Mr. Vishinsky took an opportunity to maneuver me to one side. “Sorry my arm got tangled in your jacket,” he said quietly.
“Thanks, Mr. Vishinsky. You saved me from getting clubbed to death.”
“No problem.” A good man, the master-at-arms. There was a time to belay regs, and he knew when.
“Here it is!” Chief McAndrews held up a vial of amber liquid. A little box at his feet held several similar vials.
I blinked. “Goofjuice?” I used the slang term for the pervasive drug.
“Look how much they have. I wonder if they brought it aboard.” The Chief looked about with suspicion.
“Of course they brought it, sir,” I said. “They didn’t find it on--” I stopped. “A still, on the ship?” It was impossible.
No one would dare.
“Maybe.” He caught Vishinsky’s eye; the master-at-arms gave the billy in his hands an angry twist. They went to work with a vengeance, removing every item in each sailor’s locker. It took them two hours to find it. The back plate of one seaman’s locker was loose; behind was a cavity in the bulkhead.
“Lord God damn these people!” Vishinsky intended no blasphemy; I was sure he meant it literally. Arnolf Tuak, the hapless owner of the locker, was hauled off to the brig.
It was late in the night before full order was restored and all known offenders were under lock and key. Wearily, we trooped back to officers’ country. “A bad kettle of fish,” was all Chief Me Andrews had to say.
“Yes, sir.” Bad indeed.
“Contraband drugs on Hibernia.”Captain Malstrom said it again.
“Yes, sir.” I stood at attention; he had forgotten to let me stand easy.
His mouth curled in revulsion. “I expect they’ll smuggle a flask of wet stuff, Nicky. All sailors do that. But goofjuice... “
Goofjuice was another matter entirely. It didn’t seem addictive at first. But once it got hold, its grip was almost unshakable. The erratic behavior it caused wasn’t a problem to the joey indulging; he was in bliss all the while he was under the influence. But we had just seen an example of the mess it made for everyone else.
“Yes, sir. At least we found the source.”
Juice wasn’t that hard to make: a few test tubes, a retort, starch, magnesium salts, other common ingredients.
“When Admiralty hears of this... “He shook his head.
Actually, I doubted it would be that bad. If Captain Haag were still in command he’d have had a lot to explain. But Mr. Malstrom hadn’t been in charge when the crew boarded.
He looked up. “Stand easy, Nicky. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, sir.” I relaxed.”How are you going to handle it? Captain’s Mast?” It was not a question a middy could ask.
But Mr. Malstrom obviously wanted to talk about it, and once he had been my friend Harv.
“No.” His face hardened. “Court-martial.” Seeing my surprise he added, “Those scum knew what they were doing.
They broke a dozen regs just getting the stuff aboard ship.
Then they caused a major riot among the crew. What if they’d gone berserk on duty stations, instead of in their bunks? In the engine room, or the airlock?”
He was right, up to a point. The sailors’ stupidity might have wrecked our ship. But it hadn’t; we’d dealt with them in crew quarters. Captain’s Mast, or nonjudicial punishment, would mete out demotion, pay decreases, or extra duties.
A court-martial was far more serious. While Hiberniawas interstellar, far from home, the men could be punished with the brig, summary dismissal, or even execution.
Instead of putting the incident behind us, court-martial would formalize and enlarge it. Worse, the matter would drag on unhealed while the court-martial was convened, poisoning relations between the enlisted men and officers.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” It wasn’t my place to tell him my reservations.
“I’m appointing Pilot Haynes as hearing officer. Alexi will be their advocate.” “Alexi?” I was so astonished I forgot my discipline.
“Sir,” I quickly added, to correct my breach.
“Who else? It has to be an officer. Chief McAndrews found the stuff; he’ll be a witness like you and Vax. Sandy has to present the evidence against them. There’s no one else left.”
“Doc Uburu?”
“Doc treated the injured and conducted the interrogations.” The Captain was right; he had no more officers to call on.
“Aye aye, sir.” I began figuring how to relieve Alexi from his watches, so he’d have more time to study the regs.
The court convened three days later, in the vacant lieutenants’ common room where the Board of Inquiry had met. In all, fifteen men were charged. Three were accused of organizing the still, taking part in the riot, and assaulting a superior officer. They were in the worst trouble of all. Five more were charged with use of contraband intoxicants, four of those with rioting as well. Seven others were charged with taking part in the melee.
It wasn’t as complicated as it sounded. Petty Officer Terrill knew which two sailors had worked him over: one of the men who was accused of using the goof juice, and one of the three distributors. Several of those charged with rioting pled guilty to all charges, throwing themselves on the Captain’s mercy.
Two of the men accused of using the goofjuice also pled guilty.
The Captain was not lenient; he sentenced four of the men to six months in the brig and busted three others right down to apprentice seaman. Then the trials of the remaining eight got under way.
The three men charged with supplying the goofjuice were tried first. Pilot Haynes, sitting at the raised desk, listened impassively while Alexi Tamarov haltingly argued on behalf of his clients. It was no kangaroo court; when the Pilot felt the middy was not bringing out a defensive point, he put aside his preferred reticence and questioned the witness himself.
The three hapless sailors whispered with Alexi from time to time, interrupting his questioning of Chief Me Andrews.
“Was the vial under a particular bunk when you found it, sir?”
“Not completely,” said the Chief, unruffled. “The box was on the deck, half pushed under a bunk.”
“So you don’t know for sure that it was in Mr. Tuak’s possession, sir?” Alexi was doing his best on a hopeless case.
Tuak had already confessed under P and D. As was his right, he recanted his confession, but of course it would be entered against him. Alexi was casting about for other evidence to discredit it.
“I don’t know, Mr. Tamarov.” The Chief was undisturbed; other witnesses had identified the box as belonging to Tuak.
“Sir, did you see anything that contradicts Mr. Tuak’s having been framed by another sailor?”
“Yes.” Alexi looked surprised and worried, but had no choice but to let the Chief answer. “When he recovered from the stun charge, Mr. Tuak tried to claw Mr. Vishinsky’s face.”
“Could that have been from anger at having been stunned unjustly?”
“It could have,” said the Chief, his tone making clear he didn’t believe it.
The trial droned on. I was called as a witness, but had little to offer except a description of Mr. Vishinsky quelling the riot. Neither Sandy nor Alexi seemed much interested in my testimony.
The trial, I reflected, was mostly ritual. It could help disclose truth, but that has rarely been necessary since P and D testing became the norm. Yet we still observed the old forms in civilian as well as military courts: defense attorneys, prosecutors, witnesses. In nearly all cases we already knew the outcome.
While the trial was in recess I wandered into the passengers’ lounge, looking for a conversation to distract me.
Perhaps Mrs. Donhauser and Mr. Ibn Saud were at it again.
1 found two older passengers I barely knew, reading holovids. One of the Treadwell twins, the girl, was writing a game program; she tested it from time to time on the passengers’ screen. Derek Carr, lean, tall, aristocratic, studied the holo of the galaxy on the bulkhead, hands clasped behind his back.