Of Treasons Born (12 page)

He released York's hand, turned, and shouted, “Spacer Third Class York Ballin, no chevrons, but he's drawing blood tonight, and the asshole gets a threefer.”

Everyone cheered, and the butterflies in York's stomach fluttered up into his throat as someone slapped a mug of beer in his hand, spilling it on his arm. He'd lost his friends in the crowd. Spacers kept slapping him on the back, and he didn't know how to respond.

Zamekis rescued him. “You look more scared than I was my first time in combat.”

She grabbed his sleeve and guided him to the others. They jostled him about in a friendly way, made crude jokes about his manhood, and called him all sorts of names. York chugged at his beer, was halfway through it when the ranking chief called, “Spacer Third Class York Ballin, front 'n' center.”

Him alone! York asked Marko, “Am I the only one who's drawing first blood?”

Marko shook his head. “They call the newbies up in groups based on number of kills, and you're the only virgin got three today.”

Marko took York's beer. “Get out there, kid.”

York had trouble making it out to the ranking chief in the middle­ of the deck. Spacers nudged him and called him the foulest names, always with a laugh or a smile. When he stopped in front of the chief, the noise was deafening. Using an old-fashioned­ steel knife, the chief cut away York's sleeves at the elbow, then carefully rolled them up to expose his upper arms. Then he raised his hands, and the cheers and shouts slowly died.

The chief said, “This virgin got a threefer today.”

More cheers and shouts erupted from the gunners. The chief raised his hands again to silence them. “That means he's drawing blood on both arms, a full chevron on one and a half on the other.”

Marko stepped forward and expounded on York's prowess as a gunner. York learned he had capabilities beyond anything human. Then the chief gripped York's elbow, raised the steel knife, and sliced into York's arm. It hurt; York's knees felt week, and the deck swayed crazily.

Marko grabbed his other arm and steadied him. He whispered into York's ear, “Don't worry, kid. You wouldn't be the first newbie to faint.”

The chief made another slice, and York prayed desperately that he didn't faint in front of everyone. Marko raised a beer to York's lips and said, “Take a gulp, a big one.”

York sucked at the beer, and in some way it did seem to help. Then the chief cut the third half-chevron into his other arm, and York almost emptied his stomach. Again, Marko had him take a big gulp of beer.

They let the blood drip all the way down his arms to his fingers, where it dripped onto the deck of the ship. Then they washed the blood away with dark beer. York watched it puddle on the deck, an odd mixture of brown beer and red blood, and he knew he'd never forget that sight.

Chapter 12:

Sissy

York kept his eyes open for Sturpik and Tomlin as he slopped water out of the bucket and onto the deck of the mess hall. He'd thought that as a blooded gunner he wouldn't have to scrub decks anymore, but apparently Straight didn't see it that way. It was first shift and there was no one else around, not even Marko. As he moved down the deck, he pushed the bucket in front of him and dragged the duffel filled with cleaning supplies behind. His wrench was in there, and he wanted it close at hand. The mess hall was a large room with several entrances, and he tried to keep an eye on all of them.

He had about an hour left in first shift, and was hoping he might be in the clear, when Tomlin stepped through a hatch into view. He was accompanied by a spacer York didn't know. A noise in the other direction drew his attention, and he looked that way, saw Sturpik walking his way with another spacer he didn't know. York reached into the duffel, retrieved the wrench, stood, and put his back to a bulkhead. He couldn't stop them from cornering him, but at least they couldn't surround him.

Sturpik, Tomlin, and their two companions stopped well out of reach of the wrench. “Well, Ballin,” Sturpik said. “Got up a little early today, never thought I'd run into you.”

“Ya,” Tomlin said. “Pure coincidence. But now that we're here, I guess we can take care of that unfinished business we got. You ready to pay up?”

York said, “You know I don't owe you anything. You made me take that stuff. You tricked me. And you told me I was supposed to hit Straight back, stand up for myself like on the streets.”

Sturpik closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. York saw that they weren't going to walk away this time. “What I told you don't matter, and it don't matter how or why you got the stuff. It was our stuff, and you lost it, so you owe us five hundred imperials.”

York said, “I told you I don't have that kind of money.”

“And I told you that you can make it up by helping us out.”

“No,” York said. “I'm not going to help you.”

Tomlin grinned, and York realized he'd wanted to hear that answer, that he was enjoying this. “Then we're going to take payment in another way.”

He reached into his tunic and pulled out a wrench even bigger than York's. Sturpik and the other two produced plast bars about as long as their forearms. They spread out and the two strangers edged forward cautiously, coming at York from the sides, while Sturpik and Tomlin clearly intended to take him head on. Fear clutched at York's stomach as he realized he might not survive this.

Motion at the far end of the mess hall near one of the entrances caught his eye. Sissy and Chunks stepped through the hatch there. Sissy started when she saw York, waved her hand, and said rather loudly, “York, what a coincidence finding you here.”

Sturpik, Tomlin, and their two friends turned, saw the two marines walking toward them, and quickly hid their weapons in their clothes.

Sissy spoke as she walked. “Chunks and me thought we'd catch an early breakfast.”

The two marines stopped about three paces from Sturpik. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Sissy smiled at him, not a friendly smile. “Like I said, me and Chunks are looking for a little early breakfast.”

Tomlin stepped toward her. “Mess hall doesn't open for another hour. Come back then.”

She made a point of looking carefully at each of the four men, one at a time. “Well then, we'll just have a little caff to kill the time. But what are you doing here?”

Sturpik said, “We got business with the kid.”

“What kind of business?”

“None-of-your-business kind of business.”

Marko and Cochran stepped through another entrance chatting amiably. Marko didn't seem to be surprised at the small crowd he found there. “The sarge and me,” he said, “we're going to have a little caff.”

Cath and three large marines stepped through another entrance. She announced, “Me and the boys here are in the mood for a little caff.” They sat down at a mess table, all of them on the same side, all pointedly watching Sturpik and his friends.

Stark, Durlling, and Zamekis stepped through the same hatch Sissy and Chunks had used. Zamekis announced, “I feel like a little caff.” They sat down at a table, and like the marines, they all sat down on one side watching Sturpik and his friends.

Sturpik leaned toward York and whispered, “We're not done here.”

He and his friends walked out of the mess hall together.

Cochran said, “Ballin.”

Only then did York realize he was standing in a crouch holding the wrench. He straightened and tried to hide the wrench behind his back. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Aren't you supposed to be scrubbing the deck?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You sure don't look like you're scrubbing the deck.”

“Sorry, Sergeant.”

York stowed the wrench back in the duffel, got down on his hands and knees, and returned to scrubbing the deck. Interestingly enough, no one ever got any caff, and they all stayed until the shift ended, only leaving the mess hall when York did.

The next day, York passed Tomlin in a corridor going the other way and almost didn't recognize him. He walked with a limp, one arm in a sling, and his face was covered in puffy, bluish-black bruises, one eye swollen completely shut. His nose looked like it had been mashed completely, then swollen to twice its normal size. Whatever had happened to him, York thought it strange that he hadn't been patched up with all the miraculous medical treatment they had on ship.

The day after that, he saw one of Sturpik and Tomlin's two friends, and the fellow was worse off than Tomlin. Again, he wondered why the fellow hadn't received better medical treatment. Then he recalled that when he got the lash, they had refused to patch his back up, wanted him to live with his punishment.

York hunted down Marko, found him seated at a command console. He didn't beat around the bush, but asked him straight out, “What happened to Tomlin?”

Marko frowned, considered York for a moment, then said, “This ain't the streets, kid, no matter what you've been told. There's people here got your back, so you make sure you got theirs.”

York said, “You didn't answer my question.”

Again, Marko considered him carefully, as if trying to decide something. “I had a suspicion you got suckered, and then I began to suspect who did the suckering. Pure coincidence me and Cochran were standing just outside the mess hall, heard every word you and them lowlifes said. And them marines got a pretty simple idea of justice.”

“But Sturpik,” York said. “He won't just walk away.”

Marko leaned back in his seat, folded his hands, and looked at York for a long, hard moment. “No, he won't. He's a hard case, been a problem for a long time. Maybe it's early enough for his friends to learn a valuable lesson, but not Sturpik. Funny thing about Sturpik, though, he's been AWOL since that night, probably slipped and fell right out through an air lock.”

After that, York didn't have to scrub any more decks. He suspected that Marko had arranged for him to be scrubbing the mess hall that night, by himself, on first watch. The older man had used York as bait to get Sturpik to reveal his hand. Interestingly enough, York never saw Sturpik again.

York managed to stay out of trouble for the next year. He continued to practice in the pod and flight simulators, frequently configuring the pod simulator like a gunboat turret so he could stay in practice. That turned out to be a wise move, because once they got a replacement for
Three
, the marines were still short a gunner whenever they needed a full complement, so the captain loaned York to them quite regularly.

Rodma continued his flight training whenever they had some slack time down on the surface of a planet. And when he joined the marines, York got to see more of Sissy, another benefit of being loaned out to them, though he had to be careful about that. The marines were casual about their bodies, and both men and women shared the same showers. Once, after a simple mission to supply an outpost down on an airless, nameless planet, York made use of the marine showers. He was just finishing up when Sissy stepped into the showers and began soaping down with chem wash. At the sight of her bare body, her round hips, small breasts, and dark brown nipples, York felt an erection coming on and he exited quickly, covering his crotch with a towel. He liked seeing Sissy, though she would never think of him as anything but
the kid
. She probably already had a boyfriend, likely one of the marines.

York also kept scoring pod kills, though the only time he again scored three in a single battle was at Arman'Tigh. But that was a massive encounter that involved more than a hundred ships, with multiple engagements over a period of two days. By his fourteenth birthday, he had four full chevrons on each arm and got a promotion to spacer second class, and two days after that he scored another kill.

At gunner's blood, Zamekis looked at the new half chevron cut into his arm and said, “Quite the hotshot, aren't you?”

Marko slapped her on the back and handed her a beer. “I tell you, Meleen, it's always the young ones who are the best. I've seen it before. Don't know what it is, but sometimes a kid like York turns out to be a natural. Couple more years, he'll lose the edge. He'll still be good, but never again as good as now.”

York had grown another ten centimeters in that year, and now looked most of the adult men straight in the eye. He even stood taller than some, but he was lanky and thin.

“Don't worry about it,” Stark told him. Several gunners were seated in the barracks playing cards. “My younger brother did that, grew straight up first, then filled out later.”

Stark frowned and a sad look crossed his face. He lowered his eyes to the deck and said, “He was killed in a firefight somewhere in Ganymede sector last year.”

“Sorry,” York said.

Stark shook off his melancholy. “Don't worry about it, kid. For him, it's over. For us, it goes on.”

They were only a few hours out of Cathan, a major imperial holding, and everyone was looking forward to a few days' shore leave.

“Ballin,” Straight said as she walked into the barracks. “The marines need you down on Hangar Deck for a drop.”

York looked at his cards. They weren't worth playing.

Straight said, “You got time to finish the hand.”

“No,” York said, tossing the cards onto the table. “I fold.”

Zamekis asked, “What do they need a gunner for? There aren't any feddies within thirty light-years of Cathan.”

Straight shrugged. “Beats me. But orders are orders.”

When York stood, she took his place at the table.

Down on Hangar Deck, he retrieved his vac suit from his marine locker and was in the process of running a quick check on its seals when Rodma approached him and said, “Hold on there, Ballin. You won't need that.” He had a conspiratorial grin on his face.

“What's up?” York asked.

“Put that thing away,” Rodma said. “You're riding in the cockpit.”

York frowned and Rodma added, “XO gave me permission to let you ride shotgun. You're the copilot this drop.”

York spluttered, “Why?”

“Part of the training. Got to pick up some heavy equipment in the Cathan Navy Yard. Ideal place for you to get some real cockpit time. No problems for light-years, nothing to go wrong.”

York found it exhilarating to sit in
Three
's cockpit and watch the large doors of the service bay open directly in front of him. Then the docking gantry shoved
Three
out into the blackness of space and they drifted away from the ship's hull.

“It's all yours,” Rodma said.

“Mine?” York asked.

“Ya, you're going to pilot her.”

“But I'm just the copilot.”

“Copilot's got to be able to fly just as good as the pilot, so she's all yours.”

York hesitated for an instant as they drifted farther away from
Dauntless
. But his gut didn't clench with fear, and while his stomach fluttered with butterflies at first, they disappeared quickly as his training took over.

He brought up a nav summary on his screens, dialed in the coordinates of the navy yard, was about to kick in the drive when Rodma said, “No.”

York took his hands off the control yoke, wondering what he'd done wrong.

“You're taking us down on manual all the way. It's the only way to learn.”

Behind them Sissy said, “Glad I don't have to be a pilot.”

She, Chunks, and Meg's replacement were seated in the aft cabin.

Chunks said, “Don't you get our asses killed, Ballin.”

Interestingly enough, the friendly teasing calmed York. Piloting the gunboat turned out to be quite similar to piloting a gunboat turret, though this was his first time in the vacuum of space with none of the aerodynamic surfaces active, and he needed to consciously think in three dimensions. But once they hit atmosphere and the reentry plasma dissipated, the only difference from previous descents was that he was bringing the boat down from twenty kilometers, not just one.

When he had the boat parked on the tarmac of the navy yard, Rodma said, “You're on leave. Just be back here at oh five hundred in three days. You're flying this bucket back up once we've got her loaded.”

Sissy had come prepared with a spare marine tunic that fit York reasonably well. “You're coming with us, Ballin,” she said. “You haven't partied with the marines for months.”

She and Chunks led York to a marine bar called—York was not surprised to learn—The Drop Zone. By the time they got there, it was already quite late. They joined a group of
Dauntless
's marines at a cluster of tables, drank, and played cards.