Sanctioned Bloodshed

“Council session five, on the twenty-third of August, 1980, the 49th year of the Glass Age, is hereby called to order,” a tall, heavyset man, clearly of some importance, all the decorations adorning his uniform, booms, and all eyes are on him, various chattering pockets of the room falling silence. “If anyone has something to report since the last session, on the 9th of August, please see Mrs. Powell,” he gestures to a middle-aged woman, seated at his left, a crisp and creamy ream of paper on the desk before her, pen in hand.

A handful men and women amongst the crowd stand, some dressed as he is, some in the ubiquitous white coat of a doctor, and still others in plain business clothes. Their progression is watched in silence, nervous eyes tracking one young man in particular. This week’s meeting had originally been postponed to the following week, because of the Organization, but it was convened today, as the schedule dictated, for this one young officer, speaking quietly with Mrs. Powell, his name already on the paper.

As he straightens, returns to his position, standing near the door, all at once everyone is awful busy with their name tags, their papers, checking the time, but he doesn’t spare them even a glance.

Those who know who he is, and why he’s here, would say this probably has something to do with not flipping out and killing them all.

Still others think, actually, that’s not such a bad idea… but only if we get to help.

Jase just wishes they’d get on with it, before he gives into temptation.

At last, when everyone is seated and waiting expectantly, the man at the front table, Commander Bennett, his name board announces to the room, in blocky white lettering, stands, again, and looks out over the room, his eyes settling on Jase, taking in the defensive stance, the look of absolute disgust hiding behind a carefully blank face.

“To recap,” he says at last, “Captain name spoke to us two weeks ago, being the only other officer in the Fleet with severe Oliver’s. His testimony revealed what we already suspected; Oliver’s takes a noticeable toll on the body and mind, weakening both considerably. Based on this, and the expert opinion of several doctors familiar with the disease, we are able to better grasp the Captain’s mental state. On a side note, name has been recommended for retirement from active duty.”

There is an angry murmur from several of the doctors, but no formal objection is made.

Bennett ignores this, artfully, and looks to Mrs. Powell. She hands him a list, expressionless, and one has to wonder where she stands in all this. She has a son, they know, about the same age, currently at the Academy, due to graduate this May.

“Captain Robert Devon?” Bennett says, glancing out at those assembled, “the floor is yours.”

And older man, hair graying at the temples, stands, wades to the front of the room. “As many of you know,” he says, “I am a professor at the Academy at Dirsania, where I teach Advanced Strategies. Captain Westerly was my student for the school year of 77/78. He was fifteen at the time, and it was his second year. He and a few of his friends were taking the class a year early, which is fairly abnormal; most students stick to the set curriculum. As you all know, Westerly is exceptionally bright, and certainly more than capable of handling such advanced course work, despite his age.

“He was very eager to learn everything he could, and for the most part, very friendly.

“There were bad days of course; when you are that powerful there always are, as I’m sure members of this council will attest to. On such days, he sat at the back of the class, shielded from the rest of us by his friends. Once or twice there were explosions, which was only to be expected, but never anything too serious.” Devon pauses to look around the audience, to make sure what he’s saying sinks in. He means what he says, and this is too important for him to be written off as lone source of dissension, an anomaly in the data.

He forgets for a moment Jase, standing watch by the door, eerily still. He should not have to hear these, should not have to speak before them, Devon knows. It is cruel, no doubt about it, and largely just to give the council a measure of him, of how much of an obstacle he could be. Devon doesn’t think these people have the imagination to even come close to understanding it, and he hopes that they will remain ignorant, unknowingly leaving Jase as a last, impenetrable defense.

Maybe that’s too much to ask, but it’s all they really have.

“Thank you, Captain Devon, for your insight,” Bennett says, and Devon sits, considering Jase with kind, tired eyes.

“Doctor Lieutenant Jase Charter,” Bennett reads from the list, and Jase straightens, pushing away from the wall. Even those who don’t know who he is are treating him like a loaded gun, staring at him, their bodies tight with tension, as though he might explode at any moment.

“Good evening,” Jase says evenly, and he’s got himself under very tight control. Bennett is watching him, something like disdain lingering on him, and Devon thinks that it is very stupid of him to underestimate someone like Jase, who radiates power, leaving footprints of it wherever he goes. He will soon learn. “As Commander Bennett said, I am Jase Charter, Lieutenant of Njord-7. If you are wondering what I have to do with any of this, know this: I am Luke Westerly’s doctor, Power of Attorney, and,” he hesitates, “best friend. You can therefore imagine where I stand in all this, I assume.

“You have absolutely no right to even consider this,” he tells them, “he is as you made him, and you have no right.

“Some of you might not be aware of this, but with the end of the Blackwater Era, all surviving Weathers died highly convenient deaths within two years.”

He pauses, lets this sink in.

“Don’t even begin to think I’m going to allow you to do this.”

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A return to 2007 Additions.