The Heart of Valor

by Huff, Tanya

  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 an
y 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, and 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 non-combatant 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?”

  “They’re not shooting at the doctor’s pigeons, sir.”

  This time, he couldn’t stop the smile. “Very convincing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not exactly good enough, though.”

  “I didn’t think it would be, sir.” She met his gaze, held it, and waited.

  After a long moment, he sighed. “Go ahead.”

  Torin took off her mitt
s, handed Kichar her weapon—ignoring the blush that stained the private’s high cheekbones—and bent to undo her boots.

  “Sir, is the gunny . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I could help.”

  “You could be quiet, Sakur.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vest and combats took no time at all, then she set her helmet on the pile and stepped in front of the window. She felt lighter although her uniform weighed as little as tech allowed.

  Nothing.

  “Maybe they’re not paying attention.”

  Her reply was to step back to the pile, pick up her vest, and toss it across the same space.

  Four shots blew it across the room.

  “Sakur, get that for me, would you. Stay low.”

  The major shook his head and started toward the door. “It’s a crazy plan, Gunny. Go for it. I’ll tell McGuinty we’ll need the launch codes.”

  “Kichar.”

  “Gunnery Sergeant!”

  With a nice solid piece of the anchor between her and the drones, Torin pulled her combats back on. “Go get that fifty feet of rope from your pack.”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

  Kichar pounded off and Torin looked up to see the rest of the team watching her. “What?”

  “How did you know she had the rope, Gunny?”

  Torin thumbed the front seal closed. “It seemed to be a reasonable assumption since she brought everything else on the list.”

  “Gunny?” Hisht paused, one boot off. “I brought the rope, too.”

  “You willing to have Kichar in your pack?” When he nodded, she thumbed her PCU. “Kichar.”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

  “Grab the rope out of Hisht’s pack while you’re down there.”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

  “I don’t suppose any of the rest of you brought rope?” she asked, bending to lace her boots. “Or maybe an antitank gun?” she added when there was no more rope in the offing.

  Sakur snorted. “It wasn’t on the list, Gunny.”

  Torin snorted right back at him. “I’m betting it will be next time.”

  “It may not need all three of us,” Sergeant Jiir admitted, pulling off his boots and spreading long toes inside the liner. “But it’ll go faster and easier with all three of us, and that tank is getting closer while we argue.”