The Heart of Valor

by Tanya Huff

  “I sent in a worm,” McGuinty grunted. “It came back with something that’s destroying the slate.”

  Every screen on the desk seemed to be open, code moving across them all too quickly to read. “It’s wiping the data?”

  “Yeah, that, too. But it’s also frying the hardware. Not so totally fried as last night, but . . . shit!” With a smell nasty enough to slam Piroj’s nose ridges shut, the slate came free. Both Marines stumbled back, bouncing off the outside wall. McGuinty pulled his hands and the slate from Piroj’s grip, glanced down at it, and tossed it away. “It’s toast, Gunny.” Bending, he flicked on his scanner—for the magnification, Torin realized—and shone his light into the port. “This is fused. Unusable.” Scanner off, he ran his thumb down the nav bar along the side of the desk then tried each screen in turn. “And I’m completely fukking locked . . .”

  The desk made a deep, whining noise and every screen went blank.

  McGuinty smacked his palm down on the glossy black surface.

  Nothing happened.

  “That’s that, then,”

  “That’s what?” Torin demanded. His hand left a print behind, but that was all.

  “The CPN is slagged. Maybe they added too much juice last night, but this . . .” Another smack. “. . . may not be melted but it’s just as dead.”

  “Last night was a practice slagging?” Piroj snorted. “How’d they do this one? Hijack an ObSat?”

  “Probably.” McGuinty sighed and pulled off his helmet. “I’m not sure what all that code was, Gunny, but I can tell you one thing, there’s one fuk of a lot of something on the way.”

  * * *

  “When we are moving out of Susumi space, I are sending this message to Ventris that instant.” Cradled in the pilot’s chair, Presit swung away from the board and flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth in Craig’s direction. “Parliament are not allowing the military to be keeping the press away. If you are showing legitimate press credentials, then public relations officers are needing to find your ship a berth. Even if your ship are not one they are wanting to be seeing back again. Why are the Marine Corps not wanting to see your ship back again, Mr. Ryder?”

  “The Corps,” Craig told her from where he sat on the pulldown bench by the cabin’s one small table, “didn’t like me asking about classified information.”

  “But why are Big Yellow being classified to you?” She combed chromed claws through her whiskers, first one side then the other. “You were there, so they are overreacting.”

  Craig blinked. That last sentence had been in fluent Federate. Seemed like there might be some basis to the theory that the Katrien could unscramble their syntax, but they enjoyed pissing off the rest of the Confederation too much to bother. He supposed that at less than a meter tall and covered in plush fur they needed every advantage to keep the larger races from considering them almost unbearably cute.

  Personally, he found the Katrien’s size an advantage. The amount of room taken up by the Susumi drive meant that salvage vessels the size of the Promise had next to no living space. Smaller lungs needed less oxygen and extrapolating from lung size and body weight, he could calculate her diffusing capacity and from there her absorption rate, but if he took the percentage down from twenty-one to say, nineteen then it would last . . .

  “You are wearing your there are too many people in here face,” she said, not unkindly. “Be taking a deep breath.”

  “Just what I don’t want to do,” he muttered, took a mouthful of coffee, and made a face as he swallowed the cold, slightly greasy liquid. Carrying three injured Marines, two Katrien, and an elderly Niln away from Big Yellow in an area barely more than fifteen square meters had kicked his phobia about sharing space right in the arse, but it hadn’t kicked it entirely out of his head.

  And this trip, Presit spent most of her time in the cabin instead of spending it locked in the head with the landing party’s only surviving Katrien scientist grooming and bitching.

  Grooming and bitching.

  He frowned.

  Katrien were a very social species and they didn’t like being on their own. Presit had been the only Katrien on Rossenee Station—the station’s OS had been very clear about that when he’d had it comm her. He had thought that meant she was working with a non-Katrien crew, but now he realized that made no sense, not given species preferences and the fact that Sector Central News was predominately Katrien staffed. She’d said she had a crew with her, but he suspected now that she’d lied. More telling, she’d taken commercial transport to get to the station when she’d arrived at Big Yellow in a news ship.

  Which she’d damned near destroyed. Might as well have destroyed since the military had confiscated the pieces.

  Her crew had been killed in the explosion.

  A lot of very expensive gear had been lost.

  The story she’d returned with, while exclusive, had been very limited in scope both because she’d had to rely on the military for all her visuals and because they’d left Big Yellow knowing little more than they had going in—unidentified alien ship, constructed of polyhydroxide alcoholydes, interior able to take a number of shapes, capable of performing detailed brain scans although probably only with contact. Four points; that was it.

  Presit a Tur durValintrisy was no longer Sector Central News’ fair-haired girl—or silver-tipped female—and she wanted that position back. She’d been willing to travel out to Rosenee in search of a story big enough to put her back on top. No wonder she’d jumped at a chance to investigate the missing escape pod.

  It also explained why she’d curbed her ego enough to keep him from wanting to dump her out the air lock.

  “You are stopping staring at me! Now!”

  Most of the time.

  * * *

  Having seen some truly bizarre things during her years in the Corps, things beautiful and terrible, Torin was able to school her expression as she came out onto the roof. But it was close.

  “This happens every time she comes up here?” she asked Lirit quietly.

  “Every time, Gunny. They’re nesting on the roof of that building there.” Lirit pointed and, dialing her scanner up, Torin could see piled mud and entry holes and an impressive amount of bird shit. “When she’s not around, they go back, but as soon as she appears again . . .”

  They looked as much like pigeons as it was possible for a nonpigeon to look. The details were wrong, but the overall resemblance was uncanny. And they seemed to love Dr. Sloan. She stood in the middle of the roof, staring off at the dense cloud cover that had filled the sky to the west, blatantly ignoring the circle of birds bobbing and strutting around her feet. Where the snow hadn’t been packed tightly enough for them to walk, they’d flap a few paces before settling down and walking again.

  “She used to run at them, try and chase them off. Hell, we tried, too, but nothing works. Shooting them seemed a little over the top although Sergeant Jiir did wonder how they might taste.”

  The Krai had a simple response to wildlife. If it got close enough, and it was moving slowly enough, they tried to eat it. Torin made a note to keep the sergeant off the roof at the same time as the doctor.

  Wondering what would happen if she got closer, Torin walked forward.

  The circle of birds parted around her and closed up again as if she were a rock and they were a stream and by the time she reached the doctor’s side, she’d become part of the core of the pattern.

  “Dr. Sloan.”

  “Good afternoon, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Dr. Sloan turned, slowly, and stared up at Torin through narrowed eyes. “About what?”

  “I’m sorry, had you not noticed the birds?”

  “Oh, ha.” Arms folded, she resumed staring to the west. “I’m not doing anything, they just keep coming back.”

  “Maybe your jacket . . . ?”

  “Is what? Stuffed with birdseed? Emitting mating coos on a frequency only these birds can hear? Looks like their
big blue mother? You’re so good at getting various and varying species to do what you say, you tell them to shoo.”

  “Shoo?”

  “Fine, pick a tougher word.”

  No longer bothering to hide her smile, Torin leaned slightly forward and said, “Scram.”

  The birds took off almost as one bird, their wings chopping at the air. Torin felt something scrape across her helmet, then they were gone and the last set of tail feathers disappeared surprisingly quickly into the nest.

  “Okay. That was . . . interesting.” Turning on the spot, Dr. Sloan examined the empty circle. “Is this something the Corps teaches all their NCOs, or is this a talent you alone possess?”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “It sounded like . . .”

  “They didn’t look up at me. Just before they took off, they looked to the west.” Torin adjusted her scanner, quickly running through the available audio frequencies when visual gave her nothing. When she finally heard the hum, it was almost too late. Grabbing the doctor’s arm, she began dragging the other woman toward the access hatch. “Incoming!”

  Marines on the roof opened fire as the drone dove out of the cloud cover, rapidly becoming a wicked looking wedge. A heartbeat later it swooped low and, too far from the hatch for safety, Torin threw the doctor down and threw herself on top of her as cover, trusting her vest would protect both them both. Extremities could be patched. Rounds splattered into the roof, one smacked into the center of her back, and then the drone was moving on. Rolling clear, she brought her weapon up but didn’t pull the trigger. She didn’t have a hope in hell of hitting it and had no desire to waste ammo she’d need later.

  The drone circled wide around the anchor, then disappeared back into the cloud cover heading west.

  “Cease fire! You can’t fukking hit it if you can’t see it!” Torin’s ears rang in the sudden silence. “Anyone make contact?”

  “I hit it, Gunny . . .”

  Lirit. That made sense.

  “. . . but it wobbled and kept flying.”

  “Nice try.” And she meant it. “Unfortunately, we’re past the point where that means anything.” And she meant that, too. Dr. Sloan was still flat on the roof, staring at her arm lying bent and bright blue against the snow. “You okay, Doc?”

  Eyes wide, she slowly lifted her arm. There on the roof was a rough line of impact that traced the angle of her elbow, the snow pack having kept the rounds from ricocheting and doing the kind of random damage no tech could prevent.

  “Well, that answers that question. The system’s still honoring your noncombatant chit.”

  Dr. Sloan smiled tightly. “Oh, joy. Correct me if I’m wrong, but if I’m impervious to bullets doesn’t that mean I should be lying on top of you?”

  A very good point. Torin grinned. “I’ll try to remember that the next time, Doc.”

  Breathing heavily, Lirit held down a hand. “What was that, Gunny?”

  “A scout.” She let the private pull her to her feet and stood working her back, checking for bruising, but her vest had done its job. “About a third the size of a flier, too light to carry anything but low caliber rounds that probably wouldn’t have pierced your combats. It was just making a point before the main force arrives.”

  “What point?”

  “That the main force is about to arrive.” She switched her comm to Group. “Major?”

  “I heard. Get ready for them, Gunny.”

  “Yes, sir.” Only the foolish and the insane looked forward to combat and Torin was neither but, just the same, it was impossible not to feel relieved that the other shoe had finally dropped. “Marines, battle stations! This is not a drill!”

  TWELVE

  “WHY SEND A SCOUT?” Kichar asked suddenly.

  “They’ve warned us that they’re on their way in time for us to get ready for them. According to everything we’ve been taught, according to everything I’ve read, that makes no sense.”

  There was a moment’s silence in the second-floor room as the three remaining members of the team thought about that.

  “Maybe they’re taunting us,” Sakur suggested. He pulled his helmet off and his hair expanded out to surround his head in a pale pink halo. “Maybe there’s so much coming at us, it doesn’t matter that we know. We don’t stand a hurfil’s chance in sanLi of surviving.”

  “I don’t want to die on a training run,” Kichar muttered. “That’s just all kinds of wrong.”

  “I said maybe,” Sakur pointed out.

  “Maybe you should put your helmet on!” She leaned forward and peered down into the street, one hand splayed flat against the glass.

  “Is she still team leader?” Hisht asked Sakur quietly.

  The di’Taykan sighed as he replaced his helmet. “The gunny didn’t say different.”

  They had two windows in one of the second-floor rooms in the middle of the west wall, both about 1.3 meters from the floor and a little under a meter square. The lower section slid up and over the upper, the overlap barely visible until the window was opened. Both windows had been tested, opened and closed to make sure the cold or the Corps hadn’t messed up the simple track system. Sakur and Hisht were at one, Kichar at the other. Both windows were now closed.

  Bonninski had asked to carry the KC-9.

  “I don’t mind the extra weight, Gunny,” she’d pointed out, “and if we’re going to be shooting, I’d just as soon get the bigger bang for my buck.”

  Sakur, as the only di’Taykan in earshot, had made the obvious comment.

  “Didn’t seem that much bigger to me,” Bonninski had snorted.

  Torin had mentally compared Bonninski’s scores on the range to the rest of her team. Kichar’s were marginally higher, but Bonninski’s were high enough that her desire to carry the heavier weapon made up the difference. Maybe the H’san could turn shit into shine, but in her experience, heavy gunners were born, not made. She’d nodded and Hisht had traded the 9 for a 7.

  Standing on a broken footlocker in order to see out the window, Hisht used his sleeve to rub off the fogged circles built up by exhalations, thought of Bonninski on the roof, and was just as glad it wasn’t him. “The drones have been reprogrammed, that is right?”

  “That is right,” Sakur repeated agreeably.

  “Is their are changed or only their do?”

  Kichar leaned out to get a better look at Hisht while Sakur shook his head as though he was trying to jiggle the question into making some kind of sense. “That sounded like Federate,” he muttered.

  Hisht sighed. “Drones have been brought from all over this sector, perhaps this whole section, and are now programmed to attack us. This is right?”

  “Following you so far, big guy,” Sakur told him.

  “Some of those drones were once programmed to act like the enemy’s infantry. If we wound, they act wounded. Like we would be wounded if they hit us. I ask: are they still infantry or only drones? It’s harder to hurt machines.”

  “Is their are changed or only their do?” Kichar repeated, eyes wide. “That’s one damned good question.”

  * * *

  Torin thought so, too. The Others had taken the silly bugger part of Crucible to a whole new level. Layers within layers and each of them making her job more difficult. “McGuinty, you get that?”

  “Got it, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  She waited a moment, then prodded, “And?”

  “And . . . ? Oh. Did the Others change the core programming? I don’t know.”

  “Best guess, McGuinty.”

  “Uh, probably only their orders have been changed, but their core programming will remain the same. Unless that’s what took them so long to get here; the Others were changing the core programming. Except, I don’t think they did because that would be a stupid waste of time except that Hisht is right, it is harder to hurt machines, so it might be worth the trouble.”

  “So, basically, we’ll know when they get here.”

  “Sorry, Gunny.”
/>   “Hey, same old, same old.” Her tone was an audible eye roll designed to let her listeners know she was, at worst, mildly annoyed by the situation. “You never know what’s going to show up until it arrives.” Jiir and Annatahwee hadn’t seen combat since they’d made corporal and Major Svensson’s last meeting with the enemy had maxed out his tank time, which didn’t exactly inspire confidence in raw troops—the platoon would be taking their cues from her. If she lost it, the whole house of cards could come tumbling down. Fortunately, she had no intention of losing it; it would take too damned long to find it again, and she didn’t have that kind of time. “Stay sharp, people, and sing out the moment you’ve got a locked sighting.”

  The major had set up a command post in the admin office, using the glossy black surface of the inert desk as a mapping station. He’d sketched out the anchor and placed the teams. Torin frowned down at the desk.

  “You brought a soluble white marker, sir?”

  “Not me.” He grinned, the expression momentarily lifting the strain from his face. “Kichar. She’s been humping half a support base in her pack. If she wasn’t so stiff necked, she could be one hell of a black marketeer.”

  “The day is young, sir.” She glanced up at the wall behind him. “I see Iful got the window sealed.”

  Disassembling parts of the kitchen to secure the air lock’s outer door had given the ex-mechanic new perspective on the anchor’s construction, and after passing it a dozen times, he’d realized that the counter separating the outer lockup from the hall had been made from window panels.

  “Said you told him to do it first.”

  Fortunately, all the remaining windows on the first floor had the same profile, so no time had been lost sorting out which panel went where. Unfortunately, they all had to be sealed from the outside, and not even the di’Taykan were tall enough to set the panels without help. Three/two was still outside hauling a storage cube from window to window, closing up the north wall.

  “Didn’t want to chance you being taken out, sir.”