Of Treasons Born (24 page)

Gunnerson brought the ship up to Watch Condition Red. The ship's systems operated much differently under the elevated status. “Commander Hensen,” she said. “Arm and ready two ten-megatonne warheads, just in case we need them when that escort drops in on top of us.”

At that point, it became a waiting game. The next jump by the escort would put one of them in the near vicinity of the
Horseman
, though
near
was a relative term. If the haphazard nature of war put the enemy warship within a few hundred million kilometers of their position, they might be detected and have to shoot and run.

There was something odd about the tension on the bridge, a level of fear York had never sensed before. He glanced around the confined space cluttered with instruments. Gunnerson appeared absolutely casual and unconcerned. Hensen's brow was furrowed in concentration, but not fear. It was when he looked at Paulson that he understood the stress that permeated the atmosphere of the bridge. The lieutenant trembled with obvious dread, his hands shaking, his eyes darting about worriedly. York glanced at McHenry and nodded toward Paulson. The young helmsman shrugged and rolled his eyes.

One transition wake broke out of the convoy and drove ahead of it at close to three thousand lights, definitely a hunter-killer much like the
Horseman
. It passed the leading escort, headed directly for the
Horseman
, and York felt a bead of sweat running down his spine. Paulson looked like he was about to break into tears.

York watched it approach on his screens, realized it would pass relatively close. Paulson sat at Navigation with his eyes closed, the muscles of his jaw visibly clenched. And even though they hid it well, Gunnerson and Hensen showed signs of strain in small ways, a nervous glance down at the screens, an unconscious tug on an earlobe.

When the escort passed over them, its transition wake sent a dozen gravity waves flooding in all directions through the ship. No one lost their lunch, but it was a near thing.

Hensen's eyes lit up and he counted, “One … two … three … four …”

The escort down-transited and Hensen said, “Hot damn!”

Gunnerson said, “You must be a lucky charm, Mr. Ballin.” At the look on his face she added, “They overshot us by more than a billion klicks. They're not going to detect us, and we've got nothing between us and that convoy. That's incredible luck.”

McHenry had a grin from ear to ear, and Paulson still looked sick.

“Okay, ladies,” Gunnerson said. “We've got work to do.”

The Fourth Horseman
could spit torpedoes at a thousand lights and target accurately at distances up to twenty billion kilometers. But if they launched at extreme range, the approaching convoy would have eighty seconds to track the incoming torpedoes, time during which their military escort could target on the
Horseman
. Gunnerson wanted to cut it to under ten seconds.

“Mr. Hensen,” she said. “Arm six ten-megatonne torpedoes for near-contact detonation. I'm sending targeting priorities to your console now.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am.”

“Also arm a one hundred megatonne torpedo to detonate immediately after launch at one million klicks off our bow, and another off our stern.”

York frowned, wondering why she'd do that.

She must have seen the look on his face. “There'll be a lot of transition noise in that, Mr. Ballin, all nice and close to us, make it that much harder for them to get a targeting solution on us.”

As York worked with Hensen to program the torpedoes for Gunnerson's targets, he glanced frequently at his screens, watching the enemy approach. The muscles in his shoulders tightened when they entered the limit of the
Horseman
's targeting range, and he announced, “Ranging at twenty thousand megaklicks and closing. Just under two minutes out.”

Gunnerson said, “Mr. Ballin, give us all a down-count on their approach at five-thousand megaklick intervals.”

Paulson was almost dysfunctional at that point. York understood why Gunnerson had assigned him to Navigation. With their escape course precomputed, he wasn't needed once the action started, and if they had to make any last-minute changes, any one of them could handle it.

York looked at his screens again and announced, “Fifteen thousand megaklicks and closing.”

They all had their implants tuned to a common command circuit. Gunnerson said, “Engineering, stand by. I'll want launch power first.”

The approaching convoy was now one minute out, but with the torpedo's transition velocity added to that of the oncoming enemy, their warheads would get to them in half that time.

York announced, “Ten thousand megaklicks and closing.”

Gunnerson said, “Mr. Kirkman, when I give Mr. Hensen the order to fire, you know the drill: Power up, gravity up, and I want redline. And Mr. McHenry, you get us the fuck out of here.”

McHenry said, “Aye, aye, ma'am.”

York announced, “Five thousand megaklicks … four thousand … three—”

He didn't get to finish as Gunnerson shouted, “Fire.”

The power plant went immediately to redline, then the hull echoed six times as the transition launchers threw warheads at the convoy. York felt the hum of the engines and McHenry firewalled the sublight drive. The transition launchers sounded two more times, and York's screens went blank as the two large warheads blew just off their bow and stern.

The power plant dropped out of redline, easily handling the demands of the sublight drive as they accelerated away at ten thousand G's, blind because of the transition noise their own torpedoes had generated. It was all up to McHenry now.

The hull of the
Horseman
groaned, and York actually felt a slight twitch in the internal gravity compensation. York's screens cleared as Hensen said, “That was a close one. That hunter-killer behind us must have got off a shot.”

Once they could see through all the transition noise, it appeared they'd destroyed one cruiser class warship and three merchantmen, a rather successful shot. Now, they had to run like hell.

Chapter 25:

Chain of Command

Under the watchful eyes of Chief Petty Officer Harkness, and working with three other spacers, York sweated in the tight confines of the forward torpedo room. Orders had just come from the bridge to arm seven ten-megatonne and two one-hundred-megatonne warheads. The aft torpedo room would handle one of the larger warheads, while they were hustling to prep all eight transition launchers in the bow. Another close approach, another feddie system, this one named Joy of Dilosk; perhaps it had some meaning in some feddie dialect.

For this shot, Gunnerson had put Paulson in engineering, with York in the forward torpedo room. Gunnerson told him, “Before your evaluation tour is over, we're going to get you real live-fire experience in every critical station on this ship.”

After Stulfanos, they'd set up another shot. York had gone through that one in engineering with Kirkman, and now, approaching the end of his evaluation tour, the Dilosk shot would be his last before returning to the academy and Karin. It would be the last time he'd see her, make love to her. After that, he'd probably be stationed on the front lines, while she'd get a cushy post near her father's estates. With light-years separating them, she'd get married, find other lovers, and they'd pretend their own relationship had never happened.

“Open the breech doors,” Harkness ordered, yanking York back from his thoughts.

York had responsibility for tubes one and two, with Harkness looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn't screw up. He'd drilled on this routine for the last month, but under live-fire conditions, nerves could get the best of anyone.

York hit the locks on the two breech doors and popped them open.

“Load torpedoes,” Harkness ordered.

York hit the switch above the first torpedo's trolley, and it slid smoothly into the launcher. He hesitated over the switch for number two. A telltale near the switch was still flashing red. Harkness frowned at his hesitation, glanced his way, saw the telltale, and nodded his approval. As long as it flashed red, the bridge was still downloading targeting information to the torpedo's onboard computer, and interlocks kept the trolley switch disabled.

It flashed from red to green, York hit the switch, and the torpedo slid into the launcher. They closed the breech doors, evacuated the launch tubes, and opened the muzzle doors. And now they waited.

Through York's implants Hensen's voice said, “Twenty thousand megaklicks and closing.”

“Engineering,” Gunnerson said, “you know the drill. On my order, power up, gravity up, and redline it so Mr. McHenry can get us out of here.”

“Ten thousand megaklicks and closing.”

In the torpedo room, no one spoke or moved, and York thought his heart might pound its way right out of his chest.

“Five thousand megaklicks … four …”

“Fire.”

This close to the launchers, the thrum in the hull was deafening, and York was thankful for the headset covering his ears. The launchers rapidly spit out seven torpedoes, each accompanied by a wash of transition static and a gravity wave that turned York's stomach. The whine of the sublight drive kicked in, and an instant later the big torpedo meant to obscure their position with transition noise slammed out of the launcher.

As they closed the muzzle doors, they waited for any news from the bridge. But only a few seconds after the last launch, the hull screamed, the lights fluttered, and York's implants filled with damage control messages.

York looked at Harkness, knew he did a poor job of hiding the fear in his eyes. “We stay the course, Mr. Ballin,” the chief said. “Wait for orders and be ready to comply.”

York could tap into limited information on the situation through his implants, but Harkness had a full console, and updated them as he got information.

“Direct hit on the bridge, a transition shell, not a torpedo, or we'd be vapor. Bridge is under vacuum; Kirkman is in command operating from the auxiliary bridge in engineering. Power is good; drive is good. With the exception of the bridge, hull integrity is good, too. A rescue party is already on the bridge. So now we wait and see.”

Gunnerson and two others were dead, with Hensen badly wounded. Word was, he might not make it. McHenry had lost a leg at mid-thigh, would wear a powered prosthetic until they got back to a naval facility and cloned him a new leg. On a hunter-killer, they didn't have a doctor, just a very highly trained medical corpsman, and the sick-bay facilities were nothing compared to that of a larger ship like a cruiser.

Kirkman called a meeting in the wardroom to include officers and senior NCOs. Beside Paulson and York, Vickers, Carney, Soletski, and Harkness attended, plus a chief petty officer York had met but not worked with: a woman named Garmin. The wardroom was a bit crowded, so York edged his way to the back of it.

Kirkman started the meeting by saying, “Looks like the Federals anticipated us, put on extra escorts, and a heavy cruiser managed to get in one shot with its transition batteries. After two close approaches and shots, we probably should have moved out of this quadrant before trying another.”

Vickers said, “So Gunnerson fucked up, huh?”

Garmin nodded eagerly, agreeing with Vickers.

The look Kirkman gave Vickers did not bode well for the meeting. “First, Chief Vickers,
Captain
Gunnerson did not fuck up. Second, you'll keep a civil tongue in your head. And finally, you'll address me as
sir
.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, until Kirkman said, “Well, Chief?”

Vickers looked like he was chewing nails. “Aye, aye … sir.”

York noticed Garmin staring hatefully at Kirkman, apparently upset that Vickers had been upbraided.

Kirkman stared at Vickers until the chief lowered his eyes. Kirkman then continued, “To escape Dilosk, we had to drive deeper into enemy territory just when we needed to go back for supplies. We're now more than a hundred and fifty light-years behind the last known position of the front lines. We're heading back, but moving slowly so we don't broadcast too much of a transition wake, and we're zigzagging so we don't follow a predictable course. It could take us a couple of months to get there. The recyclers can provide all the water we need, so that's not an issue. But we're going to have to augment fresh food with synthesized protein cake out of the processors, so from here on, we ration fresh food. Everyone will receive the same ration regardless of rank.”

Kirkman had each department head report on operational status. From what they said, the ship was in reasonably good shape. Even the bridge would soon be sealed up and operational again, requiring only a small amount of functional backup from the auxiliary bridge.

Kirkman had assigned York to the bridge crew, so when the meeting broke up he headed that way, but the medical corpsman stopped him in the corridor. “Ensign Ballin,” he said, “a moment of your time.”

York nodded, though he thought it telling that the man looked about carefully, almost fearfully, before speaking. He whispered, “Commander Hensen would like to speak with you.”

“He's conscious?” York asked.

The corpsman said, “Not for long.”

York followed the corpsman down two decks to sick bay. Hensen lay in an instrumented bed surrounded by a spaghetti of tubes and wires. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow and pale, a greasy sheen of sweat covering his skin. From the shape of the sheets covering him, it appeared that the lower half of his body had been torn away.

“Commander,” the corpsman whispered, “Ensign Ballin is here.”

For the first time since York had entered the room, Hensen moved. He took a shallow breath, then another, as if building his strength for an effort, then he opened his eyes. He had trouble focusing them for a moment, then they settled on York.

“Ensign,” he said, no hint of the strong, commanding voice York had come to admire.

“What is it?” York asked. “What can I do to help?”

Hensen said to the corpsman, “We'd like to … speak alone, please.”

“Certainly, sir,” the corpsman said. He walked past them deeper into sick bay.

Hensen reached out with his hand like a blind man. “Come close, York.”

York leaned down so his ear was only centimeters from Hensen's lips. He felt the hot exhale of the commander's shallow breathing as he said, “Vickers … is AI. That's why we kept him … on the lower decks. Don't trust him.”

York recalled how Garmin had supported Vickers's insubordination. He asked, “What about Garmin?”

Hensen shook his head, though it was an effort that cost him. “Not AI. … Probably wants to be. … Probably recruited by Vickers. Don't trust … her, either.”

“Okay, sir,” York said. “But why are you telling
me
this, and not Kirkman?”

“Last chance. They're gonna … tank me to keep me alive. And Kirkman already … knows. And Paulson doesn't count. Kirkman's gonna … need your help, gonna need you … to back him if Vickers tries anything. And Vickers … will try something.”

Hensen's head sagged back against the pillow and he closed his eyes. His breathing grew shallow, so shallow that York wasn't sure he was breathing at all. York checked his pulse, was relieved to find he had one. He called the corpsman, then reported to duty on the bridge.

According to their orders of engagement,
The Fourth Horseman
had completed its mission. Even Dilosk had been a successful shot because they'd taken out a lot of feddie shipping, though it had cost them the lives of three crew, including their captain. They still had about twenty torpedoes left, but were running low on supplies, and with the chain of command badly impaired, it was time to get back to an imperial base. Kirkman planned to work their way slowly back to the front without engaging the enemy, then cross into friendly territory and let the Admiralty assign a new command structure to the ship. Unfortunately, he was forced to contend with Vickers at every turn.

The master chief was never again openly rude or impolite, was, in fact, textbook in the nuances of addressing a superior officer, even when it came to York. But the little slights were always there, a raised eyebrow subtly questioning any decision Kirkman made, an unvoiced smirk if their new captain showed even the slightest hesitation.

At first, morale plummeted into the toilet, yet as they cautiously made their way back toward the front lines, the bridge crew's confidence in Kirkman grew. And York saw firsthand how the engineering crew who'd worked under him trusted him, so parsec by parsec, day by day, spirits improved. But eighteen days later, a hundred light-years from the front lines, Kirkman slipped while navigating a ladder between decks and cracked his skull. It was in the middle of the night on first watch, with no one about to render assistance, and by the time they found him, he was dead. York thought it sounded a lot like the way Tomlin had died on
Dauntless
.

Kirkman's death made Paulson captain, and he immediately called a meeting of all officers and senior NCOs in the wardroom. York found it interesting that word of the meeting was spread by Vickers and Garmin, and that the two showed up at the meeting wearing sidearms.

“Captain Paulson,” Vickers said before anyone else could speak, “we should drive straight for the front line and get back to friendly territory as soon as possible.”

Soletski and Carney both looked warily at Paulson.

“Um,” Paulson said, his eyes darting about the room. “But Captain Kirkman planned to approach it slowly, move cautiously. He—”

“He's dead,” Vickers said. “And that's not the best way to handle this. We need to get back now.”

Paulson nodded. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

That was how the meeting went. Vickers ran it by issuing orders through Paulson.

As the meeting broke up, Paulson grabbed York's arm and held him back. When they were alone, he whispered, “Shit, shit, shit! I can't run this ship. Not with him running everything.”

York said, “You have to. You're a line officer, and that makes you the CO of this ship.”

Paulson looked like he was about to cry. “But I told you, Gunnerson was going to classify me unfit to command. You take command. I'll do whatever you say.”

York shook his head. “It doesn't matter what Gunnerson was going to do, only what she did do. And since she didn't get around to classifying you as unfit, you're the captain of this ship. You have to take command back from Vickers, stop letting him walk all over you.”

Paulson's voice trembled as he spoke. “I can't. I know I'm not fit for command. I can't.”

York straightened and said, “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No,” Paulson said, burying his face in his hands. “No, nothing.”

Paulson refused to move into the captain's stateroom, but he did move Vickers into the executive officer's, and he assigned Vickers to bridge crew. Vickers did try to keep up the pretense that he wasn't giving the orders. He would say, “Captain, I recommend …” or “Captain, I would suggest that …” But occasionally, he slipped and threw out a direct order. The first time it happened to York, he was at the helm. They'd down-transited for a nav fix, and Vickers ordered, “Helm, maximum sublight drive. Get us into transition.”

York didn't respond, but instead looked to Paulson, who was sitting at the captain's console and appeared preoccupied. York said, “Captain?”

Vickers's eyes flashed angrily. Paulson started, looked at Vickers, then at York. “Yes. Do what he said.”

After that, York was taken off bridge watch and assigned to help Soletski in Engineering. The chief knew far more than York ever would about the ship's systems, so York kept his mouth shut and didn't try to run the department.

Driving hard at three thousand lights, the
Horseman
emitted a very large and visible transition wake, and that made many of them quite nervous. But there was nothing they could do about it. York did take the first off-duty opportunity to hunt down Chief Carney, the master-at-arms. He approached the subject carefully.