Chapter 582: Stock Car Race (1/2)

”The light in the window is a crack in the sky...” - Ozzy ”Hairy Goblin” Osbourne, industrialist, supervillain, and musician

General NoDra'ak walked slowly along the path, breathing slow and steady, letting his grasping arms and bladearms hang loose and swing back and forth. He'd just gotten finished with a three minute time on a 2-mile run and felt pretty good about himself.

Despite going on nearly four hundred he was in excellent physical condition. True, he was a little more out of breath than he would have been two hundred years ago, but it wasn't that long ago that he would have only lived to the grand old age ”got his head eaten by a matron” so all in all he was pretty satisfied with everything.

Now if only the Trial of General Trucker, as it was being labeled in the press, would be as easy as a two mile sprint.

NoDra'ak felt a slight tingle of irritation at the thought of the trial. With the whole thing moving to General Court Martial, with a judge and a full panel of nine, the whole thing had turned into a massive warhead with the addition of the Immortals.

General NoDra'ak snickered to himself at the memory of the JAG officer giving one of the Immortals the questionnaire to see if they were suitable to sit on the board.

The JAG officer had asked the innocent faced female Terran/feline hybrid simply: ”Have you ever worked with General Trucker previously to this?” and gotten a string of emojis and the simple word ”Doki.” The translator had packed it in and the JAG officer had turned to NoDra'ak and the JAG Office CO and just shrugged.

The Neko-Marine was nearly eight thousand years old, had 'fallen' into the embrace of the Neko-Marines nearly as long ago, during the Second Terran/Mantid War. A former Four Star General equivalent with an impressive combat record before her 'Fall', the fact that she was still alive and part of the Neko-Marine's 'command structure' (if one could call it that) was impressive all on its own.

Still the JAG officer could not even certify that what the Joan was experiencing and what everyone else was experiencing was the same thing.

So she had been excused from sitting on the court martial board.

JAG wasn't sure about having General Cavarxis on the board either. Formerly a Combine Power Armor Orbital Drop Specialist, the ancient Terran had ended up in the Martial Orders during the Imperium and then ended up joining whatever the Crusade of Agony was. The officer had a record of planet cracking, pogroms, attacking undefended planets and wiping out billions, and all kinds of atrocities. That went without the Hellspace worship, siding with the Dark Elves of the Mithril Nebula, and more than once going toe to toe with Daxin's Dark Crusade of Light.

There were no warrants out for his arrest, beyond an old Imperium ”Shoot on sight” order.

The General had led the Crusade of Rapturous Agony for over eight thousands years, most of it involved in warfare.

JAG had decided that the ancient General was the perfect person to sit on the board, since he had done far far worse than use the Black Cauldron Protocols.

NoDra'ak stopped at one of the exercise spots. He moved up, then crouched down and moved underneath the heavy wooden log so that it was balanced across his abdomen. He inhaled then exhaled as he stood up, lifting the three hundred pound log into the air, balanced across his foreleg shoulders. He did ten slow reps, then got out from under the log, leaving it to swing on the chains.

He took a short break, taking a drink of water and lighting a cigarette.

The Immortals were only part of the problem.

Every JAG officer realized that the whole thing was radioactive. Judge selection was proving difficult as all of a sudden 'unexplained jumpspace migraine' seemed to be the number one medical complaint among the judges. Nobody wanted their name attached to the whole thing.

Then the lawyers were an issue.

Nobody wanted to defend Trucker, because Trucker wanted to plead guilty to having used the Black Cauldron Protocol, but nobody wanted to be on the prosecution because they didn't want to be associated with taking part in a witch hunt.

Then add into the whole mixture the fact that all of the Confederate Armed Services were watching the whole thing intently.

To the lower ranking officers, it would serve to show whether or not the new command, having risen up during the Council Conflict, was going to throw officers under the ground truck for doing their duty. To the higher ranking it would serve to show just how much having the rank to make impossible decisions was going to mean you had the rank to end up serving a couple of life sentences somewhere.

It didn't help that those over-clever public relations reporters over at the 7th Army Bugler and the Confederate Military Times had quickly made the case to the public that it wasn't so much Trucker was on trial but rather the Black Cauldron itself was on trial.

According to NoDra'ak's intel shop, nearly 95% of the Confederate military approved of what Trucker did, and nearly 78% of humans approved, an almost unheard of number.

NoDra'ak had seen two Terrans fist fight over whether or not the sky was cornflower blue or baby's breath blue.

Worse, it had gotten out across GalNet and SolNet and the civilian reporters had been showing up for three days, all demanding to be seated in the gallery, wandering around post, and interviewing random people.

Apparently a pair of Tukna'rn had amused themselves by telling several reporters that there was an entire secret base full of Black Cauldron test subjects and sent the reporters out into a swamp.

Four Telkan had dressed up as zombies and surrounded a half dozen reporters, moving forward stiffly and moaning out 'brains... brains... oral sex and brains...” before the reporters had started screaming and ran off.

A greenie being interviewed while worked 'accidentally' dropped a glass vial, which shattered, and convinced the reporters to hide from ”Black Cauldron Nanites” in a POL shed, whereupon the greenie had welded shut the door and gone to lunch.

NoDra'ak snorted as he put his forelegs up on a log and slowly lowered and raised himself up and down, with slow reps, even as he puffed on his cigarette.

The only thing a reporter loves more than a victorious battle is a battle or war being lost or something they can spin as a war crime, NoDra'ak thought to himself. There should be a bounty on reporters and you should be able to hunt them like deer.

NoDra'ak shook his head. He knew why he despised reporters and why he was more than happy to let Public Affairs handle all the journalists.

Back during the Mithril Nebula Conflict a reporter had edited footage of NoDra'ak's platoon engaged in heavy fighting against Dark Elf infantry then broadcast to the Confederacy footage of 'war crimes' where they'd digitally erased all the weapons from the Dark Elf's hands, making it look like NoDra'ak's platoon had butchered unarmed and surrendering troops. They'd then taken an interview from six months earlier and 'deep faked' it into NoDra'ak bragging about how they 'routinely executed Dark Elves' and broadcast that.

NoDra'ak had ended up on trial. He'd faced the hang man's rope. He knew now that it was to establish that Cygnus-Orion News Network had faked the whole thing for ratings, but at the time, he had been terrified they'd execute him.

Of course, there was also the time a journalist managed to get a hold of troop movements and gleefully broadcast about it, meaning that NoDra'ak's company had done an orbital insertion into heavy fire instead of taking the whole system by surprise.

Out of two hundred nineteen Treana'ad infantrymen less than a hundred had reached the surface of the planet.

NoDra'ak moved back to the log and did fifteen reps, did a ten count of breathing, then another twenty reps.

He still remembered that if it had not been for a Terran striker pilot he had planned on killing that reporter when he heard that the journalist had been given an award for 'bravely reporting on a military operation being withheld from the public.'

Seventy years ago, that striker pilot, who had been a Chief Warrant Officer Grade-Four, had been killed during a civil war, when a 'field journalist' had snuck through the wire and reported on the Confederate military launching strikers to stop both sides' atrocities. The officer's striker wing had hit prepared SAM sites and been wiped out to a man.

Doing a slow set of thirty reps with the log, NoDra'ak had to admitted he had forgotten just how much he hated journalists. He could barely tolerate military journalists, but civilian journalists made his bladearm's tingle and itch.

NoDra'ak moved on, a light jog at about fifteen miles an hour, passing by the signs reminding him that this was a 'slow mover trail'.

The local insects were buzzing and chirping as he made a slow four minute mile to the next exercise. He moved up to the rings, reached over his head, grabbed them with his grasping hands, and slowly pulled himself up. He did ten reps, then relaxed.

Reports, lawyers, and Immortals, he thought to himself as he slowly did stretching exercises.

He knew he should just let it go, not let it color his viewpoints.

But it took everything he had to keep from ordering the MP's from arresting and ordering the journalists to orbit.

Preferably via mag-cannon.

NoDra'ak sighed and then did another fifteen ring-pull reps, feeling his shoulder tendons ache.

I need to just let it go and not let my prejudices run away with me, the big Treana'ad thought, doing another twenty slow reps. Just get through the trial and then I can go back to worrying about winning the war on 7th Army's front.

He swung his arms back and forth before looping his bladearms into the rings and doing another slow set of reps.

As long as I keep away from the journalists, I should be just fine.

-------------

Second Lieutenant Lieutenant Jekstex and his three men showed up at their place of duty in their dress uniforms, sidearms cleaned and perfect, not a bit of fur out of place. Their dress boots were shined, their medals perfectly arranged, their hats and epaulettes in perfect placement.

On the steps of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters a woman in a black suit was smoking a cigarette and staring at the grass.

Sergeant Reptuk moved up, motioning at Jekstex, taking him aside.

”What's wrong, Sergeant?” Jekstex asked.

”Be very careful with this one, sir,” the noncom said quietly. He tapped the white rings around his eyes. ”I got a bit of the touch, sir. Got my boys through some serious shit, and I'm telling you, sir, be really careful with this one.”

Jekstex nodded. ”She's one of the Immortals, correct?”

Sergeant Reptuk shrugged. ”I'm not sure. She just feels different, sir. I don't know how to explain it, but she feels more... dangerous, sir.”

”I'll take it under advisement, Sergeant,” Jekstex said. ”You're relieved.”

”I am relieved,” the noncom said. He moved back and motioned to his three man party. ”Let's go, men.”

The Terran woman sitting on the steps looked up, bared her teeth, and exhaled smoke from them, staring at the departing Telkans with gunmetal gray eyes. Her suit was a dark charcoal gray, almost black that was belted at the waist, with a white undershirt, thin black tie, and a strange looking pin on the left lapel. There was an arc of black buttons going from the left to the right on the bottom of the jacket, the highest button the lowest button on the opening of her jacket, which had really wide lapels from shoulder's almost to the belt. The skirt was knee length, pleated, with a thin white line just above the hem. She wore some kind of sheer black stocking and shined black shoes.

It was the strangest looking outfit that Jekstex had ever seen.

Jekstex moved up and saluted the woman.

”Lieutenant Jekstex, Telkan Marine Corps, your escort, ma'am,” he said.

The woman exhaled smoke. ”You don't exactly look like a male escort,” she said, her voice deadpan.

”Ma'am?” Jekstex asked, frowning.

”Nevermind,” the woman said. She stood up, looking around. ”Where's that goofball Legion hiding?”

”I can ask if you'd like, ma'am,” Jekstex said.

”I'm not talking to you,” the woman said. There was barely restrained menace with a hint of anger in the woman's voice and Jekstex tried to figure out what he or his men had done wrong. The woman stared off into space before speaking again. ”What do you mean they can't find a lawyer to act as the prosecution? How long are we going to be here?”

Jekstex watched as the woman's hands suddenly balled into fists. Lightning crackled around her knuckles and Jacob's Ladder threads crawled up her forearms.

”What do you mean until the trial is over? We have things to do,” the woman snapped. She waved her hand. ”You talk to that thug Daxin and that pipe smoking moron Menhit. Howdy-Doody is going to start coming apart at the seams soon.”

She sat down again, exhaling smoke with an irritated sounding huff.

After a minute she looked at Jekstex. ”How far away is the PX? I want a sausage dog with sauerkraut and mustard,” she snapped.

”Almost two miles. Do you want me to call a taxi, ma'am?” Jekstex asked.

”Do I look like my legs were blown off in the war?” the woman snapped, standing up. She shook her head. ”Let's go, fuzzy. Don't forget the Three Stooges.”

She set off, walking quickly, forcing Jekstex and his men to jog to keep up.

Jekstex noted that the woman didn't have a datalink implant in her temple, nor did she have three burning red LED's at the base of her skull when she reached back and scratched her neck, parting her hair enough to get a glimpse of the back of her neck.

”I can have a sausage-dog brought to you,” Lieutenant Jekstex tried. Every time he tried to bring up which of the Immortals she was his datalink just flashed ERROR and half the time the woman's image grey fuzzed and static filled.

”I'm bored and irritated, fuzzy,” the woman said, still walking along at a fast clip. ”I don't want it brought to me, I want to go and buy it, sit down with a pop and have a snack,” she said. She exhaled smoke and shook her head.

Jekstex was silent, just having to go at a slow jog to keep up with the Terran as they headed toward the Post Exchange.

”Perhaps you'd prefer the Officer's Club, ma'am?” Jekstex asked.

”God, no,” the woman snorted. ”Officers annoy me.”

”Perhaps the Enlisted Being's Club?” he tried.

”I'm not looking to get laid yet, maybe later. And before you suggest the NCO Club, I'm not looking to get drunk and get in a fist fight before having sex in the bathroom,” the woman snorted. ”I want a sausage-dog.”

Before Jekstex could fully come to grips with what the woman had said a trio of humans stepped out of the bushes. All three had flycams with them and press badges on their chest.

Figures reporters would survive the die-off, Jekstex thought to himself, getting ready to order the reporters to move.

”What's the opinion of the Immortals regarding Trucker's actions in activating the...” one of them started, holding out a microphone.

The woman slammed straight into them, without breaking stride. Jekstex noted that she straightened slightly, her shoulders coming back, almost like she was ramming into them with her mammaries. Two of the journalists stumbled to the side, the other managed to keep his feet but his face reddened.

The woman kept walking.

Before Jekstex could say anything the reporter that had not been knocked sprawling reached out and grabbed the matronly looking woman's arm.

”Hey, that was assault!” the reporter cried out.

There was silence for a moment and Jekstex could suddenly taste blood.

”You dare lay your hands on me?” the woman said, her voice cold and hard.

”You deliberately rammed into us. I'm allowed self-defense,” the reporter said, still not letting go.

”Unhand me, sirrah,” the woman's voice was cruel sounding.

”Answer our question,” the reporter tried as his two colleagues got to their feet.

”Do you know who you touch?” the woman asked, still not turning around.

”Which Immortal are you?” one asked.