by Jean Johnson
“By all means, get to it, soldier,” he allowed, waving her out of his office. “Better you than me.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Nodding to both officers, Ia took her leave.
APRIL 6, 2492. T.S.
SIC TRANSIT . . .
A blue-clad body clipped a tray of food onto the galley table next to Ia’s, and slipped into the rotating, permanently affixed empty seat next to hers. Reaching for the salt and pepper shakers in their clip-holders, Bennie nodded politely at Ia. “Lieutenant.”
“Commander,” Ia quipped back.
Exchanging titles had become something of a joke between the two of them. Despite the large part of herself that wanted to hold back from making friends, particularly when she could learn all too easily when and how each person around her would die, Ia considered the chaplain to be one. Or rather, something of one, since not even Bennie knew about her various abilities.
“You have any plans for our two weeks’ Leave?” Ia asked, picking up her second sandwich somewhat awkwardly with her left hand. Pulling that stunt back on the planet had been a damn fool move because it left her fumbling her way through life one-handed for well over a week.
“More plans than you do,” Bennie snorted, digging into her salad. “I heard you picked up guard duty again.”
Ia chewed and swallowed. “Someone has to stay and help oversee the repairs. Might as well be me.”
“Service junkie,” the chaplain accused under her breath.
“You’re damn right,” Ia retorted, chuckling. “But I’ll finally have enough Leave accumulated to go home for a couple of weeks, plus travel time.”
“Make that three weeks.”
Ia looked at the older woman. She knew it was coming, had planned for it, but still managed to look at least a little surprised. Lifting her brows, she repeated, “Three weeks?”
Bennie nodded, chewing her food. She sipped from her glass of milk before responding. “The way I figured, you have the longest way to go home of just about any soldier out there, period. Probably the longest, since you’re the only one who enlisted from your homeworld that I’ve heard about. So, I very carefully and firmly pointed that out to your higher-ups. With a clue-by-four for my sword and the authority of God as my shield. I may not wade into a bloodbath up to my hairline like you do, but I do fight for what is just and right, in my own way.”
“Thank you.” Ia smiled. She scraped together the falling-apart bits of her sandwich and lifted it one-handed again. Then had to drop it and patiently scoop the food back into a manageable pile. “I really miss my family, you know? I’m looking forward to finally seeing them again.”
“We all do,” Bennie allowed. She speared another forkful of greens, then asked, “So, how are you sleeping at night?”
“Actually . . . pretty good, lately,” Ia found herself confessing after a moment’s reflection. “Particularly after rescuing the Captain and the rest. It was a good day’s fight.”
Bennie nodded slowly. “Yes, I think it was. They’re showing Old Earth 2-D films in the forward boardroom, Deck 3, starting in an hour. Marines and Navy are both invited. You coming?”
She shook her head. “I have letters to write.” Ia started to bite into her sandwich again, then glanced at the redhead and smiled. “Particularly if I get to have an extra week’s Leave back home. I’ll have to warn them I’m staying extra long. Thank you, Bennie.”
The chaplain dipped her head. “My pleasure, Ia.”
APRIL 11, 2492 T.S.
THE TOWER, ALOHA CITY
EARTH, SOL SYSTEM
This time, the sword at her side was a standard-issue Marines saber. The crysium currently formed a cuff around her left ankle, the safest place to hide it. Her Dress Blacks had been cleaned and re-pinned with her full compliment of glittery, and her brown-piped black cap sat squarely on her neatly trimmed hair. Her arm was still in a sling—black, to match her uniform—and would be for another four days, but otherwise she was ready for what was about to happen.
This time, the occasion wasn’t a fancy greenroom party with acting celebrities, but a large auditorium at the Tower, the sprawling complex which housed the Space Force’s headquarters just outside the Terran United Planets capital, Aloha City. Civilians as well as soldiers filled the tiers of seats. Not quite a full house, but close to it.
“. . . We award you the Vanguard Star, for leading the invasion of the kidnapper’s underground complex with great courage and valor. You were a great inspiration to the meioas under your command,” General Culpepper Brandestoc stated, gripping and shaking Spyder’s hand once again before handing over the commendation box. “And finally, at the request of your superiors, it is my pleasure to bestow upon you the rank of Staff Sergeant, and all the commensurate pay and responsibilities thereof.”
“Sir, thank y’, sir!” Spyder shook his hand one last time, accepted the box with his new pips, then saluted.
Once it was crisply returned and he was dismissed, Spyder about-faced and walked off the platform to the accompaniment of applause from the audience, and cheers from Ferrar’s Fighters and the crew of the Liu Ji. He was escorted by the aide who had carried in the platter bearing Spyder’s array of medals, directing him down the steps at the side of the platform. While he and the others who had been awarded their commendations had started out in a row of seats on the stage, each one had retreated afterwards to one of the seats in the audience. With Spyder’s departure, Ia was the only one left in the chairs a few meters from the podium.
The foremost general of the Space Force Marine Corps faced the podium again, his voice projected by the discreetly placed pickups. “Our last soldier worthy of tonight’s commendation ceremony is, in a word . . . extraordinary.”
Ia tried not to blush. The actual wording of this speech had varied quite a bit, so she hadn’t paid much attention to it in the timestreams. General Brandestoc wasn’t a man for overplanned speeches.
“She will protest in her roundabout way that she is normal. Ordinary. Extra ordinary, in fact. That any Marine who puts in the thought and effort that she does is equally capable of such feats of heroism and bravery. However, while most of her claim is true, and we have had the joy of recognizing several others in this Company perform outstandingly well as fellow Marines . . . her superiors, the Command Staff, and myself all choose to disagree.
“Moreover,” the Dress Black–clad general stated, “the extraordinary, and not just extra-ordinary, actions of this one particular soldier have caught the attention of more than just the military. While it would be my great pleasure as head of the Space Force Branch Marine Corps to award the following commendations to the soldier in question . . . my authority in this matter has been superseded by the Space Force’s direct superior.
“Meioas, I give you Sindra Multalla, Secondaire of the Terran United Planets Council.” With a slight bow, the general backed away from the podium, giving ground to the woman who approached from the wings of the stage.
Clad in a long, dark purple gown, her dark hair piled elegantly on her head, Secondaire Multalla claimed the attention of everyone in the hall. She did so with almost all the grace of a politician born and bred. Her only flaw was that the smile she bestowed on General Brandestoc and the others was a genuine one, openly pleased and thrilled.
“Thank you, General. Greetings, meioas, soldiers of the Space Force, and the civilians who know, support, and love them,” she stated, sweeping her gaze over the hall. Her accent was faint at best, holding only hints of her origins in Persia Province on the other side of the planet. “While the Space Force does report directly to the Council, specifically to myself as Secondaire and then to the Premier, who is my superior in the military’s final chain of command . . . there are literally billions of men and women and other meioas serving in our Space Force. We rely heavily upon the officers of the Space Force to notice and commend particular individuals on our behalf.
“With so many acts of heroism and service happening around our interstella
r empire, it is rare that one particular soldier is singled out and brought to the Council’s attention. But this particular soldier’s actions merit that attention.” She turned sideways a little, facing Ia. “Acting Lieutenant Second Class Ia, please come forward.”
Rising from her seat, Ia approached. With her right arm still immobilized for a few more days, enzymes busy healing the breaks in her forearm, she saluted instead with her left hand. “Secondaire, sir!”
The pickups projected her voice around the hall. Secondaire Multalla managed a very credible return salute, and glanced over her shoulder. Another aide strode up from the far side of the platform, carrying a silver salver bearing a pile of small black boxes. She smiled at Ia and gestured at the tray.
“As you can see, we have reached certain conclusions after carefully reviewing your actions in the incident involving Captain Ferrar’s Company, Acting Lieutenant.” Turning, the Secondaire addressed the hall. “The military, like any branch of the government, runs on paperwork. After every deployment, whether it is a deadly engagement with a vicious enemy, or a desperate battle against nature and the elements when giving sentientarian aid to a new colony, everyone in the military has to write up a report on it.
“When we first reviewed Acting Lieutenant Ia’s personal report on the incident in question . . . they were very dry, bland, and boring. A straightforward recital of facts. The words of her superiors, fellow noncommissioned officers, and the enlisted under her command, however . . . were positively loquacious by comparison.” Multalla smiled wryly. “It is like the difference between what history records about Caesar’s actions in Pontus, and what he himself wrote. When everyone else was writing scrolls upon scrolls about the battles in northeastern Europe, filling in the details for folks back home in Ancient Rome . . . he simply wrote ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’ ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’
“Admittedly,” she allowed, tipping her head slightly, “Ia does write down a few more words than that . . . but the flavor is the same as Caesar’s. Bland. Like a cracker. According to those who witnessed her in action . . . she is more like a curry-stuffed chili pepper when in action. Given the sheer number of concurring accounts, plus visual recordings for confirmation regarding some of her actions . . . the Council’s Military Oversight Committee and I were forced to agree that the curry-stuffed pepper version is the most accurate one, and not the plain cracker she would have us believe.”
Her recital earned a number of chuckles in the crowd. Multalla dipped her head in acknowledgment, then turned to the salver-bearing aide, gesturing him to take up a place between her and Ia, slightly behind the two of them. Facing Ia again, she picked up the first box, opened it, and displayed it first toward the audience, then toward Ia.
“For the wounds you bravely received in combat during the actions both at Observation Station Ivezic in the Zeljko 17 Binary System, and on Beta Librae V in the Zubeneschamali System, I award you the Purple Heart. May you not have to receive another one, though none of us are free to hold our breaths on that count.”
The audience applauded politely. Ia nodded and shook her hand, accepting the award. Secondaire Multalla picked up not one, but two boxes, next.
“For the act of personally removing or capturing the equivalent of at least two enemy noncommissioned officers, I award you with two Crossbones. Taking out the chain of command is important to sowing confusion and inefficiency among the enemy, and we recognize this fact.” Multalla offered her the boxes in her hand.
Ia still had the first one in her grip. Snapping it shut, she debated putting it into her jacket pocket, then gave up and stuffed it into her sling. There were too many boxes still waiting on the salver, compared to the number of pockets available on her Dress Blacks. Accepting the other two, she shut them and stuffed them up her sling as well, then shook the Secondaire’s hand.
Multalla smiled wryly, and picked up the next two. “Also, for the act of personally removing or capturing two enemy officers . . . so to speak . . . we award you a Skull for each confirmed personal conquering on your part of a major crimelord who dared to declare war upon our Space Force and its soldiers.”
“Thank you, sir.” Those boxes went into the black folds of her sling.
“Next, we have three White Crosses. The White Cross is for rescuing wounded or captured comrades from either a dangerous situation, or enemy hands—as with the others who have received White Crosses tonight, we decided that one awarded per soldier rescued would be too many,” the Secondaire stated, “so one is for rescuing your fellow sergeants, one is for rescuing your fellow lieutenants, and one is for rescuing your commanding officer, Captain Leonard Ferrar.”
Ia didn’t have to glance into the audience to know Ferrar was blushing and sinking a little lower in his seat. He hated his first name and never used it if he could get away with it otherwise. Personally, she thought it was a nice name, but then she wasn’t him. Instead, Ia carefully kept her attention on the Secondaire, accepting the boxes with a handshake and a nod.
“The White Heart, on the other hand,” Multalla stated, picking up the next box, “is awarded for rescuing yourself from enemy hands. Which you did most . . . extraordinarily . . . as General Brandestoc pointed out.”
She did not mention that Ia had flung herself willingly into her own capture. A good thing, in Ia’s opinion; that kept Drek’s own actions from being scrutinized too closely. Multalla waited for the applause to die down, then continued.
“In reviewing your actions during the incident in the Zubeneschamali System, the Military Oversight Committee discovered an exceedingly rare level of valor, bravery, and action. You have, by your efforts, earned not only the Vanguard Star, for leading the attack on your captors in a most . . . lethal fashion . . . but also the Rearguard Star, for heeding your commander’s orders to guard and defend the rest while they retreated to a more defendable stance while awaiting reinforcements. First in is often deadly enough,” the Secondaire stressed. “Last out, usually even more so. But you flung yourself into combat both times without any hesitation, and with only the goal of saving others’ lives in your mind.
“It is a distinct pleasure to award these two commendations to you in person, at the same time . . . and not have to hand them to your next of kin, as is so regrettably often the case.”
Ia accepted the boxes solemnly. “I lead from the front, sir. Even if I have to fight facing backwards.”
Multalla’s mouth twitched up on one side. “That’s good to hear. The next award . . . is very rarely assigned. For all that these crime bosses declared war upon the Space Force, the battle still took place in an era and a venue of peace. You join a very rare few who have put everything on the line and then some just to do what a soldier is meant to do . . . and you have surpassed all expectations, all hopes, and all dreams by your efforts to save others’ lives. So, after a great and lengthy review, but very little following debate, it is my honor to award to you the Terran government’s highest peacetime honor: The Star of Service.”
Applause burst from the crowd. Even a number of cheers. Not the polite clapping for the various earlier awards.
“Sir.” Ia squared her shoulders and saluted. Despite knowing it was coming, hearing the words pricked at her emotions. It wasn’t the medal itself that moved her. It was hearing that her efforts were recognized, appreciated. Deliberately manipulated via the timestreams or not, her efforts were real. The intention behind them, her sanity-saving drive to save lives, was very real.
This medal, the Secondaire did not hand over in its box. She pulled it out, snapped the empty box shut, and tucked the black velvet container into Ia’s right sleeve with a small, mischievous grin. Sobering in concentration, Multalla carefully pinned the blue and silver Star of Service to Ia’s left lapel below her temporary Lieutenant’s bar, which had been pinned above her 1st Sergeant’s stripes and rockers, indicating she was still merely an Acting Lieutenant at the moment.
Nodding, Multalla stepped back and finally returned the
salute, allowing Ia to drop her left arm. “Lastly . . . it is the firm belief of the Oversight Committee and myself that the temporary promotion from First Sergeant to Acting Lieutenant Second Class was not only necessary at the time, but has since been thoroughly earned by your ongoing display of inherent leadership skills throughout your military career.
“It is my final pleasure to officially confirm your Field Commission Honor to the rank of a Lieutenant Second Class of the Terran United Planets Space Force, Branch Marine Corps. Attendant with this elevation in rank come all of the rights, responsibilities, pay upgrades, and headaches thereunto pertaining. Congratulations, Lieutenant Ia. You have earned this rank. Do not let down the confidence and faith your superiors have entrusted in you.”
“Sir, no, sir. I will do my absolute best, sir,” Ia promised, helping stuff the last box with her official brass bar into her sling. There were now so many, the velvet-wrapped containers were threatening to slide back out.
Multalla smiled wryly, if warmly. “From the look of things so far, I have no fear you’ll do anything less.”
Ia smiled and saluted—and hastily fumbled at the shifting boxes as they tried to escape her sling. Multalla chuckled and helped her stuff them back in, then gave her another credible salute.
“Dismissed, Lieutenant.” Turning back to the podium as Ia hurried off the stage, left hand holding everything in place, the Secondaire addressed the waiting crowd. “I give this message to the rest of you as your commander, and as one of you, having served in the Space Force Navy for four years in my youth. The military runs on efficiency, discipline, regulation, and praise. We try our best to be efficient, so we do not waste our valuable resources. We drive ourselves with discipline, so that we are the saviors of the innocent, and bring no harm to the harmless. We enact various codes and laws to regulate our actions and efforts into uniformity, which in turn promotes the efficiency and the discipline we need. But it is the praise that is most important.
