Valor's Trial

Book 4: Valor Novel

by Tanya Huff

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr is a Confederation Marine's marine. She has survived more deadly encounters-and kept more of her officers and enlistees alive-than anyone else in the Corps.

Unexpectedly pulled from battle, Torin finds herself in an underground POW camp that shouldn't exist, where her fellow marine prisoners seem to have lost all will to escape. Now Torin must fight her way not only out of the prison but also past the growing compulsion to sit down and give up-not realizing that her escape could mean the end of the war.

Release date: June 3, 2008

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 416

Sample

ONE

“GUNNERY SERGEANT KERR! Good to have you back!”

“Good to be back, Sergeant Hollice.” Torin thumbprinted the release that would send her gear straight to her quarters and fell into step beside the sergeant as they crossed the shuttle bay. “And congratulations on the promotion.” Adrian Hollice had been in her squad when she was a sergeant and then, when she made staff sergeant, her platoon. She’d fast-tracked him onto his SLC and had been pleased to see her decision justified when Command had given him his third hook. Not that she needed reassurance that she’d been right—these days, she needed reassurance that Command didn’t have its head so far up its collective ass it was cutting off all oxygen to its collective brain. “The squad have any trouble getting used to it?”

“Not after Ressk and Mashona knocked a couple of heads together. They said I’d been leading them around by thediran avirrk for months anyway, I might as well get paid for it.”

Torin grinned. The Corps tried to keep combat units together when it could. Familiar faces strengthened both stability and loyalty under adverse conditions, and Marines had their own ways of working through the disruptions promotions brought.

“The captain was a little afraid they were going to send you to Recar’ta HQ,” Hollice told her as they stepped onto the lower beltway.

“So was I.” After Crucible, after she’d been detanked with her jaw rebuilt, after she’d passed the physical and psych evaluations that followed any major reconstruction, Torin had asked to be returned to Sh’quo Company. They were short NCOs and, as she’d pointed out, she’d be wasted in a staff position. Although the Corps reserved the right to send her wherever the hell it pleased, both points were inarguable and she’d been sent home. It hadn’t hurt that the Commandant of the Corps had agreed with her—although wasted in a staff position had not been the phrase used.

“The last thing we need around here is someone else who thinks she’s always right,” had been the gist of the Commandant’s observations.

Given the hour, the lower beltway was nearly deserted.

“They’ve started sweeping our Division.” Hollice stood self-consciously erect as they rode toward the heart of the station. “Started at First Recar’ta, of course, so the war could bloody well be over before they get to us at Fourth. Scuttlebutt says they haven’t found anything yet.”

He tugged at his collar tabs, and Torin hid a smile at the telltale sign. In a poker game, he’d have been bluffing. In a conversation, he was trying to draw her out. This was why he’d come to meet her; she’d been with the recon team on Big Yellow—the alien spaceship that had turned out to be the actual alien, or aliens, the terminology remained uncertain—later, she’d initiated the investigation into why nobody remembered Big Yellow’s missing escape pod and had most recently spoken to a collective of the alien on Crucible. Granted, melting her jaw during a last-ditch attempt to override a reprogrammed OpSat had meant she’d been tanked during the initial There are aliens among us!hysteria, and she’d missed the development of the search protocols, but she was the closest thing to an authority in the Sector.

“You think they will, Gunny?” Hollice prodded. “Find anything, I mean?”

“Find bits of a polynumerous shape-shifting, organic plastic alien that boots through our security protocols like cheddar through a H’san?” Torin asked him blandly. “One that can separate into submicroscopic pieces to avoid detection and then recombine itself back to sentience when the danger has passed? I very much doubt it.” Search protocols and calming announcements from the Elder Races be damned. “Not unless it wants to be found.”

“Great.”

She had to admire the dryness of his delivery. He’d deserved that promotion. “Not really.”

“What does it want?”

“It told me it was collecting data.”

“Studying us?”

“So it seems.”

“Why?”

“No idea. We may never know.” Little pieces of plastic were ubiquitous throughout Confederation space. The alien could be a part of any of them. It could be any of them. It could mimic other materials, and while the parts they’d most recently been in contact with had been gray, Big Yellow proved rather conclusively that didn’t have to be the case. The handrail on the beltway could be recording data for the alien—as the alien—while she passed. Torin, by career choice and disposition more paranoid than most, had made a conscious decision not to think about that.

“It could make us all forget it was ever here,” Hollice pointed out, his voice fraying a bit around the edges.

“Not all of us, Hollice.”

He turned, stared at her for a moment, and smiled. “That’s right. It can’t mess with your head.”

“Took a look inside and was scared off. It wants to get to Sh’quo Company, it’ll have to get through me.” Which was both the truth and complete bullshit since she had no more way of stopping the alien, singly or collectively, than she had of convincing the Navy that a straight line was the shortest distance between two points. But it was bullshit Hollice needed to hear and bullshit he needed to repeat to his squad. Or maybe it was the part of the statement that was the truth he needed to repeat. Whatever worked.

Technically, it hadn’t messed with her head. Hadn’t adjusted her memories of the escape pod the way it had adjusted the memories of nearly everyone else who’d been involved in the exploration of Big Yellow.

Hadn’t and couldn’t were two totally different things.

* * *

The shortage of NCOs meant that Torin had only to put in a request to the station sysop to have her old quarters reassigned. The recon mission to Big Yellow had been a temporary posting, but the promotion before traveling to Ventris to brief Command on the Silsviss had destroyed the certainty of a round-trip ticket—integrating an aggressive reptilian species into the Corps would take decades, and she’d essentially been responsible for their willingness to join. That made her, if not an expert on the species, someone whose opinion Command intended to exploit. Fortunately, new information from the Marines stationed at the embassy on Silsviss had pushed her experience out toward the edge of the target. Some of those Marines were trained xenopsychologists rather than a noncom with good instincts and a willingness to kick ass when required, and, more importantly, none of them had been expected to kill a senior officer.

Torin suspected a few people were concerned because they still weren’t sure if she’d have gone through with it had General Morris’ sacrifice actually been necessary. She supposed it didn’t help that when asked directly she’d said, “As it wasn’t necessary, I guess we’ll never know.”

Which was the absolute truth; it wasn’t something anyone could know until it happened—no matter what they believed themselves capable of.

Her willingness to hack Major Svensson’s arm off with an ax hadn’t reassured anyone.

When she dialed the door open, her quarters looked just as she remembered them, right down to the Silsviss skull hanging on the wall over her entertainment unit. Weird. When she’d left for Ventris, she’d put everything she wasn’t taking with her into station storage.

“Messages?” she asked as the door slid shut behind her.

She’d verbalized, so the station did the same. “One message to Gunnery Sergeant Kerr from Staff Sergeant Greg Reghubir. As follows: “Welcome back, Gunny. We figured the last thing you’d need to do was sort your crap out, so we did it for you. Lance Corporal Ressk says you need stronger encryptions on your storage unit.” Greg sounded matter-of-fact, but Torin would have bet hard currency that he’d changed his own unit’s setting immediately after he saw what Ressk could do with an eight-digit code. “Twenty-thirty tonight in the SRM; don’t be late, or we’ll start without you.”

Torin patted the skull fondly as she passed on her way to the shower. It was good to be home.

* * *

“There’s been a lot of action out on the edge of the sector. Long-range sensors have picked up Susumi portals here, here, and here.” Captain Rose touched three points on the star field currently mapped out on the briefing room’s HMU and frowned at the resulting red lights. “Navy swears they’re not responsible.”

Second Lieutenant Jarret’s lavender eyes darkened as light receptors opened to give him a better look at the map. “Civilians, sir?”

The captain sighed. “It’s always possible some dumbass corporation or university has decided to scout the perimeter—those types always think they’re invincible until they find out they aren’t and we have to pull their butts out of the fire—but I don’t honestly think so. We usually get some kind of a heads up just so we’re available to pull those butts out of the fire, and, so far, no one’s admitting they’ve gone visiting.”

“What about independents, sir?” Second Lieutenant Heerik was brand new, on her first posting with none of her enthusiasm blunted, and more than one of Sh’quo Company’s officers and NCOs bent over their slates and hid a smile at the intensity of the Krai lieutenant’s question.

“What kind of independents did you have in mind, Lieutenant?”

“Well, maybe civilian salvage operators.” Her nose ridges flared. “It was a CSO who found Big Yellow.”

And Torin felt the attention of the room shift to her.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr?”

Torin had served with the captain long enough to know he was amused her relationship—or whatever the hell it was she had with Craig Ryder—had made it into the briefing. Although his reaction was subtle enough, the odds were good no one else could see it. “CSO Craig Ryder found Big Yellow because of a small error in his Susumi calculations.” She waited out the murmur of reaction. Small errors in Susumi calculations were usually fatal errors. “Spaced as they are. . .” She nodded toward the lights on the map. “. . . these portals are clearly deliberate. Salvage operators follow rather than lead, and there’s nothing happening out there. No debris, no reason for them to be deliberately jumping that way.”

“Unless there’s something happening out there,” Lieutenant Jarret said thoughtfully.

“Unless,” Captain Rose agreed. “Which is why the Navy has sent the Hardyr out to have a look around. Captain Treis came out of Susumi space here. . .” Another touch on the star map illuminated a fourth portal, this one green. “. . . and is proceeding with due caution to this system, ST7/45T2. . .” One last touch. “. . . here.” The system was equidistant from all three red portals.

“How long is due caution expected to take, sir?” Lieutenant Joriyl wondered.

“You’ll likely be headed Coreward before it happens, Lieutenant.”

Her pale orange eyes darkened as she smiled. “And not a moment too soon, sir.”

Lieutenant di’Pin Joriyl was the senior platoon officer. With her heading into Ventris on course that meant. . .

Torin blinked as she realized that meant Second Lieutenant di’Ka Jarret would be senior. The voice of reason and experience for Second Lieutenant Heerik and an even greener second lieutenant to be named later. It hadn’t been quite a year since a very green Jarret had been tossed into a stew of giant lizards and diplomacy gone bugfuk, and suddenly Torin felt old. Life was moving just a little too fast of late.

“Captain Treis will keep Recar’ta Station informed, Recar’ta will keep Battalion informed, and—if we’re really lucky—Battalion will let us know what the hell is going on before they ship us out to deal with it. Platoons are nearly at full strength for the first time in a long time, so let’s make sure everyone’s geared up and ready to go.” The star field flicked off. Captain Rose swept his gaze around the room, then nodded once. “Details have been downloaded to your slates; get out there and get ready to save the galaxy’s ass yet again. Gunnery Sergeant Kerr, remain behind.”

“Yes, sir.” Torin stood as the officers and NCOs made their way out of the small briefing room, Jarret throwing her a distinct we’ll get together later before turning his attention back to Heerik, who continued talking about the best responses to possible foothold situations, unaware of expressions exchanged nearly a meter over her head. Torin had been Jarret’s staff sergeant for that snafu of a giant lizard diplomacy trip, and she’d been impressed by the way the young officer had handled himself—both independently and under her guidance. If he stayed beyond his first contract, he’d be a credit to the Corps, and she’d be happy to serve under him again.

When the room emptied, she followed Captain Rose and First Sergeant Siaosi Tutone through the door to the captain’s office.

“Opinion, Gunny?” he asked, dropping into the chair behind his desk. Captain Rose’s voice had always seemed about three sizes too big for his body, but here, in the relative privacy of his office, he sounded tired. No, weary. Tired of all the crap that came from being a fair distance down the military food chain.

Or maybe Torin was reading too much into it.

“I think three Susumi points definitely indicates the Others are interested in something in that end of the Sector,” she told him. “I think the lack of any significant attempt to hide their presence means they’re coming through in force. I think the Navy should have sent more ships because if the Others get that force on the ground we’re looking at Battalion moving the whole Ground Combat Team out in response. And I think that the music selection in the Senior Ranks’ Mess changed for the worse while I was gone.”

“That would be my selection,” the first sergeant pointed out. His voice was as deep as the captain’s although less incongruous, rumbling up as it did from the depth of an enormous barrel chest. Torin was tall, but Tutone topped her by a head and a half—taller even than most di’Taykan—and proportionately broad. His hands were enormous, and muscle strained against the confines of his Class Cs.

“Good choice, First. It’s past time I broadened my musical tastes,” Torin added, although she wasn’t sure whether she was aiming for more or for less sincerity.

Tutone grinned, teeth flashing white against the rich mahogany of his skin.

Captain Rose leaned back in his chair and smiled as well. “Welcome home, Gunny. It’s good to have you back.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.”

“Recar’ta Station agrees with your analysis, by the way. When the orders come down, they’ll come down for the entire GCT. That’s why you’re here, specifically here with Sh’quo Company when we don’t generally rate a gunny. Aman’s short, and she’s not reupping. Unless we deploy in the next tenday, that’ll leave Jura’s platoon with a shiny new second lieutenant and Heerik, who’s almost as shiny, with a green staff sergeant. We’ll move the new staff sergeant in under Jarret, since he’s got a whole year of experience. . .” Pale eyes rolled, although for the most part he kept the sarcasm from his voice. “. . . but that’s going to leave the company scrambling for experience among the officers and senior NCOs. We need you to be a kind of utility player, coming in off the bench where needed both at the platoon level and keeping the company connected to Battalion.”

“Off the bench is a sports metaphor,” Tutone offered. “Baseball.”

His tone was dry enough that Torin couldn’t quite tell if he was being helpful or facetious, so she settled for a neutral, “Thank you, First Sergeant.” The league on Paradise had teams on all three major continents, and the year she left to join the Corps, New Alland—a minor continent or large island depending on who was speaking—had petitioned to have their teams recognized as well. According to the news download in the most recent packet from her younger brother, they still hadn’t managed it.

“Until we ship out,” Captain Rose continued, “you’ll base at a desk by First Sergeant Tutone’s, your primary duty to liaise with the rest of the GCT as we attempt to get ready for whatever’s coming down the fukking pike. Eventually, I expect you’ll be at the first sergeant’s desk.”

New gunnery sergeants were expected to indicate which way they intended their careers to go—to the combat position of first sergeant or to the staff position of master sergeant. After the incident on Crucible, where both the system and the officer in charge had been taken over by unknown alien forces and Torin had led the training platoon of one-twenty recruits while they fought both the system and the aliens to a standstill, Command had made it quite clear which choice they’d prefer Torin to make. Fortunately, it was the choice she wanted to make. Tutone’s desk had been her goal since she’d received her corporal’s hooks.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, sir.”

For an instant, Torin thought the first sergeant had been reading her mind, and then she realized he’d been responding to the captain’s statement.

“Glad to hear that, First. I was just starting to get used to you. So, Gunny, is it true what Command says, that there’s nothing we can do about the microscopic bits of a big yellow alien scattered throughout known space?”

“That’s the gist of it, sir.”

“Since the search teams haven’t found anything, any chance they’ve buggered off back where they came from?”

“The bit I spoke to told me they didn’t have enough information, sir. I expect they’re still collecting data.”

“Why can’t the search teams find them, then?” Before she could answer, Tutone raised a massive hand. “Never mind. The answer is probably that they can’t find their anus with both hands and a map, so. . .” He waved off the end of the sentence.

“Any chance that when they spoke to you, they were messing with your head?” the captain wondered.

Given that some of them had just emerged from Major Svensson’s head, Torin sure as hell hoped not. “I don’t think so, sir.”

Captain Rose sat and stared up at the ceiling for a moment; specifically stared at the ring of gray plastic around the recessed light over his desk. Tutone followed the captain’s gaze, but Torin refused to look. “It’s like discovering the enemy is an inanimate object,” he muttered, dropping his gaze. “Any inanimate object.” Then he shook his head and double tapped his desk, blows ringing against the plastic. “All right. Let’s get going on a job we can do.”

Both NCOs recognized the dismissal, coming to attention and snapping out a “Sir!” in unison.

Rolling his eyes, the captain stroked one hand down the edge of the lower, right side screen. “I’m sending your first problem out to your desk, Gunny. And I know you’ve got things to deal with, First Sergeant, so let’s have a little less smartass spit and polish and a little more work out of both of you. Gunny?”

Torin paused at the door. “Sir?”

“Can we be expecting General Morris to drop by any time soon?”

General Morris had become Torin’s personal pain in the brass. He’d sent the platoon out to Silsviss, he’d sent her out to Big Yellow, and he’d been contaminated by the alien. Torin had a feeling he blamed her for the last. After all, if she hadn’t blown the whistle, he’d never have known. Or, specifically, no one would have ever known it about him. Given their history, the thought of him showing up once again at the Four Two made her feel a little chilled. Their time spent together never ended well.

“I sincerely hope not, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.”

In the outer office, Torin settled in behind her desk—easy enough to identify as it was the one the first sergeant hadn’t settled his bulk behind—and opened the file the captain had sent.

“New desk, new job, eh, Gunny?”

She looked up to find the first sergeant watching her. “Same old war, First. Same old war.”

He smiled and nodded, but she had a suspicion that he didn’t entirely agree with her. She had no problem with that. There were days when she didn’t entirely agree with it herself.

“Do you ever get the feeling that there are things the Elder Races aren’t telling us?”

“It is worth noting, Gunny, that none of the diplomatic missions sent to the Others have ever included a member of the species doing the actual fighting.”

Granted, it had turned out not to have been the Elder Races messing with the memories of those who knew about Big Yellow but Big Yellow itself, and while that was moderately less distressing than the alternative—always better to be screwed over by an unknown factor than an ally—that didn’t actually address either question. Were there things the Elder Races weren’t telling the Humans, di’Taykan, or Krai who fought their war? And why hadn’t one of the three Youngest ever been invited to join the missions sent out to try to end the war? Over a century of attempted diplomacy had resulted in a few thousand dead diplomats, so why hadn’t Parliament tried every possible option?

And, most importantly, had she been discussing the Elder Races with Major Svensson or with the alien living in his brain? If the former, was there discontent growing within the Corps? If the latter, did the aliens know something the Youngest didn’t?

Too many questions.

Torin wanted to go back to the days when the only question she ever asked was What do I have to do to get my people out of here alive? Unfortunately, once the round was out of the barrel, there was no stuffing it back in. Those days were long gone.

* * *

“The company will be at full complement when we deploy, Sergeant—three full platoons plus NCOs plus officers.” Torin leaned forward just far enough to tap the screen currently showing the potential packet layouts. That leaning forward also brought her well into the transport sergeant’s personal space was intentional. “We’re short here. And here.”

“I’ve got the whole GCT moving out, Gunny.” His nose ridges opened, closed, and opened again. “Not everyone’s going to get what they want.”

“That’s fair. But Sh’quo Company will get what we need.”

He started to answer, realized she hadn’t actually asked a question, and shut his mouth with a snap of his teeth. Krai teeth could chew through anything that held still long enough, and the sound was intended to be intimidating.

Torin smiled. Human teeth weren’t as strong—it was all in the display.

* * *

“No, sir. The download is correct and in order, but the count was wrong. Download says we received eight hundred twenty-eight, ninety standard-round mags for one hundred thirty-eight KC-7, five hundred fifty-two high impact mags, and thirty-six full packages for the heavies when, in point of fact, we received eight hundred twenty-six, ninety standard-round mags.”

The supply officer flashed her laser at one of the automated retrieval drones up near the roof of the armory, adjusting its approach to an upper storage unit, then turned to scowl in Torin’s general direction. “You’re making all this fuss for two magazines, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. We’ll make them up in the next ship. Two magazines aren’t going to make a damned bit of difference.”

“Sorry, sir, but we could deploy at any moment; I need it corrected now.”

That focused the lieutenant’s attention. “You need it corrected now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because I have nothing better to do?”

Torin caught the lieutenant’s lilac gaze and held it. She’d been a lieutenant through Torin’s last three promotions and at this point would likely never see her captain’s bars. Torin didn’t care about that; there were plenty of reasons people were passed over for promotion. Some of them were even good reasons. What she did care about was that someone who’d be a long Susumi jump back of the shooting had no fukking idea just how much difference two magazines could make when it came down to it.

The lieutenant looked away when Torin allowed it. She flashed the laser at one of the smaller drones, and waited, scowling, until it buzzed up and hovered by her elbow. Picking the magazines out of the bin, she tossed them toward Torin who snatched them out of the air, checked their loads, and scanned the serial numbers into her slate to replace the two they didn’t receive.

“Happy, Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want to see you around here again.”

“And you won’t, sir.” She paused just long enough for it to be noticeable. “Not as long as the downloads and the counts match.”

* * *

“Nice grouping, Mashona.”

Lance Corporal Binti Mashona lowered her weapon and grinned. “Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant.”

The ten rounds hadn’t hit the target in a grouping so much as in a single large hole.

“Lance Corporal Mashona was using a standard KC-7, right off the rack.” Torin informed Second Lieutenant Heerik’s number three squad. “Now that she’s proven what can be done when properly motivated, why don’t you lot come up here again and, this time, try to hit the damned targets. If you’re still having trouble, pretend you all qualified on this weapon back in Basic!”

“Uh, Gunnery Sergeant. . .” The private’s ocher hair made tentative movements out at the ends of the strands. “. . . we did all qualify back in Basic.”

“I know that, Private Leraj.”

“I think you’re making them nervous, Gunny,” Mashona murmured as the squad rushed back into position.

Torin snorted. “I can’t see why.”

* * *

“I’m surprised, I am, truly surprised, that a big hero like you—got the Silsviss to join up all on your lonesome, discovered a new alien life-form, saved a whole platoon of children from a bit of bad programming—I’m surprised you’re still willing to drink with us working stiffs.”

“He’s drunk, Torin.”

Torin looked at Amanda’s hand on her arm then up at the di’Taykan technical sergeant looming over their table, his lime-green hair spread out in a brilliant aurora around his head. “You think?”

Di’Taykan hair wasn’t exactly hair as Humans understood it. It was more like fine cat whiskers, and this, this was a threat display. Used to thinking of the di’Taykan as lovers—where lovers meant the most enthusiastically nondiscriminating species in known space—a lot of people forgot why they were part of the military structure. When the Elder Races first contacted them, they’d achieved peace under the umbrella of half a dozen heavily armed Orbital Platforms and had defense satellites in place all the way out to the edge of their system. While it was true that usually, one on one, they fukked before they fought. . . they also fought.

And this technical sergeant, wearing Armored’s distinctive lightning bolt and wheel collar tabs, was looking for a fight.

Thing was, fights didn’t happen in the SRM regardless of the amount of alcohol consumed—so