A Choice of Treasons (7 page)

Palevi nodded at two of his marines, both carrying small four-barreled portable versions of the emplacement rotaries they’d just faced. The two marines jumped through the door, turned back to back, dropped to one knee, sprayed shot up and down the hall. The sound of their weapons made York think of a cutting machine grinding away at thick steel. Then abruptly they ceased fire, and on queue Palevi’s top corporal, a man named Baddin Hyer, filed through the doorway between York and Palevi with forty marines behind him.

Palevi held out another grenade. “One more time, eh sir?”

York took the grenade, turned away from the fourth floor hall and back to the stairwell leading down to the third floor landing. He triggered the grenade, tossed it down, waited for it blow and waft the green smoke up, then jumped to the intermediate landing, saw something moving in the swirling, green mist below him. He took no chances this time, squeezed the trigger on his grav-gun; the bullet hit something, exploded with the muted thump of a fragmentation shell.

York took the stairs two at a time, halted at the door to the third floor hall and pressed his back against the wall. A stream of bullets spattered at the door jam.

Palevi and five marines joined him on the third floor landing. One of the marines handed him a grenade. “Careful, sir. That ain’t gas.”

York looked at the canister in his hand, a fragmentation grenade with a one-pound rating. At some time in the past he’d had to learn what a
pound
was, recalled only that it was some archaic measure of the weight of an archaic chemical explosive used to rate the yield strength of modern explosives. Someone called over the com, “One pound hot.” A moment later the building shook, and he realized Tathit and her marines were using the same explosives on the floor above. York thumbed the timer for a two-second delay, touched the trigger, stepped against the wall again and tossed the grenade up the hall. He turned his back to the doorway and keyed his com. “One pound hot.”

Out in the hallway his marines split up, half going to the front of the building and half to the back. They moved slowly, stopped at each doorway, tossed a fragmentation grenade through it, followed the explosion by spraying the room with rifle fire, cleared the room quickly, then moved on. They advanced steadily, herding the opposition before them, killing quickly and efficiently the few that tried to fight back.

Corporal Hyer’s voice came over the com. “The side hall on the fourth floor is secure, Cap’em. We’re moving out into the front and back halls now.”

The two stairwells ran up the sides of the building, and on each floor opened out into a short hall that ran from front to back, connecting long hallways at the front and rear of the building. Like Hyer’s marines above, York’s were now moving out into the front and rear main halls, slowly working their way toward the stairwell on the other side.

“Hyer,” York heard his com say. “This is Palevi. Ten imperials says we take the other stairwell first.”

“You’re on, Mieka,” Hyer answered.

It was like a game to the marines, York realized, not a fun game, but at least a challenging game. Kill ‘em, and move on. He keyed his com. “Tathit, what’s that crowd outside doing?”

“They’re climbing all over each other trying to get away.”

“Cap’em Ballin, this is Hyer. We’ve reached the other stairwell. Fourth floor is secure.”

“Cap’em, this is Palevi. Third floor’s secure. Total elapsed time: three minutes, eighty-one seconds. I owe ya ten, Bad.”

“Make it ten drinks and you can help me finish ‘em, eh Mieka.”

“Yer on, Corporal.”

They took the lower floors with the same technique: Hyer and his platoon moving through the second floor while York and Palevi and their marines worked their way across the first. They ran into far less opposition, but they still moved slowly, checked out each room first before moving on. Hyer’s squad swept the basement, and when they’d finished York stopped in the ground-floor entrance and surveyed the littered and chewed up embassy grounds. The only remnants of the mob were quite a few civilians sprawled haphazardly about, whether dead or wounded or over-gassed, York couldn’t tell. It had all been easy, he realized. Too easy.

CHAPTER 4: ASSAULT

“I’m not leaving until you have the last Trinivanian safely on his way.”

York looked at the Princess and swallowed his temper. “Your Highness, Captain Telyekev has ordered me to evacuate the embassy staff first.”

“I don’t care about your orders. I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied you’re taking proper care of these people.”

York looked at the Trinivanians seated on the lawn, men, women, and children, huddled together in small, groups, ringed by armed marines. To one side a smaller group of about three hundred had already been searched and was ready to leave.

A deep male voice behind York said, “You’re treating them like criminals.”

York turned around, another churchman He wondered if they all made a habit of sneaking up on you that way.

“I’m Archproverb Rhijn, Her Highness’ personal confessor. And you
are
treating these people like criminals.”

York nodded deferentially to the churchman. “Your Eminence, we have no records on them, so we have to be careful.”

“But do you have to search them that way?”

“Yes,” the princess agreed. “Surely that’s not necessary.”

To the princess, he said, “Yes we do, Your Highness. The captain of the
Diana
has requested it, and rightly so. It would be disastrous if we allowed armed civilians aboard his ship.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. These people aren’t armed.”

York struggled to remain polite. “But quite a few of them are, or were. We’ve already accumulated a large collection of dangerous devices.”

She scoffed, “
Dangerous devices!
What have you actually found, a few letter openers?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” York said, “and we’ve also found several power knives, and one fellow even had a grav-gun much like my own sidearm, though his was Syndonese issue. We’re giving him the benefit of the doubt and assuming he picked it off one of the dead rioters.”

The princess sneered. “That’s very big of you.”

York shrugged. “In any case, Your Highness, I have my orders, and if you can convince my CO to change my orders, then I will, of course, obey. But short of that, there’s nothing I can do.”

The princess shook her head sadly, turned her back and, accompanied by Rhijn, walked away. But under her breath he heard her mumble, “. . . mindless automaton.”

Bitch
, York growled under his breath.

“Cap’em,” York’s com said. “This is Palevi. We’ve cleared the last building. The compound is secure. With your permission I’d like to put most of my people around the wall, with a couple on the roof as lookouts.”

“Very good, Sergeant.”

Quite a number of dead locals littered the lawn, most trampled to death in the mindless stampede of the mob. The lower floors of the main embassy building were a much more grisly sight. It was astounding that unorganized civilians thought they could stand against armored, professional, disciplined, imperial regulars. And where the hell did they get rotaries?

A large shadow slid across the ground in front of York. He looked up, caught a glimpse of
One
disappearing into the heavens with the first load of embassy staff.
Two
came in from the other direction—York had learned the pilot’s name was Blake—slowed carefully as it approached the embassy roof.

“Ballin,” his com said. “This is
Invaradin
. The
Diana’s
shuttle is about one minute out from you.”

“Thank you, Commander Sierka,” York said. He dropped his visor, programmed it to display a copy of
Two’s
overhead scan, used the blip displayed there to locate the
Diana’s
shuttle.
I hope we can get this done before nightfall
, he thought.

The shuttle had trouble setting down. It was much larger than the assault boats, had no hover ability and needed a short distance for landing. They were stretching its capabilities bringing it down in the embassy compound.

York had a few words with the shuttle’s pilot. The loading went smoothly, and York relaxed a bit as he watched the ungainly cargo shuttle lift off the lawn.

“Cap’em. This is Palevi. I got something here I think you should see.”

“I’m busy. Can it wait?”

“No, sir. I don’t think so. Not this.”

“All right. Where are you?”

“In the ambassador’s residence. Private Stacy’ll show you the way.”

York turned around, found Stacy waiting behind him standing at a very rigid attention. “Lead on, private,” he said.

The boy screamed, “Sir. Yes, sir,” then he turned around and moved away at a trot.

“Slow down, private,” York called after him.

Stacy led him to a one story, spacious, residential building, clearly the ambassador’s residence. The mob had trashed the place, though it was clear the shattered furniture had once been rather lavish. Palevi and his marines were waiting in a hall toward the back of the building. “What is it?” York demanded as he stormed up to the sergeant.

“This,” Palevi said without humor, then opened a door to a nearby room. The stench hit York like a slap in the face.

It had been a private bedroom, shared by two young girls, both still tied to their beds with their arms and legs spread. The two girls had died unpleasantly at the hands of the mob, with dried blood spattered throughout the room. York had to turn away, step out into the hall. Palevi followed him and closed the door.

York thought carefully; the list of missing or dead imperial citizens had not included two young girls. He dropped his visor so he wouldn’t have to put up with the smell and reentered the room.

Both girls were locals. One about fourteen, the other about ten or twelve. York looked at the debris scattered about the floor, most of it broken beyond recognition, but it was the kind of paraphernalia found in most whorehouses.

He returned to the hall, closed the door again and flipped his visor back up. “Get me Harshaw,” he barked angrily. “I want him here on the double, whether he likes it or not. And don’t say anything about this.”

Palevi barked orders into his com. York walked to the end of the hall and waited in sight of the front entrance to the residence. When the assistant consul arrived, escorted by two marines, York could see his face as they directed him toward the hall, and his expression darkened. When he reached York, and saw down the hall where Palevi and his marines waited, he almost flinched.

York grabbed Harshaw’s arm, bent it into an elbow lock, used it to push him down the hall. “Open the door,” he shouted at Palevi as he hustled Harshaw toward the marines. Palevi moved quickly, had the door open before York reached it, and York literally threw Harshaw into the room.

Harshaw fell to the floor, started coughing and gagging. As he tried to rise York grabbed his lapels and slammed his back against a wall, shoved one armored forearm under his chin and pressed hard enough to cut off his breathing. York kept the pressure on, and as Harshaw’s eyes began to bulge he growled in his face, “What happened here?”

Between breaths Harshaw gasped out, “The mob must have killed them.”

“I can see that, but why so brutal? And what the hell were they doing here in the first place?”

Harshaw closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, “Lord Cienyey’s tastes . . . are . . . perhaps somewhat different than yours and mine.”

York relaxed the pressure on Harshaw’s throat. “Spell it out for me.”

Harshaw nodded. “Lord Cienyey purchased the two young ladies as bond servants, though their duties were quite different from those of a servant. To the locals, whose morés are not as sophisticated as his Excellency’s, the existence of this room was a constant source of irritation. In fact this room probably had more to do with causing this riot than anything else. The rest—” Harshaw looked slowly about the room. “I have to assume the rioters vented their anger on these poor girls.”

“Palevi,” York growled. “Let’s get Cienyey here.”

Harshaw shook his head desperately. “Don’t, Lieutenant. According to imperial law he did nothing illegal here, and if you press the matter you’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

“Best drop it, Cap’em,” Palevi said.

York hesitated, and in that moment a voice on his com said, “Cap’em, Sarge, this is Tathit up on the roof. I think you two best come up here.”

Palevi growled, “What is it?”

“There’s something funny going on down in the city.”

York let go of Harshaw, growled at him, “Get out.” The assistant consul walked out of the room without a word.

York looked once more at the grisly mess, then keyed his com, “I’ll come to the roof, Tathit. Palevi, stay with your marines on the wall.”