this campaign if it isn’t Mattox himself,” Mishka promised. “That major might be one of your roadblocks. Try your best not to get hit, gentlemeioas. I’d far rather wade through piles of debriefings than have to perform surgery in a field hospital—no offense to your medical facilities. It’s not a bad pod as far as portables go, but it’s not a state-of-the-art infirmary.”
“None taken,” Roghetti replied. He held his tongue while he and Ia left the tent, aiming toward the section of camp where the patrol supplies were kept. When he was sure they were out of the other woman’s hearing, he asked, “. . . Is she always like that? She doesn’t seem to have the best of bedside manners.”
“She does for the rest of my crew. She just has a problem with
me
throwing her into combat. She always has,” Ia added candidly. “Jesselle came into my command thinking she needed to be safe and sound deep in the heart of some hospital in order to access her mental powers. Unfortunately, I need her out here on the front lines, able to think, act, and move.”
“Huh. With a last name like Mishka, you’d think she was trying to act like a psychic, wanting to wrap herself in armored padding far behind our defensive lines,” he joked.
“She
is
a psychic, a very strong biokinetic. That’s why she’s not happy about being forced to use her abilities along the front lines. A good number of my crew are,” Ia added when he glanced at her. “I disagree heartily with the PsiLeague’s belief that psychics cannot learn to wield their abilities at the same time they’re enduring the rigors of Basic Training, hostile-terrain scouting, and open combat.
“Twenty percent or so might honestly not be able to concentrate under such chaotic conditions, even with training, but that still leaves roughly eighty percent who could and should learn to do so . . . even if it means it takes them longer to master both mind and muscle. Mine have,” Ia stated, following him into the first of the supply-and-armament tents. “Even if they didn’t want to, they learned.”
“Bit of a hard asteroid on ’em, are you?” Roghetti asked, smirking. “A real rough rider?”
Ia returned it wryly. “I’m harder on myself, but yeah. What good commander isn’t?”
They walked in silence for a few more moments, then the captain looked at Ia. “So . . . precognitive. Precognition. Foretelling the future and all that.”
Ia didn’t have to be telepathic to know he had an oddball question on his mind. Not that she would read his thoughts without dire need; such things were not only rude, they bordered on outright illegal in the military. “Yes?”
“Something has always bothered me about that,” Roghetti stated, clasping his hands behind his back. “You know, mucking around in time. I think ever since I first read
Oedipus Rex
back in high school.”
She grasped what he meant right away. Nodding in understanding, Ia explained her own thoughts on the matter. “That story is responsible for some of the worst tropes in entertainment history—the idea that paradox will destroy the universe. Oedipus is born, his royal parents consult the Oracle, who says he’ll grow up to murder his father and marry his mother, so they cast the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak. He grows up
not
knowing who his father and mother are, slays some rude bastard in an oblivious roadside confrontation, and marries this sexy older woman who happens to be the dead guy’s widow. He has kids with her, plays at being king for a while . . . and then finds out he’s married his own mom and murdered his dad.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. You can’t escape Fate. Paradox will bite you in the asteroid every single time,” Captain Roghetti stated. She stopped and held out her arm, blocking him from progressing across a break between the tents. A hoverbike hummed past them, its rider swerving at the last second to avoid the pair. “. . . Thanks.