Read an Excerpt
A Choice of Treasons
A Novel of the Treasons Cycle
By J. L. Doty OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2015 J. L. Doty
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2319-1
CHAPTER 1
Interference
"Mr. Ballin, is there a fight waiting for us or not?"
The bridge of the imperial heavy cruiser Invaradin was silent as everyone waited to hear York's verdict, but the silence was suddenly broken by the XO's voice blaring from allship, "Down-transition in ten minutes and counting."
York had spent the last twenty minutes trying to raise the imperial embassy on Trinivan, but had run into some suspicious interference. Ten minutes from down-transiting blind into a supposedly neutral system and Captain Telyekev wanted him to make the call.
"Mr. Ballin, is it Federals?"
"I'd be guessing, sir."
"Then take your best guess."
York couldn't prove anything one way or another, but his gut was telling him this was a trap, an ambush. "I haven't been able to pick up any kind of interference signature. Just broad spectrum." The interference shouldn't be there at all, though York kept that thought to himself.
"Any idea what's causing it?"
York turned away from his console, craned his neck to look through the maze of instrument clusters that crowded Invaradin's bridge. He could see only Telyekev's head, a faint shadow in the darkened lighting, though the captain's eyes were bright sparks reflecting the dim glow of his console.
Telyekev stared at York and waited. Olin Rame, the XO, peered past one end of the navigation console, while Rame's two assistants peered around the other end. Anda Gant and her assistants at the scan console had turned almost completely around to look at him. At the weapons console Franklin Stara and Paris Jondee had also turned his way: Frank frowning intently, Paris with a one-sided grin. And Magdalena Votak, encased so completely in helm controls little of her could be seen by the rest of them — York wondered if she too was peeking through some little slit in the instrumentation that enclosed her. They were looking at their lifer: Senior Lieutenant York Ballin, their lucky charm, the man who was supposed to guess with clairvoyant certainty if they were going to live or die.
York looked Telyekev in the eyes, nodded. "It's got to be feddies, sir."
Telyekev seemed to shrink. "Thank you, Mr. Ballin. Sound General Quarters. Then contact Nostran and the Diana and tell them to cut drive and coast while we go in for a look-see."
"Aye, aye, sir." York spoke into his pickup. "Watch Condition Red."
In his implants the computer demanded, Confirm status change.
"Red status confirmed," York said.
A loud, irritatingly unpleasant horn burped once, was followed immediately by the steady clang of the alert klaxon. York switched his implants into allship and spoke precisely. "Watch Condition Red. All hands, this is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill." He repeated the message once more, recording it, then put it on continuous replay and switched his pickup to the exterior com. "Nostran, this is Invaradin."
"Nostran here, Invaradin. Our computer says you're on red. What's up?"
"Could be feddies, Nostran, but that's only a guess. We're going in fast for a look around. Telyekev instructs you and the Diana to cut drive and hold back until we're sure. Please advise the Diana."
"Consider it done, Invaradin. Good hunting."
"Invaradin out."
"Nostran out."
York put a combat status summary in the corner of one of his screens. By now it was a halflit patchwork of randomly placed black and green highlights superimposed over a schematic of Invaradin. He looked on intently as the remaining stations completed their precombat checks, and one by one the black highlights turned to green. But suddenly one lit up with a bright, demanding red. York touched it with a finger. "Turret three," he demanded. "This is com. What's wrong?"
"We've got an inoperative ordnance feed, com. We're looking into it now, but no estimate on repair time. We have eight rounds on turret."
"Thank you, Three," York said. "I'll advise Telyekev. Com out."
"Main Three out."
One of the defensive stations red-lighted with difficulty on their computer link. York tried a temporary routing through a nearby station. That cleared the link enough for him to green-light them, with a yellow flag for the computer to check into it later.
The last station reported in. The computer automatically cut the alert klaxon and a heavy silence descended.
York switched his implants into the bridge circuit. "All stations in, sir. Main Three reports an inoperative ordnance feed; eight rounds on turret and no estimate on repair time. All other stations are green, with one conditional yellow."
"Thank you, Mr. Ballin. Did you hear that, helm?"
"Yes, sir," Maggie Votak said. "Main Three. Eight rounds. If it gets hot, I'll favor starboard."
"Very good, Miss Votak. All ahead full."
"All ahead full, sir."
York tapped into Anda Gant's scan console, pulled up an outboard scan summary in the lower corner of one of his screens where it shared space with summaries from Olin Rame's navigation console and Frank Stara's weapons console. On it he watched the small blip of the destroyer Nostran and the larger blotch of the lumbering freighter Diana drop back as they cut drive power. Then Maggie firewalled Invaradin's full drive and the two ships literally disappeared from York's screen. Invaradin was no longer limited to the slow crawl of the lumbering freighter she'd been assigned to escort.
"Navigation," Telyekev said. "What's our new ETT?"
"I'm computing now, sir," Olin Rame said, then York's timer flickered as it abruptly changed its reading. Rame spoke again. "Estimated time to transition is now two minutes, eighty-one seconds, sir."
"Thank you, Commander Rame. Lieutenant Ballin, put me on allship."
York touched a switch as he spoke. "You're on, sir."
Telyekev paused, cleared his throat, then activated his pickup. "Attention," he said. "This is Captain Telyekev. You made it on station in ninety-three seconds, almost a full minute. That's atrocious, more than ten seconds off your best time. I'll expect you to do better in the future."
He cleared his throat again. "We're just under three minutes out from transition into the Trinivanian system. Two days ago, Fleet received an urgent message from the imperial embassy there. They need help and we're the closest warship, so we've got the job. We don't know any more than that, and we're having trouble making contact with the embassy, so we suspect there may be Syndonese Federals involved. But remember, we only suspect. We don't know. So don't go off halfcocked —"
A red light on York's console pulled his attention to some problem down on Hangar Deck. He touched a switch. "You're red-lighted, Hangar Deck. What's wrong?"
One of York's screens lit up with the image of a young female officer named Krassille Doanne. She looked worried. "We found a steering malfunction in one of the drones during prelaunch check, sir. We're working on it, but it won't be ready at transition."
"Not acceptable," York growled. "Get me Nemkov."
Doanne frowned. "I'm sorry, sir, but Lord Nemkov gave me orders to —"
"I don't give a damn what he said. Get him here. Now. And tell him that's an order."
Doanne saluted. "Aye, aye, sir."
She disappeared from the screen. A moment later Nemkov replaced her, handsome, arrogant, angry. Nemkov started to speak but York cut him off, "What's this about a faulty drone, Lieutenant?" He refused to use Nemkov's title.
Nemkov's lips tightened. "It failed prelaunch check, something in its steering."
"And why did it wait until now to fail?"
"I wouldn't know. But you're welcome to come down and ask the drone yourself, Mr. Ballin."
"God damn it, Lieutenant, we need that drone."
"I know that. We're doing everything we can, but I'm no magician. If I send that drone out we'll lose her for sure. Then we'll only have four."
"We'll only have four if you don't send her out."
Nemkov's face darkened. "We'd have five if we could get replacements, six if we could get spare parts. Tell me why we can't get spares, Ballin."
"I don't know," York lied, trying not to think of an empire no longer able to maintain a war that had lasted for generations.
"Mr. Ballin!" Telyekev growled harshly. "Pay attention."
"Sorry, sir. Bad news from Hangar Deck. We've only got four drones on green, sir. No prognosis on the fifth. I'll keep you informed but it won't be ready at transition."
"God damn it!" Telyekev snarled. "How the hell do they expect me to fight a war without spare parts? Let me speak to hangar, Mr. Ballin, and keep an eye on that timer. I want a count down on allship starting at ten seconds."
"Aye, aye, sir." York made the connection. Then his attention turned to a red light from turret six: trouble with their local targeting computer. That was an easy one; he gave them priority to back up with Invaradin's comp-central. He glanced again at his timer, then switched his pickup to allship. "Transition minus ten seconds and counting," he said, keeping his voice calm and even. "Nine ... Eight ... Seven ... Six ... Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ... One ..."
His screens fluttered. An undefined tickle crawled up the back of his spine. He cut off all external communications and said, "Sublight."
The bridge went silent. Fresh out of transition, Invaradin was a blind target with no idea of what she'd dropped into until Anda Gant got them data.
"We're clear to a hundred thousand kilometers and expanding, sir," she finally said.
York's implants seemed to whisper with a long collective sigh of relief.
"Thank you, Anda," Telyekev said easily. "No surprises, then. Now let's see what's on long range. Drones out, Commander. Hold them at the limit of your short range scan."
A distant, ghostly clang sounded through the hull of the ship as the four drones shot out of their launch bays. "Drones out, sir," Gant barked.
York's scan summary compressed as the drones shot outward from Invaradin's hull and their effective scan baseline broadened. At fifty thousand kilometers the drones shifted into a complex circular orbit about Invaradin, and the scan summary compressed even faster.
With one ear tuned to the bridge circuit York touched another switch on his console. "Hangar, this is com. Drone status."
Krass Doanne answered. "Parasitic demand is smooth. Response is strong. Still no word on number five."
"Thank you, Miss Doanne," York said. "Com out." He cut her out of the circuit.
"Clear to one million klicks and expanding," Gant announced.
"Excellent," Telyekev said happily. "Good job, Anda. Hold the drones at fifty thousand klicks. Go to extreme long range and start scanning. I want a full system map soonest. Mr. Ballin, get back on that com and see if you can raise Trinivan."
"Aye, aye, sir." York reopened an exterior com channel, confident now it wouldn't provide a homing beacon for a feddie warhead, and immediately, without any effort on his part, the signal came in clearly and strongly.
"Help! Please help! Whoever you are out there, we desperately need your help. Please answer."
York frowned suspiciously at his console as the message repeated itself. He touched a switch and a clear picture formed on one of his screens: a middle-aged man with unkempt hair dressed in a wrinkled tunic and several days' growth of beard.
York checked to see that the incoming signal was riding on an imperial encryption code. That was at least some sort of identification, so he touched another switch and broadcast his own picture on the same code.
At sight of York the man on the screen stopped speaking and his eyes widened. "Who are you?" he demanded.
York spoke precisely. "I'm Senior Lieutenant York Ballin of His Majesty's Ship Invaradin, Captain Lord Alexiae Telyekev commanding. Please identify yourself."
"Jerrik Lassen," the man said. "Thank God you've come. We'd almost given up —"
York interrupted him sharply. "Please identify yourself fully. Where are you and what's your function?" The man frowned. "I'm a computer tech here at the embassy."
"Which embassy?"
"Why, the imperial embassy here on Trinivan, of course."
"Of course," York said. "Now, what's a comp-tech doing at a com station? And where's your com-tech?"
"He's dead, Lieutenant. A mob of locals literally tore him apart." Lassen shivered visibly. "I'm filling in."
"Who's in charge?"
"His Excellency, Lord Frederick Cienyey."
"Very good, Mr. Lassen. Now find Lord Cienyey and bring him here immediately. Captain Telyekev will want to speak to him."
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Lassen pleaded. "We haven't been able to find his lordship for hours, but Mr. Harshaw's somewhere about."
"Who's Harshaw?"
"He's the vice consul."
York nodded. "Then get him."
"Right," Lassen said. He tore off his headset and stepped out of view.
York switched to Invaradin's command channel. "Sir, I've got Trinivan and it doesn't sound good."
"What happened to all that interference?"
"I don't know, sir. It's gone. My guess is the feddies are playing games with us."
"Or perhaps ..." a new voice interrupted nastily, "... there aren't any Federals around here at all."
York cringed at the sound of third officer Commander Lord Mayhue Sierka's voice. Sierka had joined Invaradin's crew less than a year ago, and taken an immediate dislike to York. "But I'm sure you'll have some excuse, won't you, Lieutenant?"
"The feddies are out there," York insisted. "You can bet on —"
"No more excuses, Lieutenant," Sierka interrupted. "You're going to have to —"
"Enough!" Telyekev barked. "And don't make excuses, York."
"But sir, those feddies are out there. I know it."
"We all make mistakes — you fewer than most — so don't worry about it. Now what have you got on Trinivan?"
York let it drop and spoke carefully. "A dead com-tech, sir. And a half-hysterical comp-tech filling in for him. Sounds like chaos down there."
"There you go, Sierka," Telyekev said, making excuses for York. "That damn comp-tech probably doesn't know a com from a weapons console. Probably caused that interference himself."
"No doubt Your Lordship is right," Sierka said.
A new face appeared on the screen carrying the signal from the embassy: probably Harshaw, an unattractive man, with a flat face and wideset eyes. Like Lassen's, his face showed fear.
York spoke. "I believe Vice-Consul Harshaw is ready for you, sir."
"Good," Telyekev said. "Put me on without introduction. And you stay in circuit."
York put himself and Telyekev on a split screen to Harshaw. Telyekev wasted no time. "I'm Telyekev, Invaradin's captain. I assume you're Harshaw?"
Harshaw nodded. He seemed to know instinctively now was not the time to speak.
"We're standing on full alert status, Harshaw, and neither of us has a lot of time. So bring me up to date fast, and don't waste my time or yours with any bullshit."
For an instant Harshaw appeared offended, but he adjusted to the situation quickly. He swallowed once, then spoke carefully. "We're mixed up in a big power play on the part of some local politicos. For the last twenty years Trinivan's been neutral, which is just another way of saying its government is loaded with factions that include hard core supporters of both the Syndonese and us imperials, and of course everything in between. But the inbetweens have lately been drifting toward the Syndonese, and the imperial sympathizers are now badly out numbered. And this unscheduled visit of Her Royal Highness was like throwing fuel on an already hot fire. She —"
"Her Royal Highness?" Telyekev barked. "You have a member of the royal family down there?"
Harshaw frowned. "Why, yes. I thought you knew."
"I know nothing," Telyekev said. "Following standard procedure we down-transited two days ago to check in with Fleet. They told us you were in trouble and you needed help. That's all. Beyond that I am wholly unaware of the situation down there."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Choice of Treasons by J. L. Doty. Copyright © 2015 J. L. Doty. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Get Free eBook Sample
