Galactic Council Realm 1: On Station

by J. Clifton Slater

  I was thrown back in the seat, once, twice, on the fourth jolt, I heard rivets popping around me. Then, all was quiet. Yellow ions flowed over the front shield and the Shuttle seemed to be in one piece. I looked at the gages. The Internal drive was in the red so I dropped its power. One clock was running like a hamster on a wheel while the other had slowed to normal time.

  The trip back to the cruiser was three hours under External drive so I had time to get some liquid into my patients. The two with busted up bones were older then you’d expect to find on a combat mission. Even, if it was a forward command post. My one-armed Marine was awake but in agony. I shot him with some joy juice, a pain killer, and he dozed.

  A check of the shuttle led me to a couple of new breeches in the hull. Once they were patched, I found the energy bars in my pocket. They were tasty beyond any I had ever eaten. You could attribute it to the ambiance of this dining establishment, or to the fact that I was still alive. In either case, the energy bars were delicious.

  Two hours and forty-nine minutes later I was sitting in the cockpit sweating. The trip meter read minus 11. I was focused on the clocks and the power gages. The clocks were hours apart and one power gage had minimal readings while the other was almost maxed out.

  The buzzer, when it was finally triggered by the trip meter, sent me into a mental flurry. I powered up the Internal drive. Once again the power gages swung back and forth never settling on an even keel. As I’d seen previously, one clock had slowed while the other was racing through hours by the millisecond.

  I powered up the Internal and dropped the External drive.

  Snap, snap, snap, the Shuttle jerked forward and was pulled back six time. Not as good as my first time piloting the Shuttle. Thankfully, when the ions cleared, we were still alive.

  “Flight Control to Shuttle 1, Flight Control to Shuttle 1,” the call came in and I breathed out a sigh of relief.

  Flight Control had reclaimed its job from Combat Control. I guessed the situation on the Heavy Cruiser had returned to standard operating procedures.

  “Shuttle 1 to Flight Control, I have a visual on the Tres el Fuerte,” I said and added, “Be advised I am not a qualified pilot. Need a little help here?”

  “No worries pilot, we have an auto guidance lock. It may get a little bumpy but we’ll bring you in,” the controller replied.

  I sat back and closed my eyes. Even closed I could still imagine the power gages bouncing and the clocks running out of time, both figuratively, and literally.

  The armed Marines that entered pointed their weapons at me and I raised my arms. I stood back from where I was checking the passengers and stepped away. Next in was a medical team and they soon had the three wounded on stretchers and moving out of the hatch. The armed guards motioned me towards the exit and I shook my head no.

  Marines on duty aren’t used to being countermanded so the next motion towards the hatch was more insistent. Again I shook my head no.

  “Sergeant Piran please exit the craft,” one finally spoke up.

  I was waiting for one to speak as now we’d gone verbal and I could say what had to be said.

  “I respectfully decline at this time,” I stated looking from one Marine to the other, “I will not leave until the heroes of this miss guided mission have been properly tended to.”

  My eyes and theirs slid down to where the bodies of the pilot and the crew woman sat still in their harnesses. There was a commotion at the hatch and a Navy officer charged in.

  “Let’s go people, clear this shuttle. I’ve got crews standing by to clean up this mess,” he said gesturing around and finally pointing towards the hatch, “Move it Marines. The Navy will handle it from here.”

  “No Sir, they will not,” I stated, “Until my crew has been tended to.”

  “Your crew? You are not a pilot or an officer and this is not your shuttle,” he said, “Marines remove this man.”

  Apparently his word on the flight docks was the word from on high and I’d just incurred the wrath of said god.

  Each Marine guard stepped to the side of a dead Marine and snapped to attention. They hadn’t said a word. Their actions spoke for them.

  The officer mumbled something about insubordination and stubborn Marines as he stormed out of the hatch.

  “That went well,” I observed.

  The Marine guards, I believe, let a slight smile crease their rock solid expressions.

  I left with the guards once our Marines had been removed by another medical team.

  Chapter 8

  In the Judge Advocate Generals, or JAG, offices where I was escorted after a long intelligence debriefing, a Marine Captain held me at attention in front of his desk.

  “Sergeant Phelan Oscar Piran these are the charges against you,” he stated as he read from his view screen, “One, not being at you gun station as your ship called general quarters. The charge is Missing a Troop Movement.”

  Not a big charge, possible a reduction in rank, and a forfeiture of a month’s pay. I could live with that charge.

  “Two,” he continued, “For leaving your position as a gunner on GunShip 7, the charge is Desertion in the face of the enemy.”

  Oh hell! That’s a big one. It carried a punishment of me being busted to Private and a possible Bad Conduct Discharge.

  “Three,” he said warming to the task, “Unauthorized use of Council equipment and impersonating an Officer during said use.”

  What? That was really stretching the facts. I guessed the dock officer had to have his pound of flesh from my butt.

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense?” he dared me to be a smart ass so he could find another charge.

  I didn’t fall for the bait, “No, Sir.”

  “You will stand trial in three days,” he said, “until then you are restricted to your quarters, the mess deck, and the recreation deck. Are these instructions clear?”

  “Aye Sir, I understand,” I assured him.

  It wasn’t too bad as I had avoided the brig. With my room, food, and the ability to burn off the frustration of my stupidity for chancing a joyride, I was in good shape until the trial.

  The first day I slept. Must have been the stress of my first and only sole flight or, that people had been shooting at me. In either case, I slept.

  The next day after a big meal to make up for the lack of food on day one, I strolled to the gym during third shift. It was early morning. I picked the time because the place would be mostly empty. Other than one young guy in the gel track, I had the deck to myself.

  I did until Takeru rolled into the gym. The same sadistic fighter who had injured Khadija and left an opening for me and my stupid stunt.

  “Piran right?” Takeru asked while cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, “You know that my Commander on the docks is pretty upset with you.”

  “Along with a lot of other Officers,” I replied, “He’ll have to stand in line.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said moving so fast I didn’t have time to block the jab to my chin.

  My head snapped around and, his fist in my ribs dropped me to my knees. Perfect because his knee caught my chin and I flew back and landed on the hardwood decking. Now I had a splitting headache, hurting side, and there was ringing in my ears.

  “That enough for your officer?” I mouthed, not sure if the words actually came out clearly.

  “Not near enough,” Takeru sneered. I think I mentioned that he was sadistic. “Get up, I haven’t even worked up a sweat yet.”

  He stood back and I climbed to my knees trying to clear my head. In a hand to hand contest, he out classed me like a thousand to one. If I stood he’s put me down again. If I stayed down, he’d most likely kick me to death.

  The young man from the gel track finished and quickly gathered up his stuff. He made for the far side of the room and began edging towards the far hatch. When he passed the nearest exit, I was puzzled. He looked familiar but I was too fuzzy to place the face.

&n
bsp; “I haven’t got all night Marine and there’s a lot of movers I need to practice,” my assailant taunted me.

  Well, it didn’t matter if I showed up at the courts marshal a beaten mess. It might get me a sympathy vote from the panel. Before I could push off the deck, a pair of fighting sticks came sliding to within an arm’s length of my hand. Now I recognized the guy from the gel track. He’d watched some of us spar with fighting sticks. Now he’d done me a favor before rushing out of the hatch.

  The fighting sticks were made of heavy wood about 71 centimeters long and 2.5 centimeters around. There were two of them and while not cutting weapons, they were hard hitting.

  Did I mention that my parents were Druids? From an early age, our Clan’s kids played with fighting sticks. Long before the children were allowed to touch the duel short swords of the adults, we’d beaten each other raw with the sticks.

  “Hello friends,” I said scooping up the heavy sticks.

  “I’m not your friend,” Takeru said misunderstanding my words.

  “Not you,” I stated standing and swing the sticks around in a pattern.

  He lowered into a fighting stance while I increased the speed of my motions.

  “There are nine angles of attack,” I informed him as I stopped the movement.

  “Head strikes left and right,” I said demonstrating with one stick then the other simulating hits to the side of an imaginary head.

  “Elbow strikes again left and right,” I continued by showing the strikes to the elbows of an invisible man.

  “Knees, left and right. Vertical up strike to the center of the body followed by a downward strike also to the center of the body staring with the head.”

  He was bouncing now getting ready to launch his attack. From this distance, I figured it would be a kick. His right leg shot out snake quick. I had been waiting for it.

  I stepped into the kick so it just brushed my hip. I drove the point of the right stick into his stomach.

  “Basic strike nine is a jab to the center of the body,” I said.

  He was muscular so the jab didn’t do any damage. It did, however, back him up a step. Perfect, two quick strikes to his neck disrupted the blood flow to his head. Then, I was all over him with basic strikes before he could recover. As he moved left, I hit him on the right, he dodged right, and I hit him on the left.

  I had a lot of bottled up issues that night and I should have ended it quickly. Instead, I began a series of patterns, quick strikes that flowed from one stick to another with almost no time between hits. The faster I moved the more blistering the damage to my opponent.

  I’ve got to give it to him. He didn’t go down fast. He absorbed a lot more damage than he should have. Finally, he dropped into a fetal position and screamed, “Stop, please stop.”

  I stopped, leaned down and said, “Are you sure, I haven’t even broken a sweat yet.”

  “Yes, enough,” he begged.

  Did I mention my parents were Druids?

  The next morning at my quarters someone buzzed for admittance. At first I thought, maybe a friends of Takeru, or a guard to arrest me for last night’s workout. Not having any choice, I opened the hatch.

  A short Druid entered. Now you might think me a bigot for casting dispersions on a person who lacked height, but then, you wouldn’t know much about Druids. There were short Druids however, this one was extremely short.

  “Asthore’ Druid,” I said in greeting.

  “Sergeant Piran, good day to you,” the young girl replied. She swept into the room in full robe with small fighting sticks on her belt and a watering dish strapped to her slim shoulders.

  “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” I asked.

  She looked up at me from under the hood and I saw hesitation in her eyes. Not from fear of me, rather, she was afraid of failing in her mission whatever it was.

  “When do you leave for the homeland and Ritual Training,” I asked softly.

  “In two months,” she replied slowly than loosening up she asked, “You know of the Druid ways?”

  “I know the beginning and the middle. Of the final, I know only what any outsider is allowed to know. You have words for me?” I asked.

  “I, sir, do have these words,” she said with an eight-year old’s aplomb, “As second shift dawns, you will face a trial with three Druid judges.”

  Ouch, one Druid judge was normal. Two judges were bad news for a defendant. Three Druid judges, and you could be tossed out of an airlock, and nobody would question the sentencing.

  “At the judging you will make no statement,” she continued, “you will offer no defense nor explain any action. Others have spoken for you, and all is set in stone. Thus ends my words for you.”

  “Nicely delivered young lady. I have no doubt that you will be a worthy Druid,” I said knowing she didn’t have any answers to my questions.

  “Good day to you Phelan Oscar Piran,” the short Druid said. Actually, she was a pre-student Druid, but at this point, I had more important things to worry about.

  “Fair travels and all the best on your Ritual,” I replied.

  She lowered her head and swept out of my quarters leaving me with orders not to mount any defense. Trust in the system, or in the Druid’s way, are not something I have in abundance.

  Two hours later, I was back on the JAG deck but not in an office this time. I was standing in a courtroom as three tall Druids shuffle in and took seats.

  “Sergeant Piran, do you have anything you’d like to say?” one of the Druid judges asked.

  Okay, it was the moment of truth. Do I explain, beg, or ask for leniency? And who had already spoken for me? The judges peered out from under their hoods waiting for me to speak up and spoil the surprise. Or, to shut up and, let them get on with the judgment.

  “I, Phelan Oscar Piran, Sergeant in the Galactic Council Marine Corps,” I paused to consider my next words, “have nothing to add to the court’s proceedings.”

  There my fate was sealed by my own words. For better or worse, I waited for the judges to file out and pretend to deliberate. They didn’t.

  The Druid judge on the left stood and stated in a droll tone, “On the count of Missing a Troop Movement, the court finds Sergeant Piran guilty.”

  It was a lesser charge; I could live with it.

  The center judge stood and said, “For the change of Desertion in the face of the enemy, the court finds.”

  Oh hell! Here it comes.

  “Sergeant Piran, Culpable.”

  What did that mean?

  The final Judge stood and spoke, “On the count of unauthorized use of Council equipment and impersonating an Officer, the court finds Sergeant Piran, Guilty.”

  Oh this was getting better and better. I was apparently guilty, culpable and guilty. Now comes the hammer.

  The center Druid stood up to pass sentencing, “Sergeant Piran, it is the court’s decision that you are to be discharged from the Galactic Council Marine Corps. No further punishment is mandated. You are dismissed.”

  There it was. I was no longer a Sergeant of Marines. No career, no leading troops, nothing but, I couldn’t think. A Marine Captain took my arm and led me out of the courtroom. He guided me to the hallway and instead of facing me towards the exit hatch, he turned towards a suite of offices.

  “Please go in Mister Piran,” he said as we arrived at hatchway.

  I stared at him, Mister Piran, ah a civilian title, because I was no longer a Sergeant.

  “Aye Captain,” I said softly.

  Inside were two senior officers in wheel chairs. They were the two older men from Combat Shuttle 1. They looked no better with wire cages and plaster casts on their limbs then when I picked them off the deck and harnessed them to their seats. Now that they were out of their flight suits, I could see one was a Marine Corps General and the other a Navy Admiral.

  “Mister Piran, please come in,” the Marine General ordered.

  I march in, snapped to attention, and saluted.r />
  “Oh, sorry Sir, I forget saluting isn’t proper, is it?” I asked.

  “Piran, you’ll make a fine pilot,” the Navy Admiral said returning my salute.

  “Pilot Sir?”

  “What you did for us and the Galactic Council Realm you’ll never truly know. Let’s just say that you ruined a perfectly good ambush set by some ambitious Pirates,” the General explained.

  “For that and your bravery which can’t be reconciled with your disobedience of a direct order, we’ve made other arrangements,” the Admiral said, “Welcome to the Navy.”

  “As my last official act as your Commanding General, I order you to proceed to the transportation dock. From there, you’ll board the Clipper, destination, Naval Flight School,” the General ordered.

  “Dismissed and thank you, Ensign Piran,” the Admiral said making go away motions with his good arm.

  I was numb, confused and startled by the Marine guard waiting for me outside the office.

  “This way, Sir,” she said, looking me in the eyes with a do not even think about questioning my orders glare.

  So of course I did, “My quarters are the other way. I need to get my gear and it’s that way.”

  “Your personal possessions have already been transferred to transportation dock,” she assured me.

  “In that case Marine, lead on.”

  “This way, Sir,” she said pointing me towards the nearest exit hatch.

  We emerged a few meters from our destination. As we were walking to the air lock, Commander Hiroki Daiki, the Executive Officer for the Tres el Fuerte, stepped in front of me.

  “Give us some room,” he said to the Marine.

  The guard faded away like all well trained Marines when given a soft order. I was sure, as I watched her glide back, the exact opposite was true if the order was to go hard.

  “Mr. Piran, I wanted to see you before you left,” Commander Daiki said leaning towards me, “because you need to know, or rather forget a few things.”