A Choice of Treasons (67 page)

York met her eyes and didn’t look away. “I was not fully aware of the details, but I have no misconceptions about obtaining anything free. However, Borregga is more than just a pirate base, more than just the home of the Mexak League. From what I’ve heard it’s a free port in the truest sense of the word. I assume if I can independently finance the repairs to my ship, then those repairs could be purchased freely in the shipyards at Borregga, without further obligation. Is that not true?”

He’d taken her by surprise, though she showed nothing as obvious as a visible start, just a frown. “Yes,” she said, nodding cautiously, and grinning as she slowly began to realize what he was saying. “So you don’t want to be a pirate after all, eh captain?”

York gave her a Palevi-like nasty grin. “I have other things to do first. Maybe later. Right now I need to finance the repairs to this ship. You once gave me reason to believe you could be grateful in a financial way if I got you out of this.”

“And can you get us out of this?”

York shrugged and tossed down the rest of his drink. “Possibly. No guarantees. All I can offer you is this: pay for the repairs on this ship, so I’m not obligated to the Mexaks, and after we leave Borregga I’ll take this ship wherever you desire, as long as the location does not place this ship or her crew in further jeopardy. And I’ll allow the three of you to go your own way, though once we part, we’ll have no further obligations to one another. You’ll be on your own, and so will we.”

She was silent for a moment, then asked, “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Where’ll I get the funds to pay for these repairs?”

“You tell me,” York said. “I’ve never been to Borregga, but the intelligence reports I’ve read say there are any number of legitimate interests there. I assume that if you can communicate with your subordinates you can have funds transferred to some sort of institution or representative there.”

She nodded. “A logical assumption.”

York continued, “I can stop this ship at any time and send a message to any location you desire, though the location and the message will have to be approved by me.”

She looked at him for a moment, rock still, expressionless, and York decided the best thing he could do was keep his mouth shut and let her think. She frowned, pursed her lips, glanced at Omasin, then looked at York. “Tentatively,” she said, “I agree to your terms, though I’m not going to sign a blank check.”

“Of course.” York looked at his watch and stood. “Forgive me but I have to go; we’ve got a course correction shortly. But I’ll have a complete set of the damage reports made available for you at your convenience. I’ll also have one of my officers available to assist you and answer any questions you have. We have eight days before we reach Borregga, so there should be more than enough time for us to agree on an appropriate budget. Is there anything else I can provide?”

“That’ll be sufficient, Captain. Thank you.”

Faiel held the door for York and closed it on him when he was out in the corridor. That had worked out nicely.

It was late, fourth shift, and the corridor was empty, quiet. York caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, a crewwoman walking away from him. He glanced her way, froze—Maggie! It was Maggie! His muscles tensed, but he checked the reaction instantly. No, just a hallucination. Not Maggie . . . not Maggie!

He turned in the opposite direction, shook his head angrily and marched up the corridor, unable to get her out of his mind. He turned down another corridor, headed for the lift and saw that same crewwoman up ahead, an odd sensation tickling at the back of his thoughts.

How did she get ahead of him, when only seconds ago he’d left her behind. She stood in the middle of the corridor, at the intersection of two corridors, facing him, standing there as if waiting for him. As he approached her he slowed and his heart started pounding. The closer he got the more she looked like Maggie, and while his vision blurred his recognition of her was clear and distinct.

It wasn’t Maggie, but it was Maggie, Maggie as she was now, not the bright healthy Maggie he’d known but the Maggie in the tanks, even to the ghostly white skin that came from the tank fluids. He was barely a step or two away from her, and she was standing there holding her hands out as if to stop him, saying something, though no sound came from her lips.

He closed his eyes, shook his head—too much time on combat drugs, too little sleep. He opened his eyes and she hadn’t gone away. Just a hallucination. He took a step forward, thinking he’d better see Alsa about this.

In response she shook her head violently and mouthed the word “No,” though again without sound. She pushed out with her hands to stop him, and her hands passed through him like a good hallucination should.

God damned hallucination
, he thought as she back stepped into the intersection of the two corridors, shaking her head. He ignored her and stepped forward into the intersection, caught a glimpse of movement far to the right, heard the unmistakable click of a gun safety—

His implants crashed, an odd sensation like sticking a finger in his ear, and he realized his implants were being jammed, cutting him off from shipnet.

It was reflex more than anything else; he let his knees buckle, using his forward momentum to carry him through the intersection, hoping to shoulder roll into the corridor beyond and out of sight of the gunman. But half way there he heard the puff of a silenced grav gun, and a sledge hammer slammed him to one side where he glanced off the corner of the intersecting corridors. A second bullet grazed off the corridor wall nearby, splattered into a dozen pieces and peppered him with shrapnel as he thudded to the deck.

He’d sprawled in the main corridor out of sight of the assassin, his legs still in the intersection. He heard steps coming his way, tried to struggle to his feet ignoring the pain that washed over him, slipped in his own blood and fell again. A third bullet slammed into his ankle, spinning him about, blowing off the foot of his prosthetic leg in a shower of sparks and synthetic skin. Slipping and sliding in his own blood he scrambled forward out of the line of fire, curled into a sitting position, reached into the belt under his tunic and pulled the small palm gun he always carried. He had four shots, and he could hear the steps coming down the corridor toward him. He released the gun’s safety, swung it around the corner of the intersection and blindly squeezed the trigger. The shot exploded up the corridor with a thunderclap. He squeezed off two more rounds blindly. He struggled to his feet, actually one foot and the stump of his prosthetic ankle ending in plast and wires and shredded skin. The whole corridor was smeared with his blood. He hesitated and listened: no steps coming up the corridor. He tried to key his implants, still jammed.

He ran, hampered by the shortened prosthetic stump, the pain in his chest when he tried to breathe, the way the deck tilted and swayed beneath him. Turn into a side corridor, stop, listen—he heard rapid steps coming after him. He was breathing hard, couldn’t breathe deep, too much pain. He swung the gun around the intersection and fired one last blind shot, then turned and ran, remembering not to toss away the gun—no need to let his enemy know he was no longer armed.

He ran; he was in one of the outer corridors next to the hull and he used the curve of the corridor to keep him out of sight of the assassin. But that was a foot race, one he couldn’t win.

He stopped at a maintenance hatch, slapped the transmit switch on the wall intercom next to it and barked, “Security—Ballin—I’m being hit—C-deck—code red.”

He palmed the lock on the hatch, swung it open, crawled through and felt a gravity boundary tickle his skin. As he pulled the hatch closed a bullet splattered off the rim of the hatch. In zero-G he dogged the hatch awkwardly.

He was in the dark, unlit section between the inner and outer hulls. He pushed off into the zero-G darkness, trying to avoid a nasty collision with a beam or girder, came up against a bulkhead. A shaft of light shot through the darkness as his pursuer opened the hatch.

He hooked an arm around a beam, looked right and left for the telltales near an access hatch, spotted them twenty meters away. He pushed off, crawling from beam to beam. A bullet zinged off a bulkhead nearby, a blind shot in the darkness.

He reached the hatch popped the seals on it, swung it open and the bright lights of the corridor beyond blinded him for a moment. He swung one leg through into the gravity field of the deck, hung there awkwardly for a moment as he tried to use his right arm and a stab of pain shot through his side. He knew the lights of the corridor made him a beautifully silhouetted target, and he had to move regardless of the pain. He swung his right arm up, ignoring the pain and grabbed the lip of hatch.

What with all the racket he was making, it was amazing he was able to hear the faint puff of the grav gun. The bullet caught him diagonally in the chest, entered just under his right breast, blew him through the hatch and bounced him off the deck.

He struggled to his feet, hobbled down the corridor hunched over in pain. That wound was lethal, he knew. The small entrance wound on his chest was gushing blood; and though he couldn’t see the exit wound on his back he had no doubt it was even worse.

He heard the assassin struggling through the hatch behind him just as he made it to an intersecting corridor. A bullet tore into the corridor wall near his head as he rounded the turn. The deck swayed so badly beneath him that he bounced from one wall to the next as he tried to make his way down the corridor, smearing blood everywhere.

Someone stood in his way—a marine—Palevi. York hovered at the edge of consciousness, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel dread and fear as Palevi dropped into a crouch and raised a gun, aiming it squarely at him. The marines—he should never have trusted them.

“Hit the deck, sir,” Palevi shouted. “Yer in my line of fire.”

It took a second for that to register, and then York let his knees buckle, didn’t even try to cushion the fall, landed on the deck with a thud and lost consciousness.

Aeya crawled out of bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Someone was going to pay for waking her, pay dearly.

She opened her cabin door, found a marine with a gun standing in the corridor. “Why are you making so much noise?” she demanded angrily.

The marine started, surprised by her sudden appearance, aimed the gun at her for a moment, then swung it back down the corridor. “Stacy,” the marine bellowed.

Aeya glanced down the corridor, saw a blond, young marine standing there, also with a gun.

The first marine bellowed. “Get a team down here. Secure the deck.”

Aeya’s patience was gone. “I demand—” she started to say, but the marine had the audacity to actually reach out with one of those big, ugly paws of his and shove her. He shoved her so hard she stumbled back into her cabin and fell in a sprawl over her bed.

As she struggled to her feet, speechless, but trying to think of just the right reprimand, the marine, keeping the gun leveled down the corridor with one hand, reached down with the other and locked his fingers into the folds of a messy bundle lying at his feet. Before she could say anything he dragged the bundle into her cabin, leaving an ugly red smear on the deck.

Again, she tried to say something, “What do you think—”

“Shut up,” the marine bellowed at her, then slammed the door of her cabin and locked it. He spoke in that detached way naval people did when they were speaking into their implants. “Palevi here. Someone tried to pop the captain. He’s hit bad. Multiple chest wounds, splatter slugs. He’s in full cardiac arrest. Get a med team down here on the double. I’m holed up in—”

As the marine spoke Aeya looked down at the bundle, and for the first time realized it was a man, and that the large red puddle forming around him was his own blood. He was lying on his side, his back oddly shaped, and with a start she suddenly understood she was looking at several ribs that had erupted outward, opening an enormous hole in the back of his chest. Panic started to set in as she stepped around the wounded man to see his face, while in the background the marine still droned on about something.

The man on the floor lay deathly still. His eyes were open, and while blood obscured his features, the chrome eye and the scars produced instant recognition. She hated Ballin, but still she wouldn’t wish this kind of fate on any man. She reached out to comfort him, decided against touching him and getting blood on her hands. Instead she said, “There, there, Captain. It’ll be all right.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move or give any indication he was alive. Both eyes stared blindly at some random point in space. The pupil of the real eye had dilated badly, while that of the chrome eye kept opening and shutting, opening and shutting, opening and shutting . . .

Aeya fainted.

CHAPTER 30: TREASON UPON TREASON

York slammed awake, sat up in bed, ignored the sideways tug of the gravity field of his cabin deck as it interfered with that of his grav bunk. He hesitated for an instant, wondering how he’d gotten back to his cabin, wondering why everything seemed so normal. Then he tore frantically at his shirt until he could see his bare chest. The skin there was pink and healthy.