Charles Stross - Singularity Sky

They were short of time. Since coming out of their jump on the edge of the inner system, the heavy squadron had been running under total radio silence at a constant ten gees, the heavy acceleration compensated for by the space-time-warping properties of their drive singularities. (Ten gees, without compensation, would be enough to make a prone man black out; bone-splintering, lung-crushing acceleration.) There had apparently been some sort of navigation error, a really bad one which had the admiral’s staff storming about in a black fury for days, but it hadn’t betrayed them to the enemy, which was the main thing.

Some days ago, the squadron had flipped end over end and executed a deceleration sequence to slow them down to 100 k.p.s. relative to Rochard’s World. In the early hours of this morning, they had reached engagement velocity; they would drift the last thirty light-seconds, resuming acceleration (and increasing their visibility) only within active radar range of the enemy. Right now, they were about two million kilometers out. Some time around midnight, shipboard time, they would begin their closest approach to the planet, go to full power, and engage the enemy ships — assuming they were willing to come out and fight. (If they didn’t, then the cowards had conceded control of the low orbital zone to the New Republic, tantamount to abandoning their ground forces.) In any event, any action against the UN

inspector had to be completed before evening, when the ship would lock down for battle stations—

assuming they didn’t run into anything before then.

In Sauer’s view, it was a near miracle that Ilya had agreed to join in this deception. He could easily have scuppered it, or referred it to Captain Mirsky, which would have amounted to the same thing. This close to a major engagement, just detaching himself plus a couple of other officers who didn’t have active duty stations to prepare was enough of a wonderment to startle him.

Sauer walked up to the table at the front of the room and sat down. It was actually the officer’s dining table, decked out in a white tablecloth for the occasion, weighted down with leather-bound tomes that contained the complete letter of the Imperial Articles of War. Two other officers followed him; Dr. Hertz, the ship’s surgeon, and Lieutenant Commander Vulpis, the relativist. They looked suitably serious. Sauer cleared his throat. “Court will come to order,” he intoned. “Bring in the accused.” The other door opened. Two ratings marched in, escorting Martin Springfield who, being hobbled and handcuffed, moved rather slowly. Behind them, a door banged. “Ah, er, yes. Please state your name for the court.”

Martin looked around. His expression was pale but collected. “What?” he said.

“Please state your name.”

“Martin Springfield.”

Lieutenant Sauer made a note on his blotter. Irritated, he realized that his pen held no ink; no matter. This wasn’t an affair that called for written records. “You are a civilian, subject of the United Nations of Earth.

Is that correct?”

A look of irritation crept over Martin’s face. “No it bloody isn’t!” he said. “I keep telling you people, the UN is not a government! I’m affiliated to Pinkertons for purposes of legislation and insurance; that means I obey their rules and they protect me against infringers. But I’ve got a backup strategic infringement policy from the New Model Air Force which, I believe, covers situations like this one. I’ve also got agreements with half a dozen other quasi-governmental organizations, but none of them is entitled to claim sovereignty over me — I’m not a slave!”

Dr. Hertz turned his head and looked pointedly at Sauer; his pince-nez glinted beneath the harsh glare of the tungsten lamps. Sauer snorted. “Let it be entered that the accused is a subject of the United Nations of Earth,” he intoned.

“No he isn’t.” Heads turned. While Martin had been speaking, Rachel Mansour had slipped in through a side door. Her garb was even more scandalous than usual; a skintight white leotard worn beneath various items of padding and a bulky waistcoat resembling a flak jacket. Almost like a space suit liner , Sauer noted, puzzled. “The United Nations is not a—”

“Silence!” Sauer pointed at her. “This is a court of military justice, and I do not recognize your right to speak. Stay silent, or I’ll have you thrown out.”

“And create a diplomatic incident?” Rachel grinned unpleasantly. ‘Try it, and I’ll make sure you regret it.

In any event, I believe the accused is permitted to retain an advocate for the defense. Have you advised him of his rights?“

“Er—” Vulpis looked down.

“Irrelevant. The trial will continue—”

Martin cleared his throat. “I’d like to nominate Colonel Mansour as my advocate,” he said.

It’s working . Sauer made a pretense of scribbling on his blotter. At the back of the room, he could see Vassily’s sharp intake of breath. The young whippersnapper was getting his hopes up already. “The court recognizes UN inspector Mansour as the defendant’s counsel. I am obliged to warn you that this trial is being conducted under the Imperial Articles of War, Section Fourteen, Articles of Combat, in view of our proximity to the enemy. If you are ignorant of those rules and regulations, you may indicate so and withdraw from the trial now.”

Rachel’s smile broadened. “Defense moves for an adjournment in view of the forthcoming engagement.

There will be plenty of time for this after the battle.”

“Denied,” Sauer snapped. “We need a fair trial on the record before we can execute the sentence.” That made her smile slip. “Court will go into recess for five minutes to permit the defendant to brief his advocate, and not one minute longer.” He rapped on the table with his fist, stood, and marched out of the room. The rest of the tribunal followed suit, trailed by a paltry handful of spectators, leaving Rachel, Martin, and four ratings standing guard on the doors.

“You know this is just a rubber stamp? They want to execute me,” Martin said. His voice was husky, a trifle unsteady; he wrung his hands together, trying to stop them from shaking.

Rachel peered into his eyes. “Look at me, Martin,” she said quietly. “Do you trust me?”

“I — yes.” He glanced down.

She reached a hand out, across the table, put it across the back of his left wrist. “I’ve been reading up on their procedures. This is well out of order, and whatever happens I’m going to. lodge an appeal with the Captain — who should be chairing this, not some jumped-up security officer who’s also running the prosecution.” She glanced away from him, looking for the air vents; simultaneously, she tapped the back of his hand rapidly. He tensed his wrist back in a well-understood pattern, message understood: Next session. See me blink three times you start hyperventilating. When I blink twice hold breath .

His eyes widened slightly. “There won’t be time for them to do anything before perigeon, anyway,” she continued verbally. “We’re about two astronomical units out and closing fast; engagement should commence around midnight if there’s to be a shooting war.” Got lifeboat , she added via Morse code.

“That’s—” he swallowed. How escape ? he twitched. “I’m not confident they’re going to observe all the niceties. This kangaroo court—” He shrugged.

“Leave it all to me,” she said, squeezing his hand for emphasis. “I know what I’m doing.” For the first time, there was hope in his expression. She broke contact and leaned back in her chair. “It’s stuffy in here,” she complained. “Where’s the ventilation?”