Camp I-2355, Branxton Mountains, Commitment
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, and the sun was sinking fast into the west. It would be dark soon. He started toward his hut, wondering what delicacies the galley crew would have on offer for lunch.
“Michael!” Fellsworth called after him. “Hold on a second.”
Michael turned. “Sir?”
“Come with me,” she ordered. “I need you to witness what I sincerely hope will be the last chapter in this sorry saga.”
“I don’t-” Michael said, puzzled.
She cut him off. “No questions. Just come with me. I need a full neuronics record of what comes next.”
Puzzled, Michael followed her through the snow. Fellsworth’s destination soon became obvious, and before long they were alone with the four mutineers. They stared at Fellsworth, their faces a mix of fear and bravado.
“Come to tell us when we get turned off, have you, Fellsworth?’ Hashemian said bitterly.
“Actually, no. I’m here to tell you how you don’t, so-”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” Hashemian sneered. “Why don’t you-”
Xing did not let him finish. “Shut the fuck up, Hashemian. You’ve done enough damage, so listen for once.”
“That’s very good advice, and I suggest you take it, Hashemian,” Fellsworth said emphatically. Hashemian’s head went down in defeat. “Good. Now, I have a simple proposition. All I need is a yes or a no. So listen up. Okay?”
The group nodded reluctantly.
“Good. If you give me your word that you will do everything in your power to ensure that we escape successfully from this damn camp, I will guarantee that your sentences will be set aside.”
“You can do that?” Xing asked, hope splashed all over his face.
“I can, and I will. On my honor as a commissioned officer, I absolutely guarantee it,” Fellsworth said. Her confidence was justified; although the Hammers were undoubtedly their enemy, it was a nearly certain bet that the appeals court could not agree without a formal declaration of war. That meant no death sentence. A technicality, true, but enough to get the four spacers off death row. “So, what’s it to be?”
There was a short pause as the four spacers looked at one another. First Xing nodded, then the rest.
“Good,” Fellsworth said, “but let me hear you say it.”
There was a chorus of agreement. Fellsworth was satisfied. “Michael, you got all that?”
“I have it, sir.”
“Fine.” She turned back to the mutineers. “Helfort will comm each of you a copy of the recording. Right, we are done here. I am releasing you on bail on your own recognizance pending appeal. That’s all. Michael, brief Corporal Yazdi so she knows what the situation is.”
With that she was gone. Michael sat, stunned by it all, as were the mutineers. They looked shell-shocked.
“Corporal Yazdi!”
Corporal Yazdi and Marine Murphy watched in silence as the four mutineers left the hut.
“Do you think they believed me?” Murphy whispered.
“Well,” Yazdi replied, stretching up to pat Murphy on the shoulder, “I would. I think it was the bit about ripping their arms off that did the trick. So yes, I think they did. I don’t think they’ll be talking to the Hammers.”
“They better not,” Murphy muttered darkly.