The Heart of Valor

by Huff, Tanya

  Major Alie met her as she entered the compartment. “Problem, Gunny?”

  Torin glanced at the multi-Sector chronometer on the front wall. She had thirty-seven seconds to spare. “No, sir.”

  The matter-of-fact tone seemed to throw the major a bit; the movement of her hair sped up, and she frowned slightly.

  Does she expect me to tell her that General Morris kept me late? Torin wondered. If Major Alie expected her to feel chastised and show it, well, the H’san would take up knitting first.

  Maybe, because she was, after all, an Intelligence officer, the major was wondering why Gunnery Sergeant Kerr had asked about a nonexistent escape pod.

  Probably not, Torin acknowledged as she stepped forward to lay out her experiences with the Silsviss for the fourth time in two days. The integration of large, aggressive lizards into the Corps was of more immediate concern than either the possible existence of escape pods or a possibly delusional NCO.

  Two more days of briefings finished off the staff officers and NCOs, and she spent the day before she began at the Recruit Training Center going over her notes and making some of the changes Major Alie had suggested. She no longer ate alone; every meal in the SRM became a sort of mini-briefing. Since going out would only expose her to questions from officers and speculation by other ranks, she stayed in.

  She was rapidly reaching the point where being shot at by the Silsviss would be preferable to having to talk about them. It didn’t help that most of the private questions—and many of the briefing room questions for that matter—involved second-guessing the decisions that had been made in the field.

  “Contamination levels were rising slowly; why didn’t you stay with the VTA?”

  “Why didn’t you empty the armory? Why wasn’t every Marine carrying two or three weapons?”

  “Why didn’t you put your ammo for the emmy under cover so it couldn’t be hit?”

  As that second-guessing was coming from Marines who’d spent most of their tour on their asses behind a desk, Torin figured it was inevitable that she’d end up in the gym late one night, pounding the snot out of some pompous desk jockey. When it finally happened, it started with a Krai technical sergeant demanding to know why she hadn’t killed Cri Srah when she had him in the choke hold. Then it moved into the declaration that, if it had been his people sent into ambush, he’d have made the Silsviss pay. Finally, it ended with him pinned to the floor, Torin’s knee on his throat.

  She had a bite taken out of her padding—Krai invariably bit, but the padding slowed them down a little— and a few bruises.

  The incident would have broken the monotony except that it had been so appallingly predictable.

  She spoke to the one fifty recruits first. On their last tenday, they were almost done with Basic and, having returned from Crucible, were considered Marines— nothing left but finishing up the appalling amount of documentation the military required before posting. There were no recruits in one thirty or one forty; they were on Crucible and probably wishing, if Torin’s memory of those twenty days was anything to go by, that they were anywhere else.

  It took a few years of actual combat to put Crucible in perspective.

  The one twenty recruits included Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s Platoon 71 as well as Platoon 72 under the command of DI Staff Sergeant Connie Dhupam.

  “You haven’t stopped by for that drink, Gunny.”

  “Only time I’ve had free, you were with your platoon, Staff.”

  “They’re keeping you busy.” He snickered, but not unsympathetically, at Torin’s expression. “This isn’t your job. You should be out there keeping the kids I’m sending you alive. Why the hell aren’t they putting your second lieutenant through this crap?”

  “Lieutenant Jarret was unconscious for the final battle and in Med-op for the aftermath.”

  “And you’re General Morris’ golden Gunny.”

  Torin snorted. “For my sins.”

  By day one hundred and twenty, recruits had survived long hours of training both physical and mental and were showing the arrogance that was a natural result of that survival. Two tendays on Crucible would temper that arrogance, but nothing would ever completely remove it. As Major Alie instructed the two platoons in the discretion expected of a Marine given sensitive information, every single recruit leaned slightly forward to show they were listening.

  It was the appearance of rapt attention, at least.

  Most of them looked intrigued, a few looked amused, all di’Taykan hair was in movement, and the half dozen Krai were showing teeth. One or two of the recruits were showing no expression at all, and Torin decided they were in Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s platoon only because that was where she’d begun.

  They hadn’t read the diplomatic reports, but they’d studied every word written by Marines about the battle and the political aftermath. It was possible, Torin realized, that this group of recruits could represent the first Marines to integrate with the Silsviss. They were only on a three-year contract, so it was unlikely, given the speed of politics, but it was possible. As she talked, it became obvious there were going to be a lot more questions than usual; at least a dozen recruits looked as if they wouldn’t make it to the end of the briefing without interrupting.

  They did, but Torin would have bet her pension that a couple of them managed to wait only because of the DIs standing behind and to either side of her.

  The sergeants handled the Q&A, motioning recruits up onto their feet.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr . . .”

  The standing recruit was a tall, medium-dark Human, her nose given remarkable prominence by the deadhead hair.

  “. . . is it true you have the Silsviss skull the pack leader gave you in your quarters back on OutSector?”

  “Essentially. I put it in storage when I got my orders to head here.”

  “This recruit wonders why you kept it.”

  “Seemed rude to throw it out.”

  “Then this recruit wonders why you didn’t give it back to the Silsviss for proper burial.”

  “Because that would have been dangerous. The skull is more than a battle trophy. When the new leaders of the pack handed it over, it symbolized them showing their throats to the victor. Giving it back would have meant we planned on killing each and every one of them.”

  “But giving it back now . . .”

  Torin raised an eyebrow and cut her off. When she figured the pause had continued long enough, she said, “What would giving it back now mean, Recruit?”

  Her brows drew in. “Disrespect?”

  “Are you asking?”

  She jumped at the tone. “No, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr!”

  “All right, disrespect and . . . ?”

  “A challenge.”

  The short sharp crack was the sound of a Krai in the second row beginning to snap his teeth together, suddenly realizing where he was, and trying to stop just a little too late. He managed to look sheepish and apologetic simultaneously.

  “And what would a challenge mean, Recruit?”

  “A fight.”

  “A fight,” Torin agreed. She found herself wanting to remind them that every species has their own way of treating the dead but knew their DIs wouldn’t appreciate her inference that they hadn’t already learned that lesson. Insofar as it didn’t interfere with the functioning of the Corps, the Corps respected those differences.

  “A fight with who, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?” This recruit was male, Human again, with the heavy muscle that came from working a physical job before he’d signed up.

  “Depends on who received the skull.”

  “So if it went back to the representative of the Silsvah World Council, would we find ourselves fighting the entire planet?”

  “It’s possible.” And that would certainly interfere with the functioning of the Corps. Which was why she had the skull in her storage locker. Well, that and because a couple of the more politically correct NCOs at Battalion didn’t want the skull of a sentient species hanging
in the SRM. They’d just have to choke it down when the Silsviss arrived because it was definitely going back up then.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” Even at parade rest, the di’Taykan recruit’s inherent grace was evident. Torin could see a long list of aristocratic forebears in his posture—no one got that self-assured in a single generation. He reminded her of Lieutenant Jarret and she would have been willing to bet his family name had no more than three letters in it. His cobalt-blue hair swept slowly back and forth as he asked, “Is there a chance we can see the skull, Gunnery Sergeant?”

  Torin could feel Major Alie getting ready to step in.

  “That is,” the recruit added, “if you don’t think the Silsviss would mind.”

  There was no way the major could answer that. If she knew what the Silsviss would or wouldn’t mind, Torin wouldn’t be there.

  With no doubt that the recruit had phrased the second half of the question so that the major would not have the deciding voice, Torin kept both expression and tone neutral. “The Silsviss would understand showing battle honors to the young. They’d also understand using the skull to explain Silsviss strengths.”

  “What strengths can you learn from a skull, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?” Krai, male; his voice on the edge of insolence.

  “Why don’t we wait until you get a look at their jaws and you can ask me that again.”

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?” Another di’Taykan. Emerald-green hair this time. “When you were facing those hundreds of Silsviss and your platoon was surrounded and almost out of ammo, were you afraid?”

  “Gunnery Sergeants don’t feel fear, recruit. We eat overgrown lizards for breakfast and wash them down with a side of H’san. However, since I was only a staff sergeant at the time, I can tell you that the moisture controls on a pair of Marine Corps Class As work to design specifications.”

  That got a laugh.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, is it true you knew Major Svensson before he was tanked?”

  Motivated only by guilt for having not yet gone to see him, Torin let the major move in on that one and remind the recruits that they were here to discuss the Silsviss and only the Silsviss.

  “Kichar’s in love.”

  Miransha Kichar ignored him and continued polishing her boots.

  The pink-haired di’Taykan lounged against the wall beside her bunk and grinned. “I saw the way you were looking at the Gunnery Sergeant when she snapped at you this afternoon during your little question and answer riff. You’re in love.”

  “Is that a bad thing, Sakur?”

  Sakur turned enough to direct his grin at the Krai on the next bunk. “Love is never a bad thing, Hisht. But the Gunny will never return Kichar’s affection, and that’s sad.”

  Hisht’s nose ridges flared as he considered the di’Taykan’s words. His jernine lived deep in the forests, and until the day he’d climbed to the crown of the prayer tree and seen the airship go by, he had thought he would spend all his life surrounded by his extended family. Staring up at the silver ship, a deep curiosity had grabbed him, and he had left all he knew and followed its path and, eventually, when he finally became aware of just how much there was outside his small bit of forest, he had ended up here surrounded by people who were not people as he had known them and who did not always think the way people thought. It was exciting and confusing, and he did not always have the right words in his head to understand. “To love without love in return is sad,” he said at last, even though he knew that wasn’t the point being made.

  “Even Hisht gets it.” Sakur laughed. Laughed harder when Kichar glared up at him.

  In the forest, Sakur’s behavior would be that of a young male trying to get a female’s attention. In the Marine Corps, he was merely acting like a pain in the ass. That was a concept Hisht had no trouble understanding.

  Staff Sergeant Beyhn took a long swallow of his beer and set it back down on the bar of the RT/SRM. “You run a good briefing,” he said. “Everyone seems to think so.”

  Torin dropped her head into her hands. “God, help me. I’ll never see my unit again.”

  It was beginning to look that way.

  After she finished speaking to the remainder of the recruits, right down to the latest group to step off the recruiting shuttle, the Corps wanted her to look at a few simulations of the battle and finally review the official documentation that came out of her briefings. After that, Ambassador Krik’vir, the Mictok who’d been one of the diplomats on Silsvah, wanted her to address a Parliamentary committee.

  “Parliamentary committee,” General Morris snorted, staring down at the request. “Half a dozen species rummaging around trying to reach a consensus on what beverage they should have on morning break. Ridiculous waste of time.”

  Torin had never been so much in agreement with the general.

  “Unfortunately,” he added, “we have no good reason to refuse them. I will, of course, accompany you to the Core.”

  And her prospects went from bad to worse.

  On the first day of her three/ten, Torin went for her run, took care of her kit, spent two hours at the range blowing away a target she mentally painted with General Morris’ face, and finally headed over to see Major Svensson. The station allowed her into Med-op, but there was a door, a desk, and a delay before she could get to the convalescent compartments.

  “I’m afraid the major’s physical therapy’s running a bit late, Gunny.” The yeoman on duty at the desk peered down at her screens. “Ah. He’s with Elusoy . . .”

  “Di’Taykan?” Torin asked as though that explained everything. Which, considering the circumstances, it pretty much did.

  The young petty officer nodded and colored faintly. “You can wait.”

  “Thank you.” Hands clasped behind her back, Torin wandered slowly around the small waiting room. The half dozen uncomfortable chairs were empty, but she had no desire to sit. She read the charts on the wall, checked the display of biscuits for her slate, discovered they were all at least three years out of date, and found herself back at the desk. “You were on the Berganitan, Yeoman?”

  She looked up, startled.

  Torin hid a smile. Major Svensson had mentioned there were personnel in Med-op whose last posting had been the Berganitan; that was why she’d looked. “You’re wearing the ship’s ribbon.”

  “Oh. Right.” A quick glance down at the single ribbon on the left side of her chest. “Yes, I was there when you . . . When we transported you to . . . you know. And back.”

  “Right.”

  “I put together some of the data for your medical files.”

  “Thank you.”

  She shrugged narrow shoulders, a quick up and down motion, and smiled shyly. “It’s okay. It’s what I do. I did Craig Ryder, too. We scanned him—just a quick scan just in case—before he went back out for you.”

  Her tone, her expression, pretty much everything about her explained the rumor of romance the major had heard. Rubbing one finger along the inert trim of her desk, she stared up at Torin like Torin was the heroine in a H’san opera.

  “That’s right. I got my people out of Big Yellow, and I got the guy.”

  “Gunny?”

  “Never mind.” It was easier to be amused by the whole thing. Considering some of the other rumors she’d heard about how she’d taken out a squad of Bugs in hand-to-claw combat, this was mild. There’d only been one Bug. And she’d shot it before it had a chance to grapple. “You wouldn’t have any idea what happened to the escape pod Mr. Ryder got back to the Berganitan in, would you?”

  “Escape pod?”

  “It was in shuttle bay one.”

  Brows, shaped to within a nanometer of regulation, drew in. “I don’t remember an escape pod.”

  “How did he get back to the ship, then?”

  “Oh, that.” She smiled in relief at having the answer. “A Jade brought him in.” Her desk chimed. “Ah. Major Svensson’s back in his room, Gunny, and . . .” Her fingers danced over a screen. “And
he’s approved your visit.” The door beside the desk slid silently open. “Go right ahead. He’s in M20.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “It’s nothing. Gunny?”

  Torin paused, halfway through the door.

  “Are you, you know, still seeing him?”

  Why not? It wasn’t like she was ashamed of it. And it was a relief not to answer yet another question about the damned Silsviss. “Occasionally.”

  “Gosh.”

  “Gosh?” Torin repeated to herself as the door slid closed. “Gosh?” It seemed the Navy was not only enlisting preteens but then promoting them to petty officer, third class. Under other circumstances, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find the yeoman had forgotten about the escape pod, dismissed it as unimportant next to the love story playing out in her clearly overactive imagination. However, given that her lack of memory matched Captain Stedrin’s and the general’s . . .

  There was something wrong, but the whole station was so focused on the ultimate integration of the Silsviss that she was the only one who could see it. Or, less egotistically, the yeoman had never known there was an escape pod and, hell, it wasn’t like General Morris had never lied to her before. She only had his word for it that no one else had mentioned it at their debriefings. Captain Stedrin would follow the general’s orders.

  Except ten years at war had given her good instincts for when things were heading from screwed up as usual toward totally fukked and right now her instincts were yelling the equivalent of fire in the hole.

  The Elder Races had to be involved.

  M20 was a private room, larger than Torin had expected and obviously intended for long-term convalescence.Although the bed dominated the space, there was also a pair of comfortable looking chairs and a fully loaded desk. The vid screen on the wall had been set at window, and the major, clearly aiming for realism, had chosen the station’s docking yards as his view.

  Post-therapy, Major Svensson looked a lot better than he had up on the terminal gallery.

  He still looked newly made but significantly less shaky. If the huge smile he welcomed her with was any indication, he was also in a much better mood.