by Tanya Huff
“Which the tank also proves.”
The tank gave the Others the most firepower for the least amount of reprogramming.
“Yes, sir.”
“If it’s so easy for the satellite to find us, why the hell didn’t it spot them?”
“Easier to hide from someone who isn’t looking for you, sir. Not to mention,” she added dryly, “the ETGs mean we’ve got a platoon of recruits with BFFMs built into their combats.” To a certain extent, all combats carried enough tech to act as a Better Fukking Find Me. The trainers just went the extra distance.
“Not to mention: do we strip them down?”
“Maybe we should hold that in reserve, sir.”
“Right.” Headgear back in place, he sighed deeply, blowing out an impressive plume of air and nodded toward the center of the camp. “Well, while we’re contemplating fighting a war in long underwear, let’s tackle the more immediate problem.”
“Staff Sergeant Beyhn.”
“You read my mind, Gunny.”
“Just part of the service, sir.”
* * *
There were ten di’Taykan around Beyhn’s shelter—of the original fifteen, one was dead and three were on watch, so that meant one was likely in the shelter. Dr. Sloan emerged as Torin glared a path clear to the entrance.
“He’s essentially stable,” she said, then focused on the two non-di’Taykan as she pulled on her mitts. “Everything okay?” She’d seen to the wounded, complimented Cho’s quick thinking, and then returned to the staff sergeant.
“For certain values of the word okay,” the major told her. “What’s wrong with Staff Sergeant Beyhn?”
“Well, he’s an idiot.” One of the di’Taykan growled. Before Torin could respond, the doctor snarled, “Don’t even go there. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know!”
“Nice someone knows,” Major Svensson said pointedly.
“He delayed the change,” Dr. Sloan snorted. “Used mail order drugs to repress, thus my diagnosis of idiot.”
“What change?”
“He’s becoming qui.”
“Qui’Taykan?”
“No, qui sera sera! Of course qui’Taykan. And because of the aforementioned drugs and repression and idiotic-acy, it’s not going well.”
The Taykan had three distinct biological divisions over their life span: the di’Taykan, the qui’Taykan, and the tir’Taykan. The qui’Taykan were the breeders—temporarily fertile, extremely conservative, and seldom if ever seen away from territory the Taykan claimed as their own. And that essentially summed up everything Torin knew about them. They weren’t part of the Corps, so they weren’t her problem. So they previously hadn’t been her problem.
“Jonin.”
“I couldn’t . . . I wanted to . . .” His hair spread out from his head in a cobalt corona, a visible indication of how upset he was. “We don’t talk about it. It isn’t done.”
Behind him, the other di’Taykan shifted—the movement eerily coordinated.
“It’s going to be done now,” Major Svensson growled.
Torin had never seen a di’Taykan look so completely miserable, and she’d seen them covered in blood, missing their favorite body parts.
“Yes, sir.”
“And put your damned helmet on!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“I thought I could detect a difference before we left Ventris Station, certain variations in his scent. And then, that morning when we formed up in the shuttle terminal, Staff Sergeant Beyhn was . . .” Jonin paused, searching for the word, “. . . softer, but by the time we left, he was right back to being a . . .” The second pause suggested Jonin had remembered his audience and was reconsidering his initial description.
“Aggressive son of a bitch?” Major Svensson suggested mildly from the stump he was using as a command center.
Jonin nodded, hair under the edge of his helmet moving against the motion. “Yes, sir.” He didn’t look comfortable with the description, but then he was using a formal aristocratic cadence that once again reminded Torin of Lieutenant Jarret back at Sh’quo Company, and aggressive son of a bitch didn’t exactly fit the tone. No matter how accurate a description of the staff sergeant it might be.
“Once we were on the NirWentry,” Jonin continued, “there were other recruits in both this platoon and in Platoon 72 who began to notice changes in the staff sergeant’s scent. Some of them came to me. I suspect all the di’Taykan had noticed the changes in scent at this point, but most of them kept it to themselves. Many of them probably denied even noticing. This . . .” He swallowed, took a deep breath, and kept going. “. . . to become qui is very private and personal. To speak of it even among ourselves goes against what we have been taught all our lives.”
“But some spoke of it.”
“Yes sir. There are always those bound less by cultural expectations than others, and some were beginning to consider this . . . situation more as Marines and less as di’Taykan.”
“But enough as di’Taykan that they wanted you to do something about it.”
“Yes, sir. I approached Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”
“And didn’t actually tell me anything,” Torin pointed out.
“I . . .” He glanced down at his hands, the long fingers laced together, then back up again. “No, I didn’t.” One foot shifted, digging a hole in the snow, but he offered no excuses. Torin respected that, even through her annoyance. “Usually, when the change comes upon you, you return to your family and go into seclusion with those of your closest thytrins who have already changed. They assist in the process. No disrespect intended, but Staff Sergeant Beyhn waited too long.”
“That’s a little too obvious to be disrespectful,” the major noted.
“Yes, sir. Anyway, it kept getting worse. The staff sergeant’s decision making began to be affected.”
“The delay in coming to a decision when we were pinned down . . .” The major glanced at his sleeve. “. . . this morning.”
The Crucible day had been divided into twenty-seven hours, sixty-six minutes—as close to the twenty-eight hour cycle on the stations as the Corps could manage. It was only 2240. Still the second day of a twenty-day scenario.
“Yes, sir. The qui don’t . . .” He swallowed and kept going, his eyes so light Torin doubted he could see through them. He couldn’t close them, not while talking to a superior, so he did what he could. Torin didn’t entirely blame him. “. . . deal well with risk.”
“Wonderful.” Running both hands up under the edge of his toque, Major Svensson turned his attention from Jonin to the doctor. “But the staff sergeant isn’t qui yet?”
Dr. Sloan shook her head. “No. Like I said, the drugs he used to delay the change have messed up his system. He’s changing now, but it’s happening slowly and painfully.”
“Is he functional?”
“Define functional. He’s breathing on his own, his heart is beating. We can get liquids down him, but I’m not so sure about solids.”
“Can he walk?”
“No.”
Under the circumstances, that wasn’t unexpected.
“All right, we move him on a stretcher.”
“I’d rather not move him at all, Major.”
“Unfortunately Doctor, staying here isn’t an option.” The major forestalled further protest by turning his attention back to Jonin. “How does the staff sergeant’s condition affect the di’Taykan?” When Jonin paused a little too long before answering, the major sighed. “We just had a single species mutiny, Recruit. There’s obviously an effect. What is it?”
“We have to protect him, sir.”
“Have to?” Imperatives with the Taykan took only one form. He nodded toward Jonin’s masker. “New pheromones?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major’s attention shifted to Torin. “Did you know about the pheromones when you ordered this one, Sakur, and Lirit to stand guard?”
Torin shook her head.
“No, sir, but they obviously weren’t going to leave him alone, and that seemed the best compromise.”
“Good call.” He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Information gathering had finished, Torin realized. Time for decisions. “The staff sergeant’s masker isn’t enough to block the effect?”
Torin frowned as Jonin’s hair stilled. “You’ve taken the masker off him, haven’t you?” she asked.
He straightened; shoulders squared, chin up. “It’s wrong.”
“For the qui’Taykan to wear a masker?” Major Svensson looked less than thrilled, and Torin didn’t blame him. In accepting three different species into the Corps, Command had realized it would have to make certain concessions, but some of those concessions were damned inconvenient.
“Yes, sir.”
Interesting that Jonin’s tone suggest he didn’t quite agree with the party line. It sounded to Torin like he was looking for a way out. “Major?”
The major sighed. “Go ahead, Gunny.”
“It is entirely possible Oshya died because she was distracted by Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s situation. This stopped being training the moment that tank showed up. This is combat now. If the di’Taykan want to protect the staff sergeant, they have to have their wits about them. They have to be Marines.”
Jonin’s eyes began to darken. “We can protect him better if he’s in the masker.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes almost cobalt again. Then his shoulders relaxed and his hair began to move, long slow sweeps front to back. “Permission to give that as the rationale for your order to the other di’Taykan, sir?”
Major Svensson snorted. “Do it. And then get the masker on Staff Sergeant Beyhn. Double it if you have to.”
“Even with the masker, one of us will have to be with him at all times, sir.”
“As long as he’s not walking, I’ll make sure the stretcher bearers are di’Taykan.”
“Thank you, sir.” He stood and took a step away.
“Jonin.”
“Sir?” Startled by the steel in the major’s voice, he stopped.
“Do not forget that this is a Marine Corps problem, not yours alone. If you ever try to take matters into your own hands again, I will personally see to it that you are not only brought up on charges leading to, at best, a dishonorable discharge but given a good swift kick in the ass on the way out—and when I say you, I mean every di’Taykan in this platoon. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
The salute was pixel perfect. Torin had no idea how he managed to pivot on one heel in ankle-deep snow, but he managed it. “That went better than he’d expected,” she said quietly as Jonin rejoined the other di’Taykan at Beyhn’s shelter.
“You gave him an option he could work with as both di’Taykan and Marine. Nice work, Gunny.”
“Thank you, sir.” The di’Taykan aristocrats who became Marines tended to head for officer training, and Torin realized she’d just been shown why that was very much to the benefit of the Corps. They’d been raised to lead and some of them had been well raised, indeed.
“I’m not sure about calling it the staff sergeant’s condition though.”
“Seems a better choice than calling it the result of the staff sergeant’s dumbass behavior, sir.” Just for that moment, Torin didn’t bother hiding her disgust. Maybe the situation with the Elder Races had left her feeling a little sensitive about betrayal, but by putting his own desires ahead of the Corps, Beyhn had abdicated his responsibility for the Marines under his command—and that was the one thing she couldn’t, wouldn’t forgive.
Major Svensson stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Torin honestly didn’t care if he thought she was being too hard line. She only hoped he wasn’t going to suggest she try to be more understanding of Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s motives because that would definitely put a crimp in their working relationship.
“I think we’ll stick with condition,” he said at last. Folding his arms, he stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle—a parody of relaxation. “So, what do we do now? We’re not in what anyone would call a defensible position, and once the Others gain better control of Crucible’s systems, we’ll be thoroughly fukked. It’ll take time. I’m betting the Corps’ programmers were sufficiently paranoid to layer security on the scenarios and even the drones themselves, but a few decent techs, given enough time, could take out every Marine on the planet. Zero risk of retaliation and they’re gone by the time the Navy gets back.”
“We need to know how far their control extends,” Torin said, frowning. “If we could get into the closest CPN . . .”
“Not without Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s codes.”
“They’ll be on his slate.”
“Behind heavy encryption,” the major snorted. “If those codes get into the wrong hands . . .” His voice trailed off into irony given whose hands currently held the system.
“I think I can deal with that, sir.”
His brows rose up to meet the edge of his toque. “You have hacker skills I don’t know about, Gunny?”
“Not exactly, sir.” Since the Others had the satellites, they had the ability to pick up the signals from the PCUs—all dirtside frequencies were logged with the Orbital Platform on approach. Easy enough to fix by changing frequencies and setting up eavesdropper alarms, but, for the moment, keeping their location secret was worse than pointless. Torin switched from group to the NCOs’ channel. “Sergeant Jiir.”
“Jiir here. Go ahead, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“A moment of your time.”
“On my way.”
The major looked intrigued. “Sergeant Jiir has hacker skills I don’t know about?”
“No, sir. He has . . .” As Jiir chose that moment to jog up, Torin turned her attention to him. “Sergeant, who’s the best hacker in the platoon?”
“Gunny?”
She could hear the concern in his voice and smiled. “By the time a platoon hits one twenty, there’re always a few recruits trying to crack the system.” Back in Sh’quo Company they had a lance corporal who could not only crack the system but break it into bits and make those bits march in straight lines. Torin wished Ressk was here right now. “Which one of them were you watching in case they actually managed it?”
“That would be McGuinty; he’s station-born, been in and out of all kinds of systems his whole life. But . . .”
“He’s not in trouble, Sergeant. In fact, he could very well save our collective asses. Have him pick up Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s slate and bring it here.”
* * *
McGuinty shoved his helmet back on his head and frowned at the major. “You want me to hack into the staff sergeant’s slate and get the codes that give access to the CPNs, sir?”
“Is that a problem, Recruit? Sergeant Jiir said you were close to cracking the Ventris codes.”
“Did he? That’s great, sir.”
“Not exactly,” Major Svensson pointed out dryly, “but since we’re about to take advantage of your skills, we’ll let that slide.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” When the major raised a brow, his thin cheeks flushed. “Sorry, sir. Won’t Staff Sergeant Beyhn be furious about . . . that doesn’t matter, does it, sir?”
“No.”
Cautiously, looking ready to dive for cover with the slightest encouragement, McGuinty glanced over at the slate now slaved to Torin’s. “When do you . . .”
“The moment the gunny finishes transferring what she needs. Which would be right now,” he added as Torin tapped out of the connection and passed the staff sergeant’s slate back to the recruit.
He looked from the major to Torin and back to the major again. “Will the two of you be watching, sir?”
“What part of now are you having trouble understanding, McGuinty?”
“None, Gunnery Sergeant!”
“So get to work.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”
> Torin sighed, put her hand on his shoulder, and pushed him down into a sitting position on the other end of the major’s log. He gave a muffled squeak, and keeping his eyes locked on the screens, pulled out his slate and slaved it to the staff sergeant’s. After a few minutes, he looked up.
“I’m going to have to open . . .”
“Open what you need to,” Torin interrupted. “If any information gets out that shouldn’t get out, I’ll know who passed it on.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
She went reluctantly when the major beckoned her away, fully aware that her presence was intimidating but hoping to use it to speed things up.
They didn’t go far, stopping at an old stump where the major sank down and sat staring up at the stars, right hand absently working the muscles of his thigh.
“I was just thinking.”
Torin waited. A thinking officer wasn’t always a good thing.
“With Staff Sergeant Beyhn down—we’ve got the codes allowing us to contact the OP.” Torin tracked his gaze as he stared up into the sky, at the empty space between the stars where the Orbital Platform had been. After a long moment, he sighed. “All right, then.” Pulling off his mittens, he rubbed his palms together. “They change the scenario, we change the scenario. No more games, no more moving from point A to point B. Our mission now is surviving until the Navy gets back. Huddle with the sergeants, they know this place a lot better than we do, and find us something we can hold.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“Dunstan Mills.” Sergeant Jiir tapped his screen, and everyone’s maps scrolled north. “It’s set up like a colony that’s been taken by the Others. Training platoon has to get it back. Sergeant Dleer’s group ran it just before they reset this section.”
“So it’s full of drones just waiting to be activated,” Annatahwee sighed. “Why is it we’d want to go there?”
“It’s set up like a colony,” Jiir repeated, like that should make his reasoning obvious.
Torin, born and raised on Paradise, the first new world the Confederation had settled Humans on, smiled. Every year growing up, she’d been forced on a pilgrimage to the First Landing Historical Site. “You’re thinking it’ll have an anchor.”