The Dreadnought Court Book 1: Verdict of Steel

When justice has teeth, someone always bleeds. Stripped of rank but not her oath, former military judge Lyra Givens crashes into a frozen wasteland—and discovers something that shouldn’t exist. Something massive. Something waiting. The AI calls itself JUDGEMENT. It recognizes her authority. It obeys her verdicts. In a world where the Meridian Corporation controls life through elevator licenses and oxygen quotas, one woman holds the key to a weapon that fires only when the law allows. Someone buried this warship for a reason. Someone powerful enough to rewrite history itself. As corporate death squads close in and the body count rises, Lyra must decide: Is she liberating justice or unleashing judgment? Will she become the arbiter the oppressed need—or the executioner the powerful fear?

Josephine’s father used to say America’s greatest magic trick was convincing people the robber barons ever left.

They hadn’t. They had just rebranded.

Rockefeller became a board of directors. Carnegie became a Meridian subsidiary. By the time the nation-states collapsed and the mega-towers rose, nobody remembered there’d been a difference between government and corporation. The corporation rebranded into the Meridian Authority when it became the government.

The government didn’t go down without a fight. But they did lose.

Fort Benning survived because it was already Meridian property when the Constitution stopped being worth the paper it was written on. Turns out military infrastructure’s useful when you’re running a corporate oligarchy pretending to be civilization.

Military procurement standards hadn’t improved in two centuries, nor had the world’s issues with itself. In the twenty years since the mega-corps granted themselves nearly unlimited ‘legal’ authority, life for people with ethics had gone downhill.

This is the story of a person with ethics.

Mountains in old North America

Josephine Givens looked around her temporary lodging.

The aircraft’s interior was as cheerful as a morgue. Gray washed-out paint peeled from the bulkheads that had seen better decades, and the whole airframe groaned like it resented being airborne.

She sat shackled to a bench seat that smelled faintly of disinfectant and fear, hands cuffed in front of her because apparently even the military prison system bought from the lowest bidder.

Thank god for government procurement standards.

In front of her on the other bench were guards for the Meridian Authority.

She’d been working the cuffs since takeoff, patiently feeling for the weak point in the locking mechanism. The trick was patience and leverage, not brute force. Her fingers traced the edge of the lock cylinder, searching for the sweet spot where cheap manufacturing met stressed metal. She’d seen these exact cuffs fail during a transport exercise in Kandahar. She’d kept that little factoid to herself at the time.

Probably should have mentioned it to someone, but too late for regrets.

“Says here you qualified Expert Marksman at Fort Benning.” The guard reading her file had the kind of voice that suggested he found this personally offensive. “That’s unusual for a JAG prosecutor.”

Josephine didn’t look up from her hands. “What can I say? I’m multi-talented.”

“Smart ass.”

“Only when the situation calls for it.”

The guard flipped another page. His name tag read Morrison. Not her Morrison from the Academy—just another guard who happened to share the name. The universe had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

“Ranger School qualification. Six months embedded with SEAL Team Seven in Kandahar.” He looked up. “What the hell were you doing in Kandahar? JAG prosecutors don’t go to combat zones.”

“Well, this one did.”

She tested the shackle mechanism again, but it was still locked. She kept her expression neutral and focused on Morrison’s face, letting muscle memory handle the lock picking.

“Why?” Morrison seemed genuinely curious now. “You prosecute war crimes from behind a desk in some air-conditioned office. That’s the whole point of being JAG.”

Josephine shifted her weight, using the movement to cover another attempt at the lock mechanism. “Can’t judge violence if you don’t understand it.”

“That supposed to mean something?”

“It meant something to General Hadley.”

Six years earlier at the JAG Academy, in Captain Morrison’s office.

“A prosecutor who wants Ranger School?” Captain Morrison was laughing, but not unkindly. The man had seen action in the Persian Gulf and Afghanistan, and wore his combat scars like credentials. “That’s for combat lawyers prosecuting war crimes in-theater, Givens. You’re telling me you want to do this? You want to get shot at while prosecuting cases?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

Josephine had thought about this answer for months. “My father was in the service. Twenty-three years, Special Forces. He had stories about JAG officers who prosecuted good soldiers for doing their jobs under impossible circumstances. Called them JAG-Offs.”

Morrison snorted. “I’ve heard the term.”

“I don’t want to be one of them.” She met his eyes. “I can’t fairly judge violence from behind a desk. I need to understand what my cases actually lived through.”

Morrison studied her for a long moment. “You know what you’re asking for?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ranger School will eat you alive.”

“I’ll manage.”

“And if you make it through that meat grinder, you want deployment? Actual combat zone prosecution?”

“That’s the whole point, sir.”

Morrison leaned back in his chair. “I’m putting in the paperwork. But Givens? If you wash out, don’t come crying to me about unfair standards.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

She graduated from Ranger School fourth in her class. Morrison sent her a bottle of whiskey with a note: Told you it’d eat you alive. Congrats on the indigestion.

Four months later, in General Hadley’s office at Fort Bragg.

The general was the kind of man who looked carved from granite and bad decisions. His office walls displayed more combat ribbons than Josephine had seen outside a museum.

“Captain Givens.” He didn’t look up from her file. “Captain Morrison speaks highly of you. Says you’re either crazy or committed.”

“Probably both, sir.”

That got her a smile, a small one, but she’d take it.

“You want to embed with a SEAL team in Kandahar and prosecute cases under hostile fire.” He finally looked at her. “Explain.”

“I’m going to prosecute soldiers who operate in the worst conditions humanity can create. I need to understand those conditions. Can’t do that from climate-controlled offices in Virginia.”

“You could get killed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why does that not bother you?”

“Didn’t say it doesn’t bother me, sir. Said I need to do it anyway.”

Hadley closed the file. “I’ll approve the transfer on one condition. You don’t screw around in some solid, well-defended base. My people need someone who truly knows the heat. You get into the thick of it, or you come home. Deal?”

“Deal, sir.”

“Good. Try not to die. Paperwork’s a bitch when lawyers get killed in combat zones.”

Six months in Kandahar Province, embedded with SEAL Team Seven.

The compound smelled like dust, sweat, and gun oil. Josephine had been in-country for three weeks and already had two active prosecution cases running while conducting combat operations with the team.

Turned out, prosecuting war crimes while people were actively shooting at you required a certain kind of multitasking.

“Contact left!” Ramirez’s voice cut through the radio chatter.

Josephine dropped behind the low wall, her M4 coming up automatically. Three insurgents were moving through the alley, AK-47s at the ready. Not great odds, but she’d dealt with worse.

“I got left side,” she called.

“Showoff,” Ramirez muttered. “Take your shot, Counselor.”

She squeezed the trigger twice, aiming for center mass. The first insurgent dropped. The second spun behind cover.

“Nice grouping,” Mitchell commented from her right. “You bill the government by the round?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

“Thought lawyers were allergic to actual work.”

“Special exception for JAG officers who failed the bar exam.”

“You didn’t fail the bar exam.”

“Shh. Don’t ruin my excuse.”

The third insurgent made the mistake of breaking cover. Ramirez dropped him with a three-round burst.

“Clear,” Mitchell called.

“Clear right,” Ramirez confirmed.

“Clear left,” Josephine added, then keyed her radio. “Actual, this is Legal Six. Compound secure. Three enemy KIA. Rules of engagement followed.”

“Legal Six, Actual copies. You good?”

“Still breathing, Actual.”

“Try to keep it that way. Command gets pissy when lawyers die on a mission.”

“Roger that.”

Mitchell grinned at her as they moved to secure the compound. “Legal Six? Really?”

“Supply Officer was Legal One through Legal Five. I got stuck with Six.”

“Could be worse. Ramirez is stuck with ‘Mother Hen’ because he keeps a first aid kit.”

“Mother Hen’s going to kick your ass,” Ramirez called from the entrance.

“Mother Hen has to catch me first!”

Two months later, with the same team, but in a different firefight.

They’d been pinned down in a drainage ditch for twenty minutes while Taliban fighters tried to flank them from two directions. Josephine had fired more rounds in twenty minutes than she’d used in the previous month combined.

“Reloading!” she called, dropping the empty mag.

“Covering!” Chen’s SAW opened up, laying suppressive fire across the ridge.

She slapped a fresh magazine home and charged the weapon. “Up!”

“How many you got left, Counselor?” Chen asked without taking his eyes off the ridgeline.

“This mag plus two more.”

“Gonna need to be more conservative with your spending.”

“I’ll send the Taliban an invoice for wasting my ammo.”

“You do that. Maybe include court costs.”

An RPG whistled overhead, impacting fifty meters behind them.

“Getting closer,” Mitchell observed.

Far too calm, as if the man had ice water for blood.

“Noticed that,” Josephine replied. “Recommendations?”

“Don’t get hit.”

“Solid tactical advice. You should write a manual.”

“I’ll dedicate it to you. ‘For Counselor Givens, who complained about the accommodations.’”

“I never complained.”

“You said the drainage ditch lacked ambiance.”

“It does lack ambiance. Also, it smells like dead fish.”

“That’s Davis. He hasn’t showered in four days.”

“Screw you, Mitchell,” Davis called from their left position.

Another RPG hit, this one closer than before.

The concussion from the blast rattled her teeth.

“Air support’s two minutes out,” Ramirez reported. “Try not to die before then.”

“Two whole minutes?” Josephine aimed at movement on the ridge, fired twice, then missed. She fired again, and that one connected. “I can think of six ways we die in the next ninety seconds.”

“Only six? I’m at nine.”

“You’re counting the meteor strike again.”

“Always count the one you can’t see coming.”

The A-10 Warthog came in low and angry, thirty-millimeter cannon turning the ridgeline into a debris field. The distinctive BRRRRRT of the GAU-8 was the most beautiful sound Josephine had ever heard.

“Clear!” Ramirez called as the last of the Taliban fighters either died or retreated. “Legal Six, you still tracking your cases?”

Josephine checked her tactical notebook, somehow still intact despite being soaked in drainage water. “Three pending prosecutions, two evidence collections, one tribunal next week.”

“How are you going to testify about rules of engagement when you just violated half of them?”

“I followed every rule. That A-10, however…” She grinned. “That pilot’s getting a strongly worded memo.”

“You’re writing a memo about the guy who saved our asses?”

“Procedure is procedure.”

Mitchell shook his head. “You’re the weirdest lawyer I’ve ever met.”

“I’m the only lawyer you’ve ever met who can outshoot you at qualifications.”

“That was ONE time.”

“Scoreboard doesn’t lie, Mitchell.”

Back in the transport, in the present day.

The guard was still staring at her. “You prosecuted war crimes while getting shot at?”

“More or less.”

“And you think that makes you better than other JAG officers?”

“No. It made me a fairer one.” She felt the cuff mechanism shift another millimeter, which was definite progress. “When I prosecuted a soldier for excessive force, I knew what excessive force actually looked like. When I defended a soldier for making a split-second call, I knew what split-second decisions felt like. It made a difference.”

Morrison grunted, though whether in agreement or dismissal was hard to tell. The memory was sharp, the phantom smell of cordite and Afghan dust a ghost in the recycled air of the transport. It had been a different life.

“So what happened?” The younger guard spoke up. His name tag read Rivera. He couldn’t be more than twenty-three. “Says here you’re convicted of treason and destruction of government property. That’s a long way from combat prosecutor.”

That was the real question, wasn’t it?

Eight months ago at JAG Headquarters, dealing with the case that ended everything.

The file was clear. Thirty-seven dock workers at the Norfolk Naval Base, all charged with terrorism, espionage, and conspiracy. All based on classified intelligence that Josephine wasn’t cleared to see, but was expected to prosecute anyway.

“Just make the case,” Colonel Bradley had told her. “Intelligence is solid. These workers were passing information to foreign assets.”

“What information?”

“That’s classified.”

“Which foreign assets?”

“Classified.”

“What’s the evidence?”

“Classified.” Bradley’s expression was stone. “Captain Givens, I’m not asking you to investigate. I’m ordering you to prosecute. The intelligence community has vetted this thoroughly.”

Josephine had looked at the dock worker files. Average age fifty-two. Average time in service: twenty-three years. Family men. Veterans. Not one of them matched any profile for espionage or terrorism.

She’d memorized one file in particular. Thomas Williams, age fifty-four, Navy veteran with three kids. His youngest daughter had just been accepted to engineering school on a full scholarship. The file photo showed him at her graduation—his smile wide enough to light up the entire frame, one arm around his daughter, the other giving a thumbs-up to whoever held the camera.

That man was facing execution for noticing accounting irregularities.

She’d done it anyway, started building the prosecution, interviewed the workers, and reviewed what little non-classified evidence existed.

And she’d found nothing, or worse than nothing—the whole case smelled wrong.

Three weeks in, a junior intelligence analyst had dropped a file on her desk. No name. No explanation. Just a file folder marked EYES ONLY and a handwritten note: They’re innocent. Disposal operation.

The file contained the real story. The dock workers had discovered accounting irregularities, missing equipment, and falsified manifests. Someone high up the chain was running a smuggling operation, and the dock workers had stumbled into it. The terrorism charges were fabricated to eliminate witnesses.

Josephine had sat in her office for six hours reading that file.

Then she’d made her choice.

At the tribunal, which marked the end of her career.

“Captain Givens, you’re refusing to prosecute this case?” The tribunal judge sounded more confused than angry.

“Yes, sir. The charges are fabricated. The defendants are innocent.”

“You’ve seen the classified intelligence?”

“I’ve seen intelligence that contradicts the classified assessment. The dock workers discovered smuggling operations. They’re being silenced, not prosecuted.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“It’s the truth, sir.”

Colonel Bradley stood. “Captain Givens is operating on unverified intelligence from an unknown source. The classified briefings…”

He trailed off, and Josephine finished that thought for him.

“Are lies, sir.” She met Bradley’s eyes. “Respectfully, the colonel knows they’re lies. This tribunal knows they’re lies. We’re being ordered to send innocent men to execution to cover up corruption.”

The judge’s expression was careful, too careful.

“Captain Givens, you’re dangerously close to contempt.”

“I’m already there, sir. I won’t prosecute this case.”

“Then you’ll be charged with refusal of orders, destruction of government property…”

“The files I destroyed contained evidence of the real crimes, yes, sir.”

“…and treason.”

“Because sending innocent people to die was clearly the path to career advancement,” Josephine said quietly.

The room went silent.

The judge leaned back. “Captain Givens, you understand what you’re doing?”

“Yes, sir. I’m refusing an unlawful order.”

“The tribunal will find your order lawful.”

“Then the tribunal is wrong, sir.”

“You’ll be convicted.”

“I know, sir.”

“Sentenced to execution.”

“I know that too, sir.”

The judge studied her for a long moment. “Why?”

“Because I can’t judge violence if I don’t understand it, sir. And I understand enough to know this is wrong.”

Back in the transport again.

Rivera was staring at her like she’d grown a second head. “You destroyed your career to save dock workers?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” Rivera trailed off, unable to find the right word.

“Stupid in the extreme,” Morrison finished for him. “You got yourself killed for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Josephine said quietly.

The cuff gave another fraction of movement, and she was almost there.

“The case fell apart without a prosecutor. They dropped the charges. Thirty-seven innocent men went home to their families.”

“And you’re going to Nightveil Processing Center for execution.”

“That’s the deal.”

Morrison shook his head slowly. “Was it worth it?”

Josephine smiled, a small smile, but it was real. “Ask me after the execution.”

The transport lurched hard enough to rattle everything loose.

Josephine’s head snapped against the bulkhead.

“What the hell?” Morrison grabbed a handhold.

Looks like someone is trying to stop Josephine’s grand plan. Find out what on November 26th, when Verdict of Steel: The Dreadnought Court Book 1 is released. Until then head over to Amazon and pre-order it today.