A Choice of Treasons (66 page)

It was a guess, ten thousand kilometers. He had to assume the two Directorate ships were devoting their resources to tracking the imperial ships. They had their drones out near the edge of the system for a wide baseline, even had the drones constantly moving to accumulate a larger statistical base of data on their targets. All that processing ate up resources, forced a commander to set priorities.

“Range—sixty thousand kilometers, sir. Convergence in three minutes.”

With their drones so far out, the two enemy ships would have to do their own close-in scanning. No commander would be happy with such a situation, though if she were confident there were no enemy ships nearby, then it was a risk worth taking. But the close-in scans would be slower to gather and interpret data, with fine resolution limited to something like one thousand meters. They’d probably still run coarse scans at five and ten thousand meters to catch large debris that might be dangerous to the ship, and something the size of
Cinesstar
had a high probability of getting their attention. All guesswork, surmise this, assume that; in the end York had to take his best guess—ten thousand kilometers.

“Range—forty thousand kilometers, sir. Convergence in two minutes.”

“Sir,” Gant said. “I’ve got better data now. Closest fly-by will be forty-three hundred kilometers.”

“Thank you, Miss Gant.”

“Range—twenty thousand kilometers. Fifty seconds to the ten thousand kilometer mark.”

A half minute
. “Mister Jakobee, are those warheads armed?”

“Yes, sir. First salvo—two one megatonne warheads fused for contact detonation. Second salvo—two one hundred megatonne warheads fused for proximity detonation, one thousand meters.”

“Here they come, sir,” Gant shouted. “Fifteen thousand kilometers.”

Don’t jump the gun
.

“Fourteen thousand . . .”

“Stand by all stations,” York said.

“Thirteen thousand . . .”

“Be prepared for full engagement after the first salvo.”

“Twelve thousand . . .”

“All stations ready, sir,” Jakobee said.

“Eleven thousand . . .”

Silence. York could hear his heart pounding.

“Ten thou—”

York didn’t wait for her to finish. He barked into his pickup, “Full power, Mister Cappik.”

York watched the gages for Centerline start to rise as the seconds ticked away.

“Nine thousand . . .”

“Remember,” York said, trying to keep his voice down. “No gravity, no shields, no drive—all power to weapons.”

“Eight thousand . . .”

The captain wasn’t supposed to get nervous, but York didn’t care about that. “Mister Jakobee, don’t you have enough power for that first salvo yet?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Seven thousand . . .”

York heard Jakobee’s hand slap the console as he shouted into the intercom, “First salvo away.”

At such close range there was no tracking the missiles, no real response time on a human scale. There was no time for York to take in data and issue commands.

“Two detonations,” Gant shouted, “close range. We’re blind, can’t see through ‘em.”

“Second salvo away, Jakobee shouted.

“Shields up,” York shouted. “Gravity and drive up. Helm, get us the hell out of here. Nav, I want data. Priority to shields and defensive weaponry.”

“Two more detonations, sir. I can’t see a fucking thing.”

Centerline’s power rose steadily, and even the damaged starboard chamber was coming online. York hadn’t noticed the gravity come up, but
Cinesstar
was under power again, driving at less than a hundred gravities away from their targets.

“I’m getting nothing, sir,” Gant pleaded. “All I can see is the two fireballs from those big warheads and nothing else. No incoming, no drive readings, no . . . wait a minute. I’ve got something. It’s big—ship sized—bigger than
Cinesstar
. I think it’s static. No drive readings, nothing hot like an active power plant. It’s too small to be one of those
feddies
, but I’m sure it is . . . And no sign of the other
feddie
. Those fireballs are dissipating . . . I’m starting to get real data, though my error factor is high. And there’s no sign of one of those ships.”

“All stop,” York ordered, and once again silence settled over the bridge.

Little by little the picture unfolded. Both
feddies
had had their shields up, but one of them had taken a direct hit from the first one megatonne warhead, not enough to destroy the ship completely—not a healthy ship with her shields fully powered—but certainly enough to damage her badly. The second warhead—one hundred megatonnes—had slammed into a completely defenseless ship, disintegrating it almost entirely. There was some debris in the area, but only pieces of the most dense metal and plast.

The other ship had endured a little better. Her automatic systems must have detected and destroyed the first warhead, but the fireball blinded any ship’s defenses, and the second warhead detonated close to the hull. Half the ship was blown away or vaporized.

“There may be survivors in that,” York said. “Commander Rame, let’s get a boarding party on her, evacuate any survivors, then let’s get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER 29: AGAIN TREASON

There were some survivors on what was left of the
feddie
cruiser, though not many. It took most of that night and the next morning to cut them out of the badly damaged ship. Many were close to death, and almost all were wounded in some way.

Shortly after transition, however, York got a call from Alsa Yan. She was rather mysterious, refused to say anything substantive, but was adamant that he come down to sickbay right away.

When he got there she pulled him into her office, then sat down at her terminal and dropped a card into one of its slots. A picture of one of the
feddie
survivors appeared on the screen, a woman, a Kinathin breed warrior; the deep olive hue of her skin, the bone white hair, all easy giveaways. She lay prone on an examination table, so her exceptional height wasn’t obvious. One of her arms was missing at the elbow, and she was naked except for bandages and a wholly insufficient sick-bay gown. There were streaks of yellow in her white hair, which was a sign of age.

York shrugged. “A Kinathin. And an old one. So what?”

Alsa stood, reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a sealed plast-pack. “So this.” She broke the seal on it and dumped the contents on her desk. “Her personal effects.”

Mostly clothing, York grabbed a piece, caught a flash of color that made him hesitate. He gave it a good shake, unfolding it, a
feddie
officer’s tunic.

One of the arms was missing; the foreshortened arm of the tunic ended in a bloody tear, and he realized the woman had lost her arm long before Alsa had gotten to her. And there were battle ribbons, lots of them. He looked at the rank on the remaining sleeve: lots of stripes and lots of stars. “I don’t remember my
feddie
rank that well,” he said, “but she must be pretty high up.”

Alsa grinned. “I looked it up. She’s a fucking Director. In fact, I think she’s one of
the
Directors: Fleet Director.”

York had read somewhere that the highest
feddie
naval officer was a Kinathin. “Is she going to live?”

“Ya, though she’s banged up pretty bad. Load of shrapnel in her abdomen, lost the arm, but worst is a heavy dose of radiation. Would have been dead in a couple hours if I hadn’t gotten to her, but she’ll be fine now. Though it’ll be a couple of days before she’ll be in any shape to talk.”

York returned to Alsa’s terminal, stared for a moment at the picture of the woman there. He thought it odd that he didn’t feel any hatred for her, could only wonder how he might use her to get him and his crew out of this mess.

“Let me know as soon as I can speak to her,” he said. “And until then keep her isolated, and I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

It was early morning when York got back to his cabin. He’d been living on drugs and about two or three hours of sleep per night for the last three days. They were in transition with no one following them, so relatively safe. He gave orders not to be disturbed, took the antidote to the drugs and crashed hard.

York slept through most of that day, woke just after the dinner bell. For some reason he’d had a vivid dream of Maggie. He couldn’t remember any details, but after waking he had a terrible feeling of loss, and there were traces of the dream skipping through his memories. He tried not to think about her; she was dead, and if Alsa wanted her on ice in the tanks, and if that was Maggie’s last wish—well it didn’t really make any difference to Maggie. It just ate at him when he thought about it, and he knew the best thing he could do was put her out of his mind.

He called down to the galley and had a simple dinner sent up to his cabin—one of the privileges of rank. He ate quickly since he had an appointment and he didn’t want to be late. But before leaving his quarters he checked in with the bridge. “Status,” he demanded, speaking into the pickup at his office terminal.

“All systems are green, sir,” someone said.

Down on C-deck he found the cabin he wanted, rapped politely on the hatch. It opened without preamble, revealing a softly lit interior. Sarra Fithwallen’s rather large and able-bodied
associate
, Jandeer Faiel, had opened the cabin door. Behind him Fithwallen and Brentin Omasin both sat in comfortable chairs. Faiel politely offered York a chair; York sat while Faiel remained standing by the door.

The scene reminded York of the first time they’d met, though then it had been in Cienyey’s cabin. “Can I offer you a drink, Captain,” Omasin said pleasantly. “I’m going to have one.” He stood and looked at Fithwallen. “Sarra?”

She nodded. “Thank you, Brentin.”

Omasin turned to a small bar. “We have just about anything you might want, Captain,” Omasin continued. “Commander Sierka, while not terribly competent as an officer, was kind enough to have the kitchen synthesize quite a number of luxuries.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” York said.

After a few seconds of clinking glasses and other noises Omasin turned around with three glasses in his hands, handed one to Fithwallen, one to York, then returned to his seat. He lifted his glass and said, “To the future, Captain. Let’s hope we all have one.”

York looked at the amber liquid in his glass, then took a sip. It burned much like
trate
, though the taste was considerably different. It would take some getting used to if he were to drink it regularly.

“It’s Skatche whiskey, Captain,” Fithwallen said. York looked at her over the top of his glass. She continued, “It’s supposed to be a replica of an ancient whiskey drunk by pre space civilizations, though only the gods know if we’ve really got the synthesis right. But it’s enjoyable, don’t you think?”

“Quite good,” York lied, and she grinned at him knowingly.

“Well now, Captain. What can we do for you?”

York took another sip, threw away his little rehearsed speech and said simply, “Our futures are somewhat bound together. If either the Empire or the Directorate have their way we’ll all be dead shortly. And I assume you would like to stay alive as much as I.”

She chuckled softly and smiled. “Of course. However, that may be the only thing we have in common.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not interested in revenge. Vengeance often precludes survival.”

“And you believe I am?”

She frowned. “I’m not exactly sure, but that possibility certainly exists.”

York shrugged and gave her the most honest answer he could. “I’m not sure myself if I’m after revenge. For the time being, I haven’t had the opportunity to think that far ahead, and I’m only interested right now in short-term survival. Can we agree that in the short term, at least, we both share a mutual interest in survival?”

“I’ll grant you that. But tell me, is it true our next destination is Andyne-Borregga?”

“Yes.”

“Why Andyne-Borregga? You don’t strike me as the pirate type.”

“It’s the only place where I can get this ship repaired. Given our present circumstances, do you know of a better place?”

She shook her head. “No. But you do realize that in return for financing repair of your ship the Mexak League will demand you apply for membership. You’ll owe them all of the money they loan you for repair of the ship, and they’ll require you to pay it back from the profits of raids on legitimate shipping. You’ll also be required to augment your crew with a fair number of people whom they feel they can trust. And they’ll let you pick your own crew only after you’ve raided enough shipping, on all sides concerned, that you can no longer go back. You do realize this, don’t you?”