"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."
Maybe. But their definition of "take care of" wasn't one she understood.
In Torin's experience, memorial services included a chaplain droning on about duty while the listeners thought about the part of the ceremony that would have been most relevant to the dead Marines-getting out of their Class As and to the beer. Salvage Station 24 had skipped the memorial and gone straight to the party, complete with musicians on a stage set up by the old shuttle bay doors. At the other end of the market, the pub entrance had been blocked by a pair of tables and two kegs. Craig had warned her that the beer was watered, but that didn't seem to matter to the constant stream of people stuffing mugs under the spouts. Overheard conversations reminded Torin of conversations heard in every Mess where they honored the dead at the end of a deployment. Subtle differences, sure-no one seemed especially relieved or guilty that they were still alive when the dead were dead, and it was strange not to hear the words "Goddamn fukking brass has no goddamn fukking idea of what we do out there!" repeated at a volume that rose in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed.
The biggest difference between the way the Corps and the salvage operators did things was that Jan and Sirin's bodies had been set up on a raised platform in the center of the market, the kiosks cleared off the floor for the duration. In the field, the Corps bagged and reduced their dead into a few grams of ash that fit into cylinders that fit in turn into measured spaces in the senior NCO's combat vest. One way or another, the Corps left no one behind. Even Marines who died while serving in less chaotic theaters were bagged and reduced before being sent home unless their religious beliefs required a different treatment.
Bodies lying around were bodies that needed to be tended to.
"Is this sanitary?" Torin murmured against Craig's ear as they worked their way through the crowds to Pedro and his family. "Decomposing bodies in a closed environment?"
Craig stiffened, turned toward her and visibly relaxed, shaking his head. It took Torin a moment to analyze his reaction. Then she realized that her right hand rested against the place her dead would have been had she still been wearing a vest. "They won't be here long," he told her quietly. "And the station's scrubbers are up to the job. Jan built them."
Torin had never asked how well he'd known the two dead women. He hadn't spoken of them since their fight and barely spoke of them before, although he'd exchanged a couple of memories with Pedro during the wait. That suggested they were his in the broader sense rather than the specific. She hadn't acknowledged that and she needed to, but to say she was sorry for his loss would imply this wasn't her loss as well. Closing her hand around his forearm, she stuck with a basic truth. "The death of any of us diminishes us all."
He looked a little surprised.
Jan Garrett-Wong was Human. Standing, the top of her head might have reached Torin's shoulder. All things considered, she didn't look that bad, but then she'd lived a significant percentage of her life surrounded by vacuum and had no doubt known enough to close her eyes tightly and empty her lungs when her ship had been breached. Most of the damage caused by prolonged exposure to vacuum would be internal-pulmonary embolisms were tidy killers. Both her cheeks were stippled with burst capillaries, but nothing said they hadn't been there before the attack.
The lilac hair of di'Akusi Sirin lay limp and unmoving. The color reminded Torin of Lieutenant di'Ka Jarret, and her hand moved back to touch nonexistent cylinders. They'd never found his body, or even any evidence of where it was in the melted surface of ST7/45T2. If his family had held a memorial service, nothing of the lieutenant would have attended.
Given the differences in respiratory systems, Sirin had probably lived a little longer after the Firebreather was destroyed. Long enough to see Jan die. All di'Taykan eyes collapsed in vacuum; given the concave curve of her lids, Torin suspected that someone, at some point before the bodies had been laid out for viewing, had sealed the lids shut over the empty sockets.
It was unusual for a di'Taykan to choose a single Human as a vantru, a primary sexual partner. Not only were the Taykan a communal species, but any relationships formed while in the di' phase ended when they switched to quo and became breeders. Plus, a single Human would be hard pressed to keep up with a di'Taykan's sexual appetite. From what Torin could overhear, more than one person in the crowd had been as impressed by Jan's ability in that regard as by her skill as a mechanic. Easier when both parties were females, granted, but still.
Tables of food had been set up around the biers; platters of the ubiquitous processed protein patties in a wide variety of flavors as well as a surprising amount of fresh vegetables and small fruits-the station's greenhouses seemed to be producing bumper crops. Bowls filled with the paste sat next to sun-dried potato, sweet potato, and hujin chips clearly intended for dipping. Torin stayed well away from the hujin chips. Humans tended to consider them further proof that the Krai could and would eat anything organic.
The edge of Jan's shroud had a smear of paste on it, as though the corpse had stretched out her right hand and done some snacking while waiting for things to start. That was definitely unsanitary, no matter what Craig said.
Torin touched the edge of a plastic bowl-which remained a plastic bowl-then picked up a handful of sweet potato chips.
Warm bodies packed the market elbow to elbow and, while the dominant language was Federate, Torin could hear Taykan, Krai, at least two oldEarth languages, and the distinctive screaming cat fight sound of a conversation in Katrien. Every one of the many air locks accessing the station was in use and, according to Alia coming off a shift in ops, they'd extended mooring tethers from the last three free-crews of late arrivals suiting up rather than locking in. It seemed as though every salvage operator who could get there, had.
"Torin!"
She looked down to see Jeremy, the youngest of Pedro's children, holding tightly to the edge of her tunic, none of his parents in sight. "What can I do for you, Jer?"
"Mama made mushroom caps."
"Did she?"
"Yes. I want some."
Craig leaned in close enough to be heard, his breath warm against her cheek. "I can take charge of the ankle biter if you like."