by J. L. Doty
In response she shook her head violently and mouthed the word “No,” though again without sound. She pushed out with her hands to stop him, and her hands passed through him like a good hallucination should.
God damned hallucination, he thought as she back stepped into the intersection of the two corridors, shaking her head. He ignored her and stepped forward into the intersection, caught a glimpse of movement far to the right, heard the unmistakable click of a gun safety—
His implants crashed, an odd sensation like sticking a finger in his ear, and he realized his implants were being jammed, cutting him off from shipnet.
It was reflex more than anything else; he let his knees buckle, using his forward momentum to carry him through the intersection, hoping to shoulder roll into the corridor beyond and out of sight of the gunman. But half way there he heard the puff of a silenced grav gun, and a sledge hammer slammed him to one side where he glanced off the corner of the intersecting corridors. A second bullet grazed off the corridor wall nearby, splattered into a dozen pieces and peppered him with shrapnel as he thudded to the deck.
He’d sprawled in the main corridor out of sight of the assassin, his legs still in the intersection. He heard steps coming his way, tried to struggle to his feet ignoring the pain that washed over him, slipped in his own blood and fell again. A third bullet slammed into his ankle, spinning him about, blowing off the foot of his prosthetic leg in a shower of sparks and synthetic skin. Slipping and sliding in his own blood he scrambled forward out of the line of fire, curled into a sitting position, reached into the belt under his tunic and pulled the small palm gun he always carried. He had four shots, and he could hear the steps coming down the corridor toward him. He released the gun’s safety, swung it around the corner of the intersection and blindly squeezed the trigger. The shot exploded up the corridor with a thunderclap. He squeezed off two more rounds blindly. He struggled to his feet, actually one foot and the stump of his prosthetic ankle ending in plast and wires and shredded skin. The whole corridor was smeared with his blood. He hesitated and listened: no steps coming up the corridor. He tried to key his implants, still jammed.
He ran, hampered by the shortened prosthetic stump, the pain in his chest when he tried to breathe, the way the deck tilted and swayed beneath him. Turn into a side corridor, stop, listen—he heard rapid steps coming after him. He was breathing hard, couldn’t breathe deep, too much pain. He swung the gun around the intersection and fired one last blind shot, then turned and ran, remembering not to toss away the gun—no need to let his enemy know he was no longer armed.
He ran; he was in one of the outer corridors next to the hull and he used the curve of the corridor to keep him out of sight of the assassin. But that was a foot race, one he couldn’t win.
He stopped at a maintenance hatch, slapped the transmit switch on the wall intercom next to it and barked, “Security—Ballin—I’m being hit—C-deck—code red.”
He palmed the lock on the hatch, swung it open, crawled through and felt a gravity boundary tickle his skin. As he pulled the hatch closed a bullet splattered off the rim of the hatch. In zero-G he dogged the hatch awkwardly.
He was in the dark, unlit section between the inner and outer hulls. He pushed off into the zero-G darkness, trying to avoid a nasty collision with a beam or girder, came up against a bulkhead. A shaft of light shot through the darkness as his pursuer opened the hatch.
He hooked an arm around a beam, looked right and left for the telltales near an access hatch, spotted them twenty meters away. He pushed off, crawling from beam to beam. A bullet zinged off a bulkhead nearby, a blind shot in the darkness.
He reached the hatch popped the seals on it, swung it open and the bright lights of the corridor beyond blinded him for a moment. He swung one leg through into the gravity field of the deck, hung there awkwardly for a moment as he tried to use his right arm and a stab of pain shot through his side. He knew the lights of the corridor made him a beautifully silhouetted target, and he had to move regardless of the pain. He swung his right arm up, ignoring the pain and grabbed the lip of hatch.
What with all the racket he was making, it was amazing he was able to hear the faint puff of the grav gun. The bullet caught him diagonally in the chest, entered just under his right breast, blew him through the hatch and bounced him off the deck.
He struggled to his feet, hobbled down the corridor hunched over in pain. That wound was lethal, he knew. The small entrance wound on his chest was gushing blood; and though he couldn’t see the exit wound on his back he had no doubt it was even worse.
He heard the assassin struggling through the hatch behind him just as he made it to an intersecting corridor. A bullet tore into the corridor wall near his head as he rounded the turn. The deck swayed so badly beneath him that he bounced from one wall to the next as he tried to make his way down the corridor, smearing blood everywhere.
Someone stood in his way—a marine—Palevi. York hovered at the edge of consciousness, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel dread and fear as Palevi dropped into a crouch and raised a gun, aiming it squarely at him. The marines—he should never have trusted them.
“Hit the deck, sir,” Palevi shouted. “Yer in my line of fire.”
It took a second for that to register, and then York let his knees buckle, didn’t even try to cushion the fall, landed on the deck with a thud and lost consciousness.
Aeya crawled out of bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Someone was going to pay for waking her, pay dearly.
She opened her cabin door, found a marine with a gun standing in the corridor. “Why are you making so much noise?” she demanded angrily.
The marine started, surprised by her sudden appearance, aimed the gun at her for a moment, then swung it back down the corridor. “Stacy,” the marine bellowed.
Aeya glanced down the corridor, saw a blond, young marine standing there, also with a gun.
The first marine bellowed. “Get a team down here. Secure the deck.”
Aeya’s patience was gone. “I demand—” she started to say, but the marine had the audacity to actually reach out with one of those big, ugly paws of his and shove her. He shoved her so hard she stumbled back into her cabin and fell in a sprawl over her bed.
As she struggled to her feet, speechless, but trying to think of just the right reprimand, the marine, keeping the gun leveled down the corridor with one hand, reached down with the other and locked his fingers into the folds of a messy bundle lying at his feet. Before she could say anything he dragged the bundle into her cabin, leaving an ugly red smear on the deck.
Again, she tried to say something, “What do you think—”
“Shut up,” the marine bellowed at her, then slammed the door of her cabin and locked it. He spoke in that detached way naval people did when they were speaking into their implants. “Palevi here. Someone tried to pop the captain. He’s hit bad. Multiple chest wounds, splatter slugs. He’s in full cardiac arrest. Get a med team down here on the double. I’m holed up in—”
As the marine spoke Aeya looked down at the bundle, and for the first time realized it was a man, and that the large red puddle forming around him was his own blood. He was lying on his side, his back oddly shaped, and with a start she suddenly understood she was looking at several ribs that had erupted outward, opening an enormous hole in the back of his chest. Panic started to set in as she stepped around the wounded man to see his face, while in the background the marine still droned on about something.
The man on the floor lay deathly still. His eyes were open, and while blood obscured his features, the chrome eye and the scars produced instant recognition. She hated Ballin, but still she wouldn’t wish this kind of fate on any man. She reached out to comfort him, decided against touching him and getting blood on her hands. Instead she said, “There, there, Captain. It’ll be all right.”
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move or give any indication he was alive. Both eyes stared blindly at some random point in s
pace. The pupil of the real eye had dilated badly, while that of the chrome eye kept opening and shutting, opening and shutting, opening and shutting . . .
Aeya fainted.
CHAPTER 30: TREASON UPON TREASON
York slammed awake, sat up in bed, ignored the sideways tug of the gravity field of his cabin deck as it interfered with that of his grav bunk. He hesitated for an instant, wondering how he’d gotten back to his cabin, wondering why everything seemed so normal. Then he tore frantically at his shirt until he could see his bare chest. The skin there was pink and healthy.
He threw back the covers, found to his great relief his right leg was still whole, with no indication it had ever been missing. He wiggled the toes, they felt fine.
It had all been a dream, he realized, an insane dream . . .
. . . Alsa looked sadly at her handiwork. All that remained of York was a bit of tissue, a piece of bone, a smear of blood.
The technician held out the open body bag. “I’ll scrape him into it.”
Alsa looked at what was left of York, shook her head. “That’s not him. There’s nothing left of him.” She reached out, scraped the bits of tissue into a pan, turned toward the disposal can . . .”
York woke up screaming, struggled for long seconds while mentally he flipped back and forth between the two realities: it was a dream. No it wasn’t . . . yes it was . . . no it wasn’t . . . This time he wasn’t going to be fooled. Not by any of them. It was real, the body bag dream was a dream, but this was real.
He started crying with relief. It wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t insane. No, he was insane, but that was all right, as long as it was real . . .
Alsa looked at what was left of York, shook her head. “That’s not him. There’s nothing left of him.” She reached out, scraped the bits of tissue into a pan, turned toward the disposal can . . .”
. . . And then Maggie was there. She was alive, and whole and healthy. And he was alive and whole and healthy, and he started to sob.
She wrapped her arms around him, held him tightly while he wept, held him until the tears subsided. It was all a dream, he knew . . . all a dream, but he no longer cared.
When he stopped crying she still held him, and then she kissed him, gently at first, softly, then more passionately. And they made love, and for a time they were free.
Imperial Captain Bella Tzecharra looked at her screens in utter disbelief. Sarasan Prime was no more than a derelict—an Imperial Subsector Headquarters reduced to nothing more than a hazard to shipping.
“Captain,” her first mate said. “There’s not really enough debris in the system for it to have been a full scale assault, though we’ve picked up a hulk orbiting the planet. Radiation profile is too much of a mess to provide definitive identification, but best guess is a feddie cruiser that went out with all hands.”
Tzecharra nodded. “This doesn’t add up. Instruct all captains to proceed with extreme caution.”
“Captain,” her com officer blurted out suddenly. “I’m getting a transmission from Sarasan Prime. It’s uncoded and contains no Imperial ID header.”
Tzecharra looked at her screens. Her captains were all tied into her command circuit and knew what was going on as well as she. “Answer it,” she barked at her com officer. “Find out who they are and what’s going on.”
Tzecharra waited patiently and watched her screens. “Captain, this is really weird. The guy at the other end says he’s a feddie sublegion. Says he and a small detachment were left on the station to guard a bunch of imperial prisoners. Said the prisoners are all in good shape, been treated well, and he wants to surrender. Also said . . . Sarasan was burned by one of our own cruisers.”
Tzecharra looked at Sierka, was careful not to let her distaste show.
“I know him,” Sierka said. “I know what he’s going to do next.”
“And what is that?” Tzecharra asked.
Sierka shook his head and spoke as if she were a subordinate. “That’s highly secret information. I can divulge it only to Lord Abraxa. Take me to him immediately. That’s an order.”
Tzecharra was tempted to show Sierka how much his orders were worth by having him vented. But the situation was too unusual for rash decisions—maybe the idiot did know something. For the moment Tzecharra swallowed her pride. “I’m under direct orders from Fleet. I’ll have to contact my superiors there before taking any such action.”
Sierka stood as if dismissing her. “Very well, Captain. Please do so immediately. I’ll be waiting in my cabin.” Then he turned and left.
Her first officer next brought in Major Juessik. Juessik saluted crisply, then without preamble asked, “Forgive me, Captain, for appearing brash, but before we go on I should establish my identity. May I use your terminal?”
Tzecharra hadn’t made captain without learning one was always cautious around an AI officer. She smiled, nodded toward the terminal on the far side of her office. It was a duplicate to the one recessed in the desk in front of her, though its circuits were slaved to the one at her fingertips and she could monitor everything Juessik did with it.
Juessik bent over the small terminal, started a log-in sequence. She watched every keystroke echoed to the screen in front of her, and her first clue came when her terminal didn’t echo the password he entered. She sat up a bit straighter. Then a file appeared on her screen, one she didn’t even know existed in the log of her ship, with an access code she’d never heard of. The file identified Juessik as an AI colonel—a damn bird colonel—the only damn full colonel in AI.
Tzecharra stood cautiously and greeted Juessik as an equal, perhaps a superior. Juessik sat down opposite her, seemed pleasant enough. “What can I do for you, colonel?” Tzecharra asked.
“Tell me what Sierka told you.”
Tzecharra lit a tobac and offered one to Juessik. “He said he knows Ballin well enough to predict what he’ll do next.”
Juessik declined the tobac. “And what is that?”
“He won’t tell me, says it’s a matter for Abraxa’s ears alone.”
“And what do you think?”
Tzecharra shrugged, blew a stream of blue smoke into the air. “He’s an idiot. Probably doesn’t know a damn thing.”
Juessik grinned and nodded. “Yes. He’s an idiot. And he’s unstable, not fit to command a garbage shuttle. But he does seem to know Ballin fairly well—has a personal vendetta against the man—and he may actually have some idea what he’ll do.”
“We could get that information out of him without having to wait the nine days it’ll take a fast ship to get him to Abraxa.”
“I’m tempted,” Juessik said, “but Sierka’s unstable enough to actually hold out against that sort of thing. In fact, it might push him over the edge and we could lose the information he does have. Let’s humor him, put him on a fast ship back to Luna. I’ll send a message to Abraxa to expect him. Perhaps I’ll go with him myself.”
York slammed awake, sat up in bed, ignored the sideways tug of the deck gravity as it tried to pull him out of his grav bunk. He tore frantically at his shirt while his mind flipped back and forth between the hallucination that he was hallucinating and the hallucination that he wasn’t.
Suddenly he realized what he was doing, froze, cursed, forced his hands down to his sides, refused to succumb to the urge to see if there were any indications his injuries had been real. They were real—he knew that, just as he knew there would be no scars or any sign that an assassin’s bullet had nearly cut him in two.
He tried to recall how long it had been since the assassination attempt, guessed something like four or five days, though it didn’t matter. Each night he dreamt of body bags and hallucinations—and Maggie. An odd part of his hallucination was that he was beginning to wonder if perhaps the dreams were in some way connected to reality. And each day he woke up with his heart pounding, climbing up into his throat. And each day he struggled with reality, to find it, to reach out and purposefully take hold of it. Reality was no longer some
thing he could take for granted, and all day long he worried constantly that he might have taken hold of the wrong reality.
They managed to keep the assassination attempt quiet. Palevi had gotten all the blood cleared away before first shift, and they’d made excuses for York’s absence while Alsa worked frantically to put him back together. Apparently a fragment from one of the assassin’s bullets had torn a large hole in the left ventricle of his heart. Alsa wasn’t able to repair it in-situ, so she’d removed his heart, put in a temporary prosthetic, and was even now working in her laboratory, trying to regrow a new left ventricle on his damaged heart. She thought she could put it back in his chest in a couple of days.
It was important York be visible and healthy, important for morale and important for the crew. He understood that, and they’d gotten him up and walking about within a single day. He walked around, gave orders, pretended he was in command, was thankful the drive to Borregga had been routine.
Sitting in his bunk, York put his hand to his chest, felt the arrhythmic thumping of the prosthetic heart. It mimicked a human heart nicely, but between beats York was certain he could feel a very non-human, electro-mechanical hum. Probably just another hallucination.
York climbed down out of the grav bunk, threw on his clothes. He’d taken to sleeping in empty cabins in junior officers country—picking a cabin at random, telling no one but Palevi where he was. He knew he was developing some serious paranoia.
He threw on yesterday’s uniform, tucked his gun under his belt. He was no longer content with just a palm gun, and while he tucked this new, larger gun under the hem of his tunic, making an effort to hide it from casual observation, he no longer cared much if someone noticed the bulge.
When he stepped out into the corridor there was a marine waiting for him, leaning casually against a bulkhead some distance down the corridor, as if no one would take notice of a marine just casually hanging around. Since the assassination attempt there was always a bodyguard somewhere nearby, though they stayed discretely in the background. But still, York was thankful Palevi took no chances.
