A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  Her eyes narrowed. “What you want with us? We ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “No,” York said. “You’re not in any trouble. I just came to visit. I’m York Ballin.”

  She jumped as if stung, and her eyes narrowed even further. “The hell you say!” She stepped back warily, but leaned forward and squinted at him. After a moment she shook her head. “Well I guess you are. What you come back for? We ain’t got nothin’ you can have.”

  “I don’t want anything,” York said. “I just came to visit.”

  “What for?” she asked. “Why now, after all this time?”

  York shrugged and shook his head. “I just . . . thought I’d visit.”

  She squinted at him harder, dripping with suspicion, stood that way for what seemed an eternity, then suddenly nodded over her shoulder, spun about and walked toward the back of the store. “What the hell! Come on back. At least Toll’ll like seeing you again. We’re eating dinner. I suppose you want some for yourself. Probably still eat like a protein processor.”

  York followed her, stepping into a dark passage that led to the back of the store. They crossed through a small living room, littered and unkempt. Maja had never been much of a housekeeper.

  In a tiny kitchen Toll sat at a table that dominated the room, a plate of food in front of him, Maja’s plate nearby. He, like Maja, was much older than York remembered: grayish-white hair, the skin of his face lifeless and fleshy. His attention was devoted to a portable vid sitting on the table in front of him, blaring something loud and noisy. He took no notice of York and Maja, stared blankly at the screen and giggled now and then at something, picked at the food in front of him.

  Maja leaned over and shouted into one of his ears, “Look who’s here.”

  He took no notice, continued to stare at the screen even as Maja grabbed a third plate and threw it onto the table with a crash. “Look who’s here, you crazy old man.”

  She looked at York. “Sit down and eat.”

  York obeyed, feeling oddly like the twelve-year-old boy who, twenty-two years ago, had obeyed the same sour commands barked in the same harsh voice.

  She threw some food on his plate, then, sitting down herself, she reached out and turned off the vid.

  Toll whimpered and looked at her.

  “York’s here,” she shouted at him.

  Toll frowned. “York?”

  “York Ballin. The boy, you old fool.”

  Toll’s head turned toward York slowly, his face vacant and lifeless. York wanted to cry; strong silent Toll, able to withstand even Maja’s strongest tongue lashing with an indifference York had always admired, reduced by the years to this whimpering old man.

  “York?” he asked again.

  “Hello, Toll,” York said.

  Toll started as recognition hit him. “York boy?” He smiled, and for an instant the old Toll was there, then just as quickly he was gone and the shabby old man returned. It was the shabbiness that bothered York most.

  “Eat,” Maja barked.

  Toll obeyed.

  York looked at the food. “I’m really not hungry.”

  “It’s on your plate so eat it.”

  York ate. It was the lowest quality of protein cake and dark, bitter synthetic caff. It had almost no taste, but he ate it anyway.

  They ate in silence, interrupted only by an occasional bark from Maja. When the meal was done she cleared the table, dropped the leftovers into the recycle processor and the dishes into the sterilizer, then left without a word. And York and Toll sat in silence.

  After what seemed an eternity Toll finally moved. He reached out hesitantly, like a child afraid he might be slapped down, and touched the sleeve of York’s tunic. He fingered the stripes there gently. “Navy boy,” he said.

  “Yes,” York said. “I’m a lieutenant on the cruiser Invaradin. She’s a good ship.”

  “Do you go see stars?” Toll asked.

  York nodded. “Yes. Sometimes. But mostly we just fight feddies.”

  Toll nodded mechanically, looked at the silent vid longingly, then fearfully at the door through which Maja had disappeared. York understood now, as he and Toll had always understood one another. But he wondered if the old man could still understand him after all these years, especially with what he wanted to ask.

  “Toll,” he said tentatively, trying to get the old man’s attention, reaching far back into the memories of a frightened, six year old boy, who, all those many years ago, had clutched desperately to the one familiar person in a world turned strange and foreign. It had been a man’s hand he’d held so tightly that night. Not a father’s hand, not someone he’d loved or longed for, but a face and a voice that was, at least, familiar when he’d needed familiarity most.

  “Toll?” he asked. “Do you remember the man who brought me here? I was six years old at the time. That was twenty-nine years ago. I’ve tried to remember his name. It was something like Matches. Do you remember?”

  “Matches?” Toll asked.

  “Yes,” York said eagerly. “Matches. Was that his name?”

  Toll nodded. “Matches. Yes. Matches.”

  “Are you sure?” York asked. “It was a Lunan name—inner empire. Matches . . . or Mathis . . . or something like that.”

  “Yes,” Toll said, nodding idiotically. “Mathis.”

  “What you asking him for?” Maja snarled, standing in the doorway. “He can’t remember yesterday, let alone thirty years ago. And why you wanna know anyway?”

  “I was just curious,” he lied.

  “Well he don’t remember.”

  “Do you?” asked York.

  “O’course not. That was thirty years ago for me too. The man brought you. Said we was to tell everyone you was my dead sister’s boy. Sent cash money every month. Said if we told anyone about him, or didn’t raise you right, he’d take you away and the money would stop. Money stopped anyway once you went away to the navy.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at York angrily. “We needed that money. Bad we needed it. And that’s all. There ain’t no more to tell.”

  That night Maja fixed up a cot for York, but he didn’t get much sleep. He lay awake most of the night, angry at himself for wasting his time on an idiotic quest for information thirty years dead. He managed to get a few hours of restless sleep near dawn, then got up quietly with the sun and decided to leave without saying good-bye. He was sneaking out through the store when he caught sight of the small comp terminal at the counter there, and on impulse he sat down and punched in a call to Invaradin.

  Krass Doanne was on com watch and her face appeared on the screen. She was junior enough to obey most any order York gave her short of outright mutiny or treason. “Route me through ship’s Central . . .” he said, “. . . into Dumark’s central banking computer. And don’t flag me as an indirect.”

  She looked at him narrowly. Such a request was highly improper, and only marginally legal. “Yes, sir,” she said

  Moments later he was in direct contact with Dumark Central. His access was limited, but they thought the call had originated on Invaradin. He requested access to Maja and Toll’s banking and credit records, giving an access code that identified his request as a security matter. That, the apparent origin of the call, and Maja and Toll’s status as nobodies, made it simple.

  They were broke, he found, badly in debt and getting in deeper by the month.

  He called up his own balance from Invaradin’s paymaster files. By Maja and Toll’s standards he was rich. There wasn’t much to spend your pay on when most of your life consisted of one deep space patrol after another: a couple of tenday leaves a year, a big binge now and then on a two day liberty, a luxury item or two aboard ship. And as the years had passed his money had just stacked up.

  He withdrew half his account, paid off Maja and Toll’s debts and had enough left to leave them a sizable sum in their own account.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  York jumped, turned about to find Maja looking over his shoulder. S
he was wearing an old dressing gown. “What for?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “I don’t need the money. You and Toll do.”

  She thought about that for a moment, then she nodded and held out her hand. “Here,” she said angrily, handing York a crumpled piece of yellowish paper.

  He took it, opened it carefully. It was an old piece of paper, ready to disintegrate at the slightest misuse, and upon it, written in a tight and repressed hand, was a single name: Collier Maczek. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “You wanted his name,” she said. “I wrote it down thirty years ago ‘cause I thought I might need to remember it someday.”

  York’s heart pounded as he looked at the piece of paper again. The name was there, Collier Maczek, written in a scrawl he guessed hadn’t changed in all that time.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I don’t need the name. You do.”

  “Transition flare!” Ducan Soe shouted. “Dead ahead.”

  Jewel Thaaline’s heart skipped a beat. “Have we been spotted?”

  Soe shook his head. “I don’t know. We’re still a good half light-year out. Maybe they picked up our transition wake. But we’re running dead slow and awfully clean. They’d have to be good.”

  Jewel nodded. “Don’t assume they aren’t.” She caught one of the scan-techs glancing at her fearfully. That wasn’t what they’d wanted to hear.

  “Damn,” Soe swore. “Another flare, right on top of the first. They’re coming at us in force.”

  “Can you see their wakes?” Jewel asked. “Are they fanning out, or coming at us straight?”

  “I don’t know,” Soe grumbled. “I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Then how the hell do you know they’re coming at us?”

  “I don’t. I assumed—”

  “Don’t assume,” Jewel barked. “I want hard data, not guesswork.” She looked at Tac’tac’ah. “Mr. Tac’tac’ah, see if you can pinpoint those flares.”

  Tac’tac’ah wouldn’t see much while they themselves were in transition, and not at this distance, just gross phenomena like transition flares and solar masses, and when they got in a little closer, planetary masses.

  “There’s another one,” Soe said. His voice had calmed somewhat. “Right on top of the last.”

  That’s better, Jewel thought. Soe was too experienced to be shouting excitedly.

  Jewel glanced at Chief Innay. The old petty officer worked his console patiently, double-checking the data from his techs. He looked up and their eyes met, one corner of his mouth turning up just the slightest bit, the closest Innay had ever come to a smile.

  “Well Tac’tac’ah?” Jewel asked.

  Tac’tac’ah’s voice was also calmer. “Looks like it was about three hundred million kilometers out from Dumark’s primary. Do you think they’re coming after us, ma’am?”

  Jewel shrugged. “Three hundred megakliks? That could be Dumark herself. We’re on line to Cathan; might be a convoy escort. We’re too small to warrant three ships.”

  Soe gave her a sly look. The imperials had been jumpy lately, to the point where they just might send out three ships to intercept a lowly hunter-killer.

  “Another flare,” Soe barked. “That’s four. Probably a convoy.”

  Jewel waited silently.

  “There’s another one. That’s five.”

  Jewel started to breath easier.

  “Bam, bang, bam!” Soe yelled. “There went three of ‘em, almost on top of one another. That’s eight. She’s a convoy, all right, and a big one.”

  “I’ve got a wake now, ma’am,” Tac’tac’ah said. “Dead ahead at point-oh-nine-three lights and closing.”

  Jewel nodded. “Mr. Soe, sound general quarters.”

  Soe slapped a switch on his console and the alert klaxon began pounding at their ears.

  “Mr. Tac’tac’ah, back off to minimum transition drive, and rig for silent running. This close to all that flaring it’s unlikely they’ll spot our transition wake. I want that convoy escort to pass right over the top of us. But be careful. If you accidentally drop us into sublight we could flare enough for them to see us.

  “Mr. Soe, how big is that escort now?”

  “I’ve spotted fourteen flares so far. The last six were in rapid succession, and now nothing. I think that’s it for the escort. We should see the main body flaring out any minute now.”

  “Fourteen, eh?” Jewel asked. “That’s a big escort.”

  “That’s a damn big convoy,” Soe said. “And we’re going to be right in the middle of it with their escort behind us.” Soe cut the alert klaxon, then switched his voice pickup to another channel. “Standby forward launchers.”

  Innay ignored the order, waited for Jewel to confirm it.

  “Belay that,” Jewel snapped. “We pass it up this time.”

  “Pass it up?” Soe demanded. “This is the chance of a lifetime. We’re going to be right in the middle of a big imperial convoy, with her escort out looking elsewhere. We could take out a couple hundred million tonnes of shipping before they knew what hit them, then transit out of here free as you please.”

  Jewel looked at him carefully before speaking. “This is a piece of incredible luck, all right. But it’s luck we’re going to use to help us carry out our mission, which is to slip quietly into Dumark nearspace. When that escort is past us I want full drive. I want to flare in right on top of that convoy as they flare out. They’re going to mask our transition flare with theirs, and we’re going to get closer to Dumark than could have been possible otherwise. And we’ll not engage the enemy unless it’s necessary to defend ourselves. That is an order.”

  Archcanon Bortha led the procession out of the great cathedral on Luna. The ceremony celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the crowning of the present emperor had been tedious at best. Bortha watched the Edvard and Rochefort walk away, huddled in some whispered conversation. “Lynna,” he said, still looking at the back of the king.

  His most trusted lieutenant stepped into his field of view. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “Have you learned anything yet?”

  “Very little, Your Holiness. As you requested I’ve made some discrete inquiries, but there’s almost nothing of substance available. Apparently Aeya was present when a rather nasty riot erupted on a planet called Trinivan, and one of our warships had to evacuate the embassy there to get her out of it. Trinivan is far out on the fringes of the empire, an independent government, with no significant resources nor any strategic value to either us or the Syndonese.”

  Bortha turned toward the rectory, began walking briskly without the apparent age he carefully displayed in the presence of laymen. Lynna followed close on his heels. “Why was Aeya there?” Bortha asked.

  “We’re supposed to believe it was a lark,” Lynna said.

  “But you don’t believe that, eh?”

  “Lady d’Hart was on Trinivan with her. And they’re being evacuated to Dumark where Cassandra is waiting with the queen mother and Martin Andow.”

  Bortha nodded. “There is a pattern here, isn’t there. Do we have anyone there?”

  Lynna smiled, a rare occurrence. “Rhijn is Aeya’s personal confessor.”

  “Rhijn?” Bortha asked. “Do I know him?”

  “You’ve met him, Your Holiness, though that was some time ago and there would be no particular reason to remember him. But he is a man of undying faith and unquestioned fervor.”

  “You trust him, then?”

  “Of course not, Your Holiness. But we can depend on him, especially if we offer him a Canonship if he does well.”

  “Very good, Lynna.” Bortha nodded. He looked at the Canon, who always seemed to have trouble keeping pace with him. “Please continue to investigate. Edvard and his women are up to something, and the church must know what it is.”

  CHAPTER 8: CONDEMNED

  York clutched Maja’s piece of paper in his hand all the way back to Invaradin, though he didn’t re
ally need it because the name Collier Maczek was etched deeply into his memory. And once back in his cabin he sat down immediately to dig into Invaradin’s data banks.

  He had to believe Maczek was a man of some means, and there had to be some record of his existence. If Maczek was, or had been, a citizen of Dumark, there’d be local records on him, or if a citizen of another world, there’d be customs records of his entries and exits. York patched into Dumark’s central computer, used his military status and security codes to gain as much access as possible, then ran a search on Collier Maczek, but the results came up negative.

  “Damn you!” he growled. He tried again, looking for variations on the spelling, and after a long wait the computer responded with a list of 3238 names. “God damn it!” he shouted, slamming his fist painfully against the clear switch. The screen blanked.

  His message light caught his eye, had been blinking for some time now, but he’d been too preoccupied to notice. He touched the acknowledge switch. The captain’s yeoman appeared. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Ballin. Captain Telyekev sends his compliments, and he’d like you to report to his office.”

  “I’ll be right there,” York said.

  He blanked his console, took a quick look in a mirror and adjusted the snaps on his tunic, then stepped out into the corridor. With the repairs to Invaradin under way, crew traffic was heavy in the corridors.

  The captain’s yeoman was in a positively jovial mood, and as he ushered York into Telyekev’s office he said, “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  Telyekev sat behind his desk. York started to follow the usual formula, “Lieutenant Ballin reporting as—”

  “At ease, York,” Telyekev said, throwing a sloppy salute. “Sit down.” He smiled and indicated a comfortable seat to one side. The sloppy salute was in character, the smile was not.

  “How are your parents, York?”

  That too was not in character. “They’re okay, sir.”

  Telyekev nodded. Small talk with junior officers was not his forte. “I have some good news. You’ve been recommended for an Imperial Cross.”