Free Renegade by Joel Shepherd

support for the constitutional convention, or that she supported the Worlders’ cause in general. Yes she had friends there, but Debogande Incorporated was huge, and a well-maintained network of political friends was essential for good business.
    Beyond that, she sounded a little vague. Or he did. Trace didn’t know which. She’d served with Debogande for three years, but didn’t know him that well. It wasn’t his fault, or hers — as Phoenix ’s marine commander, she timed her onboard shifts to Captain Pantillo’s, which meant that unless they were on combat alert, she was usually asleep when the Lieutenant Commander sat the command chair. He was the night shift, she the day, and despite the close proximity of Phoenix ’s bowels, marines and spacers ran vastly different routines. Usually she saw him at command meetings, which happened on average every few days, but there Debogande would listen and say little, as befitted the junior command officer.
    Fleet Admiral Anjo might have been lying when he’d said the Captain had picked Debogande personally for Phoenix command, or he might have been telling the truth — it did not particularly matter to Trace. She might not have known Debogande, but she knew the Captain, and the Captain would never have selected an officer for third-shift command if he wasn’t qualified. And properly qualified too, on all the indices that actually mattered, rather than just having shiny boots and pleasing instructors at the Academy. Debogande had very shiny boots. Among Phoenix ’s marines, whose boots were rarely shiny, it had only increased skepticism of how Debogande got the post. Phoenix spacers were less skeptical, particularly the officers on bridge third-shift with him. Several times in the past three years, Phoenix had run into trouble so fast the Captain had not been able to assume the chair, leaving Debogande in charge in combat conditions. He’d done fine, though again the skeptics had muttered that any dozens of other young officers could have done as well, but they weren’t given the Phoenix . Trace had shut it down on several occasions — all soldiers liked to bitch about their commanders, and needed enough space so they could do that and let off steam, but it was her job to recognise when that bitching crossed the line from harmless to harmful.
    She wasn’t about to tell Debogande that she did not actually doubt his ability, however. If she knew anything from her meditations and teachings, she knew that all people needed to find and draw their strength from within. Relying on the praise of others could become a habit, and those in the habit would seek that praise like an addict and his drug. Strength came through self-belief, and the belief of others without belief in yourself was useless. Chalk was still chalk, even surrounded by granite.
    She sat in her loose pants and shirt long after Debogande’s call had ended, on the small footrest she used as a meditation stool. The sound of waves on the beach was soothing, nothing at all like the sounds of her homeworld, or the sounds of the Phoenix . She’d used to meditate in her small room in The Perch, the Kulina Academy, halfway up a mountain and listening to the howl of freezing wind across the sheer, rocky cliffs. That was a peacefulness too, of a sort. But she had to admit, the beach was nicer.
    Some marine commanders stayed with their troops, on long downworld leave. Most found officers of similar rank to socialise with, to maintain a proper command distance, and to let their men get their kicks free from higher supervision. But both higher and lower ranked marines would then indulge in much the same thing — drinking, fucking, sometimes even fighting… as though they hadn’t had enough of that on deployment. Trace would join with them sometimes for interesting excursions, to see sights, climb mountains or dive reefs. But the rest of it disturbed and depressed her. She could not meditate in such surroundings, and