A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  She was right, of course. As he stripped down, Maggie noticed the small gun tucked in the holster at his waist. “Do you really need that?”

  He shrugged. “Old habit.”

  “You never packed a gun before, not on board ship.”

  “All right, it’s a new habit. But it’s still not going away.” He stuffed the gun into a pocket on one thigh.

  The stripes on his sleeves drew his attention, scared him a bit.

  “Here,” Maggie said. “Put this on too.”

  She handed him a small cap with gold filigree smeared all over the bill. He put it on carefully, set it on his head straight and square. She shook her head sadly. “York, sometimes you’re the most boring turd I’ve ever known.” She suddenly shifted her weight, squared her shoulders and saluted him smartly. “But I wouldn’t have anyone else for a CO, Captain.”

  York didn’t know if he deserved her trust. He squared his own shoulders, returned her salute carefully, then nodded toward the mess hall. “Let’s go do this, eh?”

  The station commanders were waiting for him nervously, and as he stepped into the officer’s mess Palevi barked out in his best parade ground style, “Captain on the deck.”

  He caught York by surprise as much as he caught the rest. There was a sudden flurry of motion as everyone snapped to attention, followed by a complete and tense silence.

  York marched business-like through the middle of them, threw a casual “As you were,” over his shoulder, headed straight for the bar at the far end of the room. There was a small raised area around the bar, and he’d decided to speak from there. He stepped up onto the platform, turned around and clasped his hands behind his back.

  There was a rustle of movement, the grumble of hidden conversations and unasked questions. He waited statue still, and slowly the noise and the bustle died. He waited until the last sound was gone from the room, then he waited further, allowed the silence to grow pregnant and uncomfortable. “I assume you’ve all seen the orders issued by Her Majesty that put me in command of this ship. If not, they’re in the public log of this ship.”

  He saw a lot of distrust on the faces there. “You’ve each been assigned duty as the commander of a station or department on this ship. Each of you will shortly be given a list of the people that report to you. Some are stationside personnel with no shipboard experience. Some are civilians we are conscripting into service by order of Her Majesty. You’ll have one hour to make sure each of them knows the locations of his or her quarters and duty station. Don’t bother with anything beyond that; you won’t have time. Some of them, by the way, you’ll find in the brig for minor offenses. As of this moment I’m dropping all charges against them, but they won’t be discharged until you sign their release and escort them back to their quarters.”

  He scanned the faces again: no change. “At the end of that hour we’ll hold our first combat drill. It is then that you’ll have the opportunity to begin training your people.”

  Still the faces hadn’t changed. “That is all. Dismissed.”

  A hand shot up in the middle of the crowd. “Sir. May I ask a question?”

  York shook his head. “No questions. Dismissed.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, but cut a path through the middle of them as he made his way to the door. Behind him he heard Palevi bark, “Atteeuun . . . shuuuuun!” but he was gone before they had a chance to react.

  CHAPTER 21: OLD MEMORIES

  The first drill taxed York’s patience to the limit. He let the klaxon hammer away at them for more than ten minutes before finally shutting it down. And even then only a little over seventy percent of the stations had reported in.

  At that point he put the station commanders to work running a succession of simple combat simulations while Palevi ran another sweep of the ship to herd up lost sheep. Anyone merely lost or confused was given directions or a guide to their station. Anyone who resisted or refused to comply with orders—and there were a few—was thrown in the brig. Finally, when York once again knew that every soul on the ship was properly on station or in the brig, he took the ship off alert status.

  Gant and Rame sat down with York in his office to brief him on options for a transition plan. Gant said, “We’re about twenty light-years behind the lines, or at least where we knew the lines to be about a month ago. Sarasan is another thirty beyond that. On a direct line of sight from our present position Aagerbanne is sixty-two light-years distant. But if we drive straight to her we’ll slant diagonally through the lines, spend a lot of time in danger of attack from pickets on either side. I recommend we parallel the lines for about thirty light-years, then cut straight across toward Aagerbanne. It’ll take us longer, a total of sixteen days, but it’ll be safer.” She looked at York for comment.

  York asked Rame, “You like her plan?”

  “We worked it out together.”

  “Then do it,” he said as he looked at his watch. A half hour had passed since he’d released his new crew from their stations. “Commander Rame. Sound general quarters.”

  Rame issued the order to the bridge through his implants, and the alert klaxon started blaring immediately. Rame and Gant looked at York, he nodded his permission and they shot out of the room. He stood there for a moment, let the noise wash over him and tried not to think about what would happen if they had to actually engage an enemy warship. Then he turned and headed calmly for the bridge.

  York ran them back and forth for almost a full day. He put the ship on alert, ran a few simulations, stood down to a skeleton watch, then repeated it. Each time he went on allship to tell them their time to station, and the third time them made it in just under four minutes, so he told them he’d let them rest when they got it under two minutes. He lost count of the number of times he cycled them on and off watch. They got down to two minutes, thirty-one seconds, but then began to deteriorate. “It’s the fatigue factor,” Maggie said, looking over York’s shoulder at the data on his console. “They’re exhausted now, probably won’t be able to do any better until they get some rest.”

  Fatigue weighed on all of them. “Give me allship,” he said.

  Frank murmured, “Channel three.”

  York touched a switch on his console. “You made it on station in one minute, ninety-eight seconds,” he lied. “You still have to do better, but for today that’ll do. You now have a five-hour rest period, after which I’ll be holding captain’s mast. Attendance is mandatory.”

  He cut the circuit. “Mister Stara, watch condition green. Commander Rame, set up a skeleton crew for mast. I want everyone there. Miss Votak, you’re in charge of the arrangements for mast. Attendance is also mandatory for the civilians, so make sure they show up. If anyone gives you any trouble let me know and I’ll get help from Her Majesty.”

  York stood, headed for his cabin, the captain’s cabin. He should go over the damage control estimates with Rame and Cappik, but he needed rest before mast. This would be the turning point. If it went well the crew would support him. They wouldn’t like him, and some would fear him, but they would leave mast confident someone was now in command.

  York looked up from the table where he and Maggie and Rame sat, while the spacer standing in front of them bowed his head remorsefully. The three of them put their heads together for a whispered conference. “Shall we give him the benefit of the doubt?” he asked.

  As Maggie and Rame debated the virtues of the poor fellow, York scanned the crowd. Most of the civilians were present only because the empress had made it known that attendance was mandatory. There were thirty-two cases concerning minor infractions before the captain, and grinding through them was tedious at best.

  Rame was saying, “. . . we can’t let them question the orders they’re given. But he’s a dirtlover, a stationside spacer. He just needs to learn it’s different out here.”

  The three of them broke up their little conference. “Spacer Second Class Phaeda,” York announced loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Apparently y
ou felt the assignment your station commander gave you was beneath you, so you chose to debate the issue. To help you understand that no assignment is beneath you, I sentence you to a tenday of the most degrading tasks we can dig up. Hopefully, you will learn that when your superior gives you an order, you will obey it, then and there. That is all.”

  The man was intelligent enough to keep his mouth shut, square his shoulders and salute smartly. York returned the salute; the man did a textbook about-face and marched away.

  “Twenty-seven down,” Maggie said tiredly. “Five to go.”

  The next case, another stationside spacer, stepped in front of York, looked at him defiantly, threw her chin out and stood righteously forth to plead her case. York didn’t like the look of the situation.

  “The charges?” Maggie asked.

  A middle-aged woman stepped forward. “Chief Petty Officer Therma reporting as ordered, ma’am. I’m preferring charges against Spacer First Class Jayna Dyte for insubordination.” The NCO’s upper lip was badly swollen, a fact they all wanted to ignore.

  “Yesterday,” Therma continued, “at about twelve hundred hours, Spacer Dyte refused a direct order.”

  Maggie frowned. “Did she refuse the order, or merely misunderstand it?”

  “She refused to obey it, ma’am, with considerable profanity.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Please be more specific, Chief Therma.”

  Therma frowned, glanced uncomfortably toward the empress and spoke reluctantly. “She told me to fuck myself with a neural prod, said she’d suck feddie cock before she’d take any orders from me.”

  York closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. There was a lot more to this than Therma was telling them. She clearly wanted to handle it quietly on her own, and he hoped she’d be allowed to do so.

  “Spacer Dyte.” Maggie looked at the angry young woman. “Did you understand the order given to you by Chief Therma?”

  Dyte lifted her chin even higher. “O’course I did. I was—”

  “Thank you, Spacer Dyte. Chief Therma, did—”

  “Wait a minute,” Dyte interrupted. “You haven’t even asked what the order was. No one gives me that kind of—”

  “The specific order,” Maggie said, “is irrelevant—”

  “And she assaulted me,” Dyte continued, “grabbed me by my tunic, lifted me right out of my seat. No one touches me that way. No one, do you hear me? She was lucky I only hit her once. If she’d tried anything else—”

  Dyte suddenly froze in mid sentence. Without realizing it York had stood, shoving his chair back with his legs and leaning forward on the table. At the unexpected action from him everything had come to a sudden stand-still, thought Dyte shrank away from him.

  “You struck your station commander?” he asked, though it came out in a growl.

  “I ah . . . I was . . . just defen . . .”

  “God damn it!” York shouted. “I asked you a question. Did you strike your station commander?”

  Dyte hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself. “I don’t allow anyone to touch me that—”

  “Did you strike her?” he shouted.

  She shrank further. “Well, yes I did. But you have to—”

  “Shut up,” York shouted as he sat down. He had to think carefully. “Chief Therma. What was ship’s status at the time of this incident?”

  Therma cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Watch condition red, sir.”

  “We were on alert?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dyte had forced his hand, shot off her big mouth with no concept of what she was getting into. “Spacer Dyte,” he said. “Do you deny Chief Therma’s allegations that you refused to obey a direct order?”

  “No, but I—”

  “And do you admit you struck Chief Therma while this ship was on alert?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But she had no right—”

  Maggie jumped up. “Shut up, you idiot! “

  Dyte started shouting. Maggie shouted back at her. During the commotion York keyed his implants. “Sergeant Palevi, I need an executioner up here, on the double.”

  Maggie and Dyte shouted at one another until Rame shouted them both down. “Miss Votak,” York said. “Please sit down. Commander Rame, thank you for injecting some sanity into this proceeding. And Miss Dyte . . .” He looked carefully at the woman spacer. “Please be silent until you’re invited to speak.”

  York hesitated for a moment. “ You committed a serious breech of naval regulations, and under naval law your actions constitute a capital offense.”

  No one missed those words and the crowd began to grumble. Rame shouted, “Silence.”

  York continued. “But under captain’s mast I can show you some leniency. You’re sentenced to fifty strokes of the lash, sentence to be carried out immediately.”

  Dyte lunged forward suddenly, shaking her head and pointing an accusing finger at York. “You have no right. I know what the lash is, and you can’t do this to me without a trial. I demand a proper trial.” She looked around the deck for support.

  York stood and faced her squarely. “You do have the right to such a trial—a court-martial actually—if you so choose. But if you do, I’ll have to prefer formal charges against you, and I’ll be forced to follow the prescribed procedures. But at captain’s mast I can exercise some . . . discretion.”

  “I want the trial,” she shouted. “I’m not going to let you beat me senseless.”

  York felt very tired as he said, “Lieutenant Votak, please explain to Spacer Dyte the ramifications of a court-martial.”

  Dyte glowered at Maggie as she spoke carefully. “If you persist in your demands, then we must try you for the charge of assaulting a superior officer, which, under alert, is a capital offense.”

  For the first time a hint of uncertainty appeared on Dyte’s face. “Capital offense?”

  Maggie continued. “Captain Ballin will be required to convene the court-martial as soon as possible. It will be his responsibility to choose the three jurists who sit in judgment upon you. I assume that because of the magnitude of the offense, he will sit as chief jurist . . .” She glanced at York and he nodded, then she looked back at Dyte. “He will also appoint prosecution and defense councils. You and your council will be given a few hours to prepare, after which time the court-martial will convene. And because of your admissions here during the last few minutes, you’ll be found guilty. The punishment for such a crime is death, and I assume the sentence will be carried out at dawn tomorrow morning by venting you alive to space. Are there any questions, Spacer Dyte?”

  Her confidence had disappeared completely. At that moment the lift doors clanged open and a marine in full combat armor stepped out of it. His rank, insignia, and name stencil were hidden beneath black tape and he carried a length of lash. Dyte shook her head, looked at the marine with the lash and mumbled. “Death? You’re insane. You have no right . . .”

  “But we do,” York said calmly. “This ship is a deep space man’o’war isolated behind enemy lines. And the rules here are different from what you’re used to. Everything Lieutenant Votak has just described to you is not only legal, it is required, if you persist in your demands.”

  York looked at the empress, expecting to see disapproval in her eyes, but instead there seemed to be a curious sort of understanding there. On the other hand Aeya and several others looked on with contempt and denial.

  “What choice do I have?” Dyte whispered into the silence.

  York couldn’t hide a grimace. “You can be tried by a court-martial, and executed, or you can waive that right and accept the judgment of this mast. Do you still want a court-martial?”

  Dyte just stood there, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. She opened her mouth for a moment, couldn’t seem to find the strength to speak.

  “Answer me.”

  She shook her head violently. “No.”

  “Then do you waive your right to a formal hearing?”

  She mumbled something. />
  “Speak up. Say it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, damn it!” she shouted. “I waive my right to a hearing.”

  York had almost hoped she wouldn’t agree. A quick death in the vacuum of space might even be preferable to the lash. He looked at Palevi and said simply, “Sergeant.”

  Palevi bellowed out a couple of names and two marines hustled forward, almost picked Dyte up by her armpits. They half carried her to an arch between two plast girders, cuffed her wrists to a couple of girders in an all too familiar position, then cut away the back of her coveralls with a power knife. As York watched he could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his back.

  He owed Dyte one thing, the same thing Jarwith had given him. He would look her in the eyes through every stroke of the lash. It was a debt he also owed Jarwith.

  He crossed the deck, stepped beneath one of Dyte’s extended arms, stopped a few paces in front of her and turned to face her. Her face was flushed, and there was a wild, animalistic look in her eyes. Behind her he could see the mixed crowd of civilians and crew looking on with horror. Dyte grimaced at him. “Please,” she said.

  When everything was ready the marine in the armor uncoiled the lash, let one end of it drop to the deck, then waited for York’s command. Another bead of sweat rolled down York’s back as he looked at the marine and gave a slight nod of his head. “Proceed.”

  The first stroke of the lash was over and done with, the sound of the crack echoing in York’s ears, and etched in his memory was an image of Dyte as she exploded toward him, her back arching, her wrists tearing frantically at the cuffs, her face detonating with anguish and pain. As her scream settled down among them all York thought he could almost feel the searing line of pain on his own back. “One,” the marine said.

  The lash struck again, and again Dyte screamed and tore at the cuffs. “Two.”