by Jean Johnson
“Recruit Ia!” he barked, recapturing her attention. “One last thing. Try to remember that your own strength will amplify whatever you do with your mechsuit servos. That’s why you’re training in half-mech and not full-mech. That, and your heavyworlder reflexes. You may no longer need to train all day in your weight suit, but you will still do so for your morning and evening regimens. That means you will still be stronger than the rest, forces which will be amplified by your suit. Don’t break anything. Or anyone.”
“Sergeant, yes, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER 9
. . . Did I ever use any civilian or familial connections to advance my career in the military? That’s a fair question. And I’ll give you a fair answer.
Yes.
But that yes comes with a caveat. I never asked for any help from my family—mainly because they had zero influence on the Terran military, for obvious reasons. The only time I had a particular civilian help me, it was because he asked me what he could do. And the only reason why I told him what he could do is because I knew he’d try something anyway. Mayhem, to quote a rather long-distance friend of mine, should always be directed and purposeful. Which meant I had to guide him, or risk his interference destroying everything.
~Ia
JULY 3, 2490 T.S.
“Now, as you go forth into the stars, remember that you carry with you the pride, tradition, and training of a Space Force Marine. Each one of you has felt the call in your hearts to place yourselves, your bodies, your weapons, your skills—and if necessary, your lives—between your beloved homes and families, and all that could destroy them. You are soldiers. That is your duty, and your privilege.
“For that, and for all the things you are about to do, Class 7157,” General Tackett stated, lifting his right hand crisply to the brim of his dress cap, “I salute you.”
Snapping from Parade Rest to Attention, forty-one brown-uniformed, black-striped, sword-bearing recruits saluted him back. Three more recruits had dropped out during the remainder of their training, including poor Casey, who had suffered from an unexpected and untreatable allergic reaction to the foam lining the pressure-suits all space-traveling soldiers had to learn how to wear. Disappointed, he had been sent back planet-side after Class 7157 had been transferred to Battle Platform Chau.
Allergic reactions were almost unheard-of in this day and age, thanks to a modified strain of the V’Dan jungen virus. The microbe had allowed the ancient Humans who became the V’Dan to adapt to their strange new homeworld, thousands of years before. The original strain, while it provided immunity to almost all allergens, had also colored their skin and hair in various patterns and shades, ranging from common stripes and spots in burgundy and black, to the almost snowflake-like patterns of pale blue seen in a rare few V’Dan family lines.
Nowadays it was rare to see a V’Dan with jungen stripes, as rare as it was for any Human, V’Dan or Terran, to suffer from an allergy. But Casey had suffered, and couldn’t don a p-suit for more than a handful of minutes before breaking out in hives. A soldier who couldn’t climb into a pressure-suit within a single minute and wear it for a full two hours wasn’t a soldier who could serve in the Space Force.
His trainers had written a glowing letter of recommendation to the Department of Peacekeepers, since Casey’s case had proved too difficult to overcome sufficiently enough for a career in the Space Force—the one thing that separated the Space Force and its Branches from the various planetary Peacekeeper forces was the word space, after all. For the other two recruits who had failed, one had been called back home on family emergency Leave, and the other had been unable to handle the combat simulations. Modern physical and psychological testing could weed out those most likely to fail in the first few weeks, and do so far better than any other efforts had in the past, but some things just had to be tested by actually trying it.
“. . . And now, for the moment you recruits have been waiting for,” General Tackett stated, smiling on the stage. “Soldiers of Class 7157,” he stressed, “having graduated from the Basic Instruction requirements of the Space Force Branch Marine Corps . . . you are hereby dismissed for your three days of Leave, to be followed by your Service assignments to your official first duty posts. Class 7157 . . . dismissed!”
Cheering erupted from the men and women gathered on the parade ground. Even Ia smiled, relieved this part was over. It had helped that the sky was mostly overcast and the weather relatively cool, now that they were in the southern hemisphere’s version of winter, but the air was still muggy enough to make their freshly issued dress uniforms borderline uncomfortable in the subtropical heat. Being free to move meant being free to remove her dress cap, allowing the wind to fluff out and dry her still short-cropped hair.
Her relief didn’t last long. Awareness of each passing second pressed on her. No longer would she be immersed in just her training. Now she would have to keep track of both her surroundings and the ever-pressing needs of the future. Too much to do, too little time to do it in . . . and no time to spare for myself, just yet . . . Here come the families and friends who could make it to celebrate Class 7157’s graduation.
She searched the crowd like some of the others did, but she knew better than to expect her family to be so far from home. The person she did expect to be here was easy enough to spot. The person she did expect to be here was easy enough to spot. The blue-and-white batik prints were different enough from the solid hues that were currently popular that his clothes alone would have made him stand out. However, it was his physical shape that not only made him distinct, but also made some of the Humans in the audience swerve around him.
Approaching with slightly gaping jaws, but with his lips carefully hiding his teeth in the version of the smile used by his species, the Tlassian stopped in front of Ia and bowed, lacing his claw-tipped fingers over his jacket-wrapped chest. “. . . Private Ia. Congratulassionss. Did you do well enough?”
Ia bowed back. “Thank you, Grandmaster. Yes, I am satisfied with my performance.”
He grinned wider, part of his split tongue poking out on one side. Spreading his arms, he waited for her to turn around, then promptly caught her in a bear hug from behind. Ia oofed and laughed. The feel of his yellow and brown scales sliding against her ear and cheek tickled, but she didn’t flinch at the touch of his scaly skin against her smoother flesh. This, at least was one person she didn’t have to fear being drawn into the timestreams with her. He had already braved it, and emerged from it with a level of equanimity she both envied and tried to emulate.
With his arms wrapped around her, he murmured in her ear, “I made ssssure to reread your advicssse before coming hhhere. Sssince I am sstill determined to hhhave my sssay.”
“You don’t have to . . . but it will help, thank you,” Ia murmured back.
Releasing her with a chuckling, he turned his back to her and craned his neck, glancing over his shoulder. Ia returned the hug, angling slightly to avoid putting pressure on his tail—and gasped as he bent over, lifting her off her feet. Laughing from the unexpected ride, she bounced onto her toes as he straightened again. For one brief moment, she felt carefree. Having a good friend on her side, at her side, to celebrate the successful first step in her task was remarkably uplifting. She smiled at him—lips carefully covering her teeth—and enjoyed the rare sensation.
“Ey! Choo didn’t tell us choo knew any Tlassians!” Spyder protested, working his way closer through the Humans mingling around them. “So, who’s the handsome meioa-o?”
Turning to answer him, Ia spotted three figures headed their way. She held up her hand, warding off an introduction to Spyder until General Tackett, Sergeant Tae, and Sergeant Chong reached them. “. . . General Tackett, may I introduce Grandmaster Ssarra of the Afaso Order?”
“Grandmaster?” Spyder repeated, eyes widening. “He’s th’ Grandmaster? Choo know th’ Afaso Grandmaster?”
“Grandmaster Ssarra. You honor us,” General Tackett murmured, recovering quickly from his own briefly visible s
urprise.
Ia smiled and made the introductions, as her alien friend bowed gracefully. “Grandmaster Ssarra, this is General Tackett, commander of Camp Nallibong, Space Force Branch Marine Corps; and these are First Sergeant Ulliong Tae, my chief instructor; First Sergeant Harold Chong, on assignment to Camp Nallibong from Space Force Branch Special Forces, Department of Innovations; and my fellow classmate, Private Second Class Glen Spyder.”
“An honor, meioa,” Spyder asserted, bowing in Tlassian fashion with his fingers laced over his chest. “I haven’t seen a Tlassian since I landed on this ’ere rock.”
“Yes, it is an honor,” Sgt. Tae agreed. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Your Order trained Private Ia rather well in unarmed combat before she came here. All we had to do was sharpen her edges.”
“I ssshall take that asss a persssonal compliment, ass well as a proffessional one,” Ssarra returned, bowing his head. “I gave her blade, asss you put it, the fffinal pre-military polisssh myssselff. It pleasssess me to know my efffortss bore good ressultss.” Turning to Ia, Ssarra laced his fingers over his chest and bowed politely. “Iff you will excusse uss, Ia, I would like to sspeak with your ssuperiorsss about your training, and your prosspectss.”
“Of course, Grandmaster.” Lacing her fingers, Ia bowed in return. Straightening, she nodded at the others. “General, Sergeants, please excuse me.”
Subtly hooking her arm around Spyder’s elbow as she brushed past him, she dragged her fellow Marine away. He stumbled, caught himself, and matched his stride to hers, grinning. “Ey. ’Zis mean choo gonna finally get all wicked ’n such on me? Since we don’t gotta be asexual recruits anymore . . .”
That made her smile. “Dream on, Private. Did you get any family to drop by?”
“Nah. Jus’ a vidmail from me mum, sayin’ how proud she is an’ all that. It’s nice,” Spyder added, nodding at his wrist unit. “They finally unlocked th’ non-military side a’ th’ comm units on these things, an’ there it was, waitin’ in th’ inbox. I figure, since I got three days, I could hop a transport. A day there, a day home, a day back . . . or, I could convince a certain gorgeous assortment o’ meioa-es t’ accompany me t’ th’ Mindil Beach Reserve. Ey, what choo think of that, Kumanei? Wanna go up t’ Mindil Beach?”
Kumanei tipped her head, thinking about it. “You buying the bikini, space boy? ’Cause I don’t recall one of those being in the standard issue in my kitbag, and I ain’t wearing the asteroid-ugly swimsuit they gave me if I don’t have to.”
Chuckling, Spyder freed his arm from Ia’s, and framed Kumanei between his outstretched fingers. “I see . . . a gorgeous, purple-flowered sarong—no, no, make it green, wi’ an orchid right about . . . there. Choo’d look like a goddess what stepped outta th’ bush in flowery green. An’ Forenze . . . man, I’d kill t’ get ’er into a nice purple outfit. As f’r Ia, here—”
“Sorry, but I’ll be gone,” Ia quickly demurred. “No trip to the beach for me.”
“What?” Spyder squinted at her. “No beach? What kinda slaggin’ idea izzat? Not go t’ th’ beach! Yer on Leave on th’ Motherworld, f’stars’ sake! S’not like th’ repeller fields ain’t chasin’ away th’ salties—in fact, I ’eard they added extra repellers jus’ last week. What choo gonna do that’s more important than goin’ t’ a Motherworld beach?”
Her rare sense of humor flashed itself in a grin and a poke of her thumb over her shoulder. “The Grandmaster’s my ride. He’s here to haul me back to Afaso Headquarters for the next few days.”
“Nice joke, Private Ia,” Arstoll quipped. “Just because you took lessons with the Afaso doesn’t mean you personally know the Grandmaster.”
“She does so,” Spyder asserted, sticking up for her. “She just introduced us ’n the General to th’ meioa-o. They’re right over there, havin’ a little confab at th’ moment. Can’t miss ’im, either, he’s th’ only non-Human in sight.”
He pointed at General Tackett and Sergeant Chong, who were talking with the lone Tlassian in view. Sergeant Tae was no longer with them. Ia spotted her chief Drill Instructor chatting with . . . Doctor Silverstone. The doctor glanced up and looked straight at Ia, letting her know he was aware of her presence. He then glanced at the Tlassian, then looked back at her and quirked an eyebrow.
(Is the Grandmaster himself one of your game-pieces?) he asked, returning his attention to Tae.
(Right of Simmerings,) Ia reminded him blandly.
(Only so long as you don’t have too many pots on the stove. Too many, and things will start to boil. And if they boil over . . .)
(I know the rules.) With Spyder no longer touching her, Ia dared to dip into the timestreams. She pulled out a moment later and nodded to herself. (Come over here and offer a lift to anyone who wants to go to Mindil Beach in half an hour. Take Private Spyder and five others. You’ll meet the woman who fulfils all your criteria on the north end of the beach roughly half an hour after you arrive. She’ll be wearing dark red, and she’ll be looking at a crab shell she picks up from the sand.)
(I already have a woman in mind, thank you.)
(That one won’t be right for your needs. She’ll fail to properly raise your progeny, which will damage your own Right of Simmerings. The one on the beach will do better as a mother, if you choose to vanish on her,) Ia told him.
(You make that sound like I should stay in this matter-based body a lot longer than it takes to select my target and ensure the progeny suits my needs,) Silverstone challenged her.
(You’re forgetting the advantage your children . . . plural . . . would have if they were raised to understand and use their powers by their progenitor.)
He laughed in her mind, a bark as sharp and short as a jolt of electricity. (You’re forgetting the rules. One progeny per . . . Oh. You’re that offspring. Tell me, how did your half brother survive? Or you, for that matter?)
(Right of Simmerings.)
(Nonsense,) he discarded. (That would be your progenitor’s Simmering, not your own, and two half-breeds at once are forbidden.)
Ia nodded and shook her head at appropriate points, making it sound like she was endorsing Spyder’s plan of convincing several others to find a hovercar for rent and taking it up to the beach. (He made the mistake of stumbling across my mothers while they were in the mood to celebrate the idea of getting around to having a couple of children.)
(So? He shouldn’t have mated with both of them.)
She smiled. (They were rather insistent.)
(He’s a Feyori. We’re only fertile in this form when we make an effort at transforming energy into matter.)
(He caught them while they were on a picnic . . . in a crysium field.)
(. . .)
(The crysium clouded his mind, and thus—shall we say—enhanced his efforts?)
Ia waited for him to process that statement. It didn’t take much longer.
(That . . . is the most perverted, disgusting thing I have ever heard,) Silverstone growled. Physically, his face remained mostly impassive, save for a pinched crease in the otherwise smooth skin of his brow. (We’ve been visiting that planet for longer than your species has been sentient, and you’re telling me that the crysium “influenced” your progenitor?)
(Influenced, and protected . . . as my progenitor found out when he realized afterward that he’d impregnated both of my mothers. He couldn’t terminate either of us, though he tried. Nor could the two Feyori who came by to help him. The crysium stopped them.)
(It is not capable of doing that, little one,) Silverstone explained patiently, coldly. (You do not know what your precious “crystal sprays” are made of. It is not sentient, it does not interfere, and it does not play the Game.)
(Ah, but I do know what it is. I told you, I’ve studied you Meddlers,) she reminded him. (Every time you convert yourselves to a matter-based life-form, some of your energy selves remain. That’s how you can communicate telepathically, and lift things telekinetically, and do all the other things we’ve come to ass
ociate with psychic abilities. It’s nothing more than lingering traces of your energy-based abilities.
(But when you revert back to your energy forms, you carry trace amounts of matter with you . . . which, to put it delicately, you eventually “shed” all over a selected planet,) Ia recited dryly. (Preferably a heavyworld, since that strips a higher percentage of stray matter from your forms, and preferably on a world like Sanctuary, one with its own revitalizing electrical field, so you can use it to refresh and rejuvenate yourselves with a little midflight energy snack.
(You haven’t just been “visiting” my homeworld. You’ve been shitting on it,) she accused.
(. . .) Ending his conversation with Sergeant Tae, Doctor Silverstone folded his arms across his dress jacket. He was too canny to look directly at her, but he was also too upset not to scowl. Proof that he had learned to act Human quite well by now. (I find it disturbing that you know so much about us. I find your claim that the crysium interfered even more unsettling. I would far more believe that you intervened, even as a tiny squidge of barely fertilized pre-sentiency, than that a pile of crystalline shit intervened. How much do you know?)
Ia figured it was wisest to admit the truth to him. Hopefully, the truth from her metaphysical lips would convince him she did, indeed, know how to play the Game.
(Crysium dust—the lingering, energy-infused particles of matter you expel—either gets absorbed into the local life-forms, both the plants and the animals that eat them, or it absorbs water, electricity from lightning storms, and certain minerals from the indigenous rocks, until it grows into a crysium spray. The dust ingested by the plants and animals helps both kinds grow larger than they should on a world with as high a gravity as Sanctuary’s. And when it accumulates in the bones of sentient beings, it not only strengthens those bones, it increases the native-born settler’s chances of developing psychic abilities.
