by Tanya Huff
“Well, if it’s one of the Others’ ships, they could get hurt.”
“While I appreciate enthusiasm, Private Guimond, I wasn’t actually asking for reasons.”
Head cocked to one side, his lips moved as he silently repeated her previous statement. “Oh.” His smile grew a little sheepish. “Sorry, Staff.”
“It’s okay. Three…” She swept the room with a flat, emotionless gaze. “…Captain Travik is a Marine Corps officer and his orders, passed to you through me, will be obeyed. What you think of him personally is irrelevant. Do I make myself clear?”
A ragged chorus of, “Yes, Staff.” Scattered nods. Werst took another drink.
“Good. Form up in the passageway at 0830. I’ll see you then.” She paused, one hand on the hatch, and turned back to the room. “Private Orla.”
“Staff?” The young di’Taykan looked startled to be singled out.
“I’m sorry to hear about your thytrin. For what it’s worth, I expect your contact with the captain will be minimal.” When Orla nodded, Torin stepped out of the compartment and closed the hatch behind her.
“You told them?”
Torin pivoted on a heel, just barely resisting an urge to ask Lieutenant Stedrin why he was lurking about the enlisted compartments. “Yes, sir. I did.”
“Why?” The question held equal parts curiosity and challenge.
“If they found out about Captain Travik tomorrow at the briefing, that’s all they would have found out. Now, it’ll be old news, already dealt with, and they’ll be able to concentrate on information that might keep them alive.”
“I doubt the briefing will be that dangerous, Staff Sergeant. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” Torin watched until the lieutenant turned the corner, trying to decide if he had the sector’s driest delivery or the Corps’ worst grasp of tactics.
* * *
“You’ve been pretty quiet, Werst,” Guimond observed as the horror stories and complaints began to die down. “What do you think about serving under Captain Travik?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I just…”
“You think because I’m Krai, I’m going to defend him?”
“No, I…”
“I think he’s a grandstanding asshole at best and a murdering asshole at worst, but we won’t be dealing with him.” Werst scowled into the depths of his sah. “We’ll be dealing with Staff Sergeant Kerr. He’s her problem.”
“Okay.” Guimond grinned. “What do you think of her?”
Werst shrugged. “Chrick.”
“What don’t you find edible?” Ken Tsui demanded getting himself another beer. “She’s not recon.”
“She was. She started out Fifth Re’carta, First Battalion, Recon. Went in half a dozen times, got wounded, made corporal, got transferred. What?” Nivry demanded of the room as whole. “I looked her up.” The corporal held up her slate. “It’s all in the attachment’s database. You can bet she’s downloaded everything in there on us.”
No one took the bet.
“I heard the general picked her personally,” Johnston offered, scratching at the faint shadow of whiskers across his chin.
“And we were randomly generated?” Nivry snorted. “With the whole sector to choose this team from, they’d have picked the best.”
“And you think you’re proof of that?”
“Damned right. Anyone in here think they’re not?” She paused for effect and got an answer.
“He’s not.” Jynett jabbed her elbow into the ribs of the di’Taykan beside her.
“Suck up,” Huilin grunted, rubbing at the damp patch of spilled beer on his shirt.
“Slacker.”
“All right, let’s be…”
“Relax, Corporal, we took our HE1 course together. This one…” Huilin raised the remains of his beer in an exaggerated toast. “…placed top in the class.”
Jynnet’s glass rose to touch his. “Which means poor Huilin had to settle for second.”
“I was robbed.”
Nivry’s eyes lightened. “Which proves my point. We were picked because we’re the best. Staff Sergeant Kerr was probably picked because she could get the job done even under the handicap of Captain Travik.”
Across the room, Corporal Harrop said something that sounded distinctly rude in one of the remaining Human languages. With all eyes on him, he shrugged and translated. “No one’s that good.”
Werst drained his sah, stood, and tossed the cup into the recycler. “She’d better be.”
* * *
Craig Ryder held a full house, kings over threes, when his ship, parked in one of the Berganitan’s shuttle bays, informed him it was 0600 hours. He tongued in an acknowledgment, then looked up and swept the table with his second best smile, the one designed to distract from the situation—which was, at the moment, the happy fact that he’d taken a month’s pay or better off everyone at the table. “Afraid this’ll have to be the last hand, mates. Duty calls.”
“Duty?” One of the two watching di’Taykans, long since tapped out, stared up at him from under a moving fringe of lavender hair. “Calling you?”
“As it happens, I’ve got a briefing to attend in under two hours and—you know how it is—I’d like to make a good impression.”
“On who?”
“On whoever it would do me the most good to impress, of course.”
“Well, as it happens,” Lieutenant Commander Sibley echoed, tapping his own cards on the edge of the table, “it’s up to you.”
Ryder allowed his smile to pick up a slight predatory edge as he aimed it directly at the vacuum jockey. “So it is. I see your hundred and I raise you…” Eyes locked on the opposition, he picked up a stack of markers and threw them into the pot. “…three hundred more.”
The Krai between them glanced at the cards in her right foot, took a long draw on a pouch of beer, and shook her head. “I fold.”
“Down to you and me, Sibley.”
“You wish,” he muttered, frowning at his hand.
The second di’Taykan made a suggestion.
Both Humans ignored him.
“Well?”
“Why not.” Sibley looked up and grinned, pushing his last markers into the center of the table. “I call. What’ve you got?”
Ryder laid out his cards.
The grin slipped sideways but held. “Buh-bye,” he sighed throwing in two jacks, two tens, and a seven.
The Krai, who’d played cautiously all night, still had a few markers left; the rest Ryder scooped up and dumped into his belt pouch. “Always a pleasure doing business with the Navy.” He lifted his beer in a flourishing salute, drained it, and tossed the empty pouch down on the table. “Hope you lads don’t mind cleaning up…”
It was almost a question.
He was gone before anyone answered.
The markers were a comfortable weight against his hip as he made his way back to shuttle bay four—nothing like turning a profit to improve the time wasted in Susumi space. Later, he’d head down to QSM and cash in, but right now he needed to reach his ship before someone in Navy gray checked his pass and discovered his clearance didn’t include this part of the Berganitan.
They—they being the anal retentives in uniform running the show—hadn’t wanted him along. Too bad. He alone knew where they were going, and he had no intention of handing that information over gratis. Restricting his unescorted movements beyond the confines of the shuttle bay had been their way of taking a petty revenge. The sergeant at arms had made it quite clear they’d slap a security chip in him if they found him where he didn’t belong.
That said, he still preferred to play on the other guys’ turf—it made the opposition overconfident and kept the repair bills from coming out of his account if the game got out of hand. As friendly little games so often did.
A couple of techs on morning watch looked up from an open panel as he passed, but he made it back to the Promise without attracting any unwelcome
attention. He’d refused the generous offer of access to the Berganitan’s system—and the reflective access that would give the Berganitan to him—and, because he’d always been a cautious man, he’d locked his implant and his ship down tight. A quick check after boarding proved the security protocols on both were intact; as far as anyone who might care would ever know, he’d spent the night sound asleep.
“And wouldn’t that have been a waste of time?” Tossing the belt pouch onto his bunk, he stripped off for the shower.
He’d sincerely meant it when he’d said it was a pleasure doing business with the Navy—a vacuum jockey’s idea of saving for retirement was drawing to an inside straight. Probably a result of too much time spent in zero gee.
He had a feeling the Marines weren’t going to be half so much fun.
* * *
Torin had her team in place well before the briefing was due to start. The twelve Marines filled the last two rows, the double line of service uniforms creating a matte-black shadow at the back of the room. With the exception of Guimond, the rest—even the two engineers—wore the sort of blank expressions usually seen after the words, “We need a volunteer for….” Guimond looked fascinated by everything he saw.
She had no doubt that each and every one of them had not only marked the exits but carried a complete mental map of the route back to the attachment and the armory—Marines being Marines and Recon even more so.
When General Morris, Captain Travik, and Lieutenant Stedrin entered, she brought them to attention. There was nothing of the parade ground about the movement, but they all ended up on their feet more or less at the same time. The general made a sotto voce suggestion to the captain who then sauntered—there really could be no other word for it even given the natural gait of a species with opposable toes—back to Torin’s side.
“So this is my reconnaissance team, is it, Staff Sergeant?”
He hadn’t actually looked at them. Hadn’t actually looked anywhere but at her. “Yes, sir.”
“Excellent.” His smile showed almost enough tooth to be considered a challenge—which would have been a lot more relevant had she been another Krai. “I assume you’ve gone through their records, checked them all out, made sure they’re the best?”
“They were chosen for this mission because they are the best, sir.”
“I know I was.”
Jolly tones suggested he was making a joke. Torin decided not to get it. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m not sure why the general wants them here—that is, right here, right now. I’m quite sure you’d be capable of briefing them after it’s all over, but ours is not to question why.”
Torin managed not to wince. Wonderful. Now, it’s a theme.
“Have them sit down. They can take notes if they feel it’s necessary. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Yes, sir.” After he’d turned and walked away, she turned herself, saying quietly, “As you were.” Expressions as the team sat ranged from blank to bored. The one murmured observation had been too low for her to hear content, so she ignored it. All things considered, it hadn’t gone badly.
Based on their two short meetings, Captain Travik seemed more an idiot than a murderous glory-hog. Not, she acknowledged, that those personality traits are mutually exclusive. She’d be able to form a more relevant opinion after she saw him in action.
A number of civilians filed in as she sat and the front rows filled quickly.
“We’re not taking them all in with us, are we, Staff?” Guimond wondered, his voice a bass rumble by her left ear.
Torin sure as hell hoped not but all she said was, “We’ll do what we’re ordered to do, Guimond.”
“Yeah, but…”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” She heard his seat creak as he sat back. He had reason to be concerned. There were eight or nine Katrien, all talking at once, a half a dozen Humans, three di’Taykan, three Krai, four Niln, and a Ciptran—sitting alone, antennae flat against his/her head, one mid-leg fiddling with the controls on the inhaler implanted over the gills on both sides of his/her carapace. The Katrien and the Niln were local to this sector, the Humans, di’Taykan, and Krai had probably been chosen because of the military presence in an effort to keep species numbers down. Torin had never seen a Ciptran before but had been told they were the exception to the rule that said only social species developed intelligence.
When Captain Carveg and two of her officers arrived to represent the Berganitan and things still didn’t get started, Torin wondered who else they were waiting for.
He made his entrance at 0759, stepping through the hatch as though both the scientists and the Marines had been gathered in this room, at this time, for his benefit. A civilian, a Human male; just under two meters tall, with broad shoulders and heavy arms, almost broad and heavy enough to be out of proportion to the rest of a muscular body. Torin watched him cross to the general through narrowed eyes. She didn’t know much about civilian styles, but she knew attitude when she saw it. And she was seeing it. In spades.
When he reached the officers, he smiled broadly, spread his hands, and said something too low for Torin to catch.
“The exact same thing happened to me.” Captain Travik’s voice carried clearly over the room’s ambient noise. “That’s the Navy for you, can’t draw a straight line between two points. You ought to come stay with the Marines.”
Torin glanced at Captain Carveg, who gave no indication she’d overheard the comment. If Parliament wanted to promote a Krai, why didn’t they start with Carveg? A Navy captain held rank equivalent to a Marine colonel; Travik had a way to go to even catch up. On the other hand, Torin mused, her gaze flicking between the officers, if they leave Carveg where she is, she can keep doing a job she’s good at, and if we’re very lucky, they’ll stuff Travik where no one on the lines’ll miss him.
General Morris moved out beside the large vid screen at the front of the room and various conversations trailed off into an anticipatory silence. “We all know why we’re here,” the general began without preamble. “A vessel belonging to no known species has been discovered drifting in space. It is, or rather will be, our job to find out everything we can about this vessel. At this time, I will turn the briefing over to Mr. Craig Ryder, the CSO who made the discovery.”
CSOs, civilian salvage operators, haunted the edge of battle zones where they dragged in the inevitable debris. Some they sold back to the military, the rest to the recycling centers. The overhead of operating in deep space being what it was, even the good ones never made much more than expenses.
Like all scavengers, they performed a valuable service and, like all scavengers, they profited by the misfortune of others. Since most of that misfortune happened in combat to people who were never strangers, Torin decided she didn’t much care for the man now crossing to General Morris’ side.
“Thank you, General.” As the general moved back to the small knot of officers, Ryder turned to face his audience. His eyes were deep-set to either side of a nose that had clearly been broken at least once away from medical attention. Brown hair curled at his collar, and he wore a short beard—unusual in those who spent a lot of time in space and therefore expected to be suiting up regularly. He had a deep voice and an accent Torin couldn’t quite place. “G’day. I hope you all understand why I’m unwilling to give out specific coordinates at this time but I can assure you, this ship is a good distance off the beaten paths. I found it by accident…” His smile suggested further secrets he wasn’t ready to share. “…thanks to a small Susumi miscalculation…”
Torin heard several near gasps and even the Ciptran’s antennae came up.
Susumi miscalculations usually ended in memorial services. This guy’s got the luck of H’san.
“…that popped me back into real space some considerable distance from the system I’d been heading for. After I got my bearings—and changed my pants…”
And the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old.
Behind her, M
arines snickered.
He acknowledged the response like a seasoned performer and continued almost seamlessly. “…I thought I might as well have a look around. Imagine my surprise when I read a very large manufactured object a relatively short distance away. Which was, of course, nothing to my surprise when I went to have a look…” Half turning toward the screen, he ran his thumb down the vid control. “…and found this.
“That little shape down in the lower right is the Berganitan. I pasted it in to give you lot some idea of scale.”
It was bright yellow. And it was big, close to the size of the OutSector Stations, longer than it was wide—20.76 kilometers by 7.32 kilometers—with a high probability of the dimpled end representing some kind of a propulsion system. The Confederation database had declared it alien, but—in spite of the color—Torin thought it looked a lot less alien than a number of ships she’d seen.
There were a number of identifiable air locks, one on each side up near the bow, one topside, one on the portside about two thirds of the way back, and one in the belly in the aft third. There were no identifiable exterior weapons. Unfortunately, air locks had limited design options, and weapons did not. They could be looking at enough firepower to rebang the big one and never know it.
Scans showed no energy signals—in fact they showed nothing at all inside the yellow hull although Ryder admitted his equipment was perhaps too small to penetrate.
Which brought the expected response from the di’Taykan present.
When the Berganitan arrived after four days in Susumi space, there’d be more scans, and then the Marines would be sent in to discover what the scans missed.
Simple. Straightforward.
Or it would have been had the scientists not argued every point—with each other, with Ryder, and occasionally with themselves. A half an hour later, when General Morris walked back out in front of the screen, now showing a dozen different views of the ship, his presence front and center had no noticeable effect on the noise level.
“Think he’s going to order us to strangle them, Staff?”
