by Peter Grant
“Yes, sir, although it’s administrative rather than criminal. A Fleet commanding officer is legally responsible for his ship. If his vessel is lost, an administrative court-martial has to decide whether he, or anyone else, is liable, or was negligent. If so, a criminal court-martial will follow. In my case, I’m entirely responsible, of course – I destroyed Pickle deliberately – but for what I hope the Fleet will agree are acceptable reasons.”
“I’m sure they will, and I hope they express their appreciation with something more tangible than a mere acquittal.”
Steve shrugged. “That’s as may be, sir. The main thing is, I survived to come home to my wife and children. That’s worth more to me than all the medals in the settled galaxy! I’m very sorry Peter couldn’t do the same; but by dying as he did, he helped to ensure the other diplomats and I would live. The Commonwealth should acknowledge that. I hope it does.”
February 9, 2852 GSC
The administrative court-martial for the loss of LCS Pickle opened on a gray, dreary day, moisture drizzling slowly from leaden skies. Steve would have preferred a more cheerful atmosphere.
The news of the fight at Athi had burst like a bombshell across the Commonwealth. No peacekeeping mission had suffered such heavy losses in more than a century. Solveig’s documentary had added fuel to the fire of public interest, and had already been nominated for a top journalism award. As a result, the news media focused on the court-martial with laser-like intensity. It had to be moved from a minor courtroom, which would normally have sufficed, to an auditorium seating five hundred. Over half the chairs were occupied by journalists. They were firmly reminded by the presiding Judge Advocate that they could not ask questions or disrupt the activities of the court in any way, on pain of instant removal from the proceedings. News cameras formed a line in front of the stage, on which the Court would convene.
Over half of Steve’s former ship’s company showed up to support him, resplendent in their newly-issued replacement Number One uniforms. They occupied a block of seats at one side of the auditorium, with Abha sitting in their midst, chatting animatedly to them during breaks in proceedings. Several waved to him as Steve marched onto the stage. He had to fight down a smile at the sight.
He stood at attention with his defense counsel as the five members of the Court took their places behind a long table. They were all Captains, senior officers with over a century of spacefaring experience between them. The Judge Advocate called the court to order. He began by emphasizing, for the news media’s benefit, that this was an administrative rather than a criminal proceeding. It would determine whether any charges were appropriate. If they were, a second, criminal court-martial would try those accused of wrongdoing.
To Steve’s surprise, the Court investigated every aspect of Pickle’s final voyage, not just the climactic engagement off Vellalore. His defense counsel explained to him that this was standard procedure, to ensure that no material defect or mishandling had contributed to the loss of the ship. It seemed a little superfluous in this case, but he supposed the niceties had to be observed.
There was a moment of amusement as Steve described their frantic rush to reach Athi in time to warn of the planned Kotai assault. He told the Court of the unorthodox measures used to recharge the ship’s capacitor ring in record time between hyper-jumps. Captain da Silva, one of the five judges, who was a senior engineer with the Bureau of Ships, was clearly alarmed.
“D’you mean to tell me you deliberately bypassed just about every precaution, safeguard and procedure the Fleet’s put in place to ensure the safety of its vessels?” he demanded incredulously.
“Yes, sir,” Steve said simply. “In my judgment, the need for speed outweighed every other consideration. I respectfully submit that the timely arrival of our warning at Athi proves I was correct.” He knew he was on safe ground there. General Attenborough and Commodore Singh had both said in their reports that without Pickle’s warning, giving them a precious few hours to prepare, they would have been taken completely by surprise by the Kotai onslaught, and probably defeated.
“How did you knock down the recharging time so much?” the engineer asked. Steve explained how the ship’s small craft had been connected to the charging circuit.
“You disabled the safety interlock between the inner and outer doors of your small craft airlocks? That was bloody dangerous!”
“I respectfully disagree, sir. It was potentially dangerous, yes, but not in practice. I took a command decision that the potential reward was worth the calculated risk. Again, sir, I submit that the outcome of our mission justifies that decision.”
“Who thought up this harebrained scheme?”
“I respectfully submit that it wasn’t harebrained, sir. Isn’t it a truism that if something works, it’s not stupid? This worked. In fact, it worked so well that I gave a Commanding Officer’s seniority award, and an immediate meritorious promotion, to the Petty Officer who thought of it.”
“Well… her approach was certainly very inventive. At least you didn’t give her a medal for disregarding every safety procedure we have!”
At that, Steve’s crew, who had all heard about his off-the-cuff remark at the time, burst out laughing. The members of the Court turned to look at them in astonishment at such a breach of decorum. Steve could only shake his head, even though he couldn’t help laughing too.
The Judge Advocate rapped his gavel for order. When it had been restored, he looked severely at Steve. “I can only assume that something must have happened on your voyage, relevant to Captain da Silva’s remarks, to cause such merriment.”
“Er… in a manner of speaking, yes, sir.”
“Was it germane to this inquiry?”
“Perhaps you should ask Petty Officer First Class Amalina Sin, sir.” Steve indicated her as she sat among her comrades. “She’s the one who came up with this technique.”
“Oh? Petty Officer, do you have anything to say?”
She bounced to her feet, quite unabashed, grinning broadly. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant-Commander Maxwell told me he’d normally have recommended me for a Fleet Commendation Medal; but given our safety violations, if he did that this time, BuShips would throw a frothing fit, sir.”
Laughter exploded through the auditorium. The journalists were laughing; his ship’s company were rocking with mirth; Abha was giggling uncontrollably; even the other members of the Court were unable to restrain themselves.
When the noise died down at last, Captain da Silva beetled his brows at Steve. “Commander, the Bureau can’t approve of such unorthodox and unauthorized short-cuts. However, we aren’t in the habit of throwing fits, frothing or otherwise. In fact, an improved version of this technique might be very useful.” He looked at Petty Officer Sin. “You can expect to hear from me very shortly. I want to know what you did and how it worked. If we can figure out a safer way to do it, and perhaps modify our ships accordingly, it might be a valuable backup charging mechanism for all our vessels, in case of main reactor shutdown. Thank you, Petty Officer.”
“Thank you, sir!”
He looked back at Steve. “I accept, and I professionally certify to this court on behalf of BuShips, that despite the risks involved, your unorthodox recharging techniques don’t appear to have damaged Pickle, and had nothing to do with what eventually happened to her.”
Steve exhaled in relief. “Thank you, sir.”
“Very well. Now, let’s get back to business!”
The climax of the inquiry came when Solveig’s recording of the final minutes on Pickle’s bridge, and in the lifeboat, were played back to the Court. There was deathly silence as they watched and heard Steve’s side of the conversation with Captain Butler, whose report had already been read into the record. They watched the mad rush of the bridge crew to the lifeboat, saw Pickle’s stern whip past its viewscreen and out of sight, and heard Senior Lieutenant Laforet tell the journalist about Steve’s intentions, and his final request to her. They saw the tears in her eyes, fai
thfully recorded by the journalist’s camera, and listened to the petty officer’s comment about Steve’s qualities as an officer.
When the playback finally ceased, there was a long, deathly silence in the auditorium. Glancing surreptitiously at his wife, Steve could see Abha was wiping her eyes.
Captain da Silva eventually asked, slowly, heavily, “Did you have any expectation of surviving those missiles, Commander?”
“I… I didn’t know, sir,” Steve said frankly. “It was a question of the odds. I knew that four of those missiles apiece had destroyed four Serpent class patrol craft, each of fifteen thousand gross register tons. Twelve Devakai missiles damaged beyond repair a destroyer of the Bihar Confederation, four times as large. My ship was thirty thousand tons – twice the size of a Serpent, half the size of that destroyer. Eight missiles were heading for her. I figured they’d be enough to kill her, but if I could bait some of them into following that message drone, Pickle might stand a ghost of a chance. As it turned out, four missiles hit her. She was so badly damaged she couldn’t be salvaged, but she absorbed it without blowing up, sir. That was just enough to let me survive.”
“And you figured out all that in the few moments before you headed away from Cavell?”
“I didn’t plan it specifically, sir. Those were just snippets of thought that ran through my mind as I prepared the ship. It was pretty much instinctive. I thought I was going to die, but Cavell had to be protected. No-one else could do it. That left it up to me, sir.”
There was another long silence. At last the Judge Advocate said slowly, “Do the members of this Court have any further questions?” No-one spoke. The five Captains merely shook their heads mutely. “Then I declare this Court adjourned, so that its members may consider their verdict. The Master-at-Arms will give ten minutes’ warning before we reconvene.”
He picked up his gavel and tapped it twice on the sound block, the noise echoing through the silence. Everyone stood as the Captains filed out. A low murmur spread, a quiet susurration, as the journalists began to discuss what they’d just heard and seen.
Steve took the opportunity to join his wife and former crew, sharing a cup of coffee with them all in the foyer as they exchanged news of who had been drafted to what ship or establishment. Most were satisfied with their postings, but many told Steve they wanted to serve aboard his next ship as soon as he was given one. He was grateful for their confidence in him, even though he was on tenterhooks waiting to hear the verdict.
It took only half an hour before the Master-at-Arms walked through the foyer, tinkling a small old-fashioned hand bell. Steve hurried back to the defense table, finding his counsel already waiting there. After ten minutes, the Judge Advocate led the five members of the Court back onto the stage, and rapped his gavel.
“This Court is once again in session. Have the members of the Court reached a verdict?”
The senior Captain stood. “We have. It’s unanimous.”
“Very well. Kindly read your verdict.”
The Captain took a sheet of paper from the table, coughed gently, and read. “This administrative court-martial finds that Lieutenant-Commander Steven Maxwell, Spacer Corps, Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet, acted correctly and with the utmost courage in using his communications frigate, LCS Pickle, as a decoy to safeguard a hospital ship, LCHS Edith Cavell, from enemy missiles. He accomplished his purpose of protecting from harm the more than two thousand souls aboard the latter vessel. In the process, his vessel suffered irreparable damage, and was therefore destroyed by means of a nuclear demolition charge, which he employed to remove any hazard to navigation posed by her wreckage.” Steve noted that no mention had been made of Pickle’s special intelligence-gathering equipment, or the standing orders of BuIntel’s Black Squadron that none of its ships were to be salvaged if their secrets might be revealed. Clearly, the members of the Court had been briefed in advance to avoid any such references.
The Captain continued, “Whilst his actions were the proximate cause of the loss of his ship, they were fully justified by the exigencies of the situation, and this Court considers them highly praiseworthy. He therefore bears no negligent or criminal responsibility for the loss of LCS Pickle.”
A cheer began to rise from the throats of his former crew, but the Captain held up his hand commandingly. He waited for silence to fall, then continued, “This Court directs that the attention of the Board of Admiralty be drawn to Lieutenant-Commander Maxwell’s self-sacrificial courage and outstanding performance, both of which it regards as far above and beyond the call of duty.”
He laid down the paper, and looked across the stage at Steve. “Thank you very much, Commander,” he concluded simply. “I hope and trust that your actions will receive the recognition they deserve.”
March 2, 2852 GSC
Steve ushered Abha into Brooks’ private room. As he closed the door, he heard his friend call, “Steve, you scrofulous Spacer!”
“Brooks, you mangy Marine! I must admit, your diet seems to be working. You’re half the man you used to be!” He waved at the flat bedclothes where his friend’s legs would normally have been.
From the other side of the bed, Carol groaned, “You’ve been waiting for a chance to say that, haven’t you?”
“Of course. What are friends for, if not to tease their friends?” He pulled up a chair for Abha, then took one for himself. “How are you doing, buddy?”
“Pretty well, all things considered. They’ve moved up my next surgery. They’re going to install my new heart and kidneys tomorrow. I’m kinda nervous about that, but the doctors tell me there should be no trouble at all. After all, they’re my own organs, cloned from my own tissue, so there won’t be any rejection to worry about.”
“I’ll be glad when you have a heartbeat again,” his wife said fervently. “It’s the weirdest thing to hug you, and rest my head on your chest, and not hear one! There’s just a faint whirring sound from that turbine they installed while waiting for your cloned heart to grow.”
“That’s Brooks – turbo-charged,” Abha quipped. As the others groaned, she went on, “Have they given you a timeline for the rest of your surgeries?”
“Sort of. They tell me the next bits to be cloned will be the really important ones – Mr. Happy and the twins.” Everyone laughed. “They said they’ll give those priority, because they’re good for Carol’s morale as well as mine.” More laughter. “While I’m getting used to being a man again, they’ll clone new legs for me. Those will take almost a year, because there are so many elements to grow in sequence, one after the other, from the inside to the outside. They’re still trying to decide whether to use the stumps of my femurs and attach the new bones to them with pins, or take out the old bones altogether and give me artificial hips to go with the new legs. It’s a question of which way will heal faster and stronger.”
“That’s a tough call,” Abha said seriously. “They reckon you can only have two hip replacements during your lifespan, and you’re not even a third of the way through yours yet. If they attach new legs to your old stumps, the pinned points will be permanently weaker than the rest of the leg. The hip replacement route will be stronger and safer, but then you’re going to have to avoid too much stress and strain on the hips, so that they last as long as possible before you need new ones. An artificial hip will last forty to fifty years under normal conditions, but Marine service isn’t normal. Whichever route they follow, I’m afraid your combat duty days are probably over.”
“That’s what I’ve been hearing,” Brooks agreed, his voice a little sad. “They’ll have to classify me as permanently impaired by anywhere from ten to twenty-five per cent. If they do, I doubt I’ll get a combat battalion command. My future postings are likely to involve staff work, administration and instruction, and I think I can forget about general’s stars, unless I get really lucky.”
Steve reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know you had big ambitions in the Marine Corps.”
&
nbsp; Brooks nodded. “Yeah, I did, but there’ll be other things. Considering that the only alternative to this was certain death, I reckon I’m actually pretty well off!”
Abha laughed. “Look at it this way. Our lifespans are a hundred and thirty to a hundred and fifty years. If your second set of artificial hips doesn’t last that long, you can make Carol push you around in a wheelchair, while Steve and I pull you over the rough bits. For that matter, we’ll hire a sled dog team. You can trundle along behind them, shouting ‘Mush!’ and cracking a whip over their heads as they drag you over the horizon, leaving us eating your dust.”
“Gee, thanks! You’re all heart!”
When they stopped laughing, Brooks asked, “What’s BuIntel doing with you these days, Steve?”
“Nothing much. I’m keeping my head down and staying out of sight. After the news broke about Athi, and then Solveig’s documentary aired, and particularly after the court-martial, people were stopping me in the street, wanting to shake my hand!” His face was a picture of dismay. “It was just too embarrassing. Commodore Wu understood how I was feeling, and put me behind a desk in the Black Squadron’s offices, helping with administration. I’m out of sight there, which is a lot more peaceful. He also says I deserve to relax after all that happened at Athi, so I’m working four days a week, then taking three-day weekends. Abha and I have been on a skiing trip, taken in some concerts, and spent a lot of time relaxing in front of the fire, toasting marshmallows with the kids.”
“And trying to keep the dogs from stealing the marshmallows off the forks, and burning themselves!” Abha observed, shaking her head.
“They’ve been a huge help,” Carol informed her recumbent husband. “Our kids sleep over at their house most evenings and weekends, to give me more time to spend with you.”
“So that’s how you’ve managed it! I thought you were hiring extra child care.”