by J. L. Doty
With no active-duty responsibilities, York spent his time reading, exercising, and studying, because Mercer would give him absolute hell if he didn’t do his homework properly. He reminded himself that Mercer was long gone, probably no longer alive. And while he hated to admit it, he was slowly coming to understand the interstellar navigation calculations. Out of sheer boredom, he asked them to let him do something, so they assigned him to light duty in engineering.
York followed the reconsolidation of nearby interstellar space like a drama on the vids. Imperial ships of all kinds arrived in Orion 1341’s nearspace almost daily. At first, the new arrivals were just warships to augment Turcott’s strike force. But as they swept the surrounding space of all feddie resistance, all sorts of vessels arrived: merchantmen to resupply the bases, engineering teams to repair the damage caused by bombardment, even a few tramp freighters hoping to take advantage of the need for supplies. A little more than a month after they’d pulled York from the tanks, he received orders to transfer to INR-681, an imperial supply ship scheduled to go back for more supplies. INR-681 could only push about nine hundred lights, so forty days and a little more than one hundred light-years later, he stepped onto the decking of Aagerbanne Prime, a large naval base and sector headquarters. He reported to the assignments desk there, and was given one-way tickets to Cathan on a merchant freighter named Chelsie’s Delight.
At Cathan, he boarded an imperial destroyer headed for Muirendan for refitting and rotation back. Muirendan was the closest he’d ever come to the heart of the empire, and like his first time, he only spent a few hours there. His new orders assigned him to a berth on a passenger liner destined for somewhere deep within the inner empire. They assigned him to a cot in a large bunk room occupied by about thirty members of the liner’s crew, and there he learned that they were headed for Luna. He wondered why Fleet would send him to Luna, which was not merely close to the heart of the empire, but the heart itself.
York had never been on a passenger liner, so out of curiosity, he explored the civilian ship. He wandered down to the engine room, asked if he could look around. The chief engineer was retired navy, and after warning York not to touch anything, turned him over to a young crewman. The engineering crew proved to be quite tolerant of his inquisitiveness. He spent a couple of days down there looking over their shoulders, though he was careful not to get in the way. He learned from a couple of the civilian spacers that there were different classes of accommodation on the liner, so he wandered up to first class to see what it was like to travel in luxury. He passed an open doorway—they didn’t call them hatches on a liner—to a room in which a maid was hard at work cleaning the place. He glanced in, and at her frown he said, “Just wondering about first class.”
She smiled and said, “You and me, we ain’t never gonna live like this, are we?”
She let him look around, but told him to be quick about it. The place was a suite of rooms, enormous by any shipboard standards in his experience. There’d been no effort to conserve space the way they did on military vessels.
When he stepped out into the corridor to return to the lower decks, he ran into one of the ship’s officers. The man stopped him and demanded, “What are you doing up here?”
York stood several centimeters taller than the fellow. “Just curious,” he said.
“Don’t come up here again,” the man said, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t want your kind bothering important people.”
“Sorry,” he said, then stepped around the man and left.
He explored one of the second-class decks, noticed that the rooms were still more spacious than on a man-of-war, but nothing like first class. Third class was only a little better than the bunk room he shared with the liner’s crew members.
A few days later, while exploring the upper decks, York wandered into a passenger lounge. The place was quite luxurious, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, drapes covering the walls, a long bar running the length of one wall, and small tables with white tablecloths carefully placed about the floor. It was midafternoon and with the exception of a half-dozen people, the place was empty. He gripped the back of a chair and slid it across the deck a few centimeters; as he suspected, nothing was bolted down.
“Can I help you?”
York started at the sound of the voice, turned to find a bartender standing behind the bar regarding him. The fellow wore a uniform with a high stiff collar and looked more like a waiter than a crew member. York stepped over to the bar and said, “Just curious. Just looking around.”
The bartender looked York over carefully, then glanced about the room. “Ya, the rich just get richer. Want anything to drink?”
York said, “I can’t afford it.”
The bartender frowned. “You traveling on orders, or personal business?”
“Orders.”
“Then you’ve got a per diem. What’s your name?”
York gave him his name and the fellow looked him up on a terminal behind the bar. “Ya, it’s not a lot, but it looks like you haven’t spent it on anything but meals, so it’s building up nicely. You can afford it.”
York didn’t really want anything to drink, but out of sheer boredom he ordered a beer. He’d been signing for his meals and hadn’t realized there’d be anything beyond that. The bartender brought his beer, he signed for it, and he had just taken the first sip when he heard laughter behind him, a young woman’s voice. He turned around and saw a man crossing the room toward him with an attractive woman on his arm. The fellow couldn’t be much older than York but he wore a naval uniform, rank of full commander. The uniform had odd little non-regulation embellishments all over it, including epaulettes on the shoulders; no one wore epaulettes.
The fellow noticed York and stopped short, a look of distaste on his face. York snapped to attention and raised his hand in a salute. The fellow didn’t return the salute, which forced York to stand there holding it. He frowned at York, released the woman’s arm, and stepped forward to stand uncomfortably close to him. “What are you doing in here, Spacer?” the fellow demanded.
York still held the salute. “Just having a drink, sir.”
The man looked slowly around the room, then back at York. “Isn’t it obvious to you that your kind doesn’t belong in here?”
“It is now, sir.”
The fellow’s frown deepened. “Don’t be impertinent.”
“Sorry, sir.”
He finally returned York’s salute with a sloppy wave of his hand and said, “Please leave.”
York left the beer unfinished. Out in the corridor, he recalled the words of the ship’s officer he’d encountered in first class a few days before. They had both used the same words: your kind. He was beginning to realize they found people like York and “his kind” rather distasteful. It was something he would be reminded of again, many times.
York tried not to gawk like a bumpkin as he stepped off the passenger liner onto the docks at Luna Prime, still wondering why they’d sent him there. The docks there looked just like docks anywhere, but when he stepped out into the main concourse of the massive space station, the sights and sounds that assaulted him were overwhelming.
His implants automatically connected to Naval Operations Command, and he received orders to report to a shuttle bay. He keyed up a map of the station, and his implants projected a virtual overlay with directions for the most direct route there. He knew it was unlikely he’d have this chance again, so he decided to take a less direct route. He’d still get there, but he might learn a little on the way.
He was walking past a store when an advertisement flashed onto the virtual overlay in front of him, offering him the best jewelry that money could buy at discount prices. The advertisement claimed that it would please his girlfriend immensely, and she’d have no idea he’d bought it at a reduced rate. He quickly learned to set up a reception filter in his implants to shut out most of
the advertising.
Up ahead, he spotted a couple of barboys standing on the sidewalk outside an establishment that catered to spacers. As he walked past them, one of them gave him an inviting look, but he ignored it. He was surprised at the complete lack of advertising for the resident male and female prostitutes. Apparently, in the heart of the empire, such pursuits were not openly promoted. They probably found it distasteful to be reminded of the recreational activities of his kind. It occurred to him their kind probably enjoyed the same sort of activities, just at a more expensive place.
He waited an hour for the shuttle, but a large observation screen in the lounge gave an impressive view of Luna’s primary, the planet Terr, a sparkling blue-green orb, mostly water with wisps of clouds in the upper atmosphere. He’d read that only about 30 percent of its surface was habitable landmass, though the word habitable had to be used cautiously. The surface of the planet was covered with the ruins of a large civilization that had been burned off by some fairly extensive bombardment about two or three thousand years ago. There were large areas of land in which survival was dependent upon a shielded radiation suit or habitat.
The ride down to the surface of Luna took all of twenty minutes. His orders directed him to an address in Mare Crisia, so he hopped onto a subsurface transport, took a seat, and sat patiently wondering what he’d find at the other end. He left Mare Crisia Station on foot headed for an address that meant nothing to him.
On an airless moon like Luna, York expected the enclosed city to resemble the interior of a ship or space station, all plast and steel, corridors and tight spaces. But the architects of the Lunan habitat had done their best to imitate a green and verdant world. York stepped out of a broad avenue into a wide, domed enclosure and walked through an open park filled with trees and all sorts of plant life. He followed his directions through the park, out the other side, then down a wide avenue, and finally to a gate guarded by naval MPs. Above the gate, a rather elaborate sign read IMPERIAL NAVAL ACADEMY. He hesitated, wondering what they had planned for him, guessed he’d just end up scrubbing floors.
One of the MPs turned his way, a bored look on his face. York said, “I have orders to report here.”
The fellow waved a small hand terminal at him and his implants got an ID request. York keyed the proper response and the MP yawned as he waited for his terminal to authenticate York’s orders. Looking at it, he frowned and said, “You’re cleared for entry with fourth-class midshipman privileges.”
“Midshipman?” York asked.
“A cadet,” the fellow said. He gave York’s uniform an odd look. “It also says you’re to report to the commandant immediately upon arrival.”
“The commandant?”
“Captain Martinson. He’s in charge of all this.”
They uploaded directions into York’s implants, and he followed them to a building with a sign out front that said ADMINISTRATION. A receptionist in the front lobby directed him to an office near the back, where a secretary seated behind a desk told him to sit down and wait. He sat down, wondering what this was all about. It must be some sort of administrative screw-up, or maybe just a glitch in the computer. Martinson would tell him the error in his orders had been corrected, and in short order he’d be shipping out to the front on another ship. He sat there for more than an hour.
“Commandant Martinson will see you now.”
The secretary’s words startled him. He stood, and she pointed to a door. “Go right in.”
He stepped through the door, carefully recalling every bit of discipline the marines on Dauntless had taught him. The room was dominated by a man seated behind the largest desk York had ever seen, his eyes focused downward, reading something on a small terminal in front of him. He had dark hair, gray at the temples, wore a crisp white uniform with not a wrinkle visible, and he sat there with posture so rigid he seemed to vibrate with tension. York followed the standard formula, marched into the room, raised his hand in a salute and said, “Spacer First Class York Ballin reporting as ordered, sir.”
Martinson didn’t look up, didn’t move, and except for that invisible vibration that seemed to emanate from him, he remained as still as a statue. Still looking at the terminal resting on the desk in front of him, he said, “It’s no longer Spacer York Ballin, it’s now Midshipman Fourth Class York Ballin.”
“Sorry, sir,” York said. “Midshipman Fourth Class York Ballin reporting as ordered, sir.”
Martinson lifted his chin slowly, looked up, and York was struck by the paleness of his green eyes. The commandant returned the salute, snapping it with no less rigidity than his seated posture. York finished his salute, trying to imitate the commandant’s unyielding discipline.
Martinson stared at him for a long moment, then bellowed, “Chief.”
York heard the door behind him open, someone step into the room, then the door closed. He was careful not to react in any way.
Martinson said, “It upset me when they told me we had to take you on. I don’t care that you were on Andor Vincent. I don’t care that they want to keep an eye on you. Your kind doesn’t belong here.”
Hearing those words again angered York, though it occurred to him that might be exactly what the commandant wanted.
Martinson rose up out of his seat, walked around the desk slowly like a predator sizing up its prey. York kept his eyes locked on a diploma on the wall as Martinson approached him, walked slowly around him, then stopped directly in front of him at an uncomfortably close distance. The two of them were of a similar height.
“Then I took a look at your record: four years in combat, three commendations for meritorious service, apparently a very skilled gunner. How many chevrons have you got?”
“Twenty-four and a half, sir,” York said.
“We don’t like that custom here,” Martinson said.
York probably should have left it at that, but he was tired of hearing about his kind. “It should be twenty-five and a half, but they tanked me before I could go to another gunner’s blood. If I ever get the opportunity, I may get that corrected.” He purposefully allowed a short delay before adding, “Sir.”
Martinson looked past him at whoever had entered the room a moment ago. “He thinks he’ll irritate me by being a smart-ass. Hopefully, he’ll learn better.”
Martinson’s eyes returned to York. “Nothing in your record about why you joined the navy.”
There was an implied question in that, but since he’d made it a statement, York was not required to answer, so he held his silence.
“Why did you join the navy, Mr. Ballin?”
York had seen a couple of recruiting brochures, so he stole a line from them. “They said I’d get to see the galaxy, sir.”
Martinson gave him a predatory grin. “And you signed up for a lifetime enlistment.”
“I didn’t have anything else to do, sir.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t. And there’s nothing negative at all in your record. Have you never made any mistakes, Mr. Ballin?”
“I’ve made a mistake or two, sir.” Again, York knew he should keep his mouth shut but couldn’t resist. “And I’ve got the scars on my back to prove it.”
One of Martinson’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced past York again. It was the only reaction York had seen from him. “Well then, Mr. Ballin, it appears you did learn a lesson or two. As I said, I was upset that they forced you upon us, and the fact that you have a good record doesn’t change that. But since I’m stuck with you, I’m going to see to it that you learn this lesson, too. The next four years are going to be the hardest of your life, but if you slack off, I’m going to make them even harder. I will not allow you to make us look bad. Is that clear?”
York gave him a marine response at the top of his lungs. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Martinson’s lips slowly turned upward, not a pleasant smile. He said, “Mr. Ballin, please tu
rn and face Command Master Chief Petty Officer Parker, Retired.”
York pivoted with parade ground precision and turned to face an older man, shorter by several centimeters. Behind him, Martinson said, “Chief, show Mr. Ballin his quarters. And get him out of that spacer’s uniform.”
Chapter 18:
Plebe Month
York followed Parker out of the Administration building in silence. As they walked across a large parade ground, Parker said, “Martinson’s not a bad man.”
York growled, “He’s an asshole.”
“He’s just frustrated by the midshipmen they send him.”
“Lowlifes like me, huh?”
“Not really. He meant what he said. You work hard and do well, and you won’t get any trouble from him. No, he’s frustrated by the spoiled snots they admit, kids with parents who got money and titles, frequently more money than brains. They don’t have to work hard to get a commission because their parents already bought it for them. A good chunk of the graduating class each year isn’t qualified to command a lifeboat, let alone a man-of-war.”
He stopped in front of a four-story building. “This is Baskers Hall, the plebe barracks. Most just call it Plebe Hall. You get a locker, uniforms, equipment, and a bunk.”
Parker led him into the building and up a stairway to the second floor, then into a bunk room with two rows of old-fashioned double-decker bunks, lockers behind each one. “Forty of you share a bunk room. These will be your platoon mates for the next four years. Your new pay grade is better than it was as a spacer, but you won’t see much of it. Most of it goes to pay for the uniforms and equipment.”
Parker showed him his locker, which was filled with uniforms. “Martinson’s going to push you to be in that part of the graduating class that is qualified to command. You’re either going to make the grade, or die trying.”
Parker pulled a set of fatigues out of the locker and handed them to York. “Change into this right away. Don’t let anyone see you in that.” He nodded toward York’s spacer’s uniform. “In fact, just throw the damn thing away. They don’t like our kind here.”