<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c7/0b/40/c70b40fa22c31104fc1dd073630d1a4c.jpg)</div>Karn had mixed feelings as she watched the pair of landing boats settle towards the range markers. On the one  hand, they were beautiful to watch, like gigantic birds of prey.  On the other, she remembered when similar birds had hunted her and her mates through the outskirts of Jo'Burg. Not the Marines- the sort of mischief her crew had got up to was far too petty to attract attention at that level. But the SADF, such as it still was, had nothing better to do with their time. And their rules of engagement were quite a bit looser than those the professionals of the USCMC were bound by. As she knew from personal experience.<br/><br/>Maybe she was feeling sour because she was standing with Garner. That he was a weak man didn't bother her much. Most people were, and he had been relatively efficient at his job. Even his constant complaining was just so much background noise. She didn't think she'd ever met anyone at Weyland outside of the few upper executives she'd bumped into who acted as if they were happy with their lot. Likely, the Marines would be no different. No, the problem with Garner was  that lately Karn had developed a creeping feeling that he was keeping something from her.  Also not a new situation for her, but if it led to a mess, it would fall on her to clean it up. This was not a time for messes.<br/><br/>Hell, or maybe her bleak mood was just because she knew that relatively soon the landing pads might be the only remaining signs of their damp, leaky, rattletrap home. That was assuming their reinforced structures managed to remain intact when the rest of the station collapsed and sank.<br/><br/>"Two boats," she said quietly to Garner, just for something to say. It wasn't as if the man couldn't count, after all, or so she assumed. "If they have come down light, say twenty per boat. Six loads for our people...seven, for a small allowance of personal effects. Then another two to lift the Marines."  A few shirt-cuff calculations, mostly based on hearsay and guesswork, flashed through her head. "Forty minutes back to orbit and rendezvous. Twenty minutes refuel and stow. Fifteen minutes hard drop. Call it five hours for total personnel transfer. Perhaps six" Flick-flick, like the eyelids of a snake, a thin smile blinked on and off again. "I think this<em>doos</em>will hold together that long."<br/><br/>It would take longer, of course. The Marines would have their own protocols, which would delay things, and there would be the inevitable arguments with the colonists about 'critical' knick-knacks, tools, records...the same people who would have gutted one another to get onto a buggy earlier would risk sending all of them to the bottom to preserve a souvenir, now that rescue was immediately at hand. Fools. Like herding cats, ones of an especially stupid breed. But that was what they paid her for.  "As soon as you have gotten approval from the Marine officer, I can begin organizing the staff for boarding and lift."<br/><br/>The first boat touched down, making the frame of the station sing beneath their feet. thirty seconds later, a twin of the vibration reached them as the second boat feathered her engines and teased to a stop on the farther pad. And then from another part of the big raft-like outpost, an echo came, something shifting in the damaged sector, dislodged by the stress of the added weight.  "You hear me,<em>doos</em>?," she muttered. "Hold together."