In Her Name

by Hicks, Michael R.

  “This is impossible,” she whispered, reaching out to touch him. His flesh was hot, much hotter than any fever a human being could survive, and painful to her touch. “Reza, what are you?” she whispered.

  Never letting her eyes wander from the spectacle, she managed to dress herself, her only oversight being that her undershirt was on backwards. When the steam stopped streaming from Reza’s body, he, too, began to dress. His body completely dry, he put on his clothing in a precise ritual that Jodi found utterly fascinating. Watching his hands and the rest of his body move through their motions was like watching a precision drill team performing a ballet.

  As she led him back to where Braddock was carving the meat from the cooked gazelle, Jodi wondered about the man who walked beside her, thinking that maybe Hernandez’s first thoughts, that he was some kind of messenger from God, might not have been too far from the truth.

  Twenty

  Commodore Mauritius Sinclaire was known and loved by his sailors as a jovial man who was not above the occasional bout of wildness that had been part of naval tradition since men had first set sail upon the seas of Earth. The red-haired commander of one of the Confederation’s finest task forces was claimed to have shared a pint or two, and sometimes a glass of something more sturdy, with the lowly sailors of his command, and was even reputed to have lost a game of poker now and then. Or so the senior chiefs would boast in front of the wide-eyed young sailors who had just set foot on the steel-plated decks of the task force’s men-of-war.

  Unlike so many of his peers, Sinclaire spent as much time as he could prowling the lower decks of the ships of his command. He sought out contact with the men and women who only bore a few red or white stripes on their sleeves, listening to what they had to say, telling them the things he thought they deserved to hear and reassuring them that what they did really mattered. Having started his naval career nearly thirty years before as a lowly machinist’s mate on a long-dead destroyer, Sinclaire was a firm believer in the extraordinary strength and wisdom of the common man and woman.

  He liked to laugh and tell jokes, and was as colorful and alive as his family’s clan heritage had destined him to be. More than that, since the day he pledged himself to the Navy at the tender age of sixteen he had seen enough of death to know how precious life was, how dear and worthwhile, and he was loathe to squander it wastefully, or to see it so disposed. Honest to a fault and just as outspoken, his thoughts and tongue had cost him more than one promotion, but it was a price he was more than willing to pay to maintain his personal and professional integrity. He was certainly no angel, but no god could deny that Sinclaire had always tried his best to do what was decent and right.

  And doing that was just what perplexed him now. “Blast it, doctor,” he growled, “I understand your point, but my orders – our orders – say that we are to treat him as an ambassador until the powers-that-be decide just where this lad’s supposed to fit into our way of doing things.”

  “That’s all fine and good, commodore,” said Deliha Rabat, the chief of the army of scientists, philosophers, clerics, diplomats, and seemingly countless other last-minute arrivals that had swarmed aboard the battlecruiser Aboukir for this mission. “But the Council expects a lot in the way of results out of this group before we reach Earth, and the only way that’s going to happen is if we approach this from the scientific standpoint that it clearly warrants.” She frowned theatrically. “I’m not talking about putting him in a straight jacket, for the love of All. But you have to remember: we’re dealing with a complete unknown here, and – in my professional opinion – you would be well advised to follow my recommendations on this and keep him in a suitably appointed cell in the brig where he can be observed properly and kept under control.” She paused a moment, waiting just until Sinclaire was about to speak. “Remember, commodore,” she interjected as he was opening his mouth to reply, “you have the crew of the Aboukir to consider, as well. This man could prove quite dangerous.”

  Sinclaire clamped his jaws shut. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was when someone tried to use his vested concern for those under his command as leverage to influence him into making a particular decision. “I thank you for your concern for Captain Jhansi’s crew, doctor,” he said coldly, noting with satisfaction the rise of color in Rabat’s olive cheeks, “but I’ve my orders, and nothing you’ve said has convinced me that there’s any reason to deviate from them. Any results you want to present to the Council will have to be the fruits of your own hard labor and Reza Gard’s willing cooperation. You’ll get no support for coercion of any kind from me. Thank you, doctor, and I’ll see you in the landing bay at fourteen-hundred sharp.” With that, Sinclaire returned to studying his data terminal.

  Deliha Rabat, Ph.D., M.T.S., etc., etc., had been dismissed.

  The commodore did not have to look up to feel the hateful glare he received before she whirled around and stalked out of his day cabin.

  ***

  “That’s where we’re going,” Jodi told Reza, pointing out the shuttle’s small viewport at the rapidly growing bulk of the Aboukir, orbiting majestically against the backdrop of the blue-green sphere of sunlit Rutan. She watched as he peered intently through the clear plastisteel, leaning further and further out of his seat until his nose bumped against the glass and he recoiled slightly, like a dog discovering a see-through door for the first time.

  How much like a child he seems, she thought. There was so much she would have liked to know about him, but she knew that the knowledge would be someone else’s to learn first. Jodi was a fighter pilot, not a trained interrogator, diplomat, or liberal arts teacher, and her home was with her squadron on the Hood. She had been informed that a shuttle had been prepared to take her to Ekaterina III where Hood was being repaired and refitted after her last mauling; Jodi should arrive there just before the battlecruiser was ready to sortie once again. She looked forward to returning to her squadron-mates and flying duty, but she could not shake the feeling of envy toward whoever would come after her and tap into the treasure trove of information now sitting beside her.

  In the seats opposite sat Braddock and Father Hernandez. Braddock, sound asleep, snored open-mouthed in a ritual of fighting men and women that went back centuries: the delight of sleep after a battle fought and won.

  Father Hernandez also had his eyes closed, but for an entirely different reason. Born on a planet without indigenous spacecraft – or even the most primitive of atmospheric craft, for that matter – he had developed a sudden and dramatic case of motion sickness when the shuttle lifted from Rutan, and had kept his eyes closed and his mouth moving in quiet prayer ever since. Jodi was sure his handprints would be left ever afterward in the shuttle, permanently embedded in the plastic armrests of his seat.

  Those who had sent the task force had not planned on his coming with them, nor had it been planned by anyone on Rutan other than Father Hernandez himself. In what Jodi took to be a shocking course of action for one of their people, he had insisted on coming with them.

  “But Father,” Jodi had tried to explain as Hernandez strode up the shuttle’s ramp amidst the survivors of Braddock’s regiment, clutching the leather satchel that contained his Bible and few worldly belongings, “this isn’t a taxi service. If you come with us, there’s no telling when you’ll be coming back. This task force is bound for Terra, and not many ships happen out this way–”

  Hernandez waved her off. “So much the better, child, that I may see St. Peter’s and the other great cathedrals of Terra with my own eyes.” He tried to smile, but she was not returning it. For once, her irreverence had disappeared, replaced with a businesslike attitude that would have been well placed on a pit-bull terrier. “My child,” he went on softly as the Marines trudged by behind them, “my time in this life wanes, and my service to my parish is nearly complete. Only next year was young Father Castillo to take my place at the altar. While there was a time when I looked forward to quiet contemplation and study of the scri
ptures to pass my days before Judgment, it holds promise for me no longer.” He gestured toward the hatchway where Braddock had already led Reza to get him settled in for the flight up to Aboukir. “God has offered me something more, a final challenge for my mind and my faith before I come before Him. There are things I must know about this young man’s spirit, things that will forever consume my curiosity if I do not make this journey of discovery, a journey perhaps not much different than his own. I realize I am not a distinguished scientist or scholar as are those of the group you have told me await him, but I am in no less need of the knowledge that they also seek, and I am determined to find out what I must know. If I cannot go as a priest and friend, then I will go as a representative of the planet Rutan, of Reza’s chosen place of redemption.”

  Slowly, Jodi nodded. “All right, you nutty priest,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into.”

  Hernandez smiled. “The Lord does make some allowance for fools, young lady.”

  “That He does,” Jodi said under her breath as she helped Hernandez with his bundle of belongings and led him into the beckoning interior of the shuttle.

  Returning her thoughts to the present, she asked, “How are you doing, Father?”

  Hernandez hazarded a peek out of one eye, immediately snapping it shut again. “I am fine,” he announced flatly.

  “Liar.” Grinning, she turned to the viewport again, trying hard not to laugh at all the nose prints Reza had left on the clearsteel.

  “It won’t be long now,” she told him, reaching out to hold his hand, careful to avoid the razor-sharp talons.

  Outside, a great cavern appeared in Aboukir’s starboard flank as the shuttle’s course brought them in sight of one of the battlecruiser’s enormous flight bays.

  ***

  “Attention on deck!” As the hundreds of officers and assembled crew of Aboukir snapped to attention, fifty Marines and the same number of seamen, all in dress uniform, filed down each side of the red carpet that had been rolled up to where the shuttle’s main gangway was just now lowering. Unseen by most of the assemblage was the reserve gangway on the vessel’s opposite side through which the regiment’s wounded were already being taken off to sickbay. Sinclaire had orders to treat Reza as if he had diplomatic status, but he would never put protocol before the care of the injured.

  The commodore, accompanied by Aboukir’s captain and Dr. Rabat, waited at the end of the honor guard as a kind of abbreviated receiving line. Rabat’s presence there rather irked Sinclaire, but there was nothing he could do about it. She was the Council’s designated diplomatic liaison in this matter, in addition to being the research team chief. Besides, it was all he could do to limit the number of official greeters to the three of them: Rabat had wanted her entire team there, plus a boatload of people from the Department of State. On that score, however, Sinclaire had been firm, and Rabat had reluctantly conceded the point. The other members of her team were stuck in the ship’s compartments set aside for their research, jealously watching the closed circuit feeds scattered around the flight bay.

  The gangway hissed to the floor, and Sinclaire felt his fists begin to clench. So much could go wrong, from the inconsequential to the horribly disastrous. He had wanted to greet Reza with a very small party of people in a neutral atmosphere. Rabat had conjured up a circus, and this time he had been almost powerless to resist her demands.

  “Present… ARMS!” The honor guard snapped their rifles in a salute and the ten-person band began to play La Marseillaise, the Confederation’s official anthem, just as Braddock stepped down the ramp, a wobbly Father Hernandez on his arm. The gunnery sergeant was obviously mortified, returning the salute with as much dignity as he could muster. Father Hernandez smiled beneficently and waved at the receiving party with his free hand.

  “What a bloody cock-up,” Captain Jhansi muttered.

  Braddock quickly dragged Hernandez down the carpet, his borrowed and badly fitting uniform and Father Hernandez’s simple cassock contrasting poorly with the bright scarlet of the carpet and the immaculate uniforms of the honor guard. He came before Sinclaire and brought himself to attention, snapping a smart salute to the task force commander. “Commodore,” he said formally, trying to see past the absurdity of it all, “may I present Father Hernandez of Rutan.”

  “Father,” Sinclaire extended a hand in sincere greeting. From what he had heard, Hernandez could be something of a character, and he genuinely looked forward to talking with him. But that would have to be later.

  “Thank you, commodore,” Hernandez said sheepishly. “I apologize for what I gather was a breach of protocol, but I could stay on that machine no longer.”

  “Quite all right, Father,” Sinclaire said, turning to Braddock. “And you, gunny, welcome back to the fleet. You and your people did a damn fine job.”

  “Thank you, sir–”

  “Excuse me,” Deliha Rabat interrupted impatiently. “With all due respect, we aren’t here for you gentlemen. Where’s Reza Gard?”

  “Take a look,” Braddock said coldly, pointing toward the shuttle, wondering who this egotistical woman might be. He would have liked to tell her to take a hike instead, but he doubted the commodore would have approved.

  On that count, however, Braddock would have been quite incorrect.

  “Where?” She snapped. “I don’t see – oh…”

  A sudden hush had fallen over the flight bay. The band stopped playing, the instruments falling into silence as if on a prearranged cue. Every individual present had been told what to expect, most had even seen holo movies as children depicting such fiction as men or women under Kreelan influence, but no one ever expected to see it as part of undeniable reality.

  With Jodi holding one hand, reassuring him that those he was about to encounter meant him no harm, Reza stepped down the ramp. The blue rune of the Desh-Ka burned like a star on his breastplate and in the eyestone of his collar, the medallions that made up his name glinting like diamonds in the bay’s harsh lighting. He paused a moment to take in his surroundings, his eyes roaming around the huge bay, the brilliant lights and strange mechanical shapes, and the colorfully dressed humans who apparently were there to greet him. He gathered that this spectacle of warriors and the humans with instruments that made strange noises – a band, he suddenly remembered – were for his benefit, and he felt honored by the display.

  Sinclaire watched as the young man released Jodi’s hand and stepped from the gangway onto the red carpet, and was suddenly struck by how fitting it seemed for him to be cast against such a background, a prince from some exotic and faraway kingdom here on a state visit. The silence magnified the dignity and grace of Reza’s approach, and he was thankful that the band had ceased its playing of the Confederation anthem.

  After an initial assessment of his new environment, Reza turned his attention to the three figures standing at the head of the warrior line, evidently serving as his immediate destination for the rendering of greetings. Two men and a woman, Reza instantly knew that these three were in their own different ways the most powerful beings on this vessel. The swarthy red-haired man was empowered to take or give life to those who served him; he was the one whose words guided the others, whose power extended beyond the walls of this ship to realms somewhere beyond. The man next to him, with skin the color of night and with little flesh on his bones, was of lesser stature than the red-haired one, but held similar powers over those within the confines of this ship. He was the vessel’s master. Lastly, there was the woman, who seemed at once to be the least powerful of the three among all the souls Reza could sense around him now, but who perhaps carried more influence than the other two with authorities even higher. He could also sense that while the men were extremely curious about him and somewhat fearful, the woman had some keener interest that instantly set Reza on his guard.

  With this one, he told himself, you must be careful.

  “Commodore Sinclaire,” Jodi announced officially as
she led Reza to the end of the carpet and a new way of life, “let me present Reza Gard.” For a moment, she considered adding “formerly of the Kreelan Empire,” but thought better of it. For one thing, she did not wish to put words in Reza’s mouth, especially when they could not speak the same language yet. For another, she did not know if it was true. “Reza,” she said, “this is Commodore Sinclaire, the Commander of Task Force 85.”

  Sinclaire extended a paw toward Reza. While the shaking of hands was hardly the standard greeting among all humans, it was Sinclaire’s. “In the name of the Confederation people and government, I bid you welcome Reza, welcome home.”

  There was an uncomfortable moment as Reza simply stared at Sinclaire. An air of tension began to build from the earlier excitement, and several of the Marines in the honor guard clenched their fists in worry as they threw sidelong glances toward where Sinclaire and Reza faced one another. Marine sharpshooters in the distant shadows of the flight bay tightened their fingers slightly on the triggers of their weapons, all pointed at Reza’s head.

  Much to everyone’s surprise – and relief – Reza did not accept the commodore’s offered hand. Instead, he knelt down on one knee and made what could only be a salute, bringing his left fist over his right breast.

  “Well, I will be damned,” Sinclaire breathed. “Come on, now, lad, get on your feet.” With sinewy grace, Reza rose to his full height, turning toward Captain Jhansi. “This is Captain Michel Jhansi,” Sinclaire said, exhilarated by this living enigma and what he might represent, “commander of the C.S.S. Aboukir, the vessel you’re now on.”

  Reza nodded respectfully, but did not salute. He did not render the traditional Kreelan greeting of gripping arms to any of them, for they were not of the Way, and to do so was forbidden.