by Tanya Huff
Kirassai had slapped her filter on too high, covering her nose and missing a full seal on her mouth. Her helmet had come off when she went down and her hair looked an even brighter fuchsia than usual against the snow. Even unconscious, she looked remarkably pissed off about the whole experience. Kneeling beside her, Lirit looked up at Torin as she passed.
“Will Kirassai be all right?”
“She’ll be fine in an hour or two,” Jiir answered as Torin kept moving.
Private Esteban Bynum, the shooter from two/two, hadn’t got his left arm under his body in time, and the only sizable piece of the flier to hit the roof had come down on his left arm just above the elbow, breaking the bone. Torin keyed his med-alert quiet and then stiffened the arm of his combats to immobilize the break.
Panting, he stared up at her, pupils dilated. “Hurts.”
“Of course it does,” she told him. “It’s a broken arm. Probably hurts like hell. If we get a buddy to help, do you think you can make it down to the doc?”
“I don’t . . . know.”
“Well, let’s start with standing.” Hand in the center of his back, she gently lifted him into a sitting position. Cheeks chalky behind his filter, he swallowed two or three times, Adam’s apple jerking up and down in his throat. Torin held him steady until she knew he wasn’t going to puke. “Ebinger, if you could lend a shoulder . . .”
Ebinger, the shooter from two three tucked himself under Bynum’s good shoulder. “I’ve got him, Gunny.”
Standing looked doubtful for a moment, but then Bynum took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “I can do it, Gunny.”
“No shame in being carried if you can’t.”
He shot her the sort of look only a young man in pain was capable of. “Didn’t break my fukking leg, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“True enough.” Leaving them to it, she crossed back to McGuinty, tucked his slate and the amplifier safely away in his vest, then hauled him up and tossed him over her shoulder. “It’s not like he weighs much,” she pointed out as she turned to see Marines staring. “And I know you lot have better things to look at than me. Eyes on the horizon, people. Stone, can you handle Kirassai?”
“No problem, Gunny.”
Stone was nearly as tall as the di’Taykan and considerably broader.
Jiir paced her back to the makeshift hatch. “How did you know it was gas?”
She shrugged the shoulder not holding McGuinty as Stone and Kirassai started down. “I’ve heard a lot of artillery and I knew it wasn’t a flashbang or a BFW.”
“Could have been an incendiary.”
“Could have, but it didn’t sound like one. Besides, wearing a filter without gas is infinitely preferable to breathing gas without a filter. What’s next?”
“If they’re hitting us sequentially based on the speed they travel, long-range drones probably.”
“Well . . .” She grinned. “We know how to deal with those.” With only her head and McGuinty’s ass above the level of the roof, she turned to look out at the five recruits still standing. “Nice shooting, Marines. Well done.”
* * *
“Three fliers down and three Marines taken out.” Major Svensson shook his head as he led the way across the room in the west wall that had taken the brunt of the debris thrown up by the downed flier. “One for one is not the way I’d like to see this go.”
Torin wondered if three for fifteen would make him feel any better, considering each warhead as a separate attack but said only, “Privates Kirassai and McGuinty will be up and around in about an hour, and Bynum made it clear he could fire one-handed if necessary.”
“And what did Dr. Sloan have to say to that?”
“A few words I wasn’t aware she knew, sir.”
The major grinned, then sobered as he climbed the ridge of hard-packed snow and looked out the window. “This is not good.”
Safely behind him, Torin rolled her eyes. “No, sir, it isn’t.”
The flier had thrown up enough debris to create a rough ramp from the wreck to the second-floor window, mostly snow but liberally mixed with dirt and pieces of the destroyed building. Solidified by heat and pressure, it would give the drones a road right into the anchor.
“We need to get this out of here, Gunny. Any ideas?”
“Two, sir. If we’ve got the time, we do a little hard shoveling.”
“Registering six-long distance drones at maximum scanner range, minus six degrees Marine zero.” Lirit again.
“And if we don’t have time?” Major Svensson asked, dropping back into the room.
“One boomer fired straight down, drop a grenade in the hole.”
“There’s an unexploded BFW down there, Gunny.”
“Unarmed, sir. You’d need to drop the grenade right on it to set off the detonators.”
“Registering eight long-distance drones!”
Torin sighed, breath pluming as she stepped into the open window and looked west. “Private Lirit, is that eight new drones or a recount?”
“Uh, a recount, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Mention that next time.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
And there they were, eight blips on her scanner—harder to lock onto from the second floor but on their way.
“Why only from the west?” the major wondered, eyes on his own scanner.
“Because we’re near the far east edge of the section. Because it was easier for the Others to reprogram drones already activated for Platoon 71’s scenario. Because the species of Others who landed believes the east to be sacred.”
He shot her a look that said stop being a smart-ass so clearly he could only have learned it before he was commissioned. “You’re allowed to not know, Gunny.”
“In that case, sir, I don’t know. But the second suggestion is the most likely.”
“True enough.” Blinking to help his focus adjust, he glanced down at the wreck. “Since we don’t seem to have the time to shovel, looks like you’re using that grenade. Try not to blow up the warhead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when McGuinty wakes up, have him teach the particulars of his jamming device to someone. He can’t be the only one who knows how to use it.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“You are being quiet.”
Not entirely certain if that had been a comment or an instruction, Craig ignored the reporter—a speedily acquired habit—and concentrated on the control panel. Promise wasn’t as young as she once was, and a few systems were a little eccentric about fully shutting down after docking. Given how happy they’d been about seeing him gone such a short time ago, he had a strong suspicion that the Corps would view “a little eccentric” as grounds for kicking him the hell back into vacuum.
“I are doing all the talking.”
Ah. An instruction, then.
“You are being strong and silent and are carrying the equipment unless you are being asked a direction question. General Morris are liking me, and he are being my best chance to be exposing the lie. You are brushing my back now.”
That pulled his attention off the fluctuating temperature gauge. He spun the pilot’s chair around to find Presit staring up at him, a stiff bristle brush held out in one small hand. “I’m what?”
“Well, I are not being able to do it,” she sniffed, upper lip curled and showing teeth. “I are looking fine for spending time in tiny, smelly ship, but I are not looking fine to be seeing General Morris.”
And Craig suddenly realized one of the reasons why the Katrien were such a social species—no matter how flexible the little furballs were, grooming parts of their own backs had to be pretty much impossible. Which led to the further realization of how much Presit needed this story to work out for her. Being on her own proved she’d fallen a lot farther than he’d thought.
“You are thinking too much!” she snapped. “Just brush!”
Or maybe she considered anywhere not at the top such an enormous step down that
she was willing to put up with attention from aliens just to get back up there. He frowned at his reflection in her mirrored glasses and, as more teeth began to show, took the brush.
He had a feeling she was rolling her eyes as she turned.
Given their height differences, he had to bend at the waist, an awkward fold forward out of the pilot’s chair, belt digging into flesh. At least when he’d been completely fukking freaked about having other people in his ship he’d managed to avoid being pushed around by a meter-high bottle brush. Telling himself it was a pity brushing, he set to work.
The outer, silver-tipped fur was silky sleek, sliding over his fingers like warm water, and her charcoal-gray inner coat was both soft and thick enough to sink a finger in up to the second joint. The Katrien were mostly fur. There were no mats, no tangles, and no real reason he could see for him to be brushing her, but she stood quietly while he moved the stiff bristles down the center of her back and maybe that was reason enough. It was very nearly the only time she’d been quiet since she’d come on board—curled up in a hammock strung across the small cabin, she even mumbled in her sleep.
He wasn’t sure how long he was expected to continue brushing, and when the buzz of an incoming message jerked her away from his touch, he straightened gratefully.
“Promise, this is Ventris Control. We require you to give over all security and system codes before you will be allowed access to the station.”
System codes? Those questions about Big Yellow’s escape pod really had stuck a wrench up someone’s ass. Other visits, they’d never asked for more than basic security at docking. Before he got his mouth open to argue that he’d as soon let the Others have his system codes, a small hand grabbed a chunk of his thigh.
“Son of a . . . !”
“I are taking this,” Presit purred.
Impressed by the number of sharp white teeth he could see, he plucked her grip off his leg and silently slid the chair away from the console.
“Ventris Control, this are being Presit a Tur durValintrisy of Sector Central News. This ship are being for this time a registered media conveyance. According to article 471 of the Confederation Military Charter, you are not allowing more than basic security codes from any media vessel. Nor are you allowing to be interfering with any media access. Nor are you allowing to not be answering any media questions.”
Most of known space could care less about most of the answers the media got from the military, but that didn’t seem to be slowing Presit down.
“My viewers are wanting very much to know why you are refusing media’s rights.”
“Ma’am, it’s security . . .” The voice cut off sharply.
Craig grinned. What was security for a civilian salvage operator they didn’t much like wasn’t just security for a media vessel.
“Promise, this is Ventris Control. Security codes will be sufficient.”
“I are certainly hoping so,” Presit sniffed. “You are reminding General Morris I are docked.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You are letting me know when Captain Stedrin arrives.”
“Ma’am, it’s station night cycle . . .”
“We are waiting.” She drew a chromed claw through the fur of her throat, and Craig cut the connection.
“You’re sure Morris will listen to what you have to say?”
“Of course—he are paranoid. He are military, and military are having a job that is to be shot at.” She combed her claws through her whiskers. “If my job are to be throwing myself at death, I are being paranoid, too.”
* * *
Two of the long-distance drones got through, landed, became standard infantry drones, and began returning fire. The good news, they didn’t have a hope in hell of hitting anyone. The bad news, by late afternoon another forty-two drones had arrived and there were definitely more on the way. The anchor was surrounded and by dark, they’d beaten back two attempts on the air lock door.
The first attack answered Hisht’s question. They fought like infantry, but they took injuries like machines.
All the windows on the second floor were gone by midnight, and the temperature inside began to fall.
They stopped the third attack around 0230 with a fifty-gallon pot of slushy water. Torin’d had two/two tear the pot out of the big communal kitchen, fill it with snow thrown in from the downed flyer’s ground wave, toss in a couple of extra fire starters from Kichar’s pack, and then dump it off the roof over the air lock.
The water almost froze on the way down, that’s how cold it had gotten.
The drones moved so slowly as they retreated, there was plenty of time to aim, and it needed only single shots to take them down.
Torin nodded in approval as the last drone fell. Six days now until the NirWentry returned. She had a feeling that, even with the cache in the anchor, they were going to need the ammo.
The patch of ice at the south end of the building discouraged further attacks as soon as the drones accumulated enough data to convince them they’d been built with inadequate traction.
Machines didn’t sleep.
At 0453 McGuinty jammed an incoming flier on approach, maintained the connection as it passed over the anchor, and directed it into explosive contact with the hills on the other side of the river.
“If I can keep contact long enough,” he explained, “I can get in to its sysop and then it’s like a big old remote control. Whoosh.” He traced an arc in the air with his slate. “Bang!”
“And you didn’t think to mention that before?” Torin asked, ignoring the orange traces of stim in the corner of his mouth.
He shrugged a little sheepishly. “It was a new modification, Gunny. I wasn’t sure it would work.”
“Uh-huh.” Torin stared out at the burning wreckage. At least three of its warheads hadn’t gone off in the crash. Something to remember. “You’re heading straight for specialist training after Crucible, right, McGuinty?”
Thin cheeks darkened and he stared at the toes of his boots. “I hadn’t actually thought about it, Gunny.”
She grinned and gripped his shoulder as she steered him down off the roof. “I wasn’t actually asking, McGuinty.”
* * *
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr. We need you on the roof.”
Torin glanced over at the major, who nodded. “On my way.”
When she joined Sergeant Annatahwee, she was surprised to see her facing south. In answer to Torin’s silent question, Annatahwee said only, “Check 264.”
Torin zeroed. Turned into the coordinate and swore. Even at the absolute outside edge of her scanner’s range there was no mistaking what she saw coming up the frozen river. Tank. “Fukking wonderful,” she sighed.
“At least there’s only one of them.”
“It’s a tank, Sergeant, one’s enough. And, if you’ll recall, the last tank we faced was firing HE rounds.”
“We don’t know this one’s been reloaded.”
“We don’t know it hasn’t,” Torin snorted. On the bright side, tanks were noticeable. There’d be no covert attacks. Not that the Others had been doing much more than the most basic surround-and-pound so far. “Is there a reason endemic to Crucible that it’s not firing?” If they could see the tank, the tank could see them.
“They’re used to train the recruits in antitank warfare so their programming has them moving in close before they engage.”
“The last one fired on us from the middle of the lake.”
“Not exactly the middle, Gunny.” Catching sight of Torin’s expression, she added. “But close enough.”
The 20-mm top-mounted machine gun made it impossible for infantry to get close to a tank even with sufficient cover. Once again, they’d have to take it out from a distance.
“I wonder how deep the river is,” Torin muttered, watching the tank’s relentless grind forward. It was moving slowly enough they’d have a few minutes to come up with a solution. McGuinty would have to reconfigure his jamming program for the tank, an
d that would not only leave them defenseless against more fliers—she’d never liked the sound of defenseless—but wouldn’t actually solve the problem of the tank. Better to let McGuinty get what sleep he could. “The drones don’t actually see us,” she said slowly, “they’re targeting our combats—uniforms, vests, boots, helmets—everything that puts out some kind of a signal. If a couple of Marines stripped down to their bodyliners and went out with grenades . . .”
“The drones would read the grenade the moment it was activated.”
“Good point.” That also took Dr. Sloan and her noncombatant chip out of the equation. Not that Torin had been looking forward to suggesting the doctor take a brisk walk through three dozen or so drones and blow up a tank.
“And there’s the problem of the drones charging the door if we open it to send a team after the tank.”
Torin grinned as a plan came together. “Actually, Sergeant, I think I’ve got that covered.”
* * *
Torin had to give Major Svensson credit for one hell of a poker face. He was showing at best polite interest while the Marines in the room all wore a variation on “You have got to be fukking kidding me.” As identical an expression as varying physiognomies allowed.
“Let’s just see if I have a handle on what you’re suggesting. Someone strips down to their bodyliner, is lowered out this window . . .” His gesture at the blown window was admirably casual. “. . . removes the launch tube containing the BFW from the downed flier, and is pulled back inside with the tube. Did I miss something, Gunny?”
“No, sir.”
“And then we launch the BFW and blow up the opposing tank.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t decide if that’s crazy or brilliant.”
“Do we get a vote, sir?” Sakur asked behind him.
Torin saw the ghost of a smile pull at the major’s mouth. “No, Private, you do not. Gunny, what makes you so certain they’re only targeting the signals from our gear?”