"Aye, Captain?"
"Best time to Vrijheid."
He could feel how badly Huirre wanted to ask if Doc had been successful but, after a long moment the Krai erred on the side of self-preservation and said only, "Aye, aye, Captain!" Torin woke the next morning to an incoming message from the station OS. Brian Larson had found the missing Firebreather, her hull breached and her pen abandoned. He'd salvaged the debris and had begun scanning the immediate area for bodies.
"Bodies." Craig scratched the matted hair on his chest and padded across the cabin to start the coffee, shaking his head. "Why the hell would they put up a fight?"
"You don't usually?"
He blinked, visibly replayed both lines of dialogue in his head, then backtracked so far he'd have been outside the ship had he been actually moving. "With what? Confederation law specifically states, all weapons are to remain in the hands of the military. What?" he demanded when Torin raised a brow.
"While we circled the station looking for a lock, I saw at least seven ships armed with salvaged weapons. They weren't obvious, but they were unmistakable if you know what to look for. These ships wouldn't be able to sell back to the military or any reputable recycling yard without being brought up on charges, but I'm betting someone on this station, on any salvage station, is willing to act as a middleman, providing legal tags for a price and buying the tagged salvage back."
"Torin…"
"You wondered why the Firebreather put up a fight, so you knew they were armed."
He stared at her for a long moment then he smiled. "I keep forgetting you're no drongo. Smarter than you look."
"You keep forgetting," she told him levelly, not responding to the smile, "that we're in this together now."
"I'm sorry." Craig drew in a deep breath and exhaled quickly. "We're big on minding our own bizzo, us."
She thought back to crossing the station's market, the clear division between us and them. Between us and her. "I'm part of that we now."
"I know. Old habits."
"Get over them."
This was an entirely different smile. "Yes, Gunnery Sergeant."
What the hell. She could stay mad, or she could recognize she'd be sharing a small space with this person-that she wanted to share a small space with this person-for the foreseeable future. "What did I tell you about calling me that out of bed?"
He laughed then, a little relieved, a little turned on, and got the mugs out of storage. "So I guess the question is, what the fuk did they find that was worth dying for?"
Torin stretched out on the bunk and ran possible scenarios in her head.
"Torin?"
She glanced up at him. "What the fuk did they find that was worth keeping away from pirates?"
Craig poured both mugs of coffee before asking, "Isn't that the same question?"
"Not quite."
TWO
TORIN HAD ASSUMED THEY'D STAY to honor the dead. She'd seen enough death over the years to know the importance of celebrating lives lived. She'd seen enough death recently-her entire company, most of her GCT, and a prison planet of Marines she'd all but promised to free-that the Corps psychologists had come to the conclusion she had to be repressing at extreme levels in order to even function. In turn, she'd come to a few conclusions about the Corps psychologists, and they'd parted on terms of mutual dislike.
Holding onto the living rather than the dead was not repressing. Binti Mashona and Ressk were all that had survived of Sh'quo Company, Miransha Kichar and Werst all that had survived of their recon unit. Kichar had stayed in, the other three had left the Corps around the same time Torin had. Kyster, di'Hern Darlys and di'Ameliten Wataru-the other Krai and the two di'Taykan who'd escaped the prison planet with them-had taken medical discharges and disappeared into the population of their respective home planets. Torin kept an eye out for Kyster, but, as Darlys had been the instigator of Torin as a progenitor, she'd let the di'Taykan go.
Torin'd served with Staff Sergeant Daniel Johnston, Kichar's senior NCO, and he'd already sent one detailed message about the young Marine's progress. And how crazy she was driving him. And how far she'd likely go if she could just dial it back a little. Torin found it comforting to know Kichar hadn't been changed by knowledge of the plastic aliens. Torin hadn't spent any civilian time with Mashona, Ressk, and Werst, but she knew where they were and they knew where she was and that fell somewhere between comforting and necessary.
Torin hadn't known Jan and Sirin, hadn't even met them; they were additions to Craig's dead, not hers.
Craig had Pedro help him set up training exercises, teaching Torin to deploy the Promise's pen, load various types of "salvage," and then check that the correct variable had been entered into the computer's Susumi equation. When that paled, she spent time running pilot simulation programs-maneuvering around debris fields, finding the best position for most efficient grappling of salvageable pieces. It was necessary training, and Torin gave it the same attention she'd given the training that had allowed her to stay alive while doing her old job but, at the same time, it was clear that they were actually waiting.
Jan and Sirin hadn't been wearing HE suits when attacked, so it took Brian four days to find them, sweeping the area around the remains of the Firebreather with his scanners tuned to pick up DNA. It was a function the CSOs used to scan battle debris for residual tissue and many a military family owed them for whatever closure they'd been able to achieve.
When he had both bodies finally on board, Brian's message to the station was short and to the point. "Got them. Coming home."
With people free to mourn, the mood around the station changed. Now, they knew what they were waiting for.
"What do you mean, the attack hasn't been reported to the Wardens?"
Craig pushed a hand back through his hair and sighed. "What's the point, Torin? The Wardens can't bring Jan and Sirin back to life."
"No, but they can catch the bastards who killed them."
"How?"
"How?" Torin repeated. She paced the length of the cabin, seven strides and back again. "Isn't it what they do?"
"Do they?" Craig dropped his feet off the edge of the control panel. The chair protested as he spun it to face her. "They haven't hauled ass to send in the Navy, have they?"
No, they hadn't. And Presit hadn't gotten back to her. Torin spread her arms. "It isn't right that the people who killed Jan and Sirin will get away with it."
"You lost Marines all the time. How often did you get to take out the people responsible?"
Oh, he did not just go there. "We were fighting a war," Torin snarled. "And don't tell me that you're in a war with the pirates because war means fighting back. And you're not." The Promise was suddenly too small. "You're doing sweet fuk all for the people you lost!" she said, stepping into the air lock.
"We're remembering them!" he shouted as the outer door closed.
No one spoke to her as she wandered around the station. A few people moved out of her way.
Someone had set up an exercise wheel in an old ore carrier and since no one was around, and the surface of the inner curve was both smooth and solid, Torin stripped off her boots and ran. When her implant chimed*fifteen kilometers*, she started to slow; although it took another kilometer before the rotations had dropped to the point where it was safe to use the brakes.
Breathing deeply, the taste of the recycled air almost comforting, she stared down past her toes at the curve of plastic-resolutely remaining plastic-and thought, Fuk it.
When Torin got back to the ship, the only light in the cabin was the spill from the control panel. Craig was in the bunk, not asleep but not talking either. She stripped down, and settled in beside him.
"I thought when I left the Corps, that I'd stop losing people."
"I know." He shifted to wrap an arm around her. "And I know you want to fix things, but, Torin, we take care of our own."