by Tanya Huff
But neither Detective Berton’s attempt to find the smugglers bringing the highly addictive di’Taykan vritran into Human space nor Detective Canter’s search to find the murderer of a Krai diplomat could hold her attention. She might as well have been watching H’san opera. When the third episode featured a government official throwing his weight around, she thumbed it off and glared at her reflection on the screen.
If General Morris wanted a recon team to investigate an unknown alien spacecraft, the Corps had plenty of teams he could choose from. Torin didn’t know whether he wanted her to replace the staff sergeant from an established unit or to be a part of a team he’d built from scratch, but either way she didn’t much care for the idea. It was inefficient. And bordered on stupid.
She could do the job. She understood that as a member of the Corps, she was expected to pick up and move on as the Corps saw fit. And she took full responsibility for the actions that had lodged her in the memory of a two star general.
But stupidity at high levels really pissed her off.
Because stupidity at high levels was the sort of thing that got people killed.
A Krai territorial cry sounded from the rear compartment, closely followed by a stream of happy Human profanity. Jerked out of her mood, Torin was startled to see she’d been brooding for almost an hour.
The profanity got a little less happy.
Not her problem.
She heard the corporal’s voice rise and fall and then the unmistakable sequence of flesh to flesh to floor.
Now it was her problem.
Standing, she shrugged into her tunic and started down the aisle. No point in letting a bad mood go to waste…
The corporal was flat on his back. One of the Krai privates—probably the female given relative sizes—sat on his chest, holding his arms down with her feet. He wasn’t struggling, so Torin assumed he’d taken some damage hitting the floor. The smaller Krai had a pouch of beer in the foot Torin could see and was banging both fists against the seat in front of him, nose ridges so dark they were almost purple. The di’Taykan were nowhere to be seen—all three of them had probably crammed themselves into the tiny communal chamber the moment the shuttle had entered Susumi space—which left, of the original six privates, only a Human who seemed to find the whole thing very funny.
He spotted Torin first. By the time she’d covered half the distance, his eyes had widened as the chevrons on her sleeves penetrated past the beer. By the time she’d covered the other half of the distance, he’d stopped laughing and had managed to gasp out something that could have been a warning.
Too late.
Transferring forward momentum, Torin wrapped her fist in the female Krai’s uniform, lifted her off the corporal, and threw her back into a seat.
The sudden silence was deafening.
She reached down and helped the corporal to his feet.
Someone cleared his or her throat. “Staff, we…”
Her lip curled. “Shut up.”
The silence continued.
“If I hear one word from any of you while Corporal Barteau…”
No one seemed at all surprised she knew the corporal’s name.
“…is telling me what the hell is going on back here, I will override your seat controls and you will spend the rest of the trip strapped in.” Eyes narrowed, she swept the silent trio with a flat, unfriendly stare. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
“Good. Corporal.”
They walked back to the wall dividing the lower ranks from the NCOs.
Torin pitched her voice for the corporal’s ears alone. “You all right?”
“Just a little winded, Staff. I didn’t expect her to jump me. They’d been drinking, and I think she was showing off for Private Karsk. I was studying.” He nodded toward the schematics spread out over the last two seats. “I asked them to keep it down. Next thing I knew…”
An unidentifiable sound from the back of the compartment pulled Torin’s head around. All three privates, sitting exactly where she’d left them, froze, wide-eyed like they’d been caught in a searchlight. She held them there for a moment—half hoping they were drunk enough to cause more trouble—then turned slowly back to Corporal Barteau.
He shrugged. “They’re on their way home, Staff.”
“I know.”
“Privates Karsk and Visilli were at Beconreaks and Private Chrac, she was aircrew, Black Star Evac. They flew at…”
“I know, Corporal, I was there. Your point?”
“I don’t think they deserve to be put on report. Not for celebrating the fact that they’re going home.”
“I agree.”
He looked surprised. “You do?”
Torin exhaled slowly and forced the muscles in her jaw to relax. From the corporal’s reaction, she suspected she’d looked like she was chewing glass. “Yes. I do. I’ll have a word with them and, if we get to MidSector without any more trouble, that’ll be the end of it.”
“You’ve already scared the piss out of them,” the corporal acknowledged.
“Yeah, well, I’d say that was my intent except the shuttle service would make me pay for having the seats cleaned.”
* * *
Feeling considerably more clearheaded, Torin accessed the hospitality screen and a moment later pulled the tab on a pouch of beer.
Ours is not to question why.
I’ll do, she said silently, with a sarcastic toast to absent brass, but I’ll be damned if I’ll die.
* * *
The detoxicant Torin had taken when they folded out of Susumi space had done its job by the time the shuttle docked at MidSector. Although the military and civilian passengers had been kept separate during the trip, exit ramps emerged into the same crowded Arrivals’ Lounge.
There were a lot fewer uniforms in the crowd than Torin was used to.
“Excuse me.”
Torin had a choice. She could stop, or she could walk right over the di’Taykan standing in front of her. She stopped. But it was a close decision.
The di’Taykan had lime green hair and eyes, the former spread out from her head in a six-inch aureole, the latter so pale Torin wondered how she could see since none of the light receptors seemed to be open. Her matching clothing was unusually subdued—in spite of the color—and the combined effect was one of studied innocence.
Torin didn’t believe it for a moment. Anyone studying that hard had to be working against type.
“One of my thytrins was supposed to be on that shuttle, Sergeant di’Perit Dymone. I didn’t see him get off so I was wondering if he, well, missed his flight again.” Her hair flattened a little in embarrassment. “He missed the last flight he was supposed to be on.”
Looking politely disinterested, Torin waited.
“I thought maybe, if he didn’t miss this flight, he might still be on board.”
“No.”
“Are you sure…” She dipped her head and her eyes went a shade darker as she studied Torin’s collar tabs. “…Staff Sergeant?”
“I’m sure.”
“But…”
“I was the only NCO of senior rank on board. Your thytrin missed another flight.”
“Oh.” Her hair flattened farther as she stepped out of the way, one long-fingered hand fiddling with her masker. “I’m sorry to bother you then.”
Torin swung her bag back onto her shoulder. “No problem.”
“Um, Staff Sergeant, would you like to…”
“No. Thank you.” When a di’Taykan began a question with would you like to, there was only ever one ending. And that was probably why the girl’s thytrin kept missing his flight.
By the time Torin reached the exit, she’d been delayed long enough for the lines to have gone down at the security scanners. Wondering why the Niln next to her was bothering to argue with the station sys-op—top of the pointless activity list—she slid her slate into the wall and faced the screen. In the instant before the scan snappe
d her pupils to full dilation, she saw a flash of reflected lime green. The di’Taykan? Scan completed, she turned.
On the other side of the lounge, now nearly empty of both the shuttle’s passengers and those who’d come to meet them, the di’Taykan had crouched down to speak to a Katrien. Although conscious of being watched, they glanced up and smiled. For an omnivore, the Katrien had rather a lot of sharp-looking teeth in its narrow muzzle and although Torin couldn’t see much of its face around an expensive-looking pair of dark glasses, something about its expression made her fairly certain she’d seen that particular Katrien before. She just couldn’t put her finger on where.
*You have been cleared to enter the station. Proceed immediately to docking bay SD-31. Your pilot has been informed of your arrival.*
Torin tongued in an acknowledgment and stepped through the hatch, the Katrien’s identity no longer relevant.
Facing the lounge exit was a large screen with a three-dimensional map of the station. As Torin stepped closer, a red light flashed over her corresponding place on the map and a long red arrow led to the legend: “You are here.” Torin would have bet her pension that the graffiti scrawled next to it in a script she didn’t recognize said, “And your luggage is in Antares,” or a variation thereof.
Shuttle departures were down one level. Unfortunately, SD-31 was not a shuttle bay. All MidSector and OutSector stations had a squadron of two-person fighters for station defense plus a few extra bays in case of fighters arriving without their ships. As no MidSector station had ever been attacked, their squadrons were on short rotation. There were few things more disruptive to a sentient society than a squadron of bored vacuum jockeys.
“Docking bay SD-31.”
The map rearranged itself. A second red light appeared. A green line joined them.
Okay. That was going to take some time.
“Shortest route. Species neutral.”
Not significantly shorter.
The MidSector stations had been in place longer than Humans had been part of the Confederation and over time they’d grown almost organically.
“Like a tumor,” Torin muttered, heading for the nearest transit node. OutSector stations had been designed for the military after the start of the war and were a lot more efficient. She hoped that when informed of her arrival her pilot had kept right on with whatever it was a vj did when he wasn’t flying or fighting with Marine pilots because they wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
At the node, she wasn’t really surprised to find a link had just left. Given the way her day had been going, she wouldn’t have been surprised to have found the links shut down for unscheduled maintenance and that she was supposed to cover roughly eight kilometers of station on foot.
Ours is not to question why.
A trite saying rapidly on its way to becoming a mantra.
By the time the next link arrived, the platform had become crowded. A trio of di’Taykan officers at the far end—pink, teal, and lavender hair—provided a visual aid for anyone who wondered why the Corps had switched to black uniforms and about forty civilians filled the space in between, including four representatives of a species Torin couldn’t identify.
There were also a number of Katrien. Hard to count because they were shorter than many of the other species but easy to spot since every single one of them appeared to be talking—sometimes to other Katrien, who were also talking. MidSector was close to their home system, which explained the numbers. Torin watched only the occasional broadcast coming out of the Core but she seemed to remember a Katrien news program announcing that their Trading Cartel had taken over a significant number of both X- and Y-axis routes.
When the link finally arrived, Torin took a center seat, plugged her slate into a data console, and ran “alien ship dead in space,” then “ship of unknown origins,” paying a little extra for a secure search. Nothing. Great, the one time I could use a little help from the media, General Morris managed to keep the lid on.
Impressive if only because the Marines had arrived in more than one contested system to find the media there first.
At her final node, Torin had her link to herself and at the end of the line stepped out onto an empty platform. Four Katrien bounced out of the link behind her and one out of the link behind that. Although she hadn’t paid much attention to fur patterns, the dark glasses on the single Katrien, now hurrying to join the others, seemed familiar.
I’m in friendly territory, Torin reminded herself. No reason to assume I’m being followed. Two different people could easily be wearing the same expensive eyewear.
But she crossed the platform toward them anyway—paranoia and survival instinct were two sides of the same coin when the job description involved being targeted by projectile weapons. The single Katrien cut off a high-pitched and incomprehensible flow of sound as she reached the group, and all five turned toward her.
She scowled down at the source of her disquiet. “Do I know you?”
A heavyset individual—Torin didn’t know enough about the Katrien to assume gender—spread hands that looked like black latex gloves extending from the sleeves of a fur coat, and replied in a friendly sounding torrent of its own language.
*Translation not available.*
“Do any of you speak Federate?”
A second torrent, even friendlier sounding than the first.
*Translation not available.*
All five were now smiling toothily, the Katrien who might or might not have been following her a little toothier than the rest. Torin knew better than to make cross-species generalizations, but it looked smug. If they were living on station, they spoke Federate; no question they were being deliberate pains in the ass. Maybe they disliked the military on principle. Many of the Elder Races were pacifists—to the point of extinction when the Others showed up which was, after all, why the Humans, di’Taykan, and Krai had been invited in.
Maybe the Katrien was the same Katrien she’d seen in the lounge. Maybe it told the others to play dumb for the soldier. Fuck it. It was a free station. She was not going to get involved in the game.
But this time, she noted the fur pattern. If she saw this particular smugly smiling Katrien again, she’d know it.
Her answering smile was less toothy but more sarcastic: “Thank you for your time.”
They shouted something after her as she left the platform. Torin tongued off her implant before it could tell her once again that a translation was unavailable. Some things didn’t need to be translated.
* * *
There was a vacuum jockey leaning against the orange metal bulkhead outside SD-31. Torin wondered how the Navy flier could look so boneless and still remain upright. He straightened as she approached.
“Staff Sergeant Kerr?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant Commander Sibley. I’m your ride.” He palmed the lock and stood aside as the hatch opened.
Torin peered into the tiny suiting chamber and looked back at the pilot in time to see him slide a H’san stim into his chest pocket. Humans chewed the sticks as a mild stimulant. They were nonaddicting and completely harmless although they had a tendency to stain the user’s teeth and, in extensive use, turn subcutaneous fat bright orange. Although the sticks were frowned on, they weren’t actually illegal, and Navy pilots, operating in three dimensions at high speeds, often chewed to give themselves an edge. Navy flight commanders, who preferred their pilots alive, usually looked the other way.
Lieutenant Commander Sibley followed her gaze and grinned. “I know, Staff, it’s a filthy habit. And I’m not trying to quit.”
“Not my business, sir.”
“True enough.” He stepped into the chamber. Torin followed. “We’ve got a one-size-fits-most flight suit for you. I take it your suit certifications are up to date?”
“Yes, sir. If either branch of the military uses it, I’m certified to wear it.”
The suits were designed to fit loosely everywhere but the collar ring and the facep
late so one size fit well enough. Exposure to vacuum caused a chemical reaction which stiffened the suit and filled the spaces between it and flesh with an insulating foam capable of maintaining a constant temperature of 15°C for thirty minutes. Since the suits came with only twenty minutes of independent air, pilots who found themselves free of their fighter’s life-support pod didn’t have to worry about freezing to death.
Among themselves, Torin knew the vacuum jockeys referred to the suits as buoys—markers to make it easier for the Navy to find the bodies.
Theoretically, pilots weren’t supposed to come out of their pods even with their fighters shot to hell all around them. In Torin’s experience, theory didn’t stand a chance up against reality. Theoretically, species achieved interstellar space travel after they’d put war behind them, but apparently no one had told the Others.
They checked each other’s seals and packs, then Lieutenant Commander Sibley opened the outer door. SD-31 held, as expected, a two-person Jade although for the moment all Torin could see of it was the access to the pod.
“Ever ridden in one these jewels, Staff Sergeant?”
Torin’s stomach flipped as she stepped out into the docking bay and the gravity suddenly lessened. “No, sir.”
His hazel eyes held a gleam of anticipation as he showed her where and how to stow her bag, then he waved at the tiny rear section. “We’re point five gees in here, Staff, so just step in, feet about this far apart…” He held out white-gloved hands. “…and settle into place. Your pack fits into the back of the seat and, if you do it right, all hookups are made automatically.”
And if I do it wrong? Torin wondered as her feet hit the deck and she sat down on a disconcertingly yielding surface. Apparently, she’d have to find out another time as straps slid down around her shoulders and disappeared into the seat between her legs. Great. We can fold space, but we can’t improve on the seat belt my father uses on his tractor. The screens to either side of her remained dark, but on the curved screen in front, half a dozen green telltales lit up.
“You’re in.” The pilot leaned up out of her section and dropped into his own, considerably faster than she’d done it. “Probably best if you keep your hands in your lap, Staff Sergeant. None of your controls are live, but you’re in my gunner’s seat and I’d just as soon we didn’t shoot off bits of the station. Navy frowns at that.”
