Free An Ancient Peace by Tanya Huff

in known space?”
    â€œNot a clue.”
    â€œAnd there we have it. Where
it
stands for nothing at all.”
    â€œYeah, because it’s not like we were fighting a war or anything.” Binti tossed her own slate down. “Where a shitload of buried weapons might’ve come in handy.”
    Alamber poked at the empty pouch again. “I’ve got a question . . .”
    â€œI’ve got nothing but questions,” Ressk muttered.
    â€œ. . . How do we know it’s the Younger Races doing the grave robbing?”
    â€œThe colonel said . . .”
    â€œYeah, but how does
he
know?” Alamber sat up and slidimmediately into a boneless slouch, the graceful transition as much age as species. “I mean, we’ve spent three days establishing that the Intelligence Service of the Confederation Marine Corps knows sweet fuk all. Why blame the Younger Races for stealing a biscuit warmer? Because we’re violently antisocial? Isn’t that why Parliament wants to lock us away? And it’s a bad thing when Parliament believes it, but it’s business as usual when it’s all the Corps’ got? Or is because the Elder Races fart rainbows? Because I’ve got to tell you, there was a Ciptran on Vrijheid and that bug was a total
senak
. Elder Race.” One hand rose, one fell, sketching out a scale. “Total
senak
. Not mutually exclusive.”
    Torin ignored the argument—the staccato spill of words coming from five different sides with the sides in constant flux—and went over everything Major Alie and Colonel Hurrs had said at the briefing. H’san grave goods had been found, the trail leading toward a weapon cache. Clearly the Younger Races were responsible. Because the Younger Races were inherently violent? And if they believed that, what was the difference between them—the major, the colonel, and the ex-gunnery sergeant who’d accepted every word out of their mouths without question for no better reason than rank and a uniform—and those members of the Elder Races who declaimed they should be locked up until they become better socialized?
    Was there a difference?
    Yes.
    â€œHe has a point.” Torin pitched her voice to cut through the shouting. Finished her coffee as it died down, then let the silence settle for a moment before continuing. “Members of the Elder Races can be assholes. They can be pompous, greedy, self-righteous pains in the collective ass, but they’d moved far enough away from institutionalized violence that when it was fight back or die, they couldn’t figure out how to fight back. They had to come to us.”
    â€œCould be they’ve learned from us,” Craig offered.
    All three ex-Marines looked a little sick at the thought. Even Alamber who, for all the violence in his life had never seen a battlefield, was slowly shaking his head in denial.
    â€œDo of any of you honestly believe that the Elder Races took a lookat the shitstorm we got called in to deal with, looked at the dead and the damaged, and thought, damn, we were wrong, looks like war is the answer after all? Because I don’t.” She crushed her empty coffee pouch. “Cards on the table: the H’san weapons are weapons of war. Place your bets on who you think would want to put them back into play, us or them.”
    â€œUs,” Werst growled. Four nods of agreement.
    â€œAssumption,” Alamber began.
    Torin cut him off. “There’s nothing wrong with the assumption. The assumption’s justified.”
    â€œAnd the difference?”
    â€œIs them assuming we’re incapable of policing ourselves. And assuming we’re incapable of learning from them. And assuming we won’t take a swing if they push us into a corner. You can assume they fart rainbows, I don’t care. I care about preventing a civil war. Which, by a happy coincidence, is also the job they’re paying us to do. So