A Choice of Treasons (93 page)

“. . . and so I call for a vote,” Ninda shouted.

Kaffair argued, “You’re calling for a vote only because you know you’ll win.”

“Nevertheless, I’m calling for a vote.”

Kaffair nodded sadly, obviously resigned to defeat. “Very well. As Director General it’s my duty to administer a vote. It will be a voice vote. Those in favor of signing vote aye, those opposed nay.” Kaffair spoke mechanically. He sounded tired and lost. “We’ll vote in order of precedence, and so I’ll vote first. I vote aye.”

That was expected. Kaffair and Theara were in favor, Ninda and Add’kas’adanna opposed. Zort was the wild card.

Kaffair looked at Ninda, who reveled in what he and everyone perceived as a forgone conclusion. “Nay,” he barked triumphantly.

Kaffair turned to Theara. She looked around the table sadly. It was clear she too thought Ninda’s victory was complete. She shook her head and closed her eyes, spoke as if she were on the verge of tears, spoke barely above a whisper. “Aye.”

Zort was next. Theara had told him Zort occasionally went his own way, whereas Add’kas’adanna had never done other than rubber-stamp Ninda’s wishes.

Zort looked at Ninda and spoke hesitantly. “Nay.”

Kaffair buried his face in his hands. “Add’kas’adanna,” he said through his fingers.

Add’kas’adanna looked at York and, as if by way of apology, said, “
Kith’ain
, Captain.
Kith’ain
.”

York nodded back at her. He had come to like her, wanted to say he understood.

She looked at Ninda. “I vote aye.”

It took them all a moment to realize what she’d said. Kaffair was the first. He dropped his hands from his face and his head snapped toward Add’kas’adanna, his eyes wide.

Zort cringed. “What’s this mean?”

“It means,” Theara said, “we’ve won. We’ve won.”

“No,” Ninda shouted and stood. He leaned across the table. “You have not won. I invoke the right of executive veto.”

Theara closed her eyes and her shoulders slumped. Cassandra turned to Kaffair, demanded, “What is he talking about?”

Kaffair took a long, tired breath and spoke calmly. “All votes in the Central Committee are carried by simple majority. But any Director may veto any vote by invoking executive veto, in which case the vote will be carried only if the other four unanimously override the veto.”

Kaffair looked at Zort. “The vote was carried properly. Help us.”

Zort looked from Kaffair to Ninda and shook his head. “No. I can’t change.”

Ninda grinned. “The veto stands.”

Captain, Jakobee here.
Jakobee’s voice in York’s implants was excited, almost shrill.
We’ve got three transition wakes bearing down on us from the vicinity of Luna, ETA eight seconds.

York noticed Ard’dha’sit had cocked his head, listening to his own implants, probably getting the same message. York keyed his implants. “Take evasive action, and tell Tzecharra to take ‘em out. We’ll ask questions later. Stand by for—”

York was completely unprepared for the hand that suddenly gripped his throat, lifted him out of his chair and slammed him against a bulkhead. His head cracked hard against the plast and he almost lost consciousness. He struggled weakly, but he was pinned against the bulkhead with his feet several inches off the deck, and in the background he heard Palevi shouting, “Hold your fire. Hold your fire. Stand to, marines.”

The grip on York’s throat was like a steel vice. Ard’dha’sit leaned in close to him, their noses almost touching. He spit a single word in York’s face, “Kith’at’annan.” Sab’ach’ahn had told him Kith’at’annan could mean either supreme warrior or hated enemy. There was no doubt which form of the word Ard’dha’sit meant.

Palevi stood behind Ard’dha’sit, his sidearm aimed at the back of the councilor’s head, and behind him Ard’dha’sit’s Kinathin body guards had all dropped into a crouch, while Palevi’s marines had drawn their weapons. York caught Palevi’s eye, managed to squeak out, “Hold.” Ard’dha’sit’s grip tightened around his throat, the blood pounding in his head. If he lost consciousness a blood bath would follow.

Through it all Add’kas’adanna strode calmly across the deck, stopped just to one side of the enraged Ard’dha’sit. She said something to him calmly in Kinathin, and in the middle of it York recognized the words “. . . Ballin Kith’at’annan . . . ,” though the tone and inflection of her use of the word was far different than Ard’dha’sit’s.

Through a growing haze of unconsciousness York heard Sab’ach’ahn’s words.
Captain, she told him she bears you
kith’ain
debt, and she has acknowledged you Kith’at’annan.

The vice-like grip suddenly disappeared from York’s throat and he dropped to the deck in a heap. He tried to stand, then decided against it as a wave of pain shot through his wounded side. To hell with it, he thought, and decided to stay there, maybe just sleep for a century or two. He was so very tired.

“Cap’em.” York opened his eyes. Palevi was leaning over him. “You all right?”

He growled, “Help me up, god damn it.”

Palevi lifted him to his feet, steadied him against a bulkhead. “You sure you okay, Cap’em?”

“I’m as okay as I have to be. Where’s Cassandra?”

The empress sat at the make-shift conference table, her face buried in her hands. York fell into the seat beside her. She looked into his eyes, and he could see the tracks of the tears that had streamed down her cheeks. “We’ve lost,” she said calmly. “It’s over.”

York was reminded of his own thoughts.
Move, move, don’t stop, don’t think, just move.

“Let’s throw them all together,” York said. He didn’t wait for Cassandra’s reply. “Palevi,” he bellowed.

“Sir,” the sergeant bellowed back at him.

“Bring them all with me. Anyone doesn’t want to come, drag them. They become too much of a problem, shoot ‘em.”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

As York stood Ard’dha’sit caught his arm, demanded politely, “What do you want, Ballin Kith’at’annan?” There was a clear difference in the way Ard’dha’sit now said the word.

“Bring your people with me. Everyone.”

York staggered toward the hatch to
One Bay
.

When they stepped into
One Bay
they must have seemed an odd assortment of Kinathins, Federals and Imperials. York let Cassandra make the introductions, which were sufficiently startling on both sides. As she did so he scanned the faces on the deck, saw that everyone was exhausted. They’d also decided that Abraxa and Ninda had won. Some were ebullient, some clearly disappointed.

A wave of nausea washed through York. He closed his eyes, reached out, clutched at the nearest thing to him. When he opened his eyes he found he’d grabbed Ard’dha’sit’s arm. York would have expected Ard’dha’sit to pull away, but instead the Kinathin merely said, “What next?”

York grimaced, swallowed the nausea. “Get your directors seated around that table with our admirals.”

York realized then that he’d been wrong in assuming the other Kinathins were Ard’dha’sit’s bodyguards, that in fact two were assigned to each of the three Directors, and they acted more like baby-sitters than bodyguards. It didn’t take long to get everyone seated at the table.

York sat down next to the emperor, facing Abraxa. Ard’dha’sit remained standing. Ninda, Zort and Kaffair were at the far end of the table, with Theara and Add’kas’adanna seated on York’s right, and the rest of the admirals scattered among them. Tycho Marin stood solidly behind Soladin, polishing his old-fashioned spectacles with the cuff of his shirt. There was a long moment of silence broken only by a lot of fidgeting and shuffling of papers, though Abraxa didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, and Ninda seemed wrapped in smug certainty. Then someone tried to speak, but was quickly drowned out as everyone tried to speak.

Captain, Jakobee here. We’ve got a make on those three transition wakes that made a run at us, an AI cruiser and two destroyers. It was a stupid move. They didn’t make it past Tzecharra and her defensive perimeter.

York keyed his implants. “Thank you, Mister Jakobee.”

By that time the emperor had managed to establish a semblance of order. He took the initiative and spoke tiredly, “Perhaps it’ll be more productive if we go directly to the issue at hand.”

Andralla Schessa recovered first, leaned across the table at York. “The issue at hand is the legality of this meeting. You kidnap us, force us to sit here in a clearly contrived attempt at getting this bogus treaty signed.”

Tycho Marin struck back at her. “Perhaps we should discuss the legality of the recent attempted coup, Your Grace, as well as the kidnapping of quite a number of imperial senators and the imperial family.”

Soladin came to her defense. “You were not kidnapped, senator. You were taken into protective custody because of . . .”

Marin interrupted him. “Oh come now, Your Grace. We’re not children here. The legality of this meeting will stand on its own. We still have a treaty to consider.”

The chaos erupted again. York’s implants said,
Captain, Jakobee here. The situation here is still as unstable as hell. Captain Tzecharra and I have been talking it over and we think we can gain an extra margin of safety if we redeploy.

York keyed his implants. “If you and Tzecharra are in agreement then do what you think is best. But brief Ard’dha’sit first so we don’t have a load of Kinathin warships thinking we’re pulling a double-cross.”

Across the room York saw Palevi perk up for a moment, then he eased his way through the crowd to Ard’dha’sit, politely pulled the Kinathin aside.

Sergai Leonavich caught York off guard and demanded, “Since we’re cutting the bullshit, let’s get all the issues on the table here. This is really your show, Captain. So what’s your game?”

York stared at Leonavich, and after a moment the admiral looked away as if shamed. If the man still felt guilt for the betrayal at Sarasan, York wasn’t above using that. “It’s not just me. There are a lot of us who are no longer willing to fight this war for you. I could die this instant and that won’t change what’s going to happen. Have you read this treaty?”

Leonavich nodded wearily.

“And is it so unacceptable?”

The admiral looked tired and beaten. “By and large, it’s okay, though there are some fine points I might argue.”

York decided to kick him while he was down. “Home Fleet is, as we speak, breaking up into factions, and they’re all fighting one another. The ships of Seventh Fleet, as they arrive in-system, are joining the fray. A number of ships have already been destroyed, along with the crews aboard them. If you don’t sign this treaty now we’ll have civil war. If you do, maybe you’ll still have an empire.”

That shook Leonavich, shook a lot of them, senators and admirals alike. Leonavich demanded, “And you’ll help us hold this empire together.”

There it was. Leonavich wanted York to commit to an empire he’d just as soon abandon. “I’ll do what I can. But I’ll not guarantee the status-quo.”

The silence in the room drew out as York and Leonavich held each other’s eyes across the table. If only one of the admirals broke, then the rest might follow, and York was counting on Leonavich, on the obvious guilt the man wore like a shroud.

Leonavich blinked first, closed his eyes fully and lowered his head, drew in a slow, deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “Yes, I’ll sign.”

The entire power structure in the room shifted in York’s favor. It was a palpable, manifest sensation, and York could see that others felt it also. Before Leonavich’s words, York had been the center of attention, but after, he had, in some indefinable way, become the center of power. It was tenuous, delicately balanced, and could be easily broken.

Abraxa shattered it. “And I’ll sign nothing.” Again the power structure shifted, but now to Abraxa. The fat, old admiral had known when to strike, and had done so decisively. “This document is nothing more than the foolish whim of a naive child who plays at empire. Empire is strength, not compromise and treaty.”

Abraxa understood power in a way that York never would, and York realized that now. Abraxa had watched and grasped the shifts in power that had occurred, had waited carefully like a predator stalking its next meal, then had pounced at just the right moment. He had regained the power of the moment, had also regained ascendancy over Schessa and Soladin’s scheming, all in one, single stroke. York had to admire him for that, but now Abraxa had made himself the key. Earlier, capitulation by one of the weaker admirals like Leonavich might have stampeded the rest, but now they would all follow Abraxa’s lead. If he did not sign, then no one would.

There was a hesitant moment of silence which Cassandra broke. “Just over one hundred days ago eighty million people died on Dumark. Is that the strength of empire you speak of?” She held up a copy of the treaty. “And this treaty, this attempt to end such mindless slaughter, is this the foolish whim of a naive child?”

Abraxa waved a hand, dismissing all those lives with a single gesture. “Eighty million is nothing. We rule an empire of more than a hundred billion. We cannot concern ourselves with a few million when the greater good of all is at stake.”