The Truth of Valor (7 page)

Jeremy took a long look. “No.”

“Then you don’t get to wipe your hands on him. Apologize.”

“But ...” When Torin raised a brow, he sighed dramatically and leaned forward far enough to peer down at the kneeling man. “Sorry I wiped my hands on you, okay?”

Torin waited a moment then applied a little more pressure to the man’s thumb until he choked out a reasonably sincere, “Okay.”

“The plastic aliens started the war that killed your sister,” she said, releasing him. Plastic alien was simplistic, but it was a lot easier to say than polynumerous molecular species or polyhydroxide hive mind. “Don’t forget that because they’ll be back.”

Then she turned to get Jeremy another mushroom, keeping most of her attention on the man rising to his feet. Muttering under his breath, he pushed his way through the crowd who, in spite of having been avidly watching the confrontation, were all maintaining a strict
none of my business
air about them. She wondered what would have happened had there actually been a fight. Would the crowd’s individuality at all costs have held or would it have turned into a mob as she became an outsider beating one of their own?

How close to death would Ginger Mustache have to be to bring the salvage operators together?

Or did only the dead get parties?

Spotting Jenn over by a group of Krai who were probably complaining about the waste of food—they ate their dead, and saw no real reason why they couldn’t eat everyone’s even if the articles drawn up when they joined the Confederaton expressly forbid it—Torin caught her eye and nodded toward Jeremy, silently asking if she wanted him back.

When it appeared she didn’t, Torin allowed the child to drag her over toward the stage where a band named
Toyboat
—two Humans, a di’Taykan and a Niln on the beatbox—were doing a power chord cover of H’san opera. She could honestly say she’d never heard a better version of
O’gra Morf Dennab.
And she’d definitely had worse dancing partners.

By 2100, most of the kids had gone and the serious drinking had started. Craig knew of three stills which meant there had to be at least half a dozen more on the station he didn’t know about, all supplying alcohol for the funeral—and that wasn’t even counting perfectly innocent food and drink that got a lot less innocent when it crossed species lines. Personally, Craig was sticking with the
fernim
made by the Katrien collective; sweet and dark, about 80 proof and the best fukking thing ever to put in coffee. If there was anything resembling justice left in the universe, he’d be taking a bottle or two away with him. The Katrien collective hadn’t been part of the station last time he’d been by. For the sake of the
fernim
alone, he hoped like hell they stayed.

From where Craig was sitting, he could see Torin deep in discussion with a couple of di’Taykan. Kiku had served one contract in the Corps as a comm tech and Meryn had been Navy, so the odds were high they were rehashing old battles. Or at least the di’Taykan were. It wasn’t something he’d ever heard Torin do. He supposed, as career Corps, she’d seen enough battles the novelty had worn off. If the di’Taykan were trying to impress her, well, they didn’t stand a hope in hell. Any hell. Pick one.

If he were a betting man—and he was—he’d bet the conversation had started with a proposition, even given that Torin had been named a progenitor and every Taykan in the Confederation seemed to know it. Still, it wasn’t like she was planning to start a Taykan family line. Or, given the differences in biology, a Human line on Taykan. Or that anything much kept a di’Taykan from suggesting sex. They’d never discussed where they stood with the di’Taykan, Torin and him. Although it was pretty much a consistent belief across known space that sex with a di’Taykan didn’t count, he found he was pleased Torin hadn’t gone with them. If that made him unevolved—he took another swallow of coffee and
fernim
—he didn’t fukking care.

“So
pendejo ...”
Pedro dropped down on one side of him, Alia on the other. “. . . you are serious about this woman, yes?”

Craig toasted Pedro with his mug. “Would I have exposed her to your ugly ass self if I wasn’t?”

“You might have been trying to scare her off,” Alia said thoughtfully, crossing her legs at the ankles. At some point during the evening, she’d had the H’san symbol for life hennaed onto the tops of both bare feet. “Tossing her into the deep end. Seeing if she’ll swim.”

“She swims fine. Threw me in a freezing, fukking lake on Paradise.”

Alia snickered. “You suck at metaphor when you’re drinking.”

Craig toasted her, too.

And nearly coughed the mouthful back up when Pedro jabbed a bony elbow into his side. “Your woman, she’s used to ordering a lot of people around. You sure you going to be enough for her?”

Yeah, it wasn’t like he hadn’t wondered about that. He shrugged. “She chose to come with me.”

“Never doubted it.”

“Never thought for a minute you could make that one do anything she didn’t want to,” Alia snorted.

“’S truth.” Craig nodded. “Or she didn’t feel she had to.”

He could hear the frown in Alia’s voice although he kept his attention on the last swallow of his coffee. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Pedro leaned across him, reaching for her mug. “How much of that have you had?”

“Not enough.” She easily evaded his grab and got to her feet, graceful in spite of the swaying. Or maybe swaying gracefully, Craig wasn’t entirely sure. “You two behave,” she added as she left.

“I love that woman.
¡Te amo, mujer!
” Pedro shouted at her back.

Alia flipped him off without turning.

“She loves me, too.”

“She married your ugly ass, she must.”

“So are you and ...”

“Don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”

“She took you home to meet her family.”

Craig shrugged, unwilling to read any more into that than there’d been. “I’d already met her father. Back when she was dead.” Fukking mug was empty. He pulled Pedro’s from lax fingers and swallowed a mouthful of . . . “What the fuk is this?” he gasped, eyes welling up.

“Something Kevin’s been fermenting in the greenhouse.” Pedro took his mug back and drank. “Good degreaser, too.”

He could almost feel his tongue again. “No doubt.”

“So, how long you planning to stay this . . .”

A howl from over by the empty stage cut him off as Newton Winkler ripped off his overalls, screaming obscenities. Looked like he’d gotten a couple of new tats since Craig had seen him last.

“Fukking Winkler’s been into the
sah
again,” Pedro sighed, hauling himself slowly to his feet.

Craig stood with him. For the Krai,
sah
had an effect about equal to a cup of coffee. To Humans, the mild stimulant caused—as well as a host of nasty physical reactions—delusions, paranoia, and an inability to feel pain. Craig had learned the hard way that last bit was the kicker. Hopped up on
sah
, the restraints self-interest put on violence were gone, and Winkler would keep fighting long after the damage he’d taken should have forced him to quit.

“Oh, fuk it, Jurr’s trying to talk him down.”

Jurr probably hadn’t intended to get his ass thrown across the room. Fortunately, Krai bones were hard enough he bounced. Also, fortunately, the cluster of people he bounced off of were drunk enough they’d probably suffered nothing more than minor bruising.

Then Torin’s left arm went around Winkler’s throat, her right hand wrapped around her left wrist forcing the hold tight. Face growing darker in the crock of her elbow, Winkler clawed at her arm, blunt nails sliding off her sleeve. His bare feet paddled against the stage, then slowed, then stopped. Torin eased him down, studied him for a moment through narrowed eyes, then straightened. “He won’t be out for long,” she snapped. “Tie him or trank him.”

Craig grinned as a couple of Krai he didn’t know moved quickly in and carried Winkler away. Their
sah
, their responsibility. Allowing a Human to get his hands on the liquid could mean charges laid if anyone on the station wanted to push the matter.

“She could kick your ass from here to the edge,” Pedro murmured, draping an arm over Craig’s shoulders.

“Not news.”

“Bet she’s
realmente bueno
in the rack.”

“Not telling.”

“You’re in love.”

Craig watched as every Krai still in the room dropped their eyes rather than meet Torin’s gaze. Even those far enough away she couldn’t possibly see their expressions, stared at the floor. Pedro hadn’t actually asked a question, but Craig answered anyway. “Yeah,” he said as Torin glanced his way. “I am.”

“. . . so try to stay away until we’ve forgotten what your ugly face looks like. Torin can come around any time, though. What?” One of the family said something just out of range of the comm unit. “Jeremy says he’s going to marry Torin when he grows up,” Pedro translated.

“I’ll consider that fair warning. Stay safe, asshole.”

“And you,
pendejo.
”

It was, Torin thought as Craig maneuvered the
Promise
out past a long line of the polyvoltaic cells that helped power the station, one of the strangest clearances she’d ever heard. The station OS had been involved only in the resealing of the access lock.

“So ...” Craig sounded amused. “Something you’re not telling me?”

“About?”

“You and Jeremy.”

“He’s a cute kid.”

“I never knew you liked kids.”

She shrugged. “I find I’m liking them more now I don’t have to watch them die.” Not that she’d ever actually
watched
them die; she’d fought like hell to keep them from dying. “Jeremy’s young enough, he’ll never get mixed up in this mess.”

“Fifteen, sixteen years; you think the fighting will stop by then?”

“I think the war will have stopped by then. Fighting? In general?” The Elder Races of the Confederation believed that an interstellar presence could be achieved only by those species that had evolved beyond the desire to blow themselves—and others—into extinction. This caused them a problem when the Primacy, who clearly did not share this belief, attacked. And continued to attack, diplomacy be damned. When it came down to fight or die, the Confederation bent the rules enough to allow Humans, Krai, and di’Taykan to join their club even though none of the three had managed to do much more than break out of their own gravity well. As it turned out, it was entirely possible that the “plastic aliens” had juiced the Primacy, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, there were three aggressive species buzzing around Confederation space, and no matter what Parliament seemed to think, they weren’t all likely to put down the weapons they’d been using.

“Torin?”

“Do I think the fighting will stop?” She thought of saying
ask Jan and Sirin,
but he was asking her. “No.”

“Pessimist.”

Folding her arms along the top of his control chair, she rested her chin on his head. “Realist.”

“You’re thinking of the pirates.”

“Not specifically.” Pirates. Actual pirates. That was going to take some getting used to.

“So,” he said again after a moment, still sounding amused, “you made an impression.”

“On a four year old.”

“Winkler was over aces, and you kept him from hurting anyone.”

“Okay, I made an impression on a four year old and a
sah
addict. Winkler needs help.”

“He needs to stay off the
sah
.”

Torin sighed. The Corps would have slapped him into a program before the charge of self -inflicted damage had even hit his slate and then would have gone after the Krai who’d allowed his access to the beverage. Much the same thing would have happened on Paradise and on any station that maintained a government presence. Any hint of Humans getting their hands on
sah
and the Wardens would move in attempting to limit the damage. Salvage operators, though, they refused to interfere in the man’s
personal choice
.

Individually, they were smart, tough, and adaptable. Working together, as a unit . . .

Would they work together as a unit, though; that was the question? Would they? Could they? What would it take?

Torin was just as glad to be leaving them behind. Individuality at the expense of the group went against everything she’d believed her entire adult life.

Once Vrijheid had been just another government station, but the mining operations it had been intended to support had been destroyed in the war, and the cartels had cut their losses rather than rebuild. When William Ponner arrived, the station had been stripped to bare bones personnel, waiting to be moved off its L5 point and folded through Susumi space to a new location. Rumor, stripped to bare bones, said he’d barely been there a tenday when he’d hacked a database and convinced the powers-that-be the station’s orbit had decayed due to damage taken during the attack. That it had crashed into the planet, all hands lost.

Apparently, he’d even implanted records of the Navy’s investigation.