He Without Sin Read online

  He Without Sin

  ED HYDE

  Copyright © 2016 by Ed Hyde All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692549684

  ISBN-13: 978-0692549681

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Patricia A. Downes, Dutch Hill Design Published by SkydogCreations LLC, Michigan

  Dedication

  To my constructive criticizers and, especially, my patient editor.

  Epigraph

  But we look for new heavens and a new earth according to his promises, in which justice dwelleth.

  Douay-Rheims Bible 2 Peter 3:13

  A Question of Guilt

  It’s Come to This

  I look around the courtroom and see several faces I recognize as former crewmates and associates from the Academy. Some of the crew members are missing; I presume they may be called as witnesses. The ones in the gallery have, like me, no doubt already been deposed as to the matter in question. That’s a good thing — I do not want to have to sit in the witness stand.

  One former crewmate is absent from the proceedings with an iron-clad excuse—he’s dead.

  The next trial will be different and not in a good way. I’m not looking forward to it, to say the least. I’ve already learned I will be called as a witness in that trial, will have to take the stand, and will be grilled about my part leading up to the events that almost took the life of yet another crew member. He is, thankfully, recovering from serious injury and is not present for medical reasons.

  Sitting through these interminable proceedings I’ve had plenty of time to reflect. The places and events I recall seem remote and surreal to me already, so soon after our return. Remote not only because of the great distances we traveled but remote because they lie in the seemingly distant past; surreal in sharp contrast with the mundane courtroom setting.

  With this crew I have shared an adventure spanning light-years and seemingly eons, and yet I can scarcely find one who will make eye contact. There is a pleasant exception. I have not seen or spoken to her since our debriefing. I seem to see in her face evidence of the desire for us to resume discussing plans for the future. It may be wishful thinking, but I hope not.

  Court proceedings lurch forward in an oddly annoying way. Cryptic terms cloud the reason for endless delay; objections are raised over maddeningly childish topics and then resolved by semantic twisting and juggling; heated arguments arise over outwardly insignificant points that must, one hopes, conceal momentous legal portent— justifications for exasperation are manifold.

  The prosecution’s opening statement was ominous and disturbing. Paraphrasing, it went something like ‘the state will prove the defendant guilty of causing the death of his subordinate through the defendant’s inaction and failure to enforce required standard procedures.’

  I turn again to look at David and his representative at the defendant’s table. David looks different. Not older, but more vulnerable than I remember. His civilian clothes impart an aura of weakness, to my mind. Why did he not wear the uniform and insignia of a veteran commander?

  And who is his counsel anyway? Who agreed to let David testify, and why? Sure he can be a charmer—confident, affable and witty, but there is the other side—quick to take offense, to anger, and to answer without filters. No, I >would not allow it. It almost came to disaster earlier in the trial with David on the stand. A simple request about the chain of command: ‘Please describe, as completely as you can, the chain of command aboard your vessel’ or nearly that. I could tell, from long experience looking at the eyes, watching the mouth work, that David was ready to snap out an answer that would be regarded as inappropriate and argumentative. Fortunately, his counsel objected and pointed out that the chain of command listing every member of the crew had previously been submitted to the court as trial evidence.

  Compounding the earlier risk, he’s been recalled to the witness stand after the most recent delay. The judge calls for order; the bailiff declares the court once again in session.

  “If we may, your honor, we will follow up where we left off,” begins the attorney for the prosecution. He recaps key points leading up to the discovery of the body, emphasizing the fact that, one, by that stage of the mission all officers should have been aboard ship and, two, that David did not know the whereabouts of his second in command.

  David’s visage hardens; I wonder if the prosecutor notices?

  “Question: Why would your second in command, who you admit was on the surface of the planet without your knowledge and in noncompliance with protocol, ostensibly wander off into a desolate and dangerous mountain pass?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he had to take a leak.”

  The prosecutor reacts only with a smile.

  The judge is not amused, pounds the gavel, and announces an immediate recess.

  “The defending attorney and your client will please meet with me and the prosecutor in my chambers. Now.”

  Judge Compton, living up to his no-nonsense reputation, departs the room. David’s attorney, clearly stunned by the sharp reaction of Compton, signals David with a movement of his hand and arm to follow him into the judge’s chambers. The prosecutor makes a small show of graciously letting them go first, and then follows, still smiling. A low murmur can be heard from the courtroom visitors. No one leaves the room during the few minutes that they are gone. Carol looks at me with her ever calm and composed expression, which I return with an eye roll and shake of my head.

  I am surprised to see Dean Carson. To my knowledge, he has never commanded nor crewed on any deep space missions, and yet, obviously, he is receiving longevity treatments. He must have an enlisted family member.

  The quartet returns, wordlessly, and each member resumes his former position. Their faces are somber and unreadable. There is the swish of a robe, adjustment of seating and, finally, the pounding of a gavel.

  “We are again in session,” he says, giving the bailiff a quick signal that he need not trouble to announce it.

  “Commander Means, I am under the impression that we, you and I, have an understanding of the seriousness of this proceeding. Is that a correct assumption?”

  “Yes, your honor, it is.”

  “And is there that exact same understanding between myself and the honorable members of the bar here representing their respective sides of this case?”

  “Yes, your honor,” they respond practically in unison.

  “There is.”

  “I would like to remind all participants in this case— litigants, witnesses, representatives, interested parties, and visitors—that the defendant is on trial for negligence and dereliction of duty as Commander of a deep space vessel resulting in the death of his second in command, Master Wesley Brachus. The penalties for a guilty verdict are by no means insignificant and may indeed lead to further civil prosecution. Let us proceed keeping the seriousness of this case in mind and act and speak accordingly. I would issue a warning to all of you: Do not make me feel the need to repeat the terms of this understanding.”

  Part I

  Decision

  "I don't recommend it. Have you thought this over? Of all the directions to choose, with your background and ability, why this? Yo
u are doing so well!" she says with a mix of pleading, hope and grudging resignation already apparent in her tone.

  "I've thought it over. Jared's going," I offer, already knowing that it will not help my case.

  "I heard. Jared is a fool. You're not. He is only going because you are."

  She may be partially right about Jared. I remember a few years back, when he and I were playing with firecrackers. It was my dumb idea to light them and throw them barehanded. One exploded so quickly that the concussive shock to my hand startled me and scared me out of that plan before I lost any digits. But then we had the idea to blow empty tin cans up into the air. At first, this seemed safer, but it wasn’t. We had to place the empty can upside down over the firecracker with just the tip of the fuse sticking out. Now, instead of a hand in danger, a face took its place, as we had to kneel down near the can to light the fuse. There was just a split second between the lighting and the explosive launching of the can in a more or less vertical direction. Jared’s contribution to this hazardous occupation was to incorporate the added step (no pun intended) of stomping on the can, after the fuse was lit, to drive it into the ground before it exploded upward. This innovation had three consequences. First, the full force of the explosion was concentrated into the launching of the can—none of the energy leaked out around the rim on the ground—and that was great. But, second, stomping after lighting resulted in a higher state of danger since the fuse was burning while the stomper was stomping leaving very little time indeed to clear the projectile’s possible path. Last, an over-enthusiastic stomper might accidentally stomp out the fuse before it can ignite the firecracker. In this case, one of us had to lift the can and inspect the situation. After all, the fuse had clearly been stomped out. Or had it? I am surprised that one of us doesn’t have a can-shaped indentation on our forehead.

  "Alright, you may have a point. He does say what he thinks and sometimes people don't like to hear it, I'll give you that, but he's no more fool than me. He has some good ideas. He's smart technically and he knows his responsibilities. This job will be good for him as well, but probably in a different way than for me."

  "So, why is it good for you?"

  "It's a career choice; it's what I want to do."

  "There are plenty of things you can do here and still be in your field. Plus there are more career advancement opportunities if you stay home. You know that. Why not continue as you are?"

  "First, I disagree. The learning opportunities on missions like these are enormous. We are going to get cross-trained on a whole number of fields—you name it: medical, genetics, psychology, and more. The deep space missions have small crews; everybody has to back up everybody. It will open up plenty of opportunities in the future. I don’t want to continue where I’m at now. It’s going nowhere, it’s boring and it’s a dead end. This is the career I want now. When it’s over, we’ll see then what the opportunities are."

  "There's no money in it; talk to Richard."

  Richard is one of my old school chums. He’s the one that all the parents want their kids to be like when they grow up. ‘Oh, Richard got an award for…’ or ‘Did you hear, Richard got accepted to…’ or worse yet, ‘Say, why don’t you ask Richard to help you with…’

  It’s really too much. No mention, ever, that Richard is a dull person whose dull life is already planned out for the whole foreseeable dull future. That’s not for me.

  "That’s not right, Mom. There's enough money, and besides, the other benefits more than outweigh any drawbacks."

  “Name one, just one!" she quickly counters, sensing an opening.

  “Mom, we’ve gone over this, we've covered this."

  "I need refreshing; tell me again."

  "There’s all the training. And I’ll be working with top notch people, people who will be able to help me later on.

  When it's over..."

  "Yes, 'when it's over'. How many years is that again?"

  "When it's over, I'll have experience that few will ever have; I'll have seen things in many cases that have never been seen before; I’ll have connections. When it's over, I'll have my choice of direction," I argue, my volume fading away at the end.

  It’s not right. The words are wrong. I know what she’s saying but really she means ‘don’t leave me’ ‘it’s dangerous out there’ and ‘I may never see you again.’ I look at her and we are both silent for a few moments.

  “I understand mom. It’s right for me. I’ll be careful. Dad is OK with it—you know that. And besides, you still have Tom here.”

  “Now, look at Tom. He’s got a nice job at a big company.

  He could get you in there I bet. What’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong…? Mom, ask him, you’ll see. He’s not as happy there as you think. He’ll tell you.”

  Mom continues fussing about the kitchen moving items on the counter that don’t need moving, brushing away crumbs that don’t exist, and turns to me. She just looks, then sighs, and finally says quietly, “All right, I give. Be careful. I love you.”

  ______

  I spend some time alone arranging my things—a very few items are coming with me, most go into storage. Mementos of growing up bring back memories, each one. I remember the first time I saw these magnets. It was in a third grade class. The teacher didn’t give much introduction but simply emptied a box on to her desk. She picked up the items one at a time—a lens, gyroscope, magnets, laser pointer, and more—and talked about them giving a simple demonstration of each. She gave us a couple button magnets each to keep. It was that afternoon that I knew my career path. People have told me many times that it was unusually early for such a decision, but to me it was simple. I didn’t know the name of the field, or that it was a ‘field’ but my interest was piqued and it stayed piqued.

  “Is she OK now?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. I can see it’s not an easy idea to get used to, but she’s OK.”

  “It baffles me how much money is poured into these programs; it’s really beyond counting.” Dad fidgets a bit, picks up one of my paperweights, and handles it before continuing. “You’re going to do great, and have a time I bet. A real time.”

  “You know, the payback is huge on the work the Academy and others have done out there. New worlds, vast resources…”

  “Yeah, I know, I know.” And then, “I kinda wish I was going along. Care to trade places?”

  It’s all settled. I’m leaving. It’s still not clear if Jared will be accepted and even less clear if we will be assigned together. No matter, I’m in. There’s a bit of a learning curve, they say. I’ll be here close to home at the Academy for quite some time learning the ropes. We have to get exposed to specialized equipment and procedures. There’ll be medical stuff to cover too.

  I’m going to try to keep an electronic version of this diary—my log book, I should say. Once I find out what electronics we’ll be using I’ll take it up again.

  Mom’s concerns are misplaced. We sorted some more of that out and she knows that I know that she’s being a mom, and it’s OK. It is not like I will be a pioneering explorer. Lots of people have gone on missions—ground, space, and deep space—before. Not that it’s routine; but it’s been done and done plenty. Not to worry.

  Dad’s excited for me. I know he will want a blow by blow description of it all when I get back home.

  Academically Speaking

  What could all these people possibly be talking about? I don’t get it; I’ve never gotten it. Small talk is a mystery to me. I find it hard to believe important information is communicated in this way.

  It’s a big hall and jam-packed. Not surprising—it’s the last day of studies and testing for most and all the regular sessions are over. We are waiting only for the wrap-up in the big assembly hall and then … what? Then the last individual team meetings and goodbye to home for a long, long time. I can’t say that I’m not looking forward to it. Finally. Let it happen now!

  A woman is sobbing. Or rather, one woma
n, of the type whose laughter sounds like crying, is laughing loudly a few paces away. I have to look at her to be sure and yes, she’s laughing, not weeping. One wonders what she sounds like when actually crying.

  The dull roar continues. Really, how can anyone hear and follow a single conversation stream here anyway? For me it takes the utmost concentration while focusing on the speaker’s lips—then maybe I can follow speech in this environment. What would be a simple and effortless act in other surroundings becomes a monumental task now.

  What is going on here then? There’s got to be a reward for the effort people expend to engage in this endless and continuous chatter. I heard an explanation once, that many people are insecure about their actuality. They need to get someone to respond to them about anything at all in order to know they exist, in order to prove they exist, in order to be relevant to someone about something even if the topic is meaningless and the interaction short.

  I think instead they are insecure about their ideas or, equally likely, about their acceptance into the group.

  Someone trained in psychology once tried to explain to me the concept of consensual validation. This room may provide a real world example, if I understand the definition correctly.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes, refreshingly cool.”

  “Do you think so?”

  The translation, applying to both parties, would go: Whew, I must not be hideous; he didn’t startle or move away. I must not reek although he could be hiding his repulsion for now. I must be speaking correctly; I got an appropriate response, perhaps even an opening through which to expand on ‘coolness.’ Maybe I have found a friend to second my ideas, support me and enhance my value. At the very least he accepts me as a possible equal and by extension the possible equal of anyone in this room.