A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  Now it made sense, or at least the actions of Leonavich’s ships made sense, if they were trying to close on an enemy and cut off all possibility of escape. But why? The why of it didn’t make sense.

  To Leonavich, their eyes still locked, York said, “Your Grace. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but there’s no need. I’ll surrender, without terms. I’ll surrender myself and my ship and all aboard her, and trust to your honor to judge us fairly for whatever it is you think we’ve done. I’ll lower my shields, cut my drive, go fully static, whatever you require.”

  Leonavich nodded sadly. “Then do so now. Drop your shields.”

  York saw no lessening of the hard intent in Leonavich’s eyes. He asked, “Will you accept my surrender, take proper care of my people?”

  Leonavich hesitated, almost lied to him, but at the last instant he seemed unable to stomach whatever motivated his actions, and all he said was, “I’m sorry, Captain . . .”

  York’s hand shot out almost involuntarily and hit a switch on his console, killing Leonavich’s picture.

  “Shields up. Full combat status. Mister Jondee, cut all external transmissions. Pull us out of their command grid, but we’ve got the codes to decipher their command transmissions so feed their command grid into our targeting computer. And I want a copy on my screens.

  “Miss Votak, hard astern. Take us out of the plane of the ecliptic. I want to make transition soonest.”

  “Captain,” someone shouted, “we’ve got incoming.”

  “Mister Jakobee, target on anything out there.”

  “But they’re our ships, sir!”

  Maggie and Paris responded nicely, and Rame too, but Jakobee and a few others were staring at York slack mouthed. “I know they’re our own god damned ships,” he shouted at them as the ship rocked under the impact of a hit taken somewhere. “But they’re going to burn us if we don’t fight back.”

  A report flashed on one of York’s screens: Minor damage amidships.

  That pulled them out of their stupor. “Sir,” Jondee barked. “It’ll take too long to set up a feed from Third’s command grid to our targeting computer.”

  More than once York had awakened late at night, lay awake reviewing the disconcerting facts of their situation, chided himself for his paranoia. But paranoid he’d been, and the only way he could get back to sleep was to satisfy his paranoia by thinking through a contingency plan and programming it on the computer.

  Cinesstar took another hit as York heard the comforting echo of her transition and defensive batteries go into action.

  “Mister Jondee,” he shouted above the noise. “You’ll find such a program already set up in library Ballin, hidden and protected sublibrary Ballinov, password paranoia, program name endgame.”

  “Got it.”

  Leonavich hadn’t gotten them completely englobed. He could only bring about twenty of his ships to bear on Cinesstar. Jakobee was starting to fight back, manually using the data from Third’s command grid to pinpoint targets. Cinesstar’s hull thrummed as its transition batteries went into action, but between the echoes of their own weapons came the occasional crash of a hit taken. Too many hits taken.

  “Paris,” York shouted. “Try broadcasting into their command grid; allocate a few of them as targets on their own god damned grid.”

  Heavy damage aft. Hull breach.

  “Maggie, get us out of here.”

  “Holy shit!” Soe swore. “Those impers just went crazy. They’re shooting at each other. It’s a free-for-all out there. And they’re coming right at us.”

  Jewel shook her head. She hadn’t told them about the transmission from Terman. “No,” she said. “Not a free-for-all. They’re after the same imper we are. But he’s smart. He’s got access to their command grid and he’s using it against them.”

  “Here’s our chance at the son-of-a-bitch,” Soe shouted happily. “They’re headed this way.”

  Jewel nodded. “Stand by all stations.”

  Minor damage on decks A through D, H, and K through M.

  Heavy damage amidships—hull breach deck E, starboard.

  Turret 7 inactive. Crew status unknown.

  The noise was incredible. The recoil from every round they fired sent a deep, bass note echoing back and forth through the hull. And every round that tore into Cinesstar’s shields, whether it penetrated the hull or not, struck a louder, harsher note.

  Cinesstar rocked violently. It shouldn’t have rocked at all; her computer should have compensated all motion with her internal gravity fields. But she rocked hard enough to send most of them to the edge of consciousness, and the readings on the port chamber redlined for an instant, then dropped to flat nothing.

  “Captain,” Cappik screamed at York from one of his screens. “Port chamber just blew. Blew a hole right through the fuckin’ hull. And Starboard’s gonna take a shit on me any minute.”

  York kept his voice calm. “Miss Votak, get us into transition any way you can, in any direction possible—now.”

  “No can do, sir. We’ve got too many ships too close to us, too much transition static, we—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” York shouted. “Just do it.”

  York hit a switch on his console, cutting his implants out of the bridge command circuit, suddenly filling his ears with relative quiet, and he got an odd sense of detachment from the chaos around him. Rame screamed something at him, but he couldn’t hear it and he ignored him.

  York spoke into his pickup. “Computer.”

  Acknowledged, the computer said.

  “Access library Ballin, sublibrary Ballinov, password paranoia, program name Desperate.”

  Program Desperate access acknowledged.

  Another program York had written during a sleepless night. He hadn’t intended to use it against imperial ships, so it didn’t really belong under the password paranoia. But that was as good a place as any. Desperate was a complex program. It systematically removed all of Cinesstar’s failsafe procedures, nullified whatever protection there was against an inappropriate or improper transition, then attempted to put Cinesstar into up-transition regardless of the circumstances. It was a dangerous program, and so aptly, if unimaginatively, named. Cinesstar could disintegrate, could simply and rather undramatically break up into small pieces. Or she could turn very dramatically into a small nova.

  “Load program Desperate.”

  Program Desperate loaded.

  York felt Maggie unsuccessfully try to take Cinesstar into transition.

  “Execute program Desperate.”

  Program Desperate executing . . .

  Maggie had turned Cinesstar toward Leonavich’s thinnest clustering of ships—two cruisers and two destroyers. It was hopeless, but it was their best chance. The four ships knew Cinesstar had sustained serious damage, were matching her pace, hammering away at her, tenaciously holding on until they could make the kill.

  York felt the computer try to take Cinesstar into transition, felt the computer fail.

  Unable to effect transition. Excessive gravitational mass and nearby transition noise make such—

  “Override, god damn you,” York screamed. “Override . . . override . . . override.”

  Suddenly one of the ships in front of them flared into an incandescent ball of fire—a direct hit from a large warhead out of nowhere. York looked at the transition trail of the warhead mapped on one of his screens. It had no origination, and with a smile he realized the feddie hunter-killer was still with them. Another of the ships flared into incandescence, and Cinesstar tried again to make transition.

  York was slammed painfully forward against his restraints. A piece of bulkhead shot past him, cut a crewwoman in two.

  The computer said calmly, transition.

  His eardrums burst, his eyes bulged from their sockets as the air was torn from his lungs. He was dying, he knew. But he had one consolation: at least he was going out clean, not piece by piece—no indefinite, never ending, non-death in the tanks .
. .

  CHAPTER 26: TANK DREAMS

  Every time Edvard thought about old Theodore he wanted to cry. He was so lonely without the old man. There were few people he truly trusted: Cassandra certainly, perhaps Sylissa d’Hart, and of course Theodore. The old man had been like a father to him, had been more of a father than his own father. The old king had been more concerned with his mistress, his true love, had even favored her over Edvard’s mother, a woman chosen as the king’s bride for reasons of state, not love. And after the mistress had died, when Edvard was still a young boy, the old king had withered, shrunk, grown suddenly old and frail, until he died a few years later, making Edvard a very young king and emperor.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d ever really loved his father, wasn’t sure if his father ever loved him. But Theodore had loved him, and that was all he needed. Now Theodore was gone, and his loss brought up so many painful memories.

  His intercom sounded and he answered it mechanically. “Yes.”

  “Your Majesty, Duke Abraxa and Archcanon Bortha have arrived.”

  Edvard nodded, brought the lights of his study up a bit. “Please show them in.”

  When the door opened old Bortha shot across the room with his robes trailing behind him. “My son. How terrible you must feel.”

  The old man rounded Edvard’s desk with a flourish, put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I know how close you were to Theodore. How terrible that he should die at the hands of common thieves!”

  Edvard wanted to strike the old churchman, to ball up his fist and hit the old hypocrite in the nose. Theodore was to have met Lynna in some sleazy part of Luna. There were rumors of a combined AI-Incalla raid somewhere there, and Lynna was now missing. Edvard was no fool.

  Abraxa waddled into the room, had gained even more weight since the last time Edvard had seen him, had long ago surpassed obese. “Yes. Truly a tragedy.”

  Abraxa didn’t have the flair for the dramatic that Bortha enjoyed, but Edvard wanted to hit him no less. He was tempted to at least say something, but he suppressed the urge. Now was not the time for a confrontation.

  He stood, crossed the room to a small bar recessed into the wall, poured a stiff drink and gulped at it. It was something to do, something to keep him from blurting out his anger.

  He turned around to face them, realized they were watching him closely for some reaction and fought to show nothing. “Yes,” he said coldly. “A tragic loss. He was an excellent servant. I shall miss his advice and council.”

  Bortha frowned, obviously surprised at the passionless statement from a man he had assumed would be distraught with grief. Cat and mouse, Edvard thought.

  “Your Majesty,” Abraxa said. “We are saddened by your loss, but we’ve come here with a purpose beyond expressing our sympathies. We have some distressing news we felt you should hear from us, and not from some servant.”

  Abraxa paused, while Edvard wondered what blow he would strike now. “The ship Cinesstar has been destroyed with all hands. Apparently there were no survivors.”

  “Cassandra?” Edvard asked. “Aeya?”

  “They were both aboard her. I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but there is no hope they survived.”

  Now Edvard could show grief. He gulped at his drink, tried not to think, tried to empty his mind of all thought. Any thought that would come could only be painful. Bortha was prattling on about something, again laid a supposedly comforting hand on Edvard’s shoulder. Edvard interrupted him. “How?”

  Abraxa shrugged. “Apparently, Cinesstar made her way back to Sarasan, obviously hoping for protection from the subsector headquarters there. At the same time the Third Fleet was regrouping there after their defeat at Aagerbanne while a Directorate strike force was moving in to finish the job. From what we can determine Cinesstar down-transited into the middle of the ensuing battle. We don’t know how many warheads she took, but apparently she was completely destroyed. We’re searching now for anything, but there’s little hope we’ll find even wreckage, let alone survivors.”

  Edvard just stared at his drink. Bortha said, “I’m sorry,” and Edvard could even see that he meant it. But Edvard could still find no liking for the old churchman.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Please leave me now. I need some time alone with this.”

  After the two old men had left and were alone in a shielded ground car, with armed escorts accompanying them front and rear, Bortha asked, “Why did you have Rochefort killed? We could be questioning him now.”

  Abraxa shook his head. “That was a mistake—a fresh AI patrol, new on the scene, answering an all points bulletin, unaware they were to take him alive. The watch commander for that district has paid for that mistake dearly.”

  Bortha nodded and leaned back in the cushioned seat. “Well at least it’s over. They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

  Abraxa shrugged. “I think so. I’ve had my best people going over the telemetry data from the fight—can’t really call it a battle. Cinesstar took a direct hit from a big warhead—big enough that we can be confident there were no survivors.”

  Bortha shook his head. “Then why don’t you sound confident.”

  Again Abraxa shrugged, as if trying to say he was unconcerned. “Cinesstar had, at that moment, launched a few large warheads of her own. One destroyed a nearby ship of ours, another detonated in space not far from Cinesstar herself. And there were a lot of small warheads being detonated by Cinesstar’s defensive batteries, and a lot of transition wash everywhere. So the data was somewhat obscured. And when the surrounding space cleared, there was nothing left. Just a lot of debris, mostly metal and plast slag, none of it large enough to be specifically identified as having come from Cinesstar. But that warhead was large, and it detonated close enough to her to leave no possibility she could have escaped.”

  “You still don’t sound confident.”

  Abraxa suddenly turned on him violently and shouted, “Well I’m as confident as I need to be, churchman.” With a visible effort he forced an outward calm. “In any case we’re not taking any chances. We’re searching the system carefully to be sure, though I doubt we’ll find anything more than we already have.”

  Meekl Donohae thought about a lot of things as she crawled slowly back to consciousness. On Dumark she had been a stat clerk in the embassy—no status in that. But here, she was a pod gunner. Maybe she didn’t have much experience but she was nevertheless a good pod gunner, damn good, with a full chevron cut into her arm as proof of her first two confirmed kills.

  That made her think of the old man, and the night he’d sat next to her at gunner’s blood. He’d had a whole string of chevrons, must have been a gunner for quite some time. It was good to have a captain who knew what it was like to be a gunner. She hoped he was all right. In a way she felt like she owed her newfound status to him.

  Then suddenly it occurred to her that at the moment her newfound status just might not be so healthy. She turned her head groggily; found that every muscle hurt.

  There was no gravity in her pod, no light either. It was pitch dark, not even the flicker of the telltales on her console, and dead silent. She realized she’d never heard such silence before, and it frightened her. Don’t panic, she told herself.

  She explored the console by touch, tried to reboot the pod system and got no response. Finally she cut the pod’s master switch, manually switched the pod system to her local emergency power reserve and tried again.

  The pod’s operating system only made it about half way through the boot sequence before detecting major problems with its hardware, then the system locked up. She tried four times, got the same response each time, finally went back to the main switch box and tried cutting out each major subsystem before attempting a reboot. It worked, though she’d had to cut out fire control, gravity, exterior scan, and her connect to comp central. But she had information now, and from that she finally understood she might not get out of this alive.

  No gravity, enough standby power to run the gauges
for a few hours. Enough local oxygen reserves for about a day. So, all she had to do was open the hatch on her pod, crawl down the access tube to the inner hull of the ship, open the hatch there, and climb back into the ship. But her gauges showed there was no air in the access tube. This section of the ship had been hulled—certainly the confines between the inner hull and the shield hull were under vacuum, and apparently the access tube had also taken some damage and it too was under vacuum.

  She tried pounding on the hatch for a while. Her efforts sent a faint echo through the ship, but she got no reply so she started to think. That’s what Chief Syda always told her, “Think, girl, think. Use your head. That’s what’ll save yer life.”

  So Meekl thought long and hard and finally decided to kill the power to the system and get some sleep. Perhaps, in a few hours she might get a response to her pounding.

  It was while she was sitting there in the dark, finding it impossible to sleep, that an idea began to grow in her mind. If the access tube was only damaged, not completely blown, it might hold air for a short period of time, enough for her to crawl to the hatch on the inner hull and get back into the ship. She had enough air to fill the tube and her pod several times over. If the tube would hold air at all, she’d only have to deal with a nasty drop in pressure. She knew she could survive just fine at fairly low pressures, and in any case, if the tube wouldn’t hold air at all, the veteran gunners had told her she could survive vacuum for a short period of time, hopefully enough to close the hatch again and repressurize her pod. What she’d do after that—she’d worry about that if and when the time came.

  She programmed her computer to let the pod pressure drop, even if it went all the way to vacuum. If it did, she didn’t want the computer trying to protect her, blowing air into the pod and preventing her from closing the hatch.

  Luckily the pod hatch opened outward, so she wouldn’t have to fight the pressure in the pod. She made sure her restraint harness was secure—when she blew the hatch it wouldn’t do to have her sucked out through it—then she overrode the safety interlocks on the hatch, paused for a moment of indecision, and blew the hatch.