by Tanya Huff
Okay, she had to give him that one; they were also a little short on anything but basic skills. “Anything happens to you, and I’m going to get cranky.”
He was too good to let triumph show in his smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Since in this particular instance, careful would actually count for something, she nodded and rejoined Hisht by the window. In next to no time, his fifty feet of rope had become a net with braided carrying handles. “I’m impressed.”
His nose ridges flared and he ducked his head. “It is a high trees skill.”
High trees. Krai for back country. “When we get out of this, I’ll send a message to your jernil, thanking her for teaching it to you, because that net’s going to make this one hell of a lot easier.”
He looked up then. “You are not Krai. How did you know…?”
“I’m a gunnery sergeant, Hisht. We know everything. Krai, Human, di’Taykan—if it’s part of the Corps, we know it.” Specifically, it had been a lucky guess. Seemed the sort of skill a grandmother would teach. “Piroj.”
“Gunny?”
“The rope secure?”
“I’d send my jernil down it, Gunny.”
“Too bad she’s not here.”
The drones didn’t shoot at the rope—it had registered as inert, but Torin had long since learned not to take that kind of thing for granted.
The Krai’s bootliners were a lot more flexible than either di’Taykans’ or Humans’ but not quite flexible enough to grip through. Liners and mitts shoved behind rope belts, they climbed with feet bare and slid the liners back on when they reached the wreck. Quickly clearing snow from the point where the launch tube connected to the flier required a little lateral thinking.
“Uh, Gunny, are they doing what it looks like they’re doing?”
“Does it look like they’re pissing on it, Kichar?”
“Uh…”
“Then that’s what they’re doing.”
Although it was difficult to clearly see what was happening, Piroj’s voice carried. “Well, I’m sorry, Sergeant, but the whole long underwear, surrounded by a hundred drones programmed to kill me, standing next to a BFW thing has me a bit clamped up.”
“Point and shoot, Private!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Torin was beginning to realize that instinctive responses to a DI had some advantages.
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”
“Sergeant Annatahwee.”
“The tank’ll be in firing range in three minutes.”
“Roger that. Any idea what it’s carrying?”
“Not until it starts shooting, Gunny. It doesn’t have the weight restrictions the fliers do, so…”
“Yeah, I get the picture.” She leaned toward the window. “Tank’s within three minutes, Sergeant.”
“Tube release is bent, Gunny. Hisht, hand me that hunk of… whatever the hell that is.”
The first crack of metal against metal wasn’t entirely unexpected. Unfortunately, neither was the reaction from the drones.
“Chreen! Chreen! Chreen! Fuk!”
Torin figured the single shot had been an attempt to elicit a response the drones could lock in on. “You guys all right?”
Jiir answered without looking up from the tube release. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“Good thing Hisht already emptied his bladder,” Piroj snorted.
“Gren sa talamac!”
“I’m going to stuff this missile up your ass in a minute,” Jiir growled. “On my mark, both of you pull. Three two one, mark! That’s got it.”
Tube and missile went into the net.
The drones took another three shots. One rang off the launch tube.
“I think they’re going to notice it moving, Gunny.”
This had always been the most dangerous part of the plan. “Get back up here.”
Using hands and feet both on one length of rope, the three Krai were back inside almost before she finished talking while Sakur and Kichar hauled up the second length, launch tube dangling off the end.
The drones began firing. Marines along the west side of the anchor returned fire, hopefully keeping them from locking on the moving target.
“Tank in one minute, Gunny.”
“You heard the Sergeant, Marines! Clear the medical center!” The best defense usually included not being where artillery fire was going to land.
“Gunny, the warhead!”
Rounds were ringing off the metal.
Torin took the top off a drone rising up to aim. “There’s no chance of them blowing it unless they get in a lucky shot with an explosive…”
The explosion took out a piece of window trim.
“…round,” she finished as the launch tube hit the floor, the clank barely muffled by the net. “Everyone all right?”
“Gunny, you’re bleeding!”
She checked a cut on the edge of her jaw as she crossed to the net. “Minor. Everyone else?”
“Same kind of minor, Gunny.”
“Good. And good work, Marines. Get dressed.” She scooped up the net, tube, and missile. “I’ll be on the roof.”
Unfortunately, it took a little longer than a minute.
The tank’s first shell slammed through the broken windows on the south side of the anchor. Torin stumbled as she stepped out onto the roof, recovered, and sprinted for the south end, dumping the net as she ran. At the south end of the roof, she dropped to one knee. “McGuinty?”
Yawning, he stumbled forward, touched a slate to the top of the tube, and peered down at the screen. “It’s running.”
“Whose slate?”
“Duarte’s. Lots of room once I dumped her porn.” He blinked. “I shouldn’t have told you…”
“I know what porn is, McGuinty.”
“Right.” He backed away. “As soon as the launch code locks, it’ll fire.”
“Tank’s lining up another shot!”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Torin adjusted her stance slightly.
“Uh, Gunny?” McGuinty’s frown tipped his helmet forward. “How are you planning to aim that thing?”
Eyes focused through her scanner at the tank, Torin grinned. “Point and shoot, McGuinty. Point and sho…”
A heavy recoil on launch could knock a flier out of the sky, so a certain amount of movement had been built into the mechanism that joined the tubes to the flier. Missing that mechanism, Torin was flung back about two meters, landing heavily on her ass, ears ringing.
“Gunny! You all right?”
In the distance, the tank burned.
Tossing the tube aside, Torin grinned. “I’m good.”
THIRTEEN
Torin watched the sunrise through her scanner, habit marking the time and the temperature. The cold air was bracing—where bracing meant not quite cold enough to freeze her nose hair but cold enough to chase away the fatigue of a night on her feet. She’d cycled the fireteams in and out of the community hall all night, making sure everyone got at least a couple of hours’ sleep. They were young; they could manage on next to nothing for a few days. Fortunately, when youth fled, experience took over. Torin and the major were old hands at grabbing a minute here, a minute there—combat napping—and both sergeants insisted that after years of shepherding recruit platoons through Crucible, they’d probably spent as much time awake in the field. Remembering her own Crucible and how the DIs never seemed to sleep, appearing when needed as well as when they were the last thing the recruits wanted to see, Torin believed them.
They’d passed the hundred drone mark around 0630. Fortunately, their programming seemed to consist of nothing more complicated than this is the enemy, this is where the enemy is, shoot them. While the drones were responsive to external stimuli to the extent that they refused to just stand still and be shot, they weren’t able to plan anything complex enough to keep the situation from turning into a siege.
The NirWentry would be back in six days. They could survive a siege, but there were definitely more
tanks coming and probably more fliers.
The snow squeaked under boot treads behind her, and she smiled. “Good morning, Dr. Sloan.”
“I guess gunnery sergeants really do know everything,” the doctor murmured as she came around to stand at Torin’s right.
“Actually, ma’am, the scanner registered a presence behind me, and since you’re the only noncombatant we’ve got…”
“Ah.” She reached up under the edge of her toque to rub at the chip.
“Which doesn’t, however, affect your actual statement.”
The soft whuff of laughter was a welcome sound. “I’m glad to hear that, Gunny. You should let me look at that cut on your jaw.”
Cut? Torin pulled off a mitt and touched her face. She’d forgotten she’d been hit. Remembering identified the pain that shot along her jaw when she’d yawned. “It’s just a scratch, I’m fine. How are you?”
“Me?” She sounded surprised to be asked. “I’m tired, I’m not happy about what’s happening…” A pause while three birds landed at her feet. “…and apparently I’m still irresistible to alien pigeons. You don’t have to be here,” she snapped as they gave her a chilled look. “You could be tucked up all safe and warm in your colony, so don’t blame me if you’re cold.”
Torin heard a snicker from one of the Marines on the roof and turned to see Ebinger watching, a broad smile on his face. “You expecting those birds to attack, Ebinger?”
He started. “No, Gunnery Sergeant!”
“Then keep your eyes on the enemy.”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
“I don’t see any drones.” Dr. Sloan frowned and took a step closer to the edge.
“If you could see them, we could shoot them; so they tend to stay hidden.”
“Ah. Makes sense.” Arms folded, she sighed. “This must feel awfully familiar to you, Gunny, being surrounded by an overwhelming number of the enemy.”
“We’re not exactly being overwhelmed, Doc, but I take your point.” She’d had that familiar feeling for a while now. It seemed she couldn’t get away from the Silsviss. She’d come to Crucible to avoid talking about them and ended up practically reenacting the battle at the other temperature extreme.
“Well, you beat them the first time and you seem to be up to whatever they throw this time.”
“We.”
The doctor turned, brows drawn in. “Pardon?”
“We’re up to it,” Torin told her.
She glanced over at Ebinger who had his eyes locked on the nearest building. “Right. Sorry.”
Feathers fluffed out, one of the pigeons bounced from boot print to boot print and gave a soft, mournful coo.
Dr. Sloan threw up her hands. “That’s it; I’m going back inside. I have enough going on I can’t cope with feeling guilty about these stupid birds getting chills because of me.” She paused as she passed. “Oh, and the latest diagnostic data suggests something may be about to happen with the staff sergeant.”
“Something?”
“Yes. Something. It’s a medical term meaning I still don’t know what’s happening, but whatever it is, it’s about to change. You hadn’t asked, so I thought I’d better tell you.”
“I figured you would. Has Major Svensson been informed?”
“I’m on my way to interrupt his report writing now.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Torin waited until the pigeons reached the colony—if the drones started shooting at them, she needed to know—did one last round of the Marines on the roof, then followed the doctor’s boot prints toward the access hatch.
The sudden pain in her jaw snapped her head up and locked her knees. Eyes watering, she gained enough control of her tongue to punch the emergency response code into her jaw implant. The static sounded like she had a wasp’s nest in her head, but the contact was so faint she couldn’t adjust the volume.
“Shhhtzaft Sergeant Dhupam… Platoon sevshshshtz two… using slate and implant to bounshshtz off shshshtzalitte…”
Gunnery sergeants and above had implants that could reach ships in orbit independent of an external sysop. Dhupam had a very handy Marine in Platoon 72 if he’d managed to boost her signal, hoping that either Torin or Major Svensson would pick it up.
“Ashshshzent on OP…”
Accident. They were in the wrong hemisphere to have seen the sammy go up.
“…not effecting shshshhtzerio but with no shshshshzt of medevac… have dialed back to shshshshstzing pattern.”
Holding pattern.
“…only shshshtzance… message… Staff Shshshshtzeant Beyhn changshshshtz…”
Another burst of static. Two nests of wasps. Angry wasps. And then silence.
Torin breathed as deeply as the cold allowed and fought the urge to beat her head against the nearest solid surface just to make it feel better. She scrubbed a mitt across her face, wiping off freezing tears and drying snot, and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. No. Good.
So Staff Sergeant Dhupam thought she needed to warn them that Staff Sergeant Beyhn was changing. Apparently, she’d drawn the correct conclusions from his increasingly erratic behavior. Might have been more useful if she’d shared the information—or suspicion—before they’d hit dirt, but Torin would take that up with her later.
Platoon 72’s scenario hadn’t been affected by the loss of the Orbital Platform, but with no chance of medevac, Dhupam had dialed back to a holding pattern.
Therefore, Platoon 72 wasn’t under attack.
Torin wondered if Platoons 69 and 70 were under attack. If, in fact, anyone was under attack except for them. And then she wondered why the Others would only attack one of four recruit platoons. Unless they were being significantly more subtle than Torin’s experience showed them to be, they wouldn’t.
So, if not the Others, who?
* * *
“General Morris.” Presit swept into the general’s office—force of personality substituting for size—and extended a hand. “I are so pleased to see you again. You are looking very distinguished.”
Recognizing that the camera was at least recording and very likely broadcasting, the general stood and managed to get around his desk to her hand before it looked too much like he’d been planning on a less gracious reception. Peering into the monitors and pretending the camera’s pattern recognition program wasn’t doing all the work, Craig took a moment to admire the old goat’s political savvy.
“Presit a Tur durValintrisy.” He bowed over her hand. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“There are being things we must discuss.”
“You know the Corps is more than happy to give the media the full disclosure mandated by law.”
“Good.” She took her hand back and smiled toothily up at him. “Please be retaking your seat.”
He looked slightly startled. “My seat?”
Her smile broadened. “You are going to be wanting to sit.”
“Very well.” Still conscious of the camera, he returned back behind his desk. “Our data lists Craig Ryder as a Civilian Salvage Operator. When did he become part of your crew?”
“When I are asking him to.”
The media was under no legal obligation to disclose anything to the military, and Craig gave General Morris credit for almost hiding what he thought of that. As Presit arranged herself in one of the faux wood-and-leather chairs, he set half the camera unit on a tripod, locked the focus on the general’s face, and took the other half of the unit behind the desk.
“You are not minding Mr. Ryder back there, General?” Presit asked sweetly. “He are needing to capture my reactions. Because of the glasses…” One claw tapped the edge of her mirrored lens. “…it are delicate work.”
“Of course I don’t mind. You do what you have to.”
Given the color rising on the general’s broad face, Craig would have bet serious cash that he not only minded, he minded a lot. Craig didn’t exactly blame him. His position had little to do with the camera and a
lot more to do with making the general uncomfortable by putting someone he didn’t exactly trust not only in his space but in his blind spot.
Good thing he’s more politician than Marine at this point.
Had Torin been sitting in the general’s chair, Presit would never have gotten away with it. And he might not have survived it.
Presit settled herself more comfortably, one leg tucked up under a fringe of silver-tipped fur. Her smile was genial and a little frightening. “So, General Morris, you are telling us why you are lying about the existence of the escape pod from the alien spacecraft that are being known to our audience as Big Yellow.”
Inside the matte black of his uniform, the general’s shoulders stiffened. Anticipating action, possibly violence, Craig shifted away until his back was against the wall. If the general happened to come up swinging, he wanted maneuvering room.
“There was no escape pod. I am not lying.”
There was no action either, just more stiffening. Craig wondered if the desk was on and shooting a data stream straight to a watching cadre of Intelligence officers. It sure as shit would be had he been running the Corps.
Presit ran her claws through her whiskers. Right side. Left side. “But I are remembering an escape pod. So you are saying I are lying?”
“No…”
“I are not lying, then?”
“You are mistaken.”
From the sound of things, the general had his butt cheeks clenched so tightly they were about to cut off all oxygen to his brain.
“And why are I being mistaken but you are not?”
Craig slapped at something tickling his ear, the gesture ingrained during a childhood on Vardie. The native bugs had very much enjoyed the imported food supply—proof the Elder Races weren’t infallible.
“I assure you, Presit, I am not the only one who believes there was no escape pod.”
“You are believing? But you are not having proof?”
He slapped at his ear again, turned, and saw only an expanse of pale gray wall broken by an ugly, darker gray plaque. The Corps didn’t waste Confederation money on decorating, that was for sure. Still, it made sense to have the vid screen on the wall opposite the desk; no point in simulating a window the room’s occupant couldn’t see.