The Better Part of Valor (7 page)

“Very considerate.”

“Aren’t I.” A hoot of laughter spun her around. Her thrown glove slapped against Guimond’s chest. “You’re next, laughing boy.”

“All right!” The perpetual smile broadened and he waved the glove like a trophy. “Thanks, Staff.”

You couldn’t not laugh with him
, Torin thought, as she unsuited against one side of the fake air lock and Guimond suited up by the other. With only two hours of air, they weren’t bothering to hook in the plumbing, so the whole procedure took half the time it might have—and twice the time it would have had there not been so many people helping out.

The Corps’ hazardous environment suits were high-tech marvels that allowed a full range of movement and protected the wearer against almost anything an unfriendly universe could throw against it—up to and including most personal projectile weapons, although a hit anywhere but the head or torso left a nasty bruise. The helmet co-opted H’san technology and held two different shapes. Dropped off the back toggle, it collapsed down the back of the suit like an empty bag; snapped back up over the head, it became a rigid, impenetrable sphere capable of polarizing to maintain any programmed light level.

Helmet up, if the outside atmosphere held oxygen and nitrogen in any combination, the suit could filter in something essentially breathable to support the tanks. It recycled fluids, all fluids, almost indefinitely. Self-contained, they were comfortable for six hours, livable for eight, and, if breathing was still an option, got progressively nastier after that. They glowed under a number of different light conditions in order
to make it easier for S&R crews to find the bodies. Marines loved them and hated them about equally.

August Guimond was the first Marine Torin had ever seen who looked happy putting one on.

“All right…” She let the suit drop, stepped out of the boots, and rolled the kinks out of her shoulders. “…let’s say a two-and-a-half-hour turnaround, a little longer if the subject doesn’t survive and we need to debrief. Even simulated deaths are meaningless if we don’t learn from them.”

Nivry’s eyes lightened. “That’s deep, Staff.”

“It’ll get deeper as the day goes on. Pack a shovel.” Her suit in one hand and a cleaning kit in the other, Torin turned back to Huilin and Jynett. “Can that thing spit out another twelve programs?”

“No problem, Staff.”

“Twelve
different
programs,” she qualified.

“The Hazardous Environment Course 2 comes with an infinite number of nasties.”

“How realistic. So,” her voice reached out to include the entire team, “we’ll spend today and tomorrow running through singles and then break into squads. Guimond, you won’t need that much ammo for your KC. We’re playing variations on ‘find your way home,’ not ‘search and destroy.’”

The big Human looked down at the double handful of clips he was loading into bulging leg pouches and then up at Torin. “It’s simulated ammo,” he reminded her with a grin.

“True.”

“And you had explosives.”

“I fail to see the connection. Demolition packs are standard Recon equipment.” She draped her suit over one shoulder and tossed a pack across to him. “Don’t leave home without it.”

“And the ammo?” he asked, snapping the demo pack to his belt.

Torin sighed. “Take what you think you’ll need.”

“Thanks, Staff.”

“But…” Her attention expanded to once again include the entire team. “…if I get the impression any of you are becoming too dependent on the suits, we’ll run a couple of minimals.”

About to settle his helmet, Guimond paused. “So, Staff,
you’re saying you’d rather send me in naked with a knife in my teeth?”

Torin waited out a pause almost di’Taykan in its implications, then said, “Knife in your hand, Guimond. I’d hate to see you cut your head off. Now, check your system and get in there; we’re all getting older even if the universe isn’t.”

*   *   *

“A five percent death rate, Staff Sergeant?” Captain Travik shook his head in dismay. “I think you’re making the simulations too easy.”

“These Marines were specifically chosen, sir. They’re good.”

“Still, five percent. I don’t want General Morris to think I’m not taking your training seriously.”

As the captain’s only contact with the team so far had been in the briefing room, Torin figured General Morris would have grounds. On the bright side, if the captain wasn’t involved, he wasn’t screwing things up. “The programs were taken from the HE2, sir.”

“Two?” His brow furrowed until it met his upper nose ridges. “Did I order you to run two?”

“You weren’t specific about which simulations to run, sir. These were the best we had on hand.”

The extra ridges smoothed. “The best; I see.” He beamed in approval.

Torin suspected he’d just edited reality and made the HE2s his idea from the start—standard operating procedure for bad officers. As far as she was concerned, he could claim to be the guy who’d dreamed up close order drill just so long as he didn’t put her people in unnecessary danger.

As for the HE2s: in the interest of getting a leg up on his next course, Huilin had picked up a bootleg copy of the advanced simulations and, together, using information they’d acquired on their last course, he and Jynett had managed to crack the instructor’s code so it would run—nothing Captain Travik needed to know.

She glanced down at the report she’d just finished summarizing. “We’ll be running individual simulations tomorrow as well, sir.”

“Excellent.”

“Will you be coming by?”

“I don’t think so, Staff Sergeant.” Shifting forward in the chair, his chin rose, his chest went out. “The troops’ll stand a better chance if they’re not worried about me watching them.”

“I was thinking you might want to run the simulation yourself, Captain.”

“Me?”

Is there another captain in the room?
Calmly meeting his indignant gaze, she elaborated, “As your senior NCO, it’s my responsibility to point out that it’s been a while since you’ve suited up.”

“Your responsibility?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To point out that it’s been a while since I’ve suited up?”

“Yes, sir.” It was like talking to a primitive translation program that changed the pronouns and repeated everything said to it. Unfortunately, it was like talking to a primitive translation program wearing a captain’s uniform.

“A while?”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood, drawing himself up to his full height and jerking his tunic down in the same practiced motion. His shoulders squared, his head angled slightly, his lips curled back off his teeth. Torin couldn’t shake the impression he was staring into a vid cam only he could see. “Horohn 8 was a hazardous environment, Staff Sergeant, and I’m sure you’ve heard that I suited up there. In fact, I spent four hours in that
serley
suit; four hours fighting for my life while all around me, Marines were dropping like…” His nose ridges flushed lightly. “What is it that Humans have things dropping like?”

“Flies, sir.”

“Yes, exactly. All around me, Marines were dropping like flies. When an officer comes out of that kind of a situation, Staff Sergeant, he doesn’t need a hazardous environment course. He’s survived the only course that means anything.” The left half of his upper lip curled higher. “This mission is a mere moo two…”

“Sir?”

“A moo two.” His ridges flushed darker. “Military operation other than war. MOOTW.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. I won’t be putting the mission in danger by not
participating in your little drills, Staff Sergeant, and I resent the implication that you think I will. Continued insubordination will be reported to the general. Don’t think it won’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stared at her for a moment, trying to work out just what she was agreeing with. Torin gave him no help. “Good,” he said at last, hiding his uncertainty in movement. Dropping down into his chair, he propped one foot up on his desk and reached for his slate with the other. “Now, if you actually want those simulations to do some good, go have a word with your friend Mr. Ryder. He hasn’t the benefit of your training or my experience. I’d just as soon not have to include the details of his death in my report, and I’m sure you won’t want to be encumbered by his body while securing the alien vessel.”

*   *   *

With the bleed off from the Susumi drive giving her power to burn, the
Berganitan
used an internal transit system indistinguishable in every way but size from the links on the stations. Unable to go directly from the Marine attachment to the shuttle bays, Torin found herself waiting at an isolated transfer point. As much as she hated to agree with Captain Travik about anything, his observation on the Navy’s inability to draw a straight line had merit.

When the link finally arrived, a pair of emerging vacuum jockeys nearly ran her down.

One paused, turned, and smiled. “Staff Sergeant Kerr.”

“Lieutenant Commander Sibley.”

“You’re not lost, are you?” The vacuum jockey glanced around the corridor as though trying to figure out exactly where they were. “You’re a little off your usual beaten paths. And you know what they say, no one beats a path like a Marine.”

“Do they, sir?”

“Oh, yeah. Beats it into submission and plants a flag on it.”

“They don’t say that around me,” Torin told him after a moment’s consideration.

He nodded. “I can understand that.
Are
you lost?”

“No, sir.” When he indicated a need for more detail, she added, “I’m on my way to shuttle bay six to speak with Craig Ryder.”

“You want some advice? Don’t play poker with him.”

“Hadn’t intended to, sir.”

“Hey, Sibley!”

Torin and the pilot both turned toward the voice. The di’Taykan who’d emerged from the link at the same time was waiting down the corridor by an open hatch, citron hair a corona around his head. “You coming?”

“Not yet, still not even breathing hard.”

Too much information
, Torin decided. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m holding up the whole system here.” She stepped onto the link at the lieutenant commander’s good-natured wave. He must have said something she didn’t catch because as the door closed she heard the di’Taykan officer say, “No, we’re going to my quarters because your quarters are such a disaster I can’t find my
kayti
!”

Way too much information…

*   *   *

Craig Ryder’s ship, the
Promise
, nearly filled shuttle bay four. Torin found it hard to believe he’d managed to dock it cleanly, but both the hull and the edges of the
Berganitan
that she could see appeared to be free of scrapes. Whatever else Ryder was, he was one hell of a pilot.

Without the cargo pods extended, the
Promise
looked like a Navy ship to ship shuttle crouched under a stack of cross-slatted panels. Considering the dimensions of the most basic Susumi drive, Torin understood why CSOs tended to work alone—two people would have to be very friendly to share the remaining space.

The hatch was open, and the ramp was down.

Curiosity may have made her approach quieter than necessary, the only sound as she made her way up the ramp the soft and ever present hum of Susumi space stroking the
Berganitan
’s outer hull.

May have.

The interior of the salvage ship was smaller than she’d imagined. To her left were the flight controls and the pilot’s seat. Directly across from the hatch, a half-circle table butted up to a wall bench. To her right, across the blunt end of the oval, a bunk and a narrow opening leading to—she leaned through the tiny air lock—the toilet facilities. It looked as though taking a shower involved closing the door and the toilet seat and standing in the middle of the tiny room.

Bits of paper and plastic had been stuck to the bulkhead over the bunk and a single white sock lay crumpled on the deck. A blue plastic plate, cup, and fork had been left on the table next to a small, inset screen. The pilot’s chair looked as though it had been built up out of spare parts and duct tape—clearly tailored to fit only the dimensions of the builder.

Approximately five meters from the edge of the control panel to the bunk and three, maybe three and a half meters, from side to side, Craig Ryder’s entire world was smaller than the smallest Marine Corps APC.

How could anyone live like that?
She found her gaze drawn back to the sock.
Or more specifically, what kind of person would choose to?

“I don’t recall inviting you on board, Staff Sergeant Kerr.”

Torin glanced down at her boots before turning. “I’m not on board, Mr. Ryder.”

“You’re on my ramp.”

“Granted. I apologize for intruding.” Half a dozen long strides brought her back to the shuttle bay’s deck and almost nose to nose with Craig Ryder, close enough to smell sweat and machine oil about equally mixed. Bare arms folded, a wrench held loosely in one hand, he clearly wasn’t moving, so she took a single step away. Common sense suggested keeping a careful distance—if it came to it, she needed enough room to swing. “The hatch was down, and the door was open.”

“I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Unfolding one arm, he scratched in the beard under his chin with the wrench and smiled charmingly. Strangely, the two actions didn’t cancel each other out. “You’re a long way from the Marine attachment. Can I assume you’re here for the pleasure of my company?”

“No.”

“No?”

It was like looking at two different men—the one who’d been standing at the end of the ramp watching her descent under lowered brows and the one who’d just repeated her blunt response in tones of exaggerated disbelief. Given a choice, Torin would have preferred to deal with the former.

“I’m here,” she explained, “because you’re not hooked to the
Berganitan
.”

“I hook to the ship, the ship hooks to me.” Ryder shook his head. “A little too much give and take for my tastes. Since you couldn’t call, what did you walk all the way down here for?”

“I’m here to assess your hazardous environment status.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not being funny, Mr. Ryder.” Although he clearly thought she was. The urge to wipe the smirk off his face was nearly overwhelming. She wouldn’t have taken that kind of attitude from a Marine, enlisted or commissioned, but she had no idea of how to handle it coming from a civilian. “Look, we have no idea of what we’ll face inside the alien vessel…”