by J. L. Doty
“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 ea
se, 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?”
“Yes, ma’am,” York said. No trial; it appeared the old broad was going to be an easy touch after all.
“Good,” she barked rather tersely. Again she looked down at the comp-tablet. “Now it’s customary that a crewmember’s civilian past is not held against him, but I’m free to consider it if I choose. Four months ago, while stealing an old woman’s purse, you struck her on the head with a blunt object, causing her death. I don’t mind telling you if you were to commit such a crime while under my command, I’d keelhaul you out to an appropriate set of coordinates then vent you.”
York didn’t like the way her voice hardened as she spoke. “What’s keelhauling?” he asked. “And what’s venting?”
Her voice cracked angrily. “Pray you never learn.
“Because of your age the civilian courts chose not to execute you, even though you had previously been arrested more than twenty times. And for reasons I still don’t understand, they pressed you into the navy instead of sentencing you properly, most unusual since the press gangs don’t ordinarily take capital offenders. But be that as it may, you joined this ship on the planet Dumark and since that time have been a continuing disciplinary problem for my subordinate officers. You’re conniving, deceitful and disobedient.”
“But I try,” York lied in a pleading voice.
“No you don’t,” she barked angrily. “ Your civilian rearing has taught you if you can get beyond the moment, then you can repeat any offense you wish as often as you wish, and probably get away with it. But here that will not be the case. You committed an act of gross insubordination while this ship was on alert status. You disobeyed a direct order and struck the NCO in charge of your station.”
“But he hit me first.”
Captain Jarwith’s eyes turned the color of steel and she growled, “Don’t say anything more.”
She paused, looked at him carefully for a moment, then barked out orders in a sequence of staccato commands. “I sentence you to thirty days unflavored protein cake and water, and thirty days suspension of pay. During that time you will be given the dirtiest, filthiest, most dangerous jobs on this ship, and when not on duty you will be confined in the brig. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
York stifled a sigh of relief. The punishment was a harsh one, but it evidently could have been worse. He tried to look deeply remorseful, thinking he could steal real food and wheedle his way out of the brig when needed. “No, ma’am,” he said.
“Humph!” she growled. “No doubt you think you can get around this punishment in some way. But you need to learn I have absolute power over your life, your very existence, and I will tolerate nothing less than absolute and instant obedience from the likes of you. And to teach you that lesson I sentence you to fifty strokes of the lash.”
York frowned. “What’s a lash?”
Jarwith’s eyes turned almost sympathetic, and there was no joy in her voice. “The lash is a strip of hardened plast two millimeters thick, one centimeter wide and two meters long. It’s method of use is . . . well . . . it’s really quite impossible to describe.” She looked at the female marine guarding York and nodded. “Sergeant.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the marine snapped crisply, then literally picked York up by the manacles on his wrists. He struggled but she cuffed him once across the jaw, then dropped him on his feet between the girders supporting two bulkheads. Two marines joined her and helped her manacle his wrists separately to the girders. York heard the unmistakable hum of a power knife as she cut away the back of his fatigues, then left him standing with his back bare and his arms spread wide.
An ominous figure stepped into York’s now limited field of view. It was human in shape, but encased head to foot in mottled gray-black plast, with a face hidden behind the silvery glare of a helmet visor. It was the first time York had ever seen a marine in full-combat plast-armor. Someone had made judicious use of black tape to obscure all identifying insignia, as well as the name stenciled on the marine’s chest plate.
The marine saluted Jarwith crisply. She returned the salute and handed him a long strap of transparent plast. He doubled it up in his right hand, then struck it against the armored gauntlet of his left. It cracked against the plast with a sharp snap, and York suddenly understood the lash.
The marine walked around him, behind him, out of his field of view. Jarwith remained in front of him, standing at arm’s length, her eyes filled with sadness. That scared York even more than had the whip-crack of the lash against the marine’s gauntlet.
“I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I didn’t mean to do it. I won’t do it again.”
Jarwith shook her head and spoke without rancor. “Yes you did and yes you will, though I do believe at this moment you are truly sorry. But if I let you go now, you won’t learn the lesson you need to learn.”
She looked over York’s shoulder, nodded at the marine, said, “You may proceed.”
The metallic voice of the armored marine’s helmet speaker answered her. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”
There came no real warning beyond that, only a momentary delay, an infinitesimal instant during which York had enough time to hope he was mistaken about the nature of this punishment. Then he heard a loud snap, and a pencil thin line of searing, white-hot fire etched itself with infinitely painful slowness across the back of his shoulders. His universe exploded, expanding like the fireball of a warhead in deep space, then shrinking again to that thin, narrow line of incandescent pain. He screamed and pulled violently at his restraints, had a nightmarish vision of his back splitting open to disgorge gouts of fire.
The instant ended, and the metallic voice of the marine’s helmet speaker said, “One.”
There came no delay now, no moment of respite. A second line of pain cut into York’s back, burning its way this time across his ribs, and he disappeared for an instant into a gulf of black nothingness.
“Two,” the marine barked.
The lash struck a third time, “Three,” and a fourth, “Four.” Each time the marine voiced the count, and each time the blackness of an unknowing vacuum swallowed York for a longer and deeper moment, while between the strokes he screamed and cried and begged for mercy. For a few strokes he screamed almost continuously, until finally he was unable to scream at all. Then the black gulf devoured him and he felt nothing more . . .
Awareness returned slowly. He still hung by the manacles between the bulkheads, too exhausted to whimper or cry. His back was a smoldering cauldron of fire, and he could no longer distinguish the pain of the individual strokes. In front of him the ship’s doctor stood facing Jarwith, an injector in his hand. “That’ll keep him conscious,” the doctor said to Jarwith.
Jarwith nodded. “Any chance of permanent damage? It’d be a shame if he died.”
The doctor shook his head. “He’s young and strong. Probably be ok.”
Again Jarwith nodded. “Thank you.”
The doctor stepped out of York’s field of view while Jarwith came closer and filled it completely. Her eyes were now deeply sad. “The count stands at twenty-three,” she said. “I can’t let you pass out. You have to feel every stroke for it to do you any good, and you have to know I’m a hard woman with a hard job to do. And I want you to understand in the depths of your soul that I will do it.”
He could see lines of strain around her eyes as she looked at him, and he felt oddly sorry for her. Then suddenly she reached into a pocket, pulled out a length of some odd, brownish material about as big around as her thumb and a bit longer. “Thi
s is leather,” she said. “Real leather, the kind you don’t see any more, braided strips of treated cowhide. But then you probably don’t know what a cow is, do you?”
Without another word she thrust the plug of material edgewise into York’s mouth. It tasted strangely unfamiliar. “When the lash strikes again,” she said, “bite down on that. Bite down hard. It helps a little. Not much, but a little.” Then she turned her back on him, walked a few paces away, turned to face him again, and called loudly, “The count stands at twenty-three. Continue the sentence.”
CHAPTER 3: CONFRONTATION
“Cap’em.”
York came back from wherever he’d been.
“We’re about two minutes out from the embassy, sir.”
Without thought York said, “Computer, higee antidote, execute.” There came the all too familiar pinch in the side of his neck, then relief as the higee antidote flooded his system. “Computer, status, global, execute.” The inside of his visor flashed a detailed summary of his armor status: reactor pack levels and reserves; seal conditions; minor malfunctions flagged for repair at the next overhaul; maintenance status and schedules; his first aid reserves, which consisted primarily of drugs.
He put One’s outboard view on the inside of his visor, saw a large city sliding rapidly beneath One’s hull, a mix of old and new buildings. If they were closer to Luna he’d expect to see more plast, less stone and mortar.
He keyed his com. “When you get to the embassy, circle it once at a three hundred meters and give me a pan of the entire compound.”
“Yes, sir.”
