Theirs Not to Reason Why 5: Damnation (47 page)

“I can do this, and will do this, by doing it with
your
help. We have won against the Salik, we are winning against the Greys, and we will win against the Zida”ya. Even after I am personally long dead and gone.” She swept her gaze over the somber, listening crowd. “As you have seen by the efforts of my crew, who were recognized today for their many, many efforts . . . I cannot do it alone. I need you, and I will continue to need you down through the ages. I hope you are willing to help make our galaxy a better place for our descendants, and not just for ourselves. It will take work, but it can be done, and it will be worthwhile. I have foreseen it ahead of you.

“Speaking of my crew,” Ia continued, lightening her tone. “Some of them are going to be able to retire shortly into civilian lives, while others will continue in the Service for a little while more. However, as much as we are all deeply honored and humbled by these accolades and recognitions . . . we one and all, from myself down to my juniormost private, believe that we are simply doing our jobs, and we know that we do not need any further singling out for special recognitions.

“Once the Second Grey War is over, if my crew wishes to speak about their experiences, they are free to do so, within the bounds of their oaths to maintain the secrets of the Terran military and so forth,” she allowed. “But if they do not wish to speak, or if they wish to go do something else with the rest of their lives, please respect that. With that in mind, I know many of you have wondered why most of my crew took off their Dress jackets.”

Ia paused and carefully unbuttoned hers. She folded the medal-covered garment into a neat bundle with a little help from her telekinesis, and held it out to the Premiere. Mandella blinked, his hands coming up automatically to accept the weight. Removing her Dress cap, she set it neatly on top, then faced the main half of the audience again.

“We are honored to receive these things, as I have said . . . but we don’t need honors to motivate us to do what must be done. We are fellow soldiers, enlisted through officer, and the only thing that separates us from anyone else is that when we see a job that needs doing, our conscience and our sense of duty compels us to get it done. Our sense of honor and our pride ensures that we do so to the best of our abilities. So all these coats are being donated to the TUPSF Military Museum back on Earth. Because we’d still be doing every single thing we have ever done in the name of saving the Alliance and the galaxy, even if we had never
once
received a single speck of recognition, for all that we are humbled and grateful that we have.”

While she had spoken, Mandella had set the heavy bundle of her overcoat and cap on one of the now-empty tables between the two of them and the risers of seats at the back of the stage. Ia turned crisply to face him as he returned to her side and raised her hand to her brow in salute.

“Commander in Chief,” she asserted firmly, hand held at her brow. “A Company, 1st Legion, 1st Battalion, 1st Brigade, 1st Division, 9th Cordon Special Forces requests permission to return immediately to the next battle zone, sir.”

He returned the salute. “Permission granted, General. Go kick those Greys out of our sovereign space . . . and then come back to tell us all about it. We’ll throw you one last big party, before letting you get on with your lives.”

“I would like that very much, sir.” She held out her hand instead of lowering her arm to her side. He clasped it for a moment, nodding to her, then let her go. Turning in a crisp About-Face, Ia addressed her troops. “A Company, 9th Cordon!”

They surged to their feet, a handful still in their Dress Black jackets, the rest in their shirtsleeves, and every last one of them standing at Attention in under two seconds flat, ready to move.

“We have fifteen minutes to be back on board, and thirty-seven to get under way. Move out!” she ordered, pointing up the aisle on her right at the same doorway which Helstead, Rico, and the other swapped-out crew members had used. The aisle on the other side of the center seating section would also have to be used, but it was convenient to point to her right.

Turning crisply, her crew split themselves down the middle of each row and peeled out of the seats, heading up the aisles with Spyder in the lead on one side and the equally gray-shirted Rico on the other. Ia descended the steps in their wake and took up position at the rear. On the stage, she heard the Admiral-General thanking everyone for coming, and looked not at the audience, who were one and all rising to their feet, applauding, but at her crew.

They didn’t react openly to the standing ovation, but they did walk a little taller, shoulders back and chins level, filled with determination. Most of them in their shirtsleeves. Most of them. Not some of them, or none of them, or only a few.

Ia kept her eyes dry by sheer willpower all the way back to the ship. The sight of eight bodies in Dress Blacks lining up along the side of the airlock attached to the
Osceola
’s boarding gantry, awaiting the transfer of their personal belongings packed in crates from the depths of the ship by their crewmates . . . that spilled the tears over. Mindful of the surveillance system, Ia kept her back to the gantry’s cameras as the rest of her crew formed a Human chain, passing boxes and bags from ship to Battle Platform deck, to the sleds which someone had thoughtfully ordered for the departing crew members.

Her arm unit chimed. Slipping her headset out of her pocket, she accepted the call.
“Yes, Admiral-General; you wanted to speak with me?”

“Ia, what the hell are all these Black Hearts doing on all these jackets?”
Myang snapped in her ear.
“Genibes and I found the pins the moment we started looking at ’em. Those medals are
only
given out postmortem.”

“Sir, the probabilities are running rather high that some portion of my ship will be destroyed in the final fight. This means it’s highly likely that, no matter what I do to stave it off, some of my crew will die. But as they have served me loyally for over four years, I have given them the
choice
of whether or not they wish to face that high risk to their lives. Giving them those Black Hearts was my way of shoving that potential death right in their faces, in the hopes that some might choose to stay behind—and for the record, some
are
staying behind.

“I don’t need a full crew for the final battle, and I can run the
Damnation
with twenty or less if need be. Or even just one, just as I ran the
Hellfire
 . . . though I’ll admit that would not be nearly as easy, since this will be a full-on running fight, and not just laying in wait as a trap.”

She heard Myang sigh in disgust.
“General, I am
not
happy with the thought of
any
of your crew being at risk. I certainly am not happy at the thought of
you
being at high risk.”

“Neither am I, sir. If it’s any consolation, I would be happy to personally revoke each and every Black Heart that turns out to be unnecessary—hell, I would gladly unpin them from all those jackets myself, if you like, though of late every time I transfer any pins from coat to coat, I keep pricking my damned fingers.”

“
Yes
, I’d like that,”
Myang snapped.

“Then I’ll keep that in mind and see what can be arranged. If you’ll excuse me, sir; I have to finish getting my crew on board and our ship undocked. We still have at least four fights to go before the final battle . . . and I do have an interview with Meioa de Marco scheduled to begin in less than an hour.”

“I swear to God and my ancestors, you are a true pain in the asteroid, Ia. I’m going to order these Dress jackets held until after you get back, so that hopefully no rumors about the damned Black Hearts get out to the press. You’re lucky the hovercams were shut off before Sranna and I started rummaging through the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir; I appreciate your sense of discretion. I’ll see how many I can save on my end of things. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we still have a war to get back to. Ia out.”

Ending the link, she stuffed the headset back into her pants pocket and checked on the progress of her departing crew. As the last bag was passed, the line of makeshift stevedores turned into a farewell line of hugs, backslaps, tears, and even some laughter.

Some of it was spurred by the first of her departing crew. Clairmont hugged her briefly, and promised to “. . . compose a scandalous, libelous libretto about you, sir.” York hugged her tightly, whispering how much he would regret not getting to sing with her again, while Ia struggled not to let her gifts trigger. MacArroc and Redrock each saluted, then hugged her. Huey saluted, then swept Ia a Scadian-style bow before clasping hands. Ng and Deschamps each shook her hand—then group-hugged Ia together. Her throat ached, and her eyes stung.

Commander Christine Benjamin was the last one in the line. The two women shook hands, but then the normally very physically reserved Ia wrapped her arms around her friend rather than waiting for Bennie to hug her first.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered, shaking a little with the need to control her pain. For a moment, her voice simply wouldn’t work. Not since hugging her twin good-bye had she felt this much suppressed grief, and only now acknowledged just how much she cared for her chaplain, psychologist, and friend. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Thank you.”

“You’re making me
verklempt
, and despite the last name, I’m not even Jewish,” Bennie muttered. “And you’re welcome. Thank you for letting me.”

Ia had one more thing to say. Not out loud, but in another whisper. “Watch over
them
,” she ordered, meaning Deschamps and the rest. Pulling back, she gripped her chaplain by the shoulders. “You get into
any
trouble, you call on Silverstone. He still owes me for that double play I gave him, and I’m handing you his leash. Don’t use him unless you have to, but don’t hesitate if there’s true need.”

“Understood,” Bennie agreed, nodding. She adjusted her Dress cap on her neatly bunned red hair, and breathed deep. “Dorsen caught the transmissions from your arm unit during the ceremony and copied them for me. I’ll get the last of the prophecies to the Grandmaster for you.”

“Thank you. God bless you, Commander Benjamin,” Ia wished her friend, letting go. The airlock was almost clear as everyone finished filing on board. “You deserve every bit of the happiness that lies ahead.”

“Tinged with bitter sadness, to remind me of the sweet,” she agreed. “God bless you, too . . . and since you believe in reincarnation, may God give you a much better time of it in your next life.”

Ia merely shrugged. “Well, divine or not, the two-fisting bitch
does
owe me.”

Chuckling, Bennie headed for the hoversled holding her things. Turning toward her ship, Ia stepped on board, wiped her eyes dry, and did not look back.

NOVEMBER 1, 2499 T.S.
GLIESE 505, ONE LAST TIME

Three days later, the Greys turned up, just as Ia had promised. So did the
Damnation
. So did three hundred Feyori, in one last battle-gathering under the Prophet’s command.

The Grey vessels, bulky but sleek in their curves, teleported into place around the
Osceola
, placed so close to the Battle Platform that Ia was pretty damned sure even without checking the timestreams that the
Osceola
’s entire bridge crew and command staff needed a full change below the waist. The only problem from Ia’s point of view was that their half-shell formation, snugged tight against the station, meant that any angle where she had a shot at their ships either ran the risk of slamming her target into that station if the explosive force of the Godstrike vaporizing that ship made it tumble askew, or hitting the planet with the overshoot.

Some of the Feyori had the crysium spheres on hand, swooping them around the alien ship at a range Ia had determined was outside the effects of that damned entropic ray. The spheres were blaring KI as hard as they could, trying to sting the aliens into leaving. The Greys in turn had cranked up their anti-psi generators in the hopes of poisoning the Feyori. They also kept trying to translocate Humans off the
Osceola
, and off Haskin’s World itself since it was in range for their technology . . . but every time they tried that, a couple of Feyori swooped in, grabbed the prisoners, and popped them completely out of that star system, dropping them on a colonyworld far enough away that the Greys had no hope of getting any of them back.

The Feyori, she knew, were rather upset that the Greys were trying to steal away their comrades’ pawns and were determined to evacuate every last colonist if need be. Sometimes it was good that a Meddler liked the color red, when one just happened to be a red-colored game piece. They were also expecting their half-breed fellow player to end this fight in full today. Ia had already laid plans, with funds from her younger brother’s hidden accounts, to ensure the translocated victims would have food, lodgings, resources, and travel plans to get them back home again when it was safe to do so.

As for the fight, the insystem buoys were broadcasting it onto her left secondary screen, since her dead-ahead course was on the primary. At least, she was watching what there was of the fight that was actually visible. Mostly it was just tiny specks of gold-and-silver water molecules flying around lumpy blackish things hovering close to a mirror-polished thistle burr floating above a blue-green-brown orb, one-quarter shadowed in night, and the remaining three-quarters of the visible hemisphere swathed in streaks and swirls of gray and white.

Her lower third tertiary screen showed the exact same countdown timer as every other third tertiary screen on the bridge. The same as at virtually every active workstation across the overgrown needle of a ship, from bow to stern, engineering to life support, gunnery pods to recreation decks. Not that anyone was relaxing at the moment; all hands were on deck.

“Sir,” Xhuge said, his eyes on his communication screens, “Meioa de Marco is calling. She wants another interview. She says the last one ended a bit . . . vigorously yesterday, and she’d like the chance at recording a different, preferably calmer one.”