Valor's Trial (42 page)

“Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Private Darlys.”

“Is there a way across?”

The wind slapped another cloud of ash against the window, and Darlys' hair snapped back in reaction, falling forward again almost sheepishly a moment later.

“It's ten kilometers, Darlys. You should be able to cover that in your sleep.” Not quite the answer to the question. There was a way between the landing site and the prison because there had to be although, with no visible road, it was likely their captors used a variation on a skimmer. Still, even skimmers had trouble over lava pools.

“It'll be dark soon.”

“You know when sunset is?” Torin leaned forward and peered up at overlapping layers of burnt-orange clouds. It looked as though the atmosphere was on fire, and until she had intell to the contrary, Torin wasn't going to rule that out. “Have you even seen the sun?”

“Not dark out there, Gunny, I mean in here. If Technical Sergeant Gucciard doesn't get the hatch open soon . . .”

“He'll work by cuff light. He'll manage.”

“But if he doesn't get the hatch open . . .”

“He will. It's a hatch, Private.” Fully aware that everyone currently in the control room was listening, she raised her voice slightly. A little hope couldn't hurt. “It has a limited range of function—it opens, it closes. The tech may be alien, but it's not complicated.”

“But it is alien and . . .”

“Technical Sergeant Gucciard will get the hatch open.” Her tone made it clear she'd just said the final word on the subject.

“Got it!” Mike's tone, on the other hand, was triumphant.

Darlys' eyes darkened, but before she could put words to the awe visible on her face, Torin snapped, “Tell Corporal Werst to hurry with the water. We won't be here much longer.” Pivoting on one heel, she returned to Mike's side listening for the sound of Darlys' boots moving away. That kind of timing was only going to strengthen the di'Taykan's belief in her developing godhead.

Metal whispered past metal as the hatch unlocked. Mike moved away from the controls and nodded up at the bank of lights now burning a steady pattern of blue and yellow over the door. “Should mean we've got air pressure.”

“Should?”

“Alien tech, Gunny.” He cranked the handle around one-handed and pulled gently. At the soft sigh of a seal breaking, he glanced down at his sleeve. “Contained atmosphere escaping reads as identical. Do I have a go, Gunny?”

“Durlin?”

Her claws squealed as she scraped a rear foot against the polished stone floor. Torin winced and mentally listed everything they still had to do in order to keep from tying the durlin's feet together. To her credit, she almost managed to hide her excitement as she said, “You have a go, Technical Sergeant.”

Mike pulled the door open.

And the earth moved, bucking once, twice, three times. The sound of crumbling infrastructure rolled down the tunnels and into the control room—cracking rock sounding so much like weapons fire that Kichar wasn't the only one to throw herself to the ground reaching for the weapon she wasn't carrying.

Torin, left hand grabbing the edge of the center control panel, unlocked her knees and rode it out. With her sleeve readout turned away from her, and unwilling to loosen her grip, she had no idea how long the earthquake lasted. It felt like fifteen or twenty minutes.

The Krai were still standing at the end of it—their preferred real estate never entirely stopped moving, giving them a highly developed sense of balance. Torin had cracked her knee against the panel but remained on her feet as had two of the Polina—Bertecnic had dropped back onto his haunches, rear legs spread to either side. The position would have looked comical if not for the scimitar curve of ten-centimeter claws fully extended from each foot. Everyone else sprawled where the quake had thrown them. The Artek, tucked back into the angle of wall and floor were—with no danger of misinterpreting their reaction—just one side of hysterical.

The lemon furniture polish smell was nearly overwhelming. Torin rubbed her hand under her nose. Maybe it was the short rations lowering the levels of complacency drug. Maybe the smell was acting like smelling salts. Maybe this most recent burst of adrenaline had burned things off. She felt more like herself than she had since Harnett's death. “Technical Sergeant Gucciard, can you use what you learned opening the inside hatch to get through the outside hatch ASAP?”

He stood, rubbing his left elbow. “I can.”

“Do it.”

Scooping his tools off the floor, he stepped into the air lock. “Ressk!”

“On it, Sarge.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, we do not know the external atmosphere.”

“We know it required filters for whoever manned this control room. We know they required the same rough mix we do—we passed no air locks between the prisons and the upper levels. Logically, we then will manage with filters.

Vertic tossed her head, the short mane flaring. “It would be best if the control panel could be made to function.”

As the durlin moved closer, Kyster picked the slate up off the ground and handed it to her remaining by her side, his nose ridges flared—with her if it came to a power play. Torin appreciated the thought, as unnecessary as it was.

“Durlin Vertic, we have run out of time. This facility is on its way to a collapse. We need to get our people out of here before that happens.”

She blinked, thick fringe of lashes sweeping up and down. “Of course.”

“All our people.” Torin inserted the words cleanly into the pause. The durlin had clearly been going to continue speaking and part of the trick was to never appear to interrupt. Plausible deniability was everything.

The durlin stared at her for a long moment then repeated, “All our people.”

Torin decided to take the statement as agreement. “So far, our best way off this rock, our best way to get all our people off this rock, is that landing site. We need to pick up the pace. I'll have everyone ready when the sergeant gets the outer door open.” The other part of the trick was to sound so confident that an argument appeared to be a petty play for power.

Vertic frowned slightly, reacting to Torin's tone even though the words she actually understood came from the slate with a flat mechanical delivery. “And if there is no ship at this landing site?”

“I'll have the technical sergeant build one.”

She smiled, then. A quick flash of teeth, as much challenge as amusement. “Very well. Go ahead.”

“Sir.” A quick sweep of the room showed Everim already handing out the filters. Freenim was beside him, making sure everyone knew how to achieve a seal regardless of the shape of their skull. They shared a silent moment of communication at the NCO level, then continued with what they'd been doing.

“Durlave Kir Sanati.”

The Druin turned from the control panel. Torin didn't want to read too much into an alien expression, but she looked relieved. Given that the panel had surrendered nothing after the blast shield, her frustration level had to be high.

“Get as much intell on the earthquakes from the Artek as possible and make sure they're ready to move out.”

They glanced together at the giant bugs still pressed tightly up into the angle between wall and floor. They were no longer clattering like a skimmer with a bolt loose, but they weren't happy.

Sanati snorted, and in the natural light Torin noticed a nictitating membrane flick across the black on black of her eye. “I do not think convincing them to leave will be a problem, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“Gunny!”

Ressk's summons pulled her into the air lock.

“Inner hatch needs to be closed to open the outer. And the sarge figures that it's going to whoosh.”

“And whoosh would be a tech term for?”

“Whoosh!” He made a broad, sweeping gesture with one hand. “
Serley
thing opens all the way when activated. One unstoppable movement.”

Torin glanced over at Mike's broad back, his head bent over the open panel, both hands working. “And you have to open it manually from here.”

Since it wasn't a question, he didn't bother answering it.

“Go get him a filter.”

“You don't think it would be better to get me a filter, Gunny? I mean, if you're going to lose one of us . . .”

“We're not losing anyone, Corporal. Go.” As Ressk trotted out into the control room, she moved closer to the hatch. The light bar blinked orange and lavender. “Time frame, Mike?”

“Five,” he grunted. “Ten maybe.”

“Make it five.”

She had to admit she was impressed by the detail his wordless response managed to convey.

“Durlave Kan Freenim says everyone has a filter but you, Gunny.”

The Krai's bare feet made no sound against the heavy rubber floor. Bare feet and lava pits—that would have to be dealt with. Taking the filter from Ressk's hand, she nodded. “I'll be right in. Mike.”

He reached back without looking up.

“Put it on,” she said, dropping the seal over his fingertips.

“Still five.”

“Do it now so it's done.” She'd worked with enough tech to know not to leave him to his own devices. He'd remember about the time he was measuring the lack of oxygen in the air, calculating the precipitants, and passing out.

Even with his back to her, she could see his eyes roll, but he slid the band over his head, settled the ear pieces, and activated the seal.

Torin stepped forward and checked it, feeling the seal ease more completely into place under her fingertips.

Ignoring her, he kept working, big hands maneuvering makeshift tools with delicate precision.

“Good thing for us you work hardware as well as software,” Torin murmured, touched him lightly on the arm, and left. He neither needed nor wanted her hanging over his shoulder.

She took Ressk with her when she left. “You're operating the inner door,” she told him before he could protest. “You're the only other person in here with a hope of reopening it if it locks down. His ass is in your hands.”

His nose ridges flared. “Neither of us . . . Oh.” The top of his head flushed. “Metaphorically.”

“You think?”

With Ressk standing ready at the interior controls, Torin leaned back into the air lock. “Closing the inner door now, Technical Sergeant.”

“Fine.”

She straightened and pulled the hatch closed, dogging it down.

The lights remained a steady blue and yellow.

“They should begin blinking when Sergeant Gucciard has the outer hatch open, Gunny. And the odds are good that's when the
serley
thing'll lock again.”

“That's why you're standing there, Corporal.” With Mike on the other side of the hatch, Torin would have happily traded a bag of biscuits for a working com unit. Actually, at this point, she'd happily trade a bag of biscuits for a cold beer and take her chances on starving to death.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?” Freenim stood at her shoulder. “The filters have no seal on the Artek, but Samtan Firiv'vrak is fairly certain they will breathe outside. As long as they move quickly.”

“Fairly certain?”

He shrugged. “Sanati's translation. She says they wait for the technical sergeant's analysis, but their species is adaptable for many atmospheric levels and they know what fire requires to burn.”

“Good.” Torin glanced out the window. Fire was certainly burning. Which reminded her that she had one more thing to take care of before they began the run to the landing site. “Durlave, don't the Polina usually carry another species into battle?'

“Yes. They work together as a team.” He offered no more information on how they worked as a team, nor did Torin expect him to. They were allies by chance, once out in the real world, they'd be enemies again. “It was thought strange,” he continued, “that there were no Ner in the prison.”

No Ner on one side. No heavies on the other. Their captors had some strange prejudices.

“Do you think they'd be willing to carry another species across to the landing pad.”

“Not the Artek.”

Too bad; she'd like to see that. “No, not the Artek. The Krai.” “Ah. The feet. You have noticed the Polina also do not wear boots.”

She swore under her breath, condemning the biscuits and whatever was in them to hell and beyond.

“They cannot walk across open flame and by the end of the journey they may be uncomfortable, but their feet are very tough; the center pad, which bears most of their weight, is covered in a hard and nerveless . . .” The translation program noticeably paused. “. . . shell.”

A clear case of “close enough.”

“And carrying a Krai? Their bones are very dense.” Information exchanged for information. “They aren't light.”

He exhaled audibly through his nose. “You can ask, Gunnery Sergeant.”

She could ask. He wasn't going to.

Fine.

The quiet tick of claws on stone behind her turned Torin to meet Durlin Vertic who'd nearly reached the hatch.

“How much longer, Gunnery Sergeant.”

A glance down at her sleeve as though Mike had given her a definitive time. “Not long, Durlin.”

“Good.”

The lights over the door began to blink. A moment later they turned a deep, ugly orange.

“External hatch open, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“Understood, Corporal.”

The control room was silent except for the distinct scent of used cat litter. Torin wished she could ask the Artek for a translation. A moment later, the lights returned to their original color although they continued to blink. A moment after that, they stilled.