A Choice of Treasons (2 page)

“
Nostran
here,
Invaradin
. Our computer says you’re on
red
. What’s up?”

“Could be
feddies
,
Nostran
, but that’s only a guess. We’re going in fast for a look around. Telyekev instructs you and the
Diana
to cut drive and hold back until we’re sure. Please advise the
Diana
.”

“Consider it done,
Invaradin
. Good hunting.”

“
Invaradin
out.”

“
Nostran
out.”

York put a combat status summary in the corner of one of his screens. By now it was a half-lit patchwork of randomly placed black and green highlights superimposed over a schematic of
Invaradin
. He looked on intently as the remaining stations completed their precombat checks, and one by one the black highlights turned to green. But suddenly one lit up with a bright, demanding red. York touched it with a finger. “Turret three,” he demanded. “This is com. What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got an inoperative ordinance feed, com. We’re looking into it now, but no estimate on repair time. We have eight rounds on turret.”

“Thank you
three
,” York said. “I’ll advise Telyekev. Com out.”

“Main Three out.”

One of the defensive stations red-lighted with difficulty on their computer link. York tried a temporary routing through a nearby station. That cleared the link enough for him to green-light them, with a yellow flag for the computer to check into it later.

The last station reported in. The computer automatically cut the alert klaxon and a heavy silence descended.

York switched his implants into the bridge circuit. “All stations in, sir. Main Three reports an inoperative ordinance feed; eight rounds on turret and no estimate on repair time. All other stations are green, with one conditional yellow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ballin. Did you hear that helm?”

“Yes, sir,” Maggie Votak said. “Main Three. Eight rounds. If it gets hot I’ll favor starboard.”

“Very good, Miss Votak. All ahead full.”

“All ahead full, sir.”

York tapped into Anda Gant’s scan console, pulled up an outboard scan summary in the lower corner of one of his screens where it shared space with summaries from Olin Rame’s navigation console and Frank Stara’s weapons console. On it he watched the small blip of the destroyer
Nostran
and the larger blotch of the lumbering freighter
Diana
drop back as they cut drive power. Then Maggie cut in
Invaradin’s
full drive and the two ships literally disappeared from York’s screen.
Invaradin
was no longer limited to the slow crawl of the lumbering freighter she’d been assigned to escort.

“Navigation,” Telyekev said. “What’s our new ETT?”

“I’m computing now, sir,” Olin Rame said, then York’s timer flickered as it abruptly changed its reading. Rame spoke again. “Estimated time to transition is now two minutes, eighty-one seconds, sir.”

“Thank you, Commander Rame. Lieutenant Ballin, put me on
allship
.”

York touched a switch as he spoke. “You’re on, sir.”

Telyekev paused, cleared his throat, then activated his pickup. “Attention,” he said. “This is Captain Telyekev. You made it on station in ninety-three seconds, almost a full minute. That’s atrocious, more than ten seconds off your best time. I’ll expect you to do better in the future.”

He cleared his throat again. “We’re just under three minutes out from transition into the Trinivanian system. Two days ago Fleet received an urgent message from the imperial embassy there. They need help and we’re the closest warship so we’ve got the job. We don’t know any more than that, and we’re having trouble making contact with the embassy so we suspect there may be Syndonese Federals involved. But remember, we only suspect. We don’t know. So don’t go off half cocked—”

A red light on York’s console pulled his attention to some problem down on Hangar Deck. He touched a switch. “You’ve red-lighted, Hangar Deck. What’s wrong?”

One of York’s screens lit up with the image of a young female officer named Krassille Doanne. She looked worried. “We found a steering malfunction in one of the drones during prelaunch check, sir. We’re working on it, but it won’t be ready at transition.”

“Not acceptable,” York growled. “Get me Temerek.”

Doanne frowned. “I’m sorry, sir, but Lord Temerek gave me orders to—”

“I don’t give a damn what he said. Get him here. Now. And tell him that’s an order.”

Doanne saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”

She disappeared from the screen. A moment later Temerek replaced her, handsome, arrogant, angry. Temerek started to speak but York cut him off, “What’s this about a faulty drone, Lieutenant?” He refused to use Temerek’s title.

Temerek’s lips tightened. “It failed prelaunch check, something in its steering.”

“And why did it wait until now to fail?”

“I wouldn’t know. But you’re welcome to come down and ask the drone yourself, Mr. Ballin.”

“God damn it, Lieutenant, we need that drone.”

“ I know that. We’re doing everything we can, but I’m no magician. If I send that drone out we’ll lose her for sure. Then we’ll only have four.”

“We’ll only have four if you don’t send her out.”

Temerek’s face darkened. “We’d have five if we could get replacements, six if we could get spare parts. Tell me why we can’t get spares, Ballin.”

“I don’t know,” York lied, trying not to think of an empire no longer able to maintain a war that had lasted for generations.

“Mr. Ballin!” Telyekev growled harshly. “Pay attention.”

“Sorry, sir. Bad news from Hangar Deck. We’ve only got four drones on green, sir. No prognosis on the fifth. I’ll keep you informed but it won’t be ready at transition.”

“God damn it!” Telyekev snarled. “How the hell do they expect me to fight a war without spare parts? Let me speak to hangar, Mr. Ballin, and keep an eye on that timer. I want a count down on
allship
starting at ten seconds.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” York made the connection. Then his attention turned to a red light from turret six: trouble with their local targeting computer. That was an easy one; he gave them priority to back up with
Invaradin’s
comp-central. He glanced again at his timer, then switched his pickup to
allship
. “Transition minus ten seconds and counting,” he said, keeping his voice calm and even. “Nine . . . Eight . . . Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

His screens fluttered. An undefined tickle crawled up the back of his spine. He cut off all external communications and snarled, “Sublight.”

The bridge went silent. Fresh out of transition,
Invaradin
was a blind target with no idea of what she’d dropped into until Anda Gant got them data.

“We’re clear to a hundred thousand kilometers and expanding, sir,” she finally said.

York’s implants seemed to whisper with a long collective sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Anda,” Telyekev said easily. “No surprises then. Now let’s see what’s on long range. Drones out, Commander. Hold them at the limit of your short range scan.”

A distant, ghostly clang sounded through the hull of the ship as the four drones shot out of their launch bays. “Drones out, sir,” Gant barked.

York’s scan summary compressed as the drones shot outward from
Invaradin’s
hull and their effective scan baseline broadened. At fifty thousand kilometers the drones shifted into a complex circular orbit about
Invaradin
, and the scan summary compressed even faster.

With one ear tuned to the bridge circuit York touched another switch on his console. “Hangar, this is com. Drone status.”

Krass Doanne answered. “Parasitic demand is smooth. Response is strong. Still no word on number five.”

“Thank you, Miss Doanne,” York said. “Com out.” He cut her out of the circuit.

“Clear to one million kliks and expanding,” Gant announced.

“Excellent,” Telyekev said happily. “Good job, Anda. Hold the drones at fifty thousand kliks. Go to extreme long range and start scanning. I want a full system map soonest. Mr. Ballin, get back on that com and see if you can raise Trinivan.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” York reopened an exterior com channel, confident now it wouldn’t provide a homing beacon for a
feddie
warhead, and immediately, without any effort on his part, the signal came in clearly and strongly.

“Help! Please help! Whoever you are out there we desperately need your help. Please answer.”

York frowned suspiciously at his console as the message repeated itself. He touched a switch and a clear picture formed on one of his screens: a middle-aged man with unkempt hair dressed in a wrinkled tunic and several days’ growth of beard.

York checked to see that the incoming signal was riding on an imperial encryption code. That was at least some sort of identification, so he touched another switch and broadcast his own picture on the same code.

At sight of York the man on the screen stopped speaking and his eyes widened. “Who are you?” he demanded.

York spoke precisely. “I’m Senior Lieutenant York Ballin of His Majesty’s Ship
Invaradin
, Captain Lord Alexiae Telyekev commanding. Please identify yourself.”

“Jerrik Lassen,” the man said. “Thank God you’ve come. We’d almost given up—”

York interrupted him sharply. “Please identify yourself fully. Where are you and what’s your function?”

The man frowned. “I’m a computer tech here at the embassy.”

“Which embassy?”

“Why, the imperial embassy here on Trinivan, of course.”

“Of course,” York said. “Now what’s a comp-tech doing at a com station? And where’s your com-tech?”

“He’s dead, Lieutenant. A mob of locals literally tore him apart.” Lassen shivered visibly. “I’m filling in.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“His Excellency, Lord Frederick Cienyey.”

“Very good, Mr. Lassen. Now find Lord Cienyey and bring him here immediately. Captain Telyekev will want to speak to him.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Lassen pleaded. “We haven’t been able to find his lordship for hours, but Mr. Harshaw’s somewhere about.”

“Who’s Harshaw?”

“He’s the vice consul.”

York nodded. “Then get him.”

“Right,” Lassen said. He tore off his headset and stepped out of view.

York switched to
Invaradin’s
command channel. “Sir, I’ve got Trinivan and it doesn’t sound good.”

“What happened to all that interference?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s gone. My guess is the
feddies
are playing games with us.”

“Or perhaps . . .” a new voice interrupted nastily, “. . . there aren’t any Federals around here at all.”

York cringed at the sound of third officer Commander Lord Mayhue Sierka’s voice. Sierka had joined
Invaradin’s
crew less than a year ago, and taken an immediate dislike to York. “But I’m sure you’ll have some excuse, won’t you, Lieutenant?”

“The
feddies
are out there,” York insisted. “You can bet on—”

“No more excuses, Lieutenant,” Sierka interrupted. “You’re going to have to—”

“Enough!” Telyekev barked. “And don’t make excuses, York.”

“But sir, those
feddies
are out there. I know it.”

“We all make mistakes—you fewer than most—so don’t worry about it. Now what have you got on Trinivan?”

York let it drop and spoke carefully. “A dead com-tech, sir. And a half-hysterical comp-tech filling in for him. Sounds like chaos down there.”

“There you go, Sierka,” Telyekev said, making excuses for York. “That damn comp-tech probably doesn’t know a com from a weapons console. Probably caused that interference himself.”

“No doubt Your Lordship is right,” Sierka said.

A new face appeared on the screen carrying the signal from the embassy: probably Harshaw, an unattractive man, with a flat face and wide-set eyes. Like Lassen his face showed fear.

York spoke. “I believe Vice-Consul Harshaw is ready for you, sir.”

“Good,” Telyekev said. “Put me on without introduction. And you stay in circuit.”

York put he and Telyekev on a split screen to Harshaw. Telyekev wasted no time. “I’m Telyekev,
Invaradin’s
captain. I assume you’re Harshaw?”

Harshaw nodded. He seemed to know instinctively now was not the time to speak.

“We’re standing on full alert status, Harshaw, and neither of us has a lot of time. So bring me up to date fast, and don’t waste my time or yours with any bullshit.”