A Choice of Treasons (26 page)

Cappik stepped between them, shouted above the noise, “Anyone here with time in a contamination suit?”

York nodded. “Me. Several hundred hours.”

“Then get one and make yourself useful.”

With York and his marines added to his crew, Cappik had thirty-one people and sixteen contamination suits. But there were only seven of them with enough experience to work in the hottest areas. Cappik put the less experienced to work cleaning up where they could, working in shifts and spelling one another when possible, while York and those with more experience spent the next twenty-seven hours sealed in their suits, working under varying degrees of exposure.

The worst of the contamination was around the damaged feed channel at the starboard chamber. Cappik had blown the evacuation seals around that chamber, so there was no air to conduct heat, but it had still melted through the deck, and it constantly threatened to do more. York paid particular attention to the constantly redlined readouts in his headgear. The flexible fabric of the suit also began to glow under the radiation bombarding it, and as the shielding imbedded in it demanded more power from his reactor pack, it began to hum with an unsettling whine. Twice his suit overheated, and he had to withdraw to let it cool down while others worked on.

After the first ten or twelve hours Kalee kept them all jacked up on
phets
, though the drugs didn’t do much for their tempers. More than once Cappik requested help from the bridge, but was told in no uncertain terms they also had their hands full up there. When they finally got the feed channel sealed and under control, York had spent the last four hours wedged into an access shaft trying to hold onto a cutting torch without taking off someone’s arm. And when Cappik gave the all clear none of them had any energy left to do more than strip off the contamination suits and sit down in the first available spot.

York found a spot out of the way against a bulkhead in a maintenance closet next to a small robot, tried to relax and knew from experience the
phets
wouldn’t let him sleep. A young woman stepped into the hatchway of the maintenance closet. She was one of Cappik’s people, obviously as exhausted as York, and likewise showing the angry symptoms of the
phets
. She pointed a finger at York. “You got us into this, god damn it! If it hadn’t been for you we’d all be safe on Dumark Station right now.”

A few more of Cappik’s people gathered behind her, some showing anger, others more cautious with the marines still about.

York closed his eyes, recalled the seconds immediately following their liftoff from Dumark. Mentally he’d been in combat mode, carefully filtering out anything that didn’t pose a threat to his immediate responsibilities, though on a secondary level he’d been conscious of other events, like the warhead strikes on Dumark Station.

York opened his eyes. “You’d be dead.”

Kalee stepped up beside her, pressed an injector against her arm. She flinched slightly as he pulled the trigger. She demanded, “What do you mean by that?”

Kalee stepped past her, leaned down and fired a dose into York’s arm. York spoke calmly. “Dumark Station’s gone, or if there’s anything left it’s just slag and vapor. She took several direct hits as we were lifting off—big warheads, in the one hundred megatonne range.”

Kalee stepped out of the maintenance closet, started circulating among the small crowd behind the young woman, firing
phet
antidote into everyone he could find. York’s revelation had taken the fire out of the young woman’s anger, and stunned, she turned away as he closed his eyes.

The
phet
antidote was just beginning to take effect when Cappik leaned through the hatchway. “I got a man named
Lord Sierka
on a screen. Says he’s the captain. He’s madder’n hell. Wants to talk to you.”

York picked himself up, staggered to the screen. As the
phets
wore off he felt a fog settling over his mind.

Sierka smiled as he demanded, “Where have you been?”

York shook his head groggily. “I was helping them clean up down here.”

Sierka’s eyes narrowed and the smile broadened into a grin. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Ballin. You’re under arrest. The charge is mutiny. Take yourself to the brig and confine yourself there until further notice.”

York was too tired to say anything other than, “Very good, sir.”

A few minutes later, in a deserted security section on an all but empty ship, he picked out a cell, folded a chair down out of the wall, sat down for just a moment to pull off his boots. He fell asleep sitting there.

“What happened?” Edvard demanded angrily, leaning heavily on Rochefort’s desk. “What in God’s name happened?”

Rochefort shook his head, shuffled through half a dozen reports in front of him. “I don’t know. Information is too sketchy. Apparently Dumark’s been hit, a major strike.”

“What about her?”

Rochefort continued to shake his head, waved one of the reports at Edvard. “Nothing. All this data’s been thrown together hastily. Just summaries, and no one would think to mention a servant.” Rochefort stopped shaking his head, frowned intently. “It doesn’t make sense—a major strike on Dumark—not unless the Directorate knows everything.”

Edvard shivered, turned away from Rochefort’s desk and dropped tiredly into a seat. “What do we do now?”

Rochefort shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do until we know more. I’ve got a man on Dumark. If he’s still alive he’ll get through to us shortly and we’ll at least know what actually happened. In any case, Abraxa will send an AI team in without delay. I’ve also got a man in AI. I’ll make sure he’s part of that team. But beyond that, all we can do is wait.”

Canon Lynna bowed deeply as he entered Bortha’s office. “Your Holiness, I have news from Dumark.”

“Is it good?” Bortha asked.

Lynna shrugged. “That remains to be seen, Your Holiness.”

Bortha stood, smiled and crossed the room to a small bar. “Join me in a glass of sherra, and we’ll discuss it.”

Lynna nodded humbly. The old pontiff was in a good mood today. “You honor me, Your Holiness.”

Lynna waited patiently while Bortha poured a reddish brown liquid into two small, long stemmed, crystalline glasses. He made a show of carefully eyeing the amounts, as if he were performing the ceremonial offerings of a high-church service. Then he turned and handed one to Lynna. They each took a small sip—the taste was quite pleasant, though Lynna was not accustomed to such expensive treats.

“Now,” Bortha said as he returned to his desk and sat down. “You were saying?”

Lynna placed the glass of sherra on the edge of Bortha’s desk, consulted his notes carefully. “I received a message from Proverb Serrin, prelate of the diocese of Dumark. He was able to confirm that the Directorate attacked Dumark with a massive strike force. The embassy, however, was evacuated by an unknown imperial ship. There ensued a heated battle between the ships defending Dumark and the Directorate strike force. Beyond that we know nothing.”

Bortha frowned. “What of this unknown ship?”

Lynna stopped consulting his notes, retrieved his glass of sherra from the edge of Bortha’s desk. “To the best of our knowledge the only imperial warships on or around Dumark Station were the
Invaradin
, the
Nostran
, and the
Irriahm
. And it has been confirmed none of them were this mysterious ship.”

Bortha’s frown deepened. “Then we know nothing?”

Lynna shrugged. “I suspect Abraxa knows more than we, or will shortly, but for the time being that information hasn’t yet been intercepted by my sources. We must be patient, Your Holiness, though I think we’ll not have long to wait.”

Bortha smiled and stood. “Excellent, Lynna. I knew I could count on you. And tell that proverb on Dumark to continue to investigate, learn everything he can, and keep us informed.”

Lynna took a breath and sighed deeply. “I fear that will not be possible, Your Holiness. Apparently Proverb Serrin suffered severe radiation poisoning, and will shortly be under the protection of the Divine Maker himself.”

Bargan Abraxa listened carefully to the pretty, young AI captain standing in front of his desk. “. . . 
Invaradin
and
Nostran
were badly damaged, and
Irriahm
was lost with all hands. We’ve made direct contact with
Nostran’s
commanding officer, and from him we learned Cassandra and Lady d’Hart were evacuated on H.M.S.
Cinesstar
along with most of the embassy staff.
Cinesstar
was almost completely gutted in combat some months ago, then towed into orbit around Dumark, were she’d undergone complete refitting. She had no crew, but apparently one of
Invaradin’s
junior officers took command of her with a skeleton crew of some kind, and actually landed her on Dumark’s surface to evacuate the embassy.”

Abraxa allowed an eyebrow to rise slightly. “A bold move, and a dangerous one.”

“Yes, Your Grace. In any case, while
Invaradin
,
Nostran
, and
Irriahm
fought a rear guard action,
Cinesstar
retreated in the only direction possible. When she made transition she was headed straight into Directorate territory, and there’s been no contact with her since.”

Abraxa leaned back in his chair, considered the situation carefully. “Do we know the name of this junior officer who took command of
Cinesstar
?”

The young AI captain consulted her notes for a moment. “
Nostran’s
captain wasn’t sure about his last name: Barrin, Bayan, Ballyen—something like that. But he’d met him a few times and knew his first name was York. We’re reviewing . . .”

The young woman’s voice trailed off at the reaction her words produced in Abraxa. He’d gone almost completely white, but he caught himself quickly and recovered. “Thank you, Captain,” he said abruptly. “That’ll be all.”

She hesitated at the abrupt change in his interest, then snapped to attention, bowed deeply, and backed out of the office.

Abraxa turned immediately to his computer, brought up
Invaradin’s
roster, and there it was. It had been so long since he’d had to take any action on that matter he’d forgotten. He should have remembered the instant he’d heard the name
Invaradin
. How could he have been so stupid? The
whore’s brat
was on that ship, with the empress, the queen mother, and God knew whom else. If anyone put the pieces together this could have catastrophic ramifications. He’d been reluctant to throw away such a convenient and possibly powerful pawn, but the time had come to end that meaningless little ploy.

Abraxa prepared a message that began with “My dearest son.” To anyone who might intercept it, it would appear to be a letter from a loving mother to her only son serving aboard some ship somewhere. She told him about the farm, and the condition of the crops and the animals. His father’s arthritis was acting up, but the doctors were recommending a minor operation that should eliminate his difficulties. Abraxa rambled on for more than a page, then carefully inserted the code phrase:
Winter was harsh this year, and the wildflowers are dying early.

Abraxa rambled on for another page before finishing the letter, then he posted it through a phony box to the general distribution network for naval correspondence. The next time
Cinesstar
made transition near any kind of imperial facility and exchanged contact packets, that one little loose end would be appropriately terminated.

York opened his eyes groggily, saw a hand reaching for his throat and struck out desperately, swatting the hand away.

He sat up, lifting most of his torso out of the field of the gravity bunk, almost fell out of it as the deck gravity pulled at him.

“Lieutenant!” the d’Hart woman said. “Be careful.” She took him by the shoulders and helped him out of the bunk. He didn’t tell her he could have done better without her help, but then, for her, getting in and out of a gravity bunk was probably a difficult feat.

He pulled a chair down out of the wall, didn’t really care that she remained standing as he sat down, took a moment to orient himself. She reached out again toward his eye, and this time he saw the small handkerchief in her hand. “He shouldn’t have hit you,” she said. “It was all very unprofessional.”

York closed his eyes while she dabbed at the dried trickle of blood on his cheek. He opened his eyes, looked at his watch, thought for a moment he’d only slept for an hour, then remembered waking seated in a chair and crawling half-conscious into the grav bunk. Apparently he’d slept through a full twenty hour day, and more. “You were there?” he asked. “On the bridge? I don’t recall seeing you.”