Valour's Choice (15 page)

Binti smiled broadly, her teeth gleaming against the mahogany of her face. “Things are happening today, sir. Things weren’t happening yesterday. The only difference seems to be what happened last night.”

“I know this is hard for a Marine to believe, Private, but it isn’t always about us.” There were a few snickers, and he raised a hand to forestall any other interruptions. “That said, while we’re traveling, Ambassador Krik’vir wants to speak one on one with the six Marines who went out the lock. Sergeant Glicksohn...”

“Sir?”

“Arrange an order and send the first person up now.”

“Sir.”

Which does make it seem,
Torin thought, as Lieutenant Jarret walked to the door and motioned for her to join him,
that the events of last night gave diplomacy a boot in the ass.
Remembering the long, boring hours of ceremonial duties, of standing for hours in damp heat while cadres of dignitaries hissed speeches about historical importance, she snorted. “If I’d known how much it would move things along,” she said, following the lieutenant out of the troop compartment, “I’d have smacked someone with a stool weeks ago.”

“And I’d have ordered it.” He paused to allow her to fall into step. “The Silsviss seem unduly impressed by a little force, don’t they?”

“Alien species, sir. All things considered, I’m just glad we found them before the Others did.”

* * *

“We have already interviewed the enlisted personnel who participated in yesterday’s cultural interaction...”

Trying not to stare at her reflection in Ambassador Krik’vir’s eyestalks, Torin wondered which of the enlisted personnel had used that particular phrase. Somehow, she doubted it had also been the diplomatic label for the exercise.

“...and have heard a startling amount of minutia but very little of substance. As you are in possession of the overview, we would now like to hear from you, Staff Sergeant Kerr.” The ambassador settled back on her lower four legs while behind her, taking up most of the remaining space in the large storage locker, one of her assistants stroked the controls of a Mictok recording device. At least that’s what Torin assumed it was, although it might have been anything from a musical instrument to a sex aid for all she knew. “Please, Staff Sergeant, begin at the beginning.”

“The beginning?”
My family were farmers and I hated farming... “
A combat unit deprived of stimulus creates its own...” She told the ambassador how she’d discussed the inevitability of the situation with Lieutenant Jarret, his decision to allow herself and Cri Sawyes to follow and observe rather than stop it from happening, the situation as she saw it down on the patio, the fight, what she’d observed as well as her personal battle, and finally the aftermath.

“You tell the story well, Staff Sergeant.”

“I’ve given a lot of reports, ma’am.”

“Until today we have found the Silsviss to be distant, putting on a—how did Corporal Hollice put it?—a dog and pony show for our benefit.”

“A dog and pony show, ma’am?” Dogs had settled Paradise with Humans but Torin had never seen a pony.

“Apparently it is an old Human term.” Her outer mandibles clicked together gently. “We understand that it refers to matters of no substance. Today, we touched on substance for the first time, and we are hurried toward greater substance still. We know that the leaders of the various factions have been meeting with each other as we were shown the dogs and ponies, and perhaps the decisions they have come to are the only reason for our sudden movement. However, we cannot ignore that it may be because of the actions of last night.”

“If I may, Ambassador, the Silsviss are a warrior species. General Morris made that very clear when he ordered a combat troop to a ceremonial post. Perhaps they were waiting to see some tangible indication they weren’t about to hook up with a bunch of
paygari.”
It was a di’Taykan word meaning
mewling infants
and the least profane description Torin could come up with on the spur of the moment.

The clicking became louder and faster. “We can think of few things more tangible than a stool to the head, Staff Sergeant.”

Given the alternative, Torin supposed she was glad Ambassador Krik’vir chose to find the situation amusing.

* * *

Except for the two Mictok using the dubious privacy of the storage locker, the civilians were in their seats when Torin finally walked into their compartment. Only Madam Britt, the Rakva Charge D’Affaires, was actually working; the rest seemed to be skirting sleep. Whether they were tired of the assignment, tired of each other, or merely conserving strength for the deliberations to come, she had no idea. Fortunately, Cri Sawyes stood at his usual place by the view screen.

“Another wilderness preserve?” she asked, rounding the bulk of a Dornagain and joining him.

“Not yet, but shortly. Thisss isss one of the leassst civilized areasss of my planet. To a certain extent, the challenge rulesss outside the pressserve as well. To sssurvive here...” He shook his head.

“We’re over it now,” he said a few moments later, although Torin couldn’t see a change in the terrain. “I sssussspect your Captain Danielsss hasss been given thisss flight path in order to show the young malesss that timesss are changing. That we are not alone in the universsse.”

“That must have been comforting. When you found out you weren’t alone,” she added in response to his murmured question.

“Not really, no.”

“No?” Torin, fourth generation post-contact, couldn’t imagine not knowing. As far as she was concerned, space was quite empty enough, even with seventy-two known species. “It was what, then? Disturbing?”

“For me persssonally?” Cri Sawyes kept his gaze on the screen but his inner eyelid slid shut then open again. “I wasss never one of thossse who assssumed that we were the only intelligent life, that the great biological accident of our creation had happened only the once. But yesss, it wasss. It is a great blow to the ego, Sssergeant, to dissscover that you are, after all, not unique.” He looked up, his tongue flickering. “I am, however, mossstly recovered.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.” As she made her way up to the cockpit, Torin acknowledged that she had come to quite like the big lizard. She had no idea how representative he was of his species as a whole—his willingness to be thrust into close contact with so many alien races logically suggested he was culturally flexible— but based on their time together, she thought the Silsviss would function quite well within the structure of the Confederation Marine Corps. The whole lack of female things still weirded her out a little, but she supposed she’d get used to it in time.

* * *

The cockpit on the VTA had been designed for efficiency rather than comfort, and Captain Daniels, Lieutenant Ghard, and two members of their flight crew were just about a capacity crowd. Under the more normal circumstances of a drop from ship to ground Torin wouldn’t have gone near it, but since the Silsviss continued to insist on atmospheric travel, she had time to kill. There was only so much ship to patrol and only so long she could spend in a pressurized chamber with four Dornagain.

The upper third of the front wall of the cockpit was made of the same clear silicon the Confederation used in the observatories on their deep space ships. According to the sales pitch the absolutely transparent material was stronger than the metals in the rest of the ship, and were it not for the vertigo many species were subject to—not to mention the price of production—it could have been the only material used to build the entire fleet. Advertisements insisted it could emerge unscathed from the heart of a star, but Torin suspected that claim had never actually been tested—not by the advertising department anyway.

Steadying herself against the back of Captain Daniels’ chair, she squinted at the greenish-brown smear that obscured part of the view. “What happened there?”

“Bird.” Both hands continuing to work the controls, the captain flashed a smile back over her shoulder. “Or something flying anyway.”

“Something stupid,” Lieutenant Ghard added. “I think it was challenging us.”

Allowing for fluid dispersement, Torin put the bird at no more than half a meter from wingtip to wingtip. “Maybe it was depressed.”

“Sir.” One of the aircrew looked up from her instruments. “We are reaching the midpoint...” She paused, eyes unfocused. “...now...”

Torin’s implant chimed midpoint.

“...and our Silsviss escorts are peeling off. They say, good luck and that they’ll be interested to see how it turns out.”

“They did?”

“Well, that’s more or less how it translated, sir.”

Captain Daniels shook her head. “That’s new. Usually they just wish us luck and clear skies.”

“We’re heading to the decision this time,” Torin reminded him. Leaning forward, she peered around at the crystal blue arc of sky. “Do we have no escort at all now?”

“Not for another few minutes, Staff,” Lieutenant Ghard told her. “We’re as far from the last place as our escort goes and not yet to the point where our new escort picks us up.”

In the silence that followed, everyone turned to look at him.

Finally, Captain Daniels snickered. “Can we blame that on the translator, airman?”

She grinned at the back of the lieutenant’s head. “No, sir.”

“You know what I meant,” Ghard muttered, slumping over his panel. Then, almost as a continuation of the same move, he straightened again. “Hey, there they are.”

“I’m not picking them up on scanners, sir.”

Torin turned to look at the other airman who was frowning down at his screen and turned back to the window again. Just at the edge of vision, she could see a pair of yellow/white flares. Sunlight reflecting from polished metal.

“All this atmospheric travel’s gummed them up. We’ve probably got bird bits in the external sensors.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference, Captain.”

The flares grew brighter, larger, and Torin felt the hair lift off the back of her neck. “Those aren’t planes,” she said softly.

“The Silsviss have some interesting design specs,” Lieutenant Ghard reassured her, sounding not entirely sure himself. “They’re planes.”

Torin tongued her implant. “Sir, we’re under attack. Missiles approaching.” She didn’t bother to subvocalize.

“What?!”

Eyes locked on the sky, she tongued the implant again. “Sir, I repeat, we’re under attack.” And then more emphatically, to the cockpit crew, “Those are missiles.”

“They’re planes,” Ghard repeated.

“No.” The VTA slid sideways as Captain Daniels slapped the controls. “They’re not.” The
Secure All
sounded. “Where are you going, Staff?”

“Back to my platoon, sir.”

She was through the hatch and had it dogged shut behind her before the captain could answer.

The civilian compartment was complete chaos. Only the Mictok seemed to have realized the gravity of the situation—all four were webbing themselves into their usual corner.

The ship twisted. A Rakva slammed into her, clutching desperately at her shoulders. “What is it? This one wants to know what is happening!”

She threw him toward his seat, snapping, “Strap in, damn it!”

Another Rakva went flying by, avian bone structure providing little ballast. Torin ducked instinctively but saw Cri Sawyes grab Madame Britt’s assistant and stuff her into a seat.

“Shit on a stick!” The three sergeants had keyed in an acknowledgment of the situation. There wasn’t anything she could do for the platoon that they weren’t doing. Someone had to take charge here.

“Staff?!”

Bone amplified or not, she could barely hear Lieutenant Jarret over the noise. Grabbing the safety strap from a Dornagain, she snapped it into place and turned to his companion, who was moving with the same deliberate, slow speed. Winning the brief tug of war, she jerked the strap tight before tonguing her implant. “Sir, I am securing civilians.”

The VTA shuddered and she would have fallen had the Dornagain ambassador not wrapped one huge arm around her and pulled her against his stomach fur. “A noble attempt, Staff Sergeant,” he said, hunkering down, his slow tones in direct contrast to the shrieking all around. “But now it ends.”

Struggling to free herself, she saw his claws dig into the deck plating.

Impact.

I don’t want to die with civilians...

A
s near as Torin could tell from within the protective embrace of the Dornagain ambassador, only one of the two missiles hit the VTA. When, to her great surprise, she was still alive two heartbeats after impact, she began to hope.

Clamped tight against the ambassador’s side, fingers hooked desperately into his safety straps, her world had been reduced to soft, pungent fur and the shriek of tortured metals laid over a thousand and one other unhappy sounds.

The world turned upside down.

One leg, flung free, tried to bend against the joint. The pain forced a gasp.

Then, miraculously, the ship leveled and the leg straightened.

Torin spat out a curse and with it a mouthful of fur.

She should be with her platoon. She should be
doing
something. Fighting something.

A slate biscuit bounced off her lower lip. She tasted blood.

A Rakva was screaming. The high-pitched sound drilled into her head, singing a shrill descant to the sudden wail of the proximity sirens.

Proximity...? Oh, no...

Her implant chimed.

*Planetary surface in five, four, three, two, one...*

The second impact was in every way worse than the first. Torin could feel the deck plates buckle, hear metal already twisted shriek a protest as new forces twisted it again, smell... she didn’t know what she was smelling, but it grew stronger and stronger as the VTA finally shuddered itself still.

Compared to the chaos of an instant before, the civilian compartment had fallen silent enough for her to hear her pulse slamming against the sides of her skull.

Forcing reluctant fingers to release their grip, Torin shifted her weight onto her feet and pushed gently against the furry bulk of the ambassador. Just as panic began to chew at the edges of her control, the arm holding her sagged and she staggered back.