by A. L. Bruno
It was during these opening salvos that Conrad destroyed his career.
As the signals officer aboard the destroyer T.S.S. Vanguard, Conrad’s duty had been to coordinate the Marine landing boats’ descent to the surface—each carrying more than eighty battle-ready marines. He managed well at first, keeping the battle picture clear and his communication tight. Suddenly, he spotted the unmistakable sign of a Motinai Reiten drone—a passive missile that waits to fire until it senses a target. It burst to life, arcing towards one of his boats. Conrad had keyed his microphone, his heart racing, and called out to warn the dropping marines.
Conrad’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Conrad’s eyes widened, and he stared horrified as the Reiten drone boosted towards its target. He opened his mouth to speak again, terror clawing at his throat.
No words escaped.
The drone closed in, the Marine boat dropping into the atmosphere on its pre-programmed course.
Conrad leaned towards his holotank, panicked. At last—as suddenly as it had failed him—his voice returned.
“Apex 21! BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!” Conrad shouted into his comms, his voice cracking with the strain. “Fox five—”
The drone collided with the marine boat like a hunter’s arrow piercing a fawn’s neck. The dropship disintegrated, taking eighty-five marine souls with it, its wreckage blossoming into a meteor shower above Eris’ ruddy surface.
The Terran fleet withdrew minutes later. Shattered ships were abandoned as vessels with still functional tachyonic space drives tunneled away. The “quick surgical strike” had become a rout so egregious that news of it spread like wildfire across the Union’s holo networks. Pundits shrieked, elected officials roared, and within hours the call was made: someone’s head would roll. Conrad realized with a growing horror that his moment of inaction had put him directly beneath the guillotine’s blade.
That was how he had found himself in court, his lawyer mounting a feeble defense. Conrad bore the disdain he received from the senior personnel numbly, offering no reaction as the court officers—including one Commodore Gerard Boucher—glared down at him.
Conrad had no illusions about what would happen next. At best, his career was over; at worst, his life was forfeit. Yet when he thought of the troops he had failed that day, he found himself welcoming either outcome. People had died because of his failure, and he had to pay for their loss.
It was just as Conrad had given up hope that Commodore Boucher turned and faced his fellow officers of the court.
“Guys,” Boucher started, that holo-famous half smile on his face, “come on. Who here hasn’t screwed up during battle?”
“We’re not the ones on trial,” Vice Admiral Bonesera, the senior sitting officer of the court, replied. He leaned back behind the raised dais and pointed at the holodisplays playing and replaying the moment that the boat had been struck, a grimace affixed to his weathered features. “His inaction cost lives.”
“It’s war,” Boucher countered, shrugging theatrically. “People die.” He cast his gaze down the line of officers around him. “Who here, when faced with the blood, the fear, the chaos of combat, hasn’t forgotten to close a vent, or charge a shield, or pull a trigger?” Each of Boucher’s charges was directed at an individual member of the court, and each man in turn shrank back.
Boucher’s eyes hardened, his public persona dropping to reveal the military man behind it. “And who hasn’t tried to speak, and couldn’t?”
Boucher halted the repeated tridees of the fateful moment, captured by Vanguard’s internal monitors, and placed it at the center of the court. Conrad looked up to see himself at his station—mouth open, his eyes wide—as the Reiten drone drew a deadly arc towards its target.
“I’ve done it,” Boucher continued. He pointed at Bonesera. “You have too, sir. I know because I was there when you did.” He jammed his finger at Rear Admiral Upper Half Cody, “And so did you.”
“Watch yourself, Commodore,” Bonesera warned. “Remember that you’re addressing your superior officers.”
“No, I’m addressing my brothers in arms,” Boucher retorted. He turned to face Conrad. “Of which Lieutenant Conrad is one.”
“Eighty-five marines died because of his failure, Commodore,” Bonesera challenged, leaning on Boucher’s rank. “Are you suggesting that we forgive that gross negligence?”
Conrad flinched at the words and he looked down, ashamed.
“No,” Boucher replied, his tone equally hard. “I’m suggesting that we keep an officer who, until this single incident, was an outstanding asset to the Terran Star Force.”
Bonesera’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“We’ve already lost eighty-five troops here,” Boucher concluded. “Do you really want to sacrifice another?”
Bonesera turned to his colleagues. Nothing was said, but Boucher’s smile at their reaction told Conrad everything that he needed to know.
Boucher’s argument worked. Oh, Conrad was reduced in rank to Lieutenant JG, lost his flight status, and was transferred—“washed,” as the TSF parlance went—over to the personnel office, but none of those punishments was as painful as the last. Per Bonesera’s orders, Conrad was ordered to contact the families of every marine who had been lost due to his inaction that day. To each he was ordered to personally apologize for his failure.
Three months into making those calls, Conrad decided that he would have preferred the gallows.
Eventually he made the final family call, and the war moved on without him. Conrad settled into his role as a personnel officer at the Corvalis Fleet Yards; by day helping troops deal with the myriad of issues they faced prior to shipping out, and by night losing himself in a bottle while counting the days until his tour of duty was up. Conrad’s life may have been saved, but his career was just as dead as those men who burned up in the atmosphere of a planet hundreds of light years away. Better to exit the service and make a new life far from his failure. At least then he could move on.
It was six months after the court had adjourned that Boucher showed up at his desk, his dashing grin creasing his features.
“Let’s grab some chow,” Boucher said. It wasn’t a request.
“Thank you, sir,” Conrad replied dutifully, and followed the commodore out to his waiting staff skimmer. Boucher had made small talk on the ride to the O club. (“How do you get used to the humidity here?” he said, mopping his brow. “Feels like I’m back in Mississippi!”) But eventually they arrived, a table waiting for them in a darkened recess of the officer’s club.
Once they were seated, Boucher came right to the point.
“You got lucky,” Boucher proclaimed.
“I know,” Conrad said. “Because of you.”
“Glad you noticed,” Boucher responded. He took a bite of his BLT and squinted at Conrad. “I hear you're getting out after your term is up.”
“Don’t see that I have a choice,” Conrad replied. “I’m never going to fly again, and I’m not cut out to ride a damned desk.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Boucher drawled, “but what a waste.” He smiled. “What if I could get your flight status back?”
Conrad’s heart leapt, but he just looked down at his plate, too frightened to hope. “I don’t see how that would be possible.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Boucher replied, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. After he finished, he leaned forward, his holo-ready demeanor dissolving to that of a driven Terran officer. “Look, you fucked up. You know it, I know it. But the reason you’re not spending the next thirty years shoveling mud at some Terraform colony is because everyone on that court fucked up, too.” He chuckled. “Hell, that whole fucking raid was Bonesera’s baby. You didn’t see him up on charges now, did you?”
“Admiral Reynolds was responsible,” Conrad corrected Boucher.
“That’s the official story, sure,” Boucher answered, “but it ain’t the truth.” He lowered his voice t
o a whisper. “You interested?”
Conrad sat back stunned. Is this happening? he thought. Can I find a way out of this nightmare? He looked up cautiously. “How?”
Boucher smiled. “You’re gonna be my ace in the hole.”
That’s when Boucher offered him the deal. Boucher would lean on the right people to get Conrad reinstated to flight status. The cost? “I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears,” Boucher explained. “Strictly off the books, completely secure.”
“You want me to spy on my shipmates?” Conrad asked, horrified.
“No, no, no!” Boucher answered, laughing. “This isn’t a daily report sort of thing.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, still chuckling. “No, when I need you, I’ll call. Until then, you just do your job.”
Conrad’s stomach tightened. “And if I don’t?” he asked.
Boucher shrugged. “Then you’ll never ride a T-space drive again.”
Conrad accepted the deal.
True to his word, Boucher got him reinstated to flight status. Within three months he shipped out as the SIGINT chief aboard the destroyer T.S.S. Roland. It didn’t take him long to regain his lost bar, and, over time, Conrad’s service made the disaster over HIP 72940 a distant memory. As the years passed, Conrad even convinced himself that the deal had lapsed, and that he had finally paid his penance.
Then, a handful of weeks earlier, as Hyperion spun placidly above Phelspharia, Boucher had reached out to Conrad. A short message, sent from the Admiral’s incoming task force on a secure T-space channel, asked for a status update. It was only then that Conrad realized that Boucher still owned him.
Now Conrad was torn between the man who had saved his career, and the friend that had brought him with her into the deep dark on a mission of pure discovery. That he wasn’t sure where his allegiance lay only made his guilt even deeper.
Acknowledgments
How do you thank people for helping you achieve a dream? Words are simply not enough, but for the time being they are all I have to offer.
Mom & Dad, you encouraged and pushed me from my first finished story.
Scott & Bunnie, you stood by my side during some of my darkest days.
Rainy, you let me bitch and moan when I had to vent.
Sam, you’ve kept me honest since I was eleven years old, and that support is now reflected in the name of my antigrav drives.
Matt reminded me that I could push myself further after I finished my Air Force tour.
Dave brought my older stories to life in a series of now long-lost comics.
All of these people always seemed to believe I would succeed even when I doubted it the most, and to them I offer nothing but my wholehearted gratitude.
My kids, Alex and Kate, deserve a bow. They endured their old man’s desperate attempts to remain creative during his time in IT, working on movie and TV sets alike while their dad staggered from one project to the next. That they have turned into the remarkable people that they are today is nothing short of awe inspiring, and for that I count myself blessed.
Melissa and the writing group (Kimberly Anne, Amy, and the others that popped in and out of our Zoom “accountability” meetings) kept me going during the annos horribilis that was 2020. Be it tips about publishing, listening to me rant, or just offering a friendly chat during the depths of lockdown, you offered me support and socialization in a time when we all needed it most desperately. Thank you for being there.
Trey, you kept me grounded, always asking the questions no one considered, and offering encouragement while our city burned.
Rick , you were my sounding board for the nine months it took me to gestate the first draft of this trilogy. Your input was critical to this story coming together, and your unfiltered responses served as both encouragement and warning. Thanks for listening, for supporting, and for just being there.
Finally, there is my wife, Kristi. She never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself. Her courage, her determination, her strength, and her love have made me the luckiest man alive for the past thirty-four years. She put her considerable editing skills to work on this piece, sanding off the rough edges while breathing more life to the characters and world with which she was entrusted. I am as awestruck by her today as I was when I first laid eyes upon her and I thank the universe every day that she has spent her life with me.
Here’s to the next two, books, folks!
A. L, Bruno, May 2021
About the Author
An Air Force brat and veteran, A. L. Bruno donned his first cadet uniform at the tender age of 14. A cum laude graduate of the University of North Dakota Honors program, he earned his private pilot’s license at 24 before a career that ranged from IT Architect to professional videographer. A proud father and ecstatic grandfather, he resides with his wife in Minneapolis, MN.