Hellfire (THEIRS NOT TO REASON WHY) (46 page)

“…Nice search matrix,”
the real Meyun Harper muttered, watching the mist and the hills shifting beneath them. As the fog from their own reality faded into the distance, the summer golden grass was slowly replaced by darker, clumpier shades of green shrubberies.

“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
She didn’t intensify the experience to get rid of the echoing of their speech because she didn’t want to risk his becoming so attached to a particular scenario or thought that it influenced her in turn. That would be a disastrous, downward spiral of rising emotions.

“How long have you been practicing?”
he asked, brown eyes filled with curiosity.

“Since I turned fifteen, when my gift blossomed, and I started visualizing in earnest…Ah, here we go,”
she said, swooping them down toward a golden-clear stream snaking its way through the greenery.
“An equally talented alternate universe engineer—not you; you’re a pastry chef back on Dabin in this universe. This fellow, however, knows how to build the gun we want you to build.”

Meyun lifted his brows.
“If I’m a pastry chef, who or what are you?”

“I’m the male captain of the engineer’s ship.”

That provoked a snort.
“Not sure if I could fall in love with a male. But that does make me wonder. Any chance our alternate selves actually meet in this universe?”

“None.” Her voice echoed with firmness, quelling further inquiries along that line of thought.
“You are an engineer right now, nothing more. Now pay attention to the schematics and put that photographic memory of yours to good use.”

His free hand saluted her, the right one still tightly clasping
her left.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
He paused, then added dryly,
“…You do realize that ‘cribbing notes’ from this fellow is technically intellectual property theft, right?”

“Technically, in our universe, this guy doesn’t even exist,”
she reminded him.
“There are no copyright-infringement laws that span the multiverse because the multiverse, by its very nature, is one giant plagiarizing copy machine, introducing infinite infinitesimal errors with each new reiteration.”
Ia paused, grinned, and added,
“That, and he’ll never find out, so he can’t take us to court.”

“Why, you law-breaking rebel, you,”
Harper teased. Nodding at the stream, he added,
“Alright, I’m ready.”

Nodding as well, she led him to the life-stream of their target.

APRIL 21, 2496 T.S.

V’DAN IMPERIAL FREEPORT
TATTH-NIEL
V’DAN HOMEWORLD, V’DAN SYSTEM

Disembarking onto the station with the entire 1st Platoon, Ia stood out like a grey thumb. She was the only one in a uniform instead of civilian clothes. For this trip, Ia had donned her Dress Greys, with her grey cap perched on her neatly combed white locks, her TUPSF half glittery pinned to her chest along with the addition of her V’Dan honorifics. It was only polite to wear the latter, given they were parked at the heart of the V’Dan Empire.

Behind them, the
Hellfire
had cozied up to one of the station’s longer gantries. The long, lumpy needle of a ship was only slightly battered from its last starfight, a sneak attack on another Salik crèche hiding in the depths of interstitial space. That crèche had been parked disturbingly close to the V’Dan homeworld, only four light-years away. Having pointed that out to the V’Dan High Command on the hyperrelays afterward, and the fact that they had destroyed the installation, Ia had requested and received permission to bring her Company in for three days of Leave.

Because
Tatth-Niel
was a freeport space station, no Customs queues slowed them down, just a submission of their ident units
as each person disembarked so that the V’Dan government had a registry of their entry. The only thing they had to pass after that was through a long scanner arch, which searched silently, invisibly, for transmittable illnesses and contraband, standard equipment for most stations, as well as most starship airlocks.

The crew of the
Hellfire
also got one last warning from their commanding officer.

Stopping at the end of the hall, just before it opened up into the bustling commerce level ringing the station, Ia turned and faced the others. They drifted to a halt, eyeing her uniformed presence warily. Despite their current off-duty status, the sight of their CO in her Dress Greys was clearly stirring up the need to respond professionally. Some of the men and women of the 1st Platoon even shifted into a modified Parade Rest, standing with their hands at their backs, their shoulders squared, and their gazes straight ahead.

Settling her hands on her hips, she addressed them. “You have twenty-four Terran Standard hours of Leave. This translates to twenty-two hours thirty-eight minutes V’Dan Standard. These locals are Human, but they are
not
Terran. Respect their customs, laws, and beliefs during your visit, and remember that even in civvies on official Leave, you will represent the finest of the Terran Space Force at all times.

“Be back on board, in uniform, and ready to assume your posts with five minutes to spare, if not sooner. Your brothers and sisters in the 2nd and 3rd Platoons are covering your shifts for you so that you may enjoy these full twenty-four hours of Leave. Do not let them down when it comes time to cover theirs. Dismissed,” she finished.

They started to move forward, heading for the station proper. A voice from behind Ia slowed the trickle to an awkward halt. Firm, male, and mature, the speaker addressed them with dry sarcasm. “A moving statement from a commanding officer. Hypocritical, too, when that commander has been mocking the beliefs of the very nation her crew now visits.”

“High Priest Ma’alak of the Autumn Temple,” Ia stated, turning and giving a polite bow. Not just to the speaker, a middle-aged man wearing intricately embroidered cream robes, but to his three companions as well, two soldiers and another member of the Sh’nai clergy. “Despite what you may think, you do honor me with your presence. Priestess Laka’thi of the
D’aspra Archives, Grand General Ibeni-Zif of the High Command, Highlord Adjutant Sa-Nieth of the Nobles’ Council, it is a pleasure to meet each of you as well. Shall we all retire to the conference room the Grand General has reserved for us?”

They exchanged looks, apparently not expecting Ia to take the initiative from them so smoothly. The High Priest nodded slightly, and the Grand General gestured for Ia to join them, the gold trim on his red uniform sleeve gleaming in the overhead lights. As soon as she did so, more red-uniformed soldiers fell into position around them, forming an honor-guard escort. Behind Ia, her civilian-clad troops dispersed into the crowd, no doubt curious what was going to happen to their CO but trusting her to handle whatever it was.

The presence of those bright-clad imperial guards drew attention from the crowds of tourists and travelers they passed, but it was the draped folds of the priestly robes that garnered bows from dozens of the V’Dan. That made it easy to see just how many of the locals were followers of the Sh’nai faith.

Some even drifted forward, calling out for blessings from the High Priest in their native tongue. He in turn raised his hand and murmured benedictions but did not stop. The presence of their imperial escort kept the more insistent requests at bay, allowing them to move smoothly toward the vast station’s core.

It took maybe ten minutes to navigate past the outermost layers of shops and businesses to the military hub of the station. They could have held this meeting in the government’s reception hub for visiting dignitaries, or within the halls of the on-station Sh’nai temple. Instead, the conference room’s location was proof that the military was the current power in charge of the empire. Painted cream and decorated in red and gold accents, the room they were led to boasted wall screens and workstations, and a distinct lack of Lock and Web clips, a reminder that
Tatth-Niel
was a space station in permanent orbit around the V’Dan homeworld and not a vessel capable of being moved elsewhere in a hurry.

“Ship’s Captain Ia, would you like a cup of caf’?” Grand General Ibeni-Zif asked as they entered the room. “Meioas?”

Ia nodded, as did the priestess and the adjutant. At that, the red-uniformed junior officer waiting by the door turned to the sideboard and started fixing mugs for everyone. As the erstwhile guest at this meeting and the focus of the questions
that were to come, Ia moved toward the seat at the near end of the conference table.

Like the other objects in the room, someone had selected the table to impress visitors; it had been crafted out of some stout, golden-hued wood native to V’Dan, one with a rippling grain suggestive of Zen waves in gilded sand. Ia liked it. The Sanctuarian equivalent of wood was usually more reddish or purplish in hue, making this a bright contrast to most of the colors she had known as a child and a pleasant change from the blander, more pragmatic hues seen during her two stays on Earth.

The Highlord Adjutant assisted her with her chair first. Then he held a second chair for the priest before seating the general, followed by the priestess and lastly himself. He did so without the assistance of the other aide in the room. The subtle courtesy was proof—at least in the V’Dan culture Ia had studied in her youth, living on a jointly founded colonyworld—that this meeting had been instigated by the Sh’nai, was being hosted and supported by the military, and was being facilitated by the Nobles’ Council.

The Nobles are therefore holding themselves neutral in this inquisition, according to V’Dan protocols. He probably expects to serve as an arbiter if a dispute arises. The Grand General knows that whatever the outcome of this meeting is, it will have an impact on the war effort, and that means it’ll impact his purview. The High Priest is here to personally lead the inquisition…and the Priestess of the Archives has the means to verify or disprove my identity.

“Ship’s Captain Ia, you are here to answer allegations of promoting yourself as the long-prophesied Prophet of a Thousand Years, one of the core saints of the Sh’nai faith,” High Priest Ma’alak stated. He paused, mouth twisting a little. “
Ia’nn sud-dha’a
…What hubris, to take on the V’Dan word for ‘prophet’ as your one and only name.”

“It was not hubris. A simple examination of the citizen registry documents of Independent Colonyworld Sanctuary will prove it, High Priest,” Ia countered calmly. “I declared emancipation at the age of sixteen on March 4, 2488, Terran Standard, and changed my name from Iantha Quentin-Jones to the shortened version of Ia…which my family and friends had already been using to address me since I was an infant.”

“Why did you change your name, Ship’s Captain Ia?” Grand General Ibeni-Zif asked, leaning his elbows on the edge of the table and lacing his fingers together.

Ia smiled slightly. “I think this meeting is informal enough, Grand General, that you may simply call me Captain. Or Ia, since that is my name…though I can understand His Holiness’s reluctance to do so,” she added, giving the priest a polite nod. “As for why I changed my name, I knew that if I gave my younger brother the Power Lottery numbers for the drawing on February 10, 2494 Terran Standard while still retaining my full name, that it would draw attention to my relationship with him and cause near-immediate trouble for me via the Terran laws regarding profit from prognostication for precognitives. Plus it would trip over the military laws governing fraternization and the giving of loans, perhaps even dredging up accusations of bribery. None of which I wanted to do.”

Priestess Laka’thi’s mouth twitched upward on one side, bringing her laugh lines into prominence. The grey-haired woman seemed amused at the tongue-twisting alliteration. Ia smiled back slightly before returning her attention to the general.

“My emancipation and name change made it appear legally that I was estranged from my family, and would therefore not profit personally from the lottery win. And for the record, I have
not
profited from that exchange. The monies have long since been channeled into a nonprofit trust fund for the defense and safety of my former fellow colonists to cover a need I had long ago foreseen, and my own expenses come either out of my own pay or are paid for by the Terran Space Force, as authorized by my superiors on the Command Staff. We are at war now, as you know,” she added dryly, “and wars are expensive.”

The other corner of the Archivist’s mouth quirked up. She said nothing, though, choosing to accept her cup of caf’ with a polite nod to the junior officer distributing them around the table. Ia accepted hers with a polite nod as well. She silently refused the addition of cream and sugar from the tray he carried; in her opinion, caf’ didn’t need any. Both the priestess and the adjutant added a spoonful of grated
meklah
to their drinks, chocolate sweetened with brown sugar. The High Priest and the Grand General accepted glasses of water.

Ibeni-Zif eyed her. “Would you be willing to expand a little bit more on what uses that money has been put to? It is our government which oversees the authenticity of each drawing made and ticket purchased, after all.”

“They’ve been busy using that money to build secure housing and fortifications—the Salik themselves cannot live in Sanctuary’s high gravity,” Ia added in an aside, “but until we can shut down their combat robots, there is still the risk those ’bots could be used to harvest my fellow heavyworlders. They are too important to the future to allow that to pass.” Lifting her blue-glazed cup from its matching saucer, Ia switched to V’Dan.
“Tokla vuu hess t’Kah’hn V’Dania, na’V’Dan atrei’atess, ou vaa havet’th makau-na ma’achess.”

They started to lift their cups, then hesitated. Not because her accent was terrible—this was one of the few languages Ia could actually pronounce, having studied it for several years in her youth as part of her world’s jointly founded education courses—but because of
what
she had said. She knew she had gotten it right; Ia had looked up and memorized this particular phrase even when the rest of her V’Dan had grown rusty with disuse over the years.