The Truth of Valor

by Huff, Tanya

  “No, we can’t.” Doc still sounded reasonable.

  “He needs to be taught that the crew comes first. That we don’t fuk around and delay payouts. Take a toe.”

  Huirre had him held down before Craig realized what take a toe meant. He got an elbow up, Huirre grunted, then Huirre’s foot closed around his forehead and slammed the back of his head into the deck. Struggling to escape became weak flopping between the four points Huirre had locked down.

  Doc got his boot off with terrifying efficiency.

  He felt cold air against his sole.

  A strong hand closed around his ankle, grinding the small bones together.

  Metal pried the smallest toe on his left foot out from the one next to it.

  Given the spikes of pain in his head, it wasn’t the new pain that dragged the cry out of him. It was the crunch of the blades going through the bone.

  The salt-copper smell of blood.

  Closely followed by the crunch of Huirre’s jaws.

  Then the new pain hit.

  Over the years, the squatters had made very few changes to the layout of the station. Outside of the additional docking arms, most changes seemed to be a case of areas being used in ways the planners hadn’t intended.

  “Not much they can do to the internal structure,” Ressk noted as he climbed out the lip of yet another double decompression hatch. “This thing’s been designed to break apart into independent segments rather than hole and blow in case of an explosion. Limits the damage. It used to be the default for stations supporting mining operations, but these days, not so much.”

  Mashona shook her head as she stood just the other side of the opening, watching back along their six. “You’re just a font of knowledge, aren’t you?”

  “Knowledge is power.”

  “I think you’re overcompensating for something.”

  “You think?”

  “Less chatter, people.” They weren’t saying anything Torin gave a H’san’s ass if Big Bill heard, nothing about Craig or the Heart or why they were actually here since they’d left the masking noise of the Hub, but she saw no point in sending up flares, giving him sound on top of everything else.

  “Big Bill’s got this whole place under surveillance, Gunny.” Ressk brushed a hand over his slate. The gesture would have meant nothing to anyone watching, but it told Torin he was mapping that surveillance out.

  “Eyes and ears in the whole place limits him,” Werst grunted, dropping down into the new section. The double decompression hatches were wide enough the Krai found it easier to climb over than step over. “He can’t watch the whole serley place at once.”

  “We get into an area that’s off limits, we’ll trip a sensor. Talk, don’t talk; doesn’t matter. He’ll know we’re here.”

  Werst waved it off. “He didn’t say this area was off limits. He didn’t say any area was off limits.”

  “He’s too smart to lay down those kind of rules for these kind of people,” Mashona said, falling back into position behind the two Krai.

  “You head out here when you’re tired of rules,” Torin reminded them. That was why they’d told Big Bill they were on Vrijheid. Better to leave it at bad things happen to people who go where Big Bill doesn’t want them to; that implied choice.

  Each new section as they moved away from the Hub had been less used than the one before. The pale gray bulkheads of this section had been scored and dented by old machinery—Torin neither knew nor cared how they got machinery over the hatch lips—but it felt as though it had hardly been used since. Every other light was out in the band along the ceiling, and the black rubber treads running down the center of the deck were barely worn. It felt abandoned.

  This was the most direct route to the ore docks. Once the ore carriers stopped, there’d been no reason to use it.

  “They’re still using the smelter,” Mashona said suddenly, as though she’d been following Torin’s thoughts. “Not the actual smelters but the area they were in. Machinery’s gone, and it’s a big open space like . . . a parade square. They use it for things that affect the whole community. Trials and shit. Oh, and fights every now and then.”

  “Fights that affect the whole community?” Ressk asked.

  “Fights the whole community makes book on, you ass.”

  Torin picked up the pace. According to the original schematics, this was the last section before the storage pods. This was the last hatch, last pair of hatches, between her and Craig.

  The first hatch was closed.

  And locked.

  The lock had been added recently.

  “Ressk . . . ?”

  His nose ridges flared as he exhaled long and loud, fingers stroking the screen of his slate. “That’s a good question, Gunny. Under normal circumstances, no problem, but this isn’t going to take a simple digital jimmy. I need a way into the system, and this place is locked down tight. So far, no cracks.”

  “Not surprising,” Mashona acknowledged, “given the rumors about how Big Bill scored this place.”

  “Yeah, exactly. I can break it. I can break anything eventually, but it’ll take time.”

  How much time did Craig have left?

  “How much time?” Torin asked, voice hard.

  Given Ressk’s expression, he’d heard the first question, too. “From outside the system? I couldn’t tell you.”

  The gray plastic housing around the lock remained a gray plastic housing under her touch.

  “Let’s go.” She pressed her palm against the hatch—Craig was on the other side—then turned and headed back the way they’d come.

  “Where to now, Gunny?”

  “We’re going to see Big Bill.”

  “Okay.” Mashona fell into step beside her. “Why?”

  “We’re going to take him up on that job offer.”

  “You’re probably wondering, why I didn’t just have Huirre bite the toe off.” Doc removed a wad of blood-soaked bandaging, sprayed sealant on the stub, and began to apply an old-fashioned dressing. “Thing is, I can’t trust him to stop and the loss of an entire leg becomes a bit more than an inconvenience.”

  Breathing heavily through his nose, Craig stared at the other man in disbelief. “Inconvenience?”

  “Comparatively.”

  “It fukking hurts!”

  “It’s fukking supposed to. If I give you something for the pain, there’d be no point in taking off the toe.” He stroked down the last bit of gauze, the heat in his thumb causing it to adhere to the layer below, then straightened, leaving a thin smear of blood across his cheek as he pushed his hair back off his face. “This way you’ll remember that no one likes a delayed payout and you’ll stop fukking around.”

  Doc had tended to the amputation like he hadn’t been the crazyassed psycho wielding the tin snips. Watching him switch back and forth made Craig feel like he should add whiplash to his list of injuries.

  “Now things are tidied up, I’d hustle your ass back to that storage pod before the captain thinks you’re less than committed to the job and that it’s not fair Krisk didn’t get a bite. When you get to the pod, try and keep the foot elevated.”

  “Sure. Elevated.” Balanced on the edge of the table, Craig took a moment to try and get enough air into his lungs, trying not to remember the sound of Huirre chewing on his toe. “How do I get back to the pod?”

  Doc smiled, cracking the dried blood on his cheek. “Walk carefully. Keep your weight on your heel.”

  Big Bill had claimed the station’s central old admin area as his own and disabled all but one access.

  He wasn’t stupid, Torin reminded herself as they crossed the Hub to the one vertical that would take them up to his level. She needed to remember that.

  “Hey, you!” The woman staggering toward her was very drunk. “You’re the bitch who found the plastic aliens.”

  Torin kept walking.

  The drunk managed to keep up. “Whole thing was a fukking fake. I seen vid shows before, you know. I know when
shit is fake.”

  Torin ignored her.

  “Hey! I’m talk ...” The rest of the sentence devolved into a pained shriek that lingered for a moment, then disappeared into the ambient noise behind them.

  “She made a grab for you, Gunny,” Werst explained.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  They had the vertical to themselves between the Hub and the admin level although they could hear whooping and laughter drifting up from below.

  “Didn’t pull out of the dive in time,” Mashona guessed when the whooping ended in a thud and a scream and the laughter grew louder.

  “Kids,” Ressk snorted.

  “Drunks,” Werst amended.

  The section leading into admin had been recently painted a pale blue, the deck treads a darker blue, and the area between the treads and the bulkheads, patterned with polished steel. The hatch at the end of the section was closed, and Torin would bet big it was locked. To the left of the hatch was a sensor pad that clearly hadn’t been part of the station’s original equipment.

  Alamber waited on the right.

  “That’s weird,” Werst muttered.

  “Which?” Mashona asked, moving up behind Torin’s left shoulder. “His hair blending with the bulkheads or the way the black makeup makes his eyes look white?”

  “Either. Both.”

  The di’Taykan smiled as they approached, gaze locked on Torin’s face. “Saw you get into the vertical. Not all I saw either; saw you down by the ore docks.”

  “And?” He wore black, like a Marine, but the similarity ended with the color. His legs were covered in fabric so tight it looked more like paint. He wore at least half a dozen layers of different styles and lengths over his torso, sleeves ending in either fingerless gloves or excessively frayed cuffs. On his feet . . . Torin had no idea why a di’Taykan, a species that topped two meters by default, would wear boots with thick soles and heels that high.

  The rings in his lip glinted when he smiled. “Big Bill’s going to want to know what I saw. I won’t tell if you ser vernin ta lambelont .”

  Werst snorted. “You double-jointed, Gunny?”

  “You could always tell him you’re old enough to be his progenitor,” Mashona snickered.

  “When have you ever known a di’Taykan to give a crap about age?” Ressk asked.

  Alamber ignored them, shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned back against the bulkhead. “So, what’s it to be, trin? You and me, or me and Big Bill?”

  Torin laid her palm against the sensor pad. “You and me and Big Bill.”

  His eyes darkened and his hair stilled. “That’s not ...”

  “We were heading in anyway, might as well make it a party.”

  “Heading in? No one goes in to see Big Bill without an invitation.”

  “Got one.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “Oh, trin, you forget I’d know if you . . .”

  The lock disengaged with an audible clang, probably for effect. The hatch swung open.

  “Let’s go.” Torin stepped past him, over the lip. When only Alamber remained in the first section, she paused, and turned toward him. “Well?”

  “Strange, but it seems I just don’t want to share you. So ...” He spread both hands. “. . . I’ll pass.”

  Torin had spent enough time with new second lieutenants to know when a confident smile was a fake. To recognize when bravado twisted the curve and softened the edges. And fuk, the kid was young. What the hell was he doing here? “I won’t mention this to Big Bill.”

  “You don’t share either. All right.” This smile was the real thing. The fingernails on the hand he waved had been painted black. “When you realize I’m the best thing that could happen to you, you can find me in Communications. No surveillance on the surveillance; sets up a feedback loop. You can do what you want with me, trin. Go crazy wild.”

  As the hatches slammed shut, Torin sighed and said, “Don’t push it, kid.”

  “At least he only wants to get into your pants,” Mashona pointed out as they moved toward the only open hatch in the corridor. “Whole lot simpler than Darlys wanting to deify you.”

  Torin snorted. It was a nice change.

  The open hatch led into a large outer room dominated by a wall of vid screens all playing a news feed, and the Grr brothers sitting together on a heavy, black leather sofa.

  As she stepped over the threshold, one of them looked up, eyes swollen nearly shut over visibly bruised nose ridges. His lip curled as Werst, Ressk, and Mashona followed her into the room. “Boss wants your people to wait here.” He nodded toward an inner door. “You go on in.”

  “They’re watching you, Gunny,” Ressk said quietly.

  “Yeah. I noticed.” All of the screens were playing one of Presit’s reports. Torin shifted so the camera she wore could catch it. It never hurt to stroke Presit’s ego. “Don’t let them provoke you into a fight.” This mostly to Werst. “You take the first swing, and it doesn’t matter if I ate their souls on toast. It’s on.”

  “How do you know so much about a freak cult most Krai have never heard of?” Werst demanded, curling his toes under and cracking the joints.

  “I used to be a gunnery sergeant.” Torin squared her shoulders and headed toward the inner door. “And I still know everything.”

  The walk back to the storage pod became extended torture. Every time the heel of his left foot hit the deck, the impact sent a jolt of pain up his leg. By the time Craig got to the air lock, the muscles of his back had knotted. By the time he got to the pod, every other muscle on his body had knotted; his back had moved on to spasms.

  Nadayki had gone to his knees in front of the seal, his eyes now at the same level as the tiny screen. He shuffled around when Craig lifted his injured foot over the hatch lip, the muscles of his other leg trembling with the effort.

  The slow sweep of Nadayki’s hair stopped. When it started moving again, it flipped around his ears in short choppy arcs. “I’m not sorry. It was your own fault. You shouldn’t have been fukking around.”

  Somehow Craig managed to get enough air into his lungs to snort. “Yeah. So I’ve heard.” Sweat dribbled down his sides. His skin was cold and clammy under the overalls. “And I heard you say . . . you don’t need my help . . . anymore. So I’m just going to park my ass over here . . . and put my foot up like the doctor ordered.” Everything from his left hip down throbbed and burned. He didn’t so much sit as collapse to the deck. It still stank a bit of chunder, but that was a minor inconvenience compared to being horizontal.

  When he finally turned his head toward the armory, Nadayki was staring at him, eyes dark.

  “What?”

  Nadayki’s eyes lightened. “Nothing. This coding is complete crap. Don’t get comfortable because I’ll be through any minute now.”

  “Great.”

  “Asshole!”

  “You had your chance, kid.”

  “That’s not what I . . . Fine. Whatever.” Eyes narrowed to lime-green slits, he jerked back around to face the lock.

  Craig made himself as comfortable as he could and, if he hadn’t thought it would hurt like fuk, he’d have smiled. Were he a betting man, and he was, he’d bet the kid wasn’t getting through that last layer any time soon.

  Having refused the chair, Torin stared across the desk at Big Bill—directly at him, not at a point just over his shoulder, he was no officer of hers—and wondered if she’d heard him correctly. “You want me, us, to train . . . pirates?”

  He raised a hand. His palm was pink and, as far as Torin could see, completely free of calluses. “I prefer the term free merchants.”

  “Fine. You want us to train free merchants to fight? As a unit?”

  “Yes. We’ll start by training the crews who frequent this station, but once word gets out, I expect our numbers will grow.” Head cocked, he studied her face. Fortunately, Torin had long since learned to keep her opinions of even more asinine plans to herself. After a moment, he sighed, and shuffled
a pile of paper around without actually moving it anywhere. Torin had never seen paper piled on a desk before. How did he access his screens? “Things are going to hell in a hand-cart, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr,” he said at last. “You should know, you pushed the cart off the cliff. You and your discovery of the gray plastic aliens. I’ve been watching you, you know, and during the short time you’ve been in this room, you’ve managed to touch most of the visible plastic.”

  Torin curled her fingers in toward her palms.

  “You’re looking for them.” Big Bill picked up a plastic stylus, spun it at eye level, then put it back down. “You know they’re still around. You know they’re still fukking with us. And you ask why I want you to train these people? I should think it would be obvious. We’re going to take what’s rightfully ours. What the gray plastic aliens have taken from us when they involved us in this war.”

  Had she been here for any reason other than to get to Craig, she’d have asked him what the hell he thought had been taken from him. She could almost hear Presit demanding an answer from Big Bill’s image on the monitor. As it was, she didn’t give a flying fuk. All she wanted to do was move this conversation as quickly as possible toward Big Bill giving her an all points access pass. “Why me? You have muscle.”

  “Muscle. Exactly. Ignoring for the moment that their present job keeps them surprisingly busy, the Grr brothers have a reputation with the people who use this station that would ensure compliance but little actual learning. Your reputation, on the other hand ...” He leaned toward her. “You brought the Silsviss into the Confederation. You fought the enemy to a standstill in the depths of the Big Yellow ship. You escaped from an inescapable prison. You’re someone people listen to, aren’t you? You can turn the free merchants into a force that a government who lies to us over and over and over will have to take notice of.”

  It was almost funny—in a bitterly painful way—that the salvage operators and the free merchants wanted the same thing. To have the free merchants noticed by the government. Sure, the salvage operators wanted them noticed by a battle cruiser, and who the fuk knew what kind of notice Big Bill had in mind, but still the similarities were hysterical. Interestingly, Torin could feel hysteria beckoning. “What will this force be armed with?” she asked, her reaction safely locked behind the gunnery sergeant. “Harsh language?”