A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  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.”

  York headed for the main embassy building at a trot. The lifts were still out of commission so he had to use the stairs, and after six flights he staggered out onto the roof gasping for air. Tathit was waiting for him, visor down. York dropped his visor and they both walked out to the edge of the roof. As he looked out over the city he heard One lift off behind him.

  Tathit pointed down into the city. York watched carefully for some seconds, then, for just an instant, he caught a glimpse of a dark figure as it darted between two buildings. He adjusted the magnification on his helmet pickups, watched the scene on the inside of his visor expand rapidly.

  The figure moved again, and while York’s glimpse was fleeting, it was enough to see the glint of armor and the hint of an insignia. A hard knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

  He dropped the magnification back to normal and waited. Out in the city he saw another shadow move, then another, and another. He waited several seconds and saw a dozen more.

  He and Tathit stepped away from the edge of the roof as he keyed his com to the open marine frequency. “This is Ballin. Visors down and seal ‘em up. We’ve got armored feddie regs out there. Looks like a full company of ‘em. Palevi, you’ve got the wall. Act at your own discretion. I’ll contact Invaradin.”

  York keyed his com to Invaradin’s command frequency. “Invaradin, this is Ballin requesting emergency com clearance.”

  There came no answer, Sierka again making him wait.

  “Invaradin, this is Ballin. We are red down here.”

  Still he had to wait, but Sierka finally did acknowledge him. “What do you want now, Ballin?”

  “We’ve spotted a company of Syndonese regulars moving in on us, sir. We’re about to be hit hard.”

  “Syndonese regulars, Lieutenant. I seriously doubt that. There are no Directorate troops operating within thirty light-years of this system. Stop trying to justify your earlier errors in judgment by—”

  “God damn it!” York shouted. “I know a feddie when I see one. And if we’ve got feddie troops down here, you’ve got a feddie warship up there somewhere.”

  York’s com went silent. He switched com channels. “One and Two, dump your passengers and get the hell down here on the double. We need fire support and evac. And if either of you can get hold of anyone on the bridge, let ‘em know we’re being hit.”

  “Ready,” he heard Palevi say. “On my command: two second burst . . . FIRE!”

  The embassy compound filled suddenly with the scream of automatic weapons. A few of the darting shadows in the streets below were caught in the open; one literally burst into pieces in the crossfire between two power rifles. York drifted off into that half-dream world of adrenaline and fear where he oscillated between hysteria and panic.

  The two second burst ended abruptly and the feddie troops began returning fire. “Three second burst,” Palevi said. “Then fire at will . . . FIRE!”

  The feddies were now returning a continuous stream of fire. York could see tracers from at least two emplacement skipping about through the compound. “Sierka, you son-of-a-bitch,” he screamed into his com. “Where the hell are you? We’re under assault. Now. We need fire support.”

  “Cap’em, this is Hyer. I got bad problems down here. The locals’re out of control, crawlin’ all over the Diana’s shuttle.”

  “Use your weapons,” York barked.

  “Can’t, sir. The princess is with ‘em. Probably hit her too. It’s like she thought we was the enemy.”

  “Damn!” York snarled. “I’m coming down, and if anything breaks before I get there, your only responsibility is to keep her safe.”

  “Sir?” Hyer asked indignantly.

  “You heard me. Just fucking do it.”

  York hit the stairwell at a run, taking the steps three at a time. His world narrowed to the next step, and the importance of hitting it squarely.

  He reached the bottom, burst into the hallway there, realized he’d overshot by one floor and was down in the basement. He reversed his tracks, ran back up to the ground floor, then down the length of the first floor hall and out onto the embassy lawn.

  The Trinivanian locals, swarming all over the Diana’s shuttle, looked like ants on a piece of rotted food. They spilled out of the open cargo bay, with people climbing desperately over one another in a panicked effort to save themselves. Some had wrapped their arms tightly about the shuttle’s skids, hoping to ride out that way, never thinking what would happen when they reached the vacuum of space. And in the midst of it all stood the princess, shouting at everyone. York looked about quickly, spotted the churchman Rhijn standing far to one side out of danger.

  “Cap’em,” Hyer said. “Shuttle pilot wants to lift off. Says he’s going whether you like it or not.”

  “The hell he will,” York growled. “You tell him if he lifts one second before I give the word, we’ll shoot hell out of him and leave him for the feddies.

  “What about these locals? Did you finish searching them?”

  “Only about half, sir.”


  York nodded unhappily. “I’m going into that mob to get the princess out. Cover me. And remember: her life has priority.”

  York walked into the mob carefully with his hand resting on the hilt of his gun so no local could grab it. They took no notice of him at first. Frightened people ran about in front and behind him, but none blocked his path. He approached the princess from behind, reached out and gently took hold of her shoulder.

  She jumped and turned to face him. “Who are you?” she shouted above the noise of the mob and the gunfire, unable to see his face through the blackened visor, and not thinking clearly enough to look at the name stenciled on his chest plate.

  He activated his external speaker. “Ballin. Will you come with me please?”

  “No,” she said flatly, though without conviction.

  “Cap’em. This is Palevi. We can’t hold out much longer.”

  “Two minutes. I’m on the front lawn trying to get the princess out. I need two minutes.”

  There was an almost undetectable pause. “You got ‘em, sir.”

  York switched back to his external speaker. The princess was shouting something at him. “Shut up!” he barked.

  She started and her eyes narrowed angrily. “What did you say?”

  “I said shut up. You’re coming with me now if I have to carry you out. Is that clear?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Listen to me,” York said. “You can pound on me all day and my armor’ll protect me. But you start that and this mob’ll go crazy, and my marines will then protect you with some very powerful weapons and kill a bunch of these people. Or you can come with me nice-like. It’s your choice, so make up your mind and do it now.”