In Evil Times

by Melinda Snodgrass

  After one brief glance Tracy brought his eyes back to the judge. The rear admiral was frowning. The angle of the track lighting flared off the medals on his uniform coat and threw his face into stark relief. He seemed diabolical in the glow. His clenched jaw and frown added to that impression. Etienne was just finishing.

  “…Given the defendant’s service to the crown it was felt that merely cashiering Lieutenant Belmanor will be sufficient.”

  The admiral leaned over the bench and hissed, “I’m starting to feel like a fucking yoyo, counselor. You bring me an overwhelming amount of evidence that this defendant has stolen millions of Reals’ worth of equipment from the organization he swore to serve and now you want to let him off with a slap on the wrist?”

  “There’s been new… um… ah… issues have arisen.” Etienne almost seemed to whine.

  “Pressure from the palace, I presume?” the judge whispered.

  “I wouldn’t presume to say, sir.” The words were whispered through lips stiff with embarrassment.

  While the judge and Etienne were arguing, Tracy leaned in to Gurion. “Cashiered versus thirty years in military prison? Bet your ass I’ll take that,” he whispered. Of course he would be a disgraced former O-Trell officer with no job and no real civilian skills, but he wasn’t going to cavil.

  “It’s agreeable to us,” Gurion said loudly, interrupting the argument.

  The admiral flung himself back in his chair, tugged at his upper lip and frowned. “Well, it’s not agreeable to me.”

  “Oh shit,” Clancy muttered and a stone lodged in the pit of Tracy’s stomach.

  The admiral lifted his tap-pad. “This man stands accused of stealing over four million Reals’ worth of equipment from O-Trell, and he walks away with nothing more than a dishonorable discharge? An hombre accused of being intoxicated and flashing his dick at passing women would get that. I’ll let him walk, but only if he pleads guilty to a felony, and signs an agreement that he, his heirs and assigns have to repay the money owed to the crown and the service.”

  There was an audible gasp and Tracy realized he had made it. It was one thing to burden him with this impossible debt. It was another to lay it on his father. Blind rage swept through him, closing his throat, choking off words. He coughed and gave a furious head shake.

  “No! I’ll do the thirty. You are not laying this on my father. He’s blameless. I’m blameless too, but fuck it, you’re not going to destroy us both!” Clancy had grabbed his arm and seemed to be trying to say something, but the young JAG officer’s words seemed distant and muffled.

  There was a thud and a commotion from behind him. Malcomb’s voice bellowing, “Tracy!” He whirled to see his father being eased onto the floor by Father Ken. Tracy spun away from the bench and ran down the aisle to where his father lay. Drool was running down Alexander’s chin, the right side of his face was drooping, and his eyes were staring off to the left. The priest was loosening Alexander’s collar.

  “Looks like a stroke,” Ken said.

  “Dad. Dad. Can you hear me?” The eyes didn’t move, continuing to stare grotesquely off to the side. His father’s mouth worked and grinding, garbled sounds emerged.

  “I’m calling for an ambulance,” Malcomb said.

  “We’re on a military base. Our response will be much quicker.” It was the admiral who had left his high seat between heaven and earth and had joined the mere mortals. “Call for the medics,” he ordered Etienne.

  Tracy sat cradling his father in his arms while agonizing seconds turned into endless minutes. Then the medical personnel were there, loading Alexander onto a float, inserting an IV, giving him an injection. Tracy started to walk out with the float only to be grabbed by an MP. He spun, kicked the man’s leg out from under him, grabbed the restraining hand and bent it backward. The guard bellowed and sank to the floor. Father Ken grabbed Tracy’s shoulders, trying to pull him away.

  “Calm down. He’s in good hands. You go biblical on this guy you won’t be visiting your father.” The priest’s lips were pressed against his ear, breath hot and hurried, words tumbling out. Tracy released the MP, nodded and stepped back.

  Gurion, talking fast, walked with the judge as the admiral headed back to the bench. “Perfectly understandable… great deal of strain… his father…”

  Malcomb grabbed Tracy’s arm hard enough to bruise. “Take the deal!” His voice was low but crackled with command. “Your father needs you.”

  “I’ll be a criminal. He’ll be so ashamed.”

  Malcomb gave him a shake. The guards stepped forward only to be held back by Father Ken’s upraised hand. “He knows you’re innocent. But you refuse this plea you get sent off world. He can’t see you. That will kill him. Think, lad!” Tracy stared into Devris’s red, sweat-bathed face. Tracy’s emotions were too complex to analyze. He was frozen with indecision. “Eat their FFH shit and say thank you and you walk out of here. I take you to your dad. Come on, boy.” Tracy finally nodded and Malcomb released him.

  Clancy was at his side as they once again approached the bridge. “You’re making the right choice,” the young JAG officer said.

  “Shut up.”

  Ten minutes later it was done. They took his bars and stars right then. The journalists drifted away. One was whispering into his ScoopRing as he went, as was the SEGU officer. Tracy paused where the man sat in the gallery and leaned in. “Tell her for me that if my father dies I’ll never fucking forgive her.” The man’s look was impassive.

  The bailiff wanted to take him back to the station to collect his personal effects. Since that consisted of a handkerchief, the lip balm, an ear piece and a credit spike with maybe forty Reals on it, Tracy couldn’t fucking care less and he said so. Flanked by the businessman and the priest he left the courtroom.

  30

  GHOSTS AND SHADOWS

  Through the door came the muffled sounds of a hospital at work—hushed voices, the soft beeps of monitors and the occasional shriek of a medical alarm, moans from post-surgical patients being forced to walk the halls, PA calls for doctors. Sounds of living and dying. The doctors had assured Tracy that his father would be among the former not the latter, but right now he felt only fear. His father lay stiffly on his back, IVs running into his arms, nasal cannulas aiding his breathing. Because the oxygen mask had been removed Tracy could see the ravaged face, the drooping mouth, the sagging eyelid. Alexander slept but he was so still it seemed more like a coma than normal sleep.

  Tracy sat by the bed, hands folded between his knees. It was late. He knew in a vague sort of way that he was hungry and he should probably go to the hospital cafeteria and find something to eat, but he didn’t want to leave his father’s side. He didn’t want him to wake and find himself alone with his last memory of his son definitely demanding to be sent to prison.

  There was the question whether Alexander would even remember the events leading up to his collapse. The doctors had said they wouldn’t know the full extent of the damage for a few days, but Tracy knew this was his fault. He had caused this. Through bull-headed arrogance he’d brought his father to this bed in this hospital room.

  He reached out and gripped his father’s hand. The skin slipped beneath his fingers, and he felt every bone. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered. “But it’s okay now. I’ll be with you. Just like the old days. We’ll be okay.”

  There was a murmur of excited conversation outside, the rap of booted feet on tile. A grinding certainty washed over Tracy. He went to the door, drew in several deep breaths searching for calm then stepped outside. Mercedes, dressed in highborn-lady elegance, stood inside a wedge of fusileros. Medical staff were gathered at the edges of the palace contingent, dropping curtsies and offering bows. A few ScoopRings were grabbing pictures. Every face had an expression of awe. Emotions roiled through Tracy causing him to expel all the air he’d sucked in. Mercedes held out a hand.

  “Señor Belmanor, I came to check on your father’s condition.” Her accents were pure FFH. T
racy knew his role from the position of her hand, and the way her eyes brushed across him as if he wasn’t truly there.

  Tracy executed a deep bow, but refused to touch the outstretched fingers or offer the fantasy kiss that left lips hovering an inch above that gloved hand. It was a mark of condescension that she would offer her hand for the kiss. A public snub that he had refused. Realizing she looked foolish Mercedes pulled back her hand.

  “Highness. How very…” He sucked in a breath. Chewed at the word, fought it. Speech finally emerged as a throttled wheeze. “…kind.”

  “Your noble father made my wedding gown.” For a moment Tracy was confused, then he realized the statement was for the benefit of the star-struck staff and the few patients who had emerged from their rooms. Cover for why the heir to the Solar League was here to visit an ailing tailor. “Something I have not forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten either.” He raised his eyes, met hers in a challenge. “And my father isn’t noble. Or important.”

  “Every League citizen is important and valuable to us.”

  It was the royal We and they were having a conversation in code. Tracy felt whipsawed from the conflicting emotional currents. “There are moments when one does not feel that way, Majesty,” he gritted.

  “I understand.” Silence hung like a cobweb between them. “Might we see him?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “We will not disturb him.”

  “I think that ship has left orbit.”

  A couple of the guards shifted at the evident discourtesy and there were indrawn breaths from the staff. Mercedes would not lower herself to beg, but the dark eyes pleaded. He relented even as an inner voice railed that he was stupid, stupid, stupid. He gave a jerky nod and gestured at the door. He wanted to stalk through forcing her to follow, but despite the rage, and the sense of betrayal, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He held the door for her, but jerked his head at the guards. “I don’t—”

  Mercedes cut him off. “Of course not.” She nodded to the squad leader. “Remain in the hall, Captain Rogers. We won’t be long.”

  The door closed behind them. His father’s soft breaths and the beeps from the monitor were the only sounds. Tracy stood at a stiff parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. His fingers began to go numb from the force of his grip.

  “Say it!” Mercedes commanded. Her voice was low, throbbing with emotion.

  “Say what, Your Highness? What would you like me to say? Please instruct me. Having learned the error of my ways I’m only here to serve.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Tracy. Why do you have to be…” She gestured as if shooing away a swarm of bees. “So… impossible?”

  “I’m sorry if I have displeased Your Highness.”

  “You brought this on yourself!”

  His eyes slid to his father’s supine form. “Yes… yes, I did.”

  He stiffened as she grabbed his shoulders and gave him a furious shake. “Oh God, just yell at me. Something!”

  “I would not presume.”

  She thrust him away, paced. “You could have been brilliant. Had anything.”

  “Not everything.” It was hard to unlock his jaw enough to get out the words.

  “I had to marry him,” Mercedes said. Tracy didn’t trust himself to answer. She walked to the bed and looked down at Alexander. “What will you do?” He shook his head. “My advice. Get off world. Use your skills.”

  “I’m not abandoning my dad.”

  “I don’t mean right away, but once he’s recovered. I’ll see to him.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “You’re cruel,” she said.

  “I’m an amateur compared to you.”

  Mercedes walked back, got within an inch of his face. “I’m not going to apologize.”

  “Yeah, why would you?” He studied the way the light reflected in her eyes. Normal moisture or a hint of tears? Her hands opened and closed spasmodically. For a brief moment he thought she was about to kiss him. For one wild moment he considered begging her to come away with him. He didn’t. She didn’t. The moment passed.

  “Goodbye, Tracy.”

  The door whispered shut behind her. Tracy knew he had seen her for the last time. The room felt empty. His father was a fragile shell barely holding life. And Tracy—a ghost.

  * * *

  The apartment felt unfamiliar. It had been nearly seven months since he’d last stood at this front door. It was also hot and stuffy. Tracy kicked on the air conditioning. Fans whispered. There was no other sound. He called out for Donnel and got no answer. Even though it was stupid, Tracy found himself searching through the apartment. He went to the small bedroom that had housed the servant, thinking perhaps Donnel would have left some kind of message. The room was as anonymous as a hotel room.

  Unbuttoning his now bare uniform jacket, Tracy went into his bedroom. His ScoopRing rested in the center of his pillow. There was no sign of his medal. He cupped the ring in the palm of his hand then tried contacting the batBEM. Four calls got nothing, then on the fifth call he got a response. An automated message that this user is no longer in system. Tracy could understand why the alien had been AWOL when the court-martial was still underway, but it made no sense now. The trial was over and the alien stood in no danger of arrest. There would be no interrogation about the money he’d handled, at least not from the authorities. Tracy, however, damn well intended to get answers from his batBEM.

  Which brought Tracy up short. He was no longer an O-Trell officer. He had no right to a batBEM. Would Donnel want to work in the tailor shop or would he return to the High Ground to serve some new, young, hopeful (and hopefully) luckier cadet?

  Out of morbid curiosity he called Mercedes’ private number. Like the batBEM’s that number had also been dropped from the system. He seemed to be shedding people like a tree sheds leaves in autumn. Tracy toed off his boots and stripped down to his shorts, collapsed on top of the covers and let the cool air from the vents play across his bare skin. He should get down to the shop and see what orders were pending. Help out Bajit and the little Isanjo seamstress. Alexander’s next stop would be a rehab center. How soon he returned home would depend on his progress there, and they couldn’t afford to fall behind on the work.

  Get off world. Mercedes’ advice. Yeah, how the fuck was he supposed to do that? He should talk to Malcomb. Maybe he could get a job at one of the flitter dealerships; there were a number of them on various League worlds so he wouldn’t have to stay on Ouranos. Tracy pushed aside the brief flare of excitement. He couldn’t and wouldn’t leave his father. Maybe he’d meet someone. Marry. Have kids. Where there should be emotions there was nothing. Flinging an arm over his eyes Tracy wished Donnel had left the medal. It could have reminded him that once he had been somebody.

  * * *

  He awoke from a sleep he hadn’t intended to take. His tongue felt coated with fuzz and his stomach gave a growl. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Maybe that cup of coffee and a fruit bar from the machine at the hospital? He padded on bare feet into the small kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a carton of cottage cheese, half a muffuletta sandwich, and a couple of bottles of beer. He snapped the cap off the beer and grabbed the sandwich. He found a bag of chips in the cabinet and made a meal. His immediate needs having been met Tracy paced through the small apartment. There were holos of him as a kid, pictures of him in the circle of his grandfather’s arms. The old man looked angry. Tracy thought this younger him looked scared. More photos from his graduation from the High Ground.

  He pulled on a shirt, slacks and a pair of sandals and fled the sullen, grave-like quiet of the apartment. Maybe in the streets and cafés he could feel like life still went on.

  He found himself back in the old neighborhood. The tailor shop had become a beauty shop. In the window was a display of cheap and gaudy costume jewelry and rhinestone-studded barrettes and combs designed to hold a lady’s long hair, and multi-col
ored bangle cords to decorate a Hajin’s mane. The BELMANOR & SON sign had been painted over with a picture of a woman with flowing red tresses, but in places the paint had worn away and he could see shadows of the letters below. His dad hadn’t taken the sign to the new shop because that neighborhood didn’t allow for hanging signs. Too déclassé for the upper-middle class trying to pretend they were FFH.

  The sparkle of the rhinestones gave Tracy a sudden idea. It did seem the Cara’ot had a communication network. Maybe they could put him in touch with Donnel. He caught a tram down to the warehouse district on the south side of the spaceport. During his three years at the academy Donnel had brought him to the Cara’ot warehouse to pick out presents for the classmates he didn’t actively hate. Because of Donnel he got discounts on the goods. He hadn’t been back in years, but perhaps it hadn’t moved.

  It was broiling hot between the big buildings and the air was redolent with the scent of rocket fuel and softened asphalt. Forklifts floated past, loaded with containers off the ships, most manned by humans. Stevedore was a well-paying union job and aliens weren’t welcome. Especially since the Isanjo with their clever hands, feet and tails had pretty much taken over most of the construction jobs both for buildings and ships. Maybe I should apply to be a stevedore, Tracy thought with bitter humor. Puts me at least in the vicinity of starships.

  Most of the alleys between the buildings looked the same, but after a couple of wrong turns Tracy found the right door. At least he hoped it was. He knocked on the metal door and stepped back in surprise when it swung open. Since he knew the value of many of the items in the warehouse and the kind of locks that protected the facility this was, to say the least, surprising.

  He stepped inside. “Hello?” No answer, just the whisper of the air conditioning and humidifiers. “Anybody here?”

  A camerabot floated past. Tracy moved deeper into the warehouse. Items rested on sorting tables—objets d’art, medicines and jewels. Not the normal gemstones— those could be found on almost any world, and could be artificially created and were therefore valueless. These were Phantasm gems that could only grow in the gizzard of an extremely truculent flying female lizard that only existed on a particularly poisonous world in the Sidone system. They were incalculably valuable. On a table where it appeared that medicines were being loaded into syringes, Tracy found a shattered syringe, and broken bottles. He also found a clean room suit that looked like the wearer had torn it off. It was puddled on the floor like a cast-off skin.