by Jean Johnson
Sighing more deeply, Ia shrugged, loosening up her back. “True. And it’s not like I got stuck with paragraphs h or i,” she agreed, turning to face the others. “But I am still under surveillance from here on out, with everything I do destined to be poked, prodded, and questioned.
“Private Sunrise, start looking for a suitably large hotel or university dormitory which we can rent, and drum up the paperwork to do it. Mk’nonn, start looking up restaurants and cafeterias. Cross-reference to each other; I’d prefer something conjoined in some manner even if we have to rent a convention-center kitchen and staff it ourselves. Jjones . . . contact vehicle-rental companies, and try to find something with enough seats for everyone in this little group, minus one driver and one guard for the van. Since it’ll be kept to the city, you can go ahead and pick a ground car to keep it cheap, but keep in mind that we might need to rent larger vehicles.
“Private Theam, contact Roghetti’s crew to see if they can spare transport for the Company in two days’ time, or if we’ll need to go pick up everything ourselves. Yarrin, Rayne, hit the restrooms; when you get back, you’ll be on first watch over this van, and yes, you have permission to draw your guns. Sunrise, issue them that pair of trank clips I know you’ve got hidden on you.”
“Guns, sir?” Theam asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Tranks, sir?” Sunrise asked, lifting one brow warily. She fished the requested cartridge clips out of her uniform, double-checking for the blue feathers stamped into the sides of the factory-loaded cases, but she did give Ia a questioning look.
“The last thing we need is Mattox trying to commandeer my privately purchased hyperrelay, especially once he gets official word back from Earth on what I’ve just done,” Ia told her crew. “If he’s truly gone over the deep end to the point where he’s acting deliberately in ways that will sabotage the Space Force’s best interests in favor of his own agenda, whatever that may be, then he may want to silence me. Or at least breach the relays and falsify my reports.
“I don’t want to have to fight the Army, but the codes being used in this hyperrelay are beyond Mattox’s clearance level. You are therefore instructed to keep it out of all hands but this Company’s,” she told Yarrin and Rayne. “Given our limited supplies at the moment, tranquilizer cartridges are the best option we have since none of us have any stunners on hand.”
Rayne wrinkled her nose. “You don’t really think he’d sabotage a claim like this, do you, sir? That’d only get him into even worse trouble.”
“It’s just under a two percent probability, Private,” Ia told her. “I don’t think it’ll happen . . . but I didn’t think I’d get shot in the shoulder on a mere three percent. He doesn’t know that I’ve already sent on a record of everything that has happened up to this point, and he doesn’t know that we have this hyperrelay on hand to send even more incriminating files on a near-direct link to the Tower back on Earth. But I’m taking no more chances. Neither should you.” She gave them a sober, unhappy look. “We’ve lost far too many people and far too much of the timestreams as it is.”
JUNE 19, 2498 T.S.
LOXANA HOTEL AND CONVENTION CENTER
LANDING CITY, DABIN
The transport trucks looked like they shouldn’t fit under the modest hotel portico. They did, of course; each private manning the controls brought their ground truck to a halt with deft accuracy, neither brushing the columns nor the bushes. Single file, they disgorged soldiers and gear, all of which were off-loaded with swift efficiency while the men and women employed by the hotel’s valet corps watched in bemusement. No doubt they wondered if they would have to be responsible for parking the vehicles.
Ia didn’t give them the time to worry. She emerged from the lobby with Yarrin, Theam, Jjones, and Sunrise in tow the moment the first vehicle in the convoy appeared. The hotel staff watched with some apprehension as a motley collection of men and women emerged from the backs of the trucks. Some were soldiers clad in the local camouflage colors, many of them covered in dried streaks of reddish beige Dabin mud and a few in brownish dried blood. Some sported bandages holding regen gel packs in place. Others were clad in dark silver mechsuits, donned solely to be used as stevedore suits.
Activating her arm unit, Ia linked to the Company as a whole.
“This is Captain Ia to all members of the Damned. Welcome to the Loxana Hotel and Convention Center,” she announced over her headset. “At least one member of each team will report to Private Sunrise at the main entrance before 1500 for housing assignments and room codes. All personnel in charge of mechsuits, report to Private Yarrin for mechsuit-storage arrangements in conference halls Whiteflower and Greenwater. Walk lightly. Only the ground floor of this facility is solid plexcrete; no mechsuits will be allowed on any other floors, and do not go into close-quarters situations. Stick strictly to the broadest paths. Private Yarrin will direct you along the sidewalks to the proper exterior entrances.
“All personnel in charge of all other nonpersonal or nonmechsuit supplies, report to Private Theam; storage facilities will be in Redleaf Halls 1–4. Coordinate with the mechsuit teams and Private Yarrin for carrying heavy cargo around the exterior perimeter,” she continued briskly. “All wounded and infirmary personnel, report to Private Jjones. An infirmary station has been set up in the west wing conference halls Waterfall, Fountain, and Lakeshore. Company Command and the Company boardroom will be located in the Olympic Ballroom.
“All personnel will remain on the premises until further notice . . . and do remember that you will be moving among civilians. Be on your best behavior at all times; that includes this afternoon when some of you are in the pool, and this evening when some of you are in the hotel bar. All meals have been prepaid through the Crystal Gardens restaurant; if you want something different, you’ll have to pay at one of the other restaurants, and that includes the bar.
“The Company has bartered for the use of one laundry facility, located on the eighth floor, to be used by Company personnel. Otherwise, all extraneous room services will come out of your own pocket,” she warned dryly. “Your hotel rooms will still be subject to Inspection by Squad leaders and Platoon Sergeants every morning at 0700 Dabinian Standard local. There will be a cadre meeting in the ballroom at 1500 hours; otherwise, your orders are to settle in and enjoy your Modified Leave. Captain Ia out.”
The first pair of trucks, now emptied, rolled out; most were being driven by Roghetti’s soldiers and had to be returned to the front. Barely missing a beat, the third one—which was still being unloaded—pulled forward after a warning shout from the driver to the men and women unloading the back; the next two pulled in behind it. Commander Harper jumped out of the cab of the fifth ground truck as soon as that one stopped.
Striding up to Ia, he saluted, his tanned face pale and grim, scratches on the left side of his forehead and cheek, his uniform as muddied as the rest. “Commander Harper, reporting in with . . . with most of the Company, sir.”
“I know,” Ia murmured, then repeated herself out loud, knowing the others were covertly watching their two seniormost officers. “I know. At least the Feyori are no longer a problem. The timestreams are finally free and clear to me. If our battle plans for the Army as well as ourselves had been implemented, then there would have been only a third of the casualties we’ve suffered, and none of the lost lives. But we weren’t given that option, and I know you did your best with what we were given, Commander.”
He shook his head, eyes gleaming with tears he would not shed. “I tried. I planned for everything, tried to think of every . . . I’m sorry, Ia.”
There were many things she could have said to him. That no plan ever survives intact after actually engaging the enemy. That she could see in the streams that he had done far better than could be expected, with roughly half the losses and injuries most other plans would have sustained. That it wasn’t his fault that the Feyori had robbed them of her precognitiv
e advantages. That he had truly done the best he could.
But that would not bring back Corporal Svarson, who had died while acting as a paramedic, pulling out wounded comrades from crossfire before being shot himself. It would not bring back Yeoman Nabouleh, third-watch pilot and another favorite crew member of Ia’s. Nabouleh had been smashed under a toppled enemy tower when the munitions depot ignited and exploded, thanks to a poorly aimed shot from a Salik weapon.
Ia could see each of their deaths, knew each one as an unforeseen, unavoidable tragedy, but words would not change any of that.
Stepping forward, she wrapped her arms around her second-in-command, hugging him. It was public, it was not part of protocol, everyone was watching their two seniormost officers . . . but he needed it. Wrapping his own around her waist, he dropped his head to her shoulder and shook silently with the grief and pain bottled up inside, corked beneath the ever-present duty of an officer and pressurized by the knowledge he had failed in that duty.
“I know,” she murmured, thinking of her own failures in the wake of all that Feyori meddling. He had lost two soldiers under his command. She had lost three, plus all the lives in Roghetti’s Roughriders who hadn’t made it out, either. “I hate that we’ve been so helpless in the hands of Fate.”
He clung harder, reacting to the intensity in her murmured words. This was his first solo command, the first time Meyun Harper had been completely in charge of any of his missions. From the gathering of intelligence to the forming of battle plans, from their initial execution through to the retreat and cleanup stages, it had been all his, and only his.
Prior to this, he had been a lead mechanic, a logistics officer, a chief engineer, a junior officer, a third-in-command, her second-in-command and first officer . . . but not in command. Not the one ultimately responsible for every drop of blood shed by those under him. Ia knew she had placed a huge burden on his shoulders when she had handed over the majority of the Company to him, a burden she hadn’t been able to lighten with any precognitive advice.
As she stood there, embracing and supporting him, one of the bodies crowding around Private Sunrise eyed the two of them, then moved closer. Private Nesbit, a regen patch strapped to his cheek, clasped Harper on the shoulder. Ia eased back from her first officer. Meyun straightened a little but kept his head down, not yet ready to look at the other man.
“It’s okay, sir,” Nesbit murmured, his tone gentle. He couldn’t speak with great animation thanks to the regen goop doing its best to heal the scorched line marring his face, but his tone conveyed what his expression could not. “We all knew the odds of a bad die roll were high. Hell, most of us are surprised we didn’t lose a lot more. But you planned your best, and we gave you our best. Sometimes, the dice just roll like shakk-tor, s’all.”
He started to say more, then just squeezed Harper’s shoulder and moved back over to await his room assignment. He wasn’t the only one to speak up. So did one of the noncoms, stepping over to join them.
“Captain Ia. The Commander did his best to give the enemy hell while getting most of us in and out alive, sir,” Sergeant Santori stated, moving up from the other side. The woman had her left arm in a sling with the telltale lump of a regen pack tucked inside. She looked at Ia as she spoke, but her words were as much for Harper’s ears as the Captain’s. “I’m giving him highest marks in my post-battle reports, sir.”
Ia dipped her head in acknowledgment, her gaze still mostly on Meyun. He drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. One tear had escaped while he had rested in her arms, but only one. Hardening his expression, he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He just looked at her.
That moment of grief was walled off again. Now he was ready to be an officer once more. Her second-in-command. She could see it in the way he looked at her, competent but ready to be relieved of command. “When do you want to debrief me, sir?”
She nodded but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his brief lapse in discipline. Harper had to deal with his grief in his own way, much as she had learned to deal with her own. “Fifteen hundred, so all the officers and noncoms can hear all the news, all at once. In the meantime, coordinate with Private Sunrise on overseeing the settling of the troops in our temporary quarters. If you need me, I’ll be in conference hall Waterfall. Dr. Mishka still has a lot of patients to tend. At this point, she can do a lot more with me as a KIman, boosting her biokinetics, than she could if we tried to commandeer a hospital. The civilians will have their hands full soon enough.”
He nodded, then touched her arm as she started to move away. “When do you want to take back full command of the Company?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I contacted the Command Staff three days ago to file a formal charge of incompetency against Brigadier General Mattox. The rest of you are on Modified Leave, but I’m on Restricted. I cannot lead this Company effectively under those conditions. Not until they’re lifted. The Damned are safer under your control for the time being, so you get the others back under A Company, too.”
She meant safer out of the line of political fire, not enemy fire. Meyun frowned a little, then nodded in understanding. “. . . Right, then. Thank you for finding us accommodations, sir. You said Private Sunrise is the one to coordinate with?”
“I put her in charge of hotel-Company liaisons, since she’s so good at doing the clerk thing,” Ia stated dryly. Harper’s mouth twitched. As her first officer, he knew Mara’s true background and knew how much her other talents were being wasted. Ia’s quip did have the right effect, though; the touch of humor lifted him out of his grief enough that he could get his work done without feeling like an instrument string tuned too tight—still tense, but not ready to snap.
The line of trucks pulled forward, bringing the vehicle with the patients too wounded to be ambulatory under the cover of the portico. Just in time, too; the gray clouds looming over the capital of the colonyworld started dropping a light drizzle again. Ia paused long enough to catch Harper’s elbow, though.
“One more thing. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging for your family to come in for dinner tomorrow night,” she told him.
His brown eyes widened in surprise and pleasure. A smile ghosted across his face. “Ah, thank you, Captain.”
“I know you’ve been keeping in touch with them via the comms, but since you’re on Leave, and they’re less than a hundred kilometers from here, I saw no reason why the Harpers shouldn’t come into town for dinner. My treat,” she added. “You’ve earned a night off, and a bit of Leave. Loxana’s Loft, the rooftop restaurant, 1830 hours sharp. Your family will arrive by 1810, tomorrow. I’ve made all the arrangements, and I’ll be picking up the tab.”
“You’ll be there, then?” he asked her.
“Only if you’re prepared to have everything recorded and dissected by the Command Staff,” Ia reminded him, tapping her arm unit. He wrinkled his nose, thinking about it.
Restricted Leave meant she could do some civilian things, but everything she did had to be copied from her arm unit’s black-box memory files and passed along for analysis. Previous accusations by some officers against other officers had proved quite telling when the accuser’s private moments had been analyzed; some of those officers had apparently instigated their accusations for reasons of personal dislike, ambition, and even sabotage . . . and had forgotten their every move had been placed under watch.
Ia was willing to be recorded and analyzed. This was the one time in her career, post–Godstrike cannon, that she would be free to have everything analyzed by others. She wasn’t on an Ultra Classified ship doing Ultra Classified work. Of course, she wasn’t going to stop being who and what she was; she wasn’t going to change her actions. The admirals and generals assigned to investigate her half of the case would interrogate her soldiers as well as herself via the hyperrelay now tucked into a large storage closet attached to the ballroom. They would do so to look fo
r any discrepancies between her current behavior and her prior actions in years past, but that was fine with her.
They would find none, save only the hardship that Mattox had caused her.
Harper finally shook his head. “. . . I’d rather not risk it. The moment my parents realize you’re trying to get Mattox out of command, they’ll unleash their opinions. Father’s retired Army. He does not like how Mattox has been running things, and I don’t want his rantings coloring your situation. Perhaps another time, Captain?”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, giving him a polite nod. Unspoken between them was the chance that his mother, perceptive as parents tended to be, might notice the chemistry between her son and his immediate superior. Even if she kept silent verbally on her suspicions, Ia didn’t need the woman’s facial expressions analyzed, and she was fairly sure Meyun realized it, too. A pity; I would have liked meeting the rest of his kin, not just Sergeant Tae . . .
With the gurneys now off-loaded into waiting hands, the paramedics and nurses attending the seven patients unable to walk were being organized by Private Jjones and Dr. Mishka. Ia joined them. Mishka gave her a relieved look; Ia nodded in return, answering her unspoken question. Without a word, Mishka directed the soldiers carrying the gurneys toward the makeshift infirmary.
The other woman looked exhausted, shadows under her blue eyes, her blonde locks falling haphazardly out of the knot that normally skewered them to the back of her head. Her personal energies had gone toward ensuring that only two members of Ia’s Damned had died and that the rest were stable enough for transport. None of the seven would be well until they could get missing limbs and nonvital organs regenerated, but they would survive.
They should have been shipped to a hospital. Ia knew that as well as Mishka, and Mishka knew that Ia knew it. But the doctor had finally come to trust Ia’s judgment. Ia hadn’t commandeered a civilian hospital for her troops for a reason. Not a good one, but a reason. Without the Damned playing sabotage-style distractionary tactics in the field, the Salik would be free to resume attacks on both the Army and the civilians around the edges of the battle zone hundreds of kilometers away. All the hospitals between there and here would soon be full of patients needing far more care than her crew required, injured though many were.