The uncharismatic, uncaring woman clucks her tongue in disappointment as she literally looks down her nose at me slumped in a chair opposite her across her desk. She comments on my lowly state, “Tsk tsk. I must say, I expected more from a class three.”
Unable to help myself, due to my training, I ask, “May I speak in my defense sir?”
Birdbeak McGee here decides to insult me further, “No you may not, and I know you’ve sir drilled into your thick skull, but you will address me as ma’am.”
I grit my teeth to respond, “Yes ma’am.”
Her honorable malarkey gob continues gabbing, “The disciplinary committee will pass judgment soon enough. Honestly, opening your ship to the vacuum of space after an illegal reactivation of proprietary tech. I find it humorous that you set yourself on fire, perhaps in some poetic justice, they shall pick such a suitable punishment for you. A member of our military—.”
Since it’s the reactivation that’s getting me in trouble, I grump as I correct, “Ex-member.”
The death-glare I receive tells me that I’m only digging myself a deeper grave, but I could barely care less at this point. I lost most of my team, my crew, good friends that day. I didn’t realize they’d be able to track the reactivation of my psi-blade, plasma blade sidearm. Me being a Psi-E is what got the rest of my crew out of that mess alive. Me being a Psi-E hardly matters without the special tech in the plastimetal sidearms. Without them, the fact that I have some sort of energy portal in my brain doesn’t matter in the slightest. I’m just a normal person. Fit, from military training, sure, but that’s hardly noteworthy, especially against creeps like the Nedzeds, those ungodly morphs, the Galconners, most any space pirate, hell, most any other spacefaring species.
I try not to roll my eyes as I sigh, disheartened by the whole mess. I understand why I’m in trouble. It’s pretty much exactly what they feared could happen after decommissioning G-Con 3 psi-ops. Any one of us still alive, with access to our tech, could become a planetary-scale threat, given enough time. The idea doesn’t interest me in the slightest, but for the merest risk, I’m going to face the harshest punishment, to set an example.
What’s worse? I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat. To save those few lives left in my crew? Joshua lived for a while after at least, but losing his leg was rough on him, he died while getting treatment. Cap, well, she was banged up but good, but she toughed it out, came to the rescue as I was spacing the suckers. Morris, Ramirez, and Kentucky were all already dead when I spaced the cargo bay. Still, it feels awful having left their bodies to rot out in the vac. Adelaide, Jones, and Bishop were all okay. Youngest of the crew, and you wouldn’t believe it, asleep in their quarters for most of the whole shebang. Yeah, any punishment’s fine, as long as they’re safe. They’re good kids, and Cap is the best of us. Maybe I’ll get one of those scenes from the old Earth cinema, “Hanged by the neck until dead.”
Prissy mcwhatsit here wears a surprised expression on her face as she receives a communique. Here it is, here comes my punishment. I’ll accept whatever it is. She starts out, “Apparently, G-Con Three is being reinstated, and your retirement is being revoked. You will have committed no crime, since it will not have been a decommissioned piece of equipment, and you’ll be leading the newest batch of Psi-Es.”
I let the words hang heavy in the air. The worst possible punishment. They got me. Hell, I’d rather they tortured me and sent me to die in some pit. There’s new Psi-Es? Last I heard, humanity stopped producing any, was some sort of freak batch in the gene pool where a generation had the potential. Turns out, we’re longer lived than most, maybe twice as long, but can’t have kids. That means it has to have skipped a generation or two, and they’re saddling me with kids. Kids with psionic energy, to be trained as dogs of the military.
I shoulda let myself die to the morphs.