Valor's Trial

by Tanya Huff

  Mike looked pleased when the lights came back on. Yawning, scratching at the edge of his jaw where the depilatory had begun to wear off, he stood and shot a calculating look back the way they’d come. “Have to admit, I half expected that sleeve to burn out by now.”

  “Another fine reason to move our collective butts.” Torin, who’d been up since just before the lights had come back on, kicked at the bottom of Jiyuu’s boots. “Nap time’s over, Private.”

  Curled up on his side, he pulled the edge of his vest a little farther over his face and muttered something unintelligible into Watura’s shoulder.

  Torin smiled. “Private Jiyuu!”

  He was on his feet, at attention, his hair in a fuchsia nimbus around his head before his eyes opened.

  “Tell me you only use those powers for good,” Mike murmured close enough to her ear to prevent eavesdropping.

  “So far. Biscuits while we walk, people.” They’d eaten only the kibblewhile they were by the spring and had water to mix it with. “With any luck, there’s a pipe in our future. If we’re really lucky, it’s fallen out of the ceiling leaving an easy exit. If we’re remarkably lucky, the water’ll still be working and it’ll have dropped a few biscuits before the collapse.”

  Ressk rubbed a finger up and over his nose ridges. “Why not wish for a VTA and the Navy in orbit while you’re at it, Gunny?”

  “Gunnery sergeants don’t wish for things, Corporal, we make them happen.”

  “What are happening now?” Presit leaned forward, peering at Harveer Umananth. They were close enough in height that she could do it comfortably, and Craig was all in favor of that. An uncomfortable Presit was a bloody pain in his ass, and she was already conflicted about their continued presence on the blasted battlefield. Sector Central News had loved the first story she’d filed so much—definitely considered to be good news—they’d asked her to stay with the scientists for a while—not such good news.

  She’d been agitating for something to happen ever since, and an agitated Presit was also a pain in his ass.

  Umananth’s nictitating membrane flicked over his eyes. He was uncertain. It hadn’t taken Craig long to learn to learn the young scientist’s tells. Or take a good portion of his—and his colleagues’—money at the poker table. It helped that they went easy on him because he was so clearly mourning. He didn’t much like being that obvious, had hoped to be seen just as Presit’s crew, but he was more than willing to take advantage of the situation. Salvage was a hand-to-mouth operation, new CO2 scrubbers didn’t buy themselves, and, besides, Torin would have appreciated the sentiment. Would have felt that anyone—particularly someone with an advanced degree—who insisted on drawing to an inside straight got what they deserved.

  He still felt nothing when he looked out at the gleaming surface. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true; he felt appalled at the loss of life, a little sick about how it had happened, but the point was he still didn’t feel Torin. Time spent where she’d died hadn’t brought her closer. Or him closure.

  “Harveer!” Presit’s voice had risen from sharp to damned near painful.

  “We’re picking up some strange readings,” Umananth admitted reluctantly.

  Flashing Craig the signal that he should start recording, Presit leaned a little closer. “When you are saying strange, what are you meaning?”

  Umananth brushed a bit of fur off the screen—the heat had the Katrien shedding her plush undercoat by the handful—but otherwise ignored her.

  “Are you meaning strange readings are being coming from the glass?” Presit continued, sliding into on-air cadences. “Are you meaning the dead are finally to be telling you their story? Are you meaning . . .”

  “I are meaning,” Umananth snapped, flicked his tail, and started again. “I am meaning that we have several energy signals approaching the system.”

  One small hand gestured upward. “In space?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “OutSector.”

  “What are making them?”

  “I don’t know!” He half turned and shouted something across the sled in his own language. With other species present, slipping out of Federate meant he was either being deliberately rude or he was a lot more shaken by his unknown readings than it appeared.

  Craig’d bet on the second.

  As Presit took a moment to recap—moments he could record in his sleep these days—he pulled his slate off his belt and brought Promise’s scanners on-line. He made his living finding space debris; odds were that his scanners were at least as good and probably better than anything on a chartered cruiser. Given their position on the edge of Confederation territory, OutSector covered one hell of a lot of space, but at least gave him a direction to sweep.

  Not good that the energy signals were strong enough his scanners locked on them almost immediately.

  “Son of a fukking bitch!” He thumbed in the code for the cruiser. “Captain . . .” Crap! He’d met the Rakva briefly when Presit had “requested” the use of a shuttle and couldn’t remember her fukking name. Good thing there was only one captain up there. “Captain! Suggest you get us all the hell off planet, we’ve got incoming ships!”

  “This one sees them, Mister Ryder. It is certain they are hostile?”

  “Anything of ours would ping my scanners. I’ve got no bloody ping!”

  “Shuttle on its way. Please to herd the science team to the landing site, Mister Ryder.”

  “On it!” He retracted the recorder’s tripod. “Bad guys on the way!” he snapped before Presit could object. “We’re out of here. Umananth!” The scientist had moved to a screen at the far end of the sled. Ignoring Presit’s shrill protests, Craig hurried to his side. “Get your people on the sled, Captain’s sending a shuttle.”

  Umananth’s hand hovered over the repeating pattern on the screen, claws nearly touching the surface. “These are hostiles?”

  “H’san to a brick!”

  The scientist blinked up at him. “What?”

  “Yes.” Craig took a deep breath. “These are hostiles.”

  “And they’ll attack?”

  “Yeah. Seems to be what they do.” Craig nodded toward the closest of the half dozen stations surrounding the sled. “Get them in and let’s go.”

  “I can’t call them in!” He wrapped his tail around his leg, membrane flicking back and forth so quickly Craig wondered if he could see. “Harveer Detalanth is in charge of the team!”

  A Niln who Craig thought was one of Umananth’s grad students handed the scientist a slate. “I have Harveer Detalanth on com.”

  He stared at the screen for a moment, then clearly came to a decision and began to talk, dropping once again out of Federate.

  The grad student gave Craig a look that could only be translated as when I’m in charge, things will run much more smoothly, and jumped down onto the glass, tail stretched out for balance as she headed toward the closest station.

  Craig turned as Presit’s claws dug into the skin of his arm. His reflection in her mirrored glasses looked about as freaked as he was feeling. He usually got to war zones long after the fighting was over.

  “No one are telling you to stop recording,” she snarled. “If we are having the Others attack, then we are finally having vids worth uploading.”

  “They’re not attacking yet. They’re not even in-system yet.”

  She snorted. “Then what are the reasoning for hurrying?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because we don’t want to be here when they arrive and being at the bottom of a gravity well tends to slow that whole running away thing the fuk down.”

  “I are not running.” The fur on her throat gleamed as she frowned up into a heat-silvered sky. Craig had no doubt that she was trying to see beyond the atmosphere and into space. “I are needing an accurate ETA if I are going to go live. Meanwhile . . .” Her jaw lowered, she directed the frown at him. “. . . you are to be recording the panic of packing up.

&nbs
p; “Oh, no, I . . .”

  “You are having something else to do?” she asked pointedly.

  Fortunately, because most of the research team was Niln, once Harveer Detalanth gave the order, packing up the stations happened quickly and efficiently without any of the interspecies complications that often turned the simplest maneuver into a cross between a comedy routine and a turf war. Tripod back up, Presit interviewed each returning scientist and tech about their fear of suddenly being in an active war zone—a couple of responses were going to need editing— while Craig shot background.

  As the last of the crates were being loaded, he carefully nudged Umananth and pointed at three rectangular boxes left out on the glass. “What about them?”

  “Harveer Detalanth says it’s better to lose the equipment than the data, and they’ll keep transmitting until they’re destroyed.”

  “Fair enough. What about him/her?”

  Both sets of lower legs braced against the glass, the Ciptran handed up a piece of equipment a little larger than his/her thorax. The big bugs were bloody strong, Craig would give them that, but he’d never run into one that didn’t exude a “get the fuk away from me” attitude. It was actually impressive to see a Ciptran work as part of a team since he’d heard them described as the exception to the rule that only social species developed sentience.

  “Dr. Anahnt’c’s going to run alongside.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  Umananth shrugged. “He/she is as fast as the sled.”

  “And he/she are not agreeing to an interview,” Presit snarled, joining them. “He/she are keeping a truly unique viewpoint from my public. And you . . .” She unerringly found the same place on his arm she’d dug her claws into before. “. . . are keeping recording in case the Others are coming here faster.”

  “You know what Torin says the military calls the press?” Craig asked Umananth, removing Presit’s hand with as much force as their significant size difference allowed him to get away with. “Range finders.”

  It took a moment. The harveer snickered.

  “You are not being funny,” Presit growled. “And neither are Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

  One of the ubiquitous grad students took the controls and the sled began to move, rising up on its air cushion and heading toward the landing site at the edge of the glass. Dr. Anahnt’c allowed it to move some small distance away, and then he/she began to run. Carapace glittering green and gold in the sunlight, antennae streaming along behind him/her, four lower limbs moving in a strangely nonrhythmic sequence, he/she seemed to have no trouble maintaining the distance.

  “Impressive.” Braced against the movement of the sled, Craig zoomed out far enough to get the full effect of the running Ciptran against the glass.

  Umananth shrugged. “My species eats more insects than yours. I look at him/her and can’t help thinking of an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

  “I are thinking the same,” Presit admitted, bronzed nails absently clawing out a handful of undercoat and tossing it over the side to drift away on the wind.

  All the equipment and half the scientists went up on the first shuttle load. To Craig’s surprise, Presit didn’t try to force her way into one of the seats.

  “I are telling you,” she snorted. “I are not running. The story are happening here.” One hand waved dramatically toward the glass, and Craig took his cue to begin recording. “First, they are destroying our Marines on what are being a molecular level . . .”

  Beside him, Umananth’s grad student began a protest Presit ignored.

  “. . . and now they are returning. Why? Are they here to be destroying the glass or to be retrieving it? Or . . .” Her voice dropped to conspiracy levels. “. . . are they here to be chasing off the scientists before there are being results of their analysis? Are the Others being afraid of what we are to be finding in the glass?”

  Craig had to admit they were all very good questions.

  And none of them stopped him from picking Presit up and carrying her into the shuttle when it returned. As much as he intended to save her life, her shrieked protests, combined with a nasty bite on the hip and four parallel scratches along his neck nearly got her spaced until Dr. Anahnt’c used what looked like pincers on the end of a mid-leg to clamp her mouth shut.

  “Gunny.”

  Torin stopped and glanced down, hearing a hint of the young Marine who’d been tossed out to die in Kyster’s voice.

  His nose ridges were open and flexing slightly. “Body. There.”

  “How long dead?”

  He shrugged. “Nearly no smell left.”

  “You sure you’re not imagining it, kid?” Ressk’s nose ridges were also open. Torin was impressed he’d pulled himself away from Mike and the slate long enough to question the younger Krai’s nose.

  “I’m sure.”

  They had no reason to check on a long-dead Marine and every reason to keep moving through the tunnels as fast as possible.

  Thumb and forefinger curled into her mouth, Torin whistled twice, the sound carrying far enough to bring Werst and Kichar to a stop. They weren’t so far ahead they couldn’t have heard her if she’d yelled, but if the Others were still monitoring, she intended to give them as little information as possible.

  “Watura . . .” She felt a light tug at her sleeve and, damn it, she knew she had to discourage this kind of thing, but the kid had made the call and he deserved to come along. “. . . Kyster. With me.”

  Instinct had maintained the Human, Krai, di’Taykan parity although she’d have rather not have justified their presence by taking any of the three di’Taykan.

  The cave entrance was high and narrow. All three of them had to turn sideways to fit through, but at least they had plenty of headroom. She sent Watura in before her and Kyster after, not wanting to put more pressure on the young private by trapping him, even momentarily, in a small cave with one of Harnett’s ex-goons. He’d probably be fine, but she wasn’t willing to bet Watura’s fingers on it since he’d be fuk all use without them.

  The Marine, a male di’Taykan, lay with one leg bent to the side and his hands crossed one on top of the other on his chest. Pale blue hair had fallen away from a pebbled scalp and surrounded his head like long, discolored, conifer needles. His eyes were closed, but in death they’d have gone pale blue from lid to lid. The skin that clung to the bones as though it had been vaccum sealed had a deep blue tint and the stain under the body looked black.

  “Keep your light on his chest, Watura.” Dropping to one knee, Torin gently moved the dead Marine’s hands.

  He’d died of his wounds. Been scooped up away from his fireteam, his squad, his platoon, and dropped here where he’d died. Undiscovered. No way of knowing exactly how long he’d been here, but Torin had seen plenty of dead di’Taykan and that kind of desiccation didn’t happen overnight.

  Thumb rubbing lightly against the raised crest of his collar tab, she silently filled in what it told her: Corporal, 1st Division, 2nd Recar’ta, 1st Battalion, 4th Armored. No way of knowing his name with his tech off. His vest surrendered a tube of sealant and two filters. If he’d had three sheets of supplement tucked away, they’d have arrived with the same baggage. Almost the same baggage. She snapped the pheromone masker off his throat and straightened.

  “Gunnery Sergeant?”

  “Had a di’Taykan in my platoon once, di’Stenjic Haysole,” she said quietly, eyes on the tech, dialing it back to zero. “He asked me . . .

  Squinting into the rising sun, she let the words trail off. Something glittered by the doorway that had led to the third room. Heart pounding, she took a step back and vaulted over the wall. Her boots and legs were covered in a fine coat of gray by the time she reached it. A masker, partially melted and covered in char but recognizable for all that.

  “. . . he said, if I die, take the masker off before you bag me.”

  “Did he? Die?” Kyster added when she turned to face him.

  “He did.”

  “
Did you . . . ?” Watura finished the question with a noise that could have meant any number of things.

  Torin tucked the masker into her vest and smiled. Kyster wouldn’t have asked because it would never have occurred to Kyster that she might fail. “There wasn’t enough left to bag,” she told Watura bluntly. “Just like we can’t bag the corporal.” Wishing she could spare a mouthful of water, she looked down at the body. “We will not forget. We will not fail you.”

  “Fraishin sha aren. Valynk sha haren.”

  “Kal danic dir k’dir. Kri ta chrikdan.”

  Easy odds that neither of them had ever stood in those positions before. But every Marine knew the words.

  “All right, let’s go; we’re on the clock.”

  “We can’t just leave him.”

  She felt her lip curl as she turned toward the living di’Taykan. “That’s rich coming from you, Private. How many did you drop down the disposal? Leave to die in a cave just like this one? Leave to die, alone?” As a Marine, Watura had seen plenty of death. As a di’Taykan, there were few things worse than being alone. “We’ll remember this Marine and take that memory with us because it’s all we’ve got. How many have you forgotten?”

  Beside her, Kyster snapped his teeth together.

  Hair flat against his head, his lime-green eyes nearly black, Watura stood for a moment, light on the dead di’Taykan’s face; then his legs folded and he sat. “I’m staying with him. I only came because I thought if we got out you’d put in a good word if I helped with the escape, but there’s no fukking point. It’s just more tunnels, and he’s been alone long enough.”

  Torin actually considered leaving him there. Then she sighed. “And Jiyuu?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t even try to tell me that was the only reason you came. You came because Jiyuu came.”

  “He’ll be fine with Darlys. Me, her—it doesn’t matter to him.”

  “Evidence suggests it does.”

  Watura shrugged.