The Heart of Valour (30 page)

“Advance with extreme caution, Ducote. If the drone decides to self-destruct, there’ll be shrapnel.”

“Roger that.”

“I could go up…” Annatahwee began, giving voice to the words in Torin’s head.

“No.” Major Svensson dragged off his toque and dug his fingers through sweat-darkened hair. “Let two/two handle it.”

One shot. The KC-9.

“Sergeant, Bynum just blew it to shit.”

“Good work, Re…”

Torin caught her eye.

“…Marines. Bring all the pieces down. We want to make sure there’s nothing left to reprogram.”

“Roger, Sergeant. On our way.”

“So that’s that.” The major shoved himself up off the wall, swayed once, and steadied. “Let the teams coming in from the sentry points know the shooter’s been taken care of and then let’s get this place squared away.”

One of the upper windows had been smashed by a piece of debris from the power station, the roof access was now a hole with edges still steaming slightly in the cold, and the outer air lock door closed but no longer sealed—otherwise, the building was in good shape.

“I wonder if the toilets work.”

“Only one way to find out, sir.”

There was no power—lights, heat, toilets were nonfunctional.

“Sergeant Annatahwee, put two Marines on the roof and then start clearing out those meat bags. Once the common room is empty, start dismantling the inside wall—they made it by snapping the exterior shutters together, and we need to get them reinstalled.”

The sergeant’s eyes flickered once toward Torin—fast enough, Torin hoped, that the major had missed it. “Sir, we don’t have the right tools.”

“They’re in here somewhere, Sergeant. I’m betting the scenario includes securing this building, and you can’t do that without those shutters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gunny, you and I are going to check out the power station. I want to be sure none of those drones survived.”

The power station wasn’t far and moving might be better for him than remaining still since he couldn’t collapse until all the teams were in. “Yes, sir.”

A twist of his lips let her know he knew what she was thinking.

“Any chance that explosion left any drones in one piece?” he asked as they headed slowly toward the main mass of rubble.

Torin kept her hand on the trigger guard of her KC-7. “Long odds, sir.”

It had stopped snowing although cloud cover continued to block both moon and stars. Their boots whispered through the snow on the ground. Distant sounds were muffled and indistinct. At least no one seemed to be doing any more shooting.

The power station walls had looked to have been about four meters high before the explosions. If they were a third of meter now, Torin would be very surprised. The few larger pieces of the heavy metal roof lying across the rubble looked as though burning fists had punched through it from below.

“Built-in charges,” Major Svensson said suddenly. “The training platoon was supposed to save the power station. The charges might have been Crucible’s way of reinforcing what a bad idea it is to use explosives around a building you’re supposed to save.”

“Makes as much sense as anything,” Torin muttered.

“Why, thank you, Gunny.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Although given that training platoons weren’t exactly bad-idea free, it didn’t make as much sense that they’d risk the loss of the drones to one. As she swept her light over the wreckage, her scanner registered residual pockets of heat but no power signatures. The data retrieved from Dr. Sloan’s scan showed thirty-nine drones had been inside the station.

“Looks like the doc got them all, Gunny.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was always easier when the enemy didn’t bleed. The major bent and grabbed a piece of metal only to have it slip through his fingers and clatter back down onto the wreckage. “Damn mitten, can’t get a grip…”

The mitten made it hard to tell for certain but, to Torin, it had looked more like he hadn’t had strength enough in his hand.

* * *

They got back to the anchor just as three/one emerged from between two of the south buildings, visible as green sketches on the scanners. Major Svensson headed across the open ground to meet them, so Torin followed although she wasn’t happy about it.

He opened up the beam of his cuff light and familiar faces appeared between helmets and vests. Carson had a bit of frozen snot on one cheek. “What do you have for me, Private Stone?”

“Sir, scans show no active drones in any of the buildings in this sector, sir.”

“Good work. Drop your packs with the others in the common room and lend a hand getting that wall down. We need those windows shuttered before that building’s secure.”

“Yes, sir.” Stone beckoned to his team, and although they clearly would have preferred a chance to sit down and get a little rest, they followed him over to the anchor. Torin couldn’t decide if he was a natural leader, or if the other three were tired enough they didn’t really give a shit about who was telling them what to do as long as they didn’t have to think for themselves.

She checked her sleeve. Twenty-three forty-two. It had already been a long day—and it wasn’t over yet.

“Gunny, check on the other two entry teams. If they’re within thirty, then give Sergeant Jiir a heads up.”

“Yes, sir.”

The other two teams put their ETA at under fifteen. Jiir sounded relieved to be contacted.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us, Gunny.”

“We were just making the beds and putting the mints on the pillows, Sergeant. Bring them in.”

As she signed off, four Marines emerged from the anchor carrying the first of the long metal shutters out the double doors. Impossible to tell who they were given the distance and the dark except that two of them were obviously di’Taykan.

Torin flicked her light in their direction. “Kirassai! Iful! Get your damned helmets on!”

“But the drones have been destroyed, Gunnery Sergeant. And there’s enough light for us to see.”

“Did that sound like a request, Iful?”

“No, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“It’s late,” she sighed a moment later as the shutter crashed to the ground. Both di’Taykan had released their grip and grabbed for their dangling helmets at the same time. Profanity made it clear that no one’s feet had been under the heavy slab. “And they’re new at this.”

The major snorted. “And you scared them.”

“They need to get over that.”

“No one ever gets over that, Gunny. Come on, let’s give them a hand or we’ll be at this all night.”

Around a decimeter thick, the shutters were heavier than they looked, and the length made them awkward. It took all six of them to maneuver the first shutter into the southernmost window embrasure.

“Essentially,” the major grunted as it finally snapped into place, “you’re looking at a removable piece of spaceship hull.”

Torin took another look. “I think I was happier believing there was more than this between me and vacuum, sir.”

“The inside of the window enclosure is filled with expanding foam.”

“Well, that makes all the difference, sir.”

With two Marines keeping pressure on the shutter, a quick search found a manual mechanism to lock it in place.

“It’ll take one of the same tools we’re using to dismantle the wall,” Iful muttered, peering under the faceplate. He straightened to find the other five staring at him. “Uh, some of my
thytrins
have a
jurdingon
…” He paused and glanced at Kirassai.

She shrugged and offered, “Repair shop?”

“…and I worked there when I wasn’t at school.”

“So you’re saying you know tools?” the major asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go get the one we need.”

“Yes, sir!”

They had the second shutter up by the time one/one came in from the east and the third was on its way out the air lock when one/two emerged from between the buildings to the north. Moving slowly and carefully, three of them were clearly matching their pace to the fourth.

“Stevens, you’re limping.”

“She got shot in the ass, Gunny.”

“Is your name Stevens, Ioeyn?”

“No, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“Stevens?”

“I got shot in the ass, Gunny.”

She said it like she’d come to terms with it, so Torin didn’t smile. “Go drop your pack inside, then get a handful of snow against the skin. Now you’re not moving, it’s going to start to swell. And have Dr. Sloan look at it when she gets here.”

They were shifting the last shutter into place when all six di’Taykan outside turned toward the east. Torin wasn’t surprised to discover that was the direction of what might, by virtue of massive exaggeration, be called a breeze.

“Heads back in the game, people!”

They jerked, as one, and returned at least the visible part of their attention back to the final shutter.

It was 0146 by the time Sergeant Jiir, Dr. Sloan, Staff Sergeant Beyhn, and the final four fireteams made it into the anchor. Torin had seen to it that Humans stood watch on the roof and by the doors, allowing the di’Taykan to cluster around the stretcher in the common room. With the windows shuttered, it was pitch-black outside the overlapping circles of cuff lights.

“Playing favorites, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?”

“Allowing a biological imperative a little leeway, Dr. Sloan. How’s the staff sergeant?”

Eyes shadowed and a little sunken, the doctor yawned. “He had a bad moment when we first started moving, but the di’Taykan you left with us gathered around the stretcher and he settled.”

“Good.”

“For certain values of the word good, yeah, I guess. But he’s still caught in some kind of hormonal systems failure, and I still don’t know what to do about it.”

“Ashlan?”

“He has a purpling lump the size of my fist on his head, but other than that, he’s fine.”

“You?”

“I had a nap in a snowbank, Gunnery Sergeant. I’m peachy.” She yawned again and slumped against the wall. “What happens now?”

“Now, we block the outer doors, seal the inner doors, and—except for the team on watch on the roof—we get some sleep.”

“And tomorrow?”

With body heat and insulation bringing up the ambient temperature in the anchor, Torin pulled off her toque and ran a hand through sweaty hair. “Tomorrow we fix the outer door, we find the node, we may send out teams to search the settlement for things other than drones. Mostly we wait.”

“Waiting.” A sweeping glance covered most of the Marines in the room. “Not what they expected from their Crucible trip.”

“No, but they’re getting a lot more realistic look at life in the Corps.”

“Waiting?”

“We do a lot of it, ma’am. And it beats being shot at.”

“
C
etem Institute Of Science And Technology.” His hand resting on the top of the skimmer, Craig Ryder frowned up at the sign. “CIST? Yeah, a degree from CIST is really going to inspire confidence in prospective employers.”

“It are being an example of why all universities should be having arts programs,” Presit said dryly, adjusting mirrored sunglasses as she started toward the nearest building. “They are needing someone who are putting the letters into words. You are bringing the equipment.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Why should I be paying for strong arms to be carrying our equipment when I are paying to be traveling with you?”
Presit had wondered.

“Because I’m not your bloody beast of burden!”

She’d shrugged.
“I are preferring to be with
others
of my species, and I are having crew here who are able to go, but I are not bringing them because you are not having room. If you are not carrying, then we needing to bring another with us and you are needing to put another in your ship.”

That wasn’t happening—the seventeen-hour Susumi jump had been hell with just one small, furry, incessantly jabbering reporter on board. He’d finally locked her in the head to keep from spacing her. Two more and he wouldn’t have made it. Easier by far to carry her gear.

Even considering that it included full editing capabilities, an enormous digital memory, and could beam a show onto the network from anywhere it could hit a Susumi beacon, the recorder was far larger than it needed to be. In an effort to keep the media honest, Confederation law stipulated that all recording equipment must be large enough to be easily seen by the general public and carry obvious network identification. It wasn’t heavy—Craig suspected that half the casing covered nothing at all—but it was awkward.

He didn’t ask what had happened to her previous set of strong arms or why Presit had shown up at his ship with a human-sized recorder. Not only did he not want to know, but he suspected he’d strangle the reporter halfway through the explanation. Sure, he was going to carry the damned thing, but a guy liked to be asked.

“Ryder!”

Dragging the recorder out of the back, he released the skimmer to the boarding platform and hurried to catch up. Given their respective leg lengths, it didn’t take long.

Lifting her sunglasses, she leaned toward the door’s security module for a retinal scan while snapping out, “Presit a Tur durValintrisy, Sector Central News!” as though the module would care.

When the door irised open, she shot Craig a look promising painful retribution if he didn’t follow immediately—easily readable in spite of the mirrored lenses and the species differences. Reminding himself that Torin really fukking owed him big, he leaned into the scan and followed.

* * *

Gad a Tur durEdkabidge preened under Presit’s attention, claw tips fluffing out the fur of her ruff as she explained the implications of her current research. Craig had lost interest early on and, tucked safely behind the bulk of the recorder, was playing solitaire on one corner of the monitor. He’d begun to suspect that the size of the equipment had been chosen as much by the technicians who had to carry it as by political mandate. The memory held more games than he had on his ship, a truly eclectic selection of music, the most recent seasons of half a dozen Human-centric drama vids, and a partitioned section he couldn’t access without a Guild membership.