A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  York forced his eyes back to her face. “Yes I am. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  She spoke to Dulell, but she kept her eyes on York. “Arkan, sweetheart. Introduce us, please.”

  Dulell gave her an unpleasant smile. “Now Sabine, I’ve never been your sweetheart.”

  “Well introduce us anyway.”

  Dulell nodded. “This is Lieutenant York Ballin. York, Lady Sabine Dubye.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” she said, smiling, sticking out her hand, and her breasts.

  York took the hand, kissed it lightly, wanted to do the same to her breasts. “My pleasure.”

  “Sabine,” Dulell said. “Your fangs are showing.”

  “Oh, Arkan! You say the naughtiest things.”

  “Only to the naughtiest people.”

  She stepped forward, pressing one of her breasts against York’s arm. “We must talk later,” she said in a whisper, “You and I. When you’re not so . . . occupied.”

  She looked at Dulell, “Arkan,” then at Lady d’Hart, “Sylissa.”

  The d’Hart woman smiled, though it looked forced, and as Lady Dubye walked away the smile morphed into a sneer.

  Archproverb Rhijn, with poor Canticle Thring in tow, stopped next to Sylissa d’Hart and greeted each of them, “Lady d’Hart. Lieutenant. Dulell.”

  Rhijn leaned toward the d’Hart woman’s ear and whispered a question York was not meant to hear. “Her Majesty is ready. Is he sober?”

  York also heard her whispered reply. “I believe so. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

  Rhijn leaned away from her, stood up on his toes, looked across the room and raised two fingers in some sort of signal. The servant at the entrance to the ballroom struck a large, ornate staff loudly three times upon the floor, then paused while a hush fell over the crowd. When there was absolute silence he announced, “Her Majesty, Cassandra, Duchess de Lunis, Queen of the nine beasts, beloved empress of the Lunan Empire.”

  The main entrance to the ballroom opened onto a long cascade of stairs, and now, near the top of the stairs, a woman about York’s age paused. Flanking and backing her were a number of elaborately dressed people, all of whom held the regal bearing of the noble, or the rich, or the influential.

  York suddenly remembered his etiquette, dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Please,” Cassandra said. “Rise. All of you. I’ve been looking forward to a respite from the formality of court, and I certainly didn’t mean to bring it with me.”

  Slowly the individuals in the crowd stood and the murmur of conversation returned, though it was now somewhat subdued. The empress started down the stairway followed by Aeya—with the usual pout on her face—and a much older woman, probably the queen mother. Cassandra’s descent, entourage and all, was a lesson in practiced informality. She paused on each step, spoke casually with someone waiting there, and suddenly York realized how carefully the situation had been choreographed, with no modicum of chance allowed to determine who might be on the stairs at that moment, nor on which step they stood.

  The Lady d’Hart touched his arm. “You have a funny look on your face.”

  York spoke without looking away from the empress. “Nothing’s been left to chance, has it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Including,” he continued, “your presence here next to me, to make sure I don’t screw up, eh?”

  She frowned, looked uneasy, and lied. “You’re imagining things.”

  The empress completed her descent of the stairs and moved carefully through the crowd. Rhijn and Dulell got into some sort of argument about the religious implications of direct church involvement in military matters. Thring kept his mouth shut for the most part, though Rhijn occasionally looked to him for support, and the young canticle always deferred to his superior.

  The empress had a ring of sycophants surrounding her at all times, and of course there was the carefully chosen bodyguard of uniformed marines. But it was the plain clothed AI goons that stood out most, perhaps because of their amateur attempts at appearing to be part of the crowd.

  York drifted about, managed to lose Dulell and Thring and Rhijn, though the d’Hart woman never left his side. If he hadn’t understood her true purpose, he might have believed she had some interest in him. He kept his distance from the empress, knowing that when the time was right for her to present his decoration, they’d see to it he was in the right place at the right time. But then after a couple of hours she excused herself and was gone.

  Sylissa d’Hart then excused herself politely and left. York stood there alone, wondering why the change in plans.

  Maggie, arm in arm with Dulell, approached through the thinning crowd. “York, this party’s boring.”

  Dulell shrugged. “I could have told you to expect that, Miss Votak.”

  York demanded, “Where’s Frank?”

  Maggie waved a hand back toward the crowd. “He’s taking care of Geara.”

  “What’s wrong with Geara?”

  “He got a little drunk.”

  York looked at Dulell. “I need a drink, something a lot stronger than this punch.”

  Maggie handed him hers. He took a sip and his eyes watered. He finished it in a single gulp.

  “Making up for lost time?” Dulell asked.

  Maggie swayed a little and York spotted Mayla Joyson crossing the room toward them. “Straighten up, Maggie, or you’ll catch hell.”

  Joyson didn’t try to hide her disapproval as she stopped beside Maggie. “Good evening, Mr. Ballin. Miss Votak. Mr. Dulell.”

  “Ma’am,” York said stiffly.

  Maggie tried to say something but fumbled it, wisely chose to say no more.

  Joyson ignored her, said to York, “About Her Majesty . . .”

  “We changed our minds, eh?”

  That put Joyson off balance. “Ah, no. In fact Her Majesty made it clear you would definitely receive the cross.”

  York respected Joyson, liked her, knew it was unfair to take it out on her but he couldn’t stop himself. “But not from her hands, eh?”

  Joyson sighed. “Her schedule has changed.”

  York shook his head. “You owe me better than that. She got worried about how it might look and talked herself out of it. Or someone else talked her out of it, right?”

  At least Joyson met York’s eyes. “Yes. That’s basically right.”

  Joyson was suddenly all business again. “You’re all on leave for the next three days. While you’re here at the embassy keep your people somewhat sober. And you too.”

  “I am sober.”

  Joyson nodded, glanced side long at Maggie. “And her?”

  “I’ll take care of her,” he said.

  “See that you do, Mr. Ballin.” Joyson turned, walked away.

  A servant stepped in front of him, bowed and held out a small silver platter containing an even smaller piece of paper. “Sir, I have a message for you.”

  York took the piece of paper, unfolded it:

  Lieutenant Ballin:

  We’ve not met, but I believe we should.

  Martin Andow

  The seal of the imperial senate lay beneath the signature. The servant said, “You are to follow me, sir.”

  York looked at Dulell, nodded at Maggie. “Take care of her.”

  Maggie protested, “I don’t need taking care of.”

  Dulell smiled. “Of course.”

  York turned back to the servant. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER 9: DAMNED

  The servant led York out of the ballroom through a nondescript side entrance. They passed down a long corridor, then up a flight of ornate stairs, down another long corridor with innumerable doors, and though each was indistinguishable from the last, the servant chose one, opened it, and waited for York to precede him. “If you please, sir.”

  York stepped into a small room with books along one wall—real books he noted, not readsheets and memcards—a couch along another wall, two straight-back chairs a
nd an unoccupied desk cluttered with equipment.

  “Please wait here, sir.”

  The servant stepped around him, through another door on the opposite side of the room. York waited, felt the drink he’d just gulped starting to cut away the sharp edges of his anger.

  “Sir.”

  The servant was back, holding the door open. “This way, sir.”

  York stepped into the next room, dimly lit by a single lamp on an enormous desk made of, what looked like, real wood. Behind it sat a man whose features were obscured by the shadows from the lamp, but York got an impression of black hair with salt-and-pepper gray at the temples; handsome, distinguished. The man stared intently at the screen of a compsheet in his hands, and he didn’t look up as York entered.

  Behind the man, and to one side, the queen mother sat in a large ornate chair, her features completely hidden in the shadows. And in some intuitive way he imagined her staring at him, glaring with a malevolence he couldn’t explain.

  The man behind the desk looked up from the compsheet. “You’re Ballin?” he asked, not bothering to offer York a chair. He consulted the screen for a moment. “York Ballin? Lieutenant? 213596837?”

  “That’s me,” York said. “And you’re Senator Andow?”

  The man nodded. “I assume you’ve heard of me?”

  York had heard the name, though he knew nothing of the man himself. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good. That’ll make things simple.” Andow nodded at the screen in front of him. “I’ve been looking over your file. I’d like to discuss it with you.”

  “Certainly, sir. But may I ask why?”

  Andow frowned at him as if he were impertinent. He spoke slowly. “Your captain asked Her Majesty to intervene for you with the promotion board at Fleet. Her Majesty, in turn, asked Her Highness and me to look into the matter in detail and recommend a course of action.”

  York had to assume that by Her Highness, Andow meant the old queen mother.

  Andow’s eyes returned to the screen, and without looking at York he said, “From what I see here, before joining the navy, you were essentially a juvenile delinquent with a police record of petty crimes, minor burglaries, and thefts. Then, at the ripe old age of twelve, you mugged an old woman and killed her. The king’s bench gave you a choice between convict labor and the navy. I suppose you chose the navy for the obvious reasons?”

  York had the feeling nothing he said would make this man happy. “I didn’t choose. I wasn’t given a choice. I was handed papers to sign and I signed them. They turned out to be enlistment papers and I was in the navy.”

  Andow touched a few keys on the terminal, flipping through York’s file. “And for the next two years you had a spotless record. Were you so inspired by naval service that you gave up your life of crime instantly?”

  “No, sir, I made some mistakes. But I was taught some rather harsh lessons, and I learned quickly.”

  Andow nodded. “I’ve heard justice on a deep space man’o’war can be quite cruel.” He looked at York for a reaction, and when none came he continued, “So you served aboard the cruiser Africa for two years. What were your duties?”

  “When I wasn’t learning to be a pod gunner I scrubbed decks, shined boots, cleaned the head.”

  “I see,” Andow said, keying through the file on the screen in front of him. “You were a lower deck pod gunner. Saw quite a bit of action too. And then—and this is quite amazing—you were on the Africa at the infamous battle of Sirius Night Star. The Africa took heavy damage; you were wounded and placed aboard the hospital ship Andor Vincent.”

  For the first time the old woman behind Andow moved. She leaned forward, the light caught her face and York saw her eyes: harsh and disapproving. “Wasn’t that the ghost ship? I thought that was a myth, legend.”

  Andow turned respectfully toward her. “The Vincent is certainly legendary, but it did actually exist. When the Ninth Fleet was wiped out at Sirius Night Star, the Vincent was damaged and her crew killed, with Mr. Ballin here and a few hundred of his comrades suspended in her critical life support tanks. The Vincent was lost, her crew dead, but her tanks were still functioning and controlled by her central computer. To conserve power the computer shut down everything but the tanks, and she might have drifted that way for centuries had not a tramp freighter, through sheer luck, discovered her two years after the battle.”

  Andow turned back to York and looked at him carefully. “About half the people in the tanks were still alive, Lieutenant Ballin here among them. A certain amount of legend, and a lot of stories, and quite a few rumors have developed around the survivors of the Vincent. I’ll venture a guess few of Mr. Ballin’s present friends know of his past.”

  Andow paused, apparently expecting a response from York. Again York said nothing, Andow looked at the screen and continued, “In any case, Mr. Ballin was the youngest of the survivors, and apparently there was some desire to observe him closely as he adjusted to the loss of two years of his life, so they stuck him in the Naval Academy at Mare Crisia on Luna.”

  Andow shook his head thoughtfully. “Life is truly amazing! A fifteen year old, juvenile delinquent, lower deck pod gunner, spacer second class, through a fortuitous set of circumstances, is enrolled in an institution that regularly turns down the sons and daughters of some of the most influential people in the empire.” He looked at York. “What a stroke of luck. But you didn’t make much of your luck, did you, Mr. Ballin?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

  Andow looked at his screen. “You did rather poorly, graduated at the bottom of your class, barely graduated at all, in fact. A most undistinguished naval ensign. And since then you’ve had a mediocre career. You fought in most of the major battles of the last fifteen years, gained experience on just about every kind of ship we have, distinguished yourself a few times, but by and large you’re just another officer. At least until the de Mercus thing. They wanted to hang you for that.”

  York tried to keep his voice even. “That was six years ago. And I only did what I had to.”

  “What were you thinking, Lieutenant, assaulting a superior officer, the son and heir of one of the nine ruling Dukes of this empire?”

  York didn’t like Andow, and for some reason he wanted to goad him a bit. “I thought the king ruled the empire.”

  Andow shrugged that off. “Answer my question, Lieutenant.”

  York kept all expression out of his face. “First, he was not a superior officer. He carried the same rank as I, so I was his superior by virtue of seniority. Second, he was incompetent. He would have gotten us all killed, let the feddies overrun us. Third, I didn’t assault him. I merely prevented him from getting us all killed, and he later colored the events quite liberally.”

  Andow shook his head sadly. “I suppose that’s the only thing that saved you. But you still drink too much, and you’ve developed a dependency on combat drugs.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, sir?”

  Andow considered that question for a moment and the silence hung like a heavy weight about York’s shoulders. “I’ve looked closely at your record, Lieutenant. For the most part you’ve served the empire well, but you’ve demonstrated no leadership capabilities, you’ve unwisely developed certain dependencies, at least once you were guilty of insubordination and assault on a superior—fellow—officer. All of that, combined with certain questions concerning the mental stability of the survivors of the Andor Vincent, preclude any possibility of your advancement to command rank.”

  There it was, the final sentence, pronounced with such ease. “Is there nothing I can say to change you mind, sir?”

  York saw the answer in the senator’s eyes before he spoke, because in Andow’s mind York was nothing more than a thirty-five year old, juvenile delinquent, lower deck pod gunner, spacer second class. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “Just like that?” York asked. “You’re going to trash my career just like that?”

  “No,”
Andow said. “If your career has been damaged, you have only yourself to blame.”

  “Me?” York shouted. “I’ve been fighting feddies for this damn empire for twenty-two years, and—”

  “Lieutenant!” Andow barked. “Control yourself.”

  York swallowed his anger, forced himself to speak calmly. “Will that be all, sir?”

  Andow nodded. “You may go.”

  York slammed the door on his way out.

  York stormed through the room with the books and the empty desk, out into the corridor beyond. But there he came to a sudden and complete halt. Right or left? There was nothing to distinguish one direction from the other: a dark hall, a lot of closed, unmarked doors.

  “Lieutenant,” a soft feminine voice called from within the room at his back.

  He spun about. The Dubye woman stood there proudly, and again the elaborate mask of makeup pulled his eyes down to her breasts. He wondered if she’d chosen the design for just that purpose. Certainly they were breasts worth the attention.

  “Where’s the servant?” he asked.

  “I dismissed him.”

  He revised his opinion. Her voice was not soft, but husky and sensual. “How do I get out of here?”

  “I’ll show you the way.”

  “Okay,” York said, forcing his eyes away from her breasts. She seemed disappointed that he succeeded. “I need a drink,” he added. “Something strong. Not that garbage they’re serving in the ballroom.”

  “Follow me,” she said, a predatory smile on her lips. She stepped past him into the hall, purposefully brushed against him, and as he followed her he couldn’t take his eyes off her hips. She led him into a corridor far different from the one they’d just left. Here the lighting fell from ornate lamps suspended from the ceiling, rather than flat, dimensionless illumination panels. The carpet was thick and plush and the walls decorated with paintings.