A Choice of Treasons (19 page)

The man nodded. “I assume you’ve heard of me?”

York had heard the name, though he knew nothing of the man himself. “Of course, sir.”

“Good. That’ll make things simple.” Andow nodded at the screen in front of him. “I’ve been looking over your file. I’d like to discuss it with you.”

“Certainly, sir. But may I ask why?”

Andow frowned at him as if he were impertinent. He spoke slowly. “Your captain asked Her Majesty to intervene for you with the promotion board at Fleet. Her Majesty, in turn, asked Her Highness and me to look into the matter in detail and recommend a course of action.”

York had to assume that by
Her Highness
, Andow meant the old queen mother.

Andow’s eyes returned to the screen, and without looking at York he said, “From what I see here, before joining the navy, you were essentially a juvenile delinquent with a police record of petty crimes, minor burglaries, and thefts. Then, at the ripe old age of twelve, you mugged an old woman and killed her. The king’s bench gave you a choice between convict labor and the navy. I suppose you chose the navy for the obvious reasons?”

York had the feeling nothing he said would make this man happy. “I didn’t choose. I wasn’t given a choice. I was handed papers to sign and I signed them. They turned out to be enlistment papers and I was in the navy.”

Andow touched a few keys on the terminal, flipping through York’s file. “And for the next two years you had a spotless record. Were you so inspired by naval service that you gave up your life of crime instantly?”

“No, sir, I made some mistakes. But I was taught some rather harsh lessons, and I learned quickly.”

Andow nodded. “I’ve heard justice on a deep space man’o’war can be quite cruel.” He looked at York for a reaction, and when none came he continued, “So you served aboard the cruiser
Africa
for two years. What were your duties?”

“When I wasn’t learning to be a pod gunner I scrubbed decks, shined boots, cleaned the head.”

“I see,” Andow said, keying through the file on the screen in front of him. “You were a lower deck pod gunner. Saw quite a bit of action too. And then—and this is quite amazing—you were on the
Africa
at the infamous battle of Sirius Night Star. The
Africa
took heavy damage; you were wounded and placed aboard the hospital ship
Andor Vincent
.”

For the first time the old woman behind Andow moved. She leaned forward, the light caught her face and York saw her eyes: harsh and disapproving. “Wasn’t that the ghost ship? I thought that was a myth, legend.”

Andow turned respectfully toward her. “The
Vincent
is certainly legendary, but it did actually exist. When the Ninth Fleet was wiped out at Sirius Night Star, the
Vincent
was damaged and her crew killed, with Mr. Ballin here and a few hundred of his comrades suspended in her critical life support tanks. The
Vincent
was lost, her crew dead, but her tanks were still functioning and controlled by her central computer. To conserve power the computer shut down everything but the tanks, and she might have drifted that way for centuries had not a tramp freighter, through sheer luck, discovered her two years after the battle.”

Andow turned back to York and looked at him carefully. “About half the people in the tanks were still alive, Lieutenant Ballin here among them. A certain amount of legend, and a lot of stories, and quite a few rumors have developed around the survivors of the
Vincent
. I’ll venture a guess few of Mr. Ballin’s present friends know of his past.”

Andow paused, apparently expecting a response from York. Again York said nothing, Andow looked at the screen and continued, “In any case, Mr. Ballin was the youngest of the survivors, and apparently there was some desire to observe him closely as he adjusted to the loss of two years of his life, so they stuck him in the Naval Academy at Mare Crisia on Luna.”

Andow shook his head thoughtfully. “Life is truly amazing! A fifteen year old, juvenile delinquent, lower deck pod gunner, spacer second class, through a fortuitous set of circumstances, is enrolled in an institution that regularly turns down the sons and daughters of some of the most influential people in the empire.” He looked at York. “What a stroke of luck. But you didn’t make much of your luck, did you, Mr. Ballin?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

Andow looked at his screen. “You did rather poorly, graduated at the bottom of your class, barely graduated at all, in fact. A most undistinguished naval ensign. And since then you’ve had a mediocre career. You fought in most of the major battles of the last fifteen years, gained experience on just about every kind of ship we have, distinguished yourself a few times, but by and large you’re just another officer. At least until the de Mercus thing. They wanted to hang you for that.”

York tried to keep his voice even. “That was six years ago. And I only did what I had to.”

“What were you thinking, Lieutenant, assaulting a superior officer, the son and heir of one of the nine ruling Dukes of this empire?”

York didn’t like Andow, and for some reason he wanted to goad him a bit. “I thought the king ruled the empire.”

Andow shrugged that off. “Answer my question, Lieutenant.”

York kept all expression out of his face. “First, he was not a superior officer. He carried the same rank as I, so I was his superior by virtue of seniority. Second, he was incompetent. He would have gotten us all killed, let the
feddies
overrun us. Third, I didn’t assault him. I merely prevented him from getting us all killed, and he later colored the events quite liberally.”

Andow shook his head sadly. “I suppose that’s the only thing that saved you. But you still drink too much, and you’ve developed a dependency on combat drugs.”

“What are you trying to tell me, sir?”

Andow considered that question for a moment and the silence hung like a heavy weight about York’s shoulders. “I’ve looked closely at your record, Lieutenant. For the most part you’ve served the empire well, but you’ve demonstrated no leadership capabilities, you’ve unwisely developed certain dependencies, at least once you were guilty of insubordination and assault on a superior—fellow—officer. All of that, combined with certain questions concerning the mental stability of the survivors of the
Andor Vincent
, preclude any possibility of your advancement to command rank.”

There it was, the final sentence, pronounced with such ease. “Is there nothing I can say to change you mind, sir?”

York saw the answer in the senator’s eyes before he spoke, because in Andow’s mind York was nothing more than a thirty-five year old,
juvenile delinquent, lower deck pod gunner, spacer second class
. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“Just like that?” York asked. “You’re going to trash my career just like that?”

“No,” Andow said. “If your career has been damaged, you have only yourself to blame.”

“Me?” York shouted. “I’ve been fighting
feddies
for this damn empire for twenty-two years, and—”

“Lieutenant!” Andow barked. “Control yourself.”

York swallowed his anger, forced himself to speak calmly. “Will that be all, sir?”

Andow nodded. “You may go.”

York slammed the door on his way out.

York stormed through the room with the books and the empty desk, out into the corridor beyond. But there he came to a sudden and complete halt. Right or left? There was nothing to distinguish one direction from the other: a dark hall, a lot of closed, unmarked doors.

“Lieutenant,” a soft feminine voice called from within the room at his back.

He spun about. The Dubye woman stood there proudly, and again the elaborate mask of makeup pulled his eyes down to her breasts. He wondered if she’d chosen the design for just that purpose. Certainly they were breasts worth the attention.

“Where’s the servant?” he asked.

“I dismissed him.”

He revised his opinion. Her voice was not soft, but husky and sensual. “How do I get out of here?”

“I’ll show you the way.”

“Okay,” York said, forcing his eyes away from her breasts. She seemed disappointed that he succeeded. “I need a drink,” he added. “Something strong. Not that garbage they’re serving in the ballroom.”

“Follow me,” she said, a predatory smile on her lips. She stepped past him into the hall, purposefully brushed against him, and as he followed her he couldn’t take his eyes off her hips. She led him into a corridor far different from the one they’d just left. Here the lighting fell from ornate lamps suspended from the ceiling, rather than flat, dimensionless illumination panels. The carpet was thick and plush and the walls decorated with paintings.

She chose a door, pressed her hand against the lock. The door clicked open and she stepped through it, leaving it ajar. York followed her, closing the door behind him.

He stood still for a moment with his back to the door. He was in a lady’s sitting room, decorated in soft muted colors. No doubt there was a bedroom attached to it, but the sitting room alone was larger than the largest captain’s cabin on any ship he’d ever served.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, dropping into an odd piece of furniture half bed, half couch.

“This place is big,” he said. “Is this your suite?”

She shrugged. “Part of it. Though this is rather Spartan compared to what I’m accustomed to.”

He scanned the room. “Impressive.”

“Of course. Appearances, Lieutenant. We here live by them. Status. One displays one’s power, one exercises it, or one loses it. You wanted a drink?” She pointed to a small bar across the room. “Fix me one too.”

York walked to the bar with the uncomfortable feeling she was inwardly laughing at him. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she said. “And like you, I want it strong.”

York found a bottle of real Lunan gin, not
trate
, probably good stuff. He put some ice in two glasses and splashed the gin over it. The Dubye woman accepted hers with an inviting smile. She toyed with it, swirling the ice about with a finger. York gulped at his.

“Tell me, Lieutenant. What was Trinivan like?”

York was in no mood to mince words. “It was a bloody mess, especially with that bitch Aeya in the way.”

“Ah yes,” she said, laughing. “Her Highness can be . . . troublesome. But what about the people? Did you kill many?”

York thought about the hallways in the embassy on Trinivan, a memory that wouldn’t fade. He gulped the rest of his drink. “It was slaughter, plain and simple.”

“How many did you kill?”

York shrugged, returned to the bar for another drink. “Must have been three, four hundred. Those power rifles make a bloody mess.”

He didn’t bother with the ice; just poured the gin. “I don’t understand how they ever thought they could stand against seasoned imperial regulars.”

“How many did you kill? I mean you, personally?”

York turned about, looked at her carefully. A glint of excitement danced in her eyes. “What kind of question is that?”

She stood, crossed the room and positioned herself with her breasts almost touching his chest. “I’m just curious,” she said, but he could see there was far more to it than curiosity. “I heard about the woman you killed.”

“She had a gun,” he growled defensively. “She put a slug right in the middle of my visor. So I blew her away, god damn it! And I’d do it again.”

“I’ve heard about you marines,” she said. “You have a reputation for being quite . . . bloodthirsty.” Her face flushed with excitement, she reached up slowly, and with her fingertips gently traced the scars about his eye. Her voice came out in a tense and throaty whisper. “What’s it like to be that close to death? To think you’re going to die? What’s it like to lie in your own blood?”

York stepped away from her, became conscious again of her breasts. And oddly, her nipples seemed more prominent beneath the filmy little gown.

She stepped toward him and her breathing quickened, shallow and hot on his face. “What’s it like to kill someone face to face? Tell me about it. These others, they kill from inside a ship from vast distances. But you, you’re there. You see the face of the person you’re about to kill.”

She took the last step and her breasts flattened against his tunic. He put his arm around her. “Tell me about it, please. Tell me what it’s like in that instant before you kill them.”

She pressed her pelvis against his thigh, undulating slowly. He kissed her; some of her makeup got on his tongue and it sent a charge through him, a mixture of anger and passion. He bent down, kissed one of her nipples through her gown, then bit it. She quivered, groaned. “Tell me, please. Does time slow? Do you see the fear on their faces? Can you feel the fear on your own?”

She dropped her drink and it crashed to the floor. He dropped his, pulled her gown down about her shoulders, and with his tongue traced a ring around her nipple. The makeup there had an odd taste to it, made his head swim.