The Heart of Valour (38 page)

“Actually, ma’am, the scanner registered a presence behind me, and since you’re the only noncombatant we’ve got…”

“Ah.” She reached up under the edge of her toque to rub at the chip.

“Which doesn’t, however, affect your actual statement.”

The soft whuff of laughter was a welcome sound. “I’m glad to hear that, Gunny. You should let me look at that cut on your jaw.”

Cut? Torin pulled off a mitt and touched her face. She’d forgotten she’d been hit. Remembering identified the pain that shot along her jaw when she’d yawned. “It’s just a scratch, I’m fine. How are you?”

“Me?” She sounded surprised to be asked. “I’m tired, I’m not happy about what’s happening…” A pause while three birds landed at her feet. “…and apparently I’m still irresistible to alien pigeons. You don’t have to be here,” she snapped as they gave her a chilled look. “You could be tucked up all safe and warm in your colony, so don’t blame me if you’re cold.”

Torin heard a snicker from one of the Marines on the roof and turned to see Ebinger watching, a broad smile on his face. “You expecting those birds to attack, Ebinger?”

He started. “No, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“Then keep your eyes on the enemy.”

“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“I don’t see any drones.” Dr. Sloan frowned and took a step closer to the edge.

“If you could see them, we could shoot them; so they tend to stay hidden.”

“Ah. Makes sense.” Arms folded, she sighed. “This must feel awfully familiar to you, Gunny, being surrounded by an overwhelming number of the enemy.”

“We’re not exactly being overwhelmed, Doc, but I take your point.” She’d had that familiar feeling for a while now. It seemed she couldn’t get away from the Silsviss. She’d come to Crucible to avoid talking about them and ended up practically reenacting the battle at the other temperature extreme.

“Well, you beat them the first time and you seem to be up to whatever they throw this time.”

“We.”

The doctor turned, brows drawn in. “Pardon?”

“We’re up to it,” Torin told her.

She glanced over at Ebinger who had his eyes locked on the nearest building. “Right. Sorry.”

Feathers fluffed out, one of the pigeons bounced from boot print to boot print and gave a soft, mournful coo.

Dr. Sloan threw up her hands. “That’s it; I’m going back inside. I have enough going on I can’t cope with feeling guilty about these stupid birds getting chills because of me.” She paused as she passed. “Oh, and the latest diagnostic data suggests something may be about to happen with the staff sergeant.”

“Something?”

“Yes. Something. It’s a medical term meaning I still don’t know what’s happening, but whatever it is, it’s about to change. You hadn’t asked, so I thought I’d better tell you.”

“I figured you would. Has Major Svensson been informed?”

“I’m on my way to interrupt his report writing now.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Torin waited until the pigeons reached the colony—if the drones started shooting at them, she needed to know—did one last round of the Marines on the roof, then followed the doctor’s boot prints toward the access hatch.

The sudden pain in her jaw snapped her head up and locked her knees. Eyes watering, she gained enough control of her tongue to punch the emergency response code into her jaw implant. The static sounded like she had a wasp’s nest in her head, but the contact was so faint she couldn’t adjust the volume.

“Shhhtzaft Sergeant Dhupam… Platoon sevshshshtz two… using slate and implant to bounshshtz off shshshtzalitte…”

Gunnery sergeants and above had implants that could reach ships in orbit independent of an external sysop. Dhupam had a very handy Marine in Platoon 72 if he’d managed to boost her signal, hoping that either Torin or Major Svensson would pick it up.

“Ashshshzent on OP…”

Accident. They were in the wrong hemisphere to have seen the sammy go up.

“…not effecting shshshhtzerio but with no shshshshzt of medevac… have dialed back to shshshshstzing pattern.”

Holding pattern.

“…only shshshtzance… message… Staff Shshshshtzeant Beyhn changshshshtz…”

Another burst of static. Two nests of wasps. Angry wasps. And then silence.

Torin breathed as deeply as the cold allowed and fought the urge to beat her head against the nearest solid surface just to make it feel better. She scrubbed a mitt across her face, wiping off freezing tears and drying snot, and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. No. Good.

So Staff Sergeant Dhupam thought she needed to warn them that Staff Sergeant Beyhn was changing. Apparently, she’d drawn the correct conclusions from his increasingly erratic behavior. Might have been more useful if she’d shared the information—or suspicion—before they’d hit dirt, but Torin would take that up with her later.

Platoon 72’s scenario hadn’t been affected by the loss of the Orbital Platform, but with no chance of medevac, Dhupam had dialed back to a holding pattern.

Therefore, Platoon 72 wasn’t under attack.

Torin wondered if Platoons 69 and 70 were under attack. If, in fact, anyone was under attack except for them. And then she wondered why the Others would only attack one of four recruit platoons. Unless they were being significantly more subtle than Torin’s experience showed them to be, they wouldn’t.

So, if not the Others, who?

* * *

“General Morris.” Presit swept into the general’s office—force of personality substituting for size—and extended a hand. “I are so pleased to see you again. You are looking very distinguished.”

Recognizing that the camera was at least recording and very likely broadcasting, the general stood and managed to get around his desk to her hand before it looked too much like he’d been planning on a less gracious reception. Peering into the monitors and pretending the camera’s pattern recognition program wasn’t doing all the work, Craig took a moment to admire the old goat’s political savvy.

“Presit a Tur durValintrisy.” He bowed over her hand. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“There are being things we must discuss.”

“You know the Corps is more than happy to give the media the full disclosure mandated by law.”

“Good.” She took her hand back and smiled toothily up at him. “Please be retaking your seat.”

He looked slightly startled. “My seat?”

Her smile broadened. “You are going to be wanting to sit.”

“Very well.” Still conscious of the camera, he returned back behind his desk. “Our data lists Craig Ryder as a Civilian Salvage Operator. When did he become part of your crew?”

“When I are asking him to.”

The media was under no legal obligation to disclose anything to the military, and Craig gave General Morris credit for almost hiding what he thought of that. As Presit arranged herself in one of the faux wood-and-leather chairs, he set half the camera unit on a tripod, locked the focus on the general’s face, and took the other half of the unit behind the desk.

“You are not minding Mr. Ryder back there, General?” Presit asked sweetly. “He are needing to capture my reactions. Because of the glasses…” One claw tapped the edge of her mirrored lens. “…it are delicate work.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You do what you have to.”

Given the color rising on the general’s broad face, Craig would have bet serious cash that he not only minded, he minded a lot. Craig didn’t exactly blame him. His position had little to do with the camera and a lot more to do with making the general uncomfortable by putting someone he didn’t exactly trust not only in his space but in his blind spot.

Good thing he’s more politician than Marine at this point.

Had Torin been sitting in the general’s chair, Presit would never have gotten away with it. And
he
might not have survived it.

Presit settled herself more comfortably, one leg tucked up under a fringe of silver-tipped fur. Her smile was genial and a little frightening. “So, General Morris, you are telling us why you are lying about the existence of the escape pod from the alien spacecraft that are being known to our audience as Big Yellow.”

Inside the matte black of his uniform, the general’s shoulders stiffened. Anticipating action, possibly violence, Craig shifted away until his back was against the wall. If the general happened to come up swinging, he wanted maneuvering room.

“There was no escape pod. I am not lying.”

There was no action either, just more stiffening. Craig wondered if the desk was on and shooting a data stream straight to a watching cadre of Intelligence officers. It sure as shit would be had he been running the Corps.

Presit ran her claws through her whiskers. Right side. Left side. “But I are remembering an escape pod. So you are saying I are lying?”

“No…”

“I are not lying, then?”

“You are
mistaken
.”

From the sound of things, the general had his butt cheeks clenched so tightly they were about to cut off all oxygen to his brain.

“And why are I being mistaken but you are not?”

Craig slapped at something tickling his ear, the gesture ingrained during a childhood on Vardie. The native bugs had very much enjoyed the imported food supply—proof the Elder Races weren’t infallible.

“I assure you, Presit, I am not the only one who believes there was no escape pod.”

“You are
believing
? But you are not having proof?”

He slapped at his ear again, turned, and saw only an expanse of pale gray wall broken by an ugly, darker gray plaque. The Corps didn’t waste Confederation money on decorating, that was for sure. Still, it made sense to have the vid screen on the wall opposite the desk; no point in simulating a window the room’s occupant couldn’t see.

“As your audience is well aware, you can’t prove a negative.”

“You are being able to prove negative charges, negative balances, negative space…”

Paying minimal attention to the discussion being recorded, he tried to focus on what the damned plaque was actually for. Although the citation was definitely in Federate, individual letters were strangely unreadable. Craig reached out and rubbed his thumb over one corner. Plastic. And a little greasy.

“Fine. Then why, if you are not mistaken, if this alleged escape pod is real, do I not remember it?”

“You are having had your memory adjusted.”

“By who?”

“Who are able?”

“I assure you that neither branch of the military is…”

“I are not speaking of the military,” Presit interrupted.

General Morris’ snort sounded almost relaxed. “Now, you’re being ridiculous. There is no way that any of the Elder Races would use mind adjustment techniques on any member of the Confederation. That would be like asking the H’san to… to water-ski.”

“I are not knowing what…”

“Actually, I think he’s right.” Craig turned in time to catch a pair of nearly identical glares shot his way. He ignored them and indicated the plaque. “Where’d you get this, General?”

“It was presented by…” The general stopped, flushed, and snarled. “What does that have to do with any of this?”

“Well, you’re missing an escape pod and, while we were on board, Big Yellow shuffled itself around into any number of ace shapes, and this…” He pressed one finger to the plaque. As he pulled it away, a fine line of gray plastic followed, the end of the tendril reaching out to stroke his fingertip. “…knows me.”

* * *

“Sergeant Annatahwee.”

The sergeant turned, covering a yawn. “Gunny?”

“Two days ago, after the minefield when I went out on point, did Major Svensson leave the platoon at any time?”

“Why? Doc Sloan wants to know if he took a leak?”

Torin waited, her expression designed to stop further questions.

Annatahwee straightened, unaware she was doing it. “The major stayed within the bulk of the platoon the entire time you were gone.”

“Thank you.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr! Stone on the south wall. We’ve got movement!”

“Don’t tell me the damned drones are charging the fukking air lock again.” The sergeant fell into step beside Torin as they ran for the stairs. “They may have minimal self-programming capability, but you’d think they’d learn they can’t get in.”

Torin snorted. “There’s more of them now. They may be trying to overwhelm that specific defense with numbers.”

The main room on the south wall had been a barracks, originally for the builders of the settlement and later for—actually, Torin neither knew nor cared.

Crouched below the window, Stone grimaced as the two NCOs pounded through the door. “Drones on the roof keeping us pinned, Gunny!”

“Thank you, Private. I’d noticed.” Torin dropped to one knee as half a dozen rounds smacked into the wall behind her, provoking an answering volley from the fireteams on the roof of the anchor. “Sergeant Jiir?”

“We’re on them, Gunny, but for every one we blow, another one moves in.”

“There’s a dozen—no, sixteen! heading for the… Holy shit!” Carson flattened as a round clipped her helmet. “…doors!”

After the last attack the drones had made on the air lock, Iful had loudly pointed out that grenades and flying bits of drone debris also damaged the doors, and he’d thank them to lay the fuk off with exploding things right next to his repairs.

A ricochet pinged off the room’s door with a familiar metallic sound, scraping off a layer of blue paint. Torin tapped it with the butt of her KC-7 and grinned across the space at Annatahwee. “I think we just found two of this room’s window seals, Sergeant.”

Mitten off, Annatahwee scraped at the blue in the joint between the two pieces that made up the door. “I can’t believe they bothered to paint them.”

“Pin hinges.” Torin pointed at the hinges in question. “Easy to take apart.”

“A little hard to reinstall the window shields right now, Gunny!”

“Don’t install them.” Torin mimed lifting the door and shoving it out the window. Like the other parts of the spaceship hull, it would be damned heavy. “Drop the door on the drones.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr! Kichar on the west wall. We’ve got movement, too.”