POV: 3rd Person

  Location: Mechanicus Station High Court, Judicial Sector

  Date: Tuesday, August 8th, 2985

  Time: 09:30 am

  If you were to study the architectural history of the Novellus System, you would note a distinct divergence in design philosophy between the inner worlds and the orbital stations. The inner worlds, like Nova Celeste, Celestine Prime, Centurius 1 and 2, Ciprus, and so on, were built to mimic paradise, utilising soft curves, organic materials (for those who could foot the bill), and an abundance of natural light. They were designed to make the inhabitants forget they were inhabiting a world that was not the one they originated from.

  Mechanicus Station, however, was designed to remind you exactly where you were. Even here, in the High Court, the supposed pinnacle of station civilization, the aesthetic was one of imposing, brutalist function. The walls were not mahogany, but polished durasteel panels that reached thirty feet into the air, absorbing sound and light with equal indifference. The air did not smell of sandalwood, as the hallway outside had promised. Instead, inside the chamber, the air scrubbers were set to a clinical maximum, leaving the atmosphere tasting of sterilized ozone and cold judgment.

  It was a room designed to make human beings feel small, which they were, all things considered.

  Mark stepped through the double doors and felt the immediate change. The roar of the mob outside, the screaming reporters, the flashing cameras, the chaotic energy of the public, was severed instantly, replaced by a silence so profound that it felt heavy.

  Kenjiro walked to his right, clutching his briefcase with such intensity that his knuckles were turning whiter than he already was. Then, walking on Mark's left, was Lysander Voss.

  Lysander had been Marcos's pick. He was not a celebrity lawyer from the gilded firms of law boasted all throughout the luxury stations, or a lawyer Kenjiro knew from Elyse station. He was a creature of the station's underbelly. Born to a single mother who had fled the slave market and battlefield that surrounded the Extron system during a pirate blockade in 2947, Lysander had quite the rough upbringing. He eventually clawed his way through schooling, proving that credits weren't a determining factor for educational success.

  He became a man who specialized in maritime law, salvage rights, and the labyrinthine loopholes of the IUC Corporate Charter. He was thin, sharp-featured, and wore a suit that was perpetually rumpled, but his eyes scanned the courtroom with the predatory calculation of a raptor assessing a canyon.

  "Don't look at the gallery," Lysander whispered, his voice a low rasp. "Instead, keep your eyes trained on the bench. Make sure you establish dominance of the centerline."

  Mark heeded Lysander's advice, adjusting his tie until he felt the fabric restrict his throat. He ignored the gallery, though it was impossible to ignore the weight of the gaze falling upon him. The room was jam-packed with people. And worse of all, there was a press box that caged the silent sharks that were the reporters from every major system network who were able to make it to the station after such a rushed court proceeding. Their cameras came in the shape of silent drones that hovered just over their heads. They were not allowed to speak or ask questions, though the looks they gave were like shouts in a library.

  However, what dominated the room wasn't the litany of press that was currently livestreaming the unfolding events to the rest of the galaxy, but rather, the soldiers. This specific courtroom had been turned into a chessboard of conflicting jurisdictions. Lining the left wall were the Mechanicus Station Security officers in their blue and grey uniforms, Lieutenant Beatrice Schultz amongst them. They stood at parade rest, electric batons and conventional firearms on their belts, representing local law.

  Lining the right wall, standing in stark, terrifying contrast, were the Marines of the Imperial Union of Celestine. They were clad in pristine white exoskeletal armor, faces obscured by opaque golden visors. They held heavy K-273 energy rifles across their chests. They didn't move, nor did they breathe visibly. They were the silent enforcers of the Admiralty, a visual reminder that this was no simple civil dispute. When a Corporate Director deploys military-grade active camouflage in a civilian sector, it stops being a crime and starts being an act of war, one that humanity had been too familiar with, especially during the first three centuries of space exploration and during the reconstruction years of the IUC.

  "The Tribunal is seated," a bailiff announced, his voice amplified by the room's acoustics. "All rise."

  Mark stood up, and, at seven feet tall, he towered over the assembly. He looked toward the high bench.

  In a standard trial, there would be a single judge, usually a weary station magistrate appointed by the Commerce Guild. However, this was no standard trial, and this was no usual occasion. Today, there were two.

  On the left sat Magistrate Katerina Sol, a civilian judge in her early 80s, with a face carved from granite and eyes that had seen every scam the trade lanes had to offer. She had been hand-picked by House Hollosmith to represent the Station Authority.

  And on the right sat Rear Admiral Vitruvius Krane.

  Krane was a legend in the Naval Judiciary. He was the man who had presided over the dismantling of the Red Corsair pirate syndicate a decade ago. He wore his dress whites, the chest heavy with ribbons. He didn't look like a judge at all. He looked more like a captain on the bridge of a battleship, viewing the courtroom as enemy territory to be pacified.

  "You may all be seated," Admiral Krane ordered, his voice low but carrying the absolute weight of command.

  The room sat. The sound of rustling fabric was the only noise for a long second.

  "Bring in the accused," Magistrate Sol commanded.

  A few seconds elapsed before the side door opened. The heavy, rhythmic thud of magnetic boots echoed on the floor, and two IUC Marines walked in. Between them shuffled Alistair Thorne.

  The transformation was shocking. Gone was the midnight blue silk suit and the arrogant stride. Thorne was wearing a standard-issue orange detention jumpsuit that hung loosely on his body. His silver hair was matted, his face pale and drawn, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. He had only been transferred to IUC custody twenty-four hours ago, and it was clear that both the Station and the IUC Marshals had not provided him with his usual amenities.

  He didn't look at the gallery, nor did he look at Mark. Instead, he stared at the floor, shuffling to the defense table where a team of five lawyers, immaculately dressed and smelling of expensive cologne, waited for him. These were the SIGS legal team, the best money could buy, and yet, for some odd reason, they looked nervous.

  "We are here," Admiral Krane began, his eyes scanning the datapad in front of him, "to adjudicate the events that took place July 29th, 2985, on Mechanicus Station. The charges against the defendant, Alistair Thorne, constitute a breach of the Inter-Galactic Peace Accords, the Corporate Sovereignty Act, and the Station Criminal Code."

  Krane looked up, his gaze locking onto Thorne.

  "You are charged with Attempted Capital Murder. Kidnapping in the First Degree. Conspiracy to Commit Industrial Sabotage. And, most grievously, the unauthorized possession and deployment of Class-A Military Restricted Technology, specifically, optical camouflage active-bending suites, outside of a warzone and within a civilian population center."

  The Admiral paused, letting the charges hang in the air and the weight of them to dawn on all those within the room.

  "How do you plead?"

  Thorne's lead lawyer, a slick-haired man named Pendergast, did not waste any time and got right down to business. "Your Honors, the defendant pleads Not Guilty to all charges. Furthermore, we move for an immediate dismissal based on Jurisdictional Overreach. Mr. Thorne is a Regional Director of a Tier-1 Corporation. Under the Corporate Sovereignty Act of 2890, acts committed in the pursuit of proprietary asset recovery are subject to internal corporate arbitration, not criminal court."

  "Objection," the soft voice of the Prosecutor rang throughout the court in a tone that signified absolute confidence, and she stood.

  Prosecutor Tavor was an IUC JAG officer. She was quick-witted, concise, confident, and wore her uniform like armor. "The Corporate Sovereignty Act protects asset recovery, yes. It does not protect the use of restricted military hardware to threaten a minor, nor does it sanction the firing of weapons in a pressurized docking bay. Director Thorne forfeited his corporate immunity the moment his security chief de-cloaked a weapon prohibited by the Armistice."

  Admiral Krane leaned forward. "Mr. Pendergast. Are you suggesting that the SIGS charter grants your client the right to bring invisible kill squads into a public station?"

  "I am suggesting," Pendergast said smoothly, sweating slightly, "that my client was operating under the belief that he was entering a hostile environment to retrieve a kidnapped employee, Kenjiro Takagi. Therefore, he did as any would have done, and took necessary precautions."

  "You say he used necessary precautions," Krane stated dryly. "I guess we will see about that."

  And just like that, the trial began. Unlike the dramatic shouting matches usually seen in shows and movies, the case proceeded calmly and with a surgical dissection of events. Prosecutor Tavor did her part by laying out the timeline with brutal efficiency.

  She called the Station Master to testify about the unauthorized docking of a stealth shuttle. She called the forensic ballistics expert, who confirmed that the plasma scoring on the SOW hangar floor came from SIGS-issue rifles.

  Then, she played a footage that, unlike the one that everyone and their mother and their mother's mother and so on had seen by now, had yet to see the light of day. The lights in the courtroom dimmed, and a massive holographic screen descended from the ceiling.

  The footage Mark had leaked was chaotic, stitched together from security cams. But the footage Tavor played was the raw, high-definition feed from Calloway's body camera, decrypted by IUC intelligence.

  The courtroom watched in silence as the view from Calloway's chest moved through the office. They heard Thorne's voice, crystal clear.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Fifty million credits... take the money... disappear."

  They heard Mark's refusal.

  And then, a moment that sucked the air out of the room. The camera turned, focusing on the corner of the office, where there was a cardboard box fort made up of Pizza boxes. The camera focused on the small, wide-eyed face of Lyra.

  "It would be a tragedy if something were to happen to her... Accidents happen in shipyards all the time."

  A ripple of revulsion went through the jury box. The jury was a mix of station residents and off-duty naval officers. They were parents. They were people. To see a man in a silk suit threaten a child with such casual malice... it stripped away any veneer of corporate respectability Thorne had left.

  Then, the camera jerked as Mark moved. The view became a blur of motion. The sound of Calloway de-cloaking rang out, and then it showed him holding a gun to Mark's head, followed by a conversation.

  "You got kids?"

  The courtroom watched as Mark Shephard, the man the defense was trying to paint as a violent aggressor, talked a gunman down not with force, but with fatherhood.

  A few minutes sped by until they reached the point where the order was given by Thorne.

  "Burn it! Burn it all down!"

  And finally, the scene came alive with chaos. The camera spun, gunfire was heard, the scream of the turrets as they sang their deathly song down range, and the final image of Mark Shephard standing over Calloway, rifle in hand, choosing not to kill the ones he had incapacitated and sparing their miserable lives so they could rot in prison.

  The hologram deactivated, and the lights came up.

  Thorne was visibly shrinking in his seat, looking smaller than ever with every passing second.

  Pendergast stood up, trying to salvage the trainwreck that had just been shown. "Your Honors, the footage is... contextual. My client was under extreme duress, and he was being assaulted by a man known to have a violent, redacted military history. The comment about the child was... a figure of speech. A warning about general safety."

  "A figure of speech?" Magistrate Sol spoke for the first time. Her voice was like grinding stones. "Mr. Pendergast, in my forty years on the bench, I have never heard 'I will burn this place to the ground' interpreted as a safety advisory."

  "Furthermore," Pendergast continued, pivoting desperately, "we argue that the entire confrontation was engineered. Mr. Shephard lured Director Thorne there. He kidnapped Dr. Takagi-"

  "I object!" A voice that didn't come from the prosecution table interrupted Pendergast. Everyone turned to see Kenjiro Takagi, who had now stood up, ignoring Voss's hissed warning to sit down. He looked at the judges, his hands shaking but his chin high.

  "I was not kidnapped," Kenjiro said, his voice ringing clear in the silence. "I quit. I resigned because Alistair Thorne is a tyrant who cares more for profit than progress. I went to Mark Shephard of my own free will."

  "Sit down, sir!" the bailiff shouted.

  "Let him speak," Admiral Krane ordered.

  Kenjiro looked at Thorne. "He didn't come to rescue me. He wanted to own me. Hell, he generally treats engineers like property. And when he couldn't buy me back, he tried to kill us."

  Kenjiro sat down, but the damage was already done. The "kidnapping" case that the defense had tried to use had just evaporated.

  The trial ground on for hours. The defense tried to attack Mark's character, bringing up the violence of the response. They claimed the automated turrets were illegal, which, truth be told, they weren't. But Marcos had done the deed of getting Mark the necessary permits. They claimed Mark used excessive force, which may have been true, had a threat to life not been made.

  But the atmosphere in the room had shifted, turning into an autopsy of SIGS.

  Finally, it was time for Mark to tell his side of the story.

  "The Prosecution calls its primary witness," Tavor announced. "Mr. Mark Shephard."

  The room went deadly silent, and even the air scrubbers seemed to pause.

  Mark stood up, feeling the eyes of the twelve jurors on him, and the cold stare of Alistair Thorne. He also felt the burning curiosity of the press. He buttoned his suit jacket, the charcoal gray fabric straining slightly across his chest, as he walked to the stand. His footsteps were heavy, with almost a deliberate weight behind them.

  He stepped into the witness box, which was less a box and more of a circular podium, surrounded by a faint privacy field that dampened the noise from the gallery but amplified his voice for the record.

  "Raise your right hand," the bailiff intoned. "Do you swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, by the Code of the IUC and the laws of this Station?"

  "I do," Mark said.

  Prosecutor Tavor approached the stand. She didn't look at her notes, instead looking at Mark with a mixture of professional curiosity and something that bordered on the sense of respect or suspicion.

  "Mr. Shephard," Tavor began. "Let us clarify the events of that fateful morning. Did you invite Alistair Thorne or any of his affiliates to your facility?"

  "No," Mark stated while shaking his head.

  Tavor nodded as she continued. "Then, did you initiate physical contact?"

  "I did," Mark admitted calmly. "But it was only after he had threatened to kill my daughter."

  "And when his security detail revealed themselves, showing that they were heavily armed and cloaked..." She paused momentarily, either for dramatic effect or for the Jury to ponder the words she had just said. "Did you feel your life was in danger?"

  "I felt like everyone's life was in danger," Mark corrected.

  "Mr. Pendergast claims you are a violent man, Mr. Shephard," Tavor said with raised eyebrows. "He claims you have a history of aggression, citing your recent reported actions on station Eidolon Reach in the outer belt just a few months ago, along with your redacted service record as proof that you are a latent threat to society."

  Tavor paused, walking closer to the podium. "Is it true that you utilized military-grade tactics to neutralize the SIGS squad?"

  "I used the tools available to me to protect my loved ones and my home," Mark said.

  "And what about your rifle?" Tavor asked, "The K-272 energy rifle? That is by no means a regular civilian weapon."

  "I am a registered mercenary with the Mercenaries' Association. And if that wasn't enough, I had also been issued a permit before registering as a mercenary," Mark said. "I was issued a Class-B Heavy Defense permit on the military station B-147 after the events on station Eidolon Reach, which took place after I had rescued a group of IUC personnel that had been kidnapped by a group of pirates from the Iron Talon Syndicate."

  "Issued by whom?" Tavor asked.

  "By the station administration," Mark replied.

  Tavor looked at him. She was circling something.

  "Mr. Shephard, the Defense's entire argument rests on the idea that you are a provocateur," she stated. "That you stole their engineer, stole their technology, and lured them into a trap to destroy their reputation. They claim you are a corporate saboteur disguised as a mechanic who is stealing technology and patenting it as your own."

  She leaned on the railing of the witness box. "So, for the record, and to clear the air regarding your capabilities and your history... can you tell this court, and the galaxy watching: Who are you, really?"

  Mark looked at Tavor. He realized then that she wasn't attacking him. Rather, she was giving him the floor, setting him up to destroy the narrative. But to him, the question was a trap of a different kind.

  Who are you?

  If he said "Mark Shephard, a mechanic and starship engineer," it was a half-truth. If he said "Mark Shepherd, KIA'd IUC Captain," he would be opening up a Pandora's box and end up arrested for desertion and fraud before the end of the trial, let alone the day.

  He looked out at the reporters in the press booth and noticed that the same reporter from earlier was there. The one from the Starlight Inquisitor, currently sitting in the front row of the gallery, leaning forward, her eyes hungry. Within just a few days of this whole debacle, she had dug through the archives and learned about Strara O86 and the discrepancy in the records.

  Mark looked at Admiral Krane. The old man was watching him with an intensity that pierced right through the suit. The chances that Krane knew Strathmore weren't low, and he likely knew that the 7th Fleet was en route.

  Mark took a breath and looked at Thorne, who was watching him with a desperate, hateful sneer.

  "I am the owner of Shepherd Orbital Works," Mark said slowly, choosing his words with the precision of a diamond cutter. "I am a father. And I am a man who just wants to build ships."

  "And what about your redacted service record?" Pendergast shouted from the defense table, breaking protocol. "What are you hiding, Mr. Shephard? Are you a deserter? A criminal? A ghost?"

  "Objection!" Voss shouted, leaping to his feet. "Relevance!"

  "Overruled," Admiral Krane said, his voice cutting through the noise. He looked at Mark. "The witness's character has been called into question by the nature of his combat efficiency. The court will hear the answer."

  Krane leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Mr. Shephard. You fight like a highly trained soldier. You move like a Breacher. You pilot a heavy frigate with special military clearance and registration. And yet, here you stand before us, claiming to be a simple mechanic and starship engineer from a colony that had to be abandoned after falling victim to a random Vickie attack."

  The Admiral paused. "I found your name to be familiar, and because of it, have reviewed the files from Strara O86. I have reviewed the IUC casualty lists from two years ago."

  Mark almost felt his heart leap to his mouth heart stopped.

  "There was a Mark Shepherd listed as KIA," Krane said. "A Captain. A rising star of the Empire's Navy. A man whose fleet was composed of a handful of frigates was unfortunately ambushed by Vickies who were where they weren't supposed to be."

  The courtroom was dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.

  "Are you telling me," Krane asked, his voice low and dangerous, "that you are just a namesake? Or are you telling me that the IUC Navy buried a man before he was dead?"

  Mark gripped the railing of the witness box. The metal groaned under his hand. If he denied it, he lied to an Admiral in open court. If he admitted it, he lost his life as Mark Shephard, the starship engineer, and became Mark Shepherd, the deserter.

  He looked at Kenjiro, who looked terrified. He thought of Lyra. He thought of Sister Elara and her words: Build your exit.

  Mark looked Admiral Krane in the eye and knew what had to be done.

  "Admiral," Mark said, his voice steady, projecting to the back of the room. "The man you are describing was a brave warrior. He was a man I knew. A friend, or rather, a childhood friend. We had bonded over the fact that we almost shared the exact same last name, if not for the fact that a single letter differed."

  He leaned forward and continued fabricating the lie with a straight face. If the path had already been laid for him to walk it, then he might as well take advantage of it. "I am not a hero, Admiral. I'm not the man you are looking for. I was one of the lucky ones, or, hell, unlucky ones who managed to leave the colony with his parents before the Vickies attacked. The transport I was on was damaged, and we were taken by pirates. I was sold into slavery, and after years, I managed to escape and joined CISOU (Celestine Imperial Special Operations Unit). I became a breacher, not a ship captain. I'm a grunt, not a commander. And in the end... I'm just the guy who survived, and I'm still surviving..."

  A murmur rippled through the crowd as some of the black bars that had riddled Mark's falsified file had become transparent. But Mark had learned that the one who had made these changes was Marcos, and with AI's capabilities along with humanity's technological levels, his changes were about as real as the Emperor's very own decree.

  Krane stared at him. For a long, agonizing minute, the Admiral didn't blink. He searched Mark's face, looking for the soldier he might have known, or the liar he suspected.

  Then, slowly, Krane sat back.

  "Survival," Krane said softly, "is not a crime, Mr. Shephard. Though some might call it a burden. It is also true that the IUC was never able to recoup over 59% of all lost files of Strara O86, among which I suspect your name may lie."

  He then looked at the Defense table. "Mr. Pendergast. Unless you have evidence that Mr. Shephard is currently AWOL, which the IUC database has yet to flag, then his past service is irrelevant to the fact that your client brought a hit squad into his living room."

  Pendergast gaped like a fish. "But-"

  "Move on from the matter," Krane ordered.

  Mark let out a breath. He had just lied through his teeth, but he had been emboldened by the fact that he looked nothing like what he once did, mixed with Marcos' mischievous doings and his knowledge of the IUC's lack of database information on Strara O86. He had walked the razor's edge and survived.

  But as the questioning continued, Mark looked past the lights, past the judge, to the back of the room.

  Standing in the shadows of the doorway, unnoticed by the press or any of the soldiers, was a figure. A man in a tattered hooded cloak, face obscured. But Mark saw the flash of chrome on his face, hands, and legs. And he saw the way the man was watching him.

  Not with curiosity, but as if he were a target he just couldn't wait to kill.

  The reporter from the Starlight Inquisitor noticed Mark's gaze, and she turned to look where he looked, but she only caught a glimpse of the cloak as the figure vanished into the hallway.

  Mark turned back to the prosecutor. The trial was going well. Thorne was going to prison.

  But Sister Elara was right. The giants were waking up. And now, thanks to this trial, they knew exactly where he was.

  "No further questions," Tavor said.

  "The witness may step down," Krane said.

  Mark stood up and walked back to his seat, and as he sat down, Kenjiro leaned over. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," Mark whispered, watching Thorne sweating in his orange jumpsuit. "I'm fine."

  But his mind was flooding with questions on who or what that figure was.

  The gavel banged, signaling the end of the session. "Court is adjourned until 1400 hours for deliberation," Krane announced.

  As the room erupted into noise, Mark didn't look at the cameras. He was lost in thought.

  "Was that a simulacrum?..."

  Book 2 has wrapped up with a short 13,400 words, and Book 3 has begun with 3 new chapters! That means that you can read up to 28 Advanced Chapters on my Patreon at

  Crimson_Reapr is the name, and writing Sci-fi is the way.