by Jean Johnson
“One would hope. As for your orders, we would not object to some of our due prophecies being shared with our Terran kin,” Ki’en-qua added, using the plural “we” that meant he spoke for his High Command as well as himself and his Empire. “But I must insist as the Emperor that all precognitive missives that deal with sensitive V’Dan information be restricted to V’Dan eyes only. We may both be Human Empires, but we are not the same.”
“I regret I do not have the authority to guarantee such an arrangement, though I of course would honor it in a heartbeat if my orders allowed,” she returned politely, if dryly. “But if Your Eternal Majesty would care to bend your hyperrelays into diplomatic channels, and confer with the Terran Premiere about your perfectly valid concerns, then perhaps the Commander in Chief of the Terran Space Force would allow what the Admiral-General has not. Until such time, I’m afraid my orders must stand as they have been given to me, and I will carry them out as instructed. I am merely a soldier, not a seasoned diplomat.”
Unspoken was the understanding that a copy of this conversation was already being recorded for the Terran military to peruse. Ki’en-qua didn’t blame her for it, thankfully. He was a rare leader, one who honestly cared for the betterment of his citizens, yet one who understood the need for political maneuverings and certain expediencies. Ia had long ago felt a deep gratitude that she wouldn’t have to work around him and the V’Dan government he presided over to get her many tasks done within his jurisdiction. That was a trouble for a different generation to deal with. As it was, she still had to work around the demands of Terran politics, Dlmvlan, K’Kattan . . .
“The Terrans may not know yet what a rare gem they have in you, meioa, though I suspect your Admiral-General has finally begun to notice a glimmer or two of it,” the V’Dan Emperor stated. “If I could, I would give you the rank of a Grand General in my own High Command. That is, presuming you could manage to direct the V’Dan battlegrounds as well as you have directed the Terran ones.”
This was the single most important moment in her conversation with him, though the rest of it was important enough to tread carefully. She had to appear as though she were still firmly collared by the Terran leash despite her huge jump in rank and authority. A quick check of the timestreams showed her an even, calm delivery would spark the right idea in his mind.
“If I had that kind of permission from my superiors, I gladly would, Eternity, and I would strive my best not to abuse such faith and trust. I would give an equal level of precognitive service to each of the other members of the Alliance as well,” she added carefully, with neither too much nor too little emphasis on her words. “I may have carte blanche regarding my work within the Terran military, but only within it, and there are limits.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he returned dryly.
Ia didn’t want to think about how well things were going. Such hubris would lead to more carelessness on her part. She still had the horror of losing a certain Private N’Keth to Friendly Fire on her mind despite the intervening time, and the trouble it had taken to patch that break in the temporal universe of What Should Have Happened. She had also needed to take her chief medical officer aside and apologize in private for ignoring Jesselle’s advice on what was wrong on Dabin. Ki’en-qua continued, recapturing her attention.
“As it is, what you can share is already far more than we would have without your very timely aid, General,” the Emperor of V’Dan was saying. “We are grateful as a nation that you are so willing to share them with non-Terrans.”
“The abilities I possess as the Prophet of a Thousand Years should serve the needs of the many. Not just the needs of a few, however important they may be,” she stated aloud. “If you can convince my superiors, I will serve the needs of other governments such as your own as surely as I serve the needs of mine. Our fates are all bound together in this particular fight; we should help each other as much as possible. Just as the fate of the people of Dabin required efforts from both the Terrans and the timely assistance of the V’Dan to thwart our common foe, it will continue to require all our efforts until the threat is gone. But I will also not go against the expressed orders of my superiors, the Admiral-General and the Premiere of the Terran United Planets Council.”
Emperor Ki’en-qua dipped his head slightly. “We will take your words and thoughts under advisement, General Ia,” he replied diplomatically. “In the meantime, I have advised Admiral V’Chech to give you and your soldiers all the assistance they reasonably may. I understand you will be in transit for another seven days before reaching your destination. It is the honor of V’Dan to carry the Prophet of a Thousand Years and the savior of our Joint Colonyworld of Dabin to her next destination. You may ask him for anything reasonable that you or your crew may require.”
That last was stated as a reminder that Dabin was one of the many worlds the Empire shielded jointly with the Terrans, but one still under the V’Dan Imperial Shield. Bowing in her seat, Ia gave the only reply she could. “It is my honor to serve and to save, Eternity. I can do no less. My Company and I have been received with full honor and welcoming arms aboard the admiral’s ship. He and his crew are a credit to your Empire.”
“Then I am well pleased. V’Daannia’nn sud-dha.” A gesture ended the transmission on his side.
“As Fate wills it,” Ia murmured in Terranglo, ending it on her side. The V’Dan controls for the comm station in the conference room she had been allowed to use weren’t configured like Terran ones, but it didn’t take her too much effort to figure out how to ship a copy of her interview with the Emperor to the Terran Command Staff before closing the hyperrelay channel.
All this secrecy, with each government fighting to prevent the others from knowing things that honestly wouldn’t harm their standing . . . It’ll be a relief to be slotted into the command structure for most of the others so I can dispense with disclosure this and discretion that. In the meantime, all I can do is “hurry up and wait.” O, the joys of military life.
Without the elevation to General, I’d be forced to continue giving covert assistance to the other governments. But now . . . oh, Christine, you do not know how much easier you have made my job. You know I’ll continue to give covert assistance, but if the Emperor of V’Dan can pull enough diplomatic strings, the moment I can assist the others openly, this war will leap toward victory, not just crawl . . .
. . . Oh God. She closed her eyes. Her mind leaped from Christine Myang to Christine Benjamin to Philadelphia Benjamin. To the others lost on Dabin. Inyul Svarson, Helen Nabouleh . . . Helenne Franke. I liked Nabouleh. Damn fine pilot, and a damn fine cook, just like Philly . . . She made those little bite-sized puff-pastry things with the spices and the cheese . . .
Helenne Franke did knitting in her spare time. She was making all the officers and noncoms gloves for Chanukah gifts. I was planning on wearing mine, too. And Inyul Svarson . . . he kept threatening to turn off the heat in one of the cargo bays and open up a water pipe to make a skating rink for some winter-style recreation, or maybe reconfigure a misting machine to create a snowfield . . .
Good people, who didn’t have to die. Who should not have died . . . but did. She could still hear Mishka in her head, pointing out that the “patient” of the Army Brigade was sick with some internal disease, and herself blithely brushing off the idea that Mattox wouldn’t cooperate. It’s my fault. My arrogance. My blind faith.
I am an officer. I know that soldiers die. Hellfire, I know that civilians die! And I know, I know, that no matter how carefully I husband my resources, how carefully I plot and plan and contrive . . . some will die.
But it still hurts.
This was the corollary to her plans to save the galaxy. The hellfire and the hardship and the damnation of it. No matter what she did, people were going to die. More people if she didn’t act than if she did, a lot more people. But even if the mess on Dabin hadn’t happened, a lot of people, goo
d sentients both Human and otherwise, were still going to die. Tears stung at her eyes.
A lot of people.
Wiping at her eyes, she let her head droop against the edge of the padded backrest. But only for a few moments. A leftenant of the V’Dan Fleet was on his way to ask for advice from the Prophet. Not for himself, but for his son, to ensure his son lived a good and long life. Ia didn’t dare refuse. For the entire time that she was on board the T’Chu-chen Vizeth, she had to present herself as the Prophet of a Thousand Years as well as a Terran officer, a woman whose coming was long predicted by the holy writings of the Sh’nai, the premier faith of V’Dan. The Prophet was supposed to be a beacon of strength and stability in a galaxy where the tides of war threatened to tear away the foundations of civilized life.
She had to be strong because morale was just as important to their Human cousins of the First Empire as it was to her fellow Terrans of the Second; what she had done so far and what she did on board this ship for the next seven days would be discussed all across the Imperial Fleet within a month. It was not an easy balance, because she had to be strong and persuasive, but not aggressive or forceful. She had to be confident and compassionate even when she needed to improvise on the fly. And she didn’t dare show any signs of weakness at this juncture. Not when nearly every moment she spent on board in transit was being recorded by the V’Dan ship’s internal sensors.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened in her seat, surreptitiously rubbed off one last tear, and squared her shoulders. The V’Dan analysts might see her momentary slouch in the recordings, her brief show of vulnerability . . . but they would not discuss it openly. The crew members on this ship would be left with the memory of a competent Terran officer as well as a living religious figure. Human, with a few flaws and weaknesses, but otherwise strong.
On such tiny things are great mountains built; great faith raised from a seemingly infinitesimal piece of sand, built grain by grain through hard labor, however tedious at times, she reminded herself. Then smiled wryly, forcing herself to cheer up somehow. Okay, I did want the adulation of the crowds in a great arena, listening to me perform my own songs, cheering me on as I sang. Even if I got the arenas of the battlefield and songs made of prophecy and projectile trajectories, instead of the performance kind, I’m sure it still counts.
At least Myang has given me permission to conduct the rest of my movements as I see fit in ongoing carte blanche. Even if I have to report in to her on a regular basis about it. Tugging her jacket straight, she rose and crossed to the door, touching the controls that slid the panel out of the way.
“Leftenant Shung’ha, please come in,” she stated, even as the man on the other side lifted his hand to the control panel to announce his arrival. “I know why you are here, and I am willing to give you a few words of temporal advice.”
He blinked at her in surprise, then bowed deeply. “Anything at all from the lips of the Prophet would be a deep blessing.”
She stifled a humorless laugh, confining it to a slight twist of her lips. “I’ll try to make it a good one, but I can only See; I cannot change what may or may not be. It will be up to your child to live his own life for himself, by himself. Not even a beloved parent can lead it for him, never mind me. Your son is an individual with all the free will implied, and you can only guide him by suggesting and encouraging, not by dragging or demanding. You must keep that in mind as he grows, the same as for your daughter, who will come along in four more years.”
“Of course.” He stepped inside, giving Ia the room to shut the door in his wake. “And thank you for letting me know I’ll have a girl . . . but I’d still like to know, so I can hopefully help guide him. Both of them.”
“Of course. Please, have a seat.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Originally, this was planned to be a four-book series. However, despite being carefully trimmed down, the original manuscript for the fourth novel ended up being too big. Rather than butcher it or publish a book too large and ungainly to hold, the publisher and I have chosen to split it into two books: Hardship and Damnation (the latter being the original title for the fourth book in the series).
Because of time constraints, I did not rework the ending of this section of the original story nor the start of the next section so that they could stand more on their own—technically this entire series has been written as one story, though the previous three were written to be a little bit more independent than flat-out continuous. With Hardship and Damnation, this intentional continuity is even more apparent: the story literally flows from one chapter to the next, one book straight to the next. The story has been split at the junction between its two main story arcs, so thankfully this book does have some sense of closure and the next section has its own sense of beginning.
When I posted the news of the manuscript split online, most of my readers stated their open acceptance of the plan to produce five books in this series, not just four. For those of you who might be less pleased, I extend my apologies. My publisher, editor, and I all simply want to bring you the best story we can produce.
Thank you for your patience in waiting for the second half to reach you, and thank you for your understanding.
Jean
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF THE CONCLUSION OF THE EPIC SERIES:
THEIRS NOT TO REASON WHY
DAMNATION
BY JEAN JOHNSON
AVAILABLE IN DECEMBER 2014 FROM ACE BOOKS!
What did it feel like to step for the first time onto the Damnation, back in August of ’98? That’s an unfair question—unfair to you, I mean. I “first stepped” onto the Damnation when I was fifteen. I knew every pipeline, every cabin, every cannon and every corridor on her before I was old enough to legally drive. And I knew the Hellfire just as well, and just as early on, long before my military career began. I have known every single ship I ever boarded long before I touched foot to deckplate, just as I have known nearly every single person I have ever worked with in advance of that first day, Harper excepted.
But I will admit I did enjoy that new-ship smell. You don’t get that many smells in the timestreams, oddly enough, unless it’s temporally important somehow. It almost never is, though. As for the Damnation itself . . . it was longer, better laid out, and equipped with certain amenities that some would call luxuries, but which have kept my crew sane. It’s hard to relax when you fly from one battle to the next with rarely a pause for anything else.
Beyond that . . . it’s just like being back on board the Hellfire. This ship is our home. In a way, it always has been. In a way, it always will be.
~Ia
AUGUST 14, 2498 T.S.
TUPSF LEO MAJOR
SCADIA, AQAT-15 SYSTEM
The Leo Major did not smell like the Damnation. Where Ia’s ship still smelled of fresh paint, carpeting, newly installed aquaponics, and various kinds of plexi, this larger but heavily battered starship smelled of internal fires, sweat, and dried blood. It also bore the odd odor of hard vacuum, not quite metallic and not quite like dust, the smell of cold frost mingled with the scents of chilled solder and other sealants.
From the swirled bits of debris on the deckplates, they might have gotten the hangar bay functionally airtight, but it was clear there had been far more important repairs on their mind than merely sweeping up. The Leo Major wasn’t ready even for insystem maneuvers, or those bits of metal and plexi would have been vacuumed up by now, for fear of their being turned into lethal projectiles during a sudden vector change. The civilian spacedock orbiting the third planet from the local sun wasn’t quite prepared to service a ship of the Leo’s size, but they were doing their best. With the bay sealed and capable of accepting larger deliveries, the work could go a lot faster now.
Saluting the bandaged ensign who had granted her permission to board, Ia waved off the young man’s offer to guide her with a murmured, “No need to bother, Ensign; I
already know the way. Please fetch a three-ton hoversled for Private Runde, and prepare to board live cargo for the life-support bays.”
“Uhh . . . aye aye, sir,” the ensign stammered, eyeing Ia as she headed into the damaged ship.
She did know the way, though she had never stepped foot aboard a battlecruiser of the Talon Class before. Three levels up to Deck 25, five cross-corridors aft to Lima, and one side trip toward the port brought her to the boardroom for the Marines Company stationed aboard. Here, the visible damage to the ship was considerably less, though the damage to the brown-clad men and women inside was quite evident.
One of the women, sporting a blue regen pack strapped over one ear, caught the movement of Ia’s approach out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see who had entered, caught sight of Ia’s Dress Blacks with its two-tone stripes of green and gray, the four stars pinned to her collar points and shoulder boards, and stiffened. “General on Deck!”
“At Ease, meioas,” Ia quickly ordered, since there was more than one soldier with an injured arm in the room. “I’m not here for your salutes. You earned my respect when you donned the Brown of the Marines, and earned it again with how well you fought today.”
Some of them relaxed at her speech. Others stood a little taller with the pride her words invoked. Most of them parted to either side a little, opening up an aisle between her and their current commander. Standing in front of the officer’s desk, on the dais in front of the sloped tiers of seats, was a man she had not seen in over eight years. He stared at her, squinted . . . and then sagged back against the table, resting his hips against the edge.
“Well, double-dip me,” Brad Arstoll muttered slowly, staring at Ia as she closed the distance between them. “It is you! I’d heard some wild-asteroid tales about someone with your name pulling all sorts of shova out there, but . . . it really is you, isn’t it? And a shakking general—look at you!”