A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  From the rate of fire it appeared the feddies had about a half dozen artillery pieces, and as many mortar emplacements. But the shells coming in were not smart shells; just casings with explosives, no on-board computer with tracking, homing, and trajectory adjustment.

  The artillery barrage lasted through most of the night. It caused very little damage—in fact, one of the command bunkers took a direct hit, but it was buried so deeply the damage was minimal. For the most part One, Two and Three were able to track the incoming shells, predict their trajectories, and warn any station seconds before it sustained a hit. But the barrage served its purpose: it kept them up all night, stretched their nerves to the limit and reduced their effectiveness as a combat unit.

  The fighters came in at dawn, their targets the three assault boats. They were using missiles guided by heat, light, and electronic emission. At high altitude the boats were no match for the fighters with their blinding speed and air-to-air strike capability. But the boats were each equipped with about thirty small drones which, when released, provided a field of randomly shifting targets for any incoming missile by darting around the boat and broadcasting target emissions. So the boat pilots stayed close to the ground, darted in and out of the forest, made effective use of their drones and a boat’s hover capability. And since the fighter pilots had to be constantly alert for small surface-to-air missiles from the marines, they were relatively safe.

  At dusk on the second day York took stock of their casualties: three dead, eight wounded, one portable mortar destroyed, and they’d lost about a dozen of their ninety drones.

  Jewel shook her head, mumbled to herself, “What the hell is he up to?”

  “Maybe it’s a trap,” Soe said.

  Jewel glanced over her screens. They were about a tenth of a light-year out from the Anachron system, drifting slowly toward the planet. The imper was either a genius or a maniac, or maybe both, or just maybe schizophrenic. “What the hell is he doing in that system? Yesterday he transits out of there, and now he’s coming back?”

  Innay said, “He’s got people down on the surface of number four.”

  Jewel shook her head. “I guess we’ll just have to be patient, wait and see.”

  In the distance the crump of the mortar was followed by a burst of automatic weapons fire, all muffled by the dirt walls of the bunker. Each time a shell hit somewhere the walls shook and a soft rain of dust settled down through the shadows of the dim lamp overhead.

  York sat down on a shelf of dirt next to Palevi, struggled at the neck seals of his helmet for a few moments. Palevi lent a hand, and when he finally lifted the helmet off his head the earthy smell of the bunker was a real pleasure. After three days in armor all of them had grown quite ripe. The armor kept them disinfected, but it couldn’t replace a trip to the fresher, and the hot, steamy air rising up out of the neck ring of his armor warred with the smell of the bunker.

  It was about an hour before dawn, and Straegga and Jakobee and Palevi and York had gathered to make some tough decisions. “What’s our situation now?” Straegga asked.

  Palevi pulled out a flask containing diluted trate, took a healthy swig and passed it to Straegga. She sniffed at the flask, then put it to her lips while Palevi spoke mechanically. “Fourteen dead, thirty-two wounded, one portable mortar destroyed, one rotary emplacement gone, and we’re down to fifty-three drones.”

  York spoke, tried not to sound as mechanical but failed. “We’ve burned two of their fighters, and that sortie last night took out two of their artillery pieces. We’ve probably killed more of them than they have us, but we examined a few bodies last night and they’re using amateurs—farmers, civilians, whatever. They’re eventually going to wear us down just by the numbers, and as our fatigue increases, our effectiveness will steadily decline and our casualty rate will grow exponentially.”

  The flask came York’s way. He put it to his lips, relished the burn of the trate as Straegga shook her head hopelessly. York had privately filled her in on the real situation with Sierka, so she had no fantasies about rescue. “We’re equipped better than they are—you haven’t seen any body armor, have you?”

  York shook his head.

  “Well then,” Straegga asked. “Could we take that city, maybe just take the power plant?”

  York and Palevi looked at one another. York shrugged. “Probably, but we can’t hold it. Occupation troops need a strong supply line connecting them to their base of operations. We have no base.”

  Straegga sat silently for some seconds shaking her head. She looked odd in armor. “Well that does it. I don’t see any choice but to face reality and surrender. At least we can negotiate from a position of strength, get some terms.” She looked at York. “I’ll use the com tomorrow, try to set it up. I think it should be you and me, Mister Ballin.”

  York nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Straegga dismissed him and Palevi. They helped each other back into their helmets, then crawled up the ladder into the darkness just before dawn. Palevi leaned close to York, and with both their visors up, he whispered, “Cap’em. Why don’t you come with me? If you’re goin’ in among a bunch of feddies, you might as well take some insurance.”

  York grinned. “What have you got in mind?”

  “Trust me, sir.”

  CHAPTER 17: ESCAPE

  Hackla brought One down slowly, held it hovering about twenty centimeters above the forest floor. York dropped his visor and sealed his armor. His suit said in his ear, “Minor hazard warning. Gauntlet breach. Decompression compensation activated.”

  His suit inflated an isolation seal around his left wrist, and he glanced up at the silhouette displayed on the interior of his visor. His left gauntlet was shaded red, a small tear in the flexible power mesh covering the palm of his left hand. He’d noticed it just after dawn, hadn’t yet had time to repair it.

  He stepped up to the hatch, hit the release and the hatch slid back into the skin of the boat. Outside stood about thirty feddies with rifles of various kinds aimed at him. He kept his hands well away from his sidearm as he stepped to the ground. Straegga followed him, wearing no armor. As a ship’s officer it would not be appropriate for her to wear armor to a truce conference. As a marine, under the circumstances, it would be out of character for York to wear anything else. The boat lifted off behind them and disappeared into the sky.

  Even before the female feddie officer stepped forward, York noticed her standing among her troops. She wore the uniform of a Directorate sublegion, a rank equivalent to York’s, but she stood easily ten centimeters above him and any man there, and while she probably outweighed most men, on that frame she looked thin and gaunt. Her skin was a deep olive hue, against which her pale blue eyes stood out like beacons. But the most striking feature was her snow-white hair, not yellow blond but bone-white, cut shoulder length and tied back in a utilitarian and unattractive way, though oddly enough she was quite beautiful.

  When she stepped forward she walked like a predatory animal. In twenty years York could count the number of times he’d been this close to a feddie on the fingers of one hand, but even had he met them regularly this would have been a rare exception. His suspicions were confirmed when she stepped forward, saluted Straegga, spoke standard with an accent. “I am Sab’ach’ahn, commander of all military forces of the Federal Directorate of the Republic of Syndon here on Anachron IV.”

  The name was the final piece of data York needed: a Kinathin breed warrior, an almost pure blooded descendent of a long dead king’s attempt to gene engineer the perfect warrior. The Kinathins were supposed to be the best.

  Straegga introduced herself, surrendered her sidearm, and they shook hands. Then the Kinathin turned to York.

  York reached up carefully, popped his visor. The feddies behind Sab’ach’ahn jumped, probably expected to find the face of a demon behind the visor. York and Sab’ach’ahn traded salutes, then he carefully reached for his sidearm while the feddies tensed. He unclipped it from his thigh plate
, reversed it and surrendered it to Sab’ach’ahn. Then he paid the feddie a compliment by breaking his right wrist seal and removing the gauntlet to shake her hand. “Ballin,” he said tersely. “Imperial marines.”

  Sab’ach’ahn frowned, and York hoped she didn’t recognize his name. All he needed was for them to find out he was the SDO, with a million crowns on his head. But Sab’ach’ahn said nothing.

  York put his gauntlet back on and Sab’ach’ahn said, “If you will follow me.”

  The feddies were cautious, perhaps expecting the impers to bring the boat down filled with assault troops. But more than two hundred years ago the rules of a civilized war had been drafted on a small planet that no longer existed on the charts. York and Straegga were going to be careful to follow the Treaty Accords of Sierah to the letter.

  Sab’ach’ahn led them to a small bunker about two hundred meters away. Inside the bunker a single, middle-aged man waited with two armed guards, both feddie regulars by the look of them. Sab’ach’ahn turned to the middle-aged man and introduced him as “Planetary Governor Andleman.”

  Andleman stared at York and Straegga with a look of fanaticism and deep distrust. By the look of his clothes he was an amateur, and York wondered what chance they had of concluding any agreement with a fanatic farmer.

  There was a small table in the bunker; Andleman motioned them to sit. They did so, then Andleman and Sab’ach’ahn sat down opposite them. Sab’ach’ahn gave their sidearms to Andleman, and the governor fingered them for a moment, then said, “So you’re here to surrender.”

  Straegga shook her head. “We do wish to surrender, but we’re here to negotiate terms before doing so.”

  Andleman looked closely at York’s sidearm, a heavy weapon of dark metal that fired non-exploding shells at high velocity. “No terms. You surrender, and that’s it.”

  Straegga looked across the table at Andleman for a long moment. “But if we surrender without terms, you can legally treat us rather badly.”

  “Exactly,” Andleman said smugly. “You’ll just have to trust me. You have no choice.”

  Straegga made an obvious effort to remain calm. “All we ask are simple terms guaranteeing us humanitarian treatment.”

  Andleman shook his head. “Like I said, you have no choice.”

  Straegga shrugged. “Certainly you outnumber us, and you have time on your side. But I have Cap’em Ballin here, and almost two hundred and fifty imperial marine regulars, all experienced combat troops in full combat armor, with assault boats, portable artillery, perimeter defense weaponry, and only god and Cap’em Ballin here know what else. So if you give us no better alternative than to continue fighting, you’ll pay a dear price to defeat us.”

  Andleman continued to examine York’s sidearm and shook his head. “Don’t threaten me.”

  Straegga leaned back. “It was no threat, merely a statement of fact.”

  Andleman grinned. “You’re full of shit!”

  It went on like that for almost two hours. Andleman really had no intention of negotiating, but he went through the motions. Sab’ach’ahn seemed somewhat embarrassed by his style, tried to interject some reason occasionally. York kept his mouth shut, spoke up only when Straegga wanted support. And it might have gone on forever like that, but near midday York’s helmet com came suddenly alive with a familiar voice. “Cap’em, Palevi here. Our telemetry tap to Cinesstar just opened up again. She’s headed back this way, and she’s sounding recall.”

  York almost flinched, and all he could do was wonder what Sierka was up to now. But it was not the time to question god-sent favors, so he reached over, touched Straegga’s sleeve, interrupted her, and as he’d already done several times that morning, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I don’t know why, but Cinesstar’s back to pick us up.”

  Straegga’s face brightened. She looked at Andleman and said, “We don’t seem to be able to converge.” She lifted herself carefully to her feet. “Why don’t we recess, see if we can continue this tomorrow. In the mean time an extended cease-fire might be in order.”

  At that moment a guard burst through the door to the bunker and shouted, “An imper cruiser just transited into our farspace. And it looks like she’s lining up to transit in close.”

  Andleman jumped to his feet, pointed York’s sidearm at Straegga. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  Throughout that morning York had kept his arms folded on top of the table, with his right hand resting casually on top of the access panel in his left forearm plate, his thumb resting over the catch that would open it. He sat motionless while Straegga answered Andleman honestly. “I don’t know. But since these talks are going nowhere I’m exercising my prerogative to end them, and accordingly, Cap’em Ballin and I will withdraw peacefully.”

  Andleman shook York’s gun at Straegga. “No you don’t. You’re staying here as my prisoners.”

  Straegga looked down the barrel of York’s sidearm, then into Andleman’s eyes. “No we are not. I’m calling these negotiations to an end, which I have a right to do per the Accords set down at Sierah more than two hundred years ago. As such Cap’em Ballin and I are to be allowed to withdraw peacefully.”

  Andleman spit out, “Bullshit! We didn’t sign any damn accords, so if you make one move I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

  Sab’ach’ahn lifted herself slowly to her feet. “She is right, Your Excellency. This planet is a member of the Directorate, and as such is signatory to the Accords by association. You must allow them to leave, and failure to do so is a criminal act.”

  Andleman considered Sab’ach’ahn’s words. “I don’t give a damn about any accords. You’re my prisoners, and you’ll stay here whether you like it or not.”

  Straegga extended her right hand, palm up, not far enough out to reach Andleman but obviously to ask for her sidearm. “If you’ll return my—”

  A bullet exploded from the barrel of the gun Andleman held. It caught her high in the chest and to one side and she dropped to the floor. Sab’ach’ahn shouted, “Stop!”

  York slapped open the access plate on his forearm, rapidly hit a four button combination in sequence, and the reactor pack on his back suddenly whined ominously. But he was concentrating on the forearm panel, on getting his thumb pressed tightly over the proper switch, and he didn’t see it coming when Andleman slapped him between the eyes with the barrel of his gun through the open face of his helmet.

  York’s head spun as he reeled back in his chair and almost fell over, but he concentrated on keeping his thumb pressed on the switch in his forearm plate. Andleman curled his fingers over the lip of the open face of York’s helmet, yanked his head forward and jammed the barrel of the gun painfully up under York’s chin. York kept his thumb on the switch while his reactor pack growled at them like an angry animal.

  Andleman jerked the muzzle of the gun forward, pushed York’s head back painfully. “What did you do? Stop whatever it is or I’ll blow your brains all over the back of your helmet.”

  York could feel blood from a cut in his forehead dripping down between his eyes, past his nose to his chin. “If you do,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “you’ll blow us all to fucking hell.”

  Andleman jerked the gun harder into York’s throat, demanded, “What do you mean?”

  York spoke slowly. “I mean that my reactor pack is wired to a dead man switch. If I release the switch I’m holding down with my thumb, or if my suit sensors detect serious physical damage to me, my reactor pack will overload and blow.”

  Andleman shook him. “This is a double-cross.”

  “No,” York said. “You were the first to violate the truce statutes of the Accords, and from that moment we were free to use any means at our disposal to defend ourselves.” He looked at Sab’ach’ahn. “Isn’t that right, sublegion?”

  Sab’ach’ahn looked into York’s eyes. “He is correct, Your Excellency. But the reactor pack on imperial armor will not detonate in the way he implies.”
>
  York grinned, could sense that don’t give a damn feeling coming on. “It does if you bypass its fail-safe circuitry, change its programming, specifically rewire it for that purpose, then give it a fifty percent overcharge. We estimate a yield well in excess of four kilopounds. It should leave a good sized crater.”

  Andleman looked at Sab’ach’ahn and demanded, “Is that possible?”

  The Kinathin’s eyes remained locked with York’s. “Yes, Your Excellency. It may be.”

  Andleman looked from York to Sab’ach’ahn, then back to York. He jammed the gun harder into York’s throat and growled, “You’re bluffing.”

  York looked into Andleman’s eyes, felt that don’t give a damn feeling getting even closer. “Then pull the trigger,” he said.

  Sab’ach’ahn asked, “What is bluffing?”

  Andleman shook his head. “He’s lying, trying to fool us, trying get us to give up when there’s no need.”

  “Your Excellency,” Sab’ach’ahn said. “Before you believe this bluffing, you should realize who you’re dealing with. Cap’em Ballin is the most senior drop officer of all marines in the empire, the so called SDO, the man for whom the Directorate offers a standing reward of one million crowns, dead. His dossier states he has more than twenty years of almost continuous combat experience. He is reputed to be somewhat bloodthirsty, and a bit psychotic.”

  Andleman hesitated, and during that instant York had the oddest feeling that if Andleman didn’t pull the trigger, his nightmare about Yan taking him apart bit by bit would someday come true. “Come on, damn it,” York snarled. “Pull the trigger.”

  Andleman frowned.

  “I said pull the trigger,” York shouted. “You think I’m bluffing so pull the fucking trigger.”