The Truth of Valor (23 page)

At least now he knew why Jan and Sirin had died trying to keep their salvage from the pirates. This could shift power in the whole sector, maybe far enough that other sectors could fall. Craig didn’t have Torin’s eye for ex-military, but of the members of the crew he’d met—where met included having the shit beat out of him by—he’d bet both Captain Cho and Doc had served. From a violent life to a violent life; no great stretch to assume more pirates would be ex-military than not.

There went any hope that a high proportion of the people who’d end up with these weapons wouldn’t know how to use them.

Torin had to find him fast; it was no longer just his life on the line.

And fuk but the universe had a sick sense of humor. What kind of sick joke was it that pirates would happen on this particular cargo in the minimal amount of time between the sealing of it and sending the packet to register salvaged weapons with the military. It hadn’t been registered, that was for damned sure, or he wouldn’t be here because the Navy would. Torin’d call that kind of a fukked-up coincidence a reason to call in air support . . .

Torin wouldn’t believe in that kind of a fukked-up coincidence.

“You intercepted the registration packet.”

Almon glanced up from the controls of the eye and smiled unpleasantly. “We did.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Surprise.” The di’Taykan moved closer. Craig gritted his teeth and ignored his body’s reaction. Even with Almon’s masker up to full, he’d taken such a hit of pheromone he’d be feeling the effects for days. Hopefully only days. “My
thytrin
,” Almon continued, voice dropping into a near growl, pale yellow eyes darkening as more light receptors opened, “the one you nearly killed, he can make a comm unit beg.”

“Kinky. That why you’re here? Because your
thytrin
is more into machines than meat?” Craig blocked Almon’s blow. “I’m crew now. You don’t get to touch me.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Ryder?” He was standing close enough now that the ends of his hair stroked Craig’s cheek. “
You
don’t get to touch
me.
”

“Enough.” Cho’s voiced backed Almon all the way to the screen. “I need him able to think with something other than his dick.” The captain stopped just behind Craig’s left shoulder. “Can you crack it?”

Craig had little doubt that if he said no he’d be out the air lock—probably in the kind of condition that would make a fast death in vacuum a gift. He rubbed at the small patch of stubble on the edge of his jaw. “My codes will get me into the guts of the seal. After that, it’s grunt work.” Sentient species were incapable of being completely random, a pattern always emerged. Find the pattern, work the code. Open the lock.

“Once you’re in, we can hook up a slate and . . .”

“No.” Craig wanted to smile but doubted smug satisfaction would go over well. “Hook in anything the seal reads as a random number generator, and you’ll fuse it. Usually, that’d mean hacking the seal off the salvage physically and ringing every bell in the yard when you tried to sell it. You . . . we,” he amended, “don’t have to worry about sales. We have another problem.” He tapped the screen. “Fusing the CSO seal will melt it into the Corps’ seal. The Corps’ seal will read that as an attempted forced entry and self-destruct.”

“So when you say grunt work?” the captain growled.

“We can use a slate to input, but what we input will have to be worked out the old-fashioned way.”

“So why do we need him again?” Almon sneered.

The captain raised an eyebrow that asked the same thing.

“Without my codes, you’ll fuse the seal trying to get in.” Craig spread his hands. “Boom. And I have a better chance of recognizing the locking pattern than someone with no background in the way salvage operators do things. It’ll save some time.”

“How much time?”

“No idea. Faster with me than without me, that’s all I know.”

Cho stared at him for a long moment. Craig tried to look like a man who didn’t want to be thrown out an air lock. Finally, the captain nodded. “Your slate stays with me. I’ll supply a scrubbed slate and you’ll be working with Nadayki ...”

“Captain!”

“And you can shut the fuk up about it.” Cho moved up into Almon’s space. “Ryder didn’t lure the kid into a dark alley and stick him for his beer money. Ryder fought back. Nadayki didn’t haul ass out of the way fast enough. End of discussion.”

Almon looked like he wanted to argue, but to Craig’s surprise, he kept his mouth shut.

Maybe by the time a person decided to be a pirate, there was nowhere else to go. Get thrown out of the crew, and survival became unlikely. Life at rock bottom explained how a shitkicker like Cho could maintain command. And who’d be stupid enough to challenge him with Doc at his side?

“You . . .” Pivoting on a heel, Cho turned his attention back to Craig. “Once we’ve got the locker secured on the station, you’ll provide the raw data and Nadayki’ll make it dance. Nat.”

“Right here, Cap.”

It was more than a little creepy how Nat
was
right there whenever the captain called her.

“Take Ryder back to his quarters and secure him.” The smile he shot at Craig was nearly as unpleasant as Almon’s had been. “I don’t want our new crewmember running around loose while we’re moving the locker. He could get hurt.”

“I’ll stay out of the way.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Nat muttered, taking Craig’s arm. “Come on, gorgeous. If you’re lucky, I’ll tuck you in.”

Still aching from the effect of Almon’s pheromones, Craig gave it half a thought. If he wore her out, he could make a run for it. Except that any station welcoming this particular ship onto its docking arm and offering a secure location for the illegal entry into a Marine weapons locker made the oldEarth observation about frying pans and fires depressingly relevant.

“. . . but by far the greatest benefit to processing the ore here in orbit is that we have greatly reduced airborne pollutants in our planetary atmosphere.”

“I are seeing how that are being a benefit, but you are having to admit that an orbital facility are adding distinct dangers to the job and that . . .” Presit reached out, and Ceelin, who continued walking backward without breaking stride, slid a slate into her hand. “. . . station logs are reporting you are having eight injuries in the last ten tendays and one of them are being fatal.”

Although Torin could only see the top of his head, she knew Rergis, the facility’s manager, had slammed his nose ridges shut. His whole posture screamed overdone, righteous indignation. “There were extenuating circumstances ...”

“And here are being one of them,” Presit said brightly as they drew even with what was clearly the station’s roughest drinking establishment. Halfway between the docking arm and the processing plant, against the outer skin of the station, it was perfectly situated for easy access. Easy to get to, after work. Easy to get away from, should the need arise.

Rergis pulled himself up to his full height, barely reaching the middle of Torin’s chest and towering over Presit by a full six centimeters. “Are you insinuating that these accidents might have been the result of stimulant abuse?”

“I are not suggesting anything of the sort. I are merely observing that stimulants are often considered extenuating circumstances and ...” she glanced down at the slate and back up again while Rergis stared at his reflection in her glasses, “. . . are being cited in two of these reports. So let’s be taking a look.” Her gesture sent Ceelin in through the hatch, leaving Rergis no choice but to follow the camera or allow Presit to wander unsupervised. He’d been with her for less than ten minutes, and Torin could see he’d already discovered that was a bad idea.

The ore processors ran 28/10 and few, if any, incoming ships would have matched their clocks to the station’s, so it was no surprise the bar was fairly crowded although station time was officially midafternoon. Most of the clientele were Krai though there were a few Niln. The bartender was Human. So were two of the people sitting at the bar. Nearly everyone had at least part of their attention on the three Silsviss sitting at a table in the corner.

They were young males and, from the slight distension of their throat pouches, they were here to prove a point—which given how incredibly hierarchal their society was, was pretty much the point of being a young male Silsviss.

“This are not seeming like a problem,” Presit announced, her voice cutting through the ambient noise with an ease Torin had to admit she admired. Although no one became less aware of the Silsviss, they all became entirely aware of Presit. And the camera.

Odds were good pirates would prefer to remain off the evening news; Torin noted which Krai were keeping their faces hidden as Ceelin panned the camera around the room. Then she noticed that all three Silsviss were looking at her. When one started to rise, Torin glared his ass back onto his stool.

“I don’t know what you were expecting,” Rergis began, but Presit cut him off, the points of her teeth barely showing.

“Pretty much what I are finding, actually.” Turning to look up at Torin, she added, “You are being too big to be following normal-sized people around. You might as well be staying here while Rergis are showing me the facility and explaining what actual extenuating circumstances he are referring to. Ceelin!” She chivied the camera back out the hatch, giving Rergis no choice but to follow her, trying to explain.

As everyone but the Silsviss returned their attention to their drinks, Torin walked over to the bar, silently acknowledging that Presit had effortlessly put Torin right where she needed to be. Odds were good Firrg was in this bar. No one continued to pay docking fees for the privilege of staying on board their own ship and since the captain’s contact for unloading stolen ore had to be someone fairly high up in the power structure of the processing plant, she wouldn’t drink anywhere they might run into each other. Or, for that matter, anywhere where she might have trouble getting back to her ship.

Finding her in a dim room full of Krai when most non-Krai couldn’t even tell the genders apart—di’Taykan excepted—would be no problem. Torin had planned to find her by doing some eavesdropping among the Krai who’d hidden from the camera but, fortunately, there was a faster way. Firrg hated Humans. The bartender was Human. The fact that the Corps spent a long time teaching recruits to look beyond nearly universal default species parameters meant said parameters were alive and well in the general population.

Torin sat down, pointed at the beer spout, and said as the bartender put a glass of pale draft in front of her, “Which one is Captain Firrg?”

Dark brows rose toward the polished, mahogany dome of the bartender’s head—he was old enough he might have been caught up in the permanent depilatory phase that had been popular with male Humans two decades ago or he might have just felt that in an establishment that catered mostly to a species with minimal bristling across their scalps, hair was a bad customer service idea. Didn’t matter. He leaned toward her and growled, “Who wants to know.”

Torin took a long swallow of beer, then met his eyes as she put the glass back down on the bar. “I do.”

After staring at her for a long moment, he snorted and shook his head. If he recognized her, that was the only indication he gave. “You planning on starting something?”

“Not in here.”

His grunt was noncommittal. He might have approved, or he might have wanted to see Firrg get hers. Again, didn’t matter. Torin had no intention of taking the captain down in a place where a fight would be so distinctly to the Krai’s advantage.

“Table just inside the door,” he said after Torin took another swallow and set the glass down again. “Firrg’s in the red, got the jagged scar across her head. But those five she’s with? They’re her crew and they’re male and they’d die for her.”

Torin nodded her thanks.

“I don’t care how good you think you are,” he added when she stood. “You can’t take them all.”

“I won’t have to,” Torin told him, sliding her slate across the credit reader and turning to go. “The thing between us is personal.”

Torin knew how to walk across a room and draw every eye toward her. She also knew how to blend, look like she belonged. No one noticed her by Firrg’s table until she pulled another chair up, sat down, and said quietly, “I hear you hate Humans. The
Heart of Stone
, which has, at the very least, a Human captain and two Humans in the crew, has taken a friend of mine captive. I plan on killing whoever gets in my way when I go in to get him back. I figure Humans killing Humans should make you happy, so you’ll be willing to tell me where I can ...” She twisted out from under the hand of Firrg’s crewman reaching for her arm, grabbed it, drove her thumbnail into the nerve cluster on the inside of the wrist as hard as she could, slammed the spasming hand down onto the table, and said to the groaning crewmember still attached to it, “Piss off. The grown-ups are talking.”

On anyone but a Krai, Firrg’s expression would have been a smile. When a Krai showed that many teeth, something or someone was likely to end up eaten. “Why should I tell you anything when you’re damaging my crew?”