bit of gray plastic conduit, and, having given it as much time as she could spare to respond, pushed herself down toward the smelter level—for representational rather than gravitational values of the word down. Like the verticals, the maintenance shafts were kept at zero G—one of the reasons so many maintenance workers were Krai. The Krai, as a species, suffered no nausea, no disorientation; without gravity, they were able to use both hands and feet to double their efficiency.
She skimmed her free hand along the plastic cables.
One deck. Two. Three.
Snapping her slate back on her belt, Torin snagged another conduit to stop her descent and flipped the access panel open with her free hand. She swung her feet out onto the deck, twisting sideways to clear her shoulders as gravity took over and her weight pulled her clear.
Six seconds to twitch everything into place, and she walked around the corner to the smelter with a minute and a half to spare.
The Grr brothers noticed her first, turning slowly, nose ridges flared, hands out from their sides. The position was half reassurance that they weren’t reaching for weapons, half loosening up for a fight. The swelling had mostly gone down, and although the mottling made it difficult to tell for certain, it looked as though the bruises had begun to darken.
Bruises made her think of Craig and the evidence of violence still marking his face.
Both sets of nose ridges slammed shut. Torin fought to get her expression under control before she faced Big Bill.
He started to turn as she passed his bodyguards, frowned when he saw her, then glanced back in the direction he’d expected her to arrive from.
Torin fell into parade rest and waited, counting the seconds they were wasting. She’d counted to six when Big Bill said, “I see you found your own way.”
It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer it.
His slate chirped.
One of the Grr brothers snorted.
Big Bill had intended her to arrive late, putting her on the defensive, allowing him to give her shit or grant clemency depending on his mood. Torin kept her expression neutral. Compared to General Morris, he was a complete amateur.
“Why didn’t you use the route I sent you?”
When she looked directly at him, his gaze slid off hers—not so obviously it seemed deliberate but consistently enough Torin knew it had to be. “You expected me in thirty.”
“And you always do what’s expected of you?” His tone sounded more speculative than curious, no doubt wondering how he could use that information.
“It’s part of the job.”
And the camouflage.
“Well, as you’re here so promptly, let’s use the time you saved and have a look at the smelter. Boys, open the hatch. It’s a community arena now,” he added as the Grr brothers hurried to obey. “Used for courts and fights and the like, but I thought you might use it as a training facility.”
The small decompression hatch led into a large rectangular area, with high ceilings and nearly as much floor space as the central part of the Hub but empty except for black metal bleachers around the bulkheads. At first, Torin thought the walls had been allowed to rust. A moment later, she realized they’d been painted a dark red-brown—the shade somewhere between rust and dried blood. A double set of glossy black decompression doors broke up the seating at ninety degrees from her zero. Patches rough welded into the floor showed where large machinery had been removed.
She doubted there was much difference between the courts and the fights.
There was no visible plastic. That was less comforting than she’d expected it would be.
“The seats can come out if you don’t need them, or they can be rearranged into more useful configurations.” Big Bill slapped a meaty palm against the bulkhead. “Industrial reinforcing—it’s the best place on Vrijheid to put a range even with targets designed to absorb the impact.”
Not everyone would hit the target. On military stations, they built a barrier designed to neutralize the rounds from a KC-7 and set the targets in that. As Torin enjoyed the thought of pirates shooting holes in their own station, she didn’t bother correcting the flaw in Big Bill’s design.
“For the larger weapons, we may need to set up something on the planet. Although it’s not like the big stuff needs precision shooting, right?”
He was waiting for a response. “Just needs to be pointed in the right direction,” she agreed. Pirates blowing themselves to hell with heavy ordinance would also be celebrated. She scuffed her