"Don't," Cho told her, his own slate ready.

"Yes, sir, Cap. Because my stomach always does what you tell it."

It was a good prize, Cho acknowledged as he guided the remote camera around and through what were clearly parts retrieved from a single destroyed battle cruiser. Looked like they'd scored some of the Marine package, too, he realized as the eye picked out the crest of the Corps on a…

"Holy fukking shit."

"Cap?"

He fed her slate the coordinates without speaking.

"Holy fukking shit," she agreed a moment later. "Now that's worth puking over."

They'd scored a Marine armory. An undamaged Marine Corps armory. A small fortune in weapons if he decided to sell them. A way to change the future if he didn't.

The seals were solid and…

… had been oversealed by one of the dead CSOs.

If he wanted to get the armory open without blowing it and everything around it to hell and gone, he needed another CSO. Alive this time. "Promise, you are cleared at vector twenty-four point seven for two hundred kilometers. Returning computer control in three, two, one."

"Return acknowledged, Paradise Station." Craig ran both hands along the edge of his board, the movement not quite a caress. While he understood why the station controlled all approaches and departures-the unforgiving nature of vacuum made accidents usually fatal and always expensive-it wasn't required that he actually like being forced to sit as a passenger in his own ship. So he didn't. But he sure as hell liked getting his lady back.

"All right, you said you'd tell me when we were in space." His poor old pilot's chair dipped as Torin settled enough weight to make a point across the top. "We're in space. Spill."

Torin hadn't been happy about being kept in the dark, but she hadn't done anything about it either, and Craig knew that represented a huge leap in trust for them. Torin didn't like not knowing things.