Theirs Not To Reason Why: An Officer's Duty Part 25

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, h.e.l.l, 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 emanc.i.p.ation 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 creche-mothers and creche-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 cla.s.sic 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 Ma.s.s 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 s.p.a.ce 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 sungla.s.ses. 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 bemus.e.m.e.nt, 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 ident.i.ty 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 a.s.sistants, 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 sungla.s.ses, 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 a.n.a.lyzing 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 h.e.l.l 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 ma.s.s. 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 h.o.a.rrrd 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 Tla.s.sian 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.

Fl.u.s.tered 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 a.s.sured 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, s.e.x, procreation, and so forth are futile. I am not interested, and I never will be...and I will not reveal the ident.i.ty 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.