In Her Name

Zhukovski knew that he had just made yet another enemy by humiliating the man, but he did not care. What could they do, retire him? He shrugged. Childers had more than deserved it.

“But, comrade,” Zhukovski went on, “to answer question, I have reviewed Mackenzie’s records in detail. I have no reason at all to believe that what she said is not so. As for this Reza Gard pulling off so-called ‘snow job,’ I do not believe it. As Chief of Intelligence, I cannot and will not rule it out as possibility, but it goes against what few hard facts we have obtained, and – more importantly – nearly century of deadly experience.”

“Then what exactly do you believe, admiral?” Melissa Savitch asked. Based on previous encounters with the man, she had long regarded Zhukovski as another conservative military hard case whose brain functioned on one level only, if at all. But she got the feeling that she was in for a surprise.

Zhukovski regarded her quietly before he answered. What a strange world I live in, he thought to himself, considering that this woman, who usually was in vehement opposition to his position, now appeared to be his only potential ally. He had noticed the shift in the room, seeing that the likes of Tensch and Matabele now had clear control of those who would allow others to make their decisions for them, and those who simply wished to be politically correct.

“Yes admiral,” Tensch prodded acidly, “please enlighten us.”

“Very well,” Zhukovski replied, biting his tongue to keep from telling Tensch how much he needed to be enlightened. “I believe that we must take this Reza Gard at face value until or unless he shows us otherwise. He perhaps is only one who can answer our questions, even if only about his own personal history, about what happened to Hallmark and why.”

“So why the big argument, admiral?” Matabele interrupted, even more impatient and self-important than Tensch. She flashed a quick glance at Childers, just to let him know that she had usurped his influence, and was immune to attack, at least from that angle: she had done her time in the Territorial Army. “Why worry about whether he’s for real or not, when a core scan can tell us all we need to know right away?”

“Two reasons, young lady,” Zhukovski sighed as if he was speaking to a complete idiot. “First, while I confess I am not overly moved by Counselor Savitch’s emotive arguments, I nonetheless support her position. This is not because I am great humanitarian that you know me to be,” he noticed Savitch suppressing a smile, “but because of something she herself commented upon very early in our meeting today. It is something all of you have so far overlooked or ignored: I believe Reza Gard is not a spy, something for which our enemy has no use, but some kind of emissary from the Empire.”

The room suddenly became a maelstrom of gesturing hands and animated faces that matched the flurry of conversation that erupted at the admiral’s statement. Melissa Savitch was impressed not only by what the man had said, but by the contrast in effects between when she had brought up the idea this morning and now. Her attempt had been solidly brushed off by everyone who cared to comment on it. But after Zhukovski’s delivery into the vacuum left by all the arguing and fighting that had gone on all day, the delegates at least were willing to shout about it.

The man has timing, she had to admit to herself.

Admiral L’Houillier let the pandemonium continue for a few moments before he brought the meeting back to order with several raps of the gavel upon the table. “Order!” he called. “Order!” The conversations rapidly tapered to silence.

The admiral directed his attention to Zhukovski. “Evgeni, you said there were two reasons to take this individual at his word. You elaborated on the first. What was the second?”

“The second is that he presented to good Lieutenant Mackenzie what I believe to be authentic letter written by retired Marine Colonel Hickock, may he rest in peace.” Again he studied the transmitted image of the yellowing letter, his old friend’s distinctive scrawl immediately recognizable. Wiley, he thought sadly, whatever became of you? “Kreelans,” he went on, not wanting to think of how few old friends he had left, “have never shown interest in our literature and correspondence, even military signals as far as we can tell, approaching fray each time as if they were rediscovering us. There is no reason to suspect that he was given letter with intent to use it as bona fides for espionage. Besides, if that was truth, why would he appear in guise that was so obviously Kreelan? Because they do not know how to spy on us properly? Bah.” He shook his great head. “I believe letter is real, and that Reza Gard knew Colonel Hickock at some time before he came under control of Empire. And, if estimate of Reza’s age is good to within few years, only place they could have met would have been on Hallmark when he was young boy.”

“Which we can’t prove,” said Melissa. It was not an attack against Zhukovski’s reasoning, but a statement of unfortunate fact.

“Da. Which we cannot prove. For now, anyway.”

Tensch was shaking his head. “I’m sorry admiral,” he said, “but all that’s fantasy, as far as I’m concerned. I understand your respect for Colonel Hickock, but that has nothing to do with the subject of this meeting. We’re talking about a human being who was indoctrinated into the Kreelan Empire, and then returned to the human sphere for reasons unknown. I believe he poses a serious security threat and I think he should be dealt with accordingly. Assuming he cooperated, it might take years to reintroduce him to humanity, and that’s time that we just don’t have.” Tensch’s expression hardened. “If he has to be sacrificed, so be it.”

Zhukovski leaned forward like a cat about to pounce. The balance of power in the room had shifted again, with most of the delegates on the fence again, and he was determined that Tensch and his band of reactionaries would not have their way. Zhukovski had a gut feeling that the young man now waiting in a monastery on a faraway colony could be the deciding factor in humanity’s continued survival, and he was not about to let a mistake here seal the fate of Zhukovski’s great-grandchildren. His gut instincts had seldom steered him wrong, and he was not about to dismiss them now.

“Then perhaps you will be one to carry out deep-core on him?” he hissed. Tensch looked shocked. “Surely you, much-decorated general of the Marine Corps, will have no difficulty in getting man who slaughtered fifty Kreelan warriors single-handed to willingly submit to excruciating procedure that will leave him as permanent vegetable?” He swept his hand around the room, then banged it against the console in front of him so hard that the entire table shook. “You do not seem to understand, my friends. If half of what Mackenzie’s report says is true, you may not have any choice but to accept him for what he claims to be, because we may not be able to control him – may not even be able to kill him – otherwise.”

The room was dead silent. Very few of them had considered the problem from that angle. They had been so concerned with the end result that they had ignored the difficulties of how to achieve it. Clearly, assuming the report from Rutan was credible, if Reza did not want to submit to the deep-core scan, it was extremely unlikely that he could be convinced or coerced into doing so. Jodi Mackenzie had not reported any trouble with him, but she had been treating him well. So far, it seemed that her approach of kindness and respect was paying off.

“What is it that you suggest we do, Admiral Zhukovski?” L’Houillier’s question told the others in the room that Zhukovski’s recommendation would be undersigned by the Supreme Commander. L’Houillier had listened patiently to all the arguments during the day, not because he did not have his own views, but because a committee had to be allowed the latitude to discuss what it might in order to reach a workable consensus. It was the chairman’s job to keep it on track without crushing it with his or her own bias. But there came a time when discussion had to end and a decision had to be made. Zhukovski’s arguments, judging by the expressions on the faces of those around him, had carried the field. They had also convinced the Supreme Commander. There might still be opportunities for some of the others to dissent L’Houillier’s decision to go with Zhukovski’s recommendations, but not in this room, and not today.

No, L’Houillier thought. If anyone wants to take it up later, they will have to do so with the president himself.

Inwardly relieved, but not showing it except for a surreptitious wink in Melissa Savitch’s direction, Zhukovski said, “I propose that we do exactly what Colonel Hickock originally intended, admiral. I believe that Reza Gard should be inducted into Marine training and put into military service, at which he appears to excel already, at earliest possible convenience.”

Tensch was about to interrupt when L’Houillier angrily hammered the gavel against the table. Tensch visibly jumped, startled by the sound. His face reddening with anger, the general bit his tongue as he gave L’Houillier a glare the admiral returned until Tensch, thinking better of it, looked away.

“As I was saying,” Zhukovski went on, allowing himself only a moment to relish Tensch’s humiliation, “this will serve several purposes. It will let Gard do what he apparently wishes, which will make him easier, perhaps, to