"Salvage station."

She stopped moving. Craig made an inarticulate protest.

"They actually exist?"

"Seventy-two-hour fold and we'll rock up. You can see for yourself."

"And they're safe?"

He laughed at that. The myths about salvage stations usually included the word deathtrap in the description. "For fuksake, Torin, you were a Marine!"

"And contrary to popular opinion, gunnery sergeants can't breathe vacuum."

"Trust me, if there's one thing a salvage operator understands, given how much time we spend suited up, it's not breathing vacuum. Now then," reaching up, he cupped the back of her head and pulled her mouth down to his, "you could keep working on that twenty-sixth way to kill a man. Seems I'm not dead yet."

"It does not look cobbled together," Craig muttered. "It looks…"

Torin waited while Craig frowned out at the station they were approaching, obviously searching for the right response to her initial reaction. Which had been, all things considered, relatively mild.

"All right, fine," he surrendered, "you win. It looks cobbled together. But give it a fair go. People are raising families in there."

"Families?" Torin leaned forward and took another look at the tangled mass of habitats referred to as Salvage Station 24. "In that?" It was hard to pick out details given the glare off the hectares of deployed solar sails, but she was certain she could see one of the H'san's ceramic pods cozied up next to a piece of a decommissioned Navy cruiser, as well as half a dozen Marine packages. Tucked up against it, in no discernible pattern, she could see a dozen ships the Promise's size or a very little larger. Apparently, salvage operators didn't believe in docking arms on their stations.