by Tanya Huff
Light-headed. Good. There was a medical explanation.
* * *
Ken Tsui was being fitted for a regeneration tank that would extend down from his left knee; Torin couldn’t get in to see him. Frii and Harrop had been fully tanked the moment they’d arrived in Medici. The doctors were cautiously optimistic they’d both make it. Huilin’s leg had been bonded, and he’d been given a sedative that should keep him under until the Berganitan reached Susumi space. The rest were being checked over, cuts and bruises and minor injuries attended to.
Torin motioned the corpsman out of Werst’s cubicle and stepped in.
“They hosed us down first,” he grunted, bare feet swinging half a meter above the deck. “You’d think they’d build these fukkers Krai size.”
“That is Krai size,” Torin snorted. “On a Human table, I can’t touch the deck.”
“You’re here to tell me I can change my mind, aren’t you?” She opened her mouth and closed it again as he kept talking without pausing for a reply.
“I can read it on your face, Staff.” He scratched up under his robe and shook his head, facial ridges clamped shut as he locked his eyes on hers. “You do what you have to to get the job done— you don’t like that you had to involve me. Don’t worry about it. The captain’s a hero, the mission was a success, we weren’t where Guimond could throw himself on a grenade to save eighteen people for no good reason.” His facial ridges began to slowly open as the words spilled out, more words than Torin had heard him speak the whole time she’d known him. “I had a buddy once. Knew him most of my life. We joined up together, went through Ventris together. He was Krai, not Human, but big and friendly and didn’t have a bad thing to say about shit. He died our first time out. Antipersonnel missile took his big, fukking, friendly head right off.
“Why is it the big, fukkin’, friendly ones who die, Staff?”
“They’re not the only ones who die, Werst, it’s just we miss them more than the short, fukkin’, cranky ones.”
He grinned reluctantly. “So you’re not going to miss me when I get it?”
Torin tightened her fingers around the cylinder in her hand. “No more than everyone else I lose.”
* * *
Lieutenant Stedrin glanced up as Torin entered the outer office. “General Morris will be with you in a minute, Staff Sergeant. The reporter is still with him.”
“Thank you, sir.” She walked over to the edge of the desk. “I’d like to also thank you for taking General Morris off the comm unit.”
He jerked and his pale eyes darkened. “How did you know...?”
She hadn’t. Not until this instant. Which she was not going to mention. “It’s my job to know these things.”
“What things?”
“What officers can be depended on, sir. I hope you didn’t get in too much trouble on my behalf.”
“He was annoyed,” the lieutenant admitted reluctantly, pale blue hair flipping back and forth over the points of his ears.
Torin raised a single brow.
“Okay, he was furious.” Stedrin shrugged, the graceful motion pure di’Tayakan. His small rebellion seemed to have loosened his body language. “But there’s just him and me out here and he needs me, so, hopefully, he’ll get over it before...” He surged up to his feet as the door opened.
“I are happy I are having had this talk with you. General.” Presit—her fur brushed, her nails repainted, her dark glasses back in place—minced out of the inner office. “I are looking forward to integrating earlier vids of the brave Captain Travik into our full story.”
Face wreathed in smiles, the general followed close behind. “The resources of the Corps are at your disposal, ma’am.”
“I are thanking you, so much.” Her head turned and Torin found herself staring at her reflection in the reporter’s glasses. “And the Staff Sergeant?” she asked, her tone as pointed as her teeth.
“Will be dealt with.”
“Good.”
“Lieutenant Stedrin, if you could escort our guest out of the Marine attachment?”
“Yes, sir!”
Torin had never heard a response snapped off with such perfect military delivery. Lieutenant Stedrin was reinforcing his chances of forgiveness with a little spit and polish.
When the outer door closed. General Morris stepped back, clearing access to his office. “Staff Sergeant Kerr...”
Torin took up the usual position in front of his desk, staring at the usual spot on the wall.
“At ease, Staff Sergeant. I hate it when you do that.”
“Yes, sir.” She dropped into a perfect parade rest—the lieutenant wasn’t the only one who knew when to smooth off any rough edges. “Do what?”
“Stare at the damned wall. Makes me feel like I’m not in the room.” He sighed deeply, dropped into his chair, and laid both hands flat on his desk. “Why did I bring you on this mission, Staff Sergeant?”
Hers was not to question why. Because you’re my own, personal, two star pain in the ass. “To keep Captain Travik alive, sir.”
“Yes, to keep Captain Travik alive. Which he isn’t. Still, his final acts of heroism were enough to generate an amazing amount of good PR—essentially keeping him alive.”
The general seemed pleased and he’d damn well better be—it wasn’t every day Torin essentially raised the dead.
“Presit is more than willing to put the captain back onto his media pedestal and then crank it up a few levels. I suspect she’s motivated as much by his actions as by her dislike of you and her belief that elevating the captain is the best way to get under your skin.”
Interesting. Although the statement could certainly be taken at face value, it was possible the reporter knew more of what was really going on than Torin had thought. You are thinking you are so smart, Staff Sergeant. I are making sure you are getting none of the credit.
Not that it much mattered what her motivations were as long as the result was the same.
Leaning forward. General Morris’ voice dropped into a low growl. “Did you actually threaten to blow her head off, Staff Sergeant Kerr?”
“No, sir.”
“Not in so many words, sir,” he mocked. “Fortunately for you, she seems content to have me deal with you.” The fingers of his right hand drummed out a slow beat. “Don’t do it again. The Corps is not in the habit of making idle threats.”
Idle threats. No doubt the general’s word choice came out of a few hours spent in the Katrien’s voluble company.
“As welcome as the media coverage is,” the general continued, “it won’t bring Captain Travik back to life and that means he can’t be promoted to command rank.”
“Yes, sir. The way I see it, we all win.”
“Explain yourself, Staff Sergeant.”
“I have every confidence that the general can use the amazing amount of good PR to placate the Krai in Parliament to the extent that the captain’s intended promotion will be forgotten.”
“Yes.” The single syllable dripped suspicion. Torin was willing to grant he had precedent for the emotion. “But how do you win?”
“Captain Travik would have been promoted for political reasons.” She dipped her head just enough to meet his gaze. “Political officers in command positions aren’t good for the Corps. Sir.”
He stared at her for a long moment. His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure your parents were married, Staff Sergeant?” he asked at last.
Torin kept her face expressionless. “Yes, sir.”
“When we get back, I suggest you check the paperwork. For now, tell me why—Captain Travik’s heroism aside—this whole mission wasn’t a total waste of time.”
“Two reasons, sir. First—as regards the enemy. We kicked ass.”
“And that would be your professional, combat NCO’s opinion?” the general snorted.
“Yes, sir.” Answer the question not the tone. “We learned more about how the bugs fight and how they think. How they react when they’ve lost their le
adership. Intelligence can use the data to extrapolate cultural practices. We brought back one of their weapons. Next time we meet them, we’ll be better prepared and they’ll have nothing but the knowledge of getting their ass kicked. Second—as regards Big Yellow; granted, we learned very little about the ship or the species who built it. We don’t know why it was here, where it came from, or where it was going. But...” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I think it was on a fact-finding mission and I think it learned the best about us.”
“The best?”
“Yes, sir.” She held out her arm, opened her fingers over his desk, and let Guimond’s cylinder fall from her hand. “One life, freely given, so that eighteen could live. I can’t think of anything I’d rather have an alien intelligence learn.”
The general picked up the cylinder and turned it over and over between his fingers. Maybe he was remembering the thirteen she’d handed him at the end of the last “special” mission he’d sent her on. Maybe he was just staring at his reflection. Torin couldn’t know.
“All right, Staff Sergeant.” He closed his fingers, enclosing the cylinder in his hand much as she had. “Let’s go over the whole thing from the moment the shuttle blew.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“Dave.”
Chief Warrant Officer Graham looked up from his phase welder, waved, and powered down. “Torin.” He pulled off his safety glasses as he walked over to the hatch. “What brings you into the depths?”
She nodded past him at the empty docking bay. “That. Well, not that specifically, but I wanted to thank the pilots who saw to it we got home. But Marine Corps staff sergeants don’t just walk in on Navy pilots, so I hoped you would pass it on for me.”
“That specifically, then. This was Lieutenant Commander Sibley’s bay. He’s the one who slammed his Jade down the bug’s throat.”
The explosion played out again on the back of Torin’s eyes. It was never a stranger. “We saw a half pod eject.”
“His gunner. We picked her up just before we got you. She’s still tanked—di’Taykan.” He shifted his glasses from one hand to another. “They feel these things more, you know.”
The two noncoms locked eyes for a long moment—grieving, anger, understanding, shared.
* * *
The Promise no longer quite filled shuttle bay four. The damaged salvage pen was one bay over—without the stacked panels the ship had a little more headroom. Considering the damage she’d taken, she didn’t look bad. Or good, for that matter.
The hatch was open and the ramp was down.
The only sound as Torin made her way up the ramp was the soft and ever present hum of Susumi space stroking the Berganitan’s outer hull. Which was drowned out as she reached the top of the ramp by a stream of inventive profanity.
She stopped, her boots carefully on the ramp side of the tiny lock and leaned inside. “You need some help?”
Ryder was lying on his back, half under the control panel, both muscular arms raised and buried elbow deep. She almost expected him to jerk up and crack his head, but he just lifted it enough to be able to see her and grinned. “Why aren’t I surprised that you can fix one of these things?”
“Sorry, I can’t. But I have friends on the Berganitan.” Friends who right now were mourning the losses of their Jades and the crews who flew them. “If you want me to put a word in...”
“Thanks, but Captain Carveg has already offered to send over any help I need.”
“Captain Carveg’s a good captain, but I doubt she knows who the best mechanics are.”
“’Cause she’s not a staff sergeant?”
“Sad but true. I’d have been by sooner, but this is the first downtime I’ve had.”
“Me, too.”
“I know, the Promise told me. You’ve haven’t taken my codes out of her system.”
“Son of a bitch, I knew I was forgetting to do something.” He slid out into the limited floor space, stood, and held out his hand. “Come in.”
In his place, she’d have thought it insulting to be asked if he was sure, so she didn’t ask. The cabin was small enough to put them very close. Small enough to force the issue. She could smell the mix of sweat and grease coming off him and it seemed to be having the same effect as di’Taykan pheromones.
“So.” Blue eyes gleaming, he scratched his beard with the charred edge of the processor rack. “What would you have done with the captain’s body if the bugs hadn’t conveniently removed him for you?”
Torin shrugged. “Brought him back to a hero’s welcome.”
“A dead hero’s welcome.”
“You can’t tell the exact time of death without a molecular autopsy and they don’t put heroes under the knife. That implies something might be wrong, that he might not be the hero a two star general desperately needs him to be.” She spread her hands. “He died to save us all.”
“Your slate had his medical information in it.” His teeth were brilliantly white in the shadow of his beard.
“True.” Shifting her weight to one hip, she folded her arms. “You know, it’s not that easy doing a vacuum trot from a damaged salvage pen into an unpressurized shuttle bay.”
“A terrible accident?”
Another shrug. “Who can say what would have happened?”
“I’m betting you could.”
The beginning of a smile to answer his. “I was just doing my job.”
To her surprise, he stepped back and glanced around the cabin, his expression suddenly serious. “You think I’m a coward? Because of... you know?”
“No. You overcame your fear. Isn’t that the definition of bravery?”
“You’re the Marine,” Ryder snorted. “You tell me.”
“I am telling you.”
“And what are you afraid of?” he asked after a long moment.
All things considered, he deserved an honest answer. “Failure.”
“Not being able to do your job?”
“I get it wrong and people die.”
“You said, back in that hole on Big Yellow, that when the job’s done...” His smile returned as suddenly as it left. “It is done, isn’t it? I mean, I wouldn’t want to start anything that’ll get me whacked. You probably know twenty-five ways to kill a man with your bare hands.”
“Twenty-six,” Torin told him as he closed the distance between them. “But you’ll like the last one.”
* * *
Bitching amongst themselves, a maintenance crew worked to clear the huge net out of the shuttle bay. No one seemed to know why it had been put there or on whose order, although a couple of the di’Taykans had a few athletic suggestions for its use.
No one noticed the twelve large gray canisters stacked along one bulkhead.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In September, 1944, the 1st Marine Division attacked the small, “wretched” Pacific island of Peleliu. The westernmost of the Carolines, Peleliu had an oven-hot climate, a convoluted terrain, an “ungodly scramble of coral cliffs,” mangrove swamps, and 10,000 dug in and well-armed Japanese soldiers.
Lack of both time and ammunition made the Navy’s preliminary bombardment short and essentially ineffective. As the amphibious landing craft approached the beach, the enemy opened fire with antiboat guns and heavy machine guns.
It was said to be as deadly a landing as the Marines would ever face.
After the slaughter on the beach. Colonel Lewis “Chesty” Puller, led his men in a “gallant but fruitless series of frontal assaults” on the cliffs and sharply angled hills the Marines called Bloody Nose Ridge.
At one point during the six-day battle for the ridge, an excited subordinate reported to Colonel Puller, “We’ve had such heavy losses we have nothing better than sergeants to lead our platoons!”
“Let me tell you something, son,” Puller replied calmly, “in the Marines, there is nothing better than a sergeant.”
* * *
—from A Fellowship of Valor: T
he Battle History of the United States Marines by Col. Joseph H. Alexander, USMC (Ret.), published by Lou Reda Productions for The History Channel and A&E Television Networks, 1997
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TANYA SUE HUFF is a prolific Canadian fantasy author of over 25 novels, including The Silvered, The Enchantment Emporium series and the Confederation series, also published by Titan Books. Her stories have been published since the late 1980s, including five fantasy series and one science fiction series. One of her best known series, the Blood Books, featuring detective Vicki Nelson, was adapted for television under the title Blood Ties. Follow Tanya on Twitter @TanyaHuff.
YOU DO WHAT YOU DO
A CONFEDERATION STORY
“Sarge! I’m nearly out!”
“Me too, Sarge. Last mag just locked and loaded!”
“Harmin?”
“I’m down to six grenades and half a belt of boomers!” Deena leaned out from behind the broken pillar that offered her minimal protection from enemy fire, braced the big KC-12 between her right hip and the stone, then bent sideways to hook her left grapples around a chunk of debris. It couldn’t have weighed much more than forty kilos so she lobbed it gently out onto the chewed up plaza in front of the ruined building where the remains of her platoon had gone to ground.
The Others opened fire—bastards had ammo to spare—and she took the moment of respite to lean out a little further and eyeball where most of it was coming from. Her scanner adjusted for distance and she spotted a V-shaped crack in their defenses
“Make that five grenades,” she amended as she pulled the trigger, “and half a belt of boomers.”
An EMT pulse had taken out everything but wetware early on, leaving her with only basic scanner functions and no idea of how much damage she’d actually done. Seemed like a definite decrease in fire coming from that particular location though.
A thump against her calf and she looked down to see Jurrin— firing prone beside her—give her an enthusiastic thumbs up, his hair a moving pink fringe around the edges of his helmet. They’d bonded in during basic and ending up on the same fireteam after Deena’d been jacked in had been a happy coincidence. His lips moved, but even with aural augmentation, she couldn’t hear him over the sudden appearance of a Marine 774 screaming by overhead, closely followed by three enemy fighters.