“Even as a child, he was always convinced he was the target of persecution,” she sighed, looking upset with herself for the admission. Then her demeanor firmed up her quivering lips, and she leaned forward as if preparing to trudge forward despite some inner pain, “He was always convinced that the rest of the family—even those of us in the royal nursery with him—held him responsible for the bloodthirsty and psychopathic actions of his ancestors on the Montagne side of the family.”
“You’re saying he was troubled as a child,” the reporter said mildly.
“I’ll admit that some of the main line children,” Bethany paused, “you know—the ones in line to inherit the Throne—would sometimes tease those of us from mere Cadet lines. It was just a few childish pranks,” Bethany’s lip quivered as if in pain, “but I fear the poor dear took it entirely too personally. He seemed to feel that the whole world was out to get him.” She shook her head piteously, “As if being brought up in the lap of luxury, and provided the very best of education side by side with the rest of us, wasn’t enough for him.”
“Yes, well however luxurious his childhood or how poorly he felt treated because he didn’t stand to inherit massive amounts of wealth,” the Reporter cut in smugly, “none of that excuses his actions after going off your planet and illegally taking command of a Battleship!”
“You know, he once even paid a pair of his female cousins to assault another of our female cousins. He claimed she was ‘out to get him,’” Bethany sighed and then seemed to give herself a shake, “but you didn’t bring me here to go on about how mistreated my poor cousin thought he was during our childhood. We’re here to talk about his actions once he came onto the galactic scene.”
The reporter looked momentarily intrigued before his face stiffened, “Quite right, Miss Tilday,” the reporter harrumphed, “the fact that he comes from a long line of bloodthirsty psychopaths, and felt put upon as a child is hardly germane to his actions in recent months.”
“I suppose the fact that he always felt he was somehow superior to everyone around him—even as a child—has no bearing on his current psychological status,” Bethany frowned, looking on with sad agreement written on her face.
“You’re saying he felt he was better than everyone else, even as a child, and still he felt put upon?” the reporter asked sharply. “Perhaps that’s why he decided to steal a Battleship and try to conquer the galaxy?”
“As you yourself said, my poor cousin’s childish delusions play no factor in today’s events,” Bethany retorted smoothly, clearly trying to cut off the line of conversation.
“Fine,” the reporter growled, looking upset at having his own words turned against him, “what do you know about your ‘poor cousin’s’ plans for galactic conquest?” he sneered.
Bethany shrugged lightly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t privy to his plans. You see, not long after he took me prisoner, I was nearly assassinated for attempting to talk him down. After I survived—mostly through sheer luck, I might add—he told me—”
“I’m sorry, he imprisoned and then tried to kill you?!” the Reporter exclaimed, looking genuinely shocked. “Now, this is a story I have to hear. Tell me, and our audience around the Sector,” he said, quickly looking over into the holo-pickup, “about this incident.”
“I don’t blame my Cousin,” Bethany said in a sweet voice, her face tinged with sadness, “on his own, I always found him more harmless than anything else.”
“I find that hard to believe, given your own characterizations of him,” said Mr. Howard.
Bethany’s face hardened into an icy mask, “It’s that wife of his that’s taken advantage of his paranoid and simple nature. She has driven him to this extreme!”
“So now you’re trying to shift the blame from your cousin, a man you claim no small level of sympathy towards. You would have us believe that the root of his behavior is his wife,” the reporter asked mildly, “do I understand you correctly?”
“That savage woman is a bloodthirsty bitch, if ever I saw one,” Bethany said in a low voice, her hand going toward her nose before her face blanked of emotion and was replaced with a patented royal smile. “Maybe he took advantage of her barbaric—some might say childish—nature. Whether their relationship began with a simple physical attraction on his part, and a desire to possess a ‘seemingly’ powerful man on hers, the fact is that it’s his wife making him dance like a puppet on her strings. It’s fortunate for my Cousin—not to mention everyone else in the Sector—that Admiral Yagar and the Central Government managed to take my Cousin out of such a psychologically damaging situation.”
“You don’t seem to care for his wife,” the reporter remarked neutrally.
“When you take a previously harmless boy with delusions of persecution and a naturally fragile, paranoid nature,” Bethany replied smoothly, “and marry him to a woman whose cultural preference is to settle disputes via summary execution, I would ask what you expect to happen.”
“So you don’t believe the strain of finding himself in command of a powerful Caprian-built Battleship—after ejecting half the crew into cold space to secure the ship for his own nefarious purposes—had anything to do with his desire to punish the galaxy for supposedly snubbing him?” the reporter asked sharply. “Which begs the question of just how he was put into a position of killing half the crew and taking over the ship in the first place?”
“I believe the elected Parliament of Capria hoped that by putting him in a high profile, yet relatively harmless and ceremonial post, they could help him come to grips with the fact that no one looks down on him for his birth,” Bethany said simply, before adding, “the ceremonial Admiralty was highly sought after by the various branches of the Royal Family—the competition to fill the post was fierce, I assure you. It was believed that he would benefit the most from the post however, so it was granted to him.”
“So you’re not denying his terrible acts on the citizenry of this Sector, or the way he has blatantly pirated several warships and freighters,” Mr. Howard demanded.
“The evidence is overwhelming, I’m afraid,” Bethany admitted, looking on the verge of tears. “To my shame, all I can do is plead for clemency,” she finished with a heartfelt plea on her face as she turned to look at the cameras.
“And there you have it, ladies and gentleman. No one denies the would be Tyrant of Cold Space, a man from a long line of bloodthirsty tyrants, stole a Battleship from his own world, which he used to deadly effect on a rampage of piracy and terror. Determined, at least from the way his own cousin describes it, to share his imagined torment and persecution with the rest of the galaxy,” the reporter said, in a clearly rehearsed monologue. “Any last words, Miss Tilday before we close up,” he asked perfunctorily.
“Only one,” Bethany said taking a deep breath. “Please, my cousin isn’t really a criminal; he’s just a deeply disturbed individual who desperately needs in-depth psychological help. I beg he not be executed for his many crimes!”
“And that’s a wrap, Ladies and Gentlemen of the audience,” Mr. Howard said, as the station’s theme song started playing in the background and the credits started to roll on the sides of the screen, “even his own close and personal family shamefully admits he deserves to die! Next up is a look into the lives of the rich and shameless with an in-depth probe by undercover reporters who will pry into the private affairs of High Chancellor Gordon. And by affairs, I include every possible meaning of the word. Tune back in this time tomorrow for all the news you need to know.”
The Commodore deactivated the small screen built into his command chair and leaned back to rub his eyes. He was glad to have finally finished viewing the two hour log of condensed footage his communication’s officer had compiled after their arrival in system.
There was no need to view any more material; he had seen all he needed to see to confirm the state of affairs to his own satisfaction. Admiral Montagne was clearly the victim of a well-coordinated hatchet job like he had rarely seen, or even heard of before
. This was the very definition of a political assassination, and he shuddered at the thought of so many lifelong politicians banding together against one person like this.
“This is a very big risk, Sir,” said the female officer at his elbow, breaking him from his silent musings.
“I’m well aware of that,” replied Commodore Colin LeGodat, straightening himself in his chair.
“It could all be a trap, just to lure us in Sir. You have to realize that,” she insisted.
The Confederation Commodore nodded his head deliberately. “I’m well aware of those factors, Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky,” he repeated evenly.
She made a frustrated sound, and he shook his head slowly, turning a stare on her full of rebuke.
“This is a professional outfit, Natasha; let’s try to act that way and set an example for the new transferees. I know we were all just Reserve Officers until recently, but we’ve been reactivated for the better part of a year now,” LeGodat reprimanded with more than a hint of iron in his voice.
“Sorry Sir, it won’t happen again,” she nodded, and then dived right back into making her point, “you have to realize we’re gambling everything on what could already be a lost cause, Commodore LeGodat,” she repeated, her voice and demeanor returning to more professional mien.
“I like to think the Confederation to be anything other than a lost cause, no matter what the local ‘Sector Authority’ may like to proclaim,” the Commodore rebuked coldly.
She shook her head and stiffened. “I wasn’t speaking about the Confederation, Sir!”
“I know what you meant and I firmly believe, with everything in my core, that the Confederation can survive the loss of any one man,” he said shortly.
“Then why?” she must have realized her voice had grown too loud, because she continued in a low voice that included only the two of them, “In Murphy’s name, why?! Why cut Wolf-9 to the bone and come out here on this fool’s errand?”
“You mean, other than my naturally intense curiosity about whatever it is that caused a man like Rear Admiral Yagar to pull both of his Squadrons away from our little undeclared siege, one Squadron at a time?” he asked rhetorically.
“Two Corvettes, three Destroyers and our only Heavy Cruiser; that’s every ship in the System that we’ve managed to get out of mothballs, and the best of the lot besides, Sir,” she exclaimed. “Anything else is in such poor condition that we’d be better off breaking it down and using the materials to build new ships. You’ve taken every ship in the System, way the blazes out here, and for what purpose? To what end?” she demanded angrily.
“I understand your frustration, Natasha. Which is why this once—and only this once—I’m going to indulge your curiosity,” LeGodat said, turning flinty eyes on her.
Natasha Stravinsky looked taken aback. “Thank you for your consideration, Sir,” she said stiffly.
“Think nothing of it—and don’t ever push me like this again. I’m not so short of trained officers that I can’t afford to break one of my best back down to Ensign,” he scolded, his face an impassive mask. Then he took a deep breath. “I would like to think that Honor, Loyalty and the Confederation Way, could be answer enough all on its own,” he said, then held up a hand when she went to open her mouth.
“I’m aware of the counter arguments: we just got back on our feet; with the MPF down for the count, we’re the only real Confederation Force in the Sector; and we should use the breathing room Yagar just gave us like the gift straight from Saint Murphy that it is, and build up,” he ticked off the arguments before leaning back in his chair.
“If you understand, then why? WHY, sir?” she asked, clearly perplexed.
“I could just keep thumping on that tired old line and talk about Honor and Loyalty, both of which would call us to the aid and comfort of a man that’s twice now,” he held up a pair of fingers emphatically, “pulled our bacon out of the frying pan.”
“I respect that, and also what the…” she paused, her mouth working before continuing, “Little Admiral’s done for all of us over in Easy Haven. But…” she trailed off.
“But you’d stand back and let him hang,” LeGodat sighed.
“He’s an Admiral; he’s got rank, he’s got standing and resources the rest of us can only dream about. He can cut a deal anytime he likes, or else hang tough and probably have half a dozen ships on the way to bail him out. Meanwhile, we’ve got a mission critical task and an officially assigned duty station at Wolf-9. The only thing protecting this sector is a still half-decommissioned station and Defense Complex,” she argued.
“Other than the 25th Sector Guard, you mean,” he corrected her, more than a bit bitterly.
“Yes, other than the highly illegal 25th Sector Guard, which still hasn’t got its blasted act together from everything we’ve been able to see or pick up from intercepts. Until they do, the rest of the sector is in a lot of trouble,” she cursed.
“If Honor, Duty and an intense curiosity wasn’t enough to pull me out of Easy Haven—and I’m not officially saying one way or the other,” he clarified, “what possible reason could I have for putting the ships of this glorified Squadron-on-steroids back together as quickly as possible, and hauling tail over to Central as soon as Yagar took off? Think about it for a moment.”
“There is no logical reason,” she said after a respectful moment’s consideration, shaking her head.
“Think outside our well-trained, professional box—for all that, we’re still just reservists,” he urged.
She looked at him blankly and he frowned. “Think about all of those mostly-trained crewmembers Admiral Montagne transferred from his MPF to Easy Haven,” he urged. “The very same crew who have brought us up to fighting strength—not only in the Squadron, but at the Star Base, as well—, without whom we would have been unable to bring these ships out of mothballs.”
She shook her head slowly. “They have been helpful,” she admitted, “but—“
“Who stopped them from going home at the first chance?” he interrupted her. “Murphy knows, they’re all overdue for some much-deserved shore leave, especially after the shifts we’ve put them through in their new posting. Who, with but a single, impassioned plea, convinced them to stand on the wall, long past the end of their duty?”
Realization began to dawn on her face, and LeGodat continued with a knowing nod. “What do you think would happen if the same Admiral who convinced them to stay—a man they clearly idolize—was left to the tender mercies of the New Assembly and its hangman?” He leaned forward, his expression turning grim. “And how do you believe they would feel about their new System Commodore—the one they nominally obey at the command of said Admiral—if he sat on his hands and did absolutely nothing?”
Her jaw started to drop as it became clear by the look in her eyes that she now understood what he meant, and she quickly clenched it shut. “That—” she paused, to more carefully consider her words, “do you think he deliberately planned it this way, Sir?”
“It may have been something that crossed his mind. I do know he was very concerned about the new crew he was taking on, so much so that he didn’t dare assign them over to our own System Command, for fear of a mutiny,” he said lightly.
“Wheels within wheels, and our own crews more loyal to this other Admiral, than they are to their own commanding officers,” she breathed.
“I haven’t the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about,” LeGodat said, with an ironic gleam in his eyes, “I’m just an officer, answering the call to…”
The Lieutenant Commander sighed and chimed in, and together they finished the phrase, “Duty, Honor and the Confederation Way.”
She laughed as they finished, as comprehension reluctantly entered her eyes.
“Exactly, besides which,” he said mock scornfully, “there are no loyalty conflicts, potential mutinies, or anything other than a few rough edges that need smoothing out inside our own loyal Confederation forces, Lieutenant Commander,”
he said with a grin. “After all, we are all just one big, happy, Fleet.”
“That’ll be the day,” snorted the Lieutenant Commander.
“Keep saying it long enough, and it’ll happen…at least, that’s what I’ve learned from observing Vice Admiral Montagne,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest hint of a smile.
“Yeah, well look where that’s gotten him: thrown into the brig and standing trial,” she scoffed politely.
“There is that factor to consider,” he muttered reluctantly.
“Shall we continue with silent running and the data-intercepts, Commodore,” she asked formally.
“Make it so, and keep trying to establish connection with Captain McCruise via whisker lasers,” he ordered, then glared at the screen. He still felt that sending McCruise to the New Assembly, when they wanted direct control over the Imperial Prisoners in need of repatriation back to the Empire, to be the right move. Telling McCruise to do whatever it took to stay in their good graces—even if it meant breaking a few Fleet Directives along the way—he considered a necessary evil.
He would have risked more to get the opportunity to put a pair of reliable eyes in the heart of Sector Central, and it had paid off with intelligence updates and packets sent back to Easy Haven via passing civilian freighters, but now she had gone silent. The only question was: why?
He stared at the main screen of the Heavy Cruiser, as if by sheer force of willpower he could divine the answers, like a gypsy staring into her crystal ball. Alas, if wishes were space horses, no doubt the Admiral would no longer be on trial.
Why aren’t you answering me, Synthia. I know you can hear me, he thought hard at the screen.
Executive Officer and Chief of Staff, Natasha Stravinsky—who was holding down two posts, just as he was now both Commodore and Ship’s Captain—tried to cheer him up.
“Maybe Intelligence will be able to mine something from the various data streams,” she said, hope projected in her voice. It was a nice effort, and the proper thing for an XO to do, so instead of snapping at her, he took a deep breath.
Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 28
