by Huff, Tanya
“The kind of salvage that’ll make you,” Craig explained.
Torin nodded and filed the slang away as she also touched the hatch numbers. It was a habit they’d both picked up since discovering a marker left in their brains sometimes caused the plastic aliens to spontaneously react to their touch. Sometimes. But it was all they had. When the hatch numbers remained inert, she turned her attention back to the matter at hand. If the salvage ship had been military, she’d assume they’d been attacked.
“You think they were attacked?” Craig asked Pedro as though he’d been following Torin’s train of thought.
“Don’t like to think it, but ...” Pedro spread his hands and shrugged.
It was unlikely but possible, Torin acknowledged silently, that a CSO could get caught up and destroyed in a naval battle. Sometimes they came in a little close.
“Fukking pirates!”
She grabbed Craig’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “Pirates?”
He nodded. “They net your pen with buoys to keep you from folding to Susumi. Most people dump the pen at that point, give it up. Sirin wouldn’t.”
“Wait.” Torin shook her head, trying to settle the thought. “There are actually people in ships—criminals in ships—stealing lawfully acquired salvage?”
“You didn’t know?”
“There was a war on, I was busy.” The concept of criminal activity on the scale of bad vid programming was a little hard to absorb. This wasn’t an episode of SpaceCops; real people, people Craig knew, were being attacked. “What’s being done about it? Are the Wardens involved?” The Wardens dealt with crime outside the jurisdiction of planets—or systems depending on local resources—and answered directly to Parliament, specifically the Justice Minister.
“Wardens don’t do shit. They’re supposed to send the Navy out to chase them down, but ...” Pedro shrugged again. “. . . there’s a war on. They’re busy.”
“War’s over.” Although, given the scale of the conflict and the geography of space, not to mention pure bloody-mindedness of some participants, battles continued to be fought.
“And I’m sure they’ll get around to us eventually.” Pedro’s tone had moved past dry to desiccated.
Torin’s hand dropped to her slate at the same time Craig wrapped callused fingers around her wrist. She was impressed he knew her that well.
“Okay, your first instinct is to fix it, I get that,” he said quietly, “but who are you going to tell who doesn’t already know?”
“Presit.”
She tried not to laugh as Craig opened his mouth and closed it a few times.
“Presit?” he managed at last. “Are you shitting me? You never liked her.”
“Liking her has nothing to do with it.” Presit a Tur durValintrisy had been a furry little pain in Torin’s ass from the moment she’d appeared on the alien ship, Big Yellow, determined to get the story in spite of its highly classified nature. While true that the reporter had far too high an opinion of her own importance, Torin had come to realize that media could be used as a powerful weapon and pointing powerful weapons had made up a large part of her previous career.
“The pirates are going after salvage operators now because you’re . . . we’re,” she corrected when Craig’s grip tightened, “in small ships working independently. If they get away with it unopposed long enough, they’ll up their game and start going after more lucrative targets. Ore carriers, say.”
“There’s a rumor unmanned ore carriers are going missing in statistically relevant numbers,” Pedro interrupted.
“There you go. Presit tells the story, the mining cartels see the danger, they put pressure on their representatives in Parliament, Parliament pressures the Navy, and the Navy finally gets its head out of its ass.”
“Just like that?” Pedro’s brows had risen nearly to his hairline.
“It’s a fairly simple cascade of cause and effect.” Torin shrugged. “No guarantee, but we won’t hit anything if we don’t pull the trigger.”
Pedro raised both hands in surrender. “I bow to your superior knowledge of violent responses.”
When she shot him a pointed glance, Craig released her wrist.
“Presit’s a big shot celebrity now,” he reminded her as she touched the screen of her slate. “You think she’ll even answer your call?”
“Probably not. That’s why I’m using your account. Presit likes him,” she added to Pedro who grinned wide and white at the emphasis. “If he’d been shorter and furrier, I’d have had a fight on my hands.”
Craig’s protests carried them the rest of the way into the center of the station and the large, open area Pedro called the market.
Torin had seen variations on every station she’d ever been on. Social species liked to congregate, to see and be seen, to take comfort in knowing they weren’t alone. This particular market had clearly once been the shuttle bay of a large transport. The four individual bays across the narrow, inboard end had been turned into two sizable shops bracketing what looked like a popular bar.
Torin exchanged a speaking glance with Craig about the amount of visible plastic, then stepped out of the way as half a dozen shouting kids—Human and Krai—charged past. The dominant scent seemed to be fried egg, and she wondered where the chickens were. Chickens had adapted remarkably well to space, and eggs provided a protein source that not even those Elder Races who professed to be appalled by the taking of life for food could get all more-evolved-than-thou about.
Small kiosks, selling what looked like everything from body parts to engine parts, dotted the actual docking area although very few people seemed interested in the merchandise on display. The twenty or so people Torin could see stood around in small groups. The di’Taykan’s hair lay flat, and everyone’s body language shouted waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Waiting to see if one of theirs had been attacked by pirates.
No. Waiting to see if one of hers had been attacked by pirates.
Because these were her people now.
Given that, Torin took another look around. Used to be, she could pick her people out of a mixed group because they were part of a whole. Marines, for all the physical differences inherent in three separate species, had a similarity of movement written on bone and muscle by training and experience. Even in a crowd of civilians, they were aware of each other and could be pulled into a unit with a word.
Their decision to take up the responsibility of defending the vast bulk of Confederation space and the nonaggressive species that lived there kept them a people apart.
These new people had decided to live apart, their only connection that decision.
As she followed Pedro across the docking area, she noted that Craig had been identified as one of them. A few greeted him by name, but as they were moving purposefully toward a destination, no one tried to pull him out of formation. In contrast, she had been identified as “other.” All of the children and most of the adults in the market stared openly at her. Most of the stares were speculative, those who recognized her passing the news on to those who didn’t. Some of the adults seemed openly hostile. Until they were in a position to open fire, Torin didn’t give a H’san’s ass about hostile. No one ever bled out as the result of a pissy expression.
Conversations ebbed and flowed as they passed and, in their wake, she could hear movement from group to group picking up.
Civilian salvage operators self-identified as individuals, accepted only the minimal government authority necessary for them to operate. Their obsessive need to be unique was what gave them their group identity, and the single word that would pull her Marines together would scatter this lot like a fragmentation round.
These new people she could identity because of their desire not to be part of a whole.
It was . . . different.
She heard her name, Silsviss, Big Yellow, Crucible, the di’Taykan phrase that meant progenitor, and the familiar sound of speculation.
Same old, same old.
/>
As “individuals,” they were clearly not averse to gossip.
Pedro and his family lived in an old cargo ship built into the structure of the station. Torin followed Craig into the cargo bay and stared around at the piles of . . . salvage, she assumed, although junk would be as accurate. Seconds after they’d stepped through the hatch, half a dozen kids—ranging in age from early teens to just past toddler—threw themselves at Craig. As he didn’t seem to be in any danger, Torin turned her attention to the three adults descending the metal stairs from the living quarters on the upper levels.
“Torin, these are my wives Alia and Jenn and my husband Kevin. The horde is ours collectively. There’s an air lock there,” Pedro continued, nodding at the control panel Torin had already noticed on the far side of the bay, “and another one off the kitchen. We’ve got a ship a little bigger than the Promise locked in up there and another about twice as large down here. If the klaxon goes, don’t worry about which one you end up in. Closest adult grabs the kids, singly or collectively, then sings out so everyone knows where they are. We’ll shuffle around once we’re clear.”
It was the first time Torin had ever been given emergency evacuation protocols mixed in with introductions, but what the hell.
“So you’re the one sucking back half of Craig’s precious oxygen,” Alia extended a hand. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
She was missing the top joint of her second finger. It looked like an old injury, long since healed. Torin had never known anyone—and she’d seen a lot of injuries—who’d refused the medical advances the Confederation offered.
Alia noticed Torin staring. “No regen tanks here,” she explained, “and I just couldn’t be arsed to get to a government station. By the time I had time, didn’t see any point in regrowing something I didn’t miss.”
“I see.” It was the tone Torin’d used on officers when they were being enthusiastic about something particularly stupid. Polite interest; no noticeable approval.
Jenn and Kevin were huggers. They were both packing serviceable muscle.
“I was going to be a Marine.” The child tugging at her jacket was somewhere between five and ten, gender indeterminate, with Pedro’s rich, dark skin and Jenn’s green eyes. “But Da says the war is over. Are you going to have to stop killing people now?”
Torin thought about it long enough Craig turned from his conversation with Kevin and asked the question again, silently.
“As things stand right now,” she said at last. On the way up the stairs, she dragged two fingers along the gray plastic handrail.
Later, after an amazing meal, where everyone present provided her with enough potential blackmail material to even out the stories her family had told to Craig, Pedro sat down beside her on the sofa and said, “He really loves you.”
“Is this the if you hurt him, I’ll do you speech?” Torin wondered, watching Craig racing with Helena, the fourteen year old, on the room’s bigger vid screen. He was working his slate one-handed and using the other to poke Helena and make her fall off her hoverboard into the snow. Helena knew some words Torin hadn’t learned until she got to the Corps.
Pedro snorted. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Noted.”
“He’s still not talking, Cap.”
Cho’s fingers curled into fists, and he carefully uncurled them. “Have you tried convincing him?”
“I have. I even sent the di’Taykan in without their maskers.” Nat snickered. “Thought maybe all that sexual frustration might loosen his lips.”
The di’Taykan exuded pheromones that crossed species boundaries—and if there was a species outside the Methane Alliance that was immune, Cho’d never heard of them. Without the maskers they wore, arousal levels were at best irritating and at worst painful. “And?”
“Well, he started talking all right. Old bugger was downright inventive. Almon got pretty pissed when I hauled their multicolored asses out of there before they could follow through.” She dug her fingernails in through the short bristles of her hair and brought them away bloody after a vigorous scratch. “Oh, fuk it. I knew that damned cream of Doc’s wouldn’t work.”
Cho stared down at the image of the armory on his slate. Rogelio Page had been working the same scattered debris field for years. A crazy old loner, even by CSO standards, he’d never salvaged anything Cho would consider worth taking from him, but he was easy to find and easy to grapple right off the side of his pen. Almon had deftly set the hooks in the old man’s HE suit and reeled him in, kicking and swearing the whole way. Checking the meager contents of Page’s pen while Nat took care of getting his codes, Cho had no idea how the old man managed to find enough salable salvage to stay alive, but he supposed if staying alive was all a man cared about, it didn’t take much.
Cho wanted more. A lot more. To begin with, he wanted that fukking armory open.
“Let Doc talk to him.”
Nat paused in mid scratch. “You serious, Cap? Page is a stubborn old bastard, and Doc’s not exactly subtle.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “I want those codes.”
Nat recognized the tone. “Aye, Cap.”
“Tell Doc, I’m going in with him.”
The old man grinned as Cho led Doc into the room. His teeth were bloody, bruises were rising on pale, loose skin, and he was still half erect in spite of the air scrubbers. “So you’re the fly in charge of this shit pile.” He spat, the mouthful of bloody saliva spattering over the toe of Cho’s left boot. “Looks like we can finally get this show on the road.”
Cho raised a hand, holding Doc in place. “Give me your codes and I’ll put you back on your ship.”
To his surprise, Page laughed. The laughter turned into coughing. “Liar,” Page gasped, and spat again. “Only one reason scum like you wants government codes. You got something big—something big enough to compensate for the size of your dick and that’s one fuk of a lot of compensating, so I’m thinking weapons. One really big one or lots of little ones, don’t matter. You’re not getting my fukking codes.”
“Give me your codes,” Cho told him, barely managing to keep his voice level, “and I’ll kill you quickly.”
“The fuk you will,” Page snorted. “You’ll have your trained ape kill me quick.” He narrowed the eye that still worked, looked past Cho, and locked his gaze on Doc’s face. “I’ve seen your type before, boy. You wanted Recon or Ranger, but you were too crazy even for those crazy fukkers.”
Doc showed no reaction to Page’s accusation. Less than no reaction.
“No one tried to convince you too hard to stay, after your first contract ran out, did they, boy? No, it was, ‘so long, Private, have a nice life. Hell, have a shitty life, just have it away from us.’ ” Taking a deep breath, Page straightened as much as age and the earlier beatings allowed. “Sergeant Rogelio Page, 3rd Division, 1st Re’carta, 4th Battalion, Serra Company, Confederation Marine Corps. Do your worst.”
Dropping his hand, Cho stepped to one side. “You heard the man.”
He was, he admitted nearly an hour later, impressed with how long Doc had kept Page alive and more or less coherent. Sure there’d been screaming and moaning, but there’d been actual words as well. The ending, however, came as no surprise.
During the questioning, Doc’s hair had come loose and the strands hanging around his face were stiff with blood, drawing lines of red against his bare shoulders as he turned, blue eyes looking even bluer within the crimson splatters. “Sorry, Captain. He’s gone. Heart gave out. If you want my opinion, he wasn’t going to talk anyway.”
“I don’t want your opinion,” Cho growled. So close, so fukking close! With the weapons in that locker, things would be different. He’d get . . . no, he’d take what he deserved. No more just accepting the shit the universe threw at him. He needed that locker open!
“Goddamned fukking stubborn old fool!” Pivoting on one foot, he spun around and slammed his fist into the bulkhead.
> Even over the sound of the impact, he heard his knuckle crack.
The pain hit a moment later.
“Let me look at it, Captain.” Doc’s fingers were sticky, but his touch was sure. “Yeah, you broke it. Come on, let’s get to sick bay and I’ll shoot you full of blockers. You won’t feel a thing when I bond it.”
Hand cradled against his chest, Cho shook his head. It was never smart to access the two halves of Doc’s personality too close together. “I’ll meet you up there after I get us moving. No point in lingering out here any longer.”
Doc nodded, his hair dripping red as he tied it back. “If you take too long, I’ll come looking for you.”
Cho waited until the other man left the room, then crossed to Page’s body. “Just to set the record straight,” he growled, “Doc was a medical officer, CMO on the Seraphim. You remember the Seraphim. Two hundred and thirteen survivors from a crew of five thousand. Doc, he’s a walking, talking fukking casualty of war. Huirre!”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Best time to Vrijheid.”
He could feel how badly Huirre wanted to ask if Doc had been successful but, after a long moment the Krai erred on the side of self-preservation and said only, “Aye, aye, Captain!”
Torin woke the next morning to an incoming message from the station OS. Brian Larson had found the missing Firebreather, her hull breached and her pen abandoned. He’d salvaged the debris and had begun scanning the immediate area for bodies.
“Bodies.” Craig scratched the matted hair on his chest and padded across the cabin to start the coffee, shaking his head. “Why the hell would they put up a fight?”
“You don’t usually?”
He blinked, visibly replayed both lines of dialogue in his head, then backtracked so far he’d have been outside the ship had he been actually moving. “With what? Confederation law specifically states, all weapons are to remain in the hands of the military. What?” he demanded when Torin raised a brow.
“While we circled the station looking for a lock, I saw at least seven ships armed with salvaged weapons. They weren’t obvious, but they were unmistakable if you know what to look for. These ships wouldn’t be able to sell back to the military or any reputable recycling yard without being brought up on charges, but I’m betting someone on this station, on any salvage station, is willing to act as a middleman, providing legal tags for a price and buying the tagged salvage back.”
