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  Hr’ent felt the gorge rising in his throat, and his fists clenched on top of the table, popping again like breaking boards. It should have been mine.

  Rsach placed the blade in the case and waited for the Guild Master to close it. Breka handed the case over and then picked up the blued-steel box from the dais beside the podium. He opened it, pulled out a Peacemaker patch, and placed it on the graduate’s sash over his right shoulder. He then withdrew a holstered, Jeha-made needler from within and clipped it to Rsach’s belt on the left side. Finally, he pulled out a gleaming Peacemaker badge.

  “You are no longer a cadet. You are no longer merely a graduate. You are now a duly appointed Peacemaker of the Galactic Union. Serve the law and make us all proud, Rsach Klixtylbyt.”

  “I will,” Rsach said solemnly. The assembled guests and Peacemakers burst into applause.

  Hr’ent did not.

  In his peripheral vision, Hr’ent saw his mother politely clap her paws together several times and then sit back calmly in her chair. Beyond her, the eyes of several of his classmates danced and darted toward him. Some covered smiles and reached for water glasses to still their laughter.

  One of them, a floppy-eared, brown and white Jivool named Drex, held up one paw horizontal to the ground. With a snarl of laughter, he rolled his arm to the extent he could and made a motion like an aircraft diving into the ground. Hr’ent bared his teeth, and Drex jerked around as if he’d been shocked through his seat.

  No one cares that I rescued a Fangmaster. For Elementals’ sake, I am the First Claw of the Clan Roxtador! But that means nothing here. No one cares that I may have saved the entire Pushtal race from self-extinction.

  Hr’ent sighed heavily.

  The guild glossed over his final reports, and the disciplinary hearing for his actions with the Pushtal took on a decidedly negative tone with regard to his investigative abilities and judgment. Yet he’d somehow secured the pelt of Clan Roxtador and, to a certain extent, should have been granted a limited diplomatic privilege. Ordered not to speak about his actions and to keep the pelt hidden at all costs, Hr’ent ground his jaw when asked about the specifics of his commissioning mission. He wanted to tell them about the seedy underbelly of Guild work he’d discovered through his observer, Peacemaker Kalene. He wanted to tell them about the noble—and yet lost—Pushtal and their attempt to save themselves. He wanted to tell them about Magnus, the cub, who now wore the title of Fangmaster. Silenced, all Hr’ent could do was bear the whispers and digit-pointing of his peers.

  All they want to do is laugh about the accident…it wasn’t my fault!

  On return from his commissioning mission, and excited at his personal success therein, Hr’ent took his place on the bridge of the Tango Squemera and watched Ocono grow large in the viewscreens. When the pilot asked permission to perform a break over the field—a wide, fast turn to bleed off speed before final approach—Hr’ent carelessly said yes. The Tango’s propulsion system faltered in the maneuver. The pilot, using every ounce of skill and several kilograms of luck, had been able to recover, but not before overshooting the landing point and damaging the Blue Flight operations hangar. There was no real damage save to his shoulder and his pride, but the rumor mill spun out of control.

  To make matters worse, Hr’ent spent a night in the infirmary having his shoulder repaired, which took the rumors of the big, dumb Oogar to a level he’d never seen in the previous three years. It gave the students even more ammunition to ridicule him, furthering his shame because he was supposed to be a tough Oogar. He’d refused further treatments and still struggled with a nagging injury that bothered him from time to time.

  He rubbed his shoulder, feeling the ache that was still there. He had to wonder if it was merely some sort of “ghost pain” that had flared up again, or if he’d done permanent damage. The medics had assured him he should not be feeling any pain.

  The official investigation cleared him of wrongdoing, yet there was a change in how the other students and the cadre looked at him. He’d given his official mission report not to the packed amphitheater he’d expected, but to a panel of three bored lecturers who’d approved his mission and sent him on his way.

  He’d twice requested to see the Guild Master but had never gotten past the administrative assistant in the outer office. For a week, he’d been convinced they were not going to let him graduate, until he’d met with the guild metallurgist to design his badge. He’d chosen an astraada tree from his homeworld—with its sturdy trunk and heavy boughs—to adorn his badge. He’d used the exact outline of the one at the edge of his family plot where he first climbed as a cub.

  Hr’ent sighed. “I’ve asked for a special leave, Mamma. I may be home next week.”

  “To rest before your first assignment?” She brightened, but her smile was a pained one. Even his being home would be more of a curse than a blessing.

  Hr’ent’s answer was stilled by Rsach’s voice.

  “Kuul Abai, Drom Sun Addikar, Adulimar Svoar, Xthula Aesyrom, Afroila Plu’cha ki, and Polomkri Azurial, come forward and be recognized,” the valedictorian intoned from the stage. The ceremony to hand out the accoutrements of the newly anointed Peacekeepers had begun, causing a new level of turmoil to roil within Hr’ent.

  His eyes flitted up to find that his nemesis now stood before the wide table where the cases sat lined up and ready for each graduate. Guild Master Breka stood at the far end of the table, and for a brief moment, it looked as if the aging head of the Peacemaker Guild was staring straight at him. Breka quickly turned his attention to the graduates rising from their seats, but there was no doubt Breka had been focused squarely on Hr’ent, which didn’t make any sense.

  With a heavy sigh, Hr’ent turned to his mother, his face slack with despair.

  “Mamma,” he said slowly, “I don’t even know that I’ll have a first assignment.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three

  Ocono

  Peacemaker Academy

  Deputy Selector Hak-Chet had deliberately taken up a specific seat at the table reserved for Peacemaker officials. His reasoning was simple: a clear line to the stage as well as an unobstructed view of the primary object of his interest. He glanced at the biometric readouts displayed on his slate where it lay on the table and smiled.

  Everything is going just as I anticipated, he thought.

  Hak-Chet was a Sidar, with a long, almost beak-like face and a bony, narrow extension that rose above his thoughtful visage. His eyes were the color of obsidian, and his skin a deep shade of topaz. Those few Humans who had seen members of the Sidar race found them to be reminiscent of prehistoric Earth Pteranodons, with leathery wings beneath their forelimbs, shorter legs, and three claw-like fingers with an opposable thumb. The Deputy Selector’s body was covered with a layer of thick, wiry, navy blue hair, and it was said the adaptation had once helped his species fly over great distances. The Sidar had evolved past any capacity for full flight but were still capable of gliding short distances when necessary, and the garments they chose usually facilitated this.

  “Gallmir Kodai, Soon-bel Garsu’nak, Nil Suk Gazariet, Uuvar Gena’var…” Rsach droned on, announcing the next group of recipients.

  As Hak-Chet watched, his eyes flickered to the back of the auditorium where Hr’ent sat with his mother. Rsach was almost to Golramm, and Hak-Chet needed to watch Hr’ent’s reaction when his name was called.

  A faint but perceptible groan rose from the aging Caroon that sat beside him, drawing his attention away from the big Oogar. He leaned over.

  “Are you all right, Selector?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

  The Caroon at his elbow grunted in discomfort and shook his elongated head.

  “As good as I can be in these stars-forsaken folding chairs.” He scratched at the few whitening hairs that still protruded like barbs from his bluish scalp. “I’m getting too old for these things,” he added with a sigh.

  Selector Grektch, the oldest
member of the Caroon race in the Peacemaker Guild, had served in that capacity for the last 53 years—and done so with distinction and honor. He was ancient for a Caroon, and he looked it. The normally black and gray pelts of the species had, in his case and those of the aged, turned nearly white, with darker patches around his long muzzle and the backs of his long-clawed hands. His elongated, mammalian face was a road map of wrinkles, with sparse, thick, white hairs. His eyes, however, were green like emeralds and as bright and sharp as any Caroon’s half his age.

  As the guild’s primary recruiter and talent manager, Grektch oversaw a direct staff of 25 Deputy Selectors—recruiters, really—who scoured the galaxy’s schools, universities, and mercenary academies looking for potential Peacemaker candidates. The older Caroon fought a form of arthritis and tended to wobble more than walk. Grektch had been the one to select Hak-Chet, and he had taken that raw recruit under his wing and become the greatest mentor Hak-Chet had ever known.

  “If it’s any consolation, my backside isn’t doing too well either, sir.”

  Grektch let out a staccato clicking sound, the Caroon version of laughter, and he turned kind eyes to his subordinate.

  “You better get used to it, kula,” he said softly. Kula was a term of endearment among the Caroon, meant to be used by teachers when addressing their prized pupils and likened in some respects to a parent addressing their offspring.

  “I suppose I should,” Hak-Chet replied.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rsach pin a badge on a Besquith graduate’s chest. The valedictorian leaned in and said something in the Besquith’s ear. They glanced in Hr’ent’s direction, and there was a brief exchange of laughter before the big carnivore moved on and Rsach addressed the next graduate in line.

  “How’s he doing?” Grektch asked, his eyes drifting briefly to Hr’ent. There was no need for Grektch to include the name. They knew who Hak-Chet had his eyes on.

  “His frustration, and dare I say rage, are blossoming more with every moment.”

  “Now, if you can just keep him from killing anyone…” Grektch said warily.

  “I’ve got that covered.” Hak-Chet patted the almost imperceptible bulge under his left arm where he’d sequestered a needler with tranquilizer rounds as a backup in case things didn’t go as planned. “You trained me well, sir.”

  “I should hope so,” Grektch said, feigning doubt.

  “Gizkara’sol’mundara, Abdthlox Goba’tikun—” Rsach said slowly from the stage.

  “Wait a moment, sir,” Hak-Chet said, placing his clawed hand on the Selector’s arm. “Rsach is about to call Hr’ent up there.”

  They turned their attention toward the stage. Hak-Chet scratched a spot where his long beak-like face extended just below his eyes and he focused his attention on Rsach, watching his behavior closely.

  “—Godar-Chun, Maorum Gofusial, Sususs Gojick’tal, Tulumm Goz’chuar—”

  Rsach paused for an almost imperceptible moment, and Hak-Chet thought he saw just a sliver of a smile pass across the valedictorian’s gray mandibles.

  “—come forward and be recognized,” Rsach finished as he raised his eyes and looked at the graduates who stood up.

  “He skipped over Hr’ent,” Hak-Chet said, surprised. His eyes flicked to Guild Master Breka, and they shared a momentary exchange of understanding. It couldn’t have been a mistake. He heard the sound of popping knuckles through his implant and knew what it meant. He glanced at the biometrics on his slate and saw they were mostly in the red. Hr’ent was bordering on rage. Tearing his eyes away from the readout, he turned his attention to where Hr’ent sat.

  The big Oogar was halfway out of his chair, his glaring eyes fixed squarely on the stage. His massive, clawed paws were balled up into fists, and he’d planted them squarely on the table. His muzzle was pulled back in a frightening snarl. His body quivered with barely contained rage, and a raised ridge of fur ran from the crest of his massive head all the way down his back.

  “Easy, Hr’ent,” Hak-Chet said in a whisper, as if his will alone might be able to keep the beast roiling within the Oogar from taking control. Hak-Chet tensed and slid his right claw into his garments where it found the grip of his needler. “Don’t do it…not here.” He looked at Hr’ent’s mother and found that she had a surprised look on her face. He listened carefully to the audio coming through his slate as he watched.

  Sv’rha placed a paw on Hr’ent’s arm.

  “It’s probably just a mistake,” she said quietly, obviously trying to calm her cub down. “Please sit back down.” There was worry in her voice. She knew her cub better then Hak-Chet did, so she had to know he was on the verge of going into a murderous rage.

  The words came in over Hak-Chet’s implant. The device he’d placed beneath Hr’ent’s table not only provided the biometrics he’d been monitoring, but also acted as a listening device. He could hear every word spoken there.

  “It’s no mistake, Mamma,” Hr’ent growled. “It’s not an oversight. It’s not an accident or anything else. That slimy little…” Hr’ent’s rumbling growl was loud enough to cause people at nearby tables to turn and stare. Some of them got worried or even frightened looks on their faces.

  “Hr’ent,” his mother said more firmly, “you need to sit back down. They’ll get to you eventually, and even if they don’t, you can’t fly into a rage in front of all these people…in front of me.”

  Hak saw Hr’ent’s head snap toward his mother, and his shoulders slowly relaxed. As the ridge of fur along his back laid down, he slowly lowered himself into the chair. His eyes, still glaring, never left the stage.

  “Is he going to hold it together?” Selector Grektch asked in a concerned tone. He could see the readouts as well, and they clearly worried him.

  Hak-Chet never took his eyes off of Hr’ent. He focused on every motion as the Oogar settled back into his seat. Hr’ent sat up straight, his body as rigid as titanium, his fists remaining clenched on the table.

  A moment later, he stole his eyes away from Hr’ent.

  “I think so,” he said. “If we can just keep Hr’ent from killing Rsach right there on stage when he finally gets his badge, we should be fine.”

  “You’re playing with fire, you know.” Grektch’s words were calm, an observation only, and one he had made more than once when Hak-Chet first came to him with a plan for the young, volatile Oogar.

  Hak-Chet turned his eyes to his mentor. “You know as well as I that it’s the fire I’m after. If we’re right about what is coming, we’ll need him…and others like him.”

  “Indeed,” Grektch said slowly, “but fire has a way of breaking free from those who would try to harness its power.”

  “He’s perfect for the program, sir. You saw the data and read his file.”

  “True, but you won’t be able to relax your grip any time soon…perhaps ever.”

  “I know, sir, but if I learned anything from you, it was that it’s necessary.”

  Grektch nodded slowly. He’d used that very phrase many times with Hak-Chet. If there was one thing absolutely certain about being a Peacemaker, it was that one frequently had to take tremendous risks and lay everything on the line for the sake of doing what was necessary.

  “Now that the Humans have been accepted into the Galactic Union, I suspect things will begin to change very rapidly.”

  “Perhaps,” Grektch replied. Again, it was an old conversation, and while Hak-Chet’s reasoning seemed sound, predicting the future was always a slippery slope. “You’re betting your career on being right about them and so many other things.”

  Hak-Chet nodded.

  “It’s a gamble I’m willing to take, sir.”

  Humans were new to the Galactic Union and, as was the custom with mercenary units on their first forays into the galaxy, they fared poorly. Many in the guilds argued over whether the Humans would be worthy allies or customers. The Mercenary Guild fed them more contracts than any other species in their first years of accepta
nce, although they were frequently unknowing pawns in the political and financial games being played by the more powerful races. As such, many of the guilds had no problem with Humanity spreading into the Galactic Union. The credits kept mounting up. Hak-Chet had paid close attention to everything happening with the strange, new species, and as a result, he believed it was only a matter of time until Humans would qualify for the Academy. He was, however, the only member of the Selector’s staff to believe Humans could be Peacemakers. He felt it was inevitable, and it wasn’t the only one of his “crazy ideas,” as the Guild Master liked to put it. He’d frequently fought uphill battles to implement some of his ideas, but he believed it was worth the risk.

  They do not expect—nor do they want to accept—change, Hak-Chet thought. That must stop before the situation gets too far out of hand, for corruption is growing rampant, and the other guilds have grown too powerful.

  “There,” Hak-Chet said, pointing to the slate. “He’s coming out of the red…almost down to a simmer now.”

  Just then, Grektch’s slate buzzed where it lay on the table not far from Hak-Chet’s. As Grektch reached for the device, Hak-Chet saw the Guild Master on stage reach into an inner pocket and pull out his own slate.

  Something’s happened, Hak-Chet thought.

  As he watched, the Guild Master raised his eyes to meet Hak-Chet’s, and then they flicked over to where Hr’ent sat. It was only for a fraction of a second, but whatever message had come in had something to do with Hak-Chet’s plans. He was certain of it.

  As the last of the latest group of graduates walked off the stage, the Guild Master stepped up to the microphone.

  “My apologies, Peacemaker Rsach,” he said, eying the valedictorian, “but I’m afraid I must intrude for just a moment.” Breka turned to the audience and looked at an aging HecSha sitting in the front row. “Chancellor, would you please come up here and act as my surrogate in congratulating these fine graduates?”