An Ancient Peace

by Tanya Huff

  “There’s someone following us.”

  “The facilitators?” Werst shifted his weight from foot to foot, ready for a fight, the line of tension across his back showing his frustration with an opponent who wouldn’t close.

  Torin understood that frustration. Could feel the same line of tension. “No, the facilitators are dirtbound and the Trun wanted us gone.”

  “Yeah, well the facilitators might be dirtbound, but the Wardens aren’t, and if the facilitators called in the Wardens . . .” Binti paused and met Torin’s gaze. “. . . we’ve got some serious bullshitting to do.”

  “If it’s the Wardens, we’re screwed,” Alamber amended, his attention still focused over Ressk’s shoulder on the board. “And not in a good way.”

  “We didn’t do shit that would justify calling in the Wardens.” Still shifting from side to side, Werst ran both hands back over his head, the bristles making a soft shuff shuff under his palms. “Oh, wait. I forgot, the Trun don’t actually need us to do anything; we’re dangerous, murdering animals. Revenk fukkers.”

  “It’s not a Justice ship.” Ressk had another screen open, registration numbers scrolling past. When the scroll stopped, Torin had only a quick glimpse of a line glowing orange before Ressk opened it, exposing the data. “It’s a Katrien ship.”

  “The Seelinkjer?”

  Alamber shook his head, hair moving in counterpoint. “Not possible. Jamers wasn’t on Abalae.”

  “Entirely possible,” Binti contradicted. “It’s a big planet, and we saw one small part of it.”

  “Granted. But once we had the ship, we searched the other stations’ docking records. She wasn’t there.”

  “She isn’t here either,” Ressk added. “Incoming ship isn’t the Seelinkjer, it’s the Tinartin Hur Tain registered to the family Valinstrisy.”

  “Valinstrisy? Are you sure? We’re running under a false reg,” Torin explained as Craig twisted around and frowned up at her, his reaction no surprise, as he was probably the only other person on board who recognized the name. “Jamers is a smuggler, a false reg would make sense.”

  “Could be,” Ressk agreed, “Isn’t. We checked specs not just names and numbers on Abalae. And yeah, she doesn’t need to have been docked at Abalae to use that buoy—space is big, right? But if she’s got a fake registration, it’s better than anything the Corps can provide. I know where the edges are in our code, and this ship is smooth. Evidence suggests our buddy Jamers isn’t smart enough to load in anything that clean. The incoming ship is the Tinartin and it’s everything it says it is, I’d bet my breakfast on it. Current course and speed’ll bring her right to us. I’ll contact . . .”

  “No.” Torin had to breathe deeply before she felt she could control her voice and maintain anything resembling a neutral tone. “Call me when it catches up.”

  She had one foot out of the hatch before Craig asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To hit something.”

  Weight pushing the soles of her bare feet against the deck, far enough away to keep the entire bag in her field of vision, Torin slammed in a combination that would have landed mid-torso on an opponent her size. They’d be head shots on a species significantly shorter. She shuffled back, shuffled in, arms relaxed, throwing quick, snapping punches. Then again. Then faster. Normal combinations. One two. One two. One two three. A few less orthodox. One three two. Three one two three three. Lips pulled back, she sucked air through her teeth. Fights seldom came with convenient breaks to breathe.

  “You’re dropping your hands.”

  “I’m aiming low.”

  One two. One three two.

  “Torin . . .” Craig moved behind the bag and braced it.

  “I’m getting it out of my system before she arrives.”

  One one three two.

  He grunted, feet slipping back a couple of centimeters. “Presit is not your enemy. She’s been there when we’ve needed her, more than once, and yeah, a good part of why she was there was vested self-interest, but she’s not the arrogant self-absorbed show pony we thought she was.”

  “Yeah, and she’s hot for you.”

  “She’s a different species.”

  “I know.” Torin stepped back, took a deep breath, and rubbed the sweat off her face with the bottom of her shirt. “Presit a Tur durValinstrisy is a reporter and she’s followed us in the past knowing we’ll lead her to a story. But this, this is a story she can’t have, so what do we do with her? And not just her, she’ll have a crew.”

  “A pilot at least,” Craig agreed. One hand on the bag, he stepped around it. “You can’t . . .”

  There were a lot of things she couldn’t do. There were a few things she might have to and she could hear all of them in the pause after Craig’s voice trailed off. “Then what can we do? It’s Presit versus a war we’re supposed to stop. We can’t let her tell this story and we’ve never been able to shut her up. If we tell her we’re in the Core on a Justice Department op we can’t talk about, Presit will go to the Justice Department and demand transparency.”

  His brows were drawn in so deeply they nearly met over his nose, but he didn’t argue. He knew Presit. “She’s compromised in the past. Waited to go public. Underplayed certain aspects of the situation.”

  “A compromise isn’t good enough.” Torin tapped the release tab and began unwrapping her left hand. “We’re doing this job because the Corps can’t and the Corps can’t because the press not only demands full disclosure, but makes damned sure they get it.” She dropped her first wrap into the recycler and released the tab on the second. Her hands ached in spite of their protection. “Now we’ve got our own member of the press—who knows what kind of work we do—following us, planning to bolster her reputation by exposing details that could start a civil war.”

  “To be fair, Torin, she doesn’t know that.” He kept his voice light, even, but Torin could see the dawning realization of just how badly they were screwed on his face. “We could blow. Leave her hanging.”

  “We don’t know where we’re going yet. And leaving won’t stop her from following us.”

  Craig nodded, a silent acknowledgment to Presit’s commitment to the chase. “What are we going to do?”

  “Do what you must to stop the grave robbers. To stop a war. We’ve all seen too much war. That, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, is the mission should you choose to accept it.”

  The second wrap followed the first. Torin reached for a water pouch, took a long drink, and said, “What I have to.”

  If he noticed the pronoun change, Craig let it go.

  Eventually, the two ships sat motionless, less than a kilometer apart.

  “Anything?” The upper curve of the pilot’s chair creaked under Torin’s grip. With Ressk sitting second, she stood behind Craig, able to see and be seen—the moment there was something to see or see her.

  Ressk frowned at the board. “Nothing yet.” He smacked Alamber’s hand away without looking.

  Tall as he was, and he had five centimeters on Craig, Alamber wasn’t quite tall enough to reach the board from his position behind Ressk’s chair, but that hadn’t stopped him from making a regular attempt. Torin had no idea if he’d maintained that position the entire time she’d been gone or taken it up again when Craig reclaimed his place. As Ressk hadn’t told the di’Taykan to fuk off, she allowed him to remain.

  Werst had been sitting reading, one foot working a bright red spring grip, when Torin and Craig returned to the control room. He’d acknowledged them, switched the grip to his other foot, and returned his attention to his slate. Binti had returned a few moments later, ignored the three empty seats, and leaned against the rear bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Fully aware she was the source of Binti’s suspicions—the other woman hadn’t spent enough time with Presit to have reached that level of suspicion on her own, not to mention that Presit ha
d saved their collective asses during their run from Vrijheid—Torin appreciated having another set of eyes on the target.

  “There’s something happening,” Ressk muttered. “I’m only reading it because I’ve got a broad . . .”

  ::You are being where you are not needing to be!::

  Training kept Torin from reacting to the voice booming out of her jaw. “Why are you following me, Presit?” As heads turned, she mouthed, implant.

  Ressk snorted and danced his fingers through a pattern of blue and yellow lights.

  ::I are not following you! It are . . .

  “. . . not always being about you.”

  Torin nodded her thanks. The Katrien were loud and high-pitched regardless of what language they spoke, and switching the implant feed to the ship’s speakers would keep her skull from vibrating off the top of her spine. “There’s no story here, Presit. Go home.”

  “I are not going anywhere. You go home!”

  It always sounded strange when Katrien syntax matched up to that used by the rest of the Confederation. Since they spoke perfectly understandable Federate, Torin had always assumed the syntax was an affectation.

  “If I are ever having done anything for you, Torin . . .”

  Presit usually addressed her by her rank, her tone anywhere from fondly mocking to full-out derision. Torin frowned. This was serious, then. And personal. “Presit, you’re on speaker. My whole team can hear you. Do you need me to switch you back to implant?”

  “Your whole team are listening?”

  “You followed us from Abalae. We all wanted to know why.”

  “Why I are following you?” Her voice sharpened to a familiar edge. “We are chasing the same shadow, that are being why. And you are knowing that if you are spending half a moment to actually be using your brain. Still perhaps I are better off appealing to consensus than your better nature, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr . . .” There was the derision. “. . . but if I are discussing this with the whole lot of you, then I are looking you in the eyes while I are doing it.”

  “She’s off implant, Gunny. Switched to ship to ship.” Hand just over the board, Ressk glanced up at her. “Do I put her up?”

  The ability to throw visuals onto the glass of the front port was new as of the post-Vrijheid refit. Promise’s visuals, when Craig had bothered to snag more than the audio signal, had been confined to the board. Fine for one or two people, completely useless for six.

  “Do it,” Torin sighed. “Before she puts on a suit and tries to kick in the air lock. Give her visual on the whole cabin, we don’t want her to think we’re hiding things from her. That never ends well.”

  “But we are hiding things from her, right, Boss?” Alamber raised both hands when Torin turned toward him. “Hey, I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

  “Don’t mention the mission.”

  “Well, duh.”

  A running red light delineated a meter-by-meter section of the glass, the internal area filled with the head and shoulders of Presit a Tur durValinstrisy, the stars still faintly visible behind her image. She combed the claws on her left hand through the fur on her cheeks, the pale, green metallic polish gleaming against her thick, silver-tipped dark fur, and sighed. “Well, the whole gang are being there, aren’t they? Fine. At least I are being comforted by knowing I are not going to be misquoted during the retelling of my story.”

  Craig leaned in and Torin fought the urge to put a possessive hand on his shoulder. Full awareness of how ridiculous she was being wasn’t enough to stop it.

  “You look exhausted, Presit.” She could hear the concern in his voice. “Is everything all right?” He’d spent a lot more time alone with her than Torin had. She couldn’t see tired.

  “No . . .” Her tone added a clear idiot. “. . . everything are not being all right. If everything are being all right, would I be here?”

  Of course not. If everything was all right, there’d be no story.

  “So, what brings you into the light of glory?”

  She wrinkled her muzzle, sharp white teeth gleaming against the black gums. As it was Craig asking, they might actually get an answer. “If the light of glory are being your unnecessary Human dialect way of asking what are bringing me here into the Core, then I are here for the other side of the reason you are being here.”

  Or not.

  “Details,” Torin prodded.

  “You are going first.”

  “You followed us.”

  “And again, I are not following you.”

  “All right, then. We were here first.”

  “Are we being kits now? You are going with that?” When she sighed, her fur ruffling, Torin could see the exhaustion Craig had noticed earlier, the effort it took to hold her head high. “Fine. I are searching for a dependent of my house, and I are not finding her. She are having fought with the strectasin some years ago when she are young and are having left, announcing as the young are doing that she are better off on her own. The clan are all expecting her to come back having proven her point, but time are passing and she are not home. She are sending messages . . .” A flick of her fingers dismissed the messages. “. . . to her armenai, but then, even that are stopping. More time are passing and no one are hearing from her for years. Finally, her armenai, who are having grown very old and are near dying, are having gone to the strectasin and are saying, I are wanting to be seeing her again before I die. We are a dependent of your house, and you are failing us. The strectasin, who are not being happy about the accusation, sends for me. She are totally ignoring that I are being in the process of putting together a story that are blowing the corruption in the office of the Ministry of Commerce wide open and she are sending me out as her representative. Granted, I are obviously being the best choice, and not only because I are direct blood line descent from the strectasin, but it are not like I are having nothing else to be doing with my time. She are, of course, not being willing to listen.”

  Strectasin ruled the matriarchal Katrien clans. Too many years of interacting with Presit, the reporter, made it difficult for Torin to see Presit, the put-upon family member.

  “I are finding a contact who are putting her on Abalae recently, but the Trun are not telling me anything of use. They are recognizing me, of course, and . . .”

  “They don’t want to spill to the press,” Craig said. “Because the people you were speaking to weren’t exactly on the up and up.”

  Presit nodded. “If I are understanding your up and up, yes. They are most definitely not wanting to talk to the press, and I are too well known.” She turned her attention back to Torin. “That are being thanks to you. Then I are seeing you speaking with Bufush . . .”

  “That was you arguing with zir in the backroom,” Torin realized.

  “Zi are an idiot,” Presit sniffed. “I are not being concerned with zir or the not entirely legal aspects of zir business and, although I are making that very clear, zi are being stupidly suspicious of my motives and are accusing me of attempting to be blackmailing zir. Like I are new at gaining information. All blackmail are ever going to be accomplishing are sealing zir mouth and that are being the opposite of what I are wanting. You are imaging my surprise, when I are seeing you . . .” She nodded at Craig. “. . . and Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, on zir security system. So I are following you . . .”

  “How?” Ressk demanded.

  “You are maybe not noticing you are the only ones of your respective species on Abalae?”

  “On the entire planet?”

  She waved the specifics off. “People are talking and if you are forgetting what I do for a living, don’t. I are seeing you speaking with the facilitators and that are deciding me it are not a good idea to be having this discussion on Abalae where the facilitators will be doing what they can to be overhearing. How convenient it are being, you are being asked to leave. It are ridiculously easy to
be finding where you are docked . . .” She focused on Craig and frowned. “Why are you having changed the name of the ship?”

  “We’re working, Presit; why do you think?”

  “If you are trying not to be noticed, that are not really working out for you.”

  “Micro notice is fine. Macro notice is not.”

  Her lip curled. “I are being sure you are thinking you are making sense. Point I are making, while I are traveling to the tether—and I are certainly not traveling freight, thanking you very much—I are finding you. You are taking so long to leave, I are half thinking you are knowing I are on my way and are giving me time to be reaching my ship . . . ?”

  Craig shook his head. “Technical difficulties. Nothing to do with you.”

  “So you are saying. I are ready to leave as you are finally detaching and I are following you.”

  “How did you crack the buoy and find our jump coordinates?” Alamber demanded.

  She turned an unimpressed gaze in his direction. “I are asking.”

  “You just asked?”

  “The government is required by law to provide full transparency to the press and the buoys are government run,” Torin reminded them.

  Alamber’s hair flipped out. “Yeah, but what if they ask you why you’re here?”

  Even given the full black of Katrien eyes, Presit put in enough effort to make the eyeroll obvious. “I are not hiding. I are searching for a family dependent. Although . . .” Her ears flicked, the Katrien equivalent of a shrug. “. . . everything I are doing are being press business in the end.”

  And water was wet. “You’re searching for Jamers a Tur fenYenstrakin,” Torin said before Alamber could continue the argument.

  “Yes. Yes.” She’d clearly expected Torin to know the name. “The fenYenstrakin are being a dependent of my family within the clan.” Her gaze locked on Torin’s. “Whatever Jamers are having done, whatever are bringing you in here after her, I are not having heard of it, not through any of my sources, and I are having the kind of sources the Wardens would be weeping to have. If I are not having heard of it, it are not being bad enough for you . . .” The rude gesture included them all. “. . . to be involved.”