Theirs Not to Reason Why 5: Damnation (45 page)

Ia knew what she meant. “With luck, yes. But I’m not taking any chances, so
no
announcements, sir.”

Myang sighed. “
Christine.
Once you’re in my office, training under me, I’ll insist you call me by my given name. When we’re not being formal.”

“It would be an honor to call you by your given name,” Ia agreed under her breath as they strode out onto the stage together, to the applause of the people gathered in the auditorium, “but this is still very much a formal moment. Sir.”

“Pain in the asteroid,” Myang muttered. She clung to Ia’s medal-covered elbow a moment more. “You do know that your defense team is doing an outstanding job of defending you so far, right?”

“Of course, sir. I do listen to all the depositions while I’m filling out the klicks and klicks of paperwork that continue to cross my desk,” Ia not quite lied. She did play the recordings, but she had the sound turned down so low, it was a bare murmur at best.

“Well, you’re still a pain in the asteroid, but at the rate Admiral Johns is defending you, you’ll still be
my
pain in the asteroid.” Releasing her, Myang continued forward.

Mildly amused by her superior’s attitude, Ia stopped by her table of boxes, located near the steps that would be used as the exiting point for her crew. The Admiral-General strode across the stage to the podium, met briefly with her chief aide, Colonel Sofrens, then gestured for him to move to the far set of stairs, the ones the members of Ia’s Damned would use to mount the stage. Behind them, the senior generals and admirals who had traveled to witness the ceremony took their seats on the stage. So did the Premiere, and the dignitaries from the other members of the Alliance, the equivalents of generals, admirals, and leaders or their representatives.

Rather than wearing a bulky breather pack and their version of a pressure-suit, the Dlmvla had appointed a Human delegate to represent them physically on the stage, along with a vidlinked presenter on one of the screens at the back of the platform. Equally wisely, the Chinsoiy had appointed a Human delegate to represent them physically as well; such courtesies were not uncommon, given their different environmental needs.

As soon as everyone had settled, the head of the Space Force began. “Soldiers, dignitaries, and civilians. Today, we celebrate and commend an extraordinary collection of Human beings. Though we are still at war with one of our most implacable foes, our other great enemy has been vanquished . . . and it has come to the attention not only of the Command Staff of the Terran United Planets Space Force, but to the attention of our Council, and to the attention of our fellow members of military and civilian authority that the greatest source of our many victories can be attributed to a single Company in the Terran Space Force.

“This force, this group, has acted not only for the good of our sovereign interstellar nation, but for the good of our many sentient neighbors and Imperial kin. They have done so time and again with little rest, and virtually no Leave, no breaks or stays in their unceasing efforts to defend our borders, our worlds, and our friends . . .”

It was going to be a very long ceremony.

Ia settled herself into Parade Rest, legs slightly bent and relaxed enough to ensure proper circulation, though thankfully the gravity was Earth Standard and not nearly so taxing on the knees. Behind her back, under the cover of her knee-length Dress Black overcoat, she extruded a thin crysium cable, socketed it into her arm unit, and began composing prophecies.

Her first award ceremony once she got beyond Basic had been a treasured memory. This one . . . was occupying some of her last precious moments of time, minutes and hours she could put to better use. Far too many events had wobbled off course in the last twelve-plus years for her liking, and the only things that had saved her plans were contingencies and improvisations. So she stood, smiled and nodded faintly at all the right points, and worked on making sure those potential improvisations in the distant future would become yet more well-plotted contingencies.

“. . . And lastly, Lieutenant Commander, it is my honor to bestow upon you the Medal of Honor,” Premiere Mandella stated, “for the unswerving, unwavering performance of valorous and courageous deeds, both those listed here, and for others beyond number.”

Applause burst out across the auditorium. Waking herself up from her prophecy trance, Ia pulled her attention firmly into the present and unhooked her bracer. She watched Mandella pin the last medal onto the lapel of Helstead’s Dress Blacks. The Premiere shook hands with her, speaking some private message for her under his breath, and the pair paused briefly for the hovering cameras to record their images together. Then he gestured for Helstead to cross the stage to where Ia waited. Stopping in front of her CO, Delia saluted Ia.

“Sir. Requesting permission to report back to the
Damnation
to relieve Lieutenant Rico, sir.”

“Not yet, Helstead,” Ia told her, returning the salute. Crisply, she turned to the table, selected the topmost box—all arranged in proper order by her earlier, via telekinesis—and turned back with the container in her hands. Opening the lid, she angled the contents so that only Helstead could see it. “Is
this
what you truly want, soldier? Think carefully, for this is your last chance.”

Helstead stared down at the interior of the black box. A soft frown creased her freckled brow, and she looked up at Ia. One of the hovercameras swerved closer; Ia closed the lid to hide the contents. “I was thinking, sir. You need something to speak eloquently about the Damned, right?”

“Right,” Ia agreed, wondering what, of all the many possibilities, was running through her second officer’s mind.

“Well, how about we donate our coats to the TUPSF museum?” Delia asked. “Medal for medal, kilo for kilo, we’re the heaviest of award-bearing Companies based on all we have done . . . but people won’t
know
it unless they
see
it, sir.”

Blinking, Ia quickly skimmed through the timelines. It was not an expected canal . . . but it would alleviate several potential floodwaters in the future. She nodded. “That’s a very good idea. It’ll help cover what the others won’t be able to do, which is to spread the message for longer than a Human lifetime—I’ll inform the rest. But
only
the coats of those who accept this offer.”

“Then pin it on me, sir, for I accept all that it means with a free and loving heart.”

A free and loving . . . ?
Ia eyed the redhead. “Delia? In the words of your fellow Eivaneners . . . you’re mucking
crazy
.”

Helstead flashed her a grin. “Thank you, sir!”

Mindful of the hovercameras, Ia reached out and shifted them back behind her 3rd Platoon officer by several meters. Only then did she pull out the pin and carefully fix it on the lapel across from Helstead’s Medal of Honor. Black enameled metal strung on a black ribbon, it blended in with the satin lapel, not very visible . . . but it was heartrending to see it there all the same.

“Lieutenant Commander . . .” There was so much she wanted to say about Helstead’s choice, but all of it was lengthy and some of it would have been either tear-streaked and morose or shouted irritably at the top of her lungs. Instead, Ia tightened her gut and merely said, “In the name of all you have done, and especially for what you
choose
to do . . . however insane . . . thank you.”

Helstead unbuttoned her jacket, folded it so that the Medal of Honor side was pointed up and her three K’Katta sashes of Honor, Valor, and Sentientarian Aid were tucked inside so that just a tuft of color from each could be seen, turned crisply, and set the bundle on the floor next to the table. She returned to Ia and saluted one last time. “Sir. Again, I request permission to return to the ship and relieve Lieutenant Rico of his duties, sir.”

“Permission granted.” Ia saluted her back. “Dismissed.”

Bemused and unsure what had just happened, the audience in the stands and on the stage applauded politely as the short redhead strode off the stage and up the aisle, heading for the nearest set of doors that would lead her through the massive labyrinth of Battle Platform
Osceola
and back to her own ship. Ia watched her go, then tucked her arms behind her back again. Colonel Sofrens called up the next member, Huey, who would be following in Helstead’s tracks back to the
Damnation
to relieve Fielle so that he could come receive his own rewards as well.

Tucking her arms behind her back, Ia slipped back into her light timestream trance, pausing every few seconds to “cool off” the excess kinetic inergy building up in her translation bracer. At the end of Mandella’s presentation and the pinning of her Medal of Honor, she crossed the stage to Ia and saluted, much as Helstead had done.

“Sir! Requesting permission to report to the
Damnation
for piloting duty, sir,” Huey stated. She eyed the pile of boxes under the cover of her upraised hand, curiosity in her gaze.

Ia saluted her back. “Permission granted, Yeoman . . . and no, those aren’t for you. Remember to be ready to move out as soon as you are relieved in turn.” She held out her hand. “Thank you very much for serving with my crew, Patricia, and for being willing to go next where I need you to go.”

“The honor was mine, sir. My things are packed and ready to go. Ah . . . why did the Commander remove her coat?” she added under her breath, glancing at the jacket on the platform floor.

“Posterity. Yours is not needed. Thank you for standing watch through the rest of this, Yeoman. Dismissed.”

“Aye, sir.” Turning, she headed down the stairs and up the nearest aisle, following Helstead’s route.

Next up was Private First Class Valya Dubsnjiadeb, backup navigation tech and a fine cloisonné artist, who would be replacing Phaenon on the bridge. When she reached Ia, she saluted without a word and glanced at the boxes. Ia fetched hers from the stack.

“Is
this
what you want, soldier?” she challenged, opening and displaying it for the other woman’s eyes only. “Because this is your last chance to change your mind.”

Dubsnjiadeb closed her blue eyes for a moment, swallowed, and nodded. When she opened them, she gave Ia a fierce stare. “Sir, yes, sir!”

Pulling the pin from the box, Ia pinned it to her lapel. “As you have accepted this, soldier, you will remove your jacket, fold it like the Lieutenant Commander’s with your Medal of Honor face up, sashes tucked inside, and report to the bridge.”

“Aye, sir.” Unbuttoning her coat, she turned, eyed the jacket on the floor, folded hers with a few flips into a similar half-faced stack with her sashes between the dark folds, and set it next to Helstead’s. Turning back to Ia, she saluted once more and left for the ship. Up next would be Dorsen, who would relieve Sutrara at the comms station, then Gasnme—Kastanoupotonoulis, whose full, Grecian-style name even she admitted was ridiculously long and complicated for most Terranglo speakers to say—who would relieve Rammstein at operations, and then the gunnery position, engineering, life support, and finally those who were supposed to be here for the full length of the ceremony.

Thankfully, each delegate delivering awards had made one single speech commending all of the recipients as a group rather than an individual speech for each soldier. All except for the lone Choya ambassador; he had spent his time delivering an apology for entering into war against Ia’s very successful, victorious Company, a brief speech of gratitude for saving his species from xenocide as per the dictates of his race’s main culture, and otherwise had no medals or honoraria to give. Beyond those group-aimed speeches, the medals were simply announced and applied, with the Medals of Honor given a brief listing of the actions taken that had earned them.

—

They finally reached the end of the 3rd Platoon with the awards for Private Second Class Gowan Inakkar, a skillful gunner and manufactory technician who had earned several Target Stars and Compass Roses along with his Medal of Honor and handful of alien honoraria. As he saluted Ia, folded his Black Dress jacket onto the growing pile, and returned to his seat in his black, gray-striped pants and gray dress shirt, Admiral-General Myang stepped up to the podium.

“There will be a ten-minute Terran Standard break before we begin again with the commendations for the 2nd Platoon, A Company, 1st Legion, 1st Battalion, 1st Brigade, 1st Division, 9th Cordon Special Forces. The next break after that will come between the ceremonies for the 2nd and 1st Platoons, 9th Cordon.”

The majority of people in the Battle Platform’s main auditorium stood and stretched, many turning to their neighbors to start up a conversation. Some left the tiers and balconies, seeking out nearby restrooms. Since she had been standing all this time, Ia took the opportunity to perch herself on the partially emptied table at her back, between the stacks of black boxes to her right and the piles of Dress jackets on the floor to her left.

The only drawback to Helstead’s wonderful idea strolled over to stand in front of her. Myang eyed the boxes, the coats, and Ia. “What the hell is going on, here? Why are most of your people leaving their coats, and all of their new medals, on the floor? Do you know what this looks like to our allies?”

“They’re assuming it’s an odd Terran military custom,” Ia told her. “And for all it’s one that has just been invented by my Company, it is the truth.”

Myang frowned in confusion. Her brown eyes flicked to the coats, then back to Ia’s face. She looked at the boxes, then back again. “What were you handing to them? I couldn’t see, and the hovercameras never got a good angle . . . which I’ll presume was your intent?”

“Sir, yes, sir, because it’s none of their damn business at this point in time. The medal I offered was one step in a choice I gave to them. Donating their jackets was the other step.”

“Explain,” Myang ordered as the Premiere wandered over.

“Premiere, sir, please don’t touch those,” Ia told Mandella as he started to stoop, hand extended toward the topmost coat nearest to him. “If you disturb them, they’ll slide out of formation, and they will look messy on the stage. I’d rather not waste everyone’s time by calling my soldiers back up to fix them for the hovercameras before we go on.”