by Jake Elwood
Tom winced. It was his first confirmation that reprisals had happened. Well, his first confirmation aside from Hoskins's reaction in the concourse. Thirty was actually something of a relief. According to Amar's grisly formula it should have been worse. But still – thirty men!
By the look on his face Bentley wanted some sort of reply, so Tom said, “Sir, there were no options where nobody would die. I did what I had to do to save the men under my command. I couldn't just do nothing and watch them fade away.”
“Yes, you bloody well could!” Bentley's hand slapped the desktop, making papers and data pads jump. “You had clear, direct orders, and you disobeyed them!”
Tom shifted his gaze to the picture of the battleship, a toxic mix of emotions churning in his guts. Bentley was right. But he was also wrong.
When Bentley spoke again his voice was cold, controlled. “You are confined to Garnet Base until such a time as a court martial can be convened. A panel of officers will consider your case and decide your fate. Is that clear?”
Tom made himself meet the commodore's gaze. “Yes, Sir.”
“You are dismissed, Thrush.”
He wandered the base in a daze. Standing still was unthinkable. He walked, pouring the simmering energy of his emotions into exercise, his thoughts chasing themselves around and around with every step.
Every accusation that could be leveled against him presented itself to him, and every counter-argument he could offer in his own defense. An insistent voice from deep inside declared that he deserved a trial. He deserved to be convicted, and locked up.
But again and again he saw O'Reilly's face, drawn with pain, dying for lack of the antibiotics that lay just on the other side of the fence. Cooper, so young and full of life. Cooper a few days later, bedridden, waiting to die. Santiago, who he might have saved if he hadn't hesitated, shackled by Washington's impossible orders.
Thirty men, his conscience insisted. Thirty men shot down because of your rebellion.
Thirty men trapped in Camp One, he replied. Thirty men whose lives were forfeit. Dying slowly of starvation in a camp full of Red Fever, and working to strengthen Garnet's defenses until rescue would have become impossible.
And finally he set his guilt aside.
A fresh wave of emotion swept in. Indignation. A sense of betrayal. I'm finally out of prison and they're going to lock me up again. I'm just as helpless as I was on Gamor.
Gradually he became aware that he was no longer walking. He was standing in front of a café, watching through the front window as a news feed played on a giant screen inside. The feed showed emaciated prisoners shuffling through the concourse into Garnet.
Tom went inside, chose a booth, and waved his hand over the tabletop. He ordered a cup of coffee and found a list of newsfeeds. And listened to what the media had to say about the rescue.
His own role, he learned, was absent from the official storyline. Navy officials said only that they had “received intelligence” about a prison camp on Gamor. A Navy spokeswoman talked in glowing terms about the rescue operation, describing how a small fleet had reached the system undetected, how marines had swept in, destroyed the limited defenses in place, and hustled thirty-two hundred and seventeen prisoners onto shuttles.
The Navy was clearly milking the whole thing for propaganda value. It was a glorious success, brave men and women were rescued from a terrible imprisonment, they'd endured starvation and disease and random murder but now they were safe, and so on.
Tom watched it all, and a sense of outrage began to grow inside him. His career was about to be destroyed, he might even go to prison, just to appease the bombastic Captain Washington. Where Tom was concerned, the rescue of three thousand prisoners didn't matter. Only the thirty dead men counted.
But the story given to the media was the exact opposite. There was no mention of thirty men killed in retribution for an escape. That didn't mesh with the official story of triumph in the face of oppression. As far as the Bureau of Media Affairs was concerned, only the rescue mattered.
He watched and brooded and considered his options. He told himself he might be exonerated, cleared by the court martial and allowed to return to his duties. Deep inside, though, he knew it wouldn't happen. The absolute necessity of his decisions wouldn't save him. The Navy would convict him and bury him. It was over for Tom.
Unless he employed one more unconventional tactic.
He killed the feed, leaned back in his chair, and stared up at the ceiling of the café, thinking about what he was about to do. He was going to cross a pretty serious line in a moment. There would be consequences.
He thought about the trial looming in his future and sighed. He really was fresh out of things to lose. He tapped his bracer, scrolled through his contacts, and tapped an icon. Celeste Bennett's face appeared. He pecked in a quick message.
You're going to buy me a cup of coffee. In return, I'm going to tell you an interesting story about how all those captured spacers came to be rescued from Gamor.
Chapter 24
It didn't take long for the shit to hit the fan.
Tom was in a data café, looking at his own picture in a newsfeed, when his bracer chimed. He was summoned to the same waiting room as before, but the commodore didn't condescend to speak to him in person. Instead an overlieutenant called him into a meeting room and told him brusquely to sit down.
“Well. You're quite the media darling, Thrush.”
Tom shrugged.
The other man grimaced. “They need their heroes, and they've picked you. Congratulations. You won't be court-martialed.”
Tom couldn't help smiling.
“Your little media stunt might keep you out of Halston, but it's the last stunt you're going to pull with us. You're done.”
“Pardon?”
“You're cashiered,” the man said. “Discharged from the Navy. Your services are no longer required. Congratulations, you're a civilian.” He made a beckoning gesture. “Give me your bracer.”
Tom had known there would be consequences, but still, this was a shock. He clicked open his bracer, drew it off his wrist, and handed it over.
“We'll send you all the paperwork.” The man glanced down at the bracer. “You'll have to find a way to access it.” He smirked. “You have twelve hours to find yourself civilian clothing and return your uniforms. In the meantime, you will be escorted from the secure parts of the station. You are from this moment no longer a member of the United Worlds Armed Services. Do you understand this declaration?”
Tom thought it over. “Fuck off,” he said at last, and stood.
A marine joined him as he left the waiting room. The man reached for his upper arm; Tom twisted away. “Keep your hands off. I'm leaving.”
The marine shrugged and the two of them walked together through a maze of corridors to a lift. They descended, Tom's stomach sinking even faster than the lift. They walked to a secure entrance with turnstiles. “Thanks so much for the escort,” Tom said, and pushed his way through a turnstile and into the public part of the station.
And then he stood there, with no idea where to go and what to do next.
A data café gave him access to his personal bank account. He hadn't done much with his Navy salary. He hadn't had the opportunity. It was a tidy sum of money, though it wouldn't last long if he had to pay for his own food and accommodations. He would have to head back to Earth, he supposed. And how am I supposed to do that? Are there even ships that take passengers? Do I have enough to get there?
If I don't, what am I going to do?
He ordered a data device, a palm-sized gadget that would do pretty much everything his bracer had done. Then he leaned back and idly browsed the feeds while he waited for the device to be delivered. I never finished my architecture degree. Do I still want to be an architect?
What the hell am I going to do?
“Can I join you?”
Tom looked up to find Celeste Bennett standing at his table. He fought down a moment of
fury. She'd made this happen – but he had sought her out. It was his choice, not hers. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
She sat, smiling as if his invitation had been gracious. “The grapevine says you won't be court-martialed.”
He nodded, then grudgingly said, “Thanks to you.”
“I'm glad. You don't deserve to be locked up.”
“I'm happy somebody thinks so.”
“I take it the Navy's not too pleased with you?”
“The Navy is done with me,” he said sourly.
“Oh, I'm sorry.” She looked like she meant it, too.
He shrugged.
“They're done with me, too.” He raised a puzzled eyebrow, and she explained. “I'm officially frozen out of all official announcements and press conferences. I'm no longer allowed in the military-controlled parts of the station, and all senior officers have been instructed not to speak to me.” She gave him a wintry smile. “My interview with you was a pretty good scoop, but this is not a good day for my career.”
He stared at her, surprised to find himself feeling real sympathy. “I'm sorry to hear that.”
She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I wouldn't change a thing.” She grinned, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “In my line of work, if you're not pissing people off, you're not doing your job. You're not a real journalist until you've been slapped down.”
He grinned back, liking her in spite of a cynical suspicion. “So what are you going to do next?”
“Oh, I'll keep reporting on the war.” She smiled, all confidence and bravado. “I've got other sources besides the UW Navy.” Her voice changed subtly as she added, “For instance, I've met the President in exile of Neorome.”
“Really? I didn't know there was one.”
“There is now,” she said. “Her name is Brenda Schreiber, and she's been duly elected by as many exiles and refugees as she's been able to gather together. They accept her, too. She's got real legitimacy as the voice of Free Neorome.”
That was interesting, but Tom knew by now that Celeste Bennett never made idle small talk. She had an agenda. Instead of asking he looked at her, waiting for her to get to the point.
“I think Ms. Schreiber might like to meet you.”
“Me? Why?”
Bennett said, “Free Neorome has a navy.”
He didn't answer, just raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, it's not much. Not compared to the United Worlds Navy, anyway. But they have a bunch of armed freighters, the same ships that had you guys running yourselves ragged for the last several years. And they have a cruiser and three corvettes.”
Tom said, “Where did they get those?”
“One ship's a donation from the UW. It's an obsolete model. It took some minor damage in a skirmish last month, and your navy decided they'd rather replace than repair. I don't know about the other two corvettes. The cruiser's a captured Dawn Alliance ship.”
“No kidding.”
“No kidding,” Bennett said. “They've got ships. They've got willing recruits, some with experience on armed freighters, some with nothing more than patriotic zeal. What they don't have is experienced officers.”
Tom stared at her, his thoughts whirling.
“You don't belong in the UW Navy,” Bennett said. “You never did. Face it, you have the wrong mindset.” She grinned, and the piratical glint was back in her eyes. “But you have exactly the mindset the Neorome Navy needs.”
She stared at him expectantly, and he stared back with no idea how to respond. Finally she said, “Will you meet with President Schreiber?”
“Let me weigh that against all the other opportunities I have available to me,” Tom said. “Yes.”
Bennett smiled. “Excellent.”
“Is she here? The president?”
“No. But there's a ship's captain who has recently enlisted in the Neorome Navy. She'll take you to a rendezvous with the president.”
Tom said, “She?”
Bennett's smile deepened. “You've sailed with her before, of course. It's Alice Rose.”
“Ah.” Tom rubbed his jaw, thinking. He was making a life-altering decision. He was making it based on very little data, too. He should have been filled with misgivings, but when he examined his feelings, he found he was strangely at peace. “Where will I find her?”
“The Evening Breeze is docked at Gamma Nine.” Bennett stood. “I'll be seeing you, Mr. Thrush. I expect it'll be Captain Thrush when next we meet. I hope you'll have plenty of stories to share with me.”
“I might at that. Thank you, Celeste.”
She winked and walked out. Tom watched her go, and then he stood. Garnet Station held nothing more for him. It was time to find dock Gamma Nine. It was time to get back to the war.
Author Notes
The adventures of Tom Thrush continue in Rogue Navy, coming in June 2018.
Jake Elwood is a Canadian writer of science fiction, especially adventurous space opera with a dash of humor. When he's not at a keyboard he likes hiking and biking and sometimes kayaking on the Bow River. He is also the author of the Hive Invasion trilogy, beginning with Starship Alexander.
For more titles and releases by Jake Elwood check out his website. Sign up for his mailing list and get a free book: http://jakeelwoodwriter.com/