The Better Part of Valor (31 page)

The engineer’s opinion matched Harrop’s. “Unless there’s another way up, we’ll have to cut—if the ship’ll allow it.”

Torin took a good look around. They appeared to be in a one-by-three-meter hole in the wreckage. “Cut,” she growled.

“And if the ship’s got a complaint, it can take it up with me.”

*   *   *

“So, what did the general say?”

Torin tongued off her implant and sagged back against a bent piece of bulkhead. “He said we should get to the air lock as fast as possible. Man’s a military genius.”

“Could be worse; he’s not using the override codes and insisting on a play-by-play.”

“He’s probably forgotten he has the override codes. I doubt he’s used his implant much, if at all, in the last few years—that’s what aides are for.”

“He tell you what’s been happening out there.”

“Oh, yeah, generals always take the time to keep staff sergeants fully informed. I got the impression the fighters from both ships are still going at it, though. If they weren’t playing with live ammo, the vacuum jockeys would probably be pissing themselves with joy. The whole breed’s insane.” Reaching out, she grabbed the hand tapping against his thigh. “Stop it.”

“I don’t do well sharing a small space.”

“I know. Stop it anyway.”

He jerked his hand away. “And you’re doing so well yourself.”

Biting back a profane suggestion, Torin spread her hands. “Sorry.” Not a gracious apology, but he was right.
And if I’m not out of this hole soon, I’m going to start fukking shooting my way out.

“I have the feeling you don’t do well with being helpless.”

Letting her hands drop, she closed her eyes. “And I have the feeling you wouldn’t do well with a boot to the head.”

“So what about Marine Corps vacuum jockeys?” Ryder asked after a moment’s silence.

Torin opened her eyes. She couldn’t see his expression.
Okay. If he wants to make polite conversation…
“What about them?”

“They insane, too?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a whole vj thi…Son of a fukking bitch!” Jerking away from the bulkhead and up onto her knees, she ripped open the seal on her vest, scrambling beneath it for the tab that would open her combats. Given the myriad bruises she’d been collecting, it had been easy to ignore the itching on her upper arm; not until the itch suddenly, painfully became a burn did she remember the chemical spill. “God fukking damn it!”

The tab finally lifted. She yanked it down to her waist and dragged her right arm clear. “JOHNSTON!”

The engineer’s laser shut off.

“AID KIT! NOW!”

It had taken over an hour for the chemical to work through her sleeve. It was moving a lot faster through flesh.

“Torin, what’s wrong.”

Right hand clutching a fistful of fabric, teeth clenched, forcing herself to breathe—in and out, in and out, filling her lungs each time—she turned just enough for him to see. A chemical burn was worth a thousand words.

“Son of a fukking bitch!”

“Yeah.” In and out. In and out. “Said that.”

Boots pounded against deck plates.

“Staff! Kit’s too big for the hole.”

“Chem kit!” They could drop it into her left hand or…“Ryder.”

He surged up onto his feet. “I’ve got it.” She heard it hit his hands. He dropped to his knees beside her and shoved the kit into her line of sight. “What do I do?”

“Rip the film off. Slap the unit, sticky side down over the burn.”

“It may not fit.”

“Then fukking hurry!” Contact was a minor pain lost in nearly overwhelming sensation. Analysis and treatment were supposed to be instantaneous. Instantaneous turned out to be a relative term, depending on which side of the treatment defined it.

When the neutralizing agent finally hit, the sudden absence of pain was so intense Torin swayed into a warm, solid barrier, realized what it was as an arm rose to steady her, and swayed out again.

“It would kill you to collapse for a minute?”

Beginning to breathe more normally, she swung her head around and up to meet his gaze. “I get to collapse when the job’s done. Not before.” A few drops of neutralizer ran out from under the unit and down her bare arm, pulling her attention with it. She noticed that the handful of fabric her right hand clutched wasn’t covering her leg. She had no idea when she’d shifted her grip. Opening her fingers, Torin patted the
crumpled handful smooth and looked up to find Ryder staring at her. “When the job’s done,” she repeated.

“What if we die in here?”

“Not going to happen.”

“Because you say so?”

Torin snorted. If he’d been a Marine, he wouldn’t have had to ask. “Yeah. Because I say so.”

“Staff! You okay?”

“We’re fine. Keep cutting.”

T
orin scrubbed both hands over her face and looked back down at the map. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Nivry tapped the screen. “We follow this passage to here, then there’s some kind of weird engine room shit to cross and the air lock’s right here.”

“No bugs?”

“None.”

“How are you sure?”

Nivry glanced down at the small hand clutching her sleeve. “It’s what we in Recon do, ma’am. We go out and we find the enemy.”

“How?”

“How do we find them?” When Presit nodded, she grinned. “Well, usually, we know we’re close when they start shooting at us.”

The reporter snatched her hand away and stared up at Nivry with accusing eyes, her ears flat to her skull. “That are not being funny!” she snapped, and flounced off, the silver tips of her fur trembling indignantly.

“Shouldn’t have asked the question if she didn’t want to hear the answer.” Torin watched her go with as close to a neutral expression as she could manage, then looked back up at Nivry. “ETA on the air lock?”

Emerald hair flicked back and forth, then…“Even with the stretchers and the civilians, we’re no more than an hour away.”

“I’ll let the
Berganitan
know.”

*   *   *

“…and Captain Travik?”

*He’s alive, sir.*

“Good. Arrange it so that he’s first onto the sh…Staff Sergeant Kerr? Staff Sergeant Kerr! Damn it.” General Morris rubbed his left hand over his forehead and glared at the science officer. “You’ve lost the signal again, find it.”

“Sir, it’s gone out at the other end.”

“And isn’t that signal booster of yours supposed to stop that?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

“I don’t want excuses, Lieutenant. I want to talk to my Marines.”

Who don’t want to talk to you.
Taking pity on her officer—who faced a choice between telling the general that Staff Sergeant Kerr had cut the signal or outright lying to a direct question from a superior—Captain Carveg stepped down from her station and said, “We’ll launch the shuttle now, General.”

She thought he might push the matter, but after a long moment, he turned to face her.

“I want your best STS pilot flying it,” he growled.

“Sorry. You’ll have to settle for second best. Lieutenant Czerneda was my best STS pilot, but she’s dead—along with three fighter crews.”

“Four, Captain,” a voice announced grimly from one of the stations monitoring the battle.

“Thank you, Ensign.” She took a step closer and stared up at his face. “Four.”

His face began to darken. “And your point, Captain?”

“My point, General,” her toes worked to find purchase on the deck and she forced them to relax before she said, “is that my people have been doing their best, and we don’t need you to ask for it. Flight Commander, launch squadron.”

“Aye, aye, Captain. Squadron away.”

“Any response from the bugs?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Launch shuttle.”

*   *   *

Fingers drumming against the table, Sibley locked his eyes on the monitor currently showing the signal coming in from the buoy.

“Sib, stop it.”

“Stop what.”

Shylin put her hand over his and flattened it. “Stop that.”

“They’re going to respond.” He jerked his chin toward the image of the Others’ ship. “There’s no way they’d fight so hard and then just let us pick up our grunts and go home.”

“They’re still fighting. The Marauders and the
Katray Sants
are still out there.”

“Not what I meant. They’re going to attack the shuttle.”

“It’s got a full squadron riding shotgun.”

“I know.”

“You don’t think they’d have launched by now if they were going to try something?”

“Yeah, I do. And that’s what bugs me.” Sibley pulled his hand out from under his gunner’s and, without taking his gaze from the monitor, pulled a stim stick from the breast pocket of his flight suit.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough of those?”

“No.”

“Your fingers are turning orange, and you’re never going to get to sleep.”

He looked down at that. “Sleep?”

“Yeah, you remember, it’s what you do when you’re in bed and not fukking. You know, the stuff you do between crash landings and going out again.”

One eyebrow rose. “Not a lot of sleeping going on right now, Shy.”

She looked around. With the exception of the three squadrons currently deployed, most of the
Berganitan
’s vacuum jockeys were in the “Dirty Shirt.” The flight officer’s wardroom wasn’t exactly crowded, but it bordered on full. Crews from the two squadrons that had already been out were mostly staring into coffee or talking quietly about the empty places at their tables. Some, like Boom Boom, sitting beside her with a mug of
sah
held loosely in one foot, had their slates out and were writing home. Just in case. The virgin crews were watching the monitors. Waiting for their turn.

“Forget I said anything,” she sighed.

*   *   *

“Captain! The Others have opened missile tubes one through six! Firing missiles!”

“Unless the rules have changed, missiles aren’t a problem.”
She glared down at the relevant screen and muttered, “Anyone know if the rules have changed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

C3 went completely silent and, if only for an instant, all eyes flicked away from monitors and data streams.

“That was a rhetorical question, Ensign.”

His ears flushed crimson. “Yes, ma’am, but I’m reading life signs in the missiles. I think they’re actually specialized fighters.”

“And Big Yellow allows fighters.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good work, Ensign. Flight Commander, alert your squadrons!”

*   *   *

All eyes were on the monitors now, coffee and letters home forgotten.

“These are new,” someone muttered. “Fuk, they’re fast.”

“And it ain’t like the fighters were slow,” someone else added.

The Marauders and the
Katray Sants
had been pulled away by the Others’ fighters, leaving the shuttle and her escorts alone in space.

“Maces are moving to intercept.”

Fifteen to six
, Sibley thought, stim stick forgotten in the side of his mouth.
Oy, mama, why don’t I like those odds?

The missile/fighters closed the gap rapidly and made no attempt to avoid the Jades swooping in at them. They roared on by, maintaining the same close diamond formation.

“A hit!”

One of the diamond’s outer points spun away from the rest, leaving a trail of debris. Three Jades raced in for the kill. Another point was hit with the same result. Another wing peeled off after it to cheers in the “Dirty Shirt,” but somehow Sibley didn’t feel like cheering, although other times, other missions, he’d have been yelling advice and bad puns at the screens with the rest of them.

Nine Jades; one wing holding position around the shuttle, the other two racing after the four missile/fighters.

“They’re going to take out the shuttle.” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.

“Well, they’re going to try,” Shylin snorted, her hair flicking back and forth. “But if they want to survive the attempt…”

“They don’t.”

One of the pilots seemed to realize the same thing; a Jade moved directly into the path of the enemy. Both ships were destroyed, but the three remaining enemy fighters were through the debris field so fast it did no damage.

The shuttle was taking evasive action but, given the comparative speeds between hunter and hunted, it needn’t have bothered.

All three enemy fighters detonated on impact.

The explosion stopped all conversation, all speculation. The brilliant white light blanked out all but two of the monitors and the entire wardroom held its collective breath until they came back on-line. The shuttle and the two closest Jades were gone without even debris enough to mark their passing.

“Stupid fukking bugs,” Boom Boom said at last.

Shylin leaned in closer to her pilot’s shoulder and muttered, “You know, I really hate it when you’re right.”

“Yeah.” Sibley fished out another stim stick and bit down without tasting it. “Me, too.”

*   *   *

“Captain Carveg! The Others launched an STS shuttle of their own just before their missile/fighters impacted.”

Her fingers clutched the edge of her panel, grip tightening with every flash that told her two more of her people weren’t coming home. “No fighter escort?”

“No, ma’am. The shuttle has been covered in a stealth material; it’s almost impossible to see unless you know what you’re looking for.”

Her lip curled. “They thought we wouldn’t see it until too late.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“They think they can get it to the air lock while we’re preoccupied with our losses. Flight Commander, move the remainder of the Red Maces to the attack. If you can’t blow the damned thing up, cripple it. Keep it from getting to Big Yellow. And keep a better watch on the Others. Even if we couldn’t see the shuttle, those things aren’t small and there should be an energy spike when they open the shuttle bay doors. If it happens again, I want to know about it.” She
glanced around C3, but General Morris wasn’t in the room. He had a definite knack for being around when he wasn’t wanted and vanishing when he was. “Yeoman White, find the general and tell him he should contact his people and let them know the bugs are probably close on their collective ass. Only say it politely.”