by Huff, Tanya
Teeth gritted, Torin sighed and surrendered control.
The Second Star shuddered as her forward jets fired to slow her approach.
“Wow, nice firewalls. I can’t get squat off you.” He sounded honestly impressed. “Look, when you get in, I’m pretty much guaranteeing Big Bill’s going to want to talk to you, being who you are and all, so if it takes a while to get the lock open, that’s why. Oh and don’t forget ...” He leaned closer to the screen, one hand dropping down off camera into his lap. “. . . seriously, trin, fuk me.”
And the screen went black.
“They listening in?”
Ressk snorted. “They’re trying to.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a fan, Gunny.” Mashona stretched out her legs, crossed her booted feet at the ankles, and grinned. “He’s kind of cute in a slightly crazy way. What’s trin mean?”
“Beats me. Must be new slang.”
“Context makes it sounds like sweetheart, or babe.”
“Yeah, well, he’s all yours,” Torin told her, keeping most of her attention on the boards. “My focus remains on Craig.”
“But di’Taykan don’t count. They’re like drinking that watery Niln beer—you get to have the experience with none of the effects.”
“And if I have to fuk my way past him to get to Craig, I’ll consider it for as long as it takes me to snap his neck.”
It took her a moment to realize it had gotten so quiet she could hear one of the Krai scratching through the bristles on the back of his head. She could feel their eyes on her as she turned the chair.
“We’ll get him out, Gunny.” Werst had his lips pulled back off his teeth. So did Ressk. Mashona nodded.
“I know.” Because to think in terms of anything less than one hundred percent would send them in handicapped.
On his hands and knees, expecting to see chunks of his stomach lining hit the deck at any moment, Craig was vaguely aware of Huirre telling Cho he’d lost it again. Huirre was wrong. He hadn’t so much lost it, as deliberately thrown it away. The work they’d done on the seal over the last few hours had proved Nadayki was almost as good as he believed he was. Although Craig had been as obstructive as he thought he could get away with, the kid had connected a few too many dots.
With sex off the distraction menu—Huirre was a verbal cold shower at the slightest innuendo—Craig had used hard and fast contractions of his stomach muscles plus the sense memory of cleaning the vomit to force his already unhappy system to rebel. It was a trick he used to use to get out of mandatory early morning classes when hung over.
Let’s hear it for . . . Holy fukking crap! The vomiting had driven the red-hot spikes back through his temples. . . . higher education
“What I wouldn’t do for even a KC-7 with a scope,” Mashona muttered, tucking a third sheathed knife up against the small of her back. “I mean, I’m a sniper, right? You’d think they’d let you take something useful with you when you leave.”
“Guess they figured there’s not much use for a sniper in civilian life,” Ressk said thoughtfully.
“And apparently, they’d be wrong.”
Torin noted that Mashona still considered herself to be a sniper in spite of months out. Given that all three of them were still calling her Gunny that was hardly surprising. She needed them to think of her as their gunnery sergeant if this was going to work, so she let it stand.
“Not much use for a sniper inside a station,” Werst pointed out. “Nothing like a hole shot through the bulkhead at high velocity to remind you that pressurized atmosphere is a good idea. Station work is up close and personal.”
“All right,” Mashona allowed, “I’ll give you that one. Gunny, what about demolition charges?”
Werst snorted. “They aren’t exactly up close and personal.”
“They are if you drop them down someone’s pants.”
“All right,” he grinned, “I’ll give you that one.”
“We’re not taking charges in because we’ll lose them,” Torin pointed out. “If I were running a refuge for people who live off violent crime, I’d make damned sure to control the amount of damage they could do. I’d be fine with them beating the shit out of each other, blades even, but no one wanders around with the ability to damage the station.”
Ressk tapped his head. “Got my ability right here.”
“I’m betting he’s got his system protected against every attack he can think of. Of course,” she added before Ressk could respond, “I’m also betting you can think circles around him.”
“He’s got brains,” Ressk allowed. “Government records say this station doesn’t exist. But living on a station that doesn’t exist means he’s been out of the data stream for a while.” He patted his slate. “I can guarantee I have a few tricks he’s never seen.”
Ressk was a combination of tech support and a stealth weapon. She trusted Mashona and Werst to have her back.
Werst was right, and up close and personal meant hands and feet and head. Torin was bringing in a knife in her boot sheath, fourteen years in the Corps trained to fight a war that had turned out to be a lie, and the certain knowledge she wasn’t leaving this station without Craig Ryder.
“Two things,” she said as the docking clamps clanged against the ship. “One, expect some of the people we’ll meet to have spent time either in the Navy or the Corps. They’ll be the ones who joined for the sanctioned violence and won’t have lasted more than one contract, if that, but they’ll have had some training. Take that into account when you engage.” Not if; when. “Second, sometimes the salvage operators find weapons.”
“You mean small arms? You think they ever keep them?” Mashona wondered, left elbow hooked over her right arm as she stretched out her shoulders.
“Doesn’t matter what they do.” Torin’s snort dismissed every salvage operator in known space but one.
“So you’re saying there may be weapons on this station,” Werst translated. “In the hands of people who think they know how to use them.”
“Probably in the hands of the so-called authorities.” If there was no honor among thieves, then force or the threat of force would be needed to ensure compliance with even the minimal rules thieves and murderers were willing to live by.
“So if we need to arm up, we know where to go.”
Torin glanced over at Mashona, who shrugged.
Werst snickered. “Okay, not where you were going with that, Gunny, but still a valid observation.”
The telltales showed that the ship had been secured to the docking arm, but the station hadn’t released control of the air lock. “Now,” she said, hands locked behind her back to keep from slapping down the override, “we wait for Big Bill.”
“Gunny, if the man in charge is coming out to greet us, we could take him. Exchange him for Craig.”
“You think he’s going to be that easy to take?”
“I think we shouldn’t dismiss the possibility out of hand.”
She had a point.
“What again?”
“Just started, Cap.” It sounded as though Huirre had moved as far away from the watery, pale yellow puddle as possible. “One minute he was fine, the next puke city.”
“How much of the seal have you got left to go through?”
“One level, Captain.” Nadayki sounded smug. “But I don’t need him anymore. It’ll take longer without him, but with the base he’s laid, I can work out the remaining pattern on my own.”
“You’re sure?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Because if you’re not, you’ll . . .”
Craig missed the rest of Cho’s warning as he coughed out a mouthful of bile, his skull attempting to collapse in on itself. When the ringing in his ears cleared enough for him to hear, Nadayki was saying, ” . . . plus he was breathing hard.”
“Hyperventilating?”
“I guess.”
Plus? Had Nadayki spotted the stomach clenching and realized he’d made himself sick? Was
the little shit dobbing him out?
He could hear Cho breathing heavily through his nose, hear the scrape of his thumb through the stubble on the edge of his jaw. Hell, he could practically hear that stubble growing. Every little sound set off another spike of pain. This was a ripping new side effect he sure as shit hoped didn’t last long.
“Take him to Doc,” the captain growled at last.
Craig gave thanks he wasn’t a screamer.
“Thought there was nothing Doc could do about this, Captain?”
“About this, no.”
In Craig’s experience, enigmatic was never good. He fell away from the puddle when Huirre kicked at his legs, taking the impact on his shoulder to keep his weight off the borrowed slate he’d instinctively snapped onto his belt as he dropped to his knees.
A smart man would have puked on the seal; that would have gained Torin some time.
“Welcome to Vrijheid Station, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr. Please remove all weapons before entering your air lock. In the interest of not fatally disrupting business, we prefer our violence to remain at the hand-to-hand-to-foot-to-teeth level.”
Torin bent and pulled the knife from her boot sheath. “You heard the man.”
“But, Gunny . . .”
“He’s clearly got more control over this place than I thought, but everything I said about weapons relates to hand-to-hand. Some of them will be trained, but you’re better.”
“I’m better,” Werst muttered. Ressk elbowed him. Hard.
“Just stay away from anyone who works directly for Big Bill,” she reminded them, checking that Presit’s camera was in place as the telltales went green.
Big Bill was actually big. About a meter nine, Craig’s height, and heavier. Fat over muscle, considering the way he carried his bulk. In spite of the name, that hadn’t been a given; Torin had served with a man universally known as One Ball for no physical reason. Big Bill had thick brown hair combed back off a high forehead, gold-flecked brown eyes, and he smiled like a Krai.
The two Krai flanking him—also smiling—came as bit of a surprise. Not many people used the Krai as muscle—and Torin had no doubt that’s what these two were. It explained the hand-to-hand-to-foot-to-teeth comment. Odds were the rules that governed Krai eating habits in most of known space weren’t in effect here, and it was hard to win a fight with a Krai when they literally took bites out of their opponents.
Hard. But not impossible.
Given their size and the mottling on their scalps, she’d bet they were both male.
“Well, it really is Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr. I hate to call any of my people liars, but ...”
Torin knew he’d examined the recording of the conversation. Knew that there’d been a recording of the conversation. Big Bill didn’t seem like the type who’d appreciate secondhand news.
“. . . but Alamber, the little shit, is a chronic liar so you’ll forgive me for doubting him.” Big Bill beamed a smile just past Torin’s shoulders. “And Corporals Mashona, Ressk, and Werst. I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered from your stay on the prison planet.”
Confirmation that he’d seen the vids.
“And here you are. Running away from your old lives.” He spread his arms. “Disillusioned by discovering that rather than fighting an honorable war against an implacable foe, you were being screwed over by a collective of plastic aliens. Is that what I’m supposed to believe?”
He reminded Torin of Harnett, the staff sergeant who’d called himself colonel and taken over one of the pods in the prison, building his power base with the lives of other Marines. Torin had no doubt that Big Bill’s power base had also been built with death. With many more than the three deaths she personally knew of. She’d killed eight of Harnett’s thugs and finished the day by snapping his neck and, now, with this man implicit in Craig’s abduction, she fought to keep that memory from showing on her face. No problem if Big Bill thought her threatening, but for this to work, he couldn’t consider her a personal threat.
As the pause lengthened, Big Bill’s brows rose, barely breaching the breadth of forehead. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Is that what I’m supposed to believe?”
Torin shrugged, and locked her gaze with his. “That’s up to you. Me, I discovered everything I believed was a lie. That my whole fukking life was a lie. That almost everyone I knew died for that lie.” Colonel Mariner. Major Ohi. Captain Rose. Lieutenant Jarret. First Sergeant Tutone. Sergeant Hollice. Private Gradon. The list went on. And on. This anger, it was safe to show. “You can believe it or not.”
He stared at her, head cocked. The two Krai behind him shifted in place.
“I believe it,” he said after a long moment. They continued to stare at each other for a moment longer, then by a silent and mutual decision, looked away. Big Bill looked over Torin’s shoulder again. “And you three?”
“We’re with her,” Werst answered.
“Obviously.” He brushed his palms together. “So this is a salvage operator’s ship. I can see where the pens attach. How did you come by it?”
“So this is a mining station,” Torin replied flatly. “How did you come by it?”
He stared at her again, then he laughed. “I like you, Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr. That may change, but right now, I like you. So if you’re going pirating ...”
“I’m considering the best use of our talents.”
“Which are?”
“We’re trained killers.” It was the tone Marines learned not to argue with.
Big Bill made a noncommittal noise and dropped his hands to the shoulders of his Krai companions, moving them closer together. “The people who use this station call these guys the Grr brothers.”
Behind her, Werst snorted.
Torin ignored him when Big Bill did. “Think you can take them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Both brows rose. “You’re that sure.”
Torin looked at them. They looked amused. They won as much on reputation as skill, then. She didn’t give a flying fuk about their reputation. “One at a time or both together?”
“Always together.” When she returned her gaze to Big Bill, he looked amused as well. “And you alone.”
Of course. “I’m that sure.”
“They’ve never lost a fight, and they prefer to eat my enemies alive. Around here, people believe they devour souls with the flesh.”
Torin heard both Werst and Ressk shift in place, but they held their position. Before receiving her third chevron, Torin’d had to learn a number of obscure details about the three species who made up the Confederation Marine Corps. Belief systems, philosophies, religions—if people believed the Grr brothers were eating souls with the flesh, then it was because the Grr brothers had told them they were.
“Still think you can take them?”
Crackpot religious beliefs further warped by a pair of amoral believers didn’t frighten her. “Are you asking me to prove it?”
“You have no gun. No blade. None of the means to kill that Marines are so fond of.” Under Big Bill’s hands, the Krai shifted, ready to prove a point. “I think you overestimate your ...”
Eyes still locked on Big Bill’s, Torin put a hand behind each of the Grr brothers’ heads, twisted, and slammed their faces together as hard as she could, glad of the chance to spend some of the anger she’d carried since Craig had been taken. Krai bone was one of the hardest materials in known space. Krai faces, without warning enough to get their nose ridges closed, were a weak point.
Taking them on one at a time, she might have had a problem.
She didn’t—Craig didn’t—have time for extended posturing.
As expected, they pushed away from the source of the pain first.
By the time they turned to her, gasping for breath through the blood, blinking it out of their eyes—and, noted for later encounters, it was a short time—Torin grabbed the brother reaching for her and dug into the bundle of nerves at the base of his thumb. As he hit the deck,
arm stretched up over his head, his brother wrapped a foot around her ankle and a hand around her arm just as she drove her fingertips in under the edges of the nose ridges he couldn’t close.
He froze.
“Your choice how this finishes,” Torin said quietly. The Krai could do Big Bill’s dirty work with half his nose ridges destroyed, the scarring would add visual intimidation, but he couldn’t win this fight.
Big Bill considered it long enough, she felt the grip on her arm tighten just a little. Finally, he sighed. “Stand down.”
When the standing Grr released her, she pulled her hand away, stepping back as he did, freeing his brother. Stepping back until she felt a warm, solid body against her left side. Werst; the other unarmed combat specialist in the group, had moved to a support position.
Both Krai flashed bloody teeth as they moved to flank Big Bill.
Torin bit through the back of her left index finger, showed them the drop of blood, and rubbed it against her own teeth, saying in Federate because she didn’t know the Krai, “Your defeat feeds me.”
Part of the catechism.
When their eyes widened, she knew she’d gotten lucky. They were true believers, not crazy fuks using an unpopular religion to spread terror. Or, at least, not only crazy fuks using an unpopular religion to spread terror.
They clearly didn’t like it, but they nodded and said in unison, “Zer ginyk satalmerik.”
Based on the article Torin had studied, “We are tree-down” was the correct reply to her statement. For an arboreal species, it meant, “We are finished.” If the cultural xenologist had it right, she’d symbolically just eaten their souls, and they wouldn’t move on her or hers—an insurance policy against a random attack.
Unless Big Bill gave a direct order, in which case all bets were off. Commerce trumped religion nine times out of ten.
“So are we welcome here or not?”
Big Bill glanced down at the Krai and back up again, this smile purely Human. “If you can afford to breathe.”
