McClendon's Syndrome (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  Then Omura stood up to refute the bank’s case. Somebody may have had to dress him that morning and point him in the direction of the courtroom, but his arguments were brilliant. He demolished the bank’s case, point by point.

  He established that Confederation law precluded enforcing a civil court order which would cause a military officer to miss deployment, and that granting the bank’s motion for a temporary restraining order would destroy the foundations underlying the Confederation’s commitment to its own defence. He cited case after case showing that going up into the atmosphere to fight Rodents was not leaving the jurisdiction within the meaning of the rule. Since the “irreparable harm” the bank was complaining of consisted of me getting myself killed, he commented acidly on the bank’s failure to prove that this wouldn’t happen anyway the minute the Rodents showed up.

  Omura then proceeded to point out that the bank could produce no evidence suggesting that I wasn’t simply a salaried employee of Davie Lloyd Ironsides right up to the moment that the navy’s seizure of the ship extinguished the bank’s lien on the vessel; and he finished off with an offer of proof, consisting of Davie Lloyd’s documents, to show beyond a doubt that the bank had no underlying cause of action against me.

  He concluded with a rousing argument invoking the golden thread of the common law, the rights of man, God, mother, and the flag. The two or three court-watchers in the gallery clapped when he was finished, and the cameraman from the Schenectady Post-Dispatch caught it all on video.

  Magistrate Osman glanced at the documents on his bench and frowned. “In light of all the issues, I shall need to hear further testimony. This court will recess for twenty minutes.” He rapped his gavel.

  As I stood up, he fixed me with a beady eye. “Mr. MacKay, although I wish to assure you that this has absolutely nothing to do with this proceeding, I am aware that there is a very eminent personage who is at this very moment sifting facts to determine your relationship with his daughter. This was very, very naughty of you!”

  “I will keep that in mind, Your Honour,” I said, taking a deep breath.

  Since law hadn’t worked, it was time to try chicanery. “We need to put Clyde on the stand,” I told Omura.

  Omura scratched his head with a pen tip. “I don’t understand. His testimony is hardly relevant to these proceedings.”

  “Just play along.” I scribbled down questions to ask on a sheet of paper. “As a friend of mine would say, ‘Trust me.’ “

  When court resumed, Clyde took the stand. He was wearing his dress uniform and looked sharper than anybody who knew him would believe. After he took the oath and identified himself for the record, Omura bowed slightly and asked him, “Petty Officer Witherspoon, please explain what brought you and Ensign MacKay to this planet.”

  The bank’s lawyer bobbed up. “Objection, Your Honour! What has this got to do with anything?”

  “Petty Officer Witherspoon’s testimony is essential to show the nature of Ensign MacKay’s mission to this planet,” Omura said, trying to read my notes. “Your Honour, you can hardly rule on this motion without understanding the navy’s operational constraints.”

  Osman gave the bank’s lawyer a what-have-you-gotten-me-into-now look. The lawyer threw up his hands. “We withdraw the objection.”

  “Counsel, aren’t you skipping some foundation questions?” Judge Osman asked in a very small voice.

  “It will all become clear, Your Honour,” Omura said with a flourish, which was as close as he could come to admitting that he didn’t have a clue either.

  “Ensign MacKay was assisting Lieutenant Catarina Lindquist and me,” Clyde said smoothly. “We were investigating an interstellar drug-smuggling operation that involved money laundering and corruption of local political figures.”

  Omura reached into Clyde’s gym bag, pulled out a purple dashiki, and asked, “Do you recognise this garment?”

  Clyde grinned. “Yes. That was my working costume during sting operations.”

  Osman may not have recognised Clyde, but the dashiki was something else. His face turned a nice shade of grey.

  “What, if any, sting operations did you conduct?” Omura asked.

  “Objection, Your Honour! This line of questioning is totally irrelevant,” the bank’s lawyer protested, much too late.

  “Boy, shut up and sit down!” Osman barked. He added soothingly, “The witness will please be so kind as to answer the question. There is no need for him to go into any of the extremely fine, sordid details, however.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clyde’s eyes were dancing. “In the course of our investigation, we handed out marked money to at least one judicial official to alter the outcome of a case. I got some good pictures.”

  The guy from the Post-Dispatch was taking in every word.

  Before Osman could say anything, Omura commented quickly, “Your Honour, before we continue this line of questioning, I need to have the witness discuss the money laundering.”

  “A couple of big bearer accounts were being used to fund the Rodent drug-smuggling operations that Mr. MacKay broke up,” Clyde interjected without being asked.

  Osman duly chastened him for speaking out of turn while one of the bank officials in the front row clutched his chest.

  “Your Honour, may we have a five-minute recess? “ the bank’s lawyer requested, looking at his clients.

  “Your request will be honourably granted,” Osman said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

  As soon as we resumed, the bank’s lawyer requested a sidebar. Omura and I went up to the judge’s bench.

  “Your Honour, we would request a closed session, given the, uh, sensitivity of the testimony,” the lawyer requested.

  “Opposed, Your Honour.” Omura scented blood somewhere.

  “Well, Your Honour, it’s like this,” I said breezily, speaking out of turn. “I’m still part of a navy criminal investigation team. If I can’t be up there fighting Rats, I guess I’ve got to stay down here pursuing corruption and violations of the banking laws.”

  “Gentleman and learned colleagues in the law, I believe that I feel I have heard enough evidence to render a decision in this matter,” Osman said hurriedly. “It is very, very obvious that if Mr. MacKay wishes to do his bounden, patriotic duty, we should not let trivial matters of law stand in his path to glory and honour.”

  “Your Honour, my client has instructed me to ask if we could withdraw our request for a temporary restraining order.” The bank’s lawyer looked around nervously. “In fact, we are willing to withdraw our lawsuit, without prejudice.”

  “With prejudice,” Omura said.

  “Granted without prejudice,” Osman said, rapping his gavel. “This hearing is adjourned. Now please leave my courtroom.”

  As soon as everybody in the gallery started moving, Osman blinked at me. “Mr. MacKay, may I be so kind as to offer you one slight bit of friendly-intentioned advice? I would hint and suggest to you that you should consider departing, if that is your intention, with the swiftness of an eagle chick. And while I may be straying from my role of judicial impartiality, good luck, Mr. MacKay. Any man who wishes to go and get himself killed as much as you do deserves the opportunity.”

  I saluted. “Thank you, sir!”

  As soon as we got outside, Clyde went to get the car. I shook Omura’s hand and stuffed Catarina’s check into it. “Thanks, but I guess this means no law review article.”

  “Oh, I haven’t given up hope just yet, Mr. MacKay,” Omura said solemnly.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that ‘without prejudice’ business?” I asked suspiciously.

  “ ‘Without prejudice’ merely means that the bank can refile their lawsuit whenever they like,” Omura assured me as Clyde pulled up.

  “How nice.”

  The two guards on the shuttle looked dumbfounded when I showed up waving my court order.

  “We’ve been told not to let you aboard,” said the shorter one of the two as he attempt
ed to read the document upside down.

  “We’re going to have to call the sheriff,” explained the other one.

  “By all means. Do hurry.”

  While Clyde went on board to wake up the California Kid, I walked over to a bench and sat down.

  Jamali drove up a few minutes later and greeted me with a radiant smile as he stepped out of his car. “Mr. MacKay—or should I call you Ensign MacKay?”

  “Ensign MacKay, if you please. When do I board? I’ll even forgive your brother-in-law for the stunt with my uniform if it’ll hurry things along.”

  “Such impatience in the young.” Jamali said philosophically. “We must first dispense with the amenities.”

  “All right,” I said agreeably. “Are you having any luck bribing the voters, and have you recaptured Elaine?”

  “I prefer to think of it as permitting the citizens to observe my fitness as a candidate.” Jamali seated himself beside me. “As for your shipmate, Allah has willed otherwise. In Schenectady, an extra psychopath or two is not especially noteworthy,” he said with an air of indifference. “Did I by chance see you with a young woman at the mayor’s reception?”

  “Christine. The mayor’s daughter. It’s possible.”

  “Charming girl. Now I gather your purpose in departing so abruptly is to defend us from the Rodent hordes.”

  “Yes, I’m going to go get myself killed as soon as your boys there let me through. Would you care to see the court order?”

  “Ah, such youthful fire and impetuosity. No, I admit defeat. You may depart forthwith.”

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a box of cigars. “Even though you are not a voter, to show that there are no hard feelings, allow me to present you with a cigar for you to savour as a token of recompense while you wait for your shuttle to be fuelled.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t smoke.”

  “Everyone should indulge once, and you may not have other opportunities.” Jamali pressed it into my hand.

  “Well, why not?” I accepted a light from him and coughed a little as I got the thing going. “Thanks,” I said, wondering why people who weren’t brain-dead would do this on a regular basis.

  Jamali smiled. “Adieu, then, Ensign MacKay. May Allah guide your footsteps.” He exchanged a few words with his men and then drove off.

  I was looking for a good place to ditch the cigar when the taller cop walked over. “Excuse me, Ensign MacKay? There is an ordinance against smoking in public, sir.”

  “That’s fine. I was just looking for a place to put this thing out.”

  He clarified. “Sir, I am going to have to arrest you.” He slapped the cuffs on my wrist.

  “Hold it! Sheriff Jamali gave me this cigar.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what he told us,” the policeman said apologetically.

  I was still yelling, “Clyde! Get hold of Bunkie and get me sprung!” when the paddy wagon came and hauled me off.

  I briefly renewed acquaintances with Davie Lloyd, Bernie, Larry, and Joe. Joe didn’t want to talk to me—a fact he explained at some length. When the cops had arrived, they had refused to believe that he and Larry couldn’t get the door open. It had taken all of Lydia’s eloquence to keep the constabulary from shooting the place full of holes, and the lock was easily going to cost twenty dollars to fix.

  While periodically calling for the duty officer to fetch Sheriff Jamali, I amused myself by rattling the metal seal on my court order against the bars, pretending it was a tin cup. Since the fine for smoking in public was ten dollars, the duty officer was bright enough to figure out he had a problem and call Jamali.

  He brought the phone over to my cell. “Sir, would you please speak with the sheriff?”

  The viewscreen showed Jamali sitting in his car wearing an even bigger grin. “Ensign MacKay, how pleasant to renew our relationship.”

  “I want out. Now.”

  “Ah! Frank and open speech. How endearing,” he said.

  “Please shorten the small talk. I have a shuttle to catch.”

  “Therein lies the problem,” Jamali admitted. “The mayor will be greatly distressed if you depart, and who am I to stand in the path of true love?”

  “An elected official about to get sued,” I said grimly. “True love?”

  “Your beloved Christine. One must observe the proprieties,” Jamali said complacently. “You are slightly more respectable than the last two gentlemen for whom Miss Christine has conceived an attraction, and you have placed the mayor in an awkward public position.” He lingered on the word conceived.

  “My hands, unfortunately, are tied.” He spread them to demonstrate. “As your Saint Paul said, ‘It is better to many than to burn.’ “

  “Sheriff, most people I know do both. Let me try to explain.”

  I related my story, and Jamali stroked his chin. “I think her father suspects as much. The little dove is not speaking, and this is sufficiently unusual as to excite comment. However, I am sure that any omission on your part can easily be rectified. To salvage his daughter’s reputation, the mayor has made it known that an engagement is in the offing—if you will allow me a play on words, two engagements are in the offing if Rodents are indeed on their way—and it would not improve his chances of reelection if you were to depart hastily. As we speak, he is conducting a poll to discern what effect you would have as a prospective son-in-law. The results of the first poll were inconclusive.”

  I had the distinct impression Jamali was enjoying our discussion very, very much.

  It was time for what the infantry calls final protective fire. “Look, Sheriff—”

  “Please, call me Ragheb. You will say that you have a court order. I have my orders, as well.”

  “Ragheb—with my demonstrated proclivity for mayhem, do you really want me around here long enough to end up as the mayor’s son-in-law?”

  Jamali stared at me in silence for a moment and burst out laughing. “Mr. MacKay, you continue to display unexpected talents,” he said wiping his eyes. “Tell my henchmen to send you back to catch your shuttle, and may God go with you.”

  “Thanks. Could you, uh, try to square things with Christine?”

  “It shall be as you desire,” Jamali said, stroking his beard. “I shall find her a nice biker. Now, give the handset back to my worthless underling.”

  The duty cop listened to his boss for a minute, saluted, and then brought a car around to take me back to the shuttle. As the Kid was beginning his preflight check, I stepped through the door and slung my bag in the bin over my head.

  “I thought for a minute you were going to miss the party,” Clyde said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world—not this one, anyway,” I said grandly. “Let’s go, Kid. Time to take her up, again!”

  The California Kid gave me a glazed stare. “Up, down. Up, down,” he muttered to himself. “This job is beginning to be like work.” He looked back down at his board, perplexed. “Dude, what’re you packing? We are totally overweight. You have got some gnarly kilos here.”

  “Hold on.” I walked back, opened up the lockers, and said to the two young ladies inside, “Sorry, girls. We used up our quota for stowaways this month.”

  “Darn,” said the older of Dinky’s daughters.

  “I’ll tell your father you said hello,” I said, escorting them out.

  “Like, wow! How did you know they were in there?” the Kid said in amazement as they made their departure.

  Clyde burst out laughing.

  A second or two later, Dykstra walked on board, slammed her bag into a locker with force, and strapped herself into a seat.

  “Hello, Rosalee,” I said, lifting my eyebrows.

  “Hello, Ken. Just shut up, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay,” I said as the Kid fired his engines and took us up.

  Clyde said tactfully, “Rosalee, I think I can speak for Ensign MacKay when I say we’re glad you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Clyde,” Dykstra said. “Now, just
shut up about it.”

  Iron Ships and Wooden Men;

  or, The Good Ship Pinafore

  Catarina and Bucky were waiting for us at the entry port when we got to the Scupper. Catarina embraced me wordlessly, which made up for a lot of the trouble I had getting there.

  With Hiro’s approval, she had already revised our operational plan, which she explained as we walked toward the bridge.

  Standard navy doctrine was to lead with small craft, and Catarina was convinced that Genghis would send his armed merchantmen in ahead of his light cruiser. Catarina and I would manoeuvre the Scupper while Hiro commanded our little “flotilla” from one of the jump seats. Harry and Dinky would operate the missile launcher in Number One hold, with Annalee to operate the acquisition system. Clyde and Rosalee would take care of damage control. Piper had Kimball, Sin, and Trujillo on the space platform.

  If we could lure the Rodent armada into the minefield and take out one or both of the smaller Rodent ships in the confusion, we’d make the fight a fairer one and give Piper and her merry men an opportunity to shiver Genghis’s timbers by putting a missile or two into his cruiser. Spooner and the Kid would hang around the general vicinity in the shuttle in case there were survivors.

  Harry, Dinky, and Annalee had about three days left to train, and Catarina had them practising almost without a letup. I made the mistake of asking how they were doing.

  She slapped on the intercom, and we stopped in the corridor for a minute to listen to the three of them.

  “Marking, marking...” Annalee coaxed.

  Tracking a simulated target, Annalee’s acquisition system marked it with a twisting “cone,” which was a mathematical construct consisting of points in space where a launched missile would intersect the target’s projected flight path close enough to guide itself the rest of the way and hit.

  “Lost, lost, marking, marking. Get ready! Marking ...” she continued.