A Choice of Treasons (82 page)

York shook his head. “We can’t. It’s what they want us to do, make a break for it like this.”

Palevi frowned and looked at him oddly. Then he grinned that grin. “Right, Cap’em.” He turned, scanned the room and barked orders at his people. Two of them started pulling at York’s clothes, undressing him, while the medic Kalee pulled out her kit and went to work on the scars on his face. She sprayed something on the skin there, did something with some chemicals, then pealed back his eyelid and said, “Try not to blink, sir.” She inserted a large lens over the face of the chrome eyeball while someone else guided his legs into a new set of pants. It was much like the drill they’d rehearsed to get him into his armor in a hurry. But this time, when they stood him up in front of a mirror, the man who looked back at him was a middle aged, lower rank AI noncom with no chrome eye and scars.

“Hustle it up, boys and girls,” Palevi barked. They stepped into the corridor, and Palevi set a careful pace. They were just a group of AI going somewhere on some business, two noncoms and four enlisted, not likely to be questioned by anyone except other AI. And York didn’t doubt Palevi’s people were ready for a nasty fight, if it came to that.

There were few military personnel present, though they passed quite a number of servants and civilians, all of whom avoided eye-contact the group of AI. Palevi led them through a large kitchen, then out into the open air across a wide, grassy lawn and into a garage where a number of vehicles were parked. He chose one, and the six of them climbed into it, then Palevi lifted it up on its grav fields and arced them slowly up into the sky.

It was that simple, too simple York realized. They had to be playing right into the Admiralty Council’s hands, giving them exactly what they wanted. But why not, he thought. They were going to execute them all anyway. At least this way they could all go out clean, go out thinking they were doing something, rather than just sitting there waiting for the inevitable.

Palevi drove the grav car to a small, but well equipped, shuttle port. They parked the car in a neat row of other vehicles, walked openly into the shuttle terminal, where Yagell and three other marines, also in AI uniforms, waited for them. York recognized Stacy and Dakkart among them. Security waived them right through.

“How’d you manage this?” York asked Palevi.

“The d’Hart woman set it up, passed around some rather hefty bribes, though the people she paid off don’t realize what we’re really doing. But she got us legit AI credentials with reasonably high-level clearances, so for a few hours we got quite a bit of freedom.”

York couldn’t hide his anger. “And why’s the d’Hart woman want to help us?”

“Apparently they double-crossed her some way, Cap’em.”

They hustled York into a shuttle where the d’Hart woman waited. “Good day, Captain,” she said.

York nodded politely, turned away from her and found a seat, sat down and closed his eyes tiredly. The Council had thought of everything, even to having her keep a close eye on them while they acted out this little charade.

“My personal yacht is waiting for us up at Luna Prime, Captain. It’s small, but transition worthy, and fast, and quite comfortable. We should be able to have you well out of reach before the day is out.”

York opened his eyes and looked at her closely. There was something hidden behind her eyes, some kind of pain, or sorrow, not the right emotion for someone so faithless. He wondered then if she knew how much of a pawn she was. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

The young AI lieutenant on the screen was quite nervous. She was pretty, and Juessik wondered how much she might want to advance her career. “Lady d’Hart’s shuttle lifted off Terr about an hour ago, sir. It should be docking with Prime shortly. Shall I issue an intercept order?”

Juessik shook his head. “No. This is the fun part. Let’s watch them run a little. They’ll squirm even harder when we close the trap.”

She nodded respectfully. “As you wish, colonel. Shall I notify the Admiralty Council?”

“Not yet.” Juessik didn’t want that fat old fart Abraxa stealing his fun. “There’ll be time for that later. Just keep me informed.”

Juessik cut the circuit.

“What was that, Torrin?” Dulell asked, stepping into the bedroom with two cold drinks.

“Nothing really,” Juessik said. “A little surprise for the Admiralty Council, when they find out their little bastard prince has escaped.”

Juessik took his drink from Dulell, pulled Dulell close, kissed him on the cheek. “I like surprises,” he said. “Especially when I get to give them.”

The d’Hart woman’s shuttle docked in a small service bay on Luna Prime without incident. She led them through busy corridors, with York and Palevi and the marines an apparent AI escort. York just coasted and let them lead him where they chose. It was easier that way, simpler not to think about what was coming.

There was some sort of snag gaining access to her yacht, some problem with their clearances. She told the ten of them to wait up in the Service Controller’s office while she made a call to clear the matter up, then left them waiting for the lift. When the lift doors opened Palevi grabbed York’s arm, held him back as his people stepped into it. He grumbled at them, “The cap’em and me, we’ll follow in a second.”

Standing in the open lift Yagell looked at him oddly, then shrugged, voiced commands at the lift and the doors cycled shut, leaving York and Palevi standing alone in the corridor.

Palevi grabbed York by the lapels of his AI uniform and slammed him up against the corridor wall. “God damn it, Cap’em,” he growled, his nose only inches from York’s. Palevi was shaking as he spit words in York’s face. “Don’t give up on us like this. We’ll follow you to hell and back, as long as you lead us. God damn it, we’ll follow you to hell even if we don’t get back. Just don’t give up like this. You’re a marine, damn it, so act like one.”

On the tip of York’s tongue were the words,
I ain’t no fuckin’ marine
, but he let it go, just stared into Palevi’s eyes.

“Damn it, Cap’em. You once asked me to make sure you went out clean, no tanks. Well that’s what I’m askin’ you now. We want to go out clean, and you’re the only one who can give us that.”

York opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t give Palevi what he wanted so he shut his mouth carefully.

“Shit,” Palevi cursed as the lift doors opened again.

The Service Controller wasn’t at all happy to have ten AI troopers using his office as a waiting room. He was busy, tried to ignore them, concentrated on his screens and his work.

There was a large transparent, plast window in one wall of the Controller’s office. York stepped up to it and looked out at an unobstructed view of the main Navy Yard on Prime. It was a large open bay, more than a kilometer across, and in the distance he could see the entrance open to space, a few stars twinkling in the beyond. There were a number of ships in dock ranging in size from small personal vessels like the d’Hart woman’s yacht, to
Cinesstar
herself, battered, damaged, looking more like a derelict than a man’o’war. The Yard operated under vacuum in one-tenth gravity, making it easier on service crews. There was one now crawling over the skin of
Cinesstar
. York counted seven or eight techs in vac suits, wondered what they were up to, probably had to insure she was worthy to make a run for it and play her role in the little charade the Council was orchestrating.

Don’t give up on us . . .
Palevi had said. Those words hurt. York tried to forget them and just stared at his ship, wondered if that pretty, young pod gunner was still alive.

“Hello, Cap’em,” Yagell said, planting herself beside York at the window. She followed his gaze and looked at
Cinesstar
. “She’s kind of sorry lookin’, ain’t she, sir?”

Don’t give up on us . . .
Palevi had said. But what else could York do? The Admiralty Council had all moves covered, were one step ahead of him, knew what he was doing before he did. He couldn’t fight that kind of power. “. . . 
we’ll follow you to hell even if we don’t get back . . .
”

York chuckled. Pretty simple logic. Maybe that was the answer; keep it simple. “Ya know, Cap’em,” Yagell said. “Everyone’s still aboard her. It’s a shame we can’t do nothin’ for ‘em.”

“Yeah,” York said. The words came out hard. “A real shame.” But as he said them, he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t win, but he’d lost so long ago winning was no longer important. Maybe he could screw things up for the bastards. And maybe he could give his people a clean end. He owed them that, at least, owed Maggie and Frank and Paris and Olin, and all the others.

“Sergeant,” he said to Yagell, though he continued to look at
Cinesstar
.

“Ya, Cap’em,” she said tiredly, “Whadoya want?”

That was sloppy. Yagell was often unpleasant, but never sloppy. York realized she’d given up on him. He turned his head slowly toward her, let his eyes settle on her and stared her down hard. She looked at him for a moment defiantly but he didn’t flinch; he looked through her as he’d seen Palevi do with a recalcitrant recruit, until she lowered her eyes and mumbled, “Sorry, sir.”

He looked back at
Cinesstar
. “Everyone’s still aboard her, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of shape is she in?”

“They repaired the damage amidships, sir. I think they fixed the transition drive, so we could make our escape attempt, and get burned.”

“How many actives do we have here?”

“Nine, sir.”

York turned slowly about. There were ten of them all total; she hadn’t counted York as an active. “Guards on board the ship?”

“Yeah,” she said. “But no more’n twenty or thirty. They don’t need ‘em, not with everyone comp-locked in their cabins or bunk rooms.”

“We’re going to need some vac suits,” he said, turning back toward the window and nodding at the service crew crawling over
Cinesstar’s
hull. “Standard maintenance issue, like the ones that crew are wearing. And I assume you’re armed.”

She held out a small gun. He looked at it and shook his head. “You’ll need something heavier than that. Tell everyone here to upgrade their weapons . . . now.”

Yagell turned to York slowly and squinted at him. Then, without taking her eyes off him, she cocked her chin to one side and bellowed, “Sarge. Sarge, you better come over here.”

“What is it?” Palevi yelled back at her. “I got my hands full.”

“This here’s more important, Sarge.”

“I said I’m busy. What the fuck is so important?”

She paused for several long heartbeats, then said, “I think the cap’em here wants to party, Sarge. Party big time.”

The marines went suddenly silent. Still looking at
Cinesstar
, York heard Palevi march up behind him and demand angrily, “What’s that?”

“I said the cap’em here—”

York cut her off. “Sergeant Palevi, we’re going to need some vac suits, and heavier weaponry than you people are presently carrying. And of course, I’ll need a weapon.” York turned about and looked past Palevi at the Service Controller. “And we’re going to need his help.”

Palevi stared angrily at him for a moment, then his lips curled slowly upward into a big, cheesy grin, the grin that York hated. “We goin’ to a party, cap’em?”

York grinned back at him, with that same grin. “More like we’re gonna crash a party a bunch of admirals got planned, make sure they don’t enjoy it that much.”

“Told ya, Sarge,” Yagell said. “It’s party time.”

The Service Controller decided it was his duty to resist any cooperation with the maniacs who had suddenly taken him hostage. “You people’ll have to do whatever you’re going to do on your own. I’m not helping you.”

One of the marines jerked on his collar, but the man wasn’t easily intimidated. It was then that the d’Hart woman returned. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“Change of plans,” York told her. “I’m taking my ship back.”

“You’re insane. You can’t fight them. They’re prepared for any move you make . . .” As she looked in his eyes her voice trailed off, she put a hand to her mouth and stepped back from him.

He turned to the Service Controller, stepped up close to the man, realized the man didn’t know who he was, couldn’t see past Kalee’s makeup, so he hooked a thumbnail under the edge of the synth-skin and slowly peeled away the patch. He needed Kalee’s help to remove the lens, but when he turned back to the Controller the man gulped and blanched. “Yer Butcher Ballin.”

“Good,” York said. “You know who I am. That’ll save us a lot of time.

“Sergeant,” he growled over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the Controller’s. “How long do you think it’ll take this man to die?”

“How long you want it to take, Cap’em?”

The Service Controller literally stuttered and stumbled in his desire to please York.