Of Treasons Born (17 page)

“Sorry, sir,” York said. “Midshipman Fourth Class York Ballin reporting as ordered, sir.”

Martinson lifted his chin slowly, looked up, and York was struck by the paleness of his green eyes. The commandant returned the salute, snapping it with no less rigidity than his seated posture. York finished his salute, trying to imitate the commandant's unyielding discipline.

Martinson stared at him for a long moment, then bellowed, “Chief.”

York heard the door behind him open, someone step into the room, then the door closed. He was careful not to react in any way.

Martinson said, “It upset me when they told me we had to take you on. I don't care that you were on
Andor Vincent
. I don't care that they want to keep an eye on you. Your kind doesn't belong here.”

Hearing those words again angered York, though it occurred to him that might be exactly what the commandant wanted.

Martinson rose up out of his seat, walked around the desk slowly like a predator sizing up its prey. York kept his eyes locked on a diploma on the wall as Martinson approached him, walked slowly around him, then stopped directly in front of him at an uncomfortably close distance. The two of them were of a similar height.

“Then I took a look at your record: four years in combat, three commendations for meritorious service, apparently a very skilled gunner. How many chevrons have you got?”

“Twenty-four and a half, sir,” York said.

“We don't like that custom here,” Martinson said.

York probably should have left it at that, but he was tired of hearing about
his kind
. “It should be twenty-five and a half, but they tanked me before I could go to another gunner's blood. If I ever get the opportunity, I may get that corrected.” He purposefully allowed a short delay before adding, “Sir.”

Martinson looked past him at whoever had entered the room a moment ago. “He thinks he'll irritate me by being a smart-ass. Hopefully, he'll learn better.”

Martinson's eyes returned to York. “Nothing in your record about why you joined the navy.”

There was an implied question in that, but since he'd made it a statement, York was not required to answer, so he held his silence.

“Why did you join the navy, Mr. Ballin?”

York had seen a couple of recruiting brochures, so he stole a line from them. “They said I'd get to see the galaxy, sir.”

Martinson gave him a predatory grin. “And you signed up for a lifetime enlistment.”

“I didn't have anything else to do, sir.”

“No, I suppose you didn't. And there's nothing negative at all in your record. Have you never made any mistakes, Mr. Ballin?”

“I've made a mistake or two, sir.” Again, York knew he should keep his mouth shut but couldn't resist. “And I've got the scars on my back to prove it.”

One of Martinson's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced past York again. It was the only reaction York had seen from him. “Well then, Mr. Ballin, it appears you did learn a lesson or two. As I said, I was upset that they forced you upon us, and the fact that you have a good record doesn't change that. But since I'm stuck with you, I'm going to see to it that you learn this lesson, too. The next four years are going to be the hardest of your life, but if you slack off, I'm going to make them even harder. I will not allow you to make us look bad. Is that clear?”

York gave him a marine response at the top of his lungs. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Martinson's lips slowly turned upward, not a pleasant smile. He said, “Mr. Ballin, please turn and face Command Master Chief Petty Officer Parker, Retired.”

York pivoted with parade ground precision and turned to face an older man, shorter by several centimeters. Behind him, Martinson said, “Chief, show Mr. Ballin his quarters. And get him out of that spacer's uniform.”

Chapter 18:

Plebe Month

York followed Parker out of the Administration building in silence. As they walked across a large parade ground, Parker said, “Martinson's not a bad man.”

York growled, “He's an asshole.”

“He's just frustrated by the midshipmen they send him.”

“Lowlifes like me, huh?”

“Not really. He meant what he said. You work hard and do well, and you won't get any trouble from him. No, he's frustrated by the spoiled snots they admit, kids with parents who got money and titles, frequently more money than brains. They don't have to work hard to get a commission because their parents already bought it for them. A good chunk of the graduating class each year isn't qualified to command a lifeboat, let alone a man-of-war.”

He stopped in front of a four-story building. “This is Baskers Hall, the plebe barracks. Most just call it Plebe Hall. You get a locker, uniforms, equipment, and a bunk.”

Parker led him into the building and up a stairway to the second floor, then into a bunk room with two rows of old-fashioned double-decker bunks, lockers behind each one. “Forty of you share a bunk room. These will be your platoon mates for the next four years. Your new pay grade is better than it was as a spacer, but you won't see much of it. Most of it goes to pay for the uniforms and equipment.”

Parker showed him his locker, which was filled with uniforms. “Martinson's going to push you to be in that part of the graduating class that is qualified to command. You're either going to make the grade, or die trying.”

Parker pulled a set of fatigues out of the locker and handed them to York. “Change into this right away. Don't let anyone see you in that.” He nodded toward York's spacer's uniform. “In fact, just throw the damn thing away. They don't like our kind here.”

York stripped down quickly and pulled on the new uniform.

“We've got a tenday,” Parker said. “A tenday before the rest of the plebes show up. A tenday to show you how to act like a midshipman.”

Parker took York to dinner at an inexpensive restaurant. After they ordered, they sat in an uncomfortable silence while they waited for the food. York was hungry, and when it arrived, he picked up his fork and started eating without saying anything. Parker didn't touch his own food and watched York eat for a few minutes. Then he said, “No, this won't do.”

Dinner turned into a lesson in good table manners, and over the next tenday, York learned about the proper use of a number of eating utensils he hadn't known existed. Apparently, that was going to be important.

The next morning, Parker led him out to the parade ground and marched him around for an hour. “Not bad,” he said. “Who taught you that?”

“The marines on
Dauntless
,” York said. He wondered if he'd ever be able to find Bristow and thank him.

“
Dauntless
, eh? Is that where you tasted the lash?”

York nodded.

“We can get the scars removed before the rest show up. And you'd be wise to get rid of the gunner's chevrons. They'll mark you.”

York considered it for a moment, but every time he saw the scars on his back, he was reminded of the lessons he'd had to learn. And the chevrons were the only real status he'd ever had. “No thanks,” he said. “I'll keep them as is.”

Parker shrugged, then he smiled and appeared to approve of York's decision. “Have it your way.”

Parker drilled York carefully on the proper way to address titled cadets, officers, and civilians, tutored him extensively on the nine members of the Admiralty Council and their heirs and offspring. York found it interesting that the chief never commented on any of them, never expressed even the slightest opinion about them, no gossip, no rumor, nothing. He simply stated the facts, like the number of warships each could amass, the fleets they controlled, and their wealth. There was something missing, something the chief wasn't saying. One day, York asked him about that.

Parker paused, his eyes narrowed, and he regarded York with a hard look. “People who get too close to the Nine, or get involved in their affairs, or work directly for one of them … well … they just don't seem to live as long as the rest of us.”

York could see that Parker had become exceedingly uncomfortable, but he continued nevertheless. “Over the next four years—if you make it through the next four years—remember that if certain opportunities come your way … many things here are not as they appear.” The old chief refused to discuss the matter further, and York wondered what he had meant by such a cryptic statement.

York had grown accustomed to being the only resident of Plebe Hall, but eight days after arriving, as he walked up the stairs, he heard other voices present. When he walked past one of the bunk rooms, he spotted a few young men and women unpacking their gear. At his own bunk room, he stopped in the doorway, saw a young fellow with dark hair and features lying on a bunk with his hands behind his head, watching a young woman with brown, shoulder-length hair at the other end of the room. She stood at a locker with her back to York, sorting through the uniforms it contained. She retrieved one and held it up in front of her. “It looks like they got it right this time. They never get it right.”

The fellow lying on the bunk said, “That's why I brought my own, had them tailored properly. I'm throwing out the junk they provide.”

The young woman turned around, and when she spotted York, her hazel eyes widened. “You must be the mystery man.”

York asked, “Mystery man?”

She hooked a thumb toward his bunk. “That bunk is so neatly made we knew someone checked in before us.”

She marched across the room toward York, and as she came closer he realized she was almost as tall as he. He had only a few centimeters on her.

Draping the uniform over an arm, she stuck out a hand. “I'm Karinina Toletskva. You can call me Karin.”

York shook her hand, and when he released it, she nodded toward the fellow on the bunk. “That's Anton Simma.”

From Parker's tutoring, York recognized the name immediately: oldest son of Marko Simma, the duke de Jupttar, and heir to the ducal seat. Karin confirmed it when she said, “I suppose we have to call him
Lord
Simma and kiss his ass.”

Simma sat up and threw his legs off the edge of the bunk. “You've never kissed my ass before, Karin.” He made a point of leering at her butt. “Though I wouldn't mind kissing that nice little ass of yours.”

“Not on your life,” she said. She winked at York. “Though I may have to let him since he's going to be a duke, and he'll have all that power.”

Simma stood up. “You know as well as I that all the real power is held by de Maris, de Vena, and de Satarna.” He looked at York and nodded toward Karin. “She's got all the money, could buy and sell me in a minute.”

He stuck out his hand and York shook it. “I'm told we drop all titles here at the academy, so you can just call me Tony.”

Before York could introduce himself, a short fellow with blond hair stepped into the room. Slight of build with a duffel thrown over his shoulder, he spoke softly. “Hi. I think I'm supposed to report here, not sure I'm in the right place.”

Simma and Toletskva forgot York and turned their gregarious banter on the poor fellow. They determined that he was in the right place, Delta Company, Second Platoon. He introduced himself as Muldoon Tagresh.

“Tagresh!” Simma said. “Is your mother Senator Indreena Tagresh?”

“Yes,” he said, and seemed almost embarrassed about it. “That's her.”

Simma turned back to York. “What is your name again?”

“Ballin,” he said. “York Ballin.”

“Ballin!” Karin said. “Haven't heard that name before.” She nodded to Simma. “He's power.” She nodded toward Tagresh. “He's influence, and I'm money. What are you, Ballin?”

“I'm really nothing,” York said.

“Okay, Mr. Nothing,” she said. “We know who we are. Who are you?”

He gave them the story Parker had concocted for him: that his father had been a high-ranking noncom, killed in combat a few years ago, and awarded an Imperial Cross, and that got him his appointment to the academy.

By the next morning, Plebe Hall had filled up, and that afternoon, the upperclassmen arrived. They lined up all the first-year midshipmen and shaved their heads, though it was customary to use old-fashioned clippers, which the upperclassmen wielded with considerable zeal, leaving all of the plebes with spikey, uneven stubble on their heads. Karin actually looked kind of sexy that way, though she thought the custom barbaric.

“No sense of fashion,” she said.

They followed that with basic training in the proper technique for saluting. York watched the other plebes struggle with the unfamiliar and tried to imitate them. He knew better than to let on that he'd long ago mastered such basic military techniques.

The day after that, they were all sworn in, and then they began plebe month, forty days of grueling exercises and training, primarily focused on familiarizing them with the navy's way of doing things. York had been through it all before under the marines on
Dauntless
, and like saluting, as they learned to march around the parade ground, he stumbled about with all the rest and imitated their clumsiness. He carefully paced his own learning curve with that of his peers. Tony Simma had a lot of trouble with the marching techniques, while both tall, lithe Karin and shy little Tagresh took to it naturally. York, Karin, and Tagresh spent what little spare time they had helping Tony improve his technique.

Their platoon was divided into four squads of ten plebes each. It pleased York that he and Karin were assigned to the same squad, though not because of any sexual attraction between them; they were just friends, and it was good to pair up with a friend on some of the more demanding drills.

Their cadet company commander was Madeen Schessa, a third-year middy and one of the daughters of Andralla Schessa, the duchess de Vena. “She's like fourth in line to inherit,” Karin told York. “So she's got no prospects there. Her best bet is a military career.”

One day, they went through a simulated marine combat exercise, a hi-gee drop down to the surface of Terr, then a forced march in full combat kit through rough terrain. They were not allowed the assistance of powered armor, so it was all muscle and sweat.

“Ten-minute break,” Schessa shouted. “Conserve your water because there won't be any refills until we make camp tonight.”

Karin sat down on a rock, and York dropped down onto the dirt beside her, crossed his legs, pulled out his canteen, and took a sip of water. Schessa walked down the line of plebes and stopped at Karin, standing over her. Karin started to rise, but Schessa waved her back down, saying, “No, stay seated. I just want to tell you to pick up the pace. You're slowing the whole company down.”

Karin said, “Yes, ma'am,” and Schessa moved on.

Karin leaned close to York. “She doesn't like me.”

“Why?” York asked. “What did you ever do to her?”

She gave York the kind of look a parent might throw at a stupid child. “Too much money. My family is just a bunch of upstarts, as far as she's concerned. I think she's afraid we'll start thinking we're her kind or something.”

There it was again, those words:
her kind
,
their kind
,
our kind
,
your kind
.

At the end of plebe month, they all returned to the academy. Where previously there'd only been a few upperclassmen around—those providing training during plebe month—with the beginning of the academic year, all four classes of midshipmen were in attendance in their entirety. They assembled in a massive formation on the parade ground, were introduced to the brigade commander, Midshipman Captain Tellan Soladin, heir to the de Satarna ducal seat. He gave a short speech, then each plebe platoon was absorbed into one of the six battalions of the brigade. Second Platoon Delta was assigned to Eighth Company, Second Battalion. Their battalion officers were introduced and each said a few words. Commander Lord Nathan Abraxa, heir to the de Maris ducal seat, commanded Second Battalion. York recognized him immediately: Abraxa was the officer on the passenger liner who'd thrown him out of the upper-class lounge with the words
Isn't it obvious to you that your kind doesn't belong in here?

York was thankful for the anonymity of being just one face among thousands on the parade ground that day.