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Overview
Staff Sergeant Torin Kerr was a battle-hardened professional. So when she and her platoon were yanked from a well-deserved leave for what was supposed to be “easy” duty as the honor guard for a diplomatic mission to the non-Confederation world of the Silsviss, she was ready for anything.
Sure, there’d been rumors of the Others—the sworn enemies of the Confederation—being spotted in this sector of space. But there were always rumors. The key thing was to recruit the Silsviss into the Confederation before the Others attacked or claimed these lizard-like warriors for their side. And everything seemed to be going perfectly. Maybe too perfectly . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780698152274 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Astra Publishing House |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2000 |
| Series: | Valor Novel , #1 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Random House Publisher Services |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 416 |
| Sales rank: | 63,211 |
| File size: | 828 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Raves for Valor’s Choice:
“Want mystery, courage, humor, and suspense—wrapped in grab-you-by-the-throat excitement? Look no further! Huff’s latest provides all this and more. Don’t plan anything else once you’ve opened this book.”
—Julie E. Czerneda, award-winning SF author
“As a heroine, Kerr shines. She is cut from the same mold as Ellen Ripley of the Aliens films: tough but humane, fiercely protective of her charges, and utterly determined to prevail. Like her heroine, Huff delivers the goods. Valor’s Choice does not make light of war, but at the same time it is incredibly fun to read. Howlingly funny and very suspenseful. I enjoyed every word.”
—Scifi.com
“The action is solid, and the Marines are an entertaining mix of oddballs…led by the highly competent and eminently likeable Staff Sergeant Kerr…a rousing military adventure.”
—Locus
“An intriguing alien race, a likeable protagonist, a fast moving plot, and a rousing ending. What more could you ask for?”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
“This book is Rendezvous with Rama for the rest of us: exciting, mysterious and full of action and puzzles to solve. Torin is everything you want in an action heroine (or hero, for that matter), and this book will leave readers anxious for her next adventure.”
—KLIATT
Also by:
TANYA HUFF
The Confederation Novels:
A CONFEDERATION OF VALOR omnibus:
VALOR’S CHOICE | THE BETTER PART OF VALOR
THE HEART OF VALOR
VALOR’S TRIAL
********
SMOKE AND SHADOWS
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
SMOKE AND ASHES
BLOOD PRICE
BLOOD TRAIL
BLOOD LINES
BLOOD PACT
BLOOD DEBT
********
THE QUARTERS NOVELS, VOL 1 omnibus:
SING THE FOUR QUARTERS | FIFTH QUARTER
THE QUARTERS NOVELS, VOL 2 omnibus:
NO QUARTER | THE QUARTERED SEA
********
The Keeper’s Chronicles:
SUMMON THE KEEPER
THE SECOND SUMMONING
LONG HOT SUMMONING
********
OF DARKNESS, LIGHT AND FIRE
********
WIZARD OF THE GROVE omnibus:
CHILD OF THE GROVE | THE LAST WIZARD
VALOR’S CHOICE
Tanya Huff
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
A writer and philosopher of the late twentieth century once said, “Space is big.” There are three well-known corollaries to this. The first is that the number of planets where biological accidents occurred in the correct order to create life is small. The second is that the number of planets where life managed to overcome the odds and achieve sentience is smaller still. And the third is that many of these sentient life-forms blow themselves into extinction before they ever make it off their planet of origin.
If space is big and mostly uninhabited, it should be safe to assume that any life-forms who really didn’t get along could avoid spending time in each other’s company.
Unfortunately, the fact that said life-forms could avoid each other doesn’t necessarily mean that they would.
When the Others attacked systems on the borders of Confederation territory, Parliament sent out a team of negotiators to point out that expansion in any other direction would be more practical as it would not result in conflict. The negotiators were returned in a number of very small pieces, their ship cleverly rigged to explode when it would do the most damage.
The Confederation found itself at a disadvantage. Its member races had achieved an interstellar presence only after they’d overcome the urge to destroy themselves or any strangers they ran into. Evidence suggested the Others had flung themselves into space without reaching this level of maturity. Clearly, in order to survive, the Confederation would have to recruit some more aggressive members.
Humans had a bare-bones space station and a shaky toe-hold on Mars when the Confederation ships appeared. Some fairly basic technology by Confederation standards, combined with the information that the Others were heading Earth’s way, convinced humanity to throw its military apparatus into space where they took to interstellar warfare the way the H’san took to cheese.
Some one and a half centuries of intermittent war later, borders had shifted, and Humans had been joined by first the di’Taykan and then the Krai. Much of the military terminology introduced into the Confederation’s common tongue remained Human although, as the three races became increasingly more integrated, di’Taykan and Krai words began creeping in. The Krai, for example, had sixteen useful adjectives describing the impact of an antipersonnel weapon on a soft target.
Although the induction of younger and more aggressive species had undeniably solved the problem presented by the Others, it had also irrevocably changed the face of the Confederation. Feeling just a little overwhelmed, many of the original species spent their spare time sighing and reminiscing about the good old days.
ONE
Reveillie was not the best thing to have reverberating through one’s skull after a night of too much and too little in various combinations. Making a mental note to change the program to something less painfully intrusive, Torin tongued the implant and tried to remember how to open her eyes during the five blessed seconds of silence before the first of her messages came in.
*At the chime, it will be 0530.*
The chime set up interesting patterns on the inside of her lids. What had she been drinking?
*Your liberty will be over at 0600.*
Which might be a problem, considering how much trouble she was having with basic bodily functions. Groping for the panel beside the bed, she applied what she hoped was enough pressure for dim lighting and cautiously cracked an eye. From the little she could see, these were not her quarters. The less than state-of-the-art wall utility suggested station guest quarters—for a not particularly important guest.
Finally managing to sort current sensation from memory, she turned her head toward the warm body pressed up against her side. The di’Taykan’s short lilac hair swayed gently in response to her exhalation, the pointed tip of an ear covered and uncovered by the moving strands.
A di’Taykan.
That explained things. It wasn’t a hangover, she had pheromone head.
Sliding out from under the blanket, Torin stood, stretched carefully, and filled her lungs with air that hadn’t been warmed by the di’Taykan’s body heat. As memories returned, she smiled. Not only did Humans find the Taykan incredibly attractive, but a Taykan in the di’ phase was one of the most indiscriminately enthusiastic life-forms in the Galaxy and offered the perfect and uncomplicated way to chase the memories of that last horrible planetfall right back to the galactic core.
*Captain Rose wants to see you in his office at 0800.*
There were two piles of clothing on the room’s one chair, both folded into neatly squared-off piles. He must’ve been raised by one strict sheshan, Torin thought, grabbing her service uniform and ducking into the bathroom. It had taken most of her nine years in the Corps to achieve that precise a fold, regardless of distraction.
When she emerged a few moments later, fully dressed, all she could see of her companion was a lithe lump under the blanket and a moving fringe of uncovered hair. Relieved, she moved silently toward the door, pausing only long enough to turn off the lights. A di’Taykan considered, “Once more before breakfast?” to be a reasonable substitute for “Good morning.” And, with no time to spare, she was just as happy not to have to test her willpower.
Outside in the corridor, the familiar “something’s leaking somewhere” smell of the station’s recycled air drove the last of the pheromone-induced haze from her head.
*0547* her implant announced when she prodded. Thirteen minutes before her liberty ended and her flasher came back up on screen. Thirteen minutes to get to a part of the station that wouldn’t incite prurient speculation among the duty staff.
“I should’ve reset wake-up for five. What was I thinking?” she muttered, diving into the vertical—fortunately empty at this hour—and free-falling two levels. Grabbing a handhold, she swung out onto the lock level. Easy answer, actually. She’d been thinking that she needed to forget the carnage, forget those they lost limping back to the station on a ship that had won its battle but nearly lost its own little slice of the war, forget the messages she’d sent to family and friends, and forget that new faces, always new faces, would soon be arriving to replace those they’d lost.
And she had been able to forget. For a while.
A di’Taykan wouldn’t feel used. She didn’t think they could.
* * *
Considering the time, it was a good thing station guest quarters were on the same side of the core as the barracks. Another vertical, another lock, and she was in NCO country.
*0600.*
Heading for her own quarters, Staff Sergeant Torin Kerr had her implant scan the night’s reports for any of the names she kept flagged. Apparently, no one had died and no one had gotten arrested.
Things hadn’t fallen apart while she was gone.
No harm done, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever see that particular di’Taykan again…
* * *
At 0758, showered, changed, and carrying her slate, Torin approached the captain’s door, turning over the possible reasons he’d moved their morning meeting up an hour. As senior surviving NCO, she’d been his acting First Sergeant since the battered remnant of Sh’quo Company had arrived back at the station. Clearly that wasn’t going to last, but it was unlikely Battalion HQ would send out a new First before the recruits needed to bring the company up to strength—unlikely but possible, she admitted after a moment’s reflection. Battalion HQ had shown what could only be called unique leadership in the past.
It was also possible that they were promoting her and the captain needed to tell her in time for her to make the 1000 shuttle. With a war on, it didn’t take long to make sergeant, but after that, promotions tended to slow down, common wisdom suggesting that by the time a grunt got that third chevron, they’d learned to duck. Still, with the company losing their First, there’d be a gunny moving up and that’d leave room for her.
She’d have rather had First Sergeant Chigma back. The few Krai who went into the Marines usually opted for armored platoons or air support—their feet just weren’t built for infantry—so those few who not only chose to be grunts but rose in the ranks left big shoes to fill in more than merely the literal sense. Unfortunately, since Chigma had ended up on the wrong end of an enemy projectile weapon their last planetfall…
*0759.*
Maybe Med-op had scheduled the captain for new treatments at nine.
Look at the bright side, she reminded herself, laying her palm against the sensor pad centered in the door. We’re in no condition to be sent back out.
* * *
The presence of a two star general in the captain’s office did not come as a pleasant surprise. In Torin’s experience, when generals ignored the chain of command to speak directly to sergeants, it was never good news. And smiling generals were the worst kind.
“You must be Staff Sergeant Kerr.”
She nodded as he stepped forward. “Sir.”
“Staff, this is General Morris.” The regeneration tank around the lower half of his left leg kept Captain Rose from standing, but his voice, unexpectedly deep from such a small man, was enough to stop the general’s advance. “He has new orders for you.”
“Say rather an opportunity. But don’t let me interrupt.” He gestured at the slate under Torin’s arm. “I understand you’ve been acting First. We’ll talk once you’ve finished your morning report.”
“Sir.” Her face expressionless under the general’s smiling regard, she crossed to the desk and downloaded the relevant files. Right now, with no more information to go on than his smile and two dozen words delivered in an annoying we’re-all-in-this-together tone, she’d be willing to bet that, first of all, General Morris had never seen combat and, second, that Captain Rose liked him even less than she did. As the captain appeared to know what was going on, her sense of impending disaster strengthened.
“Doctorow’s no longer critical?”
“Regained consciousness at 0300. Woke up and demanded to know what…” Given the general’s presence, she rephrased the quote. “…idiot had taken his implant off line.”
“Good news.” Quickly scanning the rest of the report, the captain looked up, brows rising. “No one got arrested?”
“Apparently some vacuum jockeys off the Redoubt got into a disagreement with some of our air support in Haligan’s, and betting on the fight provided a sufficient diversion.”
“Wait a minute,” the general interrupted, one hand raised as if to physically stop further discussion. “Am I to understand that you expected your people to get arrested?”
Together, Torin and the captain turned, Torin shifting position slightly, unable to move to the captain’s side but making it quite clear where she stood as he answered. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell the general what kind of planetfall we had. After something like that, I expect my people to need to blow off.”
The general’s broad cheeks flushed nearly maroon. “You’ve been on station for six days.”
“Half of us have. Sir.” Like many combat officers, Captain Rose had come up through the ranks and he’d retained the NCO’s ability to place inflection on that final sir.
The two men locked eyes.
General Morris looked away first. “They say another company wouldn’t have got that many out,” he admitted.
“I have good people, sir. And I lost good people.” The quiet reminder drew Torin’s gaze down to the captain’s face, and she frowned slightly. He looked tired; his fair skin had developed a grayish cast, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Had they been alone, she’d have asked how the regeneration was going; as it was, she made a mental note to check his condition with Med-op as soon as possible. As acting First, he was as much her concern as the company.
“Yes. Good people.” General Morris straightened and cleared his throat. “Which leads us nicely into what I’m here for.”
Oh, shit. Here it comes. Torin braced herself as he aimed that I’m looking for someone to get their tail shot off smile directly at her.
“I need a platoon for a special duty, shipping out ASAP.”
“I haven’t got a platoon, sir.”
He looked momentarily nonplussed, then the smile returned. “Of course, I see. I should have said, I need you to put together a platoon out of the available Marines.”
“Out of what’s left of Sh’quo Company, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Out of the survivors, sir?”
“Yes.” The general’s smile had begun to tighten.
Torin figured she’d gotten as much satisfaction from that line of inquiry as she was likely to. “A lot of them have leave coming, sir, but we should have new recruits arriving shortly.”
“No. Even if I had time to wait for new recruits, I couldn’t use them.” Folding his hands behind his back in what Torin thought she recognized as parade ground rest—it had been a long time since she’d seen a parade ground—the general fixed her with an imposing stare. “I’m fully aware of your situation, Staff Sergeant Kerr, yours and Sh’quo Company’s, and I wouldn’t be canceling leaves if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. The problem, Sergeant, is this: I’m putting together a very important diplomatic mission intended to convince a new race, the Silsviss, to join the Confederation and I need an honor guard. A military escort is absolutely essential because the political leadership of the Silsviss is dominated by a powerful warrior caste that we most certainly do not want to insult. After careful consideration, I’ve decided that Sh’quo Company is the best available unit.”
“As an honor guard?” Torin glanced from the general to her captain—who looked so noncommittal that the hope it was some kind of a joke died unborn—and back to the general again. “We’re ground combat, sir, not a ceremonial unit.”
“You’ll do fine. All you have to do, Sergeant, is have the troops apply a little spit and polish and then stand around and look menacing. You’ll see new worlds, meet new life-forms, and not shoot at them for a change.” He paused for laughter that never came, then continued gruffly. “It’s a win/win situation. I won’t have to pull a company out of their rotation for planetfall—which means Sh’quo Company won’t be rotated in before it’s their turn. As there’s no need for heavy artillery, company equipment can still get the overhaul it requires.”
“A full platoon makes quite an honor guard, sir.”
“It’s essential we make a strong impression, Sergeant.” For less than an instant, an honest emotion showed in the general’s eyes, but before Torin could identify it, he added, “Besides, it’ll give you a chance to break in your new second lieutenant.”
“My new…” Unable to think of anything to say to the general that wouldn’t get her court-martialed, she turned to Captain Rose. “Sir?”
“He arrived yesterday afternoon. I asked him to meet us here at 0900. The general thought you should receive your orders first and then he could give the lieutenant the overview.”
Officers handled the big picture, NCOs handled the minutia. Part of a staff sergeant’s minutia was handling new officers in charge of their first platoon. This would be Torin’s third, staff sergeants having a slightly longer life expectancy than second lieutenants.
The captain’s door announced an arrival just as her implant proclaimed 0900.
“Open.”
The door slid back into the wall and a di’Taykan wearing the uniform of a second lieutenant, Confederation Marine Corps, walked into the office, pheromone masker prominently displayed at his throat. It could have been any di’Taykan; Torin was no better than most Humans at telling them apart. Male and female, they were all tall, slender, and pointy and, even when heavily armed, moved like they were dancing. Their hair, which wasn’t really hair but a protein based sensor array, grew a uniform three inches long so they all looked as if they went to the same barber, and with their somewhat eclectic taste in clothing removed by the Corps…
It could have been any di’Taykan, but it wasn’t.
The lilac eyes, exactly one shade darker than his hair, widened slightly when he saw her and slightly more when he spotted the general. “Second Lieutenant di’Ka Jarret reporting as ordered, Captain.”
“Welcome to Sh’quo Company, Lieutenant. General Morris will begin your briefing in a moment, but in the meantime, I’d like you to meet Staff Sergeant Kerr. She’ll be your senior NCO.”
The corners of the wide mouth curled slightly. “Staff.”
“Sir.” There were a number of things Torin figured she should be thinking about now, but all that came to mind was, so that explains why he folded his clothes so neatly, which wasn’t even remotely relevant. She only hoped she’d managed to control her expression by the time Captain Rose turned his too-perceptive attention her way.
“Sergeant, if you could start forming that platoon…see if you can do it without splitting up any fireteams. The three of us…”
She had to admire how that us definitively excluded the general.
“…will go over what you’ve got this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.” Turning toward General Morris, she stiffened not quite to attention. “Begging the general’s pardon, but if I’m to cancel liberties, I need to know exactly how soon ASAP is.”
“Forty-eight hours.”
She should’ve known—a desk jockey’s version of as soon as possible, or in other words, no real rush. “Thank you, sir.” Retrieving her slate from the captain’s desk, she nodded at all three officers, turned on her heel, and left the room.
The general’s hearty voice followed her out into the corridor.
“Lieutenant, I’ve got a proposal I think you’ll…”
Then she stepped beyond the proximity grid and the door slid shut.
“Figures,” Torin sighed. “Officers get a proposal and the rest of us just get screwed.”
Technically, she could’ve worked at the First’s desk in the small office right next to the captain’s. All Chigma’s personal files had been deleted, every trace of his occupancy removed—it was just a desk. Smarter than any other she’d have access to, but still, just a desk. Which was why she didn’t want to use it. Sometimes it was just too depressing to contemplate how quickly the Corps moved on.
The verticals were crowded at this hour of the morning, so she grabbed the first available loop for the descent down to C deck, exchanging a disgusted look with a Navy Warrant one loop over; both of them in full agreement that their careful progress represented an irritating waste of time. By the time she finally swung out onto the deck, Torin was ready to kill the idiot in station programming who’d decided to inflict insipid music on trapped personnel.
“’Morning, Staff.”
The cheerful greeting brought her up short, and she turned toward the Marine kneeling by the edges of the lock with a degrimer, turquoise hair flattened by the vibrations. The grooves could have been scrubbed automatically, but on a station designed to house thousands of Marines, manual labor became a useful discipline. “Maintenance duties again, Haysole?”
The di’Taykan grinned. “I was only cutting across the core. I figured I’d be there and back before anyone noticed I wasn’t wearing my masker.”
“You crossed the core on a Fivesday evening unmasked—and you’re only on maintenance?”
“I kept moving, it wasn’t too bad.” Turquoise eyes sparkled. “Unfortunately, Sergeant Glicksohn was also crossing the core. Uh, Staff…” He paused while a pair of Human engineers came through the lock, waiting until they’d moved beyond their ability to overhear. “…I heard you were seeing stars in the captain’s office.”
Torin folded her arms around her slate. Many di’Taykan worked in Intelligence—most species had to make a conscious effort not to confide in them. She had no idea how need-to-know General Morris had intended to keep the status of his visit, but it was irrelevant now. “What else have you heard, Haysole?”
He grinned, taking her lack of denial for confirmation. “I’ve heard that the general’s looking for a chance to be, oh, let’s say, more than he is.”
“A promotion?”
“No one used that exact word, but…” His voice trailed off suggestively.
Torin ignored the suggestion. “That’s it?”
“About the general. But I’ve also heard that the new trilinshy is a di’Ka.”
She frowned, and his grin disappeared as he realized she’d translated trilinshy to something approximating its distinctly uncomplimentary meaning.
“That is,” he corrected hastily, “the new second lieutenant is a di’Ka, Staff Sergeant. High family. Not going to be easy to work with.”
“For me or for you?” Private First Class Haysole was a di’Stenjic. Five more letters in a Taykan family name made for a considerable difference in class.
“You know me, Staff…” His gesture suggested she could know him better any time it was convenient. “…I try to get along with everybody.”
“Staff Sergeant Kerr?”
Torin started, suddenly aware she’d been staring at nothing for a few moments too long, the implications of shepherding an aristocratic second lieutenant and a combat platoon through a planetfall where no one got to shoot anything suddenly sinking in. And just in case that doesn’t seem like enough fun, let’s not forget you slept with said lieutenant. The one bright light in her morning was that that particular little tidbit hadn’t been picked up by the gossip net. “You missed a spot,” she said, pointing, and left him to it.
* * *
The desire for stimulants following hard on the heels of sentience, coffee had been one of Earth’s prime agricultural exports to the Confederation almost from the moment of contact. Most days, Torin appreciated the history of being able to drink exactly the same beverage that her several times great grandmother had back in the dark ages, but today she’d give her right arm for a cup of Krai sah and its highly illegal effect on the Human nervous system.
“Staff? I got that download you wanted on the Silsviss.”
Resisting the urge to yawn, she leaned into the video pickup. “Thank you, Corporal. Send it to the desk.”
“Sending,” the tiny image of the Admin corporal acknowledged, and disappeared.
There wasn’t much.
In an effort to secure a section of the front, the Confederation planned to lay a new pattern of defense satellites with the optimum pattern placing one satellite directly in the center of 7RG6 or what was now to be called the Silsviss System. Unfortunately, the Silsviss, a warm-blooded reptilian race, had developed a limited intrasystem space travel. Both their moon and the nearest neighboring planet had been reached and they were in the process of building an orbiting space station—although Torin wondered how they’d found room for it given the number of weapons platforms already in orbit. Their technology, while crude by Confederation standards, was more than sufficient to destroy anything put into place without their cooperation—making it essential to get their cooperation.
“Thus the suck-up mission,” Torin muttered, refilling her mug from the dispenser in the desk. She didn’t know what General Morris had been drinking but spit and polish was not a high priority for a combat unit. If Haysole’s sources were right—which they usually were—and the general intended this mission to push him toward promotion, the man was a bigger idiot than she’d first thought.
Unfortunately, he was a two star idiot.
Not counting Lieutenant Jarret and herself, she needed to find thirty-nine Marines—nine four-person fireteams and three sergeants—who had not only been cleared by Med-op for planetfall but who wouldn’t inadvertently turn a diplomatic mission into a bloodbath. Even had Sh’quo Company’s three infantry platoons been at full strength, choosing nine from the twenty-seven fireteams wouldn’t have been easy. Choosing from among the seventeen teams Med-op had cleared was a nearly impossible task.
It was a choice that didn’t involve the kind of parameters a computer could handle.
First Sergeant Chigma would’ve called his three Staff Sergeants together. To pick our brains, Torin thought darkly. It wasn’t a phrase she could say aloud, given the Krai’s unfortunate taste for Human tissue. Unfortunately, with her acting as First that left only two platoon NCOs and Med-op had Greg Reghubir tanked for the foreseeable future. Down to one. After a moment’s thought, she keyed Sergeant Sagarha’s implant code into the desk. He’d taken over what was left of Reghubir’s platoon. While it was likely he only knew the fireteams in his own squad, he was still the best source she had. Then she leaned around the edge of the dividing wall and into the next Staff cubicle.
“When you’ve got a moment, Amanda, I need you at my desk.”
* * *
“You’re running heavy on Humans here; there’s got to be another di’Taykan or two available somewhere.” Amanda tapped a fingertip against her screen until it protested. “What about Haysole?”
“I’m a little concerned about the class difference with our new lieutenant.”
Sh’quo Company’s other surviving staff sergeant raised an auburn brow. “You’d rather they worked it out in combat?”
“I’d rather they didn’t work it out in front of a dozen diplomats and a species we’re trying to impress.” Leaning back in her chair, Torin turned toward the other person at the desk. “What do you think, Sagarha?”
Sergeant di’Garn Sagarha frowned thoughtfully. “Might be trouble if di’Ka wasn’t an officer. Since he is, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll tell you what I would be concerned about, though: Haysole’s a fuk-up. He’s fine in combat, but the moment no one’s shooting at him, he gets bored, and the next thing you know, he’s got three days’ latrine duty.”
“Nothing wrong with clean toilets,” Amanda pointed out.
“Is there anyone else?”
The three of them rechecked the lists.
“Not in a complete fireteam, no.”
“Then I guess Haysole’s going.” Torin moved the di’Taykan’s fireteam over to the platoon file. “If he gets too bored, I’ll shoot at him myself.”
“You’re a little low on Krai.”
“Only four of the six are available, and I’m taking one of them,” she pointed out.
“Why not take Ressk?”
“I’d love to. It’d be nice to have a few more brains along on this trip.” One of Sergeant Sagarha’s squad, Ressk had been known to make secure military programming sit up and beg. Intelligence wanted him, but fortunately for the company, he didn’t want Intelligence.
“You take Ressk, you also get Binti Mashona. I’ve recommended her for sniper school twice, but we keep shipping out before Admin clears the file.”
“Like I said, I’d love to, but isn’t their team leader still out?”
Sagarha checked his slate. “My Med-op download has Corporal Hollice cleared for duty in thirty-six hours.”
“I wonder why mine doesn’t,” Torin muttered, tracing a path through the icons. “Some idiot probably sent it to the First’s desk.”
“Some idiot probably thought that’s where you’d be,” Amanda pointed out, adding, “I thought Hollice lost a thumb?”
“He did, but Ressk dropped it in a cold box, and the corpsmen had it reattached before we got back to the station.”
“Bet Ressk was pissed at losing his snack,” she snickered.
“Marines do not eat other Marines,” Torin muttered absently. The eight teams they’d managed to come up with had used up all the “A” list and taken a few off the “B.” Pickings were getting slim. Finally, she sighed. “I don’t see any way around it. We’re going to have to use Corporal Conn’s team.”
“No.” Amanda shook her head. “I promised him some time to see his daughter. He’s got leave coming.”
“Point one, General Morris canceled all leaves. Point two, he’s all we’ve got left. It can’t be Algress, not with a reptilian life-form on the planet—not after Rarna IV.”
“I thought Psych took care of that.”
After a pregnant pause, the three NCOs snorted simultaneously.
“It’ll have to be Conn,” Torin repeated.
“But his daughter…”
With life expectancy at around a hundred and twenty old Earth years, most Human Marines put off having kids until they were either out of the Corps or had decided to make it a career. Corporal Grad Conn had fallen in love, applied for married quarters on station, and started a family. His daughter Myrna Troi had become Sh’quo Company’s unofficial mascot and everyone took a turn at spoiling her. Even Torin, who usually found kids about as inexplicable as the H’san, thought she was pretty cute. And it was hard not to admire a four-year-old who could disassemble a hygiene unit into so many pieces it took three engineers most of a duty shift to put it back together.
“Extend his liberty until we assemble for boarding.”
“On whose authority?”
“Mine.”
Voice conspiratorially lowered, Amanda leaned toward the di’Taykan. “She’s even beginning to sound like a First Sergeant.”
“Very dominant,” Sagarha agreed, smiling broadly.
“Very in charge of your butts,” Torin reminded them.
“Crap.” Amanda straightened, a sudden realization drawing her brows in over the bridge of her nose. “This means I’m going to be acting First while you’re gone. If I find out you’ve volunteered for this mission to get out of processing those new recruits…”
“Shall I tell the captain you’re volunteering to go in my place?”
“Not fukking likely.”
“What about sergeants?” Sagarha wondered.
“Are you volunteering?”
He grinned. “Not fukking likely.”
“I’d like to take Doctorow; he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a socially apt pain in the ass and that could come in handy. Unfortunately, Med-op won’t release him until Psych has a chance to go in and do some dirty work.”
“You should tell them he’s always like that.”
“I did. They didn’t listen. That said, I want Glicksohn, Chou, and Trey.”
“Two humans and a di’Taykan?”
“The lieutenant’s di’Taykan. We’ll balance.”
The three of them stared down at the final list of thirty-nine names. “You think the captain’ll rubber stamp this?” Amanda asked.
“He’d better.”
“Something I’ve always wondered…what’s a rubber stamp?”
Torin shrugged, uploading the list into her slate. “Damned if I know.”
* * *
A short visit to the armory turned into over an hour of listening to complaints. I should’ve bailed when I heard “Hey, Kerr, aren’t you acting First?” I can’t believe Chig put up with that.
Running late, Torin grabbed lunch at a species-neutral cantina in the core. Her day thus far called out for a big dish of poutine and a beer; unfortunately duty called out louder and she settled for a bowl of noodles garnished not very liberally with an indeterminate mix of greens and meat. There are times, she thought, deciding it might be best if the meat remained unidentified, when I almost wish I’d stayed on the farm.
“Can I join you?”
Then there were those times when there was no almost about it. “It’s a public cantina, sir.”
Pulling up a stool, Lieutenant Jarret rested his elbows on the table and smiled. “And if it wasn’t?”
“Fraternization between the ranks is discouraged for a good reason, Lieutenant—di’Taykan with di’Taykan excepted, of course. It undermines the structure of command and it can lead to distorted judgment in life-and-death situations.”
“Are you telling me last night—you and I—never happened?”
“No, sir, I’m telling you it won’t happen again.” She stared into her noodles. “Although it would certainly help my position with, oh, just about everyone, if we both pretend it never happened.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I look at you I’m going to think of…” Lilac eyes glittered, and she smiled in spite of herself. “Yeah, all right, it’s a pleasant memory, but…”
“…you can’t have every Human in the platoon thinking about it every time you pass on one of my orders.” He returned the smile. “I understand the species parameters, Staff Sergeant Kerr, as regrettable as I may find them, which is what I actually sat down to tell you.”
“Oh.” A sudden burst of giggles from across the cantina gave Torin an excuse to move her attention to a small table overwhelmed by three Human teenagers.
“What is it?”
“You’re being watched, sir.”
He glanced over his shoulder at them, and, after a moment of stunned silence, one teen sighed, “Elves,” while the other two just sighed.
The off-the-record reaction of the First Human Contact Team upon meeting the di’Taykan had been, “Holy fuk, they’re elves!” To the horror of right thinking xenoanthropologists everywhere, the name stuck. Once exposed to the mythology that had engendered the remark, the di’Taykan as a whole didn’t seem to mind, and a number of the di’Taykan had embraced the lifestyle wholeheartedly. During basic training, Torin had actually met a di’Taykan who’d been named Celeborn after a character in an old Terran book.
The sighs turned to giggles.
“I think you may need to readjust your masker, sir.”
“I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be their age.”
“And happy to have forgotten.” She pushed the empty container into the recycling chute and stood. “It’s 1340, sir. The captain wants to see us at 1400.”
Lieutenant Jarret stood as well and nodded toward her slate as they crossed the cantina in step. “Is there anything specific I should know about the people you’ve chosen?”
“They all would’ve preferred that I’d chosen someone else, but other than that, no.” Torin considered it a good sign that the lieutenant was asking her for information. Too many officers came out of training thinking they were going to win the war single-handedly. Fortunately, that kind of officer usually didn’t last long in front of a combat unit—sometimes the enemy even got a chance to remove them. She frowned thoughtfully as they took the stairs up a deck. “They’re all good people to have at your side in a fight, sir, but I’m not sure how well they’ll manage ceremonial duties.”
“General Morris seemed to think that the Silsviss would be more impressed by your battle honors than by an ability to march in straight lines.”
“Lucky for us.”
“However, he did suggest that we run over some basic drill while in transit.”
Torin snorted.
“You don’t think it’s necessary, Sergeant.”
“Necessary? Yes, sir. Survivable?” She shrugged.
“The general seems to think that the platoon can consider this a sort of working leave.”
“Does he, sir?”
“You don’t?”
“Either we’re working, or we’re on leave. We can’t logically do both.”
“Good point, but the general thinks…”
Pausing outside the captain’s door, Torin sighed and turned to face the lieutenant. It was easy to forget, given their maturity in other areas, that a di’Taykan second lieutenant was as young and inexperienced as a Human one. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you’ll be giving orders to this platoon, not to the general. It might be best if you think for yourself.”
His ear points drooped slightly, but his tone showed none of the embarrassment he was clearly feeling. “I’ll take that under consideration, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.” She meant it sincerely and made it sound as much like thank you for listening as she could. Nobody liked to be patronized, second lieutenants uncertain of their own power least of all.
Lieutenant Jarret studied her face, then suddenly smiled. “You know the general also told me that a good Staff Sergeant is worth her weight in charge canisters.”
“I suspect General Morris has never been in combat, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because if that’s all he’s getting for a good staff sergeant, he’s getting screwed…” Returning his smile, she stepped aside as the captain’s door opened. “…sir.”
TWO
“Is this all of them?”
“All but one, sir.”
Lieutenant Jarret, who’d been studying the Marines milling about below him in the loading bay, turned to face his staff sergeant. “One?” he asked.
The emphasis made his actual question unmistakable. Torin, who’d been trying to avoid mentioning names, no longer had a choice. “Corporal Conn, sir.”
“The man whose extended liberty you authorized?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He does know we’re leaving this morning?”
Torin winced at the deceptively mild tone. There was something about the way the di’Taykan used sarcasm that could cut through bulkheads. Before she could answer, an imperious voice demanding to be put down rose above the general noise, and she smiled. “That’s him now, sir.”
Jarret watched the big man lift a flame-haired child off his shoulders and set her carefully on the deck. “He brought his daughter?”
“Yes, sir, Myrna Troi. She always comes to see the company off.”
“I can’t get over what Humans are willing to expose their children to,” Jarret mused as the little girl ran about, accepting the homage of the platoon as her due. “Until they reach di’ phase, Taykan are a lot more sheltered.”
“We’re a pretty flexible species, sir.”
“And we’re not?” Lilac hair lifted, adding entendre.
“Lieutenant…”
“Sorry.” He grinned, clearly not at all sorry, and headed for the stairs. “Since Corporal Conn has decided to join us, let’s get started.”
* * *
“Probably I’ll be bigger when you get back. Probably I’ll be this big.” Up on her toes, Myrna Troi waved her hand in the air as high as she could, which was just barely higher than the top of her crouching father’s head. “Probably I gonna be a surgent,” she told him sternly, russet brows drawn in over emerald eyes. “And then you gotta do what I say and then you gotta not leave.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. Daddy doesn’t want to go, he has to.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then leaned into his shoulder and sighed deeply. “I know.”
“Take care of your mama while I’m gone.”
“Probably Mama will cry. Mama says you shouldn’t be a Marine no more. Mama says you should work on the station. Mama says probably Trisha got her boobs done.”
Looking a little taken aback by the last confidence, Corporal Conn kissed the top of his daughter’s head.
“You know what else? Probably my tooth will fall out when you’re gone.”
Torin moved past the two and went to stand by the huge double lock. At least this time we know he’ll be coming back to her, she thought as she had the platoon fall in. And then, just so as not to tempt fate, she added a prudent probably.
* * *
Three days out from the station, the Marine package of living quarters, mess, gym, armory, and air support locked on to the Confederation Ship Berganitan bringing the diplomatic party from in-sector.
Moments after the all clear sounded, the entire ship folded into Susumi space and everyone but the plasma engineers settled in to wait. Time in Susumi space was pretty much irrelevant to everyone but those who spent it working out the calculations that would bring the ship back into real space at essentially the moment it left although a considerable number of light-years away.
* * *
“Good news. Second Lieutenant Jarret graduated in the middle of his class.”
Several members of number one squad glanced up, and someone asked, “Why is that good news, Res?”
Bare feet up on one of the tables filling the area between the double row of bunks, Ressk stretched out his toes and grinned toothily up at Juan Checya, his fireteam’s heavy gunner. “Top of the class would’ve made him an insufferable overachiever and bottom of the class would’ve made him a chrick.”
“Edible?”
“Edible.”
Checya snorted and dropped onto his bunk. “What the fuk don’t you consider edible?”
“Not much,” Ressk admitted, fingers dancing over his slate. “Oh, my, this is interesting. One of the lieutenant’s parental units was Admiral di’Ka Tereal, now ex-Admiral qui’Ka Tereal, and she tried to block his application to Ventris Station.”
“Wanted him in the fukking Navy?”
“Wanted him out of the fighting entirely.”
Corporal di’Merk Mysho tossed her brush into her locker and leaned over Ressk’s shoulder. “It’s a qui’Taykan thing,” she explained. “There’s nothing more conservative than a breeder. Aren’t those restricted files?”
“Depends on what you mean by restricted.”
“Not intended to be accessed by all and sundry.”
“Which am I, all or sundry?”
She smacked him on the back of the head. “Didn’t Staff Sergeant Kerr specifically tell you not to invade classified areas while we’re on the Berganitan?”
“Technically, she told me not to invade classified areas of the Berganitan. I’m in Division records; all Marine, no Navy, no problem.”
“Unless you get caught.”
He brought a cup of sah to his mouth with one foot and took a long swallow. “Do I ever?”
“Do you ever what? Regret not eating Hollice’s thumb when you had the chance?” Pulling the cup from his toes, Binti Mashona, the fourth member of the fireteam, set it back on the table. “You know I hate it when you do that with food.”
“You’re just jealous my species has more opposable parts than yours.”
“I’m just thinking that foot spent most of the day in boots doing drill.”
“Speaking of opposable parts,” Juan interrupted, leaning down from his bunk. “You get lucky with that service tech back on station?”
“Nah.” Binti pulled a game biscuit out of her locker and slid it into the side of her slate. “She didn’t want to get involved with someone from a combat unit.”
“Involved? Fuk, I thought you just wanted to get laid.”
“If you wanted to get laid, why didn’t you ask a di’Taykan?” Mysho wondered.
“Because once you pop your masker, I don’t have a choice. Couldn’t change my mind if I wanted to.”
“But if you wanted sex…”
Ressk snorted. “It’s a Human thing, Mysho, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Speaking of Human things, you guys hear what the staff is up to tonight?” Binti grinned, her teeth startlingly white against the rich mahogany of her skin. “Big fancy reception to meet these diplomats we’re supposed to honor guard. Little tiny bits of food on platters, dress blacks, and polite conversation.”
There was a moment of startled silence, then Juan slowly shook his head. “Staff’s gonna fukking hate that.”
“Anyone want to see how badly she hates it?” Ressk tapped his slate suggestively. “I can tap into the ship’s security vids…” He let his voice trail off as the Marines gathered around the table exchanged speculative glances and then turned in unison toward Mysho.
“What?”
“You rank, Mysh.”
“Oh, no, Conn got his second hook long before I did.”
“Conn’s off trying to rabbit something shiny for Myrna. Your decision.”
She muttered something in her own language, then threw up her hands. “Why not. You’re going to do it anyway, Ressk, so we might as well all get a look at it.”
* * *
“Can one of you give me a hand with this? I can’t get the jacket to hang straight.”
Nearest the hatch separating the staff sergeants’ quarters from the NCO Common, Sergeant Mike Glicksohn stood and beckoned Torin closer. “And aren’t you just the picture of martial elegance.”
“Aren’t I just,” she agreed handing him her belt. “I can’t remember the last time I got this tarted up.”
“When you made Staff?”
“No, that was a field promotion—I was covered in Staff Sergeant Guntah’s guts and the only thing black on me was my fingernails where frostbite had started to set in.”
“I remember.” Anne Chou looked up from her slate. “Planet was barely habitable—we’d have ignored it if the Others hadn’t tried to set up a mining base.”
“So now we have a mining base there, and someday we’ll have to go back to the frozen hole in the ass end of space to protect it.”
“War is progress,” Glicksohn muttered, stepping back. “That’s got it.”
“Thanks.” Moving to the wall, Torin polarized the vid screen. “You think there’s a reason they make these collars so uncomfortable?” she asked, checking her reflection. “Does it seem hot in here?” Working her shoulders under the black cloth, she wondered why she suddenly felt so… “Trey!”
The three Humans turned toward the other end of the room where the di’Taykan sergeant had just come through from the showers.
“Give me a break,” she sighed, as she walked naked to her room. “What am I supposed to clip it to? Besides, you’re Human, repression’s good for you. And you,” she continued, pausing to grin at Torin, “should thank me because before the Corps absorbed the di’Taykan, you would’ve had to wear a hat with that.”
“Thank you,” Torin told the closed door. “And thank you,” she added as Chou turned the air recyclers on high. “Speaking of maskers, anyone know where Haysole is? I’ve barely seen him since we locked.”
“Zero gee bubble. He said something about trying to work his way through the Berganitan’s crew.”
“Vacuum jockeys, too?”
“Not all of them.” Glicksohn settled back in his chair and picked up the pouch of beer he’d discarded earlier. “I’ve got a game set up at 2130, and a few showed interest.”
“Playing on neutral ground?”
“Close as you can get on this flying fish tank.”
“Who’s going with you in case the vjs get ugly?”
Glicksohn snorted. “Is there any other kind?”
“Mike…”
“Sam Austin’s going and Esket from the aircrew. Happy?” When she nodded, he grinned. “You worry too much.”
“It’s my job. And speaking of my job, did either of you…any of you,” she corrected as Trey came out of her quarters, “manage a species check on the diplomats?”
“Dornagain and Mictok,” Trey told her dropping into a chair.
Glicksohn tossed her a beer. “I thought the Silsviss were reptilian; why not send Raszar or Niln? Let them know they’re not the only lizards around before they join up.”
“Or why not H’san?” Chou wondered. “Everybody likes the H’san.”
“I’m guessing that they’re not sending reptilians because they don’t want to suggest competition.” Torin flicked a bit of lint off her campaign ribbons. “And there was a H’san on the first contact team; the Silsviss kept remarking on how much it smelled like food.”
“That’s what I said, everybody likes the H’san.”
“I know the Mictok are supposed to be these great diplomats,” Glicksohn muttered, “but every time I see one, this little voice inside my head keeps screaming, Get it off me! Get it off me!”
Before she could answer, Torin’s implant chimed.
*Lieutenant Jarret is waiting for you in the corridor.*
* * *
Before the di’Taykan, both the Marine Corps and the Navy had worn dress blues, but the induction of a race with pastel-colored hair and eyes had demanded a change. The Navy chose gray—dove gray for their pilots, slightly darker for the engineers who made Susumi space possible, and charcoal gray for everyone else. The Corps wore black. Regardless of trade or rank or designation, a Marine was first a Marine.
Fortunately, those with low tolerances for pastel over camouflage didn’t tend to go into combat units.
Lieutenant Jarret was waiting for her by the ladder that connected the platoon to their air support, one deck up. The Corps prided itself on the flexibility of its packaging as well as its people and could snap together transportation units to match any configuration of troops. As Torin joined him, pilot and copilot slid down the ladder from above.
“Captain Fiona Daniels, Second Lieutenant Ghard, this is Staff Sergeant Torin Kerr. The sergeant will be joining us tonight at the request of Captain Carveg of the Berganitan.”
“Glad to have you with us, Staff. The vjs are going to have us severely outnumbered.”
Torin returned the captain’s smile. “Happy to be providing backup, Captain.” Fiona Daniels had the kind of rakish good looks that showed up on Human recruiting posters. Dark hair, green eyes, one deep dimple punctuating straight white teeth—only someone who’d seen Med-op reconstruction up close could tell from the slight difference in tone that the skin over the entire left side of her face had recently been replaced. She’d been one of the pilots who’d got Sh’quo Company off the ground after that last disastrous planetfall and if backup extended to smacking around a few vacuum jockeys for her, Torin would be more than happy to oblige.
On the other side of the lock, the walls changed to Navy colors and their implants simultaneously asked their destination.
Lieutenant Jarret’s hair flattened slightly in irritation, but he answered politely. “Wardroom.”
*At the end of this passageway, take the vertical to deck seven. The wardroom is three doors from the vertical on the left. Please proceed.*
“Don’t let it bother you, Jarret,” Captain Daniels advised as they began walking. “It’s a Navy thing. The vjs can’t find their ass without a homing beacon.”
* * *
“What’s going on?”
“Ressk’s tapping into that fancy party Staff’s going to.” Juan ducked as Binti swung at him. “Well, I’m not going to fukking lie.”
Corporal Hollice shouldered in beside Mysho and leaned over the curve of the Krai’s head. “Those are…okay, were…Navy security codes.”
“He’s in?” Someone at the back of the pack demanded.
“I’m in.” Ressk reached out and very carefully shoved his slate into the port on the wall vid. The screen went black, then gray, then slowly focused.
Hollice sighed. “I’d just like to go on record as being out of the room the whole time this access was being forced.”
“Seduced,” Ressk corrected, fiddling with the contrast.
“Hey, look, Mictok.”
The Humans present suppressed a racial shudder as a trio of Mictok accepted drinks from one of the commissariat.
The camera angle changed.
“I see Navy all over the fukking place,” Juan complained. “Where’s our team?”
“There, at the hatch.”
* * *
As the two pilots led the way into the room, Torin glanced over at Jarret. Given the constant movement of his hair and the way he carried his weight forward on the balls of his feet, he was nervous. She didn’t blame him. Most second lieutenants learned how to command with their platoon hidden in the midst of a battalion planetfall—not out in full view of a ceremonial mission. It couldn’t help that every chest in the room but his and the diplomats carried a rainbow of campaign ribbons.
“Remember that the Navy’s on our side, no matter how it sounds,” she murmured as they crossed toward Captain Carveg. “We’re sort of like siblings; bottom line, we stand together. As for the civilians, the older races think we’re savages because we’re willing to fight to maintain the Confederation, so the most rudimentary of social skills impresses them. Gracious manners’ll knock them right back on their collective tails.”
He half turned and his hair lifted slightly.
She shrugged. “Or spinnerets. Whatever.”
When the officers had been introduced and greeted, Captain Carveg turned to Torin, smiling broadly. “The staff sergeant and I have met, although she was a sergeant at the time and I, a mere commander.”
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