by J. L. Doty
An uncomfortable silence followed, until Cappik finally asked the question all of them wanted to ask. “But, Captain, you can’t just get on the horn and ask Sarasan for permission to use their facilities. We’re under a shoot-on-sight order. They’ll burn us before you say word one.”
York nodded, gave Cappik a look he’d seen Telyekev use, a look that said York didn’t approve of stupid questions. It was unfair of him to do that to Cappik, but for what he was about to tell them, he wanted no argument, no discussion, no debate. “That’s true, Mister Cappik,” York said without emotion. “But then I don’t intend to ask their permission.”
They looked at him as if he’d just told them he was going to be the next emperor. “Now to do that, Mister Cappik,” he continued, “we have to take Sarasan. And to take Sarasan I need sublight drive and as much of this ship operational as possible.” He looked at his watch. “I expect all repairs complete in twenty hours.”
He looked at Rame. “I need bridge crew so get McGeahn up here, if she’s still alive. I think she’s in one of the pod crews. We’ll see if she’s any good as an officer.”
Now for the clincher. He looked at Alsa. “Red Richard’s in the tanks, if I remember correctly. Thaw him out. I want to talk to him.”
That had the desired effect.
York took a tour of the ship. He didn’t need to; he could see everything on vids and damage control reports. But what the crew needed most now was to see him, healthy, whole, in command, giving knowing nods and authoritative looks. He knew of the rumors: the old man was going renegade, maybe go pirate. There was no help for it, since their own comrades had double-crossed them anyway. But still, it needed much discussion, and they needed to see that he wasn’t half-insane with grief or injuries. They needed to see the purpose in his eyes, the cold-blooded intent and the will to survive. And to give them that he needed to avoid thinking about Maggie, and Frank, and Paris, and the others.
Half way through the tour Rame pulled him to one side, held a small com out to him and said, “Captain, Commander Gant. She says it’s important.”
York took the com and held it to his ear. “Yes, Commander?”
“I’ve got some funny data here, Captain. We’ve picked up indications of scattered, but heavy, fighting about three light-years from here. It’s all in free space, not near any system. At this range we can’t really tell who’s who. All we can pick up are a lot of up and down transitions and some big warhead detonations. Indications are that there are somewhere between fifty and two hundred ships mixing it up pretty heavily. The funny thing is—it’s all coming from the direction of Third Fleet’s withdrawal. They must have run into something unpleasant. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you should know about it.”
“Thank you, Commander. Please continue to monitor the situation closely. I’d like regular updates, and let me know immediately of any changes.”
York slammed awake, sat up in bed, caught himself before slipping into any hallucinations about dreams and reality. Maggie had come to visit him in his dreams, or maybe nightmares, he didn’t know what to call them.
Maggie! And Paris! They hadn’t been laid to rest properly, he realized. He unstrapped from his bed, controlling reflexes long accustomed to a grav bunk, wishing he had a grav bunk. They’d gotten pressure back in his cabin—though they were still working on the bridge—and under zero-G the captain slept strapped to a regular bed.
York pulled up the disposition reports for Maggie and Paris. Paris was in cold storage in the aft isolation locker, and Maggie was . . .
Maggie was . . .
Maggie was . . . in tank one-two-six.
. . . tank one-two-six . . .
“You lied to me,” York screamed as he floated into sickbay.
Alsa looked up from her desk, blinked groggily at him.
“You lied to me. She’s alive, god damn it! She’s alive and you stuck her in a fucking tank.”
Alsa shook her head, blinked at him, then understanding showed in her face. “Ya. I lied. But I—”
“Get her out of there,” York screamed. “Get her out of there and let her die clean.”
Alsa shook her head. “I’ll do no such thing.”
York started to shout epithets, but she cut him off, said, “Shut up and listen to me.” She lifted a hand and raised one finger. “First. Statistically she’s dead anyway. Less than a one percent chance of recovery.”
“I don’t care. I want her out of there.”
Alsa raised another finger. “Second. It doesn’t matter what you want. Maggie gave me specific permission to tank her if it ever came to this. She said as long as there was a chance, she wanted to go on fighting. So that’s all there is to it; her personal preferences happen to be quite different from yours. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it. As for Maggie, don’t waste your breath arguing with me. Those were her wishes. Period.”
York kept having dreams about Maggie, and as long as she was dead he could chalk them up to dreams. But if she was in the tanks, maybe half alive—
No! Alsa said she was dead. York repeated that all the way back to his cabin.
CHAPTER 27: THE FIRST TREASON
York would rather be wearing marine armor than a standard vac suit, but for the show they were about to put on that wouldn’t look at all right. Without station based heavy equipment they’d been unable to repressurize the bridge, along with a good twenty percent of the rest of the ship—but that would make it look even better.
They’d replaced Maggie at the helm with a spacer named Eldinow from Cappik’s original shipyard crew. He’d been qualified on helm controls years ago so he could shuttle big vessels in and out of the repair docks at Dumark station, and he had quite a few hours logged—he’d never piloted in transition or under combat, but Cappik swore he was smart and kept his head when things got dicey.
McGeahn had replaced Paris at the com. Her pod had taken a hit, and she’d almost bought it, was missing one leg at the knee, swore it didn’t matter, though it looked odd to see the empty leg of her vac suit distended under pressure. Her station commander gave her good marks under fire, though she was showing some of the bravado of a rookie who’d just survived her first nasty one.
“Miss McGeahn,” York said. “Put me on allship.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Channel three, sir.”
“And tell Cappik to stand by.”
York made a small speech to the crew. He didn’t say anything worth listening to, was careful not to include any facts. Red Richard was conscious now and probably listening to every word. York hadn’t spoken to Richard yet, needed Richard to form his own opinion of what was going on. With Palevi’s help he’d carefully chosen Richard’s cell so it was close to the brig guard office. Then for brig watch he and Palevi had chosen marines known to gossip a lot. By now they’d talked over the whole situation, Richard had probably overheard most of it, and was nicely up-to-date. And he’d probably reached the same conclusion as everyone else. It was imperative Richard believe the right things, or he’d never cooperate the way York needed.
York finished his little speech, switched off allship and opened a line to Engineering. “Are you ready, Mister Cappik?”
“Yes, sir. I got a fire lit in Starboard and I’m ready to light up Centerline. Soon as you give me the word I’ll goose ‘em both. It’ll look a bit like a flare, especially with all the shit we’ll start spewing all over the system, and you’ll have sublight capability.”
“Very good, Mister Cappik. Thank you.”
Cappik grinned. “Captain, if they don’t blow us to hell and back they’re going to court-martial us for sure.”
York grinned back at him. “They gotta catch us first.”
“Right you are, sir. I gotta tell you, sir. It’s been one hell of a ride.”
“It’s just starting, Mister Cappik.” York looked at his screens then glanced around the bridge. They were all watching him, waiting for him to give the nod, trusti
ng his judgment that they had a good and proper excuse for high treason. York looked at Cappik one more time and nodded, “Execute.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Powering Starboard, sir.”
The readings on the starboard chamber rose quickly and the feel of the ship returned—she was alive again. When Starboard reached the maximum power Cappik was comfortable with, the engineer threw a switch and dumped a big pulse of energy into the Sarasan system. To a casual observer it would appear to be a transition flare. Immediately, the readings on the centerline chamber started to rise.
“Gravity up,” York barked. “Helm, you’ve got the drive plan; execute.”
The readings on Centerline leveled off at something above a large trickle. The chamber was too badly damaged to sustain ignition, but by feeding some power into it from Starboard they could, as Cappik had put it, “. . . spew shit all over the system,” and hopefully look like a ship in serious trouble.
Gant read off their status casually. “Range: point-six-seven AUs. Velocity: point-one-five lights. Deceleration: just over one thousand gravities. ETA at Sarasan Station: one point-oh-three hours.”
They were close; thanks to the coordinates Leonavich had fed them. Their little transition hop had hardly changed that, though it had left them in a fairly eccentric orbit around Sarasan. It was important that Sarasan not have a lot of time to think about the data they were getting. York had also chosen to make his move when Sarasan was on night watch, which might help in some small way.
“Sir,” McGeahn shouted. “I’m getting a demand for a recognition sequence.”
“Ignore it,” York barked. “We have to time this right.”
“I can’t read their signature, Lieutenant. It’s a mess. They’re throwing radiation all over the system. They gotta be in some kind of bad trouble.”
Lieutenant Steela looked over the technician’s shoulder. She could see that the unidentified ship was in serious trouble. She keyed her implants. “Com, any response from that bogie?”
“No, ma’am.”
Steela stared at the data on the technician’s screen. “Why didn’t we pick up his transition wake long ago?”
The technician shrugged. “In the shape he’s in he probably came in at a crawl, not much wake to read.”
Plausible, but Steela still didn’t like it. “Bring station defenses to watch condition yellow. Tell power we may need shield reserves without warning. And wake Commodore Quae.”
The technician looked at her and grimaced. “You sure you want to do that, Ma’am?”
Quae’s temper was well known, but under the circumstances she had no choice. “I’m sure. And after that put a couple of interceptors on standby.”
Steela paced back and forth in Sarasan Station’s command center, stopping behind each seated technician, looking over the tech’s shoulder at the screens on his console. The station’s defenses were fully operational, and combined with Sarasan’s orbital weapons platforms no single ship could harm them. But still, Steela didn’t like this at all.
“Lieutenant, the commodore wants to talk to you. And he ain’t happy.”
Steela went to her own console, sat down and took the call. Quae’s unhappy face appeared on one of her screens. “I’m told we’re not under attack, Lieutenant. So why was I awakened in the middle of the night?”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, sir. But we have an unidentified ship on close approach. We’re—”
“Well then follow standard procedures. There’s no need to wake me for that.”
“Yes, sir, but we haven’t been able to get a response from them.” Out of the corner of her eye she caught one of the technicians waving at her. To Quae she said, “Excuse me, sir. Something’s happening.” Quae nodded and she switched circuits quickly.
The technician said, “I just got an identification sequence, Lieutenant. H.M.S. Wolfs Blood. A medium cruiser. She was listed as missing in action in sector four about two months ago. Her cipher codes correspond to those in effect at that time.”
“Thank you,” Steela said to the technician, then switched back to Quae and relayed the information to him.
“Well there you have it,” Quae said angrily. “Follow standard procedures. Board her and confirm the identification. It’s simple, Lieutenant, and there was no need to wake me in the first place. Now I’m going back to bed.” Quae cut the circuit without waiting for a reply.
Steela tried to remain calm. The technician shook his head sympathetically, and gave her an I-told-you-so look.
Commodore Meelas Quae sat up groggily in response to the unpleasantly demanding chime coming from his terminal. He glanced first at the time, then cursed out loud. That idiot woman had awakened him again. He hit the receive switch, and as her image appeared he shouted, “What is it now?”
“I’m sorry to awake you again, sir. But the captain of that ship refuses to allow us to board her. And he now demands to speak to you personally. I tried to—”
Quae cut her off. “There was no need to wake me for this. You can tell whatever his name is that I’m sleeping.”
Steela nodded. “Very well, sir. I’ll tell Admiral Lord Leukoy you are not to be disturbed.”
Quae’s heart skipped a beat as Steela reached for the receive switch on her console. “Wait! Wait, Lieutenant. Admiral? Lord?”
“Yes, sir. Rear Admiral Lord Leukoy.”
It wouldn’t do his career any good to anger a member of the nobility, especially an admiral. “Put him through immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quae gasped, flinched away from the terminal as the monster appeared on his screen, and it took him a moment to realize he was looking at the faceless visage of a vac suit helmet, not that of some bug-eyed creature out of a nightmare. Other than the two camera pickups on either side, spaced much wider than human eyes, there were no features on the face of the helmet, and it was disconcerting to carry on a conversation with something so inhuman. Even the opaqued visor of marine armor gave more semblance of humanity.
The faceless helmet leaned toward the pickup and spoke quite calmly. “Commodore. I regret we have to meet under these circumstances. However, I must beg your indulgence. We have serious difficulties here, and any help you can provide to expedite our arrival would be most appreciated.”
Quae relaxed. The man seemed most reasonable. “Certainly, Your Lordship. What can I do?”
The helmet nodded. “You can instruct that overzealous, young lieutenant of yours to wave the normal board-and-identify requirements. That would save us considerable time—and lives.”
Quae wanted to accommodate the man, but then the station log would show he had personally authorized a violation of standard security procedures. “Well now, Your Lordship, that’s difficult to do. Lieutenant Steela and I are only following the procedures required by—”
Quae jumped as the image on his screen shook violently. And while he had never served on a ship-of-the-line, he knew the ship’s internal gravity fields should compensate for any motion involved, and the fact that it didn’t was an indication of dire circumstances.
The admiral forgot Quae, slapped a switch on his console, though in his preoccupation with his difficulties he forgot to switch Quae out of the circuit. Heavy damage aft, someone shouted into the circuit. Starboard just blew. Radiation hazard on decks G through K. Twelve missing, presumed dead.
The admiral shouted orders into the circuit, though the transmission was garbled and to Quae his commands were unintelligible. Quae saw hurried activity behind the man, then the admiral switched the link out of the circuit and returned his attention to Quae.
The admiral leaned slowly toward the pickup, his shoulders hunched. Quae could easily imagine the expression on his face, and when he spoke it came out little better than a growl. “Listen to me, Quae. I’ve got two chambers down, and only one chamber left operating at half power, and it’s flooding us all with a lethal dose of radiation. Our tanks are going bad on us, and they’re already overflowing with
critically wounded. I’ve got wounded laying in the corridors, at least in what corridors I’ve got left to put wounded in. I’ve lost thirty meters off my bow, half my ship’s under vacuum, including critical operating stations like the god damned bridge. We’ve run out of vac suits and we’re losing life support in the rest of the ship. And every minute you delay me costs me more lives. Now I want clearance to dock, and I want it now, or I swear to you, Quae, by whatever gods exist, I’ll personally preside at your court-martial. Do you understand me?”
The admiral’s voice had risen slowly until the last had come out in a frightening shout. Quae’s career was on the line here, and there was no doubt the admiral could, and would, carry out the promised threat. “Well, Quae,” the admiral demanded. “I’m waiting.”
Quae gave him a slight, but respectful, bow. “I’ll instruct my subordinates to allow you to proceed immediately to an appropriate dock.” Now, Quae thought, if there was any blame to be had he needed to shift as much as possible away from himself. “And please don’t blame poor Lieutenant Steela. She’s young, and not terribly creative, and she was just following standard procedures.”
“Of course,” the admiral barked. “Just get me that docking clearance, and tell your medical people to be ready for us. We’re going to overload your facilities.”
Quae nodded. “As you wish, Your Lordship.”
Quae put in a call to Steela, instructed her to wave the standard procedures and allow the ship to dock.
“But, sir,” she pleaded. “There’s something funny about this whole situation. We should have detected them long before this, but they registered no incoming transition wake and—”
“God damn it!” Quae shouted. “I don’t want any argument out of you, young woman. I’m giving you an order, and I expect you to obey it now, without hesitation. Is that clear?”
The young woman’s jaw muscles clenched. “Of course, commodore. I didn’t mean to—”
