Of Treasons Born (21 page)

Laski continued to ensure that York remained in the bottom 10 percent of the class, and at the end of the year, York faced another academic review board, same conference room, same table with Martinson, Abraxa, and Murtaugh serving on the board, Laski sitting to one side. Charter and Minkowski had been replaced by two officers named Sokolov and Kensington. Martinson read the minutes of the last two boards, and like their predecessors, something in them appeared to trouble the two men.

When Martinson finished, Abraxa said, “I believe there's no question this time that he's in the bottom ten percent of the class.”

Martinson checked the screen in front of him and said, “That he is.”

It appeared there'd be no magic pill to save York this time.

“Well, then,” Abraxa said. “It's clear we need to expel him.”

Kensington said, “But that would be most unusual. His class began with just over fifteen hundred cadets, and we've winnowed it down to less than a thousand.”

Martinson said, “Excellent point. That means he's in the top sixty or seventy percent of the class in which he started. Someone has to graduate at the bottom of the class; I suppose it will be Mr. Ballin.”

By a vote of three-to-two, York was allowed to start the coming year as a midshipman first class. It almost seemed as if Martinson and Kensington had orchestrated that, and York walked out of the meeting not sure what to think.

As firsties, Karin and York had more opportunity to spend time together, and Muldoon came out of his shell a bit more. Abraxa didn't let up on York, and Tony brooded on that. The four of them were studying together one day, and York had to carefully explain one of the navigational exercises to Tony, who turned thoughtful, leaned back in his chair, and said, “I'm going to graduate at the top of the class”—he looked pointedly at York—“and you're going to graduate somewhere near the bottom, but you know this stuff much better than me. It just doesn't add up.”

“Oh, Tony,” Muldoon said. “Now you're being naive. Haven't you noticed that the number-one student in every graduating class is always the most titled?”

That obviously bothered Tony quite a bit, but nothing was ever said about it again. After graduation, Tony, Karin, and Muldoon were assigned to evaluation tours on large ships in Home Fleet. York had requested a posting on a large cruiser, but graduating at the bottom of the class meant he had to take what he could get. He was assigned to
The Fourth Horseman
, a small hunter-killer undergoing refitting on Muirendan and scheduled to ship out to the front in two months.

He had a few days before shipping out, so he and Karin spent the time together. They walked through the parks near Mare Crisia, did a few touristy things, and York realized that it didn't really matter what he did, as long as he did it with Karin. The day of his departure, they had breakfast at a small café in town, and only then did he realize how much he would miss her.

“The evaluation tour is half a year,” she said. “Since we have to return here after that, let's meet up then.” Her eyes glistened with tears, but she held them back.

They'd been very careful not to fall in love. They parted with a kiss.

Chapter 22:

Back to the Lower Decks

York rode deadhead on a military transport that couldn't do more than a thousand lights. It took almost forty-three days to get to Muirendan, and with no duties, he had nothing to do but think how much he missed Karin. He tried to read, to study, anything, but his thoughts always drifted back to her.

When the transport docked at Muirendan Prime, he packed up his gear. He now owned all the required uniforms of an officer of the Imperial Navy. If he could transport his twelve-year-old self forward in time, the young boy would be quite impressed.

When he logged in to shipnet to check the location of
The Fourth Horseman
, he noticed
Dauntless
was in port. In the typical fashion of
hurry up and get there so you can wait
naval orders, he had six days before he had to actually report for duty. He sent a message to
Dauntless
, learned that Cath was there and still alive. They agreed to meet at a small bar just off the docks.

York got there early and took a small table against one wall where they'd have a little privacy. To keep the waiters happy, he ordered a drink and nursed it while he waited for her. He knew he had changed considerably—after all, he'd been only fourteen years old when she'd last seen him. He wondered if she'd be different.

When she walked through the door, the first thing to draw his eye was that she'd let her blond hair grow to chin length. He stood, waved to her. She was slight of build and pretty, and she spotted him from across the room and walked his way. He'd always been attracted to her, but when he considered that now, he thought only of Karin.

She stopped a few paces from him, put her fists on her hips, and said, “Well look at you, kid, all grown up and practically an admiral. You know I ain't gonna salute you, or call you
sir
.”

He now towered over her, stood at least twenty centimeters taller. She looked up at him and said, “I will stop calling you
kid
, though.”

When they sat down at the table, she said, “Sorry about Sissy.”

He grimaced. “That's okay. That hurt scabbed over long ago.”

He asked about Marko. “I didn't see Marko's name on the crew roster. He isn't …”

He feared what her answer might be, but she shook her head and said, “Nah. That old coot put in his forty years and retired. Married a young whore on Cathan, and with his pension, I hear they're real happy.”

Zamekis had transferred to another ship, Durlling had finished her enlistment contract and left the navy behind; no one had heard from her. Tomlin hadn't learned anything from Sturpik's demise or the rather brutal training session the marines had given him. He continued to be a problem for everyone. Then, one night on fourth watch, he slipped while negotiating one of the steep ladders between decks and cracked his skull on a bulkhead. Their medical technology might have saved him, but it was late, and no one was around or aware of his accident until it was too late.

“What about Bristow?” York asked. “He wasn't on the roster.”

Cath flinched and grimaced.

He asked, “What's wrong?”

A tear drizzled down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily. “Ah, I let that limp dick get in my pants, found out I liked him there, made a habit of it, and then that stupid fuck had to go get himself killed.”

“I'm sorry, Cath.”

They talked for a couple of hours and she got a little drunk. Then he walked her back to
Dauntless
and said good-bye.

York reported for duty five days early.
The
Fourth Horseman
was a one-hundred-meter hunter-killer with a complement of sixty-four men and women. It was all power plant, drive, and transition torpedoes. It had a half dozen pods for defense, but its primary means of protecting itself was speed and stealth. If it had to depend on the pods for anything more than the occasional defensive shot, the ship was in serious trouble.

York stepped through
The Fourth
Horseman
's aft personnel hatch, his duffel over one shoulder, turned to the imperial ensign draped from a bulkhead, and saluted it. He turned to the officer of the deck, a gangly lieutenant junior grade with a name tag that read
PAULSON
. He saluted, saying, “Ensign York Ballin reporting for duty. Permission to come aboard, sir.”

Paulson appeared to be York's age, maybe a year or two older. He hesitated before meeting York's eyes, then returned the salute. “At ease, Ensign Ballin. And welcome aboard.”

He extended his hand and York shook it. Paulson spoke softly, almost shyly. “You're early.”

“They probably didn't want me to miss the boat,” York said. “And I had a long way to travel, sir.”

“All the way from Luna, right?” Paulson seemed a little awestruck by that.

“Yes, sir.”

York heard some noise outside the hatch, so he stepped aside. A master chief, medium height and slightly overweight, stepped through the hatch, followed by a man and a woman, both enlisted. The chief saluted the imperial ensign, then saluted Paulson. “I'm coming aboard, Lieutenant,” he said.

York looked the chief over carefully. His uniform was clean, neat, and crisp. He had a black mustache and a dark shadow of a beard, but appeared to have shaved recently, and there was nothing about him that gave the impression of sloppiness. But regardless of his time in service, he should have followed the custom of formally identifying himself and asking permission to board the ship. York was careful to keep the look on his face neutral as the enlisted man and woman accompanying him both did it properly.

The chief hooked a thumb over his shoulder and said to Paulson, “There's a heavy crate of spare parts on the dock. Make sure they get loaded right away.”

Paulson said, “Yes, s—” He'd almost said
sir
, but apparently caught himself and said, “Chief Vickers.”

Vickers turned away from Paulson and spotted York. “And who are you?” he demanded.

The complete failure to follow military customs and etiquette surprised York. But he'd seen it a time or two before, a very senior NCO who had little patience for inexperienced junior officers.

York said, “I'm Ensign York Ballin, just reporting for duty, Master Chief.”

“You are, are you?” he said. “Well we'll get along fine as long as you stay out of my way.”

Vickers turned and marched away, followed by the two ratings.

Paulson watched him leave, then lowered his voice and said, “Do stay out of his way. He can be very difficult.”

York said, “I'll take that advice to heart.”

“You and I'll be sharing a stateroom,” Paulson said. “We're short-staffed on officers, just the captain, XO, Lieutenant Kirkman, me, and you, so we're using senior NCOs as department heads where we have to.”

A ship the size of
The Fourth Horseman
usually had a complement of seven to eight officers, so they were badly understaffed in the officer ranks. A posting on a hunter-killer was the least desirable service in the navy, and York had heard that officers with influence or connections found a way to be assigned to a larger ship.

York unpacked quickly in the stateroom he and Paulson were assigned, then found the master-at-arms, Senior Chief Carney, a middle-aged female with a bit of gray in her dark hair. The old-fashioned slug-thrower he'd purchased many years ago after leaving
Dauntless
was now part of the radioactive cloud of gas that had once been
Africa
. He'd purchased a new one after dropping Cath off, and he handed it to Carney now. “I need to register this,” he said.

She looked the weapon over doubtfully. “Why carry this thing?”

He'd been through this before and had learned what to say to minimize questions. “I had a brief stint with the marines on a cruiser when I was twelve. They taught me it's a good backup sidearm.”

She pointedly looked at his rank. “Twelve? Didn't you just come from the academy?”

“Yes, Chief, I did.”

She looked again at the sidearm, then again at him. She entered something into her shipnet terminal, handed the gun back to him, and said, “Very good, sir. It's registered.”

York returned to his stateroom. He'd just finished stowing the gun when his implants informed him he was to report to the captain.

He stopped outside the captain's stateroom door, and announced through his implants. “Ensign Ballin reporting as ordered.”

“Enter.”

York stepped through the door. Seated opposite each other in the only two spaces at a small fold-down table were a man and a woman with mugs of caff in front of them. York had done his homework. Lieutenant Commander Hensen, the
Horseman
's executive officer, had light brown hair and would have been handsome had his features not been so sharp and angular. The captain, Commander Hella Gunnerson, had bright blue eyes and prematurely gray-white hair. She was quite pretty.

York announced himself with the traditional formula and saluted. Gunnerson returned the salute casually. “At ease, Ensign Ballin.”

York spread his feet and put his hands behind his back.

“We've been going over your record,” she said. “Most unusual. A lower-deck pod gunner must have had a hellish time at the academy.”

Apparently, Martinson had modified his record only in the academy's system. “It was difficult at times, ma'am, but I have some good memories, too.” He thought of Karin, Tony, and Muldoon.

Henson said, “No doubt you requested something more interesting than a hunter-killer posting.”

“Yes, sir, I did, though I knew from the beginning I wouldn't get it.”

Gunnerson said, “Graduated at the bottom of your class. Are you going to be any good to us?”

York suspected he would face that question for the rest of his life. “I studied hard, ma'am, and learned everything I could.”

“But still,” she said, “bottom of your class.”

York chose his words carefully. “The scoring system at the academy doesn't necessarily represent one's abilities.”

Hensen laughed. “That was diplomatically put.”

Gunnerson looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, Ensign. No one on this ship but Commander Hensen and I know your past. I'm sure it'll get out eventually, but you start here with a fresh slate. Make use of it.”

She touched a switch on a small com plate. She could have vocalized into her implants, but York guessed she wanted him to hear her words. “Master Chief Vickers,” she said, and York knew what was coming.

“Yes, ma'am,” the speaker said.

“As you know, we have a brand-new ensign on board. He'll be reporting to you immediately. Please start him at the bottom.”

It was customary to put new ensigns through a bit of friendly hazing, assign them to a lower-deck pod crew so they could see the ship from the bottom of the crew roster. But Gunnerson knew York's record and hadn't told Vickers about it. York wondered if she was setting him up for something.

“One more thing,” she said. “Commandant Martinson sent me a message, said that any time we put into furthering your training would not be wasted. Make sure you live up to that statement.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am.”

She smiled and looked at Hensen. Without looking at York, she said, “Ensign Ballin, you're dismissed. Report immediately to Chief Vickers. And obey his orders as if they were coming directly from me.”

Vickers was waiting for York on the gunner deck with an unpleasant grin on his face. “Stand at attention,” he barked.

York stiffened and threw his shoulders back.

Several enlisted men and women gathered as Vickers walked slowly around York. It was not uncommon that new ensigns fresh out of the academy added non-regulation embellishments to their uniforms, like gold piping and decorative stitching. If Vickers found anything abnormal about York's, he would tell York he was out of uniform, make him strip down then and there, and York would have to finish the watch in his underwear, all part of a little fun. But as a gunner, York had seen the custom enacted a number of times, and had made sure his uniform could be used as a textbook example of naval propriety.

Vickers completed his inspection and stopped in front of York. “Hmmm,” he said. It was also customary that if the newbie's uniform passed muster, there would be no special effort to trump up a reason for that little bit of humiliation.

“Well,” Vickers said. “Let's see how well you do in a pod.”

Behind Vickers, York saw one of the enlisted men cover his mouth and snicker. York knew what was coming.

Vickers showed him a pod hatch and introduced him to it much as Straight had done ten years ago. York didn't want to blind-side Vickers, thought he should say something about his experience. “I already—”

“Shut up,” Vickers snapped, saying it in front of a group of ratings and NCOs. “You don't talk; you just listen.”

York was careful to nod politely and listen. Vickers helped him get strapped into the pod, briefed him quickly on its controls, then said, “We're going to run through a simulation now, throw a lot of stuff at you. Don't worry if you don't do well.”

When Vickers closed the pod hatch, York sealed it, ran the pod through its boot sequence, and brought it online. Then he quickly checked all the settings, found that most of his controls had the gain set to either maximum or zero. If he tried to target on anything, the pod would swing about wildly. He corrected the settings.

They started out by giving him two targets at once. He killed them both. They gave him four and he killed one and deflected the others. They gave him six. He killed two, deflected three, and one got through.

“Hold on there,” Vickers voice said in his implants. “Ballin, get out here.”