A truth of Valor

TWO

TORIN HAD ASSUMED THEY'D STAY to honor the dead. She'd seen enough death over the years to know the importance of celebrating lives lived. She'd seen enough death recently-her entire company, most of her GCT, and a prison planet of Marines she'd all but promised to free-that the Corps psychologists had come to the conclusion she had to be repressing at extreme levels in order to even function. In turn, she'd come to a few conclusions about the Corps psychologists, and they'd parted on terms of mutual dislike.

Holding onto the living rather than the dead was not repressing. Binti Mashona and Ressk were all that had survived of Sh'quo Company, Miransha Kichar and Werst all that had survived of their recon unit. Kichar had stayed in, the other three had left the Corps around the same time Torin had. Kyster, di'Hern Darlys and di'Ameliten Wataru-the other Krai and the two di'Taykan who'd escaped the prison planet with them-had taken medical discharges and disappeared into the population of their respective home planets. Torin kept an eye out for Kyster, but, as Darlys had been the instigator of Torin as a progenitor, she'd let the di'Taykan go.

Torin'd served with Staff Sergeant Daniel Johnston, Kichar's senior NCO, and he'd already sent one detailed message about the young Marine's progress. And how crazy she was driving him. And how far she'd likely go if she could just dial it back a little. Torin found it comforting to know Kichar hadn't been changed by knowledge of the plastic aliens. Torin hadn't spent any civilian time with Mashona, Ressk, and Werst, but she knew where they were and they knew where she was and that fell somewhere between comforting and necessary.

Torin hadn't known Jan and Sirin, hadn't even met them; they were additions to Craig's dead, not hers.

Craig had Pedro help him set up training exercises, teaching Torin to deploy the Promise's pen, load various types of "salvage," and then check that the correct variable had been entered into the computer's Susumi equation. When that paled, she spent time running pilot simulation programs-maneuvering around debris fields, finding the best position for most efficient grappling of salvageable pieces. It was necessary training, and Torin gave it the same attention she'd given the training that had allowed her to stay alive while doing her old job but, at the same time, it was clear that they were actually waiting.

Jan and Sirin hadn't been wearing HE suits when attacked, so it took Brian four days to find them, sweeping the area around the remains of the Firebreather with his scanners tuned to pick up DNA. It was a function the CSOs used to scan battle debris for residual tissue and many a military family owed them for whatever closure they'd been able to achieve.

When he had both bodies finally on board, Brian's message to the station was short and to the point. "Got them. Coming home."

With people free to mourn, the mood around the station changed. Now, they knew what they were waiting for.

"What do you mean, the attack hasn't been reported to the Wardens?"

Craig pushed a hand back through his hair and sighed. "What's the point, Torin? The Wardens can't bring Jan and Sirin back to life."

"No, but they can catch the bastards who killed them."

"How?"

"How?" Torin repeated. She paced the length of the cabin, seven strides and back again. "Isn't it what they do?"

"Do they?" Craig dropped his feet off the edge of the control panel. The chair protested as he spun it to face her. "They haven't hauled ass to send in the Navy, have they?"

No, they hadn't. And Presit hadn't gotten back to her. Torin spread her arms. "It isn't right that the people who killed Jan and Sirin will get away with it."

"You lost Marines all the time. How often did you get to take out the people responsible?"

Oh, he did not just go there. "We were fighting a war," Torin snarled. "And don't tell me that you're in a war with the pirates because war means fighting back. And you're not." The Promise was suddenly too small. "You're doing sweet fuk all for the people you lost!" she said, stepping into the air lock.

"We're remembering them!" he shouted as the outer door closed.

No one spoke to her as she wandered around the station. A few people moved out of her way.

Someone had set up an exercise wheel in an old ore carrier and since no one was around, and the surface of the inner curve was both smooth and solid, Torin stripped off her boots and ran. When her implant chimed*fifteen kilometers*, she started to slow; although it took another kilometer before the rotations had dropped to the point where it was safe to use the brakes.

Breathing deeply, the taste of the recycled air almost comforting, she stared down past her toes at the curve of plastic-resolutely remaining plastic-and thought, Fuk it.

When Torin got back to the ship, the only light in the cabin was the spill from the control panel. Craig was in the bunk, not asleep but not talking either. She stripped down, and settled in beside him.

"I thought when I left the Corps, that I'd stop losing people."

"I know." He shifted to wrap an arm around her. "And I know you want to fix things, but, Torin, we take care of our own."

Maybe. But their definition of "take care of" wasn't one she understood.

In Torin's experience, memorial services included a chaplain droning on about duty while the listeners thought about the part of the ceremony that would have been most relevant to the dead Marines-getting out of their Class As and to the beer. Salvage Station 24 had skipped the memorial and gone straight to the party, complete with musicians on a stage set up by the old shuttle bay doors. At the other end of the market, the pub entrance had been blocked by a pair of tables and two kegs. Craig had warned her that the beer was watered, but that didn't seem to matter to the constant stream of people stuffing mugs under the spouts. Overheard conversations reminded Torin of conversations heard in every Mess where they honored the dead at the end of a deployment. Subtle differences, sure-no one seemed especially relieved or guilty that they were still alive when the dead were dead, and it was strange not to hear the words "Goddamn fukking brass has no goddamn fukking idea of what we do out there!" repeated at a volume that rose in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed.

The biggest difference between the way the Corps and the salvage operators did things was that Jan and Sirin's bodies had been set up on a raised platform in the center of the market, the kiosks cleared off the floor for the duration. In the field, the Corps bagged and reduced their dead into a few grams of ash that fit into cylinders that fit in turn into measured spaces in the senior NCO's combat vest. One way or another, the Corps left no one behind. Even Marines who died while serving in less chaotic theaters were bagged and reduced before being sent home unless their religious beliefs required a different treatment.

Bodies lying around were bodies that needed to be tended to.

"Is this sanitary?" Torin murmured against Craig's ear as they worked their way through the crowds to Pedro and his family. "Decomposing bodies in a closed environment?"

Craig stiffened, turned toward her and visibly relaxed, shaking his head. It took Torin a moment to analyze his reaction. Then she realized that her right hand rested against the place her dead would have been had she still been wearing a vest. "They won't be here long," he told her quietly. "And the station's scrubbers are up to the job. Jan built them."

Torin had never asked how well he'd known the two dead women. He hadn't spoken of them since their fight and barely spoke of them before, although he'd exchanged a couple of memories with Pedro during the wait. That suggested they were his in the broader sense rather than the specific. She hadn't acknowledged that and she needed to, but to say she was sorry for his loss would imply this wasn't her loss as well. Closing her hand around his forearm, she stuck with a basic truth. "The death of any of us diminishes us all."

He looked a little surprised.

Jan Garrett-Wong was Human. Standing, the top of her head might have reached Torin's shoulder. All things considered, she didn't look that bad, but then she'd lived a significant percentage of her life surrounded by vacuum and had no doubt known enough to close her eyes tightly and empty her lungs when her ship had been breached. Most of the damage caused by prolonged exposure to vacuum would be internal-pulmonary embolisms were tidy killers. Both her cheeks were stippled with burst capillaries, but nothing said they hadn't been there before the attack.

The lilac hair of di'Akusi Sirin lay limp and unmoving. The color reminded Torin of Lieutenant di'Ka Jarret, and her hand moved back to touch nonexistent cylinders. They'd never found his body, or even any evidence of where it was in the melted surface of ST7/45T2. If his family had held a memorial service, nothing of the lieutenant would have attended.

Given the differences in respiratory systems, Sirin had probably lived a little longer after the Firebreather was destroyed. Long enough to see Jan die. All di'Taykan eyes collapsed in vacuum; given the concave curve of her lids, Torin suspected that someone, at some point before the bodies had been laid out for viewing, had sealed the lids shut over the empty sockets.

It was unusual for a di'Taykan to choose a single Human as a vantru, a primary sexual partner. Not only were the Taykan a communal species, but any relationships formed while in the di' phase ended when they switched to quo and became breeders. Plus, a single Human would be hard pressed to keep up with a di'Taykan's sexual appetite. From what Torin could overhear, more than one person in the crowd had been as impressed by Jan's ability in that regard as by her skill as a mechanic. Easier when both parties were females, granted, but still.

Tables of food had been set up around the biers; platters of the ubiquitous processed protein patties in a wide variety of flavors as well as a surprising amount of fresh vegetables and small fruits-the station's greenhouses seemed to be producing bumper crops. Bowls filled with the paste sat next to sun-dried potato, sweet potato, and hujin chips clearly intended for dipping. Torin stayed well away from the hujin chips. Humans tended to consider them further proof that the Krai could and would eat anything organic.

The edge of Jan's shroud had a smear of paste on it, as though the corpse had stretched out her right hand and done some snacking while waiting for things to start. That was definitely unsanitary, no matter what Craig said.

Torin touched the edge of a plastic bowl-which remained a plastic bowl-then picked up a handful of sweet potato chips.

Warm bodies packed the market elbow to elbow and, while the dominant language was Federate, Torin could hear Taykan, Krai, at least two oldEarth languages, and the distinctive screaming cat fight sound of a conversation in Katrien. Every one of the many air locks accessing the station was in use and, according to Alia coming off a shift in ops, they'd extended mooring tethers from the last three free-crews of late arrivals suiting up rather than locking in. It seemed as though every salvage operator who could get there, had.

"Torin!"

She looked down to see Jeremy, the youngest of Pedro's children, holding tightly to the edge of her tunic, none of his parents in sight. "What can I do for you, Jer?"

"Mama made mushroom caps."

"Did she?"

"Yes. I want some."

Craig leaned in close enough to be heard, his breath warm against her cheek. "I can take charge of the ankle biter if you like."

"I can get an entire platoon moving in the same direction while under artillery fire, I expect I can handle a four year old." When his smile softened, she shook her head and sighed. "Don't get broody on me."

Jeremy seemed like a solid kid, but when she settled him on her hip, he weighed less than she expected and he was small enough not to affect her ability to maneuver through the crowd to the food. The mushroom caps he wanted were about four centimeters across and filled with yeast paste wrapped around something chewy. It wasn't unpleasant tasting and, over the years, Torin had learned that within species parameters it was usually safer not to ask for specifics.

Both hands holding his food, trusting Torin to hold him, Jeremy chewed and stared at the bodies. Torin had no idea if children were usually exposed to bodies this young. Her idea of young started at around nineteen for Humans.

"Dead means not coming back."

Jeremy wasn't asking, but Torin answered him anyway. "Yes, it does."

"Where did they go?" he wondered.

Torin chewed and thought about it for a moment. Each of the Younger Races seemed to have at least half a dozen belief systems dealing primarily with death. Even the Elder Races held a few although for the most part they were wise enough to keep them to themselves. Torin believed in keeping people alive. "I honestly don't know," she said at last.

Jeremy made a noncommittal noise and went to wipe his hand on her tunic. Unable to spot anything set out for that purpose, Torin redirected him to his own clothing.

"I know you."

The speaker was Human, male, close to 200 centimeters tall, compensating for the lack of hair on his head with the ugliest ginger mustache Torin had ever seen.

"I know you," he said again. "You're that Marine who says plastic aliens are the enemy, not those murdering, fukking Others. It wasn't fukking plastic aliens who killed my sister, now was it?"

Most of the people packed in around them had abandoned personal conversations and were waiting, with him, for Torin to answer.

"Where did your sister die?" she asked.

He blinked pale eyes. "What?"

Torin repeated the question. "Where did your sister die?"

"On Barnin Four. Those bastards wiped out the whole colony."

"Then she was likely killed by the low orbit bombardment." The colony had been small, agrarian, with no offensive capabilities. There'd been no reason for the Primacy to attack as the entire Barnin system had been well within the Confederation's borders, but since discovering the war had been designed as a laboratory to study the species involved, Torin had come to realize that many decisions on both sides had been less than rational all along. "There's no way of knowing what species was directly responsible."

He folded his arms. "Well, it wasn't fukking plastic aliens, I know that."

"How?"

"What?"

"How do you know it wasn't the plastic aliens?"

Ginger brows drew in to nearly touch over his nose. "Fuk you!"

He aimed a shove at her unoccupied shoulder and, without moving her feet, she twisted just far enough around for it to miss.

Reaching out, Jeremy wiped greasy fingers on the sleeve of his jacket.

When he snarled and tried a second shove, Torin caught his hand, folded his thumb back, and dropped him to his knees. Face screwed up in pain, he shifted his weight back, the fingers of his free hand curling into a fist. Torin locked her eyes on his and growled, "Don't." Against all odds, he turned out to be smart enough to listen. "You want to take out your grief on me," she told him quietly, "I'm willing to beat the shit out of you any time I'm not holding a four year old. Jeremy, are you related to this man?"

Jeremy took a long look. "No."

"Then you don't get to wipe your hands on him. Apologize."

"But…" When Torin raised a brow, he sighed dramatically and leaned forward far enough to peer down at the kneeling man. "Sorry I wiped my hands on you, okay?"

Torin waited a moment then applied a little more pressure to the man's thumb until he choked out a reasonably sincere, "Okay."

"The plastic aliens started the war that killed your sister," she said, releasing him. Plastic alien was simplistic, but it was a lot easier to say than polynumerous molecular species or polyhydroxide hive mind. "Don't forget that because they'll be back."

Then she turned to get Jeremy another mushroom, keeping most of her attention on the man rising to his feet. Muttering under his breath, he pushed his way through the crowd who, in spite of having been avidly watching the confrontation, were all maintaining a strict none of my business air about them. She wondered what would have happened had there actually been a fight. Would the crowd's individuality at all costs have held or would it have turned into a mob as she became an outsider beating one of their own?

How close to death would Ginger Mustache have to be to bring the salvage operators together?

Or did only the dead get parties?

Spotting Jenn over by a group of Krai who were probably complaining about the waste of food-they ate their dead, and saw no real reason why they couldn't eat everyone's even if the articles drawn up when they joined the Confederaton expressly forbid it-Torin caught her eye and nodded toward Jeremy, silently asking if she wanted him back.

When it appeared she didn't, Torin allowed the child to drag her over toward the stage where a band named Toyboat-two Humans, a di'Taykan and a Niln on the beatbox-were doing a power chord cover of H'san opera. She could honestly say she'd never heard a better version of O'gra Morf Dennab. And she'd definitely had worse dancing partners.

By 2100, most of the kids had gone and the serious drinking had started. Craig knew of three stills which meant there had to be at least half a dozen more on the station he didn't know about, all supplying alcohol for the funeral-and that wasn't even counting perfectly innocent food and drink that got a lot less innocent when it crossed species lines. Personally, Craig was sticking with the fernim made by the Katrien collective; sweet and dark, about 80 proof and the best fukking thing ever to put in coffee. If there was anything resembling justice left in the universe, he'd be taking a bottle or two away with him. The Katrien collective hadn't been part of the station last time he'd been by. For the sake of the fernim alone, he hoped like hell they stayed.

From where Craig was sitting, he could see Torin deep in discussion with a couple of di'Taykan. Kiku had served one contract in the Corps as a comm tech and Meryn had been Navy, so the odds were high they were rehashing old battles. Or at least the di'Taykan were. It wasn't something he'd ever heard Torin do. He supposed, as career Corps, she'd seen enough battles the novelty had worn off. If the di'Taykan were trying to impress her, well, they didn't stand a hope in hell. Any hell. Pick one.

If he were a betting man-and he was-he'd bet the conversation had started with a proposition, even given that Torin had been named a progenitor and every Taykan in the Confederation seemed to know it. Still, it wasn't like she was planning to start a Taykan family line. Or, given the differences in biology, a Human line on Taykan. Or that anything much kept a di'Taykan from suggesting sex. They'd never discussed where they stood with the di'Taykan, Torin and him. Although it was pretty much a consistent belief across known space that sex with a di'Taykan didn't count, he found he was pleased Torin hadn't gone with them. If that made him unevolved-he took another swallow of coffee and fernim-he didn't fukking care.

"So pendejo…" Pedro dropped down on one side of him, Alia on the other. "… you are serious about this woman, yes?"

Craig toasted Pedro with his mug. "Would I have exposed her to your ugly ass self if I wasn't?"

"You might have been trying to scare her off," Alia said thoughtfully, crossing her legs at the ankles. At some point during the evening, she'd had the H'san symbol for life hennaed onto the tops of both bare feet. "Tossing her into the deep end. Seeing if she'll swim."

"She swims fine. Threw me in a freezing, fukking lake on Paradise."

Alia snickered. "You suck at metaphor when you're drinking."

Craig toasted her, too.

And nearly coughed the mouthful back up when Pedro jabbed a bony elbow into his side. "Your woman, she's used to ordering a lot of people around. You sure you going to be enough for her?"

Yeah, it wasn't like he hadn't wondered about that. He shrugged. "She chose to come with me."

"Never doubted it."

"Never thought for a minute you could make that one do anything she didn't want to," Alia snorted.

"'S truth." Craig nodded. "Or she didn't feel she had to."

He could hear the frown in Alia's voice although he kept his attention on the last swallow of his coffee. "Isn't that the same thing?"

Pedro leaned across him, reaching for her mug. "How much of that have you had?"

"Not enough." She easily evaded his grab and got to her feet, graceful in spite of the swaying. Or maybe swaying gracefully, Craig wasn't entirely sure. "You two behave," she added as she left.

"I love that woman.?Te amo, mujer!" Pedro shouted at her back.

Alia flipped him off without turning.

"She loves me, too."

"She married your ugly ass, she must."

"So are you and…"

"Don't know. We haven't talked about it."

"She took you home to meet her family."

Craig shrugged, unwilling to read any more into that than there'd been. "I'd already met her father. Back when she was dead." Fukking mug was empty. He pulled Pedro's from lax fingers and swallowed a mouthful of… "What the fuk is this?" he gasped, eyes welling up.

"Something Kevin's been fermenting in the greenhouse." Pedro took his mug back and drank. "Good degreaser, too."

He could almost feel his tongue again. "No doubt."

"So, how long you planning to stay this…"

A howl from over by the empty stage cut him off as Newton Winkler ripped off his overalls, screaming obscenities. Looked like he'd gotten a couple of new tats since Craig had seen him last.

"Fukking Winkler's been into the sah again," Pedro sighed, hauling himself slowly to his feet.

Craig stood with him. For the Krai, sah had an effect about equal to a cup of coffee. To Humans, the mild stimulant caused-as well as a host of nasty physical reactions-delusions, paranoia, and an inability to feel pain. Craig had learned the hard way that last bit was the kicker. Hopped up on sah, the restraints self-interest put on violence were gone, and Winkler would keep fighting long after the damage he'd taken should have forced him to quit.

"Oh, fuk it, Jurr's trying to talk him down."

Jurr probably hadn't intended to get his ass thrown across the room. Fortunately, Krai bones were hard enough he bounced. Also, fortunately, the cluster of people he bounced off of were drunk enough they'd probably suffered nothing more than minor bruising.

Then Torin's left arm went around Winkler's throat, her right hand wrapped around her left wrist forcing the hold tight. Face growing darker in the crock of her elbow, Winkler clawed at her arm, blunt nails sliding off her sleeve. His bare feet paddled against the stage, then slowed, then stopped. Torin eased him down, studied him for a moment through narrowed eyes, then straightened. "He won't be out for long," she snapped. "Tie him or trank him."

Craig grinned as a couple of Krai he didn't know moved quickly in and carried Winkler away. Their sah, their responsibility. Allowing a Human to get his hands on the liquid could mean charges laid if anyone on the station wanted to push the matter.

"She could kick your ass from here to the edge," Pedro murmured, draping an arm over Craig's shoulders.

"Not news."

"Bet she's realmente bueno in the rack."

"Not telling."

"You're in love."

Craig watched as every Krai still in the room dropped their eyes rather than meet Torin's gaze. Even those far enough away she couldn't possibly see their expressions, stared at the floor. Pedro hadn't actually asked a question, but Craig answered anyway. "Yeah," he said as Torin glanced his way. "I am."

"… so try to stay away until we've forgotten what your ugly face looks like. Torin can come around any time, though. What?" One of the family said something just out of range of the comm unit. "Jeremy says he's going to marry Torin when he grows up," Pedro translated.

"I'll consider that fair warning. Stay safe, asshole."

"And you, pendejo."

It was, Torin thought as Craig maneuvered the Promise out past a long line of the polyvoltaic cells that helped power the station, one of the strangest clearances she'd ever heard. The station OS had been involved only in the resealing of the access lock.

"So…" Craig sounded amused. "Something you're not telling me?"

"About?"

"You and Jeremy."

"He's a cute kid."

"I never knew you liked kids."

She shrugged. "I find I'm liking them more now I don't have to watch them die." Not that she'd ever actually watched them die; she'd fought like hell to keep them from dying. "Jeremy's young enough, he'll never get mixed up in this mess."

"Fifteen, sixteen years; you think the fighting will stop by then?"

"I think the war will have stopped by then. Fighting? In general?" The Elder Races of the Confederation believed that an interstellar presence could be achieved only by those species that had evolved beyond the desire to blow themselves-and others-into extinction. This caused them a problem when the Primacy, who clearly did not share this belief, attacked. And continued to attack, diplomacy be damned. When it came down to fight or die, the Confederation bent the rules enough to allow Humans, Krai, and di'Taykan to join their club even though none of the three had managed to do much more than break out of their own gravity well. As it turned out, it was entirely possible that the "plastic aliens" had juiced the Primacy, but that wasn't the point. The point was, there were three aggressive species buzzing around Confederation space, and no matter what Parliament seemed to think, they weren't all likely to put down the weapons they'd been using.

"Torin?"

"Do I think the fighting will stop?" She thought of saying ask Jan and Sirin, but he was asking her. "No."

"Pessimist."

Folding her arms along the top of his control chair, she rested her chin on his head. "Realist."

"You're thinking of the pirates."

"Not specifically." Pirates. Actual pirates. That was going to take some getting used to.

"So," he said again after a moment, still sounding amused, "you made an impression."

"On a four year old."

"Winkler was over aces, and you kept him from hurting anyone."

"Okay, I made an impression on a four year old and a sah addict. Winkler needs help."

"He needs to stay off the sah."

Torin sighed. The Corps would have slapped him into a program before the charge of self -inflicted damage had even hit his slate and then would have gone after the Krai who'd allowed his access to the beverage. Much the same thing would have happened on Paradise and on any station that maintained a government presence. Any hint of Humans getting their hands on sah and the Wardens would move in attempting to limit the damage. Salvage operators, though, they refused to interfere in the man's personal choice.

Individually, they were smart, tough, and adaptable. Working together, as a unit…

Would they work together as a unit, though; that was the question? Would they? Could they? What would it take?

Torin was just as glad to be leaving them behind. Individuality at the expense of the group went against everything she'd believed her entire adult life. Once Vrijheid had been just another government station, but the mining operations it had been intended to support had been destroyed in the war, and the cartels had cut their losses rather than rebuild. When William Ponner arrived, the station had been stripped to bare bones personnel, waiting to be moved off its L5 point and folded through Susumi space to a new location. Rumor, stripped to bare bones, said he'd barely been there a tenday when he'd hacked a database and convinced the powers-that-be the station's orbit had decayed due to damage taken during the attack. That it had crashed into the planet, all hands lost.

Apparently, he'd even implanted records of the Navy's investigation.

Cho figured hacking the Navy took balls the size of small moons and only doing it once took more brains than were usually evident in the Human species as a whole.

William Ponner-Big Bill to his friends and everyone who used the station was either his friend or about to become a statistic supporting the dangers of living in space-had used balls and brains to create his own personal fiefdom. If a captain had cargo to sell, it could be sold at Vrijheid, no questions asked, fifteen percent to Big Bill. If a captain wanted to outfit his ship so that picking up new cargoes became a little easier, he could do that at Vrijheid. Fifteen percent to Big Bill. If a crew wanted to spend their share of the money, they could do that, too. Sex, drugs, alcohol, high tech, low tech, and useless pretties that sparkled and shone. Fifteen percent to Big Bill. If a person with skills wanted to sell them to the highest bidder, no questions asked, they could sell those skills at Vrijheid. Fifteen percent to Big Bill.

He'd created a sanctuary for those who were tired of a Confederation designed to support the belief that the Elder Races' shit didn't stink. Humans, Krai, and di'Taykan almost exclusively-the so-called Younger Races who were treated by the government like they were too stupid or too unstable to be anything but cannon fodder-although every now and then, another race found a niche and filled it.

Cho gave the Ciptran standing by the entrance to the bar as much room as possible-the big bug made his skin crawl. Once inside, he crossed to join Nat and Doc at a table against the far wall. Although all races drank in the Sleepless Goat, the staff was predominantly Human, albeit Humans the universe had chewed up and spat out. No one ended up slinging drinks in a place like the Goat if they had options. Every server in the place showed the signs of one or more addictions, but Cho preferred it to any of the other dozen or so bars on the station. When he wanted a drink, he wanted a drink. Period. Not a proposition. Not meat pies that might have once had a name.

"Tyra's dead," he grunted, dropping into a chair. "Crazy old woman took a walk in vacuum about six tendays ago."

Doc drained his glass and held up three fingers to the server. "Her codes were so old, they probably wouldn't have worked anyway."

"We'll never know now."

Drinks arrived with a promptness that suggested the word had been passed on to new staff and the servers were keeping bloodshot eyes locked on Doc. No one wanted to be the one to tip him over. Not if the stories were true.

Most of them were.

"We need to take another fukking salvage operator alive," Nat growled, fingers curled and heading for her scalp. She scowled at Doc as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand back down to the table. "What?"

"It won't heal if you keep scratching it."

"It itches!"

They did need to take another salvage operator alive. Nat's declaration had been stupidly obvious but accurate for all of that. Cho took a long drink of his beer, then sat staring into the foam. Trouble was, most CSOs ditched their pens and ran the moment they figured out what they were facing, and oblivious idiots like Rogelio Page were few and far between. Not likely they'd get that lucky again.

"Cap."

Cho lifted his head slowly, acknowledging Nat's warning but not reacting to it. Half of the bar's clientele could literally smell fear, and all of them would take advantage of it.

Big Bill and the Grr brothers were heading toward the back of the bar. Once his destination became obvious, the noise level rose as the other patrons played nothing to do with me.

"Mackenzie Cho, as I live and breathe." Big Bill smiled widely, showing a lot of teeth. Given that his closest associates were Krai, teeth weren't exactly reassuring. He pulled the fourth chair out from the table, and sat, not caring that his back was to the room. Given that the Grr brothers were at his back, that wasn't even a little surprising.

Grr was not their actual name. Nor were they necessarily brothers. Both the Krai and di'Taykan in Cho's crew agreed they were male-the subtle differences in scalp mottling that made up Krai secondary sexual characteristics confused the hell out of Humans. More importantly, they were two of the nastiest sons of bitches in known space. Cho had once seen them eat a man's feet, totally ignoring the screaming.

That they barely came up to Big Bill's shoulders when he was sitting down didn't matter in the slightest. Even Huirre, who'd eaten a body part or two in his day, gave them a wide berth.

"Thanks, sweetheart." A beer and a shot appeared in front of Big Bill almost before he sat down. He smiled up at the server, tossed the shot back, set the glass back down on the table with an audible click, and smiled again. "We need to talk, Cho. People you're selling to are talking about how you're holding back, and today I find out that you've been asking after Tyra, bless her withered heart. What did you find out there between the stars?"

And why are you trying to keep it from me?

People who tried to keep things-or at least fifteen percent of things-from Big Bill on Vrijheid didn't live long.

The Grr brothers smiled.

Nat dug at her scalp again, and Doc tapped the edge of one thumb against the table. Cho felt a drop of sweat run down his back. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he hadn't kept anything from anyone. Things were being kept from him. "I can't talk about it here."

Let this lot of degenerates find out he had a Marine armory on board, and the fukking losers would be fighting over who got to try for it first.

Big Bill made a noncommittal noise that still managed to sound like a threat.

Dragging his tongue over dry lips, Cho added, "Let me show it to you."

Big Bill maneuvered the eye deftly around the armory in absolute silence, fingers ghosting over the surface of his slate. When he reached the CSO seal, he snorted. "Given what you told me of your captive's unfortunate death, I see why you were looking for Tyra. Not the sort of lock you can plug your slate into and have it run down the combination; salvage operators write in some bugfuk crazy layers. That said, you do realize Tyra's codes would have been too old to open this?"

"Her codes would have been a starting point for hacking the lock."

"Tricky." Big Bill nodded slowly. "But possible if you have someone sufficiently skilled."

"I have someone." Depending, of course, Cho qualified silently, on how much his thytrins had exaggerated young Nadayki's talents.

"Good." With the eye at full magnification, Big Bill examined every millimeter of the lock, then-after snapping his slate back onto his belt-turned and swept a critical gaze over Cho and his two companions. "If you actually manage to get that open, do you know what you have?"

"A cargo we can sell for one fuck of a lot of money," Nat told him.

"No."

"No?" she repeated, eyes wide.

"What you have," Big Bill said quietly before she could continue her protest, "is a means to an end. With those weapons in the hands of free merchants…"

Doc turned a snicker into a cough.

Big Bill ignored him. "… you, we could take what we wanted."

"We take what we want now," Nat pointed out, wiping bloody fingertips on her overalls.

"No." Cho answered before Big Bill could. "We take what we can. There's a difference."

The big man nodded again. "That's what I like about you, Mackenzie Cho. You see the whole picture. The information about how the little gray aliens played puppet master across known space and beyond has the Confederation teetering on the edge," he continued. "We apply pressure at the right point and we can keep everything we can take." Reaching back, he pressed one hand against the cargo bay hatch. "With what's in here, we can take enough to make a difference."

"The Navy will try and stop us," Doc said slowly. Folding his arms over his chest, he frowned and added, "Advantage always goes to the side that doesn't play by the rules."

It was like both halves of his personality had made their own point.

"With this…" Big Bill smacked his palm against the hatch, the sudden impact loud enough Nat jumped and swore. "… we can make our own rules. Now then…" His smile was genial as he leaned back and folded his arms, smile broadening when Doc scowled and unfolded his. "… let's go over our options. I could purchase this from you, as is. You'd make less than you would if you sold the contents piece by piece, but opening the armory would be my concern. You would, of course, no longer have first choice of the weapons for your own personal use, nor would you be at the forefront of the revolution."

Cho could feel Doc and Nat staring at the back of his head. "No deal." This was his chance. The way Vrijheid had been William Ponner's

"I thought that would be your answer." He nodded his approval. "The second option involves you returning with a new and preferably less broken CSO and, once you have the codes, I do the hack myself."

And Cho remembered how Big Bill had acquired the station.

"There's two reasons I don't like that plan," Big Bill continued. "First, the Corps objects to outsiders getting their hands on their toys, and they make that objection with extreme prejudice."

"I thought it'd just blow up," Nat muttered.

"Exactly." Big Bill beamed at her. "And I do not risk blowing myself up for anything less than one hundred percent of the profits. Second, I can't be associated with something that might not work. Bad for business. Option three begins the same way as option two, but you hook up to the old ore docks-there's an old explosives storage pod there that should protect the station should things go wrong. Once that lock is off, I get fifteen percent of the contents for the use of my secure space, and you can sell whatever you don't personally want after you and I discuss distribution."

"You and I?" Cho asked, his voice level even as he fought the urge to sneer. "You'll get your fifteen percent off the top, sure." He didn't want the Heart blown to shit any more than Big Bill wanted his station damaged. "But I have a Marine armory full of weapons. Why will I need your to help get rid of them?"

One of the Grr brothers growled.

Big Bill, however, seemed pleased to have been asked. "Weapons change everything. I know where they should go to both get you top price and have the most advantageous effect. But, more importantly, before it even comes to that, you're going to want my help because I can see that you capture a working salvage operator."

"How?"

"Captain Firrg has a small outstanding debt she'll be happy to clear."

Two ships would make it a lot easier, turning the nearly impossible to even odds. Cho nodded. "She follows my orders." Mackenzie Cho, Captain of the Heart of Stone, took orders from no one.

"Of course. I'll set up the meeting. Say, 1600 at the Golden Griose?"

Cho glanced over at Nat, who shrugged. "Schedule's clear, Cap."

"Good. We've got some lovely potential for change building here, Captain Cho." Big Bill's expression suggested he was moments away from rubbing his hands together. "Get me some actual and we'll talk again. Try to grab a Human," he threw back over his shoulder, heading for the air lock. "I've always felt we have the strongest, not to mention least ethical attachment to self-preservation."

Falling into step behind him, the Grr brothers laughed.

Cho took Huirre with him to the meeting at the Griose. Firrg's crew was completely Krai, and he had no idea how good her Federate was. Good enough to function, definitely, but he wanted no confusion on either side.

"I hear she's out here because of lost love," Huirre said as they made their way across the Hub to the Griose. "The one she wanted, wanted another, and it blackened her heart." He ducked a shoe thrown out of the pushing match over by the falafel cart, paused, and frowned. "Or that might've been on a vid I picked up at Cully's when I was in for those gloves."

"Keep up," Cho growled. "And I don't give a H'san's ass why she's out here," he added as Huirre fell back in beside him. "She follows my orders, no questions asked. And she doesn't fukking need to know what we're carrying, understood?"

"Aye, Captain. But if she asks?"

"I do the talking."

"Aye, aye Capt… gunin yer chrick!"

Edible was the highest compliment in the Krai language. As far as Cho could see, Captain Firrg didn't look significantly different from Huirre-a bit bigger maybe, about a meter high, greenish-gray mottled scalp, lightly bristled, three sets of paired nose ridges-currently expanded as though she were smelling something nasty as they made their way toward her.

"I don't like this," she growled before Cho could actually sit. "And when I say this, I mean Humans. Don't like them, never have. Only reason I'm in on this is because Big Bill says you're taking down a Human."

"And because you're into him for a new set of air scrubbers," Cho reminded her, sitting down. Anything could be bought on Vrijheid, including information. Firrg's Federate was better than he'd expected-fluent and without so much as an accent. He could have brought Nat instead of Huirre, who sat staring at the other captain with hunger. With the Krai, hunger covered a number of options.

"Serley son of a bitch wants his pound of flesh," Firrg snarled. Smart people didn't assume they could tell what another species was thinking but the hatred in her eyes was unmistakable. Cho wondered if Big Bill knew. Or cared if he did. "I have no choice," she continued, "the Dargonar is by your side…"

"And under my command."

"And under your serley command," she agreed through clenched teeth, shifting a little of that hatred toward him. "But that's it. Everything goes through me. I don't want your kind having any contact with my crew, and I don't want any part in what you and Big Bill are up to."

"Are you that certain without knowing what it is?"

"I'm that certain. One job together and I go back to not giving a shit about what you or this cark sucker gets up to." Holding up her slate, she nodded toward his. "I've got a set of temporary codes you can use to contact me."

She had a jagged scar across her forehead, Cho realized as the codes transferred, the angles too regular to be accidental. When she saw him staring, she drew her lips back off her teeth, and Huirre whimpered. Cho curled his own lip in response. He'd been hated before; it didn't bother him much. During his court-martial, the hatred coming off the families of the dead sailors had been so virulent the Navy'd had to remove them from the courtroom in order to get anything done. "Any suggestions where we can pick up a Human CSO fast and easy?"

Her nose ridges snapped shut. "Fuk you; I'm support during take-down. That's it. You can do your own serley research."

He wouldn't have trusted her information anyway. "I'll be taking the Heart of Stone out in about fifty-six hours. Be ready."

"If you can't give me an exact time now, I want a four-hour heads up," she told him flatly.

"Deal." In the interest of keeping his fingers, Cho didn't hold out his hand. He watched Huirre watch her leave the Groise. "You know why she hates Humans?"

Huirre snorted. "Why does anyone hate Humans? Pity she won't be part of the revolution. I'd love a chance to sink my teeth into that one. What a pair of amalork."

Only the Krai would get hot about jaw muscles. "She'd have you for breakfast."

"I'd die happy."

Cho rolled his eyes and waved a server over. Krai bar or not, if he left now, it would look like Firrg commanded his movement, and he wasn't having that. "Just as well she doesn't want in on the buy. I wouldn't trust the psychotic bitch not to turn on me the moment she was armed."

"That, Captain…" Huirre reached across the table and drained Firrg's abandoned glass. "… is because you're a very smart man." "You sure you're okay with this?"

Torin glanced up from her slate, more than happy to be pulled away from studying government regs defining legal salvage. "With working?"

"Yeah, because you used to lay about on your arse." Spinning the control chair around, Craig lifted his legs and dropped his heels on the scuff mark at the edge of the panel. "You've called CSOs carrion crows in the past."

"Never to you."

He shrugged. "You were tanked for quite a while after Crucible, and Sergeant Jiir has both a low tolerance for alcohol and a touching belief in the fairness of the universe."

"He'll draw to an inside straight?"

"Every damned time."

Torin thought about asking how many times but decided Jiir was an adult and a sergeant, and if the first time he'd played cards with Craig hadn't taught him to back away slowly, well, that wasn't her problem anymore. As for tales told under the influence…

She set her slate down on the small table. "I didn't like you-collectively you-making money off the dead. Which…" She held up her hand to cut off his protest. "… was pretty fukking hypocritical considering how I made my living. I know. But these were my dead, and…"

"And I wasn't in the club."

"Yeah." It sounded petty and arrogant put like that, but Torin had long since learned to own her shit. "Then there was you, personally…" She rolled her eyes as he flexed. "… and by the time I woke up in that tank, it was clear you and me, we weren't an every now and then kind of thing, so I did a little thinking. When they gave me back my slate in rehab, I did some research. Do you know how many families of military personnel Civilian Salvage Operators have given closure to?"

Craig shook his head. "Nine out of ten times, it's scrap, Torin. Maybe some retrievable tech."

"And that tenth time has added up to three hundred and seventy-one thousand, two hundred and twenty brought home. And counting."

"That's…" He blinked. Frowned. Swung his feet down to the deck and leaned forward, elbows braced against his thighs. "That's a lot."

"Those little gray plastic bastards have kept us at war for a long time. And that number doesn't include the DNA evidence from the Primacy on record. As soon as the politicians stop talking out of their asses, they can go home, too."

Torin watched his mouth move as he repeated the number silently to himself. "That's what changed your mind about salvage operators?" he said at last.

"That's what changed my mind."

"Made it all right for you to throw in with me?"

They didn't talk about what they had between them, so she shrugged. "It didn't hurt that the sex was amazing."

"Was?"

"It's been a few hours, I don't like to apply old intell to new condi…"

She could have stopped him from toppling her off the chair and onto the deck, but as that had been the reaction she'd been trying to evoke, she'd have just been shooting herself in the foot.

A little over two hours later, the alarm went off.

"Ten minutes and we're out of Susumi space." Craig kissed her bare shoulder and sat up. "You should take the controls."

"I should? Why?"

"Because either things are good and there's nothing you can screw up. Or," he continued getting to his feet, "things'll be fukked and we'll die instantly, so there's still nothing you can screw up."

"Or we enter regular space next to a big yellow alien ship that turns out to be the mastermind-masterminds-behind centuries of inter-galactic bloodshed."

"Yeah, right," he snorted holding out his hand. "Like that'll happen. Again. Come on."

Scooping her shirt off the floor as she stood, Torin tossed it onto the pilot's chair before she sat down. She checked the runout on the Susumi equation, then she posed her hands over the thruster controls in case they needed to avoid the unexpected.

Promise counted down from ten, then the stars reappeared in the small front port.

"Another trip where we didn't come a gutser," Craig patted the bulkhead. "I count that a win."

"Navigation says we're right where we're supposed to be," Torin told him as the forward thrusters came on and they began to brake. Half her attention on their speed, she asked, "So where are we?"

"Just on the edge of an old debris field. It's big but well picked over. There's definitely nothing left here but chunks of metal and plastic for the recyclers. No tech. No DNA. I figured it'd be best for your first time out." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him skimming back into his shorts. "Of course, that was before we had our talk. Maybe you'd rather…"

"Scrap for a first time out is fine."

He reached over Torin's shoulder, and activated the long-range sensors. "There should be another ship out here. Old guy named Rogelio Page has been working this patch for years."

"He won't mind that we're here?"

"The debris field is big enough for two tags. He has first tag but second tag is open. He'll appreciate the company, tell us what sector we can clear, and be backup if something goes wrong. And it'll give me a chance to check on him. He doesn't come in much."

"Oh, yeah. Rugged individualists," Torin muttered. "Alone and independent."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I just…" A sudden alarm from her implant cut her off. She tongued the volume down and frowned. "Strange. I've picked up another implant."

"Picked up?"

"Turns out the upgrade the techs put in when they rebuilt my jaw has a finder in it." The techs never left a scar. Torin rubbed at her jaw anyway. "Nice of them to tell me."

"You didn't read the documentation?"

"No one ever reads the documentation." An alert from an implant shot down Craig's belief only scrap remained out here. "I can link with Promise, give her the coordinates."

"So what are you waiting for?"

She worked best under a hierarchy, knowing where to push and knowing where it was best to give in. This equal partners thing took some getting used to.

As Promise brought them up to the new coordinates, Torin expected to find a piece of jaw, overlooked in the vastness emptiness of space, not an entire naked body, cartwheeling slowly against a backdrop of stars.

Even before bringing the body on board, two things were obvious.

The Marine hadn't been dead long.

And he'd been tortured.