The sound coming from Commodore Phillips' study first registered in Jim's mind as a scream. He quickened his pace as he approached, but slowed as he realized it wasn't a scream at all. It was a loud and wailing sort of scraping noise. He winced as yet another piercing note came from behind the door, then raised his fist and rapped three times on the wooden surface.
The scraping came to a halt. Seconds later, the door opened and he found himself face to face with the Commodore – give or take a few inches, since he was half a head taller than her. She had on a dark green coat with gold trim today and her hair was pulled back in a braid. Jim thought she looked better than she had in days as far as overall posture and color was concerned.
"Pardon me, ma'am, but I have orders from the Vice Admiral," he said with a salute. He then extended his other hand, which held a folded letter sealed with wax.
"Do come in, then," Phillips said. She waited until he had done so, then closed the door. "From what I hear, you had a most interesting evening last night."
Jim hesitated to answer. The Centurion and everything related to it was classified, and he had no idea whether or not Phillips was even involved. "You must've told somebody what a good job I did with that control panel the other day, 'cause now everybody wants me to fix stuff," he said with a casual grin.
"Let's see these orders." Phillips took the letter from his grasp and unfolded it quickly, walking over to her desk as she did so. Jim saw a violin and its case resting on top of the desk, presumably the source of the screeching from earlier. Somehow the mental image of the severe Phillips sawing away at a violin came across as comical.
Jim pushed the amusement out of his thoughts. He had barely slept the previous night, unable to relax after all that had happened on board the Centurion. Today he was clean-shaven, wearing a freshly-pressed uniform and with his hair combed back, but he felt as if he had just crawled out from under a rock.
"What?" Phillips snapped. She shook the paper in her hand as if it had just insulted her. "So, you've managed to wriggle your way into the Vice Admiral's good graces after all. I never thought I'd see the day." She gave a little sigh, crumpling up the letter and tossing it toward the wastebasket beside her desk. It went wide and rolled across the floor.
Jim ambled over and easily scooped up the wad of paper. "You sound disappointed," he remarked.
"Pssht. Hardly. Ah, yes. Where is that blasted-" Phillips looked around, a frown on her face. "Well, where did you go, you amorphous scamp?"
Morph slowly rose out of a teacup on Phillips' bookshelf, looking perturbed. He immediately flew over to Jim and transformed into a pair of earmuffs, then latched on Jim's head. A concerned trill escaped the Protean as he did so.
"Ugh. He despises my playing," the Commodore muttered. "You needn't fuss over Mr. Hawkins so, I'll not torment either of you any further."
"I didn't see that when we were unpacking your stuff," Jim remarked, indicating the violin.
"Oh, I only found it yesterday. I'd stuffed it in an old chest and forgotten about it." Phillips sat in her chair and put the violin back into its case, along with the bow. "I was classically trained as a child. But it seems the years have taken it out of me."
The amusement Jim had felt earlier now seemed shameful as he remembered what he had learned about the Commodore's past. Four ships taken down, and her the only survivor... It was probably hard to play a violin with a bad back and whatever else the experience had done to her.
"I'm sorry," he said, an unintended softness in his voice.
Phillips looked right at him, her amber eye flashing. "Well, I suppose you've got things to do for the Vice Admiral, now haven't you? Best not to waste your time in here. Off with you, then, and take your pet with you. He's been pining after you this whole time and I'm hardly suited for it; he requires more... affection than I can give."
Morph chittered happily and resumed his usual pink form, wagging his "tail" and flying in loops around Jim's arms. Phillips watched with an expression Jim couldn't quite interpret, though he thought the slight dip of her shoulders was somewhat melancholy.
"I thought you said no pets allowed," Jim pointed out.
"Mr. Hawkins, if there's one thing I despise with every fiber of my being it's having my judgment questioned," the Commodore growled.
Jim couldn't help smiling. He cupped his hands and Morph settled into his palms, babbling contentedly. "Duly noted," he replied. "And... thanks."
Phillips shut the violin case and let her hand linger on it for a couple of seconds, a wistful sort of gesture. "Bah. Save your sorrys and thanks. Be grateful you didn't have to go through what I had planned for you today, as it had a lot to do with mildew."
"What will you do now? Now that you don't have to make up stuff for me to do, I mean," Jim asked.
The Commodore tutted and set to work straightening the papers that cluttered her desk, shoving the violin case over to the side. "My job," she said simply. "I believe I've caught on to the rhythm here, as it were. Miss Blake has failed to report to me two days in a row now, so there's something to attend to. Unusual that her father hasn't said anything to me on the matter."
Jim remained silent. His deductions about who had sabotaged the Centurion were still a secret and he planned to keep it that way. A single hair could have come from anyone with the same hair color and texture; Jim knew of several people here who fit the bill. But hearing this latest information nudged his suspicion back in Valerie's direction.
"I guess I'll leave you to it," he said, with a polite nod of the head. "Unless there's more to discuss, of course."
"There is one thing." Phillips looked up from her straightening and scowled. "If you happen to see my walking stick anywhere, I would be most grateful for its speedy return to my person. I've been without it since last evening."
"You sure Morph didn't hide it somewhere? He does that sometimes," Jim suggested. Morph made an offended sputtering noise and pouted.
"I am sure," the Commodore stated. "Oh, and James – that question I asked you, the day we first met. I suppose it is no longer my place to demand an answer from you, but I urge you to keep it in mind. I shan't waste my breath trying to convince you of one thing or another; I simply ask you to consider what is most true to your heart."
Jim's brow furrowed as he picked up on the sincerity of her tone. When he considered what he knew of her past experiences – the loss of her ship, her crew, possibly her health as well – her challenge to him made perfect sense. It's a big, bad universe out there, with no room for indecision or error. You win or you lose. Live or die. If she considered herself responsible for what happened, then demanding that he figure out where his loyalties truly resided wasn't unreasonable at all. Now that he really thought about it, her motivations for being so stern with him weren't at all petty; in fact, they were very personal.
"About that," he answered hesitantly. He looked down at the tops of his boots. "I, uh – I've been thinkin' about what you said, and I... you were right. If I'm gonna do this, be an officer, I'll have people depending on me. Lots of people. People I'm supposed to keep safe."
Phillips was listening intently. She had her head turned so that he wasn't in her blind spot; he wondered if she was deaf in her left ear as well. That would explain why she yells so much...
"And I don't know if I'm ready for that," he continued. "If I'll ever be ready. I still have a lot to sort out from my past. But I've still got two years left here, and I'm gonna stick to it, no matter what. That's somethin' I learned, that you can't just give up without a fight. When the time comes, maybe I'll step down. Maybe I'll go find something else. But until then... until then, I'm gonna do my best."
He half expected her to sneer at him. Compared to her, he was a tadpole preaching about the day it would grow legs. But she was quiet now, studying him with a pensive frown.
She was the opposite of Silver – no cajoling, no attempts at filling an awkward silence with banter, no going out of her way to convince people she was trustworthy and affable. What you saw was what you got, whether you liked it or not. But she was hardly transpicuous; what you saw was only what she wanted you to see. She was unreadable as she processed what he had just said.
"Satisfactory," she finally replied. "Barely so, but it'll do."
Satisfactory? That's it? Jim shook off his slight disappointment and gave a small nod. "I'll be on my way, then," he stated, heading for the door. "Good day, Commodore."
"And to you, Mr. Hawkins," Phillips answered, her eye following him as he passed through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind him.
As soon as he reached the end of the hallway he heard the scraping start up again. Morph made a dismayed burble and burrowed into Jim's left pocket, as if to hide from the hideous noise. Jim shook his head as a rueful smile twitched his lips. She was persistent, he had to give her that; probably as hard-headed as himself, if not more so. He doubted anything short of smashing the violin would keep her from trying to remaster it.
As horrible as the sounds coming from her study were, there was an odd beauty to the fact that they were happening at all.
Practice makes perfect, the adage went. It was a mantra Phillips had recited to herself as a young child, as she stumbled and tripped her way through all manner of dancing lessons and similar pursuits. The memory of straining to stand on her toes, her little feet bound up in ballet slippers, was still quite clear in her mind despite being nearly four decades old.
But this was not a matter of practice or learning through repetition. It wasn't even about picking up a rusty old habit in need of polishing. It was rather like trying to force an old clock with gears and cogs missing to keep accurate time, knowing full well it could never keep up but insisting that it do so anyway. A foolish pursuit.
Isn't this the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results?
She slowly lowered the old violin and felt a familiar pain lance from the base of her spine up through her left shoulder. A humorless laugh, more of a bitter wheeze, escaped her as she set the instrument down on her desk. For a moment she was merely an aging woman in an office that seemed too big for her, surrounded by relics of her past which made poor excuses for good company. A lonely, miserable image.
She pulled open one of her desk drawers and picked up the framed picture that lay within, raising it up and glancing at it with a tired look. Her own face smiled up at her, twenty years younger and bearing not a single scar. Her remaining eye narrowed as she studied the fellow her younger self stood arm in arm with, a scowl darkening her face as she gritted her teeth.
I'm alone. There are hundreds of people here on this space station and I'm completely alone.
Before she quite knew what she was doing, she had already hurled the picture over her desk. It hit the wall about half a meter from the door and fell to the floor, the glass now fractured into segments. The Commodore let it lay there, sinking down into her chair and despising her circumstances.
It was easy to distract oneself by harrying others, a technique she had perfected over years of being a leader and overseer. It was downright therapeutic to flout one's rank and notoriety now and then; it kept others from forgetting just who and what she was. But not even watching fear bloom in the eyes of the (spoiled, arrogant) cadets here could soothe her current funk. Ironically, it was the unlikely connection she had made with Hawkins that proved most effective.
And now he's off to greener pastures, and I shan't be surprised if young Blake never returns. I wonder what her father will do with the both of them...
She got to her feet and walked over to the window. All she had to do was unlatch it and it swung open, a fresh Etherium breeze wafting in and bathing her face in cool air. It was hardly as dramatic as standing at the helm of one's ship as the winds whipped past, but it was better than nothing.
There had once been a time when she gazed at the distant stars and felt a stirring of hope in her heart. A time when the far-off reaches of the galaxy called to her, promising experiences beyond her wildest dreams. But that time was long past, and now as she stared into the majestic cosmic beyond she felt dread twine around her heart and tighten like a constricting predator. Now the horizon only brought to mind the memory of burning – of Arcturus's brilliant orange glow, and the red hungry heat of flames as they devoured wood and melted metal -
Phillips inhaled suddenly, a gasp as if she was coming up for air, and slammed the window shut. Latched it sloppily, then took a step back. Reality came in spurts, the stale-air smell and the drab green wallpaper of her study bringing her out of the past. She looked down at her own gloved hands, reached up and touched her eyepatch, then realized she was trembling.
"Looking for this?"
She flinched and whirled around. A familiar silhouette darkened her doorway – that of Vice Admiral Blake. He held her cane in his hands.
"I... yes," Phillips answered shakily. She straightened up and clasped her hands together, unwilling to let him see weakness on her part. "Wherever did you find it, Charles? I haven't a clue where I left it-"
She stopped short upon seeing the look on Blake's face. It was a look she knew well, one she often wore herself. A glare that meant business.
"A curious item, this," Blake remarked. He yanked the handle of the cane and a thin blade slid out of its sheath. "Unsurprising – that was always your style, wasn't it, Catherine? As brazen as you may be, you're terribly sneaky."
"What is this really about?" Phillips snapped. "Don't dance circles around me, spit it out."
"You know full well what it's about," Blake snarled. He stepped further into the room and several Royal Marines filed in past him, armed with laser rifles. "Catherine Elizabeth Phillips, you are under arrest for deliberate sabotage of a sanctioned Special Warfare Project of the Terran Empire. And may I add how very disappointed I am. I should have listened to my better judgment from the very beginning, but I believed you could be trusted. I can see now that I was wrong."
"What proof do you have to bolster such an accusation?" Phillips cried. She was frozen in place, now surrounded by Marines and unarmed. "That cane's been missing since yesterday, you can't just go waving it about and making assumptions-"
"I have all the proof I need," the Vice Admiral sneered. "An eyewitness saw you skulking about yesterday, while the cadets were partaking in their dinner. An eyewitness whose character I place implicit faith in, unlike your own." He shoved the sword back into its disguised sheath, then motioned at the waiting Marines. "Take her to the brig."
Phillips just stared at him. She didn't even struggle as two Marines took both of her arms and restrained her between them. "You invited me here," she said hollowly. "You know me better than anyone. You know I wouldn't... Charles, please! It doesn't make sense, you must see this!"
"It's clear to me that the warnings I received about you were correct," Blake said matter-of-factly as his Marines forced Phillips out of her own office. "I should have left you to rot in your own self-pity back on Asterfeld. I thought that gleam in your eye was determination to pull yourself up from that rut, not madness."
"Charles!" Phillips screamed, abandoning all pretense of dignity for an instant. "Please, just listen to me!"
"I am listening!" Blake yelled back. He curled his lip in disgust as he watched his men drag her away. "And all I hear are the ravings of a war-addled lunatic."
He looked down and realized his boot was on a fallen portrait frame. He bent and picked it up, glancing at the picture before emitting a contemptuous grunt and flinging it away. "Of course," he said to himself – then he turned and followed after his Marines, leaving the Commodore's study.
As the door slammed and the impact rattled the entire room, the poorly-latched window swung open. The gentle breath of the Etherium coursed in, rustling the papers on the desk. One paper came loose and fluttered to the floor, landing neatly beside the Commodore's chair. It was a Letter of Marque, an official pardon signed by the Queen herself – and the space where a recipient's name should have been was blank.
The stars continued to glitter and twinkle from afar, spectators indifferent to the plight of the players on the stage of the Academy.