Chapter Twenty-nine
Court Martial
Charles Tucker III
As far as most people are concerned, there's nothing very interesting about a court martial. I've sat on enough of them to know, and I can tell you, the most surprising thing about it might be finding out that only one person in the courtroom actually needs to know the law. The presiding JAG officer, who acts as both judge and president of the judicial panel, has to be a lawyer. The other two, four or six members of the panel (how many there are depends on how big a deal the court martial is – mine has six) simply need to be commissioned officers in the Imperial Star Fleet or the MACOs. Usually, the representatives for the prosecution and the defense are lawyers too, but they don't have to be.
Maybe the only other surprising thing about the typical court martial is that the defendant is allowed to choose whomever he wants to serve as his advocate. I didn't choose anybody because I didn't want to paint a target on the back of anyone I'd trust enough to speak for me. So, my advocate is a young JAG lawyer named Lieutenant Michaela Louvois who was basically appointed to lose. Early on, I tried a few wisecracks about her taking one for the team, but she either has no sense of humor or she's so shit - scared that she just can't find it inside herself to humor me with a laugh.
Then, a few days ago, I had a serious talk with Michaela and told her I could speak for myself if she thought she would get too much backlash for defending me. She actually laughed at the offer and asked if I was trying to get her killed.
"You have no idea how popular you are," she told me. "If the people suspect you're being railroaded, there's likely to be looting and rioting the likes of which we haven't seen since the run up to World War III. The Emperor himself has taken a personal interest in your case, and he has met with me, the prosecution, the president and the other members of the panel to tell us all that he expects a fair trial."
So, that was a surprise. I should have taken it as a sign, but even if I had, I never would have seen this coming.
The entire morning of the first day of my court martial is taken up with expert testimony on records from the Jupiter Station salvage operation. They even bring out camera footage showing me looking over and editing some of Mike's inventory lists and match the time stamps up with the times I moved things from the salvage column to the scrap column. They go through this exercise three different times to establish a pattern, and then Michaela is allowed to stipulate to the rest of the records. In a way, I hate co-operating with this farce. I kind of want them to sit through hours of watching me swipe blankets and food and expired medicines for the needy and then dare to tell me that what I did was wrong because I know damned well it wasn't, and if they have the stones to tell me it was illegal, then I can say the fucking law is wrong. But I know Michaela has a point. It's far better to let the panel slog through them all if they want than to piss them off and bore them to death showing one illegal transaction after another until they plead for mercy. She and I have already read through the entire list, and while I can't say for certain that every item on it was pilfered for the charity operations (there may be a few more or less than I actually took), I can say that it wasn't doctored to show me stealing an entire battleship or something like that.
During the meal break, I meditate, and for the first time since I was arrested, I think I find T'Pol in the white space. I feel a cool gentle caress in my tangled mind, and gradually, my thoughts smooth out. I don't see her, and I don't hear words, but on a very deep level, I feel affection, regret and apology. I return the affection, and for the regret and apology, I give back understanding and absolution. Neither of us knows what's going to happen to her, but even without the death penalty in my future, she has the potential to live a hell of a lot longer than I will. If she wants to avoid endless days of suffering, she has to play the game.
She's the first witness to testify after lunch. She describes all the terrible things I did to her when I was her master on Jupiter Station, and though she feigns some tears and shudders quietly once or twice, and now and again describes some things I'm pretty sure even I didn't do, I know why she's added them. I told her on that last afternoon that her best chance of survival would be to paint me as black as she could, to earn the sympathy vote, and glancing at the jury, I can see it's working. What horrors she must have experienced under my cruel thumb for her, a Vulcan, to still be emotionally affected! What a monster I must have been!
I do still regret what I did to her then, and for the benefit of the judicial panel, I sit there looking sorry and guilty; but she forgave me long ago and used the meld to take the edge off my shame. So, hearing her testimony is not as painful for me as it might seem to anyone who is watching, and I know, whatever she might say to the court, she bears no grudge against me.
Following T'Pol's testimony, Eloise Chastain takes the stand to explain how she put together that I was up to something. It's more tedious reconciling of dates and times and things disappearing, and I'm pretty sure more than one of the panel members nods off for a bit.
The day ends with Erika Hernandez taking the stand. Though she does her best to make me look hell-bent on the overthrow of the Empire, she can't come up with one single scrap of hard proof that I ever did anything that could remotely qualify as seditious or treasonous. The prosecutor does his best to make her testimony seem strong and weighty, but she can't even produce one bit of evidence that she gathered herself; it all came through the team she had investigating me.
Finally, when it's Michaela's turn to cross examine her and she asks why Erika undertook the investigation herself instead of following protocol and handing it over to Homeworld Security, she goes from looking foolish and incompetent to downright desperate. It's obvious now that reporting it to Malcolm there towards the end would have been a wasted effort, and by that time, Austin had been promoted to SiC of the MACOs, so it was understandable that she didn't say anything to him because there was no way of knowing if he was in cahoots with Mal and me; but according to Eloise's testimony, Erika was investigating me since before the Sick Bay on Jupiter Station exploded. If Eloise is telling the truth – and the prosecution has given the panel no reason to think otherwise – then Alpha and Em were still around when Erika's investigation started, and she had no reason to withhold information regarding my suspicious activity from them.
With the memories of those terrible days and the knowledge that I'm fated to die soon weighing on me, I can't find it in me to be amused as Michaela humiliates her before the panel and on live TV, but I'm gratified to watch the crusty old bitch being knocked down a few pegs. She'll have to tread as if walking on shards of glass from now on, if she wants to avoid an investigation into her suspicious activities that will end in front of a firing squad.
Michaela and I expect to begin presenting our case at the start of the second day, but that doesn't happen. The prosecution says they have one more witness. It's a dirty trick used by both sides in both civilian and military courts, and something Bert was campaigning to end when everything went to shit and he had to go underground. The way it works is, the lawyers keep their most devastating witness off the witness list and hold them until last. Then, they claim the person wasn't on the witness list because they hadn't planned to use them. When the other testimony 'doesn't go as expected,' it becomes necessary to call this final witness to tie everything together. It's not very subtle, and it's almost expected at this point, but it's still unfair because it doesn't allow the other side time to prepare.
It's especially shitty in my case because it's happening on the morning of the day we're supposed to start building my defense. Up until now, though I always knew I was bound to die, I'd held on to my hopes of beating the treason charge and the particularly gruesome death that came with it, but now a quick, clean execution by firing squad seems less likely than ever. For one thing, although, from what I've seen, Michaela's as good as they come, anyone's nerves are going to be jangled by having to defend against a surprise attack, so she's still probably going to be a little rattled when she starts to present my case. For another, people tend to remember the beginning and end of a sequence of events and forget about the middle. So, this surprise witness will be the beginning of the day, closing arguments will be the end and my defense, with the argument that I was helping the Empire in my own small way so nothing I did could be construed as treason, will be forgotten.
Michaela is mad enough to chew nails and spit tacks when the prosecution pulls this trick because she set it up for them by tearing Erika Hernandez apart on the stand. I go from bewildered to surprised to relieved to heartbroken in the next few minutes.
At least now I know what happened to Amanda Cole.
She looks cool and professional in her MACO uniform as she steps up into the witness box. She's wearing the silver pips of a first lieutenant now, so she's been promoted again, probably as a reward for what she's doing here.
At first, of course, I'm so goddamned relieved to see her alive and well that I don't even register the fact she's appearing as a witness for the prosecution. Then, as it dawns on me she's here to help me on my way to hell, the pain is simply unbelievable. I want to keep my face as unrevealing as I can, because the TV cameras are focusing on it to suck up every detail, but there's suddenly a lump in the back of my throat so big it hardly feels as if I can breathe past it.
I was shocked and hurt when Eloise Chastain betrayed me, but it was nothing like this. I liked her and trusted her enough to pretty much let her run my days. I relied on her, but that was nothing compared to what I felt for Amanda.
I loved that girl. She was family. I even asked Mama to bake her a birthday cake and we threw her a little party down in the bunker. Oh, what are Mama and Daddy going to think when they see this? It's all I can do right now not to just curl up on the floor under the defense table and cry.
It's felt like one body blow after another as she's answered questions about the entire history of our acquaintance. The day I offered her a job working for me, I remember her asking for twenty-four hours to consider it. Now, she tells the panel that she used that time to have a meeting with Austin Burnell, to seek his approval and receive instructions.
She was working for him from the start.
Then, she tells them about my secret shuttle, how I used knowledge from the Defiant's database to power a cloaking device and transporter. Step by step, the prosecutor walks her through explaining how I first told her the secret shuttle wasn't just for kicks, to telling her about the salvage operation, to having her pilot the shuttle to the distribution points, to letting her pretty much run the operation. She tells them about confirming that Hess and Rostov were involved, about the bunker and meeting the personnel there, about Mama and Daddy and Bert and Rae being involved.
"They mostly did domestic work, as far as I could tell," she says, still looking as cool as a goddamn cucumber. "Cooking and cleaning and laundry for the personnel who lived there. His mother made me a birthday cake once. She was an excellent cook, though the menu was heavily dependent on meat, pasta, and potatoes. If you wanted sushi or a nice stir-fry, you had to go elsewhere."
The prosecutor nods. "And can you tell us now, Lieutenant Cole, exactly how Mister Tucker managed to draw former General Reed into the conspiracy?"
I brace myself for her answer. Everything she has testified to so far has been illegal, but not wrong. People, ordinary folks, can forgive a little pilfering from the Empire if it means helping people who need it the most. It doesn't make any difference as to whether or not I'll be executed, because my pilfering was a capital crime, and I knew it when I did it. What's coming next, though, will change how people see me. It won't matter much to me for very long since I'll be dead in a few days anyway, but we worked so hard for so long just to scatter a few seeds of kindness and compassion out there in the world, and the moment the world finds out about the people I killed and the damage I caused blowing up the sickbay on my own station, all those seeds will be blighted. Everything we accomplished is about to be undone with her next words. Everything.
"I don't exactly know, sir," she replies.
Even before I was assigned to Enterprise, I'd learned to wait a beat before allowing myself to react to anything said or done by anybody who could influence my success or wellbeing. Pretty much anybody who lives very long or attains even the smallest bit of power in the Imperial military does something similar, and it serves me well now. Instead of snapping my head up and gaping at her in surprise, I slowly raise it and hold her gaze when she looks my way. I'm sure it's enough that some of the members of the panel realize there's something happening, but it's subtle enough that they won't be able to say what it is; and most of the folks watching at home won't have a clue.
At any rate, she continues. "I suppose it started when General Re…, excuse me, former General Reed, made Jupiter Station his home base while he was recuperating from the injuries he received in the explosion."
Here the prosecutor interrupts with information from the official report about the explosion and explains how Malcolm was already there 'conducting research with the other members of the Triad, but he was spared their fate because he was in another part of the Sickbay, monitoring the experiment on computer readouts, at the time.'
"Yes, sir," Amanda confirms his version of events, even though she knows them to be completely false. "During his recovery, the Gen…," she interrupts herself again, "I beg the panel's pardon, Mister Reed took over a suite of rooms in one of the lower levels of the station. From what I understand, he received medical treatments and physiotherapy there and handled as much official business as he could from that location. The Comm…, I'm sorry, Mister Tucker visited him there regularly, as the rules of military courtesy require of a station commander when a higher-ranking officer or government official visits his facility.
"It was widely rumored throughout the MACOs and the Fleet that Reed and Tucker had always hated each other from their earliest days on the Enterprise, but they'd always worked together because they were good and talented officers. I can only imagine that, being more mature and having greater responsibilities on their shoulders, they might have found some kind of mutual respect for one another during those visits."
"That sounds perfectly reasonable, Lieutenant," the prosecutor says, now frowning slightly because this isn't exactly what he needs to nail me to the floor, "but 'mutual respect' is hardly grounds for Reed to have joined a conspiracy to steal from the Imperial Fleet and commit treason. Can you testify to any one specific incident that might have marked a shift in their relationship that could have moved Reed to ally himself with Tucker?"
One specific incident? I take a slow, deep, quiet breath. The meld. She's going to tell them about the meld. This is what will do it, then. The dream will die because I am revealed to be not a murder, but a lunatic. I brace myself to listen to one of my most trusted officers tell the world how Malcolm and I were crazy enough to let a Vulcan rebel into our minds.
"Perhaps I can," she replies reluctantly, "but I must caution the panel that it requires much speculation on my part to extrapolate a probable scenario from what little I witnessed."
In normal Imperial Standard, this means, I'm about to spill some gossip.
The prosecutor looks to the panel for guidance, and when he gets nods from all of them, he instructs Amanda, "Proceed."
In normal Imperial Standard, this means, Dish, girl!
"I piloted then-General Reed and then-Commodore Tucker to and from Earth for the celebration of the tenth anniversary of Empress Sato's Ascension to the Throne," she replies calmly.
That little habit of taking a beat serves me well again as I just manage to bite the inside of my cheek to avoid grinning or laughing aloud. Still, I want to communicate that I know what she's doing, and I'm good with it. The way my hands are folded on the table, I can lift one of my thumbs. I immediately pat the other with it gently a couple times, like I'm considering what she's going to say, but I know she'll have seen the upward movement and understood it as the best I can do for a thumbs-up gesture. Thank God, she's from Florida. She'll know that's a good thing. I know there's still lots of places on Earth where it's considered rude or insulting, but I don't know which places they are, so I'd have been up shit's creek if she hadn't been North American like me.
"On the way there, they were cool and aloof, as always. I don't remember them saying anything to each other, but I am sure I would have remembered if they had said anything that wasn't either completely impersonal or mildly insulting.
"On the way back to Jupiter Station, though, Reed was almost pleasant. There was warmth in his voice when he spoke, even to Tucker. I wouldn't say he was a different man, exactly, but he was a little nicer. Tucker, on the other hand…"
When she glances my way, I flick my gaze down toward my hands and do my thumb-patting again the tiniest bit. I can tell she gets it by the slightest lift of her brows, though to people who don't know her or me the gesture could be interpreted at her pleasure in embarrassing me with what she says next.
"Well, he was quieter than usual. He's always been talkative as long as I've known him, but he didn't have much to say that morning. I quickly realized it was because he'd hurt his tongue. I remember him having particular trouble with Ls, Ds and Ss. He also moved like he was in a certain amount of pain and groaned aloud when he stood to leave the shuttle when we arrived back at Jupiter Station.
"I remember thinking at the time that Tucker must have been well-used at the Empress's party. Then, when I glanced up to see them walking out of the shuttle bay side by side, which was notable in itself because of their well-known mutual animosity, Reed shifted his overnight bag from one hand to the other, and he seemed to be hurting, too.
"After that, they were much more cordial to one another around the station. Sometimes, they were even seen taking meals together."
The prosecutor blinks. "So, just to clarify…"
"Excuse me." Captain Georgiou, one of the members of my judicial panel, cuts off the prosecutor. That's another thing that's different from the civilian courts, now I think of it. Jurists can interrupt testimony with questions of their own at any time. "Are you saying they fucked and fell in love?"
I already know Amanda's answer is going to be perfect. As long as I've known her, she's had a knack for delivering absolutely ridiculous bullshit in a way that makes complete sense, and with her deadpan delivery, it sometimes made it really tough to tell whether she was being serious or making a joke. I learned not to question it, and I doubt the panel will either.
"Respectfully, sir, I can't testify to things I didn't witness, but as it is widely rumored that sex is an integral part of parties at the Imperial Palace (and I daresay there are members of the panel who would know more about that than I do), I would say it is safe to assume that both men fucked someone. As to whether they fucked each other, again, I didn't witness that, so I can't testify to it. I'm equally hesitant to name the feelings they might have had for one another, because neither of them ever told me what they felt. I can say that, after the party, they treated each other with much more respect and behaved as if they held each other in much higher regard than they did previously. If the esteemed members of the panel wish to assume that they fucked each other and fell in love, I can't testify that they didn't."
Georgiou nods and looks at the prosecutor again. "You may continue."
"Actually, sir, I'd like to end this line of questioning with affidavits from several attendees of the party in question who saw Reed behaving seductively with Tucker and witnessed the gentlemen leaving together; the taxi driver who took them back to their hotel and also witnessed seductive behavior; and Vice Admiral Svoboda, his wife and three other Imperial Fleet officers stating that they witnessed then-Commodore Tucker leaving then-General Reed's hotel room clad in nothing but a hotel bathrobe on the morning following the Empress's party. There is also a statement from the hotel concierge about receiving a pharmacy delivery for Tucker, one from the pharmacy stating the contents of the delivery and the likely uses for the medication, one from the prescribing physician detailing the conditions for which Tucker requested the medications, and one from a bellhop at the hotel verifying that he delivered the pharmacy package to Mr. Tucker in his room."
The president of the panel looks at Micheala. "Any objections?"
"Respectfully, sir, as the defense was not previously notified of any of those documents, we would like to be permitted to read them before making a decision about whether to object to or accept them, please."
The president looks from one member of the panel to the other, who all shrug indifferently.
"I'm not willing to interrupt this proceeding for you to review some documents," he says. "We'll table the decision on whether to enter them into the record for now, complete the questioning of this witness, and then break for a long lunch to give the defense time to review the statements."
Michaela and the prosecutor nod, and the president gestures for the prosecutor to proceed.
There isn't much left of Amanda's testimony. She talks about Erika Hernandez snooping around on the station, Liz's attempt to kill Malcolm, and the day she got the order to flee the station. She very firmly settles the blame for Liz, Mal, Rostov and Hess escaping on Erika's shoulders.
"We had no idea she was running her own investigation," she says. "Typically, something of this nature would have been outside of Starfleet's jurisdiction. As an admiral, she should have known to follow protocol and liaise with someone in the Department of Homeworld Security. Since then-General Reed was under suspicion, she should have reported to then-Colonel Burnell. The Colonel and I were working towards lifting the entire network out intact, but Admiral Hernandez's premature action to seize the few prominent officers at the head of the organization prevented that."
I have to resist the urge to smile at the thought of Erika feeling the noose tightening with every word Amanda says about her. Serves the old bitch right.
Michaela doesn't have much to ask Amanda, just a few questions about minor details, dates and times. It doesn't matter anyway because I know what I did, I knew the potential consequences when I did it, and nothing can save me. Even if they might be inclined toward mercy, the panel will have to order my execution because, even disregarding the treason charge, other things I have done – things that have already been proven – carry the death penalty. The only question is whether it will be quick, clean, merciful and private or slow, messy, agonizing and a public spectacle. Then, just as I'm starting to feel pretty good about my chances for a good death, Michaela asks the one question she never, ever should have spoken aloud. "Have you ever witnessed Mister Tucker acting with malice towards anyone?"
I go hot and cold all over. If words had physical form, I'd leap into the air and try to catch them before they hit Amanda and the panel. I blew up my own damned sick bay. All those lives reduced to a spatter of body parts. And now everyone in the Empire is going to watch me bleed and scream as I am cut to ribbons.
"No, ma'am. Quite the opposite." Amanda's gaze is as clear as crystal.
"The opposite? Could you explain that?"
I'm too surprised to react, which is a good thing, because any reaction I have could call Amanda's testimony into doubt.
"Yes, ma'am. As a military man, I'm sure Mister Tucker has had to take part in hurting and killing people. So have I, so, I'm sure, has every member of the panel, and probably even you, yourself, ma'am, and the representative for the prosecution. That's what happens when you're in the military and you're at war. So, anything he did as part of his military service, I wouldn't regard as malice. It's necessity. It's survival.
"Beyond that, though, I have seen Mister Tucker extend the hand of friendship towards a man he should, by all rights, have killed."
"Former General Reed, you mean?"
Amanda frowns. "Him too, but I was actually thinking about Commander Richard Kelby, the officer in charge of Jupiter Station now."
This is clearly unexpected. The prosecutor glances at his documents and finds nothing about it. "Wh- What did he do for Commander Kelby?"
"He turned an enemy who was trying to undermine him into a trusted friend," she says.
I never told Amanda about the interview Kelby gave on the anniversary of the capture of the Defiant or about the statements he made that could have been damaging not just to me, but to the Empress if the right people had started asking the wrong questions, but she gets the facts right – although there's trust and then there's trust, and there's friends and friends, and while he turned out to be a good and dependable guy, I don't really think I ever would have let Rich get as close to me as Mike, Anna, Liz, Mal, and Amanda. Still, she tells them without embellishment how I gave Kelby every chance to succeed, mentored him through his mistakes and rewarded his successes, and if she paints me as more humble and shy of attention than dodging it because I wasn't as heroic as the press always made me out to be, and if she paints Kelby as more malicious, ignorant and incompetent than he was petty, naïve and under-trained, well, that's just her perception. Unless the prosecution can prove otherwise, what she says has to be entered into the record just as if she had been there to witness all of it herself.
=/\=
When we recess for lunch, Michaela and I take turns reading the affidavits aloud to each other so we both have time enough to eat. I can find nothing factually inaccurate in them, so we agree to accept them as written.
This is the first time since I was arrested, just over a year ago, that I've eaten anything other than a thick, cold slab of indistinguishable glop that filled my belly and then sat there like a brick, and I'm trying to take my time and savor it. I was really hoping for pan-fried catfish and collard greens with dirty rice and cornbread, but meatloaf and mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, broccoli, and warm, buttery clover rolls isn't a bad consolation prize. The last few bites are all but cold when I finish, but I'm still disappointed when they're gone. My expression must give away more than I mean to, though, because Michaela just chuckles and orders me another plate.
It's a little humiliating having to rely on this young woman to determine if, when and what I get to eat, but she's too kind about it for me to be anything other than grateful. When the second round comes with a thick slab of pecan pie, I'm almost happy. I thank her and dig in, realizing as I do that the prison nutriloaf must at least provide proper nutrition because, if I was chronically malnourished or starving, I'd have been sick from the rich food on my plate by now. Then, with grim pleasure I realize that I'm an important enough prisoner that the world will want to know what I had for a last meal, so maybe I can get my catfish dinner then.
Our final discussion of my trial strategy is brief and simple.
"I'm gonna admit to everything they say I did, but plead not guilty to treason," I tell Michaela once more (we've had this argument several times). "Intentions matter, an' I never intended any harm to the Empire."
Thankfully, this time, she just says, "Okay."
=/\=
My half of the court martial goes exactly as I intended. We present the evidence that none of us ever profited from the operation, and the prosecution can't refute it. We also remind the court that the prosecution never demonstrated a single instance where any ship or service-member lacked something they needed for personal use or in battle as a result of the things we took. With Michaela's questions guiding my testimony, I defend myself against the treason charge by admitting to everything else and arguing that treason requires the intent to cause harm to the Empire, and I only ever acted with the best of intentions. The evidence against me has already proven that I misappropriated and redistributed military issue drugs and food, warm clothes and bedding, and medical, household, and industrial equipment to desperate people on Earth. So, I argue that my actions served the Empire by helping its neediest subjects. By giving the poorest people things they needed to survive that the Empire wasn't able to provide, I prevented or at least lessened the impact of any uprisings on Earth.
"The fewer people there are who are desperate enough to rebel, the smaller the rebellion will be," I point out, and really there's no arguing with it. If the verdict against me wasn't already a foregone conclusion, my defense would be doing a really good job of trying to get me off, but as it is, I'm resigned to the fact that, like so much else in the Empire, this is all for the cameras.
I also state for the record that my advocate has no other witnesses to call because I don't wish to embroil anyone else in my personal difficulties. "Supportin' me could be interpreted as sedition, an' I don't want anyone to take that risk."
Closing arguments restate the points that have already been made. I almost chuckle when the prosecutor makes me sound like a whore who seduced then-General Reed to my cause. On the one hand, I suppose it was a sort of seduction, offering kindness and compassion and eventually friendship to an animal who'd only ever known cruelty, abuse and neglect, but Malcolm was the most powerful man in the Empire at that time. He didn't need to trade anything for sex; all he had to do was point at someone and drop his drawers. Michaela makes that point and several others in her closing argument.
When the panel adjourns for deliberation, I think I have at least a fifty-fifty chance for that quick, clean, merciful death.
=/\=
I'm surprised how long the panel spends deliberating. Dinner time comes around, and even though I'm not very hungry because of my big lunch, I agree to a steak and baked potato when Michaela suggests it. The steak's a little rare for my liking, I prefer it juicy not bloody, but the potato is excellent topped with cheese and broccoli and a few red pepper flakes to spice it up. Of course, with my sweet tooth, the banana pudding Michaela orders for dessert is far and away my favorite part of the meal.
We're just finishing up, when there's a soft rap at the door, and the guard sticks his head in to tell us there's been another request for an interview.
We've been denying these all along. On the one hand I've been afraid of the riots Michaela says could happen if people think the trial is unfair. On the other hand, I watched the news enough to know some so-called journalists start from the premise that a person is corrupt and back them into a corner where anything they say in their own defense either makes them look guilty or smug and superior. I don't object to being judged for things I've actually said and done, but I don't want to stir up too many feelings for or against me, so I've so far felt that I'm better off just keeping my mouth shut. But this, time before Michaela can say no and send the guard away, I interrupt. "Who is it?" I ask.
"Marla Moore," the guard replies.
"What would it take for me to be allowed to talk with her?" I ask Michaela. The court martial is over, it was as fair as one could have possibly hoped, and the panel is deliberating. What could it hurt?
She shrugs. "Just say yes. She wouldn't be asking if she didn't already have permission. The press can't even get into the building without it."
"What happens if the panel makes its decision?"
"You'll have fifteen minutes to finish up what you're doing and get to the courtroom."
I nod to the guard. "I'll talk to her. Give me five minutes."
The guard nods and leaves. I look at Michaela again. "Can I borrow your PADD? I'm gonna make a statement."
=/\=
Five minutes later, Marla Moore is in the conference room, sitting across the table from me, warming me up.
"You're looking well, Commodore," she says.
"It's Mister Tucker, now, Ms. Moore," I remind her, "but my friends call me Trip."
She gives me a glorious smile, pats my hand and winks. "Well, I'm sure your friends will be glad to see you, Trip."
Does she count herself among my friends, or is she just being friendly to loosen me up? That would be something to think about, if I wasn't living on borrowed time.
"The whole trial's been televised," I tell her, trying not to let the edge of bitterness show through, "an' all of my friends are in hidin'."
"Oh, not all of them," she says with another wink. "You've got lots of friends, Trip, and this is different from seeing you in the restricted environment of the courtroom. You can be more yourself here."
"We need to roll, soon, Marla." The cameraman's finished checking his light settings and whatever else needs doing.
"I'm ready now." Good ol' helpful Trip Tucker, that's me. Right up till the moment they strap me down.
Far too often, lately, I've had flashbacks to that lingchi Malcolm performed on that Sallis guy. He must have lain there watching the cameras pulled into position…
She opens a compact mirror, checks her makeup, pulls out a lipstick and applies a fresh, shiny wet stroke of red. Putting the mirror and lipstick away, she looks into the camera and nods.
"Five…four…" the cameraman counts off three, two, one on his fingers and points at Marla to cue her to speak.
"This is Marla Moore, reporting live from the Imperial Starfleet's JAG headquarters on the court martial of former Commodore Charles 'Trip' Tucker III for treason and other crimes against the state. The trial is over and the panel is deliberating at this time."
JAG HQ. Nice to finally have some idea of where I am. Ever since I was arrested, any time I've been moved, I've been unconscious or had a bag over my head, and until I was brought here for trial, I haven't left my cell since I woke up there.
"Commodore, how are you feeling?"
Commodore? We just went through this.
"It's Mister Tucker, now, Ms. Moore, but my friends call me Trip."
"Of course," there's that wink and that glorious smile again. "Thank you, Trip, and how are you feeling?"
"Well, I guess I'm gratified to think that the panel's havin' a difficult time makin' their decision. The way I see it, the only thing in question is the treason charge, so I guess they're havin' trouble decidin' whether I meant harm to the Empire, an' I can tell you now, I most definitely did not.
"An' did you say this was live?"
"That's right, Trip. This interview is being broadcast throughout the Empire as we speak."
"That's awfully brave of you."
"How do you think I got where I am, Trip?" she asks rhetorically. "Fortune favors the bold. Please don't make me regret it."
"I'll try not to," I tell her, and surprisingly, I have to resist the urge to smile. She's on my side, and with the broadcast being live, the government will have a hell of a time trying to edit my words. I still remember Baird telling me how hard it was to calibrate the spoofing program for my accent, so I doubt very much they'll be able to put words in my mouth on the fly. If I'm quick enough, I might even get it all out before the gears of Imperial bureaucracy can move to stop me. "But before I answer any more questions, I have a statement to make. I'm told the panel could come back from deliberations at any time, an' I need to be heard before they issue their decision."
The cameraman fiddles with his equipment a little and I assume he's focusing on me. When he gives me the thumbs up, I read from Michaela's PADD. I've given enough speeches in my time to be able to hold it up where I can see it on the periphery and still look into the camera while I speak.
I start out by reminding people that I knew from the beginning what I was doing and what the consequences would be if I ever got caught. Then I point out that I know I'm going to die because the panel has no choice but to condemn me to death. I've already pleaded guilty to crimes that have only one allowable sentence, the only thing in question is whether I'll die for treason.
"An' that matters a whole lot," I say, "because I believe our intentions matter. I believe that if someone in a difficult situation hurts us because they make a mistake, or they choose the wrong one of multiple alternatives or because they know the right alternative will hurt us, then we should forgive them. I believe that a person can do the right thing for all the right reasons an' still have it go all wrong, an' they shouldn't be blamed or punished for that. I believed then, and I still believe now, that I was doin' good things for the Empire, even though I had to break a few laws to do them.
"So, I'm askin' all the people out there now to please, let my death be the last one associated with my crimes. I'm told I have supporters out there, an' I'm askin' all of you, please, if you're angry or hurt or grievin' after I've been convicted, don't let that make you act badly. I'm a patriot, an' I've spent my whole adult life defendin' the Empire. I don't want people to use what's happenin' to me now as an excuse to riot an' loot an' tear down your own communities. Even those of you livin' off the grid an' on the edges of society should check yourselves before you start makin' trouble over me. I did a lot of good for some of you, an' I'm payin' hard for it now; but it makes no damned sense to wreck what little you've got because of me. And really, if you destroy your homes in protest, where're you gonna go from there?
"Instead of raisin' hell over someone who's gettin' what he always knew was comin' to him, use those bad feelin's, that anger and grief, to motivate you to do something kind for someone else. If you know a family that's strugglin' financially, buy their kids shoes an' coats for school, take them a week's worth of groceries or help them fix up their house if it's run down. If you know where the undocumented people are in your community, you can help them the same way or even help them get on their feet an' get their papers in order. If you want to do something because of me, make it something I'd have done.
"I really do believe y'all can change the world just by bein' kind to one another. If you want to protest my conviction, that's how I'd like you to do it. An' if you see any of the people the Empire calls my co-conspirators, maybe you can look the other way."
For a moment, no one knows what to do next. Usually, a speech is followed by applause and the camera pans to the audience and then cuts to the reporter, but there's no audience here to applaud. After about five eternal seconds, the cameraman gestures to Marla, and she just says, "Ladies and gentleman, former Commodore Charles 'Trip' Tucker III is awaiting judgment following his court martial for treason and other crimes against the state.
"Trip, do you have anything to say to specific individuals out there who might be watching?"
Eventually, I just shrug. "My friends an' family know I love them. There doesn't seem to be anything else worth sayin'."
Her next question is interrupted by another knock at the door. The cameraman focuses on the guard as he says gravely, "The panel has reached its decision."
=/\=
Back in the courtroom, things go even better than expected at first. The panel accepts my argument that treason requires malice, and they have agreed that I showed no malicious intent. So, the long, agonizing, ugly, public execution is off the table. Then the president references my statement when he says regretfully that I have unfortunately pled guilty to other crimes for which the only penalty allowed is death. It's really weird to feel happy about my statement being heard while at the same time knowing I'm going to die. He pronounces my sentence – a quick, clean, nearly painless death by firing squad in the prison courtyard, witnessed only by a few officials and a handful of prisoners who will have won a lottery for seats to the show – and sets the execution time for tomorrow at sunset.
At the moment, I'm what I think is surprisingly calm, but I've been prepared for this, told many times what would happen next. I'm going to be taken back to prison, and then the warden will visit me and my cell with a PADD. Officially, the PADD is provided for me to make any last requests or final statements and to record my request for my last meal. Unofficially, I know they're hoping I'll make some kind of final declaration implicating others in my crimes, but as Malcolm used to say, fuck that for a lark. I'm going to ask for pan fried catfish and collard greens with buttery mashed potatoes, sweet tea to drink, and a slice of pecan pie and another of key lime pie for dessert. Then I'm going to request that any of my personal effects that vultures like Erika Hernandez haven't already stolen from my office and my quarters be turned over to Emperor Burnell to distribute to Richard Kelby and my other department heads on Jupiter Station. The only reason I'm not having them turned over directly to Kelby, is that to do so would implicate him and all the shit that I've just been through.
So, I'm sitting there quietly, my hands folded in front of me, waiting patiently for the guard to come get me as the cameras whir and the reporters murmur softly into their microphones and jostle quietly for position as they try to catch me in the background. Suddenly, the double doors at the back of the courtroom bang open and a messenger in Imperial livery comes flying down the central aisle, shoves through the gate and walks right up to the bench. With much confused conversation in the background, he hands the president of the judicial panel a real paper envelope, and they have a quick, quiet conversation. While they're whispering, Marla Moore catches my eye and shoots me another wink and a grin, and though I have no idea what that means, it feels encouraging. The president then looks left and right to get nods of approval from the other members of the panel, and, seeing that they've all agreed, tells us the messenger has arrived with a statement from the Imperial Palace.
The messenger steps forward into the center of the open area in front of the bench, pulls an old-fashioned paper scroll out of his coat, unrolls it, clears his throat, and in a lovely, clear voice like the peal of a bell, reads aloud.
"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! I come bearing a message from the office of Her Most Imperial Majesty, Empress of the Terran Empire and all the Conquered Worlds, Hoshi Sato!
"By decree of Her Majesty the Empress,
"And by consent of His Most Imperial Majesty, Father of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Imperius of Tellar, Rex Andor, Austin Robert Burnell,
"In acceptance of the guilty plea entered by the former Commodore of the Imperial Star Fleet, Charles Tucker III, to crimes against the state, and in recognition that said crimes carry but one possible penalty, that being death,
"And acknowledging that there has been no evidence of malice on Mr. Tucker's part nor proof of real harm done to the Empire,
"And with the realization that Mr. Tucker possesses unique skills and knowledge that could still be of benefit to the Empire
"And determining that the law is woefully inadequate in circumstances such as Mr. Tucker's
"Mr. Tucker's death sentence is hereby commuted to life in prison without special conditions and with no possibility of parole.
"Let it be so entered into the judicial record on this day and in this place."
Then the messenger turns around and faces the panel. "Mr. President, members of the panel, thank you for your courtesy."
Turning again, he comes directly over to me, puts the scroll in my left hand and shakes my right. "Mr. Tucker, on behalf of the Emperor and Empress, I offer you congratulations. On my own behalf, I wish you the very best of luck."
It's dead silent as he marches out of the courtroom. Then, when the doors click shut behind him, all hell breaks loose.
=/\=
It takes more than an hour to quiet the courtroom and clear the press after my life is snatched from the jaws of death and literally handed back to me in the form of an official scroll from the Imperial Palace. Marla Moore catches my eye one more time in the pandemonium, and this time she's absolutely beaming and giving me the thumbs up. How did I have no idea this woman was rooting for me all along?
I read the decree over and over again. It seems like a whole lot of words to say, 'We're not going to kill you,' but I know from talking to my brother Bert in the past that it's necessary to spell everything out in important documents so they can't be legally challenged later. Michaela explains to me that 'without special circumstances' means imprisonment will be my only punishment. As long as I make no trouble, I'll not be subject to anything else, like the agony booth, beatings, or electrocution.
I remember MacEvoy and the months he spent in an agony booth for dropping his corner of the sheet when they were moving Malcolm to the tank, and I feel nauseous.
Yeah, I reckon all those extra words might be important after all.
Finally, a guard comes for me. I'm taken to a room to change out of my suit and into my prison uniform, and then I'm put back in cuffs and my ankles are shackled. I'm led out the back of the JAG HQ and put into a flitter. This time, for the first time since my arrest, I am conscious for transport and without a bag over my head. I'm not sure if it's an oversight, a kindness, or deliberate cruelty giving me one last glimpse of the world, of the sky – it's night and I can see the stars – before locking me into a featureless duranium box forever.
"Hello, Chief," the driver says once the door is closed and the flitter is in motion.
I startle and look into the rearview mirror. I recognize the eyes looking back at me. "Hello, 'Manda. Looks like you've moved up in the world."
"Yes, sir."
"Like Eloise?"
"Fuck no, sir!" She makes sure there's no question about that. "I hate that bitch, and I hope she dies screaming and burns in hell!"
I smirk to hear her cuss like that. Unlike Anna Hess, Amanda never swears often, but when she does, she really means it. "I reckon there's at least one pissed-off little Brit out there who's gonna do his best to make sure that happens."
I see her eyes crinkle with a smile. "Yes, sir," she says. "And he is still out there, along with the others. I know we're still looking for them, but I'm not sure how hard. At this point, the Emperor has greater concerns."
"I'm sure he does." Privately, I hope my conviction will take the heat off the others. "So, what are you doing now?"
"I'm Captain of the Emperor's personal guard," she says.
"Well, ain't that a kick in the ass!" I marvel. It's a huge responsibility for someone as young as her and of such a relatively low rank. "That sounds like a pretty damned big step up. How'd you manage that, an' how's it goin'?"
We're out past the city limits now, heading, I suppose, for the prison where I'll spend the rest of my life in a featureless duranium box (I can't get that out of my head), so she puts the flitter on autopilot and turns her seat around to face me.
"I had less than five minutes to decide what I was going to do for the rest of my life, Chief. He had everything. He had the Bunker, the distribution centers, maps of our flight paths. He'd worked out a way to track the shuttle. He even had recordings of you talking to me from the blind spot. He didn't even have me give the prosecutor everything he had. He offered to let me run with the others, or I could join him and carry on the mission once things settled down. I figured you'd want the mission to continue."
I reach out with my manacled hands and take one of hers. "You figured right, 'Manda," I assure her gratefully, "but if he had all this evidence, why did you testify against me?"
"Well, Chief, when Admiral Hernandez moved against you, it threw a wrench in his plans. He'd had the information for a while by then, and needed an explanation for why he'd been holding onto it."
"An' claimin' you were under cover the whole time, investigatin' me an' tryin' to scoop up the whole network at once became that explanation."
"Yes, sir, and it was a big ask of me, so he gave me a big reward. That's how I became Captain of his personal guard. It's just a brevet rank, a title rather than my military status, so in all other capacities I'm still just a lieutenant, including the paycheck, but within the guard, they all respect me as their boss.
"Of course, you know, if word ever gets back to him that you repeated any of this, we'll both be facing charges of sedition, and no one will come through with a commutation."
"Trust me, darlin', my lips are sealed," I assure her with a grin. "Are you happy with what you're doin', Amanda?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she fixes me with those crystal eyes. "Do you forgive me?"
I shake my head. "Nothing to forgive. I probably would have done the same thing. The mission was always bigger than any one of us."
"Then yes, I'm happy."
We ride in silence a while longer, until we arrive at a huge concrete monolith in a big, open field. She stops the flitter outside the walls for a few minutes and puts the top down so I can see the stars and feel the free air. When the tears start to come, I don't try to stop them. I still don't know if this is cruel or kind, but I know Amanda means no harm by it. Eventually, there's a soft beep in the cockpit and I hear her speaking to someone over her comms.
"We have to go in now, Chief."
I mop my eyes with the back of my sleeve and nod.
"Things are changing, now, Chief," she says encouragingly. "It will take some time, but you'll see."
I guess she doesn't know where they're keeping me locked up, and I just don't have the heart to tell her.
She's got a whole life to live and a career she could so easily have lost if she'd been stupid enough to follow her heart instead of her head. I don't want to spoil that for her with visions of what I'll be living in till something inside me gives out, however many terrible years ahead that will be. I may well go crazy long, long before that happens, and there's a part of me that wishes that scroll commuting the death sentence had never arrived. At least death would be quick, and in the circumstances, clean.
I'd say 'where there's life, there's hope', but in the cells under this place, there isn't any. I know what's waiting for me, and that this is the last time I'll breathe the fresh air and see the stars.
If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a review. Any predictions for Trip's future in prison? Was it kindness or cruelty to commute his death sentence to life in prison, especially considering the panel acquitted him of treason and his death would have been quick, clean, and reasonably painless? Any thoughts on the testimony or Marla Moore's interview?
