by Gwynn White
That question was now laid to rest. Diana Smythe’s future held far more than a proper, stuffy existence wedded to a proper, stuffy gentleman.
As for the Derek-shaped hole in her heart? Well, she would attend his trial tomorrow, and discover an answer to that question, too. Until then, she could only look to the stars, and hope.
Derek combed his hair and then attempted a better knot on his neckcloth, without much success. The pitted metal mirror in his cell wasn’t helpful in either endeavor, but at least they’d given him a comb, and a tie, and brought his father’s old suit for him to wear.
He’d be presentable for the hearing, if not the very picture of fashion. Although, Lord Atkinson had proved that looking like a fine gentleman was no true reflection of character.
“Ready?” Nails asked from the other side of the bars.
Not at all, but he had no choice. At least this was a hearing before a judge, and not a full public trial.
That said, as Nails and another guard led him into the wood-paneled room in the Southampton Judiciary Building, he found that a small crowd had gathered on the benches. Director Quinn was there, and Tipper, and…
Derek nearly missed a step when he saw Diana. She was dressed in a dove gray coat and skirts, her hair pinned up in a bun that was already unraveling a little at the edges.
Their eyes met, and he couldn’t breathe. What was she doing in Southampton? She was a lady now, swept into the heart of Society, her every need met. She should be off at some picnic with dukes and princes and the like, not sitting in a windowless room of the court waiting to hear the fate of one unfortunate constable.
Once, for a brief, bright moment, their lives had intersected as equals. Not as police officer and streetrat, not as convict and lady, but as Officer Byrne and Miss Smythe. There had been a chance for them, then—except for the paths he’d already taken.
He dropped his gaze to the dark floorboards and walked past. Nails escorted him to a chair in the front row before the judge’s bench and he numbly sat on the hard wood. The air was stale in his lungs. He quashed the little sparks of hope that tried to flare through him.
The barrister that Director Quinn had hired for Derek had been optimistic about the outcome. More optimistic than Derek himself, who’d braced himself for the worst. He couldn’t imagine much of a life beyond this point, no matter what happened.
His career was over. Diana was lost to him twice over—by his own lies, and by the fact that she was gentry now. Their worlds were too far apart to ever meet again.
He snuck another glance in her direction, then quickly looked away when he saw she was watching him.
A thick folder tucked under one arm, Derek’s barrister, a steady fellow named Mr. Whortley, strode into the room, accompanied by the opposing counsel. The two men seemed amiable enough, which he supposed was a good sign.
The first order of business would be the damning evidence of Derek’s collusion in the plot to bomb the Southampton Spaceport. He’d given the police every shred of information he had about the local members of the INR. Apparently they’d put it to good use. Nails told him the officials had been able to track down and arrest one of the national leaders who’d been closely involved in the conspiracy.
“The leader will be giving testimony at the hearing,” Derek’s barrister had warned him. “It won’t look good, of course. They’ll try to bring you down along with them, but I won’t let that happen.”
Derek had only nodded. He couldn’t afford to believe anything but the worst.
There was a slight stir at the door as the guards brought in the INR leader, and whispers rustled through the crowd. Derek turned his head, and was shocked to see Molly O’Rourke being escorted down the aisle.
Her red hair looked very bright against her drab prison dress. When her gaze met Derek’s she gave him a narrow-eyed look, hatred sparking in her eyes.
The guards settled her in the front row beyond Derek, then took their places to either side. Molly leaned past the guard seated between them, and fixed Derek with a hard look.
“Traitor,” she said in a low voice. “You betrayed the cause of all Ireland.”
“You might think so,” Mr. Whortley said from his place at Derek’s right, his tone calm. “And yet, my client served a higher cause.”
“Imperialism? Ha! There’s no worse cause than that.”
The barrister gave her a steely look. “I was speaking, ma’am, of Life. The explosion your group was plotting would have killed dozens, disabled far more, and stranded thousands of travelers throughout the galaxy, as well as causing supply shortages and untold distress. Mr. Byrne did humanity a fine service when he confessed everything to the authorities.”
She blew a sharp breath out of her nose and folded her arms, but said nothing more.
The judge called the room to order. He swore the witnesses to speak the truth, and then the hearing began. Molly went first, describing in excruciating detail how Derek had been involved with the INR in Dublin and had pledged to serve the cause of the resistance.
At this, Mr. Whortley stood, and the judge granted him permission to question Molly. The barrister turned to her, his expression smooth.
“You say that my client, Mr. Byrne, was a member of the terrorist group calling themselves the Irish Nationalist Resistance?” he asked.
“Yes.” Molly’s face was hard. “He owed a debt to us, and vowed to repay it, even with his very life, if called upon.”
“And he was made fully aware of those acts, as a full-fledged member of your organization?”
“Aye. I’ve told you that already.”
“Please roll up your left sleeve, Miss O’Rourke. To the shoulder, yes. Thank you.” Mr. Whortley gestured at the mark tattooed on the pale skin of Molly’s upper arm. “Mr. Byrne, do you know what this tattoo represents?”
“I don’t,” Derek said, his gut beginning to clench with suspicion.
“Have you seen such a mark before?” the barrister asked.
“Yes.” Derek glanced again at the triangle crossed with three lines. “There was a tattoo like that on a dead body the Southampton Police fished out of the river.”
“But do you know what it signifies?”
“I’ve only heard rumors,” Derek said. “Nothing substantive about what that mark means. Frankly, I’d like to know. The case hasn’t yet been solved.”
Mr. Whortley gave a short nod, then turned back to Molly. “Would you care to enlighten the court as to the nature of your tattoo?”
“I would not.” Her voice was tight.
“Very well. Then I shall.” He turned to the white-wigged judge presiding from his high bench. “Your honor, I have here sworn testimony from another member of the INR that this mark is given to fully-indoctrinated members as an initiation rite when they make their final pledges of loyalty. The man cannot testify publically, for fear of his life. I’m certain you understand. He’s currently under the protection of Scotland Yard, but I can arrange a private meeting, if you’d like.”
Mr. Whortley placed his folder on the judge’s desk.
The judge glanced at the other barrister. “Sir, do you have any objection?”
“No, your honor. I’ve reviewed the contents, and there is nothing there I can take issue with.”
“Bastard,” Molly said in a low voice. Her barrister ignored her.
“A moment.” The judge opened the folder and paged through the contents, nodding thoughtfully.
For the first time, Derek felt his hopes rise.
After several moment, the judge closed the folder and nodded to Mr. Whortley.
“Carry on,” he said.
“Thank you, your honor.” The barrister turned and beckoned to one of the male guards.
Derek recognized the fellow; he’d stood watch the few times Derek had been allowed to bathe. It hadn’t been comfortable being under the man’s scrutiny, but it had been worth it to wash off the filth of the jail.
Too bad it accumulated again so q
uickly.
After confirming that the guard recognized Derek, and had, most embarrassingly, seen him naked, Mr. Whortly got to the meat of his questioning.
“To the best of your knowledge, does Mr. Byrne possess any tattoos?” the barrister asked.
“Not as I ever saw.” The guard grinned. “And I saw ‘bout every bit of him. Nice enough looking, if you like them solid. Got all his parts, and they’re—”
“That’s quite sufficient,” Mr. Whortley said, cutting the fellow off.
Derek felt his neck flush. By all the stars and comets, did the man have to be so blunt? He stared at the grained wood paneling and tried to ignore the fact that Diana, of all people, was in the room.
The guard was allowed to return to his seat, and Mr. Whortley turned once more to Molly.
“Although you claim that Mr. Byrne was acting as a full member of the INR, it would appear that he was not, in fact, indoctrinated into your organization. He does not bear the tattoo identifying him as such, and he did not even recognize what it meant.”
“He was working for us, right enough,” Molly said, her voice bitter. “His job was to infiltrate the spaceport, though we had to help that along, too.”
“In what way?” Mr. Whortley’s expression stayed mild, but Derek saw his fingers flex with interest.
“Officer Byrne there is a mite slow,” Molly said. “So we threw him a bit of bait. A mystery to solve that would lead him into the spaceport.”
“The galactic smuggler’s ring on the corpse,” Derek said.
All the pieces were clicking into place. The murder hadn’t been tied to the spaceport at all—but it was meant to look that way.
Indeed, in all probability the body hadn’t been the result of a murder at all, but a casualty of one of the INR’s recent actions. Fortunately, whoever had set it up had overlooked one small, crucial detail: the INR tattoo.
“You needed to get into the port,” Molly said. “But if we’d told you what was afoot, you’d have bungled it. As you did anyway.” Her expression darkened. “I didn’t know the body was one of ours. That was stupidity, and when I find out who’s responsible—”
“You won’t be in a position to do much about it,” Mr. Whortley said. “As I understand the events, your organization provided a victim. The resulting investigation was supposed to give my client an innocent reason to work with Spaceport Security and gain access to the spaceport’s inner workings, thus paving the way for your act of espionage. Correct?”
Molly pressed her lips together and didn’t answer.
“Miss O’Rourke.” Her barrister came to stand before her, scowling. “You’ve done yourself a great disservice by withholding a number of facts from me.”
“And would they have helped at all?” She stared at him, and he was the first to look away.
“Anyhow,” he said. “Are you finished with my client, Mr. Whortley?”
“I am.” Derek’s barrister turned to the judge. “Your honor, I would like to call Mr. Derek Byrne to the stand.”
32
Derek’s breath rasped in his throat, seeming loud in the expectant silence that had fallen over the room.
Bones aching like an old man, he rose and went to the witness’s chair. From this vantage point, he could see everyone clearly. Tipper, perching like an anxious bird on the edge of the bench. Nails, her face stoic as a statue. Director Quinn, brows furrowed yet still with a twinkle in his eye.
And Diana, fingers laced tightly together, her expression a blend of hope and worry.
For him? The thought gave him heart.
“Mr. Byrne,” his barrister said, his hands folded at his back, “please share with the court what kind of information the INR asked you to procure, and what purpose you believed it would serve.”
“They asked for shipping schedules,” Derek answered. “It was my understanding the INR was seeking to smuggle people off Earth. Fugitives, escaped prisoners, enemies of the British Empire, and the like. They also wanted information about spaceport security. For the same purpose, I thought—to help them slip people into the port and then onto ships bound out from Earth.”
Mr. Whortley gave him an encouraging nod. “And when you found out that the INR was planning to bomb the spaceport, instead, what did you do?”
“Traitor,” Molly whispered, a furious note in her voice.
Derek ignored her as best he could. “I informed the Director of the Spaceport and one of his top security guards that there was a threat.”
Mr. Whortley pursed his lips. “Even knowing that you would be incriminated when the connection between yourself and the INR was revealed?”
“Yes,” Derek said. “I’d rather save more lives than just my own.”
A melancholy smile touched Diana’s lips, and was gone. Damnú, he didn’t want her thinking him a hero. He’d made his bed with the INR right enough.
“Speaking of saving lives,” Mr. Whortley said, “I understand you were a key member of the team that rescued Lady Diana Smythe from the Valiant. Kindly describe those events.”
Derek did, starting with the kidnapping, his hunch that Lord Atkinson had put Diana aboard the prison transport, and the events that had transpired once they’d reached the Valiant. He tried to keep it as dry and factual as possible, though he didn’t know how well he succeeded.
When he finished, he felt as emptied of energy as a depleted stunclub.
The opposing counsel declined to question him, much to Molly’s contempt, and Derek was allowed to leave the stand.
“Any more witnesses?” the judge asked.
“No, your honor,” Mr. Whortley said
The other barrister simply shook his head.
“Then if you will all give me a moment,” the judge said to the room in general, “I will ponder the facts of the case. You may speak quietly amongst yourselves.”
Murmurs of conversation sprung up, and Mr. Whortley turned to Derek.
“It’s going well,” he said encouragingly. “The fact that the judge is just looking over his notes means he’s mostly decided which way the court will rule, which I’m thinking is good news for us.”
“If you say so.” Exhaustion weighed upon Derek, and he wished for it all to be over. Wished for Diana to be gone from there, so she wouldn’t have to see him led in stun cuffs from the room, bound for transportation.
After what felt like an eternity, the judge gave two sharp raps with his gavel.
“Silence, please,” he said.
Derek’s exhaustion fled, replaced by jagged expectation.
Thud, thud, went his pulse as he waited for the judge to speak. Despite Mr. Whortley’s nimble handling of the question of Derek’s INR involvement, he was certain he faced a sentence of life transportation. If not worse.
When the room settled, the judge leaned forward, sweeping the front row with his gaze. “Upon consideration of the evidence, I have reached my decision concerning Mr. Byrne’s fate.”
The silence deepened even further, an endless pit, waiting for Derek to fall, and fall…
“Mr. Byrne,” the judge said, “you have acted against the interests of the Crown, colluded with a known terrorist group, and passed them confidential information. These are serious offenses.”
Derek nodded.
“Your involvement with the INR cannot be condoned,” the judge continued. “Despite the fact that you came to the authorities when you realized they planned to set off a bomb inside the spaceport, association with a known terrorist group is unforgiveable. The whys and wherefores of how you fell in with them is of little consequence.”
The audience stirred, and Derek heard someone let out a quiet gasp. The judge lifted his head and scanned the crowd. He paused when he saw Director Quinn, then turned his attention back to Derek.
“On the other hand,” he said, “your quick thinking and keen instincts helped rescue a valued member of our society. While one life saved does not right the balance against the lives that would have ended had you not c
ome to the authorities, it is a variable worth considering. In addition, you put your own life in the balance, several times.”
The precipice receded a little, though Derek’s pulse still hammered relentlessly through his veins.
Helping rescue Diana was perhaps the single best thing he’d ever done in his life, and he was glad the court recognized it. Confessing to his involvement with the INR had been easy, in comparison.
I don’t believe one’s past controls one’s future. He heard the words as clearly as if Diana were standing beside him, whispering them into his ear.
“Quiet.” The judge rapped his gavel once upon his desk, silencing the buzz of speculation rising in the room. Derek braced himself for the verdict. Beside him, Mr. Whortley set a hand on his shoulder.
“In light of all the evidence,” the judge continued, “it is the decision of this court that Mr. Byrne serve out a sentence of banishment for life from this, our home planet. We consider it a sufficient punishment. This hearing is now concluded.”
The room erupted, Tipper’s cheering rising over the noise. The judge rose and retired into his chambers, black robes billowing.
“A fine outcome.” Mr. Whortley stood and clapped Derek on the shoulder. “I couldn’t have hoped for better.”
Derek rose, feeling stunned. He’d numbed his senses so thoroughly over the past weeks of imprisonment, bracing himself for the worst, that he wasn’t sure how to take the news.
“How long, before I have to leave Earth?” he asked.
“In matters like this, usually you’ll have a month or two to set your affairs in order, bid family farewell, and the like.” The barrister gave him a keen-eyed look. “Not to mention deciding where you want to go.”
Exile. Not transportation, or imprisonment. Derek’s life was his own again. The knowledge swelled within him, as though he’d swallowed a seed that had suddenly grown all out of proportion.
Where would he go? He hadn’t the faintest idea. Somewhere beyond the INR’s reach, that much was certain. It shouldn’t prove too difficult, as the terrorist organization was focused on reclaiming Ireland’s independence on its home soil, not dispersing out to the stars.
