Роберт Бюттнер - Orphan's Destiny

I told Brumby, “This is gonna take a while. Let’s get some coffee, Brumby.”

Brumby sat still and asked me, “Sir, will I get a Dishonorable?”

It was no time to speak the truth. I tried to accentuate the positive. “We can appeal, Brumby. The fat lady hasn’t sung.”

Brumby’s brow furrowed and his left eyelid twitched. “No, sir, she hasn’t. I mean, the panel hasn’t even returned a verdict.”

Crap. Before I could stop myself, I winced. I was supposed to be positive. But by talking about appeal, I had revealed to Brumby that I had given up hope. Giving up hope is a luxury denied officers in command.

“Sir, why did you choose an enlisted panel?” Brumby hesitated. “I’m not being critical, sir. Just wondered.”

I knew why. I thought I saw Ord twitch. I thought he had signaled me. I thought Ord was telling me to pick a panel of sergeants because they might think breaking regs was awful but they would also think that inter-service brawling was mere recreation. I didn’t doubt Ord. Ord could never be wrong. But now I doubted whether I had read his mind correctly.

I opened my mouth to explain.

The hatch through which the panel had left opened and the panel foreman beckoned the presiding officer with a finger. My heart thumped.

The foreman cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered to the presiding officer. He shook his head.

Maybe they just wanted instructions on a point of law. Maybe they wanted coffee and doughnuts.

Brumby stared at the conversation, then at me. He whispered, “Sir, if they’re back soon, that’s bad, huh?”

Brumby’s counsel overheard. He turned, lips pressed tight, and nodded.

Crap.

I patted Brumby’s forearm. “They probably just want instructions. It can’t be a verdict already.”

The presiding officer straightened and called across the compartment to the Space Policeman. “Advise the prosecution that the panel has reached a verdict.”

My heart sank. It had been just fifteen minutes since the panel retired. No eight rational people could agree on pizza toppings in just fifteen minutes. Eight individual sergeants couldn’t decide a soldier’s fate, his life, in fifteen minutes. Unless they were going to fry him.

I had read Ord wrong. I had stupidly chosen a panel of sergeants. Brumby was going to pay for my stupidity.

The longest ten minutes of my life dragged past, then Brace and the JAG swabbie and Rat-nose returned.

Everyone stood while the panel reentered from the deliberation room.

Brace glanced past me and Brumby, serene in the knowledge that Brumby was getting brig time and a dishonorable discharge. Just as good, I, the seat-of-the-pants accidental general, was getting embarrassed.

The presiding officer looked across the room. “Madam Foreman, has the panel reached a verdict?”

The Transportation Corps topkick stood. “We have.” She didn’t make eye contact with any of us at the defense table. That was supposed to be bad. The rest of the panel stared ahead, impassive as the veterans they were.

The presiding officer swiveled his head toward Brumby. “The accused will rise.”

Brumby stood at attention, alongside his counsel. So did I. Even without my blunder, Brumby probably would have been convicted. What I thought I had read in Ord’s body language was that noncoms were used to brawls and Army noncoms were none too fond of prissy sailors. Bend a GI’s career because he cold-cocked a squid? Better to award him a commendation! It seemed so obviously stupid now.

I ground my teeth while the foreman unfolded a paper slip. Did she really need to write it down?

She cleared her throat. “On the issue of restitution.”

I rolled my eyes. Probably the last thing Brumby or I cared about was how much would come out of Brumby’s pay and allowances each month to compensate the Space Force for fixing Brace’s valet’s teeth.

“We find the accused responsible for the deductible portion of the assaulted party’s dental expenses.” Service personnel paid a couple cents by payroll deduction every time we got medical treatment.

“However, we further find said responsibility to be offset by the assaulted party’s responsibility for cleaning expenses for the accused’s uniform. By virtue of the assaulted party’s complicit behavior regarding the throwing of food onto the accused’s uniform.”

I had sat in on a couple of courts-martial. I had also been closer to participating as accused in more of them than I cared to. Empaneled NCOs generally knew little about the law but thought they knew lots. Of course, this restitution verdict meant vacuum, since they were going to throw Brumby out on his ear. After that, Brumby’s pay and allowances would be zero. Why had they even bothered to cut Brumby a break on the issue? My heart leapt. Maybe.

I glanced at the JAG swabbie. He frowned and shifted in his seat.

The foreman paused, then continued. “On all other charges”—she smiled at Brumby—“we find the accused not guilty.”

Breath exploded from my lips. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. Brumby hugged his counsel, who looked bewildered as well as uncomfortable.

Then Brumby, grinning, hugged me. “Sir! You always knew!”

I shrugged. Acting like you always knew was part of being an officer.

By the time Brumby finally released his shoulder lock on me, the panel was gone. Across the room, the JAG swabbie stared down into his notescreen as he folded it away. That was, I suspected, because he had figured out that my choice of a noncom panel had cost him the case. Also, I suspected, he didn’t want to look at Brace.

The JAG swabbie needn’t have bothered. Brace stalked toward the hatch, then paused and pointed at me. “Wander, you have just perpetrated a gross injustice. I’ll remember that.”

He slammed the hatch behind him.

My fingers trembled with exhilaration.

As soon as the festivities here wound down, I would find Ord and share the news. I was as happy that I had figured out what Ord had been telling me, that I had read his mind, as I was with the substantive result. Ord would turn handsprings.

Not exactly.

ELEVEN

I FOUND ORD TWENTY DECKS AFT of the court-martial, on a busman’s holiday from his divisional paperwork. A Third Division platoon sat cross-legged on their platoon bay deck as Ord stood before them brandishing an M-20. Across each soldier’s knees lay a similar rifle. They all wore utilities, but also bulky, red Eternad gloves. From the gun oil I saw on the gloves and smelled in the air, they had been at this a while.

Ord said, “The training-manual-established optimal time to field-strip and reassemble the vacuum-adapted M-20 Assault Rifle is one minute, fifty seconds. That time, however, was established for Space Force personnel. Can any squid field-strip the basic infantry weapon faster than an infantry soldier?”

“No, Sergeant Major!” Fifty voices bellowed and shook the deck plates.

I smiled. Timed field-stripping in Eternads? Eternad gloves were supple enough that a soldier wearing them could pluck a coin off a tabletop, but it was vintage Ord to demand that troops meet field-manual standards while wearing them. Especially troops bound for home and not into combat.

Ord glanced at his wrist ’puter. “Begin!”

Fifty rifles clattered and drowned conversation. I touched Ord’s shoulder, then leaned close. “Brumby was acquitted.”

Ord nodded.

“You should have seen the look on Brace’s face!” I grinned.

Ord frowned and turned his attention to his ’puter.

I cocked my head. Even from Ord I expected a thumbs-up, or at least a smile.

A private held up her reassembled rifle in triumph. Ord bent, checked it, and nodded. Seconds later, the fiftieth soldier thrust his reassembled weapon toward the low ceiling. Ord pressed his ’puter’s stop button, raised his eyebrows, then turned the dial toward me so I could read it.