Captain Edita Macquarrie walked across the central compound of the First Landing Naval Base. Her thoughts were circling around each other like two fighters playing chase. She was still seething from the meeting she’d attended only an hour before.

“These women are sick,” Eldest Rewa Tamarant of Family Safe Harbor had said in a meeting she’d called. “Their lives are permeated with violence. They deal in death and destruction every day, and their only thought is how to become better at it. This is unhealthy. People who think only of death are sick. Something must be done.”

“They glorify in it,” Eldest Reesa Alexander said from the other side of the table. They were in a meeting room just down the street from Government House. “Disasters such as this...” She consulted her notes. “This Marine who died, Elizabeth Elia. She was sick. Her sib-sisters had died, she was the last one left. She needed help, and yet she was sent into battle again, losing her life in the process. She should never have gone on that mission. She should have been removed from the service and helped instead.”

Sept Eldest Janeen Hardesty nodded. “I fear we have too many like her, tragic cases that we must save from themselves. What are they going to be like in the future? Will they cause massacres? Will they sully our good name because we let them go out again? I agree, something must be done.”

There were six people at that table, and 50 in the audience. Edita was in civilian clothes. The woman tending the door had noted her injuries, blanched, and half-turned away, not inquiring any further. Edita had seated herself in the middle of the crowd. She carefully avoided meeting anyone’s eye, not so much from fear of recognition, but because this would prevent her from trying to dominate the crowd.

For over an hour, the panel, two Eldests and four Sept Eldests, worried about the violence the Marines voluntarily subjected themselves to. Most of their suggestions involved separating anyone they thought had had too much stress from the service. At no time, Edita noted, did they try to define what they meant by ‘too much stress’.

She still felt guilty about Liz, and knew she always would. The whole affair, from start to finish, was crowded with conscious choices. That was the nature of military operations in a time of war. In the end, you made your decisions, others made theirs, and everyone lived or died by the results.

“Tomorrow, in Council,” Eldest Rewa Tamarant said, “I’m going to introduce a division. I want an independent commission to evaluate the Marines, and separate from the service those they deem ill. It’s for their own good.”

Edita kept her hands in her lap as applause rose around her. She wondered if there was a way to take these people into combat, and to make them understand what it was all about. It would not bring Liz Elia back, but perhaps they would understand Liz’s choices during those final minutes of her life.

Idenux Consortium Transfer Station #3

The Commander of the Station keyed his vid and watched the Idenux raider approach. Then he switched channels to look at the Station’s control room. A lone Tech was on duty handling detail work. The Commander watched and listened for a while, then interrupted.

“This is the Commander. Which ship is it?”

Not that he cared who it was, but they might actually have merchandise on board. It had been weeks since he had seen any Idenux dock at his station. He understood it was because there were a lot fewer Idenux ships these days. That seemed to be news to some people. His boss, Sir Livan of the Dreiforse family, had some silly idea about stationing Idenux ships at each station as protection. Sir Livan had not asked the commander what he thought of daily or even hourly dealings with those insufferable Ship Lords. His job, as Sir Livan frequently reminded him in those annoying icy tones of his, was simply to manage the station according to the instructions he was given. Station Commanders were expected to carry out policy, not comment on it.

“They say they are the Golden Buccaneer.” The control room Tech spent several seconds flicking through data sources and then looked up at the vidcam again. “No ship with that name has visited this station before, but the name is on the register of ships Sir Livan sold to the barbarians. I can’t find any mention of this ship in any of our records for well over two years.”

“Damned barbarians don’t know how to keep accurate records.” The Commander scowled. “Half of them keep no records at all. It’s a miracle they can find their way from one star to the next.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair before carefully patting it back into place. “They were probably out raiding or running from a bunch of silly women, and never got around to checking in with us. Are their clearances accurate?” There was a slim chance they were not who they said they were. He was supposed to be cautious. The Bitches were known to have captured a few of the barbarian’s ships.

“Yes, sir. They’re using the most current recognition code.”

That was a relief. Those codes were changed once a month, and there was no way the Bitches could have them. “All right. Have somebody intelligent escort the Ship Lord up to my office after he docks. For God’s sake, make sure nobody calls him Captain, either. Our insurance premiums are high enough without factoring in another damn brawl.”

The Station had not seen much trade lately. Sir Livan was after him to explain why there was little or no merchandise these days. Well, he had some from a ship that had docked only a few days before; maybe that would help get Sir Livan off his case. Maybe this Ship Lord had some answers for them. Better yet, maybe he had some merchandise for them.

The Commander opened a panel in the wall of his office and removed the trim coat that completed his dress uniform. He put it on and inspected himself carefully in the mirror built into the panel. It was important to set the right tone with these barbarians. Sir Livan was always cold and frosty with them. Experience had taught the Commander that a clever negotiator had more success treating them as the heroes they so obviously thought themselves.

“As if a pack of thieving barbarians could ever amount to that much.” He flicked a bit of lint off his shoulder and closed the wall panel. His uniform would be elegant, but there was no doubt the Ship Lord would appear in one twice as flamboyant. Those bastards looked like something one expected to see in a vid drama, all braid and gold and plumes and the like. Understated elegance was the key to this meeting. Wear only a hint of decoration but dress in finer cloth. It was best not to upstage some lout of a barbarian who commanded a ship that carried modern weapons. Even more important was the possibility this might be a successful raider. He might have information to trade. He might even have merchandise.

The Golden Buccaneer made directly for the cargo transfer locks. The crew on the station secured the docking interface and began equalizing pressures with the ship’s main cargo lock while a rating ran a Personnel Tube over to the secondary crew lock. The Tech guiding it studied what he could see of Golden Buccaneer’s hull from the remote cameras at the connection end of his tube. There were dents, laser-welded tears, and patched holes from combat damage all around the crew lock. It looked like somebody had put up a fight. That was no skin off his chin, but sometimes damage like that meant the raider had cargo to sell. That would earn bonuses for everyone. The Tech hoped he was guessing right. He could use a few extra Imperial Stellars.

The end of the tube locked solidly and loudly into place, then clamped itself to the fittings around Golden Buccaneer’s crew lock. The Tech equalized atmospheric pressure, popped the seals, and cycled his side of the lock. He would be the first to board the ship.

It was his job to secure the computer logs with the all-important information about Golden Buccaneer’s maintenance status and navigation records, and take them back to Central Computing. His bosses wanted to see what this ship had been up to and where it had been. Maintenance Techs wanted to know what they had to repair first, what tools to bring, and what replacement parts were needed. He whistled cheerfully to himself as he drifted quickly through the tube. If this raider had been at all successful, Janket would soon host another of his infamous all-night card games. The last one had been quite profitable.

He anchored himself firmly on a safety grip and inserted his magkey into the reader slot. When the telltale lit green, he smiled. With all the damage he had seen, there had been a good chance he might have had to repair the mechanism before entering. Golden Buccaneer’s lock cycled open, and he stepped aboard, easily taking in stride the shift from microgravity to nearly full gravity. He walked briskly through the interlock, ignoring the crew around him, and stepped through the open inner lock onto the ship’s deck.

An impossibly strong hand grabbed his collar and slammed him backwards to the deck. Stunned, he could only lie wheezing in agony on his aching back as a woman in green pressed a pistol squarely against his forehead.

“Don’t make me splatter your brains all over the deck.” She spoke softly, smiling down at him. “I’d hate for somebody to slip and fall on the mess it would leave.” Behind her, he saw half a dozen women in green run past and dive, one after the other, down the Tube, weapons in their hands.

On the Bridge of the Golden Buccaneer, Marine 2nd Officer Marci daCruz split her attention between the indicators on her console and the vid showing the opening of the main cargo lock. When it had opened enough for her assault teams to move, she pressed the Comm button. “All teams--Go!”

Station workers bringing litters to pick up captured merchandise from the raiders were stunned to see three squads of Families Marines in powered armor explode out of the lock. One guard, present only to reinforce the authority of the Station commander, automatically reached for his pistol. That was his last mistake. One of the Marines hurtling past backhanded him with her armored fist. Everyone in the lock heard the crunching sound of his face caving in, followed immediately by the dull wet noise the back of his skull made when it hit the bulkhead. His lifeless body slid limply to the deck. The cargo handlers stared, frozen.

The Marines in powered armor were gone before the guard’s pistol clattered to the deck. They had split up, a squad racing down each passageway leading out of the lock. As the workers gaped at the bloody pulp of the guard’s face, a tough-looking woman in green with a power gun holstered at her hip ambled casually out of Golden Buccaneer’s cargo handling space. Two more Marines with power rifles appeared behind her.

“I’d appreciate it if you would all come this way,” she told the workers in Standard. She gestured with a thumb back towards the ship. “If you don’t, you might get hurt in the fighting.”

They had just seen heavily armed Families Marines run into the passageways, and they could all hear the vicious buzz-snap of energy weapons echoing down those same passageways. No imagination was required to understand what was happening in the station’s interior. They looked at each other hesitantly, then turned and obeyed the woman in green. They were only workers, after all. Obedience was their primary function. It was all one to them what happened inside the Station so long as there was food at the appointed time and someplace to lie down for a few hours of rest before the next work period. A few of the less-conditioned workers wondered hopefully if there would actually be another work period. Somehow, it seemed likely there would be no more orders from the Station commander or any of his lieutenants. Perhaps the new owners would not be so harsh.

The tough woman in green led them through Golden Buccaneer to a big compartment empty except for a table, a woman in white, and many mattresses arranged evenly on the deck. The woman in green assigned them each to a mattress. The woman in white gave each worker a pill and stuck a patch on all workers’ necks. “Sit,” she said.

One by one, the workers sat, and as they sat, the antidote to their conditioning began to work its way into their bloodstreams. Drug-induced sleep claimed them all as their memories began to return.

Fifty-one seconds. Liz Elia sprinted down the passageway, power gun in hand, eyes picking out references and markings that were as familiar as her Family’s residence on Home. She had studied the layout of this Station until she could draw it from memory. She didn’t know how Intelligence had acquired a copy of the plans. That was a question she would not ask, and they would certainly not tell her even if she did. The drawings she had seen were too complete and looked too official to have been sweated out of somebody. They had probably been stolen. This mission was too sensitive for somebody to actually purchase that sort of information. The seller might sell them out, too.

Forty-two seconds. She slowed momentarily, approaching an intersection. Her soft-soled shoes made hardly any sound. Looking both ways as she whipped around the corner, she glimpsed two figures walking away from her in the direction opposite where she was going. They looked like Techs. She ignored them and accelerated towards the next intersection.

Thirty-seven seconds. Her mission was simple. She knew where the captives were held on this station. Her job, and the job of her team, was to rescue those people. She and the girls with her were to neutralize the guards, set up defenses around the captives, and protect them until it was safe to evacuate them.

Thirty-five seconds. Even if nothing else went right taking this Station, those captives would be rescued. That was the mission. Liz Elia, the killer her friends locked up every night, would complete this mission. Liz Elia, who everyone knew would explode some day, was the only one who could complete this mission. Liz Elia would make certain every one of the stolen kin on this perversion of a Station was rescued alive and returned to her Family. No other outcome was permitted.

Twenty-nine seconds. Someone with no imagination whatsoever had painted all of the passageways an ugly shade of almost white. Compared to the riot of color splashed on every passageway and bulkhead in a Families ship, this was dull and boring stuff. She barely noticed. Signs painted on the walls, floors, and ceilings of the passageway guided her. She hardly needed them, but checked anyway. Every confirmation that she was on the correct path strengthened her, helped to speed her toward the ones she must reach in time, this time. She had memorized and learned to read Imperial Script, spending hours practicing it until she could read these signs at a glance. Now it was all paying off as she ran down the corridors.