"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.