A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  She casually flicked a switch on the control unit, and dropped him in his tracks in a state of complete lethargy, managed to control him so precisely he didn’t hit the floor hard, just quietly sat down. He didn’t move while she fiddled at her control box. “All right,” she said. “Let’s try calm reason.”

  York felt control return and he looked around. They were all there again, his officers, the empress, the emperor, the d’Hart woman, staring at him like some freak. He stood, brushed dust off his uniform, noticed they’d given him a nice new uniform. The vid-director pointed to York’s chair and said, “Please take a seat, Lieutenant Ballin.”

  York realized it was a lot easier to just play along, so he sat down. The vid-director looked at the technician with the control box. “Very good. Now let me see solid anger, slightly out of control, but none of this berserk stuff.”

  That was enough, York thought. He stood. “Now wait a minute,” he argued. “You have no right to treat anyone this way.”

  “More anger,” the vid-director said.

  That made York really angry. “God damn it,” he shouted. “Listen to me.”

  “Excellent,” the vid-director said. “That’s enough. Shut him down.”

  The lethargy returned and York sat down, no longer caring.

  The next couple of hours were really quite fascinating. York was able to observe the whole thing in a schizophrenic sort of way. They all play-acted their way through his court-martial. The Admiralty Court charged him with just about every heinous crime a mutineer-renegade-rapist-sociopath-pirate could commit. The vid-director regularly stopped the proceedings to adjust camera angles, to coach the justices—which York learned were really just actors—to give instructions to the med-tech controlling the neural probe behind York’s ear. They played York like a finely tuned instrument. They didn’t have to give him any script, didn’t have to depend on his cooperation. When they wanted him to explode at the justices or some poor witness, they’d give him a nice little cocktail laced heavily with frustration, building it to a crescendo, then tossing in a dose of aggression at the last moment. He would end up ranting with just the right degree of demagoguery, and then they’d turn him off like a light.

  All in all, the schizophrenic half of York that had retreated into some depth of his mind to observe the whole thing was quite impressed. At the end, the director even instructed the justices to find him innocent on a few charges. “It’ll look much more believable,” he said. “Find him guilty on the really nasty ones, of course, so we’ve got a reason to execute him. But let him off on a couple of the lesser ones.”

  Yes, it was quite impressive. And when they were done, they just switched him off.

  York slammed awake, sat up in bed with a scream, threw the blankets off and stumbled across the floor. Vertigo hit him like a bullet and he staggered back toward the bed, sat down there and waited for the nausea and fear to pass. He was sitting there with his face buried in his hands, trying to recall the dream that had frightened him so, when it hit him: bed, blankets?

  He opened his eyes carefully. The room was dark, though someone had programmed the lights for a dim nightglow. “Lights,” he said. “Slow ramp.” The computer brought the lights up slowly.

  He looked first at his hands. They were whole and healthy; the fingers weren’t broken and bloody. Then he remembered the court-martial. They’d fixed him up so he could look appropriately sinister, must have had to overdose the hell out of him on accelerated-healing to fix him up so quickly. But he wasn’t back in his cell, nor was he drugged into the next century.

  He looked around. He was in a fairly normal bedroom, much like that in a good hotel. A clock on the wall showed mid-morning. He was sitting on a dirt-side bed, not a grav bunk. To his left there appeared to be a large curtained window, and to his right an open set of double doors. He stood again, pulled open the curtains and stared for some moments at what he saw.

  He was looking out a real window—not a projection or a screen—at a landscape of green and brown vegetation, with rolling hills and a small river in the distance. There was no sign of man or habitation or civilization anywhere, just those beautiful rolling hills.

  He turned about, went through the open doorway into a small sitting room with a vid recessed into one wall, a comfortable looking couch, a small desk with a card viewer and a computer terminal on it. There was another door on the far side of the room, closed, and, as he quickly discovered, locked. It refused to respond to any effort he made to open it, nor to any commands he gave the computer. He set about exploring the limits of his jail: four rooms—roughly the equivalent of an expensive hotel suite. He found fresh uniforms in the closet, all sorts of toilet articles in the fresher—everything nicely stocked, ready for occupancy.

  He tried the computer first, had access to all sorts of functions and information, but nothing of any consequence. He could call up books to read, vids to view; he could program his environmental controls, schedule meals and laundry service; basically he had full civilian access to all unclassified information. But he could send no messages; make no contact with the outside world, whatever world this might be.

  He shaved, showered, had just put on a fresh uniform when the door opened suddenly and a servant entered the room carrying a large tray. The servant was dressed in a white coat and black slacks, with a white shirt and black tie—a uniform that had changed little in centuries. “Good morning, sir,” the servant said and put the tray down on the table. “The monitors indicated you were up and about so I took the liberty of preparing your breakfast.”

  York revised his opinion. The servant was military all the way, probably a noncom, a twenty-year man, probably AI. He placed York’s breakfast on the table with meticulous care, then turned to leave.

  “Wait,” York said, and the man turned and hesitated. “Where am I? What is this place?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not allowed to answer questions. If you have any physical needs, you can call me through your terminal.” With that, he turned and left.

  Suddenly, York realized, none of it was worth it. It was all a big waste, and he just didn’t have the energy to keep on trying. They would do with him what they would, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He sat down to the breakfast and turned on the vid, scanned the channels for news, found a station broadcasting his court-martial. He ate a little, and watched his own court-martial with rapt fascination. It seemed to take longer than he remembered. The defense council and the prosecutor objected to everything each other did, and the York on the screen frequently burst out with maniacal threats to the justices, the prosecutor, even his own defense council and his own crew. They’d cleaned him up nicely, made him look healthy, though they’d left the chrome-steel eye and the scars on his face. A nice touch, he realized, made him look even more fanatical. They even managed to use the shots of him breaking the vid-tech’s neck, at which point the courtroom burst into pandemonium while three AI guards restrained York. The chief justice called a recess, and a vid announcer’s face appeared. “We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. Stay tuned for continued live coverage of the court-martial of the renegade ship captain, York Ballin.”

  “Masterful, isn’t it?”

  It took York a moment to realize the voice had not come from the vid. He started, turned toward the door to find a tall, rather distinguished looking man, wearing a uniform with admiral’s stripes on the sleeves; he stood just within the open door. York looked at the stripes, the bearing of the man, the way he stood, realized he had to be one of the nine Grand Dukes of the empire. “Your Grace,” York said, standing slowly, then bowing.

  “They said you were quick on the uptake,” the man said, crossing the distance between them and extending his hand as if he and York were old friends. He shook York’s hand eagerly. “I’ve wanted to meet you for some time now, Lieutenant. I’m Johan de Satarna.”

  Johan Soladin, Duke de Satarna. Perra Soladin’s father, probably secon
d only to Abraxa on the Admiralty Council. York nodded and said again, “Your Grace.”

  Soladin voiced a quick command to the room’s computer to blank the vid, then turned back to York. “Those vid people are quite impressive, aren’t they? Amazing what they can do with a few properly staged scenes. They’re going to draw this out for several days before convicting you.”

  York walked over to the window and looked out on the landscape below. “Where are we?”

  Soladin joined him at the window. “Beautiful, isn’t she. We’re on Terr, the large planet that’s Luna’s primary. It’s not all wilderness like this. There are the ruins of a rather large civilization spread all over the planet, though the archaeologists need shielded radiation suits to get near them. Apparently the civilization was well into space when they were burned off by some fairly extensive bombing about two or three thousand years ago. In fact, many of the scientists believe this was the cradle of our own civilization.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  Soladin raised an eyebrow. “To the point, aren’t you?” He shrugged. “I suppose you deserve a straight answer.”

  York decided he liked Soladin far more than his son.

  “This is a private reserve,” Soladin continued. “I keep it stocked with game for hunting, and there’s a wonderful countryside out there for all sorts of activities, though you have to stay away from the contaminated areas. We felt it would be a good place to hold you incognito during your court-martial.”

  York couldn’t hide a skeptical frown. “I’d think you could just stuff me back in a cell on Luna Prime, let Sierka finish the job he started.”

  “Yes, that,” Soladin said uncomfortably. “Listen Ballin, I do apologize for that. We had no idea Sierka would resort to such barbaric tactics when we asked him to interrogate you. We felt that since he’d been able to predict your return here, he must know you well enough to learn whatever else you knew. But we’re not cruel, and while I confess I have no qualms about brutality if it serves a purpose, I don’t condone it purely to satisfy the sadistic whims of a fool like Sierka. Your life may be forfeit, Lieutenant, but there is no need for plain and simple barbarism.”

  “Nice speech,” York said. “Knowing all that will greatly ease my mind when you execute me.”

  “Yes,” Soladin sighed. “Nice speech. Tell me something, Lieutenant. You don’t strike me as a fanatic, but only such a man could have withstood Sierka’s brutality without cracking. And yet you refused to answer a single question.”

  York looked carefully at Soladin, was on the verge of telling him Sierka hadn’t asked any questions, but bit back the comment, realizing that Sierka had been sent to interrogate him, hadn’t done so, had merely sought his own form of revenge. But when faced with providing answers to his superiors he’d had to lie to save his own neck. He’d told them York was a maniacal fanatic, when in fact York had broken, would have answered any question he asked, if only he’d asked one. Well, as long as they were misinformed, there was no sense in setting them straight. “I don’t think I could explain it to you.”

  Soladin nodded. “You know, Lieutenant. At another time, had our paths not crossed as enemies, I would have valued a man like you in my personal service. Perhaps you could have taught my son a few things, turned him into something other than a fop.”

  York looked out over the beautiful green landscape. “But it’s not another time. And our paths crossed the way they crossed.”

  “Let me see him,” Sylissa shouted.

  “I’m sorry, Your Ladyship,” the receptionist said mechanically, looking crisp and neat in her black AI uniform. “Colonel Juessik is a busy man, and without an appointment—”

  “Then give me an appointment and I’ll come back.”

  The receptionist turned to her computer screen, touched a few keys. “We could schedule you in next month—”

  “Next month! He’s been putting me off for more than a ten-day now. You tell Juessik I want to see him right now. Tell him I’m going to sit down right here until I do. Tell him—”

  Suddenly the receptionist glanced down at her console, touched a key and said, “Yes, sir.” Sylissa decided to wait. The receptionist listened intently for a moment, nodded, then said, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” She looked up and smiled. “Colonel Juessik will see you now.”

  Once in Juessik’s office, Sylissa waited only for the door to close behind her before she demanded, “Where is my son? I did your dirty work for you. Now give me back my son. You promised.”

  Juessik stood from behind his desk and stepped around it casually. “Calm down, Lady d’Hart. May I offer you a drink?”

  “To hell with your drink. I want my son, and I want him now.”

  “Now you’ll have to be patient—”

  “I’ve been patient. We had a deal.”

  She let that hang, let the silence draw out and watched Juessik’s face as he considered his next words. He was uncharacteristically uncomfortable, and that made her heart sink.

  “He’s hurt,” she shouted. “You’ve done something to him, haven’t you? What? What is it?”

  Juessik spread his hands, and her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said. “One of my people was a bit over-zealous, overstepped his orders . . .”

  She waited for more, realized there wasn’t more. Her words barely escaped her lips. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Juessik nodded, pretending sorrow. “I assure you, the man has been punished most severely.”

  Sylissa didn’t remember attacking Juessik, didn’t remember crossing the few paces between them and going for his eyes. But she found herself on top of him on the floor, tearing at his face while he struck back at her frantically. She didn’t see the fist that caught her on the side of the head.

  Rear Admiral Lord Stephan Tarkoff looked carefully at Abraxa’s image. “We’re still four days out, Your Grace . . .”

  “And the Kinathin armada is only three days out, Stephan.” Abraxa was frightened, and doing a poor job of hiding it.

  “I don’t know what else we can do, Your Grace. I’m pushing the fleet at maximum drive now.”

  “Maximum drive for your slowest ships. You do have ships that can go faster.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. But that would string Seventh Fleet out over several parsecs. We’d be easy pickings for a united force like the Kinathin armada. Have Home Fleet hold them off for just one day, then we’ll be there in full strength.”

  “No.” Abraxa dismissed the idea without even considering it, and that made Tarkoff mad, though he wasn’t foolish enough to say anything. “Get your fastest ships here soonest so they can support Home Fleet.”

  There were rumors everywhere of the Cinesstar affair, and the mutinies in Third Fleet. Tarkoff hadn’t understood it until he’d received a coded transmission from Tzecharra only seven days ago. Third Fleet was disbanded, not by royal or Admiralty edict, but because there was no Third Fleet left. Her officers were all either dead or mutineers. And with good reason, after the way the Admiralty Council had betrayed them. Tarkoff wondered if he were about to be betrayed in a similar fashion.

  Over the next two days York spent many hours at that window, looking at the strangely beautiful landscape. At night the bright orb of Luna floating above the horizon lit up the landscape And during the days it was green and clean and healthy. He spent hours glued to the vid watching his own trial, which proceeded in fits and starts due to constant interruptions. Sometimes he’d call up a book from the library, sit down at the reader, though he often found he let his mind wander, and after reading for several hours he could remember nothing of what he’d read, not even the title of the book.

  Sometimes he became so wrapped up in his trial, he watched the latest development intently as if he didn’t already know the outcome. A secret little part of him hoped it would turn out differently, that somehow, somewhere, there was a great surprise waiting to happen, perhaps a last minute reprieve due to new evidence.
When they did finally convict him, it deeply disappointed him. The court decided to show him no mercy for all his crimes, and sentenced him to slow death in a low gravity gallows.

  He slept very little, slept between sessions of his court-martial, between hours standing at the window, between the nightmares. Sometimes he slept on the bed, sometimes seated at the reader, sometimes seated in a comfortable chair at the window. The nightmares never let him sleep for long, so he slept at random, whenever he could, and he always woke screaming, though he could never remember the dream itself.

  He felt empty, though he brightened a little after the chief justice pronounced sentence, for after that he felt oddly refreshed, and free of the responsibility for this whole mess. They would execute him, and there was nothing he could do about it. They probably wouldn’t even give him the traditional spacer’s burial at space, probably just cremate him. He thought about it a lot, and he just wanted to get it over with.

  CHAPTER 35: THE FRUITS OF BETRAYAL

  Sylissa followed the AI guard up the corridor, marveling at the deathly stillness of the immense ship. The silence was eerie, and she realized why these people thought of their ships as if they were alive, almost sentient beings in and of themselves.

  The guard stopped abruptly and Sylissa nearly ran into him. He turned into an open room, large for a ship, though small by planetary standards. She recognized the room, had visited it in the company of Martin Andow, what felt like an eternity ago. It seemed wrong that there was no marine standing guard just within the entrance, no group of marines off to one side cleaning some sort of weapon, no one doing whatever it was these marines were always doing. Like everything else about Cinesstar, the room felt dead.

  The guard marched up to a door, pulled his sidearm, pressed the small portable terminal he carried against the lock and stepped back warily as the door cycled open. Keeping one eye on the door he stepped aside and nodded with his head. “He’s in there. Go on in. I’ll lock it behind you, then you got one hour, and all the bribes in the universe won’t buy you a minute longer.”