path like a Marine.”
“Do they, sir?”
“Oh, yeah. Beats it into submission and plants a flag on it.”
“They don’t say that around me,” Torin told him after a moment’s consideration.
He nodded. “I can understand that.
Are
you lost?”
“No, sir.” When he indicated a need for more detail, she added, “I’m on my way to shuttle bay six to speak with Craig Ryder.”
“You want some advice? Don’t play poker with him.”
“Hadn’t intended to, sir.”
“Hey, Sibley!”
Torin and the pilot both turned toward the voice. The di’Taykan who’d emerged from the link at the same time was waiting down the corridor by an open hatch, citron hair a corona around his head. “You coming?”
“Not yet, still not even breathing hard.”
Too much information
, Torin decided. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m holding up the whole system here.” She stepped onto the link at the lieutenant commander’s good-natured wave. He must have said something she didn’t catch because as the door closed she heard the di’Taykan officer say, “No, we’re going to my quarters because your quarters are such a disaster I can’t find my
kayti
!”
Way too much information…
* * *
Craig Ryder’s ship, the
Promise
, nearly filled shuttle bay four. Torin found it hard to believe he’d managed to dock it cleanly, but both the hull and the edges of the
Berganitan
that she could see appeared to be free of scrapes. Whatever else Ryder was, he was one hell of a pilot.
Without the cargo pods extended, the
Promise
looked like a Navy ship to ship shuttle crouched under a stack of cross-slatted panels. Considering the dimensions of the most basic Susumi drive, Torin understood why CSOs tended to work alone—two people would have to be very friendly to share the remaining space.
The hatch was open, and the ramp was down.
Curiosity may have made her approach quieter than necessary, the only sound as she made her way up the ramp the soft and ever present hum of Susumi space stroking the
Berganitan
’s outer hull.
May have.
The interior of the salvage ship was smaller than she’d imagined. To her left were the flight controls and the pilot’s seat. Directly across from the hatch, a half-circle table butted up to a wall bench. To her right, across the blunt end of the oval, a bunk and a narrow opening leading to—she leaned through the tiny air lock—the toilet facilities. It looked as though taking a shower involved closing the door and the toilet seat and standing in the middle of the tiny room.
Bits of paper and plastic had been stuck to the bulkhead over the bunk and a single white sock lay crumpled on the deck. A blue plastic plate, cup, and fork had been left on the table next to a small, inset screen. The pilot’s chair looked as though it had been built up out of spare parts and duct tape—clearly tailored to fit only the dimensions of the builder.
Approximately five meters from the edge of the control panel to the bunk and three, maybe three and a half meters, from side to side, Craig Ryder’s entire world was smaller than the smallest Marine Corps APC.
How could anyone live like that?
She found her gaze drawn back to the sock.
Or more specifically, what kind of person would choose to?
“I don’t recall inviting you on board, Staff Sergeant Kerr.”
Torin glanced down at her boots before turning. “I’m not on board, Mr. Ryder.”
“You’re on my ramp.”
“Granted. I apologize for intruding.” Half a dozen long strides brought her back to the shuttle bay’s deck and almost nose to nose with Craig Ryder, close enough to smell sweat and machine oil about equally mixed. Bare arms folded, a wrench held loosely in one hand, he clearly wasn’t moving, so she took a single step away. Common sense suggested keeping a careful distance—if it came to it, she needed enough room to swing. “The hatch was down, and the door was open.”
“I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Unfolding one arm,
“Do they, sir?”
“Oh, yeah. Beats it into submission and plants a flag on it.”
“They don’t say that around me,” Torin told him after a moment’s consideration.
He nodded. “I can understand that.
Are
you lost?”
“No, sir.” When he indicated a need for more detail, she added, “I’m on my way to shuttle bay six to speak with Craig Ryder.”
“You want some advice? Don’t play poker with him.”
“Hadn’t intended to, sir.”
“Hey, Sibley!”
Torin and the pilot both turned toward the voice. The di’Taykan who’d emerged from the link at the same time was waiting down the corridor by an open hatch, citron hair a corona around his head. “You coming?”
“Not yet, still not even breathing hard.”
Too much information
, Torin decided. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m holding up the whole system here.” She stepped onto the link at the lieutenant commander’s good-natured wave. He must have said something she didn’t catch because as the door closed she heard the di’Taykan officer say, “No, we’re going to my quarters because your quarters are such a disaster I can’t find my
kayti
!”
Way too much information…
* * *
Craig Ryder’s ship, the
Promise
, nearly filled shuttle bay four. Torin found it hard to believe he’d managed to dock it cleanly, but both the hull and the edges of the
Berganitan
that she could see appeared to be free of scrapes. Whatever else Ryder was, he was one hell of a pilot.
Without the cargo pods extended, the
Promise
looked like a Navy ship to ship shuttle crouched under a stack of cross-slatted panels. Considering the dimensions of the most basic Susumi drive, Torin understood why CSOs tended to work alone—two people would have to be very friendly to share the remaining space.
The hatch was open, and the ramp was down.
Curiosity may have made her approach quieter than necessary, the only sound as she made her way up the ramp the soft and ever present hum of Susumi space stroking the
Berganitan
’s outer hull.
May have.
The interior of the salvage ship was smaller than she’d imagined. To her left were the flight controls and the pilot’s seat. Directly across from the hatch, a half-circle table butted up to a wall bench. To her right, across the blunt end of the oval, a bunk and a narrow opening leading to—she leaned through the tiny air lock—the toilet facilities. It looked as though taking a shower involved closing the door and the toilet seat and standing in the middle of the tiny room.
Bits of paper and plastic had been stuck to the bulkhead over the bunk and a single white sock lay crumpled on the deck. A blue plastic plate, cup, and fork had been left on the table next to a small, inset screen. The pilot’s chair looked as though it had been built up out of spare parts and duct tape—clearly tailored to fit only the dimensions of the builder.
Approximately five meters from the edge of the control panel to the bunk and three, maybe three and a half meters, from side to side, Craig Ryder’s entire world was smaller than the smallest Marine Corps APC.
How could anyone live like that?
She found her gaze drawn back to the sock.
Or more specifically, what kind of person would choose to?
“I don’t recall inviting you on board, Staff Sergeant Kerr.”
Torin glanced down at her boots before turning. “I’m not on board, Mr. Ryder.”
“You’re on my ramp.”
“Granted. I apologize for intruding.” Half a dozen long strides brought her back to the shuttle bay’s deck and almost nose to nose with Craig Ryder, close enough to smell sweat and machine oil about equally mixed. Bare arms folded, a wrench held loosely in one hand, he clearly wasn’t moving, so she took a single step away. Common sense suggested keeping a careful distance—if it came to it, she needed enough room to swing. “The hatch was down, and the door was open.”
“I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Unfolding one arm,
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