Civilian salvage operators self-identified as individuals, accepted only the minimal government authority necessary for them to operate. Their obsessive need to be unique was what gave them their group identity, and the single word that would pull her Marines together would scatter this lot like a fragmentation round.

These new people she could identity because of their desire not to be part of a whole.

It was… different.

She heard her name, Silsviss, Big Yellow, Crucible, the di'Taykan phrase that meant progenitor, and the familiar sound of speculation.

Same old, same old.

As "individuals," they were clearly not averse to gossip. Pedro and his family lived in an old cargo ship built into the structure of the station. Torin followed Craig into the cargo bay and stared around at the piles of… salvage, she assumed, although junk would be as accurate. Seconds after they'd stepped through the hatch, half a dozen kids-ranging in age from early teens to just past toddler-threw themselves at Craig. As he didn't seem to be in any danger, Torin turned her attention to the three adults descending the metal stairs from the living quarters on the upper levels.

"Torin, these are my wives Alia and Jenn and my husband Kevin. The horde is ours collectively. There's an air lock there," Pedro continued, nodding at the control panel Torin had already noticed on the far side of the bay, "and another one off the kitchen. We've got a ship a little bigger than the Promise locked in up there and another about twice as large down here. If the klaxon goes, don't worry about which one you end up in. Closest adult grabs the kids, singly or collectively, then sings out so everyone knows where they are. We'll shuffle around once we're clear."

It was the first time Torin had ever been given emergency evacuation protocols mixed in with introductions, but what the hell.

"So you're the one sucking back half of Craig's precious oxygen," Alia extended a hand. "Never thought I'd see the day."

She was missing the top joint of her second finger. It looked like an old injury, long since healed. Torin had never known anyone-and she'd seen a lot of injuries-who'd refused the medical advances the Confederation offered.

Alia noticed Torin staring. "No regen tanks here," she explained, "and I just couldn't be arsed to get to a government station. By the time I had time, didn't see any point in regrowing something I didn't miss."

"I see." It was the tone Torin'd used on officers when they were being enthusiastic about something particularly stupid. Polite interest; no noticeable approval.

Jenn and Kevin were huggers. They were both packing serviceable muscle.

"I was going to be a Marine." The child tugging at her jacket was somewhere between five and ten, gender indeterminate, with Pedro's rich, dark skin and Jenn's green eyes. "But Da says the war is over. Are you going to have to stop killing people now?"

Torin thought about it long enough Craig turned from his conversation with Kevin and asked the question again, silently.

"As things stand right now," she said at last. On the way up the stairs, she dragged two fingers along the gray plastic handrail.

Later, after an amazing meal, where everyone present provided her with enough potential blackmail material to even out the stories her family had told to Craig, Pedro sat down beside her on the sofa and said, "He really loves you."

"Is this the if you hurt him, I'll do you speech?" Torin wondered, watching Craig racing with Helena, the fourteen year old, on the room's bigger vid screen. He was working his slate one-handed and using the other to poke Helena and make her fall off her hoverboard into the snow. Helena knew some words Torin hadn't learned until she got to the Corps.

Pedro snorted. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"Noted." "He's still not talking, Cap."

Cho's fingers curled into fists, and he carefully uncurled them. "Have you tried convincing him?"

"I have. I even sent the di'Taykan in without their maskers." Nat snickered. "Thought maybe all that sexual frustration might loosen his lips."

The di'Taykan exuded pheromones that crossed species boundaries-and if there was a species outside the Methane Alliance that was immune, Cho'd never heard of them. Without the maskers they wore, arousal levels were at best irritating and at worst painful. "And?"

"Well, he started talking all right. Old bugger was downright inventive. Almon got pretty pissed when I hauled their multicolored asses out of there before they could follow through." She dug her fingernails in through the short bristles of her hair and brought them away bloody after a vigorous scratch. "Oh, fuk it. I knew that damned cream of Doc's wouldn't work."

Cho stared down at the image of the armory on his slate. Rogelio Page had been working the same scattered debris field for years. A crazy old loner, even by CSO standards, he'd never salvaged anything Cho would consider worth taking from him, but he was easy to find and easy to grapple right off the side of his pen. Almon had deftly set the hooks in the old man's HE suit and reeled him in, kicking and swearing the whole way. Checking the meager contents of Page's pen while Nat took care of getting his codes, Cho had no idea how the old man managed to find enough salable salvage to stay alive, but he supposed if staying alive was all a man cared about, it didn't take much.

Cho wanted more. A lot more. To begin with, he wanted that fukking armory open.

"Let Doc talk to him."

Nat paused in mid scratch. "You serious, Cap? Page is a stubborn old bastard, and Doc's not exactly subtle."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. "I want those codes."

Nat recognized the tone. "Aye, Cap."

"Tell Doc, I'm going in with him."

The old man grinned as Cho led Doc into the room. His teeth were bloody, bruises were rising on pale, loose skin, and he was still half erect in spite of the air scrubbers. "So you're the fly in charge of this shit pile." He spat, the mouthful of bloody saliva spattering over the toe of Cho's left boot. "Looks like we can finally get this show on the road."

Cho raised a hand, holding Doc in place. "Give me your codes and I'll put you back on your ship."

To his surprise, Page laughed. The laughter turned into coughing. "Liar," Page gasped, and spat again. "Only one reason scum like you wants government codes. You got something big-something big enough to compensate for the size of your dick and that's one fuk of a lot of compensating, so I'm thinking weapons. One really big one or lots of little ones, don't matter. You're not getting my fukking codes."

"Give me your codes," Cho told him, barely managing to keep his voice level, "and I'll kill you quickly."

"The fuk you will," Page snorted. "You'll have your trained ape kill me quick." He narrowed the eye that still worked, looked past Cho, and locked his gaze on Doc's face. "I've seen your type before, boy. You wanted Recon or Ranger, but you were too crazy even for those crazy fukkers."

Doc showed no reaction to Page's accusation. Less than no reaction.

"No one tried to convince you too hard to stay, after your first contract ran out, did they, boy? No, it was, 'so long, Private, have a nice life. Hell, have a shitty life, just have it away from us.' " Taking a deep breath, Page straightened as much as age and the earlier beatings allowed. "Sergeant Rogelio Page, 3rd Division, 1st Re'carta, 4th Battalion, Serra Company, Confederation Marine Corps. Do your worst."

Dropping his hand, Cho stepped to one side. "You heard the man."

He was, he admitted nearly an hour later, impressed with how long Doc had kept Page alive and more or less coherent. Sure there'd been screaming and moaning, but there'd been actual words as well. The ending, however, came as no surprise.