A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  “For what, sir?”

  “For the incident on Trinivan.”

  York shook his head. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but that wasn’t worth an Imperial Cross. Trinivan wasn’t much more than a police action.”

  Telyekev nodded. “I suppose you’re right, but visibility—being in the right place at the right time—can make all the difference. Her Majesty requested I make the recommendation, and under the circumstances, approval is almost a sure thing.”

  “Her Majesty?” York asked.

  “The Empress Cassandra was waiting here on Dumark for Aeya, and in her mind you’re the man most responsible for saving her daughter’s life. And I don’t doubt getting chewed up by a feddie rotary helped in the sympathy department.”

  Telyekev stood crossed the room. York jumped to his feet, but Telyekev waved him back down. “Hell, York. Sit down and relax for a change.”

  York sat down. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Telyekev shook his head sadly as he opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle. “That wasn’t an order.” He splashed an amber liquid into two glasses, capped the bottle, crossed the room and handed a glass to York.

  Telyekev sipped at his drink. “Her Majesty has arranged a reception at the embassy tonight, and she’d like to present you with your decoration there. You’re not exactly the guest of honor, but you’re damn close to it. All you have to do is wear your best manners and be polite.”

  Telyekev was holding something back. York put the drink to his lips and swallowed the entire thing in one gulp. It burned like hell, and he almost coughed it back up. His eyes watered as he looked at Telyekev. “What’s going on here, sir?”

  Telyekev looked into his drink and swirled it around the edge of the glass. “Invaradin’s been ordered back for extensive refitting.”

  York knew the rest, always the same. He’d be reassigned to an outbound ship, newly outfitted and ready to go on patrol for years if need be. He shrugged it off. “What’s my new ship?”

  “You’re to lay over here until H.M.S. Miranda arrives; about ten or fifteen days. She’s a good ship, York. A hunter-killer with a good record.”

  York added, “And she’s outbound for extended deep space patrol, right?”

  Telyekev nodded. “But I think maybe this time there’s an alternative.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I’ve asked Her Majesty to intervene for you with the promotion board, to recommend a field promotion to lieutenant commander. She said she’d take the matter under advisement.”

  York suddenly felt cold all over. It had taken him years to accept his fate: desert and run, or spend the rest of his life on the front lines, his chances of surviving the next patrol diminishing with each year. At best, if by some chance he did survive, they’d probably retire him to some isolated rock bossing convict labor. And with just a few words Telyekev had washed away the carefully constructed emotional callus that protected him.

  York stood, crossed the room, poured himself a healthy glass of Telyekev’s booze without asking permission and gulped it down, ignoring the burn. He stood there for a moment, letting the whiskey take effect, then he spoke slowly, “Is there really any chance she’ll actually do it?”

  “I hope so,” Telyekev said without emotion. “I hope so.”

  York returned to his cabin, dug out a bottle of trate, poured himself a stiff drink, gulped it down, wanted another but didn’t. If he had any chance with the empress, he’d kill it quickly by showing up drunk.

  He showered, shaved again, then dug deep into his locker for his dress blacks, then remembered he hadn’t owned a dress uniform in years. He did have one good pair of day blacks only slightly faded, with no patches. If he kept the tunic collar snapped tightly shut, he’d look passable.

  He went stationside to catch a shuttle to the embassy and ran into Maggie and Frank and Paris waiting at the shuttle dock. They were in a party mood, and looking forward to some sort of spectacle surrounding the empress.

  The shuttle was far from crowded, and once it got under way York leaned back, closed his eyes and recalled a lot of thoughts he’d long ago laid to rest. Telyekev already had two senior officers younger and less experienced than him. Anda Gant used to report to him, and now she was in charge of her own department, and he frequently reported to her.

  Fleet would never let him quit, so his only real alternative was desertion. The navy was too busy to hunt him down if he did it right, and the war left enough chaos in its wake for someone like him to operate on the fringes of legality. But he’d need false papers and money. He’d have to start pulling cash out of his pay account now in small sums, stow it away somewhere safe. Maybe in a year or two he’d be ready.

  The marines guarding the embassy gate were not at all happy with the tightened security procedures in effect that evening. Armed to the teeth, stuffed uncomfortably into their dress uniforms, they took great care to follow every regulation to the letter.

  York and Maggie and Frank and Paris joined one of the many lines to have their identities checked. At the front of one of the other lines an older man in the uniform of a naval captain stood shaking an angry finger at the marine. The old man’s voice rose steadily. “. . . preposterous . . . personal friend of Commodore Berkma . . .”

  York didn’t hear the marine’s reply, but saw the apologetic shrug and guessed the rest: I’m sorry, sir. But I have my orders.

  The old fellow’s uniform was odd, non-regulation, improperly embellished with extra bits of gold filigree and piping, and little flashes added here and there to suit its wearer.

  Jondee grumbled, “Damn marines!”

  York said, “They’ve got the empress to worry about.”

  Jondee shook his head. “The real live fucking empress! What the hell is she doing out here anyway?”

  “Rescuing her daughter.”

  Jondee laughed skeptically. “What the hell was a goddamn princess doing on Trinivan anyway? That’s so far out on the fringes . . .”

  “Spoiled brat went on a lark.”

  “Bullshit! You believe that as much as I do, Ballin. Something’s up, and you know it.”

  York leaned toward Jondee, kept his voice low. “Maybe so. But at least I’m not stupid enough to shoot my fuckin’ mouth off in a room full of strangers.”

  Jondee grinned, looked past York, ignoring him. He scanned the room slowly. “Looks like there’s gonna to be a nice selection of pretty young things here tonight. I just might enjoy myself after all, old boy.”

  When York got to the front of the line the marine running the check noted his identity and said, “Cap’em Ballin. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Security tight tonight, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. We got an AI major breathin’ down our necks.”

  “Pain in the ass, eh?”

  She nodded. “Name of Juessik. A real asshole too. I’d stay away from him if I was you, sir.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  The ballroom of the embassy took them all by surprise. Accustomed to small corridors, tight spaces, Spartan decor, none of them were prepared for the enormity of the place: high vaulted ceilings, gilt paint, heavy drapes and elaborate chandeliers. It could have swallowed Invaradin’s crew mess a dozen times over.

  Invaradin’s junior officers gathered far more than their share of attention so York told them to split up and mingle. Paris took off with a hungry look in his eye, and Maggie and Frank went their own way. York decided to hunt down a drink, tried edging his way politely through the crowd.

  “Bloody Butcher Ballin,” someone said softly.

  York froze, almost spun about to face his accuser, but realized that would just bring more attention. He moved on, conscious now of the unfriendly stares, conscious that his best uniform looked faded and worn in the presence of the noble and rich. He didn’t belong here and he needed that drink badly.

  He ran into Telyekev who introduced him to Commodore Berkma, a tall and good looking woman about Telyekev’s ag
e. She wore an expensive gown of some shimmering material, but discretely sewn into the cuff were the insignia of her rank. York glanced for a moment in her eyes, and guessed she’d never seen a day of combat.

  “Lieutenant,” she said. “I’m told Her Highness owes you her life.”

  York shrugged. “There were a hundred marines that had a bit to do with it.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to hear about your casualties.”

  For an instant her eyes focused on the chrome eye and the scars, then her attention shifted to a point somewhere behind York. “Ah, Alexiae. There’s Martin Andow. I need to bend his ear a little. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.” She looked at York. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant Ballin.”

  The voice was female, young. York turned about carefully. A pretty, young lieutenant commander smiled up at him and said, “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

  York took in her uniform at a glance: crisp, new, good conduct and marksmanship ribbons on her chest, no campaign ribbons, no combat, no front line service, a Dumark Navy Yard pip on her collar. Age-wise she had to be somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. “Good evening ma’am,” York said.

  She stuck out her hand. “I’m Hethis McGeahn. And you’re York Ballin, aren’t you.”

  York shook her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stared for a moment at his eye, then caught herself and focused on the ribbons on his chest. “Call me Hethis,” she said. “I’ve been hoping to meet you. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  “Good or bad?”

  She threw her head back and laughed openly. “A little of both.”

  Behind her, far back in the crowd, a young officer looked their way suddenly, raised a hand and waved. “Hethis,” he called. “Hethis McGeahn, is that you?”

  At the sound of his voice she spun about, waved back. “Perra! Yes, it’s me.”

  He wormed his way through the crowd, dragging a pretty little piece of civilian fluff behind him. The young man couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of the academy, and yet he was a full commander. Just kids, York thought. Goddamn kids, playing at soldier.

  “Hethis,” the young commander said, hugging her, kissing her on the cheek. “I knew you were out here somewhere. Never dreamed I’d run into you my first night in.”

  “How was the trip out from Luna?” she asked.

  “Terrible. Smallest cabin I’ve ever had. Even had to share it with another officer.”

  The young lady clutching his arm shook her head angrily. “You should have complained.”

  “Oh no!” he said. “Not proper to complain out here. We’re roughing it, you know. But I did complain about the food. I mean there are limits, aren’t there? And believe me it was bloody awful, literally unpalatable.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t travel with us,” the young lady said.

  “Had I known Cassandra was on her way out here, I certainly would have.”

  “I warn you, Perra,” Hethis McGeahn said, “It’s rough all the way around out here.” She looked at York. “Oh! I’ve forgotten my manners. Perra, this is York Ballin of the Invaradin. York, this is Lord Perra Soladin, son of His Grace Johan, Duke de Satarna.”

  York bowed carefully. He was in the presence of the son of one of the most powerful men in the empire, one of the nine Dukes, and by that a member of the Admiralty Council.

  Soladin looked at York as if to ask what kind of trash they were allowing in the embassy these days. He didn’t offer his hand, acknowledged York with a simple, “Lieutenant,” then introduced his friend, Lady Maree Sandre.

  McGeahn threw out, “York’s just in from the front.”

  Lady Sandre looked interested. “Really, Lieutenant. I hope you people can finally get around to doing something about these Syndonese torpedo ships. What do you call them?”

  “Hunter-killers,” York said. “And we have some of our own, you know.”

  “Well they’re making this war absolutely unbearable. Do you realize they’ve stopped spice shipments from Cathan?”

  York lifted his eyebrows. “God forbid!”

  “And the price of Tithian wine is sky rocketing.”

  York nodded. “We’ll get right on it, Your Ladyship.”

  “Good for you, Ballin,” Soladin said. “I say, Ballin, who did your face?”

  York started, lost his composure and grew suddenly conscious of his eye and the scars. “My face?”

  Soladin leaned forward, peered carefully at York. “Yes. It’s interesting work. Bit savage looking, but then I suppose that’s stylish out here. Perhaps I’ll try something like that myself.”

  “Oh no, Perra,” Lady Sandre pleaded. “You’d look atrocious.” She looked suddenly at York. “Oh! No offense, Lieutenant.”

  McGeahn blushed with embarrassment. “They think it’s cosmetic, done for effect. It’s quite the rage on some of the inner worlds. Some people have scars applied and removed like makeup.”

  Soladin demanded. “Come now, Ballin. It’ll literally drive my father insane if I show up wearing one of those. Who did the work?” He looked at York expectantly.

  “A feddie,” he answered. “With a rotary.”

  Soladin frowned.

  “Perra,” McGeahn said uncomfortably. “York was wounded in combat on Trinivan.”

  Lady Sandre blanched. Then her eyes filled with recognition. “You’re the fellow that murdered that woman, aren’t you?”

  “What’s this?” Soladin asked. “Killed a woman, did you, Ballin?”

  “Oh yes, Perra,” Lady Sandre said. “And she was just a girl too. Quite defenseless. Shot her without so much as a nod of his head, I hear.”

  “I say, Ballin,” Soladin said. “Bad form. Why do such a thing?”

  York thought of a hundred reasons why he’d killed her, but all he could really remember was the adrenaline and the fear. A small number of people nearby had paused and were waiting to hear his answer, and that made him angry. He pretended to think carefully for a moment. “I really don’t remember killing one particular woman,” he lied, finding it easy to keep his voice calm and even. “I mean, they all look pretty much the same when they’re dead. You know, bits and pieces splattered all over hell, stinking to high heaven, making an absolute mess of your plast.”

  The shock on Lady Sandre’s face was satisfying. He looked past her suddenly, pretended to recognize someone in the distance. “Ah!” he said. “I see an old acquaintance. If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped around Lady Sandre and started walking. It was time for that drink.

  All he could find was a large punch bowl, filled with something colored a disgusting purple that contained very little alcohol.

  “Lieutenant.”

  York looked over the rim of his glass, found a small, thin man standing squarely in front of him. The man wore dour, dark colors, and his face was completely devoid of expression, though as their eyes met a nearly imperceptible smirk formed at the corners of his mouth. “You’re Ballin, aren’t you?”

  York swallowed some of the punch, suppressed a nasty remark. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to meet you. I was one of the people you rescued on Trinivan. I heard you were injured. The eye?”

  The smirk—York wasn’t quite sure there had been a smirk—disappeared from the man’s face. “And you’re curious?”

  Now the man smiled openly. “Well yes, a little, but mostly I wanted to thank you. I’m Arkan Dulell,” he said proudly, waiting for York to react in some way.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dulell.”

  Dulell’s mask of control returned and he shrank as if he’d been expecting York to recognize his name. “Please. Call me Arkan. And I’ll call you York. That’s a lot better than Butcher Ballin, isn’t it?”

  York cringed.

  “Oh,” Dulell said. “I see you’re sensitive on that point. Well you shouldn’t be. They owe you their lives, and if they can’t appreciate that then they’re all petty fools
.”

  York swirled the punch in his glass, looked at it unhappily. “Punch might as well be water.”

  Dulell nodded, looked about carefully, then reached into his coat and withdrew a small flask. He removed the lid, extended the flask toward York’s glass, but York stopped him. “What is it?”

  “It’s just alc-trate,” Dulell said, frowning. “I never attend one of these functions without it. Be careful, it’s undiluted.”

  York tried to gage the size of the flask. “Should be enough trate in there to get a dozen of them drunk.”

  “I try to be prepared.”

  “Thank you, but no,” York said, shaking his head. “I have to stay sober.”

  Another voice interrupted them. “Are you sure you should do that?”

  Sylissa d’Hart stepped out of the crowd like a phantom coalescing from the air, a disapproving look on her face. “Seriously, Lieutenant. Don’t you think you should avoid that?” She nodded at Dulell’s flask, which disappeared suddenly into his coat.

  York wanted to tell her he’d turned the trate down, but he could see she’d already formed her opinion, so he let the incident pass without comment. He looked at her gown; it was very fashionable: long, touching the floor, clinging to her, must have cost half a year’s pay. “Your gown is quite beautiful,” he said. “Quite a change from shipboard fatigues.”

  It worked. She smiled and the tension disappeared. “Yes. Quite a change.”

  A splash of color in the crowd behind the d’Hart woman caught York’s eye, a young woman dressed in a gown that clung so closely to her body she might as well be naked. And what little material she did wear was, for all intents and purposes, almost transparent.

  York caught himself staring at the curve of the young woman’s breasts, realized she was aware of his gaze and lifted his eyes to look into her face. She wore a many-colored mask, and her eyes seemed to be laughing at him. She crossed the few feet between them, stopped with her chin only inches from his chest. “You’re Ballin, aren’t you?” she asked in a sensual whisper.

  York tried not to stare at her breasts, though he was exceedingly conscious of them in the press of the crowd. He looked instead at her face, and realized her mask was actually no mask at all, but carefully applied makeup, beginning around her eyes with radiating lines of color that extended down past her cheeks, neck, and shoulders, and ended on her upper chest and arms, blending with the low cut gown that only just covered her breasts.