Hellfire (THEIRS NOT TO REASON WHY) (17 page)

“Oh, I think we have time for that. In fact, if you’re ready for it,” Ia added, “you can take the Elder Mastery test here. You have a thirty-seven percent chance of success, so the odds aren’t too bad. Grandmaster, if you would arrange it?”

“Of courssse,” he agreed, and touched one of the buttons on his desk console. “I will sssummon a Brother to take you to the ssallle.”

Within moments, the door opened, and a Human monk stepped inside, bowing. The Grandmaster hissed and thrummed in Tlassian, and the monk bowed to him, then to Helstead. “If you’ll come this way, Senior Master,” he stated politely,
addressing the petite woman, “I will show you to the performance hall, where we can find a set of batiks for you to wear and give you time to warm up.”

Nodding at him, Helstead gave Ia one last glance, then shrugged and followed the monk out of the office. Grandmaster Ssarra scratched his chin, head cocked slightly as he studied Harper. A swift glance with those golden eyes directed an unspoken question at Ia. She knew what he meant by it. One extraneous body down, one extraneous body to go. Did she want him to come up with an excuse to get Harper out of the room as well?

“I’m not going to hide this from him, Ssarra,” she said, tipping her head at Harper. Picking up her backpack, she offered it to the Grandmaster. “He’s taken a wilder ride through the timestreams than you have, and he survived.”

Ssarra lifted the pack from her hand, glancing between it and her. “Ah. Sssso, thesse are the devvvices you mentionned?”

“Yes, the special circlets. I figured out how to make them. There are two of them, the Ring of Truth, and the Ring of Pain. One is the prize, the other is the punishment. You must make sure that each Grandmaster who follows you dons them periodically,” Ia cautioned him. “As well as any key figure in my instructions who expresses doubt, whether of the cause or my requests, or of their ability to carry them out. They are not mind-control devices, but they are perspective-opening devices.”

“Am I ffforbidden from tryinng one mysself?” Ssarra asked, unzipping the pack for a peek inside.

Ia smiled. “Not at all. Feel free to try them on. Just be sitting down when you so do and make sure you have a bit of free time on your hands. They can be a bit distracting. Overwhelming, for those who’ve never experienced the timestreams before.”

Ssarra curved his broad mouth at the corners. “Asss iff I have nnever done
that
beffore. I will sstore them in my offissce sssafe, then esscort them personally to the Vault.”

Harper choked, and coughed. He wheezed a bit, gaze darting between the two of them. “That isn’t…He’s not talking about…?”

“Different Vault,” Ia dismissed. “The Afaso have generously and compassionately agreed to safeguard most of my prophecies, and have built a highly secured vault in which to store
them while they await the proper point in time for delivery. My family back on Sanctuary has also done the same. Of course, their contents will deal primarily with Sanctuary-based matters. The Afaso will handle most of the prophecies that deal with the Terran United Planets and the Alliance—oh, one more thing, Grandmaster.”

“Yess?” he inquired politely, zipping the bag shut, the contents untouched.

“Inside one of the pockets is a trio of datachips,” Ia said, nodding at the grey bag in his grasp. “They contain the names, idents, dates, and other guiding information for the monks who will need to enlist. Most of the names on those lists will be willing to do so, once they have read the reasons why included in each packet. Those who hesitate should be given an opportunity to use the Rings and test for themselves the necessity of their tasks. Please remind them that I am only one person, Grandmaster. I will need their help at the right place, in the right time. I cannot do all of this myself.”

“I will sssee to it,” he promised her. “But we have dellayed long enough. Let me put thiss in the ssafe, then we shall go and sssee if the Ssenior Masster becomes an Elder Masster today. Thirty-ssseven percent chance, you sssaid?”

Ia nodded. “If she warms up right, and if she puts her mind to it, there’s a chance she will pass. But if not today…well, she’ll study.”

“But how much ssstudying will she get done, on your misssionss?” Ssarra asked.

She grinned, deliberately showing her teeth. “Well, if you’ll bend the rules enough to loan some training vids and simulator files…?”

Ssarra flicked his fingers up and out. “Give the meioa-e a ssscale, and she’ll take the whole hide!
If
sshhe does not pass, you can have the ffiless. If shhhe does…”

“The rest of my crew could also use advance hand-to-hand training,” Ia pressed, keeping her tone light, her hands clasped behind her back as she shrugged. She continued to show her teeth in a grin, though.

Ssarra hissed and lifted his long, scaled chin in surrender. “…Alright, you can have the fffiless! Do not llet them out of your conntrolll.”

Chuckling, Ia sealed her lips in a smile and gave him a little
bow. “
Sschah nakh
, Ssarra. They will only be transferred when we swap ships; you have my Prophetic Stamp on that.”

“
Ssthienn nakh
, Ia,” he responded to her thanks. “Your accennt isss gettinng slllightly better,” he added in praise. The saurian stepped behind his desk and crouched, doing something beneath the broad surface.

Folding his arms lightly across his chest, Harper cocked his head, studying his commanding officer. While the alien was busy, he addressed her under his breath. “Okay, Ia.
Now
I’m impressed…and confused. Not only do the Afaso
not
share their training simulators with anyone else, a Tlassian would never cave in to a bit of teeth-baring by a hairless monkey unless he feared that monkey. Yet I cannot imagine the Grandmaster of the entire Afaso Order fearing anyone or anything, including you.”

Ssarra shook his yellow-and-brown scaled head, the motion more of a figure eight than a side-to-side gesture. Harper had spoken quietly, but not enough. “I do thisss for the ssame reasonss sshe doess: Lllove. That, and I knnnow she will not sshare our sssecretss with the wrong sssentients. The teethh, shhhe teasesss me, nnothing more.” Shutting the door of the safe with an audible
click
, he rose and bowed slightly at the Human male. “Now, ssshhalll we head for the sssallle?”

Bowing in return, Harper gestured for him to show the way. Ssarra in turned gestured at Ia to take the lead. Sighing, she complied. It wasn’t as if this was her first visit to the Order’s headquarters, after all.

DECEMBER 25, 2495 T.S.

TUPSF
HELLFIRE
SIC TRANSIT

Her office door chimed. Looking through the transparent workstation screen, Ia narrowed her eyes at the door. A quick dip into the timestreams ended in a heavy sigh. Pushing the comm button on her desk, she said,
“Come in.”

The door slid open, admitting the tallish figure of Private Second Class Gregory York of C Squad, 2nd Platoon, one of her bridge communications technicians. He wasn’t in his normal grey uniform, but rather in a bright green shirt and dark green slacks, with a dark red belt and dark red shoes. Civilian clothes.

“Uh, Captain, sir?” he asked, giving her a nervous look. “You said that, ah, anything goes in a Wake Zone. That it’s completely civilian territory?”

“Yes, I did, Private York,” Ia agreed. Only a handful or so of her crew were actually comfortable in her presence yet, and he wasn’t one of them. Yet. She kept her tone light, her expression on the pleasant side of neutral. “You have a concern?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” he said. Drawing in a deep breath, York let it out as he explained. “I know it seems kind of petty, sir, but…the Army’s making fun of the Marines for, uh, singing. I mean, the crew members who
used
to be Army, are making fun…”

“I know what you mean,” Ia reassured him. She held up her hand, silencing his next comment, and searched the timestreams again. This hadn’t been one of the larger-percentage chances, otherwise she would have addressed it beforehand, but at least it was something that was easily salvageable. Checking her desk to make sure everything was clipped in place, she retracted the workscreen and rose. “Lead the way, York.”

“Yes, sir,” he sang, turning toward the door. He palmed open the panel to the front office, where one of the on-duty privates, Mara Sunrise, frowned over some form she was trying to fill out. “I don’t want to get them into trouble, exactly, but…I like singing. Good singing. And we have a few ex-Marines who can sing.”

“A few more than you know,” she murmured back, nodding politely to Sunrise. The other woman lifted her chin in return,
though she didn’t shift her eyes from her workstation screens. “And a few who can’t. Same mix as in any large group of people.”

“Captain,” Private Sunrise stated, catching Ia’s attention, “Sergeant Grizzle will have the summary of the troops’ tactical analysis from their mock-drills on Earth by nineteen hundred, sir.”

“Wait a minute,” York muttered, frowning at the clerk. “You’re in my Platoon. Shouldn’t you be off duty?”

Sunrise gave him a prim look. “War doesn’t take a holiday, and neither do I.”

Ia bit her tongue, keeping her expression neutral. Her superiors might have complained through the years that Ia’s debriefing reports were dry and factual, but the woman currently known as Mara Sunrise had perfected bland and boring to a high degree. There was a reason why Ia had insisted she join the Company, but it would take a few years to play out. Hiding in Ia’s Damned was the best place for the other woman, at least while she waited for a certain provincial governor’s embarrassment and wrath to die down.

It didn’t take long for Ia and York to reach the amidships galley; it was located in the same sector as the bridge and her office, but below the main gun. Both the galley and the rec hall were part of the same “Wake Zone” designated for their first onboard Leave, and that meant no one was supposed to be in uniform if they weren’t officially on duty. A lot of her off-duty crew had chosen civilian clothes in shades of red and green or blue and white to celebrate the holiday, too, not just York. By contrast, her grey clothes looked out of place.

It was also time for an actual meal rather than the sugary snacks being served upstairs in the Wake hall, so the on-duty crew were serving the off-duty “civilians” lounging at the tables. Most were lounging and trying to enjoy the feast that had been prepared, except for a knot of about fifteen or sixteen colorfully clad bodies squared off against each other in two groups.

“—Your
mother
is a tone-deaf harpy!” One of the privates, Tony Doersch, was haranguing the other camp. Ia knew he was ex-Marine, and knew he was fiercely loyal to the Corps. “If you don’t like our singing, get the hell outta our kitchen!”

The man he was insulting, tall and dark-skinned, flexed a very impressive set of muscles for someone raised on Earth.
C. J. Siano was ex-Army, and proud of his family. The yarn of his Christmas-tree-covered sweater creaked faintly as he stiffened. “Don’t you
dare
talk ’bout my mother that way, you—!”

“Gentlebeings,”
Ia asserted firmly, her tone just sharp enough to cut off his retort. “Captain. On. Deck. Instead of in my office, where I should be at this hour.”

They all stiffened. A couple of them even scrambled upright, even though this galley at this point in time was supposed to be part of the Wake Zone, where military procedure only counted for those who were actually on duty. The fifteen or so men and women facing her were all in normal garments, not uniforms, but they faced her in her grey buttoned shirt and matching, black-striped slacks out of the habit of deference to an authority figure. Ia took advantage of that.

“I don’t care who started this, or how, or why,” she stated in the quiet that followed her initial words. Even the crew in the kitchen half of the cabin were doing their best to work without noise. Ia swept the two clusters of men and women with as mild a look as she could manage. “I only care who ends it, and how, and why.

“Siano,” she stated, addressing the tallest man in the two groups. “You have served long and well in the TUPSF-Army. You have a lot of good marks on your Service file. You are, however, unfamiliar with the culture of the Marine Corps. In the Space Force, it is a tradition that the Marines sing. Whether or
not
they can carry a tune. Isn’t that right, Barstow?” Ia asked, glancing at the woman in the short blue skirt, matching vest, and white shirt.

Private L’ili Barstow blushed. Both of them knew—Ia via postcognition and L’ili firsthand—that it was her off-key crooning that had triggered this heated debate. Still, the other woman took it on the chin squarely, pulling her shoulders back and leveling her gaze across the room, hands behind her snowflake-patterned dress in Parade Rest. “Sir, yes, sir. As my instructors in Basic put it, we Marines will sing even if we’re tone-deaf and tasteless, sir.”