A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  “Cap’em?”

  York looked up from the command console at Corporal Tathit, who sat at the marine communications console.

  “Cap’em, Lieutenant Yan wants a word.”

  York put Alsa Yan on one of his screens. She wore a bloody surgical gown, and leaned wearily toward the pickup, obviously exhausted.

  York asked, “It was bad, huh?”

  She shrugged, shook her head tiredly. “No. Not really. Mostly minor injuries. Just a lot of them. We’ve been cutting for ten hours straight.” She closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. “Listen, I’ve got something funny up here I’d like you to take a look at. It’s important.”

  Yan was not someone to get overly excited about something trivial, and when York got to sickbay she pulled him into her office, closed the door and turned on him frowning. “Something came up, something real curious,” she said, then hesitated. “. . . Shortly after that feddie blew us into transition . . . It was chaos here, injured people straggling in from all over the ship. We were swamped, stacking ‘em up in the corridors, and then the empress shows up with two marines in tow, and they’re carrying a servant of hers—woman, unconscious, nasty blow to the head.”

  Yan drifted off for a moment, preoccupied by her thoughts. “About the same time someone brings in the princess, half conscious, in quite a bit of pain. But the empress is nearly hysterical, wants the servant treated before anyone else. I mean even before her own daughter. A servant!

  “Got my curiosity going. So I took care of the servant—just a bad concussion—then I took care of the princess—a broken arm—then the empress lets me know she’s in pain, and I find out she’s got four broken ribs.

  “By this time my curiosity’s jacked right through the ceiling, so I check them all into beds here and sedate them. Then when things quieted down I ran a full med profile on all three.”

  Yan turned to a console in her office and activated a screen. “Here. Look at this.”

  York stepped behind the console and looked over Yan’s shoulder at the scan of a human skull. The image was a strange, unnatural mixture of computer-generated colors chosen to emphasize anatomical features. Yan rotated the image of the skull until they were looking at the back of the head, then she tilted it forward, and with her fingers dancing across the keyboard began pealing away layers of structure. York understood little of it, but as she pealed away the last few layers and got to the center of the skull he saw a device that, though he didn’t know what it was, he did know damn well it didn’t belong there.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  Yan looked at him, grinned. “It’s a small explosive device. They used chemicals so we wouldn’t pick up a power device with a routine scan. It’s not powerful, but since it’s implanted adjacent to the brain stem it doesn’t need to be.”

  “How would it be activated?”

  “It’s wired into the brain, probably activated by some specific thought sequence. It’s a suicide device.”

  York shook his head. This all fit a pattern somehow, but one he couldn’t yet discern. “Which one of them?” he asked.

  “The empress and the servant; the princess was clean. But there’s one more curious thing. The one in the empress’ head was manufactured in the empire, and the servant’s wasn’t.”

  “A feddie?” York asked.

  Yan shrugged. “I don’t know if she’s a feddie, but that device in her head isn’t imperial hardware.”

  A strange connection: a feddie spy and the empress. “Why bring this to me, Alsa? Why not to Sierka? He’s the CO.”

  Yan sneered at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “All right. So what am I supposed to do about it?”

  “God damn it, York. I don’t know. I’m asking you what I should do about it.”

  “Who else have you told about this?”

  “No one but you.”

  “Can you remove those devices?”

  She shook her head. “Probably not without being detected. But I can disarm them.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Good. Do so.” He pointed at the image of the woman’s skull on the screen. “And erase those spools. Destroy any records you’ve got of this, and keep your mouth shut.”

  She nodded, and her lips curled slowly into a grin. “Aye, aye, sir. What about the two marines?”

  York shook his head. “Don’t worry about the marines. I’ll make sure they forget this ever happened.” He turned to leave, hesitated at the hatchway. “One more thing. Don’t let anyone catch on, but I want you to run the same profile on everyone you can. Anyone who comes to sickbay for any reason—if you can get them under a scanner, do it.”

  Yan winked at him. “As you wish, sir.”

  On his way back to the marine barracks York had to wait an unusually long time for the lift, and while he was standing there he heard a group of spacers approaching from out of sight down another corridor. They were in the midst of a heated conversation—something about asshole marines—but when they turned into the corridor and saw York waiting there, the conversation died abruptly. They walked up to the lift in silence and stopped to wait.

  Ordinarily York would have remained preoccupied with the facts surrounding the curious incident of the empress and her servant. Spacers didn’t like marines; that was a fact of life. And more often than not they shut up in the presence of an officer. But what caught York’s attention now was that two of the spacers were wearing sidearms, and they were not navy issue.

  When the lift came York stepped in with the spacers. They programmed it for the spacer barracks, and out of curiosity York followed them. He took a quick walk through barracks deck; it appeared that about one in ten carried a weapon of some sort, there was no discipline, the whole deck stank, and the mood of the place was ugly.

  There were two guards standing at the entrance to the marine barracks, and they snapped to attention as York approached. York stopped, looked at them carefully. In appearance they were unarmed. He asked one of them, “Are you armed.”

  The marine scowled. “Of course, sir.”

  York keyed his implants. “Sergeant Palevi.”

  “Palevi here, sir.”

  “Sergeant. I want the guards at the entrance to our barracks visibly armed with rifles and sidearms. And I want them to carry live ammunition. I also want the barracks on tight security at all times.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s all.”

  Torrin Juessik stood in the corridor and knocked softly on the hatch in front of him. When it opened Arkan Dulell stood in the dark of the cabin framed in the light of the corridor. He’d obviously been sleeping, and it took him a moment to recognize Juessik, but when he did he lost his usual reticence for an instant.

  “Hello, Torrin,” he said coldly.

  Juessik smiled. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Dulell considered that for a moment, said only, “I was sleeping.”

  Juessik stepped past him, palmed the light sensor and looked around the cabin. “These rooms are rather cramped, aren’t they?”

  Dulell shrugged. “It’s sufficient.”

  “Ah Arkan, always the stoic.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Juessik turned toward him. “I wanted to see you.”

  Dulell shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Now Arkan. Don’t be petulant.”

  “All right. You’ve seen me.”

  Juessik stepped close to him, leaned toward him, kissed him gently on the cheek, then on the side of the neck. “I’ve missed you.”

  Dulell closed his eyes. “No you haven’t.”

  Juessik looked up and shrugged. “Well then, you’ve missed me.”

  Dulell said nothing as Juessik kissed him again, then added, “Yes. You have.”

  “Where have you been?” Ninda shouted as Add’kas’adanna stepped into the Central Committee chamber. Ninda s
tood angrily, tried to face her down, but she was a Kinathin and she towered over him, and though there was never any real threat of physical violence, they all knew he stood no chance against her in a physical confrontation. And that knowledge thwarted his attempt at intimidation.

  Ninda returned to his seat at the wide table, tried again from there. “Where have you been?”

  She’d kept them waiting intentionally. She’d been monitoring the reports on the recent sighting and engagement of the imper. Using various erroneous excuses, she’d given her captains orders that none of Ninda’s Security Forces stationed aboard their ships were to be allowed to communicate directly with DCO, forcing Ninda to activate the spies he’d placed among the her crews. She and her captains had identified most of them as they made contact in one fashion or another, though they’d take no action against them, would, in fact, pretend they didn’t know who they were. But it was good to know your enemy.

  Ninda, Zort, and Kaffair were looking at her, waiting for an answer. “I’ve been trying to assimilate the incoming reports. I’ve also been looking at the telemetry from the engagement, and attempting to correlate that with those same reports. I’m afraid it’s a confusing mess, though I think I’ve begun to accumulate an accurate, if somewhat incomplete, picture.”

  It was half lie, but it calmed Ninda. “The captain of that imper is not stupid, though he fooled some of our people into thinking he was. We had five ships following him . . .” Privately Add’kas’adanna suspected there was a sixth, but she kept that piece of information to herself. “. . . and he made an injudicious course change.”

  “Are you telling us we lost him?” Kaffair asked, and for an instant Add’kas’adanna thought she detected hope in his voice, as if he wanted the imper to escape.

  Add’kas’adanna pulled out all her training, created and released the sub-mind and prepared herself to observe whatever reaction she could elicit from him. “No,” she said bluntly, and there it was: Kaffair had wanted the imper to escape. And Ninda, of course, wanted him dead, not captured.

  She continued, “One of our ships got a targeting solution, took a shot. But the imper had his shields up, was ready for us, was apparently taking a calculated risk. He pretended to be hurt by the shot, down-transited, waited for the ships following him and burned the first two—no survivors.” She looked at the faces of her fellow directors. They didn’t care about survivors. They didn’t care about her crews.

  “The imper up-transited in a different direction before the last three ships could get there and engage him. They were, however, able to get a reading on his transition wake so we have a good idea of the direction he’s headed. They followed of course, though they’re too far behind to effectively track him, and will undoubtedly lose him in a day or two.”

  Ninda shook his head unhappily. “So we have lost him.”

  Add’kas’adanna didn’t mention the sixth ship she suspected was out there. She’d pored over the reports for hours, and obviously something was missing. Only when she assumed the existence of a sixth ship, probably a small hunter-killer, acting independently and maintaining transmission silence, only then did it add up. “Yes,” she said. “It appears we have.”

  Ninda was angry with everyone, but he chose to take it out on her. “I think it best, Director Add’kas’adanna, if you go out there personally to lead the search.”

  Add’kas’adanna nodded, didn’t tell him she wanted to do exactly that. “As you wish, Director Ninda.” She bowed at the waist and left the chamber.

  CHAPTER 15: CHOICES

  As York left the mess hall a short, overweight civilian man accosted him in the corridor. “Lieutenant Ballin. I’m Frederick Cienyey.”

  York nodded politely. “Your Excellency.”

  Cienyey gave York a smarmy smile. “I’ve wanted to meet you, to thank you for rescuing us from Trinivan, and again from Dumark.”

  “I was just doing my duty, Your Excellency.”

  “You’re being modest, Lieutenant. In any case, you have my thanks, and . . .” Cienyey leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “. . . there are some people in my cabin who’d like to thank you as well. Would you have a few moments?”

  York didn’t want to have anything to do with whatever plot Cienyey had cooked up, was about to lie, tell the man he had to report for duty, but the ambassador blurted out, “I checked the duty roster, just to be sure you’d have time.”

  York tried a different way out. “I’d love to, but except for meals, I’m not allowed above Hangar Deck, by order of the captain.”

  “Well then we’re in luck,” Cienyey said happily. “My cabin is on this deck.” Cienyey took York by the arm and guided him down the corridor, prattling on about the opportunity to meet important people. Cienyey was certain that if York played his cards right, there was considerable advantage to be gained.

  At the hatch to his cabin Cienyey knocked first, then touched the latch and the hatch clicked open. The interior was poorly lit, and the heavy smell of tobac rolled out into the corridor. Cienyey stepped aside and motioned for York to precede him. York did so warily.

  Cienyey followed close behind him, closed the hatch, shutting out the light of the corridor. A woman’s voice spoke out of the darkness, “Bring the lights up a bit, Frederick, so poor Lieutenant Ballin can see.”

  Cienyey touched the lighting control. They were in a small, cramped cabin with two other men and a woman. The men were both seated in chairs folded out of the bulkhead, while the woman occupied a small straight-backed chair, probably appropriated from ship’s stores. One of the men put a small tube to his lips, sucked on it and exhaled a plume of smoke. The woman smiled at York pleasantly, though he had the impression the smile was just a courtesy. She looked at one of the men, the one not smoking. “Jandeer, get the lieutenant a chair.”

  Of the two men seated against the wall, the one smoking was small and wiry, while the other was large and powerfully built. The large one stood, offered York his seat, and everything about him said bodyguard.

  “Thank you,” York said, “but I’ll stand.”

  The woman wore single-piece shipboard fatigues. Like everyone from the embassy she’d probably been happy to escape with her life, and was dependent upon what she could draw from ship’s stores. But it didn’t matter what they wore; the aristocrats looked aristocratic, and the rich looked rich. But the woman in front of York, and the small wiry man seated next to her, radiated an aura of power.

  The woman said, “I’m Sarra Fithwallen, and this,” she indicated the small wiry man, “is Brentin Omasin.” She looked at Cienyey. “You of course know Lord Cienyey, and next to him is my associate Jandeer Faiel.” The large man nodded. York had heard of both Fithwallen and Omasin, though he couldn’t recall where.

  Cienyey blurted out, “Miss Fithwallen is the owner of Kordak Trading Industries, and Mister Omasin is the chief executive of the Darrien Concern.”

  There was a short, embarrassing silence. Obviously, Fithwallen and Omasin considered Cienyey excess baggage now that he’d run their errand. Omasin broke the silence. “We all owe you our lives. Once on Trinivan, and then again on Dumark.”

  York had heard of both outfits. They were big trading and merchant organizations, and he wondered why two such important people had been on a remote planet like Trinivan, one so close to potential Syndonese attack. “There were any number of people responsible for your rescue,” he said.

  The woman smiled. “Now my next comment should be something like, ‘Oh lieutenant, you’re being modest.’”

  York decided he liked her. “You know the script well.”

  She shrugged. “So I won’t pretend to believe that you single-handedly rescued us. But when the man in command of this ship made an ill conceived course correction four days ago, you were singularly responsible for keeping us alive. Is that not correct, Lieutenant?”

  York shook his head. “We made a mistake. I happened to be the first one to spot it.”

  Omasi
n made a point of exhaling a large plume of smoke. “We didn’t make a mistake, Lieutenant. Commander Sierka made a mistake. And when you realized what was happening, you understood the danger and tried to correct it. In fact, were it not for you, we wouldn’t have had our shields powered when the first warhead struck, and we might not be here right now.”

  York looked at Omasin carefully. “You’ve done your homework.”

  Omasin nodded as if he’d gotten the answer he wanted. “You’re experienced. You’re a lifer, with more than—”

  York interrupted him. “Yes! I’m good luck.”

  In the ensuing silence that followed he regretted the outburst. Omasin leaned back and sucked contentedly on his tobac. The bodyguard Faiel continued to lean patiently against the bulkhead, while Cienyey looked on expectantly. Fithwallen’s eyes narrowed and she appeared to measure York before she said, “I try to concern myself with patterns of behavior, not single incidents. You, for instance, appear to be a bit unstable, on the surface. But you have a pattern of doing the right thing, especially under pressure. On the other hand, Commander Sierka is . . . perhaps a bit inexperienced in these matters. He has established a pattern, Lieutenant, and, though different, it’s every bit as consistent as yours. Did you know that he’s begun arming his officers?”

  York couldn’t help but frown. “I was aware some crewmembers were carrying non-issue weapons.”

  “And Sierka is issuing sidearms to his officers. They’re carrying weapons at all times of the day and night. He’s losing control.”

  York thought, He never had control. Officers carrying sidearms! The situation was approaching critical mass.

  Omasin leaned forward. “Tell me, Lieutenant. What would you recommend we do?”