Valor's Trial (23 page)

The
harveer
paused and almost reluctantly faced the reporter again. “Captain Rose is Human. We could never mix your DNA.”

“Then why are we being kept outside the tagged area?”

Katrien syntax was usually so scrambled that those times it matched up with Federate always came as a bit of a shock.

“Are you hiding something?” Presit continued.

“No! We just . . .”

“Full disclosure laws are allowing me full access.”

“Yes, I know, but . . .”

“If I are not allowed full access, I are thinking you are being up to no good.”

“But you have full access.”

“Except to the tagged area.”

“It's barely three square meters! And that camera . . .” He waved a green-gold hand in Craig's general direction. “. . . can zoom to practically microscopic levels. I assure you, we are hiding nothing.”

“Well, good, then.” She smiled.

He blinked.

Craig sighed and jerked his head toward the group of scientists clustered around their equipment. It took Umananth a moment to realize what he meant, then his tail went up and he hurried back to the safety of the group as Craig asked Presit about an editing function on the camera and didn't bother listening to the answer.

The scientists had set up their equipment on the back of the big hoversled—maybe so they wouldn't contaminate the site, maybe so they could make a fast getaway if the Others did return. He may have pulled the possibility out of his ass in order to get Presit to agree to the trip, but she was right, there was nothing that said the bastards wouldn't return. They were standing on the front lines, and there was a war on.

Craig watched
Harveer
Umananth scramble up onto the sled, talking and pointing back their way. He was well within range of the microphone on the camera—all Craig had to do was put the ear in and he could eavesdrop on conversations up to 500 meters away. Well, not eavesdrop exactly since the moment the software analyzed the distance it would apparently do
something
to prevent sentient beings being recorded without their consent. He had no idea of what. Or how it knew if it had their consent. Or why it was restricted to 500 meters. He suspected the latter came out of the same laws that kept official media recording equipment large enough to be seen, resulting in a camera that held—as well as two separate recording devices—a full editing program, broadcast ability, the personal game, music, and vid library of the operator with room left over inside the casing to pack a change of clothes and some snacks.

Hell, given that the
harveer
had already spoken to the press, it was possible that anything further he said in range of the pickup could be considered recordable. But Craig liked him—he spoke plain Federatewithout sounding as though he'd dumbed things down for his audience—so he kept the recorder off. He supposed that if Umananth had made
harveer
so soon out of the egg, he was smart enough he didn't have to keep proving it by confusing people.

“We definitely are being shooting the tagged area,” Presit said, one small hand on his wrist, the ambient heat making her touch seem cool. “And then you are setting the camera on a tripod and I are interviewing more scientists because I are a glutton for punishment, and you are going that way . . .” She pointed. “. . . and are finding Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

Nothing marked the spot, but he bounced a signal off
Promise
—she was hooked to the cruiser that had brought the science team across space, locked together in a geosynchronous orbit over the battlefield because the downside of a Susumi drive was the loss of VTA capability— and stopped walking when the little red dot that was him matched up with the little green dot that was Torin's last recorded position.

She was in a dip in the melt, as if she'd been taking cover in an artillery crater when it happened.

Craig turned that thought over as he dropped down to one knee and realized that a year ago, while he'd have been able to figure out “artillery crater” from context, he sure as shit wouldn't have spent any time considering the implications of diving for one during battle.

The glassy surface was warm under his hand, but that was hardly surprising given the height of the sun and the lack of cloud cover. If he swept his hand around, would he find a cold spot? Torin's feet were always freezing, and she was flexible enough she could tuck them up under the warmest parts of his body.

His knuckles were against the ground now although he didn't remember his hand clenching into a fist.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but she wasn't here.

Not, she wasn't dead—he'd pretty much come to believe that.

Mostly.

He uncurled his fingers and pressed only the tips against dirt and rock and flesh and blood and clothing and weapons and everything else that the ground had been before it had been reformed.

She wasn't
here.

“Listen to what I'm saying, Private! Gunnery Sergeant Kerr is fine!”

Watura closed his hand around Kyster's shoulder, his eyes darkening as he tried to get a better look at the four Marines who were shouting at them from down the tunnel. “They've got no reason to lie to us,” he said quietly.

“They've got no reason to tell us the truth,” Kyster growled, but he let the di'Taykan hold him in place up against the barricade even though his hand was close enough to bite. He wanted to charge toward this new hunting party even as he wanted to run from it. It seemed safest for the moment to stay where he was.

Someone in the new hunting party started shouting again. “Colonel Mariner has ordered her to remain and debrief Lieutenant Colonel Braudy when she arrives!”

Kyster shook his head—although he knew they probably couldn't see the motion given his height and the height of the barricade. “Why should we trust you?”

“Sir!”

“What?”

“Why should we trust you,
sir
?” the someone yelled back.

Watura snickered. “Second lieutenant.”

Kyster's nose ridges opened and shut. “No shit.” He shook himself free of the di'Taykan's grasp. There'd been something so stupidly normal about that exchange it made him feel the way Gunnery Sergeant Kerr did, like he belonged again. “Sorry, sir, is that what we report to our CO? That Colonel Mariner ordered her to remain and debrief Lieutenant Colonel Braudy?”

The distance was too great for them to hear a sigh, but the lieutenant's tone carried the same effect. “Yes, Private, that's what you're to report to your CO.”

“Ouch, sarcasm,” Watura snorted quietly.

“You're smoking again.”

“It's from the last time.”

“You sure?”

Mike's grunted response sounded fairly positive, so Torin let it go. He'd fried a bit of the tech in his own combats when his sleeve had brushed against the exposed wire and had taken that as a sign he was on the right track. It wasn't actually wire, of course, not as Torin understood the word, but since
long, narrow, alien power conduit
was a mouthful, they tended to stick with the technically inaccurate descriptions they recognized.

The evening kibble had been served, so Colonel Mariner's orders had to have reached the third node by now. If Lieutenant Colonel Braudy started back with the corporal who'd run those orders over, she'd be here by the next evening kibble. A day to go through the sitrep one more time and Torin could head back, report to Major Kenoton, and begin doing something approaching useful by clearing that rockfall.

Arms folded, her back against a smooth spot on the tunnel wall, she wondered if Mariner would let her have Mashona. The most recent arrivals seemed to be the only ones who gave a shit about getting out. Maybe it was something in the food. Maybe after a while it caused complacency. Complacent prisoners would make life a lot easier for their wardens. Kyster's willingness to consider escape seemed to support that. He'd been around for a while, but he hadn't started eating the kibble until recently.

She'd like to have Gucciard with her, too, but figured there was no way in hell Mariner would ever give up the tech sergeant.

“Hey, Mike, have you ever heard of the Others taking prisoners?”

Standing on a hunk of rock they'd carried from one of the small caves, leg of the combats in his teeth, both hands still working the wires, he grunted a negative.

“No. Me either.” Torin frowned. Three pipes. Approximately three hundred Marines. That was a tiny fraction of the number of MIA since the war had begun. Logically, that meant there were a lot more places like this. Except that logically, if all those MIA Marines had been taken prisoner, someone would have seen something. Rumors would have started. The Corps was like a fukking high school when it came to gossip and rumors.

She couldn't figure out what the hell the Others were up to, and it was driving her nuts.

As Lieutenant O'Neill came around the corner, Torin pushed off the wall and fell into an easy parade rest. She could play the game. It gave her something to do.

“As you were, Gunnery Sergeant. Carry on with what you're doing, Technical Sergeant Gucciard.”

Since Mike was completely ignoring the lieutenant, Torin figured that last order was a given.

“The colonel wants to know what progress you've made.”

“The power source has been isolated, and the technical sergeant is now adapting it for use in our equipment. Sir.”

“And how much longer will it take?”

“Hard to say, sir. Sergeant Gucciard is creating an interface with alien technology.”

“I know that, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The colonel believes that powering up the combats should be a first priority. Because of the . . .” Lieutenant O'Neill gestured at his left cuff. The color high on pale cheeks made it clear he wasn't entirely in accord with his CO's beliefs. “. . . clocks. The colonel feels the count is never entirely accurate.”

He relaxed slightly when Torin responded with a neutral, “Yes, sir.” She wondered what he'd been expecting her to do—head back into the node and snap the colonel's neck because he thought clocks were more important than a functioning slate? There were easier ways to save the ranks from the idiot orders of the brass, well, not easier but definitely more acceptable to the smooth running of the Corps. It was, in point of fact, a large part of her job description.

“Did you hear that, Technical Sergeant?”

Teeth still clenched around fabric, Mike grunted out a two-toned affirmative that could have just as easily been “Fuk you,” as “Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant O'Neill seemed to realize that. He stood staring up at Mike, brows dipped in, for a long moment. Then he glanced over at Torin who was wearing her best
nothing to see here
expression. “All right, then,” he said at last, “Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.” She'd been at this game long enough to let her approval of his decision show in her voice without it being either overt or patronizing.

Cheeks flushed, he pivoted on one heel and stepped out smartly down the tunnel toward the node—the martial effect only slightly marred by both hands rising to scratch at his ginger-colored beard as he turned the first corner.

“The combats?” Torin asked when the lieutenant's footsteps had faded sufficiently

“Clocks!” Mike spat the leg out of his mouth, and pulled the exposed tech away from the cable to fray a little more of the charred fabric. From the ground, it looked as if he were trying to fuse the shoulder seams together. “Can't power up the combats until I have an interface working. Just burn them up otherwise. Once I can run power safely, I can power a slate in next to no time compared to powering up a hundred or so combats.”

“So doing it your way is the best way to obey the colonel's order.”

He grinned down at her. “Isn't it always?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Once I get the slate powered, anyone who knows where the diagnostic points are in their combats—and that had damned well better be everyone down here—can use these . . .” A brief wave of the exposed tech. “. . . to charge themselves, and I can concentrate on accessing the contents of the slate's memory.”

“Think there might be something in there that can help us escape?”

Both brows rose. “You planning something, Gunny?”

She let her shoulder blades hit the wall again. It wasn't quite a plan. Not yet. “I'll tell you this much, I'm not planning on staying here.”

“You and me both.” He lifted the combats to the conduit again. “You noticed that those who've been down here for a while seem to have lost their drive?”

“I have.” The rock was cool against her back, a welcome point of sensation.

“Something in the food?”

“Probably.”

“Clocks,” he snorted.

Which was when the lights went out.

Turning carefully on the spot to face the pipe, Torin kept her right hand against the rock, stretched her left out into the tunnel, and carefully shuffled sideways out away from the wall until her right arm was nearly straight and the palm of her left hand bumped against Mike's hip. Maintaining contact so as not to wander off into territory she didn't know him well enough to explore, she moved her hand up slightly and snagged the fabric at his waist.