A Choice of Treasons (50 page)

Dinner was pleasant. Even Aeya managed to avoid baiting York. As dinner came to an end the Dubye slut was making her moves on poor Frank, while Maggie visibly ignored the situation. Sylissa d’Hart asked York, “Where are we now, Captain?”

York nodded toward Gant. “Anda, you’re probably better able to answer that.”

Gant glanced at her watch, thought carefully for a moment. “Right now we’re about six light-years short of the front lines, about two days at our present drive. We could move faster, but we’re being cautious, running silent, slow, and careful. We’d like to avoid interception by pickets on either side.”

Andow asked, “Are we likely to have to fight our way past any more Directorate warships.”

York nodded slowly. “Hopefully, the ship we engaged this morning was sublight to get a navigational fix, just pure luck. In transition they’d never have spotted us.”

“You said
hopefully
?”

Temerek answered him. “There’s a good chance Anachron IV alerted the Directorate to our position. They could then order all ships in the vicinity to down-transit and sit in sublight, waiting and watching for us. If they did that, then it wasn’t luck, and we’ll run into more.”

The festive atmosphere that had lasted through dinner disappeared. York said, “That’s partly the reason we ran parallel to the lines for almost ninety light-years. I wanted to get out of the vicinity of Anachron IV. We also ran a bit off course for Aagerbanne. And it’s likely that
feddie
warship reported our position before engaging us. So we’ve changed course again, and are going to run parallel to the lines for a few more light-years before turning to cross. And I don’t know how often we may have to repeat that process. A crossing directly opposite Aagerbanne or Sarasan would be too obvious.”

The conversation at the table broke up into small groups. Sylissa d’Hart leaned toward York, pointed to the small plast cup at the top of her place setting, whispered, “Tell me, Captain, what’s that cup for? I’ve noticed there’s one like it for each and every one of us. And I’ve also noticed that, quite a number of times this evening, when anyone reaches for that cup, someone seated next to them politely tells them not to touch it.” There was a small, almost unnoticeable grin on her lips, and a glint in her eyes. “What are you up to?”

In his other ear, the empress whispered, “Yes, Captain. What are you up to?”

York glanced around the table, then around the mess hall, and with few exceptions everyone had finished dinner. He rose to his feet. The other officers at the table started to stand. “As you were,” he said quietly, and they lowered themselves back into their seats.

The moment he stood Palevi appeared in the mess hall entrance on queue, and at the same time several mess orderlies began moving among the tables, pouring a small amount of
trate
into each cup. Several rookies and civilians started to reach for their cup, but a nearby veteran stopped them. Most of the crew had instantly stopped speaking; the civilians and some of the rookies were a little slower to react, and several seconds passed while the background murmur slowly died.

One of the orderlies handed Palevi a cup, poured some
trate
into it. Then they served themselves, and last they served York, filling his cup generously.

York let the final, complete silence fall among them all, and then he let it draw out until it was thick and heavy with anticipation. Then he reached forward and picked up the cup, looked at the clear liquid swirling within it. He scanned the room slowly, then said, “Today two of our comrades died. But previously there were a number of others, and while they have been buried at space, it has come to my attention they have not been properly laid to rest.

“In the plast cup at your place is a small amount of
trate
. By custom it was made in a still on this ship while in deep space, not on another ship, and especially not on the surface of a planet. Also by custom it’s strong, only slightly diluted.”

York looked again at the fluid in his cup, then at Palevi. He gave the sergeant a slight nod.

Palevi snapped to attention so rigidly his entire body quivered like spring steel. Then he bellowed in his loudest parade ground voice, startling quite a number of those present, “Atteeuun . . . shuuuuun!”

The veterans in the crowd shot to their feet instantly. The rookies were slower to react, and they moved with some hesitation, but eventually every crewmember stood and tried to imitate Palevi’s spring-steel rigidity. Most of the civilians remained seated. York looked around slowly. “Please,” he said. “All of you. Please stand.”

Lady d’Hart and the empress stood without hesitation, and one by one the others followed suit.

“Sergeant,” York called.

“Sir,” Palevi bellowed back.

“Have the names been inscribed on the hull of the ship?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Very good, Sergeant. Then call the roll.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Holding the cup in one hand, the marine held up a piece of paper in the other. He read from it.

“Spacer Apprentice Andis Bannaer.”

“Here, sir,” one of the veterans called out.

“Private First Class Misorrdah Coemak . . .”

Slowly, one by one, he called out each name and someone responded. And each carried its own message, until eventually an unhappy sorrow settled over them all. Sometimes those who knew a particular name winced, and occasionally someone shed a tear or two, but for the most part it was merely farewell. And when Palevi finished the last name a silence descended that seemed oddly devoid of the sorrow that gripped them moments earlier.

York looked at the clear liquid in his cup, then lifted it to his lips. One small sip, and the
trate
burned its way down his throat, almost bringing tears to his eyes. Then he held the cup out in front of him at arm’s length, and in a loud voice he spoke the words, “For them it’s over. For us it goes on.”

Slowly, carefully, he tipped the cup to one side. The liquid drizzled over the edge in a small, steady stream, spattering widely as it hit the plast tabletop. It spattered all over York’s uniform, all over Sylissa d’Hart and the empress, all over those near them. To the credit of the rest of them, Aeya was the only one to cringe away from the spattering, trying to protect herself behind her napkin.

When York was done the table was a mess. Without lowering his hand he opened his fingers and let the cup drop and clatter loudly to the tabletop. Olin and Maggie and Frank and the rest of the officers at the table reached out and lifted their cups. The veterans in the crowd did likewise, leading those less familiar with the ceremony, taking a small sip, then in a disharmonious unison they all echoed York’s words, “For them it’s over. For us it goes on.” Then they held out their cups, poured the remaining
trate
on their tables, and with a loud, disjointed crash dropped their cups.

Before York could proceed the empress reached down, picked up her cup, took her sip, followed the formula and poured the remainder on the tabletop, said, “For them it’s over. For you—it goes on.” There was a tear in her eye.

York waited for the silence to return, then said softly, “Release them,” and for the two who had died that day the hull echoed with the emergency blow-down cycle of the aft maintenance hatch.

When the sound finally died York said, “Dismissed,” and backed away from the table, was out in the corridor headed for the bridge.

But Sylissa d’Hart called after him. “Captain . . . York . . .”

He stopped and turned about. She rushed up the corridor and caught up with him. “That was another lesson, wasn’t it? As much for us as for your novice crewmembers.”

He shrugged. “We have a lot to learn if we’re going to get out of this alive.”

“But must everything be a lesson? Don’t you ever let up? Don’t you ever relax?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll make a deal with you. If I get you and the empress and your friend out of this . . .” His veiled reference to the empress’ servant, the only other person on the ship with a suicide device, had the desired effect. She frowned uncertainly as he continued, “If I do that, then when this is all over I’ll give you a chance to show me how to relax properly.”

He left her standing there with a frown on her face.

It was late, and down on the lower decks the corridors were all but deserted. York hesitated outside the pod gunners’ barracks, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He wore a one-piece coverall, no rank insignia, the sleeves cut away just above the elbows, all according to custom. His presence, however, required a broad interpretation of tradition, and it could backfire, have the opposite effect of what he wanted.

He knocked on the closed hatch. Except under alert it would normally be open, but this was a special occasion, even if it was officially illegal.

The hatch opened a crack and an old chief petty officer peered out at him. The man recognized York instantly, opened the hatch enough to stand in it at attention, though he was careful to block York’s view of anything within. “Sir,” he said nervously, and started to salute.

“As you were,” York said calmly. “May I come in?”

“Uhhh! Well, Captain,” the chief said uncomfortably. “Certainly, sir . . . Uhhh . . . but officers don’t usually come down here . . . uhhh . . . sir.”

York grinned. “Especially not for this occasion. But I’m not an officer tonight.” With his right hand he reached up and slid his left sleeve up to his shoulder, exposing a dozen scars in the skin of his upper arm. Each was in the shape of a chevron. York asked the chief, “Tonight there’s only one kind of rank here, isn’t there? And isn’t attendance mandatory for all blooded gunners?”

The chief’s lips slowly broke into a grin. He considered York for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside. “Come on in, sir.”

York stepped through the hatch. The lights were dim, though York could see there were quite a number of spacers there. He rolled up his sleeves so they’d stay that way, noticed the chief had more chevrons than him, which was good. He didn’t want to be the senior gunner tonight.

The chief announced, “Gunner York Ballin. Twelve chevrons. Someone get ‘im a beer.”

Someone stuck a cup of black beer in York’s hand. He could see the word spreading fast.
The captain’s here and he’s got gunner’s stripes on his arm.

All of the pod gunners had gathered for
gunner’s blood
. They were crowded into the barracks, some sitting on the deck up against a bulkhead. As York crossed the barracks they got out of his way, and at the far end someone who had a chair started to get up. York turned away from him, edged into a spot between two gunners sitting on the deck with their backs against a bulkhead. One was a pretty young girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty. York stuck out his hand. “York Ballin,” he said.

Her mouth hung open as she extended a limp hand.

He grinned. “Pick yer jaw up off the deck and tell me your fuckin’ name.”

She closed her mouth, opened her eyes just as wide to make up for it. “Uhhh! Meekl Donohae . . . uhhh . . . sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Meekl. You drawing blood tonight?”

Her face filled with disappointment. “No, sir. No kills today, sir.”

The man seated next to her chimed in, “I’m her station chief, sir. And you can bet yer ass she did just fuckin’ fine, sir, even though it was her first time out. Didn’t get any god damn kills, but I saw her take a real nice long shot at about a hundred million kliks, had to override the computer to do it, deflected a big fuckin’ warhead as good as any kill, sir.”

York nodded, tried to look impressed. Tradition called for excessive profanity and too much beer, so he said, “Well god damn, Meekl! I froze up through the whole fuckin’ engagement, first time in a pod. You’ll do just fine.”

She grinned like a child, then York remembered she basically was a child.

“Listen up,” the ranking chief shouted. “I want the following front’n’center immediately.” He read off a list of names, no rank, and as each was called a young spacer shot forward accompanied by loud jeers and crude epithets, along with a steady stream of accusations concerning their ancestry and their sexual preferences—usually something to do with certain exotic animals. Each had full-length sleeves on their coveralls.

Hethis McGeahn was one of the names. She jumped up like all the rest, no insignia on her coveralls. Buck ensigns were the one exception to an officer’s presence at
gunner’s blood
, though it was quite rare for one to actually earn a chevron. McGeahn looked as excited as the rest at the prospect of getting the coveted scar.

One by one each candidate was escorted to the center of the room, their station chief recounted the particular kill that had earned the scar, usually with some flair and a certain amount of embellishment, and of course accompanied by a lot of crude cheers and shouts. Then they cut away the candidate’s sleeves, and an old, steel knife was used to make a half-chevron cut in the skin high up on the arm. It was important the wound bleed nicely, that blood stream down the arm all the way to the fingertips and onto the deck. Then they washed the blood into the deck with a splash of the black beer, and the next candidate stepped forward.