“Lieutenant Commander Hashemian, Lieutenant Xing, Warrant Officer Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Mondavi. By the powers vested in me as senior officer, you are charged with mutiny in the presence of the enemy. A detailed charge sheet will be provided to you shortly. You will be held under close arrest pending preparation of the brief of evidence. Corporal Yazdi! Take the prisoners away.”
“Sir.”
“Oh, Corporal Yazdi.”
“Sir?”
“Try not to let the Hammers see what’s going on.”
“Sir.”
When the door closed behind the alleged mutineers, Fellsworth sat back in her seat, rubbing her face. For the first time, Michael realized the stress she must be under. She had a lot on her plate: the escape, Hashemian and his crew, dealing with the Hammers, keeping the
Fellsworth recovered quickly. “Okay, team,” she said emphatically, “let me apologize for not bringing you in on what was going on, but. . well, let’s say that what happened here shouldn’t have, and I certainly didn’t expect it to. Anyway, it has, so let’s deal with it first before we turn to the escape. Let me see; provided the brief of evidence stands up to the investigating officer’s scrutiny, I will be convening a court-martial. .”
Michael lay in his bunk. Around him, the inhabitants of his hut coughed, farted, moaned, and snored their way into sleep. Outside, the mother of all blizzards lashed the plasfiber building, driven snow skittering scratchily onto the glass of uncurtained windows.
It had been one hell of a day: Fellsworth’s extraordinary plan to escape, Hashemian’s act of reckless stupidity, his own unexpected appointment as investigating officer. He had protested, of course. Too junior, he complained. No problem, Fellsworth replied; that’s allowed by the extraordinary-circumstances provisions of the Courts-Martial Manual. Too inexperienced? Ditto. Too involved? Ditto. At that point, Michael gave up and accepted his fate. He checked later; she was right, of course. Given the circumstances-and they did not get much more extraordinary-Fellsworth could pretty well do anything she liked.
Michael yawned. One thing was certain: Things were going to get busy for the occupants of Camp I-2355. He turned over and was soon asleep.
Wednesday, October 13, 2399, UD
A wayward swirl of snow chased the young spacer into the hut, the door slamming behind him as he hurried through the tightly packed ranks to the rear of the room. Morosely, Lieutenant Commander Fellsworth watched his approach. It had been a very long day; an unusually keen Hammer officer of the guard had insisted on turning over the huts twice that day without, needless to say, finding anything he shouldn’t have. Why today? Fellsworth wondered. Most days the occupants of Camp I-2355 were left alone, troubled only by morning and evening roll calls. The Hammers were supremely confident that escape, though always possible, was utterly pointless, a slow death from starvation and exposure guaranteed by I-2355’s position deep in the Carolyn Ranges of South Maranzika. Privately, Fellsworth thought the Hammers had a point: The wilderness surrounding the camp was brutal in the worst possible way, and one could go north for close to a thousand kilometers without meeting another human being. Going south was no better: The weather got worse and the mountains steeper, and there were still no people; if you got through, you had only a sheer drop into the icy waters of the Great Southern Ocean to look forward to.
The spacer skidded to a halt in front of Fellsworth. “They’re gone, sir.”
“Outside the wire?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank God for that. Maybe the jokers will leave us alone for the rest of the day. All right, people,” Fellsworth called. “The court is called to order.”
Fellsworth crashed her makeshift gavel down onto the table, and the low buzz of conversation filling the hut stopped instantly. One eyebrow raised, she looked across at Michael; he stared back at her with a “what have I forgotten now?” look on his face. With a start, he remembered and came to his feet.
“Uh, sorry, Your Honor. Yes, let me see,” he stuttered, frantically checking to see what came next. “Yes, all parties, including the court members, are present as before.”
“Thank you so much,” Fellsworth acknowledged drily. For all his inexperience, Michael had performed the role of trial counsel almost flawlessly, though he did have a tendency to let his mind wander at times. If the matter at hand had been less serious, it would have been funny. She turned to the members of the court-martial seated to her right.
“Lieutenant Commander Akuffo, have you reached a sentence?”
“We have, Your Honor,” Akuffo replied, her voice stiffly formal.
“Is the sentence reflected on the sentence worksheet?”
“It is.”
“Please fold the worksheet and pass it to the trial counsel so that I can examine it.”
Michael took the sheet of paper and passed it to Fellsworth. Opening it, she studied the sheet for a long time. At last, she nodded.
“I have examined the worksheet, and it appears to be in proper form. You may return it to the president. Defense counsel and the accused will rise. Lieutenant Commander Akuffo, please announce the sentence of the court.”
The hut was silent as the four mutineers rose to their feet, their faces tight with fear.
Akuffo cleared her throat. She looked nervous. “Lieutenant Commander Maxwell G. Hashemian, Lieutenant Charles W. Xing, Warrant Officer Morris P. Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Julia J. Mondavi. This court-martial unanimously finds that the following aggravating factor has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Proven: that you committed the offense of mutiny in the face of the enemy. This court-martial finds that any extenuating or mitigating circumstances are substantially outweighed by the aggravating circumstances, including the aggravating factor specifically found by the court and listed above.”
Akuffo paused to clear her throat again. She held the sentence worksheet in both hands. It trembled slightly.
“Lieutenant Commander Maxwell G. Hashemian, Lieutenant Charles W. Xing, Warrant Officer Morris P. Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Julia J. Mondavi. It is my duty as president of this court-martial to announce that the court-martial, all of the members concurring, sentences you to be put to death.”
An audible intake of breath ran around the hut. Michael’s heart started to pound. He always had known that it might come to this, but now that it had, the extent of what had happened struck home fully for the first time.
“Accused and counsel, be seated. Trial counsel, retrieve the exhibit from the president. Now,” Fellsworth said formally, “members of the court, before I excuse you. .”
Fellsworth ran through the closing formalities, and Michael tuned out for a moment. He had been so frantically busy with the court-martial that he had given little or no thought to what came next. He hoped Fellsworth had. Legally, she could carry out the sentence of the court-the rules governing court-martials held under extraordinary circumstances provided for it-but Michael suspected that she had other ideas. In any case, it was all academic; he would bet his pension that the Hammers would never allow her to hang four of her crew from a convenient tree. The mutineers would end up appealing to the FedWorld Military Court of Final Appeal, assuming they all made it back home safely, of course. In that case, and if the convictions were upheld, the sentence probably would be reduced to neurowiping. Fleet had not executed a death sentence in centuries, though that was no guarantee. Fleet had come close more than once.
He turned his mind back to the proceedings. He wondered what Fellsworth was going to do.
Michael stepped out of the hut as the four convicted mutineers were hustled away. For once the sky was clear, though a bitter wind from the northeast promised snow later in the day. Some day! It was not even midday,
