by J. L. Doty
When York was done the table was a mess. Without lowering his hand he opened his fingers and let the cup drop and clatter loudly to the tabletop. Olin and Maggie and Frank and the rest of the officers at the table reached out and lifted their cups. The veterans in the crowd did likewise, leading those less familiar with the ceremony, taking a small sip, then in a disharmonious unison they all echoed York’s words, “For them it’s over. For us it goes on.” Then they held out their cups, poured the remaining trate on their tables, and with a loud, disjointed crash dropped their cups.
Before York could proceed the empress reached down, picked up her cup, took her sip, followed the formula and poured the remainder on the tabletop, said, “For them it’s over. For you—it goes on.” There was a tear in her eye.
York waited for the silence to return, then said softly, “Release them,” and for the two who had died that day the hull echoed with the emergency blow-down cycle of the aft maintenance hatch.
When the sound finally died York said, “Dismissed,” and backed away from the table, was out in the corridor headed for the bridge.
But Sylissa d’Hart called after him. “Captain . . . York . . .”
He stopped and turned about. She rushed up the corridor and caught up with him. “That was another lesson, wasn’t it? As much for us as for your novice crewmembers.”
He shrugged. “We have a lot to learn if we’re going to get out of this alive.”
“But must everything be a lesson? Don’t you ever let up? Don’t you ever relax?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll make a deal with you. If I get you and the empress and your friend out of this . . .” His veiled reference to the empress’ servant, the only other person on the ship with a suicide device, had the desired effect. She frowned uncertainly as he continued, “If I do that, then when this is all over I’ll give you a chance to show me how to relax properly.”
He left her standing there with a frown on her face.
It was late, and down on the lower decks the corridors were all but deserted. York hesitated outside the pod gunners’ barracks, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He wore a one-piece coverall, no rank insignia, the sleeves cut away just above the elbows, all according to custom. His presence, however, required a broad interpretation of tradition, and it could backfire, have the opposite effect of what he wanted.
He knocked on the closed hatch. Except under alert it would normally be open, but this was a special occasion, even if it was officially illegal.
The hatch opened a crack and an old chief petty officer peered out at him. The man recognized York instantly, opened the hatch enough to stand in it at attention, though he was careful to block York’s view of anything within. “Sir,” he said nervously, and started to salute.
“As you were,” York said calmly. “May I come in?”
“Uhhh! Well, Captain,” the chief said uncomfortably. “Certainly, sir . . . Uhhh . . . but officers don’t usually come down here . . . uhhh . . . sir.”
York grinned. “Especially not for this occasion. But I’m not an officer tonight.” With his right hand he reached up and slid his left sleeve up to his shoulder, exposing a dozen scars in the skin of his upper arm. Each was in the shape of a chevron. York asked the chief, “Tonight there’s only one kind of rank here, isn’t there? And isn’t attendance mandatory for all blooded gunners?”
The chief’s lips slowly broke into a grin. He considered York for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside. “Come on in, sir.”
York stepped through the hatch. The lights were dim, though York could see there were quite a number of spacers there. He rolled up his sleeves so they’d stay that way, noticed the chief had more chevrons than him, which was good. He didn’t want to be the senior gunner tonight.
The chief announced, “Gunner York Ballin. Twelve chevrons. Someone get ‘im a beer.”
Someone stuck a cup of black beer in York’s hand. He could see the word spreading fast. The captain’s here and he’s got gunner’s stripes on his arm.
All of the pod gunners had gathered for gunner’s blood. They were crowded into the barracks, some sitting on the deck up against a bulkhead. As York crossed the barracks they got out of his way, and at the far end someone who had a chair started to get up. York turned away from him, edged into a spot between two gunners sitting on the deck with their backs against a bulkhead. One was a pretty young girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty. York stuck out his hand. “York Ballin,” he said.
Her mouth hung open as she extended a limp hand.
He grinned. “Pick yer jaw up off the deck and tell me your fuckin’ name.”
She closed her mouth, opened her eyes just as wide to make up for it. “Uhhh! Meekl Donohae . . . uhhh . . . sir.”
“Nice to meet you, Meekl. You drawing blood tonight?”
Her face filled with disappointment. “No, sir. No kills today, sir.”
The man seated next to her chimed in, “I’m her station chief, sir. And you can bet yer ass she did just fuckin’ fine, sir, even though it was her first time out. Didn’t get any god damn kills, but I saw her take a real nice long shot at about a hundred million kliks, had to override the computer to do it, deflected a big fuckin’ warhead as good as any kill, sir.”
York nodded, tried to look impressed. Tradition called for excessive profanity and too much beer, so he said, “Well god damn, Meekl! I froze up through the whole fuckin’ engagement, first time in a pod. You’ll do just fine.”
She grinned like a child, then York remembered she basically was a child.
“Listen up,” the ranking chief shouted. “I want the following front’n’center immediately.” He read off a list of names, no rank, and as each was called a young spacer shot forward accompanied by loud jeers and crude epithets, along with a steady stream of accusations concerning their ancestry and their sexual preferences—usually something to do with certain exotic animals. Each had full-length sleeves on their coveralls.
Hethis McGeahn was one of the names. She jumped up like all the rest, no insignia on her coveralls. Buck ensigns were the one exception to an officer’s presence at gunner’s blood, though it was quite rare for one to actually earn a chevron. McGeahn looked as excited as the rest at the prospect of getting the coveted scar.
One by one each candidate was escorted to the center of the room, their station chief recounted the particular kill that had earned the scar, usually with some flair and a certain amount of embellishment, and of course accompanied by a lot of crude cheers and shouts. Then they cut away the candidate’s sleeves, and an old, steel knife was used to make a half-chevron cut in the skin high up on the arm. It was important the wound bleed nicely, that blood stream down the arm all the way to the fingertips and onto the deck. Then they washed the blood into the deck with a splash of the black beer, and the next candidate stepped forward.
When the new bloods had been properly initiated, the old bloods who had added a kill or two to their records took their turn. Each got another half-chevron scar added to those for past kills. York enjoyed the event thoroughly, contributed quite nicely to the profanity and the cheering, and drank his share of beer. Little, awe-struck Meekl would probably have given him anything he wanted, and he was tempted to take her up to his cabin. But then she’d miss her first gunner’s blood, and that wouldn’t be right. And once the ceremonies were done, for York to stay longer would just put a damper on things. It was time for him to exit before he got in the way.
He shook a few hands, downed another black beer, then left so they could have their fun.
Add’kas’adanna looked at the sightings she’d plotted. Many were obvious mistakes; otherwise the imper would have had to be in two, sometimes three places at once. Anachron IV was the last unquestionable sighting. There were a few others with enough substantiating data to indicate a reasonable probability it was her imper and not some other, or some commercial vessel, or a stray pirate, or anything else for that matter.
&nbs
p; The imper was probably headed down sector, though that was, as yet, only an educated guess, could be headed for Aagerbanne or Sarasan, or one of the other planets with a large imper installation. He could even be headed for a small installation. Now that would be a crafty move.
At least she was on a ship again. She much preferred life aboard ship, wondered often if the purity of her honor had become soiled over the years by the crafts of statesmanship she’d learned in the halls of the Directorate.
She looked again at the plot of sightings, decided to amass a large fleet in the neighborhood of Sarasan and Aagerbanne. It wouldn’t hurt to have them on hand, and she might need them.
CHAPTER 23: BETRAYAL UPON BETRAYAL
York stared at the image of the tall Kinathin breed warrior. She’d changed considerably, had removed all insignia and badges of rank or station from her clothing, and now her uniform had a number of small, dark patches where the emblems had prevented the material from fading.
He struggled with his memory for a moment, trying to compare the officer he’d met on Anachron IV with the woman before him now. Back then she’d stood erect, uniform crisp and clean, back straight, eyes alert, conscious of every movement and sound around her. But the woman York saw now had grown distant, appeared ignorant or uncaring of her surroundings. Her uniform was wrinkled and unkempt; her snow-white, lank hair now hung so that it almost covered her face as if she would hide behind it. She seemed even thinner than before, perhaps wasn’t eating, and might not even be bathing.
“There!” Maggie shouted, standing up and pointing at one of the images on the large wall screen. “She flinched just as Sab’ach’ahn was brought into the room. Right there. Back it up and play it again.”
York kept his eyes glued to the screen, though he could hear Alsa’s fingers dancing over the controls. It had been his idea to let Maggie in on it. Alsa had completed her medical survey of the crew and passengers, and still only the empress, the d’Hart woman, and that one servant had turned up with suicide devices. She and York had carefully orchestrated the seating for the banquet the night before, as well as the timing of Sab’ach’ahn’s entrance. Then he’d had the breed warrior escorted in and seated opposite the servant.
He and Alsa had gone over the vids a dozen times, and as the breed warrior sat down neither she nor the servant had shown the slightest reaction to the other’s presence. It was Maggie who went back and reviewed the recordings from several other cameras, caught the servant flinch just as Sab’ach’ahn was escorted into the mess. The servant went through an obvious transformation as she steeled herself to not react to the presence of the breed.
“It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?” Maggie said. “The servant’s a feddie.”
“All right,” Alsa said. “So she’s a feddie. But why would the d’Hart woman bring a feddie disguised as a servant into the empress’ entourage?”
“Assassination?” Maggie asked. “The empress?”
Alsa shook her head. “No. The empress knows she’s a feddie too.”
“She’s going to assassinate someone else then, and the empress is in on it.”
York said, “That’s too pat. If the empress wants someone assassinated she doesn’t need to go to all this trouble. I mean, the d’Hart woman goes to Trinivan to connect with a feddie spy and bring her into the empire disguised as one of the empress’ servants. What’s the reason?” York didn’t tell them about his conversations with the empress and the d’Hart woman, both of whom exhibited blatant peacer sympathies. He had the uneasy feeling anyone who knew too much about this was going to be in some sort of danger.
He and Maggie and Alsa hashed around several ideas for a good hour, but nothing added up. In the end they tossed down a few drinks, then adjourned, though once Maggie and Alsa were gone York replayed the recording of Sab’ach’ahn, and wondered what had brought about such a dramatic change in so strong a woman.
York bowed carefully to the empress, then turned and left, closing the hatch cautiously. He’d come to her hoping to learn a little about the plot she and Sylissa d’Hart were hatching. Not to confront her directly, but to probe subtly. It hadn’t worked because he wasn’t good at that kind of subterfuge, and she now understood he knew something.
“Captain!”
At the sound of Martin Andow’s voice York turned about. “Senator.”
“Captain, this is opportune. I’ve wanted to speak with you. Will you join me in my cabin?”
York could almost see the wheels turning behind Andow’s eyes. York would rather stay clear of him, but he was far too powerful to be ignored. “Certainly.”
Andow led York to a hatch just down the corridor, opened it and indicated York should precede him. York stepped into a dark cabin. Andow stepped past him, sat down at a small desk against one wall and turned on the desk lamp, leaving everything in darkness but a small sphere of light around the desk. To one side, seated in the shadows, the old queen mother shifted her weight. The cabin was considerably smaller than the office where the three of them had met in the embassy on Dumark. But Andow and the old woman had almost exactly recreated the setting of that meeting.
Of course there was no large high-backed chair where the old woman might sit as if on a throne, but she had placed a small chair at the back of the cabin where the lighting was dimmest, and it was difficult for York to see her face. And there was no ornate desk behind which Andow could sit and shuffle papers while he questioned York. Nor was the desk in the middle of the room, but then he had contrived to position a chair to one side of it, the side opposite York, and so in a subtle way he was seated in the position of the inquisitor, while York was forced to stand beneath the revealing light of the accused.
Andow smiled his insincere smile. “Well now, Captain. Won’t you be seated?” He indicated the small chair.
“I’ll stand. What was it you wanted to discuss?”
The skin around Andow’s eyes tightened, and when he spoke he did so cautiously. “Tell me, Captain, what do you intend to do with this ship?”
York decided to make Andow work for whatever he was after. “I intend to avoid getting burned by a feddie warhead.”
That wasn’t the answer Andow wanted. “I assume you have a destination in mind?”
“Aagerbanne.”
“Why Aagerbanne? Sarasan’s closer.”
“Aagerbanne’s bigger, better equipped. But most importantly Aagerbanne’s less obvious. We’ve been spotted too many times in the quadrant opposite Sarasan, so that’s the obvious choice. And in this game, it’s important we never do the obvious. We can afford the time, so we’ll take the long way.”
Andow shifted in his seat. “How does the empress feel about this?”
The question surprised York. Andow was obviously speaking for two of them. York had assumed the empress consulted regularly with her husband’s mother, but that was clearly not the case. “Her Majesty has expressed concern about the danger, but nothing beyond that.”
“And have you discovered why she was out here in the first place?”
There it was, York realized. Whatever Cassandra and Sylissa d’Hart were up to, Andow and the old woman were not in on it. “I must assume,” York said, trying to put a touch of skepticism in his voice, “that she was out here to retrieve her recalcitrant daughter.”
Andow shook his head. “Do you really believe that?”
“What I believe is irrelevant.”
Andow nodded slowly, his eyes boring into York. “Tell me, Captain, what happens after Aagerbanne?”
“I don’t have the vaguest idea,” York said flatly. “I think it’s safe to say I’ll be relieved of my command. You, or Fleet, or someone else, will determine what happens to you after that.”
The old woman leaned forward, almost dipping her face into the light. “But what happens to you, Mister Ballin. What’ll you do then?”
That was a strange question. York answered it warily. “I’ll do what I’ve always done. I’ll obey orders, though I have no ide
a what those orders’ll be.”
The old woman grinned. “Can you guess?”
She was leading up to something, but York felt no inclination to help her get there. “I’d rather not.”
“Then let me guess for you. You’ll be transferred to another ship, one going back out to the front lines. And when that ship is returning for some kind of lighter duty, whether a month from now, or a year from now, you’ll be transferred to another ship going out to the front lines. The pattern is clear, Captain, and you’re powerless to break it.”
She let that statement hang in the air for a long time, then she added, “But we are powerful people, and if we were inclined to do so, we could intervene. We could break that pattern for you.”
They wanted him to spy for them, and in return, they could give him the one thing he wanted. York was tempted, but he had nothing to give them, and he really didn’t like either of them, nor did he trust them.
“We can be generous to those who help us,” the old woman continued. “You could be free of the navy, with enough money to support yourself for the rest of your life. You could go back where you came from, find your family, do whatever you please.”
York smiled, nodded, though he wanted nothing to do with these two. But maybe he could get something out of this after all. He was curious to see if they’d known his father. “I have no family,” he said. “My father is dead. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, a man named Collier Maczek?”
The old woman flinched, and York decided to press the advantage. “And apparently my mother is dead also. Her name was Francesca Ballinov?”
The old woman took a deep, unhappy breath, though in the shadows it was difficult to gage her reaction. Clearly, she knew both names. “No,” she lied. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard either name.”
