By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3 by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald Page A

Veratina ’s Combat Information Center, nobody said anything, or moved. The sensor tech’s aim was unwavering, and Colonel DeMayt’s body lay across the console as a testimony to her resolve. She was still holding Faramon at blaster-point when the doors at both ends of CIC blew inward and troopers in armored p-suits swarmed through, energy lances at the ready.
    One of the troopers relieved the sensor tech with the blaster, keeping Faramon pinned in the command chair, while the others took over the watch stations in CIC without resistance. The officer in charge, a young man with infantry captain’s pips on his collar, wore an armored suit like the rest of his troopers. Somewhere along the way to Veratina ’s CIC he’d abandoned the bulky helmet and the gloves. Now he paced back and forth, frowning slightly, as reports came in over the intraship comm system: “Engineering secured.” “Comms secured.” “Weapons stations secured.”
    Eventually a sergeant appeared in one of the broken doors and saluted. “All secure, sir.”
    The infantry captain’s frown eased slightly. “Very well. You may stand easy on station. Signal to Selsyn : All secure. Tyche sends.”
    “Aye, aye.”
    There was silence for a moment, while Tyche continued to pace the area. Then one of the PI troopers called out, “ Selsyn rogers for signal.”
    “Pass to Selsyn , ready to receive visitor.”
    More time passed—enough time for a shuttle to cross between the two ships—while Faramon sat in his command chair and felt the cold sweat trickling down his back. Then General Metadi himself strode into CIC, flanked by a pair of troopers with energy lances at the ready and followed by a flag aide with a miniature blaster in one hand and a loop of gold braid on her shoulder.
    The General didn’t bother looking at Faramon. “Captain Tyche,” he said. “Report.”
    The infantry officer saluted. “Sir. RSF Veratina is in Republic control, mutineers captured. Five casualties among our troops. Still working to determine how many the mutineers lost. Sorting out who actually mutinied and who just got press-ganged into going along with them is going to take even longer.”
    “Very well. Have you located the commanding officer of this vessel?”
    “Yes, sir.” Tyche gestured toward the command seat, and for the first time Metadi looked in that direction.
    “Captain Faramon,” the General said. “You were on Galcen for Staff School, what, three years ago?”
    Faramon managed to nod.
    Metadi glanced around the Combat Information Center—looking for something, it seemed to Faramon. Then the General’s gaze lit on the body of Colonel DeMayt, still sprawled across the hi-comms console. Metadi went over to the corpse and pulled the insignia from DeMayt’s uniform collar.
    He turned back to the infantry officer. “Captain Tyche, front and center.”’
    The officer stepped forward. “Sir.”
    The General took a step forward in his turn, reached out with his free hand, and removed the captain’s pips from Tyche’s collar. Then he pinned the colonel’s insignia in their place.
    “Captain Tyche,” he said, “I’m promoting you to the rank of Colonel, Space Force Planetary Infantry, effective immediately.”
    “Yes, sir,” said the infantry officer. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Don’t thank me yet, Colonel,” Metadi told him. “I’m convening a special court-martial. And you, I’m afraid, are the only officer available who is either equal or superior in rank to Captain Faramon. You are, therefore, the entire board. And the charge is mutiny.”
    “Yes, sir,” Tyche said. He turned and looked at Faramon for a moment, while Faramon tried not to flinch from the infantry officer’s regard. Finally General Metadi spoke again.
    “Colonel Tyche, what is your verdict?”
    “Guilty,” said Tyche at once.
    “Very well, Colonel. I accept your verdict.”
    The General turned again to Faramon. The entire proceeding had taken, Faramon realized with