One #3
“That defeats the purpose of neutral ground,” one of the diplomats replied.
“And prevents an ambush,” the general shot back.
“Assuming they intend one.”
“They always intend one.”
Willow rubbed her forehead.
Not a headache thankfully. The last thing she needed right then was a migraine. Just the early stages of political fatigue. She’d spent the last year watching powerful people argue themselves in circles while the Scozid quietly adapted to every new weapon the alliance deployed. It was exhausting.
The projection shifted again as someone pulled up a new model of the station.
A spindly structure hung in orbit around an unremarkable planet. Docking arms extended outward like insect legs. The station itself was built decades earlier as a refueling hub for long-haul cargo routes.
Across the chamber, the Rucieth warrior was still watching the tactical display with that unnerving stillness warriors cultivated.
She’d felt something strange when their eyes met earlier. Not painful or threatening. Just... odd. Like brushing against a live wire that had no business being in the room. Willow shook her head.
Right now she had more important problems than unexplained warrior weirdness.
“If the negotiation proceeds,” Det’ae said, “we must determine who will represent the alliance.”
Several advisors immediately began offering suggestions. Military commanders. Diplomatic envoys. One particularly ambitious senator from a minor trade world.
Willow stared at them.
None of those options were good. Sending a warrior signaled hostility. Sending a politician signaled weakness. Sending both signaled confusion.
And the Scozid would smell that instantly.
The Premiere turned toward her. “Doctor Benally.”
That tone meant she wasn’t going to enjoy the next part of the conversation. “Yes, Premiere?”
“You understand Scozid language structures and culture better than anyone currently present.”
That was technically true. Didn’t make it comfortable.
“If negotiations proceed,” Det’ae continued, “we’ll require an advisor who can interpret those structures in real time.”
Willow blinked. She’d wondered when someone would suggest something stupid. “You want me to go.”
“As an advisor.”
“While the Scozid perform ritual dominance displays that double as legal declarations.”
“Yes.”
Willow considered that for a moment. Then she sighed. “Just to clarify, the last time humans attended a Scozid diplomatic event, it ended in chaos and several Scozid were eaten.”
“That was a trap from the beginning,” an aide at the back muttered.
Willow looked in his direction. “Did that make it less fatal?”
He had the good grace to look embarrassed.
“You wouldn’t be alone.” Det’ae tilted her head toward the far side of the chamber.
Willow followed the gesture to where it landed on Renjik.
The warrior looked up because despite looking bored, he’d apparently been paying attention all along.
“A warrior escort?” she asked.
“Yes, Renjik.”
The cultural specialist and the heavily armed warrior. The alliance’s plan appeared to be combining caution with violence and hoping the result counted as diplomacy.
“I’ll accompany Doctor Benally.” Renjik’s voice was deep and calm. Oddly, that was reassuring.
Rucieth were terrifying in close combat and notoriously difficult to ambush. Their psychic awareness made them excellent security during volatile negotiations, assuming the Scozid hadn’t damaged that awareness when they took pieces of him.
Willow looked back at the rotating station projection.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You want the cultural specialist and the psychic, stabby warrior in the same room with the most technologically advanced and emotionally unstable species in known space.”
“That’s one way to describe it,” Det’ae said calmly.
Willow exhaled slowly. Her life had taken some strange turns over the past two years.
Surviving the collapse of a space station. Ending up across the universe in the middle of an on-going war. Accidentally becoming the alliance’s leading Scozid expert.
But walking into a negotiation with a warrior she didn’t know might still qualify as the most questionable decision of the lot.
“I am not authorized to speak for the Alliance.”
Det’ae nodded. “A small group of council members will also attend.”
Willow glanced back across the chamber. Renjik hadn’t moved. Willow lifted one eyebrow slightly. He didn’t react.
The Premiere huffed. “Doctor Benally. Your answer.”
Willow looked back at the station projection. Then at the assembled council. Then back at the warrior who would apparently be responsible for keeping her alive.
She sighed. “I guess if the Scozid are expecting a dominance ritual, someone needs to make sure we don’t accidentally challenge their entire species to a death match.” Willow shrugged. “Might as well be me.”
The Premiere nodded. “Then it’s decided.”
Willow resisted the urge to groan. Because if there was one thing she’d learned about the Scozid over the past year, it was this:
When they invited you to a negotiation...
Someone usually died.
She just hoped it wouldn’t be her.