The Heart of Valor

by Tanya Huff

  “Escape pod? What . . .”

  “You didn’t hear about it?” She didn’t know about it. Torin recognized the expression—she should, she’d been seeing it enough. Crossing her feet at the ankles, Torin pushed no big deal with her posture; the last thing she wanted now was for the petty officer to mention to one of her officers that Gunnery Sergeant Kerr was asking about nonexistent, highly classified escape pods. “No surprise. You were up to your ass in repairs trying to keep your squadron flying.”

  They talked in general terms about the fight; Torin’d had a closer look at the Black Star Squadron in action than she ever wanted to have again. When Tristir was finally called in to have her foot tended, Torin pulled out her slate.

  There was no way in hell Petty Officer Tristir wouldn’t have known about the escape pod, not when one of her Jades had been responsible for bouncing it into the shuttle bay. Granted, she might have been too busy to have thought much about it when it arrived, but after the fight, on the way home in the boredom of Susumi space, the whole ship would have been talking about carrying one of Big Yellow’s escape pods, and survivors of Black Star Squadron would have been distinctly proprietary about it, especially given the way Commander Sibley had died.

  Therefore, logically, Petty Officer Tristir had to have known about it. And now she didn’t.

  Torin remembered.

  Craig Ryder remembered.

  Why?

  What did they have in common that everyone else involved in the mission didn’t?

  What else besides the obvious?

  Was there anything else besides the obvious?

  Sex as a defense against mind control?

  All the mission reports, including hers, had been classified. Had she been able to find a taker, Torin was willing to bet that, were she back on Ventris and able to get into the main data banks, she’d find all references to the escape pod had been removed from those reports.

  But by whom?

  There had been none of the Elder Races on the Berganitan, although there had been three of what the histories referred to as the Mid Races; those who’d joined the Confederation after it had been established but before Parliament had gone searching for aggressive species to protect them against the Others. There’d been a Ciptran, a few Niln, and too many Katrien given the sudden arrival of Presit a Tur durValintrisy and her news crew. Torin hadn’t liked the reporter when she met her and didn’t like her much better after . . .

  She stared down at her slate, not actually seeing it.

  After.

  There was something she and Craig and Presit a Tur durValintrisy had in common.

  After the explosion that trapped them on Big Yellow, the three of them—and Captain Travik, Torin’s injured CO—had been sucked down through a meter of floor slowly enough for the alien ship to scan them. Eventually, all the survivors had passed through seemingly solid parts of the ship, but all other incidents had happened in real time. Was it possible that whatever the ship had done to them during the extended scan had somehow protected them from having the Elder Races wipe their memories of the escape pod?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Captain Travik had died of his injuries, his body lost to space but, as far as Torin knew, Presit was still very much alive. Sitting forward in the chair, the slate down between her knees where her body blocked the screen from any possibility of prying eyes, Torin put together a message.

  Craig: Talk to the reporter. Find out if she remembers the EP. We three may be the only ones who do.

  She’d send the message the moment the NirWentry left Susumi space. Going out on a personal burst, it would be legally private. Most of Parliament hadn’t much liked the idea of a Confederation Military at all and had done everything they could to limit their autocracy. Anything that might give away the position of ships or troops got automatically flagged and the message pulled to be dealt with by the lowest levels of Intell, but everything else from bitching about the food to describing the particulars of a battle was fair game. Given that the Corps encouraged their recruits to write home regularly, her message would probably be buried in with sixty others and not even noticed. Still, if memories were being erased, then mail might be read, so there was no point in being obvious about things. Best to give Craig just enough information and no more.

  Once Presit realized something was going on, she’d . . .

  She’d what?

  Raise high holy hell probably.

  Torin straightened and stared across the waiting room, fingers tightening around her slate.

  Maybe the Elder Races had a good reason for erasing the memory of the escape pod; one Torin had no need to know. Need to know had been the operating credo of her entire career. Officers made the decisions, she saw to it they were carried out with as little loss of Marine Corps life as possible. She didn’t deal with the big picture, she took care of the details. This whole thing could easily be part of a big picture she wasn’t even aware of. By stirring things up—and having Craig prod Presit would definitely stir things up—she could be placing the entire Confederation at risk.

  She could be placing Marines at risk.

  Thumb sweeping over the screen to delete the message, she got to her feet as the inner hatch swung open and Major Svensson emerged.

  “Fifty-six minutes, Gunny. Your looming presence seems to have kept them honest.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was looming, sir.”

  “Metaphorically, Gunny.”

  “Yes, sir. Where’s Dr. Sloan?”

  “Dr. Sloan and Dr. Weer are having my head examined.”

  “Sir?”

  “They’re looking at the scans of my head to see if they can figure out what’s causing my headaches.”

  Torin stood aside as he exited into the corridor and then fell into step beside him. “If they’re debilitating, sir . . .”

  “You’re about to suggest that we don’t need to go to Crucible, aren’t you, Gunny? Don’t bother answering,” he continued before she could speak, “I know how you think. They are not debilitating and we are going to Crucible although, should they figure out what bits of my brain are hurting and why, I won’t turn down a magic pill.”

  “Glad to hear that, sir.”

  “And you’ve got to look at the bright side, Gunny. At least there’s medical evidence that you’re serving under an officer with a brain.”

  “Yes, sir.” A very early retirement indeed.

  FOUR

  “WEE’LL BE GOING NOR TH WITH PLATOON 71, Gunny, dropping into NHS19.” Major Svensson tapped the position on the map displayed on his desk. “It’s midwinter there: cold but dry. Platoon 72’s going to the tropics, just over three thousand k south, but I’ve had enough of being warm and wet for the time being. The scenario involves us attempting to get an important civilian out of a combat zone to the pickup point; the platoon will be supporting us. Neither my orders nor yours will supersede the senior DI’s.”

  “And the junior DI’s?”

  The major grinned. “I expect that’ll depend on their orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You look doubtful, Gunny.” He waved his left hand. “Afraid this is likely to drop off?”

  “Not actually my problem, sir. I’m concerned about Dr. Sloan.”

  “You don’t think thirty-seven Marines can keep one not particularly large civilian alive? Even if thirty-two of them aren’t quite Marines? Don’t worry about it,” he continued before Torin could answer, “she’ll be wearing an observer’s chit. The system will be unable to fire directly at her.”

  That would have been reassuring, except experience had taught her that direct fire was usually a lot less dangerous than random fire; soft target rounds tended toward the impersonal. It was also significantly less dangerous than artillery fire, which often resulted in large, indiscriminate explosions collapsing buildings and/or landscapes, and entirely less dangerous than friendly fire, which was unfortunately likely when thirty-two recruits were gi
ven live ammo and tossed into a simulated combat situation. Since experience had taught Major Svensson the same thing, Torin stuck with a neutral, “Yes, sir.”

  His expression suggested he’d clearly heard the subtext. “She’ll be in full combats under that jacket of hers, Gunny, with all the built-in safeties the squints in R&D can devise and let’s not forget that the system would have to get through you and me to take her down.”

  “That’s not my concern either, sir; since Crucible is designed to challenge one twenty recruits, we should be able to kick its ass. I’m concerned about whether or not Dr. Sloan will be willing to put in the full twenty days once she gets a taste of what it’ll be like. Since the point of the exercise is to get to the pickup point and the OP won’t send down transport without a serious injury registering, does she know she’s in for the duration? Escorting a willing civilian is a whole different ballgame than escorting one who’s kicking and screaming and wanting to go home.”

  “I don’t think Dr. Sloan’s the kicking and screaming type, Gunny, and—more importantly—I think she’ll stick it out. She maintains an amazing focus on the tiniest details of what she’s working on—which would be, currently, me or rather . . .” He waved the hand again. “. . . this, but that kind of focus blurs out the bigger picture, so if we can keep her and her slate undamaged, we’ll be laughing. Besides . . .” One finger tapped the map, and NHS19 expanded to fill the desktop, multicolored lights flashing throughout the section. “. . . you’ve already uploaded the scenario, so I’m betting that by the time we’re dropped you’ll be able to run it with your eyes closed.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was good to work with an officer who knew what to expect.

  Jonin was in the corridor, lingering by the hatch to her quarters when Torin left the major a few minutes later. The di’Taykan recruit looked conflicted.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?”

  Since Taykan in the di phase would have sex with anything that fell into their uniquely broad definition of compatible, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he was there. “No, thank you, Jonin. Not interested.”

  “It’s not that, Gunnery Sergeant. Although . . .” He looked momentarily intrigued, remembered she’d already said no, and started again. “If I may ask you a question?”

  She should have known; di’Taykans never looked conflicted about sex. “Go ahead.”

  “As I understand it, you outrank Staff Sergeant Beyhn? And the other DIs?”

  That wasn’t among the questions she’d expected. “Glad to see you were paying attention when they were teaching you the command structure of the Corps, Recruit.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s . . .” His hair drooped. “If it happened that there was a problem with Staff Sergeant Beyhn, would I go to you?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  He looked conflicted a moment longer, then said simply, “I don’t know.”

  About to tell him to come back when he did know, Torin reconsidered. Whatever the problem he suspected, it had visibly upset him and while he wasn’t specifically her responsibility, in a general way they all were—where they meant not just these two platoons of recruits but the NCOs she outranked as well. “Can you tell me what kind of a problem it may or may not be?”

  “I apologize, but I can’t. It’s personal.”

  His eyes were so pale, so many of the light receptors closed, she’d be amazed if he could see her at all. “Personal about you or . . .”

  “Jonin!”

  He snapped to attention at the sound of the staff sergeant’s voice and just for a second, Torin could have sworn he looked terrified. Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s sudden arrival had wound him so tight he practically twanged when he moved. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr is not interested in your 120 kayti. Ask her again when—make that if—you survive Crucible.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Now get back into the common room. Staff Sergeant Dhupam is about to review ways to take out a drone.”

  The recruits were encouraged to do as much damage to the systems on Crucible as they could. This always turned out to be more difficult than they expected.

  Jonin didn’t look at her again before he moved, but he half turned as he passed the sergeant and Torin, watching closely, saw his nostrils flare. The di’Taykan had an extremely sensitive sense of smell and the pheromones they produced were the secret of their success in interspecies intimacy. Since most other species found constant sexual arousal to be at the very least distracting, di’Taykan wore pheromone maskers when in mixed groups.

  Was Jonin trying to tell her that Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s masker was malfunctioning? If it was, it was happening at a level Torin couldn’t detect. As the sergeant moved closer, she felt no desire to do her old DI up against the bulkhead—and was, in point of fact, profoundly relieved by the total absence of those feelings.

  “So, I hear your major decided to come dirtside with 71. I don’t suppose you influenced his decision in any way?”

  “Me, influence an officer’s decision? Never happen.” When Beyhn snorted, she grinned. “And in this case it didn’t happen; the major just preferred to spend twenty days cold instead of overheated.”

  “I’m happy he’s happy, and I’d have to say I’m fairly happy about it myself. Sergeant Jiir, now, he’s unhappy. You know how Krai hate the cold.”

  “I expect he’ll have enough to do to keep warm.”

  “You’ve gone over the scenario?”

  “I have.”

  “Good. It never hurts to have backup.”

  “Speaking of backup . . .”

  “You’re not getting the codes,” he told her flatly. “Not you or your major. You’re observers only, and I know you; given half a chance you’ll think you’ve come up with a better way to do things, so I’m not putting the power to make changes into your hands. Now . . .” His hair flipped in the general direction of the recruits’ common room. “. . . I’d better get back in there; Connie’s alone with the horde. Gunny.”

  “Staff.” Since she had no reason to watch him walk to the common room hatch, Torin entered her own quarters, crossed the room, and frowned down at the matte black surface of the desk. She’d never had a conversation with a di’Taykan so devoid of innuendo. Staff Sergeant Beyhn hadn’t reacted with as much as a raised brow to either the major being overheated or the prospect of Sergeant Jiir having enough to do to keep warm. And, as disturbing as it might be when it concerned her old drill instructor, Humans always felt a low level of attraction to the di’Taykan, even with the maskers. Since the di’Taykan were doing everything they could to neutralize this, susceptible members of the Confederation learned to ignore it.

  There had been nothing to ignore with Staff Sergeant Beyhn. There was nothing there.

  Dropping into the chair, she called up all available medical files on the di’Taykan. If the staff sergeant was coming down with something, it would be best to catch it before he was dropped into a Crucible winter with thirty-two recruits, a convalescent major, and a civilian doctor.

  She found nothing that listed lack of overt libido—hers and his—as a symptom and had to assume that his masker was just more efficient than most. If it was blocking enough of the pheromones to drop them under the levels even his own species could scent, then it was no wonder that Jonin had gotten upset. To the younger male’s senses, it would be as if his senior DI had become a walking, talking mannequin.

  Although . . .

  None of the other di’Taykan recruits seemed affected—or, more accurately, none of the other recruits had come to her with the problem. The best solution seemed to involve taking a closer look at the rest of the platoon before she came to a decision about approaching the sergeant. Facing down a thousand Silsviss had less potential for disaster than coming between a senior DI and his platoon right before Crucible.

  * * *

  There were a group of Krai working the ropes over in a corner, but, otherwise, Torin had the NirW
entry’s larboard gym to herself. She didn’t much like treadmills, but 0530 of day two in Susumi space had seen the Marine packet filled with recruits pounding along the corridors and up and down ladders over the convoluted five k course their DIs had worked out. A few moments’ observation had shown no di’Taykan, including Jonin, having any obvious difficulties as they passed Staff Sergeant Beyhn and yelled out the nine-digit core of their seventeen-digit ID number, so she headed off-packet for a little peace and quiet.

  Not even vacuum jockeys ran through the convoluted corridors of the big destroyers and either the starboard gym was the more popular or not many members of the NirWentry’s crew worked out this early.

  She’d just hit the three k mark and was starting to pick up speed when Major Svensson stepped through the hatch followed by a yawning Dr. Sloan. They both acknowledged her. Then, to her surprise, as the major headed for the resistance machines Dr. Sloan claimed one of the other treadmills, docking her slate and slipping on a visor. Had she been asked, Torin would have said that the doctor was there only to observe the major’s workout. Just as well she hadn’t been asked since she hated to be wrong.

  She also hated not being able to see where she was actually putting her feet, but, given the new contours of her treadmill, the doctor had no such problem and preferred an environment that involved goat tracks corkscrewing up the side of mountains.

  A fast two kilometers later, dripping sweat onto the deck, Torin crossed to see if the major needed a hand. He’d set his weight station into an ergometer configuration. As he sweated and swore and struggled to complete his last few reps, she checked the data pad.

  “Sir, these settings are little high.”

  “Cleared to work at 450 watts,” he panted, face flushed scarlet.