She didn’t have much energy. Of her own. Hooking her will She didn’t have much energy. Of her own. Hooking her will into those fingers at forehead and wrist, Ia replied, (
My presence is the only thing which will
save
your precious Game.
)
Pulling
, Ia dragged both of them onto the timeplains. In the real world, she was still being touched by a brown-haired man; the only visible change, had anyone been able to see that side of him, was the way his eyes had changed from grey to amber. In the golden-sepia hued realm of Time . . . he was no longer Human. With her hand submerged to the wrist in the giant, swirling silver bubble he had become, Ia dragged the Meddler over the streams to the point where everything ended. Her dreams for her own preferred future, and his dreams of continuing the Game beyond three hundred more years.
Pointing at the invaders, Ia spoke. Her words echoed across the timeplains, despite the way the wind whipped at her hair and ruffled his metallic surface. “This
is what we face. The Grey Ones called them the Soor, and they are too powerful even for you to manipulate—the Grey Ones
fled
from the Soor, abandoning their home galaxy in favor of fleeing to this one. You cannot stop them from stripping our galaxy, and if they strip the galaxy, you’ll have no energy to eat, never mind any sentient species left with which to play your Game. In all the years I have studied this problem, I have foreseen
one
chance at stopping them, and only the one chance.
“Unless, of course,”
she added, turning with calculated idleness to face the Feyori tethered on her wrist,
“you would prefer to pack up all of your people to flee to another galaxy . . . as the Grey Ones have already done?”
The Feyori’s surface swirled, then stopped. (
. . . The Grey Ones are a dying race. This is not their home galaxy, and these are not their home energies. They have prolonged their own lives, but they cannot prolong their species forever.
)
“And if you are forced to leave your own galaxy,
you
may not be able to properly digest the food of the next one, either,”
Ia agreed dryly.
“Tens of thousands of years of playing the Game, disrupted and uprooted. The pain-in-the-asteroid of having to restart the Game with whole new species, whole new parameters . . . whole new factions and counterfactions, with no guarantee of anyone’s ascendancy. Or . . .”
(
Your sub-thoughts disturb me.
We
are the Meddlers.
We
play the Game.
You
are a pawn, little half-child. You are a Game piece
we
have set in motion.
)
“True, but
you
cannot read the future as clearly as I can. You also know what I’m showing you is true. You want your Game to continue.
All
Feyori, faction, neutral, and counterfaction, want your Game to continue.
I
want this galaxy to continue. Our wants are parallel, our goals complementary. I am faction to
all
of you, not neutral, and not counterfaction. Sometimes the players direct where the pieces are to be played, this is true. But sometimes the
pieces
direct where the players must play.
“Spread the word among your fellow Meddlers, and do as I ask, when I ask it of you . . . and you will still have a Game to play four hundred years from now,”
Ia told him.
“You have my Prophetic Stamp on that.”
(
You think you’re
her
? The Prophet the Immortal One told us about? The one who supposedly will predict and guide the future for a full thousand years?
)
Ia smirked.
“Who do you think will have told
you
about
her
? Where to find her, and how to deal with her?”
(
Self-fulfilling Prophecies—)
the Feyori snorted.
“You would have figured it out on your own,”
Ia dismissed, cutting him off.
“I’m just going to speed up the process so she doesn’t do any accidental damage to the timelines two hundred years from now. Which she would have done.”
(
If you know of her location in place and time, of how the Abomination gets conceived, you will
tell us
!
) the Feyori argued.
“So you can prevent her conception? Sorry.
That
would destroy all hope you have of preventing
this
.”
She lifted her chin at the barren, lifeless ruin awaiting them in the future.
“If you try . . . well, as my people say, ‘Vladistad.
Salut.
’ I will not only intervene so that things happen as they should and did anyway, I will
also
intervene so that she
does
take an interest in Feyori politics. Which is what you will have been trying to prevent when you get around to tossing her back fifteen thousand years . . . isn’t it?”
That startled him, though it was more of a feeling pulsing against the skin of her hand than any actual reaction she could see, beyond the soap-bubble swirling of his silvery surface.
“Oh, yes, I can see
just
as far into the past as I can into the future. I know what your people did, and how, and why.”
His surface roiled, agitated by her words.
(
Mind to mind, there is no lying,
) Ia projected, staring past her distorted reflection on what passed for the energy-being’s surface. (
You fight me, and your precious Game will be destroyed. Vladistad, do you understand? You try to counterfaction me, and
you
will be the ones destroyed.
Salut
, I promise you. So. When I call for you, you will answer. What I request of you, you will do. We get
one
shot at this, Meddler.
You
will not disrupt
my
Game. Or we will
all
die . . . and I will make sure
you
as a whole
race
go first.
(
My Prophetic Stamp on
that
.
)
Releasing both of them from the timeplains, Ia landed back in her body feeling more wearied than before. Most of the strength she had used had been
his
strength. Which would disturb him even more once he realized it, since to borrow another Feyori’s energy was an intimacy reserved mostly for either family or for procreation. But it was necessary; she simply hadn’t enough of her own.
At least I won’t get pregnant off of that,
Ia knew.
I’m still very much a matter-based entity.
He shuddered mentally, though didn’t seem to be enraged by what she had done to him. (
For which I am grateful. I am not counterfaction to your father, but neither am I faction. Nor am I insane enough to breed with a half-breed. I have my own lineage-pawns to establish. So kindly do
not
do that again. As for your warnings and your demands . . . they will be considered, but that is
all
. Claim all you want, we will not believe that
you
are the Prophet of a Thousand Years until it is thoroughly proven. Or disproven.
)
(
Then I invoke the Right of Simmerings. You will not interfere for an agreed-upon span of years, while my plays take shape.
)
(
You know the Rules of the Game. I find that disturbing,
) he murmured.
She smiled faintly. (
I spent most of the last three years preparing myself both physically and mentally. The Game was just one of many things I have studied and learned. I invoke the Right of Simmerings for seven Terran Standard
years
,
) she repeated mentally, (
or until such time as at least one of you concedes I am the Prophet of a Thousand Years.
)
He considered her offer. His mental control was good enough, she could only sense the shifting of the liquid silver still pressing against her mind. Then again, he
was
an energy-based being, for all he was currently in a matter-shaped body; thoughts were energy, and no one could manipulate energy like a Meddler.
(
. . . Until
three
of us concede you are the Prophet, or six Terran Standard years have passed.
)
(
Agreed,
) Ia confirmed, not needing to give the offer much thought.
(
I accept your Right of Simmerings. I do
not
acknowledge you as the Prophet of a Thousand Years at this time . . . but I will watch. I will also pass the word to keep an eye on you . . . but that is all. The rest will be up to you.
) He paused, then added in warning, (
Be advised, if we believe you are
not
the Prophet . . . at the end of those six years, we will destroy you and whatever pieces you have placed in the Game. You do
not
have the immunity of a true Feyori.
)
(
Understood. Don’t count on being able to destroy me, though,
) she added in warning. (
I know far more than you about what you could possibly do to me.
)
From the subcurrents of his thoughts, he didn’t believe her. That was alright, though; she had bought enough time for the truth to unfold. From the sub-currents in his energies, she could tell he was putting an end to the illusion that she was still unconscious.
The doctor sighed audibly, still touching her at forehead and wrist. “. . . I think she’ll be waking up, soon.”
“Good,” Sgt. Tae muttered.
Ia had only vaguely been aware of his presence in the room before now. She also got the impression from the Meddler that her chief Drill Instructor had been waiting for her to awaken for a few hours now. The Meddler had a few more things to say before she “officially” awakened, though.
(
You want to keep your psychic abilities a secret. I want to keep my true nature and purpose for being here a secret. Since you claim to know how to play the Game, I propose a short-faction alliance of mutually beneficial silence on these two points. Agreed?
)
(
Agreed. We have a short-faction alliance of mutual silence regarding our true natures.
)
(
Good. Now, I believe it is time for you to wake up. They do know you have an incredibly high KI rating, but I will now state that I cannot say if you have any actual psychic abilities . . . which by the terms of our short-faction agreement, I
cannot
say.
)
Ia smiled again. This time she felt her lips actually moving, though it was a tremulous, weak effort.
“Yes, she’ll awaken shortly. She’s drifting in and out. She’s quite strong-willed. Of course, I’ve given her back enough KI so that she won’t suffer from depletion shock while she recovers. The rest of it will simply be a case of waiting for her to physically recover.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Now, when can I yell at her some more?”
The “doctor” chuckled. “Oh, I think she’s doing enough of that to herself, mentally. Wake up, Recruit!” he asserted, raising his voice enough to make her flinch a little, startled by it. “You’re not allowed to dodge the rest of your Basic Training by hiding in your dreams—wake up!”
Prying open her eyes, Ia squinted up at him. His expression was friendly enough, from his cheery bedside smile to the gleam in his grey eyes, but she knew the truth. She was just a Game piece to him—a potentially inconvenient Game piece—and while a player might have a particular fondness for the color red, it didn’t guarantee a fondness in that player for every red piece and pip encountered on the board.
Withdrawing his touch, he slid off the bed and nodded to the Drill Instructor. Sergeant Tae came over to the side of her bed. His hat was resting on his back, revealing the grey-salted black stubble passing for his hair. He eyed the intravenous drip supplying her blood with nutrients and glucose, the monitors quietly scanning her body every few seconds in a soft hum, and grimaced.
“Don’t you
ever
push yourself this hard again. You got that, Recruit?” he growled, though there was more concern than contention in his tone.
“Permission to speak freely, Sergeant?” Ia countered. Her mouth was dry and her throat was a little hoarse, but otherwise her tone was crisp.
“Granted.”
“Don’t
you
ever give me an impossible task, and then threaten me with a court-martial mere seconds later for not completing it. Sergeant.” She watched his nose wrinkle in disgust and just had to point out, “The
only
thing that kept me from moving that bus right away was the fact that it had been parked and the brake set.”
“Why the hell did you do it?” Tae asked. “If it was so impossible, why the hell did you do it?”
She was free of the grey-spot; she could sense the immediate pathways now. Clearer and easier than before, in fact, though she didn’t have much in the way of toe-dabbling energy to spare. Answering with the full truth was not an option, but then neither was Fatality Forty-Three, Perjury: lying to a superior officer, within or without the confines of a military court. She did have the historical impact of what happened at Vladistad on her side, but the fewer lies she gave, the less trouble she would get from her superiors.