The Heart of Valour (6 page)

There was something wrong, but the whole station was so focused on the ultimate integration of the Silsviss that she was the only one who could see it. Or, less egotistically, the yeoman had never known there was an escape pod and, hell, it wasn’t like General Morris had never lied to her before. She only had his word for it that no one else had mentioned it at their debriefings. Captain Stedrin would follow the general’s orders.

Except ten years at war had given her good instincts for when things were heading from screwed up as usual toward totally fukked and right now her instincts were yelling the equivalent of fire in the hole.

The Elder Races had to be involved.

M20 was a private room, larger than Torin had expected and obviously intended for long-term convalescence. Although the bed dominated the space, there was also a pair of comfortable looking chairs and a fully loaded desk. The vid screen on the wall had been set at window, and the major, clearly aiming for realism, had chosen the station’s docking yards as his view.

Post-therapy, Major Svensson looked a lot better than he had up on the terminal gallery.

He still looked newly made but significantly less shaky. If the huge smile he welcomed her with was any indication, he was also in a much better mood.

Station rumor had him so badly injured his body hadn’t been able to completely rebuild and he’d been patched together with nonstandard parts. Although the fingernails of his left hand were still greenish gray and he was painfully thin, all the parts Torin could see looked standard.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.” Still smiling, he shrugged into a robe. “I’m glad you’re here. You look bored.”

“Sir?”

“What would you do if I said I could get you two weeks off station with a KC-7 in your hands?”

Two weeks away from briefings and speculation. Two weeks to actually work as a Marine. What would she do for that? “Something entirely inappropriate, sir. Something that would probably lead to you having to be retanked while you recover.”

“Well, try to contain your enthusiasm; you’re going with me to Crucible.”

“
D
r. Sloan would like to field test some of my new parts and given that combat zones are generally considered iffy prospects for research, she’s decided to send me to Crucible with one of the next one twenty platoons going in.”

Torin said nothing as Major Svensson crossed the room and sat down. He seemed fit enough, but crossing three meters of level floor was one hell of a lot easier than surviving twenty days on Crucible. She added a few things to what she wasn’t saying as the major fought to gain control of a chair that seemed determined to recline and massage.

“Don’t let this worry you, Gunny,” he muttered, catching sight of her expression as the chair finally accepted his commands. “I was technically inept with everything but a KC-7 going into the tank. The point is…” One corner of his mouth curved up in a self-mocking smile. “…I can only go if I have a babysitter. Command called it an aide, of course, but, between you and me, I’d prefer to call a spade a fukking shovel. I don’t anticipate the job consisting of much more than picking me up if I fall down. You interested?”

“Very, sir.” The job would consist of significantly more than merely picking the major up if he fell down. She’d be a fool to think otherwise, but anything would be better than more time spent dealing with further inane speculation about the Silsviss. “I’ve still got briefings scheduled, sir.”

“That’s been taken into account. If you’ll work through your next two days off, you can complete your briefings halfway back through the second fifty. You start again at day ninety when you get back and all our little outing will cost you is one more double briefing as you pick up the newest recruits.”

“Cheap at half the price, sir. But Major Alie…”

A raised hand cut her off. “Right now the Corps is very motivated to keep Dr. Sloan happy and Dr. Sloan wants me field tested and I’ve decided I want you with me. You let Command deal with Major Alie.”

“Sir, General Morris…”

“They’ll deal with General Morris, too.” Silver-blond brows drew into an exaggerated frown. He’d gained tissue flexibility since that morning on the gallery. “I’m beginning to think you don’t want to go to Crucible with me, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

“I’m sorry you got that impression, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good. I’d…”

Torin pivoted on one heel as the door behind her opened.

“…like you to meet Dr. Sloan,” the major continued. “Whose timing is impeccable as always. She’ll be going with us.”

The woman in the doorway was about a meter and a third, thin—athletic—with reddish brown hair and gray-green eyes. Impossible to tell her age; with the human life span creeping toward a century and a half, she could be anywhere from thirty to eighty. She wore no collar tabs or any other rank insignia, which was hardly surprising, Torin realized an instant later, since she wasn’t wearing a uniform. Dr. Sloan—whom the Corps were so motivated to keep happy they were sending her to Crucible—was a civilian.

Command’s reason for allowing Major Svensson his choice of aide suddenly became clear. Torin had gotten civilians alive off Silsvah and Big Yellow—not all the civilians she’d arrived with, granted, but there probably wasn’t another senior NCO currently on Ventris with her experience in shepherding the untrained through combat situations.

“You must be Gunnery Sergeant Kerr,” Dr. Sloan said, before Torin could speak. Striding across to the major, she added, “I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately. I imagine you’ll be glad to get off the station.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She rolled her eyes without actually looking up from reading the major’s numbers off the top of the chair, the readout a brilliant orange against the burgundy fabric. “No. Call me Dr. Sloan or, if that’s a problem, call me Kathleen. You call me ma’am, and I look around for my grandmother. How’s the hand working?” The question went to Major Svensson.

“Good.”

“Still aching?”

“A little.”

“And the headaches?”

“They’re not lasting as long.”

“No more memory lapses?”

“Not that I can remember.” The major tossed a grin at Torin that clearly said,
Funny, eh?

Torin had just started to wonder if she should leave when Dr. Sloan straightened and turned to face her. “How much do you know about Major Svensson’s case, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

He nodded. “It’s all right, Gunny. The doctor’s security clearance is higher than yours and mine put together.”

Given the way her career had been going lately, Torin somehow doubted that. “I know that he was severely injured on Carlong and the only thing that saved him was that the surviving corpsman attached to his company was too raw to know he should have died.”

“He was a brain in a jar, Gunnery Sergeant. A brain and a spine and damned little else that hadn’t been damaged.”

“My teeth,” said the major dryly, “are original.”

“Human teeth aren’t Krai teeth, but they last,” the doctor acknowledged, patting him absently on the shoulder. “Gunnery Sergeant, do you know the difference between what happens in a tank and cloning?”

Easy question. She’d watched enough of her people go into tanks over the years. “The tank encourages the body to repair itself, keeping those who have been badly injured alive while this occurs. Cloning creates duplicates, and using cloning tech on any species deemed sentient is illegal.”

“And the medical profession is of two minds about that.”

Given the Krai’s fondness for the taste of Human flesh, Torin wasn’t. Tanks of Humans cloned for the dinner table was not something she wanted to contemplate.

“Had I been able to use cloning technology,” Dr. Sloan continued, oblivious to Torin’s culinary line of thought, “I could have finished rebuilding the major without having to resort to bioengineering. There’s a limit to how long a body can stay tanked and thrive, just as there’s a limit to how long a body can remain in the womb, and in order to make it possible for Major Svensson to be detanked essentially whole within that time limit I integrated polyhydroxide alcoholydes into the matrix.”

“Organic plastic.”

The raised eyebrow suggested polite surprise.

According to the preliminary analysis from the science team—before everything went to hell and most of the scientists had ended up bagged—Big Yellow had been made at least partially of organic plastic. Torin didn’t care what the doctor’s clearance might be, she was not citing the alien ship as her source. It was one thing to talk about a classified mission with someone who already had all the details because he’d been there, or she was in Intell and another thing entirely bringing it up to an outsider.

“Polyhydroxide alcoholydes are, in many respects easier to work with than Human tissue. They’re less complex so they grow faster; although getting them to grow into the exact parts you need has never been easy. And you realize that when I say
grow
, I’m simplifying for the sake of brevity. I’d recently got hold of some new, more molecularly flexible polyhydroxide alcoholydes and…”

“Dr. Sloan convinced it—them—to become a skeletal lower arm and hand when my body was too pooped to create new bone. We need to see if this…” Major Svensson waved his left hand in the air. “…will drop off and ooze back to the safety of the lab at the first sign of trouble.”

“Drop off, sir?”

“His hand is not going to drop off.” Dr. Sloan’s tone suggested this was not the first time she’d said those words, but she was hoping it might be her last. “It’s an experimental use of a new variation of an old substance, Gunnery Sergeant, and I want to test the results under a number of different conditions. Twenty days on Crucible should give me enough data to work with. And yes,” she added once again before Torin could speak, “I know what happens on Crucible. I’ve watched the files. In fact, I watched your file when Major Svensson requested you. Platoon 29 wasn’t it? Don’t worry; this trip will be nothing like that trip.”

They never were. That was the problem.

The major grinned. “Still want to go, Gunny?”

An oozing, organic plastic hand still sounded preferable to spending those two tendays answering stupid questions about the Silsviss. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Major Alie was philosophical about losing her for twenty days. “I have new reports from the Marines at the embassy on Silsvah that I want to integrate into the data we already have. By the time you get back, we may only need you in a consulting position. You’ll be going back to Sh’quo Company,” she added when Torin showed no reaction.

That reaction she let show. “I am very glad to hear that, ma’am.”

Some of these recruits might also be going to Sh’quo Company
, she told herself looking out at the tiers of black uniforms and picking out individual faces as the major began the familiar opening statement. The rest would be going to units different only in that they weren’t, specifically, hers. What these potential Marines were about to learn from her might keep them alive through the rocky days of integrating another aggressive species into the Corps. Thinking of the Marines, not the Silsviss, made the whole tedious process seem less tedious. After all, keeping Marines alive was what she did.

Might have been smarter to come to that five days ago.

It annoyed her that she’d been as caught up in putting the Silsviss at the center of all things as everyone else. Unfortunately, there was just something about large lizards with automatic weapons that overwhelmed the mammalian hindbrain.

General Morris was slightly less philosophical about her impending absence.

“Is there a shortage of senior NCOs on this station that no one has told me about?” he snarled. “There is absolutely no reason Major Svensson has to take you rather than any one of a hundred others.”

There weren’t a hundred others on the station with her experience—General Morris himself had seen to that. Torin, still at attention, stared at the wall beyond the general’s head and tried once again to read the raised letters on the plaque.

“We were to have addressed a Parliamentary committee…”

We?

“…but suddenly a civilian doctor and a major’s left arm are more important than the smooth running of the Confederation. Fine.” Shoving himself back from the desk, he surged up onto his feet, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. “Go, then. But I will have a few words to say about this to Command!”

“Yes, sir.” She snapped around in a textbook about-face and headed for the door.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

“Yes, sir.” And around to face him again.

“If I discover you requested this… mission…” This word dripped with disdain. “…I will not be pleased.”

“Yes, sir.”

She left while he was still working out what that meant.

* * *

“Well, Gunny, think you can handle one convalescent officer and a civilian, or should I stand ready to help out?”

“I think you’ll have your own hands full.” Torin’s gaze flicked past Staff Sergeant Beyhn and over the two platoons of 120s lined up in the shuttle terminal, packs at their feet. “Half of that lot looks like they’re ready to shit themselves, and the other half looks like they already have.”

“New combats always go baggy assed,” the staff sergeant snorted dismissively. “These recruits are as ready as any 120s. They know what they’re getting into. They’ve heard the stories.”

His voice deliberately carried. Torin saw more than one set of shoulders hunch forward and a rainbow of di’Taykan hair begin jerking back and forth. At thirteen tendays in, they’d overheard twelve sets of stories from the recruits who’d returned from Crucible while they were training. The stories—overheard because 150s didn’t lower themselves to speak directly to lesser mortals—were invariably exaggerated enough to be dismissed and vague enough to be believed. It was one thing to know intellectually that they were probably being bullshitted and another thing entirely to prevent a visceral, emotional reaction.

Torin remembered what it felt like standing in their place. Heart pounding, palms sweating, dying to finally prove herself, and refusing to even consider the faintest possibility that she couldn’t cut it.