost looked as if the movement of one symbol influenced the surrounding symbols, both in the place it left and the position it moved to. It reminded him of . . .
Of . . .
It wasn’t the symbols, it was the movement . . .
“What?” Martin demanded.
And recognition slipped away.
Asshole.
Werst continued to stare at it for as long as he thought he could get away with, but the symbols had stopped moving, the pattern he’d almost recognized gone.
“Sarge asked you a question, tree fu . . .”
Yurrisk cleared his throat.
Zhang snapped her teeth closed on the next word.
Did she know Humans had picked up the teeth snap from the Krai? Werst doubted it. “I need a military slate to analyze that pattern.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Martin scowled when Werst turned toward him. “Because I said so.”
“If it helps us find the weapon . . .” Yurrisk began, rising to his feet.
“Warden Ressk can turn a military slate into an incendiary device,” Martin said, cutting the commander off. “We can’t risk him destroying the data sheet. It isn’t safe.”
Werst gave himself a mental kick. Marines were taught to how to overload the power source of their slates—although they were also taught it was a trick best kept in reserve until losing fingers seemed like a fair trade. He’d never known anyone who’d done it, but if it also worked with civilian slates . . .
The three rejected slates had been tossed onto a stool too far away for him to snatch one up without being seen. He needed Martin to keep his attention on the commander for one more . . .
Nope.
“Fine.” With any luck, Martin hadn’t seen him move. He waved his arms around anyway. “Why should you trust me? Even though I’m standing here because I’m the only one dirtside with a hope of getting anything like information out of this. Have you considered your second-best hope is Lieutenant Commander Ganes? He should have a look.”
“No.”
“He’s wasted in the infirmary.”
Martin snorted. “He’s a doctor.”
“He’s not that kind of doctor.”
“You’re alive because of Ganes.”
“Proves my point. He can think outside the box. This . . .” Werst cocked a thumb at the plastic. “This was never in a box.”
Martin’s brows drew in. “What are you talking about?”
“Two brains are better than one and all that. Bring the commander . . .”
“I said, no.”
“Because you’re an idiot!” Although he’d deliberately provoked Martin’s reaction, Werst barely resisted the urge to intercept the blow, climb Martin’s arm, and tear his throat out. As the big Human’s knuckles made contact with his cheek, he threw himself back onto the rejected slates, and dropped flailing in the midst of the mess, sending pieces of stool and slates in all directions. Using his body to block Martin’s view, he slid one of the slates into the deep pocket on the right leg of his overalls and rolled under the lower edge of the plastic, seemingly propelled by the toe of Martin’s boot that had barely touched his ribs.
“Are you trying to destroy the data sheet?” he rasped as he stood. It took a lot longer than it usually did. Gravity was being a serley fuk. Once on his feet, toes spread against the movement of the planet, he clamped a hand over the healed patch on his throat. Still holding. Good. “Do you know,” he panted, “what would happen if you slammed me into it?”
“No,” Martin snarled. “Do you?”
“No, and that’s the point.” The flare of pain from the bruise on his left shoulder blade made his arm feel weak. His fingers spasmed, so he curled them into a fist. “We could lose everything on it.” Still clutching his throat with his right hand, he stumbled around the edge of the plastic farthest from the debris. “Am I bleeding?”
“Nah.” Zhang leaned in. “You’re good.”
Harveer Arniz had already begun to clean up the mess, tossing slates and stool pieces into one jumbled pile. Martin hadn’t noticed the missing slate in his enjoyment of the elderly Niln crawling around the floor at his feet. Asshole.
“I can’t do this . . .” Breathe. “. . . without the proper equipment.” Releasing his throat, Werst waved his right arm, drawing Martin’s attention. The flush rising on Martin’s face suggested he didn’t know how to react to violence ignored. Even money said his usual
response was more violence. Unfortunately for his stunted interactive abilities, he needed to keep “Ressk” not only alive, but functional. Sucked to be him. If he could keep Martin off balance until the Strike Team arrived, it would make everyone’s job easier. “Failing that, I need to taste it.” It hadn’t tasted like anything the last time. “At least we’d know if this was them, the plastic, not some random debris left behind by other aliens entirely.”
Martin frowned. “What other aliens?”
“Exactly.”
One of the older male Niln jumped to his feet. Tail straight out behind him, he snarled, “I have had enough! You . . .” A slender gray finger stabbed at Werst. “. . . are no more likely to understand this artifact than a firnacin would.”
“Yeah?” Bracing himself, Werst spread both hands in the classic bring it position. A fight would waste some time for sure and, the way he felt, an elderly professor might stand a chance. “I’ve had a lot more contact with the plastic than you have, buddy.”
A number of vowels got lost in the hissing, but the Niln—Harveer Salitwisi now Werst had gotten a better look at him—managed an impressive volume and a string of complicated insults Werst barely understood. He yelled back every derogatory thing he’d ever heard Ressk say about the nonmathematical sciences; not loudly, his throat wouldn’t allow it, but with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Three of the ancillaries were trying to get Salitwisi back into his seat, but he kept struggling free and finding more things to complain about. By the time Werst risked losing his voice completely, he’d begun tearing into the entire situation, hands and tail waving counterpoint.
Harveer Arniz waved a piece of stool and yelled, “You tell him, Salit!”
Zhang was laughing.
The red on Martin’s cheeks had darkened to purple.
He pulled his KC around into position and stepped forward.
The three Polint stepped forward with him.
Zhang stopped laughing.
Fuk. That was a little more off balance than Werst had intended. He shoved the Katrien—still recording—toward her people. Harveer Arniz caught her at the last moment before impact, but the Niln’s attention remained on the far corner . . .
