Eight panelists sat to the right, each wearing the Class-A sergeant’s uniform of his or her original unit, not UN gear. All wore three chevrons up and three down. By the service record files I had read, all were not only senior NCOs, they were as frivolous as bricks. The witness chair was left of the hearing officer, a light colonel from Third Division who wasn’t a lawyer but who had presided at courts-martial before. The JAG swabbie prosecutor sat at a Duralumin folding table facing the presiding officer. Brumby, his appointed counsel, and I sat at a table to the prosecutor’s left.
Brumby’s counsel was Army JAG, older than I was and a permanent captain. He hadn’t been pleased that I chose a noncom panel or, for that matter, with his assignment to defend a sure-loser case.
The presentation of evidence wasn’t contested since the incident was on surveillance holo. Over and over, in slow motion and at normal speed, a slightly translucent Brumby laid a beauty on a slightly flickering Rat-nose. The only trouble was Rat-nose’s provoking comment was drowned out by the string quartet.
Mimi Ozawa appeared and testified to what Rat-nose had said. She took the stand starched and stiff in pilot’s powder-blue. Of over eleven thousand people on this ship, only the twenty dropship pilots, twenty copilots, and a few spares were true astronauts. That, most soldiers aboard thought, made them more technocrats than warriors.
The JAG swabbie tapped a stylus on the top edge of his notescreen while he questioned her. “Major Ozawa, you testified that the alleged remarks directed toward Acting Sergeant Major Brumby provoked him.”
“Yes.” Ozawa nodded. She never seemed to make eye contact with Brace. Munchkin said the word was Ozawa and Brace had once been an item. That annoyed me. I suppose because the idea of Brace enjoying himself seemed so unrealistic.
It certainly couldn’t have been jealousy about Ozawa. She was arrogance and dispassion wrapped in a pretty package.
“Similarly provoked, would you have reacted similarly?”
It seemed to my nonlegal mind that it didn’t matter whether a petite female technocrat would have decked Brace’s little squid or not. Ozawa’s job required her to control her emotions, to be icy calm at every moment. The truth, I had to admit, was that Brumby’s job did, too. At least to the extent of not pounding the snot out of people during brunch. I leaned toward Brumby’s counsel and whispered, “Object! She’ll say she wouldn’t have hit him!” The lawyer just whispered notes.
Ozawa had probably never punched anything more animate than a seat-harness release button in her life. She shifted in her chair. “No.”
The JAG swabbie nodded and the corners of his mouth turned up.
She smiled at him like he had just asked her to the prom. “I would’ve broken the plate across his head.”
I snuck a glance at the panel foreman, a female Transportation Corps topkick. I thought she smiled.
I had to cover my grin with my hand. Across the hearing room, Brace’s knuckles whitened as he gripped a chairback in front of him.
Otherwise, our testimony lacked the, well, punch of watching Rat-nose’s teeth splash down in Brace’s teacup.
The mitigation phase consisted of me reading the recommendation I had written for Brumby’s DSC and Purple Heart with cluster. One member of the panel shed a tear on his Marine gunnery sergeant olive lapel. Otherwise, I read no sympathy.
The restitution phase was new to the military. It made sense. If convicted, a wrongdoer had to make the wrong-ee whole. For our side, we found a Space Force dentist who testified that Rat-nose would actually have sounder, prettier teeth after the “assault incident.” However, a prosecution shrink testified that the victim had been traumatized by the violence. Rat-nose’s life would be “permanently impacted.”
I leaned forward and tugged Brumby’s lawyer’s sleeve, “Ask him if Brumby might have been traumatized by having half his shoulder shot away! Ask him whether having friends die in your arms before they even got old enough to vote for President permanently impacts your life!”
The captain leaned back and covered his mouth with his hand. “Sir, Sergeant Major Brumby’s service record was covered in your mitigation-phase testimony. The victim did not cause Sergeant Major Brumby’s post-combat trauma.”
“The hell he didn’t! Brumby’s career will be over if he’s convicted. What kind of traumatized life do you think any combat soldier can have as a civilian?”
The presiding officer shot us a “pipe-down” look.
The captain refused my clever legal advice and the defense rested.
“Rest,” my ass. My heart rattled in my chest and I breathed like a thoroughbred after six furlongs.
When the presiding officer had charged the panel, the eight stood as one and marched out to deliberate, like the by-the-book sergeants they were. Brace, who had sat behind the prosecutor, arms folded, for the whole proceeding, left. So did the prosecutor.
The presiding officer packed his ’puter case.
Brumby’s JAG captain busied himself shuffling papers, distancing himself from a case he knew was lost before he ever got appointed.
I told Brumby, “This is gonna take a while. Let’s get some coffee, Brumby.”
Brumby sat still and asked me, “Sir, will I get a Dishonorable?”
It was no time to speak the truth. I tried to accentuate the positive. “We can appeal, Brumby. The fat lady hasn’t sung.”
Brumby’s brow furrowed and his left eyelid twitched. “No, sir, she hasn’t. I mean, the panel hasn’t even returned a verdict.”
Crap. Before I could stop myself, I winced. I was supposed to be positive. But by talking about appeal, I had revealed to Brumby that I had given up hope. Giving up hope is a luxury denied officers in command.
“Sir, why did you choose an enlisted panel?” Brumby hesitated. “I’m not being critical, sir. Just wondered.”
I knew why. I thought I saw Ord twitch. I thought he had signaled me. I thought Ord was telling me to pick a panel of sergeants because they might think breaking regs was awful but they would also think that inter-service brawling was mere recreation. I didn’t doubt Ord. Ord could never be wrong. But now I doubted whether I had read his mind correctly.
I opened my mouth to explain.
The hatch through which the panel had left opened and the panel foreman beckoned the presiding officer with a finger. My heart thumped.
The foreman cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered to the presiding officer. He shook his head.
Maybe they just wanted instructions on a point of law. Maybe they wanted coffee and doughnuts.
Brumby stared at the conversation, then at me. He whispered, “Sir, if they’re back soon, that’s bad, huh?”
Brumby’s counsel overheard. He turned, lips pressed tight, and nodded.
Crap.
I patted Brumby’s forearm. “They probably just want instructions. It can’t be a verdict already.”
The presiding officer straightened and called across the compartment to the Space Policeman. “Advise the prosecution that the panel has reached a verdict.”
My heart sank. It had been just fifteen minutes since the panel retired. No eight rational people could agree on pizza toppings in just fifteen minutes. Eight individual sergeants couldn’t decide a soldier’s fate, his life, in fifteen minutes. Unless they were going to fry him.
I had read Ord wrong. I had stupidly chosen a panel of sergeants. Brumby was going to pay for my stupidity.
The longest ten minutes of my life dragged past, then Brace and the JAG swabbie and Rat-nose returned.
Everyone stood while the panel reentered from the deliberation room.
Brace glanced past me and Brumby, serene in the knowledge that Brumby was getting brig time and a dishonorable discharge. Just as good, I, the seat-of-the-pants accidental general, was getting embarrassed.
The presiding officer looked across the room. “Madam Foreman, has the panel reached a verdict?”
The Transportation Corps topkick stood. “We have.
” She didn’t make eye contact with any of us at the defense table. That was supposed to be bad. The rest of the panel stared ahead, impassive as the veterans they were.
The presiding officer swiveled his head toward Brumby. “The accused will rise.”
Brumby stood at attention, alongside his counsel. So did I. Even without my blunder, Brumby probably would have been convicted. What I thought I had read in Ord’s body language was that noncoms were used to brawls and Army noncoms were none too fond of prissy sailors. Bend a GI’s career because he cold-cocked a squid? Better to award him a commendation! It seemed so obviously stupid now.
I ground my teeth while the foreman unfolded a paper slip. Did she really need to write it down?
She cleared her throat. “On the issue of restitution.”
I rolled my eyes. Probably the last thing Brumby or I cared about was how much would come out of Brumby’s pay and allowances each month to compensate the Space Force for fixing Brace’s valet’s teeth.
“We find the accused responsible for the deductible portion of the assaulted party’s dental expenses.” Service personnel paid a couple cents by payroll deduction every time we got medical treatment.
“However, we further find said responsibility to be offset by the assaulted party’s responsibility for cleaning expenses for the accused’s uniform. By virtue of the assaulted party’s complicit behavior regarding the throwing of food onto the accused’s uniform.”
I had sat in on a couple of courts-martial. I had also been closer to participating as accused in more of them than I cared to. Empaneled NCOs generally knew little about the law but thought they knew lots. Of course, this restitution verdict meant vacuum, since they were going to throw Brumby out on his ear. After that, Brumby’s pay and allowances would be zero. Why had they even bothered to cut Brumby a break on the issue? My heart leapt. Maybe . . .
I glanced at the JAG swabbie. He frowned and shifted in his seat.
The foreman paused, then continued. “On all other charges”—she smiled at Brumby—“we find the accused not guilty.”
Breath exploded from my lips. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. Brumby hugged his counsel, who looked bewildered as well as uncomfortable.
Then Brumby, grinning, hugged me. “Sir! You always knew!”
I shrugged. Acting like you always knew was part of being an officer.
By the time Brumby finally released his shoulder lock on me, the panel was gone. Across the room, the JAG swabbie stared down into his notescreen as he folded it away. That was, I suspected, because he had figured out that my choice of a noncom panel had cost him the case. Also, I suspected, he didn’t want to look at Brace.
The JAG swabbie needn’t have bothered. Brace stalked toward the hatch, then paused and pointed at me. “Wander, you have just perpetrated a gross injustice. I’ll remember that.”
He slammed the hatch behind him.
My fingers trembled with exhilaration.
As soon as the festivities here wound down, I would find Ord and share the news. I was as happy that I had figured out what Ord had been telling me, that I had read his mind, as I was with the substantive result. Ord would turn handsprings.
Not exactly.
Eleven
I found Ord twenty decks aft of the court-martial, on a busman’s holiday from his divisional paperwork. A Third Division platoon sat cross-legged on their platoon bay deck as Ord stood before them brandishing an M-20. Across each soldier’s knees lay a similar rifle. They all wore utilities, but also bulky, red Eternad gloves. From the gun oil I saw on the gloves and smelled in the air, they had been at this a while.
Ord said, “The training-manual-established optimal time to field-strip and reassemble the vacuum-adapted M-20 Assault Rifle is one minute, fifty seconds. That time, however, was established for Space Force personnel. Can any squid field-strip the basic infantry weapon faster than an infantry soldier?”
“No, Sergeant Major!” Fifty voices bellowed and shook the deck plates.
I smiled. Timed field-stripping in Eternads? Eternad gloves were supple enough that a soldier wearing them could pluck a coin off a tabletop, but it was vintage Ord to demand that troops meet field-manual standards while wearing them. Especially troops bound for home and not into combat.
Ord glanced at his wrist ’puter. “Begin!”
Fifty rifles clattered and drowned conversation. I touched Ord’s shoulder, then leaned close. “Brumby was acquitted.”
Ord nodded.
“You should have seen the look on Brace’s face!” I grinned.
Ord frowned and turned his attention to his ’puter.
I cocked my head. Even from Ord I expected a thumbs-up, or at least a smile.
A private held up her reassembled rifle in triumph. Ord bent, checked it, and nodded. Seconds later, the fiftieth soldier thrust his reassembled weapon toward the low ceiling. Ord pressed his ’puter’s stop button, raised his eyebrows, then turned the dial toward me so I could read it.
The platoon stared at me.
I looked up, as poker-faced as I could, and waited a heartbeat. “One.” I smiled. “Forty-four!”
The soldiers whooped and slapped high-fives.
When the cheering trickled away, Ord said, “Outstanding! However, I heard a Marine platoon completed the exercise in one thirty-nine. Practice, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll try it again in ten.”
Ord led me around the corner into a platoon sergeant’s empty cabin, while the stunned platoon began breaking down their rifles yet again.
I said, “We never would have beat Brace if you hadn’t told me to pick noncoms, Sergeant Major. That was brilliant!”
Ord closed the hatch, then crossed his arms. He didn’t match my grin. “May I speak frankly to the general?”
Huh? “I wouldn’t want the sergeant major to speak any other way.”
Ord’s brow furrowed. “Beating Admiral Brace was not my objective. Nor should it have been yours. That tactic wasn’t brilliant. It was obvious! To any officer with a grain of sense and a few years’ experience! I think you have the grain of sense. Sir. I gave you the clue because you don’t have the experience, which isn’t your fault.”
“But Brace—”
“Admiral Brace should have seen it coming, too. But he’s a technocrat. Besides, he couldn’t have kept you from choosing noncoms.”
“You expected me to do it!”
Ord nodded. “I did, sir. Then I expected you to take the admiral aside, explain what the outcome would be, then use your advantage to work out an equitable solution. I did not expect you to undermine the relationship between the services, not to mention the relationship between you and the admiral.”
I jerked a thumb back toward the platoon bay, where rifles clattered. “You were just running down squids and jarheads!”
Ord paused, then nodded. “Fair point, sir. I’d have thought the general would understand the difference between a bit of fun and the absolute need for teamwork when the chips are down.”
Ord’s sergeantly idea of a bit of fun evidently extended as far as knocking out some squid’s teeth in a bar fight. But I took his point.
“Learn from this, sir. The next time you and Admiral Brace have to work together, lives may hang in the balance. Inter-service rivalry should end after the Army-Navy game.”
“Understood, Sergeant Major.” I said it solemnly. In fact, I believed it. But the truth was that once we got home Brace would swirl away from my ground-bound future like a gum wrapper down a flushed toilet. Ord had taught me a sound lesson, but an irrelevant one.
Other than that trial, the voyage home was what space travel really is: a boring, cramped prison sentence. Except convicts don’t have to inhale sour air that somebody else just exhaled.
Excalibur returned to her birthplace, orbit around the moon, 240 days later. She settled in like she had never left. I expected that whatever changes Earth had undergone during the five years I had been away wouldn’t faze me either, not a
fter what I had been through.
I was as wrong as hogs in skirts.
Twelve
Two weeks after Excalibur returned to lunar orbit, Howard and I stepped through Excalibur’s lock to board the V-Star Mimi Ozawa would pilot home. My troops had been first down, then Third Division, then Excalibur’s nonessential crew. Brace would be the last man off.
A red-haired Space Force enlisted man, using an old-fashioned bristle brush in the low-gravity, confined atmosphere, painted clear gel along the plasticine hatch seal.
“Does Admiral Brace ever get tired of making you folks paint?” I asked him.
The EM grinned. “The admiral is fond of his paint, sir. But this isn’t paint. It’s preservative. Once this V-Star clears this lock, we mothball the whole ship. When we go dirtside, Excalibur’s gonna have just enough power and brains left to park herself out here in lunar orbit.”
I shot Howard a glance.
He shrugged. “It’s no secret. You’ve been busy with division mustering-out paperwork.”
He was right. A twenty-four-year-old could no more keep up with even a skeleton division’s paperwork than a hamster could keep up with Yiddish. It was one more reason I looked forward to tagging dirt and getting shed of command.
We sidestepped through the umbilical companionway and over the hatch lip into the troop bay of Mimi’s V-Star.
Howard continued. “What did you expect them to do? It costs billions of dollars every month to keep a ship like this operational. Luna Base is getting mothballed, too.”
The fact was I had not expected one way or the other. I heaved my duffel into an overhead cargo net and shook my head. “What does it cost if the Slugs come back and we aren’t ready? How much is a city full of people worth?”
“It’s been almost three years since we destroyed the Pseudocephalopod presence on Ganymede. We have no evidence that anything’s lurking out there to be ready for.” He flopped into his seat. “Jason, you have more to get ready for back on Earth than the remote possibility of the continued existence, much less the hostile return, of the Pseudocephalopod.”
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