My eyes widened. Janeski had helped put my Vekna Cousin in power? This was all news to me. My eyes narrowed in contemplation, and apparently I delayed for too long, because there was another snap under my nose and suddenly I couldn’t breathe again.
“You would be wise to spit out the truth as quickly as you can regurgitate it,” Justin Suddian commanded, jabbing my spasming and burning chest for emphasis.
When I could finally speak again, I took as much of a breath as I could manage. “Everything I know, I learned from you,” I wheezed. This was most definitely not fun, and I doubted it was going to get any better.
The machine pinged - apparently, the truth only seemed to enrage him further.
“How long had you been scheming to take over this ship, before you struck,” asked the Parliamentary Officer.
“Fifteen minutes…a half hour, at most,” I rasped, my throat feeling like a raw piece of meat.
Another ping sounded, and Mr. Eden dryly confirmed my veracity.
“Who were your hidden supporters among the crew?” shouted Justin Suddian.
I stared at him blankly.
“But I didn’t have any hidden supporters; I was thrust into events out of my control,” I said urgently, desperate that he believe the unvarnished truth. I could see the rising tide within him, and his eyes had taken on a fanatical gleam.
The hand-held device dinged, but Suddian overrode John Henry, waving him to silence.
I cast about desperately for something I could give him, and my mind latched onto Mr. Spalding. He had supported me from the start, and even made me a suit of custom power armor. Plus; there was no way they had their hands on him.
“Junior Lieutenant Terrance Spalding,” I said abruptly, “he made me the power armor I used to take the bridge; he was a secret royalist, and my most loyal supporter!”
“Find this Spalding, John Henry,” Suddian instructed, sounding less enraged as he turned back to me. “Go on,” he prompted.
My mind raced.
“The Security Officer who tried to arrest me was secretly working for Janeski. It was all a plot by the Imperial Rear Admiral to take an Imperial Command Carrier, along with this Battleship, and blame it all on me,” I explained indignantly.
The Parliamentary Officer looked at his assistant’s screen.
“So you would implicate a dead man, and a loyal security officer in your plots,” he said derisively.
“Yes,” I nodded rapidly. Then, I abruptly realized that I didn’t know if Spalding was still dead or not. “I mean, NO!” I exclaimed
Mr. Eden’s machine pinged twice.
“Both answers were lies, Morale Officer,” said the Assistant.
“This is absurd. Even after enough truth drugs to drop an elephant, he not only lies to us, but he flaunts his ability to defeat the system?” the Commander growled with disbelief.
My blood ran cold. Even I had heard of the powers invested in a Morale Officer. I realized then that I was stuck in a nightmare: my own, private, worst nightmare.
“Certainly presents a problem,” Mr. Eden agreed heavily.
“Blast! They train them so well!” Suddian growled, shaking his head before rounding on me.
“No they don’t! They don’t train them at all,” I pleaded, my jaw suddenly coming unhinged. If my voice was closer to a raspy squeal than anything else, I’m not ashamed to admit it.
I thrashed around as best as I was able, with all my arms and feet tied to the bed. I don’t know why I seemed to think that squirming up against the wall was going to help me, but for some reason, I was filled with the irrational, primal belief that flight was still possible.
“I guess we’ll just have to beat it out of him, John Henry,” he said to his assistant.
The other man took a step over to my bedside and cracked one hand’s knuckles, then the others.
I’m man enough to admit when something terrified me, and right at that moment nothing was more terrifying than the Morale Officer’s assistant, Mr. Eden.
“Better dead than red, Sir,” the other man said, no doubt referring to the house colors of the royal family, which had come to symbolize the royal cause back home.
“Put him in the duyan, John Henry,” said the Commander, using an old Caprian term for a hammock, or sling.
His assistant produced a bed control and pressed a series of buttons.
No sooner had he finished, than the little side rails of my bed started to draw themselves apart, until the arms and legs attached to them were pulled tight—my arms and legs!
“You don’t have to do this, I’m telling you the truth,” I pleaded.
The bed itself lifted and then abruptly rotated one eighty until I was facing the floor, the straps across my chest and thighs cutting deeply and the mattress falling on my back.
“Remove that,” the Morale Officer instructed, pointing to the mattress, his assistant quickly complied. Just as quickly as that, the mattresses and the backboard they had rested on were removed, and I could feel cold air on my back.
My hospital gown had come partially undone to hang from a single string from my neck, leaving my body exposed. That little string cutting across my raw neck wound caused more pain than all the straps cutting into me as they suspended me in the air. The bed was then slowly rotated until I was in an upright position, and my weight shifted to one edge of the straps to cut even deeper. My weight against the chest strap squeezed in on my lungs. Before I knew it, my breaths came in quick gasps, and sweat broke out on my forehead.
“Who are your partisans among the crew, my little False Admiral,” the Morale Officer whispered into my ear. “I want names.”
I opened my mouth, but a gloved finger pressed against my chin, clamping my jaw closed before I could say anything.
“I want you to consider your answer, while John Henry goes to work, Mr. Vekna,” he cooed. That’s right, the psychopath actually cooed in my ear. The sad thing is that it wasn’t even the worst thing to happen to me in the previous sixty seconds.
Something inside me snapped. I understood being afraid, and I could handle that his job involved inspiring sheer, unmitigated terror. Truth be told, my body and mind seemed more than eager to enter that state for him.
I suddenly smiled at him, and it was a shark-like grin. The man had made a mistake putting that finger in my face.
He was just pulling his hand back when my jaws opened and I struck like a viper, chomping down on the finger that had so recently offended me
“The name is Jason Montagne, Confederation Admiral!” I growled awkwardly, the words sounding more garbled than I had thought they would. It’s surprisingly difficult to speak when there’s an unwilling finger in your mouth you’re treating like a piece of savory fried chicken. “Multi-Sector Patrol Fle—”was as far as I got before John Henry and his fists started raining down on me, starting with a savage crack to my jaw.
Something gave in my mouth with the first punch, and the Morale Officer pulled away, screaming in pain. The next blow from his assistant John Henry was to my gut, and I began retching convulsively. Along with my rising stomach contents, a few teeth and half of a still-gloved finger hit the floor. Around the pain of the beating, I held firm to one thought, and one thought only: Justin Suddian should have known better than to drag my mother into this.
That thought disappeared when the neural whip was brought back into play, and pain such as I’d only ever experienced once before shot through my body.
They alternated furious fists and the whip, for what felt like an eternity, before something broke inside me. By ‘broke,’ I mean actually stopped working, at least as far as I could tell as my vision tunneled and went dark. The darkness was followed by the ominous tone of a flat-lined heart monitor, but my hearing was oddly acute.
“Get a team in here, on the double! We’re sending him to medical; I’m not done with this one yet!” panted what I thought was the Morale Officer, but I couldn’t be sure. Everything sounded like it was happening in
side an empty tin can.
I saw the smiling faces of my mother and Akantha in my mind fog, and then everything went black again, but I was surprisingly calm about the whole affair even as my hearing went and I slipped into unconsciousness. See, I knew the bastards wouldn’t let me die just yet.
They weren’t done with me…nor I, them.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 2: A Rude Awakening
I woke up to the face of Dr. Torgeson leaning over me. For a moment I was confused, and then I realized what I was supposed to be doing; I was supposed to be squeezing the life out of him. My hands started to lift to do just that, and there was a metallic clank as I felt my wrists restrained from their appointed task.
I was puzzled, since this wasn’t going how I had envisioned it.
“The Morale Officer insisted on the restraints and after the last time I treated you, I agreed,” stated Torgeson matter-of-factly.
I tried to say, ‘Get stoked,’ but all that came out was the beginning of a gurgle, before my throat seized up with pain.
“Your vocal cords were damaged further during your interrogation,” Torgeson explained clinically, “though it's not hard to guess your intended sentiment.”
I had several questions I wanted answered, but my ability to communicate was obviously limited. I couldn’t even shake my head with it tightly bound in a brace, so I settled for a steely glare that I hoped would shoot daggers.
Torgeson attached a syringe to one of the myriad IV lines suspended beside my bed. “It’s time you went back to sleep; you’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and I’m sure they’ll want you well rested,” he said, clearly not caring what they intended to do to me tomorrow.
Someday, Doctor, I silently promised, someday.
“Now, we’ll get to do what should have been done yesterday. All right boys, tank him,” said Torgeson, as he pressed the plunger of the syringe.
A wave of lethargy immediately swept into me, sinking all the way into my bones, and I quickly passed out.
Chapter 3: The Captain’s…make that, Commodore’s Mast
The door chimed and the man sitting at the chair behind the office’s lone desk signaled admission.
The young Parliamentarian Officer, who had been waiting outside, marched into the room with military precision and came to a textbook stop. His feet crisply struck the floor in front of the deck, and his hand snapped upward in a salute.
“Junior Lieutenant Raphael Tremblay, reporting as ordered, Commodore, Sir,” he said stiffly.
“Intelligence Officer Tremblay, reporting as ordered,” mused Jean Luc with a smile. “Tell me, do you always follow your orders, Mr. Raphael Tremblay?”
“I try to, Commodore, Sir,” Tremblay said stiffly.
“You try…” Jean Luc repeated, hanging on the last word ominously.
The silence grew until it was like some kind of beast stalking the room, and Tremblay was quickly overwhelmed with the urge to say something—anything to break the silence.
“I’m only human, Sir,” the Lieutenant said stiffly.
Jean Luc picked up an obsolete mail opener, and twirled it absently, with its extremely sharp tip pressed against his thumb.
“Did you know,” Jean Luc inquired mildly, “that as of right now, there are only two people on this ship brave enough—or, in your case, stupid enough—to blatantly defy my orders?”
If it was possible, Lieutenant Tremblay felt himself stiffen even further.
“I don’t follow; what exactly do you mean, Commodore, Sir,” Tremblay asked cautiously, even though on the inside he knew precisely what the other man meant. He had to be careful, since the Intelligence Section was once again recording everything throughout the ship but if he could get the man to make a threat on record, it might just be enough to save his skin.
“Do you recall the very first order I ever gave you, Mr. Tremblay,” Jean Luc asked evenly.
“I was to clean this Ready Room, Sir,” Tremblay replied, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice as he felt the world begin to spin around him.
“Does this look clean to you, Junior Lieutenant,” the Commodore asked, a cutting edge entering his voice as he pointed to a spot on his desk.
Tremblay could see nothing from his current angle, so he leaned forward for better look. “I don’t see anything, Commodore,” he replied truthfully.
“Look closer, Mr. Tremblay. Run your fingers along the wood. I am certain you will find it,” the old school Montagne had a look in his eye Tremblay did not like. “Consider that an order—one I suggest you obey,” the eye patch-wearing Jean Luc added flatly.
Leaning forward, Tremblay ran his finger along the spot the other man had indicated, but he felt nothing. He was just opening his mouth to say so, when what felt like a steel clamp grabbed his arm, holding his hand in place.
“Two men, each in their own way, have tried to take for themselves that which is rightfully mine,” Jean Luc hissed as his eyes bored into Tremblay’s. “I want to make this perfectly clear; it is for me to decide what is to be kept or discarded on this ship.”
“I don’t understand, Commodore,” Tremblay gasped honestly, trying desperately to keep the fear from his voice.
The Commodore and former Pirate King stared at him for a moment before setting him free with a shove, which sent him reeling. “Oh, I think you do, Mr. Former Chief of the ‘Admiral’s’ Staff,” assured Jean Luc, and Tremblay’s heart lurched in his chest.
His eyes closed briefly. Oh yes he knew, but he dared not admit—to the Commodore or for the security cameras—that he had knowingly done anything wrong.
“I see the rather dim bulb of what must pass for comprehension flickering in your eyes,” Jean Luc sneered.
“The room…it wasn’t cleaned to your satisfaction, Sir?” Tremblay asked, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation.
“I think I finally understand what my nephew saw in you,” Jean Luc Montagne said as if speaking to the wall. “Someone so dense and stupid, that he made a quite nearly perfect lightning rod for the opposition. A fool he could run rings around, to help himself feel more in control.”
Ignoring the brief surge of anger at this Montagne—or any Montagne—presuming to judge him, Tremblay wisely chose the better part of valor, and remained silent. He hoped the Commodore would say something that could be used against him, like admitting he had ordered a living, unconscious prisoner murdered.
“No, the ‘room,’ let us say, was most definitely not cleaned to my satisfaction,” said Jean Luc bitingly, dragging out the last word. “There was not only this stain upon my desk, but the incompetent manner in which the waste was disposed of, as well,”
“You are referring to the bloody towels I left in the head,” Tremblay said stiffly.
“Among other, vastly more important things,” Jean Luc scowled. “Fortunately for you, I have changed my mind as it regards those other things. I suppose, after a fashion, you have done me a favor.”
Tremblay cocked his head, unsure what the Pirate-King-turned-Commodore meant.
“Which is why I am inclined to feel generous, Mr. Tremblay,” the hardened Montagne leaned back in his chair. “If you knew me at all, you would be weeping with relief at how generous I am prepared to be.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Tremblay said uneasily.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Jean Luc fixed the younger man with a piercing stare. “You see, there is something you must do before you leave. As of now, the ledger is too heavily balanced against you from the wrong you have done; failing to follow my orders requires an act of penance.”
Tremblay decided the other man must like to hear himself speak in circles. He had to admit that Jean Luc was even worse than Jason in that regard! “I don’t follow,” said Tremblay evenly.
“I believe a Captain’s—or rather,” Jean Luc corrected himself, with a wry grin, “a Commodore’s Mast is in order, don’t you?”
“For what,” Tremblay asked, his
mouth tightening and his stomach, already in knots, churned even more.
“Failure to carry out orders as given to start; specifically the proper cleaning of this ready room, then leaving hazardous waste carelessly unattended in the confines of the ship,” Jean Luc ticked points off on his fingers before his features contorted into a contemptuous sneer. “I'm sure we could add more to the list, given the time to think about it, don’t you agree?”
“I see,” Tremblay said, unable to hide the flare of anger from reaching his eyes. The truth was he most definitely did see. He had been wrong to compare Jason’s actions to that of a real Montagne like this one. This son of the Demon, was a member of the old school and the Junior Intelligence Officer forgot it at his peril.
“So it’s either a Captain’s Mast—I’m sorry,” Jean Luc corrected himself, not sounding sorry at all, “I meant, of course, a Commodore’s Mast, which technically applies as you are still on the books as part of my staff. Either that, or it’s to be an Administrative action, which would require me to forward an official file.” Jean Luc’s eye burned savagely, and Tremblay felt very much like a mouse caught in a cat’s paws. “That file would contain, among other things, certain information and recommendations regarding this whole sordid affair, to be reviewed by the ship’s Morale Officer at his earliest convenience. A formal inquest would naturally ensue, and I hear that Mr. Suddian can be quite vigorous when conducting his…interviews.”
Raphael Tremblay’s breath sucked in. If the Commodore did that, Commander Suddian would quickly see through all the lies and evasions he had fed him. He might even end up in a cell beside Jason Montagne! The last thing Tremblay wanted at that moment was to be ‘vigorously’ questioned by the ship’s Morale Officer.
“I’ll take the Mast,” Tremblay said quickly, before he had time to think about all the ways this could go wrong. He knew what the Morale Officer would do to the man who helped ‘save’ Jason Montagne’s life, when he had been tacitly ordered to do otherwise by the ship’s commander. What he did not know, was what this Montagne would do, which at least allowed for the possibility of hope.
Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 3
