The Truth of Valor (25 page)

“Yeah, well, we don’t play well with others, and eyeballing this thing ...” Craig patted the metal. “. . . isn’t about the seal. What we have here is an armory that hasn’t been treated with the respect it deserves.” He eyeballed the dent beside his hand. “If something inside is damaged and leaking, it could blow before we get a chance to fuk it up.”

“That’s . . . possible,” Nadayki reluctantly acknowledged after a long moment.

“I’ve already examined it,” Cho growled.

“And I’ve got more experience with debris blown off a battle cruiser.” Craig tapped a fingertip against the metal and almost laughed as Nadayki’s eyes lightened. “I know exactly what kind of stress fractures that causes, and I know when it’s safe to hang around and when the only thing to do is haul ass and pray.”

Cho folded his arms and glared first at Nadayki and then at Craig. Craig waited patiently for the captain to deal. Every second he took coming to a decision brought Torin one second closer. “Fine,” he said at last. “Inspect it.”

“Thank you.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Cho only growled, “But make it fast.”

Unfortunately, the locker was in amazing shape considering what it had been through. In spite of his best attempt, Craig could spend only so long checking out a line of slag that ran diagonally across the bottom third of the locker’s back to tail out along the lower edge of one side. It looked like part of whatever had secured the locker to the Marine packet had melted.

“Well?” Cho had moved back beside the pod’s closed door.

There was barely enough damage for Craig to lie about.

“Looks like the slag’s attached to the locker’s surface. With luck, it hasn’t melted in.” Down on one knee, he reached back to where Nadayki hovered, making less than helpful comments under his breath. “Give me a screwdriver, kid.”

“Why would I have a screwdriver? That’s hardware. And don’t call me kid!”

“Fine, a stylus then. Just something solid and pointed so I can get a bit of this slag off and make sure there’s no structural damage.”

“Use your
kayti
,” Nadayki snorted dismissively. “And it’s obviously not melted in. Even pathetic Human eyes should be able to see that.”

Craig grabbed for the approaching foot but missed as his depth perception twisted. Naydaki’s kick wasn’t hard, not given that the kid was supporting weight and movement on his bad leg, but he hit the armory with enough force to break off a six-centimeter length of melted metal. It took a bit of enamel with it as it fell to the deck.

“See? No structural damage. Can we get on with it?”

“An excellent suggestion. Move, Ryder; on your feet.”

“Forgive me for wanting to start with
not
blowing up,” Craig muttered as he stood. Halfway up, the pod tipped sideways, and he slammed back against the locker.

“What is the matter with you?” Nadayki snarled, yanking him forward.

Okay, maybe not the pod that tipped,
he thought as those metaphorical red-hot spikes got shoved back through his temples. Jack-knifing forward, he spewed the contents of his stomach over the young di’Taykan’s uninjured leg. Shoved hard, he bounced off the locker, vomited again, then headed for the floor, impact jarring both knees. At least he avoided putting his hands down in his own puke.

I’ve got to learn some more di’Taykan profanity
, he thought as the pod tipped again and he fought to keep from toppling over. It sounded like the kid had hidden depths and an impressive vocabulary.

“Well, are you surprised?” Doc asked, as he half carried a semiconscious Ryder past the captain and out of the pod. “Given the amount of juice Almon hit him with, I’m amazed he has brain function. Intermittent dizziness and vomiting is no big deal.”

“It’s keeping him from what I need him to do,” Cho growled.

“Doesn’t the boy wonder have Ryder’s codes? Tell him to get started. Tell him to change first,” Doc amended, nose wrinkling.

“Ryder’s codes are only the first step,” Cho began, but Doc cut him off.

“Yeah, well, that’s where most people start. Now, I’m going to take my patient to sick bay and make sure there’s no brain damage I missed.”

“If he’s brain damaged ...”

“Station medic is looking for organs. I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.”

Cho stared into the storage pod, stepped aside as Naydaki shuffled out, and tried not to show how much he’d been startled when Big Bill said conversationally behind him, “Smells like puke down here.”

“Ryder had an accident.”

“Ryder? Your salvage operator?”

“Lingering effects from when we took him.”

“You need to learn to play more nicely with your toys.” Thumbs in his belt loops, Big Bill nodded toward the pod. “So that’s what’s going to change the world as we know it?”

“You can take a closer look,” Cho allowed reluctantly, even as he moved to put himself between Big Bill and the pod.

Big Bill’s expression suggested he could do whatever he damn well pleased. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not a part of this. Remember?”

Because Big Bill only allied himself with schemes that had a hundred percent chance of working, Schemes where a mistake wouldn’t blow a hole into the station that, one way or another, Cho definitely wouldn’t survive.

“I wasn’t even here,” Big Bill added before Cho could reply.

Nose ridges closed, the Grr brothers followed their boss toward the nearest hatch.

Cho amused himself by thinking of feeding them a missile, launching it, and watching their guts spray paint the outside of the station.

“So if Merik are not having what you sent him for, what then?” Presit demanded, as Ceelin ran the brush down the center of her back with long, firm strokes.

“He’ll have it,” Torin told her, scowling down at the tufts of undercoat on the floor as she did her second set of push-ups.

“Wishing are not making it so.”

“If I were wishing for something, I’d wish I was going in as part of a full Marine boarding party with cruiser backup.”

“If you are wishing,” Presit snorted, “why not be wishing Craig Ryder safe and being here? Never mind,” she added, as the five-minute emergent warning sounded and Torin got to her feet. “You are Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr, and you are not taking the easy way. Fine. If Merik
are
having what you sent him for, what then? You are not having the fleet you were thinking you would.”

Torin appreciated the sneer Presit used when referring to the absent salvage operators. “I know.”

“So you are planning to be doing what?”

“I’m going after Craig.”

“Oh, that are being a brilliantly developed plan,” she muttered.

Torin ignored her, wiping at her face and arms with a towel as she threw herself down into the chair. “Have you got that packet ready to go to the Wardens?”

“It are going automatically the moment we are being back in real space. You are thinking it’ll help?”

“It can’t hurt.”

“Even given that I are having pulled the information on the pirates into some kind of coherency, they are not likely to be suddenly thinking you are right and they are not actually needing to conduct an investigation before they act. They are not going to be sending the Navy in at the last minute to be saving the day.”

“They can’t if they don’t have the information.”

“They won’t even if they are having it.”

Torin sighed and turned to look at the reporter. “Black.”

Muzzle wrinkled, Presit climbed into the other chair. “I are having no idea of what you are talking about.”

“Just wanted to see if you’d say white.”

Ceelin snickered, tried to turn it into a cough, and all but ran into the other cabin prodded by Presit’s glare. “Oh, yes, you are being very funny.”

They were forty minutes out from Val Doron Station when they got the message from Merik. All three answers to the packet she’d had him send out on the way to the salvage station were positive.

“You are never doubting?” Presit asked, studying her face.

“Not this,” Torin told her. “This, I believed in.”

She didn’t have much beyond belief to keep her going. Belief in her own ability. Belief that Craig would know she was coming and do what he had to in order to stay alive until she got there. Belief that after everything they’d been through, after everything the polynumerous polyhydroxide sons of bitches had put them through, they were not going to have their lives ruined by a group of pissant pirates.

Val Doron Station was one of the larger OutSector stations. Torin had originally chosen it as a meeting place both because it was busy enough that only the station sysop took note of every coming and going and because it was a very short fold from the salvage station.

Merik was waiting on the other side of the air lock when they docked.

“They are not being happy,” he said, grinning broadly. “My ship are having too low ceilings apparently. But they are being here.”

As Presit pulled him aside to fill him in on their new information—or possibly to complain about how the dry air in the ship had made her fur brittle, it was impossible to tell with Presit—Torin looked past them at Ressk, Werst, and Binti Mashona, all three of them smiling and obviously glad to see her. Her chest hurt. In the months since she’d seen them, in the months since she’d left the Corps, Ressk had slimmed down, Werst had bulked up, and Mashona had added half a dozen small gold rings to the upper curve of her right ear where the light spilling off them painted gleaming highlights against the dark skin. Before she could move, Mashona dragged her into a hug while both Krai charged forward and slapped at her arms. It seemed strange not to be keeping the distance rank and the Corps demanded. Strange, but not unpleasant. “Thank you for coming.”

Ressk spread his hands as they separated. It was strange to see him—to see all of them—in civvies. “All you had to do was ask, Gunny.”

“Whatever you need us for,” Mashona added. “Merik told us the CSOs won’t help. Do we convince them, or . . .”

Torin opened her mouth, but Werst, eyes locked on her face, spoke before she could. “We’re going after Ryder.”

The other two looked from him to Torin, who finally nodded. Years of training couldn’t keep the anger from leaching into her voice. “Werst’s right. We don’t have time to convince the salvage operators Craig isn’t dead. And they won’t put themselves and their families in danger for a dead man.”

Metal clanged farther down the docking arm. Someone shouted. Someone else laughed.

Mashona snorted. “You believe he’s alive, Gunny, that’s good enough for me.”

“Us,” Werst growled, nose ridges flared. “Good enough for us.”

“We’re it,” Torin reminded them. “It’s one thing to ask you to help train a sizable fleet, it’s another thing entirely to ask you to get involved in a retrieval of personnel from behind enemy lines.”

“Yes, it is,” Ressk allowed. “But Merik told us up front, and we’re still here.” He grinned. “It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

Mashona matched the grin. “Who knew I’d miss nearly dying on a regular basis?”

“I,” Werst snarled, “am looking forward to kicking the ass of someone who undeniably needs their ass kicked. Since you haven’t found those gray plastic fukkers yet, pirates will do.”

“They’ll do in a pinch,” Mashona agreed. “How are we going in?”

They didn’t have time—Craig didn’t have time—for Torin to tell them what this meant. She suspected they already knew or they wouldn’t be standing there.

“We’ll go in as pirates. Given what they saw on the vids,” Torin expanded, lifting the first case of supplies Merik had also delivered, “no one’s going to be at all surprised if the four of us are bitter, twisted, and seriously pissed off.”

“Ryder was on those vids, too,” Ressk pointed out, heaving a case up onto his shoulder.

“Not too much, he are mostly being behind the camera, and he are hiding most of his face behind a patchy pelt. Besides, he are not being a big hero like you three are being. Hello.” Presit smiled up at the ex-Marines. “I’m sure you are remembering me.”

“Hard to forget,” Werst muttered, a case under each arm. “Is she coming, too?”

“No.” Torin nudged Presit away from the
Star’s
air lock.

“Yes,” Presit corrected, shoving back.

“Okay, then.” Mashona picked up the last case and followed Torin, the two Krai, and all three Katrien onto the ship. “So we’re pirates.”

“In this?” Werst snorted, setting the case on the floor and tossing his duffel onto the bunk.

Torin turned and looked around the cabin which seemed significantly smaller now it held seven warm bodies, three new duffel bags, and a stack of supplies. “All right, so we’re not very successful pirates.”

SEVEN

“IF WE WERE GOING IN,
guns blazing . . .” “We have guns?” Ressk asked Mashona quietly. She slid the case of food into storage and smacked the top of his head.

“. . . that would be different, you’d be as welcome to join us as you would be in a war zone.”

Werst snickered.

“If we could insert the team undetected,” Torin continued, ignoring him, all her attention focused on convincing Presit she wasn’t going in with them, “again, no problem. But the only plan we have to get Craig out alive is to pretend we’re something we’re not and you’re too well known.”