by Tanya Huff
“Maybe when we get you to the infirmary.”
On the other side of the room, Salitwisi turned every sibilant into a hiss. “Because Hyrinzatil is my ancillary, that’s why, you uneducated brute!”
Arniz winced and hoped whoever Salitwisi’d insulted had taken it personally and not as a reference to the Younger Races as a whole. An extended lecture on social prejudices would be all they needed right now. “Can you put him out?”
“Not my call.”
“Pity.”
“The stump’s cauterized and I’m pumped full of pain killers,” Lieutenant Commander Ganes slurred. “I’m fine.”
“Yes, sir. This is your bunk.” Not like Trembley was going to need it again. “Lie down on it.” Ganes was an adult and an officer and if he said he was fine, he was talking out of his ass. Werst had no intention of arguing with him. He backed him toward the bed, let gravity put him down, then grabbed both feet and swung them up before Ganes could protest.
The moment he was horizontal, Ganes blinked twice, tried for a third, and failed to get his eyes back open.
“Yeah, you’re fine.” Werst lifted the stump up onto the commander’s stomach—the sealant covered the burn, if not the lingering scent of cooked meat—checked pulse and respiration, hoisted a bag filled with medical supplies over the less bruised side of his back, and headed for the stairs.
He’d taken the commander’s hand from the pod and tossed it into a stasis pouch . . .
“Looks like a lunch bag.”
“I find one tooth mark on my hand and I kick your ass.”
“You’re welcome to try, sir.”
. . . then he and Ressk had helped move the two dead—Trembley and a young Niln named Dzar—into the small room next to the nest. They’d left the prisoners where they lay. They didn’t deserve any better.
Mashona and Ressk had escorted Pyrus and Sareer downstairs. Ressk had gone reluctantly, nostril ridges flared to draw in as much of Werst’s scent as he could, but he’d gone. Werst may have done some scenting as well. Led away with his wrists secured, Pyrus wept silently, but he knew where he was. Might have been why he wept.
Werst had stayed behind to take care of Ganes.
As he reached the top of the stairs, Malinowski, still in the nest room, ran out of Federate profanity and switched to what Werst assumed was a Human language.
“We have another three pods incoming with C&C.” At the bottom of the stairs, Ryder reached out and stopped a stretcher from ascending. The Katrien’s head rolled limply left. “Dog’s bollocks to hump them up and then down again, even with the AG.”
“Seems like a design flaw to have the infirmary on the second floor,” Freenim agreed, backing up to give the stretcher room to turn.
“And they’re all flawed the same way,” Werst told him, halfway down.
Freenim blinked. “Why?”
“We blame the H’san.”
“That’s what we do now,” Ryder added, speaking quickly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He pointed toward the closest common room wall. “Line the three who need stasis there—shorter run out to the C&C shuttle.”
Guiding the stretcher back into the common room, Freenim shook his head. “There’s going to be more than three.”
“Internal injuries get podded. External get sealed. The Warner-Lalonde’s heading in, full Med-op by tomorrow. We . . .”
*Everything with any potential to be medically useful has been unloaded.* Alamber broke in. He was on the group channel, but it was clear to anyone with half a brain he was talking to Ryder. *Go.*
Ryder caught Werst’s gaze. “I . . .”
Werst snapped his teeth. “Go!”
They’d needed all capable hands on injuries while medical supplies were being unloaded. Field dressings weren’t a problem, not for anyone who’d served in either Confederation or Primacy military, but these were Niln and Katrien, and Ryder was the only one who’d begun the civilian EMT course. Seemed salvage operators came in a multitude of species. Who knew? Gunny’d be all over the rest of them finishing it now.
He clearly wanted to be at the shuttle controls, ready to fly as soon as possible, but he’d done his job.
“Ryder finally going after Gunny?” Ressk asked as Werst spun around. “Your situational awareness sucks by the way.”
“I fell in a pit.”
“My point.”
Werst moved close enough for touch. “How’d he get the Navy to move so quickly?”
“Sicked Presit on them.”
“Ouch.”
Presit was nowhere in sight, but Dalan moved among the injured, camera up, red light announcing his mobile invasion of privacy. He skirted Salitwisi, still applying pressure to a stomach wound on a younger Niln even though death had stopped the bleeding.
Strike Team Alpha’s job had been to free the hostages and three of them were dead. Well, five, counting the two Martin had taken out before they’d hit dirt. It could have been a lot worse. Not that the gunny was going to accept that.
Of course, she was still on the job.
“Why aren’t you with Ryder? There’s four of them,” Ressk continued when Werst turned. “Beyvek’s in the shuttle, and Martin will have cut him free. Ryder’s still shit at close combat and I’m not saying Gunny won’t have taken all four out, but a little competent backup won’t hurt once he’s got a grapple on them.”
Ryder didn’t pull a trigger. That was the deal. He didn’t carry the dead.
“Can you fight?” Ressk demanded suddenly. “Chreen! Your injuries . . .”
“I can fight.” He could do what he had to. He’d have time on the shuttle to rest.
“C&C will be here before you hit vacuum.” Ressk pressed his forehead against Werst’s, then pulled away. “Go.”
So he went. The air in his lungs, air Ressk had breathed out.
The Polint had taken care of their own injured. Only fair, Werst figured; they’d caused most of the injuries.
Vertic had two of the mercenaries at her feet, the black and the red, Camaderiz and Netr-something. Dutavar knelt by his brother. Tehaven was on his side, breathing heavily.
“How many times do I have to say it! Your way isn’t the only way!” Tehaven snarled as Werst ran by.
Dutavar grabbed his brother’s wrist. “This is the wrong way.”
“You’re the wrong way!”
“Bertecnic!” Vertic’s sudden bellow made Werst’s blood throb against the scar. Ressk was right, his situational awareness was shit. He stumbled, caught himself at the last minute, and tried to move a little faster. His stamina was shit, too. And Ryder wouldn’t wait because Ryder didn’t know he was coming. Might not wait even if he knew. What the fuk did he think he was doing, charging off like he was the only one on the team who could throw a punch . . .
“Need a lift?”
This time when he stumbled, a big hand hauled him up into the air. He twisted around it, grabbed a footful of Bertecnic’s vest, dropped onto the Polint’s back, and held on with all four extremities. Distance that would have taken him another five, maybe ten minutes to cover, disappeared under Bertecnic’s undulating stride. Wasn’t Werst’s first ride on a Polint. He didn’t enjoy it any more than he had the first time.
“Durlan says to bring Gunnery Sergeant Kerr back.”
“Damn right.”
“She says the chain of command is a twisted mess without her.”
Durlan Vertic currently commanded five fully grown male Polint. If she decided to take over, she couldn’t be stopped. Twisted mess seemed accurate to Werst.
The ramp had started to withdraw when they reached the shuttle, so Werst jumped clear before Bertecnic had fully stopped. He slid into the air lock as the outer hatch closed and into the cabin as the inner swung shut. Then immediately into a seat as Ryder engaged the engines. Once they we
re high enough for the dampeners to kick in, he unbuckled and moved up to the copilot’s chair. Only to find it already occupied.
“Are you having invited him?” Presit demanded, punching Ryder in the arm.
“He invited himself.”
Ryder had the shuttle on the kind of angle that meant Werst had to hold on to the chair back to keep his balance. “But you invited her?”
“She also invited herself. I didn’t want to take the time to toss her out.”
“I are going where the story are being and Gunnery Sergeant Kerr are providing a career’s worth of story.” Under the self-serving justification, Werst heard concern. Which didn’t negate the self-serving justification as there was SFA the Katrien could do once they caught up. “Dalan are fine recording on the ground,” she continued, waving a dismissive hand, enameled nails gleaming in the light. “I are knowing better than to be trying to get anything but grief out of a trauma situation. It are all in the editing.”
“It?”
“Yes, it.” Her tone suggested that if he didn’t know what it referred to, she wasn’t lowering herself to explain.
“You might want to park it,” Ryder growled, eyes locked on the board. “There’s a storm in the upper atmosphere. I’m going straight through and it’s going to get . . .”
The shuttle moaned, twisted, and slid about three meters left.
“. . . bumpy.”
Torin braced herself as the shuttle dropped into place on the DeCaal, deck shuddering as the clamps engaged. It’d been neither the worst ride she’d ever taken, nor the most dangerous. That honor went to the trip from Big Yellow to the Berganitan in an HE suit, strapped into Craig’s salvage pen, blood running down her arm to fill her glove. In comparison, this ride was a welcome breather after a long day. “First-class ticket,” she muttered, standing and stretching as the engine powered down. She checked her KC. Turned to face the inner door. If Martin planned on leaving the VTA, he’d have to go through her.
“Warden Kerr.”
“Robert Martin.”
“You know who I am.” He sounded smug.
“I know enough. Throw down your weapons and open the door. I’m willing to accept your surrender.”
Several seconds of silence followed.
“Because the great Gunnery Sergeant Kerr only has to ask,” Martin sneered.
“Warden Kerr.” She smiled. “And I didn’t ask.”
The silence extended.
“You’re trapped in the air lock,” he said at last.
“You’re trapped in the VTA,” Torin replied. “It’s a matter of perspective.” If Craig grabbed air the moment the medical supplies had been unloaded, he wasn’t far behind them. She had to keep Martin distracted until the grapples were deployed.
“What do you think is going to happen when the inner hatch opens? You can’t kill all four of us before one of us kills you.”
Four? Martin, the Druin, Commander Yurrisk, and . . . Beyvek.
“Except . . .” He was laughing now. Laughter was good. Laughter took up time. He could chortle evilly for the next hour as far as Torin was concerned. “. . . you’re not allowed to kill us, are you?”
Only technically true, and Justice had worked hard to fill the Strike Teams with those who’d do what Justice wanted. Torin had been responsible for enough death—she touched her vest—that she’d prefer not to add to the total. “I can do anything I want to you, as long as I complete the paperwork. If I happen to only kill you, I can cope.”
“You’ll die right after I do.”
“Perhaps. You’ll be dead. You’ll never know.” Stalemate. The bully Werst had known wouldn’t trade his life for hers. “And I hate doing the paperwork; dying would let me avoid it.”
“You’d . . .”
“We haven’t time for this,” another voice snapped. Not Krai, had to be the . . .
The light in the air lock went off. The clamps holding the inner hatch shut disengaged.
Not smart. When the door opened, those inside the VTA would be silhouetted in the light. Torin hadn’t wanted to do it this way, but needs must. She took two long steps to stand tight against the bulkhead. A white line opened along one edge of the hatch, painting the floor just past the toes of her boots.
She slipped her finger through the trigger guard.
The lights came back on.
Temporarily blinded, she felt a sharp pain in her cheek and sudden cold spread out across her face. She squeezed the trigger as her knees buckled. Heard shouting, hit the floor.
Oh, yeah, she knew this feeling.
“There are being a saying among my people that a straight line are not always being the shortest distance between two points. You are understanding what I’m saying?”
“It would’ve been faster to go around the storm.” Ryder’s teeth were clenched so tightly Werst was impressed he managed to get the words out.
Presit gave a satisfied chirp. “That are what I’m saying.”
“Werst?”
He threw the diagnostic up into the air. “Another half an hour to match orbit and you’ll need to dead-eye the hookup when we reach the Promise. Sensor array’s completely out.”
“Please,” Presit sniffed. “Warden Kerr are being fine. Warden Kerr are always being fine. And I are having noticed she are having turned her helmet scanner off.”
“Gunny lost her helmet dirtside,” Werst told her.
Presit sniffed again. “Typical. She are never thinking of my visuals.”
Torin hadn’t entirely lost consciousness. She felt herself lifted onto a stretcher. Saw Martin carry Commander Yurrisk out of the air lock slung over a shoulder, one hand dangling level with Martin’s ass. Saw a whole lot of orange plastic go by and felt the hair lift on the back of her neck. The sight of so much plastic in one place made her hands twitch to hold the alleged weapon that had brought Martin to 33X73.
Her head wobbled on her neck as the stretcher rocked, the generator creating a weaker field along the left. Felt the contact the stretcher made with the side of the hatch. Felt it tip. Felt the surge of adrenaline at the prospect of falling, helpless.
A flash of red, barely seen over the curve of her cheeks, lifted Torin’s foot back onto the padding as the stretcher leveled out at the last moment. She could hear the generator whine, long past its time for a maintenance overhaul. It became easier to keep her eyes open. She still couldn’t move.
Up above, the interior of the ship showed the same signs of wear and grime as the air lock and loops of multicolored wire hung between the bulkheads. It resembled the interior of Salvage Station 24 and Torin considered the comparison to be a compliment—the salvage operators had children to keep safe. It was obvious Commander Yurrisk had done all he could to keep the DeCaal flying.
The control room looked to be in better shape. Not good shape, but better. Teeth gritted, she rolled her head to the left and saw four seats original to an Aggression class ship: OIC, helm, weapons, and communications. All four looked to be fifty percent duct tape. The weapons console and what looked like half of communications had been removed.
Qurn bent to lay the roll of plastic on the floor, realized there was no room, and propped it in a corner. “Fine, they wanted her dead,” she said, carrying on a conversation Torin had clearly missed the beginning of. “But you can’t tell me that your leaders wouldn’t prefer Gunnery Sergeant Kerr alive and converted to your way of thinking.”
“You think she’d convert?”
“Why wouldn’t she? Or don’t you actually believe your way is the right way for your species?”
“I don’t have to keep you alive,” Martin snarled and Torin realized two things.
One, Martin was Humans First. No question.
Two, for the first time since the team had left the station, she could hear the silence between words. The Druin didn’
t need a translator. She spoke Federate.
Three things.
She could move.
She hit the deck on one knee, rolled under the stretcher, shoved it at the approaching Druin, and felt the unmistakable pressure of a KC muzzle against her spine. When she stood, the pressure moved from the base of her neck to the top of her ass, but it didn’t let up. Odds were high a round would go through her uniform at this range. If she caught a break and it didn’t, the impact could still shatter vertebrae.
“You said she’d be out for hours, Qurn.”
“If she were Druin, she would be. As she isn’t . . .” Qurn spread her hands. “The reaction is variable between species. Variable within species as well.”
“Don’t care. You.” Martin pointed at Qurn. “Cover her. You.” When the finger came her way, Torin raised a brow. “Get out a zip-tie. Beyvek, secure her.”
“The zip-ties are in my pack,” Torin said in her dear lord, you’re an idiot, but it’s in my best interests not to actually say that voice. “My pack’s dirtside.”
He searched her face, checking, she assumed, for the lie. She’d been a senior NCO in a company that luck of the draw had dropped into more hard combat than any other two; Robert Martin wasn’t nearly skilled enough to find anything but what she wanted him to find.
“Tie her with this.” Qurn detached a decorative red braided cord about a meter long from her sleeve.
“Yeah,” Martin scoffed, “as if that’ll . . .”
“It’ll hold her.” Qurn’s voice, on the other hand, said you can trust me. Our interests align, and I would never lie to you. It was remarkably effective and Torin made a mental note to ask Freenim about subharmonics.
Qurn tossed the cord to Lieutenant Beyvek, who caught it one-handed—the pressure of his weapon not letting up. “Hands behind your back.”
In his place, she’d have folded her forearms across the small of her back and secured them wrists to elbows. The last couple of years had taught her that was the only way to ensure certain people remained secured. Without her experience, Beyvek crossed her wrists and wrapped the cord in a diagonal pattern. Unfortunately, the Krai still built with rope and the more traditional had kept the old skills of net making alive. The binding felt like Beyvek had come from a traditional family. She could flex her fingers, there was no chance of her circulation being cut off, but regaining her freedom wouldn’t be easy.