Valor's Trial (34 page)

“You don't think we should explore this level, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“We're not in a vid game, Kichar, we get no points for mapping the level. As long as there's a way up, we take it.”

“We get the hell out of Dodge, Gunny?”

It was one of the Old Earth sayings Hollice used to drop into conversation. She shared a look with Mashona, a look that said Hollice might not be dead, and nodded. “That's the plan.”

“Dodge?” Kichar asked quietly.

Darlys shrugged. “It doesn't matter as long as the gunny knows.”

The observation was accurate enough that Torin let it go.

The tunnel to the right had taken some heavy damage.

“Earthquake,” Mike grunted, definite enough that he clearly didn't expect to be questioned.

“So you're a geologist now?” Torin asked watching him weave an unsteady path around the debris.

He turned in Watura's grip far enough to smile in her general direction. “Multitalented. Also, used to test weapons systems. This . . .” A nod toward the crack they were following. “. . . looks natural. Seeing this here, makes what happened below look natural. Earthquake,” he repeated, brows rising and falling for emphasis.

“So you're saying we need to haul ass out of here before the Others drug us into compliance and show up to physically try and stop us, or the whole place shakes down around our ears?”

“Yeah . . .” A too vigorous nod nearly tipped him over. “. . . pretty much.”

“Good thing we're in the Corps and not the Navy,” Torin snorted, “or all that might be a problem.”

“You don't think earthquakes might be a problem, Gunny?” Kichar's eyes were huge.

“Give me a break, Private; you don't get to be my age without learning how to make the earth move.”

As expected, the three di'Taykan got it first. Drugs and physical deterrents and earthquakes got lost in the raucous comments and blatant speculation. Torin let it continue until they reached the place where the ceiling had collapsed, opening up the next level, and then she stopped it with a word.

The rock had fallen in such a way as to create a crude set of stairs.

“Piece of pie if we had a heavy with us,” Mashona noted, prodding the lowest boulder with her club. “Shove this here a little closer, and even the Krai wouldn't have to jump for the edge.”

“I think you mean piece of cake,” Torin corrected absently. She'd noted the lack of heavy gunners before, had assumed it was just that their exoskeletons had been removed during transport, but, now that she thought of it, heavies had a way of moving defined by the contact points sunk into their flesh. She couldn't remember seeing a heavy gunner by either of the two pipes. “Mashona, Ressk—were there heavies in Lieutenant Colonel Braudy's group.”

“Don't think so, Gunny.” Mashona looked over at Ressk who shook his head. “Hard to tell for certain without the skels, but none of ours for sure. Why?”

“I'm betting there're no heavies down here.”

“Maybe they're in a group by themselves?” Jiyuu offered.

Possible, but Torin didn't think so. Without their exoskeletons their augmentations meant nothing, so why wouldn't the Others have imprisoned them as well? Because they only wanted the basic models of the three species? If so, why?

“Maybe the Others were afraid they'd find someone like the technical sergeant to build them new skels out of kibble and spit and then they'd just smash their way free?”

“You asking, Kichar?”

Her cheeks flushed. “No.”

“Good, because that's exactly what the technical sergeant would do.” Torin gestured up toward the hole. “Mashona, take a look.”

She had to jump for the edge and pull herself up through the floor, but it wasn't far and the Krai could always climb one of the taller species. Again.

“What have you got, Corporal?”

Mashona reappeared at the hole. “More tunnels, Gunny!”

“Oh, joy.”

“They are being Others ships?”

“How the bloody hell should I know?” Craig danced the fingers of both hands over his screens, making sure that
Promise
had been powered down to the minimal levels necessary for life support. He knew she had, he'd done it himself, but with three ships of the really fukking big variety orbiting Estee, a little paranoia seemed like the logical response. Torin would be so proud.

“You are going to battles before!” Presit snapped, poking him with a remarkably sharp elbow given the amount of fur padding it.

“No, I go to battles
after,
and make and model is surprisingly hard to identify from debris. But they aren't Navy, I can tell you that.”

She snorted. “Please, I are telling you that. Nor are they being press.”

“No shit. Methane Alliance?”

“I are not thinking so, Methane Alliance ships are . . .” Her hands sketched blobby shapes in the air.

“Butt ugly?”

“That are being close enough. These . . .” Bronzed nails tapped against the worn edge of the control panel, and Craig only just managed to stop himself from grabbing her wrist. Experience had taught him there were significantly more annoying things she could be doing. “These are not being butt ugly, but are not being familiar either. Being Others, then.”

“Because you say so?”

The thin black line of her lips lifted off sharp white teeth. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He was actually surprisingly comfortable with that. He might freak out about that later. “Why are they here?”

“They are removing the glass and are taking it back to their worlds and are melting it and are reconstituting the contents.”

Heart pounding, he turned to stare at her, which was, at least, a change from staring at his screens. “Is your fur too bloody tight? Has all that fluff overheated your brain?”

“It are only a theory!”

“It's a dumbass theory!”

“And you are having a better one, then?”

“Maybe, since they won the fight over this particular piece of real estate, they've just come back to set up camp.”

“Then why are they not staying after they won? Why are they giving our side a chance to fortify?”

“We didn't fortify!”

Even including his reflection in her mirrored glasses as part of her expression, she looked smug. “No, but we are having the chance. First they are leaving and now they are coming back; I are not knowing why, but I are betting it are as I said—for analysis of the damage their new weapon are having done.”

That, he had to reluctantly agree with.

Tucked up against the nearer of Estee's moons, they watched for just under eight hours as the three ships maintained their orbits. The scientists' chartered ship had fled the moment Captain Yritt had all her passengers on board, but Presit had announced that this was finally a story worth her attention and they would wait until the Navy responded. Craig thought about tossing her in the head and hauling ass out of system, but her curiosity seemed to have infected him.

“If they are spotting us, we are trying for an interview.”
She'd laughed at his expression and patted his arm.
“I are mostly kidding.”

It was that
mostly
that had him change the security codes on the com.

“Not as far as I can throw you.”
And since she couldn't have weighed more than sixteen kilos, that was pretty damned far.

During the eight hours they'd been watching, the ships had sent no VTAs down to the surface, but with
Promise
powered down, Craig couldn't get a read on how extensively they were scanning. He was more relieved than he let show that they clearly weren't removing any of the surface their weapons had previously fused. Torin would call him stupidly sentimental, but he didn't want any part of her ending up in enemy hands.

Actually, given the number of Marines who'd died down there, it was entirely possible she'd understand.

“Readings are changing!”

Craig swallowed the last of the coffee in his mug and crossed the cabin to peer down at the screens. “They're powering up.”

“Being ready to leave?”

“We'll know in a minute.” He plucked Presit out of his chair and settled into its duct-taped, familiar embrace as she smoothed her fur and grumbled about respect. Ignoring the grumbling in favor of tracking the enemy ships, he coaxed
Promise
up to the edge of readiness.

“How are we knowing if we are being spotted?”

“Easy peasy. We blow up.”

As far as Craig could tell—and it wasn't as if he were set up to register alien tech, so he couldn't be one hundred percent sure—all three ships passed the nearer moon, heading out-system without noticing them tucked up against the edge of the gravity well.

“We are not blowing up.”

“Trust me, I'm as chuffed as you are. They've likely read the Susumi portals opening as our Navy rides to the rescue . . .” He tapped the three distinctive signatures on the long-distance scanner. “. . . and don't want to shoot it out.” When he reached out to slide the power buildup back a bit, Presit grabbed his arm. Her hand might be tiny, but her claws made her point.

“No. We are following now.”

“The hell?”

She sighed and repeated. “We are following now. This are being too good a chance to lose.”

“What is?”

Her claws tightened just a little before she released him. Crouching down, she rummaged in the bag by her feet—Craig vaguely remembered her taking it out of the locker and had assumed she'd gone for her brushes—and pulled out her personal recorder. Straightening, she held it out on one tiny hand. “Be breaking the case open. Quickly!” she snapped when he hesitated. “We are not having time for you to be questioning me!”

Frowning, he did as she asked and watched with increasing suspicion as she separated a memory chip from the recorder's hardware.

“When Durgin a Tar canSalvais were following the
Berganitan
through Susumi space to Big Yellow, he are using this program.”

“You told me you told the military you didn't know how he did it. They've been trying to reverse engineer it!”

“I are not trusting the military. And besides, I are not lying, I are
not
knowing how. I are not a pilot.” She dropped the chip onto Craig's palm. He didn't remember holding out his hand. “But he are doing it with that.”

“And why didn't
he
tell the military?”

“Because I are having the equations.” As Craig frowned in confusion, she added, “Durgin are not having them memorized, are he? He are not remembering enough to be of any use, and I are having taken this and replaced it with a corrupted chip before we are going onto the
Berganitan
.”

Without knowing the Susumi equations that defined the destination, Durgin had locked onto the tail end of the
Berganitan'
s Susumi signature. Staying close enough to lock while simultaneously maintaining enough distance to keep from being swept up in the wake and destroyed was an insanely dangerous maneuver. Pilots had known the theory for years, but Durgin had been the only one to ever successfully emerge with his ship not only more or less intact on the far side but exactly where he'd intended it to be.

Craig slipped the chip into his panel. “These aren't Susumi equations.”

“No. These are Susumi adaptations. We are using these to follow the Others home. We are maybe using these to end the war.”

“We are maybe using these to die in a new and exciting way.”

She grinned, the tip of her tongue visible between sharp white teeth. “We are all being dead someday.”

“Fuk it, Presit.” But even he could hear that he wanted to be convinced. “I'm clearly not the mathematician Durgin was!”

“No.” Her claws were sheathed when she touched his arm this time. “But you are being a much better pilot.”

The new tunnels weren't exactly the same as the old. They were wider, and the walls weren't as smooth. Mashona called them lightly pebbled and that seemed as good a description as any as far as Torin was concerned. There were no small caves and the curves had nearly become actual corners.

Kyster and Kichar both insisted that they'd fully recovered. They were young enough and anxious enough to please that Torin didn't believe them, but as they were doing nothing more than walking, surrounded by armed Marines, she let it go. Mike, who'd taken the largest hit, occasionally stumbled and had a tendency to angle off to the right. When asked, he said he felt like shit, and
that
Torin believed. The readouts on his sleeve had defaulted to Ventris norm and his medical readout kept coming up yellowish orange.

Without the darker marks of the caves breaking up the pale gray expanse of walls, it was hard to get any good idea of how far they'd walked without actually calculating time and the average speed of a movitated Marine.

“About twenty-eight kilometers since we hit this level.”

“Thank you, Ressk.”

“Think we're actually getting somewhere, Gunny?”

“Are we where we were, Corporal?”

“No . . .”

“Then we're definitely somewhere else.”

“Somewhere closer to getting out?” Werst asked without turning.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Going to tell us why you think so, Gunny?”

“I expect the belief is based on years and years of experience combined with a number of subliminal clues that I'm not consciously aware of.”