In Her Name

by Michael R. Hicks

  He glanced at the main intel display, which presented the computer’s slow-witted human controllers with an easily assimilated visual representation of the space around them, and whatever it had found within it. Scouting was a lot like fishing, he thought, checking out each fishing hole in turn to see if you got a bite. He had been on some missions where they had not spotted a single Kreelan ship or outpost in three months. Other times, they had to extend the tour weeks on end to wait out Kreelan warships that prowled the scout’s patrol area. But most patrols were somewhere in between, with Kreelan activity present in some spots, and absent at others.

  In this case, a few light years into the QS-385 sector – a quaint name for a zone of space that no one otherwise cared about, far beyond even the human-settled Rim colonies – Josef Weigand the interstellar fisherman had gotten more than a nibble. After jumping into the nebular cloud to conceal her arrival, Obstinate’s sensors had immediately picked up three separate sets of Kreelan activity, all within a radius of about fifty light years. Two were clearly warship flotillas by their rapid movement across the sector, apparently en route to the third, which appeared to be some kind of outpost or settlement with vessels already in orbit. This was the kind of find that the crews of other ships like the Obstinate hoped to discover. Fleet command was keen to go on the offensive somewhere – anywhere – in hopes of drawing the Kreelans away from human settlements, following the maxim that a good defense comprised a good offense. With that in mind, “indigenous” Kreelan outposts such as this one were at the top of the list. Several such worlds had been found, but most were too far away or too well-defended (as far as the scoutships could determine) to be attacked without taking too much from defensive campaigns on human-settled worlds that already stretched Navy and Marine resources to the limit.

  From the looks of it, Weigand thought dejectedly, this world fell into the same category. While the computer had only been able to identify three of the dozen or more ships out there by class, what it told Weigand was depressing: they were all dreadnoughts. Battleships, and big ones, too. Even if a human fleet could get here, he told himself, they would have a hell of a fight ahead of them before the jarheads even hit dirt.

  He watched another display in silence as the computer busily worked away at identifying the remaining ships, comparing their signatures with known Kreelan ship profiles and playing an extraordinarily complicated guessing game for those that did not fit. Unfortunately for Confederation Navy analysts, the Kreelans did not build their ships in classes – each comprising one or more ships of similar construction and characteristics – like the humans did. It was as if they hand-built every ship from scratch, tailoring it to serve some unknown purpose in an equally mysterious master plan. Some tiny ships carried a tremendous punch, while a few of the larger ones were practically defenseless. And so, the analyst who needed to categorize the Kreelan ships as something settled for a generalization: fighter, corvette, destroyer, cruiser, battleship, super-battleship, and so on. The only advantage to their ships being unique, of course, was that once identified, they could be tracked just as men in ships and submarines on long-ago Earth had tracked one another, using the unique sonic signature produced by each vessel.

  None of these ships, however, matched any of the thousands of entries in the computer’s database. More depressing news, Weigand thought. More ships we’ve never even seen before. More ships to fight.

  The display flashed three times to alert him that it had completed another identification, showing him everything it had determined about the ship and its postulated class.

  “Oh, great,” he murmured. “A super-battleship this time. Isn’t that special.” That made it two battleships identified in one flotilla, plus another battleship and this super-battleship in the second. He pitied the human squadron that ever had the misfortune of running into either of these groups. And the Lord of All only knew what was in the squadron orbiting the outpost.

  “Well,” he said, reluctantly setting down his coffee in the special holder someone had glued to the console, “I guess it’s time to phone home and tell mommy and daddy the bad news.” Super-battleship sightings qualified for immediate reporting, regardless of where they were or what other activity was going on. Short of invasion alerts, they were the Navy’s highest priority.

  He was just calling up the STARNET link when an audible alarm went off.

  “Warning,” the computer said urgently in the sultry female voice Weigand had programmed in, “radical change in profile for targets Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Vector analysis initiated.”

  Weigand ignored the flashing STARNET access screen, alerting him to the fact that he was accessing a controlled military intelligence link, and that any unauthorized use could result in fines, imprisonment, or both. “Highlight profile changes,” he snapped.

  The main holo display split into three smaller holos, each zoomed in on one of the three Kreelan targets. “Targets Alpha and Bravo” – the two maneuvering flotillas with the battlewagons – “are executing near-simultaneous course changes toward a similar navigation vector. A new maneuvering target is separating from target Charlie; designating new target Delta. Target Delta is accelerating rapidly along a similar vector as Alpha and Bravo.”

  Weigand watched as the two designated flotillas hauled themselves around in what he could see was more than a casual maneuver: the ships were cutting the tightest circle in space that they could. The third flotilla, coming out of orbit, was accelerating at what must be full thrust to get far enough away from the planet’s gravity well to jump into hyperspace.

  “Warning,” the computer bleated again, “Targets Alpha and Bravo have executed hyperspace jump. Calculated time for target Delta is thirty-six seconds.”

  Those ships were going somewhere and fast, Weigand thought. He hit the ship’s alert klaxon. Stankovic and Wallers would have to finish their little party some other time.

  “Crew to general quarters!” he snapped over the intercom.

  Golda, his exec, was in the seat next to his before the klaxon finished its third beat and automatically switched off. There was no need for big-ship sounds in a scoutship. “What’s going on, Josef?” she asked as she strapped in and scanned her console.

  “Alpha and Bravo just hauled around to similar vectors and jumped,” he told her as he started the computer feeding information to STARNET while he began composing a manual report for the intel types on the other end. “A new crowd came zipping out of orbit–”

  “Target Delta has jumped into hyperspace,” the computer said, “at time nineteen thirty-seven-oh-four Zulu.”

  “Computer,” Golda said, ignoring the bustle of the other six people on board who were now cramming themselves into their respective positions throughout the tiny vessel, “can you project navigation vectors to potential targets?” Unlike in “real” space, where a ship could alter course at will, in hyperspace it was restricted to linear motion along its last vector until it dropped back into the Einsteinian universe. That being the case, the ship’s vector just before it jumped could be used to plot potential destinations. Of course, there was always the chance the ship would drop out of hyperspace somewhere, maneuver onto a different vector, and jump again in a completely different direction.

  “The only human target along projected axials for all three target groups is Erlang, trans-Grange Sector,” the computer said immediately.

  “What’s on Erlang?” Weigand asked as he watched the computer pump information into the STARNET buffer before it was sent in a subspace burst to a receiver many light years away.

  “Population one point five million. Terran sister world. Responsible for seventy-five percent of strategic minerals and metals for trans-Grange shipyards.”

  He and Golda shared a glance. “Estimate the probability of Erlang vector being initial course only, and not the final destination.”

  The computer was silent for a moment. “Probability is non-zero.”

  “What the hell is that suppo
sed to mean?” Golda asked.

  Before the computer could reply with its own explanation, Weigand said, “It means that whoever’s on Erlang is going to be hip-deep in shit.”

  * * *

  Those were the same sentiments of the young Marine STARNET watch officer. Buried in the special STARNET processing and analysis center two kilometers beneath the surface of Earth’s moon, she glowered at the reports from three different scoutships. They were in far flung regions that read the same except for numbers and types of ships: a massive Kreelan battle fleet, probably the largest ever seen during the entire war, was headed for Erlang.

  “Send a FLASH to Tenth Fleet,” she ordered the yeoman sitting at the fleet communications station, “and get confirmation that they have this information.”

  While the analysts behind her were busy piecing together what information they had, she turned to her own console and hit a particular button. After a moment when all her screen said was “Call in Progress: Line Secure,” a bleary-eyed but alert face finally appeared.

  “Admiral Zhukovski,” she said, “STARNET is declaring an impending invasion alert for Erlang, in the Trans-Grange sector.”

  A man all too used to these calls in the middle of the night, Zhukovski’s expression hardened, a reflection of his soul as it readied itself for more bad news, the announcement that yet more human lives were about to be lost.

  “Brief me, captain,” was all he said before he sat back, his good eye fixed on her image as he listened to her report, his good hand clenched tightly out of view of the monitor.

  Thirty-Two

  Enya sat quietly in the semi-darkness of the hastily completed command bunker, shielded from the ops section by a blanket hung over a cord strung between two walls. She was maintaining a vigil over Reza. Three days after she had touched the crystal and started the mysterious reaction, Reza still lay unconscious. His heart beat very slowly, his breathing slower still. In fact, were it not for the sophisticated medical instruments available to the company medics, they probably would have thought him dead.

  In the meantime, the rain of ash from the disintegrating mountain had finally stopped, most of it consumed by the cutting beams originating in the center of the mountain. Finally spinning so fast that the beams became a nearly solid disk of energy, they began to sweep upward, forming a rapidly narrowing cone of brilliant cyan that quickly destroyed what was left of the mountain. They swept the debris up and away into the upper reaches of the atmosphere where it formed a cloud that easily rivaled the one on Earth after the explosion of Krakatoa centuries before. The area around the mountain had experienced horrendous winds that had done much damage to Mallory city and the nearby townships. But those, too, had finally subsided, leaving amazingly few casualties in their wake. After the beams had done their work clearing away the mountain top, they also disappeared, leaving behind a perfectly smooth bowl, a gigantic crater, that now radiated a ghostly blue glow, much less intense than the cutting beams, from its center into the dark heavens above.

  “Any change?” Hawthorne asked quietly.

  Enya shook her head. They had kept Reza here in the company firebase instead of moving him to the hospital in Mallory City mainly because Washington Hawthorne seemed to trust Belisle even less than the Mallorys did. Besides, Hawthorne had figured that it would not make any difference. A Mallory General Hospital neuro specialist had come and examined Reza, but could not make heads or tails of his vital signs and the basic changes in his physiology that had been wrought in the Empire. He wanted to run a quartermaster’s list of tests on him, but Hawthorne had politely refused and thanked the man for his time. He knew that the tests would only help satisfy the surgeon’s curiosity, and not help Reza to recover.

  “No,” she said quietly, shaking her head dejectedly, “no change yet.” They had assured her that this was not her fault, but it was. If only she had not touched that… thing.

  Washington put a massive hand lightly on her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Reza’s a tough bastard. He’s breathing. He’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, Mister Hawthorne,” she asked, “what have I done? What is that thing out there?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, probably better, because you seem to know something about most anything, or so Eustus tells me.” He smiled to make sure she knew it was intended as a compliment, and not sarcasm. She only managed a weak parody of a smile in return. “Look, why don’t we take a break and get some coffee? Eustus’ll be back pretty soon from checking on Counselor Savitch in the city, and I’d feel awful bad if he had to see you like this.”

  “Thank you, but–”

  “Enya, give it a rest. You can’t take the whole universe on your shoulders. Please, trust me. He’ll be all right. Erlang will be all right. I promise.”

  She knew that he could not possibly keep such a promise, but his saying it seemed, for now, enough. “All right. I’ll take you up on it. But only if you find me some tea; your coffee is terrible.”

  Hawthorne laughed quietly as he followed her out of the tiny cubicle and into the red and green glows of the equipment in the ops section.

  * * *

  “What is thy name, child?” a voice softly asked from somewhere near, somewhere far away, speaking in the Old Tongue.

  “Reza,” he said, wondering if he had somehow been blinded by whatever had struck him. All around him was darkness, cold. And then he realized he had no eyes. No body. He floated in Nothingness, a spirit without form. “Where am I?” he asked, strangely unafraid. Thus has Death come, he thought.

  “You are… here,” the voice said. “You are with Me.”

  “Who are you?” He could sense the spirit that spoke to him as his feet sensed the earth: he could judge only that it was there, but not how great it might be.

  “I am She,” the voice began with a flare of pride and power before it faltered. “I am… Keel-Tath.” Reza sensed time beyond his understanding in the brief pause that followed, time that spanned millennia. “Long has it been, my child. Long have I waited for you, for The One.”

  Reza felt a spark of excitement, a tremor of fear. The One, who was to fulfill The Prophecy. “Keel-Tath,” he thought/spoke Her name in awe.

  “Yes,” She said. “Yes, that is – was – my name before the Ascension, before… the Darkness.” He felt Her touch as might two clouds brushing against one another in the sky, their forms distinct, yet one. “Lonely have I been, My child, waiting for you to come, to awaken Me, with only the songs of the Guardians to keep Me company here, in this place of mourning.” Her spirit shimmered against him, a touch of leather, a touch of silk. Power. Curiosity. Love. Sadness. “But that time is past,” She said, Her spirit brightening as the sunrise over a tranquil sea. “You and I shall become as One, and all shall be forgiven.”

  “My Empress,” Reza whispered, his spirit electrified by Her touch, and terrified of revealing the truth to Her, “I am not the vessel to bring you forth once again into the world.”

  Curiosity again, so intense that he shrank back in fear, but there was nowhere for him to retreat to, for She was everywhere, everything; She was the Universe itself. “You were not born of My womb, yet you are of My blood,” She said as the eyes of Her spirit probed to his very core, all that he was and was not laid bare before Her inquisitive gaze. “You wear the collar of My honor, yet you are shunned by the peers. You are of the Way, yet you are apart, lost to the love of She-Who-Followed… and to She-Who-Shall-Come. A warrior priest of the Desh-Ka, the greatest order that ever was, that ever shall be, and who never again shall see his temple. You are The One, child.”

  He felt her curiosity continue to swarm over him like a mass of inquisitive insects, hovering, darting, drawing out all that lay within his heart, his mind. He cried out in fear and pain, anguish and rage at what could have been, but would never be. He begged for Her to hold him, to comfort him against the pain. He begged for Her to destroy him, to cast him into the pit of Oblivion and the darkness of the damned.r />
  At last Her curiosity was satisfied, for She knew of him all there was to know. “Child,” she said, enfolding him in warmth, “you need not fear My wrath, for your heart and courage are worthy of My love, and the lonely melody of thy blood is joy to My ears, a song that shall forever live in My heart. I know the measure of thy Way, and that the time of My return draws near. You are The One who shall redeem the sins of others, and who in turn shall return to grace.”

  She held him in Her heart that he would know Her love, and told him, “Do not fear the Darkness, My child. For while in this lonely place My eyes are blind to what is, to what will be, there shall come a day when I again will open My eyes to the light of the sun of the world of My birth, and smell the scents of the garden of the great palace that was built in My name. And on that day, My son, shall you be saved.”

  Reza would have spoken then, but She held him, stilled him. “Until that day, you must live according to the Way you have chosen, for the glory and honor of She-Who-Reigns.”

  She withdrew from around him, fading into the Nothingness from which She had come, into the voices of those whose spirits had comforted Her mourning heart through the ages. “Rise, My child,” she commanded from afar. “Awaken.”

  Thirty-Three