A Choice of Treasons (33 page)

It was half lie, but it calmed Ninda. “The captain of that
imper
is not stupid, though he fooled some of our people into thinking he was. We had five ships following him . . .” Privately Add’kas’adanna suspected there was a sixth, but she kept that piece of information to herself. “. . . and he made an injudicious course change.”

“Are you telling us we lost him?” Kaffair asked, and for an instant Add’kas’adanna thought she detected hope in his voice, as if he wanted the
imper
to escape.

Add’kas’adanna pulled out all her training, created and released the sub-mind and prepared herself to observe whatever reaction she could elicit from him. “No,” she said bluntly, and there it was: Kaffair had wanted the
imper
to escape. And Ninda, of course, wanted him dead, not captured.

She continued, “One of our ships got a targeting solution, took a shot. But the
imper
had his shields up, was ready for us, was apparently taking a calculated risk. He pretended to be hurt by the shot, down-transited, waited for the ships following him and burned the first two—no survivors.” She looked at the faces of her fellow directors. They didn’t care about survivors. They didn’t care about her crews.

“The
imper
up-transited in a different direction before the last three ships could get there and engage him. They were, however, able to get a reading on his transition wake so we have a good idea of the direction he’s headed. They followed of course, though they’re too far behind to effectively track him, and will undoubtedly lose him in a day or two.”

Ninda shook his head unhappily. “So we
have
lost him.”

Add’kas’adanna didn’t mention the sixth ship she suspected was out there. She’d pored over the reports for hours, and obviously something was missing. Only when she assumed the existence of a sixth ship, probably a small hunter-killer, acting independently and maintaining transmission silence, only then did it add up. “Yes,” she said. “It appears we have.”

Ninda was angry with everyone, but he chose to take it out on her. “I think it best, Director Add’kas’adanna, if you go out there personally to lead the search.”

Add’kas’adanna nodded, didn’t tell him she wanted to do exactly that. “As you wish, Director Ninda.” She bowed at the waist and left the chamber.

CHAPTER 15: CHOICES

As York left the mess hall a short, overweight civilian man accosted him in the corridor. “Lieutenant Ballin. I’m Frederick Cienyey.”

York nodded politely. “Your Excellency.”

Cienyey gave York a smarmy smile. “I’ve wanted to meet you, to thank you for rescuing us from Trinivan, and again from Dumark.”

“I was just doing my duty, Your Excellency.”

“You’re being modest, Lieutenant. In any case, you have my thanks, and . . .” Cienyey leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “. . . there are some people in my cabin who’d like to thank you as well. Would you have a few moments?”

York didn’t want to have anything to do with whatever plot Cienyey had cooked up, was about to lie, tell the man he had to report for duty, but the ambassador blurted out, “I checked the duty roster, just to be sure you’d have time.”

York tried a different way out. “I’d love to, but except for meals, I’m not allowed above Hangar Deck, by order of the captain.”

“Well then we’re in luck,” Cienyey said happily. “My cabin is on this deck.” Cienyey took York by the arm and guided him down the corridor, prattling on about the opportunity to meet important people. Cienyey was certain that if York played his cards right, there was considerable advantage to be gained.

At the hatch to his cabin Cienyey knocked first, then touched the latch and the hatch clicked open. The interior was poorly lit, and the heavy smell of tobac rolled out into the corridor. Cienyey stepped aside and motioned for York to precede him. York did so warily.

Cienyey followed close behind him, closed the hatch, shutting out the light of the corridor. A woman’s voice spoke out of the darkness, “Bring the lights up a bit, Frederick, so poor Lieutenant Ballin can see.”

Cienyey touched the lighting control. They were in a small, cramped cabin with two other men and a woman. The men were both seated in chairs folded out of the bulkhead, while the woman occupied a small straight-backed chair, probably appropriated from ship’s stores. One of the men put a small tube to his lips, sucked on it and exhaled a plume of smoke. The woman smiled at York pleasantly, though he had the impression the smile was just a courtesy. She looked at one of the men, the one not smoking. “Jandeer, get the lieutenant a chair.”

Of the two men seated against the wall, the one smoking was small and wiry, while the other was large and powerfully built. The large one stood, offered York his seat, and everything about him said
bodyguard
.

“Thank you,” York said, “but I’ll stand.”

The woman wore single-piece shipboard fatigues. Like everyone from the embassy she’d probably been happy to escape with her life, and was dependent upon what she could draw from ship’s stores. But it didn’t matter what they wore; the aristocrats looked aristocratic, and the rich looked rich. But the woman in front of York, and the small wiry man seated next to her, radiated an aura of power.

The woman said, “I’m Sarra Fithwallen, and this,” she indicated the small wiry man, “is Brentin Omasin.” She looked at Cienyey. “You of course know Lord Cienyey, and next to him is my associate Jandeer Faiel.” The large man nodded. York had heard of both Fithwallen and Omasin, though he couldn’t recall where.

Cienyey blurted out, “Miss Fithwallen is the owner of Kordak Trading Industries, and Mister Omasin is the chief executive of the Darrien Concern.”

There was a short, embarrassing silence. Obviously, Fithwallen and Omasin considered Cienyey excess baggage now that he’d run their errand. Omasin broke the silence. “We all owe you our lives. Once on Trinivan, and then again on Dumark.”

York had heard of both outfits. They were big trading and merchant organizations, and he wondered why two such important people had been on a remote planet like Trinivan, one so close to potential Syndonese attack. “There were any number of people responsible for your rescue,” he said.

The woman smiled. “Now my next comment should be something like, ‘Oh lieutenant, you’re being modest.’”

York decided he liked her. “You know the script well.”

She shrugged. “So I won’t pretend to believe that you single-handedly rescued us. But when the man in command of this ship made an ill conceived course correction four days ago, you were singularly responsible for keeping us alive. Is that not correct, Lieutenant?”

York shook his head. “We made a mistake. I happened to be the first one to spot it.”

Omasin made a point of exhaling a large plume of smoke. “
We
didn’t make a mistake, Lieutenant. Commander Sierka made a mistake. And when you realized what was happening, you understood the danger and tried to correct it. In fact, were it not for you, we wouldn’t have had our shields powered when the first warhead struck, and we might not be here right now.”

York looked at Omasin carefully. “You’ve done your homework.”

Omasin nodded as if he’d gotten the answer he wanted. “You’re experienced. You’re a
lifer
, with more than—”

York interrupted him. “Yes! I’m good luck.”

In the ensuing silence that followed he regretted the outburst. Omasin leaned back and sucked contentedly on his tobac. The bodyguard Faiel continued to lean patiently against the bulkhead, while Cienyey looked on expectantly. Fithwallen’s eyes narrowed and she appeared to measure York before she said, “I try to concern myself with patterns of behavior, not single incidents. You, for instance, appear to be a bit unstable, on the surface. But you have a pattern of doing the right thing, especially under pressure. On the other hand, Commander Sierka is . . . perhaps a bit inexperienced in these matters. He has established a pattern, Lieutenant, and, though different, it’s every bit as consistent as yours. Did you know that he’s begun arming his officers?”

York couldn’t help but frown. “I was aware some crewmembers were carrying non-issue weapons.”

“And Sierka is issuing sidearms to his officers. They’re carrying weapons at all times of the day and night. He’s losing control.”

York thought,
He never had control. Officers carrying sidearms! The situation was approaching critical mass.

Omasin leaned forward. “Tell me, Lieutenant. What would you recommend we do?”

That was it! The conversation had turned in a direction that could get them all arrested and vented. “Do?” he asked, playing dumb. “Do about what?”

“This situation we’re in,” Omasin persisted. “The way we’re headed right now, we’re all likely to be killed.”

York decided to leave before they crossed the line. He stood. “The best thing you can do, Mister Omasin, is to have faith in the officers and crew of this ship. They’re trained and experienced and competent.” York wasn’t a good liar, but at that moment he was amazed at how easily he could spew such drivel. “I have to be going now,” he said and turned toward the door, but he found it blocked by Faiel, who leaned casually in his way. York considered the big man for a moment. There was no threat in his posture, but too, he made no move to get out of the way. He was probably a professional, and York was no match for the man.

“Lieutenant Ballin,” Fithwallen said.

York turned to face her.

She smiled pleasantly. “Mister Omasin and I are both powerful and influential people. If you were to have any suggestions on how our present situation might be handled better, we could support you in a compelling way, and of course we would be most grateful. In fact, when this is over I could use a good military liaison on my executive staff. The salary would be quite handsome, with considerable benefits and perquisites. And if there were any ensuing difficulties as a result of actions you might take now on our behalf, Mister Omasin and I could help the powers-that-be see the need for such measures, and extricate you from any entanglements in a most legal fashion.”

In other words
, York thought,
take over the ship, get us the hell out of this, and we’ll make sure they don’t execute you for mutiny.

York said, “I really must be going now.”

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

When York turned back to the door Faiel was no longer blocking it. Cienyey escorted him back to the lift, again prattling on about the importance of doing favors for important people, especially wealthy ones. When York got back to his cabin he pulled a chair out of the wall and sat down, and started shaking.

Mutiny! He sat there for several minutes before he could hold his hands steady.

“Ballin,” Sierka screamed, and York slammed awake. “Answer me. Now!” Sierka had used captain’s access to override York’s terminal, and was screaming a stream of profanity at him.

“Lights,” York growled as he dropped out of his grav bunk.

He staggered groggily to his terminal, hit the receive switch and Sierka appeared on a screen, his face bright red, veins bulging on his forehead. Sierka saw York and hesitated, then, with spittle flying from his mouth, screamed. “Where have you been, you idiot?”

York opened his mouth to say he’d been asleep, but Sierka cut him off. “I’ll have you up on charges for dereliction of duty. When I call, you answer. You’re under arrest . . . No, forget that. The civilians on G-deck are rioting. Get your marines down there and stop it.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll—”

“You’re a drunken incompetent. You’ll never amount to anything . . .”

York tuned Sierka out. The fool wanted York to quell a riot on G-deck, but he needed to shout epithets and curses at him for ten minutes first. And he finished with, “You get those moronic marines of your down there, and kill anyone that resists. That’s an order.”

York scrambled the marines, told Palevi, “I need fifty marines in full armor. Nerve prods and riot gear, that kind of stuff. And tell them no lethal force unless absolutely necessary.”

Palevi gave him a sour smile. “This ain’t gonna be no fun.”

While there would undoubtedly be some contraband weapons among the civilians housed on G-deck, there wouldn’t be anything heavy enough to penetrate power reinforced plast. So the best way to handle a riot was to send in invulnerable troops with orders to disable, but—and here York decided Sierka could go fuck himself—not kill anyone.

Just outside the main lift on G-deck a squad of AI had established a small perimeter, but were too badly outnumbered to take the rest of the deck. A young female AI second lieutenant marched up to York and said, “Glad you brought me reinforcements. Tell your people they’re taking orders from me.”

York hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “No. Get out.”