The Heart of Valor

by Huff, Tanya

  “You think?”

  “It’s a little funky.” He tapped the screen. “I wouldn’t have recognized it, but the major had the actual ObSat codes in a separate file, and I recognized the sequencing. I can’t do it the way he did it—the way the alien did it—I don’t think that way because you know, it’s alien, but it’s also sort of Marine codes like I thought at the beginning, so I’m pretty sure I can work something out.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that you’re working, McGuinty. I know you are.” Years of practice kept her from patting him on the head. “Just let me know when you’ve got something.”

  “I’ve got something. Okay, I found something, Gunny. On his slate.” He waved it.

  Torin snorted. “If you found the major’s porn, McGuinty, I don’t need to know about it.”

  “He has porn?” Thin cheeks flushed. “I mean, no. I didn’t. I found messages that weren’t going to the ObSats, they were just going out into space.”

  “Missing the ObSat?”

  “Well, yeah, but on purpose. There was no destination; he was just jacking them off.” Torin had never actually seen anyone turn that red, that fast. “Uh . . .”

  Another time she might have let him muddle through an explanation, but his skills had a good chance of saving their collective butts, so she took pity. “It’s all right, McGuinty. I understand the reference.” A sudden spat of weapons fire from the south wall while she considered the new information. “Okay, wrap the messages and everything to do with them as securely as you can and transfer them to your slate and Piroj’s.” Storing them in a couple of other places might ensure they actually got back to the geeks at Command. “Concentrate on putting together that uplink. Once we shut this shit down, we can concentrate on the less-than-immediate danger.”

  “How?” He stared up at her like she’d have an answer.

  Having the answers were part of her job.

  She grinned. “If I told you, I’d ruin the surprise. Backups, upload, then the fun stuff.”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.” He half turned, then turned back again. “Is it okay if I work on the roof? It’s just easier if I’m already up there if another flier gets spotted.”

  “Do I look like your mother, McGuinty?”

  “Uh . . .”

  Suddenly suspecting she might, Torin cut him off. “Do your job and don’t get shot. I don’t give a H’san’s ass about where you do either. Got that?”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

  She hid a smile as he started toward the stairs and then remembered something. “Hey, McGuinty, I thought you worked better with a ceiling.”

  “Kind of smells in here, Gunny.”

  After only three days? It was a good thing for McGuinty’s station-born sensibilities they weren’t going to be there for the full two tendays, then. Torin had heard of station-born Marines who, with adrenaline fading, had passed out from the combined odors in the retrieval VTA. Possibly apocryphal, but even with wastes sealed into empty food pouches and stored in the useless latrines, the anchor was beginning to hum a bit.

  “Gunny?”

  “Sir.”

  Nothing like thirty-six unwashed Marines to make a place smell like home, she thought returning to Major Svensson’s side.

  He closed his eyes when she told him of McGuinty’s discovery. “What have I done?”

  “Not a damned thing, sir.”

  “You think the Corps is going to see it that way, Gunny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Opening his eyes, he fought the painkillers to focus on her face. “Why?”

  “We have the alien, sir.”

  “And we have my scans identifying it as an alien consciousness within your body.” Dr. Sloan crouched at Torin’s left. “Privates Bynum and Stevens want to know when they can return to duty.”

  Major Svensson dropped his head to the right and frowned through the shadows at the young Marines, both of them standing with one arm held immobile by their combats and strapped up against their chests. “He has a broken arm, and she got shot in the arm.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Broken arm. Shot in the arm.” A small wave of the stump. “There’s some kind of smart-ass comparison kind of remark to make about that, but I just can’t get hold of it right now. Remind me to try again later, Gunny.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tell Bynum and Stevens that the Corps has a policy on letting Marines doped up on painkillers fire live rounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As a general rule,” he added sotto voce to the doctor, “we try to discourage it.”

  “I’d be happier to hear that if it didn’t imply it occasionally happens anyway.” Reaching for her slate, Dr. Sloan bent over the stump. “They’re starting to pile up at the edge of the . . . at the edge. Pile up being a relative statement, of course, given their size.”

  “The aliens remaining in your body appear to be trying to leave,” Torin explained to the major.

  “If they make it out, don’t let them get away.”

  Torin wasn’t entirely certain how she was supposed to stop a molecular-sized, shape-shifting alien but something would probably come up. “Yes, sir.”

  Sitting back on her heels, Dr. Sloan ran a hand up through her hair. Something about her looked . . . off, although Torin couldn’t pinpoint what. “Look, Staff Sergeant Beyhn is stable, my other two patients are sulking, and you two would probably be happier if I was elsewhere, so you could discuss this, fighting person to fighting person. As I’m an accommodating person just generally, I’m heading up to the roof for some air.”

  “You don’t have to go, Doc . . .”

  “I won’t be gone long, but I need to . . .” A quick wave at the sealed wall of windows. “. . . look at the sky for a moment or two. I promise I’ll stay out of everyone’s way. And besides, you’d have to wrestle me to the floor and clap me in irons to stop me.”

  “Got irons, Gunny?”

  “Not on me, sir.”

  “Guess we can’t stop you, then, Doc.” His eyes tracked her as she stood and Torin was reminded again of how long he’d been under the care of the medical profession. For a man who’d been as severely wounded as he had, Doctor Sloan’s presence probably helped him feel secure now he was wounded again.

  “McGuinty seems to think things are getting a bit whiff,” Torin offered as the doctor disappeared up the hall.

  The major made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “This? We’re here for another five days until the NirWentry returns. His delicate sensibilities are in for a shock.” His mouth twisted as he stared at his stump. “Did we have fighting person talking to do, Gunny?”

  “I was thinking that after McGuinty gets the upload specs worked out, and we shut the drones down, he can cannibalize the desk and try to give the alien a voice. We can find out where . . .”

  There was a small gray square on the center of the stump.

  “Gunny?”

  She bent forward, gently slipped a fingernail behind it, and pulled it free. A small line of gray plastic came with it, but whether it was going into the major’s arm or coming out, she had no idea. As the square elongated and curled around her finger, stroking it in a way that almost seemed content, she realized what it was.

  Doctor Sloan’s noncombatant chip.

  The something that had looked off.

  The sky looked close enough to touch. The clear, cold blue of the morning had become pale gray clouds hanging over the settlement promising more snow. The way Stone saw it, more snow was a good thing. The drones weren’t infinitely adaptable, so eventually they had to bog down. He checked his snowman, fired back at the drone that had exposed itself to fire at him, rolled back up onto his feet, and realized his scanner had gone hinky.

  He turned, saw McGuinty fiddling with something by the access hatch. Wondered if he’d screwed up his jamming thing. Saw Dr. Sloan emerge, blinking in the thin light. Saw her speak to McGuinty and laugh . . . and fuk,
McGuinty wasn’t much taller than the doc. Heard a whistle off over the settlement.

  Turned.

  Frowned at a point of darkness against the pale gray.

  Watched it grow.

  Realized what it had to be about the same time he realized his scanner wasn’t working. At all.

  “Incoming!”

  Torin started up the stairs three at a time. “Sergeant Jiir!”

  “Gunny?”

  “Get Dr. Sloan off the roof!”

  McGuinty heard Stone yell. Took a moment to save the final bit of code. Looked up. Saw the flier, three-dimensional against a two-dimensional sky. Had to be an optical illusion that it was heading right for him. He snapped the major’s slate onto his vest and yanked off his own, fumbling the amplifier into place.

  Sergeant Jiir wasted a second responding to Stone’s cry.

  Where the hell had that flier come from, and why weren’t their serley scanners working?

  And what the fuk was taking McGuinty so Goddamned long? The flier was going to lock targeting coordinates in a second, and then they were all screwed.

  The private was standing close to the access hatch, right beside the doctor. Good, two vertak, one stone— he could deal with them both at the same time. Jiir started to run. “McGuinty!”

  He didn’t look up from the slate. “It’s too close, Sergeant, I need more time to lock!”

  Then Dr. Sloan stepped sideways, putting her non-combatant chip between McGuinty and the flier, effectively keeping the flyer from targeting McGuinty.

  Smart move, Doc! Jiir thought. Save the guy most likely to save the whole platoon!

  The flier launched all four missiles.

  The sergeant realized the doctor’s forehead was bare at about the same time.

  McGuinty saw blue. Bright blue.

  Sound and fury.

  Pain.

  Hurt to breathe. Hurt to open his eyes.

  He did both anyway.

  “Gunny?”

  “Not now, McGuinty, I’m a little busy.”

  Halfway up to the access hatch, jammed sideway in the narrow stairs, Torin ignored all the shouting . . .

  “Dr. Sloan is down! I repeat Dr. Sloan is down!”

  “So are the fukking scanners!”

  “It hurts! It hurts!”

  “Sergeant! She’s bleeding!”

  . . . and concentrated on clamping her left hand over the bleeder in McGuinty’s neck. Looked like a piece of shrapnel had . . .

  Not shrapnel. Bone. And a bit of bright blue fabric.

  Looked like a piece of Dr. Sloan had skipped off the top of his vest and ripped a hole about a centimeter down from his jaw. The high collar of the bodyliner had probably saved his life by snagging the rough edge of the bone and changing the angle of entry.

  A nick in a major blood vessel was one thing. A severed vessel—something a bit more fatal.

  She snapped his sealant free and held the tube between her teeth as she grabbed her canteen and thumbed the lid off. A splash on his neck. She had to see what she was doing. Canteen balanced on his . . . lap was close enough, given the way they were jammed in. Knife out of her boot. Slice carefully away from her fingers, keeping the vein clamped, opening things up enough to make sure the sealant hit the hole in the vein.

  Start spraying even before she had her left hand away.

  Pack the wound with sealant.

  Wait.

  Finally breathe.

  “Gunny?”

  “What is it, McGuinty?”

  “I think the doctor exploded.” He frowned, his eyes rolled up, and his head lolled against Torin’s stomach, temple hard up against Private Oshyo’s cylinder.

  “Gunny!” Sounded like Sergeant Annatahwee was right behind her on the stairs, but Torin couldn’t turn. Not far enough. Not and be able to use her spine again later. “Are you hurt?”

  Good question. She’d been almost all the way to the access hatch when all hell had broken loose on the roof. McGuinty had landed more or less in her arms a heartbeat later and she’d barely managed to stop them from slamming all the way down to the second floor. Fortunately, he was a skinny little shit. “I’m all right.” Where all right could be defined as none of the parts that currently hurt, hurt too much to ignore. “Get your hands under McGuinty’s shoulders here, lift him over me, and pass him back. I can’t move until he’s clear.”

  “Given where your knee is, Gunny, I’m not sure we can clear him until you move.”

  Oh. That was her knee. In combats, they all looked the same. “Try.” Because moving it—moving her right leg— didn’t seem to be an option.

  The sergeant’s arms came in to Torin’s left. As she lifted, Torin got her one arm under McGuinty and helped.

  “Fuk, that’s a lot of blood.”

  “It’s his on me, not all his on him,” Torin grunted. As his torso moved past her ear, and the pressure holding her in place changed, she amended her all right to mostly all right.

  “Yours?”

  “Dr. Sloan’s.”

  “Fuk.”

  “Yeah.” Gravity would have taken her the rest of the way down the stairs if not for the sergeant’s hip against her back. Reaching up, she straightened her leg, sucked air through her teeth and got herself turned around. McGuinty had just reached the second floor, held by Ayumi and Lirit while Piroj frantically patted him down looking for more injuries. “He’s got a bleeder in his neck. It’s sealed, but be careful. Get him to the infirmary—Piroj, careful means you need to stop groping him and let Ayumi and Lirit carry him. They’re the same height. When you get there,” she continued as Piroj reluctantly backed away. “Tell . . .” It took her a second to pull the name out of memory. “. . . Flint, he’s now the medic.”

  Flint had aced the first aid course. In about ten seconds he was going to regret that.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr!” Major Svensson’s voice on the command channel cut through the chatter. He didn’t sound good, but he sounded focused. “What the hell is going on up there?”

  “Flier took a shot at the roof, blew McGuinty back through the hatch and delayed me on the stairs, probably killed Dr. Sloan.” Given the bits that came through the roof with McGuinty, the odds were stronger than probably, but Torin wasn’t willing to commit without proof. “I’m on my way up now.”

  “Keep me informed.” He didn’t ask if she was all right; if she wasn’t, he expected her to tell him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  About to stand, she noticed a familiar chip on the stairs; she’d probably dropped it when she’d caught McGuinty. She’d likely never know why the aliens who made up the chip had decided to leave Dr. Sloan, and she honestly didn’t care. They’d left and, as a direct result of that leaving, the doctor was dead.

  “Piroj!”

  “Gunny?” He moved out around Sergeant Annatahwee.

  Torin looked down at the piece of alien ship—no, the collection of aliens—rippling across the palm of her hand and remembered. They’d been in Big Yellow’s copy of the hydroponics garden on Paradise Station . . .

  “Heer, don’t eat that. It’s not a real gitern, it’s part of the ship.”

  The engineer looked sheepishly down at the fruit in his hand. “Ship’s partly organic, Staff.”

  A quick glance at Werst showed the other Krai staring challengingly back at her. His jaw might have been moving. Nothing she could do about it now, and besides, if it came down to a one on one, Big Yellow against a Krai digestive tract, smart money would be on the colon.

  Neither Heer nor Werst had suffered any ill effects.

  She tossed the chip to Piroj, who caught it one-handed. “Eat that.”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  She was standing before he swallowed. The stairs were clean. Most of the blood had been on McGuinty. The roof . . .

  It had started snowing again. Big, thick flakes drifted slowly down to spatter the red with white.

  The bulk of Dr. Sloan’s body lay on the far side of
the hatch from where the spray pattern suggested she’d been standing. The missile had hit the center of her chest, four inches of jacket and her sternum offering enough resistance for it to blow. They could tank a brain and a spinal cord if the med-evac arrived in time, but everything above and most of what was between the impact and the heavier bone of the pelvis had been destroyed.

  “Eat with a spoon,” Piroj muttered.

  A typically Krai diagnosis but inarguable.

  From the sound of it—and, about to emerge, Torin had been close enough to hear it clearly—the doctor been hit by a training missile. Intended to be all light and noise but with more than enough explosive charge to kill after being embedded in a soft target. Looked like the other two thunder sticks had missed Marines, limiting their damage.

  The actual explosive warhead had hit the northeast corner of the anchor, clipping it off, and most of the shrapnel had been blocked by the building.

  Most.

  Sergeant Jiir knelt by a prone figure, another Marine kneeling beside him.

  Torin flipped up her slate. Izebela Vega: muscle damage right thigh, right buttock. Thigh bone nicked. No major blood vessels breached. Nothing vital hit, thanks to the vest. That was Carson beside Jiir, then, because both Stone and Jonin were unmistakable. One team accounted for.

  From the exchange of fire with the Marines on the second floor, the drones were taking advantage of the disruption caused by the flier.

  “Do not break cover, people!” Torin snapped into her PCU. “You’re helping no one up here if you get killed, and you do not want to cause me that much paperwork! I’ll check with Jiir,” she added to Annatahwee. “Make sure no one else got hit.”

  Her combats had already tightened around her left knee, offering support to the swelling joint.

  Jiir looked up as she limped over. The front of his uniform and his lower nose ridges had been splattered with blood. He followed her gaze and shook his head. “Not mine. Not Vega’s either. Dr. Sloan’s.”

  Torin glanced back toward the spatter pattern staining the snow. “McGuinty looks worse. The doc got around.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Vega?”

  “Stable. I’ve almost finished field sealing. They can strip her down and do a better job when we get her downstairs.”