Valour's Choice (6 page)

“What do you think, Staff?”

Attention abruptly switched back to her companions, she tongued her implant off and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t listening.”

“Checking on the children?” Jarret wondered.

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded, satisfied. Torin was impressed. A great many junior officers took months to realize that no news was good news. Some of the more officious never caught on.

“I was wondering,” Captain Daniels asked, catching her eye, “if you had an opinion on the evening.”

Torin had overheard more conversations than she’d been a part of. Most of them had been amazingly inane. “A military opinion?”

“Please. I think we’ve all heard as many uninformed opinions on the state of the buffet, the other species present, and the new season of
All My Offspring
as we can stomach.”

“There’s nothing like having a Mictok overanalyze your favorite vid,” Lieutenant Ghard sighed.

Nothing Torin could think of anyway. “The civilians seem concerned that the Silsviss come in on our side,” she began, organizing her impressions as she spoke, “although the doctor isn’t pleased about bringing a fourth aggressive species into the Confederation.”

Representatives of the three other aggressive species snorted.

“The Navy seems concerned that the Others will figure out what we’re doing and blow this new defensive array into atoms before it’s up and running. And one of the vjs who took the first contact team in said we’d better recruit the Silsviss before the Others do because she wouldn’t, and I quote, want to meet those S.O.B.s in battle.”

Jarret nodded. “I heard that, too. Good thing we’re going in as friends.”

* * *

“All right, people, the clock is running again; we’re forty-nine hours to planetfall. You’ve all seen the vids on the Silsviss, you’ve heard how important it is to impress them enough so that they join the Confederation before the Others move in. Given that, over the next forty-nine hours we’ll be practicing ceremonial drill morning, afternoon, and evening. Or the shipboard equivalent thereof.”

“Aw, Staff, we’ve been drilling...”

“I know.” Torin fixed Haysole with a basilisk smile. “I’ve seen you.” She lifted her gaze to include the entire platoon. “I’ve seen all of you. And that’s why you’re doing
more
drill.”

“I thought the Silsviss were supposed to be impressed by our military prowess,” a Human voice muttered.

“I’ve got a better idea, Drake...” The heavy gunner started, while those around him snickered at his discomfort. “...let’s start by impressing them with how well you can tell your left foot from your right. All of you; flight deck, with your weapon, 0830. Dismissed.”

She stepped back to stand by the lieutenant as the platoon moved muttering out of the mess.

“Do they really need more drill?” he asked quietly.

“Not really. Considering that none of them have done it since basic, they’re surprisingly good.”

“Then why?”

“You don’t want them thinking too much before a planetfall.”

“But this isn’t like other planetfalls.”

“None of them are, sir. None of them are.”

“N
ot a bad looking place.” Through the cloud cover, the orbital view of Silsvah showed two large land masses and half a dozen smaller ones. Although a little smaller than Terra with a little less ocean, Torin found the planet had a comfortable familiarity—even though she’d been born on Paradise, the first of the colony worlds, and had never personally seen the Human home world from space.

“Mind you,” she muttered thoughtfully to no one in particular, “the fact that no one’ll be trying to shoot us out of the sky as we land adds to the attraction.”

As the
Berganitan
began passing over a storm that seemed to involve half the southern hemisphere, her implant chimed.

*DIGNITARIES APPROACHING.*

Wincing, she tongued the volume down and hurried across the flight deck to join Lieutenant Jarret. Sergeants and above had received the Silsviss translation program and the upload had scrambled her defaults, forcing her to reset almost every function. Her next promotion would net her a new implant and she had to admit that, as little as she enjoyed the techs cracking her jaw, she was looking forward to the new hardware. Among other things, she’d gain direct access to the Navy net and power enough to reach any ship not in Susumi space should the company need to be pulled out. Her next promotion would also get her a few years away from combat and she had to admit she was looking forward to that as well.

“Did you hear, sir?”

Jarret grinned, lilac hair flicking back and forth. “I heard. Get them ready, Staff Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” She called the platoon to attention as the hatch cycled open. She’d intended to have them tucked safely away on the VTA before the civilians boarded but the lieutenant had wanted everyone to get a look at each other before they left the ship. It was a good idea—the fewer surprises dirtside, the better—although she’d been a little surprised that her brand new second lieutenant had been the one to have it.

The platoon looked good; not quite so dangerous as it did fully loaded, but good. And if there were a few nonregulation weapons tucked away in nonregulation places, well, these people were used to using every trick it took to stay alive, and she wasn’t going to take that edge away.

The Mictok and the Rakva arrived at the top of the gangway before the four Dornagain had ambled across half the flight deck. Face expressionless, Torin amused herself by watching how every deliberate movement rippled new highlights through their thick fur. Then she amused herself by imagining them attempting to outrun enemy fire. Then she wasn’t amused.

Captain Carveg should’ve sent them down an hour ago—then maybe we’d have left on schedule.

The Dornagain ambassador reached the bottom of the gangway.

Maybe two hours ago.

The ramp had been designed for loading—and offloading— armored personnel carriers. After some discussion of weight ratios and stress factors, the Dornagain went up it in pairs.

Somehow I doubt the Honorable Listens Wisely And Considers All has considered what a pain in the ass this lack of speed is going to be for the rest of us.

When the last rippling highlight had disappeared into the forward compartment, Torin double-timed the platoon up into the belly of the beast, past the two APCs, past the armory, and into the troop compartment.

“Sergeants, sound off when squads are webbed in.”

“Squad One, secure.”

“Squad Two, secure.”

“Haysole, secure your feet or I’ll cut them off,” Glicksohn growled as the di’Taykan kicked a strap free.

Turquoise eyes narrowed, hair flat against his head, Haysole retrieved the strap. “I don’t like it when I can’t move my feet, Sarge.”

“What you like has crap all to do with life. Tie them down.” Cinching his own webbing tight, Glicksohn shot a “Why me?” look at Torin and snapped, “Squad Three, secure.”

“Platoon secured for drop, sir.”

Lieutenant Jarret had barely passed the information along to the pilot when the VTA dropped free of the
Berganitan.
“Making up for the Dornagain?” he wondered aloud as the platoon bounced against its webbing. “Or just trying to beat that storm in the southern hemisphere?”

“More likely force of habit,” Torin told him. “General Morris, in his infinite two-starred wisdom, assigned a combat pilot to this mission—probably still trying to impress the Silsviss with our military might. Combat pilots flying VTA troop carriers hit dirt as quickly as possible in an attempt not to get themselves and their cargo blown out of the air on the way down.”

“And in your experience, when they hit dirt, is their cargo able to walk away?”

“Yes, sir.” She grinned, teeth together so as not to bite chunks off her tongue during a particularly vigorous bit of atmospheric buffering. “Most of the time.” A quick check on the platoon showed everyone more or less enjoying the flight. “Whatever it is you’re eating, Ressk, swallow it before we land.”

“No problem, Staff.”

“More like
whoever
he’s eating,” Binti muttered beside him.

“You ought to count your fingers,” he suggested. “You’re too
serley
stupid to notice one missing.”

“Maybe you ought to
gren sa talamec to
.”

“That’s enough, people.”

When the Confederation first started integrating the di’Taykan and the Krai into what was predominantly a Human military system, xenopsychologists among the elder races expected a number of problems. For the most part, those expectations fell short. After having dealt with the Mictok and the H’san, none of three younger races—all bipedal mammals—had any real difficulty with each other’s appearance. Cultural differences were absorbed into the prevailing military culture and the remaining problems were dealt with in the age-old military tradition of learning to say “up yours” in the other races’ languages. The “us against them” mentality of war made for strange bedfellows.

Conscious of Lieutenant Jarret webbed in close beside her, Torin shied away from that last thought. Not that sex with a di’Taykan could be considered anything but the default...

Is that going to keep cropping up during the entire mission,
she wondered.
’Cause if it does, a therapeutic mind wipe is going to start looking pretty damned good.

“We’re over Shurlantec and have picked up an escort—they look like short range fighters from here. Ground in seventeen minutes.”

Captain Daniels’ announcement drew her attention back to the situation at hand. “Listen up, people, and I’ll go over our dispersement pattern one last time. Squad One down to the ramp to the left. Two to the right. Three along both sides. When our civilians move out, Squad Three falls in behind. One and Two spread out enough to cover full flanking positions. Remember we’re supposed to be a ceremonial guard, so weapons remain at parade rest. I don’t care if the Silsviss come up and bite you on the ass, do
not
respond. We’re here to make friends, and we do not blow away, blow up, or just generally put holes in our friends. Is that clear? What is it, Checya?”

The heavy gunner lifted a miserable gaze to her face. “I feel naked without my exoskeleton. I never fukking landed without it before.”

Throughout the platoon, the other eight HGs nodded in agreement. “And thinkin’ of Checya naked ain’t helpin’,” one muttered.

“I know how you feel, but orders say small arms only.” She glanced aside at her own KC-7 and smothered a smile. Small was a relative term—the KC just happened to be the smallest weapon they carried, excluding knives, fists, boots, teeth, and brain. A Marine was expected to survive dropped naked into enemy territory and that expectation had kept a few alive. It had probably killed a few, too, Torin realized, but since the Others didn’t take prisoners, it really came down to whether or not a person died trying.

And that’s just cheerful enough to make thinking of sex with the lieutenant a preferred option.

Her implant chimed, and she hit the master webbing release. “We’re down. Let’s go.”

Under cover of the resulting noise. Lieutenant Jarret leaned close and murmured, “I’m not questioning your decisions, Staff, but why such a complicated procedure? Why not just march them down and line them up.”

“Two reasons, sir. First, the Silsviss are impressed by military prowess, so we’re showing them we have every intention of defending our civilians even though we won’t have to. Second, if we leave this lot standing around for too long with nothing to do, it won’t be pretty. I said, swallow it by landing, Ressk!” She sighed. “I did warn General Morris that we were a combat unit.”

“You worry too much, Staff. This’ll be a break for them.” The word
break
had occurred to her although not in that context. Break bones, break bottles, break up negotiations; yes. Enjoy standing around in a dress uniform while diplomats made decisions that eventually they’d have to risk their butts to enforce; no. But all she said was, “Yes, sir.”

At the base of the ramp, the local version of concrete stretched off into the distance until it met with a wall of what looked like the same material. Except for the lack of burns and pitting—the place had obviously been resurfaced for their arrival—it could have been any friendly landing field in the Confederation.

Except for the giant lizards approaching at one o’clock,
Torin amended. They were too far away for details, and she knew how the heavy gunners had felt about leaving their exoskeletons behind because she really missed her helmet. With its scanner, she could have counted the striations on each scale. Without it, she wasn’t entirely certain they had scales, although the claws protruding from each foot were uncomfortably large enough to see.

They didn’t seem to be wearing much, but considering the damp heat that was hardly surprising. The heat would make the Krai happy and was within Human tolerances, but she’d have to see that the di’Taykan got extra water.

A quick glance at Lieutenant Jarret showed his hair flat against his head and his nostrils flared. “When you can smell a planet over the landing fumes,” he said, stroking the temperature controls on his cuff down to their Iowest setting, “you know it’s going to be bad.”

“Pity about the Human sense of smell, sir.” The di’Taykan made no secret of how useless they considered Human noses.

He looked at her then. “Nobody likes a smartass, Staff.”

“Very true, sir.”

The Mictok were the first on the field, then the Rakva, then, to no one’s surprise, the Dornagain. By the time the Dornagain had lumbered off the ramp and the Third Squad had fallen in behind, the Silsviss welcoming committee had taken up position between two brilliantly colored banners and a formation of their own soldiers, matching the Marines exactly in numbers and mirroring their position.

They knew how many of us were coming...
One painfully constricted heartbeat later, she remembered
this
time that wasn’t a problem.

Off to one side of the soldiers, a small cluster of what could only be reporters recorded the moment for posterity. Their technology might be unfamiliar, but their attitude was unmistakable.