A Choice of Treasons (28 page)

“Bartender,” Paris called.

The bartender turned away from a conversation with a young woman, walked the length of the bar and stopped in front of them. “What’ll you have?”

Maggie, Paris and Frank placed their orders, then they looked at York, and suddenly it was all too much for him. “Do you have
trate
,” he asked.

The bartender shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to see.”

York leaned forward, grabbed him by the collar, pulled him half way over the bar and growled in his face, “Then go see right now. And make damn sure you find some, and put it in front of me undiluted with a pitcher of water and an empty glass next to it.”

The bartender nodded. York let go of him and he stood up, straightened his tunic and began rummaging beneath the bar. After a rather extensive search he produced a bottle of undiluted
trate
. It wasn’t large, but there was enough there to get a dozen grown men very drunk. York poured some into the empty glass, then diluted it with water, only enough to be sure it wasn’t lethal.

Maggie touched his sleeve. “Should you do that?”

York looked at her. “No. I shouldn’t.” Then he tossed the drink down.

York came to slowly, just opened his eyes and lay in his bunk for a long time without moving, waiting for his hangover to go away so he could get up and get another drink. He and Frank and Maggie and Paris never did get that dinner. They’d waited more than six hours, with their reservations constantly pushed back, slowly drinking themselves into a stupor, until the usually cautious Frank was ready to start a fight. Maggie and York talked him out of it, dragged him back to his cabin and put him in his bunk. Then York staggered back to the marine barracks, pilfered an issue of emergency rations, sat down at a poker game and forced the rations down with more
trate
.

He didn’t remember much of the poker game, though he had a vague recollection the marines had merely continued the party started in the
Drop Zone
. Even Salley was there. Being ex-marine, she’d understood right away the kind of attack coming down on Dumark, and she’d figured her best chances were off planet.

He rolled over, realized someone was lying next to him, though it took some effort to recall the pretty young buck private, one of Yagell’s people from the
Nostran
. He was on the high side of the gravity bunk, so he had to crawl over her to get out. He was clumsy about it, and she opened her eyes groggily while he straddled her. “Again?” she asked. “I’m too tired. Let me go back to sleep.”

He didn’t try to correct her.

He fell clumsily out of the gravity bunk, landed on his ass on the deck, threw up all over himself. Vomiting didn’t make him feel any better. He needed something to eat.

He pulled on some pants, staggered out of his cabin, and what he found brought him up short. The place was a mess, the deck littered with spilled drinks, soggy cards, unconscious marines. He walked unsteadily through the debris. He’d never seen such rotten discipline before. How could Sierka have let them come to this? What kind of commanding officer was he?

“Eh cap’em.”

The voice startled York and he spun toward it, found corporal Elkiss lying in a corner trying to pour herself another drink. “Thanks fer the party, Cap’em,” she said. “Ya know. Yer the best damn CO I ever had. A fuckin’ good marine.”

York stared at her, and wondered how he could have let them come to this, and what kind of a commanding officer he was. Elkiss held up her drink. “Join me, Cap’em.”

York’s head started to pound and he found it difficult to breathe. The distance between them was only a few paces, but it took forever to cross it, and when he got there his hand reached out of its own accord, swung out in a roundhouse arc and knocked the glass from her hand. It clattered across the room, making an awful racket and spilling
trate
over the deck. He leaned over and screamed in her face, “Get off your ass. Get off your fuckin’ ass right now and stand at attention. That’s an order.”

Elkiss stumbled over herself trying to get up, and he kicked her once in the ass for her clumsiness. While she was trying to straighten up he caught movement out of the corner of his eye: another half-conscious marine sprawled on the deck, groggily demanding, “Wass all the racket?”

York jumped on the poor man, grabbed him by his tunic, lifted him to his feet, slammed him against a bulkhead and screamed into his face, “Attention, you idiot. That’s what all the racket’s about. I’m giving you a fucking order.”

The marine turned several shades of green, but managed to stay on his feet, locked his knees to hold himself up. Next to him lay an unconscious marine, so York slapped and kicked him until he crawled to his feet. By that time there were a dozen of them awake, looking at him queerly. “I want everyone awake,” he shouted at them. “On their feet and standing at attention.”

They all hesitated for a moment. “That’s an order,” he screamed. “On the double.”

That, they understood. They didn’t move fast but they moved, and they got the job done. They woke up a dozen more, put them to work waking up more, and in that way it snowballed. At one point the pretty young marine who’d been sharing York’s bunk appeared in the hatchway to his cabin, wrapped in a blanket. He grabbed her by the arm, spun her violently toward a group of marines. She lost the blanket and he made her stand there at attention naked. She wasn’t the only one.

York finally blew himself out, exhausted himself screaming and shouting and kicking until they were all conscious, standing at attention and distributed randomly throughout the barracks, most of them swaying a bit unsteadily. At some point Palevi had appeared from his cabin and gone about calmly helping York wake everyone up. And then, with all the marines standing at attention, the sergeant had thrown his own shoulders back and stood rigidly, and straight, and unwavering, though he didn’t look to be in any better shape than the rest of them.

An eerie silence descended on the place, and for a long moment York didn’t know what to do next. He was about to shout something else when he remembered the CO never shouted. If there was shouting to be done, he had NCO’s for that. He looked at Palevi and spoke calmly, “Sergeant. I want this place cleaned up. And I want these people cleaned up. Full inspection in two hours. And post guards at the corridor.”

Palevi smiled, not a sneer, nor his usual knowing look, but perhaps, this time, approval.

It took them three hours, not two. They were all too hung-over to work efficiently, and it took everything they had to get the job done, but get it done they did. York helped—it wouldn’t do for him to disappear into his cabin while the rest of them were suffering under his orders, especially since it was his own lack of discipline that had allowed them to get in such shape in the first place.

They really weren’t ready when he started the inspection, but he went through the motions anyway, walked through it without actually inspecting anything closely, then he pulled Palevi into his office and shut the door. “Let them get some rest,” he said tiredly. “Then go through it more carefully when I’m not around, make sure it’s cleaned up so it’ll pass a real inspection next time.”

“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

York nodded. “Yes. I don’t know who’s got the
trate
still, and I don’t care. Just see to it production’s kept to an appropriate level from now on, with consumption limited to the right amount, the right time, and the right place.”

Palevi grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Palevi saluted, turned and stepped through the door. York went into the adjoining cabin, yanked off his uniform, collapsed into his bunk and was asleep in seconds.

CHAPTER 13: MISTAKES

Rochefort considered the opening ceremony for the new senate a dreary exercise in tedium. It could have just as easily been handled by unlocking the damn doors and opening the place up. He thanked the gods of space he didn’t have to be a part of it himself, could stand high in the galleries above and observe, while poor Edvard and Abraxa and Bortha sweated under the lights.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Rochefort looked back over his shoulder and nodded politely. “Canon Lynna.” He turned, uncomfortable at having the little sneak at his back.

“Admiral,” Lynna said politely, stepping forward so they could both look down at the senate floor. Rochefort felt better now that he could keep an eye on the fellow. “We’re so dependent on our little ceremonies and traditions.”

Rochefort nodded, keeping his eyes forward. “That we are.”

“Why,” Lynna continued, “I sometimes wonder if even this war of ours is merely a tradition. In a sense, a grand ceremony.”

“I’d never thought of you as a philosopher.”

Lynna laughed quietly. “No, my dear Admiral, I fear no one will ever think that of me. I’m much too practical. You’d be surprised how pragmatic I can be.”

Now what did he mean by that?
Rochefort wondered.
Some sort of hint?
“Don’t say that too loudly, Canon. In your profession I would think a considerable amount of philosophy and doctrine, spiced with a bit of mysticism, was an absolute prerequisite.”

“Well now Admiral, as in many things in life there are certain requisite appearances that must be maintained. But even the church must be administered with a healthy dose of reality, and a careful eye on the practicalities of the temporal world.”

Rochefort smiled. “And as Bortha’s Chief of Security and primary source of intelligence it’s your job to maintain that careful eye, eh?”

“Now admiral! Surely you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I am merely one of Archcanon Bortha’s advisors.” Lynna turned his face to Rochefort and pointedly grinned, and there was some sort of message there. “But that doesn’t mean my loyalties are purely reserved for the Archcanon. That would be demagoguery. No, Admiral, my loyalties are devoted to a higher service.”

Again that grin, and Rochefort thought,
Ya. Yourself.

Lynna continued. “As any devout citizen should, I feel it my duty to serve the church and the crown.”

That was an invitation for double-dealing if he’d ever heard one. And perhaps he could make use of this snake, even if doing so left him feeling soiled. Rochefort turned to Lynna. “Come, Canon Lynna. Join me for a small drink. It might be interesting to continue this discussion where we’re less likely to be interrupted.”

Lynna smiled, and they both turned and left the senate gallery.

The intercom chimed. York looked up from the papers on his desk, touched his intercom screen and it came to life with Corporal Elkiss’ image. “Yes.”

“Cap’em. Guard post at the corridor reports there’s a churchman named Thring wants to see you. He’s with a fellow named Harshaw.”

York had been avoiding Thring all day. But what was Harshaw doing with him? “They’re here?” York asked. “Physically standing in the corridor, waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok, let ‘em in.”

“The usual security procedures, sir?”

“Of course. Full security scans, but don’t rough them up, eh?”

“As you wish, sir.”

York stood, crossed his office and opened the door in time to see them crossing the ready-room. Oddly enough, Thring wore simple pants and shirt, rather than the usual flowing robes of a churchman, and he was gawking at the activity about them: marines cleaning their armor and equipment, a discipline detail polishing bright-work.

“Mister Harshaw,” York said. “Canticle Thring. Come in. Sit down.”

The two men seemed a bit surprised that he was congenial. “Thank you, Cap’em Ballin,” Thring said. He and Harshaw sat down in the two chairs in front of York’s desk, real chairs that didn’t fold out of a bulkhead.

York sat behind his desk and spoke to Thring. “Not many civilians know enough to call me
cap’em
.”

Thring smiled. “I try, Mr. Ballin.”

Harshaw leaned forward. “It’s often the little things that count most, the small symbolic gestures. Take you, for instance, Cap’em, wearing that old, patched and faded uniform when you could easily have a crisp, new one from ship’s stores.” York glanced down at one of his sleeves. He’d refused to wear the new uniforms once he’d started instituting discipline among his people. “I noticed your marines are imitating you. It separates you from the rest of the ship.”

The intercom chimed again, Lieutenant Simorka. “Cap’em. You said you wanted to review the stock list when we got done inventorying spare parts.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Have Palevi and Yagell join us—about a quarter of an hour from now—Sergeant Palevi’s office.”

“Very good, sir.”

York cut the circuit, looked at the two men. Harshaw said, “You’re obviously busy so let me get to the point. Canticle Thring and I heard you believe we are being followed by a
feddie
warship.”