An Ancient Peace (18 page)

“Smooth move, jarhead,” Nadayki muttered.

“Silence,” Sujuno hissed, the sibilants sliding past the sensors even
at volume. At a sixty count, it became clear the stairs weren't a zone the sensors covered, but she counted twenty more before she gave the order to continue exploring.

“Okay, the things on the
plinths
, they're not statues. I think they're bodies.” The sense of Keo's lip curl made it undiluted through all seven repetitions. “All different kinds of bodies. They're kind of, I don't know, preserved. And they're really fukking creepy. No visible weapons. No apparent security. Cavern is visually clear, floor is physically clear to six meters out from base of stairs where water begins. It's safe to send Dion down.”

Dion, with little interest in the chain of command, started moving before Sujuno could give the order. “This is the bowl in the earth,” he said, his statement passed up to her through Verr and Wen and Nadayki. “The text reads that the bowl has been upturned over secrets. We should be close.”

Should be? Their intell was imprecise at best, poetry at worst, and the necropolis was significantly larger than expected. “Close is relative down here,” she said. And
should
meant nothing at all.

“The station sysop will be watching our signals.” Hands resting on the worn duct tape that held a split seam on the top of the pilot's chair together, Torin watched Ressk slave his slate to
Promise
's computer. “Shouldn't you wait until we've detached?”

“No time to waste,” Ressk grunted, curled into a half circle on the second chair, fingers and toes flying over the control board. “Sliding into the traffic buoy's more complicated than going to the JRM for a beer.”

“Yeah, but we can't leave until the supplies are loaded,” Werst reminded him, popping open the panel that hid the coffeemaker—one of the few remaining pieces of the original ship. “Supplies,” he added, voice muffled by the sound of the reservoir filling, “that you bought.”

“Point of interest . . .” Craig nodded toward a red light flashing on the upper left corner of the board. “. . . that's the docking master. The Trun want us gone, but we can't blow until we can file coordinates with the traffic buoy and we can't file coordinates until we . . . What's
that?” He spread his hands. “Have coordinates to file. We don't even know if we're heading in or out. Ressk's right, he's got no time to toss. We need to know where the
Seelinkjer Cer Pen
went.”

“Okay, first, let's shorten that to
Seeli
. And second, why? We can always refile and change course.” Alamber leaned over the top of the second chair, eyes dark, head moving up and down as he scanned the streaming code, slate cradled in one hand.

Craig stroked yellow onto the board near the light, indicating a delay. “Given the density in the core, if we file one plan then switch, we'll ping an inquiry. Usually not a problem, free Confederation and all, but we're flying with a fake registration.”

“And under orders to remain unnoticed,” Binti put in.

“I don't take orders from the military.” Craig slapped his fingers against the board with more force than necessary.

Alamber's gesture might've been dismissal, might've been agreement. “Yeah, and those would be the same orders that sent us to Abalae. Fail on the low profile.” He rested enough weight on the chair that it creaked and bent forward. “You're doing support with your feet, right?” He poked Ressk in the shoulder. “Nothing original? Because if you are, that puts an ability to walk and fuk at the same time into a kind of pathetic perspective.”

“Alamber.”

He straightened, fully aware of what Torin had intended his name to represent. “Yeah, well, I suppose I'll just wait here until I'm needed.”

“You do that. Werst . . .”

“It's brewing, Gunny.”

It was taking too damned long. She pointed at the board. “The red light's flashing faster.”

“Because the docking master's knickers are in a knot.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Craig turned enough to grin up at her. “Yeah, you do.”

“I'm in,” Ressk announced before she could respond.

“How are you hiding the signal from the station?”

“They're reading it as a traffic inquiry.” Right foot tapping a complex pattern across the bottom of the board, Ressk rubbed his hands
together. “Because I'm just that good. Although, it helps that's what they're expecting to read. Give people what they expect and they get kind of stupid.”

“So it's safe?” Torin nodded her thanks as Werst handed her a pouch of coffee, feeling muscles across her back relax as she breathed in the fragrant steam. Next time they went dirtside she was throwing half a dozen pouches into her duffel.

“No, not entirely safe. Not if someone actually takes a look at the code, then it's pretty fukking obvious what we're trying to do.”

“Someone like the facilitators?” Binti wondered, accepting a pouch.

“No, we're off the planet.” Torin took a long swallow. “That's all the facilitators care about.”

“Attention,
Commitment
 . . .”

It took them all a moment to remember that was them.

“. . . this is Drone Control. Drone 77A is approaching
Commitment
's cargo lock with container 12-8. Stand by to open lock.”

“Werst. Mashona. Delay them as long as you can.”

“On it, Gunny.” Binti drained her pouch and tossed it into the recycler on her way out the hatch.

“Why isn't your throat entirely covered in fukking scar tissue?” Werst muttered, clutching his pouch of
sah
as he followed her out of the room.

The small cargo bay was, like the control room and the Susumi engine, part of the original
Promise
. Craig had used it more for salvage too delicate for the exterior pens than for supplies. Torin felt the deck shudder as the outer lock opened “It won't take them long to unload one container.”

“It's a big container, Gunny, and they're not shoving it into an empty bay. It'll be a tight fit, and Werst may have to suit up and clear out the old crap.”

“How much new crap did you buy?”

Ressk shrugged. “As much as would require a container as close to the dimensions of the bay as I could find. Don't worry, Intell paid.” He leaned back, eyes locked on the board, nostril ridges half opening, half closing, not quite fast enough for Torin to call it a flutter. “It's a good thing the traffic buoys are old tech.” The answering silence
evoked a snort. “You must've noticed that the tech dirtside was way above the shit we see every day.”

Torin nodded, remembering the hard light. “The slates . . .”

“Everything,” Ressk interrupted. “And it's all worn in enough that it's clearly not new tech to the people of Commerce Three, Sector Eighteen, even if they're on the lower branches of the local economic tree.”

“So we've been getting Granddad's hand-me-downs from the Elder Races,” Torin said softly. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Maybe they wanted the Younger Races to advance on their own, to move forward independently instead of sitting around with their hands out in one of the displays of entitlement that Humans, at least, were prone to. Or, maybe, they didn't trust the Younger Races with anything too sharp.

“Well, they're not handing over the recent shit, that's for sure. But the buoys, these things have been around for a while. Alamber's program combined with my genius . . .”

Alamber flicked the top of his head.

“Ow. Fukker. Anyway, we should own this old sh . . .” The entire board flashed orange. “We have the buoy. And security's spotted me! Go!”

The di'Taykan were graceful. It was part of the Taykan default—tall, brightly colored, enthusiastically sexually indiscriminate, graceful. That said, it had never occurred to Torin to think a di'Taykan could hack a traffic buoy gracefully, but where Ressk looked efficient and in command of the board, Alamber's fingers danced over the screen of his slate, his body rolling back and forth in small, sensuous curves, loose from his shoulders down.

He hadn't been able to get into a buoy on his own. He and Ressk working together were unstoppable.

“Goes to prove . . .” Craig leaned back and caught one of Torin's hands in his, holding it against his cheek, stubble prickling her skin. “. . . di'Taykan don't do well alone.”

“You reading my mind again?”

He turned his head and kissed her palm. “Wouldn't think of it.”

“Gunny.” Frustration bled into Binti's voice. “The container's on board. We're closing now.”

Werst hadn't had to suit up after all. “Seems the Trun have spatial skills.”

“Attention,
Commitment
, this is Drone Control. We will sound an all clear when drone 77A has exited your departure area.”

“Ressk?”

He shook his head, nostril ridges definitely fluttering now. “We need more time.”

Torin reached over Craig and thumbed the communications board live with her free hand. “Attention, Drone Control, this is
Commitment
. We need to examine the contents of container twelve dash eight for damage before we can allow you to leave the area.”

“Attention,
Commitment
, this is Drone Control. We are not responsible if the contents of container 77A shifted during delivery. Drone Control out.”

“Atten . . .” She frowned at the readings. “They've blocked us. They really want us out of here.”

“Yeah, well, really can't, not yet,” Ressk muttered.

Hair moving in choppy arcs, Alamber pushed in between the two chairs, thumb tapping a one-two, one-two-three rhythm on his slate. He pinched up a small section of the board, dragged a line of code free, and tossed it to the left where it expanded into four fast moving screens.

“What . . .”

“Wait.” The screens disappeared, half a dozen sections of the board in front of Craig lit up, and Alamber returned most of his attention to his slate. “I sent a surge into the docking clamp and froze it. Reads like an overload, sort of thing that happens when someone's a little too anxious to blow and it's set so anyone leaning on the controls'll think it was them. Best part, the clamp'll have to be manually released.”

“One of Big Bill's?” Craig asked, releasing Torin's hand.

“One of mine for Big Bill. He liked people to leave on his schedule, not theirs.”

“And you had it preloaded in my ship?”

Craig's growl flattened Alamber's hair. “Look, I'm kind of busy . . .”

Torin tugged Craig back down into his chair and nudged him toward the board. “Discuss it later. Right now, you need to call the station master and let zir know how you feel about being held hostage by poor maintenance. They won't see coordinates until their incompetence allows us to leave. Go big.”

He frowned. “Won't that get the clamp fixed faster?”

“Not if you're obnoxiously clear that's what you want. They already think we're violent and inferior; they won't want to do us any favors.”

“No one said inferior, Torin.”

“Not out loud.”

Three coffees later with Werst and Binti back in the control room and the station master refusing further contact from anyone on the
Commitment
—Torin counted that a win—Ressk stiffened and said, “Alamber.”

“Unclench. I can stay out front of security. Get the data.”

“If they . . .”

“I know. Just snatch and grab, I'm right behind you.”

“
Commitment
, you are clear to go.”

“Just snatch and grab?” Ressk snapped his teeth together. “They haven't cleared their fukking caches for years.”

“We require that you upload your destination coordinates . . .”

“Got it!”

“. . . immediately.”

“Fukking hell.” Craig lurched for the board as the ship jerked away from the docking arm, all clamps releasing at once. “I've been asked to leave a few places, once or twice, but I've never had an entire ship thrown off a station before.”

“We are terrible ambassadors for the Younger Races,” Binti snickered.

Torin could think of worse.

“I'm out clean.” Alamber slid his slate into a pocket and rolled his shoulders. “Ow.”

“Come on.” Binti stood and moved up behind him. “I'll rub the stiffness out.”

He sighed and sagged against her. “Can we just pretend I made the expected response?”

“Sure.”

“Good work, Alamber.”

He paused at the hatch, Binti's arm around his waist and flashed a wide smile at Torin. “Short and bristly couldn't have done it without me.”