by Tanya Huff
“Hard to say, sir. Sergeant Gucciard is creating an interface with alien technology.”
“I know that, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The colonel believes that powering up the combats should be a first priority. Because of the . . .” Lieutenant O’Neill gestured at his left cuff. The color high on pale cheeks made it clear he wasn’t entirely in accord with his CO’s beliefs. “. . . clocks. The colonel feels the count is never entirely accurate.”
He relaxed slightly when Torin responded with a neutral, “Yes, sir.” She wondered what he’d been expecting her to do—head back into the node and snap the colonel’s neck because he thought clocks were more important than a functioning slate? There were easier ways to save the ranks from the idiot orders of the brass, well, not easier but definitely more acceptable to the smooth running of the Corps. It was, in point of fact, a large part of her job description.
“Did you hear that, Technical Sergeant?”
Teeth still clenched around fabric, Mike grunted out a two-toned affirmative that could have just as easily been “Fuk you,” as “Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant O’Neill seemed to realize that. He stood staring up at Mike, brows dipped in, for a long moment. Then he glanced over at Torin who was wearing her best nothing to see here expression. “All right, then,” he said at last, “Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.” She’d been at this game long enough to let her approval of his decision show in her voice without it being either overt or patronizing.
Cheeks flushed, he pivoted on one heel and stepped out smartly down the tunnel toward the node—the martial effect only slightly marred by both hands rising to scratch at his ginger-colored beard as he turned the first corner.
“The combats?” Torin asked when the lieutenant’s footsteps had faded sufficiently
“Clocks!” Mike spat the leg out of his mouth, and pulled the exposed tech away from the cable to fray a little more of the charred fabric. From the ground, it looked as if he were trying to fuse the shoulder seams together. “Can’t power up the combats until I have an interface working. Just burn them up otherwise. Once I can run power safely, I can power a slate in next to no time compared to powering up a hundred or so combats.”
“So doing it your way is the best way to obey the colonel’s order.”
He grinned down at her. “Isn’t it always?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Once I get the slate powered, anyone who knows where the diagnostic points are in their combats—and that had damned well better be everyone down here—can use these . . .” A brief wave of the exposed tech. “. . . to charge themselves, and I can concentrate on accessing the contents of the slate’s memory.”
“Think there might be something in there that can help us escape?”
Both brows rose. “You planning something, Gunny?”
She let her shoulder blades hit the wall again. It wasn’t quite a plan. Not yet. “I’ll tell you this much, I’m not planning on staying here.”
“You and me both.” He lifted the combats to the conduit again. “You noticed that those who’ve been down here for a while seem to have lost their drive?”
“I have.” The rock was cool against her back, a welcome point of sensation.
“Something in the food?”
“Probably.”
“Clocks,” he snorted.
Which was when the lights went out.
Turning carefully on the spot to face the pipe, Torin kept her right hand against the rock, stretched her left out into the tunnel, and carefully shuffled sideways out away from the wall until her right arm was nearly straight and the palm of her left hand bumped against Mike’s hip. Maintaining contact so as not to wander off into territory she didn’t know him well enough to explore, she moved her hand up slightly and snagged the fabric at his waist.
She felt him relax at the contact.
“Perhaps,” he sighed, “an accurate way to tell time isn’t such a terrible idea.”
“Sleeve lights wouldn’t hurt either,” Torin pointed out.
SEVEN
“SO, THIS STAFF SERGEAN HARNETT WAS withholding supplements to keep the Marines in his sector weak so that he could do what he wanted?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Colonel Braudy rocked back on her heels, dark eyes never leaving Torin’s face. “And what he wanted involved abuse of power, abuse of personnel, and actions leading to the deaths of incoming Marines in his sector?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no one tried to stop him until you arrived?”
“In the early days, before the lack of supplements began to take their toil, there were attempts. They didn’t succeed.” Where didn’t succeed translated as being beaten to death and, in at least one case according to the conversation she’d had with Pole, dumped down the disposal pit alive, but at this point the colonel wasn’t looking for details.
“But you did. Succeed.” One of Braudy’s brows rose, and Torin wondered if she’d also had the ability downloaded. And if she honestly thought Torin would quail at the expression. “You succeeded where every other attempt failed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is there any particular reason we should believe this story, Gunnery Sergeant? Besides our belief in your personal integrity?”
Behind the colonel’s back, Binti Mashona, Ressk, and Miransha Kichar stiffened. The latter two had been part of the party that had accompanied the colonel from the third pipe, brought along because they’d been serving with Torin and scooped up in the same battle—a second and third opinion that Torin was who she said she was. Braudy’s attitude while listening to Torin tell the story of Harnett’s defeat, yet again, suggested she’d gotten an earful about Torin’s earlier adventures during the journey between pipes. Kichar—hopefully over her earlier crush—would have covered the Crucible incident, and Ressk would have filled the colonel in on the Silsviss. Too bad Major Kenoton had gotten Werst—with someone available to tell her the details about Big Yellow, Braudy would have had the hat trick.
Thrilled to see Ressk and pleased to see Kichar alive, Torin had had no chance to speak to either of them, but Ressk and Mashona’s reunion had been enthusiastic enough to make up the lack.
“Not that I’m questioning your personal integrity, Gunnery Sergeant,” Braudy added, her tone edged.
“My report is easy enough to check, sir.”
“Of course. We send—or you take—a small party to that sector.” Her gaze flicked down toward the stone knife lying exposed on Colonel Mariner’s desk. “A sector with a distinct weapons advantage.” Her eyes narrowed. “And how do we know the plan is not to ambush us in an attempt to begin the takeover of the remaining two sectors?”
“You’d have to count on my personal integrity, sir.”
“I don’t find you amusing, Gunnery Sergeant.” There was a bitterness just below the surface that had probably started as anger and was looking for a reason to be anger again.
“I’m not being amusing, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr seems to think we should be working on escape plans.” Colonel Mariner’s punctuating snort made his opinion plain.
Braudy seemed to share it. “And what would be the point in an escape, Gunnery Sergeant, when there is no way out?”
“There’s a rockfall in Major Kenoton’s sector, sir. I plan to search beyond it.”
“There’ll be nothing beyond it but more tunnels,” Braudy snorted.
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“What? You have a gut feeling?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we should trust your gut?” Her lip curled. “Apparently, we’ve all just waiting for the great Gunnery Sergeant Kerr to show us the way.”
“Apparently,” Torin agreed blandly.
Off on the other side of the pipe, one of the lieutenants called cadence and boots slammed down on the rock floor. Someone filled a jug with water at th
e pipe. Two voices, one of them probably Lieutenant McCoy’s, rose above the background noise.
“I think,” Braudy said at last, “that you . . .”
The lights flickered.
For a heartbeat, two, the silence was so complete Torin doubted anyone was even breathing.
“All right, you lot!” It was the same voice that settled the troops after lights out. “No one told you to stop marching!”
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” Braudy pitched her voice to carry over the relieved return of the background noise. “As you seem to have energy to spare. Deal with that.”
Lieutenants Teirl, Cafter, and O’Neill got into the tunnel before her. Hardly surprising as they’d been remaining as close to Mike’s workstation as Colonel Mariner had allowed.
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr!” Teirl’s hair spread out from his head in a pale pink cloud, the ends waving slightly. “He’s done it! Technical Sergeant Gucciard has done it!”
“You sound surprised, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, come on, Gunny. He not only interfaced a pair of combats with alien tech, but he programmed them to work like a surge suppressor while he used them as a big floppy charge cable.” He grinned, his eyes lightening. “I’m not surprised, I’m astonished! I’m impressed! I’m . . .”
“Acting like a child,” O’Neill declared, turning just far enough to fix Teirl with a disapproving sneer. His right arm raised, his right cuff was in Mike’s care. “Try to remember you’re an officer.”
“Try to loosen up,” Teirl told him. “You’re witnessing a fukking technological miracle!” He lifted his gaze past the fuming lieutenant. “Technical Sergeant, if we were back in the real world, I’d suggest that you get a commendation for this! As we’re not, I’m more than willing to show my personal appreciation anywhere, anytime!”
“That’s not necessary, sir. Just doing my job.”
Only Torin recognized the amusement in his tone as they’re so cute when they’re young.
Teirl—and his hair—bounced. “And you’re doing it damned well!”
“John! Your display!” Cafter pulled O’Neill’s left arm out from his side. Just up from the cuff, numbers flashed against the fabric. Twelve seconds later, by Torin’s silent count, every readout on the sleeve flashed zero twice. “Full charge, Technical Sergeant! Disconnect!”
“Disconnecting.”
After a moment, O’Neill lowered his right arm while everyone in the tunnel stared at his left. Without a signal lock, the clock began running data from the last saved time. “Air pressure, temperature, and mix are all fairly close to station default,” he said after a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were gleaming. “The colonel needs to see this immediately.”
“Wait until I’m done,” Cafter told him, shoving him out of the way and thrusting her right arm up. “We’ll go together.”
“The colonel needs to see this now,” O’Neill snorted, spun on one heel, and ran off.
“Yeah, like the colonel’s going anywhere,” Cafter muttered. “What a kiss-ass—and I don’t mean that in a good way.” Realizing there were two noncoms in her audience, her eyes lightened.
Neither of them smiled.
Second Lieutenant Teirl, safe behind the bar on his collar tab, snickered.
“Any problems, Technical Sergeant?” Torin asked as the two junior officers pointedly ignored each other.
He shrugged. “Eyebrows are overrated.”
By the time Colonel Mariner, Lieutenant Colonel Braudy, and those officers they considered their staff arrived in the tunnel—the delay no doubt due to O’Neill having to deal with every link in the chain of command—Cafter and Teirl were gone and Torin’s combats were nearly charged. When Torin’d suggested Mike do the slate while he had the chance, he’d grinned and said, “Did it first. Well, second.” His cuff, slightly charred in the incident that removed most of his eyebrows, insisted the time was either 0001 or 1000 depending on the blink.
“Technical Sergeant Gucciard!” Colonel Mariner was not happy. “I should have been notified the moment you fulfilled your mission objectives!”
“Yes, sir.”
Torin hid a smile as, somewhat taken aback by the bland agreement, Mariner remained speechless for a full seven seconds. She’d never expected to be so damned happy about knowing exactly how much time had passed. Lowering her arm, she worked the stiffness out of her shoulder, noted that she’d been scooped out of the battle at 1543, and said, “Would you like to be next, sir?”
“I should have been first, Gunnery Sergeant!”
“No, sir, you shouldn’t have.” Mike took the colonel’s wrist in one hand and effortlessly turned it eighty degrees. “Command gets new tech only after it’s been thoroughly tested.”
“That’s not,” Mariner began. He paused. And frowned. “What the hell happened to your eyebrows, Technical Sergeant?”
“Got a little scorched, sir. No need to worry,” he added as the colonel tried unsuccessfully to jerk his hand away. “The power surges are under control.”
Braudy had brought five Marines with her—three of her “staff” as well as Ressk and Kichar. There was exactly enough kibble to feed six more mouths plus Torin.
“Proof we’re being watched.”
Ressk shook his head. “Easy enough to set up a sensor to do a body count, Gunny. Hook it to an automatic feed bin and no one needs to be within light-years of it.”
“Food for Harnett’s hunting parties still dropped even if they were out in the tunnels,” Torin told him, frowning. “Although not for the three at the barricade.”
“Then the sensors extend into the tunnels and the numbers cross over at the halfway point.”
She had to admit that made more sense than the Others pulling warm bodies out of the fight to monitor the minor relocations among their prisoners.
Ressk swallowed another double finger of food, then used those fingers to point in the general direction of her face. “Shouldn’t you be happier about not being watched, Gunny? Given the whole planning to escape and all?”
“Yes.” She should be. But she’d been looking forward to kicking some ass on the way out. Making someone pay for giving a bastard like Harnett the opportunity for abuse. More importantly, making someone pay for the way Mariner, Braudy, and every Marine who’d been captive for any length of time accepted this as their lot. Losing the fight was one thing, having it taken away . . . that was something else again. Turning off a sensor wouldn’t give the same visceral satisfaction as feeling flesh compacting under her fists.
The curve of her bowl began to bend in her grip.
Torin took a deep breath and looked up to see Ressk staring at her as though he knew what she’d been thinking.
His nose ridges opened and closed slowly. “If you don’t mind my asking, Gunny, how much of a plan do you actually have beyond clearing that rockfall?”
“I plan on getting out.”
He studied her face for a long moment, grinned when she lifted her upper lip, and said, “I’m in.”
“And me!”
Only Torin bothered to hide her smile at Kichar’s enthusiasm. “I didn’t call for volunteers.”
Mashona chased a last bit of mush around the bottom of her bowl. “Looks like you’ve got them anyway, Gunny.”
No one bothered to mention that there were no guarantees either Mariner or Baudry would release the Marines under their respective commands. No one bothered because a gunnery sergeant was as close to a guarantee as the Corps provided.
“So, just us, then?” Ressk wondered.
“No. There’s another two back at Major Kenotan’s sector. Corporal Werst . . .”
Kichar started at the familiar name and, when Torin nodded, made a noise they all knew she’d deny later. Mashona reached over and squeezed the younger woman’s shoulder.
“. . . and Private Kyster. Kyster survived on his own in the tunnels long enough for a broken bone to heal.”
“But how,” Kichar began, frowned, and glanced ov
er at Ressk who calmly finished his mush. “Oh.”
“Tough kid,” Mashona noted neutrally.
“Very.” Torin agreed.
“I notice there’s no di’Taykan in your escape group,” Ressk pointed out, tucking his empty bowl into the front of his combats.
“Unless there’s other sectors, no di’Taykan came in when we did.”
“So Lieutenant Jarret, Mysho . . . ?”
“Sar?” Kichar added.
It was possible, and they all knew it, that the four of them and Werst were all that was left of an entire battalion. That not only the di’Taykan were dead but every other Human, every other Krai. Everyone they’d served with, fought with, drunk with, laughed with . . .
Torin shook it off. “If we want to know what happened to them, we’ll have to get out of here.” She set her bowl to one side and met each gaze in turn. “Let’s think of it as incentive.”
“Incentive for what?” Bowl in one hand, slate in the other, thumb working the screen, Mike dropped down beside Torin.
“To get out of here.”
“Good. When?”
“As soon as Colonel Mariner releases us.”
He took enough of his attention off the slate to raise what remained of his eyebrows in Torin’s general direction, the expression very clearly pointing out that Colonel Mariner would release them when Torin arranged it.
“Tomorrow,” she acknowledged. “Early enough that we make the barricade before dark.”
“Give me time enough to finish setting up Mariner’s tech crew. You lot . . .” He used the bowl to gesture at the three Marines, realized he was carrying food, and set the slate carefully down in the cradle of his crossed legs to eat. “. . . we’ll charge you three as part of their training and leave right after that.”
“Coming with us, Technical Sergeant?”
“Well, I don’t plan on staying here, Gunny.” He set the bowl, mush barely touched, to one side and picked up the slate again, cradling it in his left hand while the fingers of his right danced over the screen. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but after you’ve been here a while, you stop caring you’re here. You start living your life like this—the tunnels, the pipe, the mush, the inane marching about in patterns—is your life.”
