by Tanya Huff
* * *
“But Staff Sergeant Beyhn is qui!”
“I’m going to shoot the next Marine who says that.” She almost meant it, too. “Look, we have a Marine with a medical condition—you six are the only Marines in the platoon qualified to help. I’m asking for a volunteer to do what’s necessary to keep the staff sergeant alive.”
The presence of the six female di’Taykan around his bedroll had stopped the staff sergeant’s numbers from spiking, but they were still climbing steadily, and some had already crossed into the red. Masayo seemed to be praying—no big surprise—but the others looked like they were considering the possibility and given where their eyes were tracking, the staff sergeant seemed to be making a case for their participation all on his own. The di’Taykan were, if nothing else, predictable in their response to a . . .
Challenge.
She had a sudden memory of Haysole surrounded by Silsviss.
“You know, it just occurred to me. No di’Taykan has ever had sex with a qui’Taykan before—you guys can’t have a lot of new frontiers left.”
Six pairs of eyes lightened speculatively.
“Well, there’s the H’san,” Lirit murmured, sketching something—Torin neither knew nor wanted to know what—in the air.
“Prize money for that keeps going up,” Kirassai agreed.
But the taboo seemed to be holding, and the staff sergeant was running out of time. His numbers were . . .
Numbers.
When a new species was introduced to the Corps, the brass made sure there were minimum numbers in every single category, enough to create a support system and allow functioning under new and occasionally terrifying conditions. Torin had hoped to send the other five Marines back to their positions, but that no longer seemed possible.
She sighed, hoping she sounded like she was tired of the whole situation—not exactly a stretch. “Fine, since nothing seems to be shooting at us right now, why don’t you all pick up the staff sergeant’s bedroll and carry him carefully into the kitchen, close the doors, and make up your minds there.”
“He is our DI,” Lirit said thoughtfully. “That’s got to be as close as a thytrin bond.”
“We’d be saving his life.” Ayumi’s hair had begun to move at the same speed as the staff sergeant’s.
“Or you could just stand around and talk about it about it,” Torin snorted.
Kaimi glanced around at the other five, picked up a signal invisible to a non di’Taykan, and nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Keep an eye on his stats,” Torin warned them, handing Ononan Dr. Sloan’s slate. “And keep the noise down,” she added as, three to a side, they picked up the bedroll and headed for the kitchen. “There are Marines in this room trying to convalesce.”
“Gunny?”
She turned to see Flint nod down at Major Svensson. Since he didn’t seem panicked, she assumed the major had woken up. When she got closer and saw the sliver of pale gray between his lashes, she realized this was, indeed, the case. The question became: How long had he been awake?
“Don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone having to talk a di’Taykan into having sex before, Gunny. This’ll be one for the record books.”
That long.
Although his skin didn’t have a lot more color in it than his eyes, he managed most of a grin as he added. “There’ll probably be another Bronze Cluster in it for you.”
“Yes, sir.” She paused just long enough to make her point and added. “Need your painkillers adjusted, sir?”
He laughed then, a harsh dry sound in the back of his throat.
Suggesting Flint go check on Vega, Torin eased herself down to the floor beside the major, popped the lid, and handed him his canteen. An arm behind his shoulders lifted him enough to drink. When he passed the canteen back, she lowered him gently back to the bedroll.
“I won’t break if you drop me, Gunny.”
“I’d rather not prove that wrong, sir.”
“How’s the leg?”
She glared down the length of her stiffened combats toward her boot. “Awkward. Annoying. Pretty much as expected, sir.” Turning slightly, she nodded toward the stump of his arm—the sealant had shown no gray since the last of the aliens had been removed. “It seems as though you’re free of alien life-forms.”
“Glad to hear it. So . . .” He settled his shoulders against the padding and wrestled his focus onto her face. “. . . bring me up to speed, Gunnery Sergeant.”
No point in mentioning that his speed was barely above a full stop. “Yes, sir. Private McGuinty is recreating the uplink used to control the drones . . .”
Major Svensson rolled his head left until he could see McGuinty tucked into a far corner of the common room working in a circle of light.
“. . . Iful is further cannibalizing the desk to give the Big Yellow aliens a voice. The tank has stopped firing at us, which is good news, but now we don’t have a location for it, which is bad. It did some damage to the second floor but nothing too serious, and no one was hit. One/one and one/two have been moved back to the west wall but we’re staying off the roof for the time being. All tech except for the PCUs is still off-line. The situation with the rest of the drones has not changed. And six Marines are using sex to stabilize Staff Sergeant Beyhn.”
Pale brows rose. “So, basically, another glorious day in the Corps?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the aliens are . . . ?”
“Still in the body bag with your severed arm, sir.”
They turned together to look. The lump of the arm was obvious, the aliens not so much.
The major took a moment to breathe—in, out, in again—before saying, “That’s a little gruesome, Gunny.”
“It doesn’t seem to be bothering them, sir. Also the Krai have offered to eat your arm should the need arise, but the need would have to be dire and I’m not sure we want to encourage that kind of behavior.”
“I’m damned sure we don’t,” he muttered, eyes closing again.
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“What the hell . . . ?” Back against the wall under the window, Stone frowned at the rounds smacking into the upper third of the back wall of the anchor’s fake barracks. They made ugly holes and an uglier sound and no sense at all.
“Why are we taking fire?” Carson whined, cradling her KC-7 against her chest. “It’s not like they can hit us, it’s just annoying.”
“What do you think, Jonin?” The di’Taykan had been quiet since coming back from talking with the gunny, and Stone was starting to get a bit concerned in an I hope I don’t have to smack him upside the head again kind of way.
Jonin pulled off his helmet, his hair spreading out in a cobalt-blue aurora. “I think the same thing you do. They’re trying to keep our heads down.”
Carson snorted. “Working.”
“If they’re trying to keep our heads down, you se ckenen ton ivernin, there’s something they don’t want us to see.”
“Hey!” She jabbed him with an elbow. “If you’re going to insult me, do it in Federate.”
Eyes light, Jonin smiled. “Fine, you’re . . .”
“Play nice, kids.” Stone figured if he had to, he’d just knock their heads together and, without the buffer of Vega between them, their stubborn skulls connecting would make a very satisfying sound. He yawned against the back of his hand. “Should we tell the sergeant?”
All three of them leaned out enough to get a look at Sergeant Jiir at the other end of the room.
“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Stone asked.
Jonin shrugged one shoulder. “You think he’s taking off his combats, so he can look out the window without being shot?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I don’t think it’ll help. The drones aren’t actually aiming. He’s just as likely to take a stray round if he strips naked.”
“And thank you for that image.”
“Well, I think he’s fukking
nuts,” Carson snorted, settling back against the wall.
* * *
It was darker outside than Jiir’d expected. Sunset came early in this hemisphere at this time of the year, and a gentle curtain of soft white snow helped reduce the visibility. Fifty meters, tops, and he doubted a Human or di’Taykan could see even that far. Krai vision had evolved to deal with shifting patterns.
He spotted movement between the buildings. Drones from the west and east, moving in on the south.
“Fukking ablin gon savit, serley chirka!” A round scored the edge of his jaw. The angle too shallow for penetration, it skittered along the heavy bone and continued over his shoulder. Slammed around, he dropped to the floor and scrambled for his sealant, still swearing in all three languages.
“Sergeant!”
Palssan’s voice. Probably Palssan trying to move his head.
“Don’t get your fingers near his mouth!”
One of the Humans. Probably Leford. Same fireteam.
He shoved Palssan away and, as the sealant hit the wound, numbing it, he blinked himself back to a more immediate awareness of his surroundings. There were still rounds hitting the upper third of the back wall, and all eight Marines in the room seemed to be staring at him.
“What?” he demanded.
“You were hit, Sergeant Jiir!”
“Well, that explains why my serley jaw fukking hurts,” he snapped, shrugging his combats up over his shoulders and reaching for his vest. “I’m heading downstairs to talk to the Gunny. Stone, you’re in charge. Jonin, get your serley helmet on!”
* * *
“. . . and maybe half the drones that were attacking the east and west walls are changing positions, moving south.”
Leaning against the wall by the air lock, Torin pushed a hand back through sweaty hair. Assuming their programming didn’t include doing dumb ass things for the hell of it, there could be only one reason the drones would be shifting their numbers. “Any sign of the tank?”
Jiir snorted; he’d clearly been thinking the same thing. “Not yet, Gunny, but it’s nearly dark and starting to snow again. The tank’ll be at the door before we can see it.”
“Odds are good that’s where it’s heading,” Annatahwee muttered. “Two, maybe three shots on that door, and we’re wide open. How do you figure it knows?”
“Knows where the door is?” Torin shrugged. “Maybe the drones told it. You guys said they had basic self-programming. Maybe it got enough intell off its targeting scans to identify the building. Doesn’t matter.”
“So we’re screwed.”
Torin ignored Annatahwee’s matter-of-fact observation—accurate though it may have been. “It shows up before McGuinty’s fixed that uplink, we ignore the drones—unless the little fukkers have figured out how to fly, they can’t get to us—and throw everything we have left at that tank to buy him more time. It’ll be close enough the 9s can do damage and a few well-placed grenades could throw the targeting off.”
Both sergeants stared at her, their expressions close to identical in the dim light.
“Okay,” she admitted, “they’d have to be very well-placed grenades.”
“If it’s aiming at the door, it won’t be aiming at the roof,” Jiir pointed out. “And because it has the tech blocker mounted, it won’t be carrying a top gun.”
“Good. We’ll put weapons on the roof the moment it’s up close and personal.”
“Not what I meant.” He leaned in, dropping his voice slightly. “We do what we did to salvage the flier. I climb down a rope in my bodyliner with all the grenades we have left.”
“While the drones are firing randomly to keep our heads down?” Torin nodded toward the gouge along his jaw. “How’s that been working out for you so far? And you even think about throwing me some ‘good of the many outweighs the needs of the one’ bullshit, and I’ll flatten you.”
“Gunny . . .”
“Yeah, okay, fine. It’s a plan. It’s not a good plan, but it’s a plan. Hold it in reserve.” She yawned and pushed off the wall. “You two make sure the 9s are ready to move to the roof the instant they hear the word. I’ll check on McGuinty.”
Annatahwee jerked her head toward the north end of the anchor and kitchen. “What about the recruits in with Staff Sergeant Beyhn?”
“Go tell them they’ve got ninety seconds to finish up, then they’re to move the staff sergeant back to the infirmary and check with you for duty stations.”
“Why me?”
Torin grinned. “You brought it up, Sergeant.”
“Why ninety seconds?” Jiir wondered as Annatahwee rolled her eyes and headed down the hall.
“It’s SOP for di’Taykan in the field.”
“Leave it to the di’Taykan to have standard operating procedures for sex.”
“Are you kidding?” Torin snorted. “They have combat positions. Get a couple of teams building a barricade out of the packs—half circle from there . . .” She pointed. “. . . to here. If we don’t stop the tank in time, we may be able to bottleneck the drones and hold them a little longer.”
* * *
“Soon, Gunny,” McGuinty grunted without looking up from the screen.
Torin translated that as sooner if you’ll go away and stop interrupting. Bad leg out behind her, she bent and picked up his canteen. Still mostly full. “I told you to drink this.”
“I was working.” His skin had picked up a greenish tint, and he wasn’t so much blinking as maintaining a constant up-and-down motion of his eyelids.
“I don’t give a H’san’s ass what you were doing.” Her tone snapped his gaze up off the screen. “If I tell you to do something, you do it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
“So drink the damned water.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
She watched him take three small swallows, then turned as the door in the far end of the common room opened and the di’Taykan emerged, the six of them once again carrying the sergeant’s bedroll. “Keep drinking,” she snapped, and started across the room.
They were setting the bedroll back in its previous position when she reached them. As an observation that the staff sergeant seemed limp would no doubt be taken entirely the wrong way, she merely bent and checked his pulse.
“He’s asleep?”
“Well, there were six of us, Gunny,” Ayumi pointed out.
“And he’s old,” Lirit added.
“He’s asleep,” Flint agreed, standing at the end of the bedroll and poking a finger at the doctor’s slate. “His temperature’s low, but all his other stats are back to normal.”
“So it wor . . .”
“Gunny! Tank’s approaching the open area to the south!”
“Roger, Sergeant. Get lights and weapons on the roof! You six, duty stations! Move! And put your Goddamned helmets on!” she added as all six took a look at the packs stacked waist high between the common room and the hall and pounded back the way they’d come, heading for the stairs. “Should fukking record that and just loop it through their heads,” she muttered, grabbing the bedroll by Beyhn’s head. “Flint, help me carry him back into the kitchen.”
It was the farthest point from the door. And the tank. She should have had him left there.
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant. Your leg . . .”
“Not the time to get on me about lifting with my back, Flint. Stevens, Bynum, throw your good arms under Vega and get her in there, too.”
“Gunny, we can . . .”
“You can go down fighting if the drones get that far. Until then, move!”
* * *
Bonninski squinted through her sights, the bulk of the tank just visible between the buildings. They had maybe ten minutes before it maneuvered itself around to get a clear shot. “Sergeant, without the scanners, how are we supposed to hit anything crippling?”
“We’re taking out the targeting array.”
“Sergeant, we can’t see the targeting array!”
&
nbsp; “This is where you prove you were paying attention to the lectures on artillery specs, Bonninski. You see the tank?”
She blinked a large snowflake off her lashes. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“Well, you should know serley well where the targeting array is without having to see it, shouldn’t you? Ready 9s! Fire!”
* * *
The major safely stowed in the kitchen, Torin and Flint headed for McGuinty.
His eyes were closed, one hand lying palm up at his side, the other still clutching the major’s slate.
Flint dropped and pushed two fingers carefully against the skin at the edge of the seal on his throat. “He’s under, Gunny.”
“I can see that.” She kicked the canteen. Still mostly full. If they survived this, she was going to have words with Private McGuinty.
“Gunny!”
She turned to see Iful gracefully leap the waist high barricade of stacked packs.
“I think I’ve got something that’ll work. For the aliens,” he added when she stared at him a moment too long.
* * *
“Sevens, don’t waste ammo on drones you can’t see!” Annatahwee’s voice cracked out over the Group Channel. “If they get into the anchor, we’ll need every round.”
* * *
Taking the cobbled-together voice box from Iful, Torin tossed him her slate and snapped, “Record this!” as she bent to open the body bag. The seal had barely cracked when the aliens surged out and then back again through the larger opening, like fluid under pressure. Setting the bits of electrical flotsam down, she snatched her hand back as they engulfed it.
Not the time to wonder if they could hear her. “Tell us how to turn the drones off!”
“That’s a speaker,” Iful whispered as the gray blob rearranged itself.
“Still. Collecting. Data.”
The voice reminded Torin of an ancient midi file at one of the precontact museums. Then, almost too fast to see, the bag held a small jumble of assorted electronics, a severed arm, and . . .
