"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."

  "I can get an entire platoon moving in the same direction while under artillery fire, I expect I can handle a four year old." When his smile softened, she shook her head and sighed. "Don't get broody on me."

  Jeremy seemed like a solid kid, but when she settled him on her hip, he weighed less than she expected and he was small enough not to affect her ability to maneuver through the crowd to the food. The mushroom caps he wanted were about four centimeters across and filled with yeast paste wrapped around something chewy. It wasn't unpleasant tasting and, over the years, Torin had learned that within species parameters it was usually safer not to ask for specifics.

  Both hands holding his food, trusting Torin to hold him, Jeremy chewed and stared at the bodies. Torin had no idea if children were usually exposed to bodies this young. Her idea of young started at around nineteen for Humans.

  "Dead means not coming back."

  Jeremy wasn't asking, but Torin answered him anyway. "Yes, it does."

  "Where did they go?" he wondered.

  Torin chewed and thought about it for a moment. Each of the Younger Races seemed to have at least half a dozen belief systems dealing primarily with death. Even the Elder Races held a few although for the most part they were wise enough to keep them to themselves. Torin believed in keeping people alive. "I honestly don't know," she said at last.

  Jeremy made a noncommittal noise and went to wipe his hand on her tunic. Unable to spot anything set out for that purpose, Torin redirected him to his own clothing.

  "I know you."

  The speaker was Human, male, close to 200 centimeters tall, compensating for the lack of hair on his head with the ugliest ginger mustache Torin had ever seen.

  "I know you," he said again. "You're that Marine who says plastic aliens are the enemy, not those murdering, fukking Others. It wasn't fukking plastic aliens who killed my sister, now was it?"

  Most of the people packed in around them had abandoned personal conversations and were waiting, with him, for Torin to answer.

  "Where did your sister die?" she asked.

  He blinked pale eyes. "What?"

  Torin repeated the question. "Where did your sister die?"

  "On Barnin Four. Those bastards wiped out the whole colony."

  "Then she was likely killed by the low orbit bombardment." The colony had been small, agrarian, with no offensive capabilities. There'd been no reason for the Primacy to attack as the entire Barnin system had been well within the Confederation's borders, but since discovering the war had been designed as a laboratory to study the species involved, Torin had come to realize that many decisions on both sides had been less than rational all along. "There's no way of knowing what species was directly responsible."

  He folded his arms. "Well, it wasn't fukking plastic aliens, I know that."

  "How?"

  "What?"

  "How do you know it wasn't the plastic aliens?"

  Ginger brows drew in to nearly touch over his nose. "Fuk you!"

  He aimed a shove at her unoccupied shoulder and, without moving her feet, she twisted just far enough around for it to miss.

  Reaching out, Jeremy wiped greasy fingers on the sleeve of his jacket.

  When he snarled and tried a second shove, Torin caught his hand, folded his thumb back, and dropped him to his knees. Face screwed up in pain, he shifted his weight back, the fingers of his free hand curling into a fist. Torin locked her eyes on his and growled, "Don't." Against all odds, he turned out to be smart enough to listen. "You want to take out your grief on me," she told him quietly, "I'm willing to beat the shit out of you any time I'm not holding a four year old. Jeremy, are you related to this man?"

  Jeremy took a long look. "No."

  "Then you don't get to wipe your hands on him. Apologize."

  "But…" When Torin raised a brow, he sighed dramatically and leaned forward far enough to peer down at the kneeling man. "Sorry I wiped my hands on you, okay?"

  Torin waited a moment then applied a little more pressure to the man's thumb until he choked out a reasonably sincere, "Okay."

  "The plastic aliens started the war that killed your sister," she said, releasing him. Plastic alien was simplistic, but it was a lot easier to say than polynumerous molecular species or polyhydroxide hive mind. "Don't forget that because they'll be back."

  Then she turned to get Jeremy another mushroom, keeping most of her attention on the man rising to his feet. Muttering under his breath, he pushed his way through the crowd who, in spite of having been avidly watching the confrontation, were all maintaining a strict none of my business air about them. She wondered what would have happened had there actually been a fight. Would the crowd's individuality at all costs have held or would it have turned into a mob as she became an outsider beating one of their own?

  How close to death would Ginger Mustache have to be to bring the salvage operators together?

  Or did only the dead get parties?

  Spotting Jenn over by a group of Krai who were probably complaining about the waste of food-they ate their dead, and saw no real reason why they couldn't eat everyone's even if the articles drawn up when they joined the Confederaton expressly forbid it-Torin caught her eye and nodded toward Jeremy, silently asking if she wanted him back.

  When it appeared she didn't, Torin allowed the child to drag her over toward the stage where a band named Toyboat-two Humans, a di'Taykan and a Niln on the beatbox-were doing a power chord cover of H'san opera. She could honestly say she'd never heard a better version of O'gra Morf Dennab. And she'd definitely had worse dancing partners.

  By 2100, most of the kids had gone and the serious drinking had started. Craig knew of three stills which meant there had to be at least half a dozen more on the station he didn't know about, all supplying alcohol for the funeral-and that wasn't even counting perfectly innocent food and drink that got a lot less innocent when it crossed species lines. Personally, Craig was sticking with the fernim made by the Katrien collective; sweet and dark, about 80 proof and the best fukking thing ever to put in coffee. If there was anything resembling justice left in the universe, he'd be taking a bottle or two away with him. The Katrien collective hadn't been part of the station last time he'd been by. For the sake of the fernim alone, he hoped like hell they stayed.

  From where Craig was sitting, he could see Torin deep in discussion with a couple of di'Taykan. Kiku had served one contract in the Corps as a comm tech and Meryn had been Navy, so the odds were high they were rehashing old battles. Or at least the di'Taykan were. It wasn't something he'd ever heard Torin do. He supposed, as career Corps, she'd seen enough battles the novelty had worn off. If the di'Taykan were trying to impress her, well, they didn't stand a hope in hell. Any hell. Pick one.

  If he were a betting man-and he was-he'd bet the conversation had started with a proposition, even given that Torin had been named a progenitor and every Taykan in the Confederation seemed to know it. Still, it wasn't like she was planning to start a Taykan family line. Or, given the differences in biology, a Human line on Taykan. Or that anything much kept a di'Taykan from suggesting sex. They'd never discussed where they stood with the di'Taykan, Torin and him. Although it was pretty much a consistent belief across known space that sex with a di'Taykan didn't count, he found he was pleased Torin hadn't gone with them. If that made him unevolved-he took another swallow of coffee and fernim-he didn't fukking care.

  "So pendejo…" Pedro dropped down on one side of him, Alia on the other. "… you are serious about this woman, yes?"

  Craig toasted Pedro with his mug. "Would I have exposed her to your ugly ass self if I wasn't?"

  "You might have been trying to scare her off," Alia said thoughtfully, crossing her legs at the ankles. At some point during the evening, she'd had the H'san symbol for life hennaed onto the tops of both bare feet. "Tossing her into the deep end. Seeing if she'll swim."

  "She swims fine. Threw me in a freezing, fukking lake on Paradise."

  Alia snickered. "You suck at metaphor when you're drinking."

  Craig toasted her, too.

  And nearly coughed the mouthful back up when Pedro jabbed a bony elbow into his side. "Your woman, she's used to ordering a lot of people around. You sure you going to be enough for her?"

  Yeah, it wasn't like he hadn't wondered about that. He shrugged. "She chose to come with me."

  "Never doubted it."

  "Never thought for a minute you could make that one do anything she didn't want to," Alia snorted.

  "'S truth." Craig nodded. "Or she didn't feel she had to."

  He could hear the frown in Alia's voice although he kept his attention on the last swallow of his coffee. "Isn't that the same thing?"

  Pedro leaned across him, reaching for her mug. "How much of that have you had?"

  "Not enough." She easily evaded his grab and got to her feet, graceful in spite of the swaying. Or maybe swaying gracefully, Craig wasn't entirely sure. "You two behave," she added as she left.

  "I love that woman.?Te amo, mujer!" Pedro shouted at her back.

  Alia flipped him off without turning.

  "She loves me, too."

  "She married your ugly ass, she must."

  "So are you and…"

  "Don't know. We haven't talked about it."

  "She took you home to meet her family."

  Craig shrugged, unwilling to read any more into that than there'd been. "I'd already met her father. Back when she was dead." Fukking mug was empty. He pulled Pedro's from lax fingers and swallowed a mouthful of… "What the fuk is this?" he gasped, eyes welling up.

  "Something Kevin's been fermenting in the greenhouse." Pedro took his mug back and drank. "Good degreaser, too."

  He could almost feel his tongue again. "No doubt."

  "So, how long you planning to stay this…"

  A howl from over by the empty stage cut him off as Newton Winkler ripped off his overalls, screaming obscenities. Looked like he'd gotten a couple of new tats since Craig had seen him last.

  "Fukking Winkler's been into the sah again," Pedro sighed, hauling himself slowly to his feet.

  Craig stood with him. For the Krai, sah had an effect about equal to a cup of coffee. To Humans, the mild stimulant caused-as well as a host of nasty physical reactions-delusions, paranoia, and an inability to feel pain. Craig had learned the hard way that last bit was the kicker. Hopped up on sah, the restraints self-interest put on violence were gone, and Winkler would keep fighting long after the damage he'd taken should have forced him to quit.