by J. L. Doty
Each stroke seemed to cut deeper into York’s memory. “Three.”
Dyte struggled, screamed and pleaded, begged for mercy. “Four.”
And he wanted to show her mercy, to call a halt to the whole thing, but he didn’t know how. “Five.”
It was then York noticed Aeya and many of the civilians had closed their eyes, turned their faces away from the grisly sight. “Six.”
That made York mad, for this was their punishment as much as Dyte’s. “Seven.”
“Halt,” he shouted, and the marine froze.
Dyte’s cries faded slowly to a whimper. “Doctor Yan,” York said as he marched past Dyte. “Please take a look at Spacer Dyte.”
York was past Dyte and approaching Aeya, who was only now opening her eyes. She saw him approaching and grimaced angrily. He stopped in front of her and a silence descended about them that not even Dyte’s sobs could penetrate. “Your Highness,” York said, finding it strangely easy to stay calm. He looked past her and scanned the faces of those around her as he spoke. “It’s imperative you watch this proceeding, as unpleasant as it may be. So I cannot allow you to close your eyes and look away.”
She shook her head, leaned forward and growled in his face, “You can’t stop me.”
“No. I can’t. However, if you, or anyone here, looks away during a stroke of the lash, then that stroke will not count as part of Spacer Dyte’s sentence. If we have to stand here all day and beat the poor woman to death until you see a full fifty strokes, then we will.”
Aeya opened her mouth, but her jaw just hung there, a look of horror and loathing in her eyes. Behind her the empress kept her part of their bargain, and there was nothing to be read in her face. The d’Hart woman, though, seemed to have the opposite reaction, as if she had thought of York as a monster when the beating had begun, but now she understood its real purpose.
“That applies to all of you,” York said, again scanning the faces in the crowd. “If any one of you looks away, then Spacer Dyte will have to suffer that stroke again.”
He didn’t wait for a reaction, spun around and saw Dyte’s back for the first time, the red welts etched there, the first few trickles of blood beginning to well forth. He ducked beneath one of her arms and stopped in front of her.
She hung by the cuffs, no longer able to support herself on her feet, Alsa Yan standing beside her. “She’s strong and healthy,” Yan said. “She’ll survive with nothing more than memories.”
York nodded. “Thank you. Dismissed.”
Yan backed away as York looked into Dyte’s eyes. “Please,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly conscious of the plug of leather suspended from a plast string around his neck, and he realized he’d been gripping it through the material of his coveralls through each and every stroke of the lash. He’d kept it with him all these years, though no longer even aware that it existed. But there it was, as if he’d subconsciously carried it all these years for just this moment. He reached into his coveralls, and though it was a bit awkward to do he lifted the loop of string over his head and held the plug of leather in his hand for a moment, looking at it. He could still see the faint traces of his own teeth marks.
Without warning he thrust the plug of leather between Dyte’s teeth. She looked at him, surprised by the strange action. “Someone gave me that a long time ago,” he told her. “It’s made from the skin of a cow, though I don’t know what a cow is. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? When you feel the lash strike, bite down hard on it, byte down with everything you’ve got. It helps . . . a little. I know.”
She frowned at him, and maybe she even understood a little.
He backed away a few paces, planted his feet squarely with his hands gripped behind his back and gave the order, “Proceed.”
The crack of the lash rocked Dyte forward, though now the plug of leather muffled her screams. “Eight.”
She and York locked their eyes together, and he couldn’t look away as the lash returned relentlessly to her back. York felt the fire of each stroke, almost as if it were cutting away the flesh of his own back. And slowly both she and he settled into the rhythm of the ordeal: the whip-crack sound of the lash as it struck her back, the strange sort of delay between that moment and the actual onset of the pain, followed by the toneless voice of the marine as he announced the count.
Dyte wasn’t conscious through the last ten or fifteen strokes. York let the sentence proceed nevertheless. If nothing more, he could show poor Dyte that much mercy.
When it was done the marines unlocked the cuffs on Dyte’s wrists, lowered her carefully to a grav stretcher. The silence surrounding them all was complete.
Yan, who’d been standing behind York, stepped up carefully and whispered in his ear, “York. Your back is bleeding through your tunic. Adjourn the mast; tell them you’ll consider the remaining cases tomorrow. Then you and I can slip out quietly to my office.”
York glanced down at his hands. There was a bloody ring around each wrist where more than twenty years ago the manacles had cut into the flesh as he’d struggled under the lash, and suddenly he felt twelve years old again.
Abraxa smiled at Archcanon Lynna, watched him smile back, bow, turn and leave. Lynna was pleased with himself, thinking he’d just struck a deal with the most powerful man in the empire. But Lynna, ordinarily an astute and cunning man, had been clumsy in this instance.
Abraxa touched a switch on his terminal and spoke softly, “Why don’t you join me now, Your Holiness?”
A panel in the wall opened and Bortha stepped out. He was livid, unable to maintain his usual air of wizened understanding. Abraxa, for no other reason than that he was enjoying the old hypocrite’s loss of control, decided to bait him. “Archcanon Lynna is a cunning and dangerous man, is he not, Your Holiness?”
Bortha actually turned red. “Archcanon Lynna is a dead man,” he shouted. I’ll personally have that conniving, little sneak strangled in his own vestments. That little . . .” Bortha suddenly got hold of himself, realized he was giving Abraxa too much of a show. With force of will, and an obvious effort, he forced a veneer of calm on his features, smoothed his robes and sat down, though he was speechless for several seconds.
“May I recommend,” Abraxa said, “that, as yet, you take no action against him?”
Bortha’s forced calm broke again. “No action? No action! He as much as offered to betray me to you. He probably thinks he can have the Archcanonship, if he’s a clever little sneak.”
“No doubt he does,” Abraxa agreed. “It took a considerable amount of confidence to approach me that way. So much so, that I don’t doubt he’s approached others. We could turn this to our advantage, you know?”
Bortha frowned and looked at Abraxa. “What do you mean?”
Abraxa stroked his chin and spoke absentmindedly, as if he were thinking out loud. “Perhaps I should encourage him, see if I can’t strengthen our ties. And if we’re careful, and we watch him closely, we may learn a great deal, not only from him, but from anyone else he’s struck a deal with.”
Bortha nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I should have thought of that myself.” He smiled and leaned back in the chair.
Abraxa continued. “And when we’ve learned everything, then you can kill him.”
CHAPTER 22: GUNNER’S BLOOD
“Well?” Jewel demanded angrily, craning her neck to get a look at Soe leaning forward over his console, shaking his head unhappily.
“I think we lost him,” he said. “He’s too damn cautious, taking two whole days to swing through a turn like that.”
Jewel pulled up a star chart on one of her screens. “There’s only two places he could be going: they’ve got a sector headquarters at Aagerbanne and a subsector headquarters at Sarasan. Sarasan is closer, but Aagerbanne’s bigger, better equipped.” She drummed her fingers on her console for a moment and came to a decision. “If we down-transit, can you get a fix on his vector?”
“Well I’m damn well not g
oing to get anything here in transition.”
Chief Innay’s voice came on the line. “If we down-transit we’ll give away our position.”
“Yes,” Jewel said. “I know. But we’ve got no choice. We’d better play it safe, though, just in case he decides to take a shot at us.
“Mr. Tac’tac’ah, stand by for sublight transition. Mister Soe. Sound battle stations.”
At the sound of the chime York touched a switch on his console and said, “Yes.”
His yeoman said, “Commanders Soladin and McGeahn are here to see you, Captain. They have an appointment.”
York made a mental note to ask Maggie the name of his yeoman. “Thank you. Send them in.”
A few seconds later the yeoman swung the door open and held it for Soladin and McGeahn. The two officers stopped in front of York’s desk; Soladin saluted him casually while McGeahn gave proper care to form and technique. As York returned their salutes his attention was drawn to embellishments the two had plastered all over their uniforms. “At ease. Sit down.”
They both dropped into chairs. McGeahn said, “Thank you for making time available, sir.”
Soladin suppressed a yawn. “Yes, Ballin, good of you.”
York didn’t tell them his yeoman was responsible for that. “Certainly. What can I do for you?”
Soladin took the opening. “Well now, Ballin. You’ve done a nice job of getting this crew organized.”
“Yes,” McGeahn added. “You’ve transformed the entire ship. The crew look like professionals again.”
“Thank you,” York said. “But they have a long way to go before they’ll be ready to take on a feddie warship.”
McGeahn nodded. “Let’s hope that’s not necessary.”
“But that’s why we’re here,” Soladin said. “Hethis and I have no crew assignments, and our experience shouldn’t be left untapped. As senior officers we can help you whip these amateurs into shape.”
York looked Soladin over carefully, and not for the first time wondered if the man had any idea how ridiculous he sounded. McGeahn seemed a bit embarrassed. York asked, “Have either of you got any combat experience?”
“Certainly,” Soladin said.
McGeahn shook her head. “Just simulations.”
“Commander,” York asked Soladin. “Where and when did you get your experience?”
Soladin puffed up. “I’ve spent the last two years as a senior line officer with Home Fleet.”
York nodded and rubbed his chin. “To my knowledge Home Fleet hasn’t seen combat for more than fifty years, so I assume you’ve never been part of a crew that actually engaged the enemy.”
“See here, Ballin.” Soladin rose from his chair and leaned forward over York’s desk. “What does that matter? You know how realistic the simulations are. One can’t tell the combat isn’t real.”
“But you still know it isn’t real. And that’s where it counts.” York pondered the two officers for a moment. “Let me at least offer you the opportunity to gain that experience the same way every officer on this ship has, the traditional way, as a rank ensign. If you’ll accept a voluntary demotion, I’ll assign you a duty station and—”
“Absolutely not!” Soladin shouted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I’m an experienced officer. In fact, I can’t understand why Her Majesty didn’t put me in command, rather than you. There certainly is a clear distinction between the two of us. I must assume you’re here only because of some implied threat from you and your marine ilk—”
“Enough!” York shouted. He rose to face Soladin; and as dictated by etiquette McGeahn also stood. “Commander, I have work to do. If you don’t care to accept my offer, then you’re dismissed. Now.”
The last word hung in the air like while Soladin glared angrily at York. “Ballin, there are no conceivable circumstances under which I would accept such an offer.” He spun about and stormed out the door, leaving it open.
York turned on McGeahn. “Well?” he demanded. “What are you waiting for?”
She scrunched up her courage, then said, “I’d like to take you up on that offer . . . sir.”
He looked her over carefully. “No guarantees.”
She nodded and grinned. “No guarantees, sir.”
“Wipe that grin off your face,” he growled, spun toward his console and slapped the intercom switch. “Get me Lieutenant Votak,” he barked into the pickup. “On the double.”
They only had to wait a few seconds before Maggie’s voice exploded from the speaker. “Captain, Lieutenant Votak reporting as ordered.”
“Miss Votak, Lieutenant Commander McGeahn has volunteered to accept a demotion to ensign. Please execute the paperwork immediately.”
York scanned the station assignments quickly, found a lower deck pod-station running sims to make up for low scores on the last drill. He called the NCO in charge. “I have a new ensign for you. She’ll be reporting to you immediately. Start her at the bottom. And if she’s not there in two minutes, put her on report.”
The chief grinned, nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”
McGeahn frowned worriedly. “Two minutes, sir?”
“That’s right. You’d better hurry.” He looked at the embellishments on her uniform. “And you’re out of uniform. Ask your station commander for a new one.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, throwing a salute at him. “Aye, aye, sir.”
He returned the salute. “Dismissed.”
She turned and shot out of the room. After several seconds York’s yeoman peered uncertainly through the open door. “Sir? Would you like the door open or closed?”
York growled, “Close it.”
York sat down to review the damage reports. The starboard chamber was still acting up, and they couldn’t properly repair it without the facilities of a navy yard. An aft bulkhead had buckled badly when the hunter-killer threw that warhead at them, though that had been repaired, along with the weakened structures in the empress’ stateroom. The officer’s mess was still closed, would probably remain that way for some time to come. He couldn’t justify fixing it when there were so many more things to do that—
The alert klaxon suddenly started blaring. York’s first thought was that it was a bit early for the drill he’d scheduled, then Stara’s voice bellowed out of allship, “Battle stations! All hands, this is not a drill. Battle stations. This is not a drill.”
York scrambled around his desk, into the captain’s private lift, shouted, “Bridge,” at the computer. The lift door slammed open and he stepped out.
“Captain on the bridge.”
York keyed his implants as he dropped down behind the captain’s console; hit a switch to log his station into the computer. “Captain, this is Commander Gant. We picked up a transition flare dead astern. Looks like that hunter-killer, probably down-transited to get a fix on us, maybe take a shot. You’ve got a summary.”
The summary on York’s screens showed a transition flare about half a light-year behind them. Gant had immediately activated Cinesstar’s shields, but the feddie was just sitting there, receding in their wake, too far out for a shot. York scanned all of the screens on his console; everything seemed as it should. “Frank. Give me allship.”
“Channel three, sir.”
York activated his pickup. “This is Captain Ballin. This was not a drill. The feddie hunter-killer on our tail was losing us, so they down-transited to get a fix on us. They’ve got it, but now they’re too far behind to take an accurate shot.
“You made it on station in one minute and nine seconds. I still want to see you under one minute, but that’s your best time so far so let me congratulate you on a job well done.
“We had planned an advanced training drill to begin in the next hour, but since we’re already on station we’ll go ahead with it now.” York cut the circuit.
Maggie’s voice mumbled in his implants. “What’s that feddie up to?”
York thought that if he ever had a chance to meet the captain of that feddie he
’d probably like her, even as they tried to kill each other. “I don’t know. But she’s good, doubt she’ll give up that easily. I don’t think we’re done with her yet.”
“Did you get it?” Jewel demanded.
Soe frowned. “I got it. I don’t know what it means, but I damn well got it.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Look at your console.”
Jewel looked at the data on her console. Soe had managed to get them an excellent fix on the imper’s position and vector. But the imper was headed for neither Aagerbanne nor Sarasan. If it had been Sarasan, he’d be cutting straight across the lines, if Aagerbanne, a diagonal through them. Instead, he was running parallel to the lines.
“What’s that damn imper doing?” Soe pleaded.
Innay said easily, “He’s playing it safe.”
And then Jewel saw it herself. “Of course. He’s going to Aagerbanne. But he’s going to run parallel to the lines until he’s directly opposite Aagerbanne, then make a straight run for it.”
“We’ve lost him then,” Tac’tac’ah groaned.
“Yes we have,” Jewel said, nodding calmly. “If he’s really going to Aagerbanne. But he just wants us to think that. We’ve been hitting Aagerbanne pretty hard lately, and it might not be a wise place to go. Now if he’s really going to Sarasan, and this is just a faint, we could be there waiting for him when he gets there.”
York watched the empress and the d’Hart woman as Maggie and Rame argued over station assignments. The empress had insisted that the two of them be allowed to sit in on York’s staff meetings, and one did not say no to an insistent empress, though York had extracted a promise from her to just observe, and not interfere.
They’d been drilling the crew mercilessly for a tenday and they’d shown considerable progress. But some imbalances had surfaced, and it was time to redistribute the crew a bit. Maggie and Rame could argue like drunken spacers on leave, but York had learned to let them have at it. And sure enough, they quickly converged on a solution that both could endorse.
