Of Treasons Born (25 page)

“Chief, I noticed you … issued sidearms to certain members of the crew.”

Seated behind her small desk, she leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers in front of her, looked at York, and smiled. “Captain Paulson came to me, accompanied by Chief Vickers and Chief Garmin. He ordered me to issue them sidearms.”

The message she was trying to give York was that she had no choice. “Thank you,” he said. “I was just wondering what the justification was for sidearms.”

“The only justification needed: captain's orders.”

York turned to leave, but as he did she said, “One more thing, Ensign.”

He turned back to face her.

“Vickers also wanted a list of any non-issue weapons registered with this office, and since the captain ordered me to comply, I gave it to him.”

York's gut tightened at the thought that Vickers knew of the old-fashioned slug thrower he had squirreled away in his stateroom.

Carney said, “The list is rather short, though. Just a competition piece I have, and a rather valuable antique of Commander Hensen's.”

At the look on York's face, her smile broadened. York thanked her and left.

The next morning, York got up early and went down to sick bay, where the corpsman bunked. He kept thinking of the way Cath had described Tomlin's death on
Dauntless
, and he wanted to speak with the corpsman alone and unobserved. “I'd like to ask about Lieutenant Kirkman,” York said.

The corpsman gave him a wary look. “What do you want to know?”

“How bad was the skull fracture?”

The look of wariness turned to open distrust. “Why do you want to know that?”

York shrugged. “Just curious.”

“It was a skull fracture,” the corpsman said. “You don't actually fracture a skull without some serious impact.”

“How bad?” York asked.

The corpsman looked around the room fearfully. In many ways, his nervousness was all the answer York needed, but he wanted to hear it. He pressed on, “What kind of wound, how deep, and how bad a fracture?”

The corpsman leaned forward and hissed, “The back of his fucking skull was caved in, fucking brains all over the place. And that's all I'm saying.”

He turned his back on York and walked away.

Chapter 26:

A Simple Solution

The situation deteriorated rapidly. Paulson hid in the stateroom he shared with York as much as possible, and every time York ran into him there, he was forced to listen to the fellow's litany of self-loathing. “I know you think I should stand up to Vickers, and I should, but I can't. He's probably better at running the ship anyway. Certainly better than I am.” It got so bad York hoped Paulson would relent and move into the captain's stateroom so he didn't have to listen to him anymore.

Vickers stopped even pretending to consult Paulson, and gave orders on the pretense that he was relaying them from the captain. York was more tuned in to the ship's rumor mill than most officers, probably because he wore gunner's chevrons and many of the enlisted personnel were a little more comfortable speaking to him. Confined now to Engineering, he heard from one petty officer serving on the bridge crew that Paulson always sat silently at the captain's console with a morose look on his face. Vickers gave them orders by saying, “The captain wants you to …” or “The captain ordered me to tell you …”

The petty officer speaking to York said, “And Paulson didn't say a fucking word during the whole watch.”

The fresh food didn't go as far as anticipated, even with rationing, and they had to eat more and more protein cake. At least it was textured and flavored—anyone who'd served a stretch in the brig knew how hard it was to choke down unflavored cake. One evening, York said to Paulson, “I'll sure be glad when we can get some real food again.”

Paulson looked down at the deck and wouldn't meet his eyes.

With his suspicions aroused, York asked, “We are running out of real food, aren't we?”

Paulson shrugged, looked exceedingly guilty, and said, “I have to get to the bridge.”

York stepped in his way, and in the narrow stateroom he completely blocked Paulson's exit. “Answer my question,” he said.

Paulson straightened and stuck his chest out. “I'm the captain. I don't have to answer questions from an ensign.”

York stepped forward and towered over Paulson, forcing him to take a step back. “Answer my fucking question, goddamn it.”

Paulson lowered his eyes and looked at the deck. “Chief Vickers feels … it's more appropriate to … distribute the fresh food to those who have more demanding watch assignments.”

“You idiot,” York said. “If the crew hears this, you're going to have a lot of pissed-off spacers on your hands.”

“You won't tell them, will you?” Paulson pleaded.

“No, of course I won't. But word will leak out somehow. It always does. And then you're going to have a real shitstorm to deal with.”

The next day, York was working in Engineering, and he overheard the enlisted personnel grumbling about the food. He listened carefully, but didn't hear any accusations of unfair rationing, just general discontent with
the crap they're feeding us
. Soletski overheard it as well.

The hull shrieked, pulling York out of his dreams. The
Horseman
down-transited as emergency lighting kicked in and he floated up out of his grav bunk. “
Warhead off the port bow
,” his implants said.

Paulson was on watch, so York was alone in their stateroom. In zero-G, he scrambled into coveralls, an exercise he'd practiced a hundred times in training. As he pulled his way down to Engineering from handhold to handhold, he listened to the developing situation.

“Must have stumbled across a picket.”

“Big warhead, forced us into down-transition.”

“Coasting at more than nine-tenths light.”

When he got to Engineering, Chief Soletski said, “We've got this under control, sir, but we're getting nothing from the bridge. See what information you can get us.”

York logged into a console, pulled up a scan report, and dug through the data. A feddie hunter-killer had spotted their transition wake, not hard to do with them screaming by at three thousand lights. The Directorate ship had taken a long shot and scored a near miss.

York briefed Soletski and the Engineering crew, then asked, “How much damage?”

“Not too bad,” the chief said. “We'll have it fixed in three or four hours. What about that feddie?”

York looked at the scan report and shook his head. “We're going in opposite directions. It'll take him a day or two to kill his velocity, turn around, and head this way. I'll be surprised if he tries to come after us.”

York met Soletski's eyes. “But he knows we're here. If they've got any transition relays in the area, he could spread the word quickly.”

Soletski nodded and said, “And Vickers is too fucking stupid to take evasive action.”

York grabbed a wrench to help the Engineering crew. Soletski had been optimistic. It took more than six hours to restore power, then get gravity, drive, and environmental control working again. Once they up-transited, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, though the ever-cautious Soletski wanted to monitor the power plant carefully for several hours, so York and the Engineering crew continued to stand watch until he was satisfied. Fourteen hours after they'd narrowly escaped the feddie warhead, York staggered up to his stateroom. He found Paulson dead.

York had his suspicions about Kirkman's death, but there was no question of any foul play with Paulson. Vickers would have been York's prime suspect, but Paulson had been giving him exactly what he wanted, letting him run the ship, so he had no motive. The cause of death was obvious. Paulson had tied a piece of plast cord around his neck, tied the other end to an overhead light fixture, then slumped down and quietly hanged himself. Just to be sure, York checked for a pulse and found none. In doing so, he also learned that rigor mortis had set in. He decided not to touch the body beyond that.

York called the corpsman down in sick bay to come up and dispose of the body. Then he called Carney and Soletski, the two senior chiefs who'd seemed tolerant and somewhat sympathetic. They agreed to come up right away.

The corpsman must have called Vickers, because the master chief arrived first. Standing out in the corridor, he demanded, “What the hell is going on here?”

York nodded toward Paulson's body, still hanging by the plast cord. “See for yourself.”

The corpsman, Soletski, and Carney arrived at that moment. The small stateroom York shared with Paulson was much too small to contain them all, so they gathered just outside the door.

The corpsman edged past them into the room. “Looks like he killed himself,” he said, examining the body.

Vickers shook his head angrily. “I don't believe it.”

Carney shrugged and said, “I do. The longer he was in command, the more he fell apart.”

Vickers pointed at York. “I think he did it.”

“What do you mean?” Soletski asked, frowning.

“It's obvious. He wanted command of this ship, and the only thing standing between him and the captaincy was Paulson.”

Vickers drew his sidearm and pointed it at York. “I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Captain Paulson. You're a fucking traitor, and you're going to pay for it.”

Convenient
, York thought. With Paulson dead and him in the brig charged with treason, Vickers would be in command.

“Wait a minute,” Carney said.

“Yes,” Soletski said. He asked the corpsman, “How long's he been dead?”

The corpsman grimaced and shrugged. “I don't have the forensic capability to determine the exact time of death. But rigor mortis has set in, so at least two hours, maybe more.”

“There you have it,” Soletski said. “Mr. Ballin was with us down in Engineering for the last fourteen hours, left us only a few minutes ago.”

“Bullshit. Somehow he did it and I'm arresting him.”

In a flat, hard voice, Carney said, “No.”

Soletski added. “I and the entire Engineering crew will testify that he couldn't have killed Paulson.”

“Don't defy me,” Vickers said. “I'm in command of this ship.”

“No, you're not,” Carney said. She pointed at York. “Now he is.”

From the look on her face, York thought Carney was none too pleased that their new commanding officer was an ensign straight out of the academy. He suspected she'd acknowledged him only to thwart Vickers's grab for power.

By that time, a large crowd had formed in the corridor, spacers of every rank looking on. Vickers looked around, and York guessed he didn't like the idea of having so many witnesses. He holstered his sidearm and said to York, “Nothing's changed.”

He spun about, catching a young, female petty officer by surprise. She was in his way in the middle of the corridor and didn't have time to move before he shoved her aside, knocking her against the bulkhead. Everyone else stepped aside and got out of his way as he marched down the corridor. Chief Garmin followed on his heels.

After the corpsman took Paulson's body away on a grav stretcher, the crowd in the corridor broke up. York asked Carney and Soletski to stay. “I didn't ask for this,” he said. “But I'm not going to abdicate my responsibility. What's your opinion on Lieutenant Kirkman's earlier strategy of keeping our transition velocity below a thousand lights?”

Soletski said, “We'll have less of a transition wake and be that much harder to spot.”

Carney said, “It'll take longer to get home, and we'll be eating more protein cake. But better that than eating a warhead.”

There was a specific protocol for transfer of command under such unusual circumstances. Once the corpsman certified Paulson's death, and with signed affidavits by two senior NCOs, Carney and Soletski, the ship's computer gave York primary command access. He went up to the bridge and found Vickers seated at the captain's console. York could almost taste the tension there as everyone but Vickers and Garmin locked their eyes on the screens in front of them and refused to look his way.

“Chief Vickers,” York said. If this was going to be a confrontation, it should be done in private. “If you don't mind, I'd like to have a private word with you.”

Vickers didn't take his eyes off his own screens. “I mind.”

“Then I'm making it an order.”

Vickers looked York's way and rested his hand on the butt of his sidearm. In the corner of his eye, York saw Garmin doing the same. Vickers said, “You don't give me orders.”

“Are you refusing a direct order from the commanding officer of this ship?”

“You're never going to be the CO of this ship.”

“Don't speak in the future tense, Chief,” York said. He had to get the man off the bridge, and had to do it without violence, so he offered him some bait. “Speak in the present tense, because I am now in command of this ship, and will be holding a meeting of the senior staff shortly. I'll let you know where and when.”

York didn't wait for a response, but turned and walked off the bridge.

He went down to see Carney. “Can you come up with three NCOs who you trust to obey proper orders?”

She grimaced. “It didn't go well with Vickers, eh, sir?”

“I don't think any of us thought it would.”

“As to your question,” she said, “I can come up with quite a few more than three if needed.”

York shook his head. “Three should be sufficient. And can you arm the four of you with concealable weapons, something you can hide in coveralls?”

Her eyes narrowed, and he wondered if the possibility of violence had shifted her loyalties. “I can do that, sir.”

“Then please do so. I'll be calling a meeting of the senior staff shortly. Please come armed as we've discussed, and bring your three colleagues with you when you attend. If all goes well, the weapons will be an unnecessary precaution.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

York went up to his stateroom and closed the door. From his locker, he retrieved the old-style chemically powered slug thrower and a box of bullets. He checked the revolving cylinder to make sure it was empty, dry-fired it a few times to remind himself of the feel, put five rounds into the cylinder, then carefully decocked the hammer and engaged the safety. It was small enough to conceal in the thigh pocket of his coveralls, though it would be obvious to anyone who saw him walking down a corridor that he'd placed something heavy in there. For that reason, he had to be in place before anyone else showed up.

On his way down to the officers' wardroom, he encountered a few spacers walking the other way. In the tight confines of the ship's corridors, it was necessary to turn slightly sideways for two to pass each other. York was always careful to turn his right side away from anyone he met. He noticed that none of them treated him like the commanding officer of the ship. That would soon change, or he'd be dead.

In the wardroom, he poured a cup of caff, then sat down on a long bench seat at one of the plast tables. He took care to sit at the far end with a bulkhead on his right, the door to his left on the other side of the room. He made sure his right thigh pocket was open and the gun easily accessible.

“Computer,” he said into his implants.

“Acknowledged
,” the computer said.

“Please inform all senior NCOs that the captain is calling a meeting of the senior staff in the wardroom in ten minutes. Attendance is mandatory.”

York knew Vickers could not resist such bait. If he didn't come himself, York might somehow turn the rest of the senior staff against him.

York waited with his elbow on the table, his left hand gripping his cup of caff, his right resting on his thigh below the table. Soletski was the first to arrive. He saluted York, grabbed a cup of caff, and sat down opposite him. Harkness followed, but didn't get any caff, and sat down next to York on his left. Carney came next, alone. York wondered if he'd misunderstood her loyalties. She didn't sit down, but leaned against the bulkhead next to the door.