The Heart of Valour (7 page)

“Boarding will commence in three minutes.”

“You heard the station,” Beyhn barked, turning. “Get your thumbs out of your butts and your gear up off the deck. Kichar!”

The recruit who’d asked Torin the first question after the briefing about the Silsviss skull snapped to attention. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“What in the
sanLi
do you have in your pack?”

“Sir! Everything on the list, sir!”

“Everything?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“You remember you’re going to be humping that pack up one side of Crucible and down the other?”

“Sir, this recruit also remembers the drill instructor saying that we’ll only have what we bring in and that there is always a chance we may not be able to access all of the supply caches, sir!”

“Do you also remember, Kichar, that I told you that the last thirty items on the list were suggestions only?”

“Sir, this recruit took your suggestion, sir!”

Torin hid a smile as the di’Taykan recruit with the light pink hair rolled his eyes. Since di’Taykan eyes had no whites, it was a subtle expression and easy to hide from those who’d had little interaction with other species.

“I saw that, Sakur.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Harder to hide from one’s own species, however.

“Give me twenty,” Beyhn snapped. “With the pack on,” he added as Sakur started to shrug out of it. “She’s keen, and he’s a fuk-up,” the DI sighed for Torin’s ears alone as Kichar’s knees threatened to buckle under the weight of her pack and Sakur dropped. “I’m not sure which one is the bigger pain in the ass.”

Given the way Sakur was moving through the push-ups, Torin would have been willing to bet he had nothing in his pack that had merely been
suggested
and that he’d dumped as much of the
required
as he’d thought he could get away with. She also had no doubt that he’d manage to survive everything Crucible threw at him. His kind always did, working the angle that Crucible was intended to test potential Marines, not actually kill them.

At least not on purpose.

“Begin boarding.”

With a hiss of equalizing atmospheres, the inner air lock doors opened.

Beyhn nodded at Staff Sergeant Dhupam who began moving Platoon 72 onto the shuttle. “I’ll see you on board,” he told Torin. “Look at the bright side. At least, working with Svensson, you know you’ve got yourself an officer who certifiably has a brain. Once we hit Crucible, all you’ll have to do is keep your major on a close rein and impress upon your doctor that…”

The pause continued just a little too long.

“Staff Sergeant Beyhn?”

“Right.” He blinked and nodded, his eyes shifting shades as the light receptors opened and closed. “I’ll see you on board.”

Torin watched him cross to join his platoon’s two junior DIs, became conscious of someone watching her, and shifted her gaze just in time to catch the di’Taykan with cobalt-blue hair looking away. Looking worried. He’d asked about the skull during the Q&A after the briefing—di’Arl Jonin. She’d been right about his family name.

“Problem, Gunny?”

Major Svensson and Dr. Sloan were standing just to the left of the air lock, waiting for the recruits to fill the rear compartment before they took their seats up front.

“I don’t know yet, sir. I’ll keep you informed.” The major looked significantly less fragile in combats, Torin noted as she crossed to his side. Although, she admitted silently, that could have had more to do with her perception of that particular uniform rather than the officer wearing it.
And speaking of wearing…
She stared in some fascination at the doctor’s jacket. A patchwork of pockets, it covered her from chin to mid-thigh and was such a brilliant blue that Jorin’s head would have disappeared up against it. “You didn’t get that on station, did you, Dr. Sloan?”

“No, I did not.” Dr. Sloan patted a sequence of bulging pockets, pulled out her slate, and checked the screen. “I ordered it from an outfitter’s catalog,” she continued without looking up. “It’s guaranteed windproof, waterproof, insect-proof, and has been sprayed with a substance that makes it unappetizing to the Krai. I had a friend in med school who kept eating the sleeves off my lab coats. He thought it was very funny, but I’m not going through that again.”

“Marines don’t eat each other’s clothing, Doctor.”

“No, I don’t imagine they do, but since I’m a civilian, I prefer to be prepared.” She slipped the slate back into her pocket. “Are you married, Gunny?”

“Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Doctor.”

“Right.” According to the doctor’s records, she’d been married for twenty-two years and, obviously, to an understanding partner given the length of time they were about to spend apart.

“Probably smart to stay single, given your job. My husband just sent me a list of all injuries suffered on Crucible over the last twenty years. There’ve been rather a lot of them.”

“Good thing we have a doctor with us this time, then.”

Dr. Sloan grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I think I’ll mention that to John.”

She had an earbud in, Torin realized; that was how she’d known her husband had pinged her. A much smaller version of the personal communication units used in the Corps, the pickup filament was almost invisible against her cheek. There’d been talk of outfitting Marines with a similar PCU—removing it from the helmet entirely—but in the end it was decided that in combat situations it was preferable to have Marines able to use both ears without technological interference, and as the current PCUs were small enough to be worn in the ear if necessary, there was no need to change them. Torin personally felt that the last thing the di’Taykan needed was an excuse to remove their helmets.

*You can bring your lot on board any time, Gunny.*

Torin tongued an acknowledgment to the shuttle’s air crew. “Sir, they’re ready for us.”

“Our gear?”

“Already loaded, sir.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting. Dr. Sloan…”

The doctor flicked the microphone back into the bud. “Ready. I’d like to do some tests in zero gee,” she said as she watched the major step carefully over the lip of the air lock. “Do you think they’d be willing to cut the gravity on the shuttle?”

He turned just enough to flash a grin back over his shoulder. “I doubt they’ll be running the gravity.”

“Good thing I got the optional mag soles, then.”

Torin and the major glanced down at the doctor’s boots—mid-calf and the same blue as the jacket—and then up at each other. They were very nice looking boots.

“Same outfitter’s catalog, Doc?”

“I’m not sure, actually. I ordered from a number of them, and it’s easy to lose track when the packages start to arrive. But these boots…” She flashed a fond smile at her toes. “They’ve got environmental controls that go from one hundred down to forty below.”

This meant the doctor’s feet would survive conditions the rest of her wouldn’t. As Torin followed her charges onto the shuttle, she wondered just what that outfitter’s catalog thought they were outfitting people for.

As the only nonrecruits heading out to the Confederation Ship
NirWentry
, they had the shuttle’s forward compartment to themselves. Dr. Sloan took readings while the major allowed his left arm to float freely. Torin, sitting far enough away to give them the illusion of privacy, went over the information on the
NirWentry
’s Marine packet so that, when they arrived, she could settle Major Svensson and the doctor immediately into their quarters.

Marine packets were infinitely adaptable to the needs of the Corps and as adaptable to the needs of the Navy as the Corps would allow. Attached to the transporting ship, the packets always had a small power plant for life support and at least one vacuum-to-atmosphere vehicle. If detached in battle, they could be towed to safety—although the term
safety
came with variable definitions. This trip, the configuration included two sets of platoon compartments with a shared common room, a compartment for the DIs, an upper compartment for the officers and aircrew of the VTA, and quarters with private hygiene units for her, the doctor, and Major Svensson.

The equations for Ventris to Crucible had long been worked out and refined so they’d be spending only fifty-five hours, just under two days, in Susumi space. For a trip that short, there was only the one mess. Torin had no idea how Dr. Sloan felt about eating with a crowd of not-quite-trained Marines, but if she objected it would be easy enough to get her a place at the table with
NirWentry
’s medical staff.

In Torin’s experience, the Navy ate well. With any luck, Major Svensson would be invited to dine in one of the wardrooms, leaving her to seek out old friends—or make new ones—among the chiefs and petty officers.

At fifty-eight minutes out, the shuttle’s docking bell chimed.

“So soon?” Dr. Sloan looked up from her slate, brow furrowed as the major slipped his hand under the strap on his seat’s arm, securing it for docking. “I could use another ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Gunny?”

Was there a problem? “Sir.”

“What do you think the odds are that they’d move the
NirWentry
to a berth farther from the station?”

No, not a problem; just the major playing silly buggers. “Not good, sir.”

“Sorry, Doc. Gunnery Sergeant Kerr says the odds aren’t good.”

“Uh-huh. Gunny, how long will we be on board ship?”

“Just under two days, Ma’am. Doctor.”

“Two days.” Dr. Sloan smiled up at the major. “Try to remember that while I have access to the ship’s medical facilities, I could order an enema for you every hour on the hour.”

In Torin’s professional opinion, that skirmish definitely went to the doctor.

* * *

Recruits were known to spend a lot of time thinking about Crucible—it loomed on the horizon of their first one hundred and twenty days and, after their return, they carried it triumphantly through their last ten. By the time they joined a unit or began their specialist training, they had so many other things to think about that Crucible became relegated to memory and was rarely dragged out for reexamination.

The last few days aside, Torin hadn’t thought specifically about Crucible for over ten years. Fortunately, the desk in her quarters contained a full set of files on every possible training scenario as well as the nuts and bolts behind them. As the major still hadn’t told her which of the two platoons they’d be accompanying, she uploaded both assigned scenarios into her slate. And then, taking advantage of the opportunity, she uploaded the last dozen scenarios run. When she finally got back to Sh’quo Company, it would help to know just what exactly their newest Marines had been through, and it wouldn’t hurt to reinforce her rumored omniscience.

Individual sectors within each scenario were run from a Combat Processing Node—a hidden computer that controlled the drones and other armaments thrown at the recruits while they were inside its area of influence. Mixing and matching sectors allowed for an impressive variety of scenarios and links to a fleet of observational satellites that kept each scenario under constant observation, which meant that CPN programming could be updated and adjusted to fit realities on the ground. Marines in the Orbital Platform in orbit around Crucible were plugged into both the ObSats and the CPNs and could stop a scenario if things got out of hand or do an emergency dustoff in the case of serious injury. As well, the CPNs could also be overruled from the ground at the discretion of the senior drill instructor.

While Torin’s desk would mark the position of the CPNs within the scenario, it wouldn’t extend her clearance to a release of the control codes—leaving her unable to change or even access the programming should something go wrong. That seemed a lot like tempting fate to her.

“Call me paranoid,” she muttered, slaving her slate to the desk and trying again. Torin didn’t actually mind being called paranoid—any state of mind that got her people home in one piece was a good thing in her book.

The first three times she tried to access the codes, she was informed that they were issued to the senior DI only.
If you are the senior DI for this scenario, input your identification number now.

The fourth time she got a security flag and her desk went dead. Her ID was enough to get it to reboot, but her next attempt at the codes pulled up a screen informing her that any further attempts would result in her desk being cut off from the system.

“I can’t get them either,” Major Svensson admitted when she pinged him to let him know. “And the system’s locked down tight. We should have dealt with this before we left the station.”

She appreciated the
we.
It was a safety backup that should have occurred to her.

“Don’t worry about it, Gunny,” he continued. “If anything happens to the senior DI that sets off his med-alert, his slate will automatically squirt the codes to any slate held by a corporal or above. We’re covered.”

“You should at least have the codes for the Orbital Platform, sir.” And when she said
you
, she meant
we.

“I agree with you, Gunny. Unfortunately, the Corps doesn’t, and every point I’ve made in favor of one or both of us having them has been answered with a variation on
codes are issued to the senior DI only.
I suspect they want to make sure you and I don’t interfere in the running of the scenario.” He rubbed his regrown left hand over his brand-new face. “This is training, not combat—they may be afraid we’ll forget.”

They
had never been in combat if that was what they thought.

* * *

“What the fuk is the matter with you?” John Stone reached past Kichar and grabbed the salt. “I asked for this twice.”

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

“She’s distracted by the presence of her one true love,” Sakur snorted, on the other side of the table. “The gunny,” he added when Stone frowned. “She can’t look away.”

The big Human half turned and peered toward the far end of the mess where the gunny, the major, and the doctor shared a table with the officers and crew off the VTA. “Weird eating in the same room with officers,” he grunted. “Weird suddenly realizing there are gods higher than the DIs.”