The Heart of Valour (8 page)

As everyone in earshot looked unsettled, Kichar rolled her eyes. “The highest ranking DIs are staff sergeants, so we were bound to be spending time with higher ranks eventually.”

Stone shook his head. “Yeah, but the DIs are…”

“Training specialists. A Marine Corps career choice. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Sakur muttered. “They just spent 120 days teaching us to be in awe of their every utterance. Stone’s right. They are the gods of our small world.”

“Our world is about to get bigger.”

“Yeah, but they’re still the gods of Crucible,” Stone pointed out, forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth.

“That’s ridiculous,” Kichar snorted. “We respect them because of what they know, because of what they can teach us, but they’re not gods, they’re Marines. Marines like we’ll be.”

“Oh, no.” Sakur peered across the mess at the group of DIs. “We will never be Marines like that. Well,
you
might,” he amended. “Given the stick up your ass. Which I’d be more than willing to replace with…”

“Shut up.”

* * *

As the major’s aide, Torin accompanied Major Svensson and Dr. Sloan out of the Marine packet when the doctor insisted they needed to touch base with the medical personnel on the
NirWentry.

“The ability to grow polyhydroxide alcoholydes into accurate replacement bone would be invaluable to both branches of the military,” Dr. Sloan pointed out when the major protested and then added in a tone that suggested he stop being such a baby about it: “They just want to scan you—not do a vivisection.”

Torin could understand his reluctance. If she’d just been sprung from Med-op after nearly two years, she wouldn’t be happy going back in either. She couldn’t see why he’d need an aide, but she understood not wanting to leave the packet without backup. If nothing else, the doctor wouldn’t be able to pick him up if his legs gave out, and no Marine, given a choice, would trust a sailor to stand them right side up.

On the other side of the packet’s air lock, the bulkheads changed to Navy gray.

Both implants chimed as the
NirWentry
’s sysop picked them up, but the ship’s security went to full audio when the grid registered a third body without identification.
“You are now on board the
CS NirWentry.
Personnel without implants identify themselves to the ship, stating name and rank.”

Dr. Sloan rolled her eyes. “Kathleen Sloan. Doctor. Civilian.” She stressed the final word.

“Destination?”

“Sick bay. Dr. Weer is expecting us.”

“Dr. Sloan, you are cleared to proceed. Advance to the end of this passage. Turn right. Continue along the new passage until you reach a vertical on your left. Take this vertical to Level 9. Turn left as you exit. The medical unit is at the end of that passage. You will be able to see it from the vertical.”

“I can never decide if they’re being helpful or patronizing,” she muttered as they walked to the end of the passage as instructed.

“Patronizing,” Major Svensson declared. “Gunny?”

“It’s a Navy thing, sir.” She’d heard a Marine pilot once explain that it originated from the Navy’s vacuum jockeys not being able to find their asses without both hands and a homing beacon, but that wasn’t something she could repeat in her current company.

From the hatch to vertical was the longest distance she’d seen the major walk; he seemed to be having no visible difficulties, but surrounded by Navy, it was unlikely he’d let any show.

He stumbled but made a quick recovery as they left the vertical on level nine.

Not quick enough for Dr. Sloan to miss. “You should have brought your cane.”

“You said I didn’t need it anymore.”

“You convinced me you didn’t need it anymore. Not quite the same thing.”

Once in sick bay, an officious medical yeoman told Torin to take a chair while Dr. Weer—who’d clearly been restraining himself from meeting them at the air lock—escorted Major Svensson and Dr. Sloan to the exam room where he’d do the scans.

The major glared Dr. Weer’s hand off his elbow. “Gunnery Sergeant Kerr goes where I go.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr will be in the way,” Dr. Sloan pointed out before Dr. Weer or the yeoman could respond. She wrapped her fingers around the major’s arm and gave it a little shake, as though daring him to protest her touch. “You’ll be in and out faster if Dr. Weer doesn’t have to maneuver around her.”

“Faster, eh?” He clearly liked the sound of that. “How long should this take, Doc?”

NirWentry
’s CMO shrugged, nose ridges flaring. “An hour. No more.”

“Fine.” Major Svensson locked his eyes on Torin’s face. “If I’m not out in an hour, Gunny, I want you riding to the rescue.”

“Yes, sir.”

He meant it. So did she.

* * *

“Staff Sergeant Kerr?” When she looked up from her slate, the petty officer, who’d just walked into the compartment, grinned. “Sorry,
Gunnery
Sergeant Kerr.”

It took Torin only a moment to place her; she’d been one of the
Berganitan
’s riggers on the trip out to Big Yellow. “Petty Officer Tristir. What are you doing off the
Berganitan
?”

Tristir shrugged and, when Torin nodded, sat—in the same ugly, uncomfortable orange chairs they had back in Ventris Med-op. “Well, after our last little adventure with impact and the conservation of energy,” the rigger snorted, “the
Berg
’s in for some extensive repairs. While she’s in dock, the most recent crew in got moved out to other ships. I’m rigging for Dark Matter Squadron now—it’s a great crew, but I miss Chief Graham and all, so I’m in for going back as soon the
Berg
needs me.”

“What happened to your foot?”

The petty officer stretched out her leg and gingerly flexed long, opposable toes, the series of blisters across her instep sliding up and down with the motion. “Pilot error. Rookie L.T. brought his Jade in a little hot.”

“As in burning?”

“As in melt a piece of the docking mech and spray hot metal across the bay.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” She leaned back with a sigh. “So, what are you doing here, Gunny? I thought we had a load of recruits for Crucible. You’re not DI-ing now?”

“No.” Torin could truthfully say that becoming a drill instructor had never occurred to her. “I’m a temporary aide to Major Svensson.”

“The brain that got tanked?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, at least you’re working with an officer you
know
has a brain.”

“I take comfort in the thought.” She was starting to think that if she got a credit for every time she heard a variation on that theme, she’d be able to take an early retirement. “Have you heard how Lieutenant Shylin is?” The lieutenant had been ejected by her pilot, Commander Lance Sibley, just before he flew his Jade down the throat of an enemy ship, his death saving the lives of those Marines who’d survived Big Yellow. Tristir had been one of the riggers for the lieutenant’s squadron.

“I heard pysch’s still watching her really closely. She’s still talking kind of crazy.” The Krai rigger stared down at her feet. “di’Taykan don’t react well to that kind of isolation.”

Torin couldn’t see anyone reacting well to floating in hard vacuum surrounded by half a Jade with minimum air and no control over position, but vacuum jockeys were a breed apart and, as far as she could see, a whole, working Jade provided only a difference in degree. At least ejected compartments came with a BFFM beacon.

They sat silently for a few moments, then Tristir said quietly, “That was quite the trip, wasn’t it, Gunny?”

“It was.”

“You, uh…” She dropped her voice even though the yeoman at the desk had been pointedly ignoring them both. “…you ever wonder where that
serley
thing was from?”

“I’ve done a bit of wondering.” Torin spent half a second weighing her options and then figured what the hell; when the universe dropped an opportunity in a person’s lap, that person was a fool if they didn’t pick it up. “These days,” she continued, stretching out her legs and looking a lot more relaxed than she felt, “I’ve mostly been wondering what happened to the escape pod. Commander Sibley did some fancy flying to drop it into that shuttle bay.”

“Escape pod? What…”

“You didn’t hear about it?” She didn’t know about it. Torin recognized the expression—she should, she’d been seeing it enough. Crossing her feet at the ankles, Torin pushed
no big deal
with her posture; the last thing she wanted now was for the petty officer to mention to one of her officers that Gunnery Sergeant Kerr was asking about nonexistent, highly classified escape pods. “No surprise. You were up to your ass in repairs trying to keep your squadron flying.”

They talked in general terms about the fight; Torin’d had a closer look at the Black Star Squadron in action than she ever wanted to have again. When Tristir was finally called in to have her foot tended, Torin pulled out her slate.

There was no way in hell Petty Officer Tristir wouldn’t have known about the escape pod, not when one of her Jades had been responsible for bouncing it into the shuttle bay. Granted, she might have been too busy to have thought much about it when it arrived, but after the fight, on the way home in the boredom of Susumi space, the whole ship would have been talking about carrying one of Big Yellow’s escape pods, and survivors of Black Star Squadron would have been distinctly proprietary about it, especially given the way Commander Sibley had died.

Therefore, logically, Petty Officer Tristir had to have known about it. And now she didn’t.

Torin remembered.

Craig Ryder remembered.

Why?

What did they have in common that everyone else involved in the mission didn’t?

What else besides the obvious?

Was
there anything else besides the obvious?

Sex as a defense against mind control?

All the mission reports, including hers, had been classified. Had she been able to find a taker, Torin was willing to bet that, were she back on Ventris and able to get into the main data banks, she’d find all references to the escape pod had been removed from those reports.

But by whom?

There had been none of the Elder Races on the
Berganitan
, although there had been three of what the histories referred to as the Mid Races; those who’d joined the Confederation after it had been established but before Parliament had gone searching for aggressive species to protect them against the Others. There’d been a Ciptran, a few Niln, and too many Katrien given the sudden arrival of Presit a Tur durValintrisy and her news crew. Torin hadn’t liked the reporter when she met her and didn’t like her much better after…

She stared down at her slate, not actually seeing it.

After.

There was something she and Craig
and
Presit a Tur durValintrisy had in common.

After the explosion that trapped them on Big Yellow, the three of them—and Captain Travik, Torin’s injured CO—had been sucked down through a meter of floor slowly enough for the alien ship to scan them. Eventually, all the survivors had passed through seemingly solid parts of the ship, but all other incidents had happened in real time. Was it possible that whatever the ship had done to them during the extended scan had somehow protected them from having the Elder Races wipe their memories of the escape pod?

There was only one way to find out.

Captain Travik had died of his injuries, his body lost to space but, as far as Torin knew, Presit was still very much alive. Sitting forward in the chair, the slate down between her knees where her body blocked the screen from any possibility of prying eyes, Torin put together a message.

Craig: Talk to the reporter. Find out if she remembers the EP. We three may be the only ones who do.

She’d send the message the moment the
NirWentry
left Susumi space. Going out on a personal burst, it would be legally private. Most of Parliament hadn’t much liked the idea of a Confederation Military at all and had done everything they could to limit their autocracy. Anything that might give away the position of ships or troops got automatically flagged and the message pulled to be dealt with by the lowest levels of Intell, but everything else from bitching about the food to describing the particulars of a battle was fair game. Given that the Corps encouraged their recruits to write home regularly, her message would probably be buried in with sixty others and not even noticed. Still, if memories were being erased, then mail might be read, so there was no point in being obvious about things. Best to give Craig just enough information and no more.

Once Presit realized something was going on, she’d…

She’d what?

Raise high holy hell probably.

Torin straightened and stared across the waiting room, fingers tightening around her slate.

Maybe the Elder Races had a good reason for erasing the memory of the escape pod; one Torin had no need to know.
Need to know
had been the operating credo of her entire career. Officers made the decisions, she saw to it they were carried out with as little loss of Marine Corps life as possible. She didn’t deal with the big picture, she took care of the details. This whole thing could easily be part of a big picture she wasn’t even aware of. By stirring things up—and having Craig prod Presit would definitely stir things up—she could be placing the entire Confederation at risk.

She could be placing Marines at risk.

Thumb sweeping over the screen to delete the message, she got to her feet as the inner hatch swung open and Major Svensson emerged.

“Fifty-six minutes, Gunny. Your looming presence seems to have kept them honest.”

“I wasn’t aware I was looming, sir.”

“Metaphorically, Gunny.”

“Yes, sir. Where’s Dr. Sloan?”

“Dr. Sloan and Dr. Weer are having my head examined.”

“Sir?”

“They’re looking at the scans of my head to see if they can figure out what’s causing my headaches.”

Torin stood aside as he exited into the corridor and then fell into step beside him. “If they’re debilitating, sir…”