Chapter 29: Board of Inquiry

Callee failed to make Sponsor to nobody's great surprise, coming in at a four point eight. Samantha was impressed with her nurturing scores and offered the surprised Irishwoman her sponsorship, which was immediately accepted.

With that, it was felt wise by all concerned if Samantha took possession of her own family pod. There were two available slots in the corridor that her father's pod was in, so after supper that night she and her family moved two doors down. The move didn't take long: her total possessions consisted of two concubines, three dependants, her uniforms, her cat Smokey and her hockey gear. The evening was spent redesigning the pod's interior layout and decoration.

Three days later, Sub-Decurion Samantha Redburn stood in the corridor outside Colonel Deschenes' office, waiting to take her turn in front of the Board of Inquiry. It was an august Board; officials included a pair each of Marine generals and Navy admirals, and a dux – the second-highest rank in the Civil Service, equivalent to a brigadier-general. Their ship, a K'Treel Explorer class, hovered in orbit at that very moment.

Samantha's hair was carefully groomed, her shoes and Sam Browne belt gleaming, her dress uniform spotless. Her wedge cap was perched on her head at precisely the prescribed angle. Under her left arm, her matte white pace stick was wedged firmly and was exactly parallel to the ground. Despite the coolness of the corridor, she felt herself beginning to sweat.

Around her, other high-ranking officers of the Confederacy Navy and Marines likewise tried to pretend that nothing was unusual in standing in a public corridor in your full dress uniform. In the corner, trying and failing to make her two-metre frame inconspicuous, Sergeant-Major Blondell stood stiffly at 'At Ease', right arm straight down, fist clenched, thumb pointing down the seam of her trousers. Like Samantha, her left arm held her pace stick level with the ground, her fingers pointing stiffly forward.

"Sub-Decurion Samantha Redburn!" called out the voice of the NCO the Board had brought with them.

"SIR!" she cried, and winced as her voice squeaked. Her foot slammed down as she came to Attention, and she marched in to face the inevitable.

They had changed the board room: Three tables lined the far wall, behind which the Board sat, generals to her left, admirals to her right, and dux in the middle. Facing the Board, to her left sat the Colonel and his second-in-command Lieutenant-Colonel Chaz Desrochers, both affecting a calm air, and to her right Admiral Vincent Van De Graaf and his second-in-command. Neither managed to muster the same calmness as the Colonel, but they were definitely more successful than Samantha felt.

"Sub-Decurion Samantha Redburn, reporting as ordered, SIR!" The salute was crisp: left arm down, right hand up to the tip of her eyebrow.

"Ah, Sub-Decurion Redburn," the Dux, who apparently was chairing the Board, greeted her. "At ease. We're now about to discuss the actions upon sighting of the Venti. I understand you were in charge of the base?"

"Yes, Sir. I was Acting Governor while the Colonel and the Brigade were away."

"You weren't even a Citizen of the Confederacy at the time, were you, Sub-Decurion?"

"Sir, no, Sir. I was still technically a dependant of my father, Sergeant Robert Redburn. However, I had been operating as an Optio since shortly after arrival on Thule."

The Dux nodded. "I understand you took control of all forces in system at that time."

"Sir, yes Sir. I sent all six available F-105's after the Venti, but they were unable to destroy the target. It managed to survive re-entry."

"Who came up with this battle plan you used on the surface?"

"Sir ... well, I did, Sir."

One of the admirals started at that. "Didn't you have any experienced Marine officers to assist you?"

The Dux rolled his eyes. "We've been over this. It was an 'all out' operation – there were no experienced tacticians available in-system."

The questioning went on – and on. They dissected her battle plan, questioned her decision to risk her own neck in the front lines in command of a Rommel, and pondered the suitability of arming 11-year-olds.

At one point, one of the Marine generals asked her, "And just how DO you fuck counter-clockwise?"

His Navy counterparts became quite angered at that – the gibe she'd made at the utterly useless captain apparently stung.

"Athletically, Sir," was her laconic reply. It broke the tension temporarily.

Finally the last moments of the battle were before the Board. "And you say that in the ending moments of the battle you made use of..." the General leaned forward and read from the data pad before him, " ... a 1928 fire truck?"

"Sir, yes Sir."

"I find that difficult to believe."

Samantha remained silent. She could see Colonel Deschenes' shoulders silently shaking in laughter. To her right, Admiral Van De Graaf was hiding a tight smile behind his clenched fist.

"Well, we'll deal with that little piece of exaggeration later," the General finally concluded. "Where did you get a fire truck from?"

"Sir, during the incident with Private Al Ghamdi, there was an explosion in a de Gaulle that rendered the vehicle temporarily unserviceable. The standard fire suppression system would not function adequately in the dome, so a supplementary system was designed by the base engineering staff."

"This, I've got to see," the General snorted.

"Well," the Dux advised them, "we're at the point where we can take a break for lunch. We can swing by and see this miracle of modern mechanics."

"By God, it IS a fire truck," breathed the self-same General who had expressed doubts as to its existence. He turned to the Colonel. "I thought you were pulling my leg."

"Do I look like Whitefeather?" Michael asked, feigning emotional hurt. "He'd pull your leg. Not I – not a superior officer's leg."

"Yes. Yes, you would, if you thought you could get away with it. I remember that water fountain."

Samantha didn't dare ask, but merely filed 'water fountain' away for future enquiries.

"And it's nuclear powered?"

One of the crew manning the machine happily popped the hood to give the officer a look-see at the fusion reactor powering the reproduction antique. The General could do little more than shake his head at the sight.

He shook his head a little more as a platoon of red-coated 11- and 12-year-old female cadets marched down the road, as sharp as any body of battle-hardened Confederacy Marines. Loud and proud rang the cadence song, their feminine voices in perfect harmony:

The Colonel remained silent as to the true nature of the Beauty Saloon. He merely directed the five members of the Board and the dozen support staff they brought with them into the decadent, sumptuous Art Deco establishment and onward to the private room in the back. Samantha brought up the rear, nervous and hoping that her staff were on their game today. She needn't have worried.

"Is this the Officer's Mess?" asked the General.

"No, Sir," responded Michael and Samantha simultaneously. The General glanced at the Sub-Decurion and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"The Sergeants' Mess? Surely not the Other Ranks' Mess?"

"Begging the General's pardon, Sir, this is the Beauty Saloon." Samantha felt her face flush.

"The what?"

"The base brothel. Sir."

"The base WHAT?" The General stared at her in frank amazement.

"Brothel, Sir."

His attention shifted repeatedly between Michael and Samantha in disbelief. "This is the base brothel? On most colonies they're this utilitarian bar, especially where Marines are concerned. This place looks like a high-end Manhattan nightclub right out of the 1930's. I half expect to see Myrna Loy, William Powell and Asta to walk through the main doors." Samantha beamed at the praise.