by J. L. Doty
York watched the open safety of Three Bay approaching, but then suddenly, with rescue no more than ten meters away, the bay doors started to close.
“No,” York pleaded. “No. Please no!” He pushed off the bulkhead, but the jet of air forced him back against it. He reached down deep for the last bit of strength he had, slid along the bulkhead to the backup console, prayed that he remembered correctly the way he’d programmed the keys, hit three that should fire the right attitude jets.
Nothing happened for a moment, then the boat started to move with agonizing slowness. Ordinarily, in a docking procedure, you erred on the side of caution, gave the jets a tiny goose, let the boat drift carefully into place. But now York held the keys down and the boat picked up speed rapidly.
It almost worked nicely, but the bay doors were half closed, and the boat was a total wreck, and York was only conscious because he was close to overdose on kikkers and jackers, and it really wouldn’t have been possible to exercise fine attitude control with a keyboard anyway. The boat clipped one of the bay seals on its way in, jack-knifed around, tore off a good piece of its tail section on a large girder, entered the gravity field of the service bay, crashed to the deck and skidded to a stop in a grinding mess of twisted steel and plast.
York pitched forward through the hole in the cockpit, landed on his side on the deck, still tethered to the boat by the air hose, and the jet of air pinned him down.
Three Bay clanked shut with a crash that echoed through the hull, and the service crew brought pressure up in the bay. As the air pressure around him rose the jet of air slowly stopped blowing, York’s suit depressurized the isolation seal around his wrist, and that increased the agony he was trying to contain. He triggered a kikker, rolled over and tried to struggle to his feet.
Someone helped him up, half dragged him to a bulkhead and sat him down against it. The bay was filling quickly with service crew and marines from the other boats, all starting to swarm over the wreck of Three. York popped his visor, filled his lungs with the clean, fresh air from the bay, looked up, found Maggie and Frank standing over him. He tugged at his helmet, growled, “Help me get this thing off. And what the hell are you doing here?”
While they struggled with the neck seals on his helmet Maggie and Frank explained. When Sierka had abandoned York and his marines he’d almost had a mutiny on his hands among his junior officers, but Maggie had reminded them all of York’s own words about such idiocy. But when the AI had resumed their rape squads, the mutiny had come about anyway, a mix of civilians, the enlisted ranks, and some of the NCO’s.
“Well not exactly a mutiny,” Frank said. “More like another riot. We’ve sealed them in E, F, and G decks.”
Maggie grimaced, lifted York’s helmet slowly off his head. “Sierka tried to arm the officers, but we learned fast we’re outnumbered too much to end it, so he needs your marines. And in any case, the empress ordered him to come back and pick you up.” She looked at his face. “What the hell happened to you?”
York touched his face, felt the dried blood from the cut on his forehead where Andleman had struck him with the barrel of his gun, a fresh trickle of blood from his nose due to the near terminal decompression of his suit. “Forget me. Why aren’t you two on the bridge?”
Maggie and Frank looked at each other, grinned. Maggie shrugged. “Frank and I aren’t getting along well with His Lordship. We’ve been relieved of duty, we’re under arrest, and we’re supposed to report to the brig. I guess we’ll get there eventually.”
There was a crowd of marines and technicians gathered around Three’s small airlock, and it was starting to bother York that neither that nor the main hatch were open yet, that no marines weren’t spilling out of the boat carrying wounded to sickbay.
He stood up carefully. His left arm and hand were an intolerable torment, the gauntlet still distended and rigid. His legs trembled and he wanted to collapse, but the kikkers and jackers kept him conscious and moving. He marched over to the crowd at the airlock, got there just as they forced the outer seal.
It spilled open and four, half-naked bodies spilled out, marines stripped of their armor, their wounds wrapped in blood soaked bandages, their skins the blue of carbon dioxide asphyxiation.
“What happened?” Maggie asked.
Each of the four marines had one or more bandages on their head, neck, or torso, and York understood, but Yagell answered her. “They must have lost pressure in the main compartment. If you got a limb breach you just lose an arm or leg, but a torso or helmet breach is a death sentence. So they stripped them and stuffed them into the airlock, hoping it would hold pressure. Would have worked, Cap’em, if you’d got picked up faster. But they ran out of air.”
One of the technicians looked at a readout on the inside of the airlock. “Pressure’s equalizing inside, air’s leaking back in.”
York backed away from the four bodies, and Yagell’s words kept echoing through his thoughts . . . if you’d got picked up faster . . .
The inner seal on the airlock popped loudly when they finally opened it, and the marines inside poured out carrying their wounded. York couldn’t take his eyes off the four, blue skinned casualties, and even when Soladin approached him and barked an order at him, he still could hear only Yagell’s words, . . . if you’d got picked up faster . . .
Palevi stopped beside him, popped his visor, sucked fresh air into his lungs, looked down at the four dead marines. “What happened, Cap’em? Why’d it take so long to get picked up?”
. . . if you’d got picked up faster . . . York felt something rising up within him, something akin to hatred, but colder, with a hard knife edge of purpose attached to it.
“What happened, Cap’em?”
“Ballin,” Soladin shouted. “Are you listening to me? I’m giving you an order, and it comes directly from Commander Sierka.”
. . . if you’d got picked up faster . . . York turned to Soladin, saw the young nobleman as if through a strange, distorted haze.
Soladin shouted, “Answer me, or I’ll—”
York back-handed him with the closed fist of his good hand. Soladin landed on his back in a sprawl, bounced once and came to a stop. He groaned, rolled onto his side and curled up. There were two AI goons with him, armed with sidearms and rifles. They backed away warily, but made no hostile moves.
York looked down at the empty clips on his thigh plate, couldn’t remember where he’d lost his sidearm. He turned back to Palevi, looked at him through that distorted atmosphere and held out his good hand palm up. “Sergeant, may I borrow your sidearm.”
Maggie grabbed him by his bad arm, and the resulting pain cleared his head even further. “What are you going to do, York?”
He didn’t look at her as he answered. “Something I should have done a long time ago.”
Palevi unclipped his sidearm from his thigh plate, an old-fashioned, heavy caliber revolver. He popped it open, checked the load, closed it, reversed it, laid it carefully in York’s hand. “Eight rounds, sir.”
York growled like a wild beast, “I’ll only need one.”
“York,” Maggie pleaded. She tugged on his bad arm and he was thankful now for the pain. “Please! What are you going to do?”
York shook her off, turned away from her toward the lift and stepped over Soladin who was trying to get to his feet. As he marched to the lift there was a certain peace that came over him now that he knew what to do. He could even ignore the throbbing agony that had once been his left arm, and he thought that perhaps the four dead marines from the boat’s airlock were a fair price to pay if it got him to finally do the right thing.
“God damn it, Ballin!” Maggie shouted. She caught him from behind by his bad arm, and again he was thankful for the pain. She spun him about to face her, screamed in his face, “What are you—”
He backhanded her like Soladin, but this time his hand was carrying the weight of Palevi’s gun and she went down like a rag doll. He stood over her, screamed at the top o
f his lungs, “I’m gonna blow Sierka’s fucking brains all over the god damned bridge. That’s what I’m gonna do.”
Three Bay was dead silent as he turned back to the lift. But Soladin had regained his feet, and with the AI goons was now blocking his path. The young nobleman backed away a step, and behind him the AI goons backed with him. “You’re under arrest, Ballin.”
Even York couldn’t believe the sound that crawled up out of his throat. “Get out of my way, or I’ll kill you too.”
Soladin backed up another step, pointed a finger at York, shouted at his two AI goons, “Shoot him. That’s an order.”
York stood there without moving and the two AI goons hesitated uncertainly, so Soladin started fumbling at the gun holstered to his side.
It was an odd sound, coming from behind York. It came quickly, but it began first with a single click and the sound of a reactor pack whining up to combat status. Then a second click, and a third, more reactor packs whining up to status, safeties snapping off, a cacophony of weapons cocked and brought to bear that blended together into a single, drawn-out roar that rose almost tediously into a deafening crescendo, then died slowly into a silence broken only by the hum of a multitude of weapons ready to kill.
The effect on Soladin was extraordinary. He froze with stark terror on his face, his gun only half drawn from the holster, his mouth so wide open you could park a gunboat in it.
York froze too, his arms slack at his sides, Palevi’s gun pointing at the deck. He turned slowly about to look at what had so dramatically transfixed Soladin. About a hundred weapons were all fixed on the poor nobleman standing in the lift. Every marine in Three Bay stood statue still, some upright, some on one knee, but each in a text-book combat stance for firing a weapon with maximum accuracy. One nod from York and they’d disintegrate Soladin and his two AI goons. Then York could go up and murder Sierka. Then he and his marines could murder anyone else they felt like murdering. Then what?
He turned slowly back to Soladin, who hadn’t moved a muscle, and he spoke in a soft voice, almost a whisper. “Holster your gun.”
Soladin’s eyes considered a useless act of idiotic heroism, but York shook his head calmly and said, “Don’t. You won’t even clear the holster.”
Soladin hesitated for a moment, then he carefully pushed the gun back down into its holster. A wave of pain washed up York’s arm as he turned back to Maggie, and now he was not thankful for the torment. She lay still with Frank crouched over her. York called for a medic, though he didn’t have to shout, and one scrambled across the deck, dropped to her knees beside Maggie and started to work. York looked at Palevi, tossed him the sidearm, then crouched down beside Frank.
Maggie was blinking groggily, a nasty cut below her right eye. York reached out with his good hand, brushed hair out of her eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes focused and she grinned painfully. “No way to treat a lady, York.”
York looked at the medic. “You broke her cheek, cap’em. Nothing more serious than that.”
Again York said, “I’m sorry.” He stood, marched back to Soladin and said, “You wanted to see me?”
Soladin was still transfixed, still staring back over York’s shoulder. York turned around slowly. The reactor packs were still whining and the marines still frozen with their weapons aimed at the poor nobleman. Even Palevi had raised the gun York had just tossed him, was now sighting down the barrel. “Put your weapons down,” York said.
There was a click or two, and one or two reactor packs went silent, but the rest didn’t move. York looked at Palevi, looked down the barrel of his gun, past it, looked him in the eyes. “Put your gun down, Sergeant. That’s an order.”
A few more reactor packs wound down, a few more weapons lowered, but still Palevi hesitated. Then finally his hand moved and the gun dropped in a slow arc to his thigh where he clicked it into place. One by one the rest of the marines followed his example, shut down their reactor packs and lowered their weapons.
York turned back to Soladin.
“The captain wants to see you,” Soladin said, his arrogance gone. “In his office. Now.”
York marched toward the lift, forcing Soladin and his two AI goons to step aside as he stormed past them. They stepped in behind him, scrambled to keep up.
Sierka had a guard outside his office, but he took one look at York and stepped timidly aside. With Soladin following close on his heels York pushed his way into Sierka’s office and Sierka nearly jumped out of his skin. “I’m still alive,” York announced, refusing to follow the normal formalities of salute and acknowledgment.
Sierka had a small gun sitting on the desk in front of him. Sweat glistened on his face and his breathing came in short desperate gasps. But after a few seconds he realized York wasn’t going to kill him and he recovered.
York turned upon Soladin. “Get out,” he shouted.
Soladin started to say something but York cut him off. “I said get out. And close the fucking hatch behind you.”
Soladin backed carefully out through the hatch and closed it.
York turned his attention back to Sierka. “What do you want?”
Sierka toyed with the small gun. “You’re . . . insubordinate.”
“So what? Execute me!”
Sierka looked at him carefully. “I have a certain . . . security situation you need to take care—”
“I know,” York said. He leaned on Sierka’s desk. “You’ve got a mutiny on your hands on E, F, and G decks. You’ve screwed things up so fucking badly the rest of your crew is ready to join them, and now you want me to clean things up for you. I’ll clean your mess up, but then you’re going to start doing things right around here. You’re going to set up a proper crew, and you’re going to captain this ship like the man’o’war it is, or so help me God I’ll . . .”
As York hesitated Sierka responded with a broad grin. “That’s it, Lieutenant, isn’t it? You’ll what? You can’t even say it. Well I’ll say it. You must either kill me and take over the ship, or do what I command. And right now I command you to squash the mutiny that’s threatening us all.”
York raised his good hand over his head in a fist, brought it down on the desk with an incredible crack, sending papers and debris scattering in all directions. Sierka’s confidence disappeared and the fear returned to his eyes, and York was thankful for even that small victory. He turned and stormed out of the office. Out in the corridor he felt Cinesstar make transition.
It was a fairly simple matter to squash the mutiny on E, F, and G decks. They’d disarmed most of G-deck after the riot, but E and F were crew, with a lot of contraband weapons. York gathered his marines, didn’t bother to get new armor—he wouldn’t need it—started on E deck with a hand com piped into the deck allship. “This is Cap’em Ballin. I have more than two hundred marines in full combat kit. We have orders to take this deck and restore order. If you surrender without resistance, you have my word no harm will come to you. If you don’t, then we will be quick, efficient, and ruthless.
“Lay down any weapons you have, then lay down on your stomach with your hands locked together on the back of your head, and I personally guarantee your safety.”
It worked, probably because the mutiny had no leadership and had degenerated into just another riot. There was only one incident, on F deck. They’d cleared about half of it when a young woman jumped out into the middle of the corridor, and with a hysterical scream started swinging a small handgun wildly about, pulling the trigger. The marines dove for cover as bullets ricocheted up the corridor, and they started to bring their weapons to bear, but York screamed, “Hold your fire. As you were. That’s an order.”
Above all, the marines were disciplined. They let her stand in the corridor screaming and pulling the trigger on the gun. It was a small grav gun, with a magazine of non-explosive projectiles and a reactor pack in the grip. When she’d fired all the projectiles the gun shut down, though she remained there screaming and pulling the tri
gger. York stood, stepped into the corridor, and at sight of him her screams died, became a whimper, though she continued to pull the trigger on the now empty weapon. York walked slowly up the corridor, the only sound the click, click, click as she repeatedly pulled the trigger. He walked up to her until she could press the barrel of the gun against his chest at point-blank range, the trigger clicking into the silence around them. He raised his hands, cupped them around the gun and carefully pulled it out of her grip. She buried her face in her hands and broke into sobs.
York spoke into the hand com. “Get a medic here and sedate her.”
That set the tone for the cleanup operation, and the marines were careful to kill no one.
When it was over York reported to Soladin and his two AI goons. “Very good, Mister Ballin,” Soladin said. “Now. I have orders from Commander Sierka. You’re under arrest for attempted mutiny. These two men will escort you to the brig.”
York allowed the AI goons to escort him to a cell, noted with an oddly disconnected sense of reality that prisoners of one sort or another occupied many of the other cells. As they locked him in he said, “I need medical attention.”
The two goons looked at each other and grinned. “Sure you do,” one of them said.
“I need treatment,” York said. “Please have a marine medic or someone from Doctor Yan’s staff come here as soon as possible.”
Their grins broadened and they turned away without comment. York folded a seat out of the wall and sat down. His left hand was so badly swollen the gauntlet was rigid, with a steady stream of ooze drizzling out of the tear in the mesh. He tried to get his armor off, managed to pop the seals on his right shoulder, but either the armor was too badly damaged, or he was too exhausted to succeed. What he needed now was rest, so he flopped into the lowest of the grav bunks in his armor and had no difficulty passing out.
“Did you get it?” Jewel demanded.
Soe looked up from his screens, craned his neck to look past the fire control console with a big grin on his face. “We got him. I got his transition vector clean and precise. We won’t miss him this time.”
