Chapter 41
Jim Vassilakos
“Lt. Agu, can you show me the dignitary section?”
“Right here,” he tapped one of the squares on the security monitor, and it expanded to fill the entire screen.
I consciously pulled in my psychic tendrils, remembering how I was able to hear the Major’s thoughts through my wristcom. I didn’t want any possible agents noticing me early, but at the same time…
«Unless they have access to one of these,» Josefeen looked down at the diplomatic case she was holding and imagined the playful psi orb currently within it, «they’re not going to get very far.»
«Always assume the enemy is at least as well equipped as you are, Lieutenant.» I paused, reflecting on the long length of her career, which I’d only recently discovered. Her appearance was deceiving.
«I don’t doubt the Zhodani have them, sir, but would they risk one by bringing it here?»
«You did.»
That’s different, she was thinking. This was home turf.
«My apologies, Josafeen. It’s hard to turn the instruction component off of being a captain.»
I dipped into her memories to see what a shielded mind looked like, and what the difference was between natural and artificial shielding, and if there was a way around or through. Put simply, a shielded mind was essentially impenetrable, but it didn’t look any different than any other sort of mind, and this was true whether the shielding was natural or artificial, but if it was zone shielding, it hurt.
«IBIS is here supporting us,» Josefeen’s voice echoed in my head. «They’re going to put out a psionic scream.» It was a form of zone shielding, but rather than being little pricks of pain and distraction, it was like a firecracker in one’s ear, essentially a form of attack. «At some point during all this, I’m going to tell you to pull your curtain for just a few seconds. It may be during your speech. Either way, if we see anyone faint or even flinch, we’ll know they’re psionic and probably in league with the Zhodani.»
But she doubted the Zhos would be dumb enough to send anyone. This was too much of an Imperial-controlled venue for them to risk assets unless they believed the stakes were high enough to warrant an operation. They wanted to get into my head — they’d already proven that — but to try to do it here would be reckless. They’d only do it if I was out in public, seemingly unguarded, as I’d been on my date with Kaz. But they’d had no foreknowledge of my movements that night. I was playing it all by ear. All they could have done was stick an operative on the subway and wait for me, but they didn’t even know I’d be taking it.
“Heavenly Pilot and Lord on High,” the Canon’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers, the crowd suddenly falling still. “Yours are the starry squadrons of space and sky.” His hands were cupped, his elbows bent. “Lead us who remember our fallen comrade in longing for your welcoming wings.” He peered into this cup formed by his hands. “Guide us in grief as we recall the faith and courage of the fallen.” Soar/Warmth he read off the surface of one palm. “Set us to soar with your warmth at our back.” He’d used to have this memorized. “Let us rise in eternity with you, Pilot Divine.” But his memory had long been slipping away. His whole mind had been.
“We are, each of us, of the Universe,” the Canon said. “We are stardust.” My wristcom beeped. “Indeed, but for the death of stars, we don’t exist.”
“Plankwell here.”
“Stars have died that we might live.”
“Priority call, Lt. Cmdr. Wang,” Blodder said.
“A countless multitude have died that the Universe might know itself.”
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Lydia Wang said, “but in light of what went down between you and the locals, I’d like to offer you the services of blue and purple squadrons to give the stadium some percussion.”
I didn’t need telepathy to realize what she had in mind. Percussion was pilot-speak for a sonic boom. She was offering to hit the stadium, and Heron more generally, with a quick series of them on their flyby, a salute to Lt. Jaamzon but also a way to rattle Heron’s windows and remind them who’s boss. But like any career-minded officer, she didn’t want to do it without my authorization.
As the Canon went on about stars, death, and the Universe, I tilted my head toward Josefeen.
«I’m going to have the wing do a percussive flyby. Tell IBIS to coordinate the scream with the flyby.»
Tell IBIS? They didn’t like being subordinate to the Navy, but this was a Navy ceremony, so they’d do as we requested so long as it didn’t conflict with their own goals. But they’d want to know why. «What is it you have in mind, sir?»
«Misdirection.» “Wing Leader,” I said, “you are go for flyby on Captain Masa’s mark. Blodder, route the lead fighter’s range to target data to my wristcom.”
“Aye aye, sir,” both women responded simultaneously.
«Misdirection?» Josefeen frowned.
«Coordinating the scream with the sonic booms will provide a rational story, albeit an erroneous one, in case anyone faints. IBIS can go in with a team of medics and carry them out, claiming they had a heart attack. The media may blame the Navy, but the public will be none the wiser.»
Heart attacks due to sonic booms were exceedingly rare, but they could happen. I had once caught a week of administrative punishment for a percussive flyby during a unit review, but it was for creative misinterpretation of orders rather than the actual percussion. In this situation, my argument, if it came to that, would be that I wasn’t indulging in pettiness. I was supporting an officer with initiative. Vasilyev might slap my wrist when I got back, but given that Intel would surely back me up, informing him it was all part of a larger mission, I’d have all the cover I could possibly need to prevent the punishment from going any further.
Josefeen nodded, somewhat impressed. He’s smarter than he looks. As she wandered off to make the necessary arrangements, I didn’t know whether or feel complimented or insulted.
“Captain Masa, am I up after Regimath?”
“Not exactly. I was planning first the invocation, then the Imperial Anthem, then you, then the presentation of the Honor Guard, then our robot friend over here, but if you’d like to change the order, just say so.”
Although Masa would present the AI as speaking at the behest of the Countess, he didn’t know what Olav would say, and so he was somewhat worried about slotting it in as the capstone. That had been my suggestion, and since it was my pilot who’d died, he was deferring to me.
“When’s the flyby supposed to happen?” I asked him.
“During the honor guard portion.”
I nodded. The meticulous, coordinated movements of honor guards were a beautiful thing to behold, but they took time to do their thing. This provided a large time window for the flyby, which due to the uncertainties with respect to the squadrons’ ETA was necessary. If they’d practiced the run a few times, they would have been able to time it down to the second, but this ceremony was a one-off, so they’d show up whenever they’d show up, but now that I had their distance fed into my wristcom, I could possibly use the flyby to compliment my speech, though I’d have to time it perfectly on my end. The idea was tempting, but trying to keep track of their distance while simultaneously giving a speech sounded like a little too much to take on. With everything else going on, I didn’t need yet another distraction.
(I’m reading this into what you didn’t write, since you didn’t answer directly regarding Gus’s plans with respect to the fly-by, but feel free to revise if I’m misunderstanding his intentions.)
“Let’s get me up on stage for the anthem so I can lead right into my speech.”
“Very well,” Masa said with a nod.
I looked over to where Amika and Ensign Florence were waiting with Olav.
“Make sure Amika is right up there with Olav. We are now in the making-nice-with-local-nobility phase of operations, but if Olav goes off on the Imperium, we are going to shut it down hard. I will revoke my apology to the Countess if this bot tries something funny.”
The advantage of the court apology I’d used to settle things with the Countess earlier and their acceptance of it established a clear link of obligation. I had claimed the mantle of the Plankwells to couch my apology, staking my position within the Navy as well as my personal honor as collateral. All of which I was justified in doing. Just as I was technically justified in imposing an interdiction.
I had all these powers, but for the most part manners, courtesy and custom indicated that they be used sparingly, if at all. But there was plenty of precedent for their use should I determine the need. And Intel had given me command authority. So as long as I could rely on their support, I had even more leeway. The impending percussion would be the smallest reminder of this.
Should this new edition of Olav malfunction, however, and particularly if it should do offensively, besmirching myself or the Imperium, the revocation of my apology would demand an apology from the Countess, which would result in a rather extensive internal investigation to find out what exactly went wrong, during which time the palace would probably cease to acknowledge me, insulting me further. Given the Plankwell fervor on this world, I doubted Helena would be happy to be put in such a position.
Of course, there was always the chance of a duel challenge to settle things expeditiously, but as the challenged party, I would have choice of weapons. My eyes narrowed, and I was sure my smile had turned into some kind of predatory grin. I had always wanted to claim a battle cruiser as my weapon of choice.
That would be a fine send off for Lt Jaamzon.
“I don’t know if heaven exists,” the Canon confessed to the crowd, “just as I don’t know that ghosts are real. But I have felt a presence today. What it is, I cannot say. I know only that I am given to believe, because strange things have happened in my life, and so I know enough to know that I know I don’t know everything.”
«What is that weird, little man talking about?» Josefeen wandered back into view. «And what’s got you grinning? Oh, plotting mass murder, are we? Why am I not surprised?»
(Gus’s response, if any.)
“I see we have a marching band for the anthem,” I said, watching the security monitor as a column of drummers, trumpeters, and so forth formed in one of the entryways just outside the audience’s field of view. “Which version are you using?”
“Sorrowing, I assume, but I leave all that to the Parade Commander.”
The original Imperial Anthem, or Emperor’s Anthem as it was also known, was a Sylean arrangement played when Cleon the Great first took the throne. It had several variations: triumphant, sorrowing, hymnal and celebratory; and the various Imperial domains each had their own versions. Typically, a combination of Hymnal and Sorrowing were used to mark occasions of remembrance.
“Could we end on Anthem Triumphant?” I asked. This version had been used many times at the end of the war to mark both the losses we endured but the victory those losses gained us. It was time for me to start placing my markers on the board. Every world was their own, but all lay in the sweep of the Imperium and the shadow of the Navy.
Love and fear, I mused. It always came down to love and fear.
Masa pressed a few buttons on his wristcom. “Irkhi, I don’t suppose you could finish with the triumphant variation?”
“That’s awfully short notice, but will do, Captain.”
“Thank you.” Masa smiled, closing the connection. “He’s a good chap.”
“Death,” the Canon said, “is everyone’s ultimate destiny, and when you get to be my age, perhaps you’ll begin to welcome it. But when life is taken from one so young, one who still has life to live, that's when it seems like a crime. But there’s a reason for all such things, and all that seems obvious to us does not always remain so when subjected to closer scrutiny.
“We say that death exists because we see it with our own eyes, but what do we not see? What lay beyond the curtain? In the Day of Judgment, the Rosh Hashanah to some of you, it is written that the Universe remembers us into life, for we have been written into the Book of Life, and so there is nothing to fear.
“To some this is but a fairy tale, akin to the personification of the divine mystery. There’s a sort of personality transfer common in pre-interstellar societies, whereby the divine unknown assumes the morals and customs of those who purport to believe in it. Ultimately, it becomes weaponized. Instead of being a conduit for dialogue, it becomes a cause for war.
“Through such misuse, the unknowable becomes a vessel of our ideals as well as our hopes and fears, and heaven… or paradise… becomes a promise of an eventual welcoming to those who’ve bowed down to the mind-virus that is religion.
“So I will not claim with certainty that Lt. Jaamzon is with us, here and now, and that she is watching from the edge of this stage. I do not know this to be true. I will only say what I believe, which is that she lived her life well. She lived as she wanted to live, and she died as she wanted to die. In this, I have faith.”
No sooner had the Canon turned away from the crowd than the first ranks of the band emerged from the entryway, their instruments gleaming as they erupted into a symphony of brass and percussion that echoed against the concrete walls. Everyone immediately stood, save for those too old or crippled, some placing a hand above their heart, as the Imperial Anthem filled the air, a potent reminder of our unity and our strength.
Conrad Rader
“Let’s get me up on stage for the anthem so I can lead right into my speech. [[You can give the flyby the go signal once I start talking]]”
“Very well,” Masa said with a nod.
I looked over to where Amika and Ensign Florence were waiting with Olav.
“Make sure Amika is right up there with Olav. We are now in the making-nice-with-local-nobility phase of operations, but if Olav goes off on the Imperium, we are going to shut it down hard. I will revoke my apology to the Countess if this bot tries something funny.”
The advantage of the court apology I’d used to settle things with the Countess earlier and their acceptance of it established a clear link of obligation. I had claimed the mantle of the Plankwells to couch my apology, staking my position within the Navy as well as my personal honor as collateral. All of which I was justified in doing. Just as I was technically justified in imposing an interdiction.
I had all these powers, but for the most part manners, courtesy and custom indicated that they be used sparingly, if at all. But there was plenty of precedent for their use should I determine the need. And Intel had given me command authority. So as long as I could rely on their support, I had even more leeway. The impending percussion would be the smallest reminder of this.
Should this new edition of Olav malfunction, however, and particularly if it should do offensively, besmirching myself or the Imperium, the revocation of my apology would demand an apology from the Countess, which would result in a rather extensive internal investigation to find out what exactly went wrong, during which time the palace would probably cease to acknowledge me, insulting me further. Given the Plankwell fervor on this world, I doubted Helena would be happy to be put in such a position.
Of course, there was always the chance of a duel challenge to settle things expeditiously, but as the challenged party, I would have choice of weapons. My eyes narrowed, and I was sure my smile had turned into some kind of predatory grin. I had always wanted to claim a battle cruiser as my weapon of choice.
That would be a fine send off for Lt Jaamzon.
“I don’t know if heaven exists,” the Canon confessed to the crowd, “just as I don’t know that ghosts are real. But I have felt a presence today. What it is, I cannot say. I know only that I am given to believe, because strange things have happened in my life, and so I know enough to know that I know I don’t know everything.”
«What is that weird, little man talking about?» Josefeen wandered back into view. «And what’s got you grinning? Oh, plotting mass murder, are we? Why am I not surprised?»
“I see we have a marching band for the anthem,” I said, watching the security monitor as a column of drummers, trumpeters, and so forth formed in one of the entryways just outside the audience’s field of view. “Which version are you using?”
“Sorrowing, I assume, but I leave all that to the Parade Commander.”
The original Imperial Anthem, or Emperor’s Anthem as it was also known, was a Sylean arrangement played when Cleon the Great first took the throne. It had several variations: triumphant, sorrowing, hymnal and celebratory; and the various Imperial domains each had their own versions. Typically, a combination of Hymnal and Sorrowing were used to mark occasions of remembrance.
“Could we end on Anthem Triumphant?” I asked. This version had been used many times at the end of the war to mark both the losses we endured but the victory those losses gained us. It was time for me to start placing my markers on the board. Every world was their own, but all lay in the sweep of the Imperium and the shadow of the Navy.
Love and fear, I mused. It always came down to love and fear.
Masa pressed a few buttons on his wristcom. “Irkhi, I don’t suppose you could finish with the triumphant variation?”
“That’s awfully short notice, but will do, Captain.”
“Thank you.” Masa smiled, closing the connection. “He’s a good chap.”
“Death,” the Canon said, “is everyone’s ultimate destiny, and when you get to be my age, perhaps you’ll begin to welcome it. But when life is taken from one so young, one who still has life to live, that's when it seems like a crime. But there’s a reason for all such things, and all that seems obvious to us does not always remain so when subjected to closer scrutiny.
“We say that death exists because we see it with our own eyes, but what do we not see? What lay beyond the curtain? In the Day of Judgment, the Rosh Hashanah to some of you, it is written that the Universe remembers us into life, for we have been written into the Book of Life, and so there is nothing to fear.
“To some this is but a fairy tale, akin to the personification of the divine mystery. There’s a sort of personality transfer common in pre-interstellar societies, whereby the divine unknown assumes the morals and customs of those who purport to believe in it. Ultimately, it becomes weaponized. Instead of being a conduit for dialogue, it becomes a cause for war.
“Through such misuse, the unknowable becomes a vessel of our ideals as well as our hopes and fears, and heaven… or paradise… becomes a promise of an eventual welcoming to those who’ve bowed down to the mind-virus that is religion.
“So I will not claim with certainty that Lt. Jaamzon is with us, here and now, and that she is watching from the edge of this stage. I do not know this to be true. I will only say what I believe, which is that she lived her life well. She lived as she wanted to live, and she died as she wanted to die. In this, I have faith.”
No sooner had the Canon turned away from the crowd than the first ranks of the band emerged from the entryway, their instruments gleaming as they erupted into a symphony of brass and percussion that echoed against the concrete walls. Everyone immediately stood, save for those too old or crippled, some placing a hand above their heart, as the Imperial Anthem filled the air, a potent reminder of our unity and our strength.
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Jim Vassilakos
Nonetheless, I experienced the creeping sensation of déjà vu, a coldness climbing up my spine that was caused by listening to Regimath talk about a ghost perched on the edge of the stage.
“Lieutenant, give me a wide view of the stage.”
Lt. Agu brought up a camera feed that showed the entire stage. But there was no ghost sitting there, at least none I could see. Why was Jaamzon still here, if she was here, and why in the blazing plasma had Regimath been so damn specific?
“Are you ready?” Masa asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Time to get this done.”
Feel free to describe Gus as he walks to the stage. There are a lot of people out there, more than he has probably ever addressed at one time. Are his knees wobbling? Does he suddenly need to take a leak? Whichever the case, he’ll pass the Canon who is coming offstage:
“In case you need some extra gumption,” Regimath said, holding out his flask to me as we passed each other backstage.
Also feel free to describe the anthem as it turns from sorrowful to triumphant, as well as the holoprompter, and so forth. As for the VIP section, judging from the uniforms present, it’s filled largely with crew members from the Jaqueline’s fighter pod who must have been given seating priority by Masa, but there are also other uniformed Navy as well as some civilians. The only one Gus would be likely to recognize would be Spooky. You can go ahead and launch into Gus’s speech after presenting whatever description you think the reader should have in order to properly set the scene. Finally, feel free to take your time with this one. No three-day rule for something of this magnitude.
Conrad Rader
By action shared, what none other ..."
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Jim Vassilakos
No sooner had the Canon turned away from the crowd than the first ranks of the band emerged from the entryway, their instruments gleaming as they erupted into a symphony of brass and percussion that echoed against the concrete walls. Everyone immediately stood, save for those too old or crippled, some placing a hand above their heart, the preamble to the Imperial Anthem filling the air, a potent reminder of our unity and our strength.
Nonetheless, I experienced the creeping sensation of déjà vu, a coldness climbing up my spine that was caused by listening to Regimath talk about a ghost perched on the edge of the stage.
“Lieutenant, give me a wide view of the stage.”
Lt. Agu brought up a camera feed that showed the entire stage. But there was no ghost sitting there, at least none I could see. Why was Jaamzon still here, if she was here, and why in the blazing plasma had Regimath been so damn specific?
“Are you ready?” Masa asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Time to get this done.”
I took a deep breath and straightened my uniform. This was going to be worse than the time I gave the Plankwell Commemorative Lecture to visiting dignitaries in prep school. Well, maybe not that bad. At Masa’s go gesture, I pulled myself to attention and marched out.
“In case you need some extra gumption,” Regimath said, holding out his flask to me as we passed each other backstage.
I shook my head quickly and let the flask, and Regimath, pass me by. A few seconds later, I reached the stage, the audience’s attention seeming to focus upon me like a magnifying glass directing sunlight at an insect. With my mind going blank, I had to will myself to take the necessary steps to the small lectern at the center of the stage.
As soon as I moved into place, the holoprompter came into focus, its cameras and projectors locking onto my eyes. Its heads-up display spread across my vision a moment later. It was the same sort of tech we used in fighters to maintain situational awareness, but this one was a few grades lower than what I was used to.
Focus.
I was using the tech to distract me from the huge number of people in attendance. Muster halls on ships and briefing rooms were always small, and most of my official speeches had been piped to screens across the ship or squadron. I tried not to think about how many people across the world were paying attention to me now. The stadium contained a field of artificial green ground cover, surrounded by two tiers of seating. While not full, there were a lot more people than I thought. I was breathing deeply, trying to settle my nerves, and a vague discomfort in my nethers suddenly made me wish I’d visited the fresher before taking to the stage. It was the sort of thing I never worried about in a vacc suit, as we they were plumbed for long duration occupancy. We always joked about the joys of spacers who always wore their vacc suits, but sometimes, like right now, one of the advantages became obvious.
My peripheral vision caught some movement, one of the camera drones moving into position. I gritted my teeth. I could do this.
There were other musicians arranged in the area below the stage, as the marching column concluded the preamble and fell momentarily silent. There were traditional instruments, drums, flutes, and stringed instruments of all kinds as well as a gong. It was a really large gong, hanging from a frame, and looked to be about two meters across. The gong player, shirtless, held three mallets in each hand. An Imperial Navy yellow headband held his hair back, and a kilt-like wrap, also bound with a yellow belt, fell to his knees. He flexed his arms as though warming up, and then a shrill flute wailed the Call to Muster, the traditional opening to the Imperial Anthem, and the signal for all military personnel within earshot to rise to attention and turn to face the music, as it were.
The susurration of people standing moved through the space. and faded away as all waited in silence. Then the deep bong of the gong led into the first part of the Anthem, where all the instruments intoned to sound a single note, to give the musicians an idea of how all the other instruments sounded. Many twiddled with their instruments, checked the volume levels and so forth, preparing to harmonize. I’d studied it in Imperial Culture class, but I was about as musical as a brick, so the details were over my head. I did love listening to the anthem, though.
It was always performed live during Imperial ceremonies of any kind. The music stood in for the Emperor and ensured that the ceremony was a living event taking place in the moment. The more cynical noted that it served as an excellent cryptography and security marker, creating a unique cipher for the records. The Ministry of Culture ensured that musicians from across the Imperium had stipends to be trained in and to be called upon to perform the Imperial Anthem in any mode required. As with any Imperial proceedings, you could gain some feeling for the timbre of events by how the Anthem was played, and in which mode, or at least the intent of the noble convening the event.
The Imperial Manual of Protocol and Proceedings had several volumes devoted to musical arrangements and the various combinations that had worked well, and the equally important list of what did not go well together. (The dry exhortation to never mix howl hounds with echo cats, along with the chaos that had ensued, was a personal favorite.)
The original anthem was the coronation arrangement played when Cleon became Emperor, but it was Artemsus who officially codified it and made the first of the mode changes. Martin III stipulated its live performance and added the Sorrowful Mode after the ending of the Ilelish Revolt.
It could be played on any number and kind of instruments, from simple percussives, winds, strings, trained animals, singers, anything that could produce the notes required. But it had to be done live. Mechanical support was fine, but there had to be a sophont ultimately responsible for producing the music.
Recording the Anthem was also fine, and the Ministry of Culture’s publication, Anthemic Interludes, offered the best renditions of the Anthem produced from across the Imperium. One of my favorite recordings was the Hymnal Anthem played on a combination of traditional Solomani instruments.
The Sorrowful Anthem, an arrangement that slowed the tempo and used lower registers to convey solemnity, began to play as a slow march joined the swirling growl of the gong. I could not help myself, and let my eyes turn to where Regimath said he saw the vision.
But, of course, there was no one there, at least no one I could see. If Jaamzon’s spirit were sitting there, she was doing so invisibly.
The bright sharp note of a brass wind-horn marked the modal change to Triumphant. The beat and tempo grew. Triumphant Mode, the first of the official modes, had been added to the cannon, when Emperor Artemsus launched the final fleets of the Sylean Pacification Campaigns. The music shifted from the stage musicians to the marching corps, due to I suppose my last minute change in the order of things, but the gong player continued, more than making up for the bigger crescendos. Towards the end, some of the other musicians had found their place and joined back in. Apt symbolism, I thought, as I used eye-motion prompts to bring the Distance to Target display for the flyby onto the holoprompter from my wristcom. It displayed as a kilometers countdown, although I had no idea from which direction the two squadrons would arrive.
The anthem’s conclusion was the call and response to the health of the Emperor. Heralded by the same high pitched flute, the most senior non-commissioned officer called out “Salutem et vitan imperatore,” and the assembled masses responded in kind, “Salutem et vitan imperatore.” The Sylean government had used the pre-Anglic phrase since the days of the Rule of Man, replacing the more formal Vilani invocation to the health of the Empire that took a good three minutes to enunciate.
And now it was my turn.
“Gather your senses, what follows is true.
Gather your fellows, feel close to you
And you to them, are bound by ties
As tight as alliance, as siblings.
Ever stronger for you are bound by choice,
By action shared, what none other…”
My eye tracked the distance to target as I recited the words to Gather Your, a centuries-old yet unfinished poem that had been committed to the operational journal of a young trooper. It was only discovered after his slate had been recovered following the destruction of his evacuation shuttle. With his death, and the cam footage of him writing it in the preceding moments, it had achieved a certain poignancy, all thanks to a last gasp missile that made it through the shuttle’s point defense. Sergeant Duwan Lestova never got the chance to edit his poem, or to write any more, but it captured the imagination of the whole sector, reminding everyone about the risks of soldiers in battle. The Marines released video footage from the battle along with his heartfelt hug of squadmates as they boarded the doomed shuttle. Put all together, it inspired innumerable outpourings of sentiment.
The VIP section, judging from the uniforms present, was filled largely with crew members from the Jaqueline’s fighter pod. They must have been given seating priority by Masa, but there were also other uniformed Navy as well as some civilians. The only person I recognized, however, was Spooky. She was looking directly at me, her eyes dark, somber, and unblinking as I peered into her mind.
“So why did you join up?” one of the pilots had asked Jaamzon. This was in the mess hall. Jaamzon was the newbie Lieutenant, and this pilot decided to grill her in front of the rest of the squadron. “Let me guess,” he said. “The call to adventure.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Jaamzon answered, stabbing at a macaroni noodle with her fork.
“Where are you from?”
“Olympia.”
“Olympia?”
“It’s right on the border with the Sword Worlds.”
“Did you guys get hit during the war?”
“Oh, hell no. They totally ignored us. They wanted Arba for some reason.”
“What’s at Arba?”
“Nothing. Minerals, probably. I don’t know.”
“So then why’d you join? Life sucks on Olympia?”
“No, it’s fine,” Jaamzon said. “I mean, the air’s too thin to breathe, and there’s stuff in it, so you wouldn’t want to breathe it anyway, but other than that, it’s great. We got fish.”
“You like fish?”
“Yeah, I guess. On Olympia, you either eat fish or you starve, so not liking fish isn’t really an option.”
“So is that why you joined? Because you couldn’t take anymore fish?”
“I told you, I’m fine with fish.”
“Then why’d you join?”
“You really want to know?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Okay, then I’ll tell you.”
“So tell me.”
She looked around the table, and everyone looked back.
“I joined because I believe in the Imperium.”
“You don’t have to say that here. This isn’t the academy.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “Think about it. Think about what we have. We can go anywhere. Just get on a ship and go and apply to become a citizen of whatever world we want to be on. You think the Zhos have that? The Imperium, for all its flaws, is very much worth defending, and anyone who can’t see that, in my opinion, is blind… no offense.”
“Why would I be offended?” he asked her.
“I know it’s cool to be jaded and cynical, but people who don’t appreciate what they have are the biggest idiots in the universe, and if you won’t rise to defend the Imperium, then you aren’t worth a spit.”
“All of us defend the Imperium every single day.”
“I’m not talking about you guys. Anyone who gets in one of those cockpits, as far as I’m concerned, has paid their dues, and that's why I joined…, to pay my dues.”
“Damn straight,” Spooky said.
“And what about afterward?” someone else asked. “No plans to muster out and go back home? Or do you want to keep flying until you die?”
“When I die, I want it to be with my boots on, and I want it to be for a reason.”
Spooky blinked, and I suddenly realized the music had stopped. How long ago, I wasn’t sure, but everyone was staring at me, the whole damn stadium.
I read the words being projected into my eyes.
“Gather my fellows,” I said, “for we are here to witness. Once again, we were called to duty. Once again, we answered the call, and once again, not all of us returned. Honored comrades, honored citizens, we gather here to witness the service of Lieutenant Thanatika Jaamzon, called to the service of the Imperium, to the service of Emperor Strephon, and who paid the ultimate price for her duty.
“The Navy stands ever ready, ever prepared, to meet the challenge that enemies of the Imperium bring to bear. Out in the deep black of the void between the stars and worlds, we wait, we watch and we strike.
“Lt. Jaamzon was a child of Olympia. She was given unto the care of the Navy and to the Navy she gave her all. While she served, she was an example to all, beloved of her crewmates, she gathered unto her friends and allies tightly. Far from home, in the deepest dark, she stood to the defense of her crew and paid the ultimate price.”
I had let a little formal Court Galanglic into my words. Something was helping me with this speech. I don't know if I was picking up on all the emotions around me, but I was standing before the biggest group of people I had ever addressed, and I was declaring my love of the Navy, and my beliefs. The past few days had been exhausting, and I didn't care anymore what anyone thought. Jaamzon had died in the service that I loved, and it was my responsibility, my duty to honor that sacrifice.
“Blessed are they who mourn, for the universe heeds the heart that is broken. These are the words for you, her friends, her crew, and all who have lost in the service of the Imperium. For Jaamzon, I say, ‘Safe skies pilot; may you find your way home.’
The distance to target indicator was counting down the kilometers. From the rate of their progress, I figured we had about half a minute to go, and I was finally done with caring for our lost. Now it was time for the stick to our enemies.
Go on.
Conrad Rader
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Conrad Rader
Jim Vassilakos
https://docs.google.com/document/d/15I7pprGblzhSx6ZUGJK02wgaW21cP1Ax/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=113687616933633107445&rtpof=true&sd=true
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Timothy Collinson
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PO1 2ST
Jim Vassilakos
Masa: “Once the media gets wind of this, you’ll be inundated with interview requests. If you like, I can steer you toward friendly venues.”
Plankwell: “I guess I’ll have to say something, or they will all start making it up wholesale. I appreciate the support.”
Conrad Rader
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