Taken Liberty v5

by Steven H. Wilson

  "Well," sighed Darby, "that's not so bad, is it? It maintains cordial relations with the Varthans, while providing –"

  " – While providing the impression that the Confederacy gives a damn," finished Carson.

  "Yes. What? No! Really, Mister Carson! I'll not have that disrespectful tone directed at the Council or the Admiralty by one of my officers!"

  "Captain," Five said gently, "if I may?"

  "Yes, Mister Blaurich? Some courteous, military decorum would be welcome."

  "Only it seems to me that, with the media already here, you have an excellent opportunity to bolster both our ship's public image, and the Council's."

  Darby clapped him on the shoulder. "Quite right, Sestus!" He wagged a finger at the other three midshipmen. "You young people are wanting some decisive action taken in this case, of course. Well, I'm going to show you action, yes I am."

  Kaya wrinkled her brow skeptically. "Really?"

  "Really, Mister Atal. I," he finished ceremoniously, "am going to call a press conference."

  * * *

  Atal stood with Mors, Celia Faulkner and Darby by the dais Darby had erected for launch day. For his press conference, the Deputy Captain had had Blaurich scramble some of the casuals to reassemble it.

  "Are you sure you don't wish to address them yourself, sir?" Darby asked Atal, for what must have been the sixth time. "It is Captain's privilege."

  Atal smiled beneficently. Darby did protest too much, he thought to himself. The man was clearly dying for this latest opportunity to jump before the holo cameras, and was terrified his Captain would take it away at the last minute.

  "I've no desire to address them, Mister Darby. I am delegating that unpleasant task to you. That is Captain's privilege."

  "You're very droll, Captain, really. I am honored."

  While Darby ascended the dais, Celia leaned into Atal and whispered. "Is he really as dumb as he pretends to be?"

  "Dumber, I think," replied Atal. "But, if you mean, 'does he really think I'm doing him a favor,' I doubt it. He's too shrewd."

  "Really, Captain, why are you allowing this? You were wise to keep these paparazzi locked out of the military areas – and out of the loop on Aer'La's case. Why this reversal?"

  "Because they're going to publish 'news' whether we give statements or not. It's better if we do. We stand a chance of some kernel of truth getting through that way."

  Celia gave a derisive snort. "I doubt it. Not even the slightest kernel of truth slips by these carrion. They eat it all and then vomit out raw sewage."

  "Agreed. But this circus sideshow is what they came for. I can't deny them outright. So I feed them Darby, whom they adore."

  "Yet you refuse to speak yourself."

  "Because I know a better man for the job." He pointed to Mors.

  "I'd deny it," said Mors without looking back at them – of course he knew everything they were saying –"but I despise false modesty. Besides, you'd know I was lying."

  While Darby made his opening remarks to the throng of eager reporters gathered about him, a decidedly non-journalistic onlooker appeared at the other side of the dais. It was Harl, grinning obsequiously at them.

  "What the devil is he doing here?" Celia demanded.

  "I'm not altogether sure," said Atal. "And I thought you didn't believe in the devil."

  "I didn't, till I met him."

  Harl appeared to listen with decided interest while Darby finished his opening remarks. Then the Deputy Captain descended to stand next to the Varthan. This pairing made Atal's blood run cold.

  It was Mors's turn next to speak. After Darby had introduced him, a hush fell over the crowd. Normally, they would applaud any dignitary, but people seemed to know instinctively that the elder Phaetonian would value silent reverence more.

  Mors smiled genially at his audience, adding a pleasant "Good afternoon." Then he folded his hands in front of him as though meditating, and said, "Captain Darby has already issued a statement on behalf of Captain Atal and the Titan. It outlines the facts in Aer'La's case. Since you're all still standing here, however, I assume you want to know more. As a scholar – and longtime participant – in Confederate history, it would seem I am in a position to provide insight." He spread his hands. "What would you like to know?"

  "It there still slavery in Varthan Freespace?" called out the clearest voice.

  Mors nodded. "I believe we must admit there is. In addition to the testimony of Master Aer'La, there have been several incidents on the Varthan border in which Confederate nationals have been implicated in abducting Confederate children for the Varthan slave market. I know that Captain Atal's crew on the Arbiter personally handled one such case. There are others."

  "Then why is the Arbiters' Council denying slavery exists?" called another voice.

  "I don't believe they have denied it. They've simply remained silent while the Varthan Trade Union has denied it. And that, my young friends, is the darker side of politics."

  "Professor Mors, you've met the girl. Have you questioned her?"

  "I've spoken with her."

  "Is she a murderer?"

  "She says not."

  "Is she lying? I mean, come on, sir, you would know."

  "I believe I would, yes. And my scans of her thoughts indicate that she believes what she is saying."

  "Yes," said an impatient voice, "but isn't it also true that these creatures minds work differently than ours? And that they can make themselves believe what they want to?"

  Mors frowned. Not an angry or displeased frown, but a contemplative one. It suggested he was giving ample consideration to the question. More than it deserved, perhaps. This was the expression he often assumed when another person said something blatantly stupid or offensive. Atal knew it well. He had, more than once in his youth, said something Mors had found blatantly stupid or offensive.

  "To say that one mind 'works differently' than another is to make a statement which does not contain much actual information," said Mors. "Each individual mind is unique, and thus 'works differently' from others. Some minds are more logical, some more artistic, some more literal..."

  "Yes, but you know what I mean," said the reporter.

  Mors shook his head sadly. "No, I really don't. Even a telepath can't know what you don't know yourself. You have a loose understanding of how your mind works, and you believe Aer'La's doesn't meet those parameters. You have no idea what those parameters are. You are relying on a feeling that she is a lesser life form than yourself, more bestial, less ethical –"

  "Are you calling me a racist, professor?"

  "I do not label any person. I am attempting to explain to you your own thought process. If you find it racist, then you have passed judgment on yourself." He paused and directed himself to the entire assemblage. "These... creatures... parallel humanity in every way that counts. Varthans are humanoid, if not human. Anyone can be conditioned to believe something that isn't true. Even a Phaetonian. If this is the case with Aer'La –"

  "I'm afraid, sir, that it is the case."

  The assembled heads turned to the source of the voice. Harl stood, looking up at Mors, his body poised in a confrontational stance.

  "Captain Harl," said Mors softly. "Perhaps you'd like the opportunity to explain that statement."

  "I would very much," said Harl. Not awaiting further invitation, he stepped up beside Mors on the Dais. It was a tableau of striking contrasts, the Varthan trader, resplendent in his leathers and silks, swaggering, against the old scholar, plainly garbed and unassuming in manner.

  The Varthan faced his audience and bowed low.

  "Oh, give me a break," muttered Celia.

  "My good people," said Harl, "I am not so eloquent a speaker as your professor here. I am a simple businessman, a private detective. It should not be my place to dispute the word of so grand a gentleman as Professor Mors."

  Harl bowed again, this time to Mors.

  "But," he went on, "I feel I must bring the truth to light.
The feral – Aer'La – is lying. I know this to be true, for I have seen the evidence with these – my own eyes – of the grisly thing she did." Here he pointed to his eyes, as thought there might exist some doubt on the part of the audience as to where the eyes were, and to whom they belonged.

  As he had in Atal's office the day before, Harl produced his hologram of the alleged murder victim. At the touch of a button, her sweet, innocent face looked out at the crowd. Harl took a moment to enlarge the image and chase it upward, so that it was visible to all, floating over his head.

  "I ask you to gaze for a moment at this beautiful face," Harl said sadly. "Her name was Treva Maklyn. She came to Den two days before her fourteenth birthday. She didn't live to see it. She bled to death on a street in Den's market district, her throat cut. As an additional indignity, her dying body was hurled into the path of an oncoming car.

  "She came to Den with her biological mother and her mother's lover. They wanted to do some shopping before her birthday party. Wanted to buy a pretty dress for her to wear when she celebrated her first public coupling with a boy she'd promised the honor to. The dress she picked was too expensive, but it was her big day. Her mother couldn't say no to her. She was so young, and life needed to be perfect for just a little longer...

  Harl stopped and dabbed at his eye with a gloved hand. "Imagine," he lamented, "imagine this fragile blossom, come to buy some trinkets to make her party special." He waved his hand over the crowd of young and beautiful inworlders. "Coulda been any of you here. Sweet, unsuspecting child. And everything woulda been all right, if only she hadn't had the misfortune to meet up with a born killer. A predator. A psychopath who preys on innocence.

  "I speak of the animal that claims to be bos'n of this very ship in which we now stand. Aer'La, she calls herself." His eyes darkened, his voice lowered. His audience listened, enraptured. "Understand, my good people, that whether you or I like it or not, there are those who are dealt a bad hand in the game of life. Those who cannot rule their own instincts, cannot conquer their own fears. It's not their fault. It's fate which called the dance in which they spin uncontrolled, a dance of lust, murder and self-destruction."

  "Oh my gods!" Celia whispered. "The bastard is a rhetorical genius!"

  "Most con men are," observed Atal.

  "The creature has misled these worthies aboard your grand ship, the Titan. They believe she is their friend. Like the decent folk they are, they stand by her as a comrade, little suspecting... the horror of which she is capable. I wish I could tell them it was all all right. I can't. I can only show holographs of a murdered child, her jugular vein slashed by a fragment of glass which the feral rooted out of the garbage. A coroner's report, testifying that the wound was made and began bleeding before the body was struck by the car, and that the wound in the throat was the cause of death. Genetic test results which show the feral's blood on the glass shard – put there as it cut her own hands while she cut the child's throat. That blood mixed with the innocent blood of her victim on the fatal glass.

  "And I can share with you the testimony of one Captain Miles of your own Confederate Navy. Once master of the good ship Arbiter. His words describe the feral when she was found, stowed away in the hold of his ship, still wearing the tatters of the delicate, pink frock Treva Maklyn was to gently lift from her tender flesh to offer herself to her boy. 'Twas for the dress, and the remaining money she'd carried when she'd bought it, that the creature Aer'La killed Treva Maklyn."

  Celia hung her head. "Oh sweet goddess... safeguard this poor child from the evil of this world."

  Atal placed a supportive arm about the physician's shoulders. For one of the few times in his life, he wished his own path had led him to the faith Celia could muster in the existence of better beings, and of their willingness to visit justice and healing on a suffering humanity. He wished he could bring himself to believe, as she could, that such divine intervention was possible for Aer'La. He could tell that Harl's words had moved this crowd of jaded reporters to a near righteous frenzy. They wanted Aer'La brought to justice, or they wanted her dead. They wanted vengeance for the killing of one of their own. And they would visit that feeling onto the public which consumed their words and images so eagerly. That public would also lust for action against this evil.

  It would be as if the very stars themselves cried out for Aer'La's blood.

  Chapter Ten

  Arrested

  Atal and a team of his officers – Metcalfe, Cernaq, Carson and Kaya – waited on the boat deck for the arrival of Admiral Fournier's party, a grudging honor guard. Atal had left Darby and Blaurich standing watch on the command deck. He couldn't stomach their privileged, inworlder snobbery just now. Metcalfe piped the Admiral aboard. Ordinarily, this would be the bos'n's duty, but Aer'La was still confined. It had been all Atal could do to keep Harl away from her until Fournier arrived.

  The official pleasantries of requesting and granting permission to board were exchanged, and then Fournier clapped Atal on the shoulder formally.

  "Captain Atal, as senior ranking officer present, I am informing you that I am assuming command of this vessel. You and your officers will stand down until further notice."

  Before Atal could reply, Fournier turned and called up the gangway to his ship, "Sergeant of the guard, commence lockdown!"

  Two dozen Confederate Marines, encased in full, obsidian battle armor, each wielding a pulse rifle, cascaded down the gangplank two by two. The first six broke formation, one coming before Fournier and saluting, the others going to stand, one for one, before Atal and his officers. The remaining marines stood at attention.

  The marine in front of Atal stiffly transferred his rifle to one hand, saluted, and then held out his hand to the Captain. "Your sidearm, sir."

  Atal looked to Fournier. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "Sergeant," said Fournier, "time is of the essence. We'll omit the formalities."

  The Sergeant nodded to his troops, who seized the pistol grips on each of the pulse guns which hung, holstered, on the hips of each of Titan's officers, and extracted them. Only Metcalfe attempted to resist, shooting a hand out to grip his weapon before the marine did. Impassive, the soldier seized the midshipman's hand and wrenched it painfully backward.

  Fournier stalked over. "Stand down, Mister Metcalfe, or he will break your arm."

  Metcalfe relaxed his arm in the marine's grip. The man let it go and claimed his weapon. "Admiral Fournier, I protest your treating my officers in this manner!" Atal barked.

  The Admiral moved to him, motioning the marines back into formation. "I am now commanding this vessel, Atal. This is an emergency situation. I am here to take a fugitive into custody. Because your crew has behaved downright mutinously in this matter, they have been labeled potential sympathizers with a hostile. I am therefore not bound by the ordinary restrictions.

  He turned to the other officers. "The marines are authorized to use maximum force in securing the prisoner. Resistance – any resistance – will be dealt with with extreme prejudice. If any of you attempt further violence or active resistance, no questions will be asked about the force used against you." He leveled his eyes with Metcalfe's. "Nor will these soldiers hesitate to kill."

  "Admiral," said Atal stiffly, "be advised, per section thirteen, article 27 of the Navy Code, that a grievance will be –"

  "The Arbiters Council is expecting your grievance, Atal. In fact, I believe they've already completed their response to it. Your border patrol heroics end now, ladies and gentlemen. You are officers in the Confederate Navy, and it's high time you started behaving as such." He turned back to his entourage. "Seal all sections and place guards at every main bulkhead. No casual traffic will be allowed. Normal ship's business will be conducted only with the explicit, documented authorization of Captain Atal, who will serve as operational deputy. All personnel will be required to carry their orders with them. Any violators will be arrested and held indefinitely, pending court martial."

&nbs
p; At the sergeant's call, dozens more marines in formation flooded the boat deck, fanning out to seize and hold Titan.

  "You and your officers," Fournier said to Atal, "will accompany me."

  * * *

  Aer'La lay on her bunk, attempting to watch a holo. Doc Faulkner had told her that, above all, she must stay relaxed. Aer'La had never known how to relax. If she wasn't working, she was engaging in active recreation with a shipmate. Her fellow Arbiters had stayed with her pretty much since her confinement began, but now were required to meet Admiral Fournier's party.

  Fournier was here to take her off Titan, and back home... back to Varthan Freespace. An ironic name, she thought, since a large number of the Varthan population who lived there were not free. Nor would she be free, but maybe for a few more hours. She was a realist. There was nothing the Captain or Mors would be able to do, no matter the faith Metcalfe and Cernaq might have in them. Nor would Cernaq's grand plan to witness for her amount to anything. The masters had the power, as they always had. Right or wrong were not at issue. Only power mattered.

  She tried once again to clear her mind and focus on the holo drama she'd downloaded. At any other time, she might have enjoyed it. Now...

  The hatch to her cabin opened quickly. Any welcome visitor would have knocked. Aer'La suspected this visitor would be anything but welcome. She jumped up from her bunk and poised herself for action, the bunk between herself and the entrance.

  Heavy boots thudded hard against the deck as two armored marines entered, one with pulse rifle raised and seeking a target, the other holding a pair of handcuffs at the ready.

  "Your name is Aer'La?" asked the woman with the rifle.

  Aer'La did not answer. The woman's companion punched up an image from his palm implant. He studied it, compared it to his victim, and nodded. "That's her."