Theirs Not to Reason Why 5: Damnation (11 page)

Her earlobe still itched. Striding along the corridors of the palatial Gatsugi government building, she rubbed gingerly at it. She would have to see Doctor Mishka when she got back to the ship to make sure it wasn’t due to some low-key infection. Or . . .

Ia skimmed the immediate timestreams, and winced.
No, it’s the damned metal alloys the Solaricans used. I think Human skin might be a little more acidic than Solarican, because it’s reacting with my innate electrokinesis, acting like a slagging closed circuit. Let’s see if there’s a fix . . . Yeah. I’ll have to go see Private Dubsnjiadeb for an enamel coating from her cloisonné art supplies to protect my skin, and do so quietly since I can’t exactly ditch the thing or replace it with a different metal. Not without insulting Her Majesty and losing my rank.

OCTOBER 3, 2498 T.S.
PROXIMA CARINAE SYSTEM

“In a way, I still can’t believe you want
me
to do these interviews,” Denora de Marco stated over the hyperrelay link between them. The Dabinian woman shrugged and flicked her hands as she spoke, visible from the ribs up against the background of her dark purple suit and the dusky blue wall of her office. “I mean, I
know
Mark Optermitter wanted to get an interview with you, seeing as how he covers the big stories from
Confucius
Station to Sanctuary and back, and Keileen van Sommers has been bragging how she has an ‘in’ with the Press Room at the Tower, so it was bound to be her plum to pick. Or you could’ve even picked a big name like Sergei Hasmapana. So, why me? Asking off the record, of course.”

At the moment, there was only a second and a half of delay between them on the hyperrelays, hardly enough to slow down a normal conversation. Parked at the shipyards in orbit around Jupiter, Ia had borrowed a window of time for this speech.

“Off the record? A couple of reasons,” she admitted. She checked the feedback view of her own image on her third tertiary screen, centered beneath the primary one displaying Denora’s image. A stray lock of white hair was arching up a little in unruly rebellion. Smoothing it down, she explained why. “First and foremost, you gave a good interview. You’re not afraid to ask tough questions, but you don’t ask
only
the tough questions. You’re personable and sympathetic, but you don’t hog the camera.”

“I’m not Sergei,” Denora muttered. “That’s
off
the record for me, too, if you don’t mind,” she added.

Ia smiled briefly. “That’s another of the reasons. Yes, you did a good job on the Dabin interview, but you’re not focused solely on getting—no, on
wringing
the most out of any interview. I’m not a wet towel that you get to twist moisture out of in order to water your story and make it grow.”

“Which would be Keileen,” Denora agreed wryly.

“Exactly,” Ia said. “
You
want to hear what
I
actually want to say, not whatever I have to say about a specific event you’re interested in, or whatever you want to
hear
about a specific story angle, regardless of what I want to say about it. There are things I cannot tell the Alliance as a whole because they’re classified so high up, only a handful of people know anything about what happened. These are things that some reporters would press too hard trying to find out, and if they start to dig, it would cause trouble. I know you
do
want to know, but you’re respectful in how you go about it. You know better than most when to press and dig for what your viewers need to know, and when to back off and let go.”

The brunette on the other end of the comm link gave Ia a flat look. “. . . You mean, I’m the least likely reporter to screw up your precognitive efforts. There are enough Sh’nai followers here on Dabin that even I know they believe you can actually see the entire span of the future. If that’s true even in the smallest part, then you are picking me because I won’t screw things up for you . . . am I right?”

Ia had the grace to dip her head. “That, too. But you really do ask the right questions, the ones that make people
think
about what they’re hearing. The ones that dig for the context of the facts as well as for those facts.”

Denora quirked a brow at that, her expression still skeptical. “Are you speaking precognitively, General? About things you’ve seen me actually doing in the near future?”

“Precognitively
and
postcognitively. I’ve seen some of your other interviews, too,” Ia told her. “You’re interested in the truth, and you’ll prod and poke around for it, but you accept it for what it is. You don’t feel a need to force it out of a person, or worse, force it into a specific shape.”

“True. My philosophy is, the truth wouldn’t
be
the truth if we tried to reshape it, now would it?” the reporter stated wryly, acknowledging Ia’s point. “I think sometimes my fellow reporters forget that when trying to chase down a specific spin or twist to the truth. It comes and goes in cycles, but sometimes they don’t pay attention to the actual facts as much as they pay court to that perfect story they want to present. As far as
I’m
concerned, if they want to twist a story away from the truth and the facts, then they should admit to everyone that they’re really trying to create works of fiction and not engaging in actual journalism.”

“How very true—ah, the caf’ maker just finished. Let me get a fresh cup,” Ia added, turning her chair to the right to access the drinks dispenser in her office. She extracted the mug, sipped from it, and clipped it to her desk. Facing the embedded pickups on her workstation screen, she adjusted the fit of her Dress Blacks, briefly made sure the medals and ribbons weren’t tangled up from her movements, then nodded. “Shall we get started?”

Denora checked what looked like a datapad—only the corner of it was visible at the edge of the viewscreen—then set it down and nodded. Shifting forward, she tapped something into her own workstation. “Don’t worry about pauses or hesitations in speaking, as those can be edited out. And if you want anything removed from the interview before it airs, I’ll do my best to comply. I know the Space Force is trusting me with these interviews as well as yourself, though they have asked I work with a liaison at the Army HQ here in the capital before I broadcast anything. So. Are you ready, General?”

Ia nodded and squared her shoulders, clasping her hands lightly together in her lap. “I am ready, Meioa de Marco.”

“Beginning recording in three . . . two . . . This is Denora de Marco of the Dabinian branch of the Interstellar News Network,” she stated, staring straight ahead in that way all seasoned reporters employed to attempt to connect with whoever was on the other side of the viewscreen. “I am here on a hyperrelay chat with none other than the newly minted head of the joint Alliance Armies, General Ia, formerly from Independent Colonyworld Sanctuary, heaviest of the inhabited heavyworlds, and now a loyal Terran soldier.

“If all goes well, the two of us will be conducting these interviews via hyperrelay chat over the next several months. Bear in mind that, given the strenuous needs of the current war and the fact that General Ia is apparently not a soldier to sit behind a desk all day, we will not always be able to bring these interviews to our viewers on a regular schedule. Hopefully, our INN audience will forgive us for these unavoidable delays, and hopefully you will all come back and follow along with each session as we get to know the mind behind the Alliance’s best efforts at ending these unwanted aggressions.

“We go now live to the Harasser-Class starship TUPSF
Damnation
. Welcome, General Ia, and thank you for accepting my request for an in-depth interview. I understand you have an opening speech prepared?” de Marco asked her politely.

“Yes, I do, Meioa de Marco. Thank you for allowing me this rare opportunity. I don’t have a lot of time to spare—I’ve never had a lot of time, to be honest,” Ia added in an aside, “—but there are certain things I’ve always wanted to share. Indulging your request will give me the chance to review some of the things I’ve done, and explain some of the reasons why I did them. Like a stage magician revealing how the trick is done, I’ve wanted to communicate the whys of my actions, but I haven’t always had the opportunity before now. And, now that I finally have the time, I feel the need to speak. So I thank you for your offer to interview me.”

“The pleasure is all mine, General,” Denora demurred. “So, can you tell me where and when all of this started? Your career, your ambitions, and the prodding of your precognitive abilities? What happened in your childhood to lead you to this unique position you now fill?”

“I won’t waste your time with the trivial details of my childhood,” Ia dismissed. “I was happy for the most part, well loved by my family, had a reasonably good education, and usually had good food to eat and clean clothes to wear . . . the usual, and therefore boring. Instead, I’ll start with the day I joined the military. That’s not the moment it all began, of course,” she said, “but you could say it’s the best starting point I have.”

Denora nodded. “Then let’s begin with that, shall we? According to the file the Department of Innovations handed to me, you first joined on your eighteenth birthday . . .”

Everyone accuses me of manipulating my enemies through xenopsychology. My dealings with K’Katta crime lords, Gatsugi Blockade smugglers, and, of course, multiple wartime confrontations with the Salik are all openly documented incidents in the unclassified portions of my military files. Even the Feyori, half enemy and half ally that they are, have been maneuvered via my grasp of their Meddling ways. But people forget this also works for one’s allies.

Of course, it’s not politically astute to openly admit it, but diplomats have been doing so since the very first representatives of one cultural, racial, or species-based group tried to negotiate with another group. Is it wrong to manipulate someone via their own culture, their mental workings? Maybe yes, and maybe no. A gun is no less dangerous if wielded wrongfully or by ignorant hands . . . yet no less helpful in the right hands wielding it at the right time.

So, too, are words and gifts. Intentions, meioa, have always been the deciding factor. Am I wielding a gun to shoot someone with no reason other than to murder them, or am I wielding a gun to shoot the person trying to murder someone else? Perhaps it’s a dramatic analogy, but it is an understandable one.

Of course, I can tell you over and over what I was trying to do and why I was trying to do it, but in the end, history will have to be the final judge of my intentions. The everlasting price of being a prophet lies in the truism, “Only time will tell.” Which is why I’ve wanted to tell you what my intentions are in the here and now, so that in time you can judge whether or not my efforts were aimed at the right targets. I suppose you could say it’s also a way of reminding myself to look up on a regular basis as I’m busy paving the road to the galaxy’s salvation, so that I don’t instead pave it all the way into Hell.

But, if I ever do have to go into Hell? I’ll make damned sure it’s the Devil that comes running out.

~Ia

OCTOBER 21, 2498 T.S.
SIC TRANSIT

“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,”
July Ia stated, as her October counterpart peered into the timestreams, watching for this very moment,
“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 since the twenty-first century works very well.”

Her younger self dropped her arms to her sides, staring hard with her one eye at Brigadier General José Mattox. Back then, July Ia hadn’t paid much attention to what the others were doing, beyond a peripheral awareness that they weren’t interfering. Kneeling on the edge of her own life-stream, braced so that her nose was mere centimeters from the rippling waters, Ia searched the faces around her counterpart. Some were hesitant, a few uneasy, trapped in the awkward, inescapable moment. But the majority of the dozen or so men and women gathered in the tactical room looked like they were going to support their immediate superior over her logical words.

Mattox himself certainly wasn’t going to give way.
“Ship’s Captain Ia,”
he stated blandly, his expression as implacable as granite.
“Please leave the tactical room.”

Any moment now,
Ia thought, watching her other self.

“Now, Captain,”
he ordered.

“Then you leave me no choice,”
her younger self stated, about to begin a chain of events that would be too dangerous at this time.

Quick as a thought—with a thought—Ia dipped her finger into the surface, connecting with her younger mind. (
Don’t even think about it. Not while the Feyori are still here.
)

She watched July Ia blink twice, and abruptly change her plans.
“. . . I think I’ll go take up cheese-making. I’m sure it’ll be more productive than this.”

The non sequitur caused several of the other Humans in the tactical room to blink and frown in equal confusion. A slight curl to Mattox’s lips caught her attention, but it was so brief, October Ia had to replay it in the timestreams twice before she could be sure. Half smirk, half sneer, it was the look of someone who was taking pleasure in a brief moment of triumph over an inferior.

I guess the changes nudged into place by Ginger were welcomed by his innermost personality flaws,
she thought.
Younger me will be popping onto the timeplains soon. I should get into position.

Pushing to her feet, she headed downstream a few paces, found her entry point, and jumped in . . . but didn’t flip back into her own body. Instead, she hovered around the midpoint like a gymnast resting on a horizontal bar, waiting for the right moment to drop, spin, and emerge with athletic effort for another go-round.

Her body lay on a comfortable cot in the
Damnation
’s infirmary, hooked up to nutrient drips after conferring with Mishka. It was Private Jjones who had in a roundabout way reminded Ia of the need for such precautions. Back then, the transgendered woman had advised her in a motherly way to eat and drink while directing the battles on Dabin psychically. This attempt was different only in that it would be worse. Much worse. It was only wise to be prepared for the coming strain.

October Ia knew something her younger self hadn’t. Something she hadn’t realized until today. It wasn’t just her precognitive actions July of this year that had to be sheltered from detection. It wasn’t just from the Feyori that she had to hide. It wasn’t even that first moment of self-contact in March of the previous year that had to be concealed. It was her
youngest
self, from that bland morning over eleven years ago when Ia had been a young and troubled Iantha Quentin-Jones, forced to face the horrors of Time blossoming in her young, prophetic mind.

That
Ia had to be kept in the dark because if her youngest, precognitively aware version of herself could have known all of this, then far too many choices would have been made out of the naïve urge to get everything done faster and better. Everything would have broken and fallen into hopeless, unfixable ruin.

Rising out of the dizzying place between body and Time, she stepped onto the bank, mentally making sure she was clad in just a gray T-shirt and pants, with no sign of the rank she would have attained. There were several possible Ia-selves that her younger self could be visiting, after all . . . just as there had been a Chinsoiy version to deal with back in August.

(
Got it in one
go
,
) she praised her earlier self, (
and an excellent moment in time for it. You figured out which one to confront, yet?
)

(
Miklinn,
) the younger, one-eyed Ia confirmed. (
These two are lackeys. Loyal, but stupid. I need to catch and control the fanged head of this serpent, not waste my time wrestling with its coils. And it’ll be either a case of conversion to my cause, or . . . yeah.
)

(
Yeah,
) October Ia agreed. (
Either path will end up with you here, being me. But be careful all the same. Remember, to see the true path ahead of you, you’ll have to come to this point in time, and work your way back upstream.
)

(
Understood. Ready?
) younger Ia asked her older self.

(
I am.
) October Ia lifted her hands, shifting the shape of the Plains into a copy of Trondhin Lake. From there, Time expanded outward, forward and back, up and down, left and right. She settled herself on the grass in a position not too dissimilar from the younger one’s back at that lakeshore on the real Dabin. She didn’t watch July Ia leave, just closed her eyes, gathered her composure, and readied her mental energies. A last whisper of thought pushed toward her younger, earlier self. (
Go get ’em, meioa-e . . .
)

A faint splash told her July Ia was gone. Drawing in a deep breath, Ia did what she normally tried to avoid. What she was slowly getting better at doing. This, of all tasks, was the one thing she had to master, or not only would the Feyori win, her younger selves would lose. Here, in this place where a harpstring-plucked decision could become an entire universe of reality, she matched mind to will, mind to power, and will to power. Provoking her biggest enemy with a single, hard-projected thought.

(
TIME.
)

Energy slammed outward, snapping everything up and jostling it back down again. Particularly along the path of her own past. Like the visualization of fireworks overlaid onto the darkest, richest, free-falling space that she had shown the Chinsoiy Fearsome Leader, Ia could see the underlying explosion of events jostling for dominance, for the right to briefly but triumphantly hold their place.

She covered them all. Every single point where Ginger and particularly the precognition-manipulating Teshwun had entered the timeplains. Every single point where
she
had entered the timeplains . . . all the way back to that early June morning when, as a mere fifteen-year-old, she had fallen from dream into nightmare, from blissful ignorance into the turbulent waters of her own life-stream, when her old life had drowned and been washed away. All the way down into the future, too, including every single side possibility her younger selves had, could, would, should, might, and did seek out and explore.

Every last possible glimpse of her own actions phased itself out of sync with reality, save for those where she needed to interact with herself. Ghosts of her younger selves flickered in and out of her perception, translucent images that came and went from this one moment. From this doorway, this portal she painstakingly built into the timeplains.

Older Ias. Younger Ias. Alternate-universe Ias, too . . . because other October Ias moved in and sat down on the stream bank before her, beside her, behind her . . . but most of all,
with
her, united in the need to protect all their younger selves from this dangerous knowledge of their elder versions and their later actions.

Together, they hid the knowledge that such interactions were possible . . . because even for the Prophet of a Thousand Years, knowing certain things too soon could ruin everything as surely as knowing it too late to change their galaxy’s fate . . . which they all could see happening in the farther-out possibilities. In the many, many alternate universes where Youngest Ia learned of these things, and failed.

OCTOBER 23, 2498 T.S.
SIC TRANSIT

She still wanted to go back to sleep. Too much effort and energy spent on the timeplains had left Ia drained, to the point where she was reviewing her backlog of paperwork with the palm of one hand propping up her forehead, and her other hand ghosting over the keys, since it was less exhausting to work manually than to use any psychic abilities.

Except she kept yawning and almost falling asleep. Giving up briefly, she toed the release lever on her chair and pushed it sideways toward the caf’ dispenser . . . which was nearly empty. All she got out of the machine was enough for two mouthfuls of the Terran-V’Dan hybrid brew. Grunting, Ia pushed herself back into position and pulled up the watch roster to see which kitchen was active.

There were galleys in the bow and stern sections, as well as the mini-galley between her office and the bridge, but they were more designed for grabbing a quick snack, or storing a hot meal premade in the much larger facilities of either the fore or aft sectors. Amidships—where the bridge and her office were located—had its own fancy kitchen, but it was designated for Wake parties . . . and the Wake hadn’t yet officially started.

Just my luck, I still have thirty-five minutes to go before it’ll be open . . . and my own Company bible rules insist it cannot be used outside of Wake hours. Fore galley it is.
She thumbed the controls on the comm, connecting to it.
“Fore galley, this is General Ia. I’m out of caf’. Can you spare someone to get a fresh pack up here?”

“We’re on it, sir!”
a male voice replied. It took her a few moments to realize it was Clairmont. She hadn’t realized that much time had passed.

That’s right, he’s on galley duty right now, trading off with the secondary scanner tech, who is . . . um . . . Yeah, I’m tired.
Pushing away from her desk, Ia rose and walked around her office, trying to regain some energy the old-fashioned way. Except that fresh air was an oxymoron on board a ship, unless one was actually in one of the life-support bays. They weren’t going to get any shipped up in sterilized compression tanks from any M-class world in the next few days either, not while they were inbound for the Dlmvlan homeworld. Not unless she wanted her crew to die of asphyxiation since the overgrown aliens breathed a mixture of nitrogen and methane, not nitrogen and oxygen.

Since she was up, she headed back into her quarters to use the head, and when she was done, she mopped her face with a cold, wet cloth. That revived some of her flagging energy, enough that she was back in the chair behind her desk, no longer relying on her palm for support, when the outer door finally chimed.

“Enter.”
She glanced up as the door slid open to find the new ex-Marine, Julia Garcia, entering with a square tray balanced in one hand. On it were two caf’ packs for the dispenser, a steaming-hot mug of freshly brewed caf’, and . . . “A bowl of something blue?” she asked, one brow quirking upward. “And white? What is that?”

“Gelatin parfait, sir,” Garcia stated, carrying the tray to the desk. Ia quickly moved some of her datapads out of the way, giving the younger woman the chance to slide the tray under two of the support clips along the outer edge in their stead. The younger woman smiled shyly, her tanned cheeks turning a little pink. “Everyone’s been so nice to me. So, um, helpful and supportive? And they all say it’s ’cause
you
vouched for me. That you believe in me, sir. The Drill Instructors back at Camp Whiteberg believed, but . . .

“Anyway, I was looking through some recipes in the Nets for, um, Sanctuarian dishes, an’ I ran across this one for topado-flavored gelatin desserts. It’s, uh, supposed to be served with a trickle of vodka and Gatsugi Blue over the top, but I know you’re a psi, and I know strong psis don’t like to drink much, so it’s just topado gelatin and whipped cream. But it’s real cream from a real cow. I pitched in with the crew when we bought some for the last birthday bash, an’ this is the last of it before it goes bad, and um, I thought . . .”