The Heart of Valor

by Huff, Tanya

  “No, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “You’re damned lucky you weren’t ordered to watch McGuinty’s back, Private, because then we’d be talking about more than an error in judgment.” And one just as likely to be made under the same circumstances by Marines a lot less raw, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “What is the best time for the enemy to infiltrate an encampment?” She whipped the question at him hard enough to hurt.

  “When the functioning of the camp has been disturbed by a diversion either presented or taken advantage of, sir!” His nose ridges opened and closed. “I mean, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Right out of the book. Try to remember it next time.” Moving up beside him, she crouched and swept her light over the ground. The snow around the node had been alternately churned up and packed flat by half a dozen sets of boots before she’d put Piroj on guard. “I hope you haven’t let anyone disturb the site, Private, because that was an order.”

  “No, Gunnery Sergeant. I mean, no one has disturbed the site.”

  Not that it mattered. She had as much hope of finding an enemy track in that mess as the teams out circling the camp looking for access tracks did. The hunt for Staff Sergeant Beyhn had provided the perfect cover. Straightening, she switched her attention to the remains of the CPN. Given the pattern of the debris, it had obviously been destroyed from within. A self-destruct to prevent recruits from messing with their scenarios? Turning components and housing to slag seemed excessive.

  “Private Piroj, I am now giving you an order to watch McGuinty’s back.” The packed snow immediately in front of the node where no slag had spattered marked where McGuinty had fallen. “He’s still our best bet at regaining control of the system, and nothing gets in the way of that. He doesn’t take a crap without supervision. Understand?”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Good.” Stepping back, she caught his gaze again and didn’t let hers soften although her voice was kinder when she said, “Dr. Sloan says McGuinty’ll be fine by morning. No lasting damage done. He’s already asleep, so you might as well be, too. Go.”

  “Nothing. No tracks; no signs of any kind.” Sergeant Annatahwee smothered a yawn with the back of her fist. “No surprise. We made a mess of the perimeter searching for the staff sergeant and if the Others made it to the ridge, well, there’s a lot of bare rock. If we had a scout—hell, if we had something besides a platoon of greenies . . .” No need to define how they could use a scout. They all knew.

  “And we have no idea of what we’re looking for,” Sergeant Jiir put in, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked fidgety, but it was more likely a psychological reaction to the cold—movement equaled warmth even when environmental controls did the actual warming. “The Others have put fourteen species in uniform and for all we know, this group that infiltrated Crucible could be a fifteenth.”

  Torin nodded because neither sergeant had said anything she disagreed with. “The sammy that took down the OP, that didn’t go up from our immediate neighborhood. Same hemisphere, sure, but not so close we needed to be expecting callers.”

  “They must’ve known someone was fukking with their programming. All they had to do was use the observational satellites to see who was standing by the CPN being fukked with,” Jiir muttered into the neck of his bodyliner.

  “But a physical attack makes no sense when they’re so far away. And there’s another three training platoons down here, with their senior DIs still in charge. They must be trying to access the nodes as well.”

  “Then maybe one of the Others got bored with surveillance and was sent out for some one-on-one shit disturbing before they caused trouble at the base.”

  “But why sent to us?”

  Jiir shrugged, a Human motion the Krai had picked up. “Why not? One in four chance, those are pretty good odds.”

  “Not so good as all that,” Annatahwee corrected.

  “There’s always armored and artillery down here. And R&D has a couple of setups, too, though I don’t know if they’re dirtside now.”

  “Then there’ll be a ship back before the NirWentry?” The moment the Navy cleared Susumi space and discovered the Orbital Platform had been destroyed, the Others still dirtside would have no chance to run. With the system free of the enemy’s ships, the Navy would have no distractions to keep them from finding the Others, even with a whole planet to search. Torin wondered if she could swing a posting on the team sent in to take the nest of Others out.

  “Sorry, Gunny,” Annatahwee broke into her thoughts, “but the NirWentry’s got transport duty all to herself. Back every eight days, like clockwork. Sometimes it’s just us; sometimes we’ve got a whole artillery company packaged up with us.”

  “Sergeant, if you know where you can get us a whole artillery company . . .”

  “If they’re dirtside, they’re not even in this hemisphere, Gunny. They’ve got this massive desert just below the equator that they practice blowing up.”

  “So given the size of the planet and the number of Marines scattered across it, we’re looking at ridiculously long odds when we consider that the Others chose our camp to dance into when they were nowhere near us a little better than twenty-seven hours ago.”

  Jiir frowned up at her. “So what are you saying, Gunny?”

  “These recruits had lives before they became Marines.”

  If the Elder Races could wipe out the memory of Big Yellow’s escape pod, they could fake a past for a recruit and get it through the Corps security. Which hadn’t been what Dr. Sloan’d meant, but that didn’t make her observation any less relevant. And there was nothing to say they hadn’t set this operation up years ago; Annatahwee and Jiir could as easily be compromised as any of the recruits. Hell, even Beyhn wasn’t off the hook. His conditioning could have been what drove him up onto his feet. He could have doubled back and taken out McGuinty and the node while the di’Taykan were searching the woods for him. Major Svensson? Dr. Sloan? Unlikely, but given that she was considering an Elder Races mind fuk on a galactic scale, the line leading to unlikely had already been crossed.

  “Gunny?”

  She forced both hands to unclench. “Just thinking about ridiculously long odds, Sergeant.” Get her people to safety, take out whoever tried to stop them— conspiracy theories weren’t going to be much help. “Sunrise is at 0711. Get them up at 0530. We’ve got just over eleven hours of daylight, and I want us moving the moment there’s enough light to keep the stretcher bearers from breaking an ankle.”

  “One/two is scouting tomorrow. Will you be going out with them?”

  “As it stands right now.” And all three turned toward the shelter where Major Svensson slept. “Makes more sense than sending them alone,” Torin continued.

  “They’re short one.”

  Torin touched her vest. “I know.”

  “Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Dr. Sloan.” Torin handed the doctor the pouch of coffee she’d just opened for herself and pulled another one out of the kit. She’d seen the camp locked down, then grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep, years of practice getting her out of her bedroll and then out of the shelter at 0515. The air had started to lose a bit of its bite and was so still she half wished she’d gotten up earlier to enjoy the peace a little longer. No birds or animals stirred, no breeze rubbed branches or rustled evergreen needles; the only sound she could hear was the faint, rhythmic creak of a sentry’s boots against the packed snow and that was more a comfort than an intrusion.

  Dr. Sloan settled beside her on the rock, swallowed, and sighed. “Nice morning,” she said after a minute. “When can we expect the fireworks?”

  “Hard to say. With the CPN destroyed, the drones it controls are either inoperative or locked into their last commands unless the Others managed to reprogram before the destruction, in which case they could attack at any time.”

  “Either. Or. Unless.” The doctor shook her head. “So you have no idea?”

  “I know there’s nothing showi
ng on my scanner.” Torin savored her first mouthful of coffee.

  “Small mercies,” the doctor muttered, then added in what Torin had come to recognize was her professional tone, “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Enough. You?”

  “Enough.” She cocked an eyebrow as Torin gave a disbelieving grunt. “It may interest you to know, Gunny, that your profession is not the only one capable of functioning through high stress, life-and-death situations with little sleep.”

  It seemed safer to murmur an apology than to mentionthat few life-or-death situations were low stress. “Staff Sergeant Beyhn?”

  “Back to yesterday’s semiconsciousness, occasionally seizing delirium.”

  Tucking her coffee pouch into its pocket on her vest, Torin pulled out her slate. “Ashlan’s stats are reading near normal.”

  Dr. Sloan glanced down at the screen and snorted. “Normal post-concussion; no blood vessels torn, but no guarantee there won’t be problems later. I’d rather he wasn’t about to exert himself.”

  “It’s a fast twenty-six kilometer hump in full pack over rough terrain with the possibility of enemy action,” Torin told her blandly. “That’s hardly exertion for a Marine.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing he hit his head.” She nodded at the slate. “Have you got everyone’s stats in there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I can’t access them unless their med-alerts go off.”

  “Because that would be invasion of privacy?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “What does it say about Major Svensson?”

  “Major Svensson’s alert never went off.”

  “So by Marine Corps standards his pain wasn’t debilitating enough?” She turned her attention to her coffee so deliberately she was clearly buying time to calm down.

  Torin returned to her own coffee. The odds were good that because the major’s pain hadn’t been caused by trauma the med-alert hadn’t recognized it—headaches were considered ignorable and brain aneurisms fatal. It was possible the program needed a little tweaking in the middle ranges.

  “Does the military even have a position between going all out and casualty?” Dr. Sloan wondered—her thoughts apparently having been following the same paths.

  “Yes, ma’am. We in the Corps refer to that position as being in the Navy. If you want to check on the major while he’s still lying down,” she added, glancing down at her sleeve, “you’ve got less than a minute to get into the shelter before he’s on his feet requiring a coffee and a Sitrep.”

  “You’d be surprised at what I can accomplish in less than a minute, Gunnery Sergeant.” Tucking her coffee into an inner pocket, she strode toward the shelter and disappeared inside.

  As Marines began emerging and the camp took on the appearance of a somewhat ghostly anthill in the pale predawn light, Torin grinned to hear the major’s voice rise loud and clear over the ambient noise.

  “For pity’s sake, Doc, can I deal with my bladder before you start messing with my head?”

  He was fine. And he’d just let the camp know it.

  “Staff Sergeant? Can you hear me?” Jonin slid his arm behind the staff sergeant’s shoulders and lifted him until he was supported against his chest. His eyes closed and his hair still, the older male twitched and shuddered and turned to drive his head against Jonin’s chest so hard that his vest had to absorb part of the impact.

  “You okay?” Sakur asked as Jonin grunted.

  “Fine.” He shifted just enough to move the staff sergeant’s elbow out of his crotch—two maskers cranked up full couldn’t prevent a response, not with physical contact in the equation. “Give me the pouch.”

  Sakur passed it over, then took one of the staff sergeant’s hands between both of his and gently rubbed the chilled skin, murmuring soft words of comfort in a Taykan dialect Jonin didn’t know although he found the cadence of home soothing.

  “Staff Sergeant Beyhn, you have to eat.” Slipping the nipple between slack lips, he squeezed some of the nutrient up out of the pouch. “Please, comti.” Maybe it was the old endearment, one his sheshan had used to him when he was small, maybe it was nothing more than hunger induced by the taste of the paste, but the staff sergeant began to suck and swallow, one hand working the fabric over Jonin’s thigh, rhythmically crushing and releasing his combats.

  “Should his face be so flushed?” Sakur wondered quietly.

  “I don’t know.” He kept telling them he didn’t know, but falling back on Taykan hierarchy was a comfort in uncertain times. Unless you’re the one fallen on. “Careful, comti,” he murmured, lips against the staff sergeant’s hair. “Not so fast.”

  “You think he took damage last night?”

  “The doctor says no.”

  “We should’ve found him sooner.”

  “He’s not helpless. He remembers what it is to be a Marine, or we would have found him sooner.” But the words warred against the thought of qui out alone in the woods, unprotected, and the memory ached.

  Not the only thing aching.

  Pouch emptied, Jonin gently lowered Staff Sergeant Beyhn back down on the stretcher. “Let Ayumi know we’re coming out,” he told Sakur as he secured the straps. He heard a low murmur at the entrance to the shelter and turned to see a wide open triangle, the fabric of the shelter framing legs and boots and snow.

  Given his condition, it was awkward guiding the stretcher out into the predawn light and from the careful way Sakur moved, he seemed equally affected.

  Ayumi, every light receptor open, the dark green of her eyes nearly black, took the handles of the stretcher from him as they cleared the shelter, took one look at him as he straightened and shook her head. “You’re going to have to do something about that before we move out.”

  “No shit,” Sakur snorted. He jerked his head down the gully toward a clump of evergreen bushes. “Jonin?”

  The staff sergeant’s pheromones weren’t as overpowering out in the open, the cold air aiding the maskers, but that was irrelevant really because twenty minutes of close, closed-in contact had left him nearly keening with need. His only answer was to start for the bushes. Raw and open, he could sense every di’Taykan in the camp although that eased a little when Sakur fell into step beside him and his arousal blanketed the awareness of the others.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Sergeant Annatahwee stepped in front of the two di’Taykan, halting their progress toward the edge of the camp. “We’re moving out in fifteen. Do not tell me you’re taking the time for a quickie.”

  “We were in with Staff Sergeant Beyhn,” Jonin began. “Two maskers aren’t enough to . . .”

  She held up a hand to cut him off, a sudden flush of heat defining the problem for her. “Yeah. I get it. And you’re working yours overtime, too.” A glance down and she shook her head. Given they were wearing bodyliners under their combats that had to be painful. “Fine. Go. But make it fast!”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “You could come with, Sergeant,” Sakur suggested as they passed.

  “You could hump that along with your pack if you don’t move it,” she snapped, barely resisting the urge to follow. “And put your Goddamned helmets on!”

  McGuinty peered into the melted interior of the node then straightened and shrugged. “Massive power surge?”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “No, Gunnery Sergeant!” He flushed, picked at a bit of plastic until it came off in his hand, stared at its sharp edges for a moment, and shoved it into a pocket on his combat vest. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  “Nice that something does,” Torin muttered.

  “I feel fine,” Ashlan protested, sitting on the indicated stump and frowning as Dr. Sloan held her slate to his temple.

  “Uh-huh. Your hair’s not moving.” She flicked it with her fingertips, and it fell to lie inert against his skull. When she flicked it again, he shuffled just enough sideways on the stump that he could rub his shoulder against
her. “Not an invitation,” she sighed.

  “Half a platoon of hysterical di’Taykan running around the woods is a little fuzzy, which is probably a good thing for all concerned, but I remember the rest.” Major Svensson looked up from tightening the straps of his pack and caught Torin’s eye. “It’s long odds that the Others are playing personally with us given they’ve got the whole planet to cover.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Long, but better than the alternative.”

  Interesting emphasis on the last word. Torin thought back to their conversation in the gym and wondered if the major believed the Elder Races had placed a saboteur in the Corps. Or, because the possibility made her so furious, was she reading more into his tone than was there?

  “Is there any chance Staff Sergeant Beyhn, not being in his right mind—or at least his usual mind—is responsible for what happened at the node?”

  “I’m not ruling anyone out, sir.”

  “From now on, no one goes anywhere alone. Tell the sergeants it’s for the troops’ own safety—which has the added benefit of being the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So . . .” He straightened and grinned. “When you say you haven’t ruled anyone out, are you on your list, Gunny?”

  She returned the grin and pretended she didn’t notice the way his left hand was trembling. “That would be ridiculous, sir.”

  “Gunny?”

  “Private Cho.” Torin moved out and around rather than under one of the big evergreens, scanning the dark recesses between the branches as she went. They were an hour out from the node and still no energy readings. She was beginning to think that McGuinty’s massive power surge had grounded the drones.

  “Do you think we’ll make Dunstan Mills tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  A few paces more, then a tentative protest from the Marine on her left.

  “Don’t you mean that if we’re lucky, we’ll make Dunstan Mills tonight?”

  “Afraid I’ll call bad luck down on us, Stevens?”

  “No, Gunnery Sergeant! We make our own luck in the Corps!”