Chapter 08
Somehow, that actually makes things worse.
“Don’t want to put the bluster on the billy,” Caspen tells me in a dialect I can’t place, “but you’ve really done yourself a doozy this time.”
“A what?”
“A doozy. You know.” She gestures unhelpfully. “A bit of a piff-poff.”
“I do not have any idea what you’re saying.”
“Don’t you riot from the lows?”
“I don’t riot from anywhere.”
Avi explains, “She means, don’t you come from a Lower Planet?”
I don’t mean to get defensive, especially since I’m only just meeting Caspen and would hate to start off on the wrong foot with one of my fleetmates—again—but my origin planet is a bit of a sore spot, and I’m nervous over this meeting with Sergeant Forst, and basically overtaxed from spending half a night in a hospital, so I find myself kind of growling, “I still don’t get the question.
” At Caspen’s wounded look, I grimace. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just… ”
“Tied up in a wheebarn?” Caspen offers.
“Caspen.” Lament comes to the rescue, moving his body slightly between us. “Spare him, all right? It’s been a long night.”
Which has me feeling suddenly light and glowy, like someone poured warm honey down my throat. Caspen gives Lament a lopsided grin. “Anything for the Pirate King.”
Lament shakes his head and gently touches my lower back, urging me through the common room.
I’m not even sure he realizes what he’s done, but my legs turn to jelly, a little shiver whooshing the length of my spine.
I wonder if Lament can sense this, because he abruptly drops the hand and speeds forward, leaving me feeling somewhat bereft.
Which is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous. I scrub a hand down my face, carefully avoid the look Vera is trying to throw me, and start after him.
The sergeant’s office is located at the end of the detachment’s third and final hallway.
The corridor’s ceiling is domed, the walls adorned with pictures of former Sixers.
As we approach the solid door at the end, Toph tells us in a lowered voice (which is still above normal speaking volume for most people), “You should know the sergeant has summoned the Directors. They’re waiting inside.
” I want to ask what that means and why he looks so forlorn about it, but then Avi is pulling open the office door and I have no choice but to give the Sixers a final pained smile before following Lament, Jester, and Vera into the room.
Sergeant Forst’s office is spacious yet empty in a way that feels intimidating, with a desk at one end and floor-to-ceiling windows covering the back wall.
The sergeant herself is waiting there behind the desk, and she’s not alone.
There are five other people (and one non-person) seated in a row to her left, a mix of men and women and—I think that’s a gurgopipe?
(Humanoid, twiggy neck, face frozen in permanent surprise.) The group doesn’t look Legion.
They’re dressed more like businesspeople in an array of smart suits and polished loafers. None of them appear happy.
“Do you know,” the sergeant asks as she stands from her chair, “the number of rules you four have broken in the last eight hours?”
Sergeant Forst is one of those women who could be thirty or fifty or anywhere in between.
She’s an average height, an average build, with brown hair and brown eyes and a normal face.
Basically, she’s the kind of person who looks just sort of …
person-like, in a general, nondescript way.
When I arrived at the detachment yesterday and she gave me the tour, I might have called her friendly, if not a bit formal. Now, she looks downright severe.
“Jetting off without orders to a no-man’s-planet,” the sergeant continues. “Cutting your signal so we couldn’t radio you. Attacking a sand cephalopod, an endangered species. And you, Mr. Bringer. You’ve destroyed yet another spaceship. Do you enjoy the demolition of Legion property?”
I glance over, but Lament only stands there with his hands behind his back, his expression shut down to nothing.
“I’ve summoned the Directors to help with damage control,” the sergeant says, motioning at the individuals to her left, “but this is beyond even their ability to contain. The whole stunt is making headlines.” She flips on a nearby wall monitor.
NewsNet pops up, and we see the current headline scrolling in fat letters across the bottom of the screen: SIXTH GOES AWOL IN LATEST CROSS-GALACTIC STUNT.
“Well?” Sergeant Forst demands. “How do you explain yourselves?”
Lament inhales, summoning the words to lie.
I sense Vera beside me, small and quiet, and Jester, who only came to Purvuva because he didn’t want Vera flying alone.
I think about the red card on Lament’s file, and how if he gets another, he’ll be stripped of his commission.
He’ll be perilously close to losing his place in the Sixth altogether.
The feeling starts in my chest, just like it does when I’ve got my ray gun in my hand. It works its way down my limbs before my mind has a chance to catch up.
Reckless, says the voice of Master Ira in my head.
I know, I think back, right before I blurt, “It’s my fault.”
Lament’s head whips around. “No, that’s not—”
“I’d heard stories about sand cephalopods. I’ve always wanted to see one. I convinced the others to take me. It was my idea.”
I can feel Lament staring. His eyes bore into the side of my face as he says, “What are you—?”
“Mr. Hartman.” The sergeant looks thrown. Clearly, she’d come armed for a different sort of confrontation. “This is … upsetting to hear.”
“I know.” I keep my eyes resolutely ahead. They land on a single framed picture on the desk, the sergeant out of uniform holding a little girl. Her daughter, I’d guess. “I’m sorry.”
“You will be disciplined.”
“I understand.”
Lament tries again. “Please, Sergeant Forst, you’ve got it wrong. It was me who—”
“And now you are interrupting,” she barks. “Leave my office at once, Mr. Bringer. And take Mr. Blue and Miss Bergmont with you.”
“But—”
“If I have to ask you twice,” she warns, “there will be consequences.”
I hear Lament’s teeth snap together. For one endless second, he doesn’t move.
I can practically feel the coil of his bewilderment, sense his mind reaching and spinning.
He doesn’t understand what I’m doing, and he’s not happy about it.
He wants to set the record—well, not straight, exactly, but back on its premeditated track.
Yet he must recognize that Sergeant Forst isn’t making empty threats.
That if he doesn’t leave now, he’ll just make things worse for all of us.
With a final exhale (that may or may not actually be a sound of disbelief), Lament strides out of the office.
Jester follows, then Vera, who reaches to brush her fingers against mine as she passes.
That touch gives me courage, though I don’t look at her, don’t acknowledge the contact. I can’t risk breaking my composure.
As soon as they’re gone, the sergeant drops her shoulders.
“Your officers at the Academy spoke so highly of you, Mr. Hartman. The behavior you displayed today was dangerous, and the consequences significant. You aided in the destruction of a Legion spacecraft. You killed a creature on the Intergalactic Protection List. You could have gotten yourselves killed. Truly,” she sighs, “what were you thinking?”
I choose my words carefully. “I come from Planet Venthros.”
“Mount Kilmon’s planet, yes.”
“I was raised by a Master of the Order.”
“I am aware of your background.”
“We never meant to hurt the sand cephalopod. I only wanted to see it.” This is where it gets tricky. I’ve never been much of a liar. I’ve been told it’s my face—I can’t easily hide my thoughts—so I do what I’ve learned to do when the situation calls for it and weave in some truth.
“Before I decided to apply to the Academy, I’d considered making the journey to Mount Kilmon.
I wanted to become a Master. The man I mentioned, the one who raised me, offered to begin my training, and I spent my childhood learning the ways of the Order under his instruction.
The Order teaches us that life is the universe’s greatest marvel.
They put a lot of emphasis on meeting as many species as possible so we can better respect them.
But living on Venthros, I didn’t have the means to meet even a fraction of the universe’s creatures.
So suddenly I had a ship and a team and I just … got carried away.”
I keep my breathing even, my expression open.
As far as excuses go, it’s a pretty good one.
If the sergeant decides to fact-check, she’ll see that the Order really does believe in seeking out as many species as possible.
The Ten Thousand Meetings, they call it.
The idea is that all life is precious, and the more time you spend in nature, the more you’ll grasp its value.
It’s also the reason they’re so opposed to violence.
Imagine Master Ira’s shock—his crushing disappointment—when after everything he’d done to prepare me for the Order, raising me to be kind and gentle and charitable to life, I chose to become a marksman instead.
The sergeant must buy my story, because she’s shaking her head in this sad kind of I-understand-it-can-be-hard-to-let-go-of-home-ties way.
“Transitions are always difficult, Mr. Hartman. You are new to our unit, and as such, I feel this is partly my fault. I should have done a better job of overseeing your first day. Still, we do not use Legion resources for personal matters, no matter how meaningful.” And then, the words that make my stomach drop: “This is grounds for a red card.”
“Are—?” My voice sounds like it’s swallowed itself. “Are you sure?”
“The Directors will decide. We’ll put it to a vote.”
Which is how I find myself standing in the center of the sergeant’s too-empty office, listening to six strangers debate my future.
As far as trials go, it’s terribly civil.
One of the men seems to take charge, standing from his seat as he states the case against me.
He’s on the far end of the group, dressed in a tailored tweed jacket and trousers.
Small frame, late fifties maybe, with round spectacles and a white goatee.
When his eyes fall on me, I feel a prickling at the base of my neck.
The votes are cast through their handhelds and counted.
“We have come to a verdict,” says tweed-jacket man.
I clasp my hands behind my back and try not to look too hopeful.
“The vote is unanimous. Mr. Hartman’s actions were premeditated and grossly irresponsible. We’re granting him a red card.”
My stomach dips painfully. I blink as if blinded.
Oh. Oh.
The sergeant nods her agreement, then goes on to explain red card protocols and what I’ll need to do to get mine removed from my file. I absorb almost none of it. A red card. Has anyone ever gotten a red card on their first day? Obviously not.
“In addition,” the sergeant says, “you and Mr. Bringer are both grounded until I see fit to release you. That means no leaving Skyhub and no spaceflights unless they are expressly tied to a mission. All our crafts have DNA monitors and will refuse you access should you attempt to break these stipulations.”
I feel a little like I’m drifting, trapped in a horrible new unreality.
I thought I’d be able to handle the sergeant and the Directors, to take the consequences (did I even think about the consequences?), but I’m having the kind of hot, distressed feelings that make escaping this room a pretty high priority.
“One more thing,” the sergeant says. She comes around the desk and holds out her hand.
I almost do the absolute dumbest thing and shake it. Then I realize she’s waiting for me to hand her my ray gun. I make a sound like a wheeze. “Please, Sergeant Forst…”
“I am stripping you of your weapon as part of the Legion’s red card protocol. You can have it back for missions, but red card violators are not permitted to carry firearms on Skyhub.”
“Maybe, because it’s my first—”
“It was not a request, Mr. Hartman.”
My fingers shake as I unclip the holster from my belt.
I haven’t been parted from my ray gun since the second time I found it hidden—planted?
—among my belongings at Master Ira’s School for Children.
There was never any note to explain its appearance or reappearance, no sign of who may have left it, but that event has always felt like an inception of sorts, and this gun the catalyst. I wouldn’t be who I am today without it.
I press my thumb into the gun’s insignia hard enough to hurt, then hand it over.