Of Treasons Born (9 page)

“They say you work hard, mind your own business, do your job, and keep your mouth shut. And that doesn't add up.”

“I don't know what you mean, sir.”

Shernov turned toward York, leaned on the bar with one elbow, and looked directly at him. “You're supposed to be a troublemaker.”

Shernov stared at him hard, waiting for him to say something. But all he could come up with was, “I took some bad advice from the wrong people.”

Shernov continued to stare at him, his head nodding up and down slowly. “The lash is a hard lesson to learn. Did you learn it?”

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

“Ya,” he said, still nodding. “I think you did. They tell me you're a crackerjack gunner, and Rodma says you're a good pilot. Need a few hundred hours in the cockpit and a little more rank to qualify, but that can be arranged. You ever think of making a formal transfer into the marines?”

The idea of being a marine was so foreign to any of York's thinking that Shernov's question took him completely off guard. “I … I don't know, sir. I never thought about it. I guess I just want to be a pod gunner.”

Shernov grimaced. “About that, Ballin. I gotta be honest with you. You're a throwaway. The navy doesn't want you so they threw you to us marines. And if you'd continued to be a problem, we'd have fixed the problem, but you wouldn't have survived to see the result. Sorry, kid, you're not going to get another chance with the navy. Best throw in with us marines.”

Shernov took his beer and wandered away. York stood there carefully dissecting the cap'm's words, trying to find some hidden meaning, some hint that the words didn't mean what they meant. A throwaway! He'd been a throwaway all his life. And then he'd had a chance with the navy, but he'd screwed that up.

He decided to try some of the really strong alcohol the marines called 'trate. That was another mistake. He spent the night on his hands and knees with his head in the toilet.

York had no memory of returning to the ship, but the next morning he woke up in his bunk. When he stood up, his stomach churned and his knees trembled. Cath and Bristow took him to the mess hall and made him eat a full breakfast. As he choked it down, he was thankful Cath didn't broadcast the secret of his virginity to the entire squad. That evening, York stayed on the ship when the rest of the marines went on leave.

He sat down at a reader and pulled up a copy of the pod manual, then realized he was wasting his time. He spent the rest of the evening in the gunboat flight simulator, and somewhere while practicing lift-offs and landings over and over again, he decided it was time to lose his virginity.

The next day, he felt a lot better, at least physically. Mentally, he kept replaying Shernov's words: He was a throwaway. But he didn't want to be a marine; he wanted to be a pod gunner.

That evening, he accompanied Cath and Bristow to The Drop Zone. He bought a beer just to blend in, but he nursed it carefully, making it last as long as he could so he didn't have to buy another. He watched the whores working the crowd of marines. The male whores varied from almost effeminate beauty to ruggedly handsome. He wished he could be ruggedly handsome. Among the female whores, he spotted several who seemed to be only a few years older than him. He noticed a dark-haired beauty looking his way and smiling at him. He smiled back.

Cath dropped into a seat beside him and gave him an appraising look. She had light-brown eyes, wore her blond hair cut chin length, and was attractive even in marine fatigues. She grinned and said, “Don't look at me like that, kid. I'm no cradle robber. Though maybe when you're a bit older.”

York's face felt uncomfortably warm and he looked away.

“It's pretty obvious what you're up to tonight.”

He looked into her eyes, then glanced at the other marines around them. None of them was paying the least bit of attention to the two of them. He could probably handle it if the rest of the marines learned, but not his gunner mates.

She leaned toward him and whispered, “Don't worry, I kept your secret. You got your mind set on doing this? You absolutely sure?”

If York wanted to be completely truthful, he would have answered
Yes
to the first question, and
I don't know
to the second. He kept it simple. “Yes.”

She leaned back and looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Then if you're gonna do this, Momma Cath is going to make sure you do it right.”

She stood and said, “Come with me.”

York wasn't sure what she had planned, but he knew he could trust her. He stood and followed her as she wound her way between tables and figures in marine uniforms to the far end of the room. She stopped at a table where an older woman sat reading a book with pages that York thought might be made of real synth. The woman looked up from her book, and she and Cath spoke briefly, then she looked at York and said, “What's his preference, boy or girl?”

Cath glanced his way and said, “What do you think?”

The woman nodded. “Girl.”

She subvocalized something, and York guessed she was equipped with implants. Then she said to Cath, “Take him up to room 203.”

When they got upstairs, the most beautiful young girl York had ever seen stood leaning in the doorway of room 203. She was clearly only a few years older than him, and had blue eyes and auburn hair cut shoulder length. She wore an exotic, low-cut, floor-length gown that clung to her curves and fired York's imagination. She smiled at him and said, “You must be York. I'm Jessica.”

She took his hand and led him into the room. Cath didn't say anything, but he heard the door close behind them, and he and Jessica were alone.

Much later, York learned that the girl was actually in her thirties. It didn't matter; York decided he was in love.

Chapter 9:

Comrades

Dauntless
spent two more nights docked on Toellan Prime. York returned to Jessica each night. He didn't have the funds to spend the entire night with her, could only afford an hour of her time each night, but it was a wonderful hour. He was in his bunk back on ship when he felt it up-transit, and he knew he'd probably never see her again.

York scrubbed decks, trained in the turret and flight simulators, practiced his reading, marched about to Bristow's parade-ground commands, spent time on the firing range, all the while trying to put Jessica out of his mind. Fifteen days after leaving Toellan, she was still there, haunting his every waking moment, when they down-transited outside the Norgaard system.

The marines all seemed nervous and on edge as they gathered on Hangar Deck to listen to Shernov's briefing. “Listen up, people,” he said. “Gather round and pay attention.”

Shernov held a small instrument that fit easily in the palm of his hand. He thumbed a switch on it and a projection of a greenish-­brown planet appeared in front of him. Norgaard was mostly water with a few small landmasses.

“Fleet just took Norgaard from the Federals. It was a nasty fight, and now we've got to secure the system. We landed ten thousand troops twelve days ago. They've been sweeping the countryside around Dusand, Norgaard's capital, cleaning up pockets of resistance, the usual stuff. They report they're mostly running into amateurs with just a few feddie advisers among them.”

Shernov touched a switch on the projector and
Dauntless
's image appeared above the planet next to two other ships. York understood that the scale of the ships' images had been expanded, otherwise they'd just be small specks above the planet.

“We rendezvoused with
Markov
, the sleeper transport that brought in the troops, and
Avenger
, a medium cruiser. Sometime in the next three or four days, the politicos are going to arrive, and our job is to secure a large compound that's been designated as the new imperial embassy. It's on the edge of the city in a residential area, so reasonably defensible.”

He paused to scan the assembled marines carefully. “All squads, full combat armor and heavy weapons, mortars, emplacements, the works. Our boats will have to make a couple of trips to get all two hundred of us and our equipment down there.”

He looked at Rodma. “After the first drop,
Three
stays airborne above the compound while
One
and
Two
shuttle the rest of us down. Then I want all three boats in the air patrolling the streets around the compound. If something's going to happen, I want to know about it before it happens.”

Rodma and the other pilots acknowledged the orders with a chorus of
Yes, sirs
.

Shernov added, “And go in fast and loud. I want the locals to remember who they're dealing with. Hopefully, we'll have less trouble with them that way.”

While
Dauntless
maneuvered in-system, York donned his vac suit then climbed into his turret early to run it through a pre-combat check. The computer reported that all systems were functioning. He noticed the other turret gunners had done the same, and Rodma and Meg were likewise running
Three
through a full check. He listened carefully to the chatter in his headphones.

“My reactor pack's only at eighty percent.”

“Tear it down and do an overhaul. We got time.”

The usual banter had completely disappeared.

“I'm getting a minor leak in my left gauntlet. I guess I could ignore it since we're not doing any vac work.”

“Don't take any chances. We got spares. Change it out.”

York considered what he was hearing, then said, “Computer, detailed diagnostic scan of all turret functions, verbose output.”

He rarely ran such a full analysis since it took more than an hour, but he had the time, and the way the marines were behaving told him to be extra cautious. He flagged a couple of minor concerns for later review, no more than maintenance issues, nothing that would affect performance during the coming drop. He finished the diagnostic scan about ten minutes before launch, and heard the clatter and clang of the marines boarding the gunboat in the bulky, full-combat armor. The marine com channel remained silent.

York switched to the gunboat's intership channel.

“Launch in five minutes and counting.”

The marines had finished strapping in and
Three
now clung to an unnerving silence.

They cut gravity in
Three Bay
,
killed the lights, and the whine of the vacuum pumps echoed through the boat's hull. The large doors of the service bay opened, and the docking gantry shoved
Three
out into the blackness of space. York caught a momentary glimpse of
One
and
Two
, then Rodma kicked in
Three
's
drive.

“We're not going in fast enough for hi-gee,” Rodma said. “But we are going in fast, less of a target that way.”

York tapped into the gunboat's telemetry feed, saw that Rodma was accelerating at thirty G's, the maximum at which the boat could compensate for an internal field of one G.

“Turrets out,” Rodma said, and York's turret telescoped out from the hull.

After a little more than a hundred seconds at thirty G's, Rodma reversed the drive and decelerated. They hit atmosphere at Mach 40, the air screaming past
Three
's
hull. York's screens blanked for an instant, then recovered as the computer processed images so he could see through the burning reentry plasma.

At Mach 3, Rodma launched the boat's drones.

The gunboat had twenty small combat drones, and York heard the
chug-chug-chug
as
Three
spit them out. On his screens, the computer flagged them as friendlies with a green reticle. He spotted another green blip about two hundred meters out which the computer identified as
One
.

At three hundred meters, they dropped below Mach 2 and leveled off. York now understood what Shernov meant by “… go in fast and loud.” It must have been an impressive sight from the ground to see the three boats scream by overhead, sonic booms blasting the entire city.

York spotted quite a few damaged buildings below them. Some had walls missing, exposing the interior of several floors, and some were mostly rubble with no more than a portion of one wall still standing. All appeared badly burned.

As they approached the outskirts of the city, there were fewer multistory buildings, and the streets opened out into broad, multi­lane avenues.
Three
slowed considerably and banked to York's side, and his stomach lurched as the ground rushed toward him. Rodma leveled off at a hundred meters and circled a large compound with several buildings protected inside a masonry wall. York saw the blip of
Two
also circling as
One
settled down lazily on the ground inside the wall, then dislodged its marines, many of them lugging heavy equipment. After
One
lifted into the air
Two
took its turn unloading its marines, then it was
Three
's
turn.

York swallowed hard as again the ground rushed toward him. He felt no physical sensation, since all motion was fully compensated by the boat's internal gravity fields. But something primal inside him cringed, his mouth filled with saliva and he gulped back nausea.

“Gunners,” Rodma said as he settled the boat toward the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust, “stay alert.”

While they were still three meters off the ground, the main hatch slammed open with a clang that echoed through the hull. At one meter, Rodma said, “Zoned for drop.”

York heard the marines clambering out of the boat. He sat in his turret scanning the wall of the compound, not sure what he was supposed to be alert for. Then Rodma lifted the boat straight up in a gut-wrenching vertical elevator climb.

Rodma leveled off at an altitude of a hundred meters above the compound wall. “Gunners,” he said, “watch the streets below. If you see any movement, flag it with a targeting reticle so the combat grid can analyze it.”

York heard a bunch of chatter back and forth between the pilots of the boats as all three circled the compound. The majority of the buildings in the vicinity were only one or two stories, and with wide streets separating them he now understood Shernov's comment about
“reasonably defensible.”

He kept his eyes on the streets below, was surprised at the complete lack of activity on the outskirts of such a large city. He guessed the civilian population must be huddled in their homes, awaiting the outcome of the transition in power.

When all three pilots were satisfied there was nothing going on within a hundred meters of the compound wall,
One
and
Two
accelerated in a vertical climb back to
Dauntless
.

Rodma lifted
Three
to five hundred meters and slowly circled the compound about two hundred meters outside the wall. York's turret was on the side that faced out into the city proper. He thought he saw something moving, flagged it with a targeting reticle, but the computer told him it was a false alarm.

Rodma said, “Calm down, Ballin. You're jumping at shadows.”

“Better to jump at shadows that aren't there than miss one that is,” Sissy said.

Meg said, “Good point. Stay jumpy, Ballin.”

They flagged several more false alarms, then York spotted something and flagged it. In a fraction of a second, the computer showed him an enhanced image of a young boy standing in the doorway of a residential structure. It flagged him as yellow, meaning it was up to York whether or not to take a kill shot. The kid wasn't more than six or seven years old, and York couldn't imagine him menacing the heavily armed gunboat. Then an adult woman swooped into the picture, swept the boy up in her arms, and closed the door.

“I got a live one,” Sissy shouted. The alert signal started bleating at him, telling him they had incoming, but York had no targets on his screens. York heard Sissy fire three bursts, then she said, “Got him. But that asshole was no local insurgent. He was in full combat armor, with a shoulder-fired RPG.”

Rodma said, “I'm relaying that info up to—”

The alert system blared a warning, but York didn't have any targets on his screens. He heard the other turrets firing burst after burst.

“Taking evasive action,” Meg shouted.

The boat slewed heavily to starboard as Rodma swung it into a sharp turn. York's turret swung downward as the boat banked and a target came into his range of fire. He didn't have time to do anything but swing the turret around and fire a burst. Then the boat lurched so violently York actually felt the motion, and his helmet speakers cut out to deaden the sound of an explosion.

Below him, buildings raced past as his telemetry feed showed him Rodma trying to gain speed and altitude, and failing. It also showed him that his turret supports were damaged.

“We're going down,” Rodma shouted.

“York,” Meg said. “I can't retract you, and you don't want to be there when we bury the starboard side in dirt. I got to cut you loose. Listen to your onboard computer.”

His internal gravity died, then explosive bolts on his turret supports fired, pressing him into the acceleration couch and ejecting his turret from the boat.

Rodma had managed to gain some altitude, but from eight hundred meters up the ground rushed at him all too quickly.

His computer said, “
Cutting feed to all nonessential systems to conserve local power reserves. Recommend you initiate manual operation of external gravity fields for a controlled landing.”

York was going to die. His turret would slam into the street and splatter bits and pieces of him all over the place, and there was nothing he could do about it. Then the computer's words hit him.
… manual operation … controlled landing.

His training kicked in; hundreds of hours in the simulator produced a strange sort of autonomic response, as if he were a robot controlled by some exterior mind.

“Computer,” he said, his voice trembling, his gut tightened with fear. He gripped the crude control yoke and attitude stick, nothing as sophisticated as the gunboat's. “Activate external gravity fields and manual flight controls.”

“Controls activated. To conserve power, it is recommended that you maintain freefall for another six seconds … five … four … three … two … one …”

York powered up the external gravity field, decelerating the turret at a uncomfortable three G's, only then realizing that while his hands were calmly controlling his descent, his mouth was screaming, “Ahhhh!”

The ground rushed toward him, closer and closer, then the turret came to a stop, floating about two meters above the street.

He sat there for several seconds, gulping, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Hovering without purpose is depleting power reserves.”

York settled the turret gently onto the street.

“Hang in there,
Three
. We're on our way, thirty minutes out, hi-gee drop.”

A blip on his screens showed him that
Three
had gone down about four hundred meters west of him, but he noticed another friendly blip a hundred meters north. He switched to visual, saw an oblong object canted to one side in the middle of the street. A hatch in the side popped open and Chunks climbed out. They must have ejected the portside turret as well.

Fifty meters beyond Chunks, he spotted a soldier in mottled green combat armor, carrying a rifle and jogging toward Chunks, followed by a half dozen other soldiers in similar garb. York wanted to believe the marines from the compound had come out to rescue them, but that was more than a kilometer away, and there was something different about the armor the soldier wore, something not imperial. York's fears were confirmed when the soldier stopped about ten paces short of Chunks and aimed his rifle at him. Chunks raised his hands high above his head.