by J. L. Doty
If he was going to die, York had to know if it had all been for nothing. “The kid?” he asked, but the effort sent him into a fit of coughing that filled his mouth with blood and spewed globules of it all over Palevi and the medic.
“God damn it, Sarge,” the medic cursed. “Keep him still.”
Palevi nodded at the medic, looked at York. “Stacy’ll be okay. But you gotta be still, sir. Yer chest is full of splinters from your chest plate.”
“The . . . rest?” York demanded.
Palevi’s face saddened. “Twelve dead, sir. Seventeen wounded. But we brought ‘em all home, Cap’em.”
York tried to relax, though his right foot was in agony and he couldn’t stop shaking. He reminded himself his right foot was no longer there, but it didn’t seem to care about that and still hurt like hell. The medic’s actions became more frantic and he realized then that he was dying. He didn’t want to die, not here, not this way: lying on a grav stretcher, his mouth filling over and over with blood, cries of the dying all about him. But at that moment he suddenly realized there was something far worse than death.
He struggled for one last instant of strength, managed to grip the open neck ring of Palevi’s chest plate. He couldn’t pull himself up, but he pulled the marine down to him. He knew what he had to say, and struggled to say the words, just a few simple words, the most important words in his life, “No . . . tanks.”
“No tanks, sir?” Palevi asked. He looked at the medic.
The medic shook his head.
“Sorry, sir,” Palevi said. “They may have to tank you to keep you alive.”
A long ago memory climbed up out of his stomach and into his throat. York fought to hold onto consciousness long enough to speak. “Please . . . No Tanks . . . The . . . Vincent.”
“The Andor Vincent, sir?” Palevi asked. “Ah Cap’em, you shouldn’t pay no attention to them ghost-ship stories. Just stories, that’s all they are.”
York shook his head frantically. He remembered all too well the voices, and the fear, and the pain, and now he had to make Palevi understand. He opened his mouth, pushed the words out with his last bit of strength, “I . . . was . . . on . . . the Vincent.”
Palevi recoiled as if struck. His eyes opened and his jaw dropped, and for an instant the impenetrable wall of his self-confidence crumbled. The medic’s reaction was no less dramatic, and he and Palevi looked at one another for a long moment.
York groaned, “Please . . .”
The medic gave one of those short, simple shakes of his head. At that, Palevi’s face hardened. He nodded at the medic and looked carefully at York, paused for a long moment. “If you gotta go down, Cap’em, I’ll personally see to it you go down clean. No tanks. You got my word on that, one marine to another.”
York let go, relaxed completely, felt as if he’d been suddenly relieved of a great weight. Palevi would die before he’d break such an oath.
Something inside his chest turned a somersault and pain sent him to the edge of consciousness. He gasped, choked on a convulsion and his mouth filled again with blood. He coughed it out all over Palevi and the medic.
“Shit!” the medic swore. “He’s goin’ down.” He started rifling desperately through his kit, but suddenly he stopped and turned to Palevi with a stricken look on his face. “Fuck, Sarge, I’m out of stass.” The medic leaned back, looked up at the ceiling of the boat, shouted at the top of his lungs. “I’m out of stass, god damn it! Cap’em’s goin’ down and I’m out of stass. Somebody get me some fuckin’ stass.”
For York reality became a distant, abstract thing, and a calm stillness settled into his soul. He was thankful his leg no longer hurt and the pain in his chest receded. Warmth washed over him with an enveloping softness, and then there was nothing.
CHAPTER 5: HUNTED
Lieutenant Magdelena Votak watched the expanding fireball on her screen with a feeling of overwhelming relief. The enemy had been vanquished in the cosmic fires of thermonuclear fusion, and victory was not sweet. That was one of the first things she had learned as a young ensign: victory was never sweet; it was merely a relief.
“All stop.”
She cut power to the sublight drive, felt the hull go free.
“A direct hit, sir,” Anda Gant said. “One hundred megaton warhead; no survivors in that.”
Maggie looked again at the ball of radioactive fire. “No,” Telyekev said almost sadly. “No survivors. Let’s pick up One and Two.” Telyekev sounded tired. “Mr. Sierka, what’s Palevi’s casualty count?”
Maggie suddenly wanted to see something other than screens. She needed some human contact, needed to see Sierka look up from the com console, needed to watch him say, “Twenty-three, sir, counting civilians.” But Maggie was denied that visual luxury, for in the helm cluster she could see next to nothing beyond the tiny world of her own console telemetry and implant feeds.
“Thank you, Commander Sierka. Mr. Rame, plot a course for Trinivan. Miss Votak, take it slow until we see how she’s handling.”
Rame’s numbers appeared on Maggie’s navigational screen and she spun Invaradin accordingly. She spoke without emotion, “Course is set at one quarter drive, which puts us about forty minutes out, sir.”
She applied power gingerly to the sublight drive. The helm moved sluggishly, had a tendency to drift to starboard.
“How’s she handling, Lieutenant?”
“Not too bad, sir,” Maggie said. “The damage to the starboard drive is giving me a little trouble, but I’ve got room to compensate.”
“What about full drive?”
“With your permission I’d prefer to keep it at twenty-five percent, and we don’t want to do any quick maneuvering.”
“Very good. Do so.”
The drive imbalance had begun to seem almost a personal, physical pain. She monitored it carefully until Invaradin was stable, then gave the computer partial control. Fatigue weighed heavily on her.
“I think it’s time you took a break, Miss Votak. Lieutenant Moboow will relieve you.”
Maggie wanted to protest. She was Telyekev’s best pilot, and by comparison Geara Moboow was a novice.
“I relieve you,” Moboow said.
Maggie stifled her protests, merely said, “Acknowledged. I am releasing . . .” she relaxed, keyed her implants out of the drive cluster, “. . . now.”
She became instantly aware of Moboow’s control: amateurish, indelicate. Invaradin’s keel wobbled momentarily as he adjusted to the damaged drive. To Maggie, with her senses still tied into the console, it was as if her own body was under his control. She felt she had almost become a part of Invaradin, and yet another part of her recognized that as the first symptom of a dangerous hallucination common to good pilots.
The helm cluster rose slowly, releasing her from its demanding grasp. For the first time in hours her eyes took in something besides scan readouts and navigational summaries. It brought home that she was not herself the ship; she suddenly became conscious of her own body, and how badly she needed to piss.
“Miss Votak,” Telyekev’s said. “Mr. Temerek’s having trouble with the marines on Hangar Deck. Please go down there and take control.”
Telyekev understood the need to get a pilot out of the cluster after a couple hours of combat. “Right away, sir,” she acknowledged.
Hangar Deck was a mess, dirtlovers wandering everywhere in a disorganized mob tainted by fear and confusion. For crowd control Temerek had brought in those marines who hadn’t dropped to Trinivan. That was a double mistake: the marines didn’t like taking orders from naval officers, and Temerek wasn’t good at giving orders to anyone, let alone a female marine sergeant with twenty years seniority on him. When Maggie stepped into Hangar Control the first monitor she looked at showed a picture of young Lord Temerek standing in the middle of one of the service bays screaming at the ranking marine noncom, a woman named Meciden Notay. There were civilians milling about freely, while Notay’s marines stood idly by refusing to d
o anything.
Maggie leaned over the shoulder of one of the controllers, keyed her implants into the console there and activated the pickup. “Mr. Temerek, Sergeant Notay,” she growled, “report to Hangar Control immediately.”
Temerek stormed into the control room with Notay following casually behind him. He opened his mouth, started to shout something at Maggie but she cut him off. “Take charge of your controllers, Mr. Temerek, while I speak to Sergeant Notay.” Temerek hesitated for a moment, looked into her face, then sat down at a console without speaking.
Notay came to attention and saluted carelessly. Maggie turned on Notay and lowered her voice to a soft growl. “One and Two are coming in with heavy casualties. They’re your people, shot up pretty bad. Now get those service bays cleared so those boats can dock. And be careful. There are some very important people out there.”
Notay’s sloppy attitude disappeared. She shot out of the control room, barked orders at her marines, and they herded the civilians like cattle. They were not easy on the first dirtlover to put up an argument, and after that everyone was careful to obey.
One came in nicely, but Two came in sluing to port and wobbling badly. Twisted and warped underbelly plates were dire evidence of a small rocket that had struck it just after takeoff. Two’s pilot managed to clear the main service bay seals, but at the last moment his braking jets failed, and Two came to rest in a slow motion of grinding and snapping plast and steel.
Hangar Deck crew was good. In seconds they had the service bays shut, sealed, graved up, repressurized, and scanned for any residual contamination. When they sounded the all clear the hatches of both boats burst open simultaneously and erupted with marines half stripped of their armor, carrying wounded comrades on grav litters and sprinting for the service lift.
Maggie left the control room looking for York. In the confusion of One Bay she caught glimpses of several wounded men and women with their features locked up in the rigidity of stass, their skin a bright, lobster red, their eyes open, unfocused, unseeing. She passed a wounded female marine lying momentarily abandoned on a litter. The woman had been stripped to the waist then wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, and one breast lay immodestly exposed. Maggie carefully draped a corner of the litter blanket over the breast.
Somewhere in the confusion Maggie heard a young woman shouting angrily. It took her a moment to spot her, the princess venting her anger at poor Palevi. Maggie intervened. “Excuse me,” she said loudly as she stepped between the two. She bowed lightly from the waist. “I’m Lieutenant Magdelena Votak. May I be of some assistance, Your Highness?”
The princess spoke breathlessly. “Thank god there’s someone here besides these marines!”
Maggie looked at Palevi. “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll take care of this.” She scanned the crowd for York but saw no sign of him.
Maggie turned back to the princess, noticed a churchman behind the young noblewoman. His eyes were calculating and hard.
The churchman took up what seemed an almost defensive position behind the princess. “That marine refused to let me speak to your captain,” the princess said. “I hope I won’t have the same problem with you.”
Maggie nodded deferentially. “If you’ll come with me I’ll try to arrange that.” She herded the princess toward Hangar Control, the churchman following. “We’ve just come out of combat, and we took some damage, so Captain Telyekev is very busy at the moment. Can you tell me what this is about?”
The princess halted, turned on Maggie angrily. “Captain Ballin murdered a defenseless Trinivanian woman, and I intend to press charges.”
The princess had regained her composure. As for York committing murder, Maggie suddenly feared something like that was all too entirely possible. “That’s a rather serious charge.”
“It was a rather serious crime.”
Maggie nodded, “Please follow me.”
When they stepped into Hangar Control the princess spotted Temerek, shouted, “Daka!” and rushed to him. He in turn stood from his console and bowed deeply. “Daka. What are you doing out here?”
Temerek had the princess occupied for the moment so Maggie quickly got hold of Telyekev and explained the situation. “Did she give you any details?” he asked.
Maggie shook her head. “No, sir. Nothing beyond the accusation that York murdered a defenseless woman.”
“Damn it!” Telyekev swore. “What the hell has he done now?”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. Have you spoken to him? I can’t find him anywhere down here.”
Telyekev flinched and his expression softened, and at the look on his face a hard lump formed in the pit of Maggie’s stomach. “Mr. Ballin came in under stass on the A-list. Most of one leg missing, deep chest wounds, deep head wounds. He’s in surgery now, listed as extremely critical. Yan thinks she may have to tank him, and even then he still may not make it.”
Maggie closed her eyes, tried to breath evenly. “Not the tanks, sir. York wouldn’t want that.”
“God damn it!” Telyekev shouted. “I’m not going to let my best line officer die just because of some silly superstition about a ghost ship.”
“It’s not a superstition with York, sir.”
Telyekev nodded, spoke more softly. “Ya, I know. And so does Miss Yan. She’s doing everything she can, but she may have no choice.”
Maggie nodded. “What should I do about Her Highness, sir?”
“Bring her up to my office immediately. Then talk to the marine noncoms and find out exactly what happened down there. And have anyone who might know anything report to Commander Joyson on the double. I want statements on record while their memories are still fresh.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Maggie said mechanically.
Telyekev broke the connection.
Temerek and the princess were still reliving old times. Maggie interrupted them politely. “Your Highness, Captain Telyekev has instructed me to escort you to his office immediately.”
“It’s about time,” the princess snarled.
“This way,” Maggie said, indicating the hatch to Hangar Control. The princess turned to leave and the churchman followed her. But before Maggie could follow them Temerek grabbed her arm. He whispered quickly, “Is it true? Is Ballin dying?”
Maggie looked closely at Temerek. The luck of a ship rode on the life or death of a lifer. She looked about and saw that everyone in Hangar Control was waiting on her words. “He’s in pretty bad shape: deep chest and head wounds.” She shook her head at Temerek. “And you, Dak, are a real two-faced son-of-a-bitch.”
Temerek frowned angrily. “Just because I don’t like the bastard, doesn’t mean I want him dead.”
The princess called out. “I’m waiting, Lieutenant Votak.”
“Coming, Your Highness,” Maggie said, then turned her back on Temerek and the rest of Hangar Control.
Theodore Rochefort, Lord Chancellor to His Majesty Edvard the Tenth, knocked softly on the door in front of him.
“Enter,” the intercom said.
Rochefort grasped the heavy, archaic knob, turned it, pushed the door open and stepped through, then closed it carefully behind him. He had barely turned when the emperor asked, “Well?”
“She’s alive,” Rochefort said as he crossed the room. “And apparently unharmed.”
The emperor let out a long, deep sigh. “Thank god!” he said. He buried his face in his hands, rubbed his temples and brow tiredly. When he looked up years of worry had disappeared from his face. To Rochefort it was another reminder his king was still a young man. “What about Lady d’Hart?”
“She was hurt,” Rochefort said, “But not seriously. For the time being they’re both safe.”
“Good,” the emperor said. “For a while there I thought it was all over but the executions. But they’re safe now, you say?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. They’re aboard Invaradin. I took the liberty of ordering Captain Telyekev to head for Dumark, and about ten minutes ago they up-trans
ited out of the Trinivanian system.”
“Excellent, Theodore! Excellent! Did you warn Cassandra to expect them?”
“The message was sent, Your Majesty, though Her Majesty has yet to acknowledge it.”
“Is there something wrong there?”
Rochefort shook his head. “The message was coded, of course, and I placed no great priority on it. Again I felt we should avoid the possibility of unwanted attention. It will take her time to receive it, decode it, and reply. But she’ll have ample time since Invaradin, even at top speed, will take at least a tenday to get there.”
“Good,” the emperor said. “Thank you, Theodore. I’ll sleep better tonight than I’ve slept in a long time.”
As an afterthought, the emperor asked, “What about Aeya?”
“She too is safe,” Rochefort said. “All three of them made it out alive.”
“Good,” the emperor said. He stared at his hands for a moment, then asked, “What about casualties? What did we pay for this little victory?”
Rochefort looked at the report he held. “Invaradin was forced to engage a Syndonese war craft. She was victorious, but she sustained damages. Her marines had to evacuate the embassy without fire support and under heavy fire from regular troops of the Syndonese Federal Directorate. Twenty-three of your subjects died today in the service of their king, and another forty-one were seriously maimed and wounded.”
The emperor’s face aged while Rochefort spoke, and the young king said, “It’s got to be worth such a price. It must be.”
Fleet Director Add’kas’adanna stepped into the committee chamber warily. Director General Kaffair already sat at the large, old table, tapping his fingers impatiently on the wood. Operations Director Zort sat next to him, equally as nervous, though if Add’kas’adanna knew Zort he was nervous only because he sensed Kaffair’s mood. But Zort was always fearful of something or other. Zort eyed Add’kas’adanna carefully as she sat down, though neither he nor Kaffair spoke.
