Valor's Trial

by Tanya Huff

  From the sound of it, things were getting interesting in the lower atmosphere.

  Interesting was seldom good for the Marines on the ground.

  At a klik and a half, during a miraculous pause in both artillery and the air show, she thought she heard voices. Two hundred and fifty meters more, another pause, and she was sure of it.

  “Lieutenant Heerik!”

  “Gunnery Sergeant?”

  No mistaking the Krai lieutenant’s voice. There just weren’t that many female Krai in the infantry.

  Five meters more and Torin slid down into a crater, riding a ridge of dirt to Sergeant Hollice’s side. A quick count gave her all twelve members of the squad and Second Lieutenant Heerik. Mashona lifted a hand in a remarkably sarcastic wave, but Ressk kept his gaze locked on the lieutenant.

  “Captain would like your three squad back behind the barricade, sir.”

  “I came out to bring them back in, Gunnery Sergeant . . .”

  More planes screamed by. Theirs. Others. Torin frowned as something broke the sound barrier. Navy?

  “. . . we were just about to leave.” She had her boots off and scrambled up the crater wall a lot faster than anyone but Ressk was likely to manage.

  No, not Navy.

  “Sir! Get down! Now!”

  Torin had no idea which side had dropped it, or what it was, but on impact it distinctly went BOOM.

  BOOM was never good.

  The lieutenant turned, lips drawn back off her teeth, and looked startled as the top half of her body blew across the crater, spraying blood onto the uplifted faces below. Her legs swayed for a moment, then slowly crumpled. As they slid back down the slope, each individual mote of dust in the air picked up a gleaming white halo.

  The halos joined.

  The ground rose.

  Torin’s knees slammed into her chest, and she tasted blood.

  The whole world went white.

  Then black.

  TWO

  “N°.” “I are being sorry, Craig, but Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr are . . .”

  “No.” Hands flat against the control panel, Craig leaned in closer to the screen. “She isn’t dead.”

  Presit pulled off her dark glasses and arranged her features in what she probably thought was a sincere expression—something furbearing species sucked at, Craig sneered silently. “I are knowing you are not wanting to believe, but . . .”

  “You said there’s no body.”

  “The blast are having melted her position. I are having seen the raw news feed, there are being no hope of bodies. There are barely being hope of DNA resolution.”

  “The news . . .” He didn’t bother hiding his disdain. “. . . has been wrong before.”

  Dark lips drew back off very white, very pointed teeth and, within the black mask of fur, Presit’s eyes narrowed. But all she said was, “True.”

  “And the military doesn’t know shite half the time.”

  “That are being also true.”

  “They haven’t told me . . .” He stopped then, unsure if they would tell him. He didn’t know, had no way of knowing, if Torin had added him to her notification list. If she hadn’t, if Presit hadn’t spotted Torin’s name in the data stream coming into Sector Central News for rebroadcast, he would never have known. He’d have just kept waiting and wondering until finally there’d be no question and then . . .

  His fingers curled against the warmed plastic. “She isn’t dead.”

  Presit shook her head, the motion sending a visible ripple through her silver-tipped dark fur, the highlights too artfully natural to be real. “Saying it are not making it true. No one are surviving that attack.”

  His laugh sounded off, even to his own ears. “It wouldn’t be the first time Torin’s beaten the odds.”

  “A direct hit by a missile fired from orbit that are melting the landscape to slag are being large odds, even for Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” The reporter sighed, her acerbic tone softening. “She are not being invincible.”

  Yes, she is.

  “No.” Craig had no idea whether Presit took his soft denial as agreement or disagreement—mostly because he wasn’t sure himself—but she clearly accepted it as the end of the conversation.

  “I are not liking her much,” Presit admitted, muzzle wrinkling, “but I are being sorry for your sake that she are being gone. If you are wanting company?”

  It took him a moment to realize what she was offering. The last thing he needed was Presit a Tur durValintrisy in his face while he was griev . . .

  While he was . . .

  While . . .

  “No. Thanks. I’m fine.”

  Presit’s snort spoke volumes as the signal faded.

  He got no signal off the salvage tag, but ST7/45T2 was damned near to the edge of known space. Too far to read. Too far to go himself with no certainty of salvage on the other end although he ran the Susumi calculations just because.

  Then he returned to the job, working the edges of the debris field left behind when the Others slid a pair of battle cruisers into a system already claimed, scooping up the wrecked pieces of Navy Jades because, well, he had to breathe and oxygen wasn’t free although he had been thinking that if things went well, he might invest in a convertersince Promise’s arms would do just as well capturing chunks of the small ice asteroids littering known space and with two people in the cabin . . .

  Sweat trickled down his sides as he stepped out of the air lock, faceplate polarizing in the unfiltered solar radiation.

  Torin hadn’t been ready to leave the Corps and he hadn’t been ready to push, but they’d both known where they were heading, sooner or later, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t do the job on his own because he’d been on his own since he started, but it’d be fukking pleasant to have some backup when the only thing separating his bare ass from hard vacuum was a twelve-year-old Corps surplus HE suit and a bit of luck. A second pair of eyes would . . .

  Craig locked the last piece of twisted metal and plastic in place, DNA residue flagged. DNA turned up in the strangest places. Once he’d found Human residue on wreckage from an enemy fighter. Navy had found the body months earlier and no one had any idea how those few cells had wandered. Once, he’d found a pilot, or most of one, in the crushed remains of her Jade. The Others had fried every system on her ship, and the commander had been nothing more than meat in space. The Navy couldn’t find her without a signal. He’d only found her because finding the small debris, too small for the military to waste time and money recovering, was how he lived, and he worked on instinct as much as equipment.

  “And what would I be doing while you’re using these well-honed instincts of yours?” Torin had asked as she pulled on her tunic.

  “Same thing you’re doing now,” Craig had said, tossing her a boot. “Keeping your people alive. Fewer people,” he’d added grinning, “but better job perks.”

  She’d matched his grin as she’d snagged her first then her second boot out of the air. “You think?”

  “You haven’t complained.”

  “Too polite.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He checked the pod configuration before he headed back into the air lock, loading the dimensions into his slate. The data went automatically into Promise’s memory, but having survived one Susumi miscalculation, he had no intention of pushing his luck. Careless pilots were dead . . .

  Were dead.

  As the door cycled closed behind him, he clawed at the shoulder catches and dragged his helmet off the moment the telltales showed green, suddenly unable to breathe within the confines of the suit. Hands braced on his thighs, he sucked in deep lungfuls of air and forced his heartbeat to slow.

  Fukking irony that the panic attacks he used to have at the thought of sharing limited space and resources were now being caused by the realization that . . .

  No.

  If there was one thing Torin excelled at, it was staying alive.

  She wasn’t dead.

  He opened
the inner door, stripped out of his suit, and hung it precisely in its locker, tank snapped up against the remix valve. Next time he needed it, Promise would see that it was ready.

  A quick visit to the head; he never hooked up the plumbing in the suit if he didn’t absolutely have to. A visit to the coffeepot to start the whole cycle up again.

  And then there was no way of avoiding the message light blinking on the control panel.

  Turned out he was on Torin’s notification list after all.

  The Confederation Marine Corps had two levels of notification. Level one included a trip into the Core and Ventris Station where the details would be explained and counselors both military and civilian would be on hand to deal with the emotional maelstrom that came with the loss of a loved one. Figuring that any maelstrom was his own damned business, Craig hadn’t planned on taking them up on it until he found himself working out the Susumi equations.

  Hands above the controls, he paused. He didn’t need some counselor telling him how he felt.

  He did, however, need to sell his salvage, and Ventris was as good a place as any. Particularly since the notification had come with a code that granted him a free berth and hook-in. No reason not to do what he could to broaden his limited profit margin.

  And while he was there, as long as the Corps was paying for the privilege of his company, it wouldn’t hurt to find out what the fuk they thought had happened because the whole thing sounded damned shonky to him.

  “Civilian salvage vessel Promise, this is Ventris perimeter. State your reason for approach.”

  “Salvage license tango, sierra, tango, five, seven, seven, nine, tango. I have cargo.” Craig sent the details of his load and then stared out at the bulk of Ventris Station, covering a quarter of his screen even at perimeter distance, and ignored the way his hand was resting beside the pressure pad that would transmit the notification code.

  “Roger, Promise. Delta yard has docking available. Stand by for . . .”

  “Wait.” One finger moved to the pressure pad. “And I have this.”

  “Roger, Promise.” The dispassionate tone hadn’t changed although he knew there was a person of some species on the other end of the link. “Salvage must be unloaded and cleared before you can proceed to the station. Stand by for coordinate download. Docking master will take control in three, two, one . . . mark. Docking master now in control.”

  He sat back as the program ran and his ship surged forward. He’d been expecting . . . more.

  A reaction.

  Condolences?

  Someone he could tell to fuk off, that Torin wasn’t dead.

  Apparently, enough Marines died it was business as usual.

  “Well, fuk you, too,” he muttered at no one in particular.

  “No, you don’t understand . . .”

  One foot raised to step over the hatch, Craig put it down again and eased back into the corridor. The voice filling the room he’d been about to enter was male, the tone frustration heading toward anger. He was, himself, just here for information, he didn’t want to intrude on another man’s grief.

  “. . . I have all the information you lot are willing to give me and I’m not here to talk to a counselor; I’m here to talk to talk to someone who doesn’t have their head up their ass about this . . .”

  Obviously, the man hadn’t spent much time dealing with the military. In Craig’s experience, head up the ass was the default posture.

  “. . . my daughter isn’t dead!”

  A thousand daughters in uniform.

  More. So many more.

  And more than a thousand fathers who’d refuse to believe.

  There was no reason, absolutely no reason that this overheard conversation had anything to do with Torin. Except that Craig’s code had directed him here, to this anteroom off the docking bay, an area barely inside the station, awkward civilian interactions kept at the edge of things military. Three dozen doors along this corridor—he’d counted them while wondering what the hell he was doing there, pacing past other men and women who seemed to have a lot fewer questions. Three dozen doors and the notification code brought him to this one.

  He stepped into the room.

  The Krai corporal behind the desk looked up, his nose ridges flaring. Or maybe her nose ridges—secondary sexual characteristics were subtle and Craig never had been able to tell the Krai apart. Since it had never been an issue, he didn’t worry about it much. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll just be a moment.”

  Ignoring her—or him—Craig crossed to the man standing by the desk. He was big—not just in contrast to the meter-tall Marine behind the desk—and the patchy red-brown of his tan said he spent most of his time outside in actual atmosphere. Before the Marine could speak again, Craig held out his hand. “Craig Ryder.”

  Deep-set eyes narrowed, creases pleating at the outside corners. Recognition dawned, and he nodded, once. Craig always figured Torin had picked up the gesture in the military. Maybe not.

  “John Kerr.” Torin’s father had one hell of a grip, his hand hard and callused.

  “Drink?”

  “You know how to find a bar in this tin can?”

  “Mate, I can find a bar in Susumi space.”

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t have the faintest idea what means . . .” He scratched along the edge of his jaw, nails rasping against rough skin where the depilatory had begun to wear off. “. . . but if you can find a bar, I’ll buy.”

  “Sir. Sirs,” the corporal amended as they turned together. “The Corps will deal with your needs while on Ventris.”

  “The Corps can,” John Kerr began. Stopped. Drew in a deep breath. And pointed one large, scarred finger across the desk. “I’ll be back.”

  “Torin liked this bar.”

  “Yeah.” Their notification codes hadn’t got them onto Concourse Two; that had been Craig’s not entirely legal schematic of the nonsensitive parts of the station, a little bullshit to an actual live Marine at a checkpoint, and the taking of the Commandant of the Corps’ name in vain when asked for his authorization by the station sysop at the last hatch. There were plenty of bars on Concourse One, the area reserved for those just passing through. Craig knew and liked a number of them, knew and avoided a couple more, and didn’t want to see the inside of any of them. Not now.

  Torin had liked Sutton’s.

  Half a dozen second lieutenants had pushed two of the small tables together over in the corner, a couple of Krai NCOs sat at the bar watching cricket on the vid screen and occasionally commenting in their own language, but other than that the bar was empty. The Corps ran on a 28-hour clock, but 1530 seemed to be an off hour.

  John took a long swallow and set his glass back on the table. “The beer’s good.”

  Craig raised his own glass in acknowledgment and drank. They hadn’t done a lot of talking on the way and now . . . “You don’t think she’s carked it.” At John’s blank expression, he shook his head. “Sorry. Died. You don’t think she’s died.”

  “I don’t. They hear it all the time, you know: My kid’s not dead.” His hand tightened around the base of the glass. “There’s no body. They haven’t found anything that resembles her fukking DNA. Give me a body. Give me something.” His eyes were a darker brown than Torin’s, but the intensity was the same. “I’ll believe when I have proof but not until.”

  “The force of the blast melted rock.” Presit had been right. Nothing could have survived it. “The whole area was slagged.”

  “I saw the vids.”

  The vids had come in a packet with the notification code. Craig had always suspected these sorts of things were sterilized for public consumption—the last thing the Corps needed to do was expose the grieving to the ugly reality of war. In this case, there’d been nothing to sterilize because the enemy blast had done the job too well. Over thirty square kilometers of battlefield had been turned to a rippled sheet of gray green. Shining. Lifeless. A helpful X marked Torin’s last known position.

  “She was
too far from the edge to have been thrown clear.” Far enough from the edge that being thrown clear would have killed her.

  One dark brow rose. “My daughter tells us you’re a bit of a gambler. Guess you have to be,” he continued without waiting for a response. “Doing what you do. You want to bet on a sure thing, you bet on my daughter having survived.”

  “I don’t . . .” Craig drank a little more beer if only because it forced him to unclench his teeth. “I didn’t believe it when I first heard, but . . .” Then the notification. Then the vids. Then Ventris. Then sitting down in a bar on a military station with Torin’s father. That last, he realized—feeling as though the station had just vented into space, feeling steel bands tighten around his chest, feeling his lungs fight for air—that was when the verb changed.

  Torin was dead. And only a galah would, could believe different.

  He might have said it out loud. He wasn’t sure.

  A large hand closed around his wrist, and Torin’s father said, “No.”

  “No what? No one could have survived that.” How the fuk did he get here . . . here trying to convince a man he’d just met that his daughter was dead?

  John’s grip returned to his glass. “Saying it doesn’t make it true.”

  Craig frowned. Hadn’t Presit said that to him? Hadn’t she been arguing the other side?

  “Mr. Ryder.”

  He recognized the voice. When he looked up at the Commandant of the Corps, he also recognized the pissed-off expression on the face of the colonel standing behind her. “High Tekamal Louden.” Then, because he didn’t what else to say and she was obviously waiting for something, he nodded toward the other man. “John Kerr.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said as he stood and held out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Kerr, and wish it had been under better circumstances.”

  “High Tekamal? That’s . . .”