by Jean Johnson
A second, broader gesture from her toward the gymnasium broke the rigid At Attention postures of both her crew and the troops of the Army. With a second cheer, the civilians took that as the signal to surge forward and greet all three sets of soldiers with an enthusiasm stirred up by renewed hope. Among them were her first officer’s parents, who were already hugging their son, looking strong and handsome in his Dress Grays.
She just had to keep up a polite, friendly, but otherwise neutral personality in front of the Harper clan. They, in turn, simply had to keep their mouths shut on any of their suspicions. Thankfully, the vast majority of probabilities were on her side. They would be circumspect . . . at a 98 percent chance.
Then again, this time if the instincts of his parents picked up on any hints of a relationship between the two of them, Ia wouldn’t have to worry about anyone analyzing to death any recordings of this night’s meeting. This time, chatting with them would be as private as a public celebration could make it, contradictory though that was.
“Ah! Meioa General, sir!”
. . . Unfortunately, I now have to deal with the Press. Managing a polite smile, Ia turned to acknowledge the local reporter catching up with her. Denora de Marco and her hovercamera operator hurried up, her own smile broad, polite, and polished, known locally for her occasional piecework for Interstellar News Network and her brave reports from the battle lines, though she wasn’t yet a big name off-world. What she wanted to do would make de Marco famous, however.
Famous enough, it’ll come back around to try to bite me in the asteroid . . . but like so many other things in life, I’ll just have to turn it into a useful tool, in the end.
“General Ia, since you now have a few moments, I was wondering if we could get an interview with you?” the brown-haired de Marco asked. “I’d love to do an even longer one, but I was given to understand you’ll be departing soon.”
“For a longer interview, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while, but for a brief one right now . . . You will have eleven minutes and thirteen seconds, then I will be needed inside,” Ia stated, checking the timestreams and nodding at the reporter’s companion. “I’m ready when you and your cameras are, meioas.”
The other woman fiddled with her controls, and nodded, flicking her fingers in a brief countdown at de Marco, who smiled brightly and began. “This is Denora de Marco for Interstellar News Network. I’m here on Dabin, the formerly besieged but now liberated Joint Colonyworld, thanks to the combined efforts of the V’Dan Imperial Fleet, which has finally broken the Salik blockade, and the efforts of the Terran Space Force Army here on the ground. With me is the recently promoted four-star General Ia, formerly an officer of the Special Forces, and now attached to the Army. General, it is an honor to have a chance to speak with you.”
Ia dipped her head briefly in the direction of the cameras floating over the operator’s brown curls. “Meioa de Marco, the honor is mine. I admired your work on the Chansonné scandal last year.”
The reporter gave Ia a genuine, warm smile before launching into her first question. “Thank you. General Ia, you’ve been acknowledged by the government and major figures of the Sh’nai faith as the Prophet of a Thousand Years, one of their most iconic and ancient figureheads,” de Marco pointed out. “How do you reconcile your place as a religious figurehead to the V’Dan people with your duties and responsibilities as a major Terran military figure?”
Joy. Well, with the V’Dan here, I should’ve figured she’d want to explore that twenty-eight percent angle first . . . “They go hand in hand, meioa. My duty as an officer compels me to carry out my orders with the least loss of life possible. I do so by using my precognitive abilities to assess the possible outcomes and their potential risks. The biggest difference between myself and the other generals and analysts in the Terran military is that I simply see more . . . but they do generally see quite a lot even without any added abilities.”
“A thousand years’ worth, or so you say,” the reporter clarified, making her statement a partial question.
“Yes, though technically I see a lot more than just a thousand years. In this case, I foresaw the need to kick the Salik off Dabin. The Army still has a ways to go before the last of the enemy has been driven from Dabinian soil,” Ia warned lightly, “but with careful planning and hard work, we, both the Terrans and the V’Dan, have finally removed the bulk of the enemy. The majority of the Salik have fled both the planet and the system, and only a fraction remain. It’s a modest respite since the Salik will still continue to wreak damage and endanger lives until the last ones are caught or killed. But the meioas here have earned the right to at least a little bit of celebrating before they get back to work.”
“You say ‘they’ get back to work. Will you not be staying?” de Marco asked. She likely knew the answer since it wasn’t exactly a secret at Army Headquarters; instead, her question was for her viewers’ benefit. One which Ia patiently answered, mindful of the press of time and the obligation all officers were under to make the military look good in civilian eyes.
“No, meioa, I will not be able to stay. Now that the one particular spot of difficulty we came here to deal with has been handled, my crew and I are needed elsewhere. With Brigadier General Michel Tumseh in charge and the blockade broken by our V’Dan allies, the Terran Army stationed here on Dabin is quite capable of cleaning up the planet, both of its Salik infestation and of the not-cats which they so rudely dumped on this beautiful world.
“The V’Dan Fleet has agreed to leave several ships behind to keep your system frogtopus-free,” she added with a gesture upward, encompassing the slowly darkening sky, “as per their joint military contract with this world. With their arrival and support, both groups have things well covered on the ground and in the sky. Our only regret as your joint protectors is that the heavy press of the war in other star systems forced us to leave the system blockade in place until now.”
“General . . . there have been recent, widespread rumors of Feyori involvement in this whole matter. Is that the reason why you came to Dabin?” de Marco asked perceptively.
Ia was very grateful the question had been phrased in a way where she could answer truthfully.
“No, meioa,” she said with a slight, quick shake of her head. “I came here to ensure the Salik entrenchment was dug out in time for a majority of them to be chased off-world by the Fleet’s arrival. There were too many things that could go wrong, and many which did, requiring me to be present and on hand for numerous quick alterations to the Army’s various plans—I should say that no plan survives completely intact after engaging an enemy, Meioa de Marco, even one that can be foreseen and planned for as mine usually are,” Ia added to stave off the next most probable question. “This is a truism as old as any military system, Human or otherwise. A good military will adapt, and can eventually overcome its obstacles. Even under the most trying of circumstances, as you and your fellow colonists have seen.”
Switching gears smoothly, the reporter continued her interrogation. Ia patiently endured it, keeping her expression polite, her replies vague on the more sensitive details, and her attention on how everything she said might impact the timestreams. It was just one more battle, though at least in this one she didn’t have to risk losing an eye.
JULY 25, 2498 T.S.
V’DAN IMPERIAL WARSHIP T’CHU-CHEN VIZETH
SIC TRANSIT
“Okay, spill,” Christine Benjamin ordered her commanding officer the moment both women were settled on the lower of the two bunks in their shared cabin. Settled with cups of V’Dan-style caf’, that was, low in caffeine compared to the hybrid Terran-V’Dan version but without any of the bitterness associated with the original Terran kind.
“Spill what?” Ia asked. She knew the purpose of this moment in time, but it did have a lot of possible directions in which it could go. “Spill my caf’?”
The older woman rolled he
r eyes and stretched out her leg, nudging Ia in the thigh with one ship-booted toe. “Spill your emotions and reactions, woman. I did check you over briefly after you lost your eye, and when you were past the initial shock of losing our soldiers, but we weren’t exactly private when it happened. Then you took off and left me with Harper and the Company. The Feyori Meddling, the unexpected attack, the loss of your eye, the loss of Private Benjamin and the rest, followed by more shocks from the Feyori, finding Mattox and everyone in the Army HQ being overrun by Meddler influences . . . then having to confront the Meddlers, followed by confronting Mattox, the inquiry into your accusations, the expulsion of the Salik from Dabin and the mopping up that needed to be done . . . need I go on? You’ve had a very rough two months.”
Leaning back against the foot of her chaplain’s bunk, Ia sighed and looked up at the underside of her own narrow bed. She had been given the equivalent of a private cabin, albeit one shared with her chaplain, but quarters on board the T’Chu-chen Vizeth were tight, carrying as it was a full complement of ground and ship forces, plus the members of her Company. The surviving members, that was. The others in her crew were bunking in rotating sleeping shifts.
She didn’t want to talk about it but knew that the Department of Innovations and the Command Staff were expecting her to remain stable, which required talking about it . . . Except there is a loophole in that loop. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Bennie lowered her chin, giving Ia a stern look. “As your psychologist, Ia . . .”
“I am still quite Human, Bennie, and it is a very Human reaction to want to dig in one’s mental and emotional heels and not want to talk about a difficult subject. A whole shipload of difficult subjects,” she added sardonically. “A ship that blew up in my face after I blew up the real one.”
“Mm. Anger,” Bennie observed, sipping at her caf’. “I know you already went through the shock phase, and the denial . . . although from what Jesselle says, your denial actually took place before the camp was attacked and routed.”
Ia pointed a finger at her friend. “I already did all of that, Bennie. All the way through bargaining and acceptance, too. I may have done it out of order, but it’s all done and over with.”
“But there’s still anger in there,” her friend and counselor observed.
That made her roll her eyes. “Of course there is. They shouldn’t have had to die!”
“Your crew members?” Bennie prodded. “Is that what you’re most upset about?”
“All of them. Soldiers. Civilians. All of them.” Ia slashed her free hand outward, indicating the whole universe. Or at least Dabin. “All those lives lost, because Mattox refused to accept any other battle plans than his own, refused to see that he couldn’t plan his way out of a paper bag, and refused to accept that his mind had been compromised. Ginger and Teshwun, for screwing everything up. For hiding the truth of Time itself from me—me—and warping Mattox so that he caused the deaths of all those lives. For their causing the loss of all those lives.”
Bennie accepted that, mulling it over in silence for a bit. After half a minute, she asked shrewdly, “What about your eye?”
“Immaterial.” Ia didn’t pretend this time not to know where the conversation was going. “Whether I had lost it until it could be vat-grown and replaced on this ship or could—and did—replace it myself, my own suffering is immaterial. In fact, I’m more upset I don’t know how to fix everyone else’s injuries in a similar, Feyori-based way.”
“So why not learn?” the redhead offered, tipping up her mug to drain it. She caught Ia’s level stare when she lowered the emptied cup. “Ah, right. Your lack of time for such things.”
“I still have far too many prophecies to readjust thanks to the mess on Dabin. Enough that it’ll take me three solid months to get caught up on fixing everything so that the final outcome is still the same, but that doesn’t include all the stuff I’ll actually have to do over the next three months. And don’t say I’ll have the time for it here on this ship. This is my opportunity to give the V’Dan the majority of my prophecies for them, many of which will also have to be adjusted. What happened on Dabin, all the rifts and ripples and rumplings in the fabric of the timestreams, those won’t stay on Dabin alone. I can make allowances for all those hardships, but it still takes time to fix everything.
“Thankfully, since we’re almost done, I’ll have eighteen minutes to compose a few of them before we’ll both have to change into Dress Grays for our first formal dinner in the V’Dan version of an officers’ mess,” she added.
“Almost done? What makes you think we’re ‘almost done,’ here?” Bennie challenged her, raising one auburn brow.
“Because it’s going to conclude with the same answer I’ve given myself since I turned fifteen, the same answer I’ve always given you. If it’s something I cannot change—and I cannot change any of what happened—then I am not going to burden my soul with worrying over it, regretting it, or even thinking about it,” Ia stated. “Which means not talking about it. Talking just gets me angry that it happened in the first place, and gets me mad that I cannot do anything to change it anymore. Neither of which are productive emotions. In fact, they’re big time-wasters, and Time is a very precious commodity.”
She drained her own cup and uncurled from the older woman’s bunk. Holding out her hand, she accepted the other mug from her chaplain and carried them to the caf’ dispenser in the corner, where the machinery would clean and store the mugs for later use.
“It’s not a healthy thing to do,” Bennie warned her. “Repressing and denying your emotions, I mean.”
“No, but as I said, it’s a very Human way of dealing with something I cannot change. At least, not any more than I’ve already tried.”
Technically, her words weren’t entirely true. Technically, she could order a couple Feyori to go back in time to try to stop her younger self from damaging the timelines, from accidentally exposing and being counterfactioned by Miklinn, so on and so forth. But that way meant demanding the sacrifice of at least one of the Feyori’s lives. Killing Teshwun had been a case of her being a vindictive, territorial bitch, and she still could and would kill any that stepped out of line by trying to counterfaction her efforts, but the rest of them didn’t deserve to die simply because she ordered them to die. The rest had every right to live . . . and as she could still set things up for the salvation of the galaxy, that drastic an option just wasn’t an option.
But she couldn’t explain that to Bennie. Not when this whole conversation was going into her personnel file as an official counseling-session report.
Reaching into her storage locker, she pulled out one of her new workpads and a handful of datachips, both crafted in the V’Dan style. Information-storage technology changed from decade to decade in the modern era, but these were prophecies for the very near future. They didn’t need to be transcribed onto long-lasting, acid-free, archive-quality paper. They just needed to be transcribed into current V’Dan technology for the ease of their recipients.
JULY 27, 2498 T.S.
“Congratulations on your promotion, General Ia,” Emperor Ki’en-qua allowed, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgment of the new rank. “I see you have finally gained the practical authority you need.”
There was an eight-second lag delay, four seconds coming and going, but only because the T’Chu-chen Vizeth was now quite far from the V’Dan homeworld. Unlike her previous ship, this vessel was a capital ship, more than large enough to carry its own dedicated, vacuum-sealed hyperrelay hub deep within the mass of the ship, permitting them a direct link to the Imperial Palace.
“Thank you, Eternity,” Ia returned politely, using the proper honorific for the V’Dan Emperor. She bowed her head a little deeper in return, keeping her eyes on the red-clad figure on the other side of the commscreen. “I’ll confess that it wasn’t a very high probability on my list. At most, I had fi
gured to earn two stars’ worth by the end of the Second Salik War, and most probably less than that. I could have done my job well enough under those conditions, but I am grateful for the rank I have been given—I am the Prophet, yes, but even I can be blindsided by a rare possibility. Thankfully, a positive one this time.”
“Indeed. A reminder that you are still mostly Human, and thus liable to fail . . . which most of the Sh’nai faith has overlooked even though it’s written at least three times in the High Book,” Ki’en-qua allowed.
Ia nodded. “The good news is that I have been instructed by Admiral-General Christine Myang, with the Terran Premiere’s permission, to lend my full advice to the V’Dan High Command and the Imperial Forces, both the Fleet and the Army. Contingent that I send a copy of everything I give to your people to the Terrans as well. That’s also the bad news,” she added with a touch of regret. “The semigood news buried in the bad news is that they mostly want that information for archival and post-battle-analysis purposes. The uncomfortable-for-me news is that they want to make sure I’m not giving your people more information than I’m giving the Terrans.”
The Shield of Thirty-Seven Worlds was not a stupid man. He shook his head wryly. “The only reason why you’d have to give us more information on what to do is if we were doing so poorly that we needed that information—and I’ll trust you to keep that quote to yourself, General. It was not said as an insult on the ineffectiveness of the Terran military, never mind my own. Indeed, the results you engineered on Dabin, giving your lowest organizational levels free rein to do as they saw fit, speaks volumes to the contrary.”
“I would not be so tactless if I could help it, Emperor Ki’en-qua,” Ia replied smoothly. Her one act of tactlessness, where Miklinn had been concerned, was more than enough warning against fumbling a second time.
