The Better Part of Valor

by Tanya Huff

  When the link finally arrived, a pair of emerging vacuum jockeys nearly ran her down.

  One paused, turned, and smiled. “Staff Sergeant Kerr.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Sibley.”

  “You’re not lost, are you?” The vacuum jockey glanced around the corridor as though trying to figure out exactly where they were. “You’re a little off your usual beaten paths. And you know what they say, no one beats a path like a Marine.”

  “Do they, sir?”

  “Oh, yeah. Beats it into submission and plants a flag on it.”

  “They don’t say that around me,” Torin told him after a moment’s consideration.

  He nodded. “I can understand that. Are you lost?”

  “No, sir.” When he indicated a need for more detail, she added, “I’m on my way to shuttle bay six to speak with Craig Ryder.”

  “You want some advice? Don’t play poker with him.”

  “Hadn’t intended to, sir.”

  “Hey, Sibley!”

  Torin and the pilot both turned toward the voice. The di’Taykan who’d emerged from the link at the same time was waiting down the corridor by an open hatch, citron hair a corona around his head. “You coming?”

  “Not yet, still not even breathing hard.”

  Too much information, Torin decided. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m holding up the whole system here.” She stepped onto the link at the lieutenant commander’s good-natured wave. He must have said something she didn’t catch because as the door closed she heard the di’Taykan officer say, “No, we’re going to my quarters because your quarters are such a disaster I can’t find my kayti!”

  Way too much information…

  * * *

  Craig Ryder’s ship, the Promise, nearly filled shuttle bay four. Torin found it hard to believe he’d managed to dock it cleanly, but both the hull and the edges of the Berganitan that she could see appeared to be free of scrapes. Whatever else Ryder was, he was one hell of a pilot.

  Without the cargo pods extended, the Promise looked like a Navy ship to ship shuttle crouched under a stack of cross-slatted panels. Considering the dimensions of the most basic Susumi drive, Torin understood why CSOs tended to work alone—two people would have to be very friendly to share the remaining space.

  The hatch was open, and the ramp was down.

  Curiosity may have made her approach quieter than necessary, the only sound as she made her way up the ramp the soft and ever present hum of Susumi space stroking the Berganitan’s outer hull.

  May have.

  The interior of the salvage ship was smaller than she’d imagined. To her left were the flight controls and the pilot’s seat. Directly across from the hatch, a half-circle table butted up to a wall bench. To her right, across the blunt end of the oval, a bunk and a narrow opening leading to—she leaned through the tiny air lock—the toilet facilities. It looked as though taking a shower involved closing the door and the toilet seat and standing in the middle of the tiny room.

  Bits of paper and plastic had been stuck to the bulkhead over the bunk and a single white sock lay crumpled on the deck. A blue plastic plate, cup, and fork had been left on the table next to a small, inset screen. The pilot’s chair looked as though it had been built up out of spare parts and duct tape—clearly tailored to fit only the dimensions of the builder.

  Approximately five meters from the edge of the control panel to the bunk and three, maybe three and a half meters, from side to side, Craig Ryder’s entire world was smaller than the smallest Marine Corps APC.

  How could anyone live like that? She found her gaze drawn back to the sock. Or more specifically, what kind of person would choose to?

  “I don’t recall inviting you on board, Staff Sergeant Kerr.”

  Torin glanced down at her boots before turning. “I’m not on board, Mr. Ryder.”

  “You’re on my ramp.”

  “Granted. I apologize for intruding.” Half a dozen long strides brought her back to the shuttle bay’s deck and almost nose to nose with Craig Ryder, close enough to smell sweat and machine oil about equally mixed. Bare arms folded, a wrench held loosely in one hand, he clearly wasn’t moving, so she took a single step away. Common sense suggested keeping a careful distance—if it came to it, she needed enough room to swing. “The hatch was down, and the door was open.”

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Unfolding one arm, he scratched in the beard under his chin with the wrench and smiled charmingly. Strangely, the two actions didn’t cancel each other out. “You’re a long way from the Marine attachment. Can I assume you’re here for the pleasure of my company?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  It was like looking at two different men—the one who’d been standing at the end of the ramp watching her descent under lowered brows and the one who’d just repeated her blunt response in tones of exaggerated disbelief. Given a choice, Torin would have preferred to deal with the former.

  “I’m here,” she explained, “because you’re not hooked to the Berganitan.”

  “I hook to the ship, the ship hooks to me.” Ryder shook his head. “A little too much give and take for my tastes. Since you couldn’t call, what did you walk all the way down here for?”

  “I’m here to assess your hazardous environment status.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not being funny, Mr. Ryder.” Although he clearly thought she was. The urge to wipe the smirk off his face was nearly overwhelming. She wouldn’t have taken that kind of attitude from a Marine, enlisted or commissioned, but she had no idea of how to handle it coming from a civilian. “Look, we have no idea of what we’ll face inside the alien vessel…”

  He snorted. “We have no idea whether we can even get the locks open.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s an alien vessel, Staff Sergeant Kerr. We might not be able to crack it.”

  Torin shrugged. “That’s an engineering problem, Mr. Ryder, not mine. If I can’t stop you from boarding with the Recon team, I need to know you won’t be a danger to my people—no matter what we face.”

  “Staff Sergeant, do you know how I operate?”

  She managed to keep her lip from curling. “No, Mr. Ryder, I do not.”

  “When we claim salvage, we deploy specifically sized cargo pods made up of those panels.” His gesture took in the stack on the Promise and his voice picked up a strange, mocking tone, as though he objected to the necessary explanation. “The number of panels depends on the size of the salvage. Each panel adds a specific set of factors to the Susumi equation. Do you know what happens to a ship when the Susumi equation is off by the smallest integer?”

  “Oh, yeah; specifically, it pops out next to unknown alien vessels and complicates my life.” When he turned to face her, she met the indignation in his eyes with mild exasperation.

  After a moment, he blinked and grinned. “Condescending question?”

  “You think?” Torin stared up at the panels, noting the signs of hard use. “You’re telling me that every time you deploy, you vacuum trot?”

  He followed her gaze. “Every time there’s a questionable reading, yes.”

  “And that happens?”

  “Oh, pretty much every time I deploy.”

  She shook her head and transferred her gaze to his face. “You’re insane.”

  “Me? You get paid to be shot at.”

  “That’s not why they pay me, Mr. Ryder. They pay me to see that we achieve our mission objectives without losing personnel.”

  “Military speak,” he snorted. “You get the job done without anyone getting killed.”

  Seventeen tiny metal cylinders, each holding a Marine she’d brought home. “I try, Mr. Ryder.”

  He sighed and tossed the wrench down into his tool kit. “Look, Staff Sergeant, I can guarantee I’ve spent more time suited than your entire team. I will not be a danger to your people. And…” A crooked finger rose to emphasize the point. “…should we run into som
eone who objects to our presence, I have every intention of hauling ass out of there and, if that’s not possible, hiding behind the professionals. I’m there protecting my salvage—which will be no use to me if I’m dead.”

  He’d sounded sincere. But he’d previously sounded annoyed, charming, amused, mocking, and sarcastic—all within their short conversation. What made this last emotion any more realistic than the rest?

  And what difference does it make? Torin demanded silently. You don’t have to figure him out, you merely have to endure him. “Okay, you know how to work in a suit. I’d still like to see you come out for the team simulations, if only to get my people used to having you hide behind them.”

  “When?”

  “Day after tomorrow. In the afternoon.” That would give them the morning to run the course without him, to shake down the squads, and make necessary changes to both personnel and equipment. She refocused to find him watching her from under the edge of thick lashes.

  “So, what’s happening tomorrow?”

  “The remaining individual simulations—the ones you’ve convinced me you don’t need.”

  “Maybe I’ll come by anyway.”

  “You’d be a distraction.”

  “You find me a distraction, Staff Sergeant?” The question was almost coy.

  “I find anything outside the mission parameters a distraction, Mr. Ryder.” Weight back on her heels, Torin folded her arms and met his gaze. “You rank right up there with hangovers and hemorrhoids.”

  The skin around his eyes creased into laugh lines as his smile broadened. “You know, I was starting to think you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

  “I don’t. Day after tomorrow, afternoon; if you don’t want to bring your own equipment, I’m sure we can find a suit to fit you.”

  * * *

  Craig Ryder stood at the top of the ramp and took a couple of long steadying breaths before he stepped into the Promise and punched the inner hatch closed. That had been too close. Staff Sergeant Kerr had been one long stride away from being inside.

  In his personal space.

  His.

  Bunk, bench, table, screen, dishes; he touched each in order, then spun the control chair once around and sat. The familiar sink and sway in reaction to his weight helped, but he still drifted a hand over each of the controls in turn before he leaned back and swung his feet up onto the precise place he’d rested them a thousand, a million times before—the place where his heels had worn the finish off the edge of the control panel.

  His place.

  After a long moment, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He hadn’t quite made up his mind about attending the simulation although he suspected he’d go if only for the pleasure of continuing to annoy Staff Sergeant Kerr.

  And to keep her from making a return visit.

  “All right, then.”

  There didn’t seem to be much else to say.

  * * *

  “Hey, Werst, Staff’s sending me down to the armory to make sure the guys back at MidSector actually loaded what inventory says they loaded.” Guimond grinned down at the top of the Krai’s head. “She says I should take someone with me; you up?”

  “No. I’m busy.”

  “Come on, you’re sitting on your ass drinking sah, how busy is that?”

  “I’m busy resting.”

  “Right, ’cause you’ll be first through the sim in the morning, which is at least ten hours away.” He slid a long step to his right, just far enough to bend and peer into Werst’s face. “Come on.”

  Werst’s attention remained on the contents of his mug. “Fuk off.”

  “I’ll go with you, Guimond.” Orla stood and tossed her empty beer pouch into the recycler in one lithe move. She crossed to the big Human’s side and rubbed her shoulder against his. “Maybe we can find something else to count while we’re down there.”

  “I’ve still got the same one I had yesterday,” Guimond grinned. “But we have to do the inventory check first. Staff says MidSector’s not used to loading for Recon and she doesn’t want us going in with our asses hanging out.”

  “Staff said that?”

  “Those very words.”

  Johnston glanced up from the circuit board he’d pulled out of the food dispenser, magnification lenses silvering his eyes to a di’Taykan monochrome. “Who’d have thought Staff would be so articulate?”

  Golden brows drew in as Guimond turned to Orla, looking confused. “What’s he talking about?”

  She shrugged. “He’s an engineer, who the fuk knows?”

  “I, myself, am wondering,” Dursinski put in from her place by the pool table, “if Staff’s so worried about our asses, why’s she not doing the inventory check?”

  Nivry glanced up from her slate. “She got invited to dinner in the Chief’s and PO’s Mess.”

  “How do you know that?” Dursinski demanded.

  “Harrop and I were going over squad assignments with her when the invite came in from some warrant officer. He’s a friend from other trips on the Berg. Human, so, after dinner, they probably won’t…” She dropped her attention back to her slate. “…have dessert.”

  “She doesn’t really mean dessert, does she?” Guimond asked as he and Orla left the room. The hatch cut off the di’Taykan’s laughter.

  “What a fukking moron,” Werst grunted.

  Nivry caught Harrop’s eye and shrugged. When making up the squads, the two corporals had decided to keep Werst and Guimond together—the Human’s size and good nature making up for Werst’s lack of either—and Nivry had drawn the short straw. “What do you have against him?” she demanded.

  “You’ve got the double hooks,” the Krai snorted, “you figure it out.”

  “Let’s assume I got them for good looks—not brains—and you tell me.”

  “Whatever. Fine.” Werst drained his mug, crushing it in one hand as he stood. “August Guimond’s a big, sweet guy, good-looking by Human standards, and everyone likes him—why don’t we just paint a fukking target on him now and get it over with? You all know he’s exactly the sort of guy who gets shot first when his squad hits combat.” His voice rose an octave. “They shot Guimond! That lousy serley chrika shot Guimond!” And dropped back down to a growl. “Then we spend the rest of the mission winning one for poor August. No, thank you.” He slammed the crushed mug into the recycler hard enough for its bounce to be clearly audible then, growling inarticulately, stomped out of the room.

  “What was that all about?” Harrop wondered.

  Nivry shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  Chief Warrant Officer Dave Graham waited for the heckling to stop before raising his stein. “Thank you. And here’s to the riggers of Black Star Squadron, the best in the fleet!”

  Torin raised her stein with the rest. As Dave sat down amidst renewed noise, she leaned toward him and said, “Should I be grateful a brand new, high and mighty chief warrant lowers himself to eat with a lowly staff sergeant?”

  He grinned. “You should be grateful I lower myself to eat with a Marine.”

  “You know, I’d heard you were drinking accelerant again.”

  “How’s the steak?”

  “Great, thanks.” She cut off another hunk of meat and chewed happily. The Navy ate well, that was for damned sure. “If I was your master chief, I’d be watching my back. You keep getting promoted at this rate and you’ll have her job in five.”

  “I dunno, master chief’s job gets pretty political. I think I’d rather keep my hands on the machinery. You can trust a thruster to be a thruster.” He washed down a mouthful of braised tabros with a swallow of beer. “But people…”

  “Speaking of, I think I met one of yours on the way in. I got a ride from MidSector with a Lieutenant Commander Sibley and I’m having a vague memory of black stars on his Jade.”

  “Yeah, Sibley’s one of ours. Good pilot, but a little too fond of bad puns, if you ask me.”

  “I seem to have escaped unsc
athed.”

  “He must’ve been on his best behavior.”

  Torin remembered the multiple accelerations and angles as they left the station. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Well, he’ll be out scouting for you when we reach the ship. Black Star and the Red Maces pulled flyby duty—orders came down this afternoon.”

  “Two squadrons?”

  “It’s a big ship. Brass wants to know as much as they can before they send you lot in.”

  “We lot appreciate that.”

  “Word is you’re working with a patchwork team—no two Marines from the same unit.”

  “Word?”

  Dave snorted and slathered butter over another thick slice of bread. “Fuk, Torin, gossip moves around a ship in Susumi faster than light. If you can’t get the hockey scores, you’ve got to talk about something.”

  “Word’s right, then. General Morris doesn’t want the information that an alien ship’s been discovered getting out to the media before we know what it is, so he decided moving individuals would be less noticeable. They’re a good lot, though. With a whole sector to choose from, he could choose the best.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve only got four days, five tops, to build a team from scratch. Then you’re heading in to gods know what.”

  “Marines are infinitely flexible.”

  “Makes it easier to duck.”

  “I’m personally in favor of ducking.”

  “I personally am impressed your General Morris got Captain Travik away from MidSector without him alerting the media.” Dave grunted. “You planning on bringing him back in one piece?” Tone made his preference perfectly clear.

  “That’s my job.” Her tone pretty much matched his.

  “Word has it you were the general’s special choice.” When Torin rolled her eyes, he added. “So what did you do to piss off General Morris enough for him to stick you with the ego that walks like a Krai?”

  Unable to separate certain Krai specialties from the more prosaic Human provided varieties, she waved off a tray of mixed cheeses. “Believe it or not, he gave me the job because he wants it done right.”