The Privilege of Peace Page 6

  “I are having announced the end of the war.”

  With Presit’s equipment hooked into Promise’s distress beacon, they’d been able to spread the news far and fast to both sides of the fight. Too far and too fast to be denied.

  “I are not approving of secrets.” She picked up a small glass cup and took a sip of the pale green liquid. “Particularly secrets that are being kept from me.” Small white teeth showed points against black lips as she lowered the cup. “I are going to be asking around.”

  “Can you find out if the H’san know?”

  “I can.” That she could find out anything was heavily implied. Her dark eyes narrowed, the mirrored glasses she wore in non-Katrien light levels beside her cup on the desk. “Why are I wanting to?”

  “I don’t trust the H’san.”

  “Everyone are trusting the H’san.”

  The H’san were the Eldest of the Elder Races. The H’san had formed the Confederation. The H’san sang to welcome the dawn. The H’san loved cheese.

  Torin thought of hidden weapons. Of a bio-contaminant almost broken. “I’m not everyone.”

  “Oh, that are being very definitely true ex-Gunnery Sergeant Strike Team Leader Warden Kerr. And, while you are being undeniably and unfortunately you, you are also being part of a distinct subset, one that are having served the Confederation valiantly, but that are being unfortunately disregarded when other, presumably more socially evolved species are being driven by what are being an irrational fear of the unfamiliarity of peace.”

  Even with years of practice at deciphering the Katrien’s idiosyncratic speech patterns, it took Torin a moment to parse the sentence. “You’re against the vote?”

  “I are standing beside the Younger Races who are having stood beside us when we were needing them.”

  Torin considered that declaration for a moment. “Presit, are you running for office?”

  “I are thinking of using my influence in a broader capacity, yes. You are having given me a way to be starting the conversation. I are expecting your support.” Her muzzle wrinkled. “Be telling Craig that I are still thinking he can do better.”

  The screen went black for a moment, then Sector Central News began to scroll. Presit no longer worked for the company, but she didn’t believe in burning bridges.

  Torin thumbed her slate off.

  “What is it you want Presit to find out?” Craig asked, separating the final two pieces of the capacitor. “Or do you want her out there shit disturbing?”

  “Six of one,” Torin admitted. “The military is required to provide full transparency to the press.” There were times during the war when the press arrived at the battle site before the military. In a just universe, the Primacy would have used them to range artillery weapons. “What are they hiding? Why are they hiding it?”

  Craig dripped what Torin assumed was oil between two tiny pieces, then fitted them back together, large callused hands moving deftly, almost delicately. “You were less than specific.”

  “When talking to Presit? I didn’t need to be specific, Presit’s point and shoot. And, if I tell her I want her to do something specific, she’ll do the opposite.”

  Craig grinned. “No lie. Why hide the possibility shooting could start up again, then? That news would shift the go-home-children vote in our favor, and we can all keep playing silly buggers with the grownups.”

  “Could be they’re worried about another round of being lab rats for the plastic aliens.”

  “Then they should say that.”

  Torin flicked a corner of her slate, spinning it around on the small desk she seldom powered up, preferring to use the larger desk at work. “Could be the plastic aliens aren’t involved. The war went on for generations; it gets to be a habit.”

  “Some people are assholes,” Craig agreed.

  Bottom line, she was point and shoot herself. “I hate politics.”

  “So you say.”

  “Presit still thinks you can do better.”

  “So I heard. She’s wrong.”

  Torin stood and crossed toward him. “You couldn’t survive anyone better than me.”

  “Probably not . . .”

  * * *

  • • •

  “What part of subdue do you not understand?” Arms loose at her sides, weight up on the balls of her feet, Torin glared at the members of three Strike Teams scattered around the gym, most of them breathing heavily. “A nonlethal takedown ends with the criminal unable to either fight or flee, but still able to breathe.”

  di’Numanja Tylen swiped at the blood dribbling from her nose. “I can breathe, Gunny. And I heard R&D will have the tranq guns working any day now.”

  “From who?”

  “I think she’s in R&D . . .”

  “R&D tries hard,” Torin said flatly and cut the snickers off with a sharp, “Outer reaping takedown. Set.” She walked the perimeter as they squared off again. “The Warden moves into a mutual grab situation forcing their opponent’s head and upper body back—right hand on left shoulder.” This wasn’t a situation where the di’Taykan were free to make alternate suggestions and they all knew it. “The Warden sweeps the left foot away from the opponent’s body and uses their grip on the left shoulder to force the opponent down to the right. The Warden follows the opponent to the ground, right knee on their chest, their hands secured. No crushing sternums, throats, or noses although all three would be options in a real-world scenario.” She frowned. “Options that would result in a shit-ton of paperwork.” Back at the front of the gym, she folded her arms. “Opponents, this time try and remember we’re practicing form, we’re not sparring. No applying knees to groins, teeth to flesh . . .” She nodded at Tylen. “. . . foreheads to noses. Go.”

  Strike Team Wardens who hadn’t been close combat specialists during their time in were required to achieve competence if not proficiency in hand-to-hand fighting. Torin allowed the pilots mere competence as they were rarely in the thick of the fighting, but everyone else put in time having their asses regularly pounded into the mats under the supervision of Werst, di’Tagawa Gamar, or Torin herself. Over the last year they’d gone through a close-combat instructor who’d had twenty in the Corps as well as two ex-Corps pulled from planetary law enforcement. Even Commander Ng agreed that if the patronizing fukkers hadn’t wanted bones broken, they shouldn’t have smiled and told Torin not to hold back.

  A di’Taykan instructor from Ventris would arrive in three tendays. In the meantime, they made do.

  Torin saw Alamber reach for his masker and smiled. Increasing the pheromone that made the di’Taykan all but irresistible to almost every non-insectoid species they’d come in contact with gave them a valid advantage in a fight and one time or another every single di’Taykan forgot the training maskers were nonadjustable. While Alamber was distracted, Zhou swept his foot out from under him and took him slowly to the mat. New personnel started out careful of her civilian, but while Alamber had usually wielded wits and words to get out of trouble, his background had eased the physical inhibitions most sentient beings labored under when it came to damaging another sentient being—nontraditional substituted for criminal on official documentation. That, added to the one-on-one training Torin and Werst continued to give him during the long hours in Susumi space, allowed him to surprise most of his opponents. To his credit, Torin acknowledged as Alamber braced his leg on Zhou’s shoulder, flipped them both, and landed straddling his opponent’s chest, he’d never accidentally broken anyone’s nose.

  “Alamber.”

  “Right. Form.” He offered Zhou a hand up. “Sorry, Boss.”

  Strike Team U’yun would have to attend another nine sessions on form before they could join the significantly more popular do what you have to in order to win.

  The gym, like the range, originally had a gallery accessible to everyone with station ID. It had
taken less than a full tenday for that to change. Officially, Justice expressed concern about the safety of untrained personnel in an unfamiliar, and potentially deadly, situation. Unofficially, the Strike Teams had objected to being stared at like they were a cross between a horror vid and animals in a learning enclosure. Torin had pointed out to Commander Ng that those members of the Elder Races who watched wide-eyed—in cases where physiognomy allowed—clearly appalled by what they saw, were also on the government’s payroll operating under full access agreements. The Strike Teams could therefore drop by to stare at them working.

  “And make fukking comments about how they fill out their fukking forms,” Werst had muttered.

  Commander Ng had cleaned up the language, repeated the observation in the right ears, and clearances had been revoked before he’d returned to his office. Getting the Strike Team program fully operational had been a learning experience for all concerned.

  “Torin!” Craig stood just inside the hatch, beckoning her over.

  “Switch sides and do it again,” Torin called out, crossing toward him. She ignored the protests rising behind her. “Problem?”

  “Presit called. We’re invited to a press conference.”

  A grunt pulled Torin around in time to see Elisk take Ranjit to the mat. The height difference between Human and Krai decided the match in Human favor a lot less often than expected and, for ex-Navy, Elisk’s form wasn’t bad. He also had no inhibitions about dropping an ex-officer on her ass. She turned her attention back to Craig. “A press conference? About the skirmishes?”

  “No. Word is they’ll be flashing the plastic sheet from Threxie. Finally give the public an eyeful before the squints lock it away in a lab.”

  “Before they lock it away? Where’s it been since we brought it back?”

  “Bit iffy, but they didn’t put that information on the invite. Point is, we were there when it was found, and Presit wants us there when it’s displayed. Says we’ll improve the optics.” He grinned and scratched his chin through the dark scruff of his short beard. “And it seems Presit has dirt on Representative Hurring because the invitation originated in his office.

  “Hurring will never leave the Core.” Not once during zir six years in office, had the Justice Minister graced any of the MidSector stations with zir presence. The only Trun Torin had ever seen had been on the Trun home-world, giving weight to the rumor that it wasn’t only the politicians but the entire species who refused to leave the Core.

  Craig shrugged. “It’s not happening in the Core. It’s happening on Nuh Ner, at Sector Parliament. Seems we’re more important to the planned spectacle than the Minister.”

  “And they don’t want us in the Core.” Torin didn’t elaborate on who she meant when she said they. Craig knew.

  “Presit seems to think they don’t want you in the Core. Where you go, trouble follows.”

  “She’s got that backward.”

  He smiled, the outside corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I told her.”

  Torin had never been to the Sector Parliament although she’d seen both the exterior and interior of the buildings a thousand times. Multiple vid channels covered political procedure twenty-eight/ten and Torin found it better than meds on nights she couldn’t sleep. “A press conference,” she repeated. It didn’t sound any more believable. “I’d rather be shot. And I’ve been to press conferences and I’ve been shot, so that’s not a hypothetical observation.”

  No point in asking if they could refuse. An invitation from the desk of Representative Hurring was as good as an order. “All right, Presit wrangled me an invitation because she thinks I’m a catalyst for disaster, and disaster attracts attention.” Presit enjoyed attention. “Why does she want you there?”

  “She likes me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We’re leaving on the twenty-six hundred shuttle.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Ablin gon savit.” Like most Marines, Torin had learned to swear fluently in all three languages of the Younger Races by the end of her first year in the Corps. “Have they given the rest of the team leave?”

  “No idea, but the commander wants to bend our ears before we go.”

  Torin pivoted back toward the gym and caught Werst’s eye. “They’re all yours. Run them through the two-point takedown a few times while I see a man about a dumbass idea.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Commander Ng seemed less thrilled about the invitation than Torin. “I have no doubt the proverbial shit will hit the fan while we’re short-handed.” After a moment’s silence, he sighed. “Still, it’ll make Representative Hurring happy. That may help at budget time.”

  “And if the proverbial shit does hit the fan?” Torin tried not to sound hopeful.

  “You’ll receive priority boarding on a ship home. But, hard as it is to believe, we can manage without you. For a while.”

  The rest of the team had been assigned station duties while they were gone. Alamber had been granted permission to help out in the labs.

  “Squints were impressed at how he took apart Marteau Industries,” Craig said as they packed.

  “He’s got mad skills he seldom gets to use.” She carefully folded her dress uniform along the creases.

  “And you’d prefer civilians out of the line of fire.”

  “Seems reasonable; they’re civilians.” Tunic squared up on her trousers, she closed the case. “Alamber’s a civilian.”

  “We’re all civvies, Torin.”

  “You know what I mean.” She’d never intended Alamber to carry a weapon, never intended the death and destruction that had shadowed his past to shift to the forefront of his present. What was it Hollice used to say about the road to hell and good intentions?

  “And me?”

  And him, indeed. She leaned against the wall and watched him shove his boots in along the outer edge of his case, fighting the years of experience that wanted her to tell him to start over and get it right. “The other pilots rave about the training simulation you designed.”

  “They rave?” Craig glanced up, brows raised. “You heard them rave? I heard it wasn’t bad, and Pirrtirr grunted that it would do.”

  “That’s raving for a pilot.” She smirked. “It’s how you rave.”

  His expression matched hers for a moment, then it disappeared. “Torin.” He reached out and wrapped his fingers lightly around her wrist. “I’m not sitting on station running training simulations while you risk your life.”

  She twisted free of his grip and caught his hand, thumb against the pulse point on his wrist. “I know.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The trip to Nuh Ner was uneventful. Torin noted both the position of the escape pods and who, among the government employees sharing the ship, would need help getting to one. After determining which of the two common areas had better coffee, she settled in to read reports, trying to find a pattern in the recent Humans First activity.

  Craig won a week’s pay in an illegal poker game; the loser a Justice official on the way to take part in a Parliamentary committee on language drift and adaptation.

  “Don’t trouble about it, mate.” He held out his slate for the transfer. “I’m a Warden.”

  Nuh Ner had three large land masses and four smaller ones, one moon large enough to influence the tides and a second, smaller moon farther out. The gravity was marginally stronger than Paradise. Not strong enough for Torin to notice given the length of their stay, but strong enough Craig changed his mind about extending their time dirtside. Radiation levels were surprisingly low considering Nuh Ner’s position on the edge of the Core.

  “Weird that every Sector Parliament is tucked up against the Core,” Torin muttered disdainfully as they crossed the Port’s open courtyard between Arrivals and C
ity Links, the sky filled with stars enough to light their way.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’d think politicians would prefer the abyss.”

  “She’s not exactly stoked about politics,” Craig explained to a staring Niln.

  Inner lids slid over dark eyes and slender fingers tightened around the handle of a metallic case. The Niln’s reaction might have been caused by the close proximity of the dangerous Younger Races, it might have been specifically them—Torin had no way of knowing although she hoped it was the latter. Hoped that Parliamentary concern about innate violent natures hadn’t spread to the general public. Wondered when she’d become such an optimist.

  THREE

  THE PUBLIC UNVEILING of the plastic data sheet had been scheduled for the next morning, and Presit collected them from their hotel herself. “So I are being sure you are actually showing up,” she explained.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  She patted the back of Craig’s hand. “I are not talking to you.” Head cocked, she looked them both up and down. “Those are being your dress uniforms?”

  “No,” Torin told her. “We like to dress identically. It’s a couple thing.”

  “You are not being funny.”

  The Wardens’ dress uniforms varied according to species, but the Younger Races, on and off the Strike Teams, wore a variation on their military Class A—Torin having pointed out there’d be a cost savings if the manufacturers could use fabrication parameters already in place. It had been the selling point when it came to outfitting the teams in combat gear as well. Pale gray hadn’t been her first or even her second choice, but serving di’Taykan required neutral clothing or a higher tolerance for clashing colors than most species possessed. The Marines had claimed black and the Navy dark gray, and Parliament had been adamant there’d be no confusion between civilian and military actions. No one had pointed out that all three sets of combats had an identical camouflage function, but then no one expected a member of Parliament to be anywhere near the action. The Justice Department crest took up most of the tunic front—Human eyes unable to see the two brightest colors. Torin had been overruled on a distinct designation for the Strike Teams, but won the argument about wings tabs for the pilots and crossed KC7s for the snipers.