Operation Excalibur, page 16
part #31 of BattleTech Series
Lori had thought she'd taken care of that particular bit of bleak self-deception. Their lovemaking after his return to their quarters had been both passionate and sweet and fully energetic enough to put to rest any fears that he was somehow no longer qualified as a man.
But then, afterward, he'd become more distant....
Ellen had warned her about that, too. 'Mech Power Transference Syndrome, or MPTS, was a fairly common psychological condition—more of an attitude, really, than a neurosis—especially among male MechWarriors. Men tended to identify on some level with their BattleMechs, as though the 'Mechs were extensions of both their bodies and their personalities; in their dreams, they often stood ten meters tall, possessing strength and size enough to tear down walls or crush opponents underfoot. Outside of a BattleMech cockpit, however, they felt ... vulnerable. Exposed. Weak.
Lori had trouble identifying with that set of perceptions. After all, she'd been able to simply walk away from piloting 'Mechs, once she'd decided that family was more important. Though there were plenty of exceptions, Ellen believed that women were far more likely to think of a BattleMech as a very large and useful tool, a vehicle tailored to a specific and deadly purpose. As a result, they were often colder and more calculating at their 'Mechs' controls, moving and fighting by the book, with precision, and with unemotional deadliness. Men, on the other hand, tended to become their 'Mechs during combat; that sometimes made them better instinctive fighters, achieving much higher levels of coordination between their brains and the machines they controlled.
Learning that he could never again strap on a BattleMech, learning, in effect, that he'd been forever cut off from that other Carlyle, the powerful and commanding Grayson Carlyle who could kick over buildings and cross the landscape in ground-eating, five-meter strides, must have generated the same psychological shock as had losing his arm—worse, really, since the arm could be replaced. Nothing, from the perspective of a MechWarrior like Grayson, could replace the ego-coddling testosterone-charged glory of piloting a BattleMech.
The psychologists called the effect 'Mech withdrawal, as though the 'Mech itself were some kind of addictive drug.
Was Grayson suffering from withdrawal symptoms? Ellen couldn't know for sure, since diagnosis was not so simple a thing as running a blood test or probing a physical wound for shrapnel, but she'd thought it a definite possibility. There wasn't much that could be done for it, either, except to give moral support and to try to control the symptoms, the worst of which was chronic depression. ·
"Grayson," Lori had said suddenly that morning, as they got ready to appear before the court. "Please tell me what's wrong."
He was across the bedroom from her, standing in front of the full-length mirror as he adjusted his ribbons. At her plea, which she realized must have seemed to come out of nowhere since she'd not said anything for the past ten minutes or so, he glanced at her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
She thought again how handsome he looked. He was wearing the Legion's full dress uniform, two-toned grays with black trim and half cloak. By contrast, the ribbons, most specific to the Legion, but others awards from the governments of several different worlds and states, flashed and glittered, a large rectangle of brilliant, sectioned color splashed on his left breast.
When he didn't answer immediately, she spread her hands. "Damn it, Gray, I can't stand it when you shut me out!"
"Lori ..." he began. Then he snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. She saw the pain in his eyes.
"Sometimes, love," he said softly after a moment, "it's best not to say anything."
What had he meant by that? That he didn't want to talk about it? Or ...
Another possibility occurred to her, one that made her shiver with something more than the wintry chill of their quarters. Could he know that they were being watched? The possibility that their Asgard quarters were bugged had, of course, occurred to her. In fact, she'd taken that for granted as soon as she realized that the leutnant at the spaceport intended to take them to rooms specifically prepared for them.
"We really shouldn't talk about this right now," he told her. He spoke softly, scarcely above a whisper, though she could tell he was still choosing his words with care. Listening devices the size of a fingernail could detect heartbeats at forty meters, she knew, and a spy camera that could read lips and estimate fluctuations in skin temperature—a fair first step in determining whether or not a subject was telling the truth—could be built into a cylinder no wider or longer than the first joint of her thumb. "All I can say right now is that it's going to be all right."
She looked around the room, an initial flash of vulnerability and embarrassment giving way to anger. There could be cameras everywhere here, watching everything they did, the watchers analyzing each expression, each exchange, even zooming in over shoulders to read notes written to one another in silence.
There could be no privacy here and no chance of sharing secrets. Possibly, Grayson didn't want to say anything because he couldn't, because any signal he made to her would be picked up and deciphered by the unseen watchers.
Grayson glanced at the chronometer on his left wrist. "We'd better go," he said heavily, "unless we want them to send some goons in to drag us there." As Lori crossed over to his side of the room, he reached out and patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, love. Trust me...."
And now, two hours later, Grayson and Lori sat side by side in a wood-paneled box to the left of the long and imposing desk behind which the adjudication board sat. In front of the desk was a low table where evidence could be displayed, though this hearing would be judged only on the testimony of the various witnesses, not on any physical evidence. Above the board of inquiry, on a wall that might once have been white but that showed its age now in its layer of pale gray grime and dust, a sword crossed with its own scabbard hung in display, a reminder of the martial intent of these proceedings. Military justice, Lori reminded herself, was rarely concerned with the niceties attendant upon civilian trials. Decisions would be made here not on questions of right or wrong, but on principles of duty, of discipline, and of military expediency. What was best for the service frequently took precedence over what might be best, or even just, for the individual.
The inquiry board consisted of a panel of five, two Lyran military officers, two Davion officers, and one lean and elderly man in the formal long robes and pointed hood of a ComStar precentor. The officers, of course, were present both because they knew the demands of military life and because Grayson had attacked Davion troops in the service of the Federated Commonwealth; both Davion and Steiner officers were present so that both factions in the FedCom split could be represented. The two groups, two men in Davion gray and a man and a woman in Steiner blue, didn't seem to like one another very much. Lori wondered what effect the politics of the recent breakup of the Federated Commonwealth would have on the outcome of these hearings.
The precentor seated between the two factions was probably intended as a more or less neutral party. Ileus Home was the local precentor in charge of ComStar affairs on Tharkad, a rather high-ranking and important official to be bothered with a relatively minor breach-of-contract hearing, Lori thought. Home, clearly and from the beginning, was in charge of the hearing. He opened the proceedings by reminding those present that this was not a formal trial and that any findings made by the board were not binding. The board would submit its findings, and the prisoner, to the state—meaning the Lyran Alliance, within whose jurisdiction the presumed crime fell.
"If punishment of any kind is warranted," Precentor Home said in solemn tones, "then it will fall to the state, specifically, in this instance, to the Judge Advocate General's Office of the Lyran Alliance, to review the evidence and to render a final verdict and sentence."
"My Lord Precentor," one of the Davion officers, a colonel, said. "Surely the Federated Commonwealth, which is, after all, the party that was wronged in this incident, should have some say in any future dispositions of—"
"This board will not be used as a political forum," Home said sharply. "Your objection, Colonel Dillon, is noted. And overruled."
When the male Steiner officer turned his head to stare at Dillon, Lori recognized him: Leutnant-Colonel Willy Schubert. He was the man who'd come for Grayson the previous two evenings, taking him out somewhere for a long discussion, one extending into the wee hours of two long, cold nights. She thought some flicker of recognition—a glance, the slightest of nods—passed between Grayson and Schubert, but she couldn't be sure.
The rest of the large room, despite the seemingly endless rows of seats arrayed in ranks like the pews of a large cathedral, was empty, save for two Steiner guards flanking the tall double doors at the back of the room, and a proceedings recorder seated at the electronic booth to the right of Grayson's and Lori's box. There were no advocates as there would have been in a real trial; Grayson and Lori would speak for themselves, while the adjudicator board served as prosecution, judge, and jury. "A great way to save money on an expensive trial," Lori noted wryly, after wondering aloud to Grayson whether or not they would be allowed to have legal counsel.
"I have a feeling," Grayson told her, "that they're not so much interested in justice as they are in nice, tidy packages, with no loose ends."
"Colonel Grayson Death Carlyle," Home intoned from the bench. "Lieutenant Colonel Lori Kalmar-Carlyle. Please stand."
When they had done so, Home continued the recitation. Lori reached over and took Grayson's hand as they listened. "Colonel Grayson Death Carlyle, you are charged with one count of violating the terms of a legal and binding mercenary contract between the Gray Death Legion and House Steiner, with five counts of illegal military assault upon forces then in the service of the Federated Commonwealth, and with one count of treason against the state of the Federated Commonwealth, to which you were bound at the time under the terms of your mercenary contract."
Treason. Lori's heart beat a little faster at that word, and her knees and stomach felt weak. That was a capital offense. If Grayson was found guilty, he would be taken out and shot, a summary execution with no chance of appeal. She'd tried desperately to persuade him to argue that this was a matter for the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission on Outreach, but he'd just shrugged. Was it possible that some part of him wanted to be punished?
"Lieutenant Colonel Lori Kalmar-Carlyle, you likewise are charged with one count of violating the terms of a legal and binding mercenary contract between the Gray Death Legion and House Steiner, with three counts of illegal military assault upon forces then in the service of the Federated Commonwealth, and with one count of treason against the state of the Federated Commonwealth, to which you were bound at that time under the terms of your unit's contract."
Schubert, at this point, reached over and lightly touched the precentor's shoulder. A low-voiced consultation followed, the two men whispering back and forth. Twice, Schubert gestured at the accused, and once Lori was certain he was looking straight at her, that she was the subject of the debate. After a moment, Dillon, the Davion colonel, got into the discussion as well, turning it into an urgent and harshly whispered three-way debate. "I object, sir!" Dillon said once, loudly enough to be heard across the room. "I strenuously object!"
"Overruled." The debate continued. Lori looked at Grayson, but he appeared to be somewhere else entirely. His eyes were closed, and his head was lowered.
Finally, the precentor said something unintelligible but sharp, and both of the military officers sat back in their chairs. Dillon looked disgruntled; Schubert appeared smug.
"Lieutenant Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle," the precentor said, folding his hands before him on the bench. "In the interests of expediency and of justice, I am dismissing all charges against you. From the evidence I've reviewed so far, it seems obvious to me that you were acting only in the best of military traditions. Your orders were to protect and administer the Gray Death Legion landhold on Glengarry. You were in no way responsible for your husband's change in loyalties at Caledonia. Indeed, I am surprised, in fact, that these charges were filed against you in the first place." He paused to give Dillon a hard look, which the Davion colonel did not meet.
"Normally," he continued, "I would ask you to leave at this time, since these proceedings are officially closed. However, in view of your relationship with the accused, if you wish to remain, you may."
"Why don't you step outside?" Grayson whispered to her. "This won't take very long—"
"I want to stay, Precentor," Lori said, ignoring him. Her mind was racing now. What had been the point of that hurried consultation? She suspected that the Lyran officer, Schubert, had been urging that the charges be dropped against her. Had that been the subject of Schubert's discussion with Grayson the other night? She shot him a quick glance from the corner of her eye. Had he agreed to something on the condition that she be left out of it?
"Very well. You may be seated. I will take this opportunity to remind you both once again that this is not a formal trial. If there are no further objections from the bench, we will proceed with the inquiry."
He was right, Lori thought. This was nothing like a trial, and she had the impression that he was supposed to remind them all of that fact from time to time. There was no chance for Grayson to plead guilty or not guilty, no formal prosecution, no defense. Still, the process carried all of the weight and ponderous legal terminology of any regular military court. If Grayson was found guilty here, there would be no reason for any Steiner military court to reject that decision. Quite the contrary, in fact. It would be politically expedient for JAG, the office of the Judge Advocate General, to accept the board's ruling point by point to the final detail. This would be just one more nail in the coffin of the Steiner-Davion alliance.
One by one, witnesses summoned from Caledonia and Glengarry were called into the room, each taking his place before the bench where he was questioned by the panel members. Everything was very formal and correct; the adjudicators interrogated each witness thoroughly, sometimes reading from electronic pads on the bench before them, sometimes apparently addressing them with new questions suggested by the testimony.
Lori had wondered whether Brandal Gareth would be here. He wasn't, but a colonel named George Irwin from Gareth's staff was present to give the field marshal's side of the story, as was Marshal Seymour, the commander of the Third Davion Guard at Falkirk. Both men testified that Grayson's attack against the militia and palace guard units belonging to Caledonia's Governor Wilmarth had taken them completely by surprise, that their orders stated that the Gray Death's Third Battalion was supposed to assist them in putting down the popular revolt against Wilmarth, and that the Gray Death's operations had caused heavy damage and loss of life to elements of the Third Davion Guard.
After that, it was Major Frye's turn. He was questioned closely about his part in the Battle of Falkirk and about what he'd known of Grayson's decision to turn against Governor Wilmarth's forces. McCall was next, and his testimony turned out to be the lengthiest of all, for he and Alex had gone to Caledonia weeks in advance of Third Batt to scout out the political situation and find out just what the Legion was getting itself into.
"It was my decision," McCall said with a quick, almost furtive glance at the box where Grayson and Lori were sitting. Grayson frowned and shook his head quickly. Lori knew that Grayson had already told him to keep quiet about that aspect of things, but McCall pushed ahead anyway. "Caledonia is my home world, y' ken, an' tha' wee bluidy bastard Wilmarth had arrested my brother an' was holdin' him for no good reason."
"Please refrain from prejudicial comments or descriptions, Major," Home said mildly. "Continue."
"I was th' one who suggested tha' Governor Wilmarth was the problem, y' see. He was the man causing the rebellion among the people wi' his beastly bad manners. Kidnapping, torture, murder. I saw it wi' my own two eyes."
"And so you took it upon yourself to right this wrong? Rather than reporting the situation to a higher authority?"
"Sir, the situation had been reported time an' time again. To the Skye March Command. To an official of the Federated Commonwealth serving as Wilmarth's attached And people were dying. The Gray Death had been ordered to attack civilians. It was nae right]"
When Alex took the stand, the questions directed at him tended to be phrased so as to confirm the replies the board had already gotten from McCall. Alex had been with McCall throughout the scouting assignment on Caledonia, and he, too, tried to take some part of the blame for bringing the Legion in on the side of the rebels.
Finally, it was Grayson's turn to speak on his own behalf. He approached the bench and stood at attention before it.
"Colonel Carlyle," Schubert said. "Do you deny the charges made against you here this morning?"
"No, sir."
"Would you care to explain your actions to this board? Why did you choose to violate the terms of your mercenary contract?"
"Sir, I have no excuse."
Lori's blood ran cold at those words. She'd thought that he would at least explain the position he'd found himself in, with direct orders from Wilmarth to fire on an unarmed civilian crowd....
Damn it, Grayson! Defend yourself!
"I would like to make one statement, however."
"Proceed, Colonel."
"I reject the statements made on my behalf by both Major Davis McCall and Captain Alex Carlyle. The latter is my son and spoke out of filial devotion. The major is a very old friend of mine and no doubt hopes to deflect some of the blame from me." He shook his head slowly. "I was to blame for everything that happened on Caledonia ... and on Glengarry. I accept full responsibility for my actions."
