Rogue Powers

by Roger MacBride Allen

  in the air or on the suits. No one was really sure it worked. Maybe cross-contamination was impossible between Earth and Outpost microbes. Maybe there wasn't a need for pressure suits either, and they could get by with breathing gear. Now wasn't the time to find out.

  Their helmets misted briefly as the cold, wet air of Outpost was introduced into the lock. "Pressure balanced," Gustav announced. "I'm opening the outer hatch."

  Sunlight flowed into the lock. Lucille shuffled forward cautiously. She saw the world through the thin glass of her bubble helmet.

  Suddenly, a long-forgotten memory burst into her mind. This place, these colors, all looked familiar. As a child, Lucille had often visited a cousin's house on the verdant southern coast land of Australia. The deep blue skies and dark, wet greens of Outpost's forests and meadows brought back thoughts of long-ago cool spring mornings, the fresh-scrubbed moments when all things seemed possible. No hint of Outpost's air came through her suit, but she recalled the rich, clean odor of a new-mown lawn, the heady fragrance of fertile soil after a good rain. Lucille breathed deeply and found only the soulless scent of sterile, sanitary canned air. Try as her frightened subconscious might to convince her otherwise, this wasn't home.

  "Okay, everyone move up a bit so we can be seen," Gustav said.

  "Where are they?" Mansfield asked. "McKenna, can you see them through the ports?"

  "Just a second." McKenna's voice came through the suit radios. "Yeah, they were waiting around the other side of the lander. They must have heard the lock opening—they're circling around to find you."

  "There they are!" Carlton said, pointing.

  "Everyone take it easy, move slowly, calmly," Gustav said. The Outposters came into view around the side of the lander. They saw the hatch and stopped, swung around to face it, and waited.

  "Here I go," Lucille said. Her voice sounded weak, young, reedy, even to her own ears.

  One of the landing legs was directly below the airlock's outer hatch. There was a small platform atop the leg, and a set of ladder rungs bolted to the leg. Lucille stepped out onto the platform and slowly, carefully, made her way down the ten meters of the ladder. She stared hard at the polished metal of the ladder, watched her own gloved hands moving from rung to rung with a fascinated stare. The details of the gloves' stitching, the wrinkling and un-wrinkling of their fabric, the movement of shadows in the bright morning sunlight as she moved her hands, all seemed incredibly complex and important. She grasped for every mundane detail, memorizing it, cherishing the known and accepted as she went to meet something that was neither. There was a meter-and-a-half drop between the last rung and the ground. Lucille got to the bottom of the ladder and let herself go.

  She forgot to allow for the mass of the suit and hit the ground heavily, nearly stumbled. She flung her hand out and balanced herself against the solidity of the landing leg. She turned out away from the lander, faced the natives.

  There they were, a few meters away, separated from her only by the tall grasses.

  Something was wrong. It was too quiet. No outside noise reached her. She kicked in her helmet radio with the chin switch. "Gustav! I forgot something! Does this suit have external mikes and speakers?" Lucille's stomach knotted in needless panic as she imagined crossing to the aliens, standing close enough to touch them, but unable to speak or hear.

  "Yes, dammit, I meant to tell you. The switches are on the left arm of the suit, marked 'MIC and 'SPK'. Hit the one marked 'REL' too. That will transmit the outside speakers to us. I'm starting the recorder. We've got cameras on you and the Outposters, and the lander's external mikes are running too. We'll get it all, sight and sound."

  Lucille lifted her left arm and found the switches. She

  carefully pressed the three buttons, her movements made slightly awkward by the suit.

  Suddenly the rustle of leaves, the small cries of far-off animals, the thousand small sounds of a living world, were in her ears.

  She stepped forward toward her hosts. The grass was taller than she had thought, over a meter high, and the ground was wet and muddy. More and more, she felt divided out from her surroundings by the suit and the fragile glass bubble of her helmet. Would they think the suit was her skin? Could they see her head through the helmet, and know she was the living being instead of the suit?

  She walked slowly, deliberately, toward them, avoiding any sudden motion. Fifteen meters, ten, five, three away from them. She stopped.

  The Outposters shifted their stance nervously and looked at her through their black doll's eyes.

  Lucille looked back at them. Their heads seemed huge and faceless. The eyes seemed expressionless, the mouth too small and unimportant. She noticed for the first time that the skin around the eyes and atop the head seemed to be moving, constantly and rhythmically. Perhaps it had to do with breathing. That structure on top of their heads seemed involved with the movement. It might be their version of a nose.

  They seemed huge. Lucille decided they were about the size of a small horse or pony. Their skin was indeed naked, and leathery.

  The nearest one gestured with his right hand. The fingers were strange. There were four of them, all mutually opposable, like four very flexible thumbs.

  He—she, it, something else? Call them "he" and "him" for the moment—"he" made sounds. Deep, booming sounds that had odd timbres and tones. Lucille thought she heard what sounded like vowels and consonants, but nothing distinct enough to be noted as words. Was he shouting,

  making a speech, singing, or yelling because someone had stepped on his tail? Was he welcoming or warning?

  Lucille spread her own arms wide and opened her hands to show they were empty. She hesitated, searching for words, finally saying the best and simplest thing: "We come in peace." She stared hard at them and remembered the Guards and their fleets. At least, I hope we do, she thought.

  The Outposter who had spoken came closer, and the work of meeting each other began.

  CHAPTER FOUR March, 2116 Navy Castle On The Planet Kennedy

  Commander Terrance MacKenzie Larson, Republic of Kennedy Navy, turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the courtroom to face his court-martial. I should have known it would come to this, he thought. But I did know, and it didn't make any difference.

  I

  It was a high-ceilinged, old-fashioned, somber sort of room, the walls and floors of polished oak, cut from Kennedy-grown trees. The judges waited behind the massive judicial bench, heavy red drapes behind them, the flags of Kennedy and the Navy set to either side. The wall paneling was intricately carved into friezes, scenes of erotism on the seas and in the sky, the proud moments in the ROK Navy's history. The courtroom was a deadly serious place.

  Pete Gesseti followed Mac Larson and his chief counsel, Captain Brown, into the chamber, and looked over the friezes. They should be carving one for Mac, Pete thought, but instead they want to nail him to the wall in person.

  Mac Larson didn't like to hear it, but he looked like someone who belonged in a historic scene. Tall, blond, tanned, handsome, lantern-jawed, muscular, a very imposing figure in the jet-black ROK navy uniform.

  Peter Gesseti, Republic of Kennedy State Department Assistant Undersecretary for League Affairs, was short, had a few wisps of brown hair left, and was a round-faced sort of man on whom all suits looked rumpled. His profession and his own poor skills of deportment had taught him the importance of looks. Pete was certain that Mac's appearance would be a help in the case: Mac certainly didn't look like a traitor. Pete also believed in playing every card: He had urged Mac to wear all his decorations. It never hurt to remind the court of the defendant's reputation.

  Stern-faced, walking with a firm, measured step, Mac approached the bench, saluted the court, removed his side-arm from its holster and laid it in front of Rear Admiral Louis Leventhal, the presiding judge.

  "Commander Terrance Mackenzie Larson reporting as ordered, sir."

  "Thank you, Commander. Sergeant-at-Arms, if you would b
e so good as to accept receipt of the defendant's weapon. Be seated, Commander." Leventhal straightened some papers on his desk and watched the sergeant bear the gun away. An ancient ritual, the surrender of the defendant's weapon. Putting that gun in the safe was a good way of asking: Was the accused worthy to bear arms in the name of the state? Was he guilty of a crime, or, of equal importance to a military tribunal, had he betrayed his trust? The gun itself was meaningless; was certainly unloaded, perhaps had never been fired. But it was a symbol of what the state put in the hands of its young men and women. Starships, for example, were powerful things, powerful weapons. Was Terrance MacKenzie Larson to be trusted with one?

  Leventhal sighed. He was an old man, old enough to have been stuck on-planet for twenty years, and old enough to have served on dozens of courts-martial. He was almost entirely bald, and his face was worn and solemn. When he had had hair, it had hidden the fact that his ears stuck out. Now he was old enough, respected enough, known enough, that no one dared think his stuck-out ears looked funny. He had a wide, thin-lipped mouth that fell easily into a

  frown that was not of anger or sadness, but of concentrated thought. His eyes were as clear as ever, and of a deep, penetrating gray.

  Pete Gesseti considered the chief judge. He knew that drawing Leventhal was a big plus. The admiral's kid had been on the Venera, had been a classmate and friend of Mac's. Mac and the admiral even knew each other slightly. Pete had dickered and dealt hard to snag Leventhal. He hoped it was worth it.

  'Mr. Gesseti," Leventhal said.

  Pete rose. "Admiral."

  "Are you involved with this case? I was not aware that the State Department was taking an interest."

  "It is not, your honor. I have requested and been granted a leave of absence to serve as assistant counsel to the defense. I hold a law degree and a reserve Navy commission." And if State wasn't taking an interest, I wouldn't have been let within ten kilometers of this place, and you know it, Admiral.

  "I see. Might I ask what school and what rank?"

  "I was law school class of '98 from New Amherst College, and hold the reserve rank of captain." But don't ask to see the commission because the ink's still wet. It had taken a few more deals to get the military rank, but Pete had wanted to be damn sure Mac had a friend in court.

  "You are aware that these proceedings have been classified as secret?"

  "I hold a higher clearance from State, Admiral." And leaking this farce to the press would raise some merry hell indeed, Pete thought: "Navy Brass Puts Hero On Trial." Don't tempt me to use that weapon, Admiral.

  "Very well, Captain Gesseti. Thank you. The clerk will read the charge."

  "Republic of Kennedy Navy Judge Advocate's Office proceeding in a general court-martial against Commander Terrance MacKenzie Larson, ROK Navy, this 9th day of Fifthmonth, year 97 Kennedy Calendar, March 19, 2116, Earth Standard Calendar. The Honorable Admiral Louis

  Leventhal, presiding judge; the Honorable Captains Benjamin Stevens, Eric Embry, David White, and Sandra Tho, associate judges. The defendant, Commander Terrance MacKenzie Larson, is charged under Article VII section iii paragraph 3 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: 'public utterances detrimental to an alliance to which the Republic of Kennedy is a signatory,' and paragraph 6, 'public utterances detrimental to the prosecution of Naval operations,' both charges raised from a Class IV to a Class III violation under the provisions of Article I section ii paragraph 4, 'the Republic being in a state of War, each charge shall be considered one Class higher than described in this Code of Justice.' Charges are brought in regards to the following allegations, to wit: numerous public oral statements by the defendant in opposition to the deployment of RKS Eagle, USS Yorktown, and HMS Impervious, the three large space-going carrier craft available to the League of Planets in the prosecution of the present war against the Guardians."

  "Captain Brown, how does your client plead?"

  "Not Guilty, your honor."

  "Then let the record show a plea of Not Guilty. Captain Tsung, if you would proceed for the prosecution."

  "Your honor, as the facts themselves are not in dispute, and by prior agreement of opposing counsel, I elect to forego my opening remarks and reserve my evidence until the defense has concluded its own case."

  "To the defense, then. Captain Brown."

  "Thank you, your honors. I will be as brief as possible in my opening remarks. As Captain Tsung has remarked, the defense will not dispute the facts of the case, which are well known. The defendant did indeed make statements and comments and allow himself to be interviewed at the times and dates and with the persons itemized in what will be the prosecution's exhibit A. Our case will instead turn upon an entirely different point of military law and tradition.

  "It has been said that the sublimest word in the English language is 'duty.' Duty is service, and military service

  especially. Duty above self-preservation, duty above honor, duty above even the orders of a superior. Any sailor or soldier of this Republic would be liable to arrest, court-martial and punishment for obeying criminal orders—orders, for example, to massacre civilians. Under such circumstances it is the sworn duty of our military personnel to not only question, but refuse, their orders.

  "The Navy of the Republic of Kennedy traces its traditions back hundreds of years, to the ocean-going navy of England that defeated the Spanish Armada and the American wet navy that held the sea lanes against Hitler. It looks back to Task Force One, the three U. S. Navy starships that made the first journey beyond Earth's sun a century ago. Since our race first left the solar system, we have come to be more and more spread out among the stars, and so communication has become more difficult, slower, less reliable. At the same time ships have become fester, more powerful—and thereby, potentially—more dangerous. For this reason, independent judgment, the ability to react to a changed or entirely new situation not covered by orders, has been a vitally needed skill in the Navy. Also for this reason, no Kennedy naval officer is trusted with a ship until and unless he or she is thoroughly indoctrinated into our traditions, until the events carved into these walls are etched as well into the psyche of the officer, until that naval officer has learned the many things a ship can do that it must never do. Our defense against the might of our own weapons is and always has been the quality and integrity of our people.

  "Obviously, the refusal of orders is a serious thing. It cannot be done lightly, and in all but the most drastic of cases—such as the hypothetical one I have offered—the commanding officer must be allowed the benefit of the doubt. Obedience to orders is the due of a commander.

  "A sailor or soldier must be prepared to obey orders that will result in his or her own death, in the destruction of his or her unit, in the loss of all that is held dear—just as an officer is expected to give orders, if need be, that will kill that officer and destroy that officer's own command. Clearly, such sacrifice must be made to a purpose. No person in our military is expected to die uselessly. He or she is expected to die and kill willingly if it is needful.

  "It is an assumption inherent in all this that there is a higher good than survival. That higher good is the preservation of one's family, one's people, one's society, one's beliefs. Defense of these higher goods, perhaps at one's own expense, we call 'duty.' But when a sailor or a soldier or an officer knows, with certainty, that obedience to an order will accomplish the destruction of men and material sorely needed in the fight to come, and will accomplish no other thing, then duty lies with disobedience. Such, we will prove, is the present case. Terrance MacKenzie Larson was ordered to remain silent. With full knowledge of the consequences of his actions, he spoke. As he expected, this resulted in the present court-martial. As I have noted, duty is above honor, and Commander Larson has willingly risked the shame of imprisonment and conviction to do his duty. It is now the duty of this court to see that justice is done, and to see that Commander Larson is held blameless for his actions, released from custody fully vindicated, and r
eturned to his unit with his reputation intact."

  Pete leaned over and whispered to Mac. "Now that's some kind of speaking. You might get out of this yet."

  "I didn't get in to get out, Pete," Mac whispered back. "That twenty bucks still says I lose."

  Brown winked at Mac as he collected a sheaf of papers from the defendant's table. Then he turned to the bench and said, "The defense calls as its first witness Terrance MacKenzie Larson, Commander, Republic of Kennedy Navy."

  The prosecutor rose and spoke. "For the record, I wish to insert a correction. The defendant's rank was conferred by brevet, and was not even conferred by a ROK Navy officer. His permanent rank is second lieutenant."

  "Your honors, I object!" Brown shouted. "My client's brevet rank—conferred at the discretion of the U.S. Naval

  officer under whose command he serves in the joint operation known at the Survey Service—is every bit as legal and binding as a conventional promotion, and I defy the prosecution to suggest that it was undeserved. The only effect the brevet promotion has had upon my client has been the denial of the pay and benefits of a commander. He continues at the pay schedule of a second lieutenant. I thank the prosecution for reminding us of yet another injustice done my client."

  The five judges conferred briefly and then Leventhal spoke. "Objection sustained. Captain Tsung's remark will be struck from the record. Commander Larson, you may take your stand."

  The clerk swore Mac in. Brown went through the usual preliminaries of identification and then began to question him.

  "Commander. For the record, and for the information and with the permission of the court, could you repeat the opinions that got you into this situation?"

  "Yes. As I have said publicly on many occasions, I believe that the deployment of the Eagle, Yorktown, and Impervious would be potentially disastrous to the Republic of Kennedy and to the alliance, the League of Planets."