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The situation continues to deteriorate in the Kashkin

On writing.dog, these are split across three different chapters, but since they're fairly short I am combining them here. These are all clean, and cover the decaying situation between the Kashkin and their neighbors. Two new characters get to shine for a bit, one of them returning after a lengthy hiatus and reader request. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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Crucible, by Rob Baird. Parts 4-6

Chengbei Regional Operations Center

Fenghuang District, Jericho

12.5.2560

“You need to sit down, captain. This isn't your place."

Captain Shirakawa bit his tongue, nodded, and took his seat. “Yes, sir."

Refining Outpost J7, though, was vulnerable—whether Colonel Chao admitted it or not. That the convoys hadn't been attacked was a matter of good fortune, nothing more. Nobody, not Colonel Chao or anyone else at the briefing, could argue with Shirakawa's assessment of J7's vulnerabilities.

None of them had argued. But when he insisted on the need to double their patrols, Chao would have none of it. The old man moved on to the next section of the agenda. “Major Dan: an update on the airfield, please?"

Dan Chang-min spoke for ten minutes on the preparations they were making. New landing pads—one large enough to support a 50,000-ton lighter—would be ready by the end of the week, and they could start landing commercial traffic without needing to send it to McKeever, in Yucatec territory.

“As you know," Dan said, “we consider road traffic a strategic liability that we need to avoid where possible."

Shirakawa had made the same point. This time, Colonel Chao listened. And he congratulated Dan on the continued quiet in the sector since an airstrike two weeks prior. A strike that had been Shirakawa's idea. A strike that had cost him dearly in favors from Dan Chang-min, who smiled placidly now and mentioned none of that to Colonel Chao.

It was all but a given, by that point, that Shirakawa would receive no credit for the work he'd done. He suppressed his bitterness for the remainder of the meeting. Jericho had been a mistake—not even his mistake. He was doing it to make a name for himself, for people largely undeserving of the effort.

Mori Moteki, his fiancée, might have been one of them. He wouldn't have said that the previous year, just after taking the commission; back then, Mori was encouraging, and offered advice on how to manage the politics of the local syndicate.

Recently, though, their conversations were growing more strained. He waited for the holographic link to synchronize, debating how to broach the topic. Mori's face, soft-featured and pretty as ever, still heartened him. “I'm sorry I'm late. The committee meeting went long."

“Yes, you'd said there was an important meeting. You were going to see about earning some respect for that… was it a battle? A demolition?"

“Both. The animals here have been increasing their attacks on our mines. I decided we'd need to hit back. And we did—on my recommendation. We completely leveled every bit of territory they'd claimed. That should've counted for something."

“But?"

“But Chao Shun wouldn't even acknowledge it. And if we've provoked the animals, who knows how they'll respond? They're not intelligent enough to predict. I'm worried about one of our outposts."

“Why?"

“Because they might lash out." In fact, although what the Yucatec called 'moreaus' were too stupid for proper military strategy, Outpost J7 was too rich a target for even them to pass up. “If they do, I can already tell Chao will blame me for it."

Mori looked at him skeptically. “What you're telling me is that you're not being promoted. Your assignment was supposed to be for three months, Tatsuki. It's been more than a year."

“What do you want me to say? It feels like I've been sent here to fail."

“Then you should find a way to ensure you don't. People are starting to talk."

'People' certainly went further than Mori's relatives, although they probably weren't helping. The Moteki family's business was unquestionably successful: in its seventh generation of profitability, and the chief supplier of chemical precursors to some of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the Talin sector.

Her father hadn't really approved of Mori's engagement. He had, out of parental love, pulled the strings required to promote the mercenary lieutenant she'd fallen for to a position of authority. It was out of love, right? After the call, Tatsuki wondered if he was being paranoid, or if perhaps he had been sent to fail.

Pacifying the coastal mining operations sounded easy. The Hachisuka-Muramatsu Group owned a number of rich claims in the northern reaches of the continent. With Arcadia's growing independence, bootstrapping a new colony off their transportation and power infrastructure seemed logical enough, and mutually beneficial.

If there was an obstacle, it was the animals who bordered Arcadia. Even there, though, the two powers had common cause. As an ex-Yucatec society, and therefore somewhat morally compromised, they might've been willing to put up with the abominations—at least as individuals. But the autonomous region was a threat: HMG and Arcadia would both benefit from its extermination.

Why, then, was the corporation's regional headquarters so slow to authorize the expenditures required to protect the coastal claims? Tatsuki reviewed his contract again, looking at all the names who'd signed off on his transfer. Chao Shun was the most senior. An upstart at HMG, from a newer and unstoried family…

And things began to fall into place. Tatsuki considered the options available to him from a new perspective. He had come to no conclusions two days later, when a short memo summoned him back to a staff meeting, bearing unsurprising news.

A week earlier, he would've challenged Colonel Chao openly. I told you the outpost was vulnerable. I demanded we increase protections for it. The evidence was even in the official record, based on the reports he'd prepared and summarized to the group.

Instead he stood, when Chao barked at him, and kept his voice level. “I regret the failure of our patrols in preventing the damage to Outpost J7, sir. I should have been more diligent in ensuring that it was properly guarded."

“You're nothing like your brother," the colonel grunted, scowling. “This never would've happened if we had proper leadership."

“That is correct, sir. I ask only that I be given a chance to set this right. I will protect your interests, and punish those who threatened them."

Chao's scowl twisted into an ugly, bitter grimace. “See that you do," he finally said.

That was all Captain Shirakawa needed to know. Chao had expected him to fight, so that the colonel's hand-picked allies could cow Tatsuki into submission—humiliate him until he was forced to take responsibility for the attack on the outpost. If he appeared sufficiently insubordinate, the details of his previous reports would no longer matter. They certainly wouldn't absolve a junior officer like him.

By beating Chao to the punch, Shirakawa put himself in the position of a loyal assistant, who would never dare to shame his superior. If he was to be dismissed for the attack, he could make the historical record public; the colonel would not risk the possibility of blowback were his own missteps exposed.

Chao Shun, not Shirakawa, had been set up to fail.

He grinned to himself, putting the next steps into motion.

HMG clearly did not approve of Chao's ambition, or the possibility of bringing a new family into a position of leadership. The coastal operations were expensive and the investment would take years to pay off. If they succeeded, Sanganese dominion of the continent would be complete.

If they failed, at any point, HMG's more well-established mines still extracted all that was useful from Jericho, and they'd be rid of a troublesome upstart. A century before, the planet was strategically useful. Much could change, though, and while the 2484 loss of their southernmost military outpost hurt at the time, the intervening decades confirmed that they hadn't really needed it.

All of that pointed to the opportunity Shirakawa needed. With the right nudges, he could let HMG find an excuse to dispense with Chao Shun and find his own way off the planet. Dramatically avenging the attack on the outpost would be a good starting nudge.

It didn't take much to get the clues he wanted. He was ready even before his weekly meeting with Ellison Coble, the Yucatec officer who regularly commiserated with him at a bar in Presbyter City. Ellison looked paler than usual—a bit haggard, even. “Just… it's been a long week. There's a lot going on with the Home Guard."

Captain Shirakawa wasn't surprised when Coble skipped his offer of a drink, but nor did it bother him: there were other things to discuss. “We can talk business, instead."

“Sure."

“I might need your help. Outpost J7 was sabotaged yesterday. It'll take at least a week to repair, and that's presuming we can get the parts made in Jericho. We're still trying to find a supplier." Those were unreliable: most of the machine shops were in Arcadian territory, and not all the Yucatec were as enlightened as Coble and Geruda.

EJ seemed to think that was the point of the request. “You want me to see if we can get something fabricated in the task force? Send me the specs and I'll try, but honestly…"

“No. I want to make sure it doesn't happen again."

“What do you mean?"

Tatsuki slid his computer over so Coble could see it. Nobody else in the bar was paying attention—none of them really cared. Ellison, though, narrowed his eyes. “Actionable intelligence," Shirakawa confirmed. “Straight from a captured animal."

“Reconnaissance?"

“I was only able to retask one patrol." No point in mentioning the favor it had cost him; Ellison probably wouldn't care. “But there's activity, for sure. From thermal imaging. A weapons depot."

“You want to take it out?"

“You guessed it. Both the depot, and this little cluster of buildings a kilometer to the west. It's either a town or a mining camp—we don't know. But either way, it's on the wrong side of the border."

Ellison looked at the map for a few more seconds, then turned the computer screen off and handed it back. “Tricky approach, too. No roads for the 'dynes, and our mechs'll be slow as hell."

“Right. And we don't need to take prisoners. Just take it out from the air."

“What do you need my help for?"

“My commanders don't want to release air assets for a… well, what they're calling a 'punitive' action." Strictly speaking he hadn't brought up the idea to Colonel Chao, and he didn't need to in order to know that Chao would reject the idea anyway. “But it's strategic, right? Wouldn't you agree?"

The other man just shrugged. “I think so, yes. If you're sure that they're using it to stage against you, that would obviously make it harder to do so."

“Can you make the case to your bosses?"

“For an airstrike?" Ellison's brow lifted, as if he hadn't understood the question. “I have to be honest, Tatsuki. I don't have much experience in coordinating those kind of operations. It would have to come from the task force, and they're going to want a good reason to spend that kind of money."

“Observation, right?" Shirakawa tried. “Send a couple of the Home Guard to watch and learn. Especially if you don't have the experience, they'll have to pick it up somewhere, y'know? And this would be low-stakes."

“It can't be strategically important and low-stakes," Ellison pointed out. “Frankly, they're going to say 'no' to me. The Home Guard isn't likely to need experience coordinating operations with an orbital group. They don't have starships. They barely have an air force—not much more than a couple trainers and a handful of suborbital freighters they're converting to gunships."

“But you can ask, right?"

Ellison said that he would, but everything in his tone told Shirakawa he wouldn't put much effort in. EJ was his best friend—the closest thing he had to a Yucatec friend—and just as unreliable as anyone in his own military.

But that was fine. He had other options. Approaching Coble had merely been carrying out his formal responsibility to respect the existing lines of communication. If Geruda wasn't interested in taking action—if Coble himself was too focused on training the Home Guard as though they were anything more than incompetent amateurs—he already knew where he'd find a receptive audience.

She didn't look like he'd expected: youthful and tanned, dressed in a casual blouse, Billie Moody gave the impression of a mildly bohemian artist discussing their perpetually unfinished creation at a party on some resort world. “Welcome," she said, and held out her hand.

He shook it. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I know we haven't really been in contact, and—"

“And that needs to change," she agreed. “Our partnership will be critical going forward. I'm sure you were limited politically—only allowed to work with the Home Guard—but we both see how well that works."

“Do we?"

Moody brushed a panel on her desk; the door closed, and she poured two glasses of sparkling water. “Don't we?" she challenged right back. “What are they good for?"

“The Home Guard? They're the official military authority here."

“Not much of an authority, and not much of a military. I'll give you 'official,' though. They're useless, captain. So's the Administrative Board. They haven't learned since the war."

“Learned…"

Her sharp, dangerous smile immediately banished any of the artist look about her. “When they threw away our chance to win—or didn't they tell you that? We had a way to bring that to an end—crush those fucking upstarts before they could dig in. Who do you think I mean when I say 'we'?"

“You?"

“My family, yes. Our militia. We won the only major victory in that war. Completely destroyed the moreaus in the east—and if we'd had proper support? If we'd had that, who knows what would've happened? But the assholes in Ford City wouldn't give us that. And my mom… well. She backed down, too, when she was in my place. That's true. It won't happen again."

Too much was at stake, Billie Moody explained. She showed him mineralogical surveys of the southeast, from the Dun Valley north: rich veins, just waiting to be exploited. Moody Enterprises had an agreement signed with Arnby Mining already, and both parties were eager for that to begin bearing fruit.

“Arnby sees the Dun as key to challenging UMM in this sector. My brother sees Arnby as our chance to make the Moody Family truly interplanetary. I see the whole conflict as an opportunity to branch out into a new business line. And Arcadia? Arcadia," she finished dismissively, “is in the way. But perhaps that's good. You've got investments in the north, and along the western coast. You want those protected—right?"

“Yes."

“And we want the Bodie slope, and the south-eastern valleys. There shouldn't be any conflict. The official government of Arcadia is, as I said, in the way." She'd hissed the world like an expletive. “If you think your people could agree to that, I'd be happy to help clean up your mess."

It wasn't his place to say, but the offer tantalized him. “We have no plans for anything south of the river. There's enough just where we are."

“I figured. Now. What can we do for you?"

He showed Billie the same map he'd given Coble, and offered the same explanation. “We need to teach them a lesson."

“More than that, you need to send a message. The depot is just tactics. What about this town? It's an illegal settlement—who the fuck let them build anything there? What— did they get lost?" She snorted. “Hit that, too."

“I'd love to. But we don't want to put our aircraft onto something like this."

“Short-sighted." Billie sneered, using her fingers to zoom the map out until more of the moreau territory came into view. “Anything north of that border is a provocation, even if it isn't a threat. They signed their own death warrant the moment they forgot that. It's our job to offer a polite reminder. Right?"

“Can you?"

Shirakawa couldn't tell if he liked her laugh or not. It was unquestionably inappropriate—but inappropriate on his behalf, and that seemed more relevant. “We have nineteen Dassault T-50Cs. Brand-new, dedicated ground-attack aircraft—perfect for this sort of thing."

“That many?"

“Yes. It's a bit… complex. We only have eleven trained pilots right now. But I think that'll turn out to be fine, really. Just means we can have a new T-50 ready by the time they land and send them back out again."

The Dassaults were an investment, Moody said. Once the moreaus were overrun, her pilots would have a record suitable for being hired out elsewhere in the sector. Her family name would come to mean more than just property owners on Jericho—they'd be properly respected; powerful.

Within the hour she had a plan put together for the operation, using all eleven pilots. Six, flying the initial assault, were to attack the depot and the settlement; the remaining five would mop up a few minutes later. Tatsuki was impressed by the efficiency of it, and the range of weapons at her disposal—incendiary rockets, guided anti-armor missiles, heavy bombs designed to splinter whole stretches of forest at a time.

“This is no time for weakness," Billie told him. “No time for half-measures."

“Still. You could stage a coup with that."

She only laughed. “No. We could fight a war properly. We will fight a war properly. Just you wait and see."

Moody planned the airstrike for the following day. Shirakawa already knew how he'd announce it: discreetly, highlighting the damage done to the moreau aggressors. Pointing out to the committee—offhandedly, as though it was but an afterthought—that they hadn't even needed to pay for the attack.

Offering Colonel Chao his continued loyalty, even as it put Chao Shun on notice that Shirakawa now had other allies. And if the colonel thought Tatsuki could be made a scapegoat—if Mori Moteki's father thought she'd learn to regret her choice of fiancé? If HMG thought he was useless—nothing like his brother?

Well, then. He raised his glass of water to toast Moody's proposal. Just you wait and see.

---

Neutral trading station “Antalya"

Gemini Sector

05.08.2560

Sara knew that she'd miscalculated, although not necessarily by how much. On paper, Antalya Station saw plenty of through-traffic—it was one of the largest facilities in the Gemini Sector. On paper, delivering some new machinery seemed profitable enough, and she'd figured it would be easy to pick up a contract for somewhere else. On paper, the job boards were cluttered with offers.

In practice, most of the traffic was bulk-agricultural, and her little freighter wasn't good for more than a thousand tons or so—fifteen hundred, if she wanted to push it. Some of the ships docked at Antalya could fit the Gamayun twice over in a single one of their dozen cargo bays.

Her copilot had tried to reassure her: “maybe we'll get lucky." Sara politely agreed, although she didn't know how much Kosh understood about 'luck.' In all their years together, she'd learned more than a few of his idiosyncrasies.

He was, after all, a dog.

She'd seen more than a few moreaus wandering around Antalya Station, most of them without obvious corporate markings. Kosh was off now, trying to find out where they hung out—indulging his own curiosity, she assumed. Moreaus wouldn't have anything interesting, cargo-wise. Most of them would be passing through, and of those that remained…

On a whim, she approached one of them: a stocky rodent-looking creature, keying something into one of the public terminals at the job board. “Excuse me?"

He turned. “Hallo? Stromsprak?"

“ Jo, te vustras." Sara switched into spacer's pidgin seamlessly. “Are you looking for a ship?"

“Yes. You have one?" She nodded. “I represent a farming collective. We need to transport some fertilizer…" Twenty-six thousand tons of it, at that—as she'd expected. The moreau colonies were also largely agricultural, which probably explained why there were so many of them on Antalya.

Sara wished the moreau well, and went back to wandering the promenade. You can't win 'em all, Kitty, she reminded herself. Worst-case scenario, you fly empty to somewhere else. Somewhere she had contacts who might owe her a favor or two; pass her name along.

As long as Kosh was taking his sweet time, she could afford to relax. A gin and tonic at one of the too-expensive promenade bars did the trick. People-watching, Sara's mind wandered; the sound of her own name caught her off-guard. “Captain Katz?"

She looked to find a tall man in an unmarked jumpsuit. He didn't come off as mean enough for corporate security, and his dark complexion seemed naturally tan. A visitor, then—but her name was not on the tip of anyone's tongue. At least, it shouldn't have been. “I guess I could be, yes. Who's asking?"

“Edwin Bentley. You're the Gamayun's master, aren't you? I saw her listed as docked here."

Sara eyed the gin and tonic, grateful she'd finished as little of it as she had. It would be best if she was sober for whatever 'Edwin Bentley' wanted—especially if he already knew who she was. “I am. Can I help you?"

“Maybe. Do you think I could take a look at your ship?"

By that, Sara understood, Bentley meant that he didn't want to continue the discussion in public. She shrugged and set her drink down. Over smalltalk, walking to the docking area, she learned that he was, indeed, a visitor. From Casimire's Glen: a town on a recently settled planet, still undergoing atmospheric modification.

Thus the tan. “I wasn't born there, though. I've spent most of my life in space. Born on Jarvis, and then…"

She lowered the Gamayun's hatch, although the captain was already growing wary. Space-dwellers could be trouble, and Jarvis in particular had a certain… reputation. Even if she couldn't guess what he wanted, she could guess why he'd wanted to discuss it in secret.

“You haven't been hired yet, I'm assuming."

“We wouldn't have gotten this far otherwise," she confirmed. “What do you need me for?"

“I have some sensitive cargo that needs moving. It's bound for Silver City, on Jericho. Day-to-day operations are run by the Moody family, but the town itself has a pretty big Arnby presence. And I understand you've worked with Arnby Mining before."

“Once or twice, yes."

“You have a transit ID?"

Arnby assigned those to its regular third-party couriers, discounting the shipping fees they paid in exchange for preferential access to contracts and an offer to handle some of the more tedious paperwork. “It might be lapsed, but I think so. What's the cargo?"

“Scrap metal, nine hundred tons or so. You'll deliver it to Karlself, in the Mutually Guaranteed Neutral Zone, and a different shipper will convey it the rest of the way to Arnby."

“The Gamayun can land anywhere. McKeever Spaceport would be fine—that's the big port, right?"

“Yes. But you don't need to worry about that."

“I'm sure I don't." Sara eyed him drily. “Sensitive scrap metal? I presume you'll want me to inspect it thoroughly, then, right? Make sure nothing happens to it between here and Jericho?"

Bentley did not smile, although his eye glinted briefly. “Arnby would prefer that you did not."

“I see. You know… I'm a bit surprised that someone from Jarvis would be working for the miners." She let the question hang, unanswered, and finally kept going. “You are working for the miners, aren't you?"

“I don't ask questions. I really only have one. You should, perhaps, also only have one."

“And not about the cargo. Right. Consider it asked, then."

“Seventy thousand obols, or two grams of palladium per ton of cargo. Whichever you prefer, though the palladium would need to be collected on delivery."

“Arnby doesn't mine palladium anywhere near Silver City. It's in the name." Bentley said nothing. “Deal. I'll take the metal. When can I leave?"

“The scrap is ready now. I'll let my client know. And please: check the bill of lading."

Right, she thought again. The scrap metal wasn't going to Silver City—she had a decent idea of where it was going, for that matter. But there was no point in asking, at least not while they were still docked. When Bentley left, she set about filling out the forms for their departure.

Cargo contains live animals: no.

Cargo contains restricted chemicals: no.

Cargo contains hazardous or explosive material: no.

Details like that were all but irrelevant on the ITA-50, which only concerned itself with the practicalities of spaceflight. The Tariffs and Customs form that came next was eight times longer, and required a bit more fabrication. The bill of lading put the cargo's value at fifty thousand obols—not much more than iron ore, which was almost never worth shipping. Sara rolled her eyes, but copied the value over dutifully. She'd just finished with the CTC-640A when Kosh returned. “You ready?"

“We're leaving?" The husky cocked his head in surprise.

“Yeah. Your friend was quick."

The tilt to his head deepened. “Friend? What friend?"

“Huh. I figured he came from you. Ah, somebody wants us to pay the Arnby folks on Jericho a visit. Nine hundred tons of scrap metal—I eyeballed the center-of-mass calculations, but you'll want to check to be sure. You know me."

“'Scrap metal'…" Kosh looked appropriately suspicious.

“I'm sure the harbormaster will ask the same thing. Wish me luck."

A cross-looking, paunchy man, the harbormaster did indeed eye her CTC-640 skeptically. “Nine hundred tons? From where?"

“From here," Sara said. “Got trans-shipped through another depot, I guess. I'm just handling the last leg."

“Scrap. In a light courier. This is pretty close to your ship's declared maximum." He hadn't asked any questions, yet; she didn't volunteer answers. “Why the urgency?"

“Beats me. Corporate says 'jump,' you know…"

“We'll need to inspect it."

She nodded. “I don't blame you. Give me an ETA? I need it for the CTC-2220."

The harbormaster frowned. “It'll just be an hour or two."

“I know. But if we're delayed, I gotta call the ops center back at home office, and they'll need your signature for a valid 2220."

“Just an hour or two," he repeated. “It won't take long."

“Have you dealt with Arnby?" she asked. And then, sighing, she leaned in to offer her sympathy. “Trust me: the 2220's just for you. I've got two or three others I'll have to file. This is the easy part."

“I can't sign a 2220. Somebody with an ITC license has to." The Interstellar Trade Commission was responsible for a wide range of such details, long after the Commission Tariffs and Customs forms expanded their reach beyond simple tariffs and customs.

The CTC-2220 form, in particular, was what shippers used to amend their rates in the event of an unforeseen delay. Only a licensed ITC inspector could review a 2220, to cut down on the potential for fraud. Sara, who had no love for the Commission or its forms, and was more than happy to ignore them in any other circumstance, nodded again. “That's fine. You'll want them to authorize the record trace, too."

He shut his eyes and sighed heavily. She could practically see him going through the list of paperwork that would be needed. Arnby might complain—he might be accused of being an obstructionist…

If non-agricultural traffic was down at Antalya, as she expected, he might even be blamed for making the problem worse. And over what, really? A few thousand obols in fees, from a tiny freighter, on a station that processed that much every few minutes?

Another sigh, this one sharp and short. “What is it, really?"

“Off the record?"

He held up the CTC-640A. “Do you see a line for 'what is it, really?' on the document?"

“Spare parts—drive chains, I think, and a… one of those ore-crushing… things…" She pantomimed the act with her hands, doing her best to convey the right attitude— I'm just the shipper, sir. Beats me what the fuck it's called. “Interdepartmental transfer, I'm sure. It's exempt from duties under a 640C waiver… but you know how that is, right? File the 640C on every can of paint you transfer from an off-world warehouse and hold the records for twenty years just in case, or… y'know, file the 640A and pay a couple thousand you don't really owe to avoid the hassle."

“Hassle," the suddenly beleaguered harbormaster echoed. “They've been saying they want to reform the 640s for…" He trailed off, seeing her expression. “Yeah, you'd know that too, huh? Looks like you're an Arnby regular. Fine, whatever. Scrap metal it is. Soon as we get the fees, I'll release the launch hold."

“Thanks," she said.

And she hadn't been lying about the process, or how frustrating keeping up with the CTC-640 requirements was. Only the part about the cargo. And the destination. And her employer, although the ITA-50 didn't actually specify that it was going to Arnby Mining. Just 'Silver City.'

“I don't think it's scrap metal," Kosh said. “But at least it's not setting off our radiological detectors. So who knows?"

They'd be rid of it soon enough, anyway. One advantage of the Gamayun's relatively small size was that it wasn't constrained by the regulations big freighters faced. They weren't allowed to operate their FTL drives close to a planetary gravity well—finishing a jump, they'd face another day or two of sublight travel to make it into orbit; sometimes longer.

Katz could program her own navigation computer to insert them only a few thousand kilometers above the surface. All it took was going through the process of synchronizing their final velocity, and as it happened that required only sixteen kilometers per second of delta-v.

Eight hours after leaving Antalya, the jumpdrive dropped them right into position: some of the fastest money they'd ever made, even after fuel and the inevitable cost of having their heat shield inspected and repaired following a transorbital journey. She'd never been to the planet before, although she knew the name: it seemed unremarkable, if quiet. “I'm aligning us for descent. How are we on comms?"

Kosh shook his head. “Same old problems with these backwater colonies. The narrowband transceiver takes a little while to lock in. I think I have it now, though. Getting weather and the advisories."

“Anything we should care about?" From where they'd jumped, it was another six hours until they'd hit the atmosphere; plenty of time for minor course corrections if the standard approach to Karlself had been modified.

“Not really. Just… hm." She glanced over, watching her engineer tilt his head first one way, then the other. “Actually, we do have a message. Traffic with cargo being sent on to Silver City has been assigned a new landing area—we're named specifically. You want to take a look?"

“Yeah." Kosh tapped a few keys, sending the update to her console for review. “That must mean our contact is changing, too. Can you get me the transit logs for the last couple days?"

Being called out by name was a bad sign, but it wasn't worth dwelling on her sudden apprehension until she had more data. As she'd guessed, though, Arnby Mining had a dedicated area for processing cargo that went through the Mutually Guaranteed Neutral Zone.

Briefly— mistakenly, according to the message—the Gamayun had been given a loading slot meant for independent traffic, instead of joining the other freighters bound for mining company territory. This had now been corrected. Sara tried to think of innocent explanations for everything that had led her to that point; none suggested themselves.

She nudged the ship's course slightly—a plausible amount, but enough that Kosh noticed. “Had to detour around a possible collision," she explained. “Minor bit of debris the radar picked up. That or a glitch, but… better safe than sorry, right?"

“You're delaying us," Kosh realized. “What's going on?"

“I need you to break the seal on one of those crates, Kosh."

“Why?"

“Because you're the one qualified for zero-g cargo work. I don't trust myself to do it."

It wasn't the reason why he'd asked; they both knew that, and he understood from her answer that he wasn't going to get anything more out of her. The husky locked his console and slowly, carefully, pushed himself from the cockpit.

While he worked, Sara went over the Karlself shipping logs again. The closest Arnby-allied spaceport to Silver City was McKeever. Karlself was on the equator, though; independent freighters didn't like burning the extra fuel it took to adjust their orbital trajectories from higher latitudes, and heavier ships wouldn't want to make the trip at all.

So plenty of traffic had gone through the Neutral Zone—plenty of ships with Arnby transit codes. Every once in a while, one wound up landing outside the corporate-owned loading area. Most of those, she couldn't help noticing, had Russian names.

Hell of a gamble for Bentley, she thought. Or he'd done his research exceptionally well—tracked down the town where she'd been raised. Followed the unsavory career path some of her fellow kibbutzniks had adopted. Made some educated guesses about her last run-in with Arnby Mining. She assumed that he was redirecting the shipment towards the moreau commonwealth that bordered the mining campuses.

Why hadn't he told her the truth? Plausible deniability, Sara imagined. In cases like these, it wasn't too unusual for ship captains to preserve a sense of naive innocent about what they were doing. If all went according to plan, she'd never find out what had happened; if it didn't go according to plan, she'd understand why he'd kept her in the dark. Well, it didn't go according to plan. And I do understand, she told herself. But I want to know what the hell you're having me doing…

“It's electronics," Kosh reported, half an hour later. He took his seat and fastened his harness before holding up a small metal cylinder, capped by a transparent hemisphere that revealed the circuitry within. “I don't know what kind, yet. The crate I opened was a few hundred of these guys."

“Any model numbers on the chips?"

“Yes." The husky switched his computer back on. “But I wanted to be strapped in before I started looking them up. Just in case you decided to maneuver again. I think this is a sensor module. The only number I ran matches an image coprocessor. Yucatec design, originally, but it's been cloned by other countries."

“A sensor? Can I see?" He handed it over. The cylinder felt substantial, its mass obvious when she turned it over to inspect the precision-milled surfaces. “And a DNY data connector, if I'm not mistaken. Nine-channel optical fiber."

“Some kind of camera, I guess. I don't think there's any on-board networking or memory, not that I can see. Maybe that goes over the DNY? But who has storage that connects over a hundred-year-old standard? And what do you need three hundred cameras for? What kind of surveillance system is that?"

“It's not. It's a guidance package." She tossed the module back, though the husky let it drift by in the cockpit while he stared at her. “Cheap enough to be disposable."

“Oh, fuck." Her engineer finally reached out to retrieve the thing, examining it with a fresh grimace. “If you're right, that's controlled technology. Dual-use, at least."

“And it was supposed to go to Silver City. I figured it was a cover story, but the mining company must've actually ordered them. Whoever hired us at Antalya was trying to redirect the shipment—presumably towards the Commonwealth, right? I'd imagine they can make use of these… or at least, they'd rather nobody else have them, but I'll bet they're crafty enough to repurpose these for their own ends."

“Who, the moreaus? Fuck," Kosh repeated, the word a resigned sigh. “Arnby is going to know that we inspected the cargo, too. It's not going to take very long to point the finger at the one of us who has a shedding problem. Bet you the ship's engineer winds up in a cell."

“Yeah?" Sara snorted. “What do you think they'll make of the ship's master? If you wanted to make something disappear for the moreaus, somebody from a Russian kibbutz is a pretty good bet. I wouldn't be the first to break a few laws on Jericho that way. More than one in the independence war twenty years back."

“Well, but…"

“And it wouldn't be the first time we crossed Arnby, either." Her cargo then had 'turned out'—she hadn't been told, and still didn't officially know—to be a group of Arnby moreaus, smuggled to freedom in stasis pods. Nobody from Arnby Mining had complained… but she hadn't used her transit code in the two years since, just in case. “So we're both kind of exposed."

“I guess. You think you can talk your way out of it? You're good at that."

“I hope so." Sara looked at the Gamayun's plot; they were less than an hour away from the next maneuver in their descent plan. “I'm going to switch the safeties on the starboard thruster into 'maintenance.' Open that loop. If we don't fire the engines, it shouldn't cause any permanent damage, right?"

“It shouldn't…"

“Keep me from doing anything stupid, Kosh," she asked, and turned the safety switches off. She counted to sixty in her head before tuning the ship's radio. “Orbital control, this is Whiskey 2-6-2, on course to Karlself via the Marlow approach."

“Whiskey 2-6-2, Karlself via Marlow, confirmed. You're slightly off-course for that, 2-6-2."

The normal deorbiting sequences were more theory than practice—their names were unique between planets but otherwise insignificant, and the range of possibilities they covered was broad. But, since he'd noticed, she took the opportunity. “I've got a minor engine malfunction; showing elevated temperatures on one of my main thrusters. We might need to hold for an orbit."

There was a delay before the controller responded. “Ah, understood. Whiskey 2-6-2, be advised our sensors are showing some elevated radiation readings from you. Do you require assistance?"

“Negative, not yet. Just keep us out of the pattern, if you can."

“Whiskey 2-6-2, resequence to take the Bellatrix approach via Golf-1-6, Golf-2-4. Plan to adjust your inclination for Bellatrix at Echo-3-1. Can you make that?"

She programmed the new beacons in, and tried to put just the hint of relief in her voice. “Orbital, Whiskey 2-6-2. Now taking Golf-1-6, Golf-2-4 to Bellatrix. Is there any traffic while I'm doing maintenance?"

There was not; she let the Gamayun coast and weighed her choices. She could, she thought, explain herself to the Arnby Mining people. Opening the container seal was a breach of trust, to be sure. But her contact had been cagey about what it contained, and with the engines giving her trouble she'd elected to make sure there was no risk to her crew or anyone who might've been in their path.

A ship's master was, naturally, given broad leeway in a situation like that. And Arnby would be happy just to have their cargo delivered. “What do you think they're going to use it for?" she asked, to nobody in particular.

But the transmitter was off, and there was only one other living being in the cockpit. Kosh looked over. “The miners?"

“Yeah. I bet you don't need these for mining." Sara let that hang, while Kosh remained silent. “Something like this should've gone through the government. Right? If they're hiring smugglers, this isn't for Arcadia's peacekeepers. It's for the miners themselves."

“You're probably right. I know… I've heard, I mean," he corrected himself. “I've heard that things are fairly tense on Jericho right now. It isn't quite open fighting, not yet, but it's not that far away."

“Within the year?"

“Probably. Probably even sooner than that."

“So the mining companies must be fielding their own mercenaries."

Kosh turned the device over and over in his paw, fidgeting. “Maybe."

“I have to tell you the truth, Kosh: I don't trust them."

“What do you want to do, then?"

She did not have a particularly good reason to trust the moreaus, either, of course. But others from her home had; perhaps it was in her blood. And Kosh had always been a faithful engineer. “Do you know anybody in that moreau colony? The Commonwealth?"

“Not more than a handful. Friends… acquaintances, really. A few freighter crewmen I've worked with over the years, they've emigrated."

“Do you think you can talk us out of this mess?"

“What are you planning on doing, Sara?"

“Remember that time we were headed for Dessau and had to put down early? And you wound up getting me involved in some moreau— nakath, I guess—some nakath independence scheme?"

The husky twitched his ears. “That wasn't my intent…"

“Well, then somebody better have some intent, right? I think it's time for another crash landing, Kosh. If you think you can smooth things over with the Commonwealth, I'll manage Arnby. Deal?"

He sighed, muzzle puffing before a shake of his head signaled the moreau's agreement. “Deal. How do you want to play this?"

“With as few details as possible, ideally." She put her headset on and checked that the radio was tuned for the appropriate controller. “Orbital, this is Whiskey 2-6-2. I need to deorbit immediately. And, if possible, ah, landing fields on this inclination with a Class-3 nuclear facility."

“Whiskey 2-6-2, say again. You need a nuclear response team?"

She gritted her teeth, and hoped the controller could hear it. “I might need to scram the reactor. I can't be in orbit then."

“Right, uh, understood. Are you declaring an emergency?"

“Do I have to for new sequencing?"

Silence lasted a good ten seconds; Jericho was not a particularly well-traveled planet, and she supposed the traffic controllers didn't deal with situations like hers very often. “Ah. Negative. On your inclination you can align towards Foxtrot-7-4 and exit echo space on course for Cosmodrome Al-Hass Hakh-Kin with about six degrees correction. Or, if you wait an orbit, you can transfer for Spaceport Huntington from Golf-3-0 with two degrees of correction."

“I'd rather not wait an orbit."

“Right. Whiskey 2-6-2, take Golf-2-5 for Foxtrot-7-4, Foxtrot 4-9, and Echo-1-6. There should be no traffic all the way in. I'll try to get word over for them to stand by."

“Golf-2-5, Foxtrot-7-4, leaving echo space after 1-6," she confirmed, and aligned the freighter for the retrograde maneuver. They had a minute of breathing room first; Sara looked over at Kosh. “Should be okay, right? Not too stressful."

“Yes. Should be."

The descent was fairly steep, and the deceleration intense—but nothing she hadn't experienced before, and well within the Gamayun's tolerances. Empty ocean stretched beneath them when she could see out the forward viewscreen again; the continent was just a hint of cliffs along the horizon.

“What are you going to tell Arnby?"

“Hopefully, that'll take care of itself." Sara hadn't really given herself the space to think quite so far ahead. She recalled an old saying, though: possession is nine-tenths of the law. Everything started with putting their freighter down in actually neutral territory.

Whoever was in charge of the cosmodrome did not speak English, and trading pidgin didn't properly convey how startled they were at her request for an emergency landing or her declaration that the ship's reactor needed immediate maintenance. They cleared her to land, anyway; that was all that mattered.

Al-Hass Hakh-Kin meant something like 'the shadow of home,' according to Kosh. She saw why: the cosmodrome was in a valley, with steep hills to the northeast that cut it off from the morning sun. They also, Sara figured, cut the spaceport off from direct observation by their human neighbors.

It didn't make for the smoothest approach. She touched down a bit harder than she meant to, putting the team waiting around the landing pad on edge. They drew back, and it wasn't until Kosh had the hatch open that they started to approach.

Sara didn't speak any of their language. Kosh had to handle the negotiations, while she shut the Gamayun's systems down one at a time, and waited. The husky came back half an hour later with what looked to be some kind of mountain lion in tow.

“Joe," the feline introduced herself, in flawless English. “Senior trade coordinator. We weren't expecting anything orbital today, but Kosh said otherwise?"

“Maybe. I'm here from Antalya Station. We were supposed to land at Karlself and transfer some cargo headed for Silver City."

“Well, that's not us. Silver City is in Arcadia, and we don't get along too well."

“I figured." She pulled the guidance module from where she'd stuffed it into her jumpsuit. “You know what this is?"

Joe leaned out the hatch. “ Inana Hashar. Dhalchakhut sonan nalkona inanu Bentley?"

“Yes. Bentley, that's right. Edwin Bentley."

Joe's eyes flicked towards Sara, but she waited until she'd heard a reply from outside. “Well. Fuck. He hasn't been in contact, either."

“When we checked in, they rerouted us from our original landing pad to one in the mining corps' area of Karlself. I figured that even with the teeth and all, you might be less trouble for me than they'd wind up being. Even if you… hell, I don't know. Even if you had to impound the cargo, say."

Joe picked up on the pilot's meaning at once. “We'll definitely have to impound the cargo. That's controlled electronics you're holding, you know?"

Sara turned to Kosh. “Ask her if we'll be charged with anything. Tell her we didn't know what we were carrying. If we're being charged, I want a guild lawyer present before any questioning."

The husky's ears flicked in brief confusion. Joe chuckled, either at his guilelessness or Katz's gambit, shaking her head before he had to say anything. “Whether you're arrested isn't up to me. But this is a serious offense. You should know that, if you need to speak to a lawyer. We're not full Trade Commission—not yet—but I'll file to have your license revoked. You can trust me on that."

“Quote you on it, too?"

“Sure."

“Who'd have a lawyer? McKeever?"

“Or Ford City. That's the biggest town across the lake. Arcadia's capital. Should I get you a number?"

“We'll see. Kosh, can you help 'em get the damn containers off? I need to call the corporate head office." She waited until the cockpit was empty, practiced sighing a few times, and pulled the number from her computer database.

“Arnby Logistics, Jericho. Mort Kelsey. Can I help you?" The pale man who answered was polite—obsequious even—and she felt immediately that he'd make a good foil.

“I'm Sara Katz. Shipper code 51520. I came from Antalya—supposed to land in the MGNZ. I had some engine trouble and had to divert. I'm at…" she stared at a blank screen, pronouncing the name awkwardly as if reading it off. “Al-Hass Hakh-Kin, now. They're impounding the cargo, and—"

“Wait. What—"

“No. It's been a long day. Let me finish. I need your purchasing code for the lawyer. That's all."

“Lawyer?"

Sara raised her voice. “Yes. Lawyer. Now, I know you assholes try to fuck me on the contract terms—I get that. But I have Arnby credentials because when shit like this happens, you agree to pay half the legal fees. They're gonna need transportation. Half of that's on you. Lodging? Same deal. My lawyer gets a cup of coffee, you're damn well paying for half of it."

“I don't understand why—"

“Have you been here? Do you know where Al-Hass Hakh-Kin even is? I had some fucking… cat… thing threaten to go after my license. And I'm pretty sure if I don't give them that, I just get eaten. So what I want from you, Mort, is who I should invoice to get the guild involved."

“Why are they trying to take your license?"

“I don't know. That's what the lawyer is for. Now, under my contract with you—section 14.7, pull it up now. Look at it. Are you looking? It says very clearly that we will split any additional fees, quote, including legal expenses, incurred on cargo conveyed for Arnby Mining."

“Um. I need to get my supervisor, Mr. Norberg. Can you please—"

“No. God damn it. If you hang me out to dry on this, I swear to God I will—"

“No, uh—right. I—I understand why you're upset. I just can't… I work in parcel coding, ma'am. Just let me… I'll be right back."

It didn't take long before a second man joined Mort Kelsey. Norberg was also wearing a suit, but his expression was smoother; his voice slightly more oily. “You're the captain of the Gamayun, isn't that right? Supposed to land in Karlself today."

“Yes. I had a minor reactor problem. Karlself sent me to animal control, apparently. They're holding the cargo, and my ship. And maybe me. Some kind of ITC violation. All I want right now is someone to invoice your share of the fees."

“ITC violation?" Norberg asked. “What, specifically?"

“They're saying the cargo. Personally? Personally, I think they just want to jerk me around. So I'm going to have someone from the insurance company, and a lawyer, come down here to sign off on it so I can get everything over to you."

“What is the cargo?"

“Scrap. I don't know what kind. I'm not a miner. We'll get it certified—I'm not worried about that. I am worried about being stuck here without representation. So. Do your job."

“Scrap," Norberg echoed. “Do you have shipping code?"

“On the bill from your man in Antalya? Yeah. It's A-G-0-0-0-31-55-P-R-70. That's a seven-zero. I didn't have any trouble picking it up on the station. So, like I said: they're just being assholes."

Norberg looked distracted, scanning something she couldn't see through the video link. “Coming to Silver City, I see. Through a joint… ah, a Moody contract. Mort, I'll handle the rest of this on my own, alright?" Mort Kelsey nodded, disconnecting at once. “So. About this cargo. You say it's scrap metal?"

“Look. I'll be honest, Mr. Norberg. I don't give a shit about your cargo, you know? I'll get it to you. You ask me, on a secure line? It's probably not scrap, you know? Wouldn't be anything dangerous, but I'm sure it's computers or robots or something you don't want to pay import fees on. I don't care. Do you get that?"

“Well… Ms. Katz, I think it's important to note for the record that we wouldn't do anything like that."

“I don't care," she repeated. She wasn't a smuggler, of course—but small freighter captains all but existed to bend the rules, and it was worth twisting that knife a bit. “You hired me through a third-party broker, right? I knew what I was getting into. This is not about your cargo. I just need the lawyer to certify that it's in compliance."

“Well. The reality is that we have certain… difficulties with the spaceport's operators. They seem to be taking it out on you."

“I noticed."

“Bringing outside agencies in would… complicate that. They aren't even full ITC members. So I'm not sure that would help."

“You're right—it's even worse, really. So, believe you me, Mr. Norberg, I'm submitting a counter-complaint."

“In this case, I'll handle it. We'll go through, ah, local mediators."

“That's not good enough. You're going to drag this out for months with a 'mediator'—I've seen it happen. I want my ship back, and I'm not interested in waiting that long. So, Mr…. Norbert, was it? Lawyer. Inspector. ITC appeal. Very simple."

“Based on our previous encounters with this group, that won't be necessary. If you surrender the cargo, they're probably not going to hold you. They don't want trouble."

“Good for them. I do. Once I'm in orbit again, I'm definitely filing a complaint. Teach 'em not to mess with us. Besides, I also want to get paid. And you want your scrap. Right?"

Norberg licked his lips nervously enough that Sara decided he'd bought the act. “It doesn't specify what the contract rate was, here. Were you already paid?"

“ No. I just said that. Seventy thousand obols on delivery. That means it has to get delivered, though, doesn't it?"

The edge in her voice helped make his decision. “As I said, we'll handle it through a mediator. Consider the cargo delivered, Ms. Katz."

“Still need an inspector for my side of the complaint, though. You're paying for half of that."

“We'll handle the appeal, as well. If you can ignore this… brief indignity, you won't have to trouble yourself with the Commission. But, to assuage your concerns, let's say… let's say seventy-five thousand. If you need a lawyer—I do not think you will, for the record—that should cover our half, I would hope? If you don't need one, it can be a… a gratuity."

“That won't help if I get eaten."

“I'm sure it won't come to that. I think we're being more than reasonable."

She leaned back, and pretended to think deeply. “Fine. Stiff me on this, and I will get the Commission involved. You live here?"

“Yes."

“Well, I don't. That's the difference: this isn't my planet, and I don't care how complicated it makes your life. So your intuition damn well better be good enough."

“Yes," Norbert said. “Of course."

And he ended the call. She heard someone clear their throat; turned around to find Joe, the mountain lion. “ Eaten? Did Kosh tell you that?"

“Kosh didn't tell me anything. I had to improvise. Did you hear the part where they said they'll mediate getting their cargo back?"

“They won't mediate shit." Joe grinned, and Sara found she rather liked the woman already. “They can't bring in dual-use tech—has to go through the local authorities. And the last thing the mining corps want is for the government in Ford City to find out what they're up to."

“So what happens to those containers, then?"

“What containers?"

“The ones filled with targeting scanners? Like this one?"

Joe plucked the one she held up right from her fingers before Sara could protest, and pocketed it. “If you want contraband, captain, you'll have to look elsewhere. This is a clean port. I can show you, if you want."

“Well. As long as we're not going anywhere…"

---

Nakitsa, Arkadiensee south bank

Kashkin, Jericho

26.08.2560

General Haneshja had been promoted only two days before; the retriever thanked Diha when she congratulated him, but the weight of authority clearly hadn't yet sunk in. “It's just a title, really. We're reorganizing the way we handle all of our maintenance and supply."

“Still. How many generals are there in the OVKK, inana Haneshja?"

“Sixteen, now."

“And you're as senior as General Kochid, aren't you?"

The retriever wiggled his paw modestly. “ Inana Kochid has the Hasskit to oversee. My 'brigade' is mostly just the maintenance unit at Al-Hass Hakh-Kin… which mostly serves the Hasskit. We have plans to expand, too… we'd like to take more of the regular repair work in-house. Eventually."

“Exactly," she teased him. “And you'll be Defense Minister before you know it. It's a big step that they've even organized that brigade, if you ask me."

“Is it?"

“Recognizing how important it is," Diha proposed. “How important all the work you've done is. And it's good for business, isn't it? Not just for inana Tarashir's firm." Tarashir was an analyst the OVKK had hired the previous year. In streamlining the Hasskit—their air force—he'd recommended they acquire a dozen tractors of standardized models, instead of a random assortment of whatever had been cheapest at the time. Refitting the used ones the OVKK eventually bought had kept Diha's machine shop busy for a month.

Haneshja smiled. “I suppose it is. Have you had the chance to consider my offer, inanu Diha?" Their machine shop was open outside its normal hours because he'd asked when it would be possible to visit, and they both knew it would not be a social occasion.

“We have." She indicated her wife, Runukalija, as part of 'we': the Border Collie often served to temper Diha's more rash tendencies. “We can do it. I won't say 'no problem'—it's going to mean clearing our schedule, and deferring some other work we'd promised. But we can do it."

Kalija handed over a computer with the calculations she'd made on it. “Prices and time estimates. Labor is included."

The retriever's ears immediately pinned back. “How?"

“Bulk discounts," Diha explained. “And the union is calling for some volunteer work to forge and finish the new parts we'll need to fit the reactors. Inana Katanuk agreed before anyone even asked him."

“Even still, you must be doing this at cost."

“We are," Kalija said immediately. “Any union company is doing the same."

Haneshja recovered, nodding. “We'll be in your debt. If you're willing to do the work, consider it agreed."

Diha certainly was willing to do the work. The request entailed installing upgraded powerplants on the OVKK's armored vehicles; their shop had worked extensively on the hardware before. It was possible that Haneshja would find a way to pay Diha and her firm a gratuity, she knew—as he likely knew, in turn, that it would promptly go to Katanuk Shanira and the others who were pitching in.

It was their responsibility to do whatever they could.

If ever the Rottweiler doubted that, all she had to do was look at the news. Every other day they heard of some new attack—some new provocation by Arcadia and their corporate allies. The humans had been growing bolder. They had aircraft, now. They would never challenge the Hasskit, of course, but they weren't above bombing vulnerable settlements when they saw the opportunity.

Strength was the only way to stop the attacks.

Their enemies understood that. The corporations busy pushing beyond Arcadia's official borders ignored the notional government in Ford City. Their own 'Coordinating Council,' as they called it, financed the aircraft, and a squadron of well-armed hydrofoils that took every chance they had to harass any Kashkin boats that ventured beyond the range of protective fire from the coast.

They returned to work as soon as General Haneshja left, for there was much to do. Their largest bay was occupied by a cargo hoverdyne, whose drive motivator was spread across three different tables while Diha rebuilt it. The task took on new urgency, on an afternoon so quiet Diha and Kalija were the only ones in the shop for the next few hours.

But there were other jobs, still, to be done. A tiger poked his head through the open door. “Do you never rest?"

His name was Golu Rachat, and he owned a farm near the southern coast. The land was marginal, so Golu cultivated it with self-operating equipment. “This is rest," Diha answered. “A hobby, for Kallich and I. What brings you this far inland?" She knew the answer: they were repairing one of the generators he used to power his agricultural robots.

Without them, a third of the machines were out of commission, and he'd be eyeing the coming planting season warily. “I just happened to be stopping by," the tiger said—though their shop was somewhat out of the way, on the outskirts of Nakitsa, and the town itself was far from Golu's farm. “I wondered how the work was coming."

“Ahead of schedule," Kalija called over from her workbench. “Send a truck around tomorrow evening and we'll get it loaded."

“Your skill never fails to impress me, inanuja."

“Flattery won't help, Golu Rachat." Diha grinned: “You paid us in advance."

Golu Rachat returned her smile with the same affection. “You never know. Maybe next time. I was going to ask about your schedule. Our PAK-2s are past the service interval that PAKoZ recommends for the model. It would be nice to have that work completed before I need to use them intensively."

“Unfortunately, the shop is booked for the next few months. Government contract."

The tiger didn't seem surprised to hear that, though he shook his head in disappointment. “Ah. They told me similar in Chadagh. Are you worried, comrade?"

“No. OVKK jobs don't pay well, but we can afford it for now."

Golu Rachat nodded, understanding that they both knew profitability hadn't been his concern. But then, though he looked ready to give the subject up, he shook his head again. “With the new attacks, is what I meant. I heard there was another airstrike… at least six dead, over in the hills. Comrade Genakhot will be pushed to action."

“I doubt it," Diha assured him. “We want to be prepared, of course—that's all the OVKK is asking us to do." She used Rukhat's emphatic mood: we certainly desire to be prepared. The OVKK definitely asks nothing more than this of us. “There's negotiations with the Arcadians over the fishing, too. Didn't you hear that? Once we agree on sharing the lake, the rest will follow."

“But we have to be strong until then," Golu Rachat said. She could tell he was trying to force conviction from the way his voice became subdued. “I wish the fighting would stop."

“It will. Who has interest in anything else?"

The old feline's tail curled and twisted slowly. “Yes," he concluded, at last. “And if inanu Hudasat Dihakhrastdun says it, it's probably true. Even if there's a storm, I shouldn't worry until I hear you arguing with it."

That was the literal translation of her name—the Rottweiler's reputation for challenging the unchallengeable went back well before the attacks; before the creation of the Coordinating Council. Before the machine shop, even. She laughed. “You see? I'll look at how long our work for the OVKK will take us and see if we can't fit your harvesters in somewhere."

“It is appreciated, as always." Golu Rachat bowed and left them to their work.

Diha would've thought nothing more of it, but she heard the click of Kalija's headset being placed on the table. The Border Collie watched their countryman's shadow depart through the door. “Who do you suppose he talked to in Chadagh?"

“I don't know. Harska? Urokhot?" There were a few larger firms in Chadagh that also specialized in heavy equipment and military hardware. Diha and Kalija specialized in engines because of their history working with fishing boats and their own powerful reactors; her shop would not have been Golu's first choice for repairing farm equipment.

“I spoke with comrade Harska at the union hall. They're definitely working for Haneshja, too. I imagine Urokhot and the ha'Nasheron would say the same, although perhaps not as urgently as Harska."

“Do you know what occupies him?"

Kalija rose from her work bench, closed the workshop's door, and joined Diha. Leaning against the hoverdyne's frame, she stared at her wife with keen, searching eyes. “Their shop was reverse-engineering a shipment of targeting scanners—captured, that's the rumor. Now they've been asked to design some new piece of equipment, and produce it at scale. He wouldn't say what."

“But he canceled the order for field-programmable logic units we put in," Diha recalled. “That's why Katanuk offered. When did you speak with Harska?"

“The day after he withdrew. He thought I was upset with him."

Diha chuckled. “He thought I was upset with him, you mean." The collie herself was notoriously mild-mannered. Diha was still thinking, though, and the smile faded from her muzzle. “They needed the logic modules for something."

“Jamming pods, I think."

“For Khalitsaja," Diha finished. The Khalitsa—'club'—was the mainstay of their army, either purchased as Type 450 tanks from the Soviet military or constructed in the Kashkin from farming tractors Yaprumash also sold, based on the same chassis. Even the Type 450s had been extensively modified in OVKK service. “When they've had their main reactors upgraded."

“If we're crash-building countermeasures to Arcadian equipment, love, the OVKK doesn't think the negotiations will work. If we're capturing Arcadian equipment to disassemble, I don't think they intend the negotiations to work."

“No." Calm and measured as she was, Kalija's conclusions could almost always be trusted. And the tension, building for months, couldn't endure forever. “They're buying time. Are we ready?"

Kalija stepped closer, and took her wife's paw, squeezing gently. “I know you weren't being entirely honest with Golu Rachat. You are worried."

“After what you've just said?"

“Wait until I keep going." Diha's eyes narrowed, and the collie squeezed tighter. “The OVKK put out a call for volunteers. You heard General Haneshja: they want to handle more work without burdening the civilian infrastructure."

“You think we should… what, enlist?"

Kalija's voice softened. “I think I should. The business needs you—the union would be too quiet without your voice, too. And I'd still work here. I spoke to a recruiter about that. The reserve units are strictly part-time. After my training, they suggested I could help set up their workshops."

The shock of thinking about her wife as a soldier tangled Diha's ability to respond. “But… you never… you've always said I was the impulsive one."

“I don't think it's impulsive. I think… you're better at organizing than I am. You got Katanuk to pitch in—no, no, don't tell me about him offering. I'm sure you twisted his ear for a yelp or two. It had to be done. I'd be more useful helping directly."

“You've never even fired a gun, Kalija."

She stretched up, licking the Rottweiler's nose soothingly. “I think they show you how. But, anyway, I'd basically just be a teacher. And a volunteer. Really, you should be mad at me for turning the OVKK into a competitor."

“You handle the books," Diha pointed out. “We'll go bankrupt without you watching over them. Even if you don't wind up stealing business from us."

“We can afford it, anyway. You said that. I'll make sure they don't get into any of our specialties—they can't have much farm equipment, right? Not anymore. They replaced the old tractors with proper military vehicles a decade ago."

“Well." Diha's muzzle puffed with her sigh. “I admit, I'm surprised. If you think it best for you, I can't argue, of course. What does Jakadath think?"

Of the two men in their pack, the leopard was by far the most skeptical of Diha's activism—more opposed to confronting Arcadia directly than even Kalija. The collie gave a soft, telling cough, and then a firm hug. “I sort of hoping that we could talk first…"

“And that I'd have your back when you explained it to him?"

“Yes. He'll expect something like that from you."

Diha snorted. “He's your husband, too, dear." And then she returned the collie's hug. “Of course I'll support you."