by J. L. Doty
York keyed his implants. “If you and Tzecharra are in agreement then do what you think is best. But brief Ard’dha’sit first so we don’t have a load of Kinathin warships thinking we’re pulling a double-cross.”
Across the room York saw Palevi perk up for a moment, then he eased his way through the crowd to Ard’dha’sit, politely pulled the Kinathin aside.
Sergai Leonavich caught York off guard and demanded, “Since we’re cutting the bullshit, let’s get all the issues on the table here. This is really your show, Captain. So what’s your game?”
York stared at Leonavich, and after a moment the admiral looked away as if shamed. If the man still felt guilt for the betrayal at Sarasan, York wasn’t above using that. “It’s not just me. There are a lot of us who are no longer willing to fight this war for you. I could die this instant and that won’t change what’s going to happen. Have you read this treaty?”
Leonavich nodded wearily.
“And is it so unacceptable?”
The admiral looked tired and beaten. “By and large, it’s okay, though there are some fine points I might argue.”
York decided to kick him while he was down. “Home Fleet is, as we speak, breaking up into factions, and they’re all fighting one another. The ships of Seventh Fleet, as they arrive in-system, are joining the fray. A number of ships have already been destroyed, along with the crews aboard them. If you don’t sign this treaty now we’ll have civil war. If you do, maybe you’ll still have an empire.”
That shook Leonavich, shook a lot of them, senators and admirals alike. Leonavich demanded, “And you’ll help us hold this empire together.”
There it was. Leonavich wanted York to commit to an empire he’d just as soon abandon. “I’ll do what I can. But I’ll not guarantee the status-quo.”
The silence in the room drew out as York and Leonavich held each other’s eyes across the table. If only one of the admirals broke, then the rest might follow, and York was counting on Leonavich, on the obvious guilt the man wore like a shroud.
Leonavich blinked first, closed his eyes fully and lowered his head, drew in a slow, deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “Yes, I’ll sign.”
The entire power structure in the room shifted in York’s favor. It was a palpable, manifest sensation, and York could see that others felt it also. Before Leonavich’s words, York had been the center of attention, but after, he had, in some indefinable way, become the center of power. It was tenuous, delicately balanced, and could be easily broken.
Abraxa shattered it. “And I’ll sign nothing.” Again the power structure shifted, but now to Abraxa. The fat, old admiral had known when to strike, and had done so decisively. “This document is nothing more than the foolish whim of a naive child who plays at empire. Empire is strength, not compromise and treaty.”
Abraxa understood power in a way that York never would, and York realized that now. Abraxa had watched and grasped the shifts in power that had occurred, had waited carefully like a predator stalking its next meal, then had pounced at just the right moment. He had regained the power of the moment, had also regained ascendancy over Schessa and Soladin’s scheming, all in one, single stroke. York had to admire him for that, but now Abraxa had made himself the key. Earlier, capitulation by one of the weaker admirals like Leonavich might have stampeded the rest, but now they would all follow Abraxa’s lead. If he did not sign, then no one would.
There was a hesitant moment of silence which Cassandra broke. “Just over one hundred days ago eighty million people died on Dumark. Is that the strength of empire you speak of?” She held up a copy of the treaty. “And this treaty, this attempt to end such mindless slaughter, is this the foolish whim of a naive child?”
Abraxa waved a hand, dismissing all those lives with a single gesture. “Eighty million is nothing. We rule an empire of more than a hundred billion. We cannot concern ourselves with a few million when the greater good of all is at stake.”
Ninda chimed in. “And the same is true in the Directorate. I agree with you wholeheartedly, Bargan.”
York was not the only one present who caught the slip, the use of the first name, a rather strange level of familiarity between two men who purportedly had never met. York watched Ard’dha’sit’s head swivel slowly on its base like a gun turret until it came to rest with his eyes pointed at Ninda, as if he could see into the heart of the man. Then his head turned toward Abraxa, and his eyes bore into the admiral in the same, eerie way.
Edvard asked, “And continuing the slaughter is in the greater good of all? Or is it merely in the greater good of those in power?”
Soladin joined the fray. “That’s an old saw, Your Majesty. We regret the loss of lives on Dumark, and other planets, but we cannot let that deter us from the proper course of action. We have too long . . .”
Captain, Jakobee here. We’re redeployed. About half of Home Fleet has now voluntarily placed themselves under your command, though they’ve made it clear they’re doing so only as long as you support the emperor.
Soladin was still speaking. “. . . and for these reasons I too cannot sign this document.” Soladin was in a push-pull contest with Abraxa.
“I’ll sign it.” Everyone looked down the length of the table to Karltine Degaas, surprised to see him stand forth so decisively. Next to him Shinton Diego opened his mouth hesitantly, seemed about to agree, but Abraxa cut him off.
“No you will not. I forbid it.” There it was, out in the open. True equality among the nine was a thing far in the past.
A dangerous stillness settled over the room. Abraxa looked at York and spoke more calmly. “Stalemate, Captain. We’ll not sign it, and there is nothing you can do to make us sign it.”
It was York’s move, and everyone there paused, waiting for him to make it. He reached for a copy of the treaty, found that his entire left hand had gone numb, that his fingers wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t pick the damn thing up. He quickly disguised the motion, pretended he was merely gesturing toward the document. He wanted to choose his words carefully, but his anger got the best of him. “Before we are through here, I will have the signatures of all nine members of the Admiralty Council on this document. What remains to be seen is whether or not you’ll still be members of the Admiralty Council.”
Abraxa grinned, almost a snarl. “There is no legal premise for removing any of us from the Council.”
York didn’t look at Harshaw as he asked, “Mister Harshaw?”
“New members of the Admiralty Council are appointed by the emperor,” Harshaw said, “and ratified by the Council. All appointments are for life, unless a member chooses to voluntarily abdicate.”
“There,” Abraxa said triumphantly. “You see, Captain. Abdication is the only means by which we can be removed, and of course none of us will abdicate.”
York wanted to take back his words, replay the scene and return to the point where he had some options. But it was too late for that. “Mister Harshaw mentioned another means of removal. Appointment to the Council is for life. What’s your life expectancy right now, Admiral?”
“Are you threatening me?”
York stood, leaned across the table and looked into Abraxa’s eyes. “All my friends are dead, Admiral. Everyone I cherished and loved. You killed them. You betrayed them . . .” Suddenly the deck beneath him seemed to shift and he was forced to sit back down. A wave of nausea washed over him as he growled, “I will have this document signed.”
Abraxa threw back his head and laughed. “You’re bluffing.”
There it was. Abraxa, confident he could steer the Council in the direction he chose, confident York was powerless to force the matter. There was no question in Abraxa’s mind that he had won, that York could not carry out his threat. York stared at the surface of the table in front of him, was unsure of how far he would go. His heart thundered in his chest as he looked up at the faces around him, saw nothing but doubt. The power had shifted to Abraxa completely now. The senate, the Counc
il, the church, would all follow Abraxa, out of fear if for no other reason. They too believed York was powerless, that he could not summarily displace the man, even a man so lacking of innocence, so guilty of crime, sitting there confidently with the blood of so many innocent people on his hands.
Paris Jondee came to mind, the handsome, rakish womanizer. And Olin Rame, cold and impersonal on the surface, but he’d proven a loyal friend in the end. And Frank, steady, reliable Frank. And of course Maggie, Maggie who’d had her chance at happiness with Frank. All dead, all gone. But when York finally made up his mind it wasn’t eighty million lost lives, nor the lives of his crew, nor even the lives of Paris and Olin and Frank and Maggie. It was the lost happiness, the lost chance for joy, for hope. It was those things that brought York to his decision.
His eyes suddenly came to focus. He looked up, spotted Palevi across the deck standing at ease with his back to a bulkhead. “Sergeant,” he barked, trying to imitate Palevi’s drill-sergeant bellow.
Palevi snapped to attention, then with parade-ground style marched across the deck, stopped and came to attention behind Abraxa. He stood there rigidly, almost quivering like a rod of steel struck by a hammer. “Sir,” he bellowed.
York looked at Abraxa, who grinned confidently. He scanned the faces in the room, saw that they too believed he was bluffing. He looked again at Abraxa, but he spoke to Palevi. “Sergeant . . . vent him. Now. That’s an order.”
Palevi’s answer was earsplitting. “Sir. Yes, sir.” He reached down with a meaty paw, grabbed the back of Abraxa’s collar.
Abraxa was still grinning as Palevi lifted him out of his chair, stood him on his feet. He growled at York, “You wouldn’t dare.” Then Palevi yanked him toward the personnel lock at the back of One Bay. Given no choice Abraxa stumbled awkwardly in Palevi’s wake. He shouted, “Stop this charade. You’re fooling no one, Ballin.”
Everyone in the room stood immobile, frozen, watching Palevi drag Abraxa toward the lock, glancing at York uncertainly. But their uncertainty only mirrored York’s own, because he didn’t know if he could go through with this.
Half way to the lock Abraxa’s tone changed. “You can’t do this,” he screamed. “I’m the most powerful man in the empire. Stop this. Stop.” He finally started to resist, swung a fist at Palevi. The marine didn’t even flinch as the blow glanced off his shoulder. Abraxa tried to dig his heels in, but Palevi gave him a hard yank, pulled him off his feet and dragged him on his butt across the deck.
At the air lock Palevi slapped the latch on the hatch and it cycled open. “Please,” Abraxa screamed as Palevi tossed him into the lock.
Palevi put his shoulder to the hatch, was about to close it when Ard’dha’sit shouted “Stop,” with such deafening force it froze everyone in their tracks.
Ard’dha’sit stood next to Ninda, and he looked down at the Director carefully. “I think the admiral should not take this journey without his dear friend to accompany him.” And then, mimicking Palevi’s movements, he reached down, grabbed a handful of Ninda’s collar, lifted him out of his seat and dragged him toward the airlock.
Ninda broke immediately. “No. No. You can’t do this. This is insane . . .” He fought and kicked, but against the strength of a Kinathin his struggles meant nothing and his feet hardly touched the deck.
Abraxa had recovered inside the open air lock. He was standing, about to step out of the air lock when Ard’dha’sit threw Ninda into his arms. Both of them tumbled into a heap. Ard’dha’sit joined Palevi as they both put their shoulders to the hatch, closed it and cycled it shut.
Palevi touched the intercom next to the lock’s control mechanism. “Computer,” he growled. “Emergency override on all safety constraints for lock . . .” he looked at the label next to the lock mechanism, “. . . 15289. Override, override, override, and stand by for emergency blow-down.”
Override confirmed, the computer said. Standing by for emergency blow-down. A light above the lock flashed from red to green. Palevi looked at York, his hand poised above the switch. Ard’dha’sit shook his head, edged him gently aside, put his own hand over the switch and paused. He looked to York for the final command.
Every eye in the room turned to York. No one spoke or moved in the stillness that descended, and the only sound present was a faint metallic ping as Abraxa and Ninda beat their fists desperately against the inside of the lock.
Again York scanned the faces about him. He looked at the senators, the churchmen, the nobility, even his crew, and on all their faces he saw uncertainty. Only in Cassandra’s face did he see something else: horror. Apparently she believed he was capable of doing it, while the others were uncertain, as he was uncertain. He looked in Schessa’s eyes, and Soladin’s. Those two were on the fence, waiting to see which way the power would shift. He realized then that Abraxa was finished as a power within the empire, that York could let him live and Abraxa would no longer be a threat. But if he did, then Schessa and Soladin would be the threat. Abraxa would sign, but they would not, and all would be lost. In the end it was they who condemned York to murder.
York’s vision compressed as he looked at Ard’dha’sit. York nodded.
Ard’dha’sit slammed his fist down on the switch, the metallic ping of the two men’s struggles disappeared, was replaced by the muffled explosion and whoosh of the emergency blow-down cycle, a sound that clung to the hull of the ship, a sound that refused to die as if it had a life of its own, but instead diminished with an agonizing lethargy until finally absolute silence fell upon them all with oppressive clarity.
York sat transfixed, and like everyone about him he was paralyzed and unable to move—they with fear, he with doubt. Abraxa had driven him to become the one thing he dreaded most, a cold-blooded murderer, the worst kind of traitor. But now they would sign—that, at least, he could be certain of. And he could also be certain that he had lost. A treaty signed under such duress was no treaty at all.
It was the emperor who broke the silence. He whispered, “We need to replace him.”
Moved by sudden paranoia, York keyed his implants. “Jakobee, Ballin here. I just vented two bodies out the aft personnel lock in One Bay. Track them, make sure nothing gets close to them. If anything does, put a warhead into it.”
Aye, aye, sir.
York scanned the faces about him again. Once more the power structure had shifted to him, but this time irrevocably. He said, “Let the record show that Fleet Admiral Bargan Abraxa died honorably in the service of his emperor and the empire. That he and Director Ninda died struggling to make this treaty a reality.”
In the ensuing silence York scanned the faces at the table and looked into the eyes of each of the four remaining Directors, the eight remaining Admirals. “Now get this damn treaty signed. Anyone doesn’t want to sign joins Ninda and Abraxa.”
He turned and started walking to the lift. His left arm had gone completely numb to the shoulder. The right side of his trousers was plastered to the skin of his leg with blood from hip to ankle, and he made an odd sloshing sound as he walked. His legs were getting rubbery as he reached the lift and hit the call button. Someone was using it and he had to wait, wasn’t sure he could remain on his feet much longer. He leaned against the lift doors as a painless lethargy settled over him.
“Doctor Yan.”
Alsa looked up from the patient on the surgical table at the med tech who had just burst into her surgery.
“Captain Ballin’s implant sensors just went nuts. Massive internal bleeding. Full cardiac arrest is imminent.”
Alsa looked at her assistant, nodded at the patient. “Can you finish this?”
She knew he could, didn’t wait for an answer and tore off her surgical gown as she sprinted out of the surgery barking orders. “Full CGIC unit, Hangar Deck, stat. And get a tank ready.”
She grabbed her portable kit on the run, skidded to a halt in front of the lift, hit the call button. “Computer.”
The lift cycled open and she stepped in. “H
angar Deck. Medical priority. Stat.”
It took only an instant for the gravity compensated lift to travel the distance, then the lift cycled open and York fell into her arms. He gasped, “Don’t let them see me.”
She laid him on the deck of the lift as it cycled shut. “Sickbay. Med emergency priority,” she shouted as she started tearing open his tunic.
She slapped a small monitor on his chest, which told her he was in full arrest. She reached into her kit, pulled out an injector, slammed a load of oxyline into the grip, pressed the muzzle against his carotid artery, pulled the trigger three times. She yanked out the oxyline clip, tossed it aside, jammed in a clip loaded with a mix of stimulants, dialed the gun for direct inter-cardiac insertion, pressed the muzzle against his chest and pulled the trigger once.
She watched the monitor on his chest carefully. His heart beat once, then again, then a third time, and that was it. No more.
The lift cycled open to a crowd of med techs with a portable cart. “Forget that,” she growled. “We aren’t getting anything more out of his heart, but I got enough oxyline into his brain to buy us about ten minutes. Get him on a table now, and get a tank ready.”
York felt good. In fact he felt wonderful. He was curious why Alsa and her people were working so frantically on that fellow on the table. But then that no longer mattered to him. He felt good, and he felt free, and nothing like that really mattered any more.
He turned to leave, surprised to find that he was floating, rather than walking. But that didn’t matter either. He was free to go.
Maggie was waiting for him, though he didn’t see her as much as he just sensed that she was there. And she didn’t want him to go. He kept getting the message that it wasn’t his time, but he didn’t care. He wanted to go so badly, wanted the freedom, the lack of pain. But he sensed Maggie didn’t think he should go yet. But he wanted to, so very badly he wanted to.
EPILOGUE: OPTIONS
