Santorum laughed a sickly, sputtering chortle. “Jerry Santorum is dead. He’s been dead a long time. Now … you’re about to join him.”
“You’re an imposter?” Shawn spat, the pain in his side worsening. “That’s not possible. Your fingerprints, your medical records, your DNA … that can’t be replicated!”
“Replicated?” Nova spat a mouthful of blood. “You humans, with your limited grasp of the universe. It amazes us that you ever managed to make it out of your home system, let alone thrive as you have.” He then lunged at Shawn, the shard in his hand coming down with a speed Shawn would have thought impossible with regard to Nova’s wounds.
Sidestepping the swipe, Shawn brought both of his hands together and slammed them into Jerry’s side. It sent him off balance, and using a little maneuver Melissa had recently taught him, Shawn did a flawless spin kick, his foot striking Jerry in the stomach.
But Jerry was faster. He grabbed onto Shawn’s leg with his good hand, then slammed the bloody claw of his other into Shawn’s face. Shawn could feel the cracking of bones under the impact—he just wasn’t sure if they were his or Jerry’s. When Shawn tried to deflect another hit, Jerry released his leg and landed a solid hit to the gash in Shawn’s side. Wincing in pain, Shawn went down.
“This is how you will all die. And, in time, so will end the Terran blight upon the galaxy!” Jerry grasped the shard with both hands and plunged down toward Shawn’s head.
Kestrel reacted quickly, rolling onto his side and out of reach of Santorum’s blade. The commander let out another kick from the ground, contacting Jerry’s knee and sending him scurrying across the ice. That was when Shawn realized that Jerry was now in the general vicinity of his own blaster. Shawn’s gun was still in his holster, on his right hip, which was now firmly planted in the snow. As soon as he saw Santorum leap into the snow, he knew the next few seconds would be the last for one of them.
Jerry appeared just above a small snow drift, his blaster aimed right at Shawn. The shot of the blaster rang loudly in the silence of the ice forest. It struck the ground where Shawn had been a split second before. Drawing his gun as he rolled, Shawn quickly took aim and fired from the ground, the shot hitting Santorum square in the chest and sending the lieutenant flying backward.
Rolling off his wounded left side and onto the welcoming softness of the snow, Shawn exhaled deeply. “I’m getting too old for this.” After a long moment, he pulled himself to his feet.
Shawn approached the fallen body with due trepidation. Jerry was flat on his back, his pistol several feet away, the hole in his uniform still smoking where Shawn had blasted him with a non-lethal round. Jerry’s eyes were wide with terror, and when Shawn cautiously checked for a pulse, he strangely found none. It was entirely possible Jerry had finally succumbed to his wounds, but it still didn’t make much sense. Holstering his weapon, Shawn sat down in the snow and retrieved the medical kit from a pouch on his flight suit. Tearing open his suit, he began the process of trying to heal the wound in his side before he passed out from blood loss.
%%%
It’d taken nearly four hours for the Duchess of York to ascertain exactly where Shawn and Jerry had jumped to, and a further hour before they were able to effect a rescue and retrieval operation. The Duchess herself had made the jump, along with a single cruiser for support, leaving the remainder of the Unified fleet under the care of former Rugorian pirate and now fleet captain, Ariah Voula.
The Duchess had sent down a pair of recovery craft, along with a handful of Marines to secure the crash site. They had found Shawn precisely where he had sat, passed out in the snow and slowly being covered by ice. Once he was stabilized, they took him and Jerry’s body on board one craft, while the other was used to transport the remains of Nova’s fighter back to the carrier. Shawn’s own fighter, parked some distance away, was ferried up by one of the copilots of the support ships.
Shawn awoke slowly to a blinding white light. He was thankfully no longer surrounded by the cold of snow, and was instead warmed by a heat radiating beneath his supine body. As his eyes adjusted, he could see a familiar face smiling down at him. It was Captain Richard Krif.
Okay. Now I know I’m in hell.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, hotshot,” Krif said.
“Do me a favor,” Shawn croaked.
“What’s that?”
“Either find a prettier face for me to stare at, or put me back under.”
Krif sniggered. “No such luck, Kestrel. Now that we’ve got you back, we’ve no intention of letting you slip away again.”
Shawn’s throat was dry, and he desperately needed a drink of water, no doubt the result of the medication the doctors were pumping into him. “Then, as I said before, a prettier face to look at.”
“That’s quite enough, Captain Krif,” a voice called from behind Richard. “If you’ll let me attend to my patient, sir.”
Shawn watched through blurry eyes as Krif stepped aside and was replaced by Doctor Ophelia Finly. “Well, I ask for a pretty face and I get one. Now, how about an ice-cold drink and a sandwich?” He tried flashing a smile, but the muscles in his face didn’t want to fully cooperate.
Ophelia looked down at him, her face a mixture of relief and humor. “I’m afraid I’m immune to your charms, Commander. However, I’ll take the compliment.”
“Am I … on the Rhea?”
Doctor Finly waved a medical scanner over his body. “I’m afraid not, Commander. You’re back aboard the Duchess.”
The Duchess? “Drake?” Shawn said, closing his eyes from the blinding light.
“He’s been stabilized. He should pull through nicely.”
“More than I can say for you,” Krif spat.
Shawn paid the words little mind. “Melissa?”
“She’s—” Finly began, but was cut off by Krif.
“You’ve really got a one track mind, don’t you?” Krif barked. “If you’re intent on asking about the health and well-being of every member of the crew, stow it. The person you should really be concerned with is yourself.”
“Doc,” Shawn implored Finly. “I’ve got terrible screeching in my ears … like fingernails on a chalkboard. Anything in your bag for that?”
She failed to mask the smile on her face, but continued to wave her scanner for a moment longer. “I’m afraid not, Commander. Captain Krif is here under orders from Admiral Hansen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get these readings to my computer.” She stepped away from his bedside and was replaced by Krif. However, before she was out of sight, Shawn heard Krif mention something about an autopsy being performed on Jerry’s body. There was a curt “yes, sir” from the doctor before her footsteps faded in the distance.
“So,” Shawn began after a cough. “What’s on your mind, Dick?”
Krif put his hands on his hips as he regarded the commander. “You look like crap, Shawn,” he said with a lowered tone.
“If you think that’s something, you should see how I feel.”
“I don’t doubt it. Care to tell me what went on down there?”
Shawn thought long on the entire incident, from the time he downed Jerry’s fighter to the moment he passed out. Mostly he thought of Jerry’s words, and how little sense they made. “I wish I could. I can’t make much sense of it myself.”
“Well, you’ll just have to be more precise about the details, Commander. The court will want everything you know.”
“Court? What court?”
Krif inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly. “The court-martial that’s being convened against you.”
Shawn’s vision suddenly cleared. He’d known something like this would likely happen. It was only a matter of time. He just wasn’t prepared for it the moment he got back on board the ship. He closed his eyes and swallowed, trying in vain to quench his parched throat. “When?”
“Doctor Finly says you’ll be out of sickbay by 0800 tomorrow morning. The hearing is scheduled for noon.”
“Tomorrow?” Shawn said in surprise. “That’s not a lot of time to get—”
“You’ll need to make sure it is, Shawn,” Krif said in an almost-worried tone. “There’s nothing I can do. Admiral’s orders.”
“What could you have possibly done?” Shawn said as he closed his eyes once again. Suddenly a large headache had come on. “Or wanted to do? I’m sure you’re jumping in your boots over this.”
“If it’s any consolation to you, I did request a stay on the proceedings. Even with that keen wit of yours, I don’t think you’ll manage a coherent paragraph in less than twenty-four hours. You’ll need to be at one hundred percent, or so help me they will hang you by your bootstraps.”
“Not possible.”
“Oh,” Krif said in surprise. “And why is that?”
“Bootstraps went out of fashion a few hundred years ago … about the same time as the yardarm, where they would likely have hung me from.”
Krif gave him a look of pity. “You never give up, do you?”
“Never seen a reason to do so before. Not much sense in starting now.”
Krif moved closer, to within the distance that a soft whisper could be carried on. “I wish … I wish there was something I could do. For what it’s worth … I think you did the right thing.”
Shawn turned to see Krif staring at him intently. “Okay, now I know I’m in hell. Did you just sanction something I did?”
“Santorum assaulted Sector Command personnel … Drake … someone I consider a friend. But more importantly, he took a shot at Roslyn … and very nearly succeeded in killing her. In my book, that little stunt alone sanctioned your … actions.”
Oh, God. I forgot about Roslyn. Shawn raised a hand and clutched at Krif’s uniform. “Is she—?”
“She’s fine,” Krif said, placing a gentle hand over Shawn’s and guiding it off his shoulder. “A little shaken up, but none the worse for the encounter. Resting comfortably in her quarters here on the Duchess.”
Shawn’s head fell back to bed in relief.
“To be honest, Shawn, I’d have done the same thing.”
“Meaning what?”
“Commandeered a fighter, short-circuited the launch bay doors, gone after and … killed Santorum myself.”
“That wasn’t my intent,” Shawn defended.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that, man to man, I think you did the right thing in bringing Santorum to justice. True justice. At least, the only true justice that matters between pilots.”
“I just wanted to talk to him … to reason with him. I needed to know his motives.”
“It’ll all come out in the trial. I’m sure of it. Until then, you’ll need to get your rest.” Krif turned to walk away, but pivoted back a few steps later. “I just wanted you to know, I’ll do what I can to make sure your sentence is … tolerable.”
“That wasn’t justice. That was a lynching … and I helped them.”
-Trent Maddox
Speaking about the court-martial of Commander Shawn Kestrel
Angels, Demons, and the Void: 100 Years of Interstellar Warfare
Chapter 7
Once Captain Krif had left sickbay, Doctor Finly reappeared to give Shawn a sedative. The next thing he remembered was opening his eyes to see two uniformed Marines standing near his bedside. Their short-sleeved light gray shirts were immaculately pressed, their decorations and accoutrements shining brightly in the otherwise dim space. The shorter of the two, a dark-skinned human, wore the rank of sergeant. The other, a muscular green-skinned Parusian, was a corporal. Both were armed, their pistols hanging in glassy holsters at their side as they stood at parade rest overlooking his bed.
“I don’t suppose either of you brought breakfast?” Shawn asked groggily. Neither of the two men moved so much as a millimeter.
“They’re here to escort you to your quarters, Commander,” a voice said from the other side of the bed. Shawn turned to see the Duchess’s executive officer, Commander Jeannie Bates.
“So I’m considered a flight risk?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s just say that Captain Ramos wants to be sure you get to where you’re supposed to be going without taking any unnecessary detours.”
Shawn nodded slowly, then turned to stare overhead. “Time to face the music.”
“You’ve gotten yourself into quite a fix, Shawn,” she said.
That’s the understatement of the year. “Yeah.”
“I understand Captain Krif was here yesterday.”
Shawn nodded slowly while pursing his lips.
“Did you discuss anything about this incident with him?” she asked in an unusually professional tone.
“No.”
“Did you discuss it with anyone at all? Doctor Finly, perhaps?”
Shawn turned to her. “I haven’t had much time to do anything, Jeannie.” There was a faraway look in his friend’s eyes. “What’s the matter?”
“This case … this incident … is considered a classified matter, Commander. You are under strict orders not to discuss it with anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
Shawn jerked his head in the direction of the Marine guards. “I don’t see how I could, not with these two around.”
Unmoved by his attempt at humor, she stared at him intently. “Do I make myself clear, Commander?” she repeated.
There was something troubling the normally jovial Commander Bates. However, with the two men at his bedside, Shawn knew that she was following orders that couldn’t possibly be questioned by him at this time. “Yes, I understand.”
“The hearing will commence in two hours. You have that long to prepare yourself.”
“To be perfectly honest,” he said, his side still irritated from the rather large chunk of debris Santorum had stabbed him with, “I’m not exactly feeling at the top of my game.”
“I’m afraid any discomfort you’re feeling is not going to be sufficient to postpone this, Commander. Doctor Finly has given you a clean bill of health.”
“Clean?” he repeated defiantly, causing the two Marines to twitch nervously. “I got the crap beat out me, not to mention I was stabbed. Then I nearly froze to death out there. Now, I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that entitles me to a little more rest.”
“Damn it, Shawn! It’s out of my hands.”
It was easy to see that this entire matter was not sitting well with the executive officer. Shawn sighed, as much from exhaustion as from frustration. “And my defense council? When will I meet with them?”
“You have no council.”
Shawn’s head cocked back in confusion. “Say again?”
“You have no council, Commander, as none has been assigned to you.”
He could tell by her tone that this, too, was a major thorn in her side. “Article 38 of Unified Sector Command Military Law states that I have the right to—”
“Article 38 has been suspended for this case, Commander,” Bates interjected, “per the orders of Admiral Hansen, and sanctioned by the special envoy to the secretary of Sector Command, Captain O’Connell.”
O’Connell? What the hell does he have to do with any of this? Shawn was aghast. “That’s unheard of, Jeannie. I have the right to—”
“No, Commander. You don’t. Not this time.” She then turned to the Marines. “Sergeant, please see that the commander is ready and at the assigned compartment on time.”
The Marine snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Saluting in return, Jeannie left sickbay without another word.
%%%
Donning his gray dress uniform, Shawn exited his stateroom to find the two Marine escorts still standing outside. The expressions on their faces were dead serious as they stared at a point on the far bulkhead. The rest of the corridor, normally bustling with activity, was eerily silent, save for the rhythmic humming of the Duchess’s mechanicals.
“Ready when you are, gentlemen.”
The sergeant stepped forward, with Shawn falling
in behind him and the corporal assuming the rear guard. They traversed several empty passages devoid of onlookers before coming to a lift that brought them up five decks. Exiting, they made their way to the starboard side of the carrier where they finally arrived at their destination, one of the handful of assembly rooms on board the ship. The sergeant opened the left side of the large double doors, which Shawn entered, followed by the two men.
The room was square, perhaps fifty feet on each side. Built into the far wall, about three feet from the deck, was an alcove with seating for three. This was where the presiding officials would enter the room. On the right wall was a large view screen, with an empty chair to its left and a stenographer’s desk to the right of it. There was a single metal table in the center of the room, with a single chair behind it; no doubt Shawn’s place. Against the rear wall, beside the door through which he had come, was a single row of six chairs for witnesses or general audience members. Save for himself and the two Marines, the room was completely vacant.
Knowing his place, Shawn stepped up to the central table and took a seat. As soon as he was in his chair, the side door opened, and a uniformed lieutenant entered the room, silently standing at attention before the alcove.
“The accused will rise to attention,” the lieutenant said formally.
As soon as Shawn was standing, Admiral Hansen entered, followed by Captains Ramos and O’Connell. The three senior officers took their seats in behind the long desk, with Hansen taking the center seat.
A series of three simulated bells were rung and the lieutenant spoke again. “Commanding Officer, 2nd Fleet, Salus Hansen, Admiral, Unified Sector Command presiding.” This was followed by another ring of bells.
“Be seated,” Hansen said, and everyone took their seats.
The lieutenant took a measured step forward, turned and saluted the assembled officers. “So begins the court-martial hearing of Commander Shawn Jason Kestrel, Carrier Wing Commander, U.S.C.S. Duchess of York, on this date.”
“Very well, Lieutenant Branson,” Hansen said, then looked at Shawn. “Good morning. Due to our distance from Unified Space, I’m reluctantly forced to take charge of the case now being levied against you, Commander. It is with a heavy heart that I do so, considering your otherwise stellar record in service to the Unified government.”
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