by Jean Johnson
Absolute truth.
Bennie considered her words. She mulled them over, sipping at her caf’. Ia sipped at her water, letting the silence stretch between them. Eventually, the chaplain nodded, coming to whatever conclusion was in her thoughts. “And if you fail to save someone?”
If she failed to save the future, which might and could turn on the saving of a single life, that was a nightmare Ia didn’t ever want to have to face. Far more rode on the outcome of her actions than this one woman could even dream existed. But the question demanded a reply. Setting her mug in the clip on the end table next to her, Ia shrugged. “Then I’ll acknowledge my failures, make whatever reparations I can, and try even harder the next time. It’s called maturity. Taking responsibility for your actions. I’ll be more cautious. I’ll develop better skills. I’ll work smarter, and harder, so I won’t fail the next time.”
“And if you still fail?” Bennie asked quietly.
Ia met her gaze levelly. “Then I’ll have died trying.”
“And the people around you?” the chaplain asked her next. “While you’re so busy trying so hard that you die?”
She braced her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands, staring at a spot somewhere past nowhere. Not quite onto the timeplains, but definitely seeing the faces of the lives that surrounded her. “They’re the people I’m trying to save.”
“Save them from what?”
Ia looked up, mouth twisting in a lopsided, wry smile. “Wrong question.”
The chaplain arched one of her reddish gold brows. “Is it, now?”
“It’s easy to find something to fight against, sir. I’m sure you’ve seen that time and again, as a chaplain. Warriors who get so caught up in the fighting and the dying, the hatred and the misery, they can see nothing but the wounds scarring their bodies, the blood coating their floor. What a soldier needs is something worth fighting for. A goal. Something beyond the war . . . because all wars come to an end, one way or another,” Ia told her. “It’s what comes after that you have to focus on, that you have to pull through the mud, and the blood, and the gore.”
Bennie lifted her chin at Ia. “So, tell me. What comes after? What are you fighting for?”
Ia looked down at her clasped hands. “It’s not words. It’s a moment. Dusk. On my homeworld, in the summertime. The evening lightning storms are flickering off to the east, bluish white against the deep purple of the mountains. Off to the west . . . sunset over the ocean in the distance, and the deep oranges and reds of the fading light. The barking of a stubbie—that’s a kind of heavyworld-adapted dog,” she added in explanation. “The laughter of the children as they play in the sandpit, happy and content . . .”
Her words filled the quiet of the chaplain’s office, painting the picture found in her heart.
“. . . The sleepy chirps of the rauela perched in the trees, their rainbow hues subdued in the shadows. The spicy-sweet scent of the plimka bushes in bloom, and the buzzing of fritteries as they feed on the sap. The crisp, hunger-inducing scent of fried topadoes, blue and bright, and the seared sweetness of sunsalmon imported from the planet Scadia, all of it still lingering in the air. A father calling out to his children to come eat their dessert. A mother pouring glasses of milk. A hovercar humming past, skimming on its way to who knows where. The soft bounce of the plexcrete underfoot as you walk up the path to your home.”
Pain welled up inside of her, forcing her to close her eyes and calm herself, or risk crying for what she could not have. Bennie waited patiently. As soon as she felt safe enough, Ia concluded the scene with the truth, with the deepest longing in her heart.
“Just . . . one moment of peace.”
Silence filled the room once more. Ia sat back and waited for the results of her honesty. Bennie studied her for a few moments more, then nodded slowly.
“I think we’ve talked enough for one day. I’d like to chat with you after your next few combats as well—and you can come to me at any time in between and talk about anything. But you’re stable enough to go on, for now. It’s also just about your platoon’s bedtime, isn’t it?” she asked the younger woman.
Ia nodded, relieved the future wasn’t mucked up too badly. She had found mostly the right words. This time. Following the future wasn’t always like following a script; sometimes there were just too many just-good-enough options to pick out the absolute best. “I know I can come here, sir.”
The chaplain smiled wryly. “Bennie, please. The only reason I have bars on my collar is so I can officially sit on the unstable members of my flock, and legally get away with it.”
Ia smiled back. “I’ll try. Sir.”
Bennie grinned at the teasing, and gently shooed her out of the cabin. Ia grateful retreated with a lighter feeling held inside than when she had entered. Not truly light—not a moment of peace—but lighter.
“Hhheww will die, Hhewmanss!”
Frantically, Ia reached out with her mind, but nothing happened. She flung her hand down as well, as if she could crush the grenade in the alien’s pseudopodic hand several meters away, but it hurled through the air at her anyway. She ducked and twisted, diving out of the way, but couldn’t avoid it. The grenade exploded, ripping her apart in pain-filled chunks that splattered all over her unshielded face as she stood there, facing the hate-filled alien, paralyzed with the need to get out of the way—and the grenade hit her a second time, this time with the exact same impact as landing face-first on the floor with a jarring, wakening thud.
“—Whuh?” On the bunk next to her, Estes shot up quickly. So quickly, she smacked her head on the bottom of the upper bed. “Ow!”
Glad the cabin had only lightworlder gravity, Ia rolled over onto her back, nursing her battered nose and shoulder. She covered the former with the hand of her uninjured arm, then quickly covered her face as well when Estes hit the switch for the cabin lights.
“Ia? What are you doing on the floor?” Estes demanded.
Several options raced through her mind. The pain in the bridge of her nose made it hard to think. Ia rolled away from the bed, facing the lockers. Grabbing her nose, she pulled, resetting the bone with a gasp. Her psi countered with a flood of numb heat. She couldn’t heal as fast as some biokinetics—not without a source of energy to feed upon—but her nose would look more or less normal by morning. No questions would be asked, provided she kept her back to the other corporal.
“Ia? Are you alright?” Estes asked.
With the numbness soothing the pain, Ia could think. A quick skim of the immediate future showed her a little humanity would go a long way. “Nothing . . . just a nightmare.”
“Nightmare?” her teammate asked. Ia could hear her sitting up more cautiously this time. “About what?”
Ia pushed herself upright and gestured vaguely with one hand. “You know . . . the fight, today.” Opening her locker, she pulled out her writing equipment. “I can’t get back to sleep, right now. I’ll go do something in the front room until I’m tired again, so I don’t disturb you. Only one of us needs to be awake right now.”
“If you want to talk about it . . .” Estes offered.
“Yeah, I know; I can go see Bennie,” she quipped, stacking papers and equipment in her arms.
“I meant you could talk with me.”
The soft chiding touched Ia. It was an offering of friendship. One she didn’t dare accept too closely. She knew what would happen to the other woman in the most probable futures ahead of them. Everything that had to happen hurt too much as it was. Nodding, keeping her gaze averted, Ia closed the locker and headed for the door. “Thanks . . . but I think another time. I need to get my mind off of it and onto something more useful right now. Sleep well. Or at least better than me.”
Sealing the door between them, she padded through the near-dark of the room, lit only by the faint yellow and green glows of various indicator lights. Flicking on the lamp by her desk, Ia set up the portable writer and bent her mind away from splatters of red and blue.
So . . . let’s find the next locutus in the streams I need to dig around and guide just right . . .
As horrific as the possible futures would be if she failed, they at least were concrete possibilities, potential chances she could work with. Nightmares were nebulous horrors she felt powerless to prevent. She hadn’t lied to Chaplain Benjamin about what kept her sane, of how she needed to help others to work through the pains and horrors of each day.
Frowning in concentration at the keyboard, she caressed it with her fingers, but didn’t type; instead, Ia stimulated the circuits with her mind. She picked out a seemingly innocent message, one which would actually affect her own lifetime, and began composing it electrokinetically.
ATTENTION: AFASO SENIOR MASTER KILLA JAMBE’A. YOU’LL BE ON YOUR WAY TO TERRA VERDE. YOU’RE THE CLOSEST PERSON WHO CAN HELP ME WITH THIS MATTER.
DATE: TERRAN STANDARD 2491.01.03, Parker’s Gate STATION LOCAL TIME 13:50 +/- 5 MINUTES
LOCATION: PARKER’S WORLD, Parker’s Gate STATION, SECTION C, 15TH DECK, A DIVE OF A BAR NAMED JINN’S LAST STAND. ORDER A BOTTLE OF K’VASSA, UNOPENED, BUT DON’T DRINK IT OR ANYTHING ELSE. YOUR STOMACH WON’T HANDLE IT.
TARGET: DREK THE MERCILESS. HUMAN, DARK HAIR, GRIZZLED BEARD, BLACK VEST, RINGS WITH SPIKES ON HIS FINGERS, AND A NOSE-RING CONNECTED BY A CHAIN TO HIS LEFT EAR. METALS SHOULD BE MOSTLY SILVER OR STEEL. HE WILL GO UP TO THE BAR AND ORDER A DRINK. ORDER YOURS AT THAT MOMENT, TOO.
MESSAGE, TO BE DELIVERED MURMURED IN HIS EAR WITHOUT LOOKING AT HIM, WHILE THE BARTENDER IS BUSY FETCHING THE DRINKS: “A CERTAIN, SPECIAL SOMEONE SENDS HER REGARDS. SHE RESPECTFULLY SUGGESTS YOU PICK YOUR MENU CHOICES FROM COLUMN B INSTEAD OF COLUMN A, NEXT TIME YOU’RE IN CHAN’S. SHE ALSO SENDS A REMINDER. YOU OWE HER QUITE A DEBT BY NOW. BE READY TO REPAY IT ONE DAY.”
ACTION: ACCEPT YOUR BOTTLE FROM THE BARTENDER AND LEAVE. GIVE THE UNOPENED BOTTLE TO THE CRESTED TLASSIAN JUST OUTSIDE. HE’LL TAKE CARE OF ANY FOLLOWERS. JUST MAKE YOUR WAY BACK TO YOUR SHIP, AND CONTINUE ON YOUR JOURNEY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP IN THIS MATTER.
With that letter finished, she printed it out, signed and sealed it, and set it aside to work on the next one. This message was intended to affect two lives who would otherwise never meet, nor affect the future generations waiting to be born.
ATTENTION: CENTRAL AGENT INSTRUCTIONS 7809-35-A.
DATE: TERRAN STANDARD 2522.02.03, SANCTUARY, RIVERVIEW WARREN, LOCAL TIME 05:02:17 +/- 2 SECONDS. TIMING IS CRUCIAL. BEGIN WALKING ACROSS THE BRIDGE AT EXACT TIME, AND PACE YOURSELF TO REACH BRIDGE MIDPOINT WITHIN 35 SECONDS. PRACTICE THE WEEK BEFORE.
LOCATION: SANCTUARY, RIVERVIEW WARREN; THIRD SOUTH BRIDGE, FIFTH TIER, LEFT-HAND SIDE HEADED OFF-TOWN, 2 METERS FROM THE RAILINGS.
TARGET: WOMAN IN RED DRESS, LIGHT BLONDE HAIR, AGE APPROXIMATELY EARLY THIRTIES.
ACTION: BUMP INTO HER HARD ENOUGH TO MAKE HER DROP HER BAG AND BREAK ITS CONTENTS, AND KEEP WALKING. DO NOT STOP TO HELP. LOOK BACK ONLY AFTER 10 FULL SECONDS HAVE PASSED. MAKE SURE A DARK-HAIRED MAN IN A BLUE SHIRT AND DARK TROUSERS, LATE TWENTIES, HAS STOPPED TO ASSIST HER, THEN EXIT THE AREA. IF HE IS NOT CROUCHED AND CHATTING WITH HER, CONTINUE TO ALTERNATE INSTRUCTIONS 7809-35-B OR, FATE FOREFEND, 7809-35-C . . .
Slowly, the memories of her useless nightmare faded, replaced by the intense needs of the futures she could foresee.
CHAPTER 14
So that’s how I got my nickname. Drenched from head to foot, repeatedly, in my enemies’ blood. It wouldn’t be the last time, either. As for how it spread through the Corps, never mind beyond . . . well, you kind of had to be there.
~Ia
AUGUST 6, 2490 T.S.
From the outside, Battle Platform Johannes looked like a giant prickle-burr. All around the outer edges of the massive structure, docking gantries competed with gunnery pods and force field projectors on long, silvery ceristeel struts, which could be extended when parked or retracted when moving. Battle Platforms were not space stations; they were not set in a planetary orbit.
If they orbited anything, it was the local sun, parked in an L5 orbit either preceding or trailing a particular planet. Designed to move occasionally from sector to sector, they were the interstellar equivalent of a portable, defendable, military-run city. Size and shape didn’t matter all that much in space; only the energy requirements to move something of that much mass mattered. The Johannes could move, but it took a while to get up to speed, and another while to slow down, and a vast amount of hydrofuel to do either. As a result, Battle Platforms often took up orbit near ice worlds or comet fields on the edges of systems, and this one was no exception.
On the egg-shaped inside, in the sections not dedicated to purely military matters, Ia thought the place looked like an indoor shopping mall. Or perhaps more like the visions she held for her own homeworld—the sane half, at least. There were clothing stores, shops selling fresh, frozen, and packaged groceries for those who had the free time and facilities to cook for themselves, purveyors of personal items and other sundries, even hobby shops for those off-duty who were bored. Given it was “home” not only to a plethora of Navy personnel, but also to a rotating Legion of the TUPSF Army, eight Companies that rotated in and off of Navy ships much like Ferrar’s Fighters and the other Marine Companies, Johannes had numerous such services.
Naturally, it had a post office, which she had visited on her shopping trip to drop off her lockboxes of temporal instructions and to mail a physical copy of her application to a Net-based college. Ia needed to earn a degree in Military History to prepare for the future, and taking correspondence classes via the Nets would suit her constantly traveling life in the Marines. The mobile battle station also had a branch office for the Alliance Sentient Aid Service, which could get military personnel in touch with civilian loved ones and vice versa, the best medical facilities found outside of a well-established world, restaurants . . . and bars. Taverns. Pubs. Establishments filled with games, sports-vidshows, food of dubious but snackable quality, and alcoholic beverages. No uniforms allowed, of course.
Though her pay as a Marine was supposedly generous, in reality, the military deducted all manner of costs from each cheque transferred to her bank account. Including an ongoing fee for the cost and maintenance of her mechsuit. It didn’t leave much for personal purchases, but she’d earned enough, fresh out of Basic, to afford a couple of civilian outfits.
She was on her way back to her quarters from the gym when Double-E and Soyuez met her in Corridor 4, just as she reached cross-corridor Foxtrot. The tall, dark-skinned Marine flashed a grin at her. “There you are!”
“Meioas,” Ia acknowledged, since they were officially on twenty-four hours of Leave. She edged around them to reach her cabin door. Soyuez caught her by her unburdened, brown-clad elbow.
“Hey—you got any civvies?” he asked.
“A couple,” Ia replied.
“Good. Get into ’em and meet us in the 2nd’s common room in five minutes,” he told her.
“Don’t be late,” Double-E added, lifting his chin at her. “You don’t want the party to start without you.”
Feigning a mix of curiosity and ignorance, Ia gave both men a questioning look, but they just waved and moved on down the hall. Unlocking her quarters, she moved into the back and stripped out of her exercise clothes, taking barely enough time to wipe off the worst of her sweat. Just as she was squirming into the dress she had bought, Estes came into the bedroom. She, too, was wearing civilian clothes, though she had opted for a pair of knee-length shorts and a crop top, both decorated in shades of purple and blue.
“There you are. And you’re in civvies. Good. Everyone’s gathered in the common r
oom—Ferrar has a tradition. All newly blooded Marines in his Company get taken down to Frostie’s Bar, when we’re here on Johannes, or to The Scottish Cactus when we’re on the Hum-Vee. They’re the favorite watering holes among the jarhead set.” Estes looked her up and down, then gave Ia a lopsided smile. “You do realize you’ll be in for a lot of teasing in that outfit.”
“I know,” Ia said wryly, glancing down at the crimson fabric clinging to her arms and breasts, and draping down to her knees. “But all things considered, it’s not a bad nickname.”
Adjusting the thumb-wide straps stretching across her shoulders and down her arms, Ia opened one of her lockers and checked her reflection in the mirror affixed to the inside. Her hair needed a bit of finger-combing, now that it was beginning to grow longer than a buzz cut, and her lips needed a bit of crimson moisturizing gloss to match the dress, but that was all. Once her mouth was slicked and ready, she tossed the tube and her military clothes inside, closed the door, and lifted her chin at her teammate.
“Lead on.”
It didn’t take them long to reach the common room, though they weren’t the only ones lining up to enter. The moment Ia came into the room, whistles and cheers greeted her entrance. Lieutenant Ferrar, standing near the middle of the room, raised his hands for silence. “Enough! . . . Enough. Looks like everyone is here. Form up, meioas, let’s go. The first round of drinks are on our new corporal!”