Valour's Choice

by Tanya Huff

  The sighs turned to giggles.

  “I think you may need to readjust your masker, sir.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be their age.”

  “And happy to have forgotten.” She pushed the empty container into the recycling chute and stood. “It’s 1340, sir. The captain wants to see us at 1400.”

  Lieutenant Jarret stood as well and nodded toward her slate as they crossed the cantina in step. “Is there anything specific I should know about the people you’ve chosen?”

  “They all would’ve preferred that I’d chosen someone else, but other than that, no.” Torin considered it a good sign that the lieutenant was asking her for information. Too many officers came out of training thinking they were going to win the war single-handedly. Fortunately, that kind of officer usually didn’t last long in front of a combat unit—sometimes the enemy even got a chance to remove them. She frowned thoughtfully as they took the stairs up a deck. “They’re all good people to have at your side in a fight, sir, but I’m not sure how well they’ll manage ceremonial duties.”

  “General Morris seemed to think that the Silsviss would be more impressed by your battle honors than by an ability to march in straight lines.”

  “Lucky for us.”

  “However, he did suggest that we run over some basic drill while in transit.”

  Torin snorted.

  “You don’t think it’s necessary, Sergeant.”

  “Necessary? Yes, sir. Survivable?” She shrugged.

  “The general seems to think that the platoon can consider this a sort of working leave.”

  “Does he, sir?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Either we’re working, or we’re on leave. We can’t logically do both.”

  “Good point, but the general thinks...”

  Pausing outside the captain’s door, Torin sighed and turned to face the lieutenant. It was easy to forget, given their maturity in other areas, that a di’Taykan second lieutenant was as young and inexperienced as a Human one. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you’ll be giving orders to this platoon, not to the general. It might be best if you think for yourself.”

  His ear points drooped slightly, but his tone showed none of the embarrassment he was clearly feeling. “I’ll take that under consideration, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She meant it sincerely and made it sound as much like thank you for listening as she could. Nobody liked to be patronized, second lieutenants uncertain of their own power least of all.

  Lieutenant Jarret studied her face, then suddenly smiled. “You know the general also told me that a good Staff Sergeant is worth her weight in charge canisters.”

  “I suspect General Morris has never been in combat, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if that’s all he’s getting for a good staff sergeant, he’s getting screwed...” Returning his smile, she stepped aside as the captain’s door opened. “...sir.”

  TWO

  “Is this all of them?”

  “All but one, sir.”

  Lieutenant Jarret, who’d been studying the Marines milling about below him in the loading bay, turned to face his staff sergeant. “One?” he asked.

  The emphasis made his actual question unmistakable. Torin, who’d been trying to avoid mentioning names, no longer had a choice. “Corporal Conn, sir.”

  “The man whose extended liberty you authorized?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He does know we’re leaving this morning?”

  Torin winced at the deceptively mild tone. There was something about the way the di’Taykan used sarcasm that could cut through bulkheads. Before she could answer, an imperious voice demanding to be put down rose above the general noise, and she smiled. “That’s him now, sir.”

  Jarret watched the big man lift a flame-haired child off his shoulders and set her carefully on the deck. “He brought his daughter?”

  “Yes, sir, Myrna Troi. She always comes to see the company off.”

  “I can’t get over what Humans are willing to expose their children to,” Jarret mused as the little girl ran about, accepting the homage of the platoon as her due. “Until they reach di’ phase, Taykan are a lot more sheltered.”

  “We’re a pretty flexible species, sir.”

  “And we’re not?” Lilac hair lifted, adding entendre.

  “Lieutenant...”

  “Sorry.” He grinned, clearly not at all sorry, and headed for the stairs. “Since Corporal Conn has decided to join us, let’s get started.”

  * * *

  “Probably I’ll be bigger when you get back. Probably I’ll be this big.” Up on her toes, Myrna Troi waved her hand in the air as high as she could, which was just barely higher than the top of her crouching father’s head. “Probably I gonna be a surgent,” she told him sternly, russet brows drawn in over emerald eyes. “And then you gotta do what I say and then you gotta not leave.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. Daddy doesn’t want to go, he has to.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then leaned into his shoulder and sighed deeply. “I know.”

  “Take care of your mama while I’m gone.”

  “Probably Mama will cry. Mama says you shouldn’t be a Marine no more. Mama says you should work on the station. Mama says probably Trisha got her boobs done.”

  Looking a little taken aback by the last confidence, Corporal Conn kissed the top of his daughter’s head.

  “You know what else? Probably my tooth will fall out when you’re gone.”

  Torin moved past the two and went to stand by the huge double lock. At least this time we know he’ll be coming back to her, she thought as she had the platoon fall in. And then, just so as not to tempt fate, she added a prudent probably.

  * * *

  Three days out from the station, the Marine package of living quarters, mess, gym, armory, and air support locked on to the Confederation Ship Berganitan bringing the diplomatic party from in-sector.

  Moments after the all clear sounded, the entire ship folded into Susumi space and everyone but the plasma engineers settled in to wait. Time in Susumi space was pretty much irrelevant to everyone but those who spent it working out the calculations that would bring the ship back into real space at essentially the moment it left although a considerable number of light-years away.

  * * *

  “Good news. Second Lieutenant Jarret graduated in the middle of his class.”

  Several members of number one squad glanced up, and someone asked, “Why is that good news, Res?”

  Bare feet up on one of the tables filling the area between the double row of bunks, Ressk stretched out his toes and grinned toothily up at Juan Checya, his fireteam’s heavy gunner. “Top of the class would’ve made him an insufferable overachiever and bottom of the class would’ve made him a chrick.”

  “Edible?”

  “Edible.”

  Checya snorted and dropped onto his bunk. “What the fuk don’t you consider edible?”

  “Not much,” Ressk admitted, fingers dancing over his slate. “Oh, my, this is interesting. One of the lieutenant’s parental units was Admiral di’Ka Tereal, now ex-Admiral qui’Ka Tereal, and she tried to block his application to Ventris Station.”

  “Wanted him in the fukking Navy?”

  “Wanted him out of the fighting entirely.”

  Corporal di’Merk Mysho tossed her brush into her locker and leaned over Ressk’s shoulder. “It’s a qui’Taykan thing,” she explained. “There’s nothing more conservative than a breeder. Aren’t those restricted files?”

  “Depends on what you mean by restricted.”

  “Not intended to be accessed by all and sundry.”

  “Which am I, all or sundry?”

  She smacked him on the back of the head. “Didn’t Staff Sergeant Kerr specifically tell you not to invade classified areas while we’re on the Berganitan?”

  “Technically, she told me not to invade class
ified areas of the Berganitan. I’m in Division records; all Marine, no Navy, no problem.”

  “Unless you get caught.”

  He brought a cup of sah to his mouth with one foot and took a long swallow. “Do I ever?”

  “Do you ever what? Regret not eating Hollice’s thumb when you had the chance?” Pulling the cup from his toes, Binti Mashona, the fourth member of the fireteam, set it back on the table. “You know I hate it when you do that with food.”

  “You’re just jealous my species has more opposable parts than yours.”

  “‘I’m just thinking that foot spent most of the day in boots doing drill.”

  “Speaking of opposable parts,” Juan interrupted, leaning down from his bunk. “You get lucky with that service tech back on station?”

  “Nah.” Binti pulled a game biscuit out of her locker and slid it into the side of her slate. “She didn’t want to get involved with someone from a combat unit.”

  “Involved? Fuk, I thought you just wanted to get laid.”

  “If you wanted to get laid, why didn’t you ask a di’Taykan?” Mysho wondered.

  “Because once you pop your masker, I don’t have a choice. Couldn’t change my mind if I wanted to.”

  “But if you wanted sex...”

  Ressk snorted. “It’s a Human thing, Mysho, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Speaking of Human things, you guys hear what the staff is up to tonight?” Binti grinned, her teeth startlingly white against the rich mahogany of her skin. “Big fancy reception to meet these diplomats we’re supposed to honor guard. Little tiny bits of food on platters, dress blacks, and polite conversation.”

  There was a moment of startled silence, then Juan slowly shook his head. “Staff’s gonna fukking hate that.”

  “Anyone want to see how badly she hates it?” Ressk tapped his slate suggestively. “I can tap into the ship’s security vids...” He let his voice trail off as the Marines gathered around the table exchanged speculative glances and then turned in unison toward Mysho.

  “What?”

  “You rank, Mysh.”

  “Oh, no, Conn got his second hook long before I did.”

  “Conn’s off trying to rabbit something shiny for Myrna. Your decision.”

  She muttered something in her own language, then threw up her hands. “Why not. You’re going to do it anyway, Ressk, so we might as well all get a look at it.”

  * * *

  “Can one of you give me a hand with this? I can’t get the jacket to hang straight.”

  Nearest the hatch separating the staff sergeants’ quarters from the NCO Common, Sergeant Mike Glicksohn stood and beckoned Torin closer. “And aren’t you just the picture of martial elegance.”

  “Aren’t I just,” she agreed handing him her belt. “I can’t remember the last time I got this tarted up.”

  “When you made Staff?”

  “No, that was a field promotion—I was covered in Staff Sergeant Guntah’s guts and the only thing black on me was my fingernails where frostbite had started to set in.”

  “I remember.” Anne Chou looked up from her slate. “Planet was barely habitable—we’d have ignored it if the Others hadn’t tried to set up a mining base.”

  “So now we have a mining base there, and someday we’ll have to go back to the frozen hole in the ass end of space to protect it.”

  “War is progress,” Glicksohn muttered, stepping back. “That’s got it.”

  “Thanks.” Moving to the wall, Torin polarized the vid screen. “You think there’s a reason they make these collars so uncomfortable?” she asked, checking her reflection. “Does it seem hot in here?” Working her shoulders under the black cloth, she wondered why she suddenly felt so... “Trey!”

  The three Humans turned toward the other end of the room where the di’Taykan sergeant had just come through from the showers.

  “Give me a break,” she sighed, as she walked naked to her room. “What am I supposed to clip it to? Besides, you’re Human, repression’s good for you. And you,” she continued, pausing to grin at Torin, “should thank me because before the Corps absorbed the di’Taykan, you would’ve had to wear a hat with that.”

  “Thank you,” Torin told the closed door. “And thank you,” she added as Chou turned the air recyclers on high. “Speaking of maskers, anyone know where Haysole is? I’ve barely seen him since we locked.”

  “Zero gee bubble. He said something about trying to work his way through the Berganitan’s crew.”

  “Vacuum jockeys, too?”

  “Not all of them.” Glicksohn settled back in his chair and picked up the pouch of beer he’d discarded earlier. “I’ve got a game set up at 2130, and a few showed interest.”

  “Playing on neutral ground?”

  “Close as you can get on this flying fish tank.”

  “Who’s going with you in case the vjs get ugly?”

  Glicksohn snorted. “Is there any other kind?”

  “Mike...”

  “Sam Austin’s going and Esket from the aircrew. Happy?” When she nodded, he grinned. “You worry too much.”

  “It’s my job. And speaking of my job, did either of you... any of you,” she corrected as Trey came out of her quarters, “manage a species check on the diplomats?”

  “Dornagain and Mictok,” Trey told her dropping into a chair.

  Glicksohn tossed her a beer. “I thought the Silsviss were reptilian; why not send Raszar or Niln? Let them know they’re not the only lizards around before they join up.”

  “Or why not H’san?” Chou wondered. “Everybody likes the H’san.”

  “I’m guessing that they’re not sending reptilians because they don’t want to suggest competition.” Torin flicked a bit of lint off her campaign ribbons. “And there was a H’san on the first contact team; the Silsviss kept remarking on how much it smelled like food.”

  “That’s what I said, everybody likes the H’san.”

  “I know the Mictok are supposed to be these great diplomats,” Glicksohn muttered, “but every time I see one, this little voice inside my head keeps screaming, Get it off me! Get it off me!”

  Before she could answer, Torin’s implant chimed.

  *Lieutenant Jarret is waiting for you in the corridor.*

  * * *

  Before the di’Taykan, both the Marine Corps and the Navy had worn dress blues, but the induction of a race with pastel-colored hair and eyes had demanded a change. The Navy chose gray— dove gray for their pilots, slightly darker for the engineers who made Susumi space possible, and charcoal gray for everyone else. The Corps wore black. Regardless of trade or rank or designation, a Marine was first a Marine.

  Fortunately, those with low tolerances for pastel over camouflage didn’t tend to go into combat units.

  Lieutenant Jarret was waiting for her by the ladder that connected the platoon to their air support, one deck up. The Corps prided itself on the flexibility of its packaging as well as its people and could snap together transportation units to match any configuration of troops. As Torin joined him, pilot and copilot slid down the ladder from above.

  “Captain Fiona Daniels, Second Lieutenant Ghard, this is Staff Sergeant Torin Kerr. The sergeant will be joining us tonight at the request of Captain Carveg of the Berganitan.”

  “Glad to have you with us, Staff. The vjs are going to have us severely outnumbered.”

  Torin returned the captain’s smile. “Happy to be providing backup, Captain.” Fiona Daniels had the kind of rakish good looks that showed up on Human recruiting posters. Dark hair, green eyes, one deep dimple punctuating straight white teeth— only someone who’d seen Med-op reconstruction up close could tell from the slight difference in tone that the skin over the entire left side of her face had recently been replaced. She’d been one of the pilots who’d got Sh’quo Company off the ground after that last disastrous planetfall and if backup extended to smacking around a few vacuum jockeys for her, Torin would be more than happy to oblige.
/>
  On the other side of the lock, the walls changed to Navy colors and their implants simultaneously asked their destination.

  Lieutenant Jarret’s hair flattened slightly in irritation, but he answered politely. “Wardroom.”

  *At the end of this passageway, take the vertical to deck seven. The wardroom is three doors from the vertical on the left. Please proceed.*

  “Don’t let it bother you, Jarret,” Captain Daniels advised as they began walking. “It’s a Navy thing. The vjs can’t find their ass without a homing beacon.”

  * * *

  “What’s going on?”

  “Ressk’s tapping into that fancy party Staff’s going to.” Juan ducked as Binti swung at him. “Well, I’m not going to fukking lie.”

  Corporal Hollice shouldered in beside Mysho and leaned over the curve of the Krai’s head. “Those are... okay, were... Navy security codes.”

  “He’s in?” someone at the back of the pack demanded.

  “I’m in.” Ressk reached out and very carefully shoved his slate into the port on the wall vid. The screen went black, then gray, then slowly focused.

  Hollice sighed. “I’d just like to go on record as being out of the room the whole time this access was being forced.”

  “Seduced,” Ressk corrected, fiddling with the contrast.

  “Hey, look, Mictok.”

  The Humans present suppressed a racial shudder as a trio of Mictok accepted drinks from one of the commissariat.

  The camera angle changed.

  “I see Navy all over the fukking place,” Juan complained. “Where’s our team?”

  “There, at the hatch.”

  * * *

  As the two pilots led the way into the room, Torin glanced over at Jarret. Given the constant movement of his hair and the way he carried his weight forward on the balls of his feet, he was nervous. She didn’t blame him. Most second lieutenants learned how to command with their platoon hidden in the midst of a battalion planetfall—not out in full view of a ceremonial mission. It couldn’t help that every chest in the room but his and the diplomats carried a rainbow of campaign ribbons.