A Choice of Treasons (37 page)

Even before the female
feddie
officer stepped forward, York noticed her standing among her troops. She wore the uniform of a Directorate sublegion, a rank equivalent to York’s, but she stood easily ten centimeters above him and any man there, and while she probably outweighed most men, on that frame she looked thin and gaunt. Her skin was a deep olive hue, against which her pale blue eyes stood out like beacons. But the most striking feature was her snow-white hair, not yellow blond but bone-white, cut shoulder length and tied back in a utilitarian and unattractive way, though oddly enough she was quite beautiful.

When she stepped forward she walked like a predatory animal. In twenty years York could count the number of times he’d been this close to a
feddie
on the fingers of one hand, but even had he met them regularly this would have been a rare exception. His suspicions were confirmed when she stepped forward, saluted Straegga, spoke standard with an accent. “I am Sab’ach’ahn, commander of all military forces of the Federal Directorate of the Republic of Syndon here on Anachron IV.”

The name was the final piece of data York needed: a Kinathin breed warrior, an almost pure blooded descendent of a long dead king’s attempt to gene engineer the perfect warrior. The Kinathins were supposed to be the best.

Straegga introduced herself, surrendered her sidearm, and they shook hands. Then the Kinathin turned to York.

York reached up carefully, popped his visor. The
feddies
behind Sab’ach’ahn jumped, probably expected to find the face of a demon behind the visor. York and Sab’ach’ahn traded salutes, then he carefully reached for his sidearm while the
feddies
tensed. He unclipped it from his thigh plate, reversed it and surrendered it to Sab’ach’ahn. Then he paid the
feddie
a compliment by breaking his right wrist seal and removing the gauntlet to shake her hand. “Ballin,” he said tersely. “Imperial marines.”

Sab’ach’ahn frowned, and York hoped she didn’t recognize his name. All he needed was for them to find out he was the SDO, with a million crowns on his head. But Sab’ach’ahn said nothing.

York put his gauntlet back on and Sab’ach’ahn said, “If you will follow me.”

The
feddies
were cautious, perhaps expecting the
impers
to bring the boat down filled with assault troops. But more than two hundred years ago the rules of a civilized war had been drafted on a small planet that no longer existed on the charts. York and Straegga were going to be careful to follow the Treaty Accords of Sierah to the letter.

Sab’ach’ahn led them to a small bunker about two hundred meters away. Inside the bunker a single, middle-aged man waited with two armed guards, both
feddie
regulars by the look of them. Sab’ach’ahn turned to the middle-aged man and introduced him as “Planetary Governor Andleman.”

Andleman stared at York and Straegga with a look of fanaticism and deep distrust. By the look of his clothes he was an amateur, and York wondered what chance they had of concluding any agreement with a fanatic farmer.

There was a small table in the bunker; Andleman motioned them to sit. They did so, then Andleman and Sab’ach’ahn sat down opposite them. Sab’ach’ahn gave their sidearms to Andleman, and the governor fingered them for a moment, then said, “So you’re here to surrender.”

Straegga shook her head. “We do wish to surrender, but we’re here to negotiate terms before doing so.”

Andleman looked closely at York’s sidearm, a heavy weapon of dark metal that fired non-exploding shells at high velocity. “No terms. You surrender, and that’s it.”

Straegga looked across the table at Andleman for a long moment. “But if we surrender without terms, you can legally treat us rather badly.”

“Exactly,” Andleman said smugly. “You’ll just have to trust me. You have no choice.”

Straegga made an obvious effort to remain calm. “All we ask are simple terms guaranteeing us humanitarian treatment.”

Andleman shook his head. “Like I said, you have no choice.”

Straegga shrugged. “Certainly you outnumber us, and you have time on your side. But I have Cap’em Ballin here, and almost two hundred and fifty imperial marine regulars, all experienced combat troops in full combat armor, with assault boats, portable artillery, perimeter defense weaponry, and only god and Cap’em Ballin here know what else. So if you give us no better alternative than to continue fighting, you’ll pay a dear price to defeat us.”

Andleman continued to examine York’s sidearm and shook his head. “Don’t threaten me.”

Straegga leaned back. “It was no threat, merely a statement of fact.”

Andleman grinned. “You’re full of shit!”

It went on like that for almost two hours. Andleman really had no intention of negotiating, but he went through the motions. Sab’ach’ahn seemed somewhat embarrassed by his style, tried to interject some reason occasionally. York kept his mouth shut, spoke up only when Straegga wanted support. And it might have gone on forever like that, but near midday York’s helmet com came suddenly alive with a familiar voice. “Cap’em, Palevi here. Our telemetry tap to
Cinesstar
just opened up again. She’s headed back this way, and she’s sounding recall.”

York almost flinched, and all he could do was wonder what Sierka was up to now. But it was not the time to question god-sent favors, so he reached over, touched Straegga’s sleeve, interrupted her, and as he’d already done several times that morning, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I don’t know why, but
Cinesstar’s
back to pick us up.”

Straegga’s face brightened. She looked at Andleman and said, “We don’t seem to be able to converge.” She lifted herself carefully to her feet. “Why don’t we recess, see if we can continue this tomorrow. In the mean time an extended cease-fire might be in order.”

At that moment a guard burst through the door to the bunker and shouted, “An
imper
cruiser just transited into our
farspace
. And it looks like she’s lining up to transit in close.”

Andleman jumped to his feet, pointed York’s sidearm at Straegga. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Throughout that morning York had kept his arms folded on top of the table, with his right hand resting casually on top of the access panel in his left forearm plate, his thumb resting over the catch that would open it. He sat motionless while Straegga answered Andleman honestly. “I don’t know. But since these talks are going nowhere I’m exercising my prerogative to end them, and accordingly, Cap’em Ballin and I will withdraw peacefully.”

Andleman shook York’s gun at Straegga. “No you don’t. You’re staying here as my prisoners.”

Straegga looked down the barrel of York’s sidearm, then into Andleman’s eyes. “No we are not. I’m calling these negotiations to an end, which I have a right to do per the Accords set down at Sierah more than two hundred years ago. As such Cap’em Ballin and I are to be allowed to withdraw peacefully.”

Andleman spit out, “Bullshit! We didn’t sign any damn accords, so if you make one move I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

Sab’ach’ahn lifted herself slowly to her feet. “She is right, Your Excellency. This planet is a member of the Directorate, and as such is signatory to the Accords by association. You must allow them to leave, and failure to do so is a criminal act.”

Andleman considered Sab’ach’ahn’s words. “I don’t give a damn about any accords. You’re my prisoners, and you’ll stay here whether you like it or not.”

Straegga extended her right hand, palm up, not far enough out to reach Andleman but obviously to ask for her sidearm. “If you’ll return my—”

A bullet exploded from the barrel of the gun Andleman held. It caught her high in the chest and to one side and she dropped to the floor. Sab’ach’ahn shouted, “Stop!”

York slapped open the access plate on his forearm, rapidly hit a four button combination in sequence, and the reactor pack on his back suddenly whined ominously. But he was concentrating on the forearm panel, on getting his thumb pressed tightly over the proper switch, and he didn’t see it coming when Andleman slapped him between the eyes with the barrel of his gun through the open face of his helmet.

York’s head spun as he reeled back in his chair and almost fell over, but he concentrated on keeping his thumb pressed on the switch in his forearm plate. Andleman curled his fingers over the lip of the open face of York’s helmet, yanked his head forward and jammed the barrel of the gun painfully up under York’s chin. York kept his thumb on the switch while his reactor pack growled at them like an angry animal.

Andleman jerked the muzzle of the gun forward, pushed York’s head back painfully. “What did you do? Stop whatever it is or I’ll blow your brains all over the back of your helmet.”

York could feel blood from a cut in his forehead dripping down between his eyes, past his nose to his chin. “If you do,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “you’ll blow us all to fucking hell.”

Andleman jerked the gun harder into York’s throat, demanded, “What do you mean?”

York spoke slowly. “I mean that my reactor pack is wired to a dead man switch. If I release the switch I’m holding down with my thumb, or if my suit sensors detect serious physical damage to me, my reactor pack will overload and blow.”

Andleman shook him. “This is a double-cross.”

“No,” York said. “You were the first to violate the truce statutes of the Accords, and from that moment we were free to use any means at our disposal to defend ourselves.” He looked at Sab’ach’ahn. “Isn’t that right, sublegion?”

Sab’ach’ahn looked into York’s eyes. “He is correct, Your Excellency. But the reactor pack on imperial armor will not detonate in the way he implies.”

York grinned, could sense that
don’t give a damn
feeling coming on. “It does if you bypass its fail-safe circuitry, change its programming, specifically rewire it for that purpose, then give it a fifty percent overcharge. We estimate a yield well in excess of four kilopounds. It should leave a good sized crater.”

Andleman looked at Sab’ach’ahn and demanded, “Is that possible?”

The Kinathin’s eyes remained locked with York’s. “Yes, Your Excellency. It may be.”

Andleman looked from York to Sab’ach’ahn, then back to York. He jammed the gun harder into York’s throat and growled, “You’re bluffing.”

York looked into Andleman’s eyes, felt that
don’t give a damn
feeling getting even closer. “Then pull the trigger,” he said.

Sab’ach’ahn asked, “What is
bluffing
?”

Andleman shook his head. “He’s lying, trying to fool us, trying get us to give up when there’s no need.”

“Your Excellency,” Sab’ach’ahn said. “Before you believe this
bluffing
, you should realize who you’re dealing with. Cap’em Ballin is the most senior drop officer of all marines in the empire, the so called SDO, the man for whom the Directorate offers a standing reward of one million crowns, dead. His dossier states he has more than twenty years of almost continuous combat experience. He is reputed to be somewhat bloodthirsty, and a bit psychotic.”

Andleman hesitated, and during that instant York had the oddest feeling that if Andleman didn’t pull the trigger, his nightmare about Yan taking him apart bit by bit would someday come true. “Come on, damn it,” York snarled. “Pull the trigger.”

Andleman frowned.

“I said pull the trigger,” York shouted. “You think I’m bluffing so pull the fucking trigger.”

York rose up out of the chair, the barrel of the gun still pressed under his chin. “Come on, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. Pull the god damned trigger.”

He leaned forward over the table and almost climbed up onto it, pushing Andleman back. “Don’t you understand?” he screamed. “This is probably the only chance I’ll ever have to go out clean—pull the fucking trigger.”

Andleman looked deep into York’s eyes and he started to shake. York was thinking about reaching up, grabbing Andleman’s hands and forcing him to pull the trigger, when a barely audible croak from Straegga filled the surrounding silence. “Ballin . . . Help me . . .”

York closed his eyes, thought about his dream, heard a faint click as Andleman activated the gun’s safety, realized Straegga had robbed him of a clean end. He leaned back away from Andleman as the governor lowered the gun he was holding. Then York lifted his left hand palm up, careful to keep his right thumb pressed tightly on the switch in his left forearm panel. “Give me the gun.”

Andleman lowered it carefully and put it in York’s hand. York laid it on the table. “Sublegion Sab’ach’ahn,” York said. “Tell your people one of our boats’ll be coming to retrieve us, and that it’s not to be fired upon.”

Sab’ach’ahn touched her throat mike and issued the orders.

York keyed his com. “Palevi, this is Ballin. We need pickup. Bring
Two
, and be careful. Straegga needs a medic, and the
deadman
is alive.”

“We’re on our way, sir.”

They waited in silence, York still concentrating on the deadman switch. Then he heard the sound of an approaching boat, heard it settle to the ground, heard a short bit of commotion, a few shouts and a couple of gunshots. By prior agreement
Two
was filled with a squad of forty marines. The
feddies
guarding the bunker, without armor themselves, were no match for armored marines.