The Heart of Valour (9 page)

“You’re about to suggest that we don’t need to go to Crucible, aren’t you, Gunny? Don’t bother answering,” he continued before she could speak, “I know how you think. They are not debilitating and we are going to Crucible although, should they figure out what bits of my brain are hurting and why, I won’t turn down a magic pill.”

“Glad to hear that, sir.”

“And you’ve got to look at the bright side, Gunny. At least there’s medical evidence that you’re serving under an officer
with
a brain.”

“Yes, sir.” A very early retirement indeed.

“
W
e’ll be going north with Platoon 71, Gunny, dropping into NHS19.” Major Svensson tapped the position on the map displayed on his desk. “It’s midwinter there: cold but dry. Platoon 72’s going to the tropics, just over three thousand k south, but I’ve had enough of being warm and wet for the time being. The scenario involves us attempting to get an important civilian out of a combat zone to the pickup point; the platoon will be supporting us. Neither my orders nor yours will supersede the senior DI’s.”

“And the junior DI’s?”

The major grinned. “I expect that’ll depend on their orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You look doubtful, Gunny.” He waved his left hand. “Afraid this is likely to drop off?”

“Not actually my problem, sir. I’m concerned about Dr. Sloan.”

“You don’t think thirty-seven Marines can keep one not particularly large civilian alive? Even if thirty-two of them aren’t quite Marines? Don’t worry about it,” he continued before Torin could answer, “she’ll be wearing an observer’s chip. The system will be unable to fire directly at her.”

That would have been reassuring, except experience had taught her that direct fire was usually a lot less dangerous than random fire; soft target rounds tended toward the impersonal. It was also significantly less dangerous than artillery fire, which often resulted in large, indiscriminate explosions collapsing buildings and/or landscapes, and entirely less dangerous than friendly fire, which was unfortunately likely when thirty-two recruits were given live ammo and tossed into a simulated combat situation. Since experience had taught Major Svensson the same thing, Torin stuck with a neutral, “Yes, sir.”

His expression suggested he’d clearly heard the subtext. “She’ll be in full combats under that jacket of hers, Gunny, with all the built-in safeties the squints in R&D can devise and let’s not forget that the system would have to get through you and me to take her down.”

“That’s not my concern either, sir; since Crucible is designed to challenge one twenty recruits, we should be able to kick its ass. I’m concerned about whether or not Dr. Sloan will be willing to put in the full twenty days once she gets a taste of what it’ll be like. Since the point of the exercise is to get to the pickup point and the OP won’t send down transport without a serious injury registering, does she know she’s in for the duration? Escorting a willing civilian is a whole different ballgame than escorting one who’s kicking and screaming and wanting to go home.”

“I don’t think Dr. Sloan’s the kicking and screaming type, Gunny, and—more importantly—I think she’ll stick it out. She maintains an amazing focus on the tiniest details of what she’s working on—which would be, currently, me or rather…” He waved the hand again. “…
this
, but that kind of focus blurs out the bigger picture, so if we can keep her and her slate undamaged, we’ll be laughing. Besides…” One finger tapped the map, and NHS19 expanded to fill the desktop, multicolored lights flashing throughout the section. “…you’ve already uploaded the scenario, so I’m betting that by the time we’re dropped you’ll be able to run it with your eyes closed.”

“Yes, sir.” It was good to work with an officer who knew what to expect.

Jonin was in the corridor, lingering by the hatch to her quarters when Torin left the major a few minutes later. The di’Taykan recruit looked conflicted.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?”

Since Taykan in the di phase would have sex with anything that fell into their uniquely broad definition of compatible, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he was there. “No, thank you, Jonin. Not interested.”

“It’s not that, Gunnery Sergeant. Although…” He looked momentarily intrigued, remembered she’d already said no, and started again. “If I may ask you a question?”

She should have known; di’Taykans never looked
conflicted
about sex. “Go ahead.”

“As I understand it, you outrank Staff Sergeant Beyhn? And the other DIs?”

That wasn’t among the questions she’d expected. “Glad to see you were paying attention when they were teaching you the command structure of the Corps, Recruit.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” His hair drooped. “If it happened that there was a problem with Staff Sergeant Beyhn, would I go to you?”

“Is there a problem?”

He looked conflicted a moment longer, then said simply, “I don’t know.”

About to tell him to come back when he did know, Torin reconsidered. Whatever the problem he suspected, it had visibly upset him and while he wasn’t specifically her responsibility, in a general way they all were—where
they
meant not just these two platoons of recruits but the NCOs she outranked as well. “Can you tell me what kind of a problem it may or may not be?”

“I apologize, but I can’t. It’s personal.”

His eyes were so pale, so many of the light receptors closed, she’d be amazed if he could see her at all. “Personal about you or…”

“Jonin!”

He snapped to attention at the sound of the staff sergeant’s voice and just for a second, Torin could have sworn he looked terrified. Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s sudden arrival had wound him so tight he practically twanged when he moved. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr is not interested in your 120
kayti.
Ask her again when—make that if—you survive Crucible.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Now get back into the common room. Staff Sergeant Dhupam is about to review ways to take out a drone.”

The recruits were encouraged to do as much damage to the systems on Crucible as they could. This always turned out to be more difficult than they expected.

Jonin didn’t look at her again before he moved, but he half turned as he passed the sergeant and Torin, watching closely, saw his nostrils flare. The di’Taykan had an extremely sensitive sense of smell and the pheromones they produced were the secret of their success in interspecies intimacy. Since most other species found constant sexual arousal to be at the very least distracting, di’Taykan wore pheromone maskers when in mixed groups.

Was Jonin trying to tell her that Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s masker was malfunctioning? If it was, it was happening at a level Torin couldn’t detect. As the sergeant moved closer, she felt no desire to do her old DI up against the bulkhead—and was, in point of fact, profoundly relieved by the total absence of those feelings.

“So, I hear your major decided to come dirtside with 71. I don’t suppose you influenced his decision in any way?”

“Me, influence an officer’s decision? Never happen.” When Beyhn snorted, she grinned. “And in this case it didn’t happen; the major just preferred to spend twenty days cold instead of overheated.”

“I’m happy he’s happy, and I’d have to say I’m fairly happy about it myself. Sergeant Jiir, now, he’s unhappy. You know how Krai hate the cold.”

“I expect he’ll have enough to do to keep warm.”

“You’ve gone over the scenario?”

“I have.”

“Good. It never hurts to have backup.”

“Speaking of backup…”

“You’re not getting the codes,” he told her flatly. “Not you or your major. You’re observers only, and I know you; given half a chance you’ll think you’ve come up with a better way to do things, so I’m not putting the power to make changes into your hands. Now…” His hair flipped in the general direction of the recruits’ common room. “…I’d better get back in there; Connie’s alone with the horde. Gunny.”

“Staff.” Since she had no reason to watch him walk to the common room hatch, Torin entered her own quarters, crossed the room, and frowned down at the matte black surface of the desk. She’d never had a conversation with a di’Taykan so devoid of innuendo. Staff Sergeant Beyhn hadn’t reacted with as much as a raised brow to either the major being overheated or the prospect of Sergeant Jiir having enough to do to keep warm. And, as disturbing as it might be when it concerned her old drill instructor, Humans always felt a low level of attraction to the di’Taykan, even with the maskers. Since the di’Taykan were doing everything they could to neutralize this, susceptible members of the Confederation learned to ignore it.

There had been nothing to ignore with Staff Sergeant Beyhn. There was nothing there.

Dropping into the chair, she called up all available medical files on the di’Taykan. If the staff sergeant was coming down with something, it would be best to catch it before he was dropped into a Crucible winter with thirty-two recruits, a convalescent major, and a civilian doctor.

She found nothing that listed lack of overt libido—hers and his—as a symptom and had to assume that his masker was just more efficient than most. If it was blocking enough of the pheromones to drop them under the levels even his own species could scent, then it was no wonder that Jonin had gotten upset. To the younger male’s senses, it would be as if his senior DI had become a walking, talking mannequin.

Although…

None of the other di’Taykan recruits seemed affected—or, more accurately, none of the other recruits had come to her with the problem. The best solution seemed to involve taking a closer look at the rest of the platoon before she came to a decision about approaching the sergeant. Facing down a thousand Silsviss had less potential for disaster than coming between a senior DI and his platoon right before Crucible.

* * *

There were a group of Krai working the ropes over in a corner, but, otherwise, Torin had the
NirWentry
’s larboard gym to herself. She didn’t much like treadmills, but 0530 of day two in Susumi space had seen the Marine packet filled with recruits pounding along the corridors and up and down ladders over the convoluted five k course their DIs had worked out. A few moments’ observation had shown no di’Taykan, including Jonin, having any obvious difficulties as they passed Staff Sergeant Beyhn and yelled out the nine-digit core of their seventeen-digit ID number, so she headed off-packet for a little peace and quiet.

Not even vacuum jockeys ran through the convoluted corridors of the big destroyers and either the starboard gym was the more popular or not many members of the
NirWentry
’s crew worked out this early.

She’d just hit the three k mark and was starting to pick up speed when Major Svensson stepped through the hatch followed by a yawning Dr. Sloan. They both acknowledged her. Then, to her surprise, as the major headed for the resistance machines Dr. Sloan claimed one of the other treadmills, docking her slate and slipping on a visor. Had she been asked, Torin would have said that the doctor was there only to observe the major’s workout. Just as well she hadn’t been asked since she hated to be wrong.

She also hated not being able to see where she was actually putting her feet, but, given the new contours of her treadmill, the doctor had no such problem and preferred an environment that involved goat tracks corkscrewing up the side of mountains.

A fast two kilometers later, dripping sweat onto the deck, Torin crossed to see if the major needed a hand. He’d set his weight station into an ergometer configuration. As he sweated and swore and struggled to complete his last few reps, she checked the data pad.

“Sir, these settings are little high.”

“Cleared to work at 450 watts,” he panted, face flushed scarlet.

“You’re at 670 right now, sir.”

“No…”

“Your drag factor is increasing marginally with every rep—671, sir.” The veins in his temples were visibly pulsing, the larger veins in his throat standing out like blue wire raising the skin. His lips were nearly purple, his lungs not up to the demand for oxygen. His hair had spiked into wet triangles. If he didn’t stop, she was ending the program.

He stopped, dropping the oars, and sagging back as the seat reconfigured as a bench. Chest heaving, his arms fell to hang limp, fingertips leaving damp circles on the mats. “I set… resistance… with no increases.”

“Then there’s a glitch in the system.” Almost everyone right out of the tanks tried to do too much too soon, but—for now—she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. She reached out as he tried to sit, sliding an arm behind his shoulders and removing it as soon it seemed he could manage on his own. The major’s data was already in her slate. Had his med-alert gone off, she’d have had a reason to keep holding on, but as it hadn’t, she’d just have to pick him up if he fell. With any luck, he’d fall straight down and hit the mats, not the deck. “I’ll tag the unit out of order; the next user might be Navy and this thing could damage their more delicate physiques.”

“That’s what I like about you, Gunny,” the major gasped. “Always considering others. I just thought…” He blinked down at his hand as she wrapped trembling fingers around the curve of a water bottle. “Right. Good idea. I just thought,” he began again after a long, careful swallow, “that I was out of shape. Pull started to get heavier, but, fuk, everything does.”

“Look at the bright side, sir.” Torin snapped her slate back onto her belt. “At least you know you can break a one-thirty/five-hundred-meter split.”

“Yeah, and a shorter split might have killed me.”

“Also a good thing to know.”

“In case the scenario on Crucible includes a rogue rowing machine?”

“It never hurts to be prepared, sir.” He was still flushed, but his skin was so fair it showed every little bit of color to an extreme. A better indication was the healthy pink of his lips and the way his breathing no longer sounded quite so pained. In Torin’s professional opinion, he’d live.

“Might not hurt
you
,” he barked, the sound clearly intended to be a laugh but not quite making it. “But I’m sure as hell going to hurt la…”