In Her Name

“But Father,” Jodi had tried to explain as Hernandez strode up the shuttle’s ramp amidst the survivors of Braddock’s regiment, clutching the leather satchel that contained his Bible and few worldly belongings, “this isn’t a taxi service. If you come with us, there’s no telling when you’ll be coming back. This task force is bound for Terra, and not many ships happen out this way–”

Hernandez waved her off. “So much the better, child, that I may see St. Peter’s and the other great cathedrals of Terra with my own eyes.” He tried to smile, but she was not returning it. For once, her irreverence had disappeared, replaced with a businesslike attitude that would have been well placed on a pit-bull terrier. “My child,” he went on softly as the Marines trudged by behind them, “my time in this life wanes, and my service to my parish is nearly complete. Only next year was young Father Castillo to take my place at the altar. While there was a time when I looked forward to quiet contemplation and study of the scriptures to pass my days before Judgment, it holds promise for me no longer.” He gestured toward the hatchway where Braddock had already led Reza to get him settled in for the flight up to Aboukir. “God has offered me something more, a final challenge for my mind and my faith before I come before Him. There are things I must know about this young man’s spirit, things that will forever consume my curiosity if I do not make this journey of discovery, a journey perhaps not much different than his own. I realize I am not a distinguished scientist or scholar as are those of the group you have told me await him, but I am in no less need of the knowledge that they also seek, and I am determined to find out what I must know. If I cannot go as a priest and friend, then I will go as a representative of the planet Rutan, of Reza’s chosen place of redemption.”

Slowly, Jodi nodded. “All right, you nutty priest,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into.”

Hernandez smiled. “The Lord does make some allowance for fools, young lady.”

“That He does,” Jodi said under her breath as she helped Hernandez with his bundle of belongings and led him into the beckoning interior of the shuttle.

Returning her thoughts to the present, she asked, “How are you doing, Father?”

Hernandez hazarded a peek out of one eye, immediately snapping it shut again. “I am fine,” he announced flatly.

“Liar.” Grinning, she turned to the viewport again, trying hard not to laugh at all the nose prints Reza had left on the clearsteel.

“It won’t be long now,” she told him, reaching out to hold his hand, careful to avoid the razor-sharp talons.

Outside, a great cavern appeared in Aboukir’s starboard flank as the shuttle’s course brought them in sight of one of the battlecruiser’s enormous flight bays.

* * *

“Attention on deck!” As the hundreds of officers and assembled crew of Aboukir snapped to attention, fifty Marines and the same number of seamen, all in dress uniform, filed down each side of the red carpet that had been rolled up to where the shuttle’s main gangway was just now lowering. Unseen by most of the assemblage was the reserve gangway on the vessel’s opposite side through which the regiment’s wounded were already being taken off to sickbay. Sinclaire had orders to treat Reza as if he had diplomatic status, but he would never put protocol before the care of the injured.

The commodore, accompanied by Aboukir’s captain and Dr. Rabat, waited at the end of the honor guard as a kind of abbreviated receiving line. Rabat’s presence there rather irked Sinclaire, but there was nothing he could do about it. She was the Council’s designated diplomatic liaison in this matter, in addition to being the research team chief. Besides, it was all he could do to limit the number of official greeters to the three of them: Rabat had wanted her entire team there, plus a boatload of people from the Department of State. On that score, however, Sinclaire had been firm, and Rabat had reluctantly conceded the point. The other members of her team were stuck in the ship’s compartments set aside for their research, jealously watching the closed circuit feeds scattered around the flight bay.

The gangway hissed to the floor, and Sinclaire felt his fists begin to clench. So much could go wrong, from the inconsequential to the horribly disastrous. He had wanted to greet Reza with a very small party of people in a neutral atmosphere. Rabat had conjured up a circus, and this time he had been almost powerless to resist her demands.

“Present… ARMS!” The honor guard snapped their rifles in a salute and the ten-person band began to play La Marseillaise, the Confederation’s official anthem, just as Braddock stepped down the ramp, a wobbly Father Hernandez on his arm. The gunnery sergeant was obviously mortified, returning the salute with as much dignity as he could muster. Father Hernandez smiled beneficently and waved at the receiving party with his free hand.

“What a bloody cock-up,” Captain Jhansi muttered.

Braddock quickly dragged Hernandez down the carpet, his borrowed and badly fitting uniform and Father Hernandez’s simple cassock contrasting poorly with the bright scarlet of the carpet and the immaculate uniforms of the honor guard. He came before Sinclaire and brought himself to attention, snapping a smart salute to the task force commander. “Commodore,” he said formally, trying to see past the absurdity of it all, “may I present Father Hernandez of Rutan.”

“Father,” Sinclaire extended a hand in sincere greeting. From what he had heard, Hernandez could be something of a character, and he genuinely looked forward to talking with him. But that would have to be later.

“Thank you, commodore,” Hernandez said sheepishly. “I apologize for what I gather was a breach of protocol, but I could stay on that machine no longer.”

“Quite all right, Father,” Sinclaire said, turning to Braddock. “And you, gunny, welcome back to the fleet. You and your people did a damn fine job.”

“Thank you, sir–”

“Excuse me,” Deliha Rabat interrupted impatiently. “With all due respect, we aren’t here for you gentlemen. Where’s Reza Gard?”

“Take a look,” Braddock said coldly, pointing toward the shuttle, wondering who this egotistical woman might be. He would have liked to tell her to take a hike instead, but he doubted the commodore would have approved.

On that count, however, Braddock would have been quite incorrect.

“Where?” She snapped. “I don’t see – oh…”

A sudden hush had fallen over the flight bay. The band stopped playing, the instruments falling into silence as if on a prearranged cue. Every individual present had been told what to expect, most had even seen holo movies as children depicting such fiction as men or women under Kreelan influence, but no one ever expected to see it as part of undeniable reality.

With Jodi holding one hand, reassuring him that those he was about to encounter meant him no harm, Reza stepped down the ramp. The blue rune of the Desh-Ka burned like a star on his breastplate and in the eyestone of his collar, the medallions that made up his name glinting like diamonds in the bay’s harsh lighting. He paused a moment to take in his surroundings, his eyes roaming around the huge bay, the brilliant lights and strange mechanical shapes, and the colorfully dressed humans who apparently were there to greet him. He gathered that this spectacle of warriors and the humans with instruments that made strange noises – a band, he suddenly remembered – were for his benefit, and he felt honored by the display.

Sinclaire watched as the young man released Jodi’s hand and stepped from the gangway onto the red carpet, and was suddenly struck by how fitting it seemed for him to be cast against such a background, a prince from some exotic and faraway kingdom here on a state visit. The silence magnified the dignity and grace of Reza’s approach, and he was thankful that the band had ceased its playing of the Confederation anthem.

After an initial assessment of his new environment, Reza turned his attention to the three figures standing at the head of the warrior line, evidently serving as his immediate destination for the rendering of greetings. Two men and a woman, Reza instantly knew that these three were in their own different ways the most powerful beings on this vessel. The swarthy red-haired man was empowered to take or give life to those who served him; he was the one whose words guided the others, whose power extended beyond the walls of this ship to realms somewhere beyond. The man next to him, with skin the color of night and with little flesh on his bones, was of lesser stature than the red-haired one, but held similar powers over those within the confines of this ship. He was the vessel’s