Valour's Choice (30 page)

Her hand closed around his chin and she turned his head until he was looking directly at her.

“We were very close,” she said, forming each word carefully. “Don’t worry.” She left him to draw his own conclusions from that. As much as she wanted to give him more comfort, there wasn’t much point. Her hearing would return. But he was Krai, and she couldn’t be positive about his.

Favoring her right side, she slowly stood and held out her hand. Ressk took it, and when he was standing, they turned together.

The shell had hit the second emmy and both ammo cases. Had the ammunition actually detonated instead of merely blowing to pieces, Torin doubted anyone in the compound would have survived. As it was...

The Mictok appeared for a moment, carrying a stretcher between them. Then two Marines, one supporting the other. Then the Mictok again.

They really are fast.

She heard Sergeant Glicksohn shouting orders, his voice sounding as though it had been squeezed into her head through a small hole. Other voices followed, growing clearer and louder as the hole stretched.

“Staff!”

A hand grabbed her right shoulder and turned her around.

The sudden pain snapped the world back into focus.

“Sir.”

“You’re alive!” Jarret looked down at his hand covered in her blood and his eyes darkened. “You’re wounded!”

She poked a finger through the hole in her uniform sleeve, dragging the edges of the fabric apart. “It’s nothing much, sir. It’s a clean slice.”

“It needs taping.”

Sucking air through her teeth, she agreed.

“Is that the only place you were hit?” he asked as though he couldn’t believe that was possible.

It wasn’t.

They both looked down at the four inches of metal fragment sticking out of the back of her upper thigh.

“Good thing I was lying so that it hit the vest,” Torin grunted. “Slowed it enough to keep it from going right through me.”

“There’s another in the back of your helmet.” Jarret reached up and tugged it free then stood staring down at a shard of an ammo box. “This could have killed you.”

It wasn’t the first time Torin had seen her own death. Familiarity had bred, if not contempt, a certain fatalism. “Point is, sir, it didn’t.” Twisting around, careful of the edges, she grabbed the piece in her hip and yanked it free. “Son of a fukking bitch!” Breathing heavily, she threw the triangular bit of metal on the ground, and pressed the heel of her hand against the wound.

“You need to see the doctor!”

“Or the corpsman, but not right now.” Her other hand on his shoulder, she turned him to face the chaos around them. “Right now, we have work to do.”

“Yes...” He visibly gathered himself, then nodded once, determinedly, and strode off. “Sergeant Glicksohn, report!”

Ressk had escaped without a scratch although by the time Torin turned her attention back to him, his hearing had only partially returned. “STAFF! YOU SAVED MY LIFE!”

“You’re shouting, Ressk.”

“SOR-ry.” Frowning, Ressk’s fingers danced over the screen of the surviving emmy. “It should fire, Staff, and the target lock should work.”

Torin glanced over at the hole where the ammunition had been and snorted. “It doesn’t matter.”

Following her gaze, Ressk smiled and flipped open the cover of the chamber.

All things considered, she decided not to give him the standard chew out on reprogramming a loaded weapon. Running her tongue over the front of her teeth and tasting grit, she nodded. “Make it count.”

The explosion in the ranks of the Silsviss was very nearly as large as the explosion in the compound had been.

Torin didn’t know about anyone else, but it made her feel better.

A
nother Marine was dead. Two more badly wounded. Half a dozen others had taken injuries similar to Torin’s— not bad enough to be disabling but bad enough to need help. Walking into the med station out of the heat and the dust, she found the building cool enough inside that the familiar smell of blood wasn’t entirely overwhelming. Mictok webbing crossed and recrossed the ceiling holding a quartet of mirrors in such a way that light angled in from the windows and bounced between them, illuminating the bodies below.

Only the Mictok would pack mirrors during an emergency evacuation.

Doctor Leor, his feathers matted together, worked long fingers within the belly of one of the wounded Marines. Beside him, the unwounded corpsman worked a jagged hunk of metal out of the shoulder and past the exoskeleton of a heavy gunner while one of the Mictok held her forelegs down on the pressure points. Both stretchers were balanced on a rectangular pile of grain bags stacked high enough to ease access.

One hand still pressed against the hole in her thigh, Torin’s eyes narrowed. She had half a dozen Marines who needed nothing more than a patch job, who were needed back on the walls, able to fight.

A commotion at the doorway into the middle room drew her attention in time for her to see the other corpsman, the one who’d taken the brunt of the injured Silsviss’ attack, slide to the floor. Before she could move, one of the di’Taykan she’d sent inside to shoot through the walls scooped him up.

When he straightened, staggering a little under his burden, she saw a pale fringe of pink under the helmet’s edge.

Becoming aware of her scrutiny, Aylex met her gaze. “He said he wanted to help, Staff. Stupid
ablin gon savit
can hardly stand.”

“Get him back to bed.” Ignoring the only possible di’Taykan’s response, Torin flipped down her helmet mike. “Sergeant Chou!”

“Staff?”

“Bring the Charge d’Affaires and her assistant to the med station on the double.”

“I thought Lieutenant Jarret wanted the civilians safely tucked away.”

“I’ll deal with the lieutenant.” She bent carefully and picked up a med kit. “You just get their tail feathers in here.”

“On my way.”

She took another look at the situation. “Anderson!”

The Marine, sitting on a bag by the wall, looked up, tossing light hair back off her face. “Staff Sergeant?”

“You still got one working hand?”

Anderson looked down at the long gash along her left forearm barely held together by the grip of her right fingers. She opened and closed her left hand. “Sort of.”

“Good.” Torin set the kit down beside her on the bag and bent awkwardly forward. “You twist. I’ll pull.” Someday, with any luck, she’d find the stupid son of a bitch who’d designed a latch on a med kit that needed to be opened with two hands and be able to give their ass the kicking it deserved.

By the time they’d fought it open, she could hear the two Rakva approaching. And from the sound of it, they weren’t alone.

“Your staff sergeant has no authority to have this one dragged out of the dubious security of that hovel, Lieutenant. This one is not in a uniform and this one is not hers to order around. Neither is Purain.”

“I’m sure she has a good reason for sending for you both. Why don’t we hear what she has to say?”

“All this one wishes to hear,” the Rakva insisted, stepping into the room and halting just over the threshold, “is you ordering her to apologize.”

Lieutenant Jarret slid past the indignant civilian and turned to Torin, looking significantly unimpressed. “Staff Sergeant Kerr, Sergeant Chou says you directed her to bring Madam Britt and her assistant to the med station.”

The assistant looked frightened, but whether of Madame Britt or the situation, Torin couldn’t tell. “Yes, sir, I did. We have Marines that need a minimum of attention so they can get back to their positions, but our medical personnel have serious injuries to deal with. Madame Britt and her assistant each have two working hands the right size to handle the equipment and should both be capable of operating an aid station.”

“Capable is not at question, Staff Sergeant,” Madame Britt snapped. “If you need an aid station, this one suggests you use a Dornagain—from what this one has heard, they wish to help but are unable to see a way they can.”

“The Dornagain’s fingers are too big.”

“Then use a Marine.”

“All able-bodied Marines are needed to defend the compound.” Torin narrowed her eyes and swept both Rakva with a speculative look. “If you’d rather pick up a weapon...”

Her crest rose, the stub of the broken feather jutting straight up. “This one does
not
become involved in the business of the military. Lieutenant!”

Jarret nodded. “An aid station is a good idea, Staff Sergeant. Carry on.” As the astounded Charge d’Affaires stared after him, he walked out of the building calling for Sergeant Chou.

“All right.” Torin showed the open med kit to the two Rakva. “It’s not hard. Use one of these to wipe the edges of the wound clean, lay down a line of bonder, pinch the edges together, then spray on a coat of sealant.”

Madame Britt took a step back, vestigal beak snapping open and shut a time or two before she could find a suitable protest. “This one does not...”

A torrent of high-pitched, fingernails-on-slate sound cut her off. It wasn’t necessary to understand Rakva to catch the point of the doctor’s tirade. When he finished, young Purain was looking appalled and Madame Britt slightly stunned.

“Fine,” she said, taking the kit from Torin’s hand. “This one will help.”

“Good.” Torin undid her dress pants and dropped them down around her knees, ripping fabric out of the line of blood that had dried down the back of her leg. “You can practice on me.”

* * *

Still favoring her right leg, Torin stepped back out into the compound and realized the environmental unit in her tunic had shut down—probably because of the slice in the sleeve. As the afternoon heat wrapped around her, insinuating dry fingers in under her clothes, she added the name of the idiot who hadn’t included combat backup systems in the dress uniforms to her hit list—currently consisting of the med-kit designer and General Morris. The latter was there mostly on principle; he
had
given the order that had sent the platoon to Silsvah.

And the way things have turned out, it’s a good thing he didn’t let us wait for those new recruits.
They were in a tough enough fight for seasoned combat troops. Green Marines would have turned a bad situation into a nightmare.

Glancing around the perimeter as she crossed to her lieutenant’s side, she realized that the atmosphere had darkened since the explosion. The easy confidence had been replaced by an edged intensity acknowledging the deaths that had already occurred as well as those that were likely to and, on an individual basis said,
I, at least, am not leaving here bagged.

By the time she reached the shade of the other building, where Lieutenant Jarret and the Dornagain ambassador were talking, Torin could feel warm lines of sweat running down her sides, her shirt clinging to her damp back. Glancing over at the slate-gray clouds piling up in the west, she sighed. From the look of things, she was going to get wetter still.

“...very sorry, Ambassador, but your hands are simply too large to deal easily with our medical supplies.”

“And we are too slow to carry stretchers as the Mictok do.”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.” It hadn’t been a question, but Lieutenant Jarret answered it anyway. “Stretcher bearers are very vulnerable. I wouldn’t have allowed the Mictok to assist were they not so very fast. It is our job to keep you—all of you—safe.”

“Yes.” The ambassador sighed. “All of us. An entire Confederation of ancient cultures hides behind the deaths of its youngest members.” Stroking back his whiskers with his broken claw, he stared out over the lieutenant’s head at the surrounding litter of reptilian bodies. “We are like the Silsviss in this, I fear, only we are old enough to know better.” He sighed again, and turned his bulk toward the building that sheltered his people. “You will tell us if there is anything we can do, Lieutenant Jarret?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Good. Staff Sergeant Kerr.” He nodded in Torin’s direction and disappeared inside.

Jarret’s gaze flicked to her shoulder and hip. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You’ll have a little trouble sitting.”

Torin waited for the echoes of a sudden flurry of shots to die down. “I don’t think I’ll have much chance to sit for a while, sir.”

* * *

Sunset painted bands of orange and gold across the bottom of the clouds in such brilliant hues that only the di’Taykan could look to the west without their scanners. When the Silsviss charged out of the sunset, the di’Taykan stopped them.

“The lieutenant took a chance, not moving some of the others over,” Mike murmured as he passed Torin a pouch of food. “You should’ve said something.”

She broke the self-heating unit across the bottom of the bag and waited, tossing it from hand to hand. “No di’Taykan were injured in the explosion or the first charge. They felt like they weren’t doing their share.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Still, that’s how they felt.”

“Trey’s dead and Haysole’s legs are paralyzed.”

Torin waited; she could feel the weight of more words that needed to be said filling the space between them.

“He always hated not being able to move his legs. He hated it when he had to be secured during a drop. He gave me more damn trouble than everyone else in the squad combined, but put him in combat and he settled right down.” The sergeant stared into his food, not seeing it. “I should have tied him into his seat.”

Torin reached out and lightly clasped his arm. When he lifted his head, she tightened her grip. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” His pause suggested Torin not push. So she didn’t. “I could really use a beer.”

Torin stared up at a cloud covered sky, willing one of the hidden points of light to be the
Berganitan
returning before anyone else got bagged. “Me, too.”

* * *

“Hey, what’ve you got?”

“Same fukking thing as you,” Juan grunted. “Hot bag of balanced nutrients in a tasty fukking paste.”

Binti snorted, eyes and teeth alone visible in the darkness. “I meant, what flavor have you got, asshole?”