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?