The admiral nodded. “Gillian Moratino, Starfleet Judge Advocate General Corps. I’m here to preside over the court-martial of Commodore Reyes.” With the hint of a smile on her lips, she asked, “I’m guessing you’ve been expecting me?”
“Something of an understatement, Admiral,” Jetanien said.
“I get that a lot.”
Cooper knew of Moratino only thanks to information he had retrieved from the main computer. By all accounts, she was a competent jurist, having presided over numerous courts-martial of varying size and scope, always comporting herself with restraint as she dispensed her rulings with a firm yet fair observation for the rule of law. She was well known for having little tolerance for courtroom theatrics, preferring instead that the focus of the case remain on facts and pointed testimony. Given the furor surrounding the charges against Reyes and the attention his court-martial already had generated within the media, as well as Starfleet and the civilian populace, Cooper viewed Moratino as an ideal candidate to keep the trial proceedings from devolving into a circus.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Admiral?” he asked.
A sly grin graced Moratino’s features. “I hear you’ve got one or two decent places to get a drink around here. One of those’ll do nicely, especially if they can offer a meal that doesn’t come out of a food slot.”
“Manón’s Cabaret, Admiral,” Cooper replied. “It’s a civilian establishment, but it’s become the de facto officers’ club.” His inner cynic was already telling him that within twenty-four hours, word would circulate through the crew that the woman who might well decide Commodore Reyes’s fate had arrived. If that were true, then Moratino would want one last, quiet meal before everyone on the station realized who she was.
Looking to Jetanien, Cooper asked, “Ambassador, would you be so kind as to escort the admiral?”
The Chel bowed his head. “It would be my honor. I’m told the Tarellian snail stew is especially tasty this evening.”
“That sound you heard,” Fisher said, “was my appetite venting into space.”
22
Lieutenant Holly Moyer, hunched over her desk as she had been for the past five hours, finally forced herself upright and released a groan of fatigue. She pushed away from the forbidding stacks of reports, legal briefs, data slates, computer data cards, and other clutter concealing the surface of her desk and raised her arms over her head, the muscles in her back and shoulders thanking her as she interlocked her fingers and reached for the ceiling. That accomplished, she brought her hands to her head and massaged her temples, certain that at any moment, her head might simply explode in protest.
You make that sound like such a bad thing.
Her day had been spent much like however many—Moyer had stopped counting—had passed since Captain Desai had assigned her to assist in the prosecution of Commodore Reyes. The days began early, veryearly, and continued well into the evenings, to the point where on several occasions, Moyer had forsaken returning to her quarters in favor of collapsing on the sofa in her office for a few fitful hours of sleep. True rest evaded her, though, as her mind continued to process the voluminous amounts of information relating to the commodore’s case. Meals, when she ate them, were taken at her desk, though she did manage to escape her office each day for a precious respite at the gymnasium, which also allowed for a shower and a fresh uniform following her workouts.
There’s really nothing like a life of leisure.
Rising from her desk, Moyer reached across the administrative quagmire and retrieved her coffee mug. It was the same dark maroon vessel, emblazoned with the symbol of Starfleet’s Judge Advocate General Corps, that she had acquired while still attending law school. With its wide, thick base, molded handle, and insulated exterior, the ceramic mug had withstood three years of studies plus a tour at Starbase 11, associated moves, and numerous attempts to supplant it by other, lesser contenders. It had survived long enough to find itself at the hind end of explored space, flanked on all sides by just a few of the Federation’s more formidable enemies, and now was facing perhaps the most daunting task of its owner’s young career.
Okay,Moyer decided, shaking her head in response to the wayward stream of thoughts. Youdefinitely need more coffee.
The doors to her office slid aside, and she exited into the “bullpen,” the large open area located at the center of the JAG offices and harboring the lawyers’ cadre of legal and administrative assistants. Moyer stopped short as she glanced around the room, noting that most of the bullpen’s dozen desks were unoccupied, their individual lamps extinguished. Even the overhead lighting had been dimmed, and it took her an extra moment before she glanced at the chronometer over the main exit and remembered that it was well past normal duty hours.
Only two of the desks held any signs of habitation. The one closest to her belonged to her own assistant, Ensign Christopher Pimental, who was elsewhere at the moment. The other desk, at the far end of the room and closest to Captain Desai’s office, belonged to her assistant, Lieutenant Deborah Simpson. Its personal lamp shone down upon the lieutenant’s own collection of files and reports, and the desktop computer monitor also was active, displaying a jumble of text Moyer could not decipher from this distance. As for Simpson herself, Moyer presumed she was in Desai’s office, bearing the brunt of the captain’s latest round of prosecutorial preparations.
Moyer actually smiled at that, knowing that Desai was pushing herself far harder than anyone else in the office as arrangements and strategizing continued for what everyone on the station believed would be one of the most followed and scrutinized Starfleet courts-martial in the history of the Federation.
Being a bit melodramatic, aren’t we?
Sighing, Moyer headed toward the galley at the rear of JAG’s suite of offices and conference rooms, nearly bowling over Ensign Pimental as the other officer rounded a turn in the corridor. Pimental, nimble and quick to react, sidestepped to avoid the collision while protecting the mug of coffee he carried.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Pimental said with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t see you there.” He was a tall human, with close-cropped black hair that was receding back across the top of his head. His gold uniform tunic stretched across his muscled chest and shoulders, and not for the first time did Moyer consider what he might look like without it.
At ease, Lieutenant.
Shaking off the errant observation, Moyer waved away his apology. “No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Holding up her own coffee mug for emphasis, she added, “I’m afraid I’m cruising on automatic pilot.”
“I know what you mean, ma’am.” His expression changed, and Moyer realized that he was making a grand effort to stifle a yawn. After blinking several times, he returned his attention to her. “Sorry about that. Today’s been a long year.”
Moyer laughed, enjoying the brief diversion. “I know it’s been a tough haul these past few weeks, but all we can do is just keep pushing ahead.”
She knew that the trial preparations were hard on everyone in the office. From a strictly legal standpoint, there was little to be said in defense of Commodore Reyes and the actions he had committed, but that did not detract from the simple fact that she knew of no one who did not respect the man as an officer, a leader, or a human being. In private, there had been much admiration voiced for the bold and likely career-ending steps Diego Reyes had taken to allow the truth about the alien threat to be made public. Of course, such praise was all but stifled in the face of the numerous apprehensive conversations held with regard to what this truth meant to every single person currently living aboard Starbase 47.