He never called it a cabin; he used it as a study. It was large and sparse, like the apartment he kept on Earth, and, along with the Bridge, the only uncramped space on the ship. Everywhere else was crowded with functionality.
Without being asked, the screen in his study showed him a digest of his orders and briefing, and he scanned both without surprise. He found, as expected, that they hadn’t repeated the mistake they made at Isis. At Horus—the solar system of Sakhra, Thahl’s home planet—it would be different. He would meet Her alone, as he had always insisted.
He knew what had happened to the Pallas at Bast, to Copeland’s Wulf at Anubis, and—most recently, and most dramatically—at Isis, where they had sent Ansah. She would be their scapegoat; he knew the outcome of her trial, from Thahl’s voice and from his own instincts. When I form any kind of attachment with people they usually leave, in one way or another. In the privacy of his study his heart nearly broke, a process to which he allotted five minutes; then he spoke into his comm.
“Thahl, do you have the transcript of Ansah’s trial yet?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Put it on my screen in here, please…Thank you.”
As the words began to form on his screen, he tried to put pictures in the spaces around and behind them; to imagine what it must have been like for her. Isis trials were inquisitorial, not adversarial, so she would have been facing them alone, without counsel. She would be looking at them with her head slightly cocked to one side, the way she used to look whenever she felt threatened.
•
She looked at them for a moment, with her head slightly cocked to one side. Then she poured herself a cup of scented tea from the immaculate service of white fluted porcelain set before her—not easy considering the manacles, though even these, in deference to the occasion, were slender bracelets of chased silver. She made the operation last long enough for the Chairman to decide to repeat his question.
“Commander Ansah, I’m giving you, on record, a second chance to exercise your rights. Think carefully. You’re charged with desertion and cowardice. As a result of these offences….”
“Alleged,” intoned a lawyer member of the Board.
“….alleged offences, this city has been subjected to an unprecedented and humiliating attack. Ships have been lost. Crews have been lost. You’ve been told the penalty you face if found guilty. You have the right to refuse to stand trial here on grounds of possible bias and to elect for trial on Earth. You don’t seem to regard that as very important, but I do; more important, for instance, than the dignity of this Board, so I’ll ask you again. Will you elect for trial on Earth?”
“I’m not interested in where I stand trial.”
“Unless you formally elect for Earth, it will be here.”
Ansah shrugged. The Chairman nodded and leaned back.
•
The next day, Ansah was back in the same room. It was large and formal, almost ballroom size, with a geometric parquet floor, furnishings of red mahogany and buttoned velvet, and watered-silk wallcoverings. As before, she sat in a comfortable keyhole-back armchair, with a circular drum table to one side, set out with a tea service of white fluted porcelain and silver. She faced the same large curving bay window, through which sunlight streamed, silhouetting the figures who sat before her at the long table whose curve matched that of the window. When she had last faced them there were six and they called themselves a Pre-Trial Directions Board. The same six were there, but now there were six more, and they called themselves a Supreme Court. The Supreme Court.
The trial would be in camera, in view of possible public reaction; it was not even widely known that Ansah was on the planet. Her ship had returned to Earth, with—the story went—her aboard in custody. There was no public gallery, no media presence, and just a handful of security guards. Ansah had only one guard assigned to her, and he was unarmed; but he was a Sakhran.
These procedural matters, which were considered unusual but necessary, had been settled at the Pre-Trial Directions Hearing. Other matters, however, would proceed exactly in accordance with the Isis Legal Code: the conduct of the trial would be inquisitorial and not adversarial, the verdict would be decided by a minimum three-quarters majority of the twelve, and once the verdict was given, the complete record of the proceedings would be put in the public domain. There would be no right of appeal.
The Chairman recited some of these matters, in order to put them, and Ansah’s acknowledgement of them, on the record. He went on to tell her his name and those of the eleven others. As on the previous day, she chose not to remember them, and decided instead to identify them to herself as First Voice, Second Voice, and so on.
She went to pour herself some tea. The Sakhran guard behind her, without apparently asking anyone’s permission, reached in front of her and gently unlocked the manacles. (Those wonderful hands! she thought.) She smiled her appreciation and he smiled back. His teeth were very pointed. The inside of his mouth was dark red.
Someone started reciting charges. The sun Isis rose higher on the left-hand side of the huge bay window, making the figures at the table grow more indistinct, blurring the edges of their silhouettes. She was not unduly concerned at being unable to see their faces clearly. Voices, with their nuances and inflexions, could tell her as much as faces; on her ship, she had acquired some skill in analysing voices.
Third Voice was speaking.
“Commander Ansah, will you please tell us your occupation?”
“Commander of the Commonwealth ship Sirhan.”
“And what kind of ship is the Sirhan?”
“An Outsider Class cruiser.”
“That’s not just any kind of ship, is it?”
“No. It’s considered the Commonwealth’s ultimate warship.”
“How many Outsider Class ships are there?”
“Nine.”
“These nine ships, they’re outside the normal military command structure, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They report to the Department of Administrative Affairs on Earth, not to the military authorities. But that’s not why they’re called Outsiders.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander, we’ll come back to that….Tell me about your title. You’re Commander, not Captain. Can you explain that?”
She smiled faintly. “It’s a kind of symbolism.”
“Symbolism?”
“The Department likes to reinforce the idea that it is the Captain of each of the nine. Those who command from day to day are Deputy Captains; Commanders.”
“So this, symbolism, actually provides a double emphasis. The Commanders are doubly reminded that these extraordinary vessels are… Instruments of the Department?”
“Yes. The Department even uses that word. Instruments.”
“An unusual word. Does it mean that each of the nine is absolutely bound to honour the letter and spirit of the Department’s orders, in every detail?”
Again she smiled faintly. “I see where you’re leading.”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“I’m sorry. The answer is Yes.”
“Commander.” This was another voice. She had heard three so far today, including the Chairman. Yesterday she had heard six, including today’s three, so she called this one Seventh Voice, and committed it to memory.
“Commander Ansah, what brought a ship like the Sirhan to Isis?”
“Faith.”
“Please answer in more detail, Commander. For the record.”