by Huff, Tanya
A staff sergeant with a pale beard and a missing front tooth stepped forward. “Staff Sergeant Kerin Pole, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Get those kids taken care of, Staff Sergeant. Get them clothes and medical attention if they need it.” She shouldn’t have had to specify but none of this should have happened, so . . . “Then have the lower ranks divided into groups of ten to fifteen so that we can see about getting them fed. We’ll set up actual platoons later.”
“What about them?” His gaze flicked past her at the remains of Harnett’s six still standing where she’d left them. They were uncertain, confused, but Edwards had been an object lesson the way Harnett hadn’t, and what they’d become proved they weren’t the type to sacrifice themselves on a fool’s chance.
“They’re not our problem, Staff.”
“But . . .”
“You have your orders.”
After a long moment, he nodded and she walked away, turning back to the staring eyes. She took a deep breath and let only calm expectation shape her voice. “Would the senior officer please meet with me here.”
She almost thought she’d have to ask again, but finally, after feet shuffling and muttering had run its course through the group, two di’Taykan emerged. A major and a lieutenant who was clearly supporting a good portion of the major’s weight.
Torin came to attention. “Major . . .”
Face and voice both showed no emotion. “di’Ree Kenoton.”
“Major Kenoton,” she spoke to the major but loudly enough to be heard, “Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr, 7th Division, 4th Recarta, 1st Battalion, Sh’quo Company. What are your orders, sir?”
The lieutenant’s eyes flicked from light green to dark so quickly it must have hurt.
The major merely stared, his eyes a mid-range blue. It looked as though he didn’t understand. He had to understand. This was crucial. They had to become Marines again, or she’d just replaced Harnett as their keeper.
After a long moment, his hair moved, just a little. “My orders?”
“Yes, sir.”
After a longer moment, she began to be afraid this wasn’t going to work.
Then the major, blinked, wet his lips, and said, “Carry on as you have been, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir!”
FOUR
“WHAT TOOK YOU SO FUKKING long, Gunny?”
Torin turned toward the familiar voice and smiled. This time, her expression meant nothing more or less than how it appeared. It felt good to see a familiar face. “Fuk, Werst, if there was shit disturbing going on, I should have known it was you.”
He didn’t look bad, all things considered, but his natural mottling couldn’t hide the bruises, one eye was swollen almost closed, and Kyster had definitely been supporting him as they moved toward her. She could see abrasions on one wrist and knew there’d be a matching set on the other wrist and both ankles. He hadn’t just lain there after he’d been staked out, he’d fought the bindings. A bloody scab weighed down one corner of his mouth, but his lips still rose up off his teeth. “Harnett?”
“Dead.”
“Edwards?”
“Also dead.”
His grunt suggested he found the news of Edwards’ death disappointing. Torin assumed that was only because he’d had plans to take care of it himself. “How many total?”
“Seven. Eight including Harnett.”
Werst’s good eye widened. “How many with you?”
“Private Kyster found me and brought me in.”
“Not what I meant.”
“I know.”
His nose ridges opened and closed. “I landed in this serley hell hole yesterday, so unless you came in earlier . . .”
“No.”
“. . . you’re saying you killed eight armed shitheads today.”
Since that wasn’t a question, Torin didn’t answer it.
“Okay.” He very carefully covered his teeth when he smiled. “I guess it’s a damned good thing they didn’t piss you off, Gunny.”
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?” Major Kenoton’s voice pulled her back around toward him. “You know this Marine?”
“Corporal Werst and I served together on the Big Yellow expedition, sir. A Recon mission to an alien ship,” she expanded when the major stared at her blankly. Obviously, he’d been here for a while.
“The ship was of an unknown alien construction, sir,” Lieutenant Myshai put in, the movement of her hair speeding up. “The Others were exploring it as well, and our Recon team had to fight its way to the air lock. They wouldn’t have gotten off except for the CSO who’d discovered the ship.” Her eyes darkened as she glanced up at Torin, and she nearly grinned before returning her attention back to the major. “He came and got them and packed them into his cargo pod. Gunnery Sergeant Kerr captured the survivors of the Others’ Recon team, but the Others sent vacuum jockeys out to kill them before they got to the Berganitan.”
The lieutenant had, just as obviously, been here for some months less and had seen all the vids. A few of the amateur remixes made di’Taykan opera look sedate, and the Corps had attempted to keep them out of circulation without much success.
“I see,” said the major. He didn’t. But it didn’t matter. “I’m pleased to see you took no significant damage, Corporal Werst.” Torin wondered how much of the low rasp was a result of his voice deteriorating as he starved. There was a certain detachment to it she found just a little unnerving. More significantly, the color of his eyes never changed; for a di’Taykan, that was either frighteningly detached or evidence of significant vision loss. She almost hoped for the latter. “The gunny’s going to need support,” he continued, “until the rest of us get a little steadier on our feet.”
The gunny was also going to need Marines she could count on as part of her escape team, but this didn’t seem the time to bring that up with the major. Torin swept a critical gaze over the Marines. Most of them were sitting while the strongest in each group joined the line at Harnett’s food stores. Staff Sergeant Pole seemed to have things under control, and if her name was being used to maintain discipline when starving Marines would rather surge forward and fight for whatever food they could get, well, that’s what it was for.
Still, they were probably lucky that most of those waiting were physically incapable of surging forward.
Harnett’s goons had been put to work gathering up the fallen fabric panels. There was a trick to folding them without activating their internal tech, forcing the job to be much less a mindless activity than it could have been. And that was good. Keeping Harnett’s goons busy was a significantly better idea than letting them stand around and consider their situation. Besides, from the way they were being watched, their situation was under consideration by pretty nearly everyone not currently shoveling food into their mouth.
Food in hand got one hundred percent attention.
“Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I’ll eat after everyone else has eaten, sir, just in case there isn’t enough to go around. It hasn’t been as long for me,” she added before he could speak. “Private Kyster.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
The corners of Werst’s mouth twitched up.
Torin leaned in, just enough to acknowledge what they’d shared. “You can dial the volume back a little now, Kyster.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“I need you to go get food for the major and the lieutenant.” The other five officers, two captains and three second lieutenants, were sitting together, one of the sergeants seeing they were fed. Eventually, the second lieutenants would lead platoons and the captains would become part of the major’s staff, but for now they were fine where they were.
“One moment, Private Kyster.”
He stopped at the major’s command but glanced at Torin for confirmation.
Torin appreciated the major ignoring that as he declared, “Like you, Gunnery Sergeant, we’ll
eat when the rest have eaten.”
“Yes, sir. From the look of things, that’ll be about when the private returns with your food. The NCOs are just getting their food now.”
“Then the private can also return with your food.”
“I think I should deal with the rest of Harnett’s people first, sir. There’s still a hunting party out and three more at the guard station.”
“You can eat first.”
This wasn’t going to work if she argued with every word out of the major’s mouth, and the last thing she wanted him to do was make his desire an order. “Very well, sir.”
“Good.” He took a deep breath, as though the argument had exhausted him, and turned his attention back to Kyster. “Bring enough food for Gunnery Sergeant Kerr and for Corporal Werst, Private.”
“Yes, sir.”
Werst knew better than to glance at Torin. “I’ll go with him, sir.”
“Are you able?”
“Wouldn’t have off . . .”
Torin cut Werst off with a raised brow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go on, then.”
“Yes, sir. Come on, kid,” Werst wrapped a hand around Kyster’s arm and turned him toward the stores. “We have a job to do.”
As the two Krai moved away, Major Kenoton murmured, “I think I’d best sit now, Myshai. It won’t look good if I smack into the floor with my face.”
“Everyone will understand, sir.” Myshai gracefully folded to the floor beside him, guiding his collapse but somehow making it look as though they sat in unison. “They know what you’ve been through.”
“What they know and what they see are two entirely different things.” At his gesture, Torin also sat, although less gracefully. “Aren’t they, Gunny?”
“Yes, sir.” Chain of command had to be reestablished. The major had to be seen to lead. She was grateful he realized that—there were officers who wouldn’t have, and had she been stuck with any of them, they’d have made her job a lot harder.
“The private didn’t arrive with you, did he, Gunnery Sergeant?”
Kyster and Werst were at the food stores now. “No, sir, he’s been surviving in the tunnels since Harnett decided his injured foot made him not worth feeding.”
“How did Private Kyster survive in the tunnels, Gunnery Sergeant?”
“He’s Krai, sir.” The emphasis in the major’s question made it clear he knew what that meant. She rubbed the hand he couldn’t see over the floor of the node, fingernails skimming over the smooth gray rock making sure it was actually rock. A sentient polynumeric molecular species that was essentially organic plastic really ratcheted the paranoia up a notch or two.
“We can’t have that, Gunnery Sergeant.”
The major’s delivery remained detached but the subtext was obvious. Marines don’t eat other Marines.
“No need for it anymore, sir.”
“There’s nothing in the tunnels to eat,” the lieutenant said suddenly. Her hair stilled. “Nothing except . . . Vret ter yeinan kell, Marines!”
“Sa minek ple,” Torin snapped, her di’Taykan more than up for this exchange. “He’ll be taking those Marines home, Lieutenant. They’re a part of him now.”
“I don’t care how you spin it, Gunny, it’s disgusting.” She stared down into the cradle of her legs, apparently unable to cope with the thought.
“Lieutenant Myshai.”
Unable to stop herself from responding to Torin’s voice, the lieutenant looked up.
“Any of those Marines would have been happy to know they didn’t die in vain. That their deaths meant something. That with their deaths they kept another Marine alive.”
“You don’t know that, Gunnery Sergeant.”Her eyes were so light Torin knew she could barely see. That was all right, she didn’t need to see; she needed to listen.
“I do know that, Lieutenant.”
“But . . .”
“Enough.” The major’s soft rasp cut her off. “It’s over and done, and we won’t speak of it again. Gunnery Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant Myshai?”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant’s agreement was a little less definitive.
Torin understand her problem—the ingrained reaction to eating sentient flesh had a strong pathological basis originating back when each sentient species thought they were the only sentient species, and eating the dead led to some very nasty diseases. Unless, of course, it was Krai eating Krai. The Krai gut was the most efficient in known space. When the Elder Races approached the Krai to join the fight against the Others, they were just lucky the Krai had been willing to surrender at least a part of their cultural heritage—while they still ate each other during the privacy of their own rituals, they didn’t usually eat anyone else.
Given that the Krai preferred Human flesh over . . . well, over damned near everything, Torin was more than happy to return to the default rules. She just wasn’t going to put up with the lieutenant thinking less of an injured kid thrown out on his own like so much trash who’d done what he had to in order to survive.
“It seems Harnett had enough food put by to give everyone in this hole two generous portions,” Werst announced as he tossed Torin a brown plastic bowl a little larger across than her fist.
“Hard to believe that’s all.” The major’s fingers looked even thinner against the curve of a similar bowl he’d pulled from inside the front of his combats. Safest place to put it, Torin realized as the lieutenant followed suit, and they’d lost enough weight there was certainly room. All the bowls were identical, and she only just resisted the urge to put her bowl on the floor and wipe the feel of the plastic off her hands.
“Looks like he and his crew ate the rest. There were a bunch of these.” Werst held up a long curved jug made of the same material as the bowls, his fist shoved through the handle in its back. “And they stored the rest in sleeves tied off at both ends.”
Torin had to acknowledge it was a creative storage solution.
“So, this is how they told me it’s done, Gunny. Water first.” Carefully, Werst filled everyone’s bowls—beginning with the major’s and finishing with Kyster’s. “We drink.”
The major and the lieutenant had already emptied their bowls.
The liquid beaded up on the surface, the beads joined and ran, and not a drop was wasted.
“Then . . .” Werst took a second jug from Kyster. “. . . we fill the bowl with the Marine chow . . .”
The jugs were marked, Torin saw as he poured. Each line representing the volume of one of the bowls, each jug held ten servings. Torin tried to remember which of the species fighting for the Others had five digits on each hand. First figure out who created this place, figure out who exactly was holding them; decide later what to do with that information. She thought maybe the crazy little guys who rode the quadrupeds had five though the quadrupeds themselves had four. Three thick fingers, one opposing digit—thumb for lack of a better word.
The pellets were a dark red brown, about the size of Torin’s smallest fingertip. They had a strong, almost meaty odor, but they looked like formed grain of some kind.
“. . . and add more water.”
Water turned the pellets into a rough porridge. The major and the lieutenant used their first two fingers to scoop the mush up to their mouths. It was lukewarm, probably some kind of chemical reaction, a bit gritty, and tasted like the yeast paste Craig liked to spread on his toast although it was entirely possible it tasted completely different to each species. Most food did. Who could have anticipated the way the H’san overreacted to cheese?
“What do you think it is?” she asked the corporal as he ate.
He shrugged. “Chrick.”
“I was hoping for a little more than edible.”
He shrugged again and kept eating. Torin wondered if he couldn’t say or he wouldn’t. Werst was contrary on a good day and this—well, they’d both had better.
The surface of the bowls repelled th
e mush much as it had the water; the Others appeared to have mastered self-cleaning dishes. Torin approved. It meant they understood what bacteria could do to their prisoners and had taken steps to prevent disease. She thought about the supplements tucked inside her vest and decided to wait on mentioning them for now. Harnett hadn’t seemed to be suffering from any lack of nutrients, so it was possible the appalling condition of the rest of the Marines around the pipe could be blamed on lack of calories.
“Second helping now or later, Gunny?” Werst asked, setting his bowl to one side.
“Major?”
Kenoton stared into the dark curve of his empty bowl as if he expected to find the answer. Torin could see the order he wanted to give and was impressed when he said, “Later. It would be good to sleep without hunger.”
She rocked up onto her feet. “I’ll let Staff Sergeant Pole know, sir.” Kyster bounded up beside her, and Torin hid a smile as she pulled him away from the two officers and Werst. “I need you to stay here and be the major’s legs for him. He’s going to need to stay on top of things, but if he goes ass over tip . . .” One of Craig’s sayings. She banished both it and the unexpected pain that came with it. “. . . if he falls, it won’t look good. Any running that needs to be done, you do it for him. Understand?”
Kyster glanced down at his bad foot then back up at her. “You want me to run around for him?”
“Yes.”
“But I . . . I’m . . .”
She could read broken off his face. “You’re not going to be able to program a slate with that foot, but you obviously get around on it just fine. Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Gunny, I want . . .”
He wanted to stay with her. That was obvious. “Corporal Werst will be here with you.”
She gave him credit for not turning to look at the other Krai, and, gradually, his breathing slowed. “If the major wants to move around?”
“Look eager. Respectfully remind him you’ve been kept out of things and you want to help.” Kyster’s youth and the major’s apparent good sense should do the rest. “If he’s going to keep command, it’s important no one knows how physically weak he is.” Which was both the truth and total bullshit since everyone—including Harnett’s goons—knew exactly how weak the major was.
