Breach of Duty, page 41
Renner swallowed. She gradually brought her eyes over toward Ostrovsky. "Sir?"
"I pulled my own strings. Your brother's free and clear, Major. That's not going to change." Ostrovsky took a seat across from her. "What remains is your fate."
"I'll be court-martialed, I'm guessing."
"That's one way this goes down, yes. Court-martial, dishonorable dismissal, and a decade or two in Lambert's Lament." He leaned forward in his seat. "The alternative is that you cooperate with the investigation. You help us find all of Erhart's cabal."
She heard the words, but it wasn't what she was thinking. Sam is free. He can't be hurt anymore.
Of course, that was what Ostrovsky was likely aiming to do. He's putting me in his debt. He wants me emotionally primed to say yes. And I don't care. Sam's okay. That's all that matters.
"I'll do it," she said.
"I didn't tell you how it'd go for you."
"As long as Sam's fine, I'll do it."
Ostrovsky nodded. "I thought you might say that. Nevertheless, as consideration for your cooperation, you'll be permitted a resignation of your commission. Some communication equipment firms could use a person of your experience. Nothing classified, of course, but it'll give you steady pay. Help you look after your brother."
Tears filled her eyes. I don't deserve this. "I don't…"
"You don't deserve it," he said when she failed to finish her sentence. "I know. But justice without mercy, well, that's what Erhart's world is like. But I'm fine with leaving justice in the hands of the Lord, when duty permits. So for you, mercy."
"And for Erhart?"
He shook his head. "That ship burned away a long time ago."
47
The sun that had warmed New Virginia since primordial times continued casting its light upon the city of Tylerville. The residents enjoyed the warmth it brought as part of the mild climate they enjoyed.
Such warmth was also welcome to the mourners who assembled among the hills and trees of West Tylerville Cemetery. Sunlight glistened on the polished wood of the beautiful, dark-brown casket that lay over the grave it was soon to be lowered into. The tombstone was already in place, marked with the name of Charles Benjamin Henry.
Henry sat beside his parents and his Aunt Tylinda at the front row of the assembled. For the first time in years, he wasn't in his spacer jacket and trousers. Instead, he wore a "church suit," a black dress jacket and pants, the jacket over a white shirt with a long black tie. Tears of grief and loss flowed from his eyes just as they came from the rest of his family.
In front of them, beside the casket, Reverend Gill stood, dressed in a similar suit with the collar and vestments of his office. He gave the reading of John Chapter Fourteen with a strength that believed the venerable state of his age. "Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me."
Henry felt a little stir inside him. In his heart, he didn't believe. Even now, with Erhart defeated and his name cleared, he didn't feel anything of the old faith coming back to him. Too much time had been spent, too much blood spilled, to bring about Erhart's downfall. He couldn't see it as part of a benevolent, divine plan.
Gill continued, reaching the sixth verse and giving it a particular energy. "Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by me."
What was it all for? Erhart lost his son, and that broke him, turned him into something terrible. Henry considered his own life since his dismissal. Uncle Charlie had saved him from the immediate threat of self-destruction, but afterward? To keep flying, to keep the jobs coming, he made compromises with what he thought was right. He had to bribe men to break their laws, even threaten them if necessary, and he'd shot a fair number of people. They'd wanted things that he had, sure, but who was to say they deserved to die? It wasn't his place to think something like that.
While his thoughts continued, so did the ceremony. Henry heard the whispers behind him. Miri was occasionally murmuring an "Amen" of agreement as Gill transitioned from verse-reading to speaking of the promise of eternal rest. The rest of the crew were in the line behind the family, indeed, directly behind him. Even Oskar and Brigitte were present, courtesy of Ostrovsky listing them as noted defectors for CBI's database.
"We miss Brother Charles very deeply," Gill said. "God knows that. It is His promise to us that alleviates the pain. His promise, through his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, that a place awaits us all. Brother Charles is already there, celebrating with the saints, and the day will come when we will be with him. Let the promise ease your pain, my brothers and sisters. When you feel that pain's sting, remember it. Remember we will be reunited with Brother Charles in the presence of God."
"Inshallah," Samina breathed, so low that Henry barely heard her. The sniffling from her tears of sympathy made it clear the Reverend's words meant as much to her as it did Henry and his family.
Reverend Gill came to his conclusion soon enough, and the ceremony came to its final phase. As a chorus sang "Amazing Grace," the line of his relatives formed. Each took a handful of dirt from a waiting wheelbarrow full and approached the casket as it was lowered. Once it was at the bottom of the grave, Thomas Henry stepped up and dropped his handful of soil on his brother's casket. Tylinda followed with Mary up next.
Henry was next. His emotions swelled as he approached the open grave. Inside lay one of the noblest men he'd known in his life. The cherished uncle, a second father, who gave him renewed purpose when treachery stole everything he had. As his hand opened and let loose the dirt to cover his body's resting place, he murmured, "Goodbye, Uncle Charlie. I wish I could've been a better man." He turned and started to walk away.
As he took those steps, his eyes went to the line of family members and friends, all waiting to drop their dirt on the grave. His entire crew was gathered to join in, even those who'd never met Charlie themselves. He saw old Jeff Holstrom in the line, and most of the members of Charlie's team at the spaceport. The old couple who ran his favorite family diner in town. The manager of the Tylerville Spaceport. And the Rothbards, of course, with only Felix missing. All of them represented people his uncle's life had touched in some good way.
But could he say the same? Had he made that kind of impression on people? His crew, certainly, but beyond them and a few others, he was just another spacer captain. An independent captain, and like many of his kind, he skirted the lines of legality whenever he felt the need. When it was his time to go into the grave, would his line be that long? It wasn't just a selfish consideration of wanting to be mourned. He wanted to be worthy of Charlie, to live to his standard, and he felt pain at the thought he wasn't worthy. That everything Uncle Charlie had done for him would amount to nothing. He pushed those thoughts aside. I need to be there for the crew. I need to be strong for their sakes, after they've done so much for mine.
One by one, they joined him. "Next comes the reception, if I'm correct?" asked Oskar.
"Yeah."
"That's good. I'm getting hungry." Samina wiped tears from her eyes as she spoke. Her head was covered in a plain green hijab, a part of her wardrobe she rarely wore, meant for such formal occasions.
He chuckled lightly. "Well, my mother's cooking will hit the spot, then." He led them in the direction of the bus they'd rented from the transit authority. It would be a quick trip to the West Tylerville Methodist Church and its reception hall.
"So why didn't Felix make it out ta see this?" Vidia asked. "Uncle Charlie meant a lot ta him too."
"He had duties, he told me," Henry answered. "Probably the debris from Erhart's clique needing to be swept up."
"Ah. Well, he'll be in my prayers, then."
He nodded at that, and his mind idled to other thoughts. Before the funeral, he received a file over the link from Felix. It showed a somber, frowning General MacIntosh personally seeing to Erhart's drumming out. It didn't give him any satisfaction to see it, just a relief it was finally done. I wonder where Erhart is now?
The prisoner transfer was handled like any other, despite the notoriety and celebrity of the prisoner in question. A corporal named Witherspoon led the guards flanking the jumpsuit-clad convict. He was kept in chains for the trip, wrists and ankles bound together by cuffs and chains attached to his suit.
"So, the great General Erhart," Witherspoon said. "Or former General, as it were. I'm warning you now, don't expect any privileges here because of your old record. The fact you're here means you've betrayed your uniform, the service, and the entire Coalition. You're a disgrace, and you'll be treated like it. There will be no rendering of military honors, no salutes, no considerations outside of those described in the CDF Stockade Regulations. You are now Prisoner Erhart. Am I clear?"
"Clear," the old man mumbled.
They arrived at his cell. "Odds are this will be your last home, Prisoner Erhart." Witherspoon gestured, and he was compelled to enter. It was an unpleasant little space. A hard cot, a commode, a sink, a bare table, and a chair. Nothing else was present.
"Reveille is at zero hundred. Due to your knowledge of classified information, and in view of your age, you won't be assigned to eat or labor with the prison populace. We'll have someone bring you your meals at zero thirty, zero eight hundred, and sixteen hundred hours. Throughout the day, you'll be given dishes to clean, so don't worry about not doing your part here, Prisoner Erhart." As Witherspoon spoke, the guards removed his chains. "You are expected to keep your cell in barracks condition. Is that clear, Prisoner Erhart?"
Again, the response was a low, quiet one. "It is."
Witherspoon just about screamed, "I can't hear you! Speak up, Prisoner!"
"Yes, Corporal," he said, forcing volume into his voice.
Satisfied, they left his cell with a heavy clank. Erhart was left to his own thoughts on his fate. This was his final stop in life. All of his honors were gone. He'd truly lost everything. All I have left is death.
The door to the cell clanked open again. Footsteps signaled the approach of a single figure. He looked up to his visitor and smiled thinly. "So has Ostrovsky decided to put me out of my misery, Colonel?"
"In a manner of speaking," replied Felix. He stepped up to the table in the cell and dropped a sheath of papers there. "I admit that if it were up to me, I'd be here to put a pulse blast between your eyes. But the General, he's a good man. He has lines he won't allow us to cross." He tilted his head to the papers. "These are for you." With that said, he stomped out of the cell. It shut with another audible clank.
It took Erhart half an hour to work up the will to check the papers he was left with. They were transcripts from interviews. He checked the header and noted the interviewers were debriefing POWs recovered from the League camps on New Hope, the League's principal colony in Sagittarius. With his curiosity poked at and nothing else to do, he started reading. A sharp breath came from his lips at the first line.
Interviewer: Currently interviewing Sergeant Michael Salton, formerly of CSV Beatty. Sergeant, to start with, do you remember the engagement where you were taken prisoner?
Subject: It was twenty-two years ago. I think. Maybe twenty-one. We were in the Carlton Cluster. Some colony system, Tau Baker.
Those two words emblazoned themselves on Erhart's eyes. Tau Baker. And the Beatty…
An old hope, long dormant in his soul, flared back to life. His eyes rushed down the page as if they could devour the words themselves.
Interviewer: And do you remember anyone else from your detachment?
Subject: We had a junior officer. Real good kid, his father was a general. Which general I… I don't remember. It's been so long, and they do so much to make us want to forget.
Interviewer: I understand. What else do you remember about this officer?
Subject: Well, the fighting went on, and we had a detonation in our section. Poor kid took shrapnel. Lost a leg and an arm, had one through here
Interviewer: Do you remember his name?
Subject:
Interviewer: That's all you remember?
Subject: Yes, wait. No, I'm… Karl Erhart. Lieutenant Karl Erhart, that's right.
Tears dripped onto the paper, warping his view of the ink. A shallow, pained breath came from his chest while his eyes filled with the tears he'd kept to himself for over twenty years.
Not sure he could believe it, he kept going. He found another interview subject's transcript.
Interviewer: And who was your section officer?
Subject: Lieutenant Erhart. His name was Karl. Good head on his shoulders, I remember that. His dad commanded one of the fleets. Maybe the one we got rotated into for that battle.
Interviewer: What happened to him?
Subject: He was cut up by shrapnel from a blast. Leaguer corpsmen black-tagged him almost on the spot. Honestly, I can't even blame them. God help him, he was in bad shape.
He kept going, but the result was the same. His son's name, teased out of the memory of POWs who knew him, who'd just been liberated and were adapting to it. There were no major deviations in any of it.
The last page wasn't an interview. It was a finding for CDF personnel records. His son's name and serial number were listed, and with it, a new determination.
KIA. "Killed in Action."
Erhart couldn't hold it back any longer. He broke down into sobs. Part of it was grief. His son, his pride and joy, was dead. Had been dead this entire time. He'd never had a hope of seeing him again.
The other part was relief. Karl was dead, but he'd died in combat. He never suffered as a League prisoner. He hadn't been broken, twisted, and turned against his own people, or his father, as Erhart had long feared.
All of these years, and he finally had the answer his soul longed for. The vacuum in his soul that engineered everything he'd done these past twenty years, everything that led him to this cell… and it was finally filled. He knew his son's fate. He knew how Karl's life ended. The uncertainties were gone. His son was dead and he could mourn.
And mourn he did.
Epilogue
The reception at the family's church proceeded as any Henry could have expected. Grief was expressed, tears were shed, and now it was time for the sharing of precious memories. His crew participated in the same, particularly Tia, Yanik, Pieter, and Cera, all happy to share their memories of Charlie.
Henry found he couldn't. The wound was still too fresh. He lingered in a corner seat, a plastic cup of fruit soda in his hand, and remained silent as Shawn walked up. He was in dress uniform, his major's insignia proudly displayed for all to see along with all of his commendations and medals.
His face, however, told of something distinctly different from pride. "Jim."
"Shawn."
Shawn bit into his lip for a moment before finding his voice. "I owe you an apology, Jim. For treating you like crap. For actually feeling like you didn't deserve to be here with Uncle Charlie."
Henry nodded. "I understand you felt let down by what happened, Shawn. I know it hurt, hearing about me getting drummed out. I was your hero and all, and here I was getting kicked out in dishonor."
"Yeah. But you didn't deserve it. You were set up, and not one of us believed you. Even when we should've." Shawn offered his hand. His voice shook with shame. "I'm so sorry, cousin."
For Shawn's sake, if anything, he accepted his cousin's hand and shook.
"You're not coming back to the service, are you?"
To that, he shook his head. "No. It's been too long. The wound's still there. I couldn't serve as I did before." Seeing the crestfallen look on Shawn's face, he reached his hand up and patted him on the shoulder. "And from what I see, the CDF's well in hand with Major Henry in the service."
A small grin came to the younger man. "Thanks, cousin. I suppose I always dreamed about getting to fight beside you."
"I get it. Some dreams, well, they don't turn out that way. All you can do is keep going."
He spoke the words, apparently with enough conviction that Shawn felt good about them and was happy when he walked off. But that conviction was a facade. In truth, he was hollow. This entire affair had driven him through so many emotions that Henry now felt empty inside. He was bone-tired.
His parents came up next. He could see that they knew how he felt. They saw the pain in his eyes. "I know you wanted to be here," Thomas said. "But Charlie would never have blamed you. It was out of your hands, son, not your fault at all."
"I know, Dad." He tapped his forehead. "At least, I know it here. But I don't feel it here." He touched at his heart next. "Here, the only thing I know was that I should've been there for the end. And I wasn't. Uncle Charlie died without me here to say goodbye, without hearing me say goodbye. He died as everyone was saying I was a traitor."
"You're not, and everyone knows it," Mary insisted. "They know you're a good man. You won, son. You beat that evil man who ruined your life!"
"But I don't feel like I have won, or that I'm a good man," he answered. "And it's—" He stopped himself. He couldn't tell them about Exodus Station. About the fighting and bloodshed there, or even that the place existed. He couldn't confide about what it felt like to give in to his rage and nearly beat Erhart to death with his bare hands. Or how hollow it felt now he was here, and Uncle Charlie was still dead.
"My ship's starting to fall apart," he said, since he could share that. "Uncle Charlie put months of work into the Shadow Wolf. He helped me keep her flying for years. And now, it's like it was for nothing. Three years, four, she's going to be too battered to fly. She'll be off to a scrapper. And Felix—"
When his voice trailed off, Thomas asked, "What about him?"
