The Heart of Valour (4 page)

Later, when she stepped out of his shower—which meant stepping out of his tiny hygiene unit into the main cabin—he handed her a mug of coffee and said, “You ever hear what happened to the escape pod from Big Yellow.”

Torin took a drink, set the mug on the small, half-circle table folded down from one of the cabin walls, and started dressing. “It’s a piece of unknown alien technology, I expect R&D has it tucked away somewhere, probably somewhere on this station—although there’s always a chance that one of the Elder Races rabbited off with it. All I know is that the whole thing’s been classified Top Secret, and I have orders not to talk about it during my current
the Silsviss are our friends
tour.” Skimming her pants up over her hips, she reached for the mug again. “Why?”

“I rode it from Big Yellow, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She knew where this was going.

“That makes it my salvage, doesn’t it?”

“Technically, the
Berganitan
retrieved it.”

He folded his arms, the motion causing the worn sweats he’d pulled on to fall a little farther from his waist. “I was in it. And in salvage, like life, possession is nine tenths of the law.”

The vacuum jockeys from the
Berganitan
had rescued him, directing the spherical escape pod into a net in one of the ship’s shuttle bays. Given the mulish expression he was wearing, Torin decided not to remind him of that. “You must have made inquiries,” she said, buttoning her shirt.

“I did. No one knows anything about it.”

“That’s because it’s classified Top Secret.”

“No. They
won’t
talk about Big Yellow, but they don’t seem to know about the escape pod.”

“You’re a civilian. Neither branch of the military is likely to tell you what they know.”

“Please.” Fingers digging in his short beard, he snorted. “I deal with the military all the time. I know when they’re fukking me around and this was more like they honestly didn’t know.”

Torin set the empty mug back on the table and frowned. “Maybe they didn’t know. You couldn’t have been talking to anyone with a very high clearance.”

“That’s possible.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You want me to ask someone, don’t you?”

He grinned. “It is
good
sex.”

“Not that good.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. There’s an Intell major running the Silsviss briefings I’m doing. If I get a chance, I’ll ask her.” She slid a foot into her right boot and bent to tie the laces. “How long will you be docked?”

“Odds are good I’ll be gone by 1400 tomorrow.”

His tone pulled her attention back to his face. If he was off station by 1400, this was it. They’d probably see each other again when she got back to her unit. Civilian salvage operators weren’t unknown at OutSector stations, but only the brass knew how long they’d keep her here. “All right, I’ll ask at the morning briefing.”

“Ta.”

Both boots secured, she moved to the hatch and paused, left hand rising to touch her jaw. “The upgrade’s got a signal strong enough to reach ships in space.”

Craig’s brows rose when she stopped, clearly expecting more.

She didn’t have any more.

His fingers went back to his beard. “You’ve got the
Promise
’s codes.”

“I do.” Her left hand settled against the scarred surface of the hatch. The upgrade went to grades Gunny and above, so that if they had Marines dirtside, and the comm unit got hit, they could call for evac. They weren’t for… She glanced back at Craig; from the way the corner of his mouth was twitching, he knew exactly what she was thinking. Cocky bastard. Stepping out onto the ramp, she turned again. “Be careful.”

He nodded. “You, too.”

* * *

“Major Alie.”

The major’s hair lifted. “Is there a problem, Gunny?”

“No, sir.” di’Taykan didn’t have the concept of personal space, so Torin stepped a little closer. They were standing, once again, at the front of Compartment 29 waiting for the morning’s group of senior NCOs to finish taking their seats, and Torin figured that her odds of getting an answer were better if the major thought she couldn’t be overheard. In the raw light of day, minus post-coital endorphins, this was obviously a bad idea, but she’d told Craig she’d ask—and that left her only two options. Keep her word. Or not. “The CSO who…”

“You’re seeing.” The words were tame for a di’Taykan. The innuendo was all it could be.

“Yes, sir.” Torin responded to the words alone. “He was wondering what happened to the escape pod off Big Yellow.”

The major’s hair flattened. “The alien ship is classified, Gunny.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And classified means you’re not to speak of it.”

“No, sir.”

“Not even to your
vantru
.”

Given the major’s expression, now was not the time to mention that
vantru
—more or less translated as primary sexual partner—was a bit strong, if only because of the di’Taykan weight the word carried and not because she was actually getting any anywhere else.

“I’ve got no way to keep him from mentioning it to me, sir.”

“
NinLi
civilians!”

Like many sentient races, the primary Taykan religion had not only the concept of damnation but the profanity to go with it.

“Yes, sir.”

But while the major had said,
“The alien ship is classified,”
her expression had added,
“What escape pod?”
It was fast, gone almost before Torin saw it. Someone watching a little less closely would have missed it entirely, but Torin had spent years learning to spot bullshit and next to some of the di’Taykan she’d commanded, for whom bullshit was a vocation, Major Alie was an amateur.

Her anger at not knowing had given her away.

Intell hated to think there were things they didn’t know.

At 12:45, Torin set down her lunch tray and pinged the
Promise
from a table terminal in the SRM.

“What the bloody hell did you ask at that morning briefing?”

Torin poured creamer in her coffee, the artificial stuff significantly safer than the real cream in the other jug. There were no cows on Ventris Station. “I asked the major about your possible salvage.”

“Just like that, then?”

“You wanted to know.”

“I expected you to be a little more… I don’t know, circumspect.”

“I said I’d ask.” She took a preliminary swallow—the coffee had probably been started by the first cook on Ventris—and added a splash more creamer. “This is not the kind of thing that I can sneak about trying to discover for you. Nor would I if I could.”

“I had a visit this morning from a couple of Marines who thought I needed to be reminded of what classified meant.”

That wasn’t entirely unexpected. “And?”

“They pointed out that military salvage tags don’t grow on fukking trees.”

Neither was that. It was, after all, the only handle they had on him. “Happy ending?”

“They’re letting me bail, if that’s what you mean. In fact, they pretty much told me to rack off.”
She heard him sigh, could see him sitting back in the pilot’s chair, feet resting on the spot his heels had worn shiny on the control panel.
“I’m never going to see that salvage, am I? Never mind. Don’t answer that. Are you in the crapper for bringing it up?”

It surprised her that he’d ask. “Not so far.”

“Good. Let me know when you’re back at OutSector.”

“I will.” She cut the connection, ate her soup and her sandwich, and wasn’t at all surprised to find a Marine waiting for her in the corridor outside the mess when she left.

* * *

“Come in, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr. I won’t keep you long.”

Torin entered as ordered and came to attention in front of the desk, staring at the gray-green plaque on the wall just over General Morris’ head. It was the same color as Major Svensson’s fingernails and that led down paths she’d rather not travel—although artificial fingernail was not the strangest building material she’d ever seen used. She couldn’t quite make out what battle the raised letters commemorated.

“Damn it, stop doing that. You know I hate it.”

“Yes, sir.” She relaxed slightly into parade rest. “What escape pod, Gunny?”

That drew her attention to his face. “Sir?”

Hands linked, he tapped joined index fingers against his chin. “You asked Major Alie this morning about an escape pod from Big Yellow.”

Not a question but she answered it anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“What are you up to?”

“Sir?”

“There was no escape pod, Gunny.”

By the time she’d made sergeant, Torin could remain expressionless under any condition. That skill came in handy now. There had been an escape pod. She’d seen Craig Ryder get into it on Big Yellow and had seen the alien ship spit the pod out into space. One of the Jades from the
Berganitan
’s Black Star Squadron had caught it up in an energy field and maneuvered it back to the ship, tossing it into a net strung across shuttle bay one to catch it. General Morris had been there when Craig had emerged from the pod.

General Morris was a politician at heart, but he wasn’t
that
good a liar.

He believed there was no escape pod.

“I spoke of the escape pod in my mission report, sir.”

“No, you did not.”

Yes, I damned well did.
“If I could see…”

“No, you can’t. The mission reports concerning Big Yellow are classified.” He leaned back, eyes narrowed within the folds of flesh. “But I assure you, Gunnery Sergeant, there was no mention of an escape pod in your mission report. Nor in any of the others. Nor at any of the debriefings.”

The recon team had been debriefed separately and then sent back to their respective units. It was possible, if unlikely, that no one else had mentioned the escape pod. But she had. She remembered it clearly.

“We’d lost the first one because we misinterpreted the controls, but the second one launched with CSO Craig Ryder inside.”

The Elder Races insisted they were against violence in all forms; Torin found herself wondering how they felt about mind control. And why would they wipe General Morris’ memory but not hers or Craig’s?

“I understand how the kind of attention you’ve been under lately can go to your head, but you, of all people, should know better than to exaggerate for the sake of your audience. Not that you should have an audience,” he continued as Torin blinked at him. “You know the information about Big Yellow is classified.”

Okay. Firm ground here, at least. Even the patronizing tone was familiar. “Yes, sir.”

“Thanks to Presit a Tur durValintrisy at Sector Central News, the greater part of the Confederation—those who were not actually on the mission—knows exactly what we want them to know. And we don’t want them to know anything else.” His eyes narrowed above florid cheeks. “Do I make myself clear, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re going to have to hurry to make your afternoon briefing.”

“Yes, sir.” She came back to attention, pivoted on one heel, and left the office.
Well, that was a whiskey tango foxtrot conversation.

“Gunny.”

Torin stopped at Captain Stedrin’s desk.

He glanced toward the open door to the outer office, where two corporals and the Krai private who’d been sent to fetch her toiled over the general’s data entry, and beckoned Torin closer.

She leaned in.

“Look, if you were anyone else, you’d have been up shit creek for that stunt this morning. I’m finding it hard to believe that the Marine I knew would make up a salvage claim even for a
vantru.
You’re golden right now, Kerr, but don’t let it go to your head.”

“No, sir.”

Lieutenant Stedrin—Captain Stedrin—had also been there when Craig came out of the escape pod.

She made it to her afternoon briefing on time, but only just. Distracted by the certainty that something hinky was going on, she dropped into the wrong vertical and had to start again from the parade square.

Major Alie met her as she entered the compartment. “Problem, Gunny?”

Torin glanced at the multi-Sector chronometer on the front wall. She had thirty-seven seconds to spare. “No, sir.”

The matter-of-fact tone seemed to throw the major a bit; the movement of her hair sped up, and she frowned slightly.

Does she expect me to tell her that General Morris kept me late?
Torin wondered. If Major Alie expected her to feel chastised and show it, well, the H’san would take up knitting first.

Maybe, because she was, after all, an Intelligence officer, the major was wondering
why
Gunnery Sergeant Kerr had asked about a nonexistent escape pod.

Probably not, Torin acknowledged as she stepped forward to lay out her experiences with the Silsviss for the fourth time in two days. The integration of large, aggressive lizards into the Corps was of more immediate concern than either the possible existence of escape pods or a possibly delusional NCO.

Two more days of briefings finished off the staff officers and NCOs, and she spent the day before she began at the Recruit Training Center going over her notes and making some of the changes Major Alie had suggested. She no longer ate alone; every meal in the SRM became a sort of mini-briefing. Since going out would only expose her to questions from officers and speculation by other ranks, she stayed in.

She was rapidly reaching the point where being shot at by the Silsviss would be preferable to having to talk about them. It didn’t help that most of the private questions—and many of the briefing room questions for that matter—involved second-guessing the decisions that had been made in the field.

“Contamination levels were rising slowly; why didn’t you stay with the VTA?”

“Why didn’t you empty the armory? Why wasn’t every Marine carrying two or three weapons?”

“Why didn’t you put your ammo for the emmy under cover so it couldn’t be hit?”

As that second-guessing was coming from Marines who’d spent most of their tour on their asses behind a desk, Torin figured it was inevitable that she’d end up in the gym late one night, pounding the snot out of some pompous desk jockey. When it finally happened, it started with a Krai technical sergeant demanding to know why she hadn’t killed Cri Srah when she had him in the choke hold. Then it moved into the declaration that, if it had been his people sent into ambush, he’d have made the Silsviss pay. Finally, it ended with him pinned to the floor, Torin’s knee on his throat.