by J. L. Doty
“You’re damn right it’s giving me trouble.”
She stood up, shouted over her shoulder. “Kalee. Front’n’center. Cap’em’s leg’s acting up.”
One of the marine medics slipped out of the crowd carrying a medical kit, squatted down in front of York and began rifling through the kit. It took York a moment to recognize him. “You’re the one patched me up on the boat, aren’t you?”
Kalee found what he was looking for. “Yeah, Cap’em. That was me.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it, Cap’em.” Kalee pressed a small, black box against the side of York’s calf, threw a switch on it and York’s leg went numb from the knee down. “Nothing to worry about, Cap’em. I just turned off your cyb. Need to make a few adjustments. That’s all.”
While the medic worked Notay sat down next to York, handed him a tumbler of cold water. York gulped at it greedily. “Glad you could make it this time, Cap’em.”
York finished drinking, looked at the woman and shrugged, “The old man made it an order.”
She smiled. “It’s all for the best, Cap’em. We need to stress that new leg of yours a little, work the bugs out of it. Besides, you’re a marine. It’s only right you working out with the rest of us.”
York started to growl that he wasn’t a damn marine, but instead he asked, “What kind of game are you playing, Notay? You and Palevi.”
“Game, Cap’em?” She looked offended. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. You marines treat me like shit, then all of a sudden you start treating me like I’m one of you.”
“But you are one of us, Cap’em. And we take care of our own.”
“But I’m not. I’m navy, all the way.”
She shook her head. “You went back for Stacy and Dakkart. Only a marine would’a done that.”
“But I screwed it up.”
“That doesn’t matter, Cap’em. You went back. That’s what counts.”
The medic removed the little, black box from the side of York’s leg and he could wiggle his toes again. “I dropped the gain back on the pain circuits, sir. I also checked the fit on the interface and the neural circuits. Shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”
York grinned unhappily. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it, Cap’em.”
“That’s enough for me,” York said. He stood, tested the leg for a moment. “I’m going back to my cabin, get cleaned up.”
“Don’t forget tomorrow, Cap’em,” Notay reminded him. “Same time.”
York turned for the exit. “Yeah,” he said as he walked away.
He was only a few meters down the corridor outside the gym when someone called after him, “Cap’em.”
He stopped, turned about, found Dakkart jogging down the corridor toward him. She stopped just in front of him, saluted crisply. He returned the salute. “At ease, private. What is it?”
The marine relaxed, and politely asked, “Can I speak frankly, sir?”
York nodded. “Sure.”
“Well sir, I just wanted to tell you I don’t figure I owe you nothin’ for coming back for me and Stacy. It was what you was supposed to do, so I don’t consider it no favor.” She finished with a defiant look.
York shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s fine with me, private. Now leave me alone.”
“Yes, sir,” she shouted in his face, snapped to attention, saluted, then turned and jogged back toward the gym.
“Captain’s compliments,” the yeoman said, “And Captain Telyekev wants you to report to his office immediately.”
Even on a screen York could see the tension in the yeoman’s face. “Is Captain Telyekev aware I’m on bridge watch?”
“Yes, sir, he is. Commander Rame has been notified, and he’s arranging your relief.”
York nodded. “I’ll be right down.”
York logged off the system, cleared himself off the console. As he was doing so Paris Jondee sat down next to him. “I’m here to relieve you, York old boy. Kind of funny, isn’t it? Only an hour out from Dumark and captain, first officer, and third officer haven’t even shown their faces on the bridge.”
York shook his head. “You ask too many questions, Paris.”
“Questions!” Jondee exclaimed. “I didn’t ask any questions. Just thinking out loud, old boy.”
York looked at Jondee carefully. “Well do your thinking more quietly, eh?” He didn’t wait for an answer, stood and stepped around the fire control console to stand beside Olin Rame at the command console. He saluted. “Request permission to leave the bridge, sir. Under orders of the captain.”
Rame was busy. He didn’t look up, threw a sloppy salute and said, “Permission granted.”
As the captain’s yeoman let York into Telyekev’s office he whispered, “Watch out, sir.”
York didn’t need the warning. The tension in the room was palpable. Sierka stood at attention in front of Telyekev’s desk, a bead of sweat running slowly down his brow. Telyekev sat behind his desk making no attempt to hide his anger. Joyson, a calm counterpoint to the white-hot fury of her captain, sat comfortably on a nearby couch.
Not the time for sloppy manners, York snapped to attention beside Sierka and saluted crisply. “Lieutenant Ballin reporting as ordered, sir.”
Telyekev growled, “At ease, Lieutenant.”
York assumed the position, but there was no ease to be had in that room.
Telyekev was in no mood for small talk. “Tell me about Trinivan, Mr. Ballin.”
York frowned. “Where would you like me to begin, sir?”
“From the moment you left this ship.”
York told them about Trinivan. It was not the first time he’d told the story so he kept it brief, leaving nothing out, but hoping to avoid details. He didn’t want to get caught in the middle of whatever was going on here. When he got to the part about his argument with Sierka he merely said, “. . . so I contacted Invaradin to warn you of the danger and—”
“Then you did contact us prior to the attack?” Telyekev asked.
“Yes, sir. I followed standard procedure there, sir.”
“Did you now?” Telyekev asked. “And did you request fire support?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“And what did Mr. Sierka say?”
This was getting nasty. “Well, sir, it’s rather hard to remember. We were under fire—”
“Bullshit!” Telyekev shouted, standing and leaning forward on his desk. “I want to know exactly what was said.”
Joyson intervened. “Now Alexiae,” she said softly. “Don’t take it out on poor Mr. Ballin.” She looked carefully at York. “Lieutenant, we need to know exactly what happened.”
York shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I’d rather not make allegations I can’t prove.”
Joyson nodded resignedly. “I see you’ve already discovered portions of the ship’s log have been erased.”
York said unhappily, “It would just be my word, ma’am.”
“His word against mine,” Sierka added. “And I still don’t understand why the both of you’re so ready to side with him. He probably erased it to . . .”
Telyekev turned on Sierka with a sudden start, and Sierka’s voice trailed off into silence as Telyekev stormed around his desk, his anger unchecked, his face slowly expanding into a mask of rage. When Telyekev spoke, his voice was even more frightening for the calm, cold menace it held. “I want you to listen to something, Commander.”
Telyekev turned away from Sierka, leaned over his desk, touched a few keys on his console. York’s voice came out of a speaker there, surprising both he and Sierka. “. . . Sierka, you son-of-a-bitch. Where the hell are you? We’re under assault. Now. We need fire support—” His words were punctuated by the sounds of heavy weapons fire and exploding mortar rounds.
Telyekev touched another key and the sounds died. He turned toward Sierka, stopped with his nose only inches from the
commander’s face. “Apparently you weren’t aware a copy of any marine transmission is automatically stored in the marine log, which is separate from the ship’s log and its backup.
“I don’t need to be told what happened. In fact I’ll tell you. Mr. Ballin called com and told you about our feddie friends, and you ignored him. Not only that, you didn’t bother to report the fact to me. And then, as if that weren’t enough, you tried to cover up your actions by erasing the com recordings of the incident.”
Sierka lifted his chin proudly. “You have no proof I destroyed any recordings—”
“Shut up,” Telyekev shouted. For an instant York thought he might hit him.
“Be careful, Alexiae,” Joyson cautioned.
Telyekev made a visible effort to calm himself, but his voice still came out in a growl. “Don’t you say another word, Sierka. I’m so mad right now, if you so much as squeak I’ll have you vented on the spot and worry about covering it up later. You seriously endangered this ship. That feddie got the drop on us, nothing but a fucking destroyer and it managed to hull us. He could have burned us. Not only that, you left Mister Ballin and his people at the mercy of the enemy without the support they should have been able to expect from us. I don’t give a damn what kind of difficulties you and he have between you. He and his marines are my people. Do you understand? My people. You don’t double-cross them that way.”
“It won’t happen again, sir,” Sierka said.
Telyekev shook his head and growled, “No. It won’t. At least not on this ship. We’re going to dock at Dumark Station shortly, and until that time you’re confined to your cabin. You can take the time to prepare a request for transfer to dirtside assignment. Have it logged for my approval before we hit dock. And have your gear packed, because if you’re not off this ship one minute after we break seal, I’ll lock you up and vent you to space when we lift off again. You’re dismissed.”
Sierka was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. He saluted, turned and left.
For a moment it seemed as if Telyekev had forgotten York. But then he glanced his way, looked him over for a second, grumbled, “Get out of here.”
“Transition,” York said on allship, simultaneously blanking all exterior transmissions as Invaradin went sublight in Dumark farspace.
“Drones out,” Telyekev ordered.
Invaradin’s hull echoed eerily as the combat drones launched. They waited in silence for Anda Gant to give her verdict, though on green status with little possibility of any feddies in the vicinity the atmosphere on the bridge was relaxed. York picked up an incoming transmission, switched it to his implants, heard the voice of a bored com-tech. “This is Dumark Station requesting an identity check.”
York examined the signal carefully. “Captain, I’m getting a request from Dumark for an identity check. It’s properly encrypted and coded.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ballin. Anda, what’s the word?”
Gant’s voice was calm. “Nothing in our immediate vicinity, sir. We’re clear to a hundred thousand kliks. There’s quite a bit of traffic near Dumark Station, but everything we’ve scanned so far seems to be ours.”
“Olin?”
Rame sounded as bored as the station com-tech. “We’re point-one lights out from Dumark’s primary, well beyond heliopause. We can move fast if we have to.”
York heard Telyekev take a deep breath. “Well, it looks like we’re home. Mr. Ballin, open communications with Dumark.”
York touched a switch on his console, activating a coded identity transmission. It also opened them up to receive their contact packet—news, mail, official business—and it transmitted a copy of their packet to Dumark for relay to Fleet, all in a fraction of a second. Then he switched in his voice pickup. “Dumark Station this is H.M.S. Invaradin requesting docking clearance.”
The com-tech’s voice showed a little interest. “You people sure are cautious. How long you been out?”
“Six months,” York said.
They made a short transition hop into Dumark nearspace. A big convoy was staging for transit to Cathan the following day. Dumark was a large agricultural concern out on the periphery of the empire, close enough that a feddie strike was unlikely, but far from the worlds of the inner empire. Cathan was two hundred light-years deeper in. York hadn’t been that deep into the empire in ten years, and thinking of Cathan made him a little melancholy.
Invaradin waited in a holding orbit for three hours, though it would have been longer if the princess hadn’t been on board. When the docking gantries clanged into place they slaved into Dumark Station’s power, cut their power plant back to standby, broke seal, and were officially docked.
Anyone wounded on Trinivan was given immediate leave, while the rest remained on duty to get Invaradin’s repairs going smoothly. Back in his cabin York scrounged through his locker for a decent uniform, but everything was patched or badly worn. The best he could do was combine the trousers from his day blacks with the tunic from his grays.
York glanced in the mirror; there was nothing he could do about the chrome eye and scars. He’d put off the cosmetic work repeatedly, taken stubborn pleasure in the discomfort the sight gave the civilians. York got what he wanted: they’d avoided him with a vengeance. But he’d waited too long, and now Alsa Yan didn’t have any time for him. “Maybe in a few days,” she’d said.
The civilians on Dumark Station had the same reaction: some stared, most looked away. Even some of the military people had trouble looking him in the face. The ticket teller at the shuttle dock refused to look at him after doing so once. “Janston,” York said. “It’s on North Continent. Small agro coop.”
“What’s it near?” the teller asked.
York reached into his memory. He hadn’t gone back there in twenty years. “Nearest big city is Bowenhead.”
“Here it is,” she said, reading data off her screen. “Population: ten thousand. And you say this Janstown is even smaller?”
“Janston,” York corrected her. “And yes, it’s small.”
She scanned the data on her screen for another minute, finally said, “I can’t find any reference to it. Best I can do is get you to Bowenhead. There’s a shuttle leaving here in about two hours that’ll drop you into Andermay. From there it’s about a hundred kliks to Bowenhead via surface transit. Then you’re on your own.”
York thanked her, paid for his ticket, and six hours and half a world later was standing outside the transit depot in Bowenhead. It was a dingy, old place, badly in need of maintenance. There were no facilities for renting a vehicle, and only a few cabs, but none willing to take a passenger to the middle of nowhere. He finally found one fellow driving an old-fashioned, four-wheeled vehicle that coughed and spit obnoxious fumes. The vehicle’s owner demanded double the round trip fare.
“What you want to go to Janston for?” the old man asked once they were under way. There was something vaguely familiar about him. “Ain’t nothin’ there for a big-shot officer like you.”
The man’s voice kept plucking at some memory. “Just want to look up some old friends,” York said.
“I used to live in Janston, long time ago. What’s their names? I might know how to find ‘em for you.”
It felt strange to speak the names of his foster parents after so many years. “Maja and Tollem Zoa.”
“The Zoa’s eh? Ya. Sure. I know ‘em, or at least of ‘em. Sour old Maja and her crazy old husband Toll.”
The cab driver was right about Maja. But Toll? Good old Toll wasn’t crazy. York wanted to hear what else the driver knew. “Didn’t they have a foster son lived with ‘em some years back?” he asked.
“Ya,” the cab driver said. “Long time ago. Rotten kid. Always in trouble. No good. Come to a bad end, if I remember correctly. Tried to rob somebody. Fucked it up and killed ‘em instead.” The cab driver shook his head. “Ya. I’m remembering now. Judge sent him into convict labor, or into the navy, or something like that. Don’t know which.”
“He joined the navy,” York said.
“Oh ya?” the cab driver asked. “How’d you know that?”
York didn’t answer. The cab driver looked back at York and frowned at his uniform. Then he turned carefully back to face the road and they finished the trip in silence.
Janston was not what York remembered, though he didn’t remember much more than a hateful old woman, and a friendly old man. The place was tired, run down and shabby. The cab driver stopped in front of a small agro supply store, said, “This is it.”
York said, “I thought the Zoa’s were croppers.”
The driver shook his head. “Not for ten, twelve years now. They never were much good at cropping, so now they run the supply.”
York paid the driver and dismissed him, then stopped to look the place over. It needed paint, and repairs, and . . . He shook his head, pushed gingerly on the archaic, old, hinge mounted, spring loaded door at the front of the store, stepped into a large, dimly lit room with racks and shelves half filled with supplies and equipment. A layer of dust coated everything. Evidently Maja and Toll were no better at managing an agro supply than they were at cropping.
He let go of the open door and the spring slammed it shut with a loud bang. “Be with ya in a minute,” a female voice called. Some seconds later Maja appeared out of a back room. She was older now, but the sour and hateful expression on her face had not changed.
She looked at York suspiciously. “Good afternoon, yer lordship. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not a nobleman,” York said.
“Right,” she grunted. “I still need to know what you want. I can’t guess what some highfalutin admiral wants here in a agro supply.”
“I’m not an admiral either,” York said. “Just a lieutenant.”
“I still need to know what you want.”
York didn’t know what he wanted. He’d been on Dumark a dozen times in the last twenty years, and each time he’d thought about coming to see them, but always found some reason not to. He considered making up an excuse and leaving without identifying himself, but instead he blurted out, “I came to see you and Toll.”
