A Choice of Treasons

by J. L. Doty

  There was a large transparent, plast window in one wall of the Controller’s office. York stepped up to it and looked out at an unobstructed view of the main Navy Yard on Prime. It was a large open bay, more than a kilometer across, and in the distance he could see the entrance open to space, a few stars twinkling in the beyond. There were a number of ships in dock ranging in size from small personal vessels like the d’Hart woman’s yacht, to Cinesstar herself, battered, damaged, looking more like a derelict than a man’o’war. The Yard operated under vacuum in one-tenth gravity, making it easier on service crews. There was one now crawling over the skin of Cinesstar. York counted seven or eight techs in vac suits, wondered what they were up to, probably had to insure she was worthy to make a run for it and play her role in the little charade the Council was orchestrating.

  Don’t give up on us . . . Palevi had said. Those words hurt. York tried to forget them and just stared at his ship, wondered if that pretty, young pod gunner was still alive.

  “Hello, Cap’em,” Yagell said, planting herself beside York at the window. She followed his gaze and looked at Cinesstar. “She’s kind of sorry lookin’, ain’t she, sir?”

  Don’t give up on us . . . Palevi had said. But what else could York do? The Admiralty Council had all moves covered, were one step ahead of him, knew what he was doing before he did. He couldn’t fight that kind of power. “. . . we’ll follow you to hell even if we don’t get back . . .”

  York chuckled. Pretty simple logic. Maybe that was the answer; keep it simple. “Ya know, Cap’em,” Yagell said. “Everyone’s still aboard her. It’s a shame we can’t do nothin’ for ‘em.”

  “Yeah,” York said. The words came out hard. “A real shame.” But as he said them, he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t win, but he’d lost so long ago winning was no longer important. Maybe he could screw things up for the bastards. And maybe he could give his people a clean end. He owed them that, at least, owed Maggie and Frank and Paris and Olin, and all the others.

  “Sergeant,” he said to Yagell, though he continued to look at Cinesstar.

  “Ya, Cap’em,” she said tiredly, “Whadoya want?”

  That was sloppy. Yagell was often unpleasant, but never sloppy. York realized she’d given up on him. He turned his head slowly toward her, let his eyes settle on her and stared her down hard. She looked at him for a moment defiantly but he didn’t flinch; he looked through her as he’d seen Palevi do with a recalcitrant recruit, until she lowered her eyes and mumbled, “Sorry, sir.”

  He looked back at Cinesstar. “Everyone’s still aboard her, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What kind of shape is she in?”

  “They repaired the damage amidships, sir. I think they fixed the transition drive, so we could make our escape attempt, and get burned.”

  “How many actives do we have here?”

  “Nine, sir.”

  York turned slowly about. There were ten of them all total; she hadn’t counted York as an active. “Guards on board the ship?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But no more’n twenty or thirty. They don’t need ‘em, not with everyone comp-locked in their cabins or bunk rooms.”

  “We’re going to need some vac suits,” he said, turning back toward the window and nodding at the service crew crawling over Cinesstar’s hull. “Standard maintenance issue, like the ones that crew are wearing. And I assume you’re armed.”

  She held out a small gun. He looked at it and shook his head. “You’ll need something heavier than that. Tell everyone here to upgrade their weapons . . . now.”

  Yagell turned to York slowly and squinted at him. Then, without taking her eyes off him, she cocked her chin to one side and bellowed, “Sarge. Sarge, you better come over here.”

  “What is it?” Palevi yelled back at her. “I got my hands full.”

  “This here’s more important, Sarge.”

  “I said I’m busy. What the fuck is so important?”

  She paused for several long heartbeats, then said, “I think the cap’em here wants to party, Sarge. Party big time.”

  The marines went suddenly silent. Still looking at Cinesstar, York heard Palevi march up behind him and demand angrily, “What’s that?”

  “I said the cap’em here—”

  York cut her off. “Sergeant Palevi, we’re going to need some vac suits, and heavier weaponry than you people are presently carrying. And of course, I’ll need a weapon.” York turned about and looked past Palevi at the Service Controller. “And we’re going to need his help.”

  Palevi stared angrily at him for a moment, then his lips curled slowly upward into a big, cheesy grin, the grin that York hated. “We goin’ to a party, cap’em?”

  York grinned back at him, with that same grin. “More like we’re gonna crash a party a bunch of admirals got planned, make sure they don’t enjoy it that much.”

  “Told ya, Sarge,” Yagell said. “It’s party time.”

  The Service Controller decided it was his duty to resist any cooperation with the maniacs who had suddenly taken him hostage. “You people’ll have to do whatever you’re going to do on your own. I’m not helping you.”

  One of the marines jerked on his collar, but the man wasn’t easily intimidated. It was then that the d’Hart woman returned. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

  “Change of plans,” York told her. “I’m taking my ship back.”

  “You’re insane. You can’t fight them. They’re prepared for any move you make . . .” As she looked in his eyes her voice trailed off, she put a hand to her mouth and stepped back from him.

  He turned to the Service Controller, stepped up close to the man, realized the man didn’t know who he was, couldn’t see past Kalee’s makeup, so he hooked a thumbnail under the edge of the synth-skin and slowly peeled away the patch. He needed Kalee’s help to remove the lens, but when he turned back to the Controller the man gulped and blanched. “Yer Butcher Ballin.”

  “Good,” York said. “You know who I am. That’ll save us a lot of time.

  “Sergeant,” he growled over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the Controller’s. “How long do you think it’ll take this man to die?”

  “How long you want it to take, Cap’em?”

  The Service Controller literally stuttered and stumbled in his desire to please York.

  CHAPTER 37: RETURN

  “What do you mean you’ve lost them?” Juessik shouted.

  The young AI lieutenant squirmed noticeably. “Someone put a security lock on the d’Hart woman’s yacht, and by the time we got that cleared up they’d all disappeared. I’ve ordered a sweep of all decks—”

  “What!” Juessik screamed, and she cringed. “Cancel that order, you idiot. Immediately. You start running sweeps and Ballin’ll know we’re watching him.”

  “Yes, sir.” While she contacted her subordinates and canceled her previous orders, he looked her over carefully, decided she might be a bit of fun, if handled properly. They’d find Ballin; Juessik was confident of that. But in the mean time it wouldn’t hurt to let this young woman think the present difficulty was her fault. Later, when he forgave her, and offered her some wise and fatherly advice, she’d be all the more grateful.

  She turned back to him and lowered her eyes. “It’s done, sir.”

  “Good,” he said, holding on to a hint of anger. “Find Ballin and his ilk, immediately. Then call me.” Juessik cut the circuit.

  Staring at the blank screen he pondered the situation for a moment. Ballin was loose somewhere on Prime, which could be a problem. But Juessik had a carefully prepared little trap with just the right bait. No matter where Ballin went he would eventually come after this bait and, unknowingly, walk right into Juessik’s hands.

  He placed a call to the Hospital Deck to check on the bait, was answered by a large and beefy AI sergeant dressed as a medical orderly. “Sir.”

  “How is Miss Votak, Sergeant?”

  “
She’s unchanged, sir. I checked on her myself not five minutes ago.”

  “Our people are all in place?”

  “Yes, sir. I checked on them too.”

  “Good. Stand ready. Your guests should be arriving some time in the next few hours.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Juessik cut the circuit.

  The docks were crammed with AI carefully checking identities, so they couldn’t just walk aboard Cinesstar. York and several of the marines stuffed themselves into some ill-fitting, standard issue maintenance vac suits—just battery packs, no armor and no weaponry. At least the tool harness hid the gun Yagell had given him.

  They raided a supply closet for the equipment they’d need, then left Yagell and two of her people with the Service Controller to insure his continued loyalty, and to keep an eye on the d’Hart woman. York and the rest crammed themselves into a service airlock. The lock cycled and they stumbled out into the vastness of Prime’s Navy Yard.

  In the low one-tenth gravity York had to control his reflexes carefully. Low grav was sometimes more difficult to work in than zero-G, and as they crossed the breadth of the Yard on foot, Cinesstar loomed in the distance. The shadow of her bulk grew with each carefully placed step.

  In twenty odd years York had never seen a ship-of-the-line from that angle before. He’d done repair work on the outer skin of ships in deep space, but it was odd to stand in her shadow, to look up at her battered and scared undercarriage. He could almost count the individual wounds in her skin, could almost recall each damage report as it had flashed across one of his screens.

  York keyed his com. “We need a maintenance sled down here.”

  Yagell answered him. “Ya know, Cap’em. I can see the Controller just wants to please.”

  “Cut the chatter,” York growled. They were using their own private encryption key so they couldn’t be monitored, but it was stupid to push their luck.

  One of the maintenance crew, working high above on Cinesstar’s outer hull, stepped onto a plast framework of rods and girders, did something with its controls and it floated off the ship’s hull, then descended slowly to the floor of the Yard.

  The sled driver grumbled and growled as he helped them load the equipment on the sled. The ride up was quick and without incident. York directed him to land the sled on Cinesstar’s hull close to a maintenance air lock that opened into engineering.

  York keyed his com. “Yagell, go.”

  The airlock cycled, and as the outer hatch popped open a new voice demanded, “What’s going on out there?”

  York tried to sound surly and overworked. “Who wants to know?”

  “Lieutenant Jessup, AI. I’m in charge of security on this ship.”

  Now time to act appropriately contrite. “Uh, sorry lieutenant. Didn’t know it was you. We just got our orders, supposed to repair some damaged circuits in engineering.”

  “You’re not on the maintenance schedule.”

  “I ain’t had any sleep in forty hours either. They suddenly got us working triple shifts.”

  “Well you’re not authorized to work on that section of the ship, so clear out, now.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. I got a work order says otherwise. If you want us gone you gotta speak to my Controller, get this work order rescinded. I’ll be in a mess of trouble if I just walk away from it. You know regulations.”

  “Damn,” Jessup swore, and switched out of the circuit.

  York switched to the marine channel. “Yagell, tell that Controller to call Lieutenant Jessup and make this good.”

  Jessup was waiting for them when they stepped through the inner hatch into engineering, and even before they’d begun pulling off their vac suits he snapped angrily, “Ok, you’re cleared. But don’t leave engineering without checking with me.” He turned and stormed out.

  They stripped off their vac suits, opened up an instrument panel so it’d look like they were working on something. And while the marines spread a lot of tools and equipment on the deck, York watched a marine carefully examining a hatch that gave access to the core of the ship.

  AI had clamped down on all access rights, with comp-locks on all cabin doors to imprison the crew in their quarters, and security alarms programmed on just about every hatch in the ship. The marine delicately opened a maintenance panel above the hatch, working as if he were defusing a bomb, then went to work on the wiring within. It took him several minutes, but then he stepped back and said, “She’s clear, sir.”

  York palmed the lock and the mechanism cycled. The hatch popped and he shoved his shoulder into it, followed it into the dim lighting of Cinesstar’s core as he forced it open. Behind him he heard Palevi growling, “Move it, Dakkart, you shit-for-brains, go, go, go.”

  York recalled using the shaft once before to get to the bridge, recalled thinking then that he could use it to sneak onto the bridge if needed. He took the rungs one at a time, moved carefully in the zero-G shaft, conscious the slightest noise could echo through the hull of the ship for a good distance.

  The hatch that opened onto the bridge was a different matter; the maintenance panel was on the other side. York looked at the stenciled letters above it, keyed his com, “Yagell, hatch A-oh-two.”

  “Give us a minute, Cap’em.”

  York waited . . . waited . . . waited . . .

  “Go,” Yagell snarled.

  York triggered the lock on the hatch and shouldered it open. The Service Controller had scheduled maintenance access through the hatch so they wouldn’t blow an alarm. But the newly scheduled maintenance would appear on a screen down in security, and if one of the AI troops happened to be looking at just that screen—

  York and Dakkart scrambled through the hatch, Dakkart muscled it shut, and locked it. York keyed his com, “Yagell, we’re clear.”

  He waited, listening for an alarm as the Service Controller rescinded the order, which cleared it from the screen in security.

  “Who’s there? What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  York couldn’t believe his ears: Sierka. The lights on the bridge were dim, and he and Dakkart had emerged behind Fire Control which hid them nicely from the rest of the bridge.

  “Who’s there? I said I’m busy.”

  From the direction of his voice he had to be seated at the Captain’s Console, which would have him facing away from them. York stood up a little and scanned the bridge quickly; apparently he and Dakkart and Sierka were alone. They stepped out from behind Fire Control, and as they approached Sierka he didn’t look up and remained hunched over one of the screens at the console.

  York pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Sierka’s head, Sierka stiffened and York said, “It’s me, Sierka. Don’t even twitch.”

  Sierka raised his hands up off the console and grinned. “I should have known you’d try something. I’m just surprised you got this far.”

  York looked over his shoulder at the screen. Sierka had been in the midst of a log-on procedure, though it looked rather abnormal. “You’re trying to get ring-zero access, aren’t you?”

  Sierka said nothing. York grabbed him by his tunic collar, hustled him away from the console, half dragged him across the width of the bridge, stood him up against Nav and left him there.

  Sierka snarled at him, “You’re a fool.”

  Dakkart asked, “Want me to kill ‘im, Cap’em?”

  York shook his head. “No. Just keep an eye on him. I’ve got work to do. But if he pulls anything, shoot him.”

  Dakkart grinned happily. “Happy to, sir.”

  York sat down at the Captain’s Console, blanked the screen, then pulled on a headset and lowered his voice to a whisper so Sierka couldn’t hear him. “Computer.”

  Acknowledge, it replied.

  “Log on. Access Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha.”

  The computer hesitated for what seemed an interminable second. Please confirm access Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha.

  “Access
Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha confirmed.”

  Again the computer hesitated. Access Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha confirmed. Access denied.

  Sierka threw back his head and laughed. Dakkart tensed, but York waved her down. “I told you you’re a fool, Ballin. Don’t you think we’re smart enough to have thought of that? Your little ring-zero access code has been changed. All access codes have been changed. You’re locked out, Ballin.”

  York turned back to the console. Without some sort of high-level access—at least command level—Sierka was right.

  “And we found your little virus too,” Sierka sneered. “We flushed the entire system, and reprogrammed it with a new OS master.”

  York looked at Sierka, and defeat must have shown visibly on his face, for Sierka laughed triumphantly. They were always one step ahead of him, almost as if he was programmed like one of their computers. But there was one other chance, though it depended on where they’d gotten the new OS master.

  He’d created another virus and infected the Sarasan operating system while Cappik was repairing Cinesstar. But now it depended on how badly damaged the Station had been, on whether they’d allowed it to make contact with any other component of Fleet before shutting it down for repairs, and on how far the virus had propagated through Fleet during the intervening time. Had a ship, any ship, taken something as simple as a contact packet from Sarasan and passed it on to other ships? Had York’s program made it half way across the empire?

  “Computer.”

  Acknowledge, it replied.

  “Log on. Access Ballinov Francesca Francesca Ballinov.”

  Leaning against the Nav console Sierka frowned while the computer hesitated. York waited, and nothing happened. He waited longer and still nothing.

  “Computer.”

  Acknowledge, it replied.

  “Confirm access.”

  Access denied.

  Sierka chuckled.

  York closed his eyes, tried to think. What had he forgotten? Maybe he hadn’t forgotten anything. Maybe he’d just failed completely. If he couldn’t get access he and Dakkart were stuck on the bridge, Palevi and his marines were stuck in the maintenance closet below, and AI could just sweep them up like a minor nuisance.