Theirs Not to Reason Why 4: Hardship

by Jean Johnson

  “Yeah. I gave up when I figured out how to clear the timeplains. Unfortunately, it’s only a temporary solution. You’re still in charge of A Company, with all my trust and confidence. Privates Benjamin, Franke, and Feldman are dead. Privates del Salvo and Gadalah are still alive. They had one of Roghetti’s with them, Private Pumipi.”

  “Yeah, I just heard about del Salvo’s group. Dunno if you know, but on my end of things . . . Doersch is touch-and-go right now. Mishka’s holding him together,” Harper promised, “but he got crushed by a tree knocked over by enemy fire.”

  “Then keep Mishka, by all means. I do, however, need Privates Mk’nonn, Jjones, Yarrin, Theam, and Rayne sent to Army Headquarters,” she told him.

  Harper’s tone sharpened a little. “Ia . . . those are some of the strongest telepaths we have.”

  “Yes, and I need them stationed at HQ for the next two weeks to mind-scan everyone here, to certify them as Feyori-free.” Opening the lid on her newly issued arm unit, she tapped in a couple commands. “I’m sending you a copy of Admiral Genibes’s orders for cross-Branch cooperation on a subchannel.”

  The waiter came back, a pair of bowls in his hands. He delivered the fruit salads with a smile, then took himself off to greet the next set of arrivals.

  “. . . Received,” Harper murmured. “I’ll see what I can do. We don’t exactly have reliable transport out here.”

  “Make it a priority,” Ia ordered. “Beyond that, keep doing whatever you think best—I’d take Crow and Teevie, but they’re a gestalt-pair. You might need all their extra nontelepathic strengths. Plan carefully, Harper, whatever you plan to do. Until I can get the Meddlers to stop being my enemy, you’re still safer on your own, but that isn’t the same as safe. Watch your back.”

  “Helstead filled me in a little on ‘Private’ Sunrise’s background,” Harper told her. “Your messages said you’d transferred her to B Company. Good choice . . . but remember your own words. Safer isn’t the same as safe. Watch your own back.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander,” she quipped. “Anything else?”

  “Figure out a way to extract a good old-fashioned pound of flesh from the Feyori for each of the meioas we lost. And come back safe and sound. Beyond that . . . I can’t think of anything. Good luck, Captain. Harper out.”

  Ia closed her arm unit and unhooked the headset. The style used by the Army wiggled weirdly against the side of her head whenever she chewed, so she tucked it back into her shirt pocket.

  “Any good news?” Sunrise asked her.

  “Everyone we know who made it out is still alive,” Ia relayed. “Private Doersch, 2nd D Alpha, took a bad hit, but the Doc’s holding him together.”

  “Heh. Probably complaining about the ‘primitive working conditions,’ too,” Mara joked. She caught the wrinkling of Ia’s nose. “Something wrong, sir?”

  Ia tapped the table between them. “I dislike being here. I need to be out there, and soon, before everything starts unraveling too much for me to stitch back together.”

  “Well, I’m still working on Operation Think About Cheese, sir,” Mara quipped. She sort of shrunk into herself, shoulders slumping slightly, her competent air evaporating into a look of boredom. Within the span of three breaths, she was no longer an ex-Knifeman but was once again nothing but a mousey military clerk, better suited for a desk job than anything rife with danger or intrigue. “I can’t make up my mind. Should I count the processed cheese-flavored spreads, or not?”

  Amused despite the seriousness of their situation, Ia let herself smile for a moment. “Don’t take forever making up your mind. I think I can bludgeon Mattox into letting me revise all his battle plans now, but there isn’t a lot of leeway in Genibes’s orders since even a Command Staff rank has to be careful about directing a brigadier general to take orders from a mere Ship’s Captain.”

  “He has a bit of an ego,” Mara agreed. A shrug of her shoulders and a quirk of one brow resettled her confident persona back in place. “You’ll have to be careful. Point out that the Meddler clearly influenced him to ignore your perfectly sound battle plans but don’t make him lose any more face than he already has.”

  Ia wrinkled her nose again. “I hate politics. I’d much rather deal with people who can see reason on the first try—I’ll point out that Harper’s using similar tactics to chew a successful little hole in the Salik perimeter, so clearly the Feyori didn’t want him doing anything of the kind to the Salik since they know he’d see how effective it would be if they hadn’t clouded his thinking . . . gah!” She grimaced and reached for the ice water in front of her. “Pandering to the general’s ego—I’m getting a nasty taste in my mouth just thinking about it.”

  Mara tried but failed to keep her expression straight and somber. A smirk curled up the corner of her mouth. “We all have to make sacrifices, sir.”

  That put things back into perspective. Sighing, Ia picked up her fork and poked at the locally grown slices of fruit in her bowl. “Compared to what the Benjamins—Philly’s family back on Mars—have gone through, I have no right to complain.” At the loss of the other woman’s half smile, Ia moved the subject back to business. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be depressing. You said the first of the League psis will be arriving tomorrow?”

  Nodding, Mara filled in Ia on what she had arranged.

  CHAPTER 5

  No, I told you, Ginger wasn’t a dog. I did not shoot a real dog. I like dogs, particularly stubbies, and I certainly wouldn’t harm one without a very serious cause. What I shot was a Feyori Meddler, who did not die, so therefore there is and was no possible way that I could have killed a real dog that day. And I didn’t kill the damned Feyori that day, either.

  . . . What? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can kill a Feyori, and I do mean for-real kill it. Dead-dead kill it. It’s just . . . really difficult, and comes with a high price attached. Particularly since a Meddler’s death upsets the balance of their precious Game. And no, I’m not going to tell you how to do it. They have just as much right to live as you or I . . . and yes, I know the irony of that statement, coming from me of all people.

  ~Ia

  JUNE 14, 2498 T.S.

  “Daytime maneuvers?” Ia asked the battle techs around her. “Seriously? Where did you get your tactical playbooks, from Westerners back at the turn of the twenty-first century?”

  “These tactics work brilliantly when we have the home-field advantage,” Lieutenant Colonel Kiang-Smith countered. “Which, being native to Dabin, we do.”

  “These tactics only work when you have a vast number of bodies you are willing to throw away in the face of enemy fire—do none of you remember your history lessons? The Battle for Iwo Jima, Old Earth World War II? There is a reason why the current flagship of the Navy’s 1st Cordon is named the TUPSF Kuribayashi, after the military leader who planned the defenses for that bloodied hellhole.

  “Yes, your tactics would work, if you threw two-thirds of the 1st Division at this point,” Ia allowed. Jabbing at the screen, she slashed her finger over the battle lines, electrokinetically streaking it with different colors than the ones already proposed. “But you’d be leaving every other flank, and all the citizens beyond them, vulnerable to one-quarter of the Salik ground forces pushing at any point they wanted along several hundred kilometers of undermanned perimeter!”

  “The perimeter will remain secure,” one of the lieutenants argued back. “The Salik will be busy containing our attack.”

  “Not once they see how lightly it’ll be defended. Unless you plan to conjure up extra troops from your magician’s hat? Where did you think you’d get the extra bodies needed to man the rest of the battle lines?” she asked tartly. “From farmhands? They’re having enough problems with the not-cats and the regular wildlife, and the enemy patrols that do slip past our people, and that’s with a full-on containment perimeter. We’re lucky we even have that much.

/>   “The Salik want to keep as many people alive, and as much of our infrastructure intact as possible, so they’ll have an easier time setting up their own colonists on this world. I want to keep as many people alive as possible because to do it any other way is not only a criminal waste of resources, it is immoral.” Bracing her hands on the edge of the display table, Ia glared at the others through the transparent screens projecting the holographic image of the chunk of continent occupied by the Salik. “Frankly, the thought that you are willing to throw so many bodies at this problem without a thought or a care for finding a better way sickens me.”

  “You’re not here to make friends, are you?” Kiang-Smith asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Get in line,” she muttered. Straightening, she raked a hand through her locks. Once again, the bangs were getting long enough to fall across her eyes. Shoving the white strands out of her way, she flexed her shoulders. “Okay. From the top. Throw out every plan you have made since Ginger-the-not-a-damned-dog showed up in this building. Every single time you start to return to those plans, remind yourselves, ‘These plans are what the enemy wants me to do.’”

  “How do we know that’s what the enemy actually wants us to do?” one of the junior lieutenants asked, her tone suspicious. “We just have your word for it. Sir.”

  “Can you not see the—? Gah! Eyah, ginsa screama!” It took her a moment to realize she was so frustrated, she was starting to channel her distant descendant again. Covering her right eye with her hand—the left had a fresh regen pack on it—Ia forced herself to breathe deeply, slowly. Recentering her mind, she strengthened her mental shields. I am not from the Barros of Gyp City. I am not a massive self-made sociopath. I am not in combat and do not need to be a massive self-made sociopath . . .

  The Feyori weren’t touching the timeplains. Not with Ia snapping the fourth dimension at random intervals to give herself room to work. But this mental stubbornness on the part of the Human men and women around her was undoubtedly a sign that their telepathic influence was still at work.

  It was the only reason she could think of for her fellow officers being so stupid about their strategic and tactical analyses. She did have the requested psis from her Company to help scan minds for Meddler fingerprints, plus a quartet from the PsiLeague, who were mostly focusing on trying to blanket the building in the mental equivalent of countersurveillance jamming, but it clearly wasn’t enough.

  “Okay. Please remember that everyone in this building has been influenced by a Feyori. That you are still being influenced by a Feyori digging its silvery-soap-bubble fingerprints into your brains. With that said, your strategic analyses are accurate. We do need to disrupt all attempts by the Salik to further entrench themselves on this world, and you have identified the key targets,” Ia praised them. “You have done very good work with that.

  “Now . . . step back from the battlefield and hand off the tactical implementations of those strategic targets to the Companies who actually have to pull it all off. Decentralize all tactical command decisions, so that you can guarantee the Feyori cannot influence everyone here on Dabin. They do have a limit on how large an area they can blanket with their mind tricks, and a limit on how many people they can manipulate with their mind games,” Ia told the dozen or so men and women around her. “Whether or not they are still Meddling with Headquarters is not as important as whether or not they can still Meddle with Headquarters.”

  “You’re asking us to put our trust into people who are not trained in tactical analysis,” Lieutenant Colonel Kiang-Smith stated.

  Ia shifted her hands to her hips. “. . . Excuse me? Are you telling me that the Army has failed to train each and every soldier in the basic Space Force requirements of Squad-, Platoon-, and Company-level tactical comprehension and implementation? When I know for a fact that the Army devotes half of Basic Training to it, the exact same as the Marine Corps?”

  “According to your Service file, you’ve never served in the Army,” one of the male majors scorned. “What does an ex-Marine know about the Army?”

  “I know that the Army specializes in ground-based combat, unlike the Marines, who specialize in ship- and station-boarding maneuvers. Those soldiers out there may be rusty at making their own tactical decisions,” she added, pointing off to one side, “because you’ve robbed them of their right to make on-the-scene, real-time changes and corrections for who knows how long. But I also know they still have the skills to get the job done. They wouldn’t have graduated from Basic if they didn’t! Tell them what the endgame goal is, then let them accomplish it as they were trained to do.”

  A new voice joined the argument. Brigadier General Mattox stepped into the room. “Your orders are to advise us on the Feyori problem, Ship’s Captain.”

  Ia turned to face him. He had taken the time to decorate his Dress Greens with half glittery, one of each medal as well as his Service zone pins. Compared to her camouflage clothes, he looked like he should be in charge. Ia was starting to doubt that, though. If he wasn’t thinking clearly, if he wasn’t willing to cooperate and return to his non-Meddled brilliance, then far too many of her plans would have to change on this world. Too many were being forced to change on the fly as it was. Still, his statement had to be answered.

  “Brigadier General, yes, sir; I know very well what my orders are, sir. I am telling you that this centralization of command decision and power, of concentrating it into a single building here at Headquarters is a Feyori problem, General,” she stated. “If I can blanket three whole blocks with a mind-quake, then covering and influencing a single building’s worth of mind in ways too subtle for a nonpsi to detect is child’s play to a Meddler.”

  “Your Service file also states that you are half-Feyori,” he argued back.

  Some of his attachés gave her uneasy looks at that. Ia didn’t let it faze her. She was long past the point where she had to hide her birthright.

  “That just proves my point on how much more a full Feyori can interfere,” she stated, spreading her arms. “I am here to advise you how to avoid further Feyori contamination. There is a limit to how much territory and how many minds a Feyori can cover. If you want to be sure the 1st Division’s battle plans are not being influenced by the enemy, then you decentralize. Your strategies are perfectly fine, but maintaining this top-down level of micromanaging for your tactics is not.

  “In order to thwart further Feyori influences, I am advising you, flat out, to pass the tactical planning on how to carry out those goals into the hands of the people in the field, who know best how to adapt their maneuvers to the immediate needs of the terrain, their personal resources, and the enemy forces they face. A method which we already know works well, and which we have known for centuries works very well.” Dropping her hands to her sides, she waited for him to make up his mind. A dozen people under Feyori influence might be hard for her to sway with just words, but this was the man in charge.

  “Ship’s Captain Ia,” Mattox finally said. “Please leave the tactical room.”

  They were still under Feyori influence. The handful of psis struggling to shield the building weren’t enough.

  “Now, Captain,” Mattox ordered.

  “Then I’m sorry, but you leave me no choice,” she started to say. A thought interrupted her. One which was not, and yet was, her own.

  (Don’t even think about it. Not while the Feyori are still here.)

  Blinking, Ia revised what she was going to say, uttering a non sequitur instead. “. . . I think I’ll go take up cheese-making. I’m sure it’ll be more productive than this.”

  Not bothering to give him a polite nod, Ia stepped around Mattox and left the room, as requested. Taking the stairs, she flipped open her arm unit, typing in a command. She was all the way down to the parking garage, within sight of the hoverbike, before Sunrise caught up with her.

  “You called, sir?” the ex-sergeant a
sked, not quite running but not dawdling either as she strode up to the bike.

  “Get on, drive, and think about cheese,” Ia directed her. “I want us well out of Meddler mind-control range before I start ranting so hard, I’m foaming at the mouth.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mounting the bike, she waited for Ia to swing into place behind her, then started it up. “Any particular type of cheese? Gruyère? Swiss? Dabinian purple cheddar?”

  “Dabinian purple cheddar. With jalapeños,” Ia added, gripping the bike seat with her hands as well as her thighs. “At least thirty kilometers’ worth.”

  “Hang on to your curds and whey, sir.” Guiding the bike up out of the underground garage, she hit the thrusters and pointed the bike toward the nearest road out of town. Both women winced at the wind kicked up by their passage until the shields activated, warping some of the airflow around the front of the bike.

  TRONDHIN LAKE MUNICIPAL RECREATIONAL PARK

  “Nice place you found,” Ia observed, coming to a stop near the edge of the modest lake.

  It was indeed nice; someone had coaxed Terran-style grass and bushes to grow, making a splash of soothing green against the beiges, purples, and reds prevalent locally. The color even spilled down into the lake, if only by reflection. They formed a stain of green that didn’t go too badly with the blue of the sky and the russet of the local foliage.

  Seated beside her on the ground, Mara shrugged. “It’s on the local tourism map. Just used my arm unit to find one. It didn’t say why no one would be here, though. It’s a good time of day for parents with young children, or people taking an early lunch break.” She looked around at the peaceful, empty park, then shrugged. “. . . At least it’s quiet. Private enough to vent, too, if you need it.”

  Ia nodded curtly but didn’t start. Too many years of keeping temporal secrets to herself had left her with few moments where she felt comfortable venting herself verbally. Instead, she surveyed the cattails, water flowers, and bushy trees in the distance. Aside from the wind-swayed foliage, the only other movement came from the occasional trundling of a little gardening robot, the kind that was just smart enough to find and remove anything resembling a grass seed from the lawn, so that the foreign plants couldn’t spread beyond the garden’s boundaries.