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with Gunny. At OCS, an old commander had told the class that the proper spelling of Gunnery Sergeant was GOD .
    Kris had seen ample proof to support that theology in the last three years. Kris waited.
    “We’re in,” Jack announced over the net.
    A moment later a private had been ordered to test the air. “This place stinks,” was his only comment.
    Kris’s previous experience with a pirate ship had stunk of sloppy ship handling, stale cooking, and unwashed crew. But the stink that rapidly worked its way up the passage tube was a whole different blend of filth, sewer, and death.
    Kris kicked off from where she hung and headed down the tube, Abby and Gunny right behind.
    The stench grew as she approached the Compton ’s hatch. Once through it, she found herself in a similar cargo bay from the one she left, somewhat the worse for lack of care. Jack and his three squads held there as they searched for booby traps and found nothing. Most had their masks up, saving tanks that might be needed later. A few did not.
    “Where’s that smell coming from?” Kris asked.
    Jack shook his head. “Life support is on minimum. Air circulation is hardly going, but still, this?”
    “How are things aft?” Kris asked.
    “We took them down,” came from a sergeant on net. “Only gentle lambs back here. They have no idea what the bridge crew were doing, they just tended the teakettle.”
    “We’ll see how that holds up in court,” Kris said dryly.
    Jack looked around, frowned at nothing in particular and the stink in general, and said, “Gunny, take two squads and clear the stern spine from here to Engineering.”
    “Aye, aye, sir,” Gunny said, and organized one of the squads there and the one that had just arrived to deploy aft, covering for each other and moving slowly.
    He’d been gone less than a minute when he came up on net.
    “Sir, Your Highness, you want to see what we just found.”
    Kris headed aft, gun at the ready, Jack in the lead.
    The stench got worse as soon as they left the cargo bay. The central spine of a cargo ship always had stairs for use when the ship was under way. It could be broken up into rooms, but since that cost money, it was often just one long, open space.
    The Compton ’s spine was square and broken into compartments.
    The first compartment had the usual pipes and conduits along the wall and a spiral stairwell offset from the center enough to allow a solid-looking airtight hatch to close off the bottom of the compartment.
    The second compartment was where the stink came from.
    Men and women blinked up as Kris started down the ladder. They looked like skeletons wrapped in filthy rags. Most were wired to deadeyes welded onto the outer bulkhead. They drifted listlessly as the ship turned slowly, surrounded by a cloud of their own filth. A few were free. They provided whatever care they could to the others.
    That care couldn’t extend very far. All they had were their own two hands and maybe a gentle voice. There was no visible source for water. One bucket might have served as a latrine. Now its content littered the air of the compartment. A woman glided through space, trying to recapture what had come free.
    Kris gagged. “Who did this?” she demanded.
    One squad of Marines was on full alert. The other moved around the compartment, cutting prisoners free. A man in what might once have been a merchant service officer’s uniform floated toward Kris. He was bent over, trying gingerly to massage his left foot. That was where he’d been tied down, and it looked black and ugly.
    “I’m Dan Orizowski. I was second officer of the Jumping Jill , a freighter out of Geneva.”
    “You senior here?” Jack asked.
    The begrimed man looked around. “I am off the Jill .”
    “Your senior officers?” Kris asked.
    “Killed for resisting.”
    “Is this all one crew?”
    “No.” A grizzled old fellow now joined them. “I’m Onally MarTom, chief wiper on the Outside Straight . Don’t know where we