looked gray to Human eyes. Dr. Sloan had gotten her hands on an impressive set of long underwear.
“You think someone is selling Corps tech to the general public?”
“No, sir, but I think the Corps might want to consider changing suppliers. She’s got a sweet setup on.”
The major made a noncommittal noise and asked. “Trainers or off the rack?”
“For the doctor, sir?”
“Well, I know I’m not wearing any goddamned trainers, Gunny and I’ve got a strong suspicion you’re not either so, yes, for the doctor.”
“Off the rack, sir, given her observer status. I was concerned the programming in the trainers might confuse the drones.”
The recruits’ combats—called trainers, although the official name was Extremity Targeting Garments, ETGs—contained microcircuitry that worked with the drones deployed, Crucible directing fire to where it would do the least damage. While Torin had nothing against the
less damage
part of their function, the
directing fire
bit was a deal breaker. The last thing she wanted was her own uniform directing the enemy’s fire toward soft tissue damage. She’d wear her own combats and force the damned drones to aim just like everyone else who shot at her had to.
It seemed the major felt the same way.
The recruits might have as well had they been told. “So the Doc knows we’re boarding at 0630 tomorrow; that 71 got the first drop?”
“Yes, sir. She knows.”
They walked a few paces farther.
“So, what’s the name of the di’Taykan with the pale pink hair?”
“Di’Terada Sakur.” Torin frowned up at him. Was this a recruit who’d come to the major instead of her with a problem? And was it the same problem Jonin thought he had? “Why, sir?”
Svensson grinned. “I bet myself that the moment you knew which platoon we were dropping with, you’d learn who was who.”
Not a problem: conversation. It was going to take a while to get used to that with an officer, but they were a little short of other people to talk to. “I could be wrong about the name.”
“But you aren’t.”
“No, sir.” He knew she was right because he knew the names as well as she did. “I bet myself you’d do the exact same thing.”
“We really need some more people to gamble with.”
Torin grinned, hearing the major voice essentially what she’d just been thinking. “No argument, sir. I owe myself fifty credits.”
“Fifty? I only bet twenty on you.”
* * *
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr; there’s nothing wrong with that piece of equipment in the larboard gym. Record says resistance was set to rise incrementally every rep. No upper limit.”
Torin slid a few notes about Platoon 71 off the comm screen, enlarging the chief petty officer’s image. “Thank you, Chief. Sorry to waste your time.”
She shrugged. “Not a problem. Your major’s probably in worse shape than he thought. Can’t be easy coming back after being tanked so long.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.”
“He was the brain in the tank, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Well, at least you know he’s got one.”
“I find that a great comfort, Chief.”
With the comm screen dark, Torin drummed her fingers against the inert trim on the desk. Major Svensson had believed it when he told her he’d set the resistance at five, no rises. The Chief had no reason to lie to her. Therefore, the simplest explanation was that the major had set the machine incorrectly without noticing. The simplest explanation was usually the right one, but something about the situation suggested complications to Torin, the kind of complications that were likely to show up later and bite someone on the ass.
The major was right, though; rogue rowing machines weren’t usually part of a Crucible scenario.
* * *
To Torin’s surprise, Dr. Sloan was not only up and ready for her 0600 breakfast but unimpressed Torin had doubted her.
“Early hours are nothing in my profession, Gunnery Sergeant. People seldom need a doctor at
“You think someone is selling Corps tech to the general public?”
“No, sir, but I think the Corps might want to consider changing suppliers. She’s got a sweet setup on.”
The major made a noncommittal noise and asked. “Trainers or off the rack?”
“For the doctor, sir?”
“Well, I know I’m not wearing any goddamned trainers, Gunny and I’ve got a strong suspicion you’re not either so, yes, for the doctor.”
“Off the rack, sir, given her observer status. I was concerned the programming in the trainers might confuse the drones.”
The recruits’ combats—called trainers, although the official name was Extremity Targeting Garments, ETGs—contained microcircuitry that worked with the drones deployed, Crucible directing fire to where it would do the least damage. While Torin had nothing against the
less damage
part of their function, the
directing fire
bit was a deal breaker. The last thing she wanted was her own uniform directing the enemy’s fire toward soft tissue damage. She’d wear her own combats and force the damned drones to aim just like everyone else who shot at her had to.
It seemed the major felt the same way.
The recruits might have as well had they been told. “So the Doc knows we’re boarding at 0630 tomorrow; that 71 got the first drop?”
“Yes, sir. She knows.”
They walked a few paces farther.
“So, what’s the name of the di’Taykan with the pale pink hair?”
“Di’Terada Sakur.” Torin frowned up at him. Was this a recruit who’d come to the major instead of her with a problem? And was it the same problem Jonin thought he had? “Why, sir?”
Svensson grinned. “I bet myself that the moment you knew which platoon we were dropping with, you’d learn who was who.”
Not a problem: conversation. It was going to take a while to get used to that with an officer, but they were a little short of other people to talk to. “I could be wrong about the name.”
“But you aren’t.”
“No, sir.” He knew she was right because he knew the names as well as she did. “I bet myself you’d do the exact same thing.”
“We really need some more people to gamble with.”
Torin grinned, hearing the major voice essentially what she’d just been thinking. “No argument, sir. I owe myself fifty credits.”
“Fifty? I only bet twenty on you.”
* * *
“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr; there’s nothing wrong with that piece of equipment in the larboard gym. Record says resistance was set to rise incrementally every rep. No upper limit.”
Torin slid a few notes about Platoon 71 off the comm screen, enlarging the chief petty officer’s image. “Thank you, Chief. Sorry to waste your time.”
She shrugged. “Not a problem. Your major’s probably in worse shape than he thought. Can’t be easy coming back after being tanked so long.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.”
“He was the brain in the tank, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Well, at least you know he’s got one.”
“I find that a great comfort, Chief.”
With the comm screen dark, Torin drummed her fingers against the inert trim on the desk. Major Svensson had believed it when he told her he’d set the resistance at five, no rises. The Chief had no reason to lie to her. Therefore, the simplest explanation was that the major had set the machine incorrectly without noticing. The simplest explanation was usually the right one, but something about the situation suggested complications to Torin, the kind of complications that were likely to show up later and bite someone on the ass.
The major was right, though; rogue rowing machines weren’t usually part of a Crucible scenario.
* * *
To Torin’s surprise, Dr. Sloan was not only up and ready for her 0600 breakfast but unimpressed Torin had doubted her.
“Early hours are nothing in my profession, Gunnery Sergeant. People seldom need a doctor at
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