by Huff, Tanya
“We know there’s fliers in this section, sir—we were due to run into one on day fifteen, and I’ve heard of at least two more in other section scenarios. Three definitely, maybe more. When they pass over the anchor, they’re going to read the hole.”
“And having read it, will return and drop something explosive in it. What’s your solution? Can we put the hatch back in place?”
“No, sir, the bennies were drained cutting it out. But we have a team dismantling the metal stalls in the non-operative latrine.”
“And one of those pieces will stop what a flier can throw down? That’s one high-tensile crapper.”
“Not exactly, sir.” One of those pieces couldn’t even stop the round from a KC-7 that Torin had shot into it. “We’re going to stack two pieces, work them through on the diagonal, then wrap them in a shelter half before laying them over the hole.”
“And the shelter half is for . . . ?”
“Camouflage, sir. To hide the fact that the pieces aren’t actually a part of the roof.”
“You think that’ll work, Gunny?”
She wouldn’t have ordered it done if she didn’t at least hope it would work. “Yes, sir.”
“So . . .” Torin turned with him to look at the sergeants. “. . . what’s coming at us?”
“Shouldn’t be that much of a problem, sir.” Jiir glanced over at Annatahwee who indicated he should continue. “We’ve never run into a flier in a scenario that had more than a five-tube, light-weight launcher. Crucible usually uses air support to make a point, and once that point’s made, then it’s all small caliber chaser rounds—no real danger unless a platoon’s caught in the open.”
Torin gave him the chaser rounds, but . . . “You can make one hell of a point firing five rockets. And in a scenario, the fliers wouldn’t be shooting to kill.”
“Yeah but most of those rockets are flashbangs.”
“Most,” Torin repeated. “And the rest?” Because if most were, then some weren’t.
“Gas if the platoon holds a position long enough to be taken down, incendiaries sometimes and . . .”
“And sometimes Crucible goes for the big bang,” Annatahwee finished. “Blast fragmentation warheads with impact det fuses.”
Major Svensson stared at her in astonishment. “Fired at training platoons.”
Torin felt as appalled as the major sounded. She’d seen the damage those things could do, and the thought of recruits coming under fire from their own side . . .
“They’re not generally fired at the recruits, sir.” Annatahwee explained a bit defensively. “Just near enough they get the idea.”
“And what’s the idea?” he demanded. “That sometimes artillery makes you shit yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry, I asked.”
“If the fliers are packing actual heat, there’s never been more than one in five, sir.”
“I think one in five is sufficient, thank you, Sergeant. And given that our friend the sunken tank seemed to be carrying an unlimited supply of high explosives, I’m not counting on the fliers to be shooting blanks.”
“Not exactly easy to hit a meter-square window moving at speed, sir.”
He snorted. “Even the bad guys get lucky occasionally, Gunny. Any other surprises we should know about. High-heat, high-pressure thermobaric warheads maybe?”
The sergeants blinked in unison. “No, sir.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“The drones won’t be able to reload sir,” Jiir put in quickly. “Once they’ve fired their five, that’s it.”
“But we don’t know how many are on the way,” Torin reminded them. “At least three—and that’s fifteen chances we’ll get a BFW—but no top number. We could get waves of them as they’re pulled in from progressively farther into the section. Or pulled in from other sections.”
The major turned to stare at her. “Thank you, Gunny.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
“How adaptable are these fliers, Sergeant?”
Jiir glanced at Annatahwee and answered. “Sir?”
“The Others won’t have programmed in the specs of the building. If they just fly to where they can get a lock on the building and fire, then it’s a crap shoot if they hit anything they can penetrate, but if they take a bounce at the building and analyze the structure on a flyby, then they’ll be aiming at the windows and the hole in the roof.” Sliding off the exam table, he picked up his vest. “Not a problem if they’re firing training rockets, but . . .”
“. . . if they’re firing a frag rocket, then we’re in trouble.” Torin finished when it became clear he wasn’t going to.
“You’re a joy to work with, Gunny.” Together, they turned their attention on Sergeant Jiir. “Adaptable,” the major prodded.
“Yes, sir. In scenarios, the fliers are able to determine where the recruits are so as not to hit them.”
“Then if they’ve been order to hit the recruits . . .”
“They can find them, sir.”
So instead of being camouflaged, the platoon would be going into battle with a nice big target painted on them and they had nothing big enough to jam the flier’s scanners. Scanners . . .Torin frowned. “What’s the range on most of these things, Sergeant?”
“Depends on the scenario,” Annatahwee answered.
“There’s training benefits to having them roar in up close and personal, and there’s benefits to having them fire from maximum range and just having the rockets appear as if . . .”
“By magic,” the major finished dryly.
“Yes, sir. But they fire from maximum range in response to one or more of the recruits sending up an energy signal that can be read by the enemy. It’s a cause-and-effect part of the training.”
“Intended to teach them not to send up energy signals that can be read by the enemy?”
“Yes, sir. If we give them no reason to fire at distance, then they’ll roar straight in close for maximum psychological effect.”
“And the maximum psychological effect is once again getting them to shit themselves?”
“Sir.” Don’t poke at the sergeants, Torin’s tone said clearly. What happens on Crucible isn’t their fault. “When you say straight in,” she asked Annatahwee, “do you mean no evasive maneuvers? Just . . .” She drew a line in the air. When the sergeant nodded, she grinned. “Then close in is better for us. If the fliers are in range of our weapons before they fire rockets, we have a chance to take them down.”
The major’s brows rose and both sergeants turned to stare.
“You packing a sammy you neglected to mention there, Gunny?”
“No, sir. If they’re coming in a straight line, the scanners can plot their course and massed fire from the nines . . .”
He nodded. “Good thing we found that ammo. Best shooters from each team on the roof, and we try to take the bastards out. What kind of armor are these things wearing?”
“Not much,” Jiir admitted. “They’re drones, and weight is an issue. Even if a recruit gets off a shot during a rocket attack, a single 7 or even a 9 won’t do much.”
“Since we’ll be using all nine heavies, that’s good news for us.”
“Sir, all the drones adapt to being shot at and if I were reprogramming them, that’s not something I’d change.” Jiir’s nose ridges had closed tight. He obviously wasn’t happy. “If the fliers aren’t destroyed, they’ll target the roof. We’d have to be very lucky to not lose everyone up there.”
“If the flier isn’t destroyed and it’s packing anything more than a training rocket, we run the risk of losing everyone in the building, so let’s assume the fliers will be destroyed.” Major Svensson ran a hand back over his head and sighed. “Gunny.”
“Sir?”
“Assumptions make a lousy battle plan. Come up with a contingency in case the fliers aren’t immediately destroyed.”
“Yes, sir.”
He could see the southwest corner of the anchor, wh
ich meant he could see the southwest corner of the big common room where Staff Sergeant Beyhn lay fighting the change. It was wrong, it was so wrong that a qui would be here, in danger. Even more wrong that he wasn’t over there with him, protecting the future of the . . .
And that was where it got weird. He’d never spent time with a qui who wasn’t a member of his own family, either by blood or by ritual. Just what, exactly, was he protecting the future of? The Taykan? Fuk that. There were plenty of Taykan around. Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s family?
Frowning, he drummed his fingers against his weapon.
“Sakur!”
He jumped and turned away from the window to find Hisht staring up at him, the lower half of his face actually out from under the bodyliner.
“I asked you what you look at.”
“Sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Another glance out the window.
The Krai moved closer. “You are worried for the staff sergeant?”
“About the staff sergeant. Yeah. I was thinking . . .”
“That explain it,” Hisht snorted. “I smell burning and I thought to myself, must be Sakur thinking.” Grinning, he easily ducked under the di’Taykan’s swing, but as he straightened, he sobered. “The whole platoon is worried.”
“It is?” It hadn’t occurred to him that the staff sergeant’s condition was affecting anyone but the di’Taykan.
Hisht sighed, all nose ridges open, and nearly disappeared behind a plume of water vapor. “Not the same worry with not the same biology, but that doesn’t make our worry less than yours. He was strong like a harshak in a gale. Tree,” he added when Sakur frowned. “Very big strong tree; we build our cities in them. No matter the wind, they never fall.” He shrugged, one shoulder and then the other, the Human gesture still needing a little work. “Until they do, and then no one can believe it.”
“For fuksake, Hisht, that makes less sense than you usually do.”
“It’s hard to believe some things can fall. Some people. If he was someone else, it would not be so hard to believe.”
Sakur glanced out the window, then back at his teammate. “You’re saying the di’Taykan are overreacting because of who Staff Sergeant Beyhn is.”
Hisht shrugged again. “I’m saying the di’Taykan are not the deepest thinkers in known space, that maybe it would help if you used your nose filters while you’re inside, and that we’ll all be glad when the staff sergeant is on his feet again.”
Before Sakur could decide if he—and his species— had been insulted, Kichar appeared in the doorway of the inner room.
“Is there any particular reason you two are just standing there?” she demanded while, safely out of sight behind her, Bonninski rolled her eyes. “We’ve cleared this building, there’s nothing here, so let’s move ass.”
Hisht shifted his grip on his weapon. “And I will also be glad when this is over and that one is alone with her water dreams of Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”
“Wet dreams, brother.” Sakur rapped his knuckles against the top of the Krai’s helmet. “And I hear you.”
They regrouped outside the building as Kichar marked a large white X, a 1/1, and a zero on the door.
“Okay . . .” Sakur leaned against the wall, cradling his weapon, legs crossed at the ankles. “. . . I get that the X means the building was searched, I get that 1/1 refers to us—the team at the top—and I get that the zero means we found nothing except artfully adorable . . .”
“Adorable?” Hisht murmured to Bonninski.
She snorted. “He’s just being an ass.”
“. . . tableaux set up to make us think that the occupants of the house had been dragged out by the Others without putting up much of a fight, but you know what I don’t get?”
Kichar waited expectantly.
“I don’t get why you packed a permanent marker.”
She frowned. “It was on the alternatives list. It’s not just for marking buildings but for marking trails and leaving messages for the platoon if you’re scouting.”
“Kind of low tech,” Bonninski muttered.
“Exactly. You can’t hack writing on a rock.” Kichar slipped the marker back into a pocket on her vest. “And it luminesces under a sleeve light.”
“It what?”
“Glows in the dark,” Sakur told the Krai who was staring at Kichar in confusion.
“This is fukking stupid.”
Stone shrugged and continued rolling another layer onto the already sizable ball of snow.
“We’re marking searched buildings with snowmen!”
“Look, Carson, if you packed an indelible marker, then whip it out.” He set the ball on top of the larger one sitting directly in front of the building’s door. “If you didn’t, we’ll just continue using the material at hand.”
“It’s a snowman!” she protested again.
“And a damned fine one,” Vega added as she snugged the third and smallest ball down on the pile. “We’re just lucky the temperature’s up a bit and this stuff’s packing.”
“I hate snow.” Pulling off her mitt, Carson held her hand against the snowman’s head. The white of the snow made her skin look even darker. “I stand out. That sucks when things are shooting at us.”
“Stand behind Stone,” Vega suggested. “He’s big enough to provide cover for the whole squad.”
Carson nodded, poking her finger into the snow and making a pair of eyes. “True.”
“We’re wasting time.” Hair moving under the edge of his helmet, Jonin returned from pacing and glared down at the snowman. “We need to call this building cleared and move on.”
“So you can get back to the staff sergeant.”
He transferred his glare to Carson. “I should be there.”
“Not if we’re out here,” Stone said quietly, brushing snow off his mittens. “Are we going to have to have that talk again?”
“No, but . . .”
“No buts.” He closed his hand over Jonin’s shoulder. “There’s half a dozen di’Taykan with him. Right now, you’re with us. Or you’re not with us. Choose.”
The silence went on almost too long.
His eyes gradually darkening, Jonin stared down at Stone’s hand. “I can think of better things you could do with that,” he said at last.
“He’s back,” Vega snorted.
Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, Stone waited a moment before he let go. Jonin’s tone hadn’t been completely convincing, but the words were completely di’Taykan— he just wasn’t sure that was a good thing right now. “Hand me that bit of broken flashing off the edge of the window. I want to leave our snowman with a weapon.” When Jonin passed it over, he twisted the bit of metal, set it in place and stepped back. “There, that’s the . . .”
“Private Stone, what the hell are you doing?”
The team turned as one to see a figure, indistinguishable at that distance from any other Marine, on the roof of the anchor.
“Marking this building as searched, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Not like that you’re not. The weapon goes up to the snowman’s right shoulder.”
As the other three exchanged silent but speaking looks, he bent and fixed it.
“Better.”
There was still no sign of the enemy. Torin moved away from the edge of the roof hearing herself explaining to Command why the platoon had been moved off the designated scenario after the appearance of a single tank and a distant surface-to-air missile that hadn’t been aimed at them.
“Gunny!” The amount of teeth snapping Piroj managed in that single word was not a good sign. “We’ve got a problem!”
She was running before he finished. “What kind of problem?”
“With the CPN!”
No point in calling him on the lack of details in his report; if it was a tech problem, she’d be in the room before he could finish explaining.
When she got there, both Piroj and McGuinty had their hands around the staff sergeant’s slate—although technically Piroj had his
hands around McGuinty’s— and seemed to be trying to pull it from the port. “What’s happening?”
“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?”
