The Drowned Cities (Ship Breaker #2)(29)

He lay back, trying to make himself comfortable, knowing the pain in his ribs was too much to let him sleep. He wished there were more of those pink pills the doctor girl had given him, but he was damned if he was going to look like he was begging to get out of a little hurt.

The fire burned lower and the liquor bottle went around again. Or was it a new bottle? Van had rousted more than one off the people in the town. He was good at that—finding the secret stashes.

Soa was complaining again. “What’s that stink?” he asked. “Did Slim fart, or what?”

Ocho sniffed. Soa was right. There was a strange nauseous reek of blood and musk in the air. Ocho sniffed again, puzzled. It seemed to be coming off the bodies lying right beside him.

Was the smell something that the half-man had done? He’d never heard of a smell associated with half-men. Just that they were fast and strong and hard to kill. Whatever this was, it was nasty.

Ocho looked away from his dead troops, feeling ill at the losses. Jones and Bugball and Allende. Dead and stinking.

Of all the ways Ocho had expected to die, being torn apart by a dog-face had never been one of them. Bullet in the head, sure. Hands chopped off and him thrown into a canal to bleed out, maybe. Blown to pieces by some leftover land mine from when Tulane Company had occupied all their territory, for sure. He’d come to terms with all those options, long ago.

Instead, he’d taken one impossibly fast and bloody swipe from a half-man and gone flying into a tree. No wonder the swanks who owned the scrap ships always used half-men. The bastards were deadly.

Ocho ran an idle hand over his bandages and stitches. Lucky they’d run across the doctor and his castoff. Those two had done a better job than any of the butchers in the Drowned Cities. The so-called doctors there barely knew how to tie a tourniquet.

He fingered the stitching. Tidy, perfectly even loops pulling torn flesh back together. Ocho’s eyes went to the doctor girl, now busily washing pots under Stork’s supervision. She’d been the one. The doc knew what to do, but she’d done the doing. Skills like that were good to have in a platoon, even if she was a castoff.

Ocho watched her as she moved around the area, doing her chores. Despite her missing hand, she did pretty good. Not hard to look at, either. Strong cheekbones and dark brown skin and those peacekeeper eyes. As far as Ocho was concerned, she could have had her face burned off with acid and he would still have been interested in her. Not many people stitched skin as good as a machine stitched cloth.

Ocho made a mental note to recommend her to the lieutenant. Maybe burn her in. He’d have to keep Soa off her, though. Soa had some kind of special beef with the peacekeepers. Keeping him off the girl would be full-time hassle.

Even now, Soa was waving at the girl.

“C’mere, castoff. Polish my boots.” Soa was grinning and holding them up. “Spit-shine, girl. Get to work. Kiss my boots.”

Ocho watched, but didn’t interfere, curious to see how far Soa would push his authority. The soldier just didn’t let up. Undisciplined that way.

The castoff straightened from her washing. “You want me to scrub your boots?” she asked.

Ocho frowned at her tone, trying to focus through the swaddling blankets of his painkillers. Something about the doctor girl was wrong, and it made his skin prickle. And that weird ripe smell was getting stronger, too. It was all over. Not just coming from his dead soldier boys.

What the hell was it?

The doctor girl had started toward Soa. “You want me to do your boots right now?” she asked. “That what you want?”

Everything about her body language was wrong. She was standing too tall, looking too direct.

Ocho dragged himself upright, fighting the pain in his ribs. She’d lost her fear. The doctor girl had been terrified of Soa before, and now she wasn’t. She should have been a frightened little war maggot, quaking and begging, and instead, she was striding toward Soa, and she was smiling.

Blood and rust, Ocho thought. What you up to, girl?

Ocho had once seen a nailshed girl go after a trooper with a knife, and she’d looked just like the doctor girl now as she walked toward Soa.

But the castoff was just carrying that bottle of antibiotic stuff she’d had with her all evening. No knife. Nothing dangerous. But she looked like she actually wanted to tangle with Soa.

So where was the weapon?

“Soa…” Ocho started.

At Ocho’s words, the castoff glanced over. Something flashed on her face and her step faltered. Hesitation.

Guilt? Fear?

It was weird. It looked almost like she felt bad, like she was apologizing to him for something. And then her expression hardened and she went after Soa, full bore.

Soa never saw it coming. All he saw was an amputated castoff, so he walked right into her trap, even as Ocho started to shout.

The doctor girl swung her arm. An arc of gleaming liquid sprayed Soa, top to bottom. Soa flinched away.

“What the hell?”

For a second, Ocho was sure she’d thrown acid. She’d gotten hold of hydrochlor somehow, and wanted to burn Soa’s face off for his hassling. But Soa didn’t start screaming and clawing his eyes. Instead, the soldier was just standing there. Dripping. Looking nauseated.

“What is this stuff?”

A wave of stench rolled over Ocho, emanating from the drenched soldier.

So that was where the smell was coming from.