Webster eyed his XO suspiciously. He usually only indulged his love of hi-jinks on birthdays and special holidays. There was nothing of note on the calendar and Webster’s birthday was still several months away.

  Then he remembered. “The old man.”

  He felt an inordinate sense of relief wash over him. He had asked Ross to organise a little ceremony to mark Faulkner’s departure. The old man might have indulged in some questionable practices during The Long War but his actual service record was little short of exemplary. And Webster was concerned that once Faulkner left the ship, he’d become just another veteran, disappearing into obscurity with no one to mark his passing. He had seen it happen far too many times and so just wanted to show his respects while he still had the chance.

  If nothing else, the man had survived twenty years in Dhanza. That achievement alone should be worth something.

  Webster stayed in his command chair until the umbilicals linking them to the station came online. Then it was only a matter of waiting for all the icons to turn green before they started to disembark. He handed command over to the officer of the watch and followed Ross over to the elevators. Piled on one side of the door were two sets of dress uniforms.

  “You’re not serious?” Webster said.

  “C’mon. I’ve had them cleaned and pressed specially. We can change in the elevator.”

  Webster knew it was pointless to protest and was still fastening up his trousers when they arrived at their floor. Ross had one of the ship’s maintenance carts waiting for them and they shot off in it.

  It was only as they rounded the last corner that Webster got the full sense of what it was that Ross had planned.

  “An honor guard?”

  “You said to be sure to give him a good send off.”

  The cart came to a halt and they both stepped out. The bulk of the crew had formed themselves up on the quarterdeck. The officers all in white, the Marines in their traditional navy blue and the various NCOs in a variety of uniforms, all along the dockside. Webster had been in the captain’s chair for two years and had never seen the full complement of crew gathered in one place before. He had to admit, it was an impressive sight.

  He carefully arranged his cap. “How did you manage to get them all here? Bribery?”

  “Actually, it was Master Sergeant Rawlins’ idea. Said the Marines wanted to show their respects. Course, we officers couldn’t let the Marines steal the show and so the whole thing just sort of snowballed.”

  A crewman appeared from nowhere.

  “Sir, he’s here!”

  The anthem of the Confederation started up just as two figures approached the gangway. Even at this distance, Faulkner was easy to spot because of his oddly disjointed way of walking. He was accompanied by Doctor Morton. As they drew closer Faulkner was wearing his dress blues complete with gold braiding. Wearing his dress blues, Faulkner looked to be completely transformed, a world away from the pathetic figure Webster had first seen in the sick bay that day. As the strains of the music grew more insistent, Faulkner appeared to grow in stature, his steps becoming firmer and more assured.

  “Looking good,” Webster said.

  “Doctor’s been taking good care of him,” Ross said.

  Webster looked down at his own service uniform only to find it to be slightly care-worn, not nearly as smart as he’d first thought. Then he had a sudden panic as he tried to recall what was required of him as captain on such an occasion. Ross leaned over and handed him a pair of spectacles. After a moment’s confusion, Webster smiled and took them. Only then could he afford to relax.

  The glasses mimicked the HUD he’d find in his helmet and as soon as he had them on a series of hanging prompts appeared, numbered sequentially. The simple act of turning his head activated more prompts to appear. When he looked directly at Ross, his name and rank appeared automatically.

  “Glad you could join us, sir,” he said as Faulkner approached.

  “Fine looking team you have here,” Faulkner surveyed the gathered crew.

  They shook hands. Webster was surprised by the firmness of the other man’s grip.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking an unexpected pleasure in the compliment.

  Webster led the way, expecting to usher them straight out to the Port Authority offices, but he had reckoned without Faulkner who paused to talk to the first couple of officers he passed. The pair fairly bristled with pride at the level of attention paid to them and Webster felt himself gently fade into the background.

  There was no doubting who the star of the show was and it certainly wasn’t him.

  After a while, Webster got the message and hung back with Ross, letting Faulkner set the pace, stopping every few metres to interact with another member of the crew. At this rate, it was going to take them all morning to get clear of the docks.

  “I really need to get a new uniform,” Webster whispered, indicating what he was wearing.

  “Don’t worry,” Ross said. “No one’s looking at you.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  They watched as Faulkner shared a joke with a young crew woman.

  Ross said, “What’s he got that we haven’t?”

  “Apart from charisma?” Webster grimaced. “I’d say, an innate sense of command. Unmistakable.”

  Unmistakable.

  Just like the three figures approaching down the main concourse. Their uniforms such a dark blue that it would have been easy to mistake them for being black. The group moved with purpose, though some of their apparent arrogance appeared to have been tempered by their surroundings, a group of predators suddenly mindful that they were trespassing on a rival’s territory.

  A murmur of dissent arose from the ranks at this transgression. A combination of outrage and disbelief.

  The two men and a woman approached Webster’s group warily. From the look of them: from their blank expressions to their overly polished boots, it was clear that they were career navy.

  Salutes were exchanged.

  “What can we do for you?” Webster asked, fighting a growing sense of unease.

  The lieutenant in the middle didn’t respond, he was too busy consulting his tablet.

  The warrant officer to his left said, “May I introduce Lieutenant Donaldson.”

  “Am I addressing Commander Alexander Webster?” Donaldson’s eyes left the screen as he sought verification.

  Webster bridled at the man’s tone. “That is correct, lieutenant.”

  “Commander Webster, I am arresting you on a charge of murder,” he inclined the screen , “You are to be taken into custody where you will be tried under court martial. Lieutenant-Commander Ross you are to take charge of the Syracuse with immediate effect.”

  Donaldson passed him a set of sealed orders. Ross took them in a daze. Then Donaldson turned to Webster.

  “Do you have anything you wish to say at this time?”

  Webster glanced across at Ross who twitched his head.

  “Not at this time.”

  “Then if you would like to come with me.”

  As Donaldson moved off, Webster fell into step behind him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Faulkner had expected to be taken to naval headquarters to be de-brief but that never happened. A naval attaché, accompanied by two marines, appeared a few minutes after Webster’s arrest. He had a transport waiting but such was the traffic in this vast city-within-a-city that it took them nearly an hour before they arrived at their destination: the Grand Ludmilla Tower Hotel.

  It was built around a vaguely gothic design with two huge staircases leading off the main lobby but Faulkner failed to register even the most basic details. He was too distracted by what had just happened to Webster. The events seemed so bizarre that he began to doubt his own recollections. There were two things a starship captain truly feared: one was the idea of facing a court martial as a result of a decision you’d made, while the other was the thought of being relieved of your command.

  And both things had happened to Alexander Webster more or less simultaneously.

  Faulkner wracked his brains trying to think of ways that he might be able to help the younger man out of his present situation but each idea was quickly stifled by Faulkner’s ignorance of current operational procedure. He might have known what to do twenty years ago but he was forced to recognise his own ignorance on such matters now. He’d been out of the loop for so long he had no idea which regulations, if any, were still current. Plus, any naval connections he might once have enjoyed were now useless. He had no way of contacting his former colleagues and, even if he did, chances were that they would be either dead or retired.

  He had managed to become a complete anachronism without even realising it. Chronologically misplaced, as he was, he didn’t see how it would ever be possible for him to return to active service. Some of the technology he had encountered whilst aboard the Syracuse had been simply baffling. He often didn’t understand what Webster and his crew were talking about let alone what it was they were actually doing. He had watched the officers manipulating the sea of data flooding their stations and it just seemed to him like a brash confusion of lights.

  The two marine guards had travelled up in the elevator ahead of him but, when the attaché indicated that it was their turn, Faulkner hesitated. There was no ‘floor’ that he could see and when he looked down all he could see was a long drop. Eventually, they stepped in together and were immediately whisked high into the air. Faulkner kept his eyes closed throughout but had to admit that the experience was not unpleasant.

  If he was ever going to conquer his fears of this brave new world then he was just going to have to get on and do it. That said, his heart was still racing by the time they reached his room.

  The two marines had positioned themselves outside.

  The room was enormous. After the privations he’d suffered in prison he found the size of it quite intimidating. He was going to have to rig up some kind of a den somewhere if he was ever going to get to sleep.

  “This is one hell of a billet.”

  Though the attaché regarded him calmly, Faulkner was pretty sure that none of the man’s extensive training had quite prepared him for a scenario such as this.

  “This is where you will be staying. The president wants you be comfortable during your stay.”

  “The president?” Faulkner hesitated. “As in: the president?”

  “That’s correct. You’re to be his guest here for the next few days.”

  Faulkner picked up a cushion, examined it and then put it down again. Only then did he realise that he had no idea who the current president was. He determined to discover the answer just as soon as he was left alone. There was bound to be a tablet somewhere in the room.

  A troubling thought nagged at the back of his mind.

  Wasn’t that one of the questions you asked someone you suspected of suffering from some kind of mental impairment?

  What’s today’s date?

  Who is the current president of the Confederation?

  Well he knew the answer to the first one. He had gone to great lengths to keep track of time during his long incarceration. Yet, the answer to this second question completely eluded him.

  “Am I to meet with the president then?”

  “That has yet to be decided.”

  “Okay. So, what if I want to go outside. Explore the station properly. Take a midnight stroll?”

  “That wouldn’t be such a good idea, I’m afraid. The station’s on a high level of alert.”

  “Is that why I have two guards on the door.”

  “They’re there for your own protection. Everything will be explained in due course.”

  “And what about my de-brief. I would imagine that it would be best…”

  “All in due course, sir. The priority now is for you to relax. Anything you need – anything at all - simply contact reception.”

  *

  Next day, the attaché came to collect him. Neither man spoke as the transport made its way towards naval headquarters. Faulkner had lain on his bed as soon as he had been left alone. He had only wanted to rest his eyes; or so he told himself. When he opened them again, it was early morning and he was still dressed in his dress uniform.

  He found a tablet on the nightstand but had difficulty operating it. He said, “Who is the current president?”

  Instantly, the name ‘Ezra Samuels’ appeared along with the man’s picture.

  “Never heard of him.”

  He struggled to activate the tablet’s virtual keypad facility. He managed to get it working but every time he moved his hands away, the keypad would disappear and he would have to start over again. He tried searching the USDC’s website for any details concerning Webster’s arrest but there was nothing. Lincoln Station might be a civilian facility but the navy would have measures in place to ensure their security was maintained at all times. Then, when he attempted to send a message to Ross, he immediately received an electronic reply informing him that Lieutenant-Commander Ross was no longer on-station.

  That had been the purpose of the sealed orders: to isolate Webster. If the powers-that-be were interested in gathering evidence about the incident the first thing they’d do was interview the crew of the Syracuse while scouring its computers for evidence. Clearly, that was not their intention. All they were interested in was getting the Syracuse as far away from Lincoln as possible. They would keep Webster locked away in the hope that the matter would eventually solve itself as, indeed, it sometimes did.

  It was how the navy often reacted when confronted with a particularly disagreeable situation.

  Delay, delay, delay.

  Naval headquarters occupied part of the spaceport’s eastern wing. There were around twenty main buildings but the rest of the space was taken up with various office shells stacked one on top of the other. Security was tight and it took them half an hour to process Faulkner’s documentation. While they were waiting, Faulkner became aware of the fact that a lot of the personnel – in fact, most of them, if truth be told – kept staring in his direction. It took him a good while to realise that they were actually looking at him. At one point, a fairly large crowd gathered just in front of the main gate, all looking his way and it took a group of formidable looking MPs to come and clear the area.

  From there they went to the operations centre. Faulkner found himself becoming more and more anxious. He’d been mentally preparing for this moment for nearly twenty years: this was his opportunity to set the record straight, to put the events of his capture and imprisonment into some kind of context. He didn’t particularly care what the consequences of all this might be, he’d stopped worrying about things like that a long time ago. But he did want to get this right.

  He was sure that various versions of what had happened would have been circulating for years. He’d even heard a few garbled accounts himself while still languishing in prison. None of them portrayed him in a particularly flattering light.

  He just wanted to present his version of events. He didn’t care whether anyone believed him or not.

  The attaché opened the office door for Faulkner to enter and then just as quickly closed it behind him.

  Admiral Paige was seated at his desk in a short-sleeved shirt. He looked tanned and fit. He pretended to be distracted by something on his console but he’d clearly been awaiting Faulkner’s arrival for some time.

  It was an old trick. Faulkner had used it himself on occasion.

  Nice to see that some things never change.

  Paige indicated for him to take a seat, scrutinising him as he sat down.

  “If this is what you look like after you’ve gained weight I dread to think what you looked like before.”

  “Doctor Morton has me drinking a lot of milkshakes.”

  “I used to love milkshakes, back in the day. Nowadays,” he patted his own stomach, “I’m not allowed. But you’re no doubt thriving on them.”

  “A little too sweet for my tastes, if truth be told. I have to force myself to finish them.”

  “Still. Seems to be doing the trick.”

  A stillness descended. Paige filled it with a well-worn smile.

  “Have you any idea why I asked you here?”

  “I thought I was here to be de-briefed,” Faulkner said.

  “Understandable but no. Things are rather getting ahead of themselves round here. I thought someone might have let it slip.”

  “Let slip what?” Faulkner was suddenly curious.

  “I’ll get to that. This might be a lot for you to take in right but I’m gonna jump straight in. First though, a little bit of background. Eighteen months ago we sent out a small flotilla tasked with patrolling our colonies on the edge of The Rift.”

  The Rift took in the section of space beyond the colonised systems. The area was poorly mapped but that hadn’t stopped colonists trying to establish a range of settlements out there. Although most failed, a small number had prevailed, though even these groups tended to struggle to eke even the most rudimentary existence.

  “This was little more than a meet and greet exercise. We were trying to get a handle on what was happening out there outside our normal operations while trying to provide these people with a little reassurance. You can make as many fancy speeches as you want but there’s nothing quite like having a battle cruiser orbiting overhead. People like to see the hardware up close, helps them sleep better knowing they haven’t been abandoned.”

  “Meet and greet,” Faulkner nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. I’m not sure whether you’re up to speed on this but the Confederation now has nineteen deep space colonies. By colonies we’re talking about any settlement bigger than five thousand souls. That keeps us slightly ahead of the Yakutians with fourteen. Then we have the Vardiaans on six and another eight of - what you might call – independent operators.”

  “How does that work? What do they do for things like basic supplies?”

  “They take most everything with them. Then, after five or ten years they’re usually in a position to start trading. They figure they’re too small to draw any negative attention from raiders, though that’s not always the case. Once they’re big enough they’re sort of obliged to pick a side, if only for the sake of long-term protection.”