The Heart of Valour

by Tanya Huff

  “Already loaded, sir.”

  “Then let’s not keep them waiting. Dr. Sloan…”

  The doctor flicked the microphone back into the bud. “Ready. I’d like to do some tests in zero gee,” she said as she watched the major step carefully over the lip of the air lock. “Do you think they’d be willing to cut the gravity on the shuttle?”

  He turned just enough to flash a grin back over his shoulder. “I doubt they’ll be running the gravity.”

  “Good thing I got the optional mag soles, then.”

  Torin and the major glanced down at the doctor’s boots—mid-calf and the same blue as the jacket—and then up at each other. They were very nice looking boots.

  “Same outfitter’s catalog, Doc?”

  “I’m not sure, actually. I ordered from a number of them, and it’s easy to lose track when the packages start to arrive. But these boots…” She flashed a fond smile at her toes. “They’ve got environmental controls that go from one hundred down to forty below.”

  This meant the doctor’s feet would survive conditions the rest of her wouldn’t. As Torin followed her charges onto the shuttle, she wondered just what that outfitter’s catalog thought they were outfitting people for.

  As the only nonrecruits heading out to the Confederation Ship NirWentry, they had the shuttle’s forward compartment to themselves. Dr. Sloan took readings while the major allowed his left arm to float freely. Torin, sitting far enough away to give them the illusion of privacy, went over the information on the NirWentry’s Marine packet so that, when they arrived, she could settle Major Svensson and the doctor immediately into their quarters.

  Marine packets were infinitely adaptable to the needs of the Corps and as adaptable to the needs of the Navy as the Corps would allow. Attached to the transporting ship, the packets always had a small power plant for life support and at least one vacuum-to-atmosphere vehicle. If detached in battle, they could be towed to safety—although the term safety came with variable definitions. This trip, the configuration included two sets of platoon compartments with a shared common room, a compartment for the DIs, an upper compartment for the officers and aircrew of the VTA, and quarters with private hygiene units for her, the doctor, and Major Svensson.

  The equations for Ventris to Crucible had long been worked out and refined so they’d be spending only fifty-five hours, just under two days, in Susumi space. For a trip that short, there was only the one mess. Torin had no idea how Dr. Sloan felt about eating with a crowd of not-quite-trained Marines, but if she objected it would be easy enough to get her a place at the table with NirWentry’s medical staff.

  In Torin’s experience, the Navy ate well. With any luck, Major Svensson would be invited to dine in one of the wardrooms, leaving her to seek out old friends—or make new ones—among the chiefs and petty officers.

  At fifty-eight minutes out, the shuttle’s docking bell chimed.

  “So soon?” Dr. Sloan looked up from her slate, brow furrowed as the major slipped his hand under the strap on his seat’s arm, securing it for docking. “I could use another ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Gunny?”

  Was there a problem? “Sir.”

  “What do you think the odds are that they’d move the NirWentry to a berth farther from the station?”

  No, not a problem; just the major playing silly buggers. “Not good, sir.”

  “Sorry, Doc. Gunnery Sergeant Kerr says the odds aren’t good.”

  “Uh-huh. Gunny, how long will we be on board ship?”

  “Just under two days, Ma’am. Doctor.”

  “Two days.” Dr. Sloan smiled up at the major. “Try to remember that while I have access to the ship’s medical facilities, I could order an enema for you every hour on the hour.”

  In Torin’s professional opinion, that skirmish definitely went to the doctor.

  * * *

  Recruits were known to spend a lot of time thinking about Crucible—it loomed on the horizon of their first one hundred and twenty days and, after their return, they carried it triumphantly through their last ten. By the time they joined a unit or began their specialist training, they had so many other things to think about that Crucible became relegated to memory and was rarely dragged out for reexamination.

  The last few days aside, Torin hadn’t thought specifically about Crucible for over ten years. Fortunately, the desk in her quarters contained a full set of files on every possible training scenario as well as the nuts and bolts behind them. As the major still hadn’t told her which of the two platoons they’d be accompanying, she uploaded both assigned scenarios into her slate. And then, taking advantage of the opportunity, she uploaded the last dozen scenarios run. When she finally got back to Sh’quo Company, it would help to know just what exactly their newest Marines had been through, and it wouldn’t hurt to reinforce her rumored omniscience.

  Individual sectors within each scenario were run from a Combat Processing Node—a hidden computer that controlled the drones and other armaments thrown at the recruits while they were inside its area of influence. Mixing and matching sectors allowed for an impressive variety of scenarios and links to a fleet of observational satellites that kept each scenario under constant observation, which meant that CPN programming could be updated and adjusted to fit realities on the ground. Marines in the Orbital Platform in orbit around Crucible were plugged into both the ObSats and the CPNs and could stop a scenario if things got out of hand or do an emergency dustoff in the case of serious injury. As well, the CPNs could also be overruled from the ground at the discretion of the senior drill instructor.

  While Torin’s desk would mark the position of the CPNs within the scenario, it wouldn’t extend her clearance to a release of the control codes—leaving her unable to change or even access the programming should something go wrong. That seemed a lot like tempting fate to her.

  “Call me paranoid,” she muttered, slaving her slate to the desk and trying again. Torin didn’t actually mind being called paranoid—any state of mind that got her people home in one piece was a good thing in her book.

  The first three times she tried to access the codes, she was informed that they were issued to the senior DI only. If you are the senior DI for this scenario, input your identification number now.

  The fourth time she got a security flag and her desk went dead. Her ID was enough to get it to reboot, but her next attempt at the codes pulled up a screen informing her that any further attempts would result in her desk being cut off from the system.

  “I can’t get them either,” Major Svensson admitted when she pinged him to let him know. “And the system’s locked down tight. We should have dealt with this before we left the station.”

  She appreciated the we. It was a safety backup that should have occurred to her.

  “Don’t worry about it, Gunny,” he continued. “If anything happens to the senior DI that sets off his med-alert, his slate will automatically squirt the codes to any slate held by a corporal or above. We’re covered.”

  “You should at least have the codes for the Orbital Platform, sir.” And when she said you, she meant we.

  “I agree with you, Gunny. Unfortunately, the Corps doesn’t, and every point I’ve made in favor of one or both of us having them has been answered with a variation on codes are issued to the senior DI only. I suspect they want to make sure you and I don’t interfere in the running of the scenario.” He rubbed his regrown left hand over his brand-new face. “This is training, not combat—they may be afraid we’ll forget.”

  They had never been in combat if that was what they thought.

  * * *

  “What the fuk is the matter with you?” John Stone reached past Kichar and grabbed the salt. “I asked for this twice.”

  “Sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

  “She’s distracted by the presence of her one true love,” Sakur snorted, on the other side of the table. “The gunny,” he added when Stone frowned. “She can’t look awa
y.”

  The big Human half turned and peered toward the far end of the mess where the gunny, the major, and the doctor shared a table with the officers and crew off the VTA. “Weird eating in the same room with officers,” he grunted. “Weird suddenly realizing there are gods higher than the DIs.”

  As everyone in earshot looked unsettled, Kichar rolled her eyes. “The highest ranking DIs are staff sergeants, so we were bound to be spending time with higher ranks eventually.”

  Stone shook his head. “Yeah, but the DIs are…”

  “Training specialists. A Marine Corps career choice. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Sakur muttered. “They just spent 120 days teaching us to be in awe of their every utterance. Stone’s right. They are the gods of our small world.”

  “Our world is about to get bigger.”

  “Yeah, but they’re still the gods of Crucible,” Stone pointed out, forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Kichar snorted. “We respect them because of what they know, because of what they can teach us, but they’re not gods, they’re Marines. Marines like we’ll be.”

  “Oh, no.” Sakur peered across the mess at the group of DIs. “We will never be Marines like that. Well, you might,” he amended. “Given the stick up your ass. Which I’d be more than willing to replace with…”

  “Shut up.”

  * * *

  As the major’s aide, Torin accompanied Major Svensson and Dr. Sloan out of the Marine packet when the doctor insisted they needed to touch base with the medical personnel on the NirWentry.

  “The ability to grow polyhydroxide alcoholydes into accurate replacement bone would be invaluable to both branches of the military,” Dr. Sloan pointed out when the major protested and then added in a tone that suggested he stop being such a baby about it: “They just want to scan you—not do a vivisection.”

  Torin could understand his reluctance. If she’d just been sprung from Med-op after nearly two years, she wouldn’t be happy going back in either. She couldn’t see why he’d need an aide, but she understood not wanting to leave the packet without backup. If nothing else, the doctor wouldn’t be able to pick him up if his legs gave out, and no Marine, given a choice, would trust a sailor to stand them right side up.

  On the other side of the packet’s air lock, the bulkheads changed to Navy gray.

  Both implants chimed as the NirWentry’s sysop picked them up, but the ship’s security went to full audio when the grid registered a third body without identification. “You are now on board the CS NirWentry. Personnel without implants identify themselves to the ship, stating name and rank.”

  Dr. Sloan rolled her eyes. “Kathleen Sloan. Doctor. Civilian.” She stressed the final word.

  “Destination?”

  “Sick bay. Dr. Weer is expecting us.”

  “Dr. Sloan, you are cleared to proceed. Advance to the end of this passage. Turn right. Continue along the new passage until you reach a vertical on your left. Take this vertical to Level 9. Turn left as you exit. The medical unit is at the end of that passage. You will be able to see it from the vertical.”

  “I can never decide if they’re being helpful or patronizing,” she muttered as they walked to the end of the passage as instructed.

  “Patronizing,” Major Svensson declared. “Gunny?”

  “It’s a Navy thing, sir.” She’d heard a Marine pilot once explain that it originated from the Navy’s vacuum jockeys not being able to find their asses without both hands and a homing beacon, but that wasn’t something she could repeat in her current company.

  From the hatch to vertical was the longest distance she’d seen the major walk; he seemed to be having no visible difficulties, but surrounded by Navy, it was unlikely he’d let any show.

  He stumbled but made a quick recovery as they left the vertical on level nine.

  Not quick enough for Dr. Sloan to miss. “You should have brought your cane.”

  “You said I didn’t need it anymore.”

  “You convinced me you didn’t need it anymore. Not quite the same thing.”

  Once in sick bay, an officious medical yeoman told Torin to take a chair while Dr. Weer—who’d clearly been restraining himself from meeting them at the air lock—escorted Major Svensson and Dr. Sloan to the exam room where he’d do the scans.

  The major glared Dr. Weer’s hand off his elbow. “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr goes where I go.”

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr will be in the way,” Dr. Sloan pointed out before Dr. Weer or the yeoman could respond. She wrapped her fingers around the major’s arm and gave it a little shake, as though daring him to protest her touch. “You’ll be in and out faster if Dr. Weer doesn’t have to maneuver around her.”

  “Faster, eh?” He clearly liked the sound of that. “How long should this take, Doc?”

  NirWentry’s CMO shrugged, nose ridges flaring. “An hour. No more.”

  “Fine.” Major Svensson locked his eyes on Torin’s face. “If I’m not out in an hour, Gunny, I want you riding to the rescue.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He meant it. So did she.

  * * *

  “Staff Sergeant Kerr?” When she looked up from her slate, the petty officer, who’d just walked into the compartment, grinned. “Sorry, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

  It took Torin only a moment to place her; she’d been one of the Berganitan’s riggers on the trip out to Big Yellow. “Petty Officer Tristir. What are you doing off the Berganitan?”

  Tristir shrugged and, when Torin nodded, sat—in the same ugly, uncomfortable orange chairs they had back in Ventris Med-op. “Well, after our last little adventure with impact and the conservation of energy,” the rigger snorted, “the Berg’s in for some extensive repairs. While she’s in dock, the most recent crew in got moved out to other ships. I’m rigging for Dark Matter Squadron now—it’s a great crew, but I miss Chief Graham and all, so I’m in for going back as soon the Berg needs me.”

  “What happened to your foot?”

  The petty officer stretched out her leg and gingerly flexed long, opposable toes, the series of blisters across her instep sliding up and down with the motion. “Pilot error. Rookie L.T. brought his Jade in a little hot.”

  “As in burning?”

  “As in melt a piece of the docking mech and spray hot metal across the bay.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” She leaned back with a sigh. “So, what are you doing here, Gunny? I thought we had a load of recruits for Crucible. You’re not DI-ing now?”

  “No.” Torin could truthfully say that becoming a drill instructor had never occurred to her. “I’m a temporary aide to Major Svensson.”

  “The brain that got tanked?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, at least you’re working with an officer you know has a brain.”

  “I take comfort in the thought.” She was starting to think that if she got a credit for every time she heard a variation on that theme, she’d be able to take an early retirement. “Have you heard how Lieutenant Shylin is?” The lieutenant had been ejected by her pilot, Commander Lance Sibley, just before he flew his Jade down the throat of an enemy ship, his death saving the lives of those Marines who’d survived Big Yellow. Tristir had been one of the riggers for the lieutenant’s squadron.

  “I heard pysch’s still watching her really closely. She’s still talking kind of crazy.” The Krai rigger stared down at her feet. “di’Taykan don’t react well to that kind of isolation.”

  Torin couldn’t see anyone reacting well to floating in hard vacuum surrounded by half a Jade with minimum air and no control over position, but vacuum jockeys were a breed apart and, as far as she could see, a whole, working Jade provided only a difference in degree. At least ejected compartments came with a BFFM beacon.

  They sat silently for a few moments, then Tristir said quietly, “That was quite the trip, wasn’t it, Gunny?”


  “It was.”

  “You, uh…” She dropped her voice even though the yeoman at the desk had been pointedly ignoring them both. “…you ever wonder where that serley thing was from?”

  “I’ve done a bit of wondering.” Torin spent half a second weighing her options and then figured what the hell; when the universe dropped an opportunity in a person’s lap, that person was a fool if they didn’t pick it up. “These days,” she continued, stretching out her legs and looking a lot more relaxed than she felt, “I’ve mostly been wondering what happened to the escape pod. Commander Sibley did some fancy flying to drop it into that shuttle bay.”

  “Escape pod? What…”

  “You didn’t hear about it?” She didn’t know about it. Torin recognized the expression—she should, she’d been seeing it enough. Crossing her feet at the ankles, Torin pushed no big deal with her posture; the last thing she wanted now was for the petty officer to mention to one of her officers that Gunnery Sergeant Kerr was asking about nonexistent, highly classified escape pods. “No surprise. You were up to your ass in repairs trying to keep your squadron flying.”

  They talked in general terms about the fight; Torin’d had a closer look at the Black Star Squadron in action than she ever wanted to have again. When Tristir was finally called in to have her foot tended, Torin pulled out her slate.

  There was no way in hell Petty Officer Tristir wouldn’t have known about the escape pod, not when one of her Jades had been responsible for bouncing it into the shuttle bay. Granted, she might have been too busy to have thought much about it when it arrived, but after the fight, on the way home in the boredom of Susumi space, the whole ship would have been talking about carrying one of Big Yellow’s escape pods, and survivors of Black Star Squadron would have been distinctly proprietary about it, especially given the way Commander Sibley had died.

  Therefore, logically, Petty Officer Tristir had to have known about it. And now she didn’t.

  Torin remembered.

  Craig Ryder remembered.

  Why?

  What did they have in common that everyone else involved in the mission didn’t?

  What else besides the obvious?