A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  She chose a door, pressed her hand against the lock. The door clicked open and she stepped through it, leaving it ajar. York followed her, closing the door behind him.

  He stood still for a moment with his back to the door. He was in a lady’s sitting room, decorated in soft muted colors. No doubt there was a bedroom attached to it, but the sitting room alone was larger than the largest captain’s cabin on any ship he’d ever served.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, dropping into an odd piece of furniture half bed, half couch.

  “This place is big,” he said. “Is this your suite?”

  She shrugged. “Part of it. Though this is rather Spartan compared to what I’m accustomed to.”

  He scanned the room. “Impressive.”

  “Of course. Appearances, Lieutenant. We here live by them. Status. One displays one’s power, one exercises it, or one loses it. You wanted a drink?” She pointed to a small bar across the room. “Fix me one too.”

  York walked to the bar with the uncomfortable feeling she was inwardly laughing at him. “What would you like?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” she said. “And like you, I want it strong.”

  York found a bottle of real Lunan gin, not trate, probably good stuff. He put some ice in two glasses and splashed the gin over it. The Dubye woman accepted hers with an inviting smile. She toyed with it, swirling the ice about with a finger. York gulped at his.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant. What was Trinivan like?”

  York was in no mood to mince words. “It was a bloody mess, especially with that bitch Aeya in the way.”

  “Ah yes,” she said, laughing. “Her Highness can be . . . troublesome. But what about the people? Did you kill many?”

  York thought about the hallways in the embassy on Trinivan, a memory that wouldn’t fade. He gulped the rest of his drink. “It was slaughter, plain and simple.”

  “How many did you kill?”

  York shrugged, returned to the bar for another drink. “Must have been three, four hundred. Those power rifles make a bloody mess.”

  He didn’t bother with the ice; just poured the gin. “I don’t understand how they ever thought they could stand against seasoned imperial regulars.”

  “How many did you kill? I mean you, personally?”

  York turned about, looked at her carefully. A glint of excitement danced in her eyes. “What kind of question is that?”

  She stood, crossed the room and positioned herself with her breasts almost touching his chest. “I’m just curious,” she said, but he could see there was far more to it than curiosity. “I heard about the woman you killed.”

  “She had a gun,” he growled defensively. “She put a slug right in the middle of my visor. So I blew her away, god damn it! And I’d do it again.”

  “I’ve heard about you marines,” she said. “You have a reputation for being quite . . . bloodthirsty.” Her face flushed with excitement, she reached up slowly, and with her fingertips gently traced the scars about his eye. Her voice came out in a tense and throaty whisper. “What’s it like to be that close to death? To think you’re going to die? What’s it like to lie in your own blood?”

  York stepped away from her, became conscious again of her breasts. And oddly, her nipples seemed more prominent beneath the filmy little gown.

  She stepped toward him and her breathing quickened, shallow and hot on his face. “What’s it like to kill someone face to face? Tell me about it. These others, they kill from inside a ship from vast distances. But you, you’re there. You see the face of the person you’re about to kill.”

  She took the last step and her breasts flattened against his tunic. He put his arm around her. “Tell me about it, please. Tell me what it’s like in that instant before you kill them.”

  She pressed her pelvis against his thigh, undulating slowly. He kissed her; some of her makeup got on his tongue and it sent a charge through him, a mixture of anger and passion. He bent down, kissed one of her nipples through her gown, then bit it. She quivered, groaned. “Tell me, please. Does time slow? Do you see the fear on their faces? Can you feel the fear on your own?”

  She dropped her drink and it crashed to the floor. He dropped his, pulled her gown down about her shoulders, and with his tongue traced a ring around her nipple. The makeup there had an odd taste to it, made his head swim.

  “It’s drugged, you know,” she said, breathing heavily. “It’ll give you uncontrollable desire. And stamina.”

  He bit her nipple hard.

  She cried out. “It’ll also make you very aggressive, and I like that.”

  He pulled her onto the couch, tugged at her gown. It came apart in his fingers, and beneath it the makeup ran the length of her body.

  “Tell me about the killing,” she demanded.

  He bit the other nipple.

  “Ah!” she screamed. “Do they know they’re going to die? Do they? And do you hesitate? And then, finally, when your own fear takes over, do you kill? The act of ultimate power, ultimate control over a life. To take it. To destroy it. To end it.”

  She groped at his pants, pulled at them frantically. He licked at the makeup on her neck, down her chest, around her nipples. “Yes,” she said. “Take it all.”

  He bit a nipple hard, tasted blood. She shuddered ecstatically and groaned. And yet somehow she was in control of the situation, and all he could do was follow as they both slid into an ecstasy of angry pleasure.

  York rolled off the couch; fell to his hands and knees on the floor. He crawled about until he found his clothes, pulled them on carefully over the bruises.

  The Dubye woman, asleep on the couch, groaned and rolled over. They both wore some bruises. He was shaken; she was sated, and he wanted out before the sadomasochistic little bitch woke up.

  He shook his head, the drugs doing his thinking for him. There’d been an aphrodisiac in her makeup—he was certain of that—and something else, something that fed on his anger, turned him into a willing and able partner for her kind of pleasure.

  His pleasure too, he reminded himself, and that bothered him.

  He staggered to the bar, splashed something into a glass and gulped it down. His emotions were all sharp edges and angry corners—the drugs again, probably aggression hypes. He poured another drink, gulped it like the first, hoping to blunt the effects of the drugs, poured another, took it with him while he searched the suite for a fresher.

  He was a mess, even after he managed to wash the smeared makeup off his face and arms. He glanced at his watch: they’d been at it for a couple of hours, then slept for a few more. He combed his hair, still looked like hell. Mixed in with the aphrodisiac there must have been a powerful stimulant. He was shaking, and he had to force himself to unclench his teeth. He gulped down his drink, headed for the bar, poured another, gulped that down, then staggered out into the hall. He chose a direction at random, eventually found a servant to lead him back to the ballroom.

  It was late. The crowd had thinned considerably, and what remained had spilled out into the neighboring halls where they’d broken up into small groups. A vaguely familiar voice called, “Ballin? Lieutenant Ballin, isn’t it?”

  A hand touched his shoulder and he turned about slowly. The old navy captain who’d made such trouble for the marine stuck out his hand, grabbed York’s hand and started shaking it. “Armbruster,” the old man said. “Captain Nathan Armbruster, retired navy.” He kept shaking York’s hand. “Glad to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  Hethis McGeahn and Perra Soladin, the Lady Sandre still hanging on his arm, joined Armbruster. McGeahn nodded pleasantly. “York.”

  Soladin acknowledged him with a flat, “Ballin,” and a nod, while the Lady Sandre tried to pretend he wasn’t there.

  “We were just talking about the front,” Armbruster said. “I hear you’ve had quite a bit of experience out there.”

  The drugs and the booze clouded York’s judgment some, but not so much he didn’t realize he should be polite. “So
me,” he said flatly, thinking that in any single year he’d had more experience than all of them put together, and yet they all outranked him.

  “Perra and I hope to get posted there soon,” McGeahn said eagerly.

  “To the front?” York asked.

  “Of course,” Soladin said.

  York felt hysterical laughter welling up in his chest, but he suppressed it, kept his voice flat, almost monotonic. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Why, that’s where the war is,” Soladin said. “The real war, not Home Fleet games.”

  “Ya,” York said. “So?”

  Soladin was offended, but McGeahn answered for him. “So it’s our duty. It’s a matter of honor.”

  “There’s no honor out there,” York said. “Besides, you’re already at the front. All you gotta do is sit tight and I wouldn’t be surprised if the war came right to you.”

  The Lady Sandre’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  York felt anger rising up in his throat—probably the ag-hypes—but like the laughter he suppressed it. “The feddies ran us out of Trinivan. And that’s just a quick jump from here.”

  “See here, Ballin,” Soladin said angrily. “There’s no need to upset the ladies. That’s going too far.”

  York felt tired. “No. We mustn’t upset Her Ladyship.”

  “Furthermore,” Soladin continued. “If Hethis and I wish to learn the true test of our mettle, I think the least you can do is give us your support and respect.”

  . . . true test of our mettle! York thought.

  Armbruster changed the subject quickly. “Perra here thinks Red Richard is working for the feddies.”

  York shook his head. “Red Richard’s working for himself.”

  “That’s what I say,” Armbruster agreed.

  Soladin put on his superior look. “Well I don’t mind telling you at Fleet we’ve gotten some rather interesting intelligence reports about a connection between Richard and the Directorate.”

  York frowned, looked at the others standing beside Soladin. “Isn’t that classified?”

  “Oh I shouldn’t worry,” Soladin said, lowering his voice carefully and looking around. “We all know each other here.”

  The Lady Sandre looked admiringly at Soladin. “Then Richard’s working for the Directorate?”

  York interrupted before Soladin could answer. “Richard might have some arrangement with the Syndonese, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he had one with us too, but you can bet your ass when there’s profit to be made, Richard is working for Richard.”

  York had had enough. He turned his back on them suddenly, staggered away, excusing himself by growling over his shoulder, “I need a drink.”

  He spotted Dulell right away, Frank standing next to him, Maggie hanging on his arm. The only senior officers present were holiday admirals like Armbruster and Soladin.

  Maggie held her empty glass out toward Dulell. “Give me another hit of that trate, eh?”

  Frank shook his head. “You’ve had enough.”

  Temerek stepped up beside York, looked at her disapprovingly. “Votak,” he said. “You drink too much.”

  “Not me,” Maggie said, leaning heavily on Frank’s arm. “York drinks too much. I drink just the right amount.”

  Dulell chuckled. Temerek turned on York. “This is your fault, Ballin.”

  Maggie grabbed Temerek’s arm, spun him toward her. “Maggie Votak’s a big girl,” she said. “Maggie Votak can get herself drunk.”

  Temerek pulled his arm out of her grip, grabbed her arm in turn. “You’ve still got a career, Maggie. Don’t throw it away like—”

  He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. “—like Ballin,” York finished for him.

  Temerek shook his head, spun about angrily and stormed away.

  York looked at Maggie and Frank. “That’s probably good advice. But then that bastard can afford good advice. His father’ll make sure he gets promoted and ends up in Home Fleet, attending little parties thrown by dukes and earls and emperors and empresses, while the rest of us spend our leaves drinking our brains out in some sleazy dockside bar on some god forsaken little rock of a planet.”

  “York,” Frank said. “He’s right about Maggie. And Geara too.”

  York nodded, looked around. “Ya, they’re gonna blow it out, aren’t they?” Maggie’s eyes were starting to roll around. “Get her out of here,” he said. “Get her out front. I’ll try to find Paris and we’ll meet you outside the gates.”

  Frank winked at him, hooked a forearm under Maggie’s armpit, kept her upright as he pulled her out of the ballroom. York found Jondee out in the hall sitting in a chair, unable to even sit without swaying. Geara Moboow sat next to him in no better shape, with young Krass Doanne standing over them both, looking sober and worried. “I don’t know what to do with them,” she said.

  “Grab Moboow,” York said to her, happy one of them was sober enough to help, and Moboow was just small enough for the young woman to handle. “See if you can keep him upright. I’ll take Paris.”

  A line of cabs waited outside the embassy gate. Frank had already flagged one down, stuffed Maggie into the back seat and was standing next to an open door waiting for them. He rushed over to help Krass with Geara. They got Paris and Frank in the back seat with Maggie, who was now unconscious, Krass and Geara into the front seat next to the cabby. And there was no room left for York. But he wasn’t in any mood to go with them. Tonight he needed to strike out on his own.

  “Check ‘em into a hotel so they can sleep it off,” York told Frank. “Wouldn’t want the old man seeing them in this kind of shape.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  York shook his head. “I’m on my own tonight. Take care of ‘em.” He swatted the top of the cab. “Off you go.”

  The cabby lifted the vehicle up on its grav field, then slipped quietly off into the night. York took the next cab in line, stepped into the back seat. “You know where the strip is?”

  The cabby nodded. “Course I do.”

  “Then get me there,” York said. “And on the way stop someplace so I can buy a bottle. The real stuff. Not trate.”

  CHAPTER 10: OLD FRIENDS

  York became conscious of the rich, loamy scent of fresh soil. He smacked his lips, tasted both vomit and blood, and lay that way for some time, letting the realization sink slowly into his brain that he was on the ground, face down in the dirt.

  He peeled open his eyelids, could see only the night, and a faint impression of plant life all about him. He rolled over carefully and sat up.

  A fight! He’d gotten into a fight—with two spacers—or was it three. No matter. He wasn’t in any shape to handle even one, and luckily for him they hadn’t been much better off. Nothing felt broken. A split lip. His nose had bled for a while, though that had stopped and dried blood now caked his face. His ribs hurt, but not enough for concern; no sharp pains in his chest when he drew a deep breath.

  He pulled himself to his feet, standing in a small park of some sort: plants and trees and grass and soil. Beyond the trees there was a great deal of light and activity and noise. The din told him he was not far from the strip, so he staggered in that direction.

  He found a large fountain with water cascading down from some odd, surrealistic sculpture. He dipped his head into the water, made a half-hearted attempt to clean up. Then he sat down on a concrete bench at the edge of the park, and for a while the cold concrete felt good.

  A row of cheap dives and honky-tonk bars lined the opposite side of the street, garishly lit signs, spacers staggering up and down the walk. It was late, and he guessed he’d already been through half the establishments there. But across from him now he saw a saloon with a big sign that flashed back and forth between two motifs: in one it was a bright display of shell bursts and rocket fire, armored marines blasting away at some unknown enemy; in the other it read, The Drop Zone. York staggered to his feet, crossed the street, shambled past a c
ouple of marines and through the doors of the big saloon.

  He didn’t make it to the bar. Someone spun him about violently, grabbed the front of his tunic, lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the wall. “What you think yer doin’, navy?”

  York shook his head to clear it, though that hurt more than it helped. A big hulk of a marine held him pinned to the wall. Over the hulk’s shoulders, in the dark, smoke filled air of the bar, York’s eyes settled on two dancers undulating beneath a hazy blue spot light. They were high up on a pedestal, a man and a woman wearing almost nothing, doing something quite obscene.

  The hulk slammed York up against the wall again. “I asked you what you was doin’, navy?”

  York couldn’t focus his eyes close enough to look the hulk in the face. “Just wanted a drink,” he said, still watching the dancers. A marine had joined the two entertainers, was kissing one of the woman’s breasts while trying to get his pants off. Someone screamed out an encouraging epithet.

  “Talk up, navy.”

  A small woman wearing sergeant’s stripes approached the hulk from behind. “What ya got there, Meat?”

  The hulk glanced over his shoulder at the small sergeant. “Got me some navy wants a drink, Terk.”

  Terk’s brows shot up. “Navy wants to do his drinking in the Zone?”

  York tried to say something. “I really didn’t—”

  The hulk bounced him against the wall a couple of times and his vision blurred for a moment. “Guess the fuckin’ idiot don’t know better.”

  “Seems not,” Terk said. “I suppose we otta teach him a lesson.”

  The hulk drew back a fist the size of York’s thigh. “You want me to bust him up a little, Sarge?”

  Palevi appeared out of nowhere, put a hand lightly on the hulk’s fist and said, “Hold on there, Meat?”

  The hulk looked at Palevi with a frown. “Wha’ for, Sarge?”

  “Wouldn’t be right you mess up my CO.”

  “Yer CO?” Terk demanded. “This ain’t no marine.”