by Tanya Huff
She didn’t like not knowing what was going on—and she was damned sure Beyhn’s impending retirement was not the whole story—but there was nothing she could do to force the issue. No point in informing Major Svensson until she had intell a little more concrete than it’s a di’Taykan thing.
Three hours of easy humping later—low ground was significantly easier to cross when it was frozen solid—they caught up with the scout team and broke for lunch to the south of a small woods. With good lines of sight in the other three directions, they set only aerial pins in case of an enemy flyby.
Dr. Sloan watched with interest as Torin expanded the sides of a ration pouch, poured in a little water, snapped the heating filament, and peeled the flap back to expose a thick chicken stew with three large dumplings. “This isn’t bad,” she murmured chewing thoughtfully. “Your packaging must be quite complex to reconstitute with this much flavor.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Seemed like the safe answer. The packaging wasn’t Torin’s concern unless it stopped working.
The piece of meat on the doctor’s spork steamed in the cold air. “Can I assume this has never been anywhere near an actual chicken?”
“Would that be a problem?”
“No, just a surprise. The civilian equivalent is a little tastier, but as it contains the liquids already, it’s also a bit heavier.”
Torin shrugged and scooped up a bit of gravy. “A bit weighs up when you’ve got other gear to carry.”
“I’m sure. You know, you could get all your nutritional and energy requirements from a capsule which would be even lighter to carry.”
“We’re carrying those, too, ma’am, and emergency ration packs, and the scenario has us using both before we’re done, but research has shown that Marines like to eat.” Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the two Krai recruits taking turns to sample bits of the local flora. They’d sample the fauna, too, if they could get their hands on it. Sergeant Jiir, sitting with the other DIs, was stirring his coffee with a stick and morosely biting the end off it every now and then. He’d likely be less morose if he’d been allowed sah, the Krai stimulant of choice, but given its highly illegal effect on the Human nervous system, the Corps no longer permitted it in uncontrolled environments.
“All right, people, let’s haul ass. Sunset’s at 17:41 and we’ve got twenty-three k to go.” Staff Sergeant Beyhn got to his feet and the platoon followed. “Two/one, you’re scouting this afternoon. Do you know where we’re supposed to end up?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
It was a ragged but confident response from the four recruits in the fireteam.
“You sure?” His hair whipped back and forth over his ears so quickly it looked like a fan-shaped wave. Torin noticed that none of the di’Taykan were looking directly at him. “I don’t want you getting lost out there.”
“Sir, we’re sure, sir.” Piroj, the Krai who’d been so fond of the issued toque, seemed to be team leader.
“Move out, then, but be careful. We don’t want to lose you. The enemy knows we’re here, so proceed accordingly.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
As two/one checked their azimuth and moved out, the rest of the platoon gathered up the garbage and dropped it into a bag held by Sergeant Kim Annatahwee.
“Does she carry the trash the rest of the way?” Doctor Sloan asked just as the sergeant activated the molecular charge and the bag flattened. “Never mind.”
“It’s a variation on our body bags,” the major told her. “Only slightly less respectful,” he added as the sergeant shook the fine dust out onto the breeze. “We carry our Marines back with us.”
Torin touched the part of her vest designed to hold the metal capsules in individual pockets and said a short prayer to whatever gods looked out for the Corps that, this trip, those pockets would stay empty.
Twenty-three kilometers in four hours and forty-one minutes meant an average speed of just over their standard hump speed of 4.8 kilometers an hour. Not exactly a sprint but still intended to cover some ground. On relatively flat terrain—which their maps indicated this would be—and with no interest from the enemy—which everyone but the platoon and Dr. Sloan knew wouldn’t happen until morning—it was an easy enough speed to manage. The plan was to cover the maximum distance possible on the first day to take the edge off the recruits and to make up for days later in the scenario when they’d be pinned down.
Major Svensson had decided to keep the doctor in the dark about the scenario for a couple of reasons. The first because he wasn’t one hundred percent positive she wouldn’t let anything slip to the platoon and the second because he had a truly warped sense of humor. The second reason was Torin’s, but she suspected the major would happily agree with it as he seemed to be enjoying the way the doctor peered suspiciously at every shadow.
Camp that night was just across the narrow isthmus that connected the peninsula they’d been crossing to the mainland—the geography enough of an explanation to the recruits for the distance covered. The scout team had located a hummock of higher ground back from the water and set perimeter pins. It was the logical place to make camp for the night—it was high enough to be defensible, clear enough to have good lines of sight but with enough cover to shield the platoon from the air. Because it was the logical place to make camp, it was where the enemy would mount their first attack.
The di’Taykan sealed their shelter halves together to create one large, albeit low, communal quarters. Most of the rest stayed in fireteam combinations—although the two teams that had each lost two di’Taykan got together. Because they were a unit within a unit, Major Svensson suggested that the three of them combine halves to increase body heat. Torin was fine with that—recruits dumped most body issues by about day two or they didn’t last to day three, so hers had been gone for some time now—but she was unsure about the doctor’s response.
Dr. Sloan snorted. “I’m molecularly familiar with the major’s body, Gunny, but isn’t that fabric heated? I could have ordered a single shelter that would maintain seventeen degrees C indefinitely.”
“They’re heated,” Torin told her, snapping the three pieces of smart fabric together and activating the seal. “But they’re also so well insulated that body heat will keep them comfortable with less risk of the enemy picking up the energy output.” The fabric had been designed to prevent thermal imaging; with no power running, they were almost invisible to enemy scans. She stepped back, keyed a color code into her slate, and nodded as the shelter blended almost perfectly with the surrounding snow.
“Remember where it is,” Major Svensson warned. “The children should be tired from their nice long walk, but they’ll still be jumpy and they’re armed and you don’t want to crawl into the wrong tent.”
“Key your slate to recognize this location and to vibrate when you get close,” Torin said as the doctor stared around at the nine nearly identical mounds, growing even harder to see as the sun set.
The tenth mound, the di’Taykan shelter, cycled through a few vibrant colors before Staff Sergeant Beyhn growled something they were too far away to hear and the fabric blended like the rest.
“Interesting that the staff sergeant seems to be sleeping alone.”
Torin frowned as she watched Beyhn set up a single shelter. “He’s a DI, sir; they’re recruits.” But it sounded like a question even to her own ears.
“When has rank ever mattered to a di’Taykan, Gunny? Where’d he sleep when you were here?”
“Communally.”
“I think I’m going to go have a word with him.”
She watched him walk away, then she watched him walk back. “He didn’t quite tell you to mind your own ninLi business?”
“Got it in one, Gunny.” The major frowned down at a loose thread on the cuff of his mitten. “So, what do you suggest we do?”
“Watch and wait, sir. So far, whatever it is isn’t affecting the Corps. When it does, we’ll deal with it.”
“And if it’s some
thing you can’t deal with?”
Torin stopped watching the staff sergeant long enough to lift an eyebrow in the major’s direction.
Grinning, he spread his hands. “Sorry. Spoke without thinking.”
That night, Torin woke as the major skimmed out of his sleeping bag and left the tent. He was gone for a little over an hour. She lay there, listening to the doctor sleep, and watching the seconds tick by on her sleeve until 0147 read 0251. He was gone long enough that her concern had begun to outweigh the certain knowledge he wouldn’t want her going after him. Seconds from deciding she didn’t give a good Goddamn what he wanted, he returned.
He shimmied back into his bag, sighed, and said quietly, “Still awake, Gunny?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, if you’re that concerned about my bowels, you should talk them over with the doctor in the morning. Right now, get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since the first attack against Platoon 71 would happen in just over three hours, that seemed like a good idea.
SIX
SUNRISE WASN’T UNTIL 0709, but when Torin left the shelter at 0600, the predawn light, helped out by a minimal overnight freshening of the snow cover, provided sufficient illumination for personal hygiene and breakfast. Except for the self-heating pouch, oatmeal hadn’t changed in millennia. Torin liked the connection to the past, liked the thought that Humanity had gotten some things right long before that first Confederation ship had shown up and made their offer of advancement for aggression.
Pouch of coffee held temporarily in her teeth, she pulled one for the major as he emerged looking bleary-eyed and slightly cranky and pulled another for the doctor a few moments later—pleased to see that they’d both snapped their bedrolls back to carry configuration. While they ate, she dealt with the shelter.
“Kids are doing a nice fast job of breaking down,” Major Svensson observed, crushing his empty coffee pouch in one hand.
Dr. Sloan’s gaze swept the camp, lingering in a professional way on each recruit. “They look tired.”
“Tired?” The major snorted. “Not likely, Doc, it’s only day two—their depilatories haven’t even started to wear off. By day twenty they’ll be scruffy and red-eyed and bruised and bleeding and crazy with exhaustion.”
She raised a disdainful brow in his direction. “And that’s a good thing?”
“That’s when they start feeling like Marines.”
She snorted. “And my question stands.”
He grinned and turned his attention back to Torin. “Beyhn’s got them hopping this morning.”
“Actually, sir, I haven’t seen Staff Sergeant Beyhn this morning.” As she handed him his folded shelter half, she scanned the camp. The di’Taykan communal shelter had been broken down into sixteen packs, slightly darker rectangles of packed snow marked where the fireteams’ shelters had been, and Sergeants Jiir and Annatahwee were both moving around the platoon. The new snow made it difficult to see the few larger shelters still up; had she not known where it was, the staff sergeant’s small one would have been essentially invisible. “I don’t think he’s out yet.”
“Giving his juniors a bit of a run?”
“That’s possible, sir.”
Neither of them believed it. Major’s Svensson’s tone made his opinion clear and, from the way the junior DIs kept glancing at their senior’s shelter, Torin could see they were growing concerned. Before she could suggest she check things out, Jonin left a clump of di’Taykan and approached Beyhn’s shelter. They watched while he dropped to one knee and leaned in toward the entrance.
“Can you hear what he’s saying, Gunny?”
“No, sir.” She could see his mouth forming words, but the angle was too tight for her to make any of them out.
“Hair’s really moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hair still moving, Jonin stood and backed up, giving Staff Sergeant Beyhn enough room to emerge and rise to his feet. His own hair perfectly still, he pulled the recruit into a quick hug—not unusual for di’Taykan although less usual for drill instructors—and then set about packing up his shelter. Jonin stood where he was for a moment, his hair only marginally less agitated, then rejoined his fireteam.
“The question becomes, Gunny, how much do we interfere?”
Torin glanced down at her sleeve: 0708. “No time to interfere right now, sir.”
Major Svensson grinned at her. “Oh, come on, you’ve got a whole minute. Loads of time to straighten this lot out. A senior NCO should be able to win the war in that much time.”
“Thirty seconds less now, sir.”
“Thirty seconds might be pushing it. Dr. Sloan?” When she glanced up from her slate, he waved at the chit on her forehead. “Just checking.”
0709. The sun rose.
All hell did not break out.
“Any chance we read that wrong, Gunny?”
“No, sir. First attack was to occur this morning at sunrise, catching the recruits as they prepared to move out.” She nodded to where Staff Sergeant Beyhn and his two junior DIs had their heads together. “I’d say they’re also wondering what’s going on.”
“System failure or program glitch?”
“Second is more likely, sir.”
“Why don’t you . . .”
“See what the staff sergeant has to say? Yes, sir.” As she walked away, she heard Dr. Sloan move up to take her place.
“You’re molecularly active this morning, Major.”
If the major had a reaction to this information on a macro level, Torin didn’t catch it. Beyhn met her halfway, his hands spread.
“I am as confused as you are, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, although I’m not disappointed to have the first attack postponed. It’ll give this lot a chance to calm down a bit more before loud noises and bright lights gets them all geared up again.”
Since the recruits knew attacks were inevitable, Torin couldn’t see how waiting for the other boot to drop would calm anyone. As she remembered it, once the first skirmish with Crucible was over, Platoon 29 had settled down to the business of being Marines. Still, Beyhn knew Platoon 71 better than she did, so she’d take his word for it. “System failure or program glitch?” she asked, echoing the major’s question to her.
“Program glitch,” he snorted. “I told the lieutenant on the platform that the cold’s likely messing with the node. They’ll try and work it out on their end. I’m impressed with how that civilian of yours is keeping up,” he continued. “Still, real test’s how she acts when the shooting starts. Keep an eye on her.” Then he nodded, spun on one heel, and headed back into the middle of the camp, yelling, “Two/one! You’re scouting this morning! What’s your azimuth?”
“Sir! 307 degrees for two kilometers, then 281, sir!”
“Well, what are you doing still standing here? Haul ass!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Making her way through the churned up snow back to Major Svensson and Dr. Sloan, Torin checked her sleeve. The temperature was holding steady at minus seven degrees; cold enough for Humans, miserable for the Krai, but not even close to a temperature that should bother a di’Taykan. She wondered why, in that case, Staff Sergeant Beyhn had mentioned only the cold as a possible reason for messing up the scenario.
And why he’d spent the night alone.
And why he’d been so slow to rise this morning.
And whether or not he was capable of reprogramming the node that was a mere 3.5 kilometers east along the shore of the bay. Given that he was the only one on Crucible who currently held the codes.
Maybe it’s time I took some of that accumulated leave. Thanks to the Elder Races and Big Yellow, I’m starting to see conspiracies everywhere I look. But she couldn’t shake the thought loose, and as they formed up to hit the trail, she kept at least part of her attention on Staff Sergeant Beyhn.
* * *
“Oh for fuk’s sake, Lirit, what’s the delay now?”
“I’m caught on a bu
sh!” Tossing her helmet clear of the thick underbrush, impressively clingy in spite of the lack of foliage, Lirit jerked the KC-9 free and used the butt end to try and pummel her way free. “Why is it always me?”
“You’re carrying a bulkier weapon than you’re used to,” McGuinty suggested, dropping down onto a fallen log and pulling a stim stick out of a vest pocket. Technically, they weren’t illegal; vacuum jockeys practically lived on them, but that didn’t mean he had any intention of allowing the DIs to see him indulging.
Pushing her own helmet to the back of her head, allowing the front half of her hair to spread out in an emerald-green fringe, Ayumi snorted. “Nine extra kilos. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It’s not the weight.” Lirit made a diagonal move into what looked like less dense growth. “Not just the weight,” she amended, jerking it free again. “The magazine sticks out at a weird angle, and the scope won’t stay locked down.”
“That’s not good about the scope.” McGuinty chewed thoughtfully. “Should mention it to Staff Sergeant Beyhn when we meet up at noon.”
In spite of Lirit’s thrashing, the silence in the clearing got louder.
“Opens up, up ahead.” Piroj tucked his slate back in his vest as he rejoined the fireteam a few moments later. “You get free here and it should be easy going for a while. Still no sign of the enemy.” His nose ridges flared, the expression barely visible between toque and the raised collar of his bodyliner. His gaze skittered over the two di’Taykan and landed on the Human. “What?”
McGuinty swallowed. “I mentioned Staff Sergeant Beyhn.” The di’Taykan had gotten progressively weirder about the senior DI over the last couple of tendays. The moment they’d hit Crucible, the weirdness had intensified.
“What the fuk is wrong with you guys? It’s like he’s suddenly gone all revenk and you lot are busily ignoring it.”