A Choice of Treasons (69 page)

The two women glanced at each other, trying to decide silently between them whether or not they should lie to him. York gulped down the rest of his drink and poured another.

The empress shook her head sadly. “I can’t. As you say, that’s on a
need to know
basis. But your people did not die in vain. Believe me, if we succeed, it’ll be worth any number of lives.”

“Oh really!” He paused for a moment, then said, “Computer.”

Acknowledged
, the computer said.

“Retrieve observed warhead detonations on or about Dumark during the most recent enemy assault.”

Retrieved.

York had run this simulation before, already knew the answers, had even noticed that a cluster of warheads had detonated directly over Janston, solving all of Maja and Toll’s financial difficulties.

“Assume no further detonations after our up-transition out of Dumark
nearspace
and estimate casualty figures for Dumarkan population. Answer to two digit accuracy.”

York had purposely asked a wide open question.
Assuming mid-day population distribution is not markedly different from residential distribution, initial death toll would stand at twenty-one million. Within one week death toll would rise to thirty-three million. At one month, forty-eight million. After approximately three months starvation and disease will bring the death toll to eighty million. The final toll—

“Abort,” York barked.

Acknowledged
.

York turned slowly to the two women. “You said it’ll be worth any number of lives. Will it be worth eighty million lives? Do you spend lives that easily? Answer that for me.”

Cassandra sat down slowly and buried her face in her hands. For several seconds York could hear her ragged breathing, then she lowered her hands and said, “Each and every year this war goes on we kill far more people than that. Do you know how long we’ve been fighting this war, Captain?”

“I’ve personally been fighting it for twenty-two years. Don’t really care how long anyone else has been fighting it.”

“Believe me, Captain, it’s been going on a lot longer than that. And if it could be ended somehow, wouldn’t that be worth eighty million lives?”

York tried to sympathize, couldn’t really get there. “So you’re both peacers, huh?”

The d’Hart woman shook her head tiredly. “No, Captain, we’re not peacers. Our purpose is not that simple, nor that naive. But we need to know what your purpose is. Will you tell us?”

“As I said, you tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine.”

The empress stood. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.”

York’s yeoman opened the door to his office hesitantly. “Sir. Director Add’kas’adanna.”

Add’kas’adanna had to duck her head to step through the door, and as she straightened she looked at York without expression. Two marines followed and stepped to either side of her, their hands resting on their sidearms. She straightened and saluted York formally. He returned the salute, waved a hand at the chair in front of his desk. “Please.”

She lowered herself into the chair, and while she was clearly older and probably well past her prime, she moved like a powerful and dangerous animal.

“Are your wounds healing well?” York asked, though he knew the answer.

She lifted a hand in front of her face, flexed the fingers of the prosthetic. “Nicely, Captain, thank you.” She had an odd accent.

“I must apologize for the prosthetic,” York said. “Our facilities are somewhat strained at the moment, and for the time being we can’t offer you regrowth.”

Again she flexed her fingers. “This is quite acceptable, Captain. In any case, how can I expect better treatment than
the
captain.” She glanced at York’s left arm.

“The medical orderly who gave you that information has been disciplined.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “Since then it’s been difficult to learn anything.”

“All you need do is ask.”

“And you’ll tell me?”

York shrugged. “Perhaps.”

She considered that for a moment. “There is one thing I am curious about. Was it through luck, or by design, that you were laying in wait for me?”

“Luck,” York said. “Pure and simple. And tell me something. Why have you expended so much effort to find this ship?”

She cocked her head slightly, as if to say isn’t it obvious. “You have the empress on board.”

“Please. Don’t insult my intelligence. She’s not worth the resources you’ve diverted. Not worth having the Fleet Director herself personally leading the effort.”

She nodded agreement. “Yes. That is curious, isn’t it? There must be something else, mustn’t there? But I confess I don’t know what.”

York believed her. Whatever was going on, it was a closely held secret. “There is something you could help me with.” He stood, purposefully not explaining. She stood, and the two marines behind her stiffened. “Please come with me,” he said.

He led them all to the brig, and even he was surprised at Sab’ach’ahn’s appearance. She had, to a limited extent, obeyed his orders. The marines told him she ate when they told her to, bathed when they told her to, but still she painted her left eye lid with blood, and still she sat and stared at nothing.

Add’kas’adanna showed no reaction as they entered the cellblock. York stopped in front of Sab’ach’ahn’s cell and motioned toward the sublegion. “Can you help me understand what’s going on in this young woman’s mind?”

Add’kas’adanna’s eyes scanned the cell, then she turned to York and he sensed anger. “I see nothing,” she said. “I see no one.” Her eyes bored through York, defying him to argue with her.

York deliberately, and carefully, related the story of Sab’ach’ahn and Andleman on Anachron IV, though he edited his own suicidal tendencies out of the story. And as he did so her anger dissipated.

For the first time she looked at the young Kinathin in the cell, not through her as if she weren’t there. “There is a concept in my culture we call
kith’ain
. The word translates to something like ‘blood-honor,’ though not exactly. It really has no parallel in your culture. It is more than honor . . . but it is less. It is also our word for ‘soul,’ but again the translation is not direct. If you kill your
kith’ain
, Captain, then you are nothing, you no longer exist. And if you kill your
kith’ain
, and at the same time your enemy shows that his
kith’ain
lives strongly and is untainted, and furthermore, your actions, or lack of action, damages or endangers his
kith’ain,
then your
kith’ain
is his, and you must await the death your enemy chooses for you.”

For a moment she looked on Sab’ach’ahn in an almost motherly way. “Sometimes, under stress, the young judge themselves more harshly than might you or I, we who have learned the art of compromise.” She looked again at York. “And too, I think you have not told me all concerning your own actions.”

“Are you telling me she’s waiting for me to tell her how to die, and then she’ll take her own life?”

Add’kas’adanna’s eyes clouded over, and again she looked at him. “Tell whom, Captain. I see no one. I see nothing.”

York tried again. “A hypothetical warrior then, who has killed her
kith’ain
, is supposed to wait for me to tell her how to die?”

“She must await the fate you choose for her. Whatever you choose, she must obey without question. You could choose to have her make a suicidal attack upon her own comrades, an ironic and not uncommon way of settling the matter, forcing her to kill some of them, and them to kill her. In fact, the more ironic the death you choose, the greater the possibility she can regain her
kith’ain
after death. Of course, I’m speaking of this . . . hypothetical warrior.”

“She has to do whatever I tell her, huh?”

Add’kas’adanna nodded.

York had an idea, though he wasn’t sure it would work. He turned to Sab’ach’ahn. “Sublegion. From now on you’ll eat whatever is required to regain your health and strength. You’ll bathe regularly, and you’ll exercise with the marines daily. I want you in top physical condition, because I’m giving you the responsibility of protecting me and my ship. You must guard me against any and all danger, including . . .” York looked at Add’kas’adanna, and Sab’ach’ahn’s eyes followed his, “. . . including protecting me and my ship from anything Director Add’kas’adanna might think of.”

Add’kas’adanna frowned.

“You’ll try to think like her, you’ll watch her closely and try to anticipate any move she might make against me, and you’ll report to me anything you suspect or learn. That’s your
kith’ain
, whatever that means.”

Add’kas’adanna looked at him with a mixture of what seemed anger and respect. “Captain, I could almost think you are Kinathin.”

“Not so much as a blink,” Alsa said. “Nothing.” She leaned forward and touched the controls on her console. The image on the screen froze.

York had asked Alsa to orchestrate a situation in which the servant/
feddie
spy found herself unexpectedly alone with Add’kas’adanna.

“Nothing,” Alsa growled. “She played it stone-cold straight, the humble and ignorant servant.”

York made sure Alsa erased all copies of the recording, and on the way back to his office he thought carefully about what he’d seen on the screen. Alsa had been right about the servant: she’d shown absolutely no reaction. But Alsa had been so intent on the servant she’d missed everything else, like Add’kas’adanna’s reaction when the servant arrived. Not much of a reaction, but on a Kinathin it had been the equivalent of a startled jerk. No, the servant was no ordinary spy, perhaps wasn’t even a spy at all, had to be someone Add’kas’adanna actually recognized. Just another
feddie
wasn’t enough. In fact she had to be someone the Kinathin recognized personally, recognized instantly, someone whose presence was so unexpected the Kinathin broke a discipline based on years of intensive training and instruction.

York considered that for a long time. Could it be possible he was giving passage to two of the most powerful
feddies
in the Directorate?

“Forty two lights and she wants to go, sir. We got gravitational instability on all decks.”

A gravity wave rolled through the bridge. York tried to sound calm. “Steady as she goes, Mister Eldinow. She’s not ready to go yet. Remember, Miss Votak’s record was thirty-one lights. Hold her as long as you can, and let her go only when you have too. Let’s try for thirty-five lights.” York held Maggie’s record over Eldinow and the other two rookies.

“Thirty-eight lights, sir . . . Thirty-seven . . . Thir . . . No, there she goes, sir.”

“Hold on to as much sublight velocity as you can. Keep that flare to a minimum.”

“Down-transition, sir.”

“All stop” York barked. “Rig for silent running.”

The wait . . . York had sat out the wait immediately after transition a thousand times, and it never got easier.

“Clear to a hundred thousand kliks, sir. Going to long range.”

“I want a system map soonest, and a plot of all electronic activity.”

York switched to the marine command channel. “Palevi, bring Red Richard up here.”

While York waited for Richard he examined the data on the Borreggan system. Andyne-Borregga had long ago been a large space station, the remnants of which still circled the Borreggan primary. But a few centuries back the station had been abandoned in favor of the asteroid belt.

Andyne-Borregga was distributed throughout hundreds of large asteroids; several hundred more were defensive stations, and thousands more were nothing but electronic decoys. If anyone ever wanted to clean out Borregga, it would take a rather sizable armada, and they’d have to spend years fighting their way from asteroid to asteroid.

Richard was bleary-eyed when Palevi hustled him onto the bridge, and he had trouble handling zero-G. York had kept him isolated for the last two days, and as he hung onto York’s console, looking over York’s shoulder at his screens, he rubbed a three-day old growth of beard and asked, “What ya got there, Cap’em?”

“That’s Andyne-Borregga. We’re sitting about point-one light-year off
heliopause
, coasting in at point-nine-three lights, running silent. In about a month or so we’ll just coast right through the system, if we don’t do something else first.”

Richard frowned, looked more closely at York’s screens, hesitated for a moment, pushed himself over to the scan console and looked at Gant’s screens, then came back to York with a deepening frown. “Nobody’s chasin’ ya,” he said unhappily. Then he threw back his head and laughed loudly. “That be a damn good trick, Cap’em. How the hell’d you get so close without them seein’ ya? One of them hunter-killer tricks of yers, I’ll bet, eh?”