by J. L. Doty
“Well, there you have it,” Abraxa said. “That’s the key: He was supposed to show improvement and he hasn’t, so this meeting should be rather short. I move we vote on expulsion.”
Martinson said, “Excellent idea, Nathan. But first there’s a discrepancy I’d like to clear up. You said Mr. Ballin has shown no improvement, but I believe he has.”
Laski stood and said, “No, Captain Martinson, he hasn’t. Mr. Ballin was in the bottom ten percent of his class last year, and he’s in the bottom ten percent again this year.”
Martinson hit a switch and a small screen appeared in the desk in front of him. He manipulated something on the screen, frowned, and said, “I don’t know where you got your information, Commander, but while you’re right that he was in the bottom ten percent last year, the records show that he finished in the bottom fifteen percent this year, a nice five percent improvement.”
Abraxa frowned and leaned over to look at the screen in front of Martinson.
“That’s not possible,” Laski said. “I entered his scores myself.”
Minkowski leaned forward and said, “Commander Laski, you’re his academic adviser, but not one of his instructors. You’re not supposed to be entering his scores into the system.”
Laski’s face turned red. “I … I misspoke. I meant that I reviewed his scores myself.”
By that time, all five members of the board had each pulled up a screen and were apparently reviewing York’s scores as entered in the system.
Charter said, “Well, Commander Laski, it appears you misread them. Captain Martinson is correct about Mr. Ballin’s progress.”
York wanted to laugh and cry and shout and scream all at once, because when he’d checked the night before, he’d been in the bottom 10 percent. Had Martinson somehow done that, or maybe the retired Chief Petty Officer Parker?
Abraxa tried to argue that 5 percent wasn’t enough progress, so they should still expel York, but by a three-to-two vote of the board, York got one more year in the academy.
He, Karin, Tony, and Muldoon went out and celebrated rather noisily.
At the beginning of their third year, Karin returned wearing an engagement ring. That saddened York a little because he’d assumed they’d continue their relationship as long as they were both at the academy. They had a few days before classes began so York, Tony, and Muldoon took her out to dinner to celebrate. She was quite excited about it all.
In the middle of dinner, Muldoon asked her, “When’s the big day?”
“Not until after graduation and my evaluation tour,” she said. “I told my father I want to do this right, and as long as I don’t get anywhere near the real action, he’s okay with that.”
Tony ordered some very nice wine, and York’s eyes popped when he saw the price tag. They killed the bottle, ordered another, killed that, and ordered another. York figured he’d be in debt for the rest of his life before the night was over, but Tony picked up the tab.
Outside the restaurant, Karin told Tony and Muldoon, “You two go on without us. I want to talk to York.”
York figured she wanted to explain her engagement, let him down without hurting him, which wasn’t necessary since they’d both been very careful to allow no emotional attachment between them. When they were alone, he said, “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
She frowned and looked at him oddly. “What are you talking about? I’ve missed you.”
She stepped in and wrapped her arms around him, kissed him hotly, pressed her body against his. He couldn’t help but respond, and when their lips parted, she whispered, “Oh, I’ve needed that.”
“But …” he said. “But … you’re engaged. Isn’t it over between us?”
She frowned again and looked quite perplexed. She cocked her head as if she needed to take a moment to process his words, then she threw her head back, and laughed. “I’m not going to see my fiancé for close to a year. Do you think I’m going to remain celibate that long?”
“I …” he said. “I guess … I figured …”
She held up her hand, displaying the ring, which looked like it probably cost more than York would make during his entire life. “This thing,” she said. “This is a corporate merger. He and I are friends, even fond of each other, but we’re not in love. The sex is okay, but you’re better. We’ll bear heirs for his family and mine, and our marriage will act kind of like a treaty between nations. His family’s interests and mine will compete, but no nasty stuff, and we might even merge certain operations. He’ll have his mistresses and I’ll have my lovers. You see, I’m as constrained by my father’s fortune as Tony is by his father’s titles.”
She kissed him again, almost defiantly. “I meant it when I said he’s not as good as you, and I’ve built up a backlog of need. Let’s get a room.”
Karin was quite vigorous that night.
As a second-class midshipman, York took a greater role in the education of plebes. He’d come to realize that the sniping wasn’t just hazing. If he excluded the occasional sadist, or those with a hidden agenda like Abraxa, the harassment and all the strange little customs had bonded York and the rest of his class as nothing else could. And as he gained more distance from his plebe year, he realized that the constant pressure had taught him to evaluate quickly and react instinctively, to think on his feet under the most stressful of circumstances. Still, he was careful not to overdo it when it was his turn to dish out the grief.
Abraxa kept the pressure on, sniping York like a plebe at every opportunity. Tony had previously expressed his concern over Abraxa’s behavior with a quiet comment or two to York, but at the beginning of their third year, he grew more open about it. It came to a head in the middle of that year when Abraxa cornered York in front of their dormitory and upbraided him in front of a large crowd.
Tony stepped in and said, “See here, Abraxa. Your abuse of an upperclassman makes us all look bad.”
In the middle of shouting in York’s face, Abraxa froze and turned a cold look upon Tony. York thought Tony had been unwise to speak in the first place, would be wise now to shut up and leave it at that, but apparently Lord Anton Simma thought his titles and position would protect him, and he continued. “Your petty sniping demonstrates a level of intolerance I find exceedingly distasteful.”
Abraxa was silent for a moment, then he exploded and turned his abuse on Tony. He heaped a wealth of demerits on both Tony and York, and hopefully Tony learned a valuable lesson that day.
Laski continued to ensure that York remained in the bottom 10 percent of the class, and at the end of the year, York faced another academic review board, same conference room, same table with Martinson, Abraxa, and Murtaugh serving on the board, Laski sitting to one side. Charter and Minkowski had been replaced by two officers named Sokolov and Kensington. Martinson read the minutes of the last two boards, and like their predecessors, something in them appeared to trouble the two men.
When Martinson finished, Abraxa said, “I believe there’s no question this time that he’s in the bottom ten percent of the class.”
Martinson checked the screen in front of him and said, “That he is.”
It appeared there’d be no magic pill to save York this time.
“Well, then,” Abraxa said. “It’s clear we need to expel him.”
Kensington said, “But that would be most unusual. His class began with just over fifteen hundred cadets, and we’ve winnowed it down to less than a thousand.”
Martinson said, “Excellent point. That means he’s in the top sixty or seventy percent of the class in which he started. Someone has to graduate at the bottom of the class; I suppose it will be Mr. Ballin.”
By a vote of three-to-two, York was allowed to start the coming year as a midshipman first class. It almost seemed as if Martinson and Kensington had orchestrated that, and York walked out of the meeting not sure what to thi
nk.
As firsties, Karin and York had more opportunity to spend time together, and Muldoon came out of his shell a bit more. Abraxa didn’t let up on York, and Tony brooded on that. The four of them were studying together one day, and York had to carefully explain one of the navigational exercises to Tony, who turned thoughtful, leaned back in his chair, and said, “I’m going to graduate at the top of the class”—he looked pointedly at York—“and you’re going to graduate somewhere near the bottom, but you know this stuff much better than me. It just doesn’t add up.”
“Oh, Tony,” Muldoon said. “Now you’re being naive. Haven’t you noticed that the number-one student in every graduating class is always the most titled?”
That obviously bothered Tony quite a bit, but nothing was ever said about it again. After graduation, Tony, Karin, and Muldoon were assigned to evaluation tours on large ships in Home Fleet. York had requested a posting on a large cruiser, but graduating at the bottom of the class meant he had to take what he could get. He was assigned to The Fourth Horseman, a small hunter-killer undergoing refitting on Muirendan and scheduled to ship out to the front in two months.
He had a few days before shipping out, so he and Karin spent the time together. They walked through the parks near Mare Crisia, did a few touristy things, and York realized that it didn’t really matter what he did, as long as he did it with Karin. The day of his departure, they had breakfast at a small café in town, and only then did he realize how much he would miss her.
“The evaluation tour is half a year,” she said. “Since we have to return here after that, let’s meet up then.” Her eyes glistened with tears, but she held them back.
They’d been very careful not to fall in love. They parted with a kiss.
Chapter 22:
Back to the Lower Decks
York rode deadhead on a military transport that couldn’t do more than a thousand lights. It took almost forty-three days to get to Muirendan, and with no duties, he had nothing to do but think how much he missed Karin. He tried to read, to study, anything, but his thoughts always drifted back to her.
When the transport docked at Muirendan Prime, he packed up his gear. He now owned all the required uniforms of an officer of the Imperial Navy. If he could transport his twelve-year-old self forward in time, the young boy would be quite impressed.
When he logged in to shipnet to check the location of The Fourth Horseman, he noticed Dauntless was in port. In the typical fashion of hurry up and get there so you can wait naval orders, he had six days before he had to actually report for duty. He sent a message to Dauntless, learned that Cath was there and still alive. They agreed to meet at a small bar just off the docks.
York got there early and took a small table against one wall where they’d have a little privacy. To keep the waiters happy, he ordered a drink and nursed it while he waited for her. He knew he had changed considerably—after all, he’d been only fourteen years old when she’d last seen him. He wondered if she’d be different.
When she walked through the door, the first thing to draw his eye was that she’d let her blond hair grow to chin length. He stood, waved to her. She was slight of build and pretty, and she spotted him from across the room and walked his way. He’d always been attracted to her, but when he considered that now, he thought only of Karin.
She stopped a few paces from him, put her fists on her hips, and said, “Well look at you, kid, all grown up and practically an admiral. You know I ain’t gonna salute you, or call you sir.”
He now towered over her, stood at least twenty centimeters taller. She looked up at him and said, “I will stop calling you kid, though.”
When they sat down at the table, she said, “Sorry about Sissy.”
He grimaced. “That’s okay. That hurt scabbed over long ago.”
He asked about Marko. “I didn’t see Marko’s name on the crew roster. He isn’t …”
He feared what her answer might be, but she shook her head and said, “Nah. That old coot put in his forty years and retired. Married a young whore on Cathan, and with his pension, I hear they’re real happy.”
Zamekis had transferred to another ship, Durlling had finished her enlistment contract and left the navy behind; no one had heard from her. Tomlin hadn’t learned anything from Sturpik’s demise or the rather brutal training session the marines had given him. He continued to be a problem for everyone. Then, one night on fourth watch, he slipped while negotiating one of the steep ladders between decks and cracked his skull on a bulkhead. Their medical technology might have saved him, but it was late, and no one was around or aware of his accident until it was too late.
“What about Bristow?” York asked. “He wasn’t on the roster.”
Cath flinched and grimaced.
He asked, “What’s wrong?”
A tear drizzled down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily. “Ah, I let that limp dick get in my pants, found out I liked him there, made a habit of it, and then that stupid fuck had to go get himself killed.”
“I’m sorry, Cath.”
They talked for a couple of hours and she got a little drunk. Then he walked her back to Dauntless and said good-bye.
York reported for duty five days early. The Fourth Horseman was a one-hundred-meter hunter-killer with a complement of sixty-four men and women. It was all power plant, drive, and transition torpedoes. It had a half dozen pods for defense, but its primary means of protecting itself was speed and stealth. If it had to depend on the pods for anything more than the occasional defensive shot, the ship was in serious trouble.
York stepped through The Fourth Horseman’s aft personnel hatch, his duffel over one shoulder, turned to the imperial ensign draped from a bulkhead, and saluted it. He turned to the officer of the deck, a gangly lieutenant junior grade with a name tag that read PAULSON. He saluted, saying, “Ensign York Ballin reporting for duty. Permission to come aboard, sir.”
Paulson appeared to be York’s age, maybe a year or two older. He hesitated before meeting York’s eyes, then returned the salute. “At ease, Ensign Ballin. And welcome aboard.”
He extended his hand and York shook it. Paulson spoke softly, almost shyly. “You’re early.”
“They probably didn’t want me to miss the boat,” York said. “And I had a long way to travel, sir.”
“All the way from Luna, right?” Paulson seemed a little awestruck by that.
“Yes, sir.”
York heard some noise outside the hatch, so he stepped aside. A master chief, medium height and slightly overweight, stepped through the hatch, followed by a man and a woman, both enlisted. The chief saluted the imperial ensign, then saluted Paulson. “I’m coming aboard, Lieutenant,” he said.
York looked the chief over carefully. His uniform was clean, neat, and crisp. He had a black mustache and a dark shadow of a beard, but appeared to have shaved recently, and there was nothing about him that gave the impression of sloppiness. But regardless of his time in service, he should have followed the custom of formally identifying himself and asking permission to board the ship. York was careful to keep the look on his face neutral as the enlisted man and woman accompanying him both did it properly.
The chief hooked a thumb over his shoulder and said to Paulson, “There’s a heavy crate of spare parts on the dock. Make sure they get loaded right away.”
Paulson said, “Yes, s—” He’d almost said sir, but apparently caught himself and said, “Chief Vickers.”
Vickers turned away from Paulson and spotted York. “And who are you?” he demanded.
The complete failure to follow military customs and etiquette surprised York. But he’d seen it a time or two before, a very senior NCO who had little patience for inexperienced junior officers.
York said, “I’m Ensign York Ballin, just reporting for duty, Master Chief.”
“You are, are you?” he said. �
�Well we’ll get along fine as long as you stay out of my way.”
Vickers turned and marched away, followed by the two ratings.
Paulson watched him leave, then lowered his voice and said, “Do stay out of his way. He can be very difficult.”
York said, “I’ll take that advice to heart.”
“You and I’ll be sharing a stateroom,” Paulson said. “We’re short-staffed on officers, just the captain, XO, Lieutenant Kirkman, me, and you, so we’re using senior NCOs as department heads where we have to.”
A ship the size of The Fourth Horseman usually had a complement of seven to eight officers, so they were badly understaffed in the officer ranks. A posting on a hunter-killer was the least desirable service in the navy, and York had heard that officers with influence or connections found a way to be assigned to a larger ship.
York unpacked quickly in the stateroom he and Paulson were assigned, then found the master-at-arms, Senior Chief Carney, a middle-aged female with a bit of gray in her dark hair. The old-fashioned slug-thrower he’d purchased many years ago after leaving Dauntless was now part of the radioactive cloud of gas that had once been Africa. He’d purchased a new one after dropping Cath off, and he handed it to Carney now. “I need to register this,” he said.
She looked the weapon over doubtfully. “Why carry this thing?”
He’d been through this before and had learned what to say to minimize questions. “I had a brief stint with the marines on a cruiser when I was twelve. They taught me it’s a good backup sidearm.”
She pointedly looked at his rank. “Twelve? Didn’t you just come from the academy?”