The Heart of Valour (13 page)

“I come.”

Her stride longer, she reached the tracks seconds before Hisht and stared down at them, hoping for some kind of insight into the species who had made them. “They look like…”

“Cloven hooves,” the Krai announced, catching up. “Not Others, then. At least not Others we know.”

“Not Others. Look.” He pointed at a cleared bit of earth. “There they scrape the snow away to get at grass. Grass eaters.
Chrick
.”

“What don’t you consider edible?” Kichar wondered as they started moving again.

“Rocks. Most rocks,” he amended thoughtfully as they reached the trees.

“Of course,” Bonninski muttered a few moments later, “we had to follow your tracks, or the mad sweeper here couldn’t delete them, could he?”

Kichar felt her cheeks flush. “I never…”

“Nice to know all those times the Staff gave me cleanup duties paid off,” Sakur declared as he backed under cover and tossed the branch away. “I have completely obliterated any chance of us being identified by our footprints. What?” He looked from Human to Human, then grinned. “Ah, Bonbon mentioned your fuk-up. Good on you. You need more of them.”

“Fuk-ups can get Marines killed,” Kichar growled. “Tag and let’s move out.” She didn’t bother waiting to make sure he’d thumbed the marker onto one of the trees at the edge of the clearing. Sakur might be an annoying pain in the ass, but he did his job—which was more than could be said for her right now.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Gunnery Sergeant Kerr would have never missed anything so obvious. She’d just have to try harder.

* * *

After checking for the scouts’ tag, the bulk of the platoon double-timed across the clearing in four lines, recruits of three/three sweeping away identifiable footprints. If the Others did happen to stumble over their tracks, they’d have no way of knowing how many Marines were dirtside. The scenario knew exactly how many, of course—not only were they under constant satellite surveillance but their stats had been programmed into the sector so that any injuries severe enough to set off a med-alert would immediately ping the OP.

Setting the recruits to sweeping, therefore, had no intrinsic use particularly since in this part of the scenario Crucible had no air support. The ability to keep this kind of information to themselves more than anything convinced Torin she’d never make it as a DI—she’d have the whole platoon moving slick and sloppy, trying to throw the system off by getting them to an unexpected camp and then, in case that didn’t work, setting up an ambush for the scenario’s attack. Winning quickly and decisively meant fewer casualties.

“What is that?”

Torin followed the doctor’s pointing finger and, pulling off her mitten, scooped a dark brown pellet about a centimeter in diameter out of a small pile. “Herbivore shit,” she said, squashing it between thumb and forefinger as she walked. “Not that old either. It wasn’t quite frozen through.”

“You’re a woman of many talents, Gunny.”

“I grew up on a farm. You shovel enough shit, you remember things about it.” She tossed it away, rubbed her fingers on her leg and frowned as once again a mitten rose to rub against the chip on Dr. Sloan’s forehead. “Is that bothering you?”

“No. Yes. It’s just a little obvious.”

“It’s supposed to be,” Major Svensson interjected from her other side. “It’s to keep you from getting shot. It can be read from under your clothing, but I’d rather not take the chance that the signal might be blocked.”

“And I appreciate that.”

But Torin noticed she continued to rub at it every now and then.

After an hour and forty minutes of walking, they caught up to the scout team at the east end of a narrow lake where they already had a hole through the ice and their spare canteens filled. After confirming their new azimuth with Staff Sergeant Beyhn, they started out again while the rest of the platoon dropped packs and topped up their water supplies.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Dr. Sloan asked, sliding her backpack down her arms and arching her back. “There are alien microbes in that water, after all.”

“Any microbe that can survive the purifying process inside our canteens deserves to have a chance at the inside of a Marine.”

“These canteens can take pretty much any liquid with more hydrogen than oxygen in it and turn it into water,” Torin explained, tightening the lid as Dr. Sloan shot the major an exasperated look. “It’s the same tech as in our HE suits, so purifying actual water is fairly rudimentary.”

“Still, if we need water, we’re surrounded by snow. Wouldn’t that be cleaner?”

“Takes energy to turn snow to water,” Major Svensson told her as they walked off the lake. “We’ll use it if we have to, but…”

Torin missed everything after the
but
as she headed over to Staff Sergeant Beyhn. Standing where he could see the lake and both trails, his cheeks were flushed a deep red and, based on the flicker of water vapor by his face, he was breathing heavily. When she got close enough, she saw that the ends of his hair were in constant motion under the edge of his helmet. Trouble was, they weren’t moving in unison.

When di’Taykan hair grew that agitated, the di’Taykan in question was laboring under some strong emotion.

She considered and discarded a number of tactful ways to find out what she needed to know and finally figured, screw it; they had thirty-six recruits humping packs across a frozen landscape assuming every moment they were going to come under fire. This was no time for good manners.

“You okay? You look like shit.”

“This is my last group.” He turned pale eyes on her, glare off the snow shutting down most of his light receptors. “My last set of recruits. Once I get them through, once I know they’re safe, I can go home.”

Ah. “You’re going to retire?”

She couldn’t read his expression. “It’s time.”

“You’re not sick?”

“Me?” His posture changed subtly, any softness, any uncertainty disappearing. “I have never felt better, Gunny, and I plan to run your major’s ass ragged from here to the pickup point.”

“Glad to hear it, Staff. He needs the workout. Oh, and…” She shifted her weight as she recognized her body’s reaction. “…you might want to turn up your masker. Even at this temperature, you’re a little potent.”

Hand to his throat, he flashed a strangely triumphant grin and strode toward the ice. “Back in position, 71! We’re not gathered here for
Mon gleen
; get ready to move out!”

Feeling the pinprick of someone’s regard between her shoulder blades, Torin pivoted on one heel and caught Jonin’s gaze before he looked away. A gesture held him in place and, after a quick glance to ensure the staff sergeant was still out on the ice, she walked quickly to his side.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“You’re not a di’Taykan, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Recruit. What’s up with the staff sergeant?”

“I’m very sorry, but I’m not able to tell you.”

He looked miserable but not as miserable as he was going to look if he kept crucial information from her. “Why not?”

“Because the information concerns the di’Taykan as a people, not the Corps. If I told you, and the other di’Taykan in the platoon discovered that I had acted in such a culturally insensitive manner, then they would…” He sighed. “Actually, they
wouldn’t
.”

“Wouldn’t?” Torin felt both her brows rise in unfeigned astonishment. If di’Taykan didn’t bother defining a physical activity, they could only be referring to one thing. If Jonin discussed the staff sergeant’s problem, they
wouldn’t
? Critical injuries barely stopped the di’Taykan. This was big. “If it affects the Corps, Recruit, it’s no longer a di’Taykan matter.”

“I’m aware of that, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr. If it becomes a Corps matter, I promise I’ll come to you. I should never have said anything on the ship.”

“Too late now.”

Jonin shrugged, the gesture elegantly saying in spite of combats and pack:
We all make mistakes.

Torin watched him a moment longer and was impressed in spite of herself by the way he met her eyes. “Go on,” she said at last, jerking her chin toward the rest of the platoon, “your fireteam’s forming up.” As he doubled across the snow, she wondered if the other di’Taykan in the platoon had given him trouble after he’d come to her. Probably not. In the Taykan class system, di’Arl Jonin, with a three-letter family name, socially outranked the rest and since that wasn’t a reaction that ever completely vanished, even from Marines with significantly more experience, these recruits would be unlikely to buck the system.

She didn’t like not knowing what was going on—and she was damned sure Beyhn’s impending retirement was not the whole story—but there was nothing she could do to force the issue. No point in informing Major Svensson until she had intell a little more concrete than
it’s a di’Taykan thing.

Three hours of easy humping later—low ground was significantly easier to cross when it was frozen solid—they caught up with the scout team and broke for lunch to the south of a small woods. With good lines of sight in the other three directions, they set only aerial pins in case of an enemy flyby.

Dr. Sloan watched with interest as Torin expanded the sides of a ration pouch, poured in a little water, snapped the heating filament, and peeled the flap back to expose a thick chicken stew with three large dumplings. “This isn’t bad,” she murmured, chewing thoughtfully. “Your packaging must be quite complex to reconstitute with this much flavor.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Seemed like the safe answer. The packaging wasn’t Torin’s concern unless it stopped working. The piece of meat on the doctor’s spork steamed in the cold air. “Can I assume this has never been anywhere near an actual chicken?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“No, just a surprise. The civilian equivalent is a little tastier, but as it contains the liquids already, it’s also a bit heavier.”

Torin shrugged and scooped up a bit of gravy. “A
bit
weighs up when you’ve got other gear to carry.”

“I’m sure. You know, you could get all your nutritional and energy requirements from a capsule which would be even lighter to carry.”

“We’re carrying those, too, ma’am, and emergency ration packs, and the scenario has us using both before we’re done, but research has shown that Marines like to eat.” Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the two Krai recruits taking turns to sample bits of the local flora. They’d sample the fauna, too, if they could get their hands on it. Sergeant Jiir, sitting with the other DIs, was stirring his coffee with a stick and morosely biting the end off it every now and then. He’d likely be less morose if he’d been allowed
sah
, the Krai stimulant of choice, but given its highly illegal effect on the Human nervous system, the Corps no longer permitted it in uncontrolled environments.

“All right, people, let’s haul ass. Sunset’s at 17:41 and we’ve got twenty-three k to go.” Staff Sergeant Beyhn got to his feet and the platoon followed. “Two/one, you’re scouting this afternoon. Do you know where we’re supposed to end up?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

It was a ragged but confident response from the four recruits in the fireteam.

“You sure?” His hair whipped back and forth over his ears so quickly it looked like a fan-shaped wave. Torin noticed that none of the di’Taykan were looking directly at him. “I don’t want you getting lost out there.”

“Sir, we’re sure, sir.” Piroj, the Krai who’d been so fond of the issued toque, seemed to be team leader.

“Move out, then, but be careful. We don’t want to lose you. The enemy knows we’re here, so proceed accordingly.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

As two/one checked their azimuth and moved out, the rest of the platoon gathered up the garbage and dropped it into a bag held by Sergeant Kim Annatahwee.

“Does she carry the trash the rest of the way?” Doctor Sloan asked just as the sergeant activated the molecular charge and the bag flattened. “Never mind.”

“It’s a variation on our body bags,” the major told her. “Only slightly less respectful,” he added as the sergeant shook the fine dust out onto the breeze. “We carry our Marines back with us.”

Torin touched the part of her vest designed to hold the metal capsules in individual pockets and said a short prayer to whatever gods looked out for the Corps that, this trip, those pockets would stay empty.

Twenty-three kilometers in four hours and forty-one minutes meant an average speed of just over their standard hump speed of 4.8 kilometers an hour. Not exactly a sprint but still intended to cover some ground. On relatively flat terrain—which their maps indicated this would be—and with no interest from the enemy—which everyone but the platoon and Dr. Sloan knew wouldn’t happen until morning—it was an easy enough speed to manage. The plan was to cover the maximum distance possible on the first day to take the edge off the recruits and to make up for days later in the scenario when they’d be pinned down.

Major Svensson had decided to keep the doctor in the dark about the scenario for a couple of reasons. The first because he wasn’t one hundred percent positive she wouldn’t let anything slip to the platoon and the second because he had a truly warped sense of humor. The second reason was Torin’s, but she suspected the major would happily agree with it as he seemed to be enjoying the way the doctor peered suspiciously at every shadow.

Camp that night was just across the narrow isthmus that connected the peninsula they’d been crossing to the mainland—the geography enough of an explanation to the recruits for the distance covered. The scout team had located a hummock of higher ground back from the water and set perimeter pins. It was the logical place to make camp for the night—it was high enough to be defensible, clear enough to have good lines of sight but with enough cover to shield the platoon from the air. Because it was the logical place to make camp, it was where the enemy would mount their first attack.

The di’Taykan sealed their shelter halves together to create one large, albeit low, communal quarters. Most of the rest stayed in fireteam combinations—although the two teams that had each lost two di’Taykan got together. Because they were a unit within a unit, Major Svensson suggested that the three of them combine halves to increase body heat. Torin was fine with that—recruits dumped most body issues by about day two or they didn’t last to day three, so hers had been gone for some time now—but she was unsure about the doctor’s response.