by J. L. Doty
York remembered shaking his head, saying, “I don’t want anything to do with those damn marines.”
Yan had shrugged. “It’s not up to you. The marine medics know their stuff as well as my own people, and Notay cleared it with me and the captain.”
There was one last thing she’d told him. “I had to pull some gray matter out of your head. Not a lot, not enough to affect your abilities, but you may notice . . . gaps in your memory. And if you do, let me know right away.”
York looked in the mirror again, at the chrome-plated eye and the mess they’d made of his face.
As Edvard entered the room the attendant at the door barked, “His Majesty, the King.” Edvard smiled at the guests assembled there, and of course they all stopped whatever they were doing or saying and turned his way. Depending on station, or rank, some dropped to one knee, some bowed deeply, and a few, like Abraxa, and old Archcanon Bortha, merely bent at the waist slightly and lowered their eyes. Abraxa’s bow had been getting shallower of late.
To dine with the emperor was an important privilege; a great honor, some thought. For Edvard these evenings were hard work, sometimes the only opportunity he had to meet informally with certain people under circumstances that weren’t carefully orchestrated.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” a rather nondescript man said, stepping casually in front of him. The man, while dressed rather simply, was actually a senior officer in Edvard’s personal guard. He bowed carefully, then stepped in close, a small instrument in one hand. “We have a minor problem, sire,” he whispered. He held the instrument out toward Edvard, paused at an appropriate distance, “May I, Your Majesty?”
Edvard nodded. “Certainly, Captain.”
The man held the instrument, no larger than the palm of his hand, close to one of the buttons on the front of Edvard’s coat. He looked at the instrument for a moment, nodded, touched something on the face of the instrument and pressed it against the button, nodded again, then discretely put the instrument away in his own coat. “It’s deactivated, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Edvard said. “The press?”
The officer shook his head. “Not likely, Your Majesty. They’re usually not that clumsy. Probably some branch of the military, or someone employed by one of the minor Houses. With your permission, we’ll remove the button at the end of the evening and conduct a full investigation. At the least, someone on your staff has accepted a bribe.”
The man disappeared into the small crowd. Edvard spoke for a time with the daughter of a minor Earl, a young girl bubbling over with excitement. But she’d been well trained and kept her enthusiasm appropriately damped, so Edvard enjoyed himself a bit. Next there were her parents. Her father’s holdings had become somewhat strategic in an alliance between Houses de Vena and de Plutarr. All parties concerned were close to agreement on the terms of marriage between the young woman and the son of Andralla Schessa, the Duchess de Vena. The boy was a fool, careless and irresponsible, but by law he must inherit the properties of House de Vena. The girl was smart, though quite young, but given time and training and tutelage under Schessa herself, they could be sure the properties would be administered properly.
Edvard chatted for a time with old Bortha. The titular head of the church worked hard at presenting the image of a wise, old man in his declining years. It was quite a disarming act, but Edvard knew better than to succumb to the old churchman’s guise. Bortha was a dangerous schemer.
Edvard was speaking with Andralla Schessa, second only to Abraxa on the Admiralty Council, when she said, “Since I’ve heard nothing more of Trinivan, Your Majesty, I assume Aeya is unharmed.”
“Good of you to ask. She’s quite all right, though I confess I’m a bit miffed at her for going to such a backward planet on nothing more than a lark.”
“Was that all it was?” Schessa asked, and Edvard had the feeling she was testing him.
He shrugged. “I hope so. Better that than her peacer sympathies getting the best of her again.”
Schessa changed the subject. “It’s a shame about poor Colonel Eschmann’s unfortunate demise.”
Edvard nodded. He had no doubt Eschmann had stepped on the wrong toes and been eliminated. “Heart attack, wasn’t it?” Edvard asked.
“Yes,” Schessa said. “And alone, with no one to call help. Could have easily been saved, I hear.”
“Have you chosen a successor?” Edvard asked, knowing the answer.
Schessa said, “Young fellow named Juessik. He was Eschmann’s second in command at AI, seems quite qualified. We’ll be voting on confirmation in the Council tomorrow. I assume you’ll see the paperwork shortly thereafter.”
The evening proceeded nicely. From what Edvard could determine there seemed to be some suspicion about Aeya’s activities, but no awareness of anything else. That was good.
Driving steadily in transition there wasn’t much to do on first watch, so York scanned the report on the engagement at Trinivan. The feddie destroyer had taken Invaradin by surprise, and the damage to turret six had come in the first instant of contact. Curious, York searched the log, found no mention, or recording, of his efforts to warn Invaradin, and he realized Sierka had done the unthinkable: he’d tampered with the official log. However, without proof he dare not make any accusations. But someday, maybe someday, Sierka just might find himself standing next to York on the surface of some planet, with only marines for witnesses. Sierka would most likely die in combat that day.
At the end of first watch York headed for the officer’s mess. With VIP’s on board it was unusually crowded. York grabbed a tray full of food, didn’t pay much attention to what was on it, had trouble finding an unoccupied seat, finally spotted an open place next to a bulkhead at a table full of civilians. But as he sat down all conversation at the table came to a sudden stop.
He peeled the lid off the tray, began eating in silence, heard someone whisper something about “. . . Ballin . . .” Then one by one they stood and walked away, leaving York alone at the table. He sat there and concentrated on eating his lunch.
Maggie Votak and Frank Stara rescued him. They stood from a table across the room, lifted their trays, made a show of crossing the room and sitting down opposite him. As he sat down, Frank growled, “Damn dirtlovers! And they’ve got you to thank for saving their butts.”
York shrugged. “They’re just snobs. Or maybe they don’t like the eye. Come to think of it, if the eye keeps the dirtlovers away, maybe I’ll wait until we get to Dumark to have Alsa do the cosmetic work.” He winked at Maggie.
She shook her head. “York! That’s not very nice.”
Frank grinned. “Who knows, York? You might discover a pretty, young civilian with a fascination for scars.”
York grinned back at him. “Maybe she’ll have a friend.”
“That’s all right for you, York,” Maggie said, her eyes narrowing, “but if old Frankie-boy here discovers anything pretty besides me, all Fleet won’t be able to protect him.”
When she looked at Stara there was something in her eyes that caught York’s attention. He frowned, looked carefully at them both for a second, then understood. He nodded his head and said to Maggie, “You finally accepted, didn’t you?”
She smiled, blushed—rather unusual for Magdelena Votak. He reached across the table, aimed his open hand at Stara. “Congratulations, sucker. She’s too good for you.”
They shook hands, and York asked Maggie, “What made you change your mind? Old Frank here has asked you a dozen times. And Telyekev wouldn’t have let you share Frank’s cabin without contracts. And now, all of a sudden . . .”
“Well . . . I’ve been rotated back. It was in the contact packet we got before heading for Trinivan. And if we make it official then they’ll let Frank and I stay together. And now . . .”
York knew the one fear she’d been hiding from them all. He finished her sentence for her. “And since you’d never been rotated back before, and you’d been out here for six years al
ready, there was just the chance you were a lifer. But now you know you’re safe, eh?”
She cocked her head slightly. “I’m sorry, York.”
“Ah!” He shrugged it off. “We should do a little celebrating tonight.”
Frank’s attention suddenly shifted to someone behind York. York turned and saw Daka Temerek heading their way with Lady d’Hart in tow. As they approached both he and Frank stood and bowed. “Please, gentleman,” she said. “Sit down. I understand on ship we relax some of the formalities.”
Temerek greeted each of them with a nod. “Maggie. Frank. Ballin.”
The noblewoman sat down, and York and Frank and Temerek followed suit. She looked at York, nicely resisted the temptation to stare at his eye. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant? I hear you were rather badly wounded.”
“I’m fine,” York said. “They can fix us up pretty quick.”
She smiled, was quite beautiful. “Well we’re all indebted to you for saving our lives.”
Her words clearly didn’t sit well with Temerek . “Yes, Ballin, very heroic, unfortunately that one little incident seems to capture everyone’s imagination best.”
“Dak!” Maggie said angrily.
York stiffened. “What incident?”
Temerek persisted. “I just want to know if it’s true.”
“If what’s true?” York demanded.
“Daka,” the d’Hart woman interrupted. “I’ve personally read the inquiry Captain Telyekev conducted, and Mr. Ballin was fully justified in his actions.”
York demanded patiently, “What are we talking about here?”
“York,” Maggie said softly. “We all realize we don’t know what it’s like to be in a drop zone, but we can guess.”
“No you can’t,” York said.
“Well we can try,” she said. “And I think everyone knows what it’s like to make split second decisions—”
York interrupted her. “What are you getting at, Maggie?”
She hesitated for a moment, and it was Temerek who answered him. “There’s a rather nasty story going around about a young Trinivanian girl . . .”
York’s appetite disappeared as he thought of the dead young girl with most of her abdomen blown away. Maggie was saying something about the princess filing charges and Telyekev convening an official investigation. “. . . You were exonerated of all charges, York.”
From the looks on their faces it was clear there was more. “What are you not telling me?”
Temerek grinned and spoke, “They’ve given you a nickname, Ballin.”
York shook his head. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”
“Butcher Ballin,” Temerek said loudly. “They like to call you Butcher Ballin.”
“God damn it,” York snarled, not caring if he offended Lady d’Hart. “We were under assault. I’d like to see you do better with mortar dropping all around you.”
Temerek shrugged. “I’m no marine.”
“No,” York agreed. “You’re not.”
“Stop it, you two,” Maggie said. “Why can’t you get along?”
York looked at Temerek. “Give His Lordship a year and he’ll pull a Home Fleet assignment like all the rest. Then he can pretend he’s an experienced line officer.”
Temerek shook his head. “I don’t have to be a lifer to know what to do in combat.”
“I’ve heard that expression before,” the d’Hart woman interrupted in a blatant effort to change the subject. “ What’s a lifer?”
Everyone froze, looked at York, and as the silence drew out he answered her. “A lifer is an officer who never gets rotated off the front lines, and never gets promoted beyond the rank of lieutenant. He’s forever a very senior junior officer, and his only break from combat duty is a few tendays of R’n’R here and there.”
The d’Hart woman frowned. “Do you mean this goes on for his entire life?”
York shrugged and nodded. “Most don’t live long.”
“But that’s terrible. How does such a thing happen?”
Maggie answered her, trying to put a positive spin on the rumors. “No one knows for sure. Lifer’s are rare. The rest of us get rotated on a random basis. Some after a year or two, but never more than six.”
York added. “Unless you’re a lifer.”
Maggie tried to ignore him. “Rumor has it lifers are a glitch in the computer, an accident Fleet is unaware of.”
“Some of us,” Temerek said, “think they have some character flaw that’s hidden deep in their file.”
“Lifers are valuable,” Frank added, speaking for York’s benefit. “They have enormous experience, and are considered good luck.”
The d’Hart woman looked at him carefully, perhaps beginning to sense there was something more here than merely idle conversation. “Have any of you ever met a lifer?”
They all looked at York, then they realized what they were doing and looked away in embarrassed silence. The d’Hart woman frowned, then realization hit her and she looked at York. “Oh! I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I’ve stepped in it, haven’t I?”
Behind him he heard Aeya growl, “Butcher Ballin.” They hadn’t seen her approaching.
York stood and turned to face her. She looked up at him, clearly intending to give him a piece of her mind. But then she saw his chrome eye and scarred face, and she stood there speechless.
York stepped around her and left the mess, thinking that maybe the chrome eye and scars weren’t such a bad thing after all.
The gathering was a small one. There wasn’t that much room in the aft maintenance bay on Hangar Deck. Telyekev and his first officer Joyson, and York and Palevi, and the twenty-one flag draped bodies, and a couple marines and a few crewmembers. And of course Rhijn and Thring were there too. It was a shame Rhijn had chosen to supersede the young canticle’s responsibilities. Thring took it all so seriously, even though most of his flock couldn’t take him seriously.
York stared at the small puddle of clear fluid on the deck as Telyekev gave the command and the hull echoed with the emergency blow-down cycle of the aft maintenance hatch. For eight crewmembers it was over.
They recycled the hatch, then turned to the thirteen marines sealed in body bags and lined up on the deck. York had chosen, more out of respect for the dead than any allegiance to the living, to wear a marine tunic for this occasion. He’d had to borrow it from Palevi, have them mount captain’s bars on it, and it felt odd to wear the dark blue with red piping and gold trim. He looked down at his chest, and as Rhijn started chanting his superstitious invocation over the dead, York couldn’t take his eyes off the old-fashioned brass buttons that shone in the harsh artificial light.
Rhijn put on a good show, very formal, with much pomp and circumstance. But that wasn’t appropriate here; better perhaps on the vids, or at court. It should have been Thring, York thought through the whole thing. It should have been Thring.
When Rhijn finished it took York a moment to remember the next move was his, and though he intended to call out strongly, his voice came out barely above a whisper. “Sergeant. Call the roll?”
“Yes, sir.” Palevi stepped forward carrying a list of names on an old-fashioned piece of paper. But as he called out the first name the paper stayed locked in his fist, unopened. “Private First Class Stanwell Sinscar.”
“Here, sir,” one of the marines called out loudly.
Palevi continued. “Private . . .”
Sinscar? York thought. He couldn’t remember the man, and as Palevi called out each of the names, and as a marine answered symbolically for each, he realized he couldn’t remember any of them. Sinscar? No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t recall a thing about the fellow.
The silence brought York out of his reverie, everyone waiting for him now that Palevi had finished. York nodded, and the marines of the grave detail began stacking the body bags into the maintenance hatch. A crewmember passed out small plast cups filled with a clear fluid. As they sealed the hatch York looked at the liqu
id in his cup: slightly diluted trate, very strong. He lifted the cup to his lips, and the others in the bay followed his lead. One sip, that was all, and the trate burned its way down his throat, then he held the cup out in front of him and spoke the time honored lament, “For them it’s over. For us it goes on.” He tipped the cup slowly and poured the rest of the trate onto the metal and plast of the deck where it spattered and splashed all over his boots. He waited until the rest had done likewise, then he called out, “Release them,” and the hull echoed with the emergency blow-down cycle of the aft maintenance hatch.
CHAPTER 7: REMEMBRANCE
York sat down on a bench against a bulkhead in the gym, breathing hard and soaked with sweat. The damn marines were pushing him too hard, wouldn’t let him rest, and his leg was starting to ache. He looked around: nothing but marines, Invaradin’s entire compliment of two hundred. The gym was filled with them, men and women all stripped down to the bare minimum with an immodesty that would have been shocking on the upper decks, grunting and sweating; exercise drills, hand-to-hand combat drills, physical therapy for the wounded.
Sergeant Meciden Notay stopped in front of him, tossed him a towel, put her hands on her hips and said, “Come on, Cap’em. One more set.”
York caught the towel, wiped it across his face and looked at her carefully. She was actually rather good looking, if a little tough in appearance, but stripped down to shorts and a T-shirt he couldn’t help noticing she was in pretty good shape. “Go to hell,” York growled at her. He leaned over, began massaging his calf.
Notay squatted down in front of him. “Leg giving you trouble, sir?”
