His Own Tribunal
Posted on April 21st, 2021 by Scott Ammora

It was blinding. A white emptiness. Nothingness. Scott stood unmoving in the middle of nowhere. However, there was a purity in the absence of anything. But even in that vast void, he began to sweat. Something wasn’t right. He looked left and right, behind him, up and down and everywhere in between; after thirty seconds or so he realized he couldn’t make heads or tails of direction. His stomach began to churn, his equilibrium went haywire, and he crouched down to settle the nausea.

Insubordination.

The word echoed in his ears, piercingly and hauntingly. And it repeated. Over and over and over again, the word – the accusation – grew louder and louder. The harshness in the tone grew more intense, more scrutinizing, and started reverberating. The six syllables started overlapping. Faster and faster it went. Scott cupped his hands over his ears and pressed his eyes closed with a fierceness to drown out the auditory assault.

It picked up speed, the words building upon each other, one after the next, climbing to a cacophonous roar that eventually wasn’t tangible to his brain. Scott clenched his jaw, grinded his teeth, and fell forward to his knees. “I get it!” He screamed at last.

Silence. Sudden silence. His ears were still ringing with the remnants of the word as it dissipated into the distance of his mind. The pain started to subside and he was able to release his jaw, remove his hands from his ears, and slowly opened his eyes. When he had figured out his bearings, or what he could muster given the barren environment, he realized he was no longer alone.

“What were you thinking?” Dr. Cynthia Ammora stood before him, her arms at her sides and her stance stoic. “What. Were. You thinking?”

He blinked, “Mom? I, uh, what?”

“You march into your commanding officer’s ready room and berate her for a decision you didn’t agree with?

Utter confusion rolled over Scott in that moment. “What? How did you – ?” His voice didn’t trail off, but was quenched abruptly by a lump in his throat, one that was growing by the second.

“Captains talk, son. And talk they did.”

Taking a step back, as metaphorical as it was in the current environment, Scott shook his head vehemently, “No, she said no report, just understanding.”

“Scott Isaac, do you really understand?” A voice from behind him came, strong and stern. “Because if you didn’t understand, well, the lesson is lost and you’re doomed to repeat it.”

Swiveling on his heel he came face to face with his father. Captain Preston Ammora, in full dress uniform, was planted a couple of meters in front of his son. The gaze was penetrating, terse, unyielding – unlike his father’s normal caring and compassionate disposition. “I thought we raised you better.”

“No!” The exclamation came without warning. He wanted to move forward, but didn’t have the strength or willpower. Even if he had he wasn’t sure he really wanted to. “No, we discussed it, she showed me my error, but it was constructive, she understood my position. She guided me… like you used to do with your crew. I remember your stories, dad.”

The sound of a young female speaking drew Scott’s head to his left. Standing before him was his younger sister, Breena, flanked by their older brother Kason. Breena had her arm around her eldest brother’s waist, Kason’s arm on his sibling’s shoulder. The two of them deadlocked eyes with Scott and their look was not stern, but ones of disappointment. “We do too, Scotty, but we learned from them. Did you?”

Kason’s smug smirk that Scott had seen all too often in their youth paraded itself openly across his face, “Well, I will say one thing, you make it easier for both of us to look really good.”

“Fuck off, Kase.” Scott spat. “Breena, I did, I really did.”

She tilted her head, almost emotionless, her eyes vibrant but at the same time without the love he had come to know and expect, “I don’t believe you.”

“Bree…”

“Would you ever talk to dad the way you talked to Captain Harper?” The words from his sister stuck him in the heart like a knife, followed ever-so-dutifully by a slight twist, “Don’t answer that. I know the answer you’d give and I still don’t believe you.” She promptly leaned into Kason’s shoulder and he embraced her as he put his chin on her head, consoling her through the almost lifeless disdain she was letting seep into her words.

“Scooter!”

“Don’t call me that!” A full one hundred and eighty degree turnabout happened. And there was Weston, in all his handsome glory, smiling and beaming as he always did. Finally, some positivity and happiness. Scott peered briefly over his shoulder to his mother, father, and his siblings, and shook off his internal ruminations on their words. Looking forward to his significant other, he said flatly. “Hi.”

“So how’s bridge duty?”

“Uh, fine,” Scott’s right hand started to tremble a bit. “Why do you ask?”

“I hear you had a meeting with the Captain! That’s great! You move so fast and are doing such wonderful things on the Atlantis, I’m sure. What did you do to get that honor from Captain Harper? Promotion? Commendation? Did she need advice from a wise sage like yourself?” Weston’s hands folded across his chest, puffed out in pride for his boyfriend, and was accompanied by a smile radiant like the sun.

“Captain Harper and I… she… she wanted to meet me personally.”

His mom’s abrupt statement caught him off guard. “Liar.”

Scott continued, taking the intrusion in stride, “She tries to take time – like all captains – to get to know their crew.”

“False,” Captain Ammora’s words echoed his wife’s sentiments staunchly from Scott’s left.

Again, he brushed it off. “She heard about my experience with saving that crewmember I mentioned before.”

“Please.” His sibling’s combined vocal outburst came next.

“All is good.”

“No!” A resounding contradiction exploded from all his family behind him.

Scott winced. What was happening? He once more pressed his eyes closed, swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to stifle the shaking in his hands and the utter explosion of discomfort in his stomach. He looked up at Wes, his smile still shining so bright, and he nodded. “Yeah, so, there’s that. Another day in the life of a lowly security officer.”

Weston put up his hands and clapped slowly a couple of times, “Proud of you.” The word ‘proud’ multiplied, joined with the sound of the clap, the magnitude growing with each connection of Wes’ palms. “I can’t wait to see you and hear more of your adventures and to meet your friends.”

Stillness. Scott was once again alone. His breathing was labored. He needed to be done. But he couldn’t will the situation away and the blankness remained. For the third time he closed his eyes and measured his intake of air, in through the nose and out through the mouth, but the anxiety was climbing. He peered again into the sullen solitude he was experiencing and stood motionless.

“It’s going to be okay, crewman, just breathe. Just breathe! We’re going to take care of you!”

Scott didn’t want to see what was happening. He knew the voice. Acacia. Fighting off his inner demons, and his better judgement at the same time, he whirled to see the medical doctor cradling the wounded crewman he had ‘saved’ in the corridor during the Xovul attack. She was bleeding, struggling to maintain air flow, and appeared as close to death as Scott felt disconnected from reality.

“Thank you, Doctor,” the crewman gazed up to the person saving her life, “Without you, I would’ve died.”

Acacia smiled slightly, turning her vision to Scott, “Yes, crewman, I’m glad that I was here to use my expertise to help you. I’m glad that I was allowed to… do… my… job.”

Major Davidson walked behind the doctor and her ailing comrade, his hands clasped behind his back in the standard Starfleet pose. “This is what a letter of recommendation does?” There was an obvious tsk, tsk that followed as he continued circling.

“And then he said that the batteries were corroded!”

Scott turned his attention to his right and saw Howlitz, Damien, and the female crewman from his encounters with security personnel appeared before him, talking in a group together.

“Oh, and get this… I gave him some stupid analogy about a ‘House of Cards’ and I’m pretty sure he bought it hook, line, and sinker. I hope to whatever God he believes in that it kept him up at night. The look on his face was priceless!” The female crewman braced herself against the man Scott knew as Damien and the three shared a hearty belly-laugh – at Scott’s expense – and the camaraderie in their moment resonated just as much as the word Insubordination and Proud had moments before.

“You. Are. So. Screwed.” The build-up of sound was cut like a knife by another new voice.

All of a sudden Scott was at ease. It was a welcome sound. A warm sound, regardless of the intention. Scott found himself looking at Rodney Styles. Damn, he was attractive. And that right-cheek upturned grin was enough to melt him. “Hi, Rodney the Wise,” Scott chirped with a reactive smile of his own.

“Ammora the Horra strikes again.”

Scott rolled his eyes, “Well…”

“I call him Skinny Ass.” Marine Captain Ryleigh Grey stepped up next to Rodney, resting her elbow on his shoulder, an intense look on her face directed at Scott.

Rodney leaned his head down to the left, measuring Scott up and down, “Skinny, yes. Not a bad ass, though. But I don’t see how I could ever be attracted to someone with such poor etiquette and his lack of respect for command needs more work than I have energy for. And, come on, the guy could barely handle the tactical two station. I mean, really? He should be on a garbage scow for how talented he is.”

“Talented isn’t close to the word I would use. And, good Lord, you should hear him destroy a piano… and not in the good way.” Grey muttered, shaking her head.

“He throws a lot of etiquette just right out the fucking window; just doesn’t give a fuck about certain things. Does his job, but is just kind of an immature dickhead.” D’bryn Zoe was in front of him, her blatantly obvious perception of him slicing through everything with her hot words like a proverbial branding iron.

“Zoe, I don’t know what’s happening…”

Zoe nodded, “So you’re drunk again?”

“No!”

“I see. Well, that is neither fortunate nor unfortunate given the circumstances. Do you need to be helped back to your quarters? Again?” Her words were baseless, uncaring, and drab. The inflection Scott had come to know from her in their brief Ten Forward lounge encounter now appeared to the same mentality he was getting from all the others. “I’m not sure I have the strength to deal with you right now, but I can try. You carry a fair amount of baggage that I find… taxing… to say the least.”

He waved his hands wildly, “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m fine, I had a bad day, a bad day only, I’m fine.”

Zoe’s eyes narrowed, but there was a clarity and compassion to it: “You’re losing it, hold on. You’re stronger than this.”

Scott found himself on his knees again, his head reeling, his vision blurring. “I’m not sure I am.”

“Maybe you aren’t,” she said simply. “Breathe.”

It was the full coliseum of people that appeared in that moment. All of those voices had resurfaced, shouting stronger; their eyes looking down on him as angry, disappointed, and sad as ever. He wasn’t just surrounded, he was drowning in their criticism. In his most vulnerable state, Scott slumped over onto his back peering up haphazardly – and helplessly – at all the judges of his actions. Every last one was staring down at him. His hands went to his sternum, clutching desperately for some solace from his personal agony.

Rodney. “The Horra.”

His mother. “We raised you better.”

Emilaina. “Let me do my job.”

The security personnel, together. “A house of cards.”

Breena and Kason, his siblings. “Better for us.”

Weston, sarcastically. “Proud.”

Ryleigh. “Skinny Ass.”

Lieutenant Styles: “Cute ass, but stupid.”

Cynthia Ammora. “Where did we go wrong?”

Damien and Howlitz. “Asshole.”

Grey. “Who do you think you are?”

Acacia: “I’m a good doctor!”

Weston. “You should’ve stayed on the 60.”

The bile was creeping up into his throat and he lashed out at those over him, pushing them away. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, and he couldn’t form a coherent thought. Scott coughed, fighting his way back to a position where he was prepared to fight. To fight what, he didn’t know, but he gearing up for a confrontation.

The group before him had created a concave barrier and slowly parted. Scott witnessed his commanding officer, Captain Harper, moving towards him with grace and poise. His father was off her right shoulder and Major Davidson from his Academy days off her left. They moved congruently, their steps in time and on the same pace, but with the same professionalism.

Captain Harper was tapping diligently on a PADD. Diligently may not have been the right word. Empathically? If the PADD wasn’t as sturdy as it was Scott was sure she would have punched a hole through it with her documentation. Her eyes never wavered, her intent never waned, and her process never faltered. She was, quite literally, a woman on a mission.

“It’s the final bulkhead, Lieutenant,” Major Davidson iterated, his focus on his prior student.

“It’s not… I didn’t mean to… I won’t…” A multitude of thoughts raced through Scott’s head. “Captain! We talked, you reassured me, you told me no report was necessary, you… you… guided me to the right place.”

Captain Harper didn’t look up, but continued her assault on the device in her hand. After what seemed like an eternity, of silence other than the beep, beep, beep of her data entry, she showed the PADD to Scott’s father. “Captain Ammora, do you concur.”

There was a brief pause, followed by a studious nod. “He never learned.”

“I advised him not to disappoint you, Captain.”

Captain Harper tossed the PADD toward Scott. Not at him, but over him. It sailed past his face, a faint whistling in the air, which seemed non-existent, and clattered behind him. The Atlantis’ commanding officer didn’t take her eyes off that of her tactical and security officer as she did so, until the resounding clank had diminished. With a flick of her eyes she gazed aft of his position.

Scott slowly turned, seeing the discarded PADD resting on the ground some three meters away. He saw a pair of boots standing just abreast of it. With an upward tilt of his head he saw Zoe pick up the device and tap it a couple of times, nodding. It was a sad nod, a disappointed nod, a defeated nod. In that moment he couldn’t put into words what to say. There were questions of what it was, things he wanted to say to his father and his former mentor, and that of the woman he had recently felt comfortable calling his friend. All of it, in that split second, vanished. He was without words.

“You’ll be alright, you know,” Zoe said, glancing back and forth between the PADD and Scott, “As long as you don’t decide ahead of time you won’t be.” She flung the item back at Scott and it skittered past him as she gave him one last longing look, then vanished.

Scott’s eyes went to the floor, tracking the trajectory of the object until he found it before him. He picked it up, desperate to know its contents. He scrolled through the diatribe of regulations and the litany of grievances against him that he cared not to read, and settled on the penultimate statement on the bottom. There was nothing he could have experienced that would let him fathom how to handle the last line. Simple words, in bold: “Court Martial Approved: Scott Ammora. Dishonorable Discharge.”

He felt a soft hand reach down to his chin, lifting it ever so slightly up. His eyes met Kate Harper’s, fiery and intense. “Get off my ship.”

*****

Scott bolted upright in bed. His hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, perspiration was beaded on his bare chest, and his sheets were damp with the remnants of his nighttime terror. He couldn’t catch his breath and his body was roasting with adrenaline. He pushed the sheets to the edge of the bed hoping the uncovered air would soothe his anxiety. It didn’t help.

He slammed his fists repeatedly into the closest pillow, keeping his bellowing rage stifled and quiet in the early morning hours. The last thing he needed was a call to security with a noise complaint. When he had regained some composure, and reassessed his surrounding, he looked across the room at the few personal knickknacks he had in his otherwise dreary quarters. Family photos, his Academy graduation diploma, and one lone photograph of his vacation with Weston from a couple years back on Risa were all he had other than the Starfleet-issued furniture. Scott used them to center himself, to bring his focus back, and to realign his psyche with actual reality.

“It was just a nightmare,” he said out loud to no one.

But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.