"They pinged us 100 kliks out and got the codes."
She stopped staring at the board and turned to stare at him. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"And docking?"
"I'll bring her in alongside a free nipple and we'll grapple in. Use the universal hookup if there's no match."
"Well, that's very…" Torin considered and discarded a few words. "… independent."
Craig grinned at her. "You're swearing inside, aren't you?"
"Not at all. Watch where you're going." She sat back and rested her hands on her thighs, watching so that her fingers didn't curl into fists. "I spent my entire career being carted around by the Navy, depending on their engineers to do the math right. This is just a difference in scale."
Craig's brows rose as he micro-fired a forward thruster.
"A big difference," Torin admitted.
They rose a bit higher.
"Fine. I'm swearing a little. There's a reason docking computers are the default."
"No worries, I can do anything my computer can. Although in some cases it may take me a little longer," he added quickly as Torin opened her mouth.
As she hadn't decided if she appreciated or was appalled by the sentiment, Torin let that stand. "So who's in charge here?"
The corner of his mouth that she could see, twitched. "Group consensus as needed."
"So, essentially, no one. Shoot me now." After watching mismatched pieces go by for a while, and watching Craig's brows dip closer to the bridge of his nose, she asked, "What happens if there isn't a free lock?"
"There's always a free lock," he muttered. Promise twitched as he gave the upper aft thrusters a bit of juice. "But it looks like we'll have to hook in a little far from where I usually dock."
"And that means? Other than the obvious?"
"We're going to need a native guide once we get inside."
"Craig! Hombre! Empezabamos a pensar que no quisiste que los de mas te ven con nosotros, you son of a bitch!"
Torin moved back half a step as a tall man with four-centimeter dreads and three white stars tattooed on his left cheek swept Craig up into a hug that looked painful. She didn't recognize the language-although it sounded Human-and she didn't know their relationship-although since no one had started throwing punches, she assumed they were at least friends. It seemed safest to give herself some maneuvering room.
"Pedro!" Craig locked his arms around the other man and lifted him off his feet. "Too long, mate! Too long!"
"Had to let the bruises fade," Pedro snickered as they released each other at exactly the same time. He leaned out around Craig's shoulders. "And you must be Torin."
She nodded, expression neutral. He'd had to have spent the last year without a comm hookup of any kind not to recognize her face. The vid Presit a Tur durValintrisy had shot of her conversation with the polynumerous, shape-shifting, organic plastic alien hive mind who'd been responsible for a war that had taken millions, if not hundreds of millions of lives had been played 28/10 on some stations.
Pedro grinned at her. "All that publicity and you couldn't do any better than this asshole?"
Craig dodged the punch aimed at his arm. "Torin Kerr, meet Pedro Buckner. Best mate I ever made."
He wanted them to like each other; she could hear it in his voice. That meant he wasn't bothering to hide it since he had one of the most unreadable poker faces/voices she'd ever played against. Which meant it was important to him. Torin locked eyes with Pedro and held out her hand. "Pleased to meet you."
To her surprise-because he in no way telegraphed the move-he grabbed it and pulled her into a hug. "I, too, have spent time locked into a small ship with that man. You have my sympathy, chica."
Torin had no real problem with physical greetings from vetted sources, so she hugged him back and only barely stopped herself from turning it into a pissing contest like the one he'd had with Craig.
Who was smiling when they parted like he'd known how close it had come.
And, of course, he had.
She was weighing a couple of responses when the communications implant in her jaw pinged and she tongued it without thinking. *Salvage Station 24 requests access codes.*
"You can tell it to piss up a rope," Pedro told her, as she frowned. He'd probably recognized the common expression of someone listening to a voice in their head. "But if we lose hull integrity, responses are faster if the OS can coordinate the implanted beyond the emergency frequency." He tapped his jaw.
According to Craig, many CSOs got basic implants the moment they could afford it. Torin had assumed it was to remain in contact with their ships while loading cargo but, as all Hazardous Environment suits had comm units, it now seemed more likely it was for the times they were unsuited. When she glanced over at him, Craig nodded. Since Craig had refused to allow the Berganitan access to either his implant or his ship while on the Navy battleship, that said something.
Mostly about Craig.
Torin tongued in her codes. It bothered her more to be unconnected. Being able to instantly reach the station sysop could mean the difference between trying to breathe vacuum and not. The construction of this particular station only reinforced that belief.
The inside of the station was as much of a rabbit warren as it looked to be from the outside. No point in actually making that observation aloud, though; the odds were good neither man knew what a rabbit was. Falling into step behind Pedro, Torin could see wear-everything from scuff marks to hard use-but no oxidizations. She was encouraged by the lack of actual decay but would have liked to have the scuff marks dealt with. Polishing made an excellent punishment for minor disciplinary…
Shaking her head, she dragged her finger in and out of a dent. Not her problem anymore. Sometimes, she forgot.
Creating a mental map of the path back to the Promise missed being the most difficult bit of orienteering she'd ever done only because no one was shooting at her.
The familiar smell of a few too many people for the air scrubbers ghosted along beside them, seasoned by something enough like curry to make her stomach growl. Their path seemed to be leading them toward the center of the station and although she could hear people-Krai and Human definitely, di'Taykan and Katrien probably-they didn't actually run into anyone.
Given the number of ships attached to the station, that seemed strange.
"What's up with the ghost ship effect?" Apparently Craig thought so too.
"Jan and Sirin were supposed to be in four days ago," Pedro explained, ducking as he stepped through an interior hatch. "Got cut off in the middle of a transmission. Brian Larson-you remember him, damn near lost his fukking arm when a tangle blew-he's heading out to check their last coordinates. Chloe Badawi's checking out the other end of their intended Susumi fold, and most folk are sticking pretty close to home until word comes in."
"Cut off in the middle of a transmission," Craig repeated, touching the tips of his fingers to the gray plastic hatch numbers as he followed. "Mechanical problems?"
Pedro snorted. "On Jan's ship? I don't think so. Jan considered her ship a part of her body." He tossed the information in Torin's direction. "No way it would have the kind of mechanical problems that'd keep them from getting a message out for four days. Wouldn't happen. Just, no. And," he added darkly, "Sirin said they'd picked up a maker."
"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.