by Tanya Huff
Ryder watched Torin murmur words of encouragement to the wounded Marine and shook his head. Back against the wall, he slid down until his ass touched the deck, then he stretched out his legs. “Okay,” he muttered, just loud enough for the Marines on either side of him to hear, “first she ran across open deck to the column. Then, having set up cover for our retreat, she took out a bug in hand to whatever the hell those things the bugs have are. Then she set herself up as a sniper target, ran toward the sniper, and carried that man pretty much the length of the park, saving his life. And yet, no one seems too impressed.”
“She’d say she’s just doing her job,” Harrop grunted, draining the charge from a nearly empty power pack into another.
“That’s what she says. But what do you guys say?”
“About her doing her job?”
“Yeah, about that.”
Orla exchanged a glance with the corporal and shrugged. “She’s pretty good at it.” Her eyes suddenly lightened as a thought occurred. “You like her, don’t you?” The accompanying gesture made the di’Taykan’s definition of “like” obvious and mildly obscene.
* * *
“Staff?” Tsui wet his lips, and Torin braced herself for one of the “what’s it all mean” questions that always seemed to follow a major injury. “How come whenever we meet up with the bugs we’re in a configuration out of one of our heads?”
It took her a moment to regroup. “Configuration?” She smiled down at him. “Big word.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re stoned on painkillers.”
“Well, yeah, but it’s still a good question. How come?”
“I don’t know. Those switchbacks may have been made by the bugs or, since they’ve got the advantage of numbers, maybe Big Yellow’s giving us the terrain.”
He sighed. “I don’t think I want to play this game anymore.” Dark brows suddenly snapped in, and he clutched at her arm. “Staff, where’s my foot?”
She closed her fingers over his. “Totally disintegrated. Not even a toenail left.”
“Good.” Muscles visibly relaxed. “It’s just, I don’t want this ship to have it. You know?”
“I know.” And with any luck it was a lie that wouldn’t come back to haunt her. Torin had no idea where Tsui’s foot was. Finding it hadn’t been high on her to-do list at the time, and she sure as hell wasn’t going back out to look for it. Let’s just hope it’s not waiting for us at the air lock.
As his eyes began to unfocus, she lifted his hand off her arm and laid it on his chest. His fingers were warm, his injury not as bad as it looked. He’d spend a few weeks with a regen tube around his leg, and then brand new foot. Thing was, she had to get him to a regen tube. And to do that, I have to get him to the air lock and off this fukking ship. Fourteen Marines. Two of them on stretchers. Four stretcher carriers. Thank God, Tsui was Human and not another Krai. Eight Marines. Against thirty bugs, give or take.
Coming to a decision, Torin picked Tsui’s weapon off the deck where Nivry had left it and stood. With the amount of painkillers careening around his system, he wouldn’t be using it any time soon.
Ryder was sitting between Harrop and Orla about twelve meters from the closed hatch. There were deep circles under his eyes and a few lines she hadn’t noticed earlier. So. We’re all tired. Stepping over Orla’s outstretched legs, she held the benny out toward the CSO. “I want you to learn to use this.”
He looked startled. “The gun?”
“Yes, the gun.”
Orla snickered—no surprise, di’Taykans could turn a court-martial inquiry into innuendo—but even Harrop looked amused. Torin decided she didn’t want to know.
“Isn’t it against the law for a civilian to carry a Marine Corps weapon?” Ryder asked scrambling to his feet.
Torin stepped back to give him room. “Yes.”
“Okay.” He seemed a little taken aback by the blunt response. “I figured I’d be carrying a stretcher.”
“You will be, but if we’re in another firelight, I want the weapons with the people who can use them. Tsui’s out, and even if the other three were bigger, I couldn’t ask them.” Her lip curled slightly as she glanced over at the pair of Katrien and the Niln. Funny how easily those species who’d evolved past violence had been convinced to allow the less evolved to commit violence for them the moment diplomacy had failed with the Others. “Which leaves you.”
“Me?”
“Unless I’m talking to myself and Orla…” Her gaze slapped down on the di’Taykan. “What’s so damned funny?”
“Nothing, Staff.”
“Harrop?”
“It’s him.” The corporal jerked his head toward Ryder’s back, implication clear: It’s him, it’s not you.
“I see. Well, as much as I hate to remove Private Orla’s source of amusement…”
Orla suddenly became very interested in her boots.
“…I think maybe we should talk over here.” Grabbing Ryder’s arm, she pulled him diagonally across the passage to the other wall, which didn’t put enough distance between him and the di’Taykan but did, at least, mean she could ignore whatever it was they had going on. “Have you ever fired one of these?”
“No. Not going to ask me if I’m willing to?”
“No. I think you’re smart enough to realize that reaching and holding the air lock is going to take every weapon we’ve got, and if it came to it, you’d rather be unevolved and alive.”
An eyebrow rose at unevolved, but all he said was, “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t let it give you a swelled head.” She shoved the benny into his hands and twisted the barrel. “This is the laser, it functions pretty much like every cutting tool you’ve ever used.” Reaching out, she tapped a small screen. “This is your remaining charge. The MDC is point and shoot.” She twisted the barrel again. “This is your charge for that.”
“MDC?”
“Molecular Disruption Charge.”
“I can see why you use the short form. What’s it do?”
“Simple explanation?”
“Yeah, please.”
“It causes organics to explode at a cellular level. We use them in situations like this, so we don’t inadvertently hole a bulkhead and die sucking vacuum.”
Ryder frowned down at the benny, then up at Torin. “Isn’t Big Yellow partly organic?”
So it was. And it had definitely been hit on a number of occasions. She had a sudden flash of her benny spread out over the “workbench.” “The ship found out what we were shooting—us and the bugs—and did something to protect itself.”
“What?”
“How the hell should I know? Can we continue?” When he nodded, she lifted her weapon and thrust a finger through the trigger guard. “Same trigger works for both. If it’s locked, and that one is, press on the pad just ahead of the trigger guard; it’s species-keyed to Human, di’Taykan, and Krai. Don’t forget to check the lock, don’t forget to cheek the charge; empty, these things make crappy clubs. This is how you change the power pack.”
Ryder snapped his pack in and out, gave the barrel a couple of experimental turns, and stared at the data stream. “That’s it?”
“Essentially.”
When he looked up, his eyes had crinkled at the corners. “How come they spend so much training you lot if that’s it?”
“How to shoot’s the easy part,” Torin snorted. “They train us to know when.”
“Okay. When?”
“When I tell you to.” Body still squared off against Ryder, she turned her head. “Frii?”
“We can move him now, Staff.”
“Then let’s go, Marines. Air lock’s not getting any…”
She was looking at Heer, saw his facial ridges clamp shut an instant before she smelled the cinnamon. When the panel popped out above her head, she’d already pivoted more than halfway around. The grenade came as a bit of a surprise—it didn’t look like a smoker.
>
She caught it one-handed, swore at the heat, saw Ryder go to one knee, stepped up on his raised leg, and threw it back down the vent. It hit the retreating bug in the face and rolled under her thorax.
Good guess that Oh, fuk in bug smelled like lemon furniture polish.
Torin dropped, grabbing Ryder’s shoulder, taking him to the ground with her.
“FIRE IN THE HO…”
The deck lifted, slamming them together. Then it lifted again, throwing them against the bulkhead. Teeth clenched to keep from biting her tongue, Torin felt the bulkhead buckle under her shoulder. Then she was falling. They were falling.
A bounce. A hand grabbed at her arm. A blow against her helmet canted it forward over her eyes.
She landed without ever being totally out of contact with the ship—or engulfed by the ship. Both were an improvement on the last time.
A feather touch against her cheek made her think of antennae, but grabbing for it, she stubbed her fingers through Ryder’s beard. Which explained the yielding surface she’d impacted against.
Her helmet was jammed tight. Torin jerked her head back out of it and shifted around, ignoring the grunts from beneath her until she was sitting half astride Craig Ryder’s hips. She could just barely make out his face in the spill of light from above. He seemed to be grimacing. “YOU OKAY?”
The ringing in her ears drowned out all but the question. When he nodded, she stood. The wall or possibly the deck had fallen in after them, leaving a jagged hole half the diameter of her head about four meters up. An easy climb but nowhere to go.
Harrop’s face appeared, plunging the area into total darkness. Before Torin could use several choice words she’d been saving, his helmet light came on. His eyes were wide, and his lips were moving.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Touching both ears, Torin shook her head. “WAIT!” Bending around Ryder, who chose that moment to stand, she braced one boot on a twisted support beam and yanked her helmet free. Most of the photoelectric coating would have to be replaced, but the PCU seemed to be working fine. She cranked the receiver’s volume and tried not to shout.
“What’s the situation, Harrop?”
“Orla’s nose is bleeding and Tsui slammed his stump into the deck—no other casualties.”
“And the civilians?”
“Gytha’s having hysterics, but Presit’s calming her down.”
That didn’t change Torin’s opinion of the reporter, but it was a nice surprise. The universe had been short of those lately. “No sign of the bugs?”
“None.”
She heard him that time around the PCU, so she took off her helmet and blew out her ears.
“You guys are never going to make it out this hole, Staff. Hang on; Johnston wants to scope it out.”
The engineer’s opinion matched Harrop’s. “Unless there’s another way up, we’ll have to cut—if the ship’ll allow it.”
Torin took a good look around. They appeared to be in a one-by-three-meter hole in the wreckage. “Cut,” she growled.
“And if the ship’s got a complaint, it can take it up with me.”
* * *
“So, what did the general say?”
Torin tongued off her implant and sagged back against a bent piece of bulkhead. “He said we should get to the air lock as fast as possible. Man’s a military genius.”
“Could be worse; he’s not using the override codes and insisting on a play-by-play.”
“He’s probably forgotten he has the override codes. I doubt he’s used his implant much, if at all, in the last few years—that’s what aides are for.”
“He tell you what’s been happening out there.”
“Oh, yeah, generals always take the time to keep staff sergeants fully informed. I got the impression the fighters from both ships are still going at it, though. If they weren’t playing with live ammo, the vacuum jockeys would probably be pissing themselves with joy. The whole breed’s insane.” Reaching out, she grabbed the hand tapping against his thigh. “Stop it.”
“I don’t do well sharing a small space.”
“I know. Stop it anyway.”
He jerked his hand away. “And you’re doing so well yourself.”
Biting back a profane suggestion, Torin spread her hands. “Sorry.” Not a gracious apology, but he was right. And if I’m not out of this hole soon, I’m going to start fukking shooting my way out.
“I have the feeling you don’t do well with being helpless.”
Letting her hands drop, she closed her eyes. “And I have the feeling you wouldn’t do well with a boot to the head.”
“So what about Marine Corps vacuum jockeys?” Ryder asked after a moment’s silence.
Torin opened her eyes. She couldn’t see his expression. Okay. If he wants to make polite conversation… “What about them?”
“They insane, too?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s a whole vj thi…Son of a fukking bitch!” Jerking away from the bulkhead and up onto her knees, she ripped open the seal on her vest, scrambling beneath it for the tab that would open her combats. Given the myriad bruises she’d been collecting, it had been easy to ignore the itching on her upper arm; not until the itch suddenly, painfully became a burn did she remember the chemical spill. “God fukking damn it!”
The tab finally lifted. She yanked it down to her waist and dragged her right arm clear. “JOHNSTON!”
The engineer’s laser shut off.
“AID KIT! NOW!”
It had taken over an hour for the chemical to work through her sleeve. It was moving a lot faster through flesh.
“Torin, what’s wrong.”
Right hand clutching a fistful of fabric, teeth clenched, forcing herself to breathe—in and out, in and out, filling her lungs each time—she turned just enough for him to see. A chemical burn was worth a thousand words.
“Son of a fukking bitch!”
“Yeah.” In and out. In and out. “Said that.”
Boots pounded against deck plates.
“Staff! Kit’s too big for the hole.”
“Chem kit!” They could drop it into her left hand or…“Ryder.”
He surged up onto his feet. “I’ve got it.” She heard it hit his hands. He dropped to his knees beside her and shoved the kit into her line of sight. “What do I do?”
“Rip the film off. Slap the unit, sticky side down over the burn.”
“It may not fit.”
“Then fukking hurry!” Contact was a minor pain lost in nearly overwhelming sensation. Analysis and treatment were supposed to be instantaneous. Instantaneous turned out to be a relative term, depending on which side of the treatment defined it.
When the neutralizing agent finally hit, the sudden absence of pain was so intense Torin swayed into a warm, solid barrier, realized what it was as an arm rose to steady her, and swayed out again.
“It would kill you to collapse for a minute?”
Beginning to breathe more normally, she swung her head around and up to meet his gaze. “I get to collapse when the job’s done. Not before.” A few drops of neutralizer ran out from under the unit and down her bare arm, pulling her attention with it. She noticed that the handful of fabric her right hand clutched wasn’t covering her leg. She had no idea when she’d shifted her grip. Opening her fingers, Torin patted the crumpled handful smooth and looked up to find Ryder staring at her. “When the job’s done,” she repeated.
“What if we die in here?”
“Not going to happen.”
“Because you say so?”
Torin snorted. If he’d been a Marine, he wouldn’t have had to ask. “Yeah. Because I say so.”
“Staff! You okay?”
“We’re fine. Keep cutting.”
THIRTEEN
Torin scrubbed both hands over her face and looked back down at the map. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” Nivry tapped the screen. “We follow this passage to here, then there’s some kind of weird engine room shit to cross an
d the air lock’s right here.”
“No bugs?”
“None.”
“How are you sure?”
Nivry glanced down at the small hand clutching her sleeve. “It’s what we in Recon do, ma’am. We go out and we find the enemy.”
“How?”
“How do we find them?” When Presit nodded, she grinned. “Well, usually, we know we’re close when they start shooting at us.”
The reporter snatched her hand away and stared up at Nivry with accusing eyes, her ears flat to her skull. “That are not being funny!” she snapped, and flounced off, the silver tips of her fur trembling indignantly.
“Shouldn’t have asked the question if she didn’t want to hear the answer.” Torin watched her go with as close to a neutral expression as she could manage, then looked back up at Nivry. “ETA on the air lock?”
Emerald hair flicked back and forth, then…“Even with the stretchers and the civilians, we’re no more than an hour away.”
“I’ll let the Berganitan know.”
* * *
“…and Captain Travik?”
*He’s alive, sir.*
“Good. Arrange it so that he’s first onto the sh…Staff Sergeant Kerr? Staff Sergeant Kerr! Damn it.” General Morris rubbed his left hand over his forehead and glared at the science officer. “You’ve lost the signal again, find it.”
“Sir, it’s gone out at the other end.”
“And isn’t that signal booster of yours supposed to stop that?”
“Yes, sir, but…”
“I don’t want excuses, Lieutenant. I want to talk to my Marines.”
Who don’t want to talk to you. Taking pity on her officer—who faced a choice between telling the general that Staff Sergeant Kerr had cut the signal or outright lying to a direct question from a superior—Captain Carveg stepped down from her station and said, “We’ll launch the shuttle now, General.”
She thought he might push the matter, but after a long moment, he turned to face her.
“I want your best STS pilot flying it,” he growled.
“Sorry. You’ll have to settle for second best. Lieutenant Czerneda was my best STS pilot, but she’s dead—along with three fighter crews.”
“Four, Captain,” a voice announced grimly from one of the stations monitoring the battle.
