Stretching out a foot, Cho poked the body slumped against the bulkhead. Everyone looked bigger suited up, but Craig Ryder was clearly not small. "Get your suit off," he snapped at Almon. "Then get his suit off and get him secured to the chair before he comes to. Doc, how will we know if Ryder's still functional?"

  "Functional is usually pretty fukking obvious," Doc grunted without looking up, his hands leaving bloody prints all over the ruin of Nadayki's suit.

  Head lolling forward, too heavy for his neck to hold, Craig felt like he had the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. Worse than that time back when him and Kurt and Nicole had grabbed the first bottle they could get their hands on out of Nic's dad's liquor cabinet and gotten stupidly drunk on creme de menthe. Only a drongo could have decided that that particular green poison, of all the many ways the Human species had created to get shitfaced, needed to go with them into space. Took months before Nic had stopped puking at the smell of mint.

  He remembered a card game. Except he never drank to excess when he was playing.

  After?

  He tried to move his arms and legs. Couldn't. How fukking drunk had he gotten that he couldn't…

  Couldn't because there were bands around his arms. He could feel the pressure against his skin. Bands around his ankles, too. Warm liquid pooled on his right thigh, but it was his left thigh that hurt. Blood?

  Hospital?

  No. He was sitting up.

  Station lockup?

  No. Torin wouldn't…

  Torin!

  He saw stars, the attacking ship, his poor wounded lady, debris flying off in every possible direction, Torin caught up in it-the bright orange of her HE suit, visible then obscured by wreckage as he pinwheeled.

  Memory surged back hard enough it slapped against the inside of his skull, causing starbursts of brilliant white against the inside of his lids. The attack. The explosion. The net. Pain…

  They'd hit him with some kind of current.

  Pain radiated out from the burning circle in his left thigh where they'd jabbed the contact point into flesh. The dull pain across his lower back matched up to where his tanks impacted. The ache in his mouth-Craig remembered spasming, teeth closing on his own flesh. Last but not least, a red-hot iron spike had been jabbed into each temple.

  Only not actual spikes since he was apparently still alive.

  He was pretty sure he was breathing.

  He was naked. No surprise, if they'd just peeled him out of his suit.

  Tied to a chair. He couldn't lift his head or open his eyes.

  Torin's suit had been leaking air.

  No way she'd survived a war and been taken out by pirate scum.

  No fukking way.

  But she hadn't been conscious.

  And her suit had been leaking air.

  He recognized the vibrations he could feel through the soles of his feet. The Susumi engines were on-line. The pirates had folded away from the debris field.

  Away from Torin.

  This wasn't the first time he'd been expected to believe Torin had carked it. Last time, the Primacy had taken out most of a battalion, melted Marines and equipment and the ground they were standing on into a sheet of gray-green glass. He hadn't mourned Torin then. He wouldn't now.

  Muscles knotting across his shoulders and upper back, he forced his head up and his eyes open.

  "Finally."

  Craig blinked, closed his mouth around a line of pink drool-the warm liquid on his thigh explained-and looked for the source of the voice. The young male di'Taykan standing by the hatch had pale yellow hair and a nasty expression. As Craig watched, he raised one long-fingered hand to his throat, and turned his masker off.

  "Fuk you." Even to his own ears, it sounded garbled, but Craig figured he got his message across.

  The di'Taykan sneered. "I'll remind you of that in a few minutes when you're begging me for release."

  Dragging his tongue across dry lips, Craig managed a snort. "Are di'Taykan even able to withhold sex?" The plastic cable ties that held his forearms and his lower legs tight to the chair had no give in them. Fukking sentient alien plastic, never around when needed. The chair had been secured to the deck. No matter how he threw his weight-forward, back, side to side-he couldn't budge it.

  When he rocked his hips forward, his ass came off the seat, skin ripping up off the plastic with a disgusting sucking sound. If these were the same pirates who'd tortured Rogelio Page-and he almost wanted them to be if only to keep down the numbers of bugfuk crazy sons of bitches cruising around known space-he had a good idea of what made the seat sticky. Maybe not a good idea…

  The di'Taykan watched him, eyes dark, so he rocked his hips forward again, trying to bring the bastard close enough that he could rip his throat out with his teeth. He'd never considered himself a violent man, but for this lot, he'd make an exception.

  He felt himself beginning to respond to the pheromones. They'd crank him up until he was so sexually frustrated he couldn't think straight and then go after whatever the fuk it was they wanted to know. Had they started that way with Page?

  Tough old bastard had held out, though, forced them to bring out the knives and live wires.

  Had died in this chair.

  This chair.

  This inert plastic chair. Fukking figured. Insult added to injury.

  Craig began to fight the bindings. Held nothing back. Felt his knee pop. Kept fighting. Had no idea when the struggle turned to rut. His skin felt on fire, and if he didn't get some release, soon, he was going to…

  The fist that smashed into his face snapped him back to himself. He'd never had any interest in tying sex to pain. Although, by the third blow, he couldn't remember why.

  Out in the corridor, Cho frowned down at the monitor and the image of Almon beating their prisoner. "This can't go the way the last one did."

  Beside him, Doc shrugged. "Then make him an offer."

  "An offer?"

  "Traditionally, in this way of life, if the captured seaman had needed skills, it was join the crew or die."

  "Join the crew?"

  "Or die."

  "What if he decides to die?"

  Doc sighed. "No one decides to die. Page was a crazy old loner who stood on principle, but his actual death was an accident."

  "You accidentally questioned him to death?" Cho asked dryly.

  "It happens. The point is, it won't happen to this guy if I don't have to question him." Doc repeated the emphasis exactly. "Ryder's ship has been destroyed, his woman is dead, what does he have to return to? Nothing. Offer him life."

  "As a part of the crew? We won't be able to trust him."

  "So? When push comes to shove, we don't trust anyone."

  It was, Cho acknowledged silently, opening the hatch, a valid point.

  "Almon! Back off!"

  The di'Taykan drove his fist into Craig's stomach one last time, then backed away breathing heavily, his arousal evident. Craig's own arousal had been dealt with twice. Vomit descending from half a meter up provided sufficient friction. Who knew? The relief had been temporary; he could still pound nails with his donger.

  "Hose him down, he stinks."

  He turned his face into the splash of water to get the blood out of his eyes and managed to focus on the Human male by the door.

  Shorter than the di'Taykan by about half a meter, he had a cap of glossy black hair, dark eyes, a rivet through his right earlobe, and, behind the glimmer of a filter over his mouth and nose, an expression that suggested Almon's fists had been merely the prologue. Given the condition they'd found Page in, Craig had already figured that out for himself.

  "Now get out."

  Almon bent closer to the other man and said something too quietly for Craig to catch.

  "Do I look like your sheshan? Go to the infirmary and check."

  The di'Taykan shot Craig a look of such loathing on the way out the hatch, Craig wondered how much damage he'd managed to do with his cutter. Damage to someone Almon cared about. That would explain the personal touch.

  He wasted the time while the new guy crossed toward him wondering if this was what a crazy person looked like. Almon sure as shit hadn't been the guy who'd done Page.

  "Craig Ryder. Yes, I know who you are," the new guy said, stopping at the edge of the mess on the deck. "You're probably wondering why you're here. I need your codes."

  Craig spat out a mouthful of blood. "Could've just asked for them, mate."

  "Would you have given them up?"

  "No, but you still could've asked." More than the beating, the red-hot spikes through his temples, left over from whatever the fuk they'd taken him out with were making it hard to think. What the hell had Sirin and Jan locked down? What was big enough for three people to die to protect.

  "I don't like to waste time, Ryder. Which is why I've come to make you an offer." He had to be the captain, Craig realized, no one else would have had the authority to make an offer. "Join my crew."

  "What?"

  "Join my crew, and your codes become part of our…" He looked slightly pained. "… booty. Refuse and you die. There's a lot more salvage operators out there and, while I'd rather not have to put more time into this, frankly, you're not that hard to grab."

  All things considered, Craig had to agree with that. "What do you want my codes for?"

  "That's none of your business."

  "Hey, my codes, my business." The blow took him by surprise. He hadn't thought the captain would be willing to get his hands dirty.

  When Craig managed to focus on the captain's face, he smiled. "You decide to join us and you'll find out what I need the codes for."

  "You couldn't possibly trust me if I joined you."

  The captain's smile twisted. "I have it on good authority that when push comes to shove, we don't trust anyone. You'll be outnumbered, and even if you could get away from the rest of the crew, where are you going to go? We're in deep space. You could make a run for it when we reach a station, I suppose, but should we dock at a station that might offer sanctuary, I suspect I'm smart enough to lock you down for the duration."

  "Being a member of your crew sounds a fuk of a lot like being your prisoner."

  "Beats the alternative. And you have nothing to go back to, remember? Your ship was destroyed, your woman left for dead."

  "Left for dead?" Torin wasn't dead.

  The Captain shrugged. "She was alive when we folded, but her suit had been breached, and vacuum has a way of taking care of these things. Think the offer over," he added turning toward the hatch. "It's open for a limited time."

  Torin wasn't dead!

  Craig heard the hatch slam and looked up to find himself alone in the small room, bruised, bleeding, still hard enough to pound nails, and tied to a chair.

  Torin wasn't dead. She'd been left for dead, but when talking about ex-Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr, that was a long way from being dead. All he had to do was stay alive until she found him.

  Damn, but she was going to be pissed.

  "That went well," Doc said, thoughtfully looking up from the monitor as Cho joined him.

  Cho glanced down at the screen and frowned. "Why is he laughing?" "… unless one of you lot have learned how to breathe vacuum. Private Kerr!"

  Torin jerked awake and onto her feet. Since she'd arrived at Ventris Station, her days had been filled with intense physical and mental training and her nights had held no more than four to five hours of sleep. She wasn't the only one dozing off in quiet moments-or even not so quiet moments. Tom Wiegand had fallen asleep during drill. His body had managed to keep marching in a straight line, but an order to about face had caused a pileup and resulted in an extra 5K run for the entire platoon.

  But Wiegand wasn't the one on the hot seat now.

  She blinked and managed to bring Staff Sergeant Beyhn into focus. His eyes were dark-most of the light receptors open-and his hair-which was honest-to-gods scarlet and not auburn or strawberry blond-jerked back and forth. She'd never met a di'Taykan until she got to the Marine Corps recruiting center on Paradise and was amazed to discover that the stories about them were mostly true. She'd never met a staff sergeant either, and the stories about them were definitely true.

  When he saw he had her attention, Staff Sergeant Beyhn smiled and said, with exaggerated patience, "Perhaps Private Kerr would like to tell the platoon what she would do should she find herself in vacuum in a leaking HE suit."

  Oh, thank gods, this was something she knew. "I'd patch the leak, Staff Sergeant."

  "You'd patch the leak, Private Kerr? That's it?"

  Torin had no idea what he was getting at. "Yes, Staff Sergeant. I'd patch the leak in the suit." Since he seemed to be waiting for more, she added, "Or I'd die."

  "And you don't intend to die, is that it?"

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "No, Staff Sergeant, I do not."

  His eyes darkened further and she wondered how much more there was for him to see. After a long moment he nodded, and said, "Good."

  Wait…

  She frowned. She had a leak in her HE suit?

  Not good.

  Leak in suit…

  As soon as the pressure dropped, the internal patching material would have been released. If the leak was large enough, a further drop in pressure would release the secondary IPM.

  Conscious personnel were instructed not to wait for the release. Conscious personnel needed to preserve more air. Torin's first attempt resulted in an inarticulate croak. No good enough. She wet her lips, swallowed, and tried again.

  "Command! Patch release!"

  Better.

  It was cold. She remembered that from training. Cold and a little slimy.

  "And then what, Private Kerr?"

  Staff Sergeant Beyhn's red eyes were blinking. Off. On. Off. On. Off.

  Torin blinked when the lights stopped and the surrounding stars came slowly into focus. The surrounding stars and quite a bit of moving debris. Calming her breathing, she worked back from what she knew.

  She was in an HE suit. In space. Surrounded by moving debris. There'd been an explosion. Frowning, she opened and closed her right hand. She'd been holding something.

  Craig. She'd been holding Craig. The tethers had been cut.

  She couldn't see him. Not even with the helmet magnification on full.

  "Craig! This is Torin, do you copy?"

  A ship had come out of nowhere, shot out Promise's cabin, cut the tethers, and blown up the clump of wreckage she and Craig had been tagging.

  "Craig! Damn it, answer me!"

  The wreckage had blown as spectacularly as it had because the shot had set off the eight small charges they'd set to free up that piece of Primacy tech.

  "Command! Run diagnostics on communication unit."

  By tucking her head down, she could see Promise's lights flashing in the distance and her own cut tether pointing back the way she'd come. She was moving away from the ship. Diagnostics told her there was nothing wrong with the comm.

  "Craig!"

  No answer.

  No sound at all but her own breathing. Usually, Torin found that comforting.

  She'd been carrying twelve hours of air when they left the ship. They'd been out for ninety minutes when the shooting had started. Her suit said she had four hours and twenty-three minutes left. The leak had not been a hallucination. Or not only a hallucination.

  Four hours and twenty-one minutes before the scrubbers were no longer effective and the oxygen levels dropped below what the suit considered air. She could manage for another ten to fifteen minutes after that as long she didn't need to do anything too complex

  Even more fun, two layers of internal patching hadn't quite stopped the leak.

  "Shit."

  Had she been wearing jets, it wouldn't have mattered; she'd be back to the Promise before she ran out. But she'd been wearing a safety line. Jets and a safety line were redundant.

  Apparently not.

  Had she been in Craig's suit instead of one of the new military tested designs, she'd have been screwed and this was not the time to think about Craig in Craig's ten-year-old suit, unconscious, unable to make repairs. "Command! Foam release."

  The foam-more or less the same material that protected Navy fliers in disabled pods-filled in all the space between Torin and her suit, started warm, got very hot for seven seconds, then semi-solidified, becoming, in essence, a second suit. She could still bend her arms and legs but not without effort. Design flaw-fix a leak, but then make her work harder, breathe harder. To add insult to injury, the foam itself was a brilliant pink. So was the skin under the foam. On the other hand, insulted beat dead. The collar seals bulged up against the bottom of her chin but held.

  Giving thanks that she'd bothered to hook up the plumbing this trip, Torin considered her next option.

  She wasn't moving particularly fast, but she was moving away from the ship. Fortunately, the tagging gun was still strapped to her leg and…

  Her tanks hit first.

  Given the amount of debris around her, moving at differing angles and speeds, it was inevitable she make contact with a piece of it. This felt like a big piece. And, in this instance, make contact was clearly a euphemism for full body impact.

  Her tanks, or tanks like them, had been dropped out of a low orbit and continued to work when the defense contractors dug them out of six meters of dirt. Torin had seen the vid; she wasn't worried about her tanks.

  Instinct said, brace for impact.

  Training said, relax

  Torin had seen Marines thrown about like rag dolls by unexpected explosions, ending up bruised and battered but without major injuries. Rag dolls didn't break.

  The foam pressing against the collar seal held her head in place.

  Her brain, unfortunately, continued moving until it was stopped by the inside of her skull.

  "If the collision is relatively elastic, then object A is going to rebound much like a rubber ball, traveling now back along its original course." Sergeant Roper paused, turned away from the formulas on the screen, swept a weary gaze over the training platoon and said, "Here in the Corps, we call inelastic collisions crashes. Try to avoid them."