Theirs Not To Reason Why: A Soldier's Duty

by Jean Johnson

  As a special treat, the acting company issued invitations to the officers and noncoms to party with them in the theater’s greenroom after the performance. Flattered by the invitation, Ferrar ordered his lieutenants and sergeants to attend both the performance and the party in formal Dress Blacks.

  Ia couldn’t have been more pleased than if she herself had lent a hand in setting it all up. Not with such irresistible bait. Not so pleased that she had to pin all of her medals and honors to her dress jacket, with its satin black color and brown satin stripes down the sleeves, but that everything was proceeding exactly as she had foreseen.

  Right down to the need, halfway into the party, to visit one of the restrooms. Concluding her business and washing her hands, she lingered at the mirror over the sink. Lingered, and waited, fussing minutely first with her snow-white hair, which had been recently trimmed into a neat, uniform bob cut ending just below her ears. Her hat was still back in the greenroom, which had grown a bit warm from the press of bodies. Once her hair was smoothed enough, to kill some of the intervening minutes, she fussed with the medals pinned to her chest.

  By now, she had accumulated several honors. Nine Honor Crosses for exemplary conduct above and beyond the call of duty. Eight Skulls, and twenty-three Crossbones, for taking out or capturing known enemy commanders and noncommissioned officers. Three Target Crosses for exemplary sniper fire, and a Scout Cross for exceptional scouting—that one, she had earned on Oberon’s Rock, along with one of her three Vanguard Stars, and the rarely granted Civilian Award of Merit. It was one of the highest peacetime awards a soldier could earn from a local civilian government; Oberon’s governor had bestowed it upon the members of Ferrar’s Company for their consistent, repeated rescues, not just Ia.

  Her jacket also bore six White Crosses for each incident involving the rescue of wounded or trapped comrades, and of course her eight Purple Hearts. The one ribbon bar she wore was striped in the purples and greens patterned to represent the Border Patrol she still served, but it held four tiny bronze stars on its surface, representing the four six-month tours of duty she had undertaken so far.

  The left side of her jacket therefore literally glittered, even down to the snaps on the lower half of her left sleeve, which could be unsnapped so that she could access her arm unit freely. Dress Browns, she would have worn just one of each type of medal. But this was a major touring show; the lead performers were some of the most current, famous faces in the Alliance. Ferrar had insisted on Dress Blacks, which included her formal black cap, the polished sword stowed in its baldric-supported sheath at her hip, and the full, glittering array of her honors and merits.

  Unpinning one of her Purple Hearts, she carefully re-pinned it, fastening the clasp just so, then checked the fit of the blade sheathed at her side, loosening it just a little bit. Some of the others had set aside their caps and their blades for the party, but she hadn’t. Particularly not this blade. Her brother had shipped it to her all the way from Sanctuary, where it had waited in one of her storage lockers. It wasn’t a standard issue Marines saber, for all she had commissioned an artist to coat the blade and hilt in silver gilt, making it look normal. Instead, she had crafted it three years ago to look like a schlager, a thin, straight-edged dueling sword.

  This blade was about to save her life.

  Footsteps approached the unisex bathroom. The door hissed open behind her; the soft sound was followed by the phunt of an air gun. At the same moment the door opened, Ia spun, hand snapping out and back in again.

  Two years of practice had honed her abilities, both in combat and in battle precognition. Mind linked with the timestreams, her fingers snapped down on the shaft of the tiny dart, stopping it before it could strike through the fabric covering her opposite shoulder. It would have lodged in her back if she hadn’t been prepared.

  The foremost of her three assailants widened his eyes. He glanced between her and his gun, and fired again. She caught that tranquilizer with her left hand. The other two started to reach for their own weapons, then quickly spun to the left as someone else approached.

  “Hey, Ia,” she heard D’kora call out. “You’re taking too long. You’re missing a . . . the hell . . . ?”

  Ia flung the first dart as the first man started to turn as well. He slapped his hand to the back of his neck, hissing in pain, but it was too late. He sagged even as the others whipped around again at the noise he made.

  The pair exchanged quick looks. “Right,” one of them said, giving the other a brief, significant look. “Plan B.”

  Once again, they grabbed for the weapons concealed in their clothes. Ia moved, too. Plan B was “kill them all” and there was no way that was going to happen. Gritting her teeth, Ia jumped and slammed her palm down onto the edge of the porcelain sink next to her.

  It cracked off the wall, startling both of the remaining two men. They looked back just in time to see her grabbing the edge of the sagging sink and ripping it off its plexi pipes with the brute force of arm and mind. Water splashed as she flung it at them. They dove out of the doorway, but not completely in time. The sink basin thumped into one of the men, knocking him over and sending his gun flying.

  Behind her, an alarm started buzzing, warning the station’s personnel of the break in the pipes. Ia lunged through the doorway, flinging the other dart at the downed man, who was struggling to get back to his feet. He slumped back down with a curse, fumbling briefly at the tiny cylinder poking out of his bicep before dropping slack. Whatever drug was in those darts, it was powerful.

  The third had already encountered the confused but not helpless D’kora. His gun was still clattering to the floor as she blocked his follow-up punch. She was fast and strong; Ia heard bones crunching. So was he; D’kora oofed and staggered back from his retaliatory kick. He was also not alone; two others came running up behind the lieutenant.

  Ia drew her sword and lunged, gritting her teeth for what she knew came next. D’kora whirled to face them, giving one a roundhouse kick. The man between her and Ia grabbed the lieutenant from behind, one arm wrapping around her chest and shoulder, the other wrapping around the brunette’s head. Even as Ia swung, closing the distance between them, his shoulders flexed. D’kora’s neck crunched. He released her and swung around to meet Ia’s attack.

  Time was not on D’kora’s side. There was nothing Ia could do for the lieutenant but fling out her free hand, cushioning the older woman’s fall with a fierce pulse of her will, preventing her death. But Ia could slash her blade through the assassin’s neck. That didn’t crunch so much as thock. Droplets of blood thwapped against the corridor wall as the sword followed through. A shove of her free hand toppled body, upraised arm, and head to the floor in three separate pieces.

  The two newcomers widened their eyes and backpedalled hastily, both to avoid her advance and the blood gushing across the floor. One hastily raised his gun, a familiar style of over-clocked laser pistol. Ia snapped her blade up. Bright, yellow orange light struck the silvered weapon. Acrid smoke hissed up for a moment. He fired again, backing up another step. Again, her blade caught the beam . . . guided by a touch of her mind on his hand, making sure the laser and the sword would properly connect. Not even she could dodge the speed of light, after all.

  Not in a flesh and blood body.

  He tossed the gun down and turned to run. Ia lunged low, slashing hard. He screamed, collapsing, thighs no longer attached to his knees. The other one swapped weapons and fired at her with his projectile pistol. Again, her blade snapped into place; the bullet tinged off the flat. The sword bounced in her hand, almost slapping her shoulder, but she didn’t lose her grip. He fired again. She flicked her blade, and deflected the second shot.

  The last of her attackers stumbled farther back. “Shakk . . . that ain’t natural! You ain’t real!”

  “I am Bloody Mary. And I will be the last thing you see, unless you tell me everything I want to know.”

  Eyes widening, he hastily re-aimed his gun. Not at h
er, but at the two men slumped by the doorway of the bathroom.

  And now we’re up to Plan C. Kill anyone on their own side to stifle chance at an interrogation. Ia blocked both shots, scattering more droplets of blood, then flicked the too-sharp blade across his wrist as he lifted the handgun to his own head. He gasped and dropped the gun, tendons and veins severed.

  Grabbing his wrist with her free hand, Ia slammed her hiltbearing fist into his face, stunning him. A second blow, not too hard, knocked him out. Most of the man dropped to the floor, save for the arm still caught in her grip. Applying pressure to the bleeding wound she had made, Ia tugged apart the snaps on her left sleeve and thumbed open the comm link on her arm unit, balancing the sword awkwardly as she worked.

  “Sergeant Ia to the Liu Ji. Code India Alpha! I repeat, India Alpha! Lieutenant D’kora and I have been attacked by unknown assailants, Section 5, Deck 9, outside the auditorium greenroom on Ivezic Station. I repeat, Lt. D’kora and Sergeant Ia have been attacked by unknown assailants, Section 5, Deck 9, outside the auditorium greenroom. D’kora is down, and badly injured. She’s breathing, but I think her neck is broken. I have three prisoners, two of them unconscious from tranquilizers, and one of them about to bleed to death if I let go. India Alpha, all available personnel arm and get to the station greenroom. I have no idea who else is involved.”

  “Acknowledged, Sergeant, code India Alpha, copy. The Navy is responding with all dispatch to your distress call. We are contacting the station Peacekeepers as well. Keep this link open, Sergeant. We’ll get there as fast as we can.”

  “Acknowledged. I, ah . . . made quite a mess defending myself and the lieutenant,” she added, looking down at the blood seeping across the floor, at the dark spots dampening her dress uniform. “Be prepared. Ia on standby.”

  Not wanting to let go of her captive, but needing to clean her blade, Ia wiped it against his arm. She wrinkled her nose at the patches of translucent gold that showed through the silver gilt, seared away by the laser fire. She made several passes, getting the blade as clean as possible, then slid it home in its scabbard.

  “Liu Ji to Sergeant Ia, we are unable to hail Captain Ferrar, Lieutenant Konietzny, or Lieutenant Nguyen. Their wrist units appear to be in the greenroom but are not responding. Can you confirm their location and condition?”

  “Negative. I am currently keeping watch over my three prisoners in a side corridor near the bathrooms, and am not in the actual greenroom.”

  “Acknowledged. Routing Master Petty Tanaka and his team to the greenroom direct—ah, we have Sergeant Spyder on the comm; he’s en route to your location as well.”

  “Acknowledged. Ia on standby.” Fingers still clamped around that bloodied wrist, she waited for the rest of the events to unfold. Ia already knew Spyder had escaped because he’d walked out of the greenroom with a lovely lady from the stage crew a few minutes before she had gone to the restroom. They had retreated to a dressing room on the far side of the theater for some privacy, so it wouldn’t take him long to reach her side. The man dangling from her hand mumbled and shifted, rousing slightly.

  Oh, no you don’t. Time for you to repair some of the damage you did to the lieutenant. Dragging him over, fingers still clamped around his wounded wrist, she crouched and very, very gently touched D’kora’s face. Her biokinesis didn’t extend well to others, but she could give some help to the other woman. Namely the transfer of some of the life-energy of the idiot in her grasp. A faint, burning warmth flowed up through the nerves from her left hand, and poured cool and calm down through her right. The idiot sagged, dropping unconscious. D’kora lay there and breathed, motionless.

  “Stay with me, D’kora. Don’t try to move,” she warned the woman. Not that D’kora could move, but Ia knew she was partially conscious, and wanted her to know to keep still. “You’re badly injured, but you will pull through. They’re going to have to use an immobilizer on you, since I think your neck is broken, but the docs on the Liu Ji are on the way.

  “Don’t you worry. I’ve got your back. We all do.”

  Easing back on the flow, Ia eyed her prisoners. By now, the Captain, lieutenants, and other sergeants had been dragged off down a service corridor, knocked unconscious along with everyone else in the greenroom party by hidden, timed stunner grenades. They would be hauled on board an OTL, other-than-light courier shuttle, which would undock right about the same time that the Liu Ji’s crew arrived at the greenroom, and vanish through a hyperrift long before the next scheduled patrol ship, the TUPSF Havelock, arrived.

  On board the Havelock was not only an Army Company as well as the usual Navy crew, but an Army lieutenant general, Vestoc Sranna. At his rank, he was technically a member of the Command Staff, capable of overseeing any Branch of the Space Force in an emergency. Sranna would therefore be her next-nearest superior, once D’kora was declared unfit for duty. Between now and then, both D’kora and Ia’s prisoners had to survive. She would make sure they did.

  The latter didn’t necessarily have to survive in good shape, though. Their fates were already sealed. Footsteps hurried up the corridor, slowing quickly as Spyder encountered the edge of the mix of blood and water slicking the floor. Picking his way forward, he wrinkled his nose at her.

  “Oy, Ia, you sure like t’ keep yer nickname fresh, doncha?” he managed to quip, though he swallowed at the carnage scattered around her feet.

  “Only if I absolutely have to,” she muttered back. “Don’t touch Lt. D’kora—her neck’s probably broken—see what you can find to strip and secure those two,” she added, nodding at the intact bodies on the floor behind her. “They had an accident with a pair of trank cartridges, but I don’t know how long they’ll stay out.”

  “I’m onnit, Sergeant,” he said, moving to do her bidding.

  Bathed and changed into fresh camouflage Browns, her sword re-slung at her side, Ia hurried to keep up with Major Keating, chief doctor on board the Liu Ji. The woman had tended to several of Ia’s own wounds with aplomb in the past, but it was clear D’kora’s condition had her worried.

  “She’s insisting on talking to you before we put her into the goo for the first round of regeneration treatments.” Keating stated, striding up the corridor from the lifts to the Infirmary.

  Ia suppressed the urge to snicker. Most of her fellow grunts referred to the blue gel as goo, but it was amusing to hear a medical professional doing the same. However, this was not the best moment for her rare sense of humor to surface.

  “I’m not sure if it’ll be enough to stop the swelling currently putting pressure on her spinal cord. She may need surgery, but my specialty isn’t neurology. My best hope right now is to get her stabilized enough for transport. But to do that, she has to go into the goo . . . and to do that, she wants to talk to you, first. Brace yourself.”

  Ia nodded. She knew what was coming. They stopped outside one of the treatment wards and sterilized their hands under the scrubber rays stationed next to the door. Stepping inside, the chief medical officer led Ia up to the humming, monitor-equipped bed. D’kora had been strapped into something that looked more like a medieval torture device than modern medicine. But it cupped the older woman’s forehead and shoulders, and looked quite sturdy. Immobile, which was what the injured heavyworlder needed.

  “Lieutenant D’kora, Sergeant Ia is here.” Gesturing for Ia to lean over the portable bed so she could be seen by the prone officer, Keating moved back out of the way.

  Ia stepped up, taking her place. She had to place her hand on the hilt of her sword as she did so, to keep it from banging into the bed. “Lieutenant.”

  “Sergeant.” The words were quiet, nearly a whisper. She couldn’t consciously draw in a lungful, but had to pause between autonomous breaths. Ia leaned closer, concentrating as D’kora spoke. “They gave me . . . a report. Three prisoners.”

  “Sir, yes, sir. They’ve been stripped, tended, and locked in the Liu Ji’s brig. I’m on my way down to interrogate them after reporting to you,
sir,” she said.

  “And the rest . . . captured.”

  “All twelve sergeants in attendance, the other two lieutenants, and the Captain, yes, sir,” Ia confirmed. “None of the actors, director, or theater crew in attendance were injured, other than a few bumps and bruises when they fell down. More than that . . . they came prepared with tranquilizer darts. They knew I’m resistant to stunner fire, sir, and knew in advance.”

  “Whoever they are . . . they have their hooks into . . . the military. Spies here, or on the Platforms. Don’t . . .” D’kora paused, gathering her strength. “Don’t go to our immediate superiors. Go straight to the nearest Command Staff. That’s an order.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” Just as she had anticipated.

  “Major Keating . . .” D’kora flicked her eyes to the side, indicating what she wanted.

  “Doctor?” Ia asked, looking over her shoulder. The major moved around to the other side of the treatment bed.

  “I’m here, Lieutenant.”

  “Record . . . these orders, Major,” D’kora ordered.

  Ia watched as the major flicked open her command wrist unit and pressed a couple buttons. “Ready when you are, Lieutenant D’kora.”

  “My last act as surviving . . . senior officer, I am . . . promoting First Sergeant Ia . . . to Acting Lieutenant Second Class. Battlefield promotion. She is in command of . . . A Company, 3rd Legion, 9th Battalion, 3rd Brigade, 2nd Cordon, Terran United Planted Space Force . . . Branch Marine Corps, effective immediately.” D’kora fixed the other woman with a look that lacked strength, but lost nothing in significance. “Confirm and copy that, Doctor. Then you can remove me . . . from active duty.”

  “About time, you stubborn meioa,” the chief medical officer muttered. She cleared her throat and spoke clearly, letting her words be recorded. “I, Major Keating of the Space Force Branch Navy Medical 5th Cordon, and medical auxiliary to the Branch Marine Corps 2nd Cordon, hereby concur and concede the elevation of First Sergeant Ia to the rank of Acting Lieutenant Second Class and acting commanding officer of the designated Marine Company in question.”