by J. L. Doty
York shrugged. “Straight doesn’t think so. I’ll meet you down here as soon as I’m done. Hang on to my duffel.”
York climbed up the ship’s ladders deck after deck. There were grav lifts, but those were reserved for personnel on important business. The hatch to the captain’s office was open, but York stood outside and knocked politely.
“Enter.”
As York stepped through the hatch, he saw the captain seated behind a small desk, while Thorow stood over her looking at a hand terminal. York went through the ritual of marching squarely up to the captain’s desk, stopping a pace away from it, saluting, and saying, “Spacer Ballin reporting as ordered, ma’am.”
Jarwith looked at him carefully while Thorow continued to look at the screen of the small reader, frowning and shaking his head slightly from side to side, as if something he saw there seemed out of place, or incorrect.
Jarwith returned the salute and said, “At ease, Spacer.”
York spread his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. He’d never been in the captain’s office before, though that didn’t intimidate him half as much as Thorow’s disturbed look. The executive officer said, “This isn’t right.”
Jarwith stared at York as she said, “No, it isn’t. But I told you the rather unusual circumstances under which he came to us.”
“Ya,” Thorow said. “With a suit giving orders to civilian and military authorities alike. But this”—he wagged the small terminal at her—“doesn’t fit anything.”
For the first time, Thorow looked at York. There was no anger in the man’s look. “You’ve been a good spacer, Ballin, even though you had a rough start.”
York decided that the mystery of the moment allowed him to break discipline just a little. “I don’t understand, sir.”
Jarwith leaned forward and put her hands flat on the desk in front of her. “We’ve received new orders for you. You’re being transferred to the destroyer Relentless. You’re to report there immediately. They’re headed outbound to the front lines tomorrow.”
York had to replay her words carefully in his mind to understand their meaning, and a lump formed in the pit of his stomach. “Immediately?”
“God dammit,” Thorow said, “it’s just not right.”
Jarwith ignored him and said to York, “This is very unusual—just not done. Not when someone’s paid their dues out there.”
York’s thoughts raced as he tried to come up with some rational explanation. “Maybe it’s because I was with you for less than three years. Maybe they figure I haven’t earned it yet.”
Jarwith shook her head, her brows furrowed not with anger, but with obvious pain. “No, Mr. Ballin, that’s not it. This is very unusual. You’ve earned better. If it’s any consolation, I’m promoting you to spacer first class. And you’ll be welcome on Relentless. They’re quite happy to get a top-notch gunner with a good record.”
Thorow added, “We’ve cleaned up your record, no references to your past, nor to the mistakes you made here at the beginning. It’s the least we can do.”
During the entire climb back down to the marine barracks, York hoped that if he moved slowly enough, Thorow and Jarwith would have time to learn there’d been some mistake, a glitch in Fleet’s computers. But that miracle never came.
When he stepped into the marine barracks, he spotted Sissy seated at a terminal with her back to him. She heard him approach, glanced over her shoulder for only an instant, then turned back to the screen. “I’ve found a little beach cabin. We’re going to share it with Chunks and a couple of gunners.”
She turned around to look him in the face, saying, “It’s expensive but we …” When she saw the look on his face, her words slowly trailed off. “… can just … afford … it. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been transferred to Relentless.”
She frowned and her nose wrinkled. “How much time do we have?”
“None. I’m to report there immediately.”
“No,” she shouted, standing. “There’s no fucking way. You got it wrong.”
York couldn’t find any anger, just sadness. “I got it straight from Jarwith and Thorow.”
Sissy’s eyes flashed with anger. She turned and marched across the deck, shouting, “Sarge, somebody fucked up big-time.”
When Cochran heard the news, she was as perplexed as Jarwith and Thorow. She got Shernov involved, and they made a call to the captain. But after much discussion, they reluctantly agreed there was nothing they could do about it.
“No,” Sissy said, tears brimming in her eyes. “It’s not right. It can’t be.”
Cochran shook her head. “But it is what it is, Sis.”
Sissy stomped her foot and shouted again. “No.” She threw her arms around York. “I won’t let you go.”
As she held on to him, York felt her tears soaking into the shoulder of his tunic. He wanted to cry himself, but his soul felt just plain numb. Cochran and Shernov had to peel Sissy off him, and as Sissy collapsed in Cochran’s arms, Shernov said, “Sorry, kid.”
York’s orders stated that he was to report to Relentless without delay, a military phrase that meant now.
“I’ll transfer to Relentless with you,” Sissy said.
York glanced at Shernov, who shook his head silently, telling York that would never happen.
York kissed Sissy on the cheek and tasted the salt of her tears, mixed with a bit of girlish perfume, and the scent he would always remember as uniquely her. He grabbed his duffel and left her there still sobbing. He climbed up several decks to the main personnel hatch, went through the ritual of requesting permission to leave the ship then saluting the flag of the Lunan Empire.
He stepped out onto a busy concourse that ran the length of the docks on Muirendan Prime. He paused for a moment and stood there as people walked past him, feeling empty and alone. An odd thought occurred to him. What if he turned around, got Sissy, and the two of them deserted? He looked up and down the docks and wondered where they would go, realized the MPs would scoop them up in rather short order.
On his way to his new ship, he passed a shop that advertised marine gear. On a whim, he stepped through the door and walked inside. A fellow standing behind a counter smiled and said, “What can I do for you, kid?”
The shop offered all sorts of equipment, only some of it weaponry. “I’m looking for a type of sidearm that uses chemical explosives to fire a bullet.”
The fellow’s eyes narrowed, and as York tried to describe the bluish-metal gun Cath had let him try out on the firing range, his eyes narrowed further.
“What do you want with a gun like that?”
York didn’t really have an answer to that, so he said, “A marine friend, a good friend, recommended I carry one as a backup piece in case my energy weapon fails.”
The fellow stared at York for several seconds, then nodded and went into the back of the store. When he returned, he laid several bluish-metal weapons on the counter in front of York. York chose a small one that looked like that Cath had used. It had a short barrel and a revolving cylinder that held the bullets. He bought it and a box of shells, paid for it with the money he would have used to pay for the cabin on the beach with Sissy.
He found Relentless easily, stepped through its main personnel hatch, saluted the flag, touched the identity card clipped to his chest, then saluted the young male officer on duty there. Holding the salute he said, “Spacer”—he hesitated as he recalled his new rank—“First Class York Ballin requesting permission to board ship, sir.”
The officer scanned his ID with a small instrument. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ballin. I’m Lieutenant Crispin. A good gunner is always welcome on Relentless. You’ll want to report immediately to Lieutenant Mercer.”
York said, “I’ll also need to register a personal weapon with the master-at-arms.”
Crispin gave Yor
k directions, and a few minutes later he knocked on the hatch to a small office. Mercer turned out to be a tall woman with plain features. “Good to have you aboard, Mr. Ballin. Your record says you’re a top-notch gunner. We can use you. Recently promoted to first class, I see. I’ll arrange to have your implants installed.”
Seated behind her desk, she gave him an appraising look. “I see you were in a lower-deck crew on Dauntless. You’re welcome to an upper-deck posting here.”
“No,” York said. “I’d prefer to stay on the lower decks.”
She frowned at that and cocked her head. “As you wish. It doesn’t matter to me, as long as you burn feddie incoming.”
She sent him to Chief Stolkov, an older man with a lined face and a crew of eight gunners reporting to him. He introduced York to three of them who happened to be present at the moment, though York felt detached from his surroundings and didn’t really catch their names. He stowed his gear and spent a couple of hours checking out his new pod—identified a few maintenance issues and flagged them for review. Then he climbed into his new coffin, said, “Computer, lights out.”
He lay in the dark and thought he could still smell a hint of Sissy. He wiped the side of his cheek with his finger, then touched it to his tongue, tasted the dried remnants of her salty tears, and there was still a trace of that scent she’d worn. As he lay there trying to find sleep, a piece of him knew he would never see her again.
Chapter 15:
Tank Dreams
Shortly after Relentless departed Muirendan Prime, York was ordered to report to the senior medical officer. He climbed up several decks to sick bay, and when he checked in, was greeted by a medical corpsman. “Ballin,” the fellow said, looking at a screen at his desk. “Implants, is it?”
No one had told York what to expect, so he said, “I guess so.”
York waited for about an hour, then a female corpsman appeared in the waiting room holding a small terminal. She had brown hair cut chin length, didn’t wear any makeup, was a little overweight in an attractive way, and couldn’t be more than a year or two older than York. The stencil on her chest read PLEMIN. “Ballin,” she announced. York was the only one waiting there, but she said it as if the room was filled with people waiting to be seen and she had to call out his name so he could identify himself.
He stood and towered over her. He’d grown a bit more, which had him standing just a little taller than most men, but he’d also started to fill out in the shoulders.
Plemin led him into a small room where she sat him in a powered medical chair. As she lowered a strange helmet with spiky protrusions over his head, she said, “We cultured an organic polymer to match your DNA. I’m going to punch six holes in your skull and inject the polymer. It’s genetically triggered to grow circuits among your synapses. It’s all minor outpatient stuff. You won’t feel a thing.”
Beyond her statement that he wouldn’t feel anything, he didn’t understand much of what she said. She adjusted some sort of controls on the helmet, did something at a terminal nearby, then said, “Here we go.”
York braced for some sort of pain as the contraption punched or drilled or bored holes in his head, but she immediately lifted the helmet off his head. “How do you feel, York?”
“What?” he said. “You didn’t do anything.”
She grinned and said, “Typical reaction. You’ve been out for more than an hour. Only takes a couple of minutes for the drilling and injections, but a good hour for the speed healing to take.”
She hustled him out of the chair. He didn’t feel weak or sore—or anything.
As she walked him out to the waiting room, she said, “We haven’t activated anything yet, need to let the circuitry grow for a bit. Report back here in a tenday and we’ll run some initial tests.”
During the next few days, Stolkov put him through some simulated firefights. York scored well and everyone was quite impressed. He tried not to think how much he missed Chunks and Zamekis and all the rest, but he missed Sissy horribly.
After a tenday, they partially activated his implants. Apparently, the circuits still had a little growing to do, and he had to learn how to use them. With a lot of practice, he mastered certain thought sequences that were trigger keys for specific functions, but he quickly learned that the most important was the trigger that shut everything down. Otherwise, he had this constant background din running through his thoughts.
“You’ll get used to that,” Plemin said. She smiled at him, and he thought he saw a bit of invitation in the look she gave him. He liked her, and she was pretty, but he could only think of Sissy. So he smiled back at her and kept any flirtatiousness out of the look. Then he turned and left.
York was hoping he’d left the lessons behind, but someone had told Mercer he’d shown an interest in navigation. She was all too happy to help further his education. He now regretted that he’d asked that one simple question of Marko.
During the next year, York fought in several smaller engagements, earned a gunner’s chevron here and there. But at the massive battle at Trefallin, which lasted for more than a tenday, he earned six half-chevrons, and by his fifteenth birthday he had eight full chevrons on each arm. Only two crew members outranked him as a gunner: the chief gunner, and an older woman of very slight stature who’d been a gunner for years. Her eyes had a haunted look to them, and York didn’t want to outrank her that way.
He and Plemin became lovers, but it didn’t mean as much to him as it had with Sissy. Relentless hadn’t been back for a full refit for more than four years when he joined her crew, and he sometimes wondered if it was he who held back with Plemin, he who kept their relationship more a matter of convenience for both of them. Sometimes she seemed to want to break through that, but when he was with her, he always thought of Sissy.
About a year and a half after York had joined Relentless, he got some mail from Cath, the female marine on Dauntless.
York:
I’m sorry to have to tell you this. We had a nasty little firefight on a bush-league planet in Aldebaran sector. Three took a big shell, went out with all hands. Chunks, Rodma, Sissy, they’re all dead. I knew you’d want to know.
Cath
York cried himself to sleep that night, alone in his coffin. A month later, they docked at Cathan Prime. Relentless got orders to report to an inner-empire planet for an indefinite period of time, for repairs and major refitting. York got orders to report for duty aboard the heavy cruiser Africa, outbound for the front lines.
Africa saw a lot of action and York picked up more gunner’s chevrons. About six months after York had joined her crew, they were ordered to rendezvous with the Ninth Imperial Fleet at Sirius Night Star, a cluster of uninhabitable planets and planetoids orbiting a large red dwarf with a mass about half that of a standard solar. The three planets in the system were just large enough to avoid the designation planetoid, and the low gravity on each was ideal for heavy maintenance on warships. Over the years, they’d evolved into an important naval base that supplied and repaired ships close to the front lines. But the Federals were amassing a large fleet nearby, so it appeared they wanted to take, or destroy, Sirius Night Star. The Admiralty had tasked the Ninth Fleet with ensuring that that did not happen.
By the time they assembled, the Ninth had a complement of more than a hundred warships, and based on the intelligence at hand her commanders were confident they could repel anything the feddies threw at them. In the first engagement, the Federal forces came in using a classic swift-strike approach, down-transiting a few ships to upfeed targeting data to their main force of about eighty ships. York had developed his navigational skills to the point where he could handle any targets allocated to his pod but still follow developments in the overall battle with an occasional glance to a scan summary in the corner of one of his screens. The attacking force was always at a disadvantage, so he thought it foolhardy that the feddies would com
e at them without overwhelming odds.
He was surprised when Africa and twenty other ships were ordered to redeploy to their flank about two hours after the battle began. When York’s scan summary updated, he saw the reason: Their intelligence data had been incomplete. The feddies had two additional forces of seventy ships each coming in from opposite sides of the system. York didn’t need an officer to tell him that they were badly outnumbered and outflanked, and cut off from any help or reinforcements.
For days, they fought a running battle that the Federals were winning by a tactic of slow attrition, and by the end of the sixth day, York had four more confirmed kills. With an extended lull in the fighting, they held gunner’s blood.
York stood silently as the chief cut a new chevron into each of his arms, let the blood run down his arms and drip from his fingertips onto the deck. He now had twelve full chevrons on one arm, twelve and a half on the other, and if the battle continued for another day or two, he’d outrank the chief, would be elevated to chief gunner. But he didn’t think they’d last long. From a complement of more than a hundred ships, the Ninth had been whittled down to a count of about twenty operational warships. The festivities at gunner’s blood that night were muted.
When York slammed awake in his coffin to the sound of the alert klaxon, his implants told him he’d had only about an hour’s sleep. His coffin determined that he needed a little ant-alc, and he felt the pinch in his neck as it gave him the injection. When the coffin cycled open, he hit the deck running with the practiced ease of an experienced gunner.
He heard the thrum of Africa’s main batteries echoing through her hull even before he had the power up in his pod, a bad sign. As soon as the pod signaled to the central combat computer that it was online, it immediately allocated two targets to him, another bad sign. He deflected one, but by that time he had another allocated, managed to kill one while someone else deflected the other.
The next two hours turned into a frantic scramble, with shell fragments pinging off Africa’s hull, the occasional screech of tearing plast and metal as something bigger penetrated her defenses. His implants allowed him to erect virtual screens, so he monitored damage control closely while taking care of his targets. Fear crawled up his gut as one of the power plants went off-line when a big shell hit it. His own power feed redlined, then dropped to 80 percent, finally leveling off at 70 percent.