The Better Part of Valour

by Tanya Huff

  “The Navy will supply you with as many suits as you need, Mr. Ryder.”

  “The Corps can look after its own, Captain. Lieutenant!”

  “Sir.” Lieutenant Stedrin pushed through the crowd of Naval researchers.

  “Get Mr. Ryder those suits.”

  Power struggle. Use it wisely, Ryder thought. “Three di’Taykan, three Human, two Krai. Bring them to the Promise.”

  Stedrin glanced at the general who, lips pressed into a thin line, nodded. He watched Stedrin’s retreating back for a moment, then stepped back deliberately out of Ryder’s way. Body language clearly saying. You leave because I allow it. And he can just keep thinking that.

  He was almost to the hatch when the general stopped him.

  “Mr. Ryder, Captain Travik...?”

  “Is still unconscious,” he said, turning and walking backward. “Which puts a limit on how much your pet gnome can fuk this up.” Which was when he realized that referring to the captain by the derogatory description might not have been a good idea. He flashed Captain Carveg his most charming smile. “No offense.”

  She shrugged and the Krai around her relaxed. “None taken. I met him, remember? As it stands right now, we can still open the launch doors to let you out, but I’d hurry before Big Yellow figures out what you’re up to.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” One hand on the hatch.

  “Mr. Ryder...”

  This time, he didn’t bother turning. “General, write me a fukking note.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that!”

  “Yeah, I can.” Through the hatch. His hands braced on either side, he leaned back into the shuttle bay and locked eyes with the general. “I don’t work for you. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this because... Which was when he realized that he didn’t owe General Morris an explanation and he grinned. “...Staff Sergeant Kerr told me to.”

  * * *

  The Promise wasn’t exactly as he’d left her, but then, he hadn’t expected her to be.

  “You weren’t exactly subtle about trying to get in, were you, mate?”

  The sailor shrugged. “Yeah, well, sorry about the scorch marks. After the last shuttle got locked down, we got a little desperate.”

  “And before?”

  “Security doesn’t like question marks.”

  Ryder ran his fingers down five parallel scratches. “You lot ever hear of privacy or personal rights?”

  “Not on a warship, buddy. You want privacy you’ve got to get it cleared by three levels of noncoms and signed off by an officer.” As she turned to go, she raised her wrench in a sloppy salute. “Fukkin’ impressive security system.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like people messing with my stuff,” he muttered, punching in his personal code. At first he was afraid they’d damaged the lens on the retinal scanner, but after a moment, the hatch swung open.

  The tiny air lock’s inside door was also closed and locked, but it, at least, had only the dents he’d put in it himself.

  The doors stayed open behind him to save time when the HE suits arrived. And because he was afraid if he closed them, he’d never open them again.

  As he stepped into the cabin, the lights came up, air circulation increased and his implant announced it was 0312. He’d been up for just over twenty hours. No wonder he felt like he’d been pureed. Three long strides took him across to the small galley. He reached for the coffee and pulled out a pack of caffeine lozenges instead. Same boost, fewer pit stops.

  Which reminded him.

  When he stepped out of the head, there was a Katrien standing in his air lock, peering curiously around the cabin.

  “...first tiny Katrien foot stepped inside and you’d freak.”

  Fuk off, Torin.

  “You want something, mate?”

  The pointed face swiveled around, close enough that Ryder could see his reflection in the dark glasses.

  “You Craig Ryder?”

  “That’s right.” He crossed to his chair and gripped the back, stopping himself from advancing and forcing the much smaller male out of the air lock, down the ramp, and off his ship. If he couldn’t handle one of them... His fingers sank through worn vinyl and deep into old foam.

  “Durgin a Tar canSalvais. Call me Durgin.” He started to step forward, his nose wrinkled, and his foot went back down where it had been. “I are Presit’s pilot. They are telling me Cirvan was killed?”

  “Sorry.”

  Durgin’s ears drooped. “He are putting up with a lot from that... how are you Humans calling it?”

  “Prima donna?”

  “Bitch.” A flash of teeth. “You are bringing her back?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  He grinned—showing a lot more teeth—and reached into his belt pouch. “I are bringing this for her. It are her small recorder. You are giving her this when she comes on board and she are in a corner talking and not chewing on you.”

  “Good.” If she was outside in a corner of the cargo corral, even better.

  Holding out the recorder, Durgin slowly stepped into the cabin.

  A trickle of sweat rolled down Ryder’s back. He had a Katrien foot... two feet... an entire Katrien in his ship and although he could feel the familiar panic rising, he hadn’t freaked.

  And a very military word, by the way, Torin.

  His heart began to pound and he tightened his grip. The back of the control chair creaked. Air lock’s open. Either one of us can leave any time.

  That helped. It’d mean piss all later on, but right now, it helped.

  Setting the recorder down by the coffeepot, Durgin glanced over at the control panel. “You are having a panel of H’san controls?”

  “Yeah, well, I got them cheap. It’s not that much of a size difference.”

  The Katrien snorted and held up a hand. “Not for you.” Back in the air lock...

  Almost off my ship.

  Durgin paused. “You fly alone?”

  Ryder managed a tight grin. “Usually.”

  Durgin’s ears rose and fell, but all he said was, “Good luck.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Stedrin paused at the door to the general’s office. From the condition of the room, he’d taken out his anger on a few inanimate objects. “General Morris, sir?”

  The general slowly turned his chair to face the door. He looked more weary than angry. The second stim must have been wearing off. Once Mr Ryder’s left, I’ll see if I can get him to sleep.

  “Sir, the HE suits are on their way over to Mr. Ryder’s ship. I need your permission to give him the codes for the FCUs.”

  General Morris frowned. “For the FCUs?”

  “Yes, sir. When he’s close enough, he’ll need to contact Staff Sergeant Kerr.”

  “Captain Travik is still in command.”

  “Due respect, sir. Captain Travik is unconscious. He won’t be much help when it comes to docking or loading.”

  “He hasn’t been much help just generally, has he?” Leaning back in his chair, the general dragged both hands over his face, pulling the skin down into temporary jowls. “He’s been unconscious through the whole damned mission and in front of a reporter, too. Oh, she’ll have a great story, won’t she?” Eyes narrowed, he glared up at the lieutenant. “Do you have any idea how much political trouble this thing’s going to cause?”

  “A lot, sir?”

  “A lot, Lieutenant. What do you figure the odds are that Travik’ll regain consciousness and do something heroic before he’s dragged back here in disgrace by a goddamned civilian salvage operator? A civilian.”

  “It’s no disgrace to be wounded, sir.”

  “Well, it’s not a great honor either.” Both hands slapped down on his desk. “If he was dead, at least it would be a tragedy instead of a farce. You have my permission to give Mr. Ryder the PCU codes. In fact,” his lip curled, “give him the codes for Staff Sergeant Kerr’s implant as well. Who knows what else she’ll tell him to do if given the opportunity.”
r />   * * *

  “What’s taking so long?” Dursinski demanded scratching at the sealant over the chemical burn on her cheek. “We’re going to be taken halfway across the fukking galaxy any minute!”

  “First, stop scratching. Your fingers are covered in bug guts and you’re going to get that thing infected.” Torin glared at the shorter woman until her hand dropped back to her side. “Good. And second, odds are the Berganitan doesn’t know the engines have started up. Right from the beginning their scans have been worthless, and I doubt they’re suddenly working now.”

  Dursinski snorted. “Goddamned Navy.”

  “Stedrin’s probably got Ryder filling out forms in triplicate before he’ll issue the suits,” Huilin snickered. “Fuk, there’s probably a civilian request to rescue Marines’ form.”

  “Yeah, I’d laugh,” Nivry sighed, sliding down the bulkhead and landing awkwardly on the deck, “but there probably is.” Graceless di’Taykan were exhausted di’Taykan. The Humans were in much the same shape. Only Werst and Heer showed any kind of energy. Torin suspected they’d been snacking on bugs, but she didn’t want to know for sure.

  “Bugs have withdrawn,” Nivry continued. “I don’t think there’s more than seven or eight left.”

  “I can’t believe we’re kicking bug ass.”

  Tsui, Frii, and Harrop had all taken major wounds. Torin had stopped counting the minor ones. And Guimond was dead. “I think we took out their command structure early on. There’s been no direction to their attacks.”

  “You mean besides straight at us,” Nivry snorted.

  “Yeah, besides that. Still, nice to know we’ve got something under control.”

  The vibrations could be felt through the decks, through the bulkheads—probably through the ceiling although Torin had no intention of checking. A small puddle of blood from where a bug’s claw had cut through an artery along with half of Harrop’s thigh, trembled constantly.

  “Ryder’ll tell them about the engines,” Orla murmured, her eyes dark. “Ryder’ll hurry back.”

  Which would have been comforting except that Ryder didn’t know.

  SIXTEEN

  The suits were on board. The Promise was sealed. He could leave any time.

  He was sweating so heavily, the controls felt greasy under his hands.

  “...the intelligence behind this ship wouldn’t assume for an instant that you’d do something like this.”

  “Yeah, and it might be right.”

  “What was that, Promise?”

  “Nothing.” He took a deep breath. Dried his palms on his thighs. Told himself he was their only chance. Torin’s only chance. Torin, who expected him to get the job done. So let’s not think about the trip back until we fukking get there.

  “Berganitan, this is Craig Ryder on the Promise; open the launch doors.”

  “Promise, this is Black Star Seven. I’ll be your point man for the trip back to Big Yellow. Follow me and ignore the rest of the squadron; they’ll be out there trying to keep you alive.”

  “I’m on you. And thanks for the pep talk, BS7.”

  “He’s got your number. Sib,” Shylin snickered.

  “B7’s fine. Promise. No BS out here.”

  “My mistake, mate.”

  Sibley flicked the comm channel closed and snorted. “I wonder what he’s up to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has to know he’ll get sweet fuk all for doing this.”

  “If it works, they’ll give him a medal.”

  “Yeah. That and a thumbprint’ll get you a cup of coffee.” Sibley shook his head. “He’s got something in the bag.”

  “Cynic.”

  “Not even; I’ve played poker with him.”

  The trip back to Big Yellow turned out to be as uneventful as the trip in to the Berganitan with the sphere had been busy. The bugs still had three full squadrons of fighters out, but they had no real interest in the salvage vessel. Even their one-on-one encounters were more for appearances.

  “Our lot’s no better,” Sibley noted when Shylin pointed it out. “There’s a limit to how long you can keep it up when nothing changes. Both ships are locked down and we’re too evenly matched for anyone to get the upper hand. No one, not even a bug, wants to risk being killed for no reason.”

  “That’s more philosophical than usual, Sib.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m tired. I’m out of stim sticks.” He shifted inside his webbing. “And my damned flight suit is crotching me.”

  “Lucky flight suit.”

  “That’s the best you can do? And you call yourself a di’Taykan.”

  “Hey, I’m tired, too.” Hair barely moving, she checked her screens. “You’d think the bugs’d find the energy to go after the Promise.”

  “I doubt they see the point. With that Susumi engine taking up all the room, the cabin’s not much more than two meters square, so it can’t be going in on a rescue. Fuel and ammo are finite. At this point the bugs’ll wait to see what he does when he gets where he’s going before they commit.”

  “What is he going to do when he gets where he’s going?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  * * *

  Torin snatched her slate off her vest as the low, pulsing tone began.

  “The captain,” she answered when she looked up and saw Nivry’s unspoken question. “I’m heading back to check on him, keep an eye on things up here.”

  Nivry turned and stared toward the corner with the one emerald eye that hadn’t swollen shut. The bugs were still there— they could both hear and smell them talking—but no one had fired so much as a warning shot in almost half an hour. “You think they’re going to try something the moment your back is turned?”

  “Always,” Torin snorted.

  In spite of the blood loss, Frii’s and Harrop’s vital signs were holding steady. Tsui’s blockers wouldn’t last much longer, but he was fine except for the missing foot.

  When Torin sank carefully down beside Captain Travik, favoring the knee a bug had clipped, he looked no different, but all of his numbers had redlined.

  “And?”

  She glanced up to see Werst crouched across the captain’s body. No. Not body. Not yet. “He’s dying.”

  Werst nodded. “Smells like he’s dying. Mind you, he’s smelled like he was dying from the beginning.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  He snorted. “You knew.”

  She supposed she had. Any blow hard enough to damage a Krai skull had to have pulped the brain behind it. Immediate med-evac might have saved him. The vibrations had very likely finished off the jellied parts of his brain.

  “If you wanted to make him a hero for General Morris, you should’ve thrown his body on the grenade.”

  “Believe me,” Torin sighed, “if I’d had time, I’d have done it. He’d be a lot more useful as a dead hero than just dead.”

  “Marines, this is the Promise. Come back.”

  Ryder’s voice blaring out of every PCU snapped people out of sleep up and down the passage. A sudden burst of formaldehyde and cinnamon seemed to indicate that even the bugs had heard.

  “Ryder, this Kerr. What the hell took you so long?”

  “What?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You started starving in an hour and a half?”

  Was that all it had been?

  “It’s a little more serious than that.” The bugs were all in a day’s work, but the engines...

  “You sure they’re engines?” he demanded after she filled him in.

  “Ryder, I’ve got two engineers in here and a Niln with a fukking armload of degrees. They’re engines. Get us off this thing.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. But I’m going to need some help hooking up.”

  The Promise came with what the manufacturers advertised as a universal lock—a flexible, ribbed tube guaranteed to seal to any solid surface on contact. Unfortunately, the four small thrusters on the end of the tube came with a safety
feature that kept them from firing within three meters of organics—which was how their software recognized Big Yellow.

  “You’re going to have to throw something out, hook onto the tube, and drag it in. Once there’s contact, it should seal.”

  “Should?” Dursinski protested loudly.

  “And what are we supposed to throw?” Nivry demanded from the barricade. “Bug parts?”

  “Too organic.”

  “Good. ’Cause that’s called indignity to a body and they charge you for stuff like that.”

  “So you’re allowed to shoot them, but you can’t toss them around?”

  “Everyone shut up.”

  “Torin, we don’t...”

  “You, too, Ryder.” She tapped her fingers against the edge of her slate and worked through the variables again. It might work. It should work. “All right.” A deep breath and she straightened, shaking off the last couple of hours. “Harveer, can Johnston use your slate to open the lock?”

  The elderly scientist peered from Torin to the engineer and back. “He’s a bright boy. Probably.”

  “Good. Jynett, Orla; take the civilians down to the escape pods. If worse comes to worst; launch all three of them.”

  “No.” Her fur dull, Presit pulled away from Gytha’s grip, showing a hint of her old animation for the first time since Guimond died. “I are not moving away from a story. I are not even hearing the other half of...” When words failed her, she waved a tiny hand toward Torin’s helmet. “...that.”

  “Ma’am, if it’s a choice between having you carried away from your story or watching your eyeballs explode as you spontaneously decompress, I know what I’d choose.” The pause lasted just long enough for Presit to begin to bristle. “If you’ll go to the pods, you can take Private Frii’s helmet with you and listen to everything on group channel.”

  “Uh, Staff...”

  “She deserves to get the end of the story.” Torin scooped up the helmet and offered it to the reporter. “Well?”

  “I don’t think eyeballs explode during spontaneous decompression,” Johnston muttered away from his microphone when the civilians were safely out of sight.

  Torin flicked her mike up. “Who cares? Get the lock pressurized and the door open.”