by Huff, Tanya
“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Years of similar conversations with officers kept Torin’s voice level. “You’re our backup. Once we’re in, if we run into trouble, we’ll need a distraction. Something to keep them off-balance. That’s when you signal the station, say you tracked my ship and . . .”
“And you are not telling me how to do my job,” Presit snapped. “Why are we not being a ship you are having captured? We are tracking you and you are capturing us; that are proving you are being pirates.”
“They could demand we kill you to prove we’ve crossed the line.”
“As I are understanding it—as you are having been telling me,” she added before Torin could interrupt, “the pirates are being more thieves than murderers.”
“Other salvage stations may have lost personnel. These pirates may have been killing for some time.”
“Then wouldn’t the surviving salvage operators have been reporting them to the Wardens?”
“Maybe. But the odds are as good they didn’t; Station 24 didn’t report Jan and Sirin’s deaths. You were there when ...” Her nails were too short to cut into her palms, but Torin could feel them pressing against the skin. “You know the salvage operators are independent to the point of isolationist. We know one set of pirates kills without hesitation. We can’t know how many more do.”
“Fine.” Presit combed her ruff with one hand. “I are holding back until you are needing a distraction. But you are carrying a camera.” She thrust an imperious hand at Ceelin.
He shot an apologetic glance at Torin as he laid a disk about the size of Torin’s smallest fingernail on Presit’s palm. Matte black, if not for the gold edging, it would have been almost invisible against Presit’s skin.
“It are having been designed to look like fasteners what are having been fashionable last season. In fact, it are looking like the fasteners on both tunics and the sweater I are having had Merik pick up for you.”
“You didn’t need—” Torin began.
Presit cut her off. “You are having only the clothing you are standing up in. Everything else are still being on the Promise. Also, I are knowing you. That are making me certain from the beginning that you are not allowing what you are seeing as a civilian to be going into danger. But you are also promising me a story, so I are being prepared. I are willing to have my ship be waiting at the edge of its range,” she declared, holding the camera up to Torin. “But that are as far as I are willing to be from the action.”
“A camera that size is against the law, and . . .”
Presit cut her off again. “Pirates are being very much against the law. Theft are being against the law. Murder are being against the law. I are willing to be your backup, but I are not taking a chance that you are being unable to be calling when you are needing me.”
Torin heard one of the Krai move, heard Mashona murmur something, and tried to unsuccessfully look past her reflection in Presit’s glasses. She looked like shit. After a long moment, she nodded, held out her hand for the disk, and flipped it over to Ressk.
“They’ll monitor signals in and out of the station,” he said, pressing the disk into his slate. “You don’t successfully hijack a government station without being paranoid as all fuk. Question is, do they monitor all frequencies and, more importantly, are they monitoring this frequency? This thing has its own DSP with one fuk of a high compression rate and then it embeds the transmission steganographically in what looks like static, sending stored information out at random intervals.”
“But . . .”
“Random is better,” he interrupted, apparently getting the gist of Werst’s protest from the single word. “A constant signal is more than likely to be artificially generated and therefore worth monitoring; it will attract attention. The question is . . .” He looked up at the reporter, nose ridges flared. “. . . why would you even have this technology?”
Presit flicked her ears. “If it are in a large enough case that are marked with a network signal, it are fully legal.”
“So you pulled this out of his case?” Ressk demanded, glancing over at Ceelin, who was doing a good job of hiding his opinion behind his dark glasses and under the thick mask of his fur.
“Don’t be being ridiculous.”
“You happened to have it handy?”
“I are being in a very competitive business,” Presit told him dryly.
“But . . .”
She cut him off. “Are I asking you to be telling me all your secrets?”
“If we carry this, you’re going to know them,” Ressk pointed out.
“No, I are going to know hers.” She nodded toward Torin. “And if they are monitoring signals, then how are you thinking you are going to signal me without they are knowing? This way, I are knowing, they are not.”
“Well?” Torin held out her hand, and Ressk tossed the camera back.
“She has a point.” He frowned, hung up in the syntax. “I think.”
“All right.” Torin looked past Presit to Merik. “Err on the side of caution when adjusting your equations ...”
“Wait!” Presit grabbed the front of her sweater. “Adjusting what equations?”
“There’s a good chance the station will monitor Susumi portals. Even if Merik thinks he can tag in through the same portal . . .”
Merik waved a maybe, maybe not.
“. . . they’ll pick up the second ship. You need to emerge outside their sensor range. If Merik believes he can bring you closer without discovery, that’s up to him
Prest adjusted her glasses. “In the interests I are having of not being killed, I are willing to be sneaking up on the station until we are blazing in to be saving your collective asses.”
“Good.” Torin moved her toward the air lock. “Werst, inform the station sysop we’re ready to release. Merik, you have the final word on how close you can safely move in. Don’t let Presit pressure you.”
“I are also interested in not being killed,” the pilot told her as he followed Presit into the air lock. “Don’t worry, I are more interested in surviving than I are in having a story.”
“You are remembering you are working for me,” Presit snapped.
He flicked his ears. “Not if you are being dead.”
Torin hit the controls and realized she was going to miss, not Presit exactly but, at the very least, the reporter’s annoying ability to drag her out of her own head. “You’re part of this story, Presit. That changes things. Don’t forget that.”
“I are having downloaded some games for you!” Ceelin called out as Presit waved off Torin’s comment and the air lock’s inner door shut.
“Station says we have a green on go.” His foot against the control panel because he couldn’t reach the deck, Werst pivoted the second chair around to face the cabin. “When the air lock reseals, the docking computer will take control.”
“You have a plan, Gunny?” Mashona asked from the bunk. “Something with a little more detail than the lot of us pretending to be pirates?”
Torin dropped into the pilot’s chair, back straight, refusing to relax. She had no one to relinquish control of the situation to. “Not really.”
“Well,” Ressk said slowly after a long moment where the only sound was the muffled thud of the clamps releasing, “it has the benefit of simplicity.”
“We’ve got a four-day fold to Vrijheid,” Torin reminded them. The ship seemed significantly larger without Presit on board. Without Presit, she’d lost another connection to Craig. “We have time to refine it.”
“And time for you to tell us why you’re pink. Pinker,” Werst amended.
“But he was fine!”
“No, he was functioning. Not the same thing.” Doc turned from the screen, folded his arms, and stared up at Nadayki. Who took a step back, his hair flattening against his head.
From where Craig lay on the examination table, it looked like the kid was actually scared—in spite of having an extra twenty centimeters in height and the di’Taykan pheromo
ne advantage—rather than merely giving way to a stronger personality. He adjusted his opinion of Doc a little further toward the unstable end of the scary, bugfuk crazy spectrum.
“Well, if he was functioning before,” the young di’Taykan all but whined, “can’t he function again?”
“Depends. How fond are you of being puked on?”
Nadayki took another step back. “Not much.”
“Then learn to get the hell out of the way,” Doc told him, “because it’s going to continue to happen at random intervals.” He half turned toward Craig and indicated he could get up. “Short circuit, puke, collapse in pain. Rinse, repeat.”
“Rinse?”
“Never mind. He’ll also be unable to see yellow.”
“Really?” Nadayki’s eyes darkened as Craig searched the room for yellow and realized he could see it fine.
“No, I’m just fukking with you. You, Ryder ...” Doc frowned as Craig moved carefully around the end of the table toward the door. “If your brain doesn’t slag itself, you’re likely to dehydrate so keep your fluids up.”
“And how do I keep my brain from slagging itself?”
“Build a time machine, go back, and stay the fuk away from that poker game.”
Considering how things had turned out, it wasn’t bad advice. On the upside, random brain spasms were definitely going to slow things down. And how much shit was he in, that random brain spasms had an upside?
Nadayki wasn’t happy about the pace Craig set leaving medical, but when Craig pointed out that a faster pace raised the odds of immediate puking, he decided to cope. He tapped a syncopated beat against the bulkhead as they moved and just as they approached the Heart’s air lock, said, “There’s a theory among the really out there experimental astrophysicists that, if the math is right, Susumi space can be used for time travel.”
“Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it, kid; getting the math right.”
“Stop calling me kid.”
The air lock’s inner lip seemed one hell of a lot higher than usual. Craig didn’t so much step over it as lift one leg and then the other, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the lock. He’d planned on exaggerating his condition as much as possible, but it looked like he might not have to.
“That’s pathetic.”
“Yeah, well, bitch to your thytrin. I didn’t ask to have my brain scrambled.”
“You tried to cut my leg off!”
“Don’t rubbish me, mate, I’d just been shot and netted.” Craig repeated the one leg at a time maneuver over the outer lip. “I’d have preferred to have cut your throat.”
The expression on the kid’s face suggested he’d never considered he might end up on the receiving end of the violence he helped dish out. “You fukking deserved to be zapped!”
“So live with the result.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, about as long as Craig figured the di’Taykan could be silent. “I’ve applied your codes to the CSO’s seal, but they only opened the upper levels. There’s no pattern in the lower levels.”
“No, you can’t find a pattern in the lower levels.”
“There is no logical pattern.”
“You might be right. A CSO’s seal is more art than science,” Craig continued before Nadayki could protest the qualifier.
“That makes no sense.”
“They tell me you’re good with code.”
“I hacked a defense satellite and had it burn Nadayki di’Berinango . . .”
Nine letters in his family name. Given that the Taykan social system favored those with the shortest names, it was no wonder the kid had turned to crime.
“. . . half a meter deep into the Prime Progenitor’s lawn with a laser,” he bragged.
Craig frowned. Didn’t sound like much to be all big note about. “You signed your name?”
“I was making a point. They said it couldn’t be done, and I wanted them to know who’d done it.”
“And how’d that work out for you?”
“We got away,” Nadayki pointed out smugly as they reached the storage pod and Nat stepped out of the shadows.
“About fukking time you got here,” she muttered. “Cap says before you get started again, Ryder, you get to clean up the puke.” She nodded toward the shovel leaning against the bulkhead next to a mop and bucket. “It’s got kind of rubbery, so if you want my advice, start by scraping.”
“I have to clean up my own chunder?”
Her brows rose, but she picked up the slang from context. “It’s your puke, gorgeous. Who the hell else is going to clean it up? At least I opened up the maintenance station and got things ready for you. Deodorizer’s already in the water.”
Since his original plan of staying alive until Torin got him out had turned into the slightly more specific delay opening of the weapons locker until Torin arrived to neutralize the threat, Craig supposed that, on some level, he appreciated the delay involved in scrubbing dried vomit off the deck. But only someone stalling for time would accept the job without whinging. “Have Almon clean it up. His pathetic need to use the tasik as an auxiliary donger is the reason I chucked.”
“Cap says you do it.” Nat squeezed his shoulder, and he hoped it wasn’t with the hand she usually used to scratch. “When you’re done, get moving on those seals before he decides to encourage you by letting Doc take a pair of bolt cutters to your toes.”
His toes curled under in his borrowed boots. She didn’t sound like she was kidding. “In what universe is that encouraging?”
“The one where you don’t want it to happen. So don’t dawdle. Keep him up to speed, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid,” Nadayki muttered.
“Oh, yeah. Put the larrkin in charge.” Craig rolled his eyes as he picked up the plastic shovel and headed for the hatch leading into the pod. The shovel remained inert. If the fukking plastic aliens were still around, they had no sense of timing. “Kid’s on the run for high-tech graffiti.”
“He told you that, eh?” Nat sounded amused. “He tell you those lasers sliced and diced three people who just happened to be on the Prime Progenitor’s lawn at the time?”
“No ...” Craig glanced over at Nadayki who shrugged. “. . . he didn’t skite about that.”
Taykan noses were much more sensitive than Human noses.
Nadayki’s reaction to the half-dried vomit nearly made the job worthwhile. The time he spent cleaning the chunky puddle off the deck was the longest Craig had ever spent with a di’Taykan without being propositioned.
“That wasn’t exactly fast,” he whined as Craig dumped the soiled water down the reclamation chute.
“Oh, yeah, because I like to take my time cleaning up puke.”
Hand over his mouth and nose, Nadayki muttered, “Whatever. Can we get the fukking seal open now?”
“Don’t get your panties in a knot, kid, I still have to wash the gear.”
“Wash the . . . What the fuk for?”
“You want the smell to linger?” Ignoring the muttered response, he did a thorough job. Unfortunately, there was a finite time he could spend cleaning a shovel, a mop, and a bucket, slotting them back into their places, and closing the maintenance area down. Because the ore docks would be open to vacuum every time a carrier came up from the planet and loose items were dangerous, the lockers were built to withstand accidental decompression. Beside the maintenance area was a tool locker holding only a broken pipe wrench and seven identical screwdrivers. Beside that, an empty suit locker with space for six although only three hookups were live. Tucked into the far corner by the rear bulkhead was a hatch that led to an actual head.
If maintenance reclamation worked, then the toilet should, so Craig used it. And took his time.
Finally, after increasingly sullen reminders that toes weren’t necessary to break code, Craig skirted the wet area of the deck and returned to the storage pod. Holding his borrowed slate up to the seal, he linked in. He gave half a thought to cutting the safe
ties in and blowing the armory, but he knew Torin was on her way and she’d be pissed if he died. His code opened the first level and slid them through the second. Then he watched the lines of new code scroll by and frowned.
“See!” Nadayki waved his own slate in front of Craig’s face. “It makes no sense!”
“Sure it does. You can hack a defense satellite and slaughter three people, but you can’t hack this seal.”
Nadayki’s eyes darkened as his lip curled. “What’s your point?”
“Given that the point of a seal is to keep people out, an unhackable seal makes perfect sense.”
After a long moment, the di’Taykan nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah, okay?”
“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” he expanded reluctantly. “It does make perfect sense.” His eyes had lightened but he still sounded sulky when he asked, “Can you get in?”
It came down to pulling out recognizable bits and building on them. Craig shrugged. “Won’t be easy, but I know how CSOs think.”
“They think? Really? I can get through the Marine seal, no problem,” he muttered.
“Yeah, well . . .” Craig patted the dent in the armory. “. . . not to knock your code fu, kid, but in my experience, Marines are a lot less complex.”
“So we’re disillusioned and pretending to be pirates.” Werst took a long swallow of beer and shrugged. “Should work.”
Stretched out on the bunk in the cabin, one arm tucked up under her head, the other holding a beer of her own, Mashona asked, “How many of these pirates are you planning to kill, Gunny?”
Torin thought about the way Page had died. “As many as I have to.”
“I’m not sure I can kill other people. Not anymore,” Mashona added as Ressk glanced up from his slate and shot her a look. “War is different.”
“What if those people are trying to kill you?” Werst wondered, picking the label off the beer pouch.
“That’s different, too,” Mashona acknowledged.
Ressk nodded. “They try to kill me, all bets are off.”
