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 master. Lastly, there was the woman, who seemed at once to be the least powerful of the three among all the souls Reza could sense around him now, but who perhaps carried more influence than the other two with authorities even higher. He could also sense that while the men were extremely curious about him and somewhat fearful, the woman had some keener interest that instantly set Reza on his guard.
With this one, he told himself, you must be careful.
“Commodore Sinclaire,” Jodi announced officially as she led Reza to the end of the carpet and a new way of life, “let me present Reza Gard.” For a moment, she considered adding “formerly of the Kreelan Empire,” but thought better of it. For one thing, she did not wish to put words in Reza’s mouth, especially when they could not speak the same language yet. For another, she did not know if it was true. “Reza,” she said, “this is Commodore Sinclaire, the Commander of Task Force 85.”
Sinclaire extended a paw toward Reza. While the shaking of hands was hardly the standard greeting among all humans, it was Sinclaire’s. “In the name of the Confederation people and government, I bid you welcome Reza, welcome home.”
There was an uncomfortable moment as Reza simply stared at Sinclaire. An air of tension began to build from the earlier excitement, and several of the Marines in the honor guard clenched their fists in worry as they threw sidelong glances toward where Sinclaire and Reza faced one another. Marine sharpshooters in the distant shadows of the flight bay tightened their fingers slightly on the triggers of their weapons, all pointed at Reza’s head.
Much to everyone’s surprise – and relief – Reza did not accept the commodore’s offered hand. Instead, he knelt down on one knee and made what could only be a salute, bringing his left fist over his right breast.
“Well, I will be damned,” Sinclaire breathed. “Come on, now, lad, get on your feet.” With sinewy grace, Reza rose to his full height, turning toward Captain Jhansi. “This is Captain Michel Jhansi,” Sinclaire said, exhilarated by this living enigma and what he might represent, “commander of the C.S.S. Aboukir, the vessel you’re now on.”
Reza nodded respectfully, but did not salute. He did not render the traditional Kreelan greeting of gripping arms to any of them, for they were not of the Way, and to do so was forbidden.
“And this,” Sinclaire said, managing a neutral tone in his voice, “is Dr. Deliha Rabat, the diplomatic representative of the Confederation Council and head of your debriefing team.”
Sinclaire felt a sense of grim satisfaction in the way Reza stared at her, and he thought that there was just an instant when something recognizably human passed over his face. Suspicion.
The commodore smiled to himself. The boy hasn’t but set eyes on her, he thought, and already he’s made her game. If he understood things right, Dr. Rabat was in for a real tussle.
With the initial pleasantries out of the way, Sinclaire led the Aboukir’s little diplomatic group out of the landing bay to the ship’s conference complex where Reza’s reintroduction to humanity was to begin without delay.
Behind them, the dead and wounded Marines from Rutan continued to pour from the shuttle.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” Braddock’s question was as much personal as professional. He might never get a chance to be her lover, but he still liked her more than just about anyone he had ever met. Even if she was an officer. “I mean, I’m sure the commodore could find some way to keep you on for a while. The Aboukir could use another hot jock, or so I hear.”
“No,” Jodi said quietly. “I need to get back to the Hood. They’ll be deploying again in not too long, and I want to be on her when she does. Besides, I can’t stand to be on the same ship as that Rabat bitch.” It had taken as long as the time needed for Jodi and Braddock to shower, clean up, and change into clean uniforms for the New Order to emerge: Rabat had literally ordered Sinclaire to get Jodi, Braddock, and Hernandez out of her way. Regretfully, he had been forced to oblige. And that meant no more contact with Reza until Rabat deemed it necessary and acceptable. Jodi wanted to spit. “There’s nothing more I can do here now, I’m afraid.” She smiled then. “Look, playing Marine was fun, but I’d prefer to leave it to the pros. I miss flying too much.” And my commander, she added silently to herself
“Lieutenant,” a flight-suited petty officer called from the interior of the fast cutter that would take her to the Hood’s drydock on Ekaterina III, “any time you’re ready ma’am.”
Jodi was grateful for the interruption. She hated protracted good-byes. No, she corrected herself. She hated good-byes, period. Too often they were permanently sealed with the mark of Death. “Time to go,” she said, extending her hand. “Take care, gunny.”
“You, too, el-tee. Drop me a line sometime.” He shook her hand, his big and callused paw swallowing her trim and efficient palm. After only a second of consideration, he drew her close and hugged her. Jodi returned the affection with a tight squeeze of her arms around his neck.
“That’s a promise,” she said, fighting back tears. She picked up her gear bag that held a souvenir Marine uniform and some other tokens the men and women of the regiment had given her, and walked up the gangway into the cutter.
Braddock waved to her, but she did not turn around to see. The bay’s outer door closed, and a moment later there was a subtle thump as the little ship left its berth for open space.
Frowning, he began the long trip back to the barracks bays where the remnants of his regiment were bedding down.
On board the cutter, Jodi sat in the cramped passenger cabin adjoining the two-person cockpit. There were no other passengers for this particular flight. In her hands was the wooden crucifix, his own, that Father Hernandez had given her as a parting gift. She had always disdained the existence of any Supreme Being, no matter what the name or religion. But something – she was not sure if it was hope or fear of what Reza might bring to the human universe – drove her to do something she had never honestly done in her entire life.