removed a wad of blood-soaked bandaging, sprayed sealant on the stub, and began to apply an old-fashioned dressing. “Thing is, I can’t trust him to stop and the loss of an entire leg becomes a bit more than an inconvenience.”
Breathing heavily through his nose, Craig stared at the other man in disbelief. “Inconvenience?”
“Comparatively.”
“It fukking hurts!”
“It’s fukking supposed to. If I give you something for the pain, there’d be no point in taking off the toe.” He stroked down the last bit of gauze, the heat in his thumb causing it to adhere to the layer below, then straightened, leaving a thin smear of blood across his cheek as he pushed his hair back off his face. “This way you’ll remember that no one likes a delayed payout and you’ll stop fukking around.”
Doc had tended to the amputation like he hadn’t been the crazyassed psycho wielding the tin snips. Watching him switch back and forth made Craig feel like he should add whiplash to his list of injuries.
“Now things are tidied up, I’d hustle your ass back to that storage pod before the captain thinks you’re less than committed to the job and that it’s not fair Krisk didn’t get a bite. When you get to the pod, try and keep the foot elevated.”
“Sure. Elevated.” Balanced on the edge of the table, Craig took a moment to try and get enough air into his lungs, trying not to remember the sound of Huirre chewing on his toe. “How do I get back to the pod?”
Doc smiled, cracking the dried blood on his cheek. “Walk carefully. Keep your weight on your heel.”
Big Bill had claimed the station’s central old admin area as his own and disabled all but one access.
He wasn’t stupid, Torin reminded herself as they crossed the Hub to the one vertical that would take them up to his level. She needed to remember that.
“Hey, you!” The woman staggering toward her was very drunk. “You’re the bitch who found the plastic aliens.”
Torin kept walking.
The drunk managed to keep up. “Whole thing was a fukking fake. I seen vid shows before, you know. I know when shit is fake.”
Torin ignored her.
“Hey! I’m talk ...” The rest of the sentence devolved into a pained shriek that lingered for a moment, then disappeared into the ambient noise behind them.
“She made a grab for you, Gunny,” Werst explained.
“I didn’t ask.”
They had the vertical to themselves between the Hub and the admin level although they could hear whooping and laughter drifting up from below.
“Didn’t pull out of the dive in time,” Mashona guessed when the whooping ended in a thud and a scream and the laughter grew louder.
“Kids,” Ressk snorted.
“Drunks,” Werst amended.
The section leading into admin had been recently painted a pale blue, the deck treads a darker blue, and the area between the treads and the bulkheads, patterned with polished steel. The hatch at the end of the section was closed, and Torin would bet big it was locked. To the left of the hatch was a sensor pad that clearly hadn’t been part of the station’s original equipment.
Alamber waited on the right.
“That’s weird,” Werst muttered.
“Which?” Mashona asked, moving up behind Torin’s left shoulder. “His hair blending with the bulkheads or the way the black makeup makes his eyes look white?”
“Either. Both.”
The di’Taykan smiled as they approached, gaze locked on Torin’s face. “Saw you get into the vertical. Not all I saw either; saw you down by the ore docks.”
“And?” He wore black, like a Marine, but the similarity ended with the color. His legs were covered in fabric so tight it looked more like paint. He wore at least half a dozen layers of different styles and lengths over his torso, sleeves ending in either fingerless gloves or excessively frayed cuffs. On his feet . . . Torin had no idea why a di’Taykan, a species that topped two meters by default, would wear boots with thick soles and heels that high.
The rings in his lip glinted when he smiled. “Big Bill’s going to want to know what I saw. I won’t tell if you ser vernin ta lambelont .”
Werst snorted. “You double-jointed, Gunny?”
“You could always tell him you’re old enough to be his progenitor,” Mashona snickered.
“When have you ever known a di’Taykan to give a crap about age?” Ressk asked.
Alamber ignored them, shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned back against the bulkhead. “So, what’s it to be, trin? You and me, or me and Big Bill?”