My eyes skittered off the solid metal ceiling of my room and I thrashed around in my bed; for some reason, I was more panicked in that moment than after fighting off a Bug invasion force!
I took deep, frantic breaths, until my heart started slowing down and my panic subsided. It must have been because during the battles with the Bugs, I had known—at least on an intellectual level—what to expect. However, I had been all but certain that words were all that I would have to deal with, when it came to the Security Council. Sure, the bailiff might jerk me around a bit and leave a few bruises on the way out the door, but even these representatives of the Rump Assembly weren’t going to execute me in their own council chambers. The representative from Pacifica III, for one, would have stormed out in a rage and vociferously boycotted the whole event, if that was what was going to happen.
Secure deep within some recess of my own mind, I had been completely unprepared for another death (or, near death) experience. It seemed the show must go on, and by show I was talking about ‘the Jason Montagne is a punching bag show,’ which was, once again: all me, all the time.
For another few moments, I wallowed in self-pity, before even a double portion of it started to wear thin, and I took a look around my room.
A barren wall was the first thing my gaze fell upon. My eyes flicked to the side, and found another barren wall, this one with a structural support beam. I turned my head slightly, and was mildly surprised not to feel low grade pain I’d been experiencing lately. Another wall, but this time with a duralloy hatch in it. My wandering eyes found yet another wall, and they snapped to focus, fixating on the person in the chair set against it.
That’s when I realized I felt much better than I had the last time I was conscious, and I’m not talking about the incident with the bailiff. I mean before that. I was actually feeling really good right now.
“I’m here to monitor you, until you’re awake and stable,” said the figure in some strangely patterned uniform that was vaguely familiar, “well, now you’re stable.” He immediately got to his feet.
“Why do I feel so much better,” I asked, and then I realized that while the rasp was still present in my voice, it was now more along the lines of smoker’s voice. I’m not talking the occasional smoker; I’m talking the kind of chain-cigar smoking royal smoker, commonly found in the Caprian Winter Palace. Still, any improvement that meant my throat didn’t start screaming at me after an extended use, was all to the good. I just didn’t like the thought of being unconscious while Murphy knew who was doing Murphy knew what to my body.
“A couple days in the Tank will do wonders for a person,” the other man, said shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe anyone had wasted the tank time on me.
“I guess when you almost murder someone in front of an Assembly Camera System, you have to do your best to prove it was unintentional,” I said with a shrug. Reveling in my newfound freedom from pain (not to mention restraints), I propped myself up onto one elbow, delighted that I could put that much weight on my shoulder without causing intense pain in my neck.
“From the sounds of it, you think it might have been intentional,” the other man said with surprise.
I shrugged. “I’m not ruling anything out at this point; enough people have tried to kill me already, and that was when all I wanted to do was save lives and kill some pirates. After awhile, even the paranoid becomes a commonplace consideration; another factor just like any other that has to be catered to, until new information comes in,” I explained.
I realized I was rambling, but I had just awoken from almost being killed, and my brain was still trying to process what had happened. Talking through it with a servant of the enemy probably wasn’t the brightest way to go about it, but as nothing I could do would change a thing anyway, I might as well go out as comfortably as I could.
The other man nodded, as if what I was saying made perfect sense and that’s when I realized I knew him.
“Captain Druid, isn’t it, of the 25th Sector Guard” I asked, more than a little surprised to see him (or anyone, for that matter) from Yagar’s little playtime navy, “I didn’t realize any of you tin can boys had made it back out this way.”
“It’s Commodore now,” he corrected with a frown, “and just like Central moves, so does the Guard.” He took a small step away from the door and back toward his chair, “Although, I’d be mighty careful insulting a man just because of the size of his ship, if I were you. My ‘tin can’ might be just about as small as can be while still making interstellar, but it’s served me well; and at least it’s still mine, Admiral Montagne. As you of all people must attest, size doesn’t mean everything.”
“I live life on the edge,” I shrugged off his warning, “but I have to give you that. Bigger and better doesn’t always mean more reliable.”
“Bigger and better, is it now,” Druid asked, sliding back down into his chair, “I see the Admiral still hasn’t learned his lesson, even after the serious flaws of his favored mode of transport has been revealed to him.” The man sounded like he was actually starting to enjoy the conversation, and not in the petty vindictive way which I imagined Rear Admiral Yagar would have.
“I’m a battleship man,” I shrugged, “what can I say?” I splayed my hands and gave a helpless shrug.
“It’s got to be large enough to support a Flag Bridge, I suppose,” the Commodore grudged, “but there’s lots of smaller, faster, more maneuverable ships out there to choose from, Admiral.”
“And where is this mythical place? I certainly haven’t seen the Sector Guard sporting anything more than one light destroyer and a passel of corvettes,” I said mildly, swinging my legs over the side of my bed to sit upright. This was serious business, and shouldn’t be discussed with one arm propped up on the bed. I then chuckled at myself; I had no training as an Officer, I wasn’t a real Admiral, but I felt comfortable bandying about the relative merits of different ship types with an honest-to-Murphy naval officer.
“Why do you laugh,” asked Druid, letting my dig at his organization go, either because it was true and it didn’t bother him, or it was false and he wasn’t about to give away any information to a potential enemy, no matter how certain his eventual termination was.
I wasn’t about to let the man into my innermost thoughts, no matter how well we were getting along at the moment, so I gave him another truth—well, a half truth, as it where.
“I’m just surprised, is all,” I said and when he looked at me continued, “that you’re still calling me Admiral. Everywhere else lately, it’s been Fleet Commander this, or False Admiral that, if they can’t get away with anything else.”
The man shrugged. “Courtesy costs me nothing, while insults and petty barbs encourage sloppiness and rigid thinking,” he said after a moment’s consideration.
I raised both my eyebrows at him, thinking that his Commanding Officer, Rear Admiral Yagar, could most definitely learn from his example.
We shared a look, and it was as if I could tell we were both thinking the same thing. Despite this little camaraderie, I saw no point in antagonizing the Sector Guard Officer by insulting his Commandant; especially not when he was taking such pains to be as courteous as possible.
“You know, I wondered what you’d really be like,” Druid said after a moment’s pause. “That’s half the reason I volunteered to sit in here until you woke up.”
“Oh?” I inquired, making a little deprecating hand wave, “And what’s the other? Reason, that is.”
“I’d half a mind to beat the ever living snot out of you, for bumping one of my men out of the tank,” he replied sourly, and my eyebrows rose as I seriously reconsidered every assumption I’d been making. “A maintenance accident: one of my engineers was replacing a major junction box on one of my older ships, and it exploded,” the other man explained, throwing his hands wide and then clapping them together for emphasis. “Third degree burns over the top half of his body. I can’t say I was in the best frame of mind whe
n I heard he’d been bumped by the infamous Vice Admiral Jason Montagne.”
“I might have felt the same way, if our roles had been reversed, and Rear Admiral Yagar bumped one of my men,” I allowed, leaning back in my bed, even though I knew the best thing to do if I was about to be attacked was lean forward and give him as little time to build up momentum for a bum rush as possible.
“Now, having talked with you, I’ve come to the conclusion I would have been wrong to do so,” Druid continued somewhat bitterly.
I just smiled; there was no way I was going to say that very same thing. Yagar could rot in Murphy’s Demon Pits before I’d allow any man of mine to be bumped by the illustrious Commander of the ill-fated Sector Guard.
I then reminded myself that I had no men; I wasn’t even a real Admiral, and all of this was just a pleasant little engagement; an engagement with a man, from a Fleet Organization with as little claim to legitimacy, as I had to claim myself a real Admiral. Even the officers within it, drawn from the various SDF’s it was comprised of, were ten times the professionals I would ever be.
Druid matched my smile, a reluctant glint entering his eye. “I ought to bust your chops just for giving me a smile like that,” he said, a hard edge to his jaw.
“Better men have tried,” I cocked a shoulder, hiding a slowly clenching fist behind my back, “and worse, as well,” I added reluctantly. “A few have even succeeded, as my present circumstances should indicate,” I said, unconsciously rubbing the side of my neck, fingers seeking out and finding the hard ridges of scar tissues all around the area my uncle had taken a big bite from, with that infernal little finger pistol of his.
Maybe I should get one, I thought. A blaster pistol, that is. Of course, not in my fingers—anyone with half a brain would be expecting that, especially after the way I’d just been laid low. Maybe my knee…I shuddered as I considered the implications of a blaster bolt backfiring through my kneecap. Then my face brightened: better yet, one in my toes! That way, the next time someone like Bethany came to deliver a beat down, I’d shoot them in the foot and proceed to do a little stomping of my own.
“I can see that there are things going on behind your eyes, even now,” Druid said, searching my face as if for some deep hidden meaning, “I can understand now why men would follow an Admiral who, on paper, is just another trumped up college student, with delusions of grandeur.”
“Oh,” I drawled, and almost despite myself, I was halfway intrigued at this lure. I knew it was pure ego, and nothing else, but for all of that, the urge to chase was almost irresistible. Almost. More talented men than this would-be Commodore had tried to lead me down the rabbit hole, but I wasn’t so easily caught. Let him spin his webs; we’d see who was the spider here and who was the prey.
“I can see there’s something going on in there, but for the life of me—and despite all of my experience and training—I can’t quite fathom it,” he leaned back in his chair, as if to take me in from another angle, “after hearing more about the things you’ve done, not to mention seeing some with my own eyes…much as I’d like to, I just can’t pass it off as irrelevant,” he gave me a hard, flat stare. The inner adversary inside him peeked out for a moment, and for myself, I was more than happy to watch; there was no need to produce your very much clay feet, when the enemy was espousing your non-existent virtues.
So all I did was shrug as noncommittally as possible.
“You’ve got wheels within wheels churning behind those eyes of yours, and that alone would probably be enough to get many a crewman to follow you, all on its own,” he said heavily.
“I doubt that,” I scoffed. If he only knew what I was really thinking about, he wouldn’t think so highly of the fictitious Admiral, or his fanciful imaginings. He wondered what deep thoughts I was thinking, and at the very moment he asked the question, all I was thinking about was turning the tables on my cousin by shooting her in the foot before giving her a taste of her own medicine! What kind of deep thinking was that?
“Says the man who flummoxed the Security Council so badly the first day he arrived, that when they tried to pin a charge of Planetary Piracy on him, the Chairman overreacted to the point of almost killing him,” Druid retorted wryly, “a man who can do that, and on the other hand turn around and storm an Imperial Cruiser right after engaging it in a pitched space battle…,” his voice trailed off regretfully. “Men like their leaders to be larger than life, as if something about them makes them more than the average man, explaining why they are the Captain,” eyes shot over to lock onto mine, “or Admiral.” Then he smiled, with more than a hint of self mockery, as he added “Or Commodore.”
“I seems you would make me out to be some kind of diabolical mastermind; a schemer of the first order who despite his current circumstances,” I gestured mockingly at myself, and then leaned over and gave the nearest wall of my cell a good knock, to indicate my current helplessness. “You’re describing a man who has everyone dancing to his tune,” I shook my head sadly, “while I fear the truth is far more plebian than any might suspect.”
“What is fact, and what is fiction; a mere legend created in the minds of common men,” his eyes shot my way with crushing force, so much that for a moment I forgot to breathe, “I fear that in the minds of your average crewman, you are now and forever Admiral Montagne, Scourge of the Spaceways, or alternately,” he allowed, “to your loyal supporters, Pirate’s Bane, Bug Slayer and personal Doom of Imperial Captain Cornwallis, and the personal enemy of the Empire of Man.” My eyes bulged in protest at this last makeshift title, but he continued on implacably, “You are the man who spat directly in the Imperial’s eye, and not only lived to tell the tale; you took from under them a top flight warship. Such a man, such an Admiral,” he shrugged, “many men would find it hard to resist his call. Man, woman or,-” he trailed off gesturing to me, “the Tyrant of Cold Space.”
“The Tyrant of Cold Space,” I scoffed, in instant and total rejection.
“It’s what they’re trying to pin on you, when the talking heads show up on the news programs,” he shrugged, “capturing a heroic would-be Confederation Admiral—like you were trying to cast yourself—might actually inspire public sympathy, and generate a back lash. While Admiral Montage, a man from a long line of bloodthirsty Princes and Kings, determined to set himself up as the new Tyrant of Cold Space, filling the vacuum left by our dearly departed Imperial Masters…”
He stopped and gave me a mocking smile. “Defeating such a man, after building him up while he’s safely locked away within captivity, can only help pander to the image of a wise and powerful Successor State, that is our Sector’s new Provisional Assembly,” he explained.
“That actually sounds believable,” I sighed, “build up a straw man, and then knock him down again…although, I fail to see why you’re telling me all this. Couldn’t this fall under aid and comfort to the enemy?”
“If you find some kind of cold comfort, hearing how you’re being smeared by the Press and portrayed in the media by our Representative Masters, then you’re more of an Admiral than I’ll ever be,” the Sector Guard Commodore gave a little shiver, his eyes focused on something deep inside.
“Some Admiral I turned out to be,” I sighed, and then decided change the subject away from this depressing little montage of all-too believable political portrayal, designed to crush me like a bug. I decided it was time to dispense a little fortune cookie wisdom of my own. Who knew; it might actually perplex the man and cause him to burn a few brain cells.
“You’ll learn,” I began conversationally, “now that you’re a Commodore, that most men are willing to follow anyone. If that person simply runs around acting like he’s in charge, and when asked, seems to have all the answers, they’ll follow even a complete and utter fraud. It’s all about appearing confident and never letting anything shake you,” then I silently added, ‘at least, not where you can be observed.”
There! Chew on that bit of bubble gum wisdom, Sector Guard Boy, some
thing rebellious muttered somewhere deep inside me. Truthfully, I was more than a little jealous that the man seemed to have the inside track, when it came to these little political maneuvers. Was he just here to show me up, by reminding me how little I actually knew?
“Well, I should take my leave,” Commodore Druid said, this time standing up with purpose.
“Why tell me all this?” I asked, genuinely curious.
The Commodore smiled, and it was a smile with so many hard edges to it, that I once again clenched the fist still hidden behind my back.
“Maybe I thought that, after all of this, you deserved to know the truth. Maybe I thought it was no less than you deserved, and wanted to see how you reacted when you got the news. Or maybe—just maybe—I wanted to pull back the curtain a little bit and look into the eyes of the man behind the mask. To see the man in the flesh, as it were, and not the Admiral on the holo-screen,” he shrugged, and it was a shrug without too much effort invested into it. “Maybe all of that, or none of that is true; I’m not sure anymore,” he said, striding to the door and giving it a pair of hard raps with his knuckles.
“Thank you for the honesty as well as the stimulating conversation,” I said, and I was surprised that I really meant it. Intel on the enemy was always something to be cherished, and having cut my political teeth on the floors of the Royal Palace, the good Commodore had supplied ample material for me to parse for hidden meaning and intrigue.
The door unlatched from the outside—there was no handle inside this room, for obvious reasons—and it started to swing open.
The Commodore placed a hand on the door to stop it swinging open. “Just a moment,” he said through the crack in the door, and then looked over his shoulder at me with one part self disgust, and two parts calculation on his face.
“For the sake of my men, and the new organization I have sworn to serve, I hope to see your feet kicking and swinging all the way to the gallows, Jason Montagne,” he said.
Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 21
