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22. Court Martial In The Morning [Modern Warship in a Cultivation World]
🕑 Added 2025-10-09 19:40:02 +0000 UTCThump!
With the heavy sound of falling weight, Imogen pushed Lieutenant Sam out of the Sea Fowl’s damaged cockpit and onto the airwing’s landing pad.
“Detain him!” Imogen’s voice was raw with fury and grief. “No food or water will be given to him for tonight! We will hold a Court Martial tomorrow morning.”
Lieutenant Sam offered no resistance. His eyes were lifeless, utterly defeated by the loss of his partner. He didn't even flinch as the Master-at-Arms placed him under arrest and led him away. The defiant pilot had broken the rules and paid the ultimate price, and now the weight of that consequence was crushing him.
Engineers swarmed the damaged Sea Fowl. “This is the result of consecutive revolutions, sudden ascents, and sudden descents,” one engineer observed, standing by the mangled airframe.
“The rivets have come out,” another noted gravely.
A third interjected, “The frame is out of shape too. The entire structure is compromised.”
“Put on a gauge for an ultrasound stress scan,” the lead engineer commanded, as the team instantly began working to assess the full extent of the damages. The aircraft, one of their few means of reconnaissance, was potentially a total loss.
Meanwhile, the seamen slowly and respectfully removed the restraints from Ensign Carter’s body. They held the horrific dart wound with a towel, attempting to stem the flow and prevent any further spillage of blood onto the pristine deck.
They gently pulled his body out and placed him inside a clean body bag. Pax moved around the grim scene, his camera clicking, documenting the tragedy. He stopped and stared at Ensign Carter’s face for several long seconds, as if looking at him intensely would somehow bring him back to life. Pax had seen his fair share of bodies while investigating crimes back on Earth, but it was never easy, especially when he had personally known the victim.
He took a final, necessary photo of the Ensign before looking around for Imogen, but the Captain was nowhere to be found. She had delivered her order and immediately retreated, unable to face the physical reality of the loss. Pax sighed, lowered his camera, and started walking out of the airwing, the metallic smell of fuel, smoke, and fresh blood clinging to the air. The reality of this new world had just hit the crew harder than any torpedo.
______
Knock, knock. Click.
The soft sound of the lock disengaging announced that the Captain had heard him. Pax pushed the door open slightly.
“I knew you would have returned to your room,” Pax said softly.
Imogen stood before him, no longer the Captain commanding the bridge. She was dressed in a plain tank top and dolphin shorts, the rigid tension that usually defined her features softened by exhaustion.
“What is it?” Imogen asked, her voice low and drained of energy. “I gave the order to go to sleep once everything is sorted out at the airwing, didn’t I? We will hold the send-off and the Court Martial in the morning.”
“That might be the case, but… just let me in.” Pax sighed. Imogen simply turned and walked further into her quarters, leaving the door open. Pax removed his shoes before closing the door behind him.
Imogen collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Everything will fall apart whether I want it to or not,” she began, giving voice to the fear she usually sealed away.
“Many of them don’t approve of me as their captain. This was just a direct consequence of that,” Imogen continued, her voice heavy with self-recrimination. “The mission was for one month; until then, there would be some semblance of professionalism from the crew. But once the barrier in their minds crosses—once they begin to feel like they can’t return home…”
Pax lay down right next to her, looking at the same blank ceiling. “That might be the case, but that doesn’t mean it has to be true, right? There is a way here, so there must be a way back.”
Imogen didn’t turn her head, just her eyes to the side. “That makes sense logically, but how long before we actually find it? Figure out how it works and return home?” She turned toward Pax, meeting his gaze. “If we even do, how am I going to face their questions? What will I tell Ensign Carter’s mother?”
A broken silence filled the room.
“He died riding out a rogue aircraft against orders?” Imogen asked the question of a heavy weight she couldn't lift.
“That’s not for me to figure out,” Pax said, closing the distance between them and looking directly into her eyes. “Have I ever figured something like that out? Why are you asking me that?”
Imogen sighed, closing her eyes briefly. “It’s really a waste of time talking to you, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Pax replied instantly.
“Was it my incompetence in leadership that brought about this tragedy?” Imogen asked, needing to know if her internal doubt was validated.
“You keep asking me questions to which you know, as well as I do, I don’t have answers to,” Pax said with a bittersweet smile on his face. “You always do that, ever since we were kids.” He stroked her hair gently as he finished. “But you always did find resolve and answers as well.”
Imogen finally turned completely toward him, the faint red glow from the triple moons outside casting deep shadows in her room. Her eyes, usually sharp with command, were exhausted, filled with a raw vulnerability that only Pax had seen before. She shifted closer, resting her head on his chest, seeking not a lover, but an anchor against the rising tide of fear.
“I’m terrified, Pax,” she whispered into his ear, her admission cutting through the military formality they usually maintained onboard. “I’m terrified I’ll get everyone killed, and I won’t know how to stop it..”
He held her tighter, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo and the residual sharpness of fear. “You’re the only person who can keep this ship moving, Imogen. The rest of us? We just fly the planes and argue about plumbing. You carry the weight of worlds, plural, now.” His words were the only permission she needed to truly break.
She lifted her head, her hand finding the stubble along his jaw. The need in her gaze was frantic, fueled by adrenaline and the visceral knowledge that life was fleeting. It wasn't about love, not right now; it was about the desperate, immediate proof of being alive, of being known in a universe that had gone completely mad.
“I need you to stop making sense,” she breathed, her voice catching, the need for release overwhelming the duty she carried.
He didn't need to be told twice. He knew this woman, knew the pressure cooker she lived in. This wasn't weakness; it was survival. He gently pushed himself up, leaning over her. The sound of the ship humming outside, carrying the body of a dead Ensign and the arrested despair of a Lieutenant, only amplified the profound, isolating silence in her private quarters.
As he leaned down, their shadows merging on the ceiling, the rest of the universe, the Event Horizon, the Gou Skysnakes, the absent sun, retreated. All that was left was the desperate, immediate confirmation of their shared existence. The command and the counsel were temporarily silent, yielding to the raw, human need for connection...
