Day 6: Silence.
Another sleepless night in the back of the Lynx followed. Actually, that's a lie. I fell asleep just after midnight. Nearly everyone around me did. For the first time in a week, it was quiet enough to sleep.
Silence is almost deafening, especially when you've grown used to chaos. But except for the humming of impulse engines and the thrum of weaponry, it was so quiet while everyone waited for the verdict. The streets were empty. The Crowds of protestors had gone home. Regardless of what happened in the courtroom, there would be blood, and no one wanted to be a part of it.
In the skies above the city, FMC Raptors and Starfleet Peregrines chased each other in a circling dance of death, daring the other to be the first to open fire. "It's what fighter pilots have done since the time of wooden biplanes on Ancient Earth in 1912 or so," one Peregrine pilot explained to me, "We're not sent up with orders to open fire, but it gets damn boring just flying in circles. So, we do impulse boom wakes, rock our wings danger-close, generate target locks, things like that. Being a fighter pilot is one of the most dangerous jobs in space, so we piss each other off to keep our focus up. I don't think any of us would be crazy enough to shoot first. Until today, anyway."
While the skies might have been an open contest, a blind Targaryen Bat could see that the ground belonged to the Sharkies. "I have no illusions about my odds of beating the Marines on the ground," Vice Admiral Alynna Nechayev, Starfleet's crisis manager during the trial explains, "But I also have a hell of a lot of starships with me, and if they back me up to the wall, I will use them. Make no mistake." Unwilling – and unable – to match their firepower on the ground, Starfleet was willing to entertain the proverbial 'nuclear' option of orbital bombardment if the Marines pushed the issue and gave Blackjack a summary conviction.
Despite the tension, anger, and fear, in the air, if the Marines were stressed, they would never show it. The rifles were aimed, the guns were loaded, and the Lynx's ready to lay waste to the entire block, but there was almost casual air to the men and women of the FMC. Someone had dragged out a real barbecue for lunch that day, and as I sat next to a section of the boys while eating a hot dog, someone else rigged up the subspace transmitter so that the boys could follow the hockey game that afternoon, ice hockey being the sporting tradition of the FMC in contrast to Starfleet's love of baseball.
The Oilers beat the Flames 5-0 too.
By 1800, Judge Voss had called the court back into session, only to be told that the Jury hadn't yet reached a verdict. Blackjack, the arrogant bastard, actually fell asleep during the brief meeting. 24 hours was now the longest that any federal jury had deliberated, and they still weren't finished. I went back to my cot in the Lynx that night with a full belly and a smile on my face, thanks to the hospitality of the Corps, but like everyone else, I was nervous about what would happen tomorrow.
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