Of Treasons Born (10 page)

On ejection from the gunboat, the computer had automatically put a display of his power reserves in the corner of one of his screens. He could sustain flight at a little more than one G with no internal gravity compensation for about ten minutes. Or he could fire twelve three-round bursts, but not both.

Another soldier jogged up to the one holding the gun on Chunks, and the two conferred for a moment.

“Computer,” York said as he gripped the control yoke and attitude stick. “Turret weaponry on visual tracking control.” The computer would now control aiming of the turret's guns by tracking York's eyes, leaving him free to control the turret's flight with his hands. He could fly in one direction and shoot in another. He scanned his readouts; the turret was hot and ready to go.

The two soldiers finished conferring. The first turned to Chunks, and without warning swatted him in the face with the butt of his rifle. Chunks crumpled into a heap on the street. The second soldier stood over Chunks and lowered the muzzle of his rifle toward the gunner's head.

York applied power to the external grav fields and his turret sprang up off the street. He focused his eyes on the street to one side of Chunks and fired a burst. It tore up the tarmac and both soldiers looked his way. He slammed the attitude stick forward, screaming toward the enemy troopers, fired another burst that caught one of them in his chest plates.

Compared to the weapons a marine could carry and power with a reactor pack, the guns on a turret were seriously heavy firepower. The three-round burst splintered the feddie's armor and slammed him to the ground. As York drove toward them, the remaining soldiers turned and sprinted up the street away from him. York followed, dropped two more of them, but each burst of rounds reduced his energy reserves by a minute. With rifle rounds pinging off his turret, he chased them about three hundred meters beyond Chunks's turret, where they took cover in the rubble of a damaged building. York had just more than a minute of power reserves left. He spun the turret about and retreated back toward Chunks. His turret ran out of power two meters up and twenty short of his comrade. The turret dropped like a rock and slammed into the street, jolting York in his acceleration couch. It rolled and ended up on its side. York popped the hatch and climbed out ten paces from Chunks, who lay unmoving.

Hopefully, the enemy marines would move cautiously against the firepower of a turret. It would take them a little time to cover the distance, moving cautiously forward. He figured he had two or three minutes at most.

Chunks was still breathing, but out cold. York gripped him by the heels and dragged him toward his turret, grunting and sweating, thinking if they survived this, Chunks needed to lose a few kilos. He leaned through the hatch in Chunks's turret and checked the reserves. He had about twenty minutes. Chunks had apparently not wasted any time hovering above the ground in shock.

There was no possible way he could get them both into the turret; there wasn't enough room, and York wasn't foolish enough to believe he could lift Chunks. But all vac suits had a retractable, plast utility line, most often used as a tether in EVA vac work. York reeled out a couple of meters from Chunks's suit, locked the reel in place, then tied the end of it around one of the turret's gun barrels.

He climbed into the turret, flopped into Chunks's acceleration couch and was thankful Chunks hadn't shut the turret down completely. He lifted off the tarmac, Chunks dangling beneath him, turned the turret toward the spot where
Three
had gone down, and applied power to the external gravity fields. He stayed low, didn't want to give the feddies an easy target.

He found the gunboat at the edge of a large, empty parking lot situated at the end of a wide avenue. Its nose was crumpled against the ground, with its tail leaning against the wall of a building. He lowered Chunks gently to the tarmac, then set the turret down beside him. He had eighteen minutes of reserve power left.

He left Chunks there and sprinted to the gunboat. The main hatch was still open so he climbed inside, found Meg and Rodma still seated in the cockpit. Meg's head lolled to one side, her eyes staring vacantly at nothing, a trickle of blood running down her face. Rodma was conscious, but groaning in pain. The nose of the craft had crumpled, pinning his leg in a mess of twisted plast and broken steel.

“First-aid kit,” he said through gritted teeth, pointing at the kit clipped to the back bulkhead of the cockpit. “Get me a kikker.”

York ripped the kit off the bulkhead and tore it open. Combat kikkers! He'd heard of them, a mixture of drugs to kill pain and jack up alertness at the same time. As he fumbled one out of the kit, Rodma said, “Give it to me. You go check on Jack and Sissy.”

York handed him the kikker, then scrambled toward the aft of the gunboat.

There wasn't much left of Jack. When the boat's tail had clipped the side of the building while coming down, it had crushed his turret and him with it. York found a hand in the twisted wreckage, but when he pulled on it lightly, it came away without an arm attached to it. When he spotted the gunner's head, leaking gray matter, he emptied his stomach down the front of his vac suit.

He found Sissy still alive, but trapped in her turret. She had blood smeared across her face, which frightened him, especially since her systems were down and they could only communicate by shouting at the top of their lungs through the plast and steel of the turret armor. She assured him she wasn't hurt badly. But the crumpled nose of the boat had damaged the turret's hatch. They'd need more than a wrench to get her out.

The gunboat's computer said,
Enemy combatants approaching, two hundred meters out. They appear to be Federation regular troops, numbering approximately fifty.

Fifty feddie marines. York recalled the way they had tried to execute Chunks, no taking prisoners. He asked Rodma, “How far out are
One
and
Two
?”

Rodma looked a little better. The kikker must have helped him. He grimaced as he spoke, “More 'n twenty minutes.”

York tried to calm his breathing, tried to think of what to do. The feddie marines would be there in under five minutes, and they'd all be dead before help arrived. He could grab a rifle from the weapons locker, try to slow them down. But one rifle against fifty … no, Chunks's turret was their only chance.

York scrambled out of the boat, untied Chunks's plast tether from the turret gun barrel, and dragged him back to the boat. Then he climbed into the turret, sealed the hatch, and strapped in. He ran a quick check on the systems, changed a few settings on the turret to configure it more to his liking.

His screens showed a cluster of red target blips approaching the boat. They were leapfrogging, the rear elements running forward and taking a position behind whatever cover they could find. The nearest were about a hundred meters out. He let them come, waited until they were at fifty meters, then slammed power into the external grav fields, lifted straight up off the tarmac, firing three-round bursts as he climbed to about twenty meters. He caught the enemy marines off guard, dropped four of them in those first few seconds.

Every time he fired a burst, his estimated reserve power dropped by a minute. He zigzagged side to side as they fired back, tried to hold off on expending the power too quickly, the turret ringing with the clatter of dozens of rounds pinging off its armor.

The computer said, “
Power reserves at ten minutes.”

York shot up then down, right then left, then fired a burst. One of the feddies stepped into the open with a shoulder-mounted RPG. York drove straight toward the rocket plume, then pulled up at the last instant and the missile shot past him. He fired a burst, took out the feddie with the RPG.

“Critical hazard warning, power reserves at three minutes, and altitude too high.”

York shot downward, feeding excessive amounts of power into the external grav fields.

“Critical hazard warning, power reserves at one minute—”

York fired his last three-round burst.

His grav fields sputtered erratically, and down below he saw another feddie with a shoulder-mounted RPG. The feddie fired the rocket just as York's turret went into freefall. His screens told him he was at forty meters. He watched the rocket streak his way as he tumbled toward the ground. The rocket got to him first.

Chapter 10:

Reprieve

“… crushed pelvis and spine …”

“… lose both legs and an arm …”

“… skull fracture …”

“He's waking up.”

“No, don't let him come to, not in the shape he's in.”

There was only pain for a while, and then the pain dissipated and the dreams came. He dreamed of a strange landscape where he walked on legs that didn't exist, used an arm that ended in a jagged stump, and saw through an eyeless socket.

Then came oblivion.

York slammed awake, gasped, tried to sit up, but restraints held him pinned down. He lay on his back looking up at a sterile white ceiling—
deck
, he reminded himself. He tried to turn his head, to move in some way, but his muscles wouldn't respond. He could blink his eyes, and that was about all.

“Easy there, Spacer.”

Sissy leaned into his field of view on his right side. Marko leaned over him on the left.

He found he could speak. “Am I paralyzed?”

“No,” Marko said. “You're fine. They've just got you on a central nervous system block—don't want you moving too quickly yet.”

Sissy grinned. “But you were really fucked up, York.”

Even with a blocked nervous system, fear clutched at York's gut. “I … I didn't mean to fuck up.”

Sissy looked stricken. “No, no, you didn't fuck up. What you did took guts, but when we recovered you, you were a fucked-up mess.”

A man in a white coat looking very doctorish leaned over him. “Well, Spacer Ballin,” he said, “glad to have you back among the living.”

There was a cluster of instruments attached to the headboard of York's bed. The doctor looked at them for a moment and nodded. “Vitals are good, and everything's progressing nicely.”

He held up a small instrument. “I'm going to slowly turn off the nerve block. You won't get any prickly sensation, like when you've slept on your arm or something, but you might spasm a little, especially in the new limbs we grew for you. That's not unusual, so don't let it frighten you, and we've got you restrained so you can't do any damage.”

As his nervous system returned to normal functioning, his right leg twitched a bit, but then it calmed. Then he got a sudden and very demanding erection. Sissy looked at the growing bulge in the sheets and said, “Well, it looks like he's pretty healthy to me.”

The doctor said, “That's also not unusual.”

Sissy grinned, leaned down, and whispered in his ear, “I may have to help you get rid of that bad boy, in a fun kind of way.”

The erection disappeared instantly.

They removed the restraints and reconfigured the bed so York could sit comfortably. Now that he could turn his head and look about, he saw that he was in a ward with ten beds, only two of them occupied.

The doctor said, “We'll have you out of here before dinner.”

York asked, “What happened to me?”

The doctor consulted a small reader. “You lost your left leg above the knee, the right below the knee. We grew you new ones. You lost your right arm almost at the shoulder. We grew you a new one. You're going to experience a little weakness in them until your system fully integrates them, so we're putting you on an exercise regimen.”

The doctor looked at the instruments above York's bed. “We reconstructed the orbit of your right eye, had to grow you a new eye. You shouldn't have any vision issues, but if you do, I want to know about them right away.

“The skull fracture was worrisome, but the speed healing took nicely. You may experience a little memory loss, but nothing going forward.”

Sissy said, “Like I said, kid, you were really fucked up.”

York learned that the firefight on Norgaard had happened only three days before, was amazed at how quickly they'd fixed him up.

The doctor said, “Listen carefully to me, Spacer. We subjected you to quite a bit of accelerated regrowth and speed healing. Too much of that and you can start experiencing systemic rejection, so we don't want any further injuries for at least a couple of tendays. You're going to be on light, strictly nonhazardous duty for a while.”

In a matter of minutes, they had York out of bed and walking on his new legs, Sissy and Marko walking beside him in case he stumbled or fell. Interestingly, Marko was more motherly than Sissy. Inside of an hour, York returned to the marine barracks, where a marine medic took charge of him, took him to the gym, and started him on a carefully planned exercise program.

The gathering was a small one. There wasn't that much room in the aft maintenance bay on Hangar Deck. Jarwith, Thorow, Shernov, Cochran, Sissy, Rodma, and the rest of
Three
's crew, four flag-draped bodies, and a couple marines and a few crew members.

Jarwith looked at York, and he quailed under her gaze. She kept her eyes on him as she spoke, though he knew she wasn't speaking merely to him. “I delayed this for a few days so their injured comrades could recover and be present.”

The way she looked at him bothered him, for he didn't see any of the anger he expected. Instead, she seemed more curious, as if she had a question she wanted him to answer. She still didn't look away from him when she said, “Sergeant.”

Cochran bellowed, “Atteeuun'shuuuuun.”

York and everyone but Jarwith and Thorow snapped to rigid attention. Jarwith finally stopped looking at York when she said, “Sergeant, call the roll.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Cochran stepped forward carrying a list of names on an old-fashioned piece of paper. But as she called out the first name, the paper stayed locked in her fist, unopened. “Private First Class Jack McCaw.”

Jack
,
York thought. She'd spoken the name of a dead man.

“Here, ma'am,” one of the marines bellowed loudly.

Cochran continued. “Corporal Megan Danoski.”

“Here, ma'am,” another marine called out loudly.

Jack and Megan! York hadn't known their last names, hadn't known Meg's full first name, and his eyes teared up a bit.

“Private First Class Dugan Stanner.”

“Here, ma'am.”

“Private Shella Gomstak.”

“Here, ma'am.”

York didn't know the last two, but it still saddened him that they were dead. The marines had been good to him.

Jarwith's gaze had returned to York. Looking at him she nodded, and the marines of the grave detail began stacking the body bags into the maintenance hatch. A crew member passed out small plast cups filled with a clear fluid. As they sealed the hatch, York looked at the liquid in his cup: slightly diluted 'trate, very strong.

Jarwith lifted her cup to her lips. York and the others followed her example. He'd been told to take only one sip, and when he did the 'trate burned its way down his throat.

Jarwith then held the cup out in front of her and said, “For them, it's over. For us, it goes on.” She tipped the cup slowly and poured the rest of the 'trate onto the metal and plast of the deck where it spattered and splashed all over her boots. York and everyone else did the same, then Jarwith called out, “Release them,” and the hull echoed with the emergency blow-down cycle of the aft maintenance hatch.

York was in the gunboat flight simulator when Cochran interrupted him. “Ballin, shut that thing down and get out here.”

“Be right there, Sarge.”

He shut down the simulator's system, unstrapped, and climbed out onto the deck, where he found Cochran and Cap'm Shernov waiting for him. York snapped to attention, saluted, and said, “Sir.”

Shernov looked at him in a curious way, then said, “XO wants to see you. Come with us.”

York's gut tightened with fear, but he tried not to show anything as they led him up several decks. He'd never been in officer's country before, though it didn't look any different from NCO country.

Shernov stopped at an open hatch and stepped inside, leaving Cochran and York in the corridor. York heard him say, “Cap'm Shernov, Master Sergeant Cochran, and Spacer Apprentice Ballin reporting as ordered, sir.”

A male voice said, “Bring the kid in.”

Cochran nodded to the hatch, so York stepped through it, caught a momentary glimpse of Captain Jarwith seated casually on a couch to one side. York guessed he should ignore the captain, that he should address himself to the man seated behind a desk in front of him.

York recognized the fellow immediately. He'd been the sharp-eyed officer seated next to Jarwith at captain's mast the day he'd gotten the lash. Trying not to shake with fear, York marched forward two steps, stopped in front of the desk, snapped to attention, and saluted. “Spacer Ballin reporting as ordered, sir.”

The man had a narrow face and salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed in a military cut. He wore commander's pips on the collar of his carefully pressed uniform, and didn't return York's salute right away, just sat there staring at him with dark brown eyes. York wasn't sure if he saw disapproval in the man's face, or simply a question.

After several seconds, the man raised his hand and threw a casual salute at York. “At ease, Spacer Ballin.”

York carefully moved the way Bristow and Cochran had taught him. He lifted his right foot, snapped it down to the deck at shoulder width, and gripped his hands behind his back, his stomach fluttering with dread. He could only wonder what he'd done wrong, and his thoughts locked onto his memories of the lash.

The man behind the desk leaned back in his chair, cupped his hands in front of him, and regarded York with narrow, piercing eyes. “I'm Commander Thorow, executive officer of this ship.”

It felt like a test. A civilian would have returned some sort of comment to the commander, would have said something like,
Nice to meet you, sir.
But the man hadn't given York an order, nor asked him a question, so York guessed he should keep his mouth shut.

Thorow nodded and said, “You're a bit of an enigma.”

York didn't know what
enigma
meant, but Thorow's next words gave him a good idea.

“You're supposed to be one of our screw-ups, a problem child. So why is it you're not a problem?”

York answered him honestly. “I don't know, sir.”

“No,” Thorow said. “I bet you don't.”

The lash, all York could think of was the lash. He wanted to run from the room and hide.

Jarwith stood and approached him. He wasn't sure if he should snap back to attention, or remain at ease, so he didn't move at all.

Beside him, she leaned down and said, “Why are you trembling, Spacer?”

The words burst out of him. “The lash. Whatever I did wrong, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry.”

Jarwith straightened and said, “Ah, shit.”

Thorow closed his eyes and rubbed his temples for a moment. Then he opened his eyes, leaned forward, and placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him. “You're not going to get the lash, Spacer. You didn't do anything wrong this time. In fact, you did something pretty right.”

He looked to Jarwith. “That's why I hate the lash.”

Jarwith's voice hardened as she said, “I hate it, too, but it's sometimes a necessary evil. It might have even saved this kid's life.”

Thorow shrugged and took a deep breath. “Possibly. I confess I'm surprised he's still with us.”

All York really heard was that he wasn't going to get the lash again, and only when his knees stopped shaking did he realize how visibly he'd been trembling.

Jarwith said, “We downloaded the telemetry packs from Chunks's turret and yours, and from the gunboat. You suicided Chunks's turret to save your comrades. Why did you do that?”

Again, York tried to be honest. “I don't know, ma'am. I just couldn't let the feddies kill them.”

Shernov said, “May I say something, ma'am?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “By all means.” She looked at Cochran. “And you too, Master Sergeant. Drop the formalities. I want frank and open discussion here.”

Shernov said, “My people tell me that when he came to us, he had some pod training, but nothing else. No military etiquette, no naval customs, and he'd been with us for over four months. Sergeant Cochran turned him over to Corporal Bristow with orders to rectify that, and he responded nicely. We've had no problems with him.”

Jarwith considered his words for a moment, then turned toward York, folded her arms and rubbed her chin, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “You're a drug runner, and yet you're clean, no sign of any use. Why?”

With the knowledge that he wasn't going to receive another fifty strokes, York had relaxed inwardly, hadn't tried to follow their argument. It took a second to play back Jarwith's question. “I didn't want the drugs, didn't want to take them.”

“Didn't take them voluntarily?” Jarwith asked. “Then who forced you to take them?”

“I don't know,” York blurted out, then realized how stupid that sounded.

Jarwith leaned forward so she stood nose-to-nose with him. “You don't know?”

“I …” It occurred to York that while he hadn't done anything wrong yet, he just might still get the lash if he did something wrong now. “I … uh …”

“Ma'am,” Cochran said. “I think the kid's scared.”

“Ya,” Shernov agreed. “Someone's got him running real scared.”

“Sarah,” Thorow said, and York realized he'd just heard the captain's first name, “let's focus on the fact that the kid's now doing a good job, let the past go.”

Jarwith straightened, leaned back, and rocked on her heels. “Spacer Ballin, with an act of conspicuous gallantry, you saved the lives of three members of my crew, at considerable risk to yourself. But more importantly, you've been trouble-free for some time now.”

She glanced at Shernov for a moment. “Cap'm Shernov tells me you aspire to be a pod gunner. I hope someday you aspire to something more than that, but for the time being, that'll do, so I'm going to give you another chance.”