The Privilege of Peace Read online

  Craig frowned up at the screen. “That does explain a lot.”

  The sector’s H’san wasn’t in the chamber. Or at least wasn’t visible when the camera swept across the members present, their names and constituencies joining the scroll across the bottom of the screen that kept track of reactions to the matter under discussion. In this case, trapping the Younger Races at the bottom of gravity wells for the good of the Confederation. In this open session, the pros were in the majority.

  Torin frowned when a tall glass filled with pale, blue liquid appeared on the table in front of her, and turned to meet the gaze of a smiling server.

  “Paul sent it over. It’s on the house.” When Torin raised a brow, the server’s smile broadened. “He says the discussion about your latest . . .” She translated Torin’s expression and visibly discarded the word she’d been about to use. “. . . adventure has kept them from a vote on raising entertainment taxes for a full tenday. He’s calling the drink The Derailment.”

  “What about us?” Zhou asked, frowning at his empty bottle.

  “Derail Parliament,” Torin told him as the server walked away. “Until then, you buy your own.” A cautious sip gave her a tart, citrus . . . ish flavor with a distinct fizz as the cocktail crossed her tongue. She couldn’t taste the alcohol, but the spreading warmth from throat to stomach announced its presence.

  “Well?”

  She passed Craig the glass. “It’s . . .

  “We interrupt this . . .

  “Boring hour of serley chrika!” Lorkin yelled.

  “. . . to bring you this Confederation-wide announcement. An alert has just been received from the CS Sperry. Big Yellow has returned.”

  A dart hit the board, impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

  “Looks the same.” Craig’s left hand closed around her right wrist.

  “It could be old footage,” Alamber offered.

  Torin studied the lines of the big yellow ship, retrieved her glass, and emptied it. “It’s not.”

  SEVEN

  WERST SCOWLED at the image rotating over the conference room table, the yellow light tinting the gray walls of the room faintly green. “They’re back because of the message sent by the data sheet.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ressk sighed in a way that suggested the argument had been ongoing for a while.

  “I know it in my stomach.” Nostril ridges half closed, Werst drew his lips back off his teeth. “Fukking plastic. I should’ve eaten more of it.”

  At the center of one of the table’s long sides, Commander Ng cleared his throat. “There will be a military response heading out to Big Yellow . . .”

  “No shit,” Werst grunted.

  Commander Ng ignored him. Torin shot him a look that snapped his teeth together.

  “. . . and we’ve received a message they want Wardens Kerr, Ryder, and Werst to be a part of that response given their previous experience on the ship in question.”

  “It’s not exactly a ship,” Craig noted. He sounded calm, but Torin could feel the tension radiating off him.

  “It’s not,” the commander agreed. “But we’re going to keep calling it that.”

  Torin zoomed in on the image, searching for an airlock and not finding one, even though the cruiser had managed full-spherical satellite coverage. “Are they bringing in everyone who survived that last visit?”

  “I’ve only been officially informed about the three of you.”

  “Just us three?” Werst’s foot closed on the edge of the table, grip so tight his toes went white. Ressk wrapped a hand around his ankle.

  “This won’t be a scientific mission or a political meet and greet,” Torin told him, voice level, working to control the rising emotions in the room. “The moment the plastic admitted to starting and maintaining the war, they became a military matter. Craig and I had the plastic in our heads, I’ve spoken to it twice, and you ate a piece. That’s why they want us. Not to mention the fact that we’re government employees, they know exactly where we are, and don’t have to waste time looking for us.”

  “Knew that would bite us on the ass someday,” Werst muttered, but he relaxed his grip and his nostril ridges began to slowly open.

  Craig shifted in his seat. “And because we’re government employees, the bastards assume they can make it an order.”

  “The military is an arm of the government, as is the Justice Department. They can do no more than request our cooperation.” The commander’s expression of bland certainty shut down further protest, potential arguments sliding off it before they started.

  “All right.” Hands gripping the inert edge of the table, Craig leaned toward the commander. “Are we cooperating?”

  “The Minister of Justice requests that we do. I pointed out that half a team was no good to me here, so it’s been agreed all six of you will go.”

  Torin flicked the image of Big Yellow back to the center of the table. “General Morris is on his way to Berbar, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.” Commander Ng glanced at Alamber. “If Warden di’Cikeys is tapping the communications . . .”

  “I’m not.” Alamber’s hair rose.

  “He doesn’t need to be, sir.” Torin swept a glance around the table. “General Morris won’t allow a military response to deploy without him. He was the senior officer during the first contact with Big Yellow, he’ll be the senior officer during the second contact. If the Berganitan is close enough to call in,” she added, “they’ll use her.”

  “She was. They are.” Commander Ng flicked through screens, details rising into the air and disappearing again too fast to read. “Have you completed your . . . assessment, Warden?”

  “Yes, sir.” Torin was self-aware enough to realize she hadn’t put the commander’s response to the incident in Hangar Seven behind her. Commander Ng needed to realize she was more than brawn, more than capable of putting the details together into a vacuum-tight whole and basing her reaction on that.

  All the details.

  All of her reactions.

  “The Berganitan will be arriving at fourteen hundred tomorrow. Kerr, Werst, Ressk, Mashona, I want the four of you to remember you’re no longer part of the military. You’re Wardens and you have your own job to do.” The image of the ship disappeared. “Regardless of what General Morris and the CMC may believe, you’re going to Big Yellow to keep the peace within the parameters the Justice Department set to govern the Strike Teams. You fought for this peace,” he added, gaze softening as he swept it around the table. “You should get to keep it.”

  * * *

  “I don’t understand why it’s just hanging there.” Anthony scowled at the image of Big Yellow, searching the ship for weapons ports. “It’s at the exact coordinates it was previously, it clearly intended to be noticed, and it’s doing nothing.”

  Dr. Banard blinked at the screen. “It did nothing the last time until provoked. You want it to dance, go poke it with a stick.”

  “Your stick is why we’re here, Doctor.” Arms folded, Commander Belcerio made no attempt to hide his dislike for the doctor. “We were informed you were ready to test the prototype, but all I see is this pile of . . .”

  “Weaponry.” Banard patted a rough strut.

  “I know weaponry.” There hadn’t been time for a thorough assessment before Big Yellow commanded the attention of the room, but Anthony had completed a fast walk around and a cursory inspection. “That . . .” He waved at the two-by-three-meter assemblage of junk that dominated one end of the large workshop. “. . . looks like a partially disassembled welding laser.”

  The doctor shrugged. He did it as awkwardly as the Krai. “Fortunately, I don’t care what you think it looks like. And if you want to know why the lump of plastic is hanging around pretending to be a ship, that’s obvious. It’s waiting.”

  “We don’t require your op
inion,” Belcerio told him.

  “It wasn’t an opinion.”

  “Fine.” The commander’s brows drew in until they touched over his nose. “What’s it waiting for?”

  “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say Kerr, Ryder, and that hairy reporter thing.” Anthony answered before Banard could. “The plastic spent time in their brains and, as far as we know, Kerr is the only person it’s ever spoken to. It’s waiting for them, and once Kerr arrives, because she won’t arrive alone, we won’t be able to get within a thousand kilometers of it.”

  “And we’ll lose our chance to destroy the plastic for a grateful populace, prompting Humans to flock to our side, and we win. Yay.” Banard blew his nose, then checked he’d got everything with the tip of a finger. “A species with the resources to conduct an experiment involving two galactic civilizations always intended to investigate the consequences.”

  Belcerio pointedly showed the doctor his back. “Per Marteau?”

  “I believe curiosity prodded us up onto the beach and into space.” Hands in his jacket pockets, Anthony noted the position of the CS Sperry. Wondered how many of his weapons were on board. Knew that he and his could avoid a single ship that size, but not the battleship on which Kerr would arrive. “Curiosity is the one thing we have in common with the lesser species, and as the plastic made it to space . . .”

  “Could have evolved in space.” Banard punctuated the words by blowing his nose again. “The evolved detritus of the universe’s first civilization.” And again. “I may write a paper.” Feeling the weight of Anthony’s glare, he added, “It won’t literally involve paper. That would be insane.”

  “I’m aware of what write a paper means, Doctor.”

  Banard ignored the ice in Anthony’s tone. “Good.” Tipped his head toward Belcerio. “He had no idea.”

  Had he been standing closer, Anthony suspected he’d be able to hear Belcerio grinding his teeth. “I advise you to ignore him, Commander. Focus on the weapon he’s building.” Given what he seemed capable of creating, Dr. Banard could have been one of the degenerate species and Anthony would’ve found a way to endure him. If Belcerio couldn’t see that, he was less intuitive than the job required, and Anthony would have to consider replacing him.

  Lip curled, Belcerio muttered, “I don’t want to see you wasting your money.”

  Anthony smiled. “I appreciate the consideration, Commander. I did more than double my inheritance, but your insight on my investments is invaluable.”

  “Apologies, Per Marteau. I had no intention of offending.” He was smart enough to see he’d crossed a line.

  That was good. Anthony didn’t have the time to install a new commander. “I accept your apology, Commander.” He nodded at Belcerio, Belcerio nodded at him, all very polite. “Now . . .” Hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “. . . as you clearly have doubts about Dr. Banard’s work, I have a different job for you. I want Scale and Claw put into motion.”

  “Scale and Claw?” Banard barked out a laugh. “Seriously? You have code names? Can I be Doctor Science? No! Super Science!”

  “You can be replaced,” Belcerio said flatly.

  Banard smiled. “I really can’t.”

  “I’ve given you your orders, Commander.” Anthony nodded toward the hatch.

  “You want it implemented now?” The force of his gesture toward the screen seemed like a reprimand.

  “I’d be happier with yesterday, but unless Dr. Banard has created a working time machine, I’ll have to handle the disappointment.” Belcerio flushed at his tone. If he didn’t appreciate sarcasm, he needed to stop asking stupid questions, or Anthony was going to have to free up some time.

  “You expect Scale and Claw to delay the military response to Big Yellow if they haven’t deployed, and if they have, they’ll have to return Kerr. If we can’t kill her . . .”

  “And you, as a group, seem appallingly unsuccessful at that,” Banard interjected.

  Belcerio ignored him. “. . . we can take her out of play. With the military response delayed, we can get to Big Yellow first.”

  Banard broke into slow applause. “He’s not as stupid as he looks.”

  While Belcerio snarled, Anthony took his turn ignoring the doctor. “Without Kerr, we have a good chance of making contact. The plastic would be a powerful ally, and it’s clearly not averse to interfering.”

  “And the weapon?” Belcerio asked.

  He might as well have been asking about the shit on his shoe, but as his vitriol was directed at Banard, Anthony let it go. “I plan to talk to it first.”

  “You think the plastic will recognize the justice of our cause?”

  “I don’t care what it recognizes. It’s already run one social experiment. If it’s willing to engage, I’m confident I can convince it to run another. Precedent tells us it wants to learn, so we’ll teach it.”

  “It’s only ever spoken to Kerr . . .”

  “We’re back to boom, Humans First hero of the day, flocking to the banner, we win. Yay.” Banard twisted his square of cloth until he found a reasonably unused section, and blew his nose. “Scale those claws,” he added, his voice muffled by wiping and digging, “and let me get back to work.”

  Anthony raised a brow at the commander who nodded, once, in that annoying military way that seemed as much insult as respect, and headed for the hatch. When the slam of the pins returning to place echoed through the workshop, he turned his back on the screen. “Now, Dr. Banard, the weapon. I know weapon design and that doesn’t look like much.”

  “You mean it doesn’t look like what you consider to be a weapon.” Banard fondled the end of a bolt securing an ugly support strut. “Doesn’t have to. Just has to work. This bit here, I cannibalized part of a waste disposal unit—you stay too focused on weapons, you’ll never become aware of the destruction available in the tools used in day-to-day living. Then, I printed a scaled-up version of a piece of lab equipment that identifies molecular composition. Work has already been done, why should I do it again?” Reaching in past the upper horizontal line of a long narrow lens, he seemed to forget he was in the middle of a conversation.

  “Doctor?”

  “Academics totter on the edge of discovery, but haven’t the guts to totter over the line.” He removed his hand from the weapon’s interior, stared at his fingertips, licked his thumb, and continued. “Talk about myopic focus. You have a lot in common with them, actually. This is a weapon. That isn’t.” Pulling the piece of fabric out of his pocket again, he stared into its folds, then shoved it away. “I can’t stand academics.”

  Anthony walked slowly around the mess of connected parts, tried to determine function from form, and failed. “Does it work?”

  “It’s made up of three distinct parts. One part will measure the energy of the covalent bonds. It’ll adjust as the plastic does.”

  “I think you’ll find the plastic adjusts remarkably quickly. How did you get repurposed lab equipment to process at speed?”

  Banard’s cheeks pleated when he smiled, folding the broken capillaries into new patterns. “How? I’m just that good. The next part will use that data to create an energy beam designed to break the bonds apart. And the last part will incinerate those parts with good old-fashioned electricity while they’re stunned or whatever you call temporarily indisposed plastic. Four parts,” he amended. “If you count the energy cell as a separate unit. Given the amount of shielding, I suppose you should. I integrated Susumi tech into it. Come to think of it, not so old-fashioned.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Of course not. It’s a weapon. It was built to destroy. You don’t want safe.” Leaning back against a sheet of metal, apparently unconcerned about it shifting, Banard reached into baggy trousers and adjusted his genitals. “The odds of it blowing up while in use are small, very small, if that’s what you’re asking.”


  “I’m also asking, does it work?”

  “Each part takes microseconds to do its job. Distance will be a factor although I don’t know how much of a factor until I can get it on a ship . . .”

  “Doctor.”

  “It’s not working yet. It’s still parts not a whole. If you want it mounted on your ships, you’ll want a single unit.”

  “Why?” Anthony traced the joins, adjusting for actual product rather than prototype. “Mount the individual units and link them. Vacuum doesn’t require streamlining.”

  “That’ll work. Excellent job thinking outside the factory floor, Per Marteau.”

  The tips of his ears heating at the unexpected compliment, Anthony stepped back, and glanced at the screen. “I want us on the way as soon as possible. Make a list of the parts we can source, we’ll print anything unique while we’re in Susumi, and install after we exit.”

  “And where will we be going? Parliament’s clutching the coordinates to its collective chests.”

  “I have people in most government departments and I’ve had these particular coordinates for years.”

  “Good for you.” Banard stroked a vertical shaft and frowned when his hand caught on a rough join. “I hate the whole concept of Susumi space, but I do want a closer look at this plastic.”

  “I have to insist you travel alone. Space restrictions on board ship.” He’d leave instructions that the four young di’Taykan the doctor used for diversions were to be dropped off where they’d be found in a timely manner.

  Banard waved it off. “Not a problem. There’s more where they came from.”

  * * *

  “Anyone surprised Big Yellow brought the assholes out of the woodwork?” Ressk asked as Alpha doubled down the passageway toward the armory on the heels of Strike Team T’Jaam.

  “Dissension’s probably their plan.” Binti acknowledged two maintenance workers who’d flattened against the bulkhead to give them room to pass. “The plastic returns. Things go to shit. No effort on their part.”