A Choice of Treasons (15 page)

The com-tech’s voice showed a little interest. “You people sure are cautious. How long you been out?”

“Six months,” York said.

They made a short transition hop into Dumark
nearspace
. A big convoy was staging for transit to Cathan the following day. Dumark was a large agricultural concern out on the periphery of the empire, close enough that a
feddie
strike was unlikely, but far from the worlds of the inner empire. Cathan was two hundred light-years deeper in. York hadn’t been that deep into the empire in ten years, and thinking of Cathan made him a little melancholy.

Invaradin
waited in a holding orbit for three hours, though it would have been longer if the princess hadn’t been on board. When the docking gantries clanged into place they slaved into Dumark Station’s power, cut their power plant back to standby, broke seal, and were officially docked.

Anyone wounded on Trinivan was given immediate leave, while the rest remained on duty to get
Invaradin’s
repairs going smoothly. Back in his cabin York scrounged through his locker for a decent uniform, but everything was patched or badly worn. The best he could do was combine the trousers from his day blacks with the tunic from his grays.

York glanced in the mirror; there was nothing he could do about the chrome eye and scars. He’d put off the cosmetic work repeatedly, taken stubborn pleasure in the discomfort the sight gave the civilians. York got what he wanted: they’d avoided him with a vengeance. But he’d waited too long, and now Alsa Yan didn’t have any time for him. “Maybe in a few days,” she’d said.

The civilians on Dumark Station had the same reaction: some stared, most looked away. Even some of the military people had trouble looking him in the face. The ticket teller at the shuttle dock refused to look at him after doing so once. “Janston,” York said. “It’s on North Continent. Small agro coop.”

“What’s it near?” the teller asked.

York reached into his memory. He hadn’t gone back there in twenty years. “Nearest big city is Bowenhead.”

“Here it is,” she said, reading data off her screen. “Population: ten thousand. And you say this Janstown is even smaller?”

“Janston,” York corrected her. “And yes, it’s small.”

She scanned the data on her screen for another minute, finally said, “I can’t find any reference to it. Best I can do is get you to Bowenhead. There’s a shuttle leaving here in about two hours that’ll drop you into Andermay. From there it’s about a hundred kliks to Bowenhead via surface transit. Then you’re on your own.”

York thanked her, paid for his ticket, and six hours and half a world later was standing outside the transit depot in Bowenhead. It was a dingy, old place, badly in need of maintenance. There were no facilities for renting a vehicle, and only a few cabs, but none willing to take a passenger to the middle of nowhere. He finally found one fellow driving an old-fashioned, four-wheeled vehicle that coughed and spit obnoxious fumes. The vehicle’s owner demanded double the round trip fare.

“What you want to go to Janston for?” the old man asked once they were under way. There was something vaguely familiar about him. “Ain’t nothin’ there for a big-shot officer like you.”

The man’s voice kept plucking at some memory. “Just want to look up some old friends,” York said.

“I used to live in Janston, long time ago. What’s their names? I might know how to find ‘em for you.”

It felt strange to speak the names of his foster parents after so many years. “Maja and Tollem Zoa.”

“The Zoa’s eh? Ya. Sure. I know ‘em, or at least of ‘em. Sour old Maja and her crazy old husband Toll.”

The cab driver was right about Maja. But Toll? Good old Toll wasn’t crazy. York wanted to hear what else the driver knew. “Didn’t they have a foster son lived with ‘em some years back?” he asked.

“Ya,” the cab driver said. “Long time ago. Rotten kid. Always in trouble. No good. Come to a bad end, if I remember correctly. Tried to rob somebody. Fucked it up and killed ‘em instead.” The cab driver shook his head. “Ya. I’m remembering now. Judge sent him into convict labor, or into the navy, or something like that. Don’t know which.”

“He joined the navy,” York said.

“Oh ya?” the cab driver asked. “How’d you know that?”

York didn’t answer. The cab driver looked back at York and frowned at his uniform. Then he turned carefully back to face the road and they finished the trip in silence.

Janston was not what York remembered, though he didn’t remember much more than a hateful old woman, and a friendly old man. The place was tired, run down and shabby. The cab driver stopped in front of a small agro supply store, said, “This is it.”

York said, “I thought the Zoa’s were croppers.”

The driver shook his head. “Not for ten, twelve years now. They never were much good at cropping, so now they run the supply.”

York paid the driver and dismissed him, then stopped to look the place over. It needed paint, and repairs, and . . . He shook his head, pushed gingerly on the archaic, old, hinge mounted, spring loaded door at the front of the store, stepped into a large, dimly lit room with racks and shelves half filled with supplies and equipment. A layer of dust coated everything. Evidently Maja and Toll were no better at managing an agro supply than they were at cropping.

He let go of the open door and the spring slammed it shut with a loud bang. “Be with ya in a minute,” a female voice called. Some seconds later Maja appeared out of a back room. She was older now, but the sour and hateful expression on her face had not changed.

She looked at York suspiciously. “Good afternoon, yer lordship. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not a nobleman,” York said.

“Right,” she grunted. “I still need to know what you want. I can’t guess what some highfalutin admiral wants here in a agro supply.”

“I’m not an admiral either,” York said. “Just a lieutenant.”

“I still need to know what you want.”

York didn’t know what he wanted. He’d been on Dumark a dozen times in the last twenty years, and each time he’d thought about coming to see them, but always found some reason not to. He considered making up an excuse and leaving without identifying himself, but instead he blurted out, “I came to see you and Toll.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What you want with us? We ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“No,” York said. “You’re not in any trouble. I just came to visit. I’m York Ballin.”

She jumped as if stung, and her eyes narrowed even further. “The hell you say!” She stepped back warily, but leaned forward and squinted at him. After a moment she shook her head. “Well I guess you are. What you come back for? We ain’t got nothin’ you can have.”

“I don’t want anything,” York said. “I just came to visit.”

“What for?” she asked. “Why now, after all this time?”

York shrugged and shook his head. “I just . . . thought I’d visit.”

She squinted at him harder, dripping with suspicion, stood that way for what seemed an eternity, then suddenly nodded over her shoulder, spun about and walked toward the back of the store. “What the hell! Come on back. At least Toll’ll like seeing you again. We’re eating dinner. I suppose you want some for yourself. Probably still eat like a protein processor.”

York followed her, stepping into a dark passage that led to the back of the store. They crossed through a small living room, littered and unkempt. Maja had never been much of a housekeeper.

In a tiny kitchen Toll sat at a table that dominated the room, a plate of food in front of him, Maja’s plate nearby. He, like Maja, was much older than York remembered: grayish-white hair, the skin of his face lifeless and fleshy. His attention was devoted to a portable vid sitting on the table in front of him, blaring something loud and noisy. He took no notice of York and Maja, stared blankly at the screen and giggled now and then at something, picked at the food in front of him.

Maja leaned over and shouted into one of his ears, “Look who’s here.”

He took no notice, continued to stare at the screen even as Maja grabbed a third plate and threw it onto the table with a crash. “Look who’s here, you crazy old man.”

She looked at York. “Sit down and eat.”

York obeyed, feeling oddly like the twelve-year-old boy who, twenty-two years ago, had obeyed the same sour commands barked in the same harsh voice.

She threw some food on his plate, then, sitting down herself, she reached out and turned off the vid.

Toll whimpered and looked at her.

“York’s here,” she shouted at him.

Toll frowned. “York?”

“York Ballin. The boy, you old fool.”

Toll’s head turned toward York slowly, his face vacant and lifeless. York wanted to cry; strong silent Toll, able to withstand even Maja’s strongest tongue lashing with an indifference York had always admired, reduced by the years to this whimpering old man.

“York?” he asked again.

“Hello, Toll,” York said.

Toll started as recognition hit him. “York boy?” He smiled, and for an instant the old Toll was there, then just as quickly he was gone and the shabby old man returned. It was the shabbiness that bothered York most.

“Eat,” Maja barked.

Toll obeyed.

York looked at the food. “I’m really not hungry.”

“It’s on your plate so eat it.”

York ate. It was the lowest quality of protein cake and dark, bitter synthetic caff. It had almost no taste, but he ate it anyway.

They ate in silence, interrupted only by an occasional bark from Maja. When the meal was done she cleared the table, dropped the leftovers into the recycle processor and the dishes into the sterilizer, then left without a word. And York and Toll sat in silence.

After what seemed an eternity Toll finally moved. He reached out hesitantly, like a child afraid he might be slapped down, and touched the sleeve of York’s tunic. He fingered the stripes there gently. “Navy boy,” he said.

“Yes,” York said. “I’m a lieutenant on the cruiser
Invaradin
. She’s a good ship.”

“Do you go see stars?” Toll asked.

York nodded. “Yes. Sometimes. But mostly we just fight
feddies
.”

Toll nodded mechanically, looked at the silent vid longingly, then fearfully at the door through which Maja had disappeared. York understood now, as he and Toll had always understood one another. But he wondered if the old man could still understand him after all these years, especially with what he wanted to ask.

“Toll,” he said tentatively, trying to get the old man’s attention, reaching far back into the memories of a frightened, six year old boy, who, all those many years ago, had clutched desperately to the one familiar person in a world turned strange and foreign. It had been a man’s hand he’d held so tightly that night. Not a father’s hand, not someone he’d loved or longed for, but a face and a voice that was, at least, familiar when he’d needed familiarity most.

“Toll?” he asked. “Do you remember the man who brought me here? I was six years old at the time. That was twenty-nine years ago. I’ve tried to remember his name. It was something like
Matches
. Do you remember?”

“Matches?” Toll asked.

“Yes,” York said eagerly. “Matches. Was that his name?”

Toll nodded. “Matches. Yes. Matches.”

“Are you sure?” York asked. “It was a Lunan name—inner empire. Matches . . . or Mathis . . . or something like that.”

“Yes,” Toll said, nodding idiotically. “Mathis.”

“What you asking him for?” Maja snarled, standing in the doorway. “He can’t remember yesterday, let alone thirty years ago. And why you wanna know anyway?”

“I was just curious,” he lied.

“Well he don’t remember.”

“Do you?” asked York.

“O’course not. That was thirty years ago for me too. The man brought you. Said we was to tell everyone you was my dead sister’s boy. Sent cash money every month. Said if we told anyone about him, or didn’t raise you right, he’d take you away and the money would stop. Money stopped anyway once you went away to the navy.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at York angrily. “We needed that money. Bad we needed it. And that’s all. There ain’t no more to tell.”

That night Maja fixed up a cot for York, but he didn’t get much sleep. He lay awake most of the night, angry at himself for wasting his time on an idiotic quest for information thirty years dead. He managed to get a few hours of restless sleep near dawn, then got up quietly with the sun and decided to leave without saying good-bye. He was sneaking out through the store when he caught sight of the small comp terminal at the counter there, and on impulse he sat down and punched in a call to
Invaradin
.

Krass Doanne was on com watch and her face appeared on the screen. She was junior enough to obey most any order York gave her short of outright mutiny or treason. “Route me through ship’s Central . . .” he said, “. . . into Dumark’s central banking computer. And don’t flag me as an indirect.”

She looked at him narrowly. Such a request was highly improper, and only marginally legal. “Yes, sir,” she said