by J. L. Doty
Abraxa leaned back in his chair, considered the situation carefully. “Do we know the name of this junior officer who took command of Cinesstar?”
The young AI captain consulted her notes for a moment. “Nostran’s captain wasn’t sure about his last name: Barrin, Bayan, Ballyen—something like that. But he’d met him a few times and knew his first name was York. We’re reviewing . . .”
The young woman’s voice trailed off at the reaction her words produced in Abraxa. He’d gone almost completely white, but he caught himself quickly and recovered. “Thank you, Captain,” he said abruptly. “That’ll be all.”
She hesitated at the abrupt change in his interest, then snapped to attention, bowed deeply, and backed out of the office.
Abraxa turned immediately to his computer, brought up Invaradin’s roster, and there it was. It had been so long since he’d had to take any action on that matter he’d forgotten. He should have remembered the instant he’d heard the name Invaradin. How could he have been so stupid? The whore’s brat was on that ship, with the empress, the queen mother, and God knew whom else. If anyone put the pieces together this could have catastrophic ramifications. He’d been reluctant to throw away such a convenient and possibly powerful pawn, but the time had come to end that meaningless little ploy.
Abraxa prepared a message that began with “My dearest son.” To anyone who might intercept it, it would appear to be a letter from a loving mother to her only son serving aboard some ship somewhere. She told him about the farm, and the condition of the crops and the animals. His father’s arthritis was acting up, but the doctors were recommending a minor operation that should eliminate his difficulties. Abraxa rambled on for more than a page, then carefully inserted the code phrase: Winter was harsh this year, and the wildflowers are dying early.
Abraxa rambled on for another page before finishing the letter, then he posted it through a phony box to the general distribution network for naval correspondence. The next time Cinesstar made transition near any kind of imperial facility and exchanged contact packets, that one little loose end would be appropriately terminated.
York opened his eyes groggily, saw a hand reaching for his throat and struck out desperately, swatting the hand away.
He sat up, lifting most of his torso out of the field of the gravity bunk, almost fell out of it as the deck gravity pulled at him.
“Lieutenant!” the d’Hart woman said. “Be careful.” She took him by the shoulders and helped him out of the bunk. He didn’t tell her he could have done better without her help, but then, for her, getting in and out of a gravity bunk was probably a difficult feat.
He pulled a chair down out of the wall, didn’t really care that she remained standing as he sat down, took a moment to orient himself. She reached out again toward his eye, and this time he saw the small handkerchief in her hand. “He shouldn’t have hit you,” she said. “It was all very unprofessional.”
York closed his eyes while she dabbed at the dried trickle of blood on his cheek. He opened his eyes, looked at his watch, thought for a moment he’d only slept for an hour, then remembered waking seated in a chair and crawling half-conscious into the grav bunk. Apparently he’d slept through a full twenty hour day, and more. “You were there?” he asked. “On the bridge? I don’t recall seeing you.”
“ I’m not surprised. You had your hands full, seemed to be doing quite well until Commander Sierka took over.”
He smiled unhappily. “But then he’s a nobleman, isn’t he? So we all feel much safer now that he’s in command.”
She finished dabbing around his eye, stepped back to examine her work. “That’s better. It really was a minor cut, but you should still have it looked at.”
“By whom?”
“Your Lieutenant Yan is on board. I’m told she’s quite a good physician.”
“She’s good. What about the damage down in Engineering?”
She frowned. “I wasn’t aware there was damage down in Engineering.”
“There’s damage down there, all right. If I wasn’t under arrest I’d go down there myself to help finish cleaning up.”
At that she smiled. “But you’re no longer under arrest. Senator Andow and Her Majesty had a brief word with Commander Sierka, and he’s decided to drop the charges. You’re free to go.”
York shrugged, stood up and didn’t feel too grateful. “That was real nice of them. Why are you here?”
“We seem to find ourselves again in your debt. I wanted to thank you . . . again.”
York shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean why are you all the way out here, this far from Luna, this close to danger? Why is the empress out here too? And why do the feddies want to put a warhead into us so badly?”
She shrugged. “Aeya came out here on a lark. I came with her to keep her out of trouble. You rescued us on Trinivan and the empress came to Dumark to meet us. It’s all very simple.”
York looked her over carefully. She was feminine, beautiful, even dressed in plain, navy-issue coveralls. She was also a liar. “Too simple,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, since I’m not under arrest, I should check the duty roster.”
York left her standing there in the cell. No one had bothered to lock it; in fact the security section was still deserted. He stopped in the fresher there, splashed water on his face and ran some through his hair. He needed a shave, and a shower, but that would have to wait.
He used the console in the security section to check the duty roster, which listed a bare minimum of assignments. Sierka had made Soladin first officer, old Armbruster second, Rame third. Rame alone had more experience than the rest put together.
Rame was standing bridge watch at that moment, so York put in a call to him. He too hadn’t shaved, and it was obvious he hadn’t slept much either. When York asked him about his duty assignment, Rame shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been standing watch for the last ten hours.”
“Can I help?” York asked.
Rame looked uneasy. “Not on the bridge. Commander Sierka has left orders you’re not allowed on the bridge. You’ll have to check with him.”
“Thank you, sir.” Both he and Rame cut the circuit.
He tried Armbruster next, who appeared on the screen in front of him seated at a desk piled with memcards and printouts. “Ballin,” Armbruster said. “Good to see you.”
“Captain,” York said. “I’m—”
“Not captain,” Armbruster interrupted. “Her Majesty has temporarily reinstated me at the rank of commander. Ah, my boy! It feels good to be back in the thick of it again.”
“Congratulations, Commander. I was wondering if I had a duty assignment.”
“A duty assignment?” Armbruster frowned uncomfortably. “I think you’ll have to check with Lord Soladin. I believe Commander Sierka has put him in charge of the duty roster.”
York tried Perra Soladin, found him in his cabin. “Commander, I’m trying to find out what my duty assignment is?”
Soladin’s brows lowered impatiently. “Can’t you see I’m entertaining, Ballin?”
Behind Soladin York caught a glimpse of the fluff who’d clung to his arm at the embassy. “I’m sorry, Your Lordship, but I thought, under the circumstances, I should get an assignment as soon as possible.”
“Well I suppose that’s admirable, Ballin. But where have you been anyway? And stand at attention when you’re addressed by a superior officer.”
York straightened his shoulders slowly, raised his chin and tried not to let his anger show. Soladin was really only interested in clearing up the pecking order. “And answer my question.”
York chose his words with care. “I’m sorry, sir. What question was that?”
“Where have you been, Mister Ballin?”
“I’ve been helping Chief Cappik clean up the damage in Engineering.”
“Damage in Engineering?” Soladin asked. “There’s no damage in Engineering.”
“Yes, sir. If you say so,
sir.”
Soladin nodded. “That’s better, Ballin. You’ve got to be more careful about your attitude.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I, for one, think you can make a valuable contribution to this crew, though I might add Mayhue and I disagree on that point.”
“I’m grateful for your confidence, sir. Have you decided on a duty assignment for me, sir?”
“Yes, I have.” Soladin appeared pleased with himself. “I’ve put you in charge of the marines.”
York nodded slowly. “I’m a ship’s officer, sir, not a marine.”
“I’m aware of that, Mister Ballin. But there are a number of us here who can handle this ship quite nicely. You can contribute the most by taking control of those damned marines. That’s an order.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” York said mechanically. “And my quarters?”
“Why, with the marines, of course.”
“Of course, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
Soladin nodded, said, “Dismissed,” then he cut the circuit.
York made his way down to the marine barracks. The marines had taken the place over easily, and though it was a bit crowded they’d settled in happily. As he walked through the barracks he passed a poker game and someone called out, “Evening, Cap’em. You look like hell. Here, this’ll fix you up.”
The marine held out a plast cup. York took it, took a sip; trate, properly diluted, but still trate, and it made his eyes water. He took a second gulp, handed it back to the marine and continued on. He was greeted in much that way several times before he reached Palevi’s office.
“Cap’em,” the sergeant said. “Glad to see you. I’ve got yer quarters all set.”
He led York to the cabin reserved for the marine CO, a cabin nicer than any he’d ever had, with its own fresher, and he wasn’t sure what else. He hadn’t eaten anything but emergency rations for two days and he was hungry. He was in a bit of a daze as he showered, shaved and made himself generally presentable.
He found a new uniform laid out for him when he stepped out of the fresher, a crisp, clean, pressed, unused and never worn uniform. He picked up the tunic and shouted, “Palevi. Where the hell did you get this?”
Palevi stepped into the cabin and grinned. “Ship’s stores, sir. This bucket’s loaded with supplies like we ain’t seen in years.”
York couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn something sharp and new.
“Sir? Will that be all?”
York nodded slowly. “Ya. Sure. Dismissed.”
Something about the new uniform lent a sense of unreality to the situation, as if somehow they’d all been transported far into the past. But it felt good, felt proud, and York held his head a little higher as he made his way up to the officer’s mess.
There was a short line of people waiting outside, all civilians. In the navy York had long ago learned the virtues of patience, so he took his place at the end of the line, and in only a few minutes he stood at the threshold of a darkly lit room with the soft strains of elegant music drifting on the air. A well-groomed, impeccably dressed maître d’ stepped in front of him.
“Good evening, sir,” the maître d’ said, his lips breaking into an oily smile. “The name?”
“Uh . . .” York shook his head carefully, blinked several times, but the man didn’t disappear. “Name?”
“Yes, sir,” the maître d’ said, and York wondered how he managed to speak without ever changing the shape or character of his smile. “Your name, so I can seat you.”
Again York shook his head. “Ah . . . Ballin.”
The oily smile disappeared, turned into a frown. “One moment, sir,” the maître d’ said as he leaned to one side and consulted a small screen set in the surface of a rostrum next to the entrance. The maître d’ turned back to York, the oily smile returned. “Did you have a reservation, sir?”
“A reservation?” York forced himself not to shake his head a third time. “I’m a ship’s officer. I just want some dinner.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll schedule you in.” He leaned over the rostrum, pushed a few keys near the screen. “It looks like there’ll be about a three hour wait, sir. Would you care to wait in the bar?”
“The bar?”
“Yes, sir. The bar. Right this way, sir.”
The maître d’ turned York over to an assistant, who led York down one side of the mess hall, though until his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he had to feel his way carefully along a bulkhead. Small, carefully arranged tables filled the place, each covered by a white table cloth on which rested an intimate little lamp casting a faint glow. On impulse York stopped at an unoccupied table, touched the surface carefully to reassure himself it was there. It was molded of rough plast, and to his amazement, under his touch, the table tilted slightly.
A waiter brushed past him carrying a large tray of food. “Sir?” the assistant maître d’ pleaded. “This way sir.”
York shook his head. “It’s not bolted down.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“The table. It’s not bolted down.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“You’d better have someone see to it.”
“Certainly, sir. This way, sir.”
The assistant maître d’ deposited York in another room that let off the main dining salon, left him standing just within the entrance. It was even darker there, though he could make out a bar along one wall. Not wall, bulkhead, he reminded himself.
“York.”
That was Maggie’s voice, calling from somewhere out of the dark.
“This way, York.”
He spotted her at the bar waving at him, and as he crossed the room he saw Frank and Paris next to her. “Pull up a stool,” Paris said. “And no, it’s not bolted down.”
York sat down, put his elbows on the bar, closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples, trying to convince himself this wasn’t real. “What’s your pleasure, York old boy?”
York looked at Paris. “What?”
“What do you want to drink?”
“Drink?”
“Anything you want,” Frank growled with an angry edge to his voice. “They’ve got just about anything you could imagine.”
“Booze?” York asked.
Maggie nodded. “They’ve got real whiskey, not just trate. Apparently Fleet was outfitting this ship for some big shot admiral, and he had it stocked with only the best, though it’ll cost you an arm and a leg.”
York shook his head, thought maybe he should stop doing that. He looked around. “Where’d this all come from?”
Paris shrugged. “The first thing Sierka did was get a damage control crew organized, then he put them to work remodeling this place so Her Majesty could have a decent place to dine.”
“Damage control?” York asked. “What about the damage in Engineering?”
Frank looked up from his drink. “What damage in Engineering?”
York couldn’t believe his ears. “We almost lost a power chamber, damaged feed channel, melted through one deck and nearly another. Had to shut it down to repair it. Contamination everywhere. We worked for almost two days straight, no rest, were told we couldn’t get any help because everyone else was too busy. We assumed there was damage elsewhere.”
Paris slapped him on the back. “We were busy, York, but it’s a matter of priorities, like this dining salon, not something as insignificant as our power plant.”
“Where the hell is Berkma?” York demanded. “She and Telyekev are old friends. And he was dumping Sierka on her. He wouldn’t do that without telling her what kind of idiot he is.”
Paris’ smile disappeared. “Berkma’s dead. She was in that shuttle that crashed during the evacuation, brains splattered all over the passenger compartment.”
Paris’ smile suddenly returned. “Well Sierka’s got his priorities, but right now my priority is another drink. I’m buying. What do you want?”
York looked at the bottles stacked behind the bar, thought to
himself they should be secured. “I just want something to eat.”
Paris asked, “How long is the wait now?”
York wanted someone to tell him he was dreaming. “Three hours.”
Frank sipped at his drink. “It’s going up. It was two when we got here.”
“Come on,” Maggie said. “Let’s just go down to main mess. We can eat there.”
Frank shook his head deliberately. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them kick me out of my own mess. I’m waiting right here until I get a table, and then I’m going to eat, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
“Bartender,” Paris called.
The bartender turned away from a conversation with a young woman, walked the length of the bar and stopped in front of them. “What’ll you have?”
Maggie, Paris and Frank placed their orders, then they looked at York, and suddenly it was all too much for him. “Do you have trate,” he asked.
The bartender shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to see.”
York leaned forward, grabbed him by the collar, pulled him half way over the bar and growled in his face, “Then go see right now. And make damn sure you find some, and put it in front of me undiluted with a pitcher of water and an empty glass next to it.”
The bartender nodded. York let go of him and he stood up, straightened his tunic and began rummaging beneath the bar. After a rather extensive search he produced a bottle of undiluted trate. It wasn’t large, but there was enough there to get a dozen grown men very drunk. York poured some into the empty glass, then diluted it with water, only enough to be sure it wasn’t lethal.
Maggie touched his sleeve. “Should you do that?”
York looked at her. “No. I shouldn’t.” Then he tossed the drink down.
York came to slowly, just opened his eyes and lay in his bunk for a long time without moving, waiting for his hangover to go away so he could get up and get another drink. He and Frank and Maggie and Paris never did get that dinner. They’d waited more than six hours, with their reservations constantly pushed back, slowly drinking themselves into a stupor, until the usually cautious Frank was ready to start a fight. Maggie and York talked him out of it, dragged him back to his cabin and put him in his bunk. Then York staggered back to the marine barracks, pilfered an issue of emergency rations, sat down at a poker game and forced the rations down with more trate.
