Theirs Not to Reason Why 5: Damnation (10 page)

Ia gave her an annoyed look. “With respect, sir, even the
Feyori
are not immortal. The day I was
conceived
, I undertook the very action which will end in my death. It’s called ‘being alive in the first place.’ And I’ll remind you that it is not
my
actions alone which must be considered. Everyone else has a part to play—and you cannot use the argument that I can foresee any such death at the hands of others,” she added. “All of the things I can affect and change are
probabilities
, not absolute concrete certainties—I got shot in the shoulder on a less than three percent chance, and you’d think that the other ninety-seven of those chances would have negated that.

“
You
granted me the rank of General on a probability chance far, far smaller than that. I am grateful beyond words, but I
still
have the right to refuse an order, even as a non-precognitive, when I know it is impossible to carry out, sir. And that one
is
impossible. Whether I die of old age at 105, or get hit by a rogue meteorite in the next ten seconds, I
will
eventually die, sir. I am powerful, but I am
mortal
. So that is one order I
cannot
obey. Neither can you, since a rogue asteroid could hit
you
, too.”

Myang started to speak, then paused and looked up, lips moving as she counted silently. From the looks of the others, the way the Gatsugi president tipped his head cautiously upward, so did they. When more than ten seconds had passed without a rogue impact, Ia turned back to the K’Katta leader.

“Does my answer, and my willingness, satisfy your concerns, Meioa President?” she asked the alien.

Pritter remained where she stood for a long moment . . . then stepped down off the stool-shaped bench. Settling her legs around her, she rested her abdomen on the padded surface and chittered. “It will do, for now. You will be granted high rank among us. For the course of this war, your orders and your prophecies will be obeyed.”

“Thank you. That is all I require.” Ia dipped her head. Turning to the two Humans on her left, she shifted into Attention stance, boots together, arms at her sides. “With your permission, Admiral-General, Premiere Mandella, I wish to be free to accept these ranks and responsibilities among our allies, for the betterment of our mutual war effort, sirs.”

“And if I bust you back down to Ship’s Captain?” Myang asked her, raising one brow.

“I would still ask your permission for these liberties for the duration of the Salik and Grey Wars,” Ia told the shorter woman. “I know my limitations, sir. I know where best I can be used and where best I must not be used. I don’t have the time to spare for wasting my efforts.”

Myang stared at her for a long moment, then sighed heavily. “Well, you did say you’d take the bit in your teeth and run with it.”

The older woman’s arms started to shift, either to fold across her chest or to plant on her hips, but the Admiral-General was just as much aware of what world they were on, and refrained from making any gestures that might be misinterpreted by their hosts. A subtle shrug was near universal as a gesture. A belligerent pose was not. She merely clasped her hands together.

“Just how far do you intend to run with this ‘assisted suicide’ of the Salik nation, soldier? Or should I demand that you carry a portable shield generator wherever you go in order to avoid that random meteorite strike?” she asked Ia.

“It matters not how far I run, so long as I run down the
right
path . . . and lugging a shield generator, literal or metaphor, would slow me down, sir. There are others who can follow, take up the bit, and run with it if I should hit a . . . well, a three percent problem and fall down on the job, but I do have contingencies for avoiding that three percent problem,” Ia told her. “We won’t fix either problem today, tomorrow, next week, or anytime soon. So between now and the end of the wars, I promise you I will dodge all the meteorites I can because I still have far too much to do.”

That was enough in her superior’s eyes. Christine Myang nodded sharply. “Then you have
my
permission.” Turning crisply, she faced Premiere Mandella, also at Attention. “Sir. I request
your
permission to place General Ia in charge of the combined Alliance war efforts, sir.”

Ia remembered how, as the Secondaire, Justinn Mandella had been willing to salute her in public rather than the other way around. She remembered how he had promised to speak at her Board of Inquiry for hiding her psychic abilities. Thankfully, that probability had been avoided because she
had
been registered and tested by a duly authorized organization as part of her “religious” affiliations, which had already been listed in her military file.

But how he thought of her now that he was the Premiere, she didn’t know. Facing the dark-skinned Human, she waited for him to make up his mind. With the others on her side, she knew what her greatest probability was, and the second strongest, though both were close: forty-eight percent to forty-five. But there were still other choices, up to seven percent’s worth. Seven was larger than a mere three percent.

“We cannot have one of our four-star generals in charge of this war,” Mandella finally stated, remaining in his seat. Myang blinked and frowned, but Ia relaxed. She knew where he was going on this probability. “Admiral-General Myang will remain in charge of you for oversight reasons, but as your Commander in Chief, I am elevating you to . . . how did our esteemed, Eternal associate put it? Ah, yes. General of the War. Five-starred, and ranked over all where the military needs of these two wars are concerned. Are my fellow leaders all agreed that she now has this authority?”

Around the room, and even in the irradiated chamber, the leaders and coleaders all nodded and gestured their agreement.

“Then you have that rank. The paperwork will be filled out shortly. Or rather, I think we will call you a twist on an old term from our own history: the General of the Alliance Armies. As far as the Second Salik War and the coming Grey War you have warned us about, you are now in charge, Ia. Lead us how you will,” he told her. “Just lead us down the
right
path, as far and fast as you can run while still looking up to keep it from heading into Hell, for the preservation of the many lives at stake.”

“I will do my best, sir,” Ia told him. Tucking her hand into her left pocket—rather than the right-hand one, which had held the results for the forty-five percent probability—she dug out a box containing the datachips needed. “At this point in time, it is not necessary for me to exercise the full rights and responsibilities of my new position. I will therefore gladly defer to my coleaders and their current strategies, except for what few directives I can give you at this time.

“I will let each of you know in advance before I must take full command of all of our combined forces,” she stated, facing the others. “In the meantime, please accept my apologies for the difficulties the Dabinian passion moss is causing on your various worlds as an invasive species. Trust me when I say it will be easier to spend twenty-five years in a botanical nightmare of fighting the moss incursions, versus trying to deal with the cost of allowing the Salik to remain on
any
of our worlds.”

“. . . Of this warning, I can confirm,” Fearsome Leader Kzul stated through his comm speaker. “The moss will prevent death upon death. Nerve-aches it will cause, but death it will not.”

Ia nodded in his direction, silent thanks for the Chinsoiy’s support. Cracking open the case, she lifted the chips out with her mind, sorted them telekinetically, and sent them across the room, grouped in sets of five and six and nine, including a cluster sent to a slot next to the observation window for the Chinsoiy delegation. Activating the controls remotely, she slipped them inside and let the mechanism pass them through the trio of airlocks to the irradiated chambers beyond. The rest settled onto tables in front of their respective parties as she outlined their strategic objectives.

“These are our strategic objectives for the next few months: We must kick the Salik into space. The only worlds they will be allowed to inhabit will be their own . . . and by that, I mean the
Salik
worlds alone. We
must
fight to get them off the Choya colonies as well.” She dipped her head toward Pritter. “The Choya are not quite so blood-hungry as their current allies, and can eventually be convinced to see reason and seek peace. We must strive to do so, so we can save them from themselves.

“For the rest, the military portions are done for now, and we all have more pressing concerns to address. For myself, I have a small problem coming up in the next half hour. I would like to attend to it personally if I may have your permission to go?” she asked, glancing to her left.

Mandella nodded. “Since you say we can handle the rest on our own, we shall do so. Go do what you need to do, General of the Armies.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Ia saluted crisply, received one in return from the Premiere and the Admiral-General, and turned to head toward the nearest exit.

“One more thing, General Ia,” Christine Myang interrupted, her voice dripping with payback for all the times Ia had done this to her.

“Sir?” Ia stated, turning politely to face her superior.

“Denora de Marco—that reporter you gave an interview to back on Dabin, regarding the effort to free her homeworld? Apparently, you ‘gave good interview’ to her,” Myang told her. “A very good interview. It’s been replaying on most of the major news shows, Human and otherwise, and it’s proved very popular.

“She has requested a series of longer follow-ups. It would be very good public relations for the war effort for you to continue to give interviews when requested. I’ll trust you to keep your mouth shut about various military and Alliance secrets . . . but you will speak with her and continue to give ‘good interviews.’ The Special Forces Psychology Department believes it will help the morale of soldiers and civilians alike if the general populace knows what ‘The Prophet General’ is doing and thinking.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Ia said. “I was aware it was a possibility when I gave the initial interview. I’ll do my best to keep up the morale of the Alliance as a whole in my future talks with her.”

A flick of Myang’s hand dismissed her. Ia turned and strode once more for the door.

Behind her, she heard Emperor Ki’en-qua state dryly, “We would like to borrow General Ia for similar interviews and statements for our own people to hear. Her initial recording confirming the legitimacy of my reign must be updated.”

“You have our permission,” Premiere Mandella told him.

“Thank you. Respectfully, meioa . . . do not think this means
you
are in charge of the Alliance, Premiere Mandella. We are all still equals in this chamber,” Ki’en-qua warned him, as Ia touched the controls to open the door.

“I wouldn’t dream of being anything less, Eternity, and I certainly will not ask for anything more,” Mandella returned calmly as Ia stepped through. His voice grew fainter as she moved away. “There are still many good reasons for our two empires to remain separate. Now, we should probably call the Dlmvlan Nes—”

The airlock-style door hissed shut behind her. Gatsugi soldiers stood on duty inside the foyer-like middle chamber, their equivalent of stunner rifles held horizontally at the ready in their lower arms, laser rifles cradled vertically in the upper. They let her pass without a word. Ia waited until she was in the corridor outside—where clusters of soldiers from the different races waited patiently while their carbon-based, oxygen-breathing leaders sat and discussed interstellar policies—before slipping her headset wires over her ear and activating it with a tap on her arm unit.

“General Ia to the
Damnation
. Is everyone on board, except for Yamasuka?”
Her ear still itched. Now that she wasn’t focused on navigating her way to her political needs, she was aware of it once again. She rubbed at it absently.

“Aye, sir,”
she heard Teevie, one of Second Watch’s comm techs, reply.
“Yeoman Yamasuka is waiting on the shuttle pad as per your orders. The rest are holding a party up here in the Wake Zone, and are busy admiring their newly acquired glittery. Speaking of which, congratulations on your Medal of Honor, sir.”

“Thank you. I hope they don’t give me many more, though. I’m running out of room on a knee-length coat, not to mention running out of flesh in my ear. The yeoman and I will be joining you as soon as we can, but we . . . have a little task to undertake first. Enjoy your Wake hours in the meantime. Ia out.”

With the cooperation of the Alliance leaderships ending her part of their meeting so quickly, she had an extra half hour in which to personally attend to the trouble spot in question. Somewhere out there, once it was deep in interstitial space, a merchant freighter needed to break down at a specific place and time. At the moment, the unlucky ship was in dock at the edge of the next system out from the Gatsugi motherworld.

With Yeoman First Class Ariel Yamasuka’s help, she could swing out there via the fancy other-than-light capabilities of the new shuttles that had come with their new ship. They could fly close enough to the space station that merchant ship was docked at for Ia to psychically plant some sabotage to guarantee the vessel would go off course and break down at just the right place and time, and not just rely on a ninety-seven percent chance that it should and would.

Ia and her shuttle pilot would come back with enough minutes left on the ever-ticking clock to stay on schedule for everything else in the days ahead. She had agents—paid for by her brother—who were standing ready to commit those same crimes, but with this early dismissal, it was a burden she could take onto herself. A burden she needed to take up personally, given what she had just pledged to the leaders of the Alliance. The unwitting crew of that ship were going to be the bait in her biggest trap of the war. Not for many months yet . . . but eventually, yes.

One more set of murders on my conscience,
she thought grimly, knowing the names and faces and lives of each sentient she was about to sacrifice on board the
Bee’s Knees
. Not the most auspicious of ship names, but a necessary one.
Patient Zero, as it were—or rather, the Index Case. Could’ve been worse, though; the captain could have gone with his alternate name for the ship, the
God Sneezed
. That would’ve been painfully ironic.