The Heart of Valor

by Tanya Huff

  Nose ridges flushed, Piroj reached up and pulled his toque off.

  Leaning close to her ear, Major Svensson pitched his voice under Beyhn’s. “Need to hear any more, Gunny?”

  “No, sir. He’s about to assign fireteams, and that doesn’t concern us.”

  Gathering up their gear, they left the VTA and headed back toward their quarters. Barely six paces from the hatch, the all clear sounded as the NirWentry left Susumi space. The background mechanical hum changed pitch slightly as the Susumi engines shut down.

  “You think Staff Sergeant Beyhn decided to choose fireteams now in order to distract the children from the possibility of a Susumi equation gone wrong?”

  Torin raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry, Gunny, stupid question. Dr. Sloan’s gear settled?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s wearing Corps combats, but the rest is hers.”

  “More catalogs?”

  “Apparently. And I wouldn’t mind getting a look at a couple of them; her bodyliner is the next thing to an HE suit.” According to the specs, with the plumbing connected, it would recycle waste indefinitely, maintain the wearer’s body temperature at whatever was normal for any of five separate species, protect against most types of light-to-moderate radiation, play most entertainment files, and it came in fifteen colors, including two that looked gray to Human eyes. Dr. Sloan had gotten her hands on an impressive set of long underwear.

  “You think someone is selling Corps tech to the general public?”

  “No, sir, but I think the Corps might want to consider changing suppliers. She’s got a sweet setup on.”

  The major made a noncommittal noise and asked. “Trainers or off the rack?”

  “For the doctor, sir?”

  “Well, I know I’m not wearing any goddamned trainers, Gunny and I’ve got a strong suspicion you’re not either so, yes, for the doctor.”

  “Off the rack, sir, given her observer status. I was concerned the programming in the trainers might confuse the drones.”

  The recruits’ combats—called trainers, although the official name was Extremity Targeting Garments, ETGs—contained microcircuitry that worked with the drones deployed, Crucible directing fire to where it would do the least damage. While Torin had nothing against the less damage part of their function, the directing fire bit was a deal breaker. The last thing she wanted was her own uniform directing the enemy’s fire toward soft tissue damage. She’d wear her own combats and force the damned drones to aim just like everyone else who shot at her had to.

  It seemed the major felt the same way.

  The recruits might have as well had they been told.

  “So the Doc knows we’re boarding at 0630 tomorrow; that 71 got the first drop?”

  “Yes, sir. She knows.”

  They walked a few paces farther.

  “So, what’s the name of the di’Taykan with the pale pink hair?”

  “Di’Terada Sakur.” Torin frowned up at him. Was this a recruit who’d come to the major instead of her with a problem? And was it the same problem Jonin thought he had? “Why, sir?”

  Svennsson grinned. “I bet myself that the moment you knew which platoon we were dropping with, you’d learn who was who.”

  Not a problem; conversation. It was going to take a while to get used to that with an officer, but they were a little short of other people to talk to. “I could be wrong about the name.”

  “But you aren’t.”

  “No, sir.” He knew she was right because he knew the names as well as she did. “I bet myself you’d do the exact same thing.”

  “We really need some more people to gamble with.”

  Torin grinned, hearing the major voice essentially what she’d just been thinking. “No argument, sir. I owe myself fifty credits.”

  “Fifty? I only bet twenty on you.”

  * * *

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr; there’s nothing wrong with that piece of equipment in the larboard gym. Record says resistance was set to rise incrementally every rep. No upper limit.”

  Torin slid a few notes about Platoon 71 off the comm screen, enlarging the chief petty officer’s image. “Thank you, Chief. Sorry to waste your time.”

  She shrugged. “Not a problem. Your major’s probably in worse shape than he thought. Can’t be easy coming back after being tanked so long.”

  “No, I don’t imagine it is.”

  “He was the brain in the tank, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Well, at least you know he’s got one.”

  “I find that a great comfort, Chief.”

  With the comm screen dark, Torin drummed her fingers against the inert trim on the desk. Major Svensson had believed it when he told her he’d set the resistance at five, no rises. The Chief had no reason to lie to her. Therefore, the simplest explanation was that the major had set the machine incorrectly without noticing. The simplest explanation was usually the right one, but something about the situation suggested complications to Torin, the kind of complications that were likely to show up later and bite someone on the ass.

  The major was right, though; rogue rowing machines weren’t usually part of a Crucible scenario.

  * * *

  To Torin’s surprise, Dr. Sloan was not only up and ready for her 0600 breakfast but unimpressed Torin had doubted her.

  “Early hours are nothing in my profession, Gunnery Sergeant. People seldom need a doctor at convenient times.”

  “I am well aware of that, ma’am. Doctor.”

  “And your VTA is not significantly different, except in size, to the vehicles used by the Satellite Ambulance Corps on Derver.”

  “You’re from Derver, Dr. Sloan?” She knew that of course; she’d run source on the doctor before they left Ventris.

  “You really suck at small talk, Gunny.”

  Torin swallowed the last of her coffee. “You’re not the first to mention it, ma’am.”

  “Doctor.”

  “Right.”

  * * *

  Just before she stepped onto the VTA, Torin downloaded a new, more detailed message to Craig into the packet’s buffer. All messages would be streamed out as soon as the NirWentry exited Susumi space on her trip back to Ventris, returning with the 150s the VTA would be lifting off Crucible after dropping the 120s.

  130s as of today, Torin corrected herself.

  If the Elder Races were lying about the Others, about the whys and wherefores of a war they’d created the Corps to fight, well, the major was right. There wasn’t anything they could do about it. But if the Elder Races were wiping memories of Big Yellow’s escape pod, then that she could do something about. In light of larger possibilities and what those might mean to the Corps, she couldn’t let it lie.

  They’d trained her to fight back.

  The anger born of frustration left with the message. The anger born of betrayal, she locked down, ready to use when she needed it.

  FIVE

  MAJOR SVENSSON COULD HAVE SAT UP forward with the aircrew, but he chose to sit back in the troop compartment. Apparently oblivious to the covert attention he was attracting from the recruits, he stowed his pack, snapped his KC-7 onto the rack, and dropped down onto the seat with a grunt. Dr. Sloan shot a single, questioning glance toward the sixty-four faces all staring in her general direction, then took the seat to his right. After stowing her own gear and the doctor’s, Torin took the next empty seat, approving of the major’s choice.

  “Strap in, people!” Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s voice filled in all the empty places in the troop compartment. “Pay attention to what you’re doing; if you screw up your webbing and go bouncing around during descent, not only will I be annoyed, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr will be annoyed. And you don’t want her annoyed. I’m sure she’d be perfectly willing to hang your skull next to the other one she’s got.”

  “This would be the Silsviss skull?” Dr. Sloan asked as Torin strapped her in.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I hope
we have a chance to talk about the Silsviss over the next few days. It would be fascinating to discover the differences between them and the other reptilian species already a part of the Confederation.”

  “The biggest difference seems to be that the Silsviss shoot back.” Out of the doctor’s line of sight, Major Svensson grinned at Torin, well aware of how much she didn’t want to talk about the big lizards.

  With any luck, Crucible would give the doctor enough to think about. With the edge of her boot, Torin shuffled the other woman’s left foot slightly to one side and slid the toe of the bright blue boot under the floor strap.

  “Is that really necessary, Gunny?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Doctor. It’ll be a rough ride down.”

  “The pilot won’t take it easy on the recruits?”

  Torin secured the doctor’s second boot and straightened. “The pilot will do everything he can to make them shit themselves.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Doctor.”

  “Right. This is your quick release.” Reaching out with one finger, she tapped the gray plastic cylinder centered on the webbing that crossed the doctor’s chest. “When Staff Sergeant Beyhn gives the order for Platoon 71 to snap-off, twist it hard to the left. Not now.” Fingers around the doctor’s wrist, Torin moved her hand away from the release. “If you snap-off before the order is given, you’ll set off . . .”

  The alarm was louder than Torin remembered.

  “. . . that,” she finished as the echoes of the siren died down.

  “Kichar! What the sanLi are you up to!”

  “Sir, this recruit’s release was resting a full three centimeters off center, sir!”

  Torin couldn’t see Beyhn’s face, but she could almost hear him blink at that response. When he finally responded, it took a full sentence and a half before the disbelief left his voice.

  “I will deal with you later, Kichar. Right now, strap back in and don’t fukking move until I tell you to!”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  Hitting her seat at the same time as the senior DI, Torin was pleased to see that her ready light wasn’t the last on.

  “Release from NirWentry in thirty seconds.”

  Dr. Sloan’s coat rustled as she shifted inside her webbing. Torin shared a glance with the major over her head and said, “You know you don’t need the coat, Doctor. Between your bodyliner and the combats, you’re ready for whatever this planet throws at you.”

  “I like my coat.”

  “Release in fifteen.”

  The doctor’s knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on her lower straps.

  “I notice there’s no corpsman dropping with us, Gunny.”

  Torin raised an eyebrow at the major. Corpsmen never went dirtside on Crucible. Part of the scenario was to test how much of the first aid training the recruits had absorbed—and in case they hadn’t, all three DIs were qualified medics.

  “Why would there be a corpsman?” Dr. Sloan snorted before Torin could answer. “I doubt there’ll be anything a corpsman could handle that I can’t. Or do you expect me to be taking readings off you 28/10?”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Release in five, four, three, two, one. Release.”

  The VTA shook as the clamps released with a sound like bolts tearing free, and they dropped away from the NirWentry, passengers in the troop compartment bouncing against their webbing.

  “That was for effect, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She was shaken enough to let the honorific stand. “You don’t think that’s a little childish?”

  “Just a little.” Major Svensson sighed happily as they left the big destroyer’s AG field and the zero gee kicked in. “But pilots on this rotation are glorified bus drivers; they’re just trying to juice things up a bit.”

  “Childish,” she repeated, slowly releasing her grip on the webbing. “So what happens if someone is seriously hurt after we land? Beyond what a medic—or I—can deal with? Dr. Weer discussed the NirWentry’s schedule with me, and his sick bay is gone eight days out of ten.”

  “There’s a platform in low orbit,” Torin told her at the major’s nod. “It has a small VTA if we need an emergency dustoff.”

  “Doctors?”

  “No, but six Navy corpmen and eleven Marines plus three full immersion tanks and a Susumi beacon able to punch a hole back to Ventris.” The beacon took so much power it was single use only, but since it was a high-tech equivalent to an emergency flare, that didn’t much matter.

  * * *

  “If you’re going to puke,” Staff Sergeant Beyhn announced, glaring around at the double row of recruits, “use the bags. That’s what they’re there for. And if you puke, don’t think for one moment that your buddies will ever let you live it down.”

  Sakur leaned over Hisht and muttered, “If you’re going to puke, Kichar, do it by the numbers.”

  “There’s numbers for puking?” Hisht demanded, head turning from one to the other. “I never remember that!”

  Kichar shot the di’Taykan a disdainful glare. “You’re not funny.”

  “He makes a joke?”

  “He was making a joke,” Sakur corrected. “Your Federate still needs work, buddy. You should get Kichar to help you. Might give her extra ass kissing points with the DIs.”

  “But you say di’Taykan like ass kissing.”

  “Different kind of ass kissing. Are you trying not to smile, Kichar? You are.” Sakur’s eyes darkened to almost fuchsia as more light receptors opened. “I can see a muscle jumping in your jaw. You know, Marines are allowed to laugh; if we weren’t, they’d have never let Hisht here join up.”

  “He is right,” Hisht agreed. “I am here to be the light in your life.”

  “You are here to be a Marine,” Kichar snapped as Sakur snickered and bumped Hisht’s shoulder with his elbow.

  The Krai stared up at her, eyes narrowed. “Are your underwears in a knot again?”

  “Underwear. Singular. And no!” She shifted inside her webbing so that she was pointedly looking away from them—it was as much as she could do under the circumstances. Two tendays with the two of them in her fireteam would definitely test her resolve. From where she was strapped in, she could just see Gunnery Sergeant Kerr’s profile, and she locked her gaze on it, vowing that no matter the provocation, she would be worthy.

  * * *

  With only one Marine to worry about, and he didn’t need supervision at the moment, Torin turned her mind to the upcoming scenario. They had 340 kilometers to travel in twenty days which meant a minimum of seventeen k a day—a morning stroll under righteous conditions. Taking the terrain, the simulated attacks, and the fact she’d done this once already into account, she knew there’d be days when they traveled a lot farther and days when they went nowhere at all. Seventeen kilometers with a civilian could easily seem like a hundred, although the doctor’s choice of treadmill program was reassuring.

  “Now this is like an SAC drop,” Dr. Sloan observed happily. “Smooth but fast.”

  “Atmo in five, four . . .”

  The major snorted. “Hold that thought, Doc.”

  “. . . two, one.”

  Torin had been through worse atmospheric buffering but not for a while. Either they were diving through one hell of a storm, or the pilot was going for a new dive to dirt record. “It helps if you keep your teeth together, ma’am. That way you don’t bite off chunks of your tongue.”

  “Thank you, Gunny.”

  “Sergeants!” Staff Sergeant Beyhn managed to make himself heard over the rising ambient noise. “Have your squads sound off by fireteams!”

  “What about their tongues?” Dr. Sloan demanded through clenched teeth.

  “Their tongues belong to the Corps, ma’am.”

  The VTA rocked sideways. Hard.

  “This is ridiculous!” Dr. Sloan’s eyes were open painfully wide and there
was a dark spot of color high on each cheek. “And unnecessary!”

  “Could be worse, ma’am.” Torin blocked a yawn. “We could be jumping in.”

  The doctor’s head snapped around. “Jumping?”

  “Three-minute freefall with a fifty k weight to make sure you fall fast enough to clear the VTA’s AG field before it sucks you up. Not a problem if you’re one of the last out, but all those weights dropping after the three count are a pain in the ass for the jumpers already on the dirt in the DZ.”

  Dr. Sloan stared at her like she was studying a new and unexpected life-form. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “I don’t think gunnery sergeants come with a sense of humor,” the major pointed out.

  “Officers jump first,” Torin told the doctor solemnly.

  “Pull the other one,” she snorted but settled back in her webbing with a smile.

  Torin accepted the major’s silent well done with a nod. The story was essentially true although fifty k of fine particulate released onto the wind was more annoying than dangerous. Some officers jumped first, some anchored the line—it depended on their jump experience.

  “Jonin!” Sergeant Jiir’s voice rose above the din. “I said, sound off!”

  “Sir!” The anonymous voice sounded impressed. “He’s asleep, sir!”

  “Are you sure he’s asleep and not unconscious?”

  “Sir, he’s snoring, sir!”

  “Well, wake him the hell up!”

  What would be nerves of steel on a Human was probably no more than a di’Taykan using time with no sex to rest up for sex later. Regardless, Torin appreciated the recruit’s ability to snooze in the midst of chaos. It was a skill all Marines needed to learn eventually, and it seemed like Jonin had it nailed. Apparently di’Taykan aristocrats developed interesting skill sets.

  “Two to dirt. Temperature outside minus three degrees C.”

  “You heard the pilot!” Beyhn bellowed, slapping his helmet on. Helmets rose down the line of recruits as his platoon followed suit. “Check your environmental settings. On my release, 71 will retrieve packs and weapons. When that door opens, and I give the word, you will disembark in pattern 42Alpha. Major Svensson!”