A Choice of Treasons (46 page)

“Mister Stara, get me Sergeant Palevi, Commander Straegga, and her first officer . . . what’s his name?”

“Lieutenant Jakobee, sir.”

“Thank you, Mister Stara. Miss Gant, I want a complete navigational report soonest, with a proposed transition plan for Aagerbanne.”

Frank was quick. “Sir, I’ve got Palevi, Straegga, and Jakobee.”

York switched on his com. “Commander Straegga and Lieutenant Jakobee, our damage log is incomplete. Sergeant Palevi is making a sweep of the ship. I’d like both of you to accompany him and prepare detailed damage control reports on anything you find. Sergeant, have your people keep their eyes open and report anything they find to the commander and the lieutenant. Any questions?”

“None, sir,” Palevi barked. Straegga and Jakobee probably had a dozen questions but they were smart enough to save them for later.

It took Palevi more than six hours to complete the sweep of the ship. But long before then York took the ship off alert, pulled everyone but Frank off the bridge into the captain’s office, which served as a decent, but cramped, conference room. Palevi was feeding names and the pertinent data concerning them into the computer. At the same time York and his officers were assigning each person appropriate quarters and a duty station. When they were finished they had a basic command structure and better than eighty percent of what constituted a full crew.

York, Maggie, Rame, Gant, Jondee, Straegga, Jakobee and Palevi were enough to nearly fill the captain’s office. But now he needed a much larger place. He put a call in to Frank on the bridge. “Mister Stara. Contact all station commanders and tell them to report to the officer’s mess immediately. Miss Votak will contact you from there and pipe the meeting up to your console so you can be part of it.”

Through years of conditioning York hesitated, waiting for the ranking officer to move first, but they were all waiting for him. He stood slowly and marched to the door. Gant got there before him, opened it for him, held it, waiting for him to pass, and they all filed into the corridor behind him.

The maître d’ at the officer’s mess brought him up short, stepped in front of him and blocked the entrance, curled his lips upward in an oily smile. “Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” York said, trying to contain his anger.

“Must have a reservation, sir.”

York turned slowly about and sought out Rame. “Commander Rame. We’ll meet this time in the officer’s mess. But please see to it that it’s completely shut down immediately afterwards. And until further notice everyone will dine in the main mess.”

Rame nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

Rame stepped around him, took the maître d’ by the arm and politely pulled him aside. York stepped past them into the dim lighting of the mess hall. “Someone bring up the lights. And clear these tables out of the way. We can stand.”

The officers that accompanied York moved quickly to obey while York looked the place over. The atmosphere of a secluded restaurant disappeared as he stood there. He watched them toss the impeccable, white tablecloths into a pile and stack the tables and chairs to one side.

Palevi appeared in the entrance a bit out of breath and carrying a small bundle. He jogged across the room to Maggie, saluted and handed her the package. “Sorry it took so long, ma’am. Had to convince a few crewmembers things have changed.”

Maggie took the package, stuffed it under one arm and marched over to York. She saluted him. “Sir. I need to speak with you privately. It won’t take but a minute, and it’s a matter of utmost importance.”

Maggie was up to something. They stepped into the kitchen, startled a few civilian cooks. Maggie hooked a thumb over her shoulder and said, “Get out.”

One of them started to argue, but she turned on the man, spoke in a flat tone. “I said get out, and I’m not willing to debate the matter. Now get out, or I’ll have the marines get you out the hard way.”

The cooks disappeared like so much air released into vacuum. Maggie tore open the package and handed York a flight suit with captain’s stripes on it. “Please put this on, sir.”

York brushed her off. “I don’t need that bullshit.”

“God damn it, yes you do! You’re the one who did all the shouting about tradition and custom. And you know as well as I do you can’t pull this crew together just by giving the right orders. You can’t just walk, talk and act like the captain, you have to look like him too. Now put it on.”

She was right, of course. As he stripped down, Maggie noticed the small gun tucked in the holster at his waist. “Do you really need that?”

He shrugged. “Old habit.”

“You never packed a gun before, not on board ship.”

“All right, it’s a new habit. But it’s still not going away.” He stuffed the gun into a pocket on one thigh.

The stripes on his sleeves drew his attention, scared him a bit.

“Here,” Maggie said. “Put this on too.”

She handed him a small cap with gold filigree smeared all over the bill. He put it on carefully, set it on his head straight and square. She shook her head sadly. “York, sometimes you’re the most boring turd I’ve ever known.” She suddenly shifted her weight, squared her shoulders and saluted him smartly. “But I wouldn’t have anyone else for a CO, Captain.”

York didn’t know if he deserved her trust. He squared his own shoulders, returned her salute carefully, then nodded toward the mess hall. “Let’s go do this, eh?”

The station commanders were waiting for him nervously, and as he stepped into the officer’s mess Palevi barked out in his best parade ground style, “Captain on the deck.”

He caught York by surprise as much as he caught the rest. There was a sudden flurry of motion as everyone snapped to attention, followed by a complete and tense silence.

York marched business-like through the middle of them, threw a casual “As you were,” over his shoulder, headed straight for the bar at the far end of the room. There was a small raised area around the bar, and he’d decided to speak from there. He stepped up onto the platform, turned around and clasped his hands behind his back.

There was a rustle of movement, the grumble of hidden conversations and unasked questions. He waited statue still, and slowly the noise and the bustle died. He waited until the last sound was gone from the room, then he waited further, allowed the silence to grow pregnant and uncomfortable. “I assume you’ve all seen the orders issued by Her Majesty that put me in command of this ship. If not, they’re in the public log of this ship.”

He saw a lot of distrust on the faces there. “You’ve each been assigned duty as the commander of a station or department on this ship. Each of you will shortly be given a list of the people that report to you. Some are stationside personnel with no shipboard experience. Some are civilians we are conscripting into service by order of Her Majesty. You’ll have one hour to make sure each of them knows the locations of his or her quarters and duty station. Don’t bother with anything beyond that; you won’t have time. Some of them, by the way, you’ll find in the brig for minor offenses. As of this moment I’m dropping all charges against them, but they won’t be discharged until you sign their release and escort them back to their quarters.”

He scanned the faces again: no change. “At the end of that hour we’ll hold our first combat drill. It is then that you’ll have the opportunity to begin training your people.”

Still the faces hadn’t changed. “That is all. Dismissed.”

A hand shot up in the middle of the crowd. “Sir. May I ask a question?”

York shook his head. “No questions. Dismissed.”

He didn’t wait for a response, but cut a path through the middle of them as he made his way to the door. Behind him he heard Palevi bark, “Atteeuun . . . shuuuuun!” but he was gone before they had a chance to react.

CHAPTER 21: OLD MEMORIES

The first drill taxed York’s patience to the limit. He let the klaxon hammer away at them for more than ten minutes before finally shutting it down. And even then only a little over seventy percent of the stations had reported in.

At that point he put the station commanders to work running a succession of simple combat simulations while Palevi ran another sweep of the ship to herd up lost sheep. Anyone merely lost or confused was given directions or a guide to their station. Anyone who resisted or refused to comply with orders—and there were a few—was thrown in the brig. Finally, when York once again knew that every soul on the ship was properly on station or in the brig, he took the ship off alert status.

Gant and Rame sat down with York in his office to brief him on options for a transition plan. Gant said, “We’re about twenty light-years behind the lines, or at least where we knew the lines to be about a month ago. Sarasan is another thirty beyond that. On a direct line of sight from our present position Aagerbanne is sixty-two light-years distant. But if we drive straight to her we’ll slant diagonally through the lines, spend a lot of time in danger of attack from pickets on either side. I recommend we parallel the lines for about thirty light-years, then cut straight across toward Aagerbanne. It’ll take us longer, a total of sixteen days, but it’ll be safer.” She looked at York for comment.

York asked Rame, “You like her plan?”

“We worked it out together.”

“Then do it,” he said as he looked at his watch. A half hour had passed since he’d released his new crew from their stations. “Commander Rame. Sound general quarters.”

Rame issued the order to the bridge through his implants, and the alert klaxon started blaring immediately. Rame and Gant looked at York, he nodded his permission and they shot out of the room. He stood there for a moment, let the noise wash over him and tried not to think about what would happen if they had to actually engage an enemy warship. Then he turned and headed calmly for the bridge.

York ran them back and forth for almost a full day. He put the ship on alert, ran a few simulations, stood down to a skeleton watch, then repeated it. Each time he went on
allship
to tell them their time to station, and the third time them made it in just under four minutes, so he told them he’d let them rest when they got it under two minutes. He lost count of the number of times he cycled them on and off watch. They got down to two minutes, thirty-one seconds, but then began to deteriorate. “It’s the fatigue factor,” Maggie said, looking over York’s shoulder at the data on his console. “They’re exhausted now, probably won’t be able to do any better until they get some rest.”

Fatigue weighed on all of them. “Give me
allship
,” he said.

Frank murmured, “Channel three.”

York touched a switch on his console. “You made it on station in one minute, ninety-eight seconds,” he lied. “You still have to do better, but for today that’ll do. You now have a five-hour rest period, after which I’ll be holding captain’s mast. Attendance is mandatory.”

He cut the circuit. “Mister Stara, watch condition green. Commander Rame, set up a skeleton crew for mast. I want everyone there. Miss Votak, you’re in charge of the arrangements for mast. Attendance is also mandatory for the civilians, so make sure they show up. If anyone gives you any trouble let me know and I’ll get help from Her Majesty.”

York stood, headed for his cabin, the captain’s cabin. He should go over the damage control estimates with Rame and Cappik, but he needed rest before mast. This would be the turning point. If it went well the crew would support him. They wouldn’t like him, and some would fear him, but they would leave mast confident someone was now in command.

York looked up from the table where he and Maggie and Rame sat, while the spacer standing in front of them bowed his head remorsefully. The three of them put their heads together for a whispered conference. “Shall we give him the benefit of the doubt?” he asked.

As Maggie and Rame debated the virtues of the poor fellow, York scanned the crowd. Most of the civilians were present only because the empress had made it known that attendance was mandatory. There were thirty-two cases concerning minor infractions before the captain, and grinding through them was tedious at best.

Rame was saying, “. . . we can’t let them question the orders they’re given. But he’s a dirtlover, a stationside spacer. He just needs to learn it’s different out here.”

The three of them broke up their little conference. “Spacer Second Class Phaeda,” York announced loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Apparently you felt the assignment your station commander gave you was beneath you, so you chose to debate the issue. To help you understand that no assignment is beneath you, I sentence you to a tenday of the most degrading tasks we can dig up. Hopefully, you will learn that when your superior gives you an order, you will obey it, then and there. That is all.”

The man was intelligent enough to keep his mouth shut, square his shoulders and salute smartly. York returned the salute; the man did a textbook about-face and marched away.

“Twenty-seven down,” Maggie said tiredly. “Five to go.”