salvageable pieces. It was necessary training, and Torin gave it the same attention she’d given the training that had allowed her to stay alive while doing her old job but, at the same time, it was clear that they were actually waiting.
Jan and Sirin hadn’t been wearing HE suits when attacked, so it took Brian four days to find them, sweeping the area around the remains of the Firebreather with his scanners tuned to pick up DNA. It was a function the CSOs used to scan battle debris for residual tissue and many a military family owed them for whatever closure they’d been able to achieve.
When he had both bodies finally on board, Brian’s message to the station was short and to the point. “Got them. Coming home.”
With people free to mourn, the mood around the station changed. Now, they knew what they were waiting for.
“What do you mean, the attack hasn’t been reported to the Wardens?”
Craig pushed a hand back through his hair and sighed. “What’s the point, Torin? The Wardens can’t bring Jan and Sirin back to life.”
“No, but they can catch the bastards who killed them.”
“How?”
“How?” Torin repeated. She paced the length of the cabin, seven strides and back again. “Isn’t it what they do?”
“Do they?” Craig dropped his feet off the edge of the control panel. The chair protested as he spun it to face her. “They haven’t hauled ass to send in the Navy, have they?”
No, they hadn’t. And Presit hadn’t gotten back to her. Torin spread her arms. “It isn’t right that the people who killed Jan and Sirin will get away with it.”
“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