Declination

by David Derrico

  Alexis gripped the pillow in frustration. “What can we do?”

  Ryan shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Nothing, I’m afraid. The trial is set to begin in a few hours. Plus, we’re needed out here. And the Confederation is so overextended right now, they probably couldn’t spare a transport to get us there. What could we do anyway?”

  “I don’t know … testify for her? I know we don’t know what happened, but we could be character witnesses at least. We served with her for five years.”

  “I’m sure the one thing Ana has going for her is that Daniel probably knows her character better than any person alive. Character witnesses are the one thing she won’t need.”

  The room was silent, and even Alexis’ ever-present aura of optimism seemed to fade tangibly from the room. She rested her head on Ryan’s shoulder and gripped him tightly with both arms. “I just feel like everything’s falling apart, Ryan,” she muttered. “I’ve never felt so helpless before.”

  Ryan kissed her pallid forehead and squeezed her tightly in return. “We do seem destined to live in interesting times. But we’ve been through them before, and we’ll get through these as well.”

  “I know,” she whispered, trying in vain to make herself believe the words. “I know.”

  . . . . .

  Dex stared hard at the viewscreen, the starlines streaming toward him. He knew Wright had wanted to court-martial him, if not for his actions at New Berkeley, then definitely for those at the briefing. Yet, while Anastasia was facing the Ethics Committee, he was many light-years from Earth, on his way to the fringes of Confederation space. Though Wright had explained that he was not being charged for his role at New Berkeley because he was following Captain Mason’s orders, Dex knew that the real reason he was back aboard his ship and not in custody was because Wright needed him for this mission. In fact, the timing made it evident that it had been planned well before his debriefing on Earth.

  “Commander,” advised Retro, snapping Dex back into the present. “We’re here.”

  Only a small circle of wan white light illuminated the viewscreen as the Cerberus slowed from hyperspace and began the cautious approach toward its target. The ship had jumped in at the fringes of Denegar’s parent system, and had only a few minutes to stealthily get into position before the Confederation fighter squadron showed up to engage and distract the Vr’amil’een naval presence in the system.

  And that presence was formidable. Low energy scans showed no less than a dozen ships, and, though detailed readings were not possible with the surreptitious sensor sweeps, several of them appeared to be quite massive.

  But those ships were not Dex’s immediate concern. His concern at the moment was slipping to within striking distance of the moon undetected, so as to be able to make his landing once the reclamation force arrived.

  “Zip,” Dex ordered, “activate the electronic countermeasures suite and place the ship into hibernation mode. Retro, don’t do anything until the dropshuttle has cleared the dock. Once the fleet arrives, feel free to join in the fun.”

  “I’ve got it, sir,” Retro replied, his face taking on a sanguine aspect from the ship’s red auxiliary lights. “And I’ll be there to pick you up once it’s all over.”

  “Good. Alright, Zip, let’s get to the shuttle.”

  Dex and Zip raced the short distance to the hangar, where the remainder of his team was making last-minute preparations for the liberation of the vital moon base. Upon their arrival, Dex’s team filed into the shuttle and took their seats, with Dex and Zip close behind.

  The hatch slammed closed and Dex fastened the restraint harness across his chest, double-checking the power levels on his phaser rifle. His combat armour felt restrictive but reassuring, and Dex smiled as the transport lifted from the deck and coasted into space. The narrow slits along the shuttle’s sides showed nothing but black space, but even with no external reference, Dex could tell that the ship was moving slowly, sensor-sheathed as much as possible and gliding toward the moon with the meager protection of the ECM suite.

  Dex checked his chronometer. Only 90 seconds remained before the fleet arrived, and his ship was nearly in position.

  An angular shape flitted across the starboard viewslit and the ship’s proximity alarms rang out. A spattering of gunfire raked across the vessel’s hull, and the shuttle dipped precariously into a sharp turn.

  “Commander,” called the shuttle pilot’s voice over the intercom, “we are under attack!”

  “Damn!” shouted Dex aloud. From where he was, he was helpless and nearly blind. And the shuttle was not designed for combat.

  Dex peered out the viewslit, scanning in vain for his attackers. A snub fighter slipped into view, and raced directly toward the ship, forward gun batteries blazing. Warning klaxons rang out as the shuttle’s meager shields were overwhelmed.

  Abruptly, the attacking fighter exploded into a ball of debris, and the dauntingly large form of the Cerberus swung into view. And, though Dex could not see it, he was sure the activity had gotten the attention of every Vr’amil’een ship in the system.

  . . . . .

  The utter void of space is a perception that must be experienced to be understood. Even darkened rooms or midnight under a new moon are but poor surrogates for the overwhelming sense of solitude that can only be conveyed with the knowledge that the emptiness extends for millions of kilometers in all directions. Though he had spent countless hours in a fighter, it was at this moment that Zach felt most alone in his entire life. Even the knowledge that the other eleven members of his squadron were drifting nearby did little to ameliorate the isolation.

  Zach checked his nanocomputer and confirmed that his sequestration would continue unabated for another 90 seconds. Ironic though it was, the prospect of plowing into battle against horrific odds excited Zach, and the ensuing 90 seconds dredged by as if an eternity.

  To lessen his discomfort, Zach tried to think of the other members of his squadron, each watching their own chronometers in order to synchronize their attack. He thought of Dex, probably already on his way to the surface of the moon in his puny dropshuttle, a risky maneuver that would probably be the best odds Dex saw all day.

  An uncharacteristic but intense fear crept into Zach, not a fear for his own safety, or even that of his squad, but a paralyzing, irrational fear that he would never see Dex alive again. Though Zach could only properly be described as “cocky” once behind the controls of a fighter, his prototypical ebullience flatly failed him now.

  An almost inaudible tone alerted Zach that the time was almost at hand, and he fought to clear his mind of distractions. He knew unmistakably that Dex’s safety was in his hands now.

  At the predetermined time, the ZF-575 fighter powered up from standby mode, and his tactical console initiated its combat routines. Before his radar display even flashed to life, Zach rocketed the fighter from the moon that had concealed it, streaking toward the tiny moon of Denegar, barely visible through the cockpit plasticite.

  Enemy ships flared to life, reddish drive trails exploding from their engines as they spun to face the oncoming phalanx of fighters. Zach’s display now showed his entire squadron, a bit behind him but following in perfect formation. His eyes never wavering from his first target, Zach launched a volley of laser fire the moment he was in range. He sped toward the larger vessel—a Vr’amil’een Corvette—and scanned the display for Dex’s dropshuttle, a faint point of green amidst an angry sea of red. Trying to make sense of the visual cacophony, Zach instinctively headed for Dex’s ship, on the far side of Denegar.

  “Wolfman,” transmitted Raven hurriedly, “where are you going? Aren’t we supposed to distract them on this side of the moon?”

  A missile impact jarred his ship, but Zach continued on course. “Affirmative, Raven. Stick to the plan. But I’ve got a bad feeling. I’m going for Dex.”

  There was a slight pause. “Acknowledged, Wolfpack Commander. Be careful.”

  Zach allowed himself one quic
k look in the direction of his squadron, which expertly harried the opposing fleet. He knew his pilots were good enough to distract the Vr’amil’een while avoiding serious harm. But he also knew that if just one ship did not fall for the distraction, Dex’s dropshuttle would hit the ground as slag.

  The moon was small, and it took the swift fighter under a minute to reach the far side. As his sensors came into range, they picked up not one but two Confederation craft—the dropshuttle and the larger Cerberus. Immediately it became apparent why the larger ship was shadowing the dropshuttle: a trio of Vr’amil’een snubs had not fallen for the distraction and were firing relentlessly at Dex’s ship.

  Zach closed the distance rapidly, releasing a pair of missiles just as the Cerberus destroyed one of the small fighters. The missiles readjusted and snaked toward the remaining snubs, catching the surprised pilots just as they dove toward the defenseless dropshuttle.

  “Thanks, Commander,” came Retro’s voice over the intercom. “I don’t know if I could have kept all three off of them.”

  “Sure thing,” Zach replied. “Now get your ship out of here before we attract too much attention.”

  “Roger.”

  Zach spun his fighter around, scanning his tactical display as he prepared to head for the other side of Denegar. Now closer to the moon, the sensors registered several anti-air gun emplacements along its surface. The recon reports had not included such emplacements, which must have been portable and hastily set up. No matter—they were still more than capable of picking Dex’s shuttle out of the sky.

  The ZF-575 curled into a vicious dive, strafing the moon and rending a swath into its face. Zach pulled the fighter out of the dive just as he began taking fire from the remaining artillery positions, looking once again to his display as he swung around for another pass. The dropshuttle was nearly in range, and a glance showed Zach that he would not be able to strafe all the remaining emplacements in one pass. The rest of his squadron was too far to help, and Zach instinctively targeted his remaining missiles on the gun batteries.

  Damn! I can’t use missiles on the surface! I could detonate the whole damned moon!

  Zach clenched his teeth together, knowing that it was his only option. He targeted a pair of concussion missiles on the emplacements, and roared toward the surface, his forward lasers pouring destruction into the batteries. He released the missiles as he fired, pulling up hard on the stick as he raced from the volatile moon below.

  Though completely inaudible in the void of space, what seemed to Zach like thundering explosions resounded from the moon, engulfing the remaining defense stations. Zach looked down to see a great plume of fire erupt from the moon as a vein of Duopasqualonium was ignited by the conflagration. The moon, however, remained intact, and Zach watched with satisfaction as the dropshuttle roared unhindered to its destination. He spun his ship into another tight curve and headed back to his squadron, just as a horde of Vr’amil’een snub fighters cleared the rim of the moon. He spared only one quick glance back at the shuttle, which landed safely on the cratered surface and was immediately surrounded by a cloud of fine powder.

  The Vr’amil’een fighters concentrated relentlessly on his ship, swarming the ZF-575 and scoring a smattering of hits across her tail. Zach kicked up the engines and raced through the crowd, allowing a faint smile to find its way to his lips.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 10

  Anastasia walked into the Grand Hall of Justice with trepidation. The exterior of the building was white marble marked by darker veins throughout, with pillars stretching the height of the four-story structure. The wide hallway leading to the main hearing room was lined with portraits of leading ethics scholars, whose likenesses ranged from Plato to Glaucynon to recent Supreme Court Justices. Anastasia glanced at them only peripherally. She approached the large double doors.

  A pair of Anastasia’s escorts quickened their pace as they reached the end of the great hall, and wordlessly opened the heavy doors to the main room. Anastasia took a small breath and entered the room, gaping as she did at the ten-meter vaulted ceiling, intricately carved in wood, marble, and gold. A wide aisle led between tiers of seats, toward the center of the room. On the left was the Justices’ panel, separated by a wide space from a simple table offset to the right. Anastasia did not wait for directions, but continued toward the table and sat down in the center of three wooden chairs.

  The great doors closed, and a solid thud reverberated throughout the near-empty room.

  Anastasia’s small entourage took their seats in the gallery, lining the front row. The Captain glanced down to a pitcher of water and a single glass set before her. She filled it and took a measured sip.

  With a magnified click, the doors opened once again, and a stream of people entered and fanned out among the empty seats in the gallery. Anastasia straightened her posture and looked to the imposing bench before her.

  The last of the onlookers found their seats and the doors swung closed, their sound this time diluted by the audience and their light chatter. Anastasia looked back to the panel to see that a small door had opened behind it, producing a bailiff, standing at rigid attention.

  “All rise!”

  Anastasia stood from her seat, clasping her hands firmly behind her back, chin held high as she looked to the raised platform. A pair of black-cloaked Justices, a man and a woman, emerged from the door and took seats at opposite ends of the bench. Following a moment later was a man in his seventies, a short tuft of silver hair atop his head. He was clothed in a loose-fitting black robe, which nonetheless revealed a set of strong shoulders and a purposeful gait as he walked to his seat. His face showed the first hints of wrinkling, lending a kindly look to his strong features and deep-set eyes. Those eyes passed over Anastasia, and conveyed a sense that the man behind them was one who was no stranger to weighty decisions and great responsibility. They looked like eyes of a man who had seen much more than three-quarters of a century.

  Daniel Atgard took a moment to take in the room—almost as if it were his first time seeing it—and sat at the center of the bench. He folded his hands across the table before him and met Anastasia’s eyes, holding her gaze as the bailiff spoke.

  “On this twenty-third day of November, Three Thousand Fifty, this Honorable Ethics Committee stands in judgement of Captain Anastasia Mason, accused of disobeying a direct order from a superior officer. You may be seated.”

  Anastasia retook her seat and took another sip from the water glass before her. She looked to the bench and searched her memory to recall the last time she had seen her friend.

  “Captain Mason,” rang out Atgard’s voice, “you are charged with felony military crimes, which can carry a sentence of demotion, suspension, dishonorable discharge, or imprisonment. Do you understand the charges against you and the possible sentences they entail?”

  “I do.”

  “And do you understand that this special session of the Ethics Committee has been called in order to determine the validity of the charges against you, brought by your commanding officer, Fleet Admiral Joseph Wright?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well. Then I call this tribunal to order.” Atgard lifted a heavy wooden gavel and brought it down upon the bench.

  “Captain Mason,” began the female Justice, identified by a placard before her as Justice Parsons. “We have all seen the tape of what occurred on the day in question. Fleet Admiral Wright clearly gave you a direct order not to engage the Vr’amil’een attackers and to instead depart the Pacifica system. You refused, and remained to confront the enemy.” Justice Parsons paused briefly before continuing. “Do you deny any of this?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then, Captain,” intoned the third Justice, “you do not deny disobeying the order.”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Then I presume that you are to present us with an affirmative defense for your actions.”

  “I will indeed.”

  The third Justice
leaned back in his seat. Atgard leaned forward.

  “Surely you do understand the importance of the military chain of command, Captain? Surely you understand why orders must be followed, and why officers are not free to simply disregard those orders?”

  Anastasia’s mouth hung open. If Daniel Atgard, her closest friend and the man who had refused orders from the President of the Confederation himself, was not sympathetic to her motives, who would be? It was not so long ago, Anastasia remembered, that it had been Atgard explaining his disobedience to a committee. Could a decade out of action have changed his views so drastically?

  Captain Mason took another sip from her water glass. “I understand that the judgement of superiors millions of kilometers away is often no substitute for the judgement of officers in the field.”

  Atgard looked at her skeptically. “So you claim, then, that it should be field officers, and not their superiors at Confederation Command, who make all military decisions?”

  “No, of course not. But surely you do not claim that officers in the field must be automatons, never free to disobey what they believe to be a misinformed or unethical order?”

  “I have made no such claim, Captain. But neither have I ever claimed that it is acceptable to do so except in the most egregious of circumstances.”

  Anastasia slammed her palms against the table. “What could be more egregious than ordering me to watch hundreds of thousands of innocent people die?”

  Atgard ignored the question. “Is it possible, Captain, that, at the time he gave the order, the Fleet Admiral of Confederation Command, at Confederation Headquarters, was privy to more information than you were?”

  “I—I don’t understand,” Anastasia stammered.

  “Is it conceivable that Fleet Admiral Wright knew of information that you, having just fled the surface of New Berkeley, did not possess?”