A Choice of Treasons

C

hapter 1: Interference

Mr. Ballin, is there a fight waiting for us or not?

The bridge of the imperial heavy cruiser Invaradin was silent as everyone waited to hear York’s verdict, but the silence was suddenly broken by the XO’s voice blaring from allship, Down-transition in ten minutes and counting.

York had spent the last twenty minutes trying to raise the imperial embassy on Trinivan, but had run into some suspicious interference. Ten minutes from down-transiting blind into a supposedly neutral system and Captain Telyekev wanted him to make the call.

Mr. Ballin, is it Federals?

I’d be guessing, sir.

Then take your best guess.

York couldn’t prove anything one way or another, but his gut was telling him this was a trap, an ambush. I haven’t been able to pick up any kind of interference signature. Just broad spectrum. The interference shouldn’t be there at all, though York kept that thought to himself.

Any idea what’s causing it?

York turned away from his console, craned his neck to look through the maze of instrument clusters that crowded Invaradin’s bridge. He could see only Telyekev’s head, a faint shadow in the darkened lighting, though the captain’s eyes were bright sparks reflecting the dim glow of his console.

Telyekev stared at York and waited. Olin Rame, the XO, peered past one end of the navigation console, while Rame’s two assistants peered around the other end. Anda Gant and her assistants at the scan console had turned almost completely around to look at him. At the weapons console Franklin Stara and Paris Jondee had also turned his way: Frank frowning intently, Paris with a one-sided grin. And Magdalena Votak, encased so completely in helm controls little of her could be seen by the rest of them—York wondered if she too was peeking through some little slit in the instrumentation that enclosed her. They were looking at their lifer: Senior Lieutenant York Ballin, their lucky charm, the man who was supposed to guess with clairvoyant certainty if they were going to live or die.

York looked Telyekev in the eyes, nodded. It’s got to be feddies, sir.

Telyekev seemed to shrink. "Thank you, Mr. Ballin. Sound General Quarters. Then contact Nostran and the Diana and tell them to cut drive and coast while we go in for a look-see."

Aye, aye, sir. York spoke into his pickup. Watch Condition Red.

In his implants the computer demanded, Confirm status change.

Red status confirmed, York said.

A loud, irritatingly unpleasant horn burped once, was followed immediately by the steady clang of the alert klaxon. York switched his implants into allship and spoke precisely. Watch Condition Red. All hands, this is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill. He repeated the message once more, recording it, then put it on continuous replay and switched his pickup to the exterior com. "Nostran, this is Invaradin."

"Nostran here, Invaradin. Our computer says you’re on red. What’s up?"

"Could be feddies, Nostran, but that’s only a guess. We’re going in fast for a look around. Telyekev instructs you and the Diana to cut drive and hold back until we’re sure. Please advise the Diana."

"Consider it done, Invaradin. Good hunting."

"Invaradin out."

"Nostran out."

York put a combat status summary in the corner of one of his screens. By now it was a half-lit patchwork of randomly placed black and green highlights superimposed over a schematic of Invaradin. He looked on intently as the remaining stations completed their precombat checks, and one by one the black highlights turned to green. But suddenly one lit up with a bright, demanding red. York touched it with a finger. Turret three, he demanded. This is com. What’s wrong?

We’ve got an inoperative ordnance feed, com. We’re looking into it now, but no estimate on repair time. We have eight rounds on turret.

Thank you, Three, York said. I’ll advise Telyekev. Com out.

Main Three out.

One of the defensive stations red-lighted with difficulty on their computer link. York tried a temporary routing through a nearby station. That cleared the link enough for him to green-light them, with a yellow flag for the computer to check into it later.

The last station reported in. The computer automatically cut the alert klaxon and a heavy silence descended.

York switched his implants into the bridge circuit. All stations in, sir. Main Three reports an inoperative ordnance feed; eight rounds on turret and no estimate on repair time. All other stations are green, with one conditional yellow.

Thank you, Mr. Ballin. Did you hear that, helm?

Yes, sir, Maggie Votak said. Main Three. Eight rounds. If it gets hot, I’ll favor starboard.

Very good, Miss Votak. All ahead full.

All ahead full, sir.

York tapped into Anda Gant’s scan console, pulled up an outboard scan summary in the lower corner of one of his screens where it shared space with summaries from Olin Rame’s navigation console and Frank Stara’s weapons console. On it he watched the small blip of the destroyer Nostran and the larger blotch of the lumbering freighter Diana drop back as they cut drive power. Then Maggie firewalled Invaradin’s full drive and the two ships literally disappeared from York’s screen. Invaradin was no longer limited to the slow crawl of the lumbering freighter she’d been assigned to escort.

Navigation, Telyekev said. What’s our new ETT?

I’m computing now, sir, Olin Rame said, then York’s timer flickered as it abruptly changed its reading. Rame spoke again. Estimated time to transition is now two minutes, eighty-one seconds, sir.

Thank you, Commander Rame. Lieutenant Ballin, put me on allship.

York touched a switch as he spoke. You’re on, sir.

Telyekev paused, cleared his throat, then activated his pickup. Attention, he said. This is Captain Telyekev. You made it on station in ninety-three seconds, almost a full minute. That’s atrocious, more than ten seconds off your best time. I’ll expect you to do better in the future.

He cleared his throat again. We’re just under three minutes out from transition into the Trinivanian system. Two days ago, Fleet received an urgent message from the imperial embassy there. They need help and we’re the closest warship, so we’ve got the job. We don’t know any more than that, and we’re having trouble making contact with the embassy, so we suspect there may be Syndonese Federals involved. But remember, we only suspect. We don’t know. So don’t go off halfcocked—

A red light on York’s console pulled his attention to some problem down on Hangar Deck. He touched a switch. You’re red-lighted, Hangar Deck. What’s wrong?

One of York’s screens lit up with the image of a young female officer named Krassille Doanne. She looked worried. We found a steering malfunction in one of the drones during prelaunch check, sir. We’re working on it, but it won’t be ready at transition.

Not acceptable, York growled. Get me Nemkov.

Doanne frowned. I’m sorry, sir, but Lord Nemkov gave me orders to—

I don’t give a damn what he said. Get him here. Now. And tell him that’s an order.

Doanne saluted. Aye, aye, sir.

She disappeared from the screen. A moment later Nemkov replaced her, handsome, arrogant, angry. Nemkov started to speak but York cut him off, What’s this about a faulty drone, Lieutenant? He refused to use Nemkov’s title.

Nemkov’s lips tightened. It failed prelaunch check, something in its steering.

And why did it wait until now to fail?

I wouldn’t know. But you’re welcome to come down and ask the drone yourself, Mr. Ballin.

God damn it, Lieutenant, we need that drone.

I know that. We’re doing everything we can, but I’m no magician. If I send that drone out we’ll lose her for sure. Then we’ll only have four.

We’ll only have four if you don’t send her out.

Nemkov’s face darkened. We’d have five if we could get replacements, six if we could get spare parts. Tell me why we can’t get spares, Ballin.

I don’t know, York lied, trying not to think of an empire no longer able to maintain a war that had lasted for generations.

Mr. Ballin! Telyekev growled harshly. Pay attention.

Sorry, sir. Bad news from Hangar Deck. We’ve only got four drones on green, sir. No prognosis on the fifth. I’ll keep you informed but it won’t be ready at transition.

God damn it! Telyekev snarled. How the hell do they expect me to fight a war without spare parts? Let me speak to hangar, Mr. Ballin, and keep an eye on that timer. I want a count down on allship starting at ten seconds.

Aye, aye, sir. York made the connection. Then his attention turned to a red light from turret six: trouble with their local targeting computer. That was an easy one; he gave them priority to back up with Invaradin’s comp-central. He glanced again at his timer, then switched his pickup to allship. Transition minus ten seconds and counting, he said, keeping his voice calm and even. Nine … Eight … Seven … Six … Five … Four … Three … Two … One …

His screens fluttered. An undefined tickle crawled up the back of his spine. He cut off all external communications and said, Sublight.

The bridge went silent. Fresh out of transition, Invaradin was a blind target with no idea of what she’d dropped into until Anda Gant got them data.

We’re clear to a hundred thousand kilometers and expanding, sir, she finally said.

York’s implants seemed to whisper with a long collective sigh of relief.

Thank you, Anda, Telyekev said easily. No surprises, then. Now let’s see what’s on long range. Drones out, Commander. Hold them at the limit of your short range scan.

A distant, ghostly clang sounded through the hull of the ship as the four drones shot out of their launch bays. Drones out, sir, Gant barked.

York’s scan summary compressed as the drones shot outward from Invaradin’s hull and their effective scan baseline broadened. At fifty thousand kilometers the drones shifted into a complex circular orbit about Invaradin, and the scan summary compressed even faster.

With one ear tuned to the bridge circuit York touched another switch on his console. Hangar, this is com. Drone status.

Krass Doanne answered. Parasitic demand is smooth. Response is strong. Still no word on number five.

Thank you, Miss Doanne, York said. Com out. He cut her out of the circuit.

Clear to one million klicks and expanding, Gant announced.

Excellent, Telyekev said happily. Good job, Anda. Hold the drones at fifty thousand klicks. Go to extreme long range and start scanning. I want a full system map soonest. Mr. Ballin, get back on that com and see if you can raise Trinivan.

Aye, aye, sir. York reopened an exterior com channel, confident now it wouldn’t provide a homing beacon for a feddie warhead, and immediately, without any effort on his part, the signal came in clearly and strongly.

Help! Please help! Whoever you are out there, we desperately need your help. Please answer.

York frowned suspiciously at his console as the message repeated itself. He touched a switch and a clear picture formed on one of his screens: a middle-aged man with unkempt hair dressed in a wrinkled tunic and several days’ growth of beard.

York checked to see that the incoming signal was riding on an imperial encryption code. That was at least some sort of identification, so he touched another switch and broadcast his own picture on the same code.

At sight of York the man on the screen stopped speaking and his eyes widened. Who are you? he demanded.

York spoke precisely. "I’m Senior Lieutenant York Ballin of His Majesty’s Ship Invaradin, Captain Lord Alexiae Telyekev commanding. Please identify yourself."

Jerrik Lassen, the man said. Thank God you’ve come. We’d almost given up—

York interrupted him sharply. Please identify yourself fully. Where are you and what’s your function?

The man frowned. I’m a computer tech here at the embassy.

Which embassy?

Why, the imperial embassy here on Trinivan, of course.

Of course, York said. Now, what’s a comp-tech doing at a com station? And where’s your com-tech?

He’s dead, Lieutenant. A mob of locals literally tore him apart. Lassen shivered visibly. I’m filling in.

Who’s in charge?

His Excellency, Lord Frederick Cienyey.

Very good, Mr. Lassen. Now find Lord Cienyey and bring him here immediately. Captain Telyekev will want to speak to him.

I’m sorry, Lieutenant, Lassen pleaded. We haven’t been able to find his lordship for hours, but Mr. Harshaw’s somewhere about.

Who’s Harshaw?

He’s the vice consul.

York nodded. Then get him.

Right, Lassen said. He tore off his headset and stepped out of view.

York switched to Invaradin’s command channel. Sir, I’ve got Trinivan and it doesn’t sound good.

What happened to all that interference?

I don’t know, sir. It’s gone. My guess is the feddies are playing games with us.

Or perhaps … a new voice interrupted nastily, … there aren’t any Federals around here at all.

York cringed at the sound of third officer Commander Lord Mayhue Sierka’s voice. Sierka had joined Invaradin’s crew less than a year ago, and taken an immediate dislike to York. But I’m sure you’ll have some excuse, won’t you, Lieutenant?

The feddies are out there, York insisted. You can bet on—

No more excuses, Lieutenant, Sierka interrupted. You’re going to have to—

Enough! Telyekev barked. And don’t make excuses, York.

But sir, those feddies are out there. I know it.

We all make mistakes—you fewer than most—so don’t worry about it. Now what have you got on Trinivan?

York let it drop and spoke carefully. A dead com-tech, sir. And a half-hysterical comp-tech filling in for him. Sounds like chaos down there.

There you go, Sierka, Telyekev said, making excuses for York. That damn comp-tech probably doesn’t know a com from a weapons console. Probably caused that interference himself.

No doubt Your Lordship is right, Sierka said.

A new face appeared on the screen carrying the signal from the embassy: probably Harshaw, an unattractive man, with a flat face and wide-set eyes. Like Lassen’s, his face showed fear.

York spoke. I believe Vice-Consul Harshaw is ready for you, sir.

Good, Telyekev said. Put me on without introduction. And you stay in circuit.

York put himself and Telyekev on a split screen to Harshaw. Telyekev wasted no time. "I’m Telyekev, Invaradin’s captain. I assume you’re Harshaw?"

Harshaw nodded. He seemed to know instinctively now was not the time to speak.

We’re standing on full alert status, Harshaw, and neither of us has a lot of time. So bring me up to date fast, and don’t waste my time or yours with any bullshit.

For an instant Harshaw appeared offended, but he adjusted to the situation quickly. He swallowed once, then spoke carefully. We’re mixed up in a big power play on the part of some local politicos. For the last twenty years Trinivan’s been neutral, which is just another way of saying its government is loaded with factions that include hard core supporters of both the Syndonese and us imperials, and of course everything in between. But the in-betweens have lately been drifting toward the Syndonese, and the imperial sympathizers are now badly out numbered. And this unscheduled visit of Her Royal Highness was like throwing fuel on an already hot fire. She—

Her Royal Highness? Telyekev barked. You have a member of the royal family down there?

Harshaw frowned. Why, yes. I thought you knew.

I know nothing, Telyekev said. Following standard procedure we down-transited two days ago to check in with Fleet. They told us you were in trouble and you needed help. That’s all. Beyond that I am wholly unaware of the situation down there.

Harshaw nodded and visibly collected himself. The emperor’s daughter, Princess Aeya, arrived unannounced four days ago with an entourage of about fifty, apparently on a lark. Her arrival aggravated an already bad situation, though my intelligence sources suspect Directorate intervention here so I don’t believe she alone is responsible for this. In any case, whoever’s behind it started agitating shortly after she arrived and brought it to a head two days ago. With the active help of some local politicians, and the passive sanction of others, they whipped up a mob of several thousand supporters and stormed the embassy compound. They murdered about thirty of the embassy staff—literally tore them apart in front of our eyes—and ransacked most of the embassy. Those of us who are still alive are holed up in the top two floors of the main embassy building. The mob controls the bottom four floors. We’ve deactivated the lifts, and have about a dozen marines guarding the lift shafts and the two emergency stairwells at either end of the building. We have no food or water, no sanitary facilities, no medical supplies, and very little ammunition left for the few weapons we have. The situation is critical, and becoming more so by the hour. And the leaders of this mob started whipping it up as soon as you made transition, so they’re obviously being fed data by someone in the local government with access to off-planet scanning equipment. Something’s going to happen in the next hour, and when it does, we won’t be able to hold out for long.

What about feddies? Telyekev asked. Are they part of the mob?

Certainly there are Syndonese spies all over the place, Harshaw acknowledged, competing with all the imperial spies, I have no doubt. But as for any direct intervention by the Syndonese, I couldn’t say. We’ve been able to identify only a few of the mob’s leaders, and they’re all known locals with histories as empire haters.

Mr. Ballin, Telyekev said. Do you have any questions?

Yes, sir. I’d like to know if the mob is armed. And if so, with what kind of weapons?

They’re not heavily armed, Harshaw said. Not more than one in twenty, and their weapons are a mish-mash of knives, guns, and rifles of all sorts.

Any Syndonese issue weapons? York asked.

Harshaw shrugged. I wouldn’t know a Syndonese weapon from any other kind.

You’ve got a noncom in charge of your marines, don’t you? Ask him.

Right, Harshaw said. But he’s a she, and it’ll take a minute. He looked at Telyekev.

Go ahead, Telyekev told him. Lieutenant Ballin and I have to confer anyway.

York switched off the external audio. We’re off-line, sir.

Thank you, Lieutenant. Commander Rame. Compute a short transition hop into Trinivan nearspace.

Aye, aye, sir. But it’ll be difficult to be accurate. We’re already within nearspace.

Do what you can, Olin. Mr. Ballin, this is a job for your marines, don’t you think?

A cold knot formed in the pit of York’s stomach. Several months ago Invaradin’s marine CO had taken a bullet in the face. Telyekev wanted an experienced officer in command of them, so he’d made York acting marine CO. York wanted to snarl that they weren’t his damn marines, but instead he said politely, Yes, sir.

Very good, York. Mr. Sierka will relieve you at com. Telyekev looked at his screen. I see Harshaw’s back.

York switched on the audio. Harshaw needed no warning. Corporal Elkiss says she’s spotted several Syndonese issue weapons, though there aren’t too many, and they’ve all been projectile weapons, no power weapons.

Telyekev shook his head. Doesn’t really sound like feddies, does it York?

No, sir.

Telyekev shook his head. Any more questions, Lieutenant?

No, sir.

Then you’re dismissed as soon as Commander Sierka relieves you.

York’s hands trembled as he punched in a call to the marine ready-room. Master Sergeant Mieka Palevi, looking quite bored, appeared on one of his screens. The marines didn’t like regular navy, especially when they had to take orders from them, and the sergeant smiled with a special sneer he reserved for York.

Sir, Palevi said flatly.

There was never any small talk between them. One hundred marines, York said without emotion. Full battle kit, plast-armor, and a fifty-fifty mix of radiation and projectile weapons. Short-term rations. Hazardous situation, nonhazardous environment. Both assault boats fully manned and armed. Orbital drop to planetary surface, high G, crash priority. Got all that?

Palevi’s look of boredom changed to a smile. Of course, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?

York couldn’t put aside the fact that no one believed him about the feddies. Bring along two portable mortars and a couple of portable rotary blast cannons. And have you got any antipersonnel gas that’s unpleasant but nonlethal?

Palevi’s face broke into a broad grin. Oh yes, sir. Some real nasty stuff, sir. How do you want it? Grenades, mortars, or sprayed from the boats?

All of the above. And scramble on it. I’ll be down soonest.

Aye, aye, Cap’m, Palevi said, granting him the marine equivalent of his naval rank, though, as was customary among the marines he carefully mangled the pronunciation to distinguish it from Telyekev’s rank. The marines knew how much it bothered regular navy in general, and York in particular.

Sierka sat down in the seat next to York. You’re relieved, Lieutenant.

York lifted his hands off the console, acknowledged Sierka with a sloppy salute, stood and threaded his way through the darkened clutter of Invaradin’s bridge. He stepped into the personnel lift, cycled the lift hatch shut, and once alone he paused to retrieve a small container of pills from a sealed pocket in his fatigues. He crammed a half dozen phets into his mouth and swallowed hard.

He returned the container to his pocket and growled, "Hangar Deck, One Bay," and during the ride down he damned Telyekev a dozen times for making him acting-captain-of-marines. He was a ship’s officer. He didn’t belong in combat armor. Put him at a console, throw warheads at him that could crack a planet; that didn’t bother him half as much as stepping personally onto the soil of some godforsaken rock so some idiot with a rifle could take shots at him.

The lift door slammed open and York stepped out into service bay One. He caught a momentary glimpse of one of Invaradin’s two assault boats, appropriately named One, then someone slammed his chest plate hard against his ribs. He would have fallen but someone else behind him let him stumble into his back plate. They spun him about dizzily, dropped him into his leg plates and boots, checked his joints and seals. It was a routine they’d rehearsed many times, for he, unlike they, was forced to post duty as both ship’s officer and marine CO, and would never have time during an alert to stop by the ready-room for his gear. But it was more than that; it was a not-so-subtle reminder of who they were, and who he wasn’t. It was an insultingly familiar pair of hands—male or female—touching him momentarily where they had no right to touch him, all under the guise of checking his seals. It was insult, bordering on insubordination, but never in such a way he could call them on it.

Someone slammed his helmet down over his head, and while they were checking his neck seals someone else snapped the heavy reactor pack into place on his back. That done, the marines stepped abruptly away from him.

The suit began its initialization sequence, flashing readings and diagnostic data on the inside of his visor. He flipped the helmet visor up as Palevi stepped in front of him. Like York’s, his visor was up; he smiled and slapped a pistol into York’s hand. Yer sidearm, Cap’m, he said, grinning that special grin of his.

York suppressed a snarl, looked at the gun in his hand. Palevi had chosen a grav-gun for him. Its gravity field accelerated a small fragmentation shell up to something over Mach one. The shell would puncture armor, or flesh, then fragment. It frequently caused more damage than an explosive round.

York looked at the gun clipped to the sergeant’s thigh plate, a bluish-black, chemically-powered, heavy-caliber slug thrower. Every time York saw that gun he thought of the previous marine CO, a desk jockey assigned to Invaradin with lots of rank and no experience. The marines had gotten into a pinch on some jerkwater planet and their new CO called Invaradin for fire support. Unfortunately he didn’t know how to do so correctly, and Invaradin cut her own marines to pieces. After it was over the new CO was among the dead, though oddly enough no shrapnel had touched him. He’d been shot in the face by a chemically-powered, heavy-caliber slug thrower.

York gave his sidearm a quick once-over, snapped it into the clips on his thigh plate without fully inspecting it.

You had a chance to check out the news yet, Cap’m?

York looked at Palevi quizzically. When they’d down-transited the day before to check in with Sector, they’d received not only an urgent message to rendezvous with Nostran and the Diana and proceed with all haste to Trinivan, but also a standard transmission packet. York hadn’t had time to review it personally, but it would contain mail, promotions, reassignments, transfers, and an up-to-date summary of every newsworthy occurrence since they’d gone out on patrol. No, Sergeant, I haven’t.

Palevi’s grin broadened. Darant bought the farm eight days ago somewhere in Orion. It’s been confirmed.

York’s armor grew very warm. Who’s the new Senior Drop Officer?

Sadeline, Palevi said. "She’s on the Lonesome Star somewhere in this sector. You know, sir, with all your time on the clock, that moves you up to number two."

No it doesn’t, he growled. I can’t be SDO because I ain’t no goddamn marine.

Palevi shook his head. Don’t worry about it, Cap’m. The closer you get to SDO the less likely you are to get shot. The way I figure it, them feddies don’t wanna kill you until the reward’s good.

Shut up! York snarled. Visors down and seal ’em up, Sergeant. Short inspection and com check.

But, sir, we’ve already che—

I don’t give a damn. Do it.

Palevi saluted casually. Yes, sir, he said, then shouted orders at his marines. They lined up quickly in front of One, their rifles held out for inspection, visors down. Palevi spotted something he didn’t like, did more shouting.

Someone behind York cleared his throat politely. Um. Lieutenant?

York turned about slowly, found Canticle Thring dressed in the long, archaic robes of a churchman. York didn’t have much use for the church; among crew he was not unusual in that. What can I do for you, Canticle?

The man seemed almost frightened of York. I was wondering, Lieutenant, ah … if any of your people might care to be blessed before going into danger.

York shook his head, couldn’t believe the man would ask such a stupid question. Sorry. No time for that.

York turned back to Palevi and his marines, dropped his visor, felt his ears pop as his suit ran an automatic pressure check. A small square in the upper-right corner of the visor blackened and his suit computer displayed a stylized image of a suit of armor colored in green. A readout next to it told him they’d fully recharged the core of his reactor pack; he was carrying a capacity of well over fifty gigawatt-hours. Computer, he said. Status, physical, execute. The display on the inside of his visor changed to the silhouette of a naked man. The right knee and ankle were tinted a pale yellow; old wounds, old damage. The suit would keep the pressure seals around the knee and ankle slightly over-inflated to provide extra support, but short of cloning him a new leg he’d have to live with it.

He shrugged inwardly, keyed his com. Count off, Sergeant.

Count off, Palevi shouted.

One. Two. Three. Four, came the reply, each word spoken in a different voice. The damn marines were a breed apart. The empire couldn’t even keep them supplied in uniforms, but while their armor was patched and stained and blackened here and there, it functioned perfectly, like the marines themselves. They weren’t much to look at—not much to like, either—but when needed they functioned, and they functioned well. York had to admire them for that, if nothing else.

The count reached one hundred. York keyed his com. Sergeant, is Private Dakkart dropping with us?

Yes, sir. I worked out—

I thought we agreed she wouldn’t drop again.

We did, sir. But she’s one of my best. I need her, so I made a deal with her.

What kind of deal?

I’d rather not say, sir.

I’ll bet you’d rather not say! Anyone else I should know about?

Yes, sir. Private Stacy. New man, green as they come. This’ll be his first hot drop.

Both of them, York said. Front ’n’ center.

Palevi shouted orders into his com. Two figures broke ranks and sprinted forward to stand rigidly in front of York. They flipped their visors up, held their rifles out for inspection.

York’s ears popped again as he lifted his own visor, looked into the helmet of the shorter of the two. Female, not unattractive, with the fading remnant of a black bruise framing one eye. York kept his voice low. You’ve got Palevi to thank for one more chance. But if you get into another brawl on this ship you’ll never drop again.

She rightly said nothing.

York stepped sideways to stand in front of the new recruit. In the kid’s helmet, York saw a young face with blond hair and blue eyes, and a chin that barely needed shaving.

How old are you? York asked.

I’ll be seventeen next month, sir.

Palevi leaned forward. Excuse me, sir, he said politely. He turned to the boy, bellowed at the top of his lungs, The cap’m did not ask you how old you will be, private. He asked you how old you are. And when you speak to the cap’m you’ll address him properly. And I can’t hear you. Is that clear?

Sir, the boy screamed. Yes, sir.

Palevi stepped aside, spoke calmly to York, Sorry about that, sir.

York nodded, looked at Stacy again. How old are you?

Sir. Sixteen, sir, the boy screamed.

Who are you buddied with? York asked.

Sir. Mackin, sir.

York shook his head. Now you’re buddied with Private Dakkart here.

Dakkart broke discipline. But sir! I—

Palevi shouted her down. As you were, private.

Palevi, Dakkart, and Stacy all turned into statues of very silent stone as York said, See to the details, Sergeant.

York’s com came to life with Olin Rame’s voice. Stand by for transition. There was a pause, then Rame barked out a short countdown sequence. York felt Invaradin up-transit, then almost immediately down-transit. Another pause, then, Stable orbit in two minutes.

York suppressed the panic crawling up into his gut. Load ’em up, Sergeant.

Palevi shouted more orders. The marines split into two squads, Palevi in charge of one, and a female corporal named Tathit in charge of the other. Tathit double-timed her squad through an air lock to Two Bay. Palevi and his marines scrambled into One’s open hatch. York, the last to enter, took the commanding officer’s position immediately aft of the hatch, a small recess that allowed him to be the first out in the drop zone. Like the rest of the marines, he sat down, strapped himself in place and waited.

Cap’m, his helmet speaker said. This is Pilot Corporal Hackla. Bridge reports weather over the embassy looks good. High G drop, right sir?

York answered, Crash priority. And give me a full exterior scan.

Yes, sir. One moment, sir.

Hackla sent him a signal that blackened the inside of his visor, then showed the view forward of the gunboat: the open hatch of One’s now evacuated service bay, with just the edge of a blue-green globe showing in one corner.

Stable orbit and ejection in twenty seconds … nineteen … eighteen …

York stopped listening and spoke into his helmet without keying his com. Computer. Hi-gee dosage, maximum. Execute.

He felt a pinch in his neck as one of his suit injectors fired: a mix of G drugs, phets, aggression hypes, and a few other things the marines wanted in their mood of the moment.

They cut gravity in One Bay and York’s stomach rose up into his throat. A moment later Hackla activated One’s internal fields and his stomach dropped back into his bowels. A loud clang echoed through One’s hull as Invaradin’s docking boom pushed the boat gently out through the hatch.

You all right, Cap’m? Palevi asked.

York ignored him.

Don’t worry, sir, you’ll make a good marine yet.

Not if I can help it, York growled, then opaqued his visor, returning to the view forward of the boat. The bloated globe of a large planet now filled it almost completely.

Hackla’s count reached zero. With the internal fields of the boat compensating, there was no sensation of acceleration, but a small readout superimposed in one corner of York’s visor flickered and displayed a steadily rising number. After a moment it stabilized at thirty, and Hackla’s voice said, Shall I hold it at thirty G’s, sir? Can’t compensate beyond that.

Take it to the limit, York growled, Captain’s orders.

A large, heavy hand pressed on York’s chest, and the number on his display rose immediately to thirty-three. Three G’s internal, sir.

The number rose further. Five … Eight … Ten … Holding at ten.

York instructed his suit to give him another dose of hi-gee, concentrated on breathing slow, steady, deep breaths. Maneuvering, Hackla said. Going to fifteen gravities internal.

York cursed.

Eighteen G’s. Twenty …

York didn’t actually black out. By that time he was so loaded on phets he couldn’t lose consciousness, but he did drift off to a place where nothing seemed to matter, where he didn’t care that he was a lifer, that the only perk in his retirement package was a free burial in space.

His Majesty, Edvard the tenth, Duke de Lunis, King of the Nine Beasts, Commander-in-Chief of the nine fleets of the royal navy, guardian and protector of the people’s faith, beloved emperor of the Lunan Empire, sat in the dark of his office and waited, feeling powerless and impotent.

He was much younger in years than his appearance, but the constant strain of ruling a crumbling empire losing a two-hundred-year-old war had etched deep lines in an almost boyish face. And as so many times before in his thirty-eight years of living, he wished again he was not king and emperor.

A soft knock at the door pulled him out of his dismal reverie. He rubbed his eyes and commanded the computer, View. A display on his desk showed a tall and powerfully built man dressed in a naval uniform, unable to hide his impatience as he waited beyond the door.

Admit, Edvard commanded the computer.

The door swung open instantly. The naval officer entered at a brisk walk, his back straight, and at first glance one might think him to be in late middle age, but a closer inspection revealed the signs of a much older man. He stopped before Edvard’s desk, and holding a single piece of paper in his right hand he stood at rigid attention.

Edvard shook his head. Please drop the formalities, Theodore. You have some news?

Without relaxing the naval officer took the piece of paper in both hands and looked at it carefully. "Invaradin made transition into the Trinivanian system about an hour ago; they believe there are no Directorate ships in the vicinity. They’ve contacted the embassy and are trying to evacuate her personnel now, though the embassy reports approximately thirty dead so far. I’ve asked Invaradin to send us a complete list of casualties and survivors as soon as possible."

"What about her?" Edvard demanded.

The naval officer shook his head. I don’t know. I was afraid to ask about her specifically, don’t want to draw attention to her. We can’t afford even a hint of suspicion.

I know, Edvard said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I know. Who’s captain of the Invaradin?"

Alexiae Telyekev. Old-line nobility. Fifth son of the Earl of Seegat. No inheritance prospects so he’s made what he can of a commission. Basically a good man.

Can he be trusted?

Rochefort shrugged. "God knows, but I wouldn’t risk it. If she’s already dead, then he can’t help, and if she isn’t, then she’s not likely to come to harm now that Invaradin’s on hand. And one never knows who’s working for Admiralty Intelligence or the church. Don’t forget AI reports only to the Admiralty, not through the normal chain-of-command. And those bastards do what they damn well please."

Damn! How could it have gone so wrong? Years of careful planning, all for nothing.

"It’s not over yet. Invaradin’s a good ship."

What about Red Richard? Edvard asked. You told me yesterday he’s been operating in that area. And there’re rumors that he’s working with the Syndonese.

Rochefort shook his head. "Richard’s a Mexak, and pirates like easy pickings. I don’t think he’ll mix it up with Invaradin. I’m more concerned about the Syndonese. You know the riots on Trinivan began within hours of her arrival there."

Coincidence? Edvard asked.

Not likely. Somebody was tipped off.

Not from this side, Edvard said. There are too few of us who know.

It’s possible the Trinivanians are working with the feddies. I suspect Telyekev’s people are in a lot more danger than they realize.

Chapter 2: Long Ago

Atteeuun … shuuuuun!

The shout startled York Ballin and he tried to assume the correct posture, but the manacles on his wrists and ankles prevented him from standing properly rigid with his hands at his sides. There was some sort of commotion near the front of the crowd, but York was only twelve years old and the forest of tall uniformed strangers surrounding him blocked his view. He glanced at the female marine standing guard over him, and, as if she sensed his gaze, she looked down at him, her face devoid of expression, her eyes cold and unsympathetic. As you were, he heard someone say, and everyone relaxed.

Spacer Apprentice York Ballin, someone barked. Front’n’center.

The female marine nudged York unkindly.

He decided a look of simple innocence would be best. Edging forward among the elbows, he stepped out into the only clear space on Hangar Deck.

Behind a table sat three officers. York didn’t know them, but guessed the woman in the middle was the captain. He threw his shoulders back, did his best to stand very proper and rigid.

The captain took no interest in him. Her hair was neatly trimmed, and she wore a freshly pressed uniform open at the collar. She glanced at a comp-tablet on the table before her, leaned to her right for a moment to consult privately with the sharp-eyed male officer seated next to her, then turned her attention to York. She had soft, pleasant eyes, and York hoped he might have better luck with her than with the marine. At ease, Spacer Ballin.

York pretended to relax.

I am Captain Jarwith, and this is captain’s mast. Do you know what that means?

York shook his head. I’m sorry, ma’am, no.

She nodded. Then I’ll explain. Captain’s mast is an informal proceeding convened for the purpose of disciplining enlisted personnel. It allows me to correct certain deficiencies in my crew without resorting to a trial or court-martial. Do you understand?

Yes, ma’am, York said. No trial; it appeared the old broad was going to be an easy touch after all.

Good, she barked rather tersely. Again she looked down at the comp-tablet. Now it’s customary that a crewmember’s civilian past is not held against him, but I’m free to consider it if I choose. Four months ago, while stealing an old woman’s purse, you struck her on the head with a blunt object, causing her death. I don’t mind telling you, if you were to commit such a crime while under my command, I’d keelhaul you out to an appropriate set of coordinates then vent you.

York didn’t like the way her voice hardened as she spoke. I’m not the one who hit her. And what’s keelhauling? he asked. And what’s venting?

Her voice cracked angrily. "Pray you never learn.

Because of your age the civilian courts chose not to execute you, even though you had previously been arrested god knows how many times. And for reasons I still don’t understand, they pressed you into the navy instead of sentencing you properly, most unusual since the press gangs don’t ordinarily take capital offenders. But be that as it may, you joined this ship on the planet Dumark and since that time have been a continuing disciplinary problem for my subordinate officers. You’re conniving, deceitful and disobedient.

But I try, York lied in a pleading voice.

No you don’t, she said. Your civilian rearing has taught you if you can get beyond the moment, then you can repeat any offense you wish as often as you wish, and probably get away with it. But here that will not be the case. You committed an act of gross insubordination while this ship was on alert status. You disobeyed a direct order and struck the NCO in charge of your station.

But she hit me first.

Captain Jarwith’s eyes turned the color of steel. Don’t say anything more.

She paused, looked at him carefully for a moment, then barked out a sequence of staccato commands. I sentence you to thirty days unflavored protein cake and water, and thirty days suspension of pay. During that time you will be given the dirtiest, filthiest, most dangerous jobs on this ship, and when not on duty you will be confined in the brig. Do you have anything to say for yourself?

York stifled a sigh of relief. The punishment was a harsh one, but it evidently could have been worse. He tried to look deeply remorseful, thinking he could steal real food and wheedle his way out of the brig when needed. No, ma’am, he said.

She frowned. No doubt you think you can get around this punishment in some way. But you need to learn I have absolute power over your life, your very existence, and I will tolerate nothing less than absolute and instant obedience. And to teach you that lesson, I sentence you to fifty strokes of the lash.

York frowned. What’s a lash?

Jarwith’s eyes turned almost sympathetic, and there was no joy in her voice. The lash is a strip of hardened plast two millimeters thick, one centimeter wide and two meters long. Its method of use is … well … it’s really quite impossible to describe. She looked at the female marine guarding York and nodded. Sergeant.

Aye, aye, ma’am, the marine snapped crisply, then literally picked York up by the manacles on his wrists. He struggled but she cuffed him once across the jaw, then dropped him on his feet between the girders supporting two bulkheads. Two marines joined her and helped her manacle his wrists separately to the girders. York heard the unmistakable hum of a power knife as she cut away the back of his fatigues, then left him standing with his back bare and his arms spread wide.

An ominous figure stepped into York’s now limited field of view. It was human in shape, but encased head to foot in mottled gray-black plast, with a face hidden behind the silvery glare of a helmet visor. It was the first time York had ever seen a marine in full-combat plast-armor. Someone had made judicious use of black tape to obscure all identifying insignia, as well as the name stenciled on the marine’s chest plate.

The marine saluted Jarwith crisply. She returned the salute and handed him a long strap of transparent plast. He doubled it up in his right hand, then struck it against the armored gauntlet of his left. It cracked against the plast with a sharp snap, and York suddenly understood the lash.

The marine walked around him, behind him, out of his field of view. Jarwith remained in front of him, standing at arm’s length, her eyes filled with sadness. That scared York even more than had the whip-crack of the lash against the marine’s gauntlet.

I’m sorry, he pleaded. I didn’t mean to do it. I won’t do it again.

Jarwith shook her head and spoke without rancor. Yes you did and yes you will, though I do believe at this moment you are truly sorry. But if I let you go now, you won’t learn the lesson you need to learn.

She looked over York’s shoulder, nodded at the marine. You may proceed.

The metallic voice of the armored marine’s helmet speaker answered her. Aye, aye, ma’am.

There came an infinitesimal instant during which York had enough time to hope he was mistaken about the nature of this punishment. Then he heard a loud snap, and a pencil thin line of searing, white-hot fire etched itself with infinitely painful slowness across the back of his shoulders. His universe exploded, expanding like the fireball of a warhead in deep space, then shrinking again to that thin, narrow line of incandescent pain. He screamed and pulled violently at his restraints, had a nightmarish vision of his back splitting open to disgorge gouts of fire.

The instant ended, and the metallic voice of the marine’s helmet speaker said, One.

There came no delay now, no moment of respite. A second line of pain cut into York’s back, burning its way this time across his ribs, and he disappeared for an instant into a gulf of black nothingness.

Two, the marine barked.

The lash struck a third time, Three, and a fourth, Four. Each time the marine voiced the count, and each time the blackness of an unknowing vacuum swallowed York for a longer and deeper moment, while between the strokes he screamed and cried and begged for mercy. For a few strokes he screamed almost continuously, until finally he was unable to scream at all. Then the black gulf devoured him and he felt nothing more …

Awareness returned slowly. He still hung by the manacles between the bulkheads, too exhausted to whimper or cry. His back was a smoldering cauldron of fire, and he could no longer distinguish the pain of the individual strokes. In front of him the ship’s doctor stood facing Jarwith, an injector in his hand. That’ll keep him conscious, the doctor said to Jarwith.

Jarwith nodded. Any chance of permanent damage? It’d be a shame if he died.

The doctor shook his head. He’s young and strong. Probably be okay.

Again Jarwith nodded. Thank you.

The doctor stepped out of York’s field of view while Jarwith came closer and filled it completely. Her eyes were now deeply sad. The count stands at twenty-three, she said. I can’t let you pass out. You have to feel every stroke for it to do you any good, and you have to know I’m a hard woman with a hard job to do. And I want you to understand in the depths of your soul that I will do it.

He could see lines of strain around her eyes as she looked at him, and he felt oddly sorry for her. She reached into a pocket, pulled out a length of some odd, brownish material about as big around as her thumb and a bit longer. This is leather, she said. Real leather, the kind you don’t see any more, braided strips of treated cowhide. But then you probably don’t know what a cow is, do you?

Without another word she thrust the plug of material edgewise into York’s mouth. It tasted strangely unfamiliar. When the lash strikes again, she said, bite down on that. Bite down hard. It helps a little. Not much, but a little. Then she turned her back on him, walked a few paces away, turned to face him again, and called loudly, The count stands at twenty-three. Continue the sentence.

Chapter 3: Confrontation

Cap’m.

York came back from wherever he’d been.

We’re about two minutes out from the embassy, sir.

Without thought York said, Computer, hi-gee antidote, execute. There came the all too familiar pinch in the side of his neck, then relief as the hi-gee antidote flooded his system. Computer, status, global, execute. The inside of his visor flashed a detailed summary of his armor status: reactor pack levels and reserves; seal conditions; minor malfunctions flagged for repair at the next overhaul; maintenance status and schedules; his first aid reserves, which consisted primarily of drugs.

He put One’s outboard view on the inside of his visor, saw a large city sliding rapidly beneath One’s hull, a mix of old and new buildings. He keyed his com. When you get to the embassy, circle it once at three hundred meters and give me a pan of the entire compound.

Yes, sir.

Hackla kept them low, less of a target, skimming the rooftops of a semiresidential district. The tallest structure in the area appeared to be the main embassy building standing on the horizon dead ahead. The pilot banked to one side, began a turn while decelerating and lifting the nose to gain altitude. The view in York’s visor suddenly shifted to a camera in the side of the craft, and as they rose above the city they circled the embassy slowly.

The embassy compound consisted of one large, square, six-story structure, several smaller buildings that were probably residential, what looked like a small barracks, and a large garage for surface craft. The whole was surrounded by a stone wall about three meters high, with wide avenues between buildings that had probably been spacious gardens, but now seethed with a mob that overflowed the compound wall and spilled out into the streets beyond, a sea of faces that swelled and rippled like the waters of some human ocean.

As Hackla banked One and began dumping altitude, a sharp ping reverberated through the gunboat’s hull, some fool with a rifle taking shots at impers.

A small crowd of people were gathered on the roof of the tallest building waving frantically at One as it approached. Vents and climate control equipment cluttered the roof, but there were also several stretchers lined up. York keyed his com. Sergeant. Are you watching this?

Yes, sir.

Apparently our people control only the top two floors of that building. When we hit the DZ secure the roof and those two floors. There’s also a member of the royal family down there—one Princess Aeya, daughter of the emperor. Find her. Put one of your best people on her. Tell him to stay with her no matter what, and to keep her alive.

Think this is more than just a riot, Cap’m?

I’m not paid to think, Sergeant. Hackla, can you hover about ten centimeters above the roof?

You got it, sir.

York switched to the pickups on his helmet, which gave him the illusion of a transparent visor, though to someone facing him it would appear an opaque, shiny black. The boat’s drive whined for a moment, then steadied to a low hum. Cap’m, we’re zoned for drop.

York popped the clips on his safety harness, stood, stepped up to the hatch. He slapped the hatch release, and with a hiss and outrush of air the hatch slid quickly into the bulkhead. He stepped out, dropped to the embassy roof, heard his marines fanning out behind him. Palevi and Tathit knew what to do without York’s interference.

Harshaw stepped in front of him. Lieutenant Ballin, you can’t believe how happy we are to see you.

York flipped his visor up, and with it open the chant coming from the mob below was a deafening roar. Behind Harshaw a cluster of people were crowded about a single stretcher. Who’s on the stretcher? York asked.

Harshaw looked over his shoulder. Lady Sylissa d’Hart. She’s—

Where’s the princess?

Harshaw flinched at the interruption. She’s the young one, he said, indicating a young girl in her midteens, wearing an unadorned coverall, kneeling beside the stretcher. She was crying.

York stepped around Harshaw to the stretcher. The princess looked up and stood to face him. Harshaw bowed deeply. York bowed too, but in the armor he was limited to a much shallower bow, and he saw the princess’ eyes flash angrily at what she ignorantly considered an affront. She started to say something but stopped suddenly, and looking over York’s shoulder she demanded angrily, Where’s it going?

"One lifting, Hackla said on the com, clearing for Two."

There isn’t room for two boats on the roof, York said, not if it isn’t absolutely necessary. As an afterthought he added, Your Highness.

But Syl’s hurt, she pleaded, badly. We have to get her up to your ship now, before she dies.

I’m sorry, Your Highness. But I have to stabilize this situation before we can evacuate anyone. And we’ll need both boats if a fight starts.

Well, it’s up to you to see to it a fight doesn’t start. And Syl’s dying. I command you to evacuate her instantly.

Clearly, logic would have little influence on her. He keyed his com. This is Ballin. I want a medic on the roof immediately.

He stepped around the princess and bent over the woman on the stretcher. She was about York’s own age—midthirties—and in obvious pain, clutching one arm tightly to her chest. Somehow she forced a smile to her lips, managed to choke out, Sorry to be so much trouble.

York tried to give her a reassuring smile, though the way the phets chewed on his nerves it probably looked more like a snarl. At that moment, a female medic knelt down beside him.

Lady d’Hart, York said politely. May my medic examine your wound?

The woman nodded, apparently finding speech too difficult.

The medic went to work immediately, cutting away the bandages the embassy people had improvised.

Palevi’s voice spoke on York’s command circuit. Top two floors are secure, Cap’m. Where you want them mortars?

Here on the roof. I want to be able to target any place in the city.

Yes, sir. Uh, one more thing, sir. It’s real quiet down here all of a sudden. These fish are up to something. We’d better get the hell out of here, or start a fight.

Captain! the princess shouted at him. Don’t ignore me.

She was starting to get on his nerves. I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’m not ignoring you, but this is a very unstable situation we’re in and—

I don’t care. I command you to take Lady d’Hart up to your ship. Now.

York looked at the medic. How bad is the wound?

Fragment of a rifle slug, sir, just below the left breast about four centimeters under the skin. Didn’t do much damage, just some bleeding, which I’ve already stopped. Want me to remove it?

Is she critical?

Nah, the medic said, shaking her head.

Then don’t bother. Field prep it, give her something for the pain and report back to your squad.

Captain! the princess shouted. I demand that you obey me. Now.

Aeya … the injured woman groaned. Let Captain Ballin do his job. I’ve been waiting for several hours. I can wait a few more.

But Syl, the princess pleaded. You’re hurt, and in pain.

With the little snot distracted York took the opportunity to get lost. He grabbed Harshaw, growled, Stay close to me, and show me how to get below.

A large hatch in the roof opened onto a stairway that led to a small storage room filled with janitorial supplies; no sign of the maintenance robot that should have been there. Harshaw led him out into a hallway jammed with people, many injured, some badly. York turned on Harshaw angrily. How many people you got?

A little over a thousand.

A thousand? York demanded. I was told less than two hundred.

Imperial citizens, yes, Captain. The rest are Trinivanian locals who’ve—

Then start cutting out the locals.

But the Trinivanians have to be evacuated too—

No locals, York growled. Imperial citizens only.

That brought a mixed reaction from the crowd. On many of their faces the already visible fear turned to near panic, and anger.

But Captain. You don’t understand—

I said no locals.

But that’s a death sentence for these people. As Harshaw spoke, the princess stepped out of the janitorial closet behind him. These people were part of the embassy staff. If we leave them behind that mob’ll tear them apart. The Empire is responsible for their lives.

We refuse to abandon them, the princess added. Not one member of the embassy staff will board your shuttle if the Trinivanians are not included.

York looked at her carefully. She was just young enough to be just stupid enough to mean what she said, though at the look on Harshaw’s face he wondered if the embassy staff felt as strongly about it as she. Oh hell! he thought. He could drag her onto one of the boats, but that would only get him court-martialed. I have to ask my captain, he said, and without waiting for a reply he flipped his visor down and keyed Invaradin’s command frequency. "Invaradin. This is Ballin."

The wait was much longer than would have occurred had there been anyone else at the com console. What do you want, Lieutenant? Sierka demanded unhappily.

We’ve got problems down here. I need to speak with the captain.

Captain Telyekev is busy.

Please tell him I wish to speak with him.

He’s too busy to be bothered—

York interrupted him. I’m asking you, the communications officer, to relay an urgent message to my commanding officer while we are on alert status. York had to quote regulations at Sierka to get anywhere. Failure to do so at the earliest possible convenience can be construed as dereliction of duty in the face of the enemy.

There was a pause. And you, Lieutenant, are insubordinate.

York didn’t answer. He waited, and it took even longer to get a reply this time, but Telyekev finally came online. York explained the situation quickly, though through his visor he could see that, for Her Highness, it was not quick enough.

She’s right, Telyekev said. They’re our responsibility. What do you suggest?

"I don’t know, sir. Our assault boats are too small; we’d have to make too many trips. Take too long. Maybe the Diana. She’s got to have a cargo shuttle big enough to carry them up in three or four trips. At the same time we can send imperial citizens up in the boats, and we marines can follow last."

You’ve got it, Lieutenant. Anything else?

Yes, sir. That cargo shuttle can’t hover over the roof like our boats. She’ll have to put down on the lawn, and that means I have to secure the entire compound.

"I understand, Lieutenant. I’ll have the Diana’s shuttle awaiting your orders. And try not to damage too many of the locals."

A burst of automatic weapons fire erupted up the stairwell from below. York crouched against the wall on the fifth floor, watched the burst tear into the ceiling above, splattering chips of masonry across the debris strewn floor. In reply one of his marines slung the muzzle of his rifle blindly over the edge of the stair and cut loose with a burst of his own.

York keyed his com, tried to sound confident. All set, Sergeant?

All set, Cap’m, Palevi answered.

York dropped his visor. His armor seals inflated and his ears popped. He keyed his com. Visors down and seal ’em up. Tathit, check in.

Corporal Larwa Tathit was on