Did I lie about not knowing Meioa Quentin-Jones, the biggest Power Pick winner in Alliance history? Of course I lied. Wouldn’t you? Ah—let me rephrase that. Knowing that if you admitted it, you’d be pestered to death, literally to the point where it would interfere with everything you were trying to do and thus risk the safety of your crew and your missions…wouldn’t you lie, too? No, I had far bigger problems to deal with than dwelling on the fact I was related to someone who was now suddenly and rather astronomically wealthy.
The Salik did try to push through the Blockade. I’m not sure just how many slipped through the Lottery-distracted cracks, but I don’t think it was all that many. Luckily for us, it was a hastily planned event. Luckily for us, the Salik weren’t quite ready for the Big Push that would break the Blockade. And most crews pulled it back together fast enough to survive.
Eyes to the boards, thoughts on your tasks. That was the Navy’s motto on Blockade Patrol. Wise words for any situation, if you ask me.
~Ia
FEBRUARY 13, 2494 T.S.
BATTLE PLATFORM MAD JACK
SS’NUK LULK 46 SYSTEM
“SO HOW DO you feel about your brother winning the Power Pick?”
Ia groaned and dropped into one of the two easy chairs in Bennie’s office. “Not you, too…”
The chaplain worked on pouring the caf’. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in a handout. And the only reason why I asked is that it’s pretty easy to figure out ‘Fyfer’ your brother back on Sanctuary is ‘Fyfer Quentin-Jones’ from the news Nets. Fyfer isn’t a common name.”
“I’m glad you’re not interested, Bennie, because I’ve figured out that asking me for a handout is a potential violation of Fatality Forty-Nine, Fraternization. On the business side of things, not the intimate version,” Ia added in clarification. “Thou shalt not mix personal business and any situation in the military wherein a superior/inferior situation exists—actually, if you could do me a huge favor?”
“What’s that?” Bennie asked, coming over to the chairs with the usual two mugs. She handed one to Ia before settling into her own chair.
“Flag my file,” Ia said. “Flag it so that if anyone probes deep enough to discover Fyfer’s my brother, also make sure the warning pops up that anyone who asks me about him and the Power Pick winnings automatically risks Fatality Forty-Nine…because if anyone does, I’m going to ram that down their throats until they choke on it and shut up.”
“Jealous of his good luck?” Bennie asked, lifting her auburn brows.
Ia chuckled and flicked the fingers not holding her caf’ mug. “Oh, hell, no. Actually, I’m extremely proud of him. Pleased for him. Whatever you want to call it. Of course, when I finally do make it back home, I shall have to do my best to pop his ego, since it’ll undoubtedly get rather overinflated over this. But no, I’m honestly happy for him. And no, I don’t want the money for myself. I don’t need it.”
“Is that so?” Bennie challenged lightly.
Sipping from her mug, Ia shrugged. “Okay, so I will insist that he pay for my next ticket home. But otherwise, most of my personal needs are covered by the stipend I get as an officer. And I didn’t grow up in a materialistic family, so I’ve never needed possessions. Not that I could haul around all that much these days, living the itinerant military life.”
“So why don’t you want anyone to know that Fyfer’s your brother?” Bennie asked.
“Because Blockade Patrol is too serious and too dangerous to permit even moderate distractions,” Ia said, shrugging. “Being pestered to death by requests for handouts and introductions would severely weaken our defenses. I need my attention on the task at hand, and I need the attention of everyone around me on the task at hand.”
“Okay…different question,” Bennie allowed. “Why did you declare emancipation from your family at the age of sixteen?”
That was an uncomfortable question. Mindful of Fatality Forty-Three, Perjury, Ia glossed over the subject with the mildest version of the truth she could give. “Because I came to realize that the direction my family wanted and expected my life to go in was not the direction I wanted it to go in.”
“Oh?”
The single word held a wealth of interrogation. Sighing, Ia slouched in her chair, trying to figure out something to get the chaplain’s curiosity satisfied. “I…differ from my parents on the standpoint of children. Very strongly. I don’t want any. Yet as a second-gen first-worlder, and living on a world with a high mortality rate, it’s almost obligatory to have multiple progeny.” She circled one hand vaguely. “The wombpods can produce children, yes, and Population Expansion can provide crèche-mothers and crèche-fathers…but children need real parents. And I do not want to raise any kids. Even knowing that, my mothers still made the ‘so when are we getting grandkids’ speech, last year. It’s a classic case of I love them, but…”
“Fair enough,” Bennie agreed. “Not everyone wants children. Not everyone should have children. Domestic abuse, bad parenting skills, neglect…”
“I wouldn’t neglect, abuse, or whatever a child,” Ia dismissed. “I just don’t want that kind of responsibility in my life.”
“What about the responsibility of a relationship?” Bennie asked, slanting a look at Ia over her mug.
Ia wrinkled her nose. “Don’t get started, Bennie. We agreed to part company. We’re stationed nowhere near each other. Yadda yadda—how about I ask you a few questions this time?”
Bennie chuckled. “That’s what I’m here for. Though I’m more skilled in philosophical debates than in questions about, oh…say, particle physics.”
Smirking, Ia asked, “So, how ’bout them strange quarks?”
The redhead mock-frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think they have a chance at the gold. It’ll be the charmed quarks at the top of the podium, this Olympics.”
Ia chuckled. Then sat up. “Oh—I wanted to watch the Biathlon Mass Open. We have two soldiers competing on the Terran team…uhh…Jana Bagha, and I forget the other fellow’s name. They’re both Sharpshooters in the Special Forces. I think it’s supposed to be starting soon…ah, slag,” Ia muttered, checking her chrono. “It’s already started. I didn’t realize it was so late. You want to watch it with me? Catch the end of it, at least?”
“Sure.” Twisting, Bennie tapped the wall monitor, turning it on. “It doesn’t help that the host-world, Brown-Valley-Green, has a day-cycle that’s rather difficult to convert into Terran Standard.” She consulted the programming list and changed channels to the right one. “Yep, already in action. Six klicks into the race, too. Care to wager who buys dinner on the outcome?”
“Sure,” Ia agreed, stretching out her legs as the screen started blaring the noise of the crowd as they watched the racers alternating between skiing and shooting at targets. “And just because I like rooting for the underdog, I’ll pick the Terrans to place at least one medal on the platform.”
Bennie snorted, curling up with one ankle under the other knee. “Terrans haven’t placed in any medals on the platform for the last five Olympics—not in the Biathlon, at least. It’ll be Solaricans all the way. Fast, furry, and native heavyworlders. Triple sweep.”
Ia hid her smirk behind the rim of her cup, already knowing the outcome. “You’re on. And since the bet is a lobster dinner, I’ll raise the dessert stakes to one of those medalists on the podium being a soldier—Terran, Solarican, or whatever, we’ll have a soldier on the stands.”
“Oh, you are so on. I heard Samdie’s Restaurant up on Deck 14 just got a shipment of live lobsters and Belgian chocolates. Prepare to lose two weeks’ salary, meioa,” Bennie quipped. She paused and eyed Ia. “You do have enough money to cover the bet, right?”
“I do, if you do,” Ia shot back, draining her mug.
FEBRUARY 16, 2494 T.S.
SS’NUK NEH 1334 SYSTEM
Ia was alone in the gym cabin, watching the last event of the Olympics as she exercised in extra gravity, when Commander Salish apparently decided to switch the main channel feeds to the Nebula News network. The Audie-Murphy was sitting on the system’s edge, doing nothing more strenuous than monitoring lightwave readings. They were permitted only six hyperrelay channels when out on patrol, one for the news Nets, another for communication with their Battle Platform base, one for communicating with any ships they encountered, and the remaining three reserved for coordinating lightwave data with insystem buoys and any scanner probes they might launch.
Instead of catching the end of the icefalls speed climbing event—one of the few winter sports events the K’katta could participate in, since their legs weren’t built for skating or skiing—Ia found herself being given a hovercamera’s-eye view of the main docking promenade on the space station orbiting her homeworld, Gateway Station.
“…just told that the winning ticket owner has agreed to come up to this station, so that we do not need to go through the inconvenience and potential health risks of donning gravity weave suits,” the correspondent selected for this mission informed his audience. The redheaded man frowned in confusion, staring ahead of him. “Huh. It seems we have another checkpoint set up just ahead.”
“Stars,” one of his companions muttered, “where did they find the uniform to fit that overgrown ape?”
Ia almost missed a step on the treadmill when she realized the “overgrown ape” in question was her older brother. Smirking, she watched as the camerawoman, reporter, and trio of representatives from the Alliance Lottery Commission reached the row of barriers blocking off their docking port from the rest of the station. The other news network representatives moved up behind them.
“Identification, please,” she watched Thorne order gruffly, holding out an ident scanner wand. Beside him, clad in the same plain beige coveralls as his brother, stood a dozen other, shorter natives. Including Fyfer, who had a palm scanner ready for a biometric reading. All of them wore caps with brims and sunglasses. Only her familiarity with this moment in time allowed Ia to identify each of them.
“We’ve had five shiploads of con-meioas arriving in the last twenty hours,” Fyfer told them gruffly. “All claiming to be ALC members. I’m afraid you’ll have to stand back there, off to your right, meioa.”
The head spokesmeioa for the Alliance Lottery Commission, a slender female Gatsugi, blinked her mouse-black eyes. She lifted her two right hands in a gesture of bemusement, skin mottling in shades of tan and green in visible show of her confusion. “I do not/not understand/comprehend. I am/exist as myself/Meioa Sliin Mpau Djuu/Meioa Green Waters Falling On Meadows. I cannot/cannot act/lie very well/sufficiently in person/face-to-face.”
“Please step to the right, meioa, until I have processed your companions,” Fyfer ordered, pointing to the side. “Please/Please move/step to your/the right,” he added when she hesitated, using her own species’ emphasis patterns. Gesturing compliance, she moved. He scanned the hand—some would say paw—of the Solarican next in line, measuring the male’s biometrics. “Thank you. Please step to the right, meioa, until I have processed your companions.”
The correspondent, whose name flashed across the bottom of the screen as Mark Optermitter, looked up at the nearest hovercamera. “It seems we have yet another delay on arrival. First the standard docking customs to get off our ship, and now this. I don’t…wait…Georg, get a close-up of the meioa with the palm scanner. He looks familiar.”
Just as one of the three cameras zoomed in, Fyfer also stepped to the right in the wake of the V’Dan Lottery Commission member, forcing the hovering vidunit to sway and follow him. He smiled at the trio, closed-mouthed and polite.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, but there really have been far too many con-meioas attempting to deceive the true winner,” Fyfer stated. “Not to mention at least six false ticket winners trying to get onto the station from planet-side. Please get out your own biometric and ident scanners now.”
“You’re him!” Mark the reporter exclaimed. He pointed at Fyfer. “Or at least, you look like Meioa Quentin-Jones…”
“Which is why these gentlemeioas need to get out their scanners now, so we can get this over with. Because your antics are going to draw far too much attention,” the beige-clad young man added sternly, looking straight at the reporters.
Not just Mark and his camera operator, but the three other reporters and their crew who were now pressing forward. Except that half a dozen more beige-clad bodies stepped between them and Fyfer, who turned back to the Commission members and began submitting to their identity verification requests.
One of them, the youth Leuron, spoke up. “Please hold your questions until after the verification process is complete. Anyone who starts shouting, yelling, or otherwise making a spectacle of themselves will be removed.”
Mark challenged him. “You’re just a kid. Whose authority says you can remove us?”
Leuron ignored the question. “Anyone who violates common sense, common decency, and discretion will be denied the right to interview Meioa Quentin-Jones.”
One of the other reporters, a Solarican, tried to push past the youths in beige coveralls. An oof and a thud found her tossed to the floor face-first. The young man who had tossed her down picked her up again. He did so by using just one arm, hooking his fingers under the belt of her suit. Her tail lashed as she regained her feet, but she wisely did not challenge him a second time.
Leuron smirked and folded his arms across his chest. “We are the heaviest of heavyworlders, and we are Afaso trained,” he told the reporters. “Do not start anything, and we will not harm you. Start something…and we will finish it. We are the meioa’s security team. I suggest you cooperate.”
Ia shut off the treadmill and moved over to the resistance weights. Just as she settled onto the bench, the Solarican gestured to someone beyond the range of the cameras. With a thunk thunk thunk thunk, two assistants, both Human, rolled a giant mock-up of an oversized, ten-sided credit chit into view. The Nebula News cameras zoomed in on Fyfer, who finished shaking hands with the V’Dan presenter.
Removing his cap and his sunglasses, he glanced their way and smiled, all pleasantness and charm now that business had been handled. In fact, he unsealed his coveralls and stepped out of them, shaking off the oversized legs. What lay underneath made Ia groan and stop pulling on the levers, just so she could bury her face in her hands.
“Oh, Brother,” she muttered. A peek through her fingers showed the results were still the same. Tight black pants and a tight black and gold shirt showed off his heavyworlder muscles. Black knee-high boots and a gold-studded belt completed the outfit. Fyfer swept his hand through his hair, loosening the curls squashed by the cap. He even winked at the camera.
Ia rolled her eyes. She didn’t have to be precognitive to know her brother was going for Heartthrob of the Century. Millions of young females and males would be plastering their walls with pictures culled from this one newscast, and her younger brother had clearly prepared for it. Sighing heavily, she went back to pulling on the overhead levers, needing to get her workout done before the crew finished scanning and analyzing the local lightwave readings.
“Alright, meioas, now I’ll talk to you. Yes, I’m the real Fyfer Quentin-Jones…and this is the only interview you are going to get out of me,” her brother stated, voice carrying over the hiss of the hydraulics in the small cabin. Out of the corner of her eye, Ia could see him smiling closed-mouth at the cameras. “Allow me to get the most pressing questions out of the way.
“First of all, a message for anyone attempting to hack into my bank accounts: Good luck. Alliance Lottery Commission policy is to divide up the actual funds into thousands of sleeper accounts tucked away behind various different kinds of security, and all of it safely obscured by registry numbers only, no names. Second, should I die before the first ten years Alliance Standard are up, that’s it. No more money for anyone. And if I should die after the next ten years, my heir has already been designated. Trust me when I say there is no way in hell any of you will be able to get your hands on the inheritor in question.
“Thirdly,” he continued as Ia picked up the pace, grunting with effort as the machinery hissed. Hydraulic resistance was one of the few methods of weight training that could both withstand the rigors of her strength and maintain her muscle mass. Fyfer again smiled for the cameras, charming but implacable. “I refuse, categorically and permanently, to listen to any requests for money. Loans, gifts, charities, threats, demands, or whatever, I will ignore it. I’ll also remind everyone that I live on Sanctuary. The local gravity is 3.21Gs Standard. I suppose you could try to use gravity weaves to get to me in person, but I would still turn you away.
“Fourthly, as for any attempt to kidnap me, or any of my family members, or anyone else I may even so much as remotely care about, and hold any of us ransom? It will fail. I have already made arrangements to make sure that anyone attempting such a thing—and everyone they care about—will regret it. What that means, I shall leave up to your imaginations. Remember,” Fyfer warned, “I now have the wealth equivalent to an entire interstellar nation at my fingertips…and like most nations, I refuse to bargain with kidnappers and terrorists. You have been warned.
“Fifth on the list…yes, you have a question, meioa-e?” Fyfer asked the reporter from the Solarican empire.
“Yes. If you’rrre not even going to lllisten to philllanthrrropic rrequests, what arre you going to do with allll that money?” the woman asked. “You can’t just hoarrrd it all to yourrrsellf.”
“Oh, I suppose I could,” the young man in black and gold drawled. Ia snorted and reconfigured the machine so she could work on her legs for a bit.
“But will you?” the Tlassian representative asked. “Or do you hhhave sssomething innn mind?”
“Well, Sanctuary is a new colonyworld. My hope is to…” Fyfer broke off as a scuffle formed at the barrier. Thorne was leaning to one side, then the other at the gateway of the temporary barrier. Being taller and broader than the neatly suited gentlemen trying to get close, he didn’t have to move far to intimidate them into failing. Like Fyfer, he had taken the time to remove his beige coveralls, revealing black and silver clothes that fit almost as tightly as Fyfer’s did, though unlike Fyfer, his were made from local leathers.
Flustered at being so effectively blocked, the lead male pointed his finger at Thorne. “You had better move, young meioa, or I will have you arrested for interfering in government business!”
“Considering that Gateway Station is officially independent and separate from the government of Sanctuary, President Moller,” Thorne rumbled, his face coming into view as some of the hovercameras shifted his way, “that would be rather difficult. You are outside your jurisdiction.”
“We’ll see about that. All I have to do is contact the Stationmaster—” the president of Sanctuary began.
Thorne smiled. “This entire station has been hired by Meioa Quentin-Jones. Whatever my little brother wants, my little brother gets.”
And in doing so, you have just doomed the entire station to being obliterated when the civil war begins, in a petty act of revenge, Ia thought. She smiled as she worked her lower muscles. Pity for Moller and the Church, they’ll have had plenty of advanced warning to strip the station of everything potentially valuable and evacuate all but the most skeleton of crews just before that happens…
“Ah, President Moller,” Fyfer drawled. “How extraordinary to see you here.”
Thorne looked over his shoulder, nodded at his brother, and stood aside. The politician, who was also one of the chief Church Elders, stepped through the gap. Thorne immediately moved back into place, cutting off the president’s bodyguards. A flex of Thorne’s muscles made the leather of his shirt creeeaak audibly, even with the hovercameras several meters away. It was enough to make the guards hesitate. The open-air nature of the promenade and the presence of so many hovercameras kept them from pressing the matter, since it was obvious no one could do anything to Sanctuary’s president without it being broadcast all over the known galaxy.
Smiling, Moller approached Fyfer with outspread arms. Leuron stepped between them. He had not removed his coveralls, but adopted the same arms-folded stance as Thorne, presenting another barrier between the politician and the young trillionaire.
Giving the younger man a dirty look, Moller managed to keep his smile. “There you are, Meioa! Our most important citizen—congratulations on your most fortuitous win! Naturally, I’m here to discuss with you all the wonderful contributions you can make toward making your home the most amazing colony in the known galaxy. Think of the hospitals, the universities, the construction of the Holy Cathedral and the glory of—”
“No.” The refusal, plain and flat, set Moller back on his heels. Fyfer smiled tightly. “You personally assured the voters that you would see that funds were channeled toward greater medical facilities and education. The money is there in the budget, Meioa President. Particularly if you stop shoveling extra money into the nonessential fund for the Cathedral of Truth, and put it back into the essential needs of the colony, which you have consistently short-funded during your terms in office.”
“Careful, Fyfer…” Ia admonished her brother. Not that he could hear her, but she didn’t want him to overplay his hand.
“You would deny giving your fellow colonists the essential services you yourself insist are so important?” Moller countered, his voice edged with a hint of triumph for his counterargument.
“I don’t/cannot understand/comprehend,” the Gatsugi reporter interjected, curling the four fingers of her upper left hand in a touch of confusion. “Wouldn’t/Shouldn’t the taxes/collections on/regarding the lottery earnings/winnings pay for/fund such/these things/needs?”
“Yes! They indeed should. I almost completely forgot,” Moller stated, his smile not quite a smirk. “Why, the taxes on 2.3 trillion credits alone would pay—”
“For nothing,” Fyfer stated coldly, cutting him off again. He gave the president a tight smile. “Or have you indeed forgotten the fine print of the Sanctuarian Charter, as ratified by the Alliance? Allow me to remind you, Meioa President: The Alliance Lottery funded half of the settling of Sanctuary. In fact, thirty percent of all local ticket sales are reserved for Sanctuary’s personal use, given it is still within our first hundred years of settlement.”
“That is correct,” the V’Dan representative of the ALC stated, shifting a meter or so closer to Fyfer. “In exchange, all Alliance Lottery winnings are to be considered tax-free for the first one hundred years of a new colony’s settlement. After that, the winnings drop to fifteen percent for local use, five percent for interstellar use, and the remainder—under the current cap—goes into the jackpot. Any violation of your planet’s Charter agreement by a particular planetary government will force a rollover of that government.”
Thorne, who had turned to watch the tableau, grinned. His voice rumbled through the monitor’s speakers. “That means the minority government, the Free World Colony party, will take over. The Truth Party will then be banned from holding a majority of offices for…what is it, eight years?”
“Ten years Alliance Standard, or eight years, four months, three weeks, Terran Standard,” the V’Dan commissioner confirmed. “You will forgive me if I cannot convert that into Sanctuarian Standard just yet. Not off the top of my head.”
Fyfer gave her a little bow in acknowledgment and thanks before turning back to the flush-cheeked Moller. “As opposite as we may be in political views, Meioa President…I find that I cannot in good conscience allow you to torpedo your party’s access to your full political and citizenship rights. That would also go against the Sanctuarian Charter.
“Unfortunately, this means that the only money you can tax off of me are my wages for the year. Given that I quit my job as a waiter at my parents’ restaurant the moment I found out I won, you will be able to collect on just over six weeks’ worth of wages, Terran Standard. That’s seven weeks, local,” Fyfer added, smiling briefly at the V’Dan Lottery agent. “By any measure, seven weeks’ worth of taxes on wages at the minimum pay a waiter gets is hardly enough to buy a case of medicine, never mind an entire hospital.”
“But that stilll begs the questionnn, what arre you going to do with alll that monney?” the Solarican reporter asked him.
Fyfer smiled softly. “I am a good son, meioa. My family has never had much, but my parents gave their children, my brother, sister, and myself, as much love and care as they could. They raised us to know what is right, and to do what is right. My first task, therefore, will be to build my parents a home they can be proud of. One where they can retire in great comfort.”
Ohhh, Fyfer, why’d you have to mention you have a sister? Ia mentally groaned. Sighing heavily, she moved to the next machine position as her brother continued.
“After that…well, for all that President Moller and I have numerous political differences, we are both men of faith, and men who are capable of planning for the future. I shall attend to the long-term needs of my people.” He flicked a glance at Moller, or maybe at Thorne behind him; the camera angle made it difficult to tell. “Specifically, I shall attend to them in the order of priorities which I feel must be addressed, and in the manners I and my closest advisors choose. Yes, I do have plans for all that money. But those plans are my own business, not yours.
“Now, back to my list. Fifth, and final, I am single at the moment,” Fyfer confessed, looking into the hovercameras once more. “But I am also in love, and the person whom I love returns my affections. This being has returned them from before the time when I first purchased that winning ticket, so I know these feelings are not being faked simply because I am now wealthy. As a result, any and all offers of marriage, sex, procreation, and so forth are futile. I am not interested, and I never will be…and I will not reveal the identity of the person I care about.
“I will not have the meioa’s life put in danger by the stupid and the forgetful—please review my previous comment on how I will not negotiate with kidnappers, terrorists, or tormentors of any kind,” Fyfer repeated, “and in fact will react in a most unpleasant and polar-opposite manner to the one such tactics would try to demand. This interview is now over, meioas,” Fyfer finished politely. “I have nothing more to say, beyond that I am going to go back to my li—”
A woman screamed in the distance. Cameras jiggled and swooped, focusing in that direction. One of the real dockworkers, wearing stained beige coveralls, collapsed to her knees. Her yells echoed badly off the hard angles of the promenade’s bulkheads, distorting her words, but the words fire and birds and arise could be heard. The Nebula News camera operator recovered quickly, switching views back to one of the cameras still pointed at Fyfer.
Except Fyfer wasn’t there anymore. The entire group with him had taken advantage of the distraction to hustle away. Two youths had hoisted the giant novelty chit between them, painted opalescent and inlaid in gold numbers with the exact amount Fyfer had won. They carried it with great ease despite its obvious bulk, moving quickly across the docking ring.
In fact, the group moved so quickly, the camera had barely focused for more than a few seconds when they vanished through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Proof that their presence was indeed sanctioned by the station’s governor.
A bit over the top at points, Ia decided, pausing in her exercises to check the timestreams. But otherwise more or less on target. You shouldn’t have mentioned that you have a sister, Little Brother…but good job all the same.
The cameras for Nebula News swerved back to the reporter. Finally, the show had a view of the crowd of sentients behind him, almost two dozen bodies who had won the chance to travel with the Lottery members directly. Others no doubt were arriving on the station elsewhere, hoping to get an interview, but it was too late.
The correspondent for Nebula News was willing to acknowledge that much. “…Well. There you have it. One of the richest, and quite possibly one of the most headstrong, meioas in the known galaxy. Given the speed of our arrival via OTL, we have a mandatory two-day waiting period before we can safely turn around and head back home. I shall be bringing updates on Meioa Quentin-Jones’s background, education, and other news from interviews with those locals who may know him in the meantime…since the meioa-o does not seem inclined to grant further interviews at this time.
“Hopefully in the future, that will change. But for now, that seems to be all. I’m Mark Optermitter, reporting live for Nebula News, currently in orbit around Independent Colonyworld Sanctuary,” he concluded.
A brief holding message covered up the handful of seconds it took for the main anchors at Nebula News to come back on screen. Just as they reappeared, the channel switched back to the Olympics. Ia smiled wryly and switched positions again on the hydraulics machine, this time working her abdominal muscles.
Apparently Commander Salish doesn’t want to hear the “post aftermath wrap-up” speeches. As far as I’m concerned, that’s great, because neither do I—ah, even better! she thought, peering at the mid-race scores posted in the corner of the screen. L’k’tikkitt is in second place in freestyle ice climbing. There’s a 58 to 42 percent chance he’ll win. I bet Bennie another lobster dinner on this one. The probabilities were stronger on the biathlon, but this one is a much more honest wager, since ice climbing is so difficult to master. Or so I’ve heard, offworld. Anything to do with moving on ice or snow is far too potentially deadly, back home…
Back home. But it wasn’t home, anymore.
With all that money, my brothers are going to change, well, not the face of Sanctuary, but they’ll definitely change its future…and what a relief to know they’ve pulled it off. One less worry on my mind.
Resting back on the bench, Ia stared up at the pale grey ceiling and smiled. She even closed her eyes for a moment. The deep pleasure of having surmounted this major hurdle—funding the survival of her homeworld—unfortunately didn’t last very long. Once again, she was running out of time. She would have to finish exercising soon, prepare for hyperjump, and then try to get at least three hours of sleep before the Audie-Murphy would run up against a trio of pirates.
They would be caught skimming rare isotope vapors from one of the gas giants in the next system, and do their best to outflank and outfight the Audie and the Murphy. Which meant it would take all of Ia’s concentration to make sure she navigated the fight to a Navy-favorable outcome, but still allow one particular pirate vessel to escape. Which goes against my orders, and will count as a black mark on my record. A very black mark, if I don’t position things just right and they figure out it was deliberately let go, on my part.
Unfortunately, I need that particular ship to still be out there, and to have a very good, repeated reason to hate Bloody Mary in the coming year, in preparation for three years down the road. Which means at least three more black marks on my record in the near future. Then again, having perfect records would start making the DoI suspicious of my success rate.
APRIL 28, 2494 T.S.
BATTLE PLATFORM
MAD JACK SIC TRANSIT
Arms tucked behind her back in Parade Rest, Dress Blues cap squarely leveled on her brow, Ia tried to flex her knees subtly. Light gravity or not, standing in one position for a long time was tiresome. Her efforts to shake the numbness from her muscles did not pass unnoticed, however. Commodore Deng looked up from the desk-level screens and printouts he was reviewing.
“Feet getting sore, Lieutenant?” the commanding officer of Battle Platform Mad Jack asked.
“Sir, no, sir. Just making sure the blood is still flowing, sir,” she explained.
“Bored, Lieutenant?” Captain Yacob asked next. He was seated next to the commodore, reviewing the same files with his superior. On Deng’s far side was one of the other officers in charge of Delta-VX patrols, Captain Harrison.
That question was low on the list of probabilities. Ia consulted the timestreams briefly, lightly. She shook her head slowly to stall for time. “No, Captain. Just…concerned about time, that’s all.”
“Oh? What sort of time, Lieutenant?” Commodore Deng asked, glancing up at her.
“Well, sirs, if you deem me still psychologically adjusted and fit for continued duty on Blockade Patrol, I should be returned to duty. The Audie-Murphy is scheduled to drop and depart for her next patrol as soon as we hit the Annabelle 27 System, which is in about one hour. If I’m fit to continue, I should be on board and ready to go when that happens,” Ia stated. “And if you judge me not fit for continued Blockade duty, sirs, I need to be dismissed equally soon so I can go pack up and remove my things from the Audie-Murphy.”
Commodore Deng shook his head. “We already knew the answer to that particular question before you even came in here, Lieutenant.”
“Sir?” Ia questioned. She wasn’t questioning the outcome; she knew—all three of them knew—that she was as stable as anyone could hope to be in a high-stress zone like the Blockade. More stable than most, really. Instead, she was questioning why she had been kept here.
Captain Yacob answered her one-word query. “We’re debating whether or not to promote you.”
“Do you have an opinion on the matter, Lieutenant?” Captain Harrison asked Ia. She lifted her chin as she did so, no doubt waiting for Ia to eagerly promote herself. Ia wasn’t about to play that game. That was the wrong way to advance. But neither would false modesty help her cause.
“It would depend on what a promotion meant, sirs,” she said instead. “I feel I’ve managed to strike up the right level of camaraderie and leadership within the rotating crews of the Audie-Murphy. They’ve come to trust my judgment. I also feel there is still much I could learn under Commander Salish. Her battle instincts are more finely tuned to the needs of Blockade work than most. I’ve missed some calls that she’s made, much to the detriment of our work.
“If you feel I’m ready for a promotion, then I would do my best to live up to your expectations of me. Perhaps I simply am in need of cross-training under another commanding officer, to get more seasoning under my cap—if the lattermost is the case, and you’re moving me from the Audie-Murphy to another Delta-VX, then I’ll still need time to pack and board the next ship, depending upon its own patrol schedule.”
“And if we feel you have peaked in your promotable career track?” Commodore Deng asked her. “If we choose to mark your file as unpromotable?”
“If my superiors and the Department of Innovations feel, in your best judgment, that I have peaked in my capacity for leadership, then that would be your prerogative, sirs,” Ia admitted. “I will continue as I have done, trying my best to lead by good example, and doing my best to figure out what a good example actually is.” She smiled slightly, wryly. “After that, the only objection I could possibly have is if I served for several more years but never got another pay raise, sirs.”
Captain Harrison leaned her forearms on the edge of the table, her face twisting with sarcasm. “Wow, Lieutenant. You have every possible answer oh so neatly covered in your reply. Did you practice that little speech in your cabin before coming to this performance review?”
“No, sir.” She couldn’t dip into the timestreams deeply enough to read the other woman’s motivations, since Ia needed to be here, aware of what was happening in the real world. But she could sense the possibilities branching out immediately before her.
“Somehow, I don’t believe you, Lieutenant.” Sitting back, Captain Harrison spread her hands. “In fact, I think you’re grandstanding. Manipulating the system, so we’ll be convinced… or rather, conned…into giving you greater responsibility.”
“Commodore Deng, permission to speak freely?” Ia asked, shifting her gaze to the older of the two men.
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Permission granted.”
Ia looked back at Harrison. “Either stuff your attitude up your recharge socket, Captain, or you can kiss my asteroid.”
Captain Harrison widened her eyes, affronted by the insult. Captain Yacob frowned at Ia. “Lieutenant!”
“Sorry, sir, but it goes against my nature to tolerate the grandstanding of a hypocrite,” Ia growled. Externally, she glared at Harrison. Internally, she was enjoying the ride. There were ways, and then there were ways, to advance her career. This was—at least to her warped sense of humor—one of the more enjoyable routes she could take. “I have never asked for a promotion. I have never asked for any of my medals. I have never once filed an incident report glorifying or exalting my actions. I have simply stated the facts of each matter, and moved on to the next task.
“I’m sorry if you think my standards are so low as to fake my devotion to service…and you may have the right to bust me all the way back down to Private for saying all of this…but I refuse to do less than my best just because you want to call it ‘grandstanding.’ So. If you have a problem with me, Captain Harrison, then I suggest you get over it. You can demote me, or promote me, or put me in charge of a garbage scow, it will not change my efforts, sir. You can slur my reputation all you like, even to the point of casting lies, but don’t expect me to just stand here and take it.”
“You’re not in this to make friends, are you, Lieutenant?” Captain Yacob asked dryly, sitting back in his seat.
Ia relaxed her hard stance, shrugging slightly. “I’d say I’m quite capable of making friends in the Service, Captain. In fact, I have made several friends. I just refuse to lick asteroid while doing it. Sycophancy will only weaken and destroy the effectiveness of the Terran military. That’s why we have the Department of Innovations, to make sure that nepotism and backroom deals don’t ruin the quality of our leadership.”
Commodore Deng raised one brow at that. “Is that what this is all about? Are you aiming for an eventual transfer into the DoI?”
Ia blinked, her surprise genuine. She hadn’t expected him to draw that conclusion, and shook her head. “Ah…no, sir. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’m good at combat, and I always figured I’d be in combat. The DoI strikes me as too much of a desk job for my particular skill set.”
Harrison studied her for a long moment, then tapped something into her workstation. Yacob blinked, glanced at her, and tapped something into his own. Between them, the commodore nodded slowly.
“Are you going to apologize to Captain Harrison, Lieutenant?” Commodore Deng asked her.
“If I am ordered to, sir, I will, since I do still respect each of you…but I should point out that you did give me permission to speak freely,” Ia reminded them. “Apologizing for free speech when given permission to use it seems a bit contradictory to me.”
Captain Harrison chuckled at that. The other two glanced at her. From their puzzled looks, neither man could figure out what she found so funny. Lifting her palms, she shook her head.
“No apologies are necessary, Lieutenant. You did have permission. For the record, I was playing Devil’s Advocate. You do have a track record of…mm…bluntness about your devotion to duty, and I wanted to test it. By that, I mean more in your deeds than in your words, but I won’t fault you for turning around and matching words to deeds, this time.”
“In that case, I do apologize for any offense given, sir,” Ia stated.
Harrison snorted, mouth twisting wryly, then turned to look at her companions. “Are we ready, then, Commodore, Captain?”
“Quite ready, Captain.” Commodore Deng neatened the stack of printouts in front of him, then clasped his hands together, regarding Ia steadily. “It is the judgment of this review board that you are indeed stable enough to continue serving in a Blockade Patrol combat position. You will retain your current rank of Lieutenant Second Grade, and your current rate of pay. As you yourself have pointed out, you are best placed continuing to serve on board the TUPSF Audie-Murphy as its second-in-command. You will therefore do so.”
“Thank you, Commodore. I shall do my best, sir,” Ia promised, not at all disappointed at retaining her exact same rank for the next little while. It would give her a chance to prove her words were true…which ironically would help convince her superiors the next time her rank was up for review.
“You’d better. Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Deng told her.
Nodding, Ia saluted the three of them. They saluted her back, and she turned to go. Palming open the door to the review room—used by officers for evaluating fellow officers; enlisted went through a different, less face-to-face process—she stepped into the corridor beyond. That had gone well. Her little display of rebellion and disrespect had proven to her superiors that she wasn’t an entirely “perfect” soldier; that she had an all-too-Human side. Being too perfect would’ve been detrimental to her goals. It didn’t hurt that her little tirade was the honest truth about how she felt.
Just before the door slid shut, she heard Harrison’s voice. “Hey, Jake? If you ever don’t want her, I’ll take ’er.”
“Oh, hell, no. I’m—” The door sealed, cutting off the rest of his response.
Ia permitted herself a tiny smile.