In Her Name

instinctive political savvy eventually had placed him in the position of Supreme Commander of the Confederation High Command, the highest military posting in the human sphere.

But today, during the emotional discussions and heated arguments that had swept over his staff and the other assembled notables sitting around the table, his normally placid demeanor had been shaken with the possibilities and responsibilities that now lay before him. Around him, the other members of the hastily assembled commission continued to argue while L’Houillier remained content to listen. He would take the floor when he judged the time was right.

“I tell you, this is the first and only opportunity of its kind! We must take full advantage of it, regardless of the consequences for a single individual.” Major General Tensch, a notable conservative on the crisis council that had been convened to review the situation, had echoed his sentiments with the dedication of a modern-day Cato. “The destruction of–”

“Yes, general, we know,” interrupted a woman with close-cropped blond hair who wore an extremely expensive – and attractive – suit of red silk. “‘The destruction of the enemy is the first and only priority,’” Melissa Savitch, a delegate from the General Counsel’s office, finished for him, rolling her eyes in disgust. “Your single- minded approach to the issue has been well noted on numerous occasions, general. However, there is more at stake here than the information you can pull from this man like juice squeezed from a grapefruit. Until we have all the facts at our disposal, we just don’t know what we’re dealing with, and this office will not support the kind of action you are advocating.” Looking around the table, careful to make eye contact with every one of the people gathered around her, she went on, “I would like to remind you, all of you, that we are discussing the future and well-being of a Confederation citizen here, not one of the enemy.”

“I think that has yet to be determined, Ms. Savitch,” interjected T’nisha Matabele, a young aide to Senator Sirikwa. She was standing in for the senator who was at the moment dozens of parsecs away on Achilles and unable to return in time for the meeting. “There is no evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, as your office loves to quote, that this – what’s his name – Reza Gard was forcibly abducted by the enemy.” She paused, confident now that she had everyone’s attention. She did not bother to feel foolish for momentarily forgetting the subject’s name. That wasn’t important. “At this point, there is no way at all to prove his identity, even if we had a DNA sample right here. All we have is a report that he presented local Marine Corps authorities with a letter allegedly written by a war hero who died over fifteen years ago in an enemy attack that has never been explained in terms of motive or method. Any records on this Reza Gard were destroyed there, and the chances of stumbling across any validating birth or orphanage records on another planet are slim, to say the least. In my estimation, the entire affair is simply too convenient. I think the enemy is trying to lead us on somehow.” She looked around the table, daring anyone to contradict her assessment of the situation. “While I sympathize with Counselor Savitch’s position,” she went on smoothly, wearing her conceit like an overpriced perfume, “I firmly believe, and am going to recommend to the senator as our course of action, that a deep-core brain scan is the best approach to deal with this… problem.”

“I agree,” said General Tensch, obviously satisfied with her reasoning, and certainly with her conclusion.

Melissa Savitch noted with dismay that more than half the heads in the room and on the far end of the holo links bobbed their assent. Some of the fence sitters just took a side, she thought. She was about to make a rebuttal when another voice intervened.

“Poppycock.”

As one, the three dozen heads, real and holo projections, turned toward a huge bear of a man in a dress black Navy uniform who sat in the shadows at the periphery of the gathered luminaries. The gravelly voice, barely understandable through a carefully cultivated Russian accent, belonged to Vice Admiral Evgeni Zhukovski, one of the Confederation’s most brilliant officers and an unabashed Russophile. His left breast boasting more ribbons and decorations than most of the others in the room had ever seen in their lives, Zhukovski had more than paid his dues to humanity. Glaring at Matabele with his one good eye, the High Command’s Chief of Intelligence did not try to conceal his contempt for her and some of the others in the room. After facing the Kreelan enemy so many times in his life, the potential opponents arrayed around him now seemed entirely laughable, save that they had a great deal to say about their race’s survival. It was what continually terrified him away from retirement.

Squinting theatrically at the table console, Zhukovski said, “Obviously, I have been remiss in my understanding of what was said in good Lieutenant Mackenzie’s report, as well as progress of war in general,” he paused, glancing at Counselor Savitch, “and articles of Confederation Constitution in particular. Perhaps review of facts may help eliminate ignorance of old sailor.

“Fact,” he said, thrusting his right index finger into the air as if he was poking out someone’s eye. “Since war began long ago, certain humans have tried to betray their own kind – for whatever insane reason – and Kreelans have never accepted them.” He paused, glaring at Matabele, then at Tensch. “Never. In fact, from what little is known from exposed cases, would-be betrayers fare even worse than normal victims, getting nothing for their trouble but slow and painful death. This is no war of nation against nation, fighting over land or competing ideologies, where at least some participants of both sides may find something in common, even if only greed, and therefore find reason to betray side they are supposed to be on. We have nothing in common with Kreelans. Or, if we do, we do not know what. Nearly century later, we know nothing of their language, culture, customs; nothing of their motivations, their weaknesses: only their name – and even that we assume from what dying Kreelans have said before death. We know much about their biology, but we cannot explain what we see. And their technology, which covers such wide scope, we do not understand on anything other than strictly application level, and sometimes not even that. They build incredibly advanced starships to come and find us, and then use swords and spears to kill us.”

He had to pause for a minute, taking a dramatically noisy gulp from his water glass. “Please excuse,” he said, cutting off one of Tensch’s supporters before he could open his mouth, “I am not finished yet.” After another gulp, he went on. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. So, we know nothing of importance, really, about our enemy, which makes basic tenet of most human martial philosophies, ‘know your enemy,’ rather useless, da?

“Another fact: over fifteen years ago, planet Hallmark blows up. Poof. No distress signals, no evidence that orbital defenses worked, nothing. No people left, all blown to little pieces. We know it was Kreelan handiwork, because navigational traces were found in system and orbital defenses destroyed, but we do not know how or why. Bigger question is why did they only use this weapon that one time? Why not use it on all human planets? And why use it on defenseless Hallmark, world of orphan children, in first place? Could they not find better target? What were they doing there, and why did they not want us to find out about it, why cover their tracks with such vigor?

“Now, fact that brought us together today.” He pointed at the console and the display of Jodi Mackenzie’s report. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, strange young man masquerading in Kreelan armor shows up on tiny settlement where Marines are, shall we say, not doing well. According to young Lieutenant Mackenzie’s report, he somehow appeared inside and somehow got out of small room that had only one door, and that was watched by remnants of Marine regiment on far side – all without being seen.” He jabbed his finger in the air again. “Then he appears on field of battle and proceeds to kill over fifty Kreelan warriors by himself in close combat in only minutes.”

“So what, admiral?” Anthony Childers, another senatorial aid filling in for his master, asked. “First of all, how do we know this Mackenzie is reliable and not just coming up with some nutty concoction to get back to her ship or something? Frankly, I find it hard to accept this magical mumbo-jumbo about popping in and out of rooms like a cheap magician.” Heads nodded around the room, with several hands covering not-so-innocent smiles. “Secondly, this guy killing a bunch of his own doesn’t prove anything. He could have done that just to get into the confidence of those grunts down there on the colony, and from the way this drippy report reads, he did a damn fine job.”

Zhukovski could do nothing but glare at the man. The admiral lost his arm and an eye nearly ten years before after ramming his dying ship into a Kreelan destroyer, and he now regretted not having taken up the surgeons’ suggestion that he get a prosthetic. He would have liked to strangle Childers, but would have needed two hands to grasp the man’s fleshy neck. “I will ignore insulting comments to men and women of military services,” he growled, his accent deepening. “Not having served any time in military sometimes makes people say and do unkind things to those who have, instead of truly appreciating their sacrifice.”

Childers reddened at the insult. It was not a widely known fact that he had obtained an under-the-table exemption from mandated military service through the intercession of his powerful shipping magnate father, and he would have preferred to keep it that way, especially in this crowd.