A Choice of Treasons (4 page)

He shrugged inwardly, keyed his com. “Count ‘em off, Sergeant.”

“Count ‘em off,” Palevi shouted.

“One.” “Two.” “Three.” “Four,” came the reply, each word spoken in a different voice. The damn marines were a breed apart. The empire couldn’t even keep them supplied in uniforms, but while their armor was patched and stained and blackened here and there, it functioned perfectly, like the marines themselves. They weren’t much to look at—not much to like, either—but when needed they functioned, and they functioned well. York had to admire them for that, if nothing else.

The count reached one hundred. York keyed his com. “Sergeant, is Private Dakkart dropping with us?”

“Yes, sir. I worked out—”

“I thought we agreed she wouldn’t drop again.”

“We did, sir. But she’s one of my best. I need her, so I made a deal with her.”

“What kind of deal?”

“I’d rather not say, sir.”

“I’ll bet you’d rather not say! Anyone else I should know about?”

“Yes, sir. Private Stacy. New man, green as they come. This’ll be his first hot drop.”

“Both of ‘em,” York said. “Front ‘n center.”

Palevi shouted orders into his com. Two figures broke ranks and sprinted forward to stand rigidly in front of York. They flipped their visors up, held their rifles out for inspection.

York’s ears popped again as he lifted his own visor, looked into the helmet of the shorter of the two. Female, not unattractive, with the fading remnant of a black bruise framing one eye. York kept his voice low. “You’ve got Palevi to thank for one more chance. But if you get into another brawl on this ship you’ll never drop again.”

She rightly said nothing.

York stepped sideways to stand in front of the new recruit. In the kid’s helmet York saw a young face with blond hair and blue eyes, and a chin that barely needed shaving.

“How old are you?” York asked.

“I’ll be seventeen next month, sir.”

Palevi leaned forward. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely. He turned to the boy, bellowed at the top of his lungs, “The cap’em did not ask you how old you will be, private. He asked you how old you are. And when you speak to the cap’em you’ll address him properly. And I can’t hear you. Is that clear?”

“Sir,” the boy screamed. “Yes, sir.”

Palevi stepped aside, spoke calmly to York, “Sorry about that, sir.”

York nodded, looked at Stacy again. “How old are you?”

“Sir. Sixteen, sir,” the boy screamed.

“Who are you buddied with?” York asked.

“Sir. Mackin, sir.”

York shook his head. “Now you’re buddied with Private Dakkart here.”

Dakkart broke discipline. “But sir! I—”

Palevi shouted her down. “As you were, private.”

Palevi, Dakkart, and Stacy all turned into statues of very silent stone as York said, “See to the details, Sergeant.”

York’s com came to life with Olin Rame’s voice. “Stand by for transition.” There was a pause, then Rame barked out a short count-down sequence. York felt
Invaradin
up-transit, then almost immediately down-transit. Another pause, then, “Stable orbit in two minutes.”

York suppressed the panic crawling up into his gut and grumbled, “Load ‘em up, Sergeant.”

Palevi shouted more orders. The marines split into two squads, Palevi in charge of one, and a female corporal named Tathit in charge of the other. Tathit double-timed her squad through an air lock to
Two Bay
. Palevi and his marines scrambled into
One’s
open hatch. York, the last to enter, took the commanding officer’s position immediately aft of the hatch, a small recess that allowed him to be the first out in the
drop zone
. Like the rest of the marines he sat down and strapped himself in place and waited.

“Cap’em,” his helmet speaker said. “This is Pilot Corporal Hackla. Bridge reports weather over the embassy looks good. High G drop, right sir?”

York answered, “Crash priority. And give me a full exterior scan.”

“Yes, sir. One moment, sir.”

Hackla sent him a signal that blackened the inside of his visor, then showed the view forward of the gunboat: the open hatch of
One’s
now evacuated service bay, with just the edge of a blue-green globe showing in one corner.

“Stable orbit and ejection in twenty seconds . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .”

York stopped listening and spoke into his helmet without keying his com. “Computer.
Higee
dosage, maximum. Execute.”

He felt a pinch in his neck as one of his suit injectors fired: a mix of G drugs,
phets
, aggression
hypes
, and a few other things the marines wanted in their mood of the moment.

They cut gravity in
One Bay
and York’s stomach rose up into his throat. A moment later Hackla activated
One’s
internal fields and his stomach dropped back into his bowels. A loud clang echoed through
One’s
hull as
Invaradin’s
docking boom pushed the boat gently out through the hatch.

“You all right, Cap’em?” Palevi asked.

York ignored him.

“Cheer up, Cap’em. Could be worse. You could be sittin’ here with a bunch of tank-crazies from the
Vincent
.”

York cleared his visor, couldn’t see Palevi’s face hidden behind his own visor, but sensed somehow that his lips were turned up in that self-serving grin of his. York wondered if Palevi actually knew something, or if his remark about the
Vincent
had been just a simple jibe. “Don’t worry, sir, you’ll make a good marine yet.”

“Not if I can help it,” York growled, then opaqued his visor, returning to the view forward of the boat. The bloated globe of a large planet now filled it almost completely.

Hackla’s count reached “zero.” With the internal fields of the boat compensating there was no sensation of acceleration, but a small readout superimposed in one corner of York’s visor flickered and displayed a steadily rising number. After a moment it stabilized at thirty, and Hackla’s voice said, “Shall I hold it at thirty G’s, sir? Can’t compensate beyond that.”

“Take it to the limit,” York growled, “Captain’s orders.”

A large, heavy hand pressed on York’s chest, and the number on his display rose immediately to thirty-three. “Three G’s internal, sir.”

The number rose further. “Five . . . Eight . . . Ten . . . Holding at ten.”

York instructed his suit to give him another dose of
higee
, concentrated on breathing slow, steady, deep breaths. “Maneuvering,” Hackla said. “Going to fifteen gravities internal.”

York cursed.

“Eighteen G’s. Twenty . . .”

York didn’t actually black out. By that time he was so loaded on
phets
he couldn’t lose consciousness, but he did drift off to a place where nothing seemed to matter, where he didn’t care that he was a
lifer
, that the only perk in his retirement package was a free burial in space.

His Majesty, Edvard the tenth, Duke de Lunis, King of the nine beasts, Commander-in-Chief of the nine fleets of the royal navy, guardian and protector of the people’s faith, beloved emperor of the Lunan Empire, sat in the dark of his office and waited, feeling powerless and impotent.

He was much younger in years than his appearance, but the constant strain of ruling a crumbling empire losing a two hundred year old war had etched deep lines in an almost boyish face. And as he had done so many times before in his thirty-eight years of living, he wished again he was not king and emperor.

A soft knock at the door pulled him out of his dismal reverie. He rubbed his eyes and commanded the computer, “View.” A display on his desk showed a tall and powerfully built man dressed in a naval uniform, unable to hide his impatience as he waited beyond the door.

“Admit,” Edvard commanded the computer.

The door swung open instantly. The naval officer entered at a brisk walk, his back straight, and at first glance one might think him to be in late middle age, but a closer inspection revealed the signs of a much older man. He stopped before Edvard’s desk, and holding a single piece of paper in his right hand he stood at rigid attention.

Edvard shook his head. “Please drop the formalities, Theodore. You have some news?”

Without relaxing the naval officer took the piece of paper in both hands and looked at it carefully. “
Invaradin
made transition into the Trinivanian system about an hour ago; they believe there are no Directorate ships in the vicinity. They’ve contacted the embassy and are trying to evacuate her personnel now, though the embassy reports approximately thirty dead so far. I’ve asked
Invaradin
to send us a complete list of casualties and survivors as soon as possible.”

“What about
her
?” Edvard demanded.

The naval officer shook his head. “I don’t know. I was afraid to ask about her specifically, don’t want to draw attention to her. We can’t afford even a hint of suspicion.”

“I know,” Edvard said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I know. Who’s captain of the
Invaradin
?”

“Alexiae Telyekev. Old-line nobility. Fifth son of the Earl of Seegat. No inheritance prospects so he’s made what he can of a commission. Basically a good man.”

“Can he be trusted?”

Rochefort shrugged. “God knows, but I wouldn’t risk it. If she’s already dead, then he can’t help, and if she isn’t, then she’s not likely to come to harm now that
Invaradin’s
on hand. And one never knows who’s working for AI or the church.”

“Damn! How could it have gone so wrong? Years of careful planning, all for nothing.”

“It’s not over yet.
Invaradin’s
a good ship.”

“What about Red Richard?” Edvard asked. “You told me yesterday he’s been operating in that area. And there’re rumors that he’s working with the Syndonese.”

Rochefort shook his head. “ Richard’s a Mexak, and pirates like easy pickings. I don’t think he’ll mix it up with
Invaradin
. I’m more concerned about the Syndonese. You know the riots on Trinivan began within hours of
her
arrival there.”

“Coincidence?” Edvard asked.

“Not likely. Somebody was tipped off.”

“Not from this side,” Edvard said. “There are too few of us who know.”

“It’s possible the Trinivanians are working with the
feddies
. I suspect Telyekev’s people are in a lot more danger than they realize.”

CHAPTER 2: LONG AGO

“Atteeuun . . . shuuuuun!”

The shout startled York Ballin and he tried to assume the correct posture, but the manacles on his wrists and ankles prevented him from standing properly rigid with his hands at his sides. There was some sort of commotion near the front of the crowd, but he was yet only twelve years old and the forest of tall uniformed strangers surrounding him blocked his view. He glanced at the female marine standing guard over him, and, as if she sensed his gaze, she looked down at him, her face devoid of expression, her eyes cold and unsympathetic. “As you were,” he heard someone say, and everyone relaxed.

“Spacer Apprentice York Ballin,” someone barked. “Front’n’center.”

The female marine nudged York unkindly.

He decided a look of simple innocence would be best. Edging forward among the elbows, he stepped out into the only clear space on Hangar Deck.

Behind a table sat three officers. York didn’t know them, but guessed the woman in the middle was the captain. He threw his shoulders back, did his best to stand very proper and rigid.

The captain took no interest in him. Her hair was neatly trimmed, and she wore a freshly pressed uniform open at the collar. She glanced at a comp-tablet on the table before her, leaned to her right for a moment to consult privately with the sharp-eyed male officer seated next to her, then turned her attention to York. She had soft, pleasant eyes, and York hoped he might have better luck with her than with the marine. “At ease, Spacer Ballin.”

York pretended to relax.

“I am Captain Jarwith, and this is captain’s mast. Do you know what that means?”

York shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, no.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll explain. Captain’s mast is an informal proceeding convened for the purpose of disciplining enlisted personnel. It allows me to correct certain deficiencies in my crew without resorting to a trail or court-martial. Do you understand?”