Of Treasons Born (26 page)

Vickers and Garmin showed up together. Garmin sat down on the other side of the table next to Soletski, while Vickers stood at the end of the table and loomed over them. Garmin did not pretend to hide her actions as she lifted a small scanner and aimed it at York. She smiled, clearly satisfied that he was carrying no energy weapons like the grav gun at her side.

Vickers rested his hand on his sidearm and said, “So what's this about?”

When Vickers had wanted to arrest York, he'd backed down in front of the others. York hoped that with them present, he'd do so now and they could resolve this with nothing more than a bit of tension.

York said, “I have to decide what our course of action is going to be, and I'd like the advice of my senior NCOs to do so.”

“As we discussed earlier, I'm in favor of slowing down so we reduce our transition wake,” said Soletski.

Carney nodded. “We'll be a lot less of a target that way.”

Behind Vickers, a petty officer first class stepped quietly into the room and leaned against the bulkhead near Carney.

Garmin said, “We need to get back as soon as possible. I vote no.” She grinned at York.

York said, “Chief Garmin, this is a naval vessel. We don't vote.”

Her grin disappeared, and the tension in the room ratcheted up a notch.

Vickers leaned forward and put his hands flat on the table. “You want advice, I'll give you advice. You don't decide shit.”

York raised the cup of caff to his mouth and took a sip, at the same time sliding his right hand into his thigh pocket and wrapping his fingers around the handle of the gun. He swallowed, leaned forward, and looked at the caff in his cup. “According to naval regulations and the laws of the empire, I do decide.”

Because he was leaning forward, his right hand was hidden by his torso. He casually pulled the gun out of his thigh pocket and kept it beneath the table between his thigh and the bulkhead, then leaned back, lowered the cup back to the table, and rested his left elbow there. While he did that, another petty officer slipped quietly into the room and leaned against the bulkhead at the back of the meeting.

Vickers looked at each of the NCOs seated at the table. “Are we going to put up with this shit? A fucking ensign, straight out of the academy.”

A hard, angry look settled on Harkness's face. “An ensign who has the right to wear more campaign ribbons than most of the crew on this ship.”

Still leaning on the table, Vickers said, “I don't care how many ribbons he can wear. He has no right to command this ship.”

Harkness said, “I don't know what you think—”

As another petty officer stepped into the room and quietly stood near the back of the meeting, York raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, please.” He took advantage of the momentary silence. “We have a number of issues to settle here, one of which is the unnecessary wearing of arms. Chiefs Garmin and Vickers …” He looked at each of them. “Our previous CO may have authorized you to carry arms, but I'm withdrawing that authorization now. When this meeting is done, you're ordered to return your sidearms to Chief Carney for return to the arms locker.”

Vickers's eyes widened and he slammed a fist down on the table. “I'll do no such thing.”

That was it; he'd just refused a direct order. York had to get him to back down, or to escalate it so far there'd be no questioning York's actions.

“Are you refusing a direct order from your captain?” York asked.

Carney and the three petty officers tensed.

Vickers shouted, “You are not now, nor will you ever be, my captain.”

“But that's the issue before us,” York said. “I am your captain, whether you like it or not. And there's nothing in
The Naval Code of Regulations
that gives you the authority to change that.”

Vickers's lips turned upward in a sneer disguised as a smile. “Normal chain of command. If you're not physically able to perform your duties, then I'm in command.”

At that point, York could think of no way to retrieve the situation. “I think what you're saying is that I could have an accident … like Lieutenant Kirkman had an accident.”

Garmin grinned like a fool, while the others grimaced at having the truth of Kirkman's murder stated openly. Vickers's smile broadened further. “Accidents do happen,” he said.

“Is that a threat?” York said, and while he spoke he cocked the hammer on the gun.

Spittle flew from Vickers's mouth as he said, “You take it to be whatever you want it to be.”

Vickers had taken them down a path that was now irrevocable, so York needed to take him all the way. “I, your commanding officer, am giving you a direct order, and you're refusing it?”

“I'm not taking any orders from you. And you can take that space-lawyer bullshit and shove it up your ass.”

“And you're threatening me?”

Vickers lifted his right hand off the table and rested it on the butt of his sidearm. “What are you going to do about it?”

York let the silence draw out as if he were trapped and had no recourse to counter the man. Garmin and Vickers believed he was helpless, and that moment of apparent indecision proved to them that they were right. Garmin visibly relaxed, and York's moment had come.

Answering Vickers's question, he said, “This.” Then, without making any sudden, sharp movements that might elicit a reaction, he calmly raised the gun, aimed it between Vickers's eyes, and pulled the trigger.

In the small room, the explosion that came from the barrel was deafening. A small, round dot appeared in the middle of Vickers's forehead and behind him blood, brains, and bone splattered Carney and her three petty officers.

The impact rocked Vickers back and he straightened, his eyes wide, his lips forming a round
O
. His mouth opened and partially closed, opened and closed, like a fish York had once seen in a public aquarium. Then he toppled forward and his face smacked into the table with an unpleasant crack, nothing left of the back of his head but a steaming crater.

In the silence that ensued, York looked at Garmin. She sat stiffly with her eyes wide, staring at the gun in his hand. Then she lifted her gaze and met his eyes. She must have seen something there, for she paled visibly, then slowly placed her hands palm down on the table in front of her and averted her eyes.

York cocked the hammer on the gun then laid it down on the table next to his cup of caff, careful to position it so the barrel pointed directly at her. He fought to keep the tremble out of his voice as he said, “We still have a meeting to conduct. I take it we're all in agreement we'll slow down and reduce our transition wake?”

They all nodded silently, even Garmin, though her eyes remained wide, round circles of fear and she appeared unable to look away from the steaming ruin of the back of Vickers's head. York considered killing her, too; he'd murdered an AI agent, and when they court-martialed him for treason, she'd surely be the first to testify. But he couldn't find it in himself.

He almost got up to leave, but then realized the best thing he could do was finish the meeting. He forced them all to stay, and he made up agenda items on the fly just to draw it out, the crater in the back of Vickers's head a centerpiece for their discussions.

It seemed like an eternity, but it was over in twenty minutes. York reached out, picked up his gun, and stood. Those seated jumped to their feet and they all stood at rigid attention. Carney quietly moved to a position behind Garmin, her hand hidden in a pocket of her coveralls. York looked at her. “Chief, please make sure all issue weapons are returned to the weapons locker.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He was rather proud that he'd managed to sound very like a captain, without the slightest bit of tremor in his voice. He looked at the gun in his hand and decocked the hammer, then engaged the safety. “And please confiscate all non-issue weapons. You can start with this.”

He tossed the gun onto the table with a casual flick of his wrist. They all jumped at the loud crack it made when it hit the plast and bounced a couple of times.

He stepped back from the table and something occurred to him. “Does Vickers have a family?” he asked, not aiming the question at anyone in particular.

Soletski said, “Um … I believe he does, sir.”

“Then let the record show that Chief Vickers died honorably in defense of the empire. We'll let them draw his pension.”

York edged past Harkness and walked to the door, trying to keep the tremble out of his knees and wondering if he'd make it out of the room alive.

Chapter 27:

Ready to Command

Three days after York killed Vickers, they down-transited for a nav fix and spotted a transition wake coming their way, driving hard. After reviewing all the data they could gather, they decided it was most likely the feddie hunter-killer that had blown them out of transition shortly before Paulson h
anged
himself. At the time, they'd been going in opposite directions, and York thought it unlikely her captain would be stubborn enough to go to the trouble of killing his velocity and turning around to chase them. But now they were in sublight, running silent, with good telemetry and scan data, and the feddie captain must have assumed they were driving hard, because he came right at them in transition. They put a big torpedo into his bow and he went out with all hands.

It took them two months to work their way back to the front lines, moving slowly and cautiously. By that time, they were living almost exclusively on protein cake, though they had found a small cache of fresh food in Vickers's quarters, and some in Garmin's as well. But they'd used that up quickly by distributing it evenly among the crew. York could still remember choking down the unflavored, untextured cakes for a month in the brig on
Dauntless
. He considered the flavored stuff they were eating now a luxury, and had little sympathy for the grousing of his crew.

Once they crossed into friendly territory, they upped their speed to maximum and made good time to Dumark, and then on to Cathan, where York was relieved of his command. They transferred Commander Hensen out of the tanks into a hospital ward on Cathan Prime, and York received orders to return to the academy for his final evaluation. He got a ride on a fast destroyer to Muirendan, then took another passenger liner to Luna.

York felt a certain sense of déjà vu as he waited in the shuttle lounge on Luna Prime, looking at the large observation screen that showed the same image of Terr he'd looked at five years ago. The feeling continued as he rode the shuttle down to the surface, hopped the subsurface transport to Mare Crisia station, then walked to the academy. And just like the first time he'd come through the main gate, a bored MP told him he was
to report to the commandant immediately upon arrival
. They didn't have to give him directions this time.

Since his evaluation tour had inadvertently been extended to more than a year, he'd missed Karin when she'd returned after the standard half year, and he knew he'd never see her again. She did send him a note:

York:

Glad to hear the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated. I'll always remember you.

Karin

Martinson had a different secretary now, but like the first, she asked him to take a seat and wait—though unlike that first time, he didn't have to wait long. Martinson looked the same, seated behind his desk more rigidly than any cadet standing at attention. He returned York's salute and said, “At ease, Ensign. Pull up a chair and relax.”

There were two simple chairs to either side of the desk. York grabbed one and sat down in front of Martinson.

The commandant said, “You know, we thought you were dead, thought
The Fourth Horseman
went out with all hands.”

York shrugged. “We got lucky, sir.”

Martinson shook his head. “From what I've heard, luck had very little to do with it.”

Again York shrugged. “We took some damage, lost some crew, but we still had a functioning ship, even if a bit damaged. And we had a functioning crew. That was luck.”

“By the way,” Martinson said, “Commander Hensen is recovering nicely, though his injuries were so extreme it'll be a few months before he can return to active duty.”

“I'm glad to hear that, sir.”

“So you lost Gunnerson and Hensen, and Lieutenant Kirkman took command, but he was killed in a freak accident. Lieutenant Paulson took command after that, he was killed in a separate incident, and you finally took command. Chief Parker has spoken with the NCOs who were under your command. We know Kirkman was most likely murdered. We also know Paulson committed suicide. Why did you list him as killed in action?”

York wanted to shrug a third time, but he didn't. “He had a family, and I thought it would be nice to let them draw his pension.”

“Are the rumors about you true, Mr. Ballin?” Martinson asked, changing the subject without warning.

“I haven't heard the rumors about me, sir.”

“None of the NCOs under your command said anything directly to Parker—they're all rather loyal to you at this point—but he heard a few things in a roundabout sort of way. The most persistent rumor is that you crushed a mutiny by personally, and rather cold-bloodedly, executing its leader.”

York wondered if they were now going to court-martial him. Garmin had probably reported everything to AI, and now they'd charge him with treason and be rid of him. “There might be a small element of truth to that rumor, sir.”

“And yet there is no record of such a mutiny, Mr. Ballin, nor of any serious dissension among the officers and crew of
The
Fourth Horseman
.”

York had to assume Soletski, Harkness, and Carney had forced Garmin to keep her mouth shut. He tried to keep the surprise he felt from showing on his face as he said, “Once the instigator of the mutiny was … no longer an issue, and it was over, there was no need to tarnish the reputations of those involved.”

“Let their families draw their pensions, eh?”

“Exactly, sir.”

York wanted some answers to some old questions and knew he might be perceived as impertinent by asking them, but didn't really give a damn at that point. “May I ask a question, sir?”

Martinson smiled. “By all means, Mr. Ballin, but I think I already know what it is.”

York wasn't going to play guessing games with Martinson. “Why did you expose me to Abraxa at that reception at the end of my first semester? You said it would be the hardest four years of my life. But you implied that if I worked hard, you wouldn't make it harder. I did work hard, and I did well up until then. You lied to me.”

“I didn't lie to you,” Martinson said. “This empire needs men and women who are capable of commanding people and ships under the worst of circumstances, and by that I mean when hampered by the incompetence of their own superiors. In every class, there are a few of you who have that potential. And for each one of you, I do something to make your life here hell, not just for your plebe year, but for your entire time here. As I said, we need you to be able to command independently under the worst of circumstances. And we need you to understand what fools you'll frequently be reporting to.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and regarded York with a faint smile on his lips. “It turns out my record is quite good; I'm rarely wrong about one of you. You, Mr. Ballin, are ready to command as only a very few of your classmates are.”

“May I be blunt, sir?”

“Please.”

“I would rather have had just the regular, ordinary, hellish time of it.”

Martinson threw his head back and roared with laughter, which was incredibly unlike him. After he calmed down, he wiped tears from his eyes and said, “Thank you for that, Mr. Ballin. Have you never wondered why you didn't flunk out when your grades were so poor, why I didn't make your life even worse when you failed to perform?”

“I did wonder about that, sir.”

“Up until that little reception, you were performing nicely. Then I exposed you, Abraxa and Laski put their heads together, and suddenly your test scores plummeted.” He held up his hands and looked upward as if acknowledging divine intervention. Then he looked at York and said, “Do you think I'm a fool, Mr. Ballin?”

York opened his mouth to say something politic, but Martinson held out his hand. “Rhetorical question, Mr. Ballin. I knew what Laski was doing, and I kept track of your real scores, which continued to be in the top thirty percent. It was not a coincidence that every time you faced an academic review, there were officers on the panel who are just as disgusted as I am by the privilege and corruption in our system. And consider this: Had Laski and others like him not inflated the scores of people like Tony Simma, you would likely have made the top ten or fifteen percent.”

Martinson hesitated for a moment and grinned at some thought. “By the way, Mr. Simma told his father that he didn't think he was properly ready to command, that he really hadn't applied himself as well as he could have, and he asked to return to repeat his final year. He then sent me a private message that he wanted me to ensure that he received no favoritism. He mentioned you, said you had quite an impact on him.”

York couldn't help but smile, recalling that Tony had never been as full of himself as some of the others.

Martinson continued. “Many of your graduating class will eventually make good officers, and because of you, Mr. Simma might be among them. But you're ready to command now in a way that very few of them are, so go out there and command, Mr. Ballin.”

He stood and extended his hand. Surprised, York stood and shook it.

Martinson released his hand and straightened. “That's all. You're dismissed.”

York saluted, turned with parade-ground precision, and marched the short distance to the door. He opened it, but before he stepped through, Martinson said, “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Ballin.”

York paused and turned to face him. “Commander Hensen has recovered sufficiently to write you a nice review. And since there were no superior officers left conscious and alive on
The Fourth Horseman
to provide an assessment of your performance during your final months of the tour, I'm adding to it myself. It will be quite glowing, though probably not enough to make up for the fact that you graduated at the bottom of your class. We'll give you a medal or something to compensate.”

York didn't say what he wanted to say. He simply said, “Thank you, sir,” and closed the door softly.