The Thirteenth Man (3 page)

Cesare reached down and lifted Charlie's chin to look in his face. The old man frowned. “What are you talking about, Charlie?”

“I promised you I'd take care of Arthur, and I didn't. I must have left him somewhere on the flagship. He was still on her when they blew her. It was my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so—­”

Cesare nodded. “And how did you learn of Arthur's death?”

Cesare's question puzzled Charlie. “As new prisoners were brought in they gave us news of the war. ‘Cesare's son had bought us victory at Solista,' they said, ‘at the cost of his own life.' ”

Cesare continued to nod thoughtfully, but it was Paul who asked, “And you've lived with this grief for five years? Do you remember any of the final moments at Solista?”

Charlie shook his head.

Cesare took a deep breath and let it out slowly. But there was none of the grief Charlie had expected to see in his eyes, or anger. Only a deep sadness, somehow tinged with warmth. Cesare leaned down, took hold of Charlie's shoulders in a strong grip, and pulled him carefully to his feet. “But it was
you
who bought us victory at Solista, by remaining on board a dying flagship and coordinating the final minutes of your trap. And it was you whom we believed still aboard that flagship when she blossomed into a fireball. As for Arthur, apparently you got him into that lifeboat, and into a med-­pod. We picked him up six days later. He lost an arm, but we've long since cloned him a new one.” The Duke was staring into Charlie's eyes. “Those stories were about you, Charlie.

“You were the son who bought us victory at Solista—­and we believed at the cost of your own life.”

The deck tilted crazily beneath Charlie's feet, but Del appeared at his side, caught an arm and let him lean on her. Add'mar'die appeared at the other arm and kept him on his feet, all of them pretending he didn't need their help.

“He's alive?” Charlie said, his knees close to giving way.

“Yes, little brother,” Add'mar'die said. “He's alive.” She squeezed the muscle on his arm. “And I doubt you weigh half what you should.” She looked around the room and announced, “Ell and I'll fix him up. Regular workouts in the gym, and about five thousand calories a day should do it.”

They all fussed over him, then brought in the ship's doctor who fussed some more. Yet none of it mattered. Arthur was alive—­that's all Charlie cared about. They could fuss all they wanted, as long as that fact remained true. He didn't want to sleep, fearing he'd wake up and learn that Arthur wasn't alive, that this was another hallucination or a dream, but eventually they gave him something and he started to grow drowsy, so they said their goodbyes and left. Del was the last to go and she paused in the doorway. He wondered if she made a habit of exiting that way.

“Why are you here?” he asked, not sure if he should trust her. “The daughter of the king. Why go to all the trouble? Do you really care about us?”

She lowered her eyes. “My father doesn't. He and my mother don't approve of me being here, but I made a public announcement that I'd personally be at every prisoner exchange, and they'd have looked very bad if they'd refused me.”

She lifted her eyes, looked at him and asked hesitantly, “Does it make a difference to you, knowing I'm Princess Delilah?”

He was having trouble focusing. “I don't know Delilah very well, but I hope I still have a date for a dance with a girl named Del.”

“You do.” She grinned, and that mischievous glint appeared in her eyes again. She tossed a hip shamelessly to one side.

“But you have to earn it first, spacer.”

R
oger preceded Charlie down the deserted corridor on Cesare's flagship,
Defender
, and looking at him reminded Charlie of how emaciated all of them had been, still were for that matter. Even after a tenday Roger walked carefully, the walk of a person weak with illness and starvation. His uniform hung on him like an old rag tossed on a hook, his cheeks sunken and hollow. Charlie knew that if he could step outside himself and look from a distance, he'd see almost a twin to Roger.

Seth Andrews, Noah Darmczek and Chief Petty Officer Tomulka,
Defender
's security chief, met them in the security commander's office. With the exception of some exercise sessions in his sickroom, this was the first time Charlie had walked anywhere under his own power, and there was much shaking of hands and slapping of backs.

“I won't say you look good,” Darmczek said in a voice that sounded more like a growl, “but you look a hell of a lot better.” Darmczek's voice had regained the strength that had disappeared sometime on the chain.

“I think we all look better,” Charlie said. “How are the men? With a few exceptions, I haven't seen any of them yet.”

Andrews said, “Like the rest of us, getting better each day.”

“And asking about you,” Darmczek added. “Let's make sure you get a chance to tell them how you're doing personally.”

“Ya,” Charlie said, nodding. “Ya, let's do that. But first we have to take care of this nasty business.”

Tomulka led the way into the cell block, two rows of four cells each on either side. On a properly organized and disciplined ship, such cells usually saw use only for minor infractions, such as when a spacer returned from shore leave too drunk to report for duty. If the same fellow repeated the offense one time too many he might be thrown into a cell to sleep it off, and for a few days more to sweat about his punishment.

The only occupants of the cells today were four men—­Turnman, Crowley, Smithers, and Johansen—­housed in separate cells. They were all seated on their bunks, and stood nervously as Tomulka led the four officers into the block. They too showed some signs of malnutrition, but nothing close to the real starvation the rest of them had suffered. Crowley gripped the plast bars of his cell and said, “Commander, what'd I do to get locked up? I didn't do nothing wrong.”

In the cell next to him Turnman shook his head, lowered his eyes and said, “Cut the crap, Crowley. You ain't fooling nobody.”

“But I ain't done nothing,” Crowley pleaded.

Darmczek leaned close to him, their noses only inches apart. “You were a fucking snitch, Crowley. And if I could, I'd wring your neck myself.”

Crowley backed away from Darmczek. “You can't prove that.”

Darmczek shook with rage. “You don't think everyone knew, Crowley? You don't think we all knew exactly what was going on? The only reason we didn't kill you in the camps was because the Syndonese would retaliate.”

“Captain Darmczek,” Charlie said. “Please.”

With visible effort Darmczek swallowed his anger and adopted a calm he clearly didn't feel. He stepped back from the cell.

Charlie said, “You four men collaborated with the Syndonese. You know it, we know it, all the men knew it then, and know it still. The rest of us on the chain grew absolutely skeletal, while the four of you thinned out a bit, but miraculously stayed rather healthy. I'll bet they even treated you against infection and some of the other things we suffered. I could probably prove it in a proper military court, though I admit the evidence would be circumstantial. But I don't have to prove it to get you punished. I can just release you, let you go back to your bunks among your comrades . . .” All four of them cringed noticeably.

Turnman said, “Please, Commander. Don't.”

Andrews spoke up. “He won't. But the rest of us would. We'd like you tried and executed. And you've got Commander Cass to thank for your lives.”

That wasn't exactly true. Charlie had wanted them dead as well, had wanted to come down here and personally put a bullet in each of them. But Cesare had talked him out of it. “Those men don't matter anymore, Charlie,” he'd said. “But if you kill them, even though they deserve it, you won't be able to put them behind you. I know you, and coldblooded murder, that's not you. Their blood on your hands will haunt you for the rest of your life. It's your decision, but think it through carefully.”

Darmczek growled at Charlie, “And I still don't understand why.”

Charlie didn't look at Darmczek as he answered him. “They were on the chain with the rest of us. I guess I can understand the need to survive, and the temptation to sacrifice your honor.

“But I can't understand betraying your comrades,” he said firmly. Charlie looked at the four men carefully. “As such, you're being held here in protective custody. You will not be mistreated, and you'll continue to be held until we reach Traxis. At that time we'll issue you your back-­pay, and transport you to a place of your choice, as long as it's outside any de Maris holding. And be warned: should you ever return, you'll be arrested, tried, and executed.”

As Charlie turned to leave, Turnman called out to him, “Commander.”

Charlie stopped, half turned and looked over his shoulder at the man. Turnman said, “For what it's worth, Commander, I'm sorry . . . and thanks.”

The man seemed sincere, but Charlie couldn't find any kind words for him, so he turned and left.

 

CHAPTER 2

MEMORIES

C
harlie back-­stepped as the knife hissed past his nose. He spun, caught Ell with a vicious kick to the side of her thigh, but in that instant her knife cut a furrow across his ribs and an agony of fire lanced up his side. They separated, circling warily, she limping on the damaged leg, he clutching at the deep cut in his side, simblood soaking his sparring suit. He too limped badly.

“Come on, Ell,” Add shouted. “Finish him. You're getting sloppy. He shouldn't have lasted this long.”

He tried to ignore the pain, tried to remember that he wasn't actually hurt. The fabric of the sparring suit was soft and flexible, but with power reinforcing its fibers it could sense the moment of impact, turn into a rigid shield in the immediate neighborhood of the blow and protect its wearer. However, as Add and Ell were wont to remind him, he'd learn nothing about fighting if he didn't feel the pain of his mistakes. So the suit fed false sensory signals to the pain centers of his brain, telling him he'd badly sprained his left ankle, he'd been cut painfully across his ribs, he was bleeding and he was weakening. The simblood was an illusion fed directly into the cerebral cortex, adding to the psychological impact of the simulation.

Charlie and Ell continued to circle, looking for an opening. At least her sparring suit treated her no better, though he knew his kick had been a lucky one.

Add coached from the sideline. “He's gotten sloppy about his left side. Remember how long we worked to create balance? And now he's forgotten it all. Give him a good lesson.”

On Ell's worst day, and Charlie's best, he was just barely a match for her, but not today. She came in low with a cut to the knees. He spun with a heel kick to her ribs, only to realize at the last instant her cut had been a fake. She sidestepped the kick and buried her knife to the hilt in his chest. He dropped to his knees, blood welling down the front of his sparring suit, a lance of pain in his chest so intense he almost lost consciousness. He fell forward to his hands and knees, lay down and curled up as darkness began to envelop him, thankful that with unconsciousness the pain would end.

In his last moments of consciousness Add stood over him shaking her head sadly. “You've forgotten everything.” She lifted a small instrument in her left hand, touched a switch on its face and the pain suddenly vanished from his body, though not from his memory. Charlie sighed and decided to lie there for a moment.

Ell took up Charlie's defense. “He's improving, Add. Don't be so hard on him.” Ell sat on the mat rubbing her knee, slowly overcoming the psychological effects of her own sparring suit. “He's only recently come back to his proper fighting weight. And he's doing far better than he did even a tenday ago.”

The twins had begun torturing him only two days after he'd regained consciousness, and they'd been at him for a solid month while Cesare's flagship drove toward Traxis, home planet of the de Maris ducal seat. The two breeds were bound and determined to see him properly fed, healed, and exercised, and spent about two hours every day beating up on him, or standing over him forcing him to eat what they considered a proper meal, which to Charlie seemed enough to feed ten men. Then Roacka would usually join them, and all three of them would beat up on him again for a few hours more.

Add grabbed him by the collar of his sparring suit and lifted him to his feet. Facing him, looking down at him from her commanding height, she grinned and said, “I suppose you're right. And in any case, we can never expect too much of him—­he's so short.”

“Short, tall,” Ell said as she pulled herself to her feet. She leered knowingly at Charlie's crotch. “That's not the measure I'm interested in.”

Charlie blushed, but Add ignored it and spun on her heel, heading for the corridor. “Roacka's got you next. Fighting staffs, I think, both powered and antique. Then after that you're to meet with the duke.”

C
esare sat alone in his office and thought of the bargain he'd made more than twenty years ago when Charlie was only seven. It had been shortly after Gaida had murdered Charlie's mother. Cesare had been furious, and the argument that ensued . . .

“Do not try my patience, woman. I know you were responsible for her death.” Cesare struggled to remain calm, but the loss of Katherine—­the knowledge that he'd never hear her voice again, never hold her in his arms—­ate at his soul and tormented him constantly.

The Lady Gaida, his wife, a cold witch of a woman, turned her head slowly toward him. As always, her face held no expression, and he wondered how he could ever have shared her bed. “You can prove nothing,” she said. “But even if you could, she was no more than a servant, and at most I'd have to pay some reparation to her family. And the only family she has is that whoreson—­”

“Don't call him that,” Cesare shouted. Gaida grinned, and he knew he'd let her get the better of him. They were alone in her sitting room after he'd dismissed her servants and ladies with a shout, and he realized he'd chosen his battleground poorly.

She spoke with an unnerving calm. “I speak only the truth, and he stands between my son and his rightful inheritance.”

Cesare suddenly understood, and he felt foolish for not having realized from the moment the marriage contracts were signed that Gaida was a viper. Granted, a beautiful viper spawned of a powerful and influential family—­hence the marriage—­but still a viper. If the balance of power on the ducal council weren't so precarious he'd be rid of her, but to do so now would alienate her kinsmen, and that could destroy the delicate equilibrium of the Realm's power structure.

He knew now that the ducal seat was in danger, that the life of his eldest son, his heir Arthur, hung in the balance. Rather than being overcome with fear, though, knowing his enemy had a calming effect. “And what is your son's rightful inheritance?”

She answered quickly, “Why, he's in direct line to the de Maris—­” She caught herself and realized her mistake.

“Woman, your son is not my heir.”

“He's your son too. Your second son.”

Cesare knew the proper goad. “My
third
son,” he corrected her.

“The whoreson is illegitimate and unacknowledged,” she shouted, “and I'll not have him standing between my son and the ducal seat.”

Cesare lowered his voice and spoke calmly. “But my first son, my Arthur, my legitimate heir, does stand between your son and the ducal seat.”

Gaida's eyes widened as she realized her mistake. She wisely chose to remain silent.

Cesare turned squarely toward her and used a deadly tone of voice that had brought down kingdoms. “Perhaps we should have a bargain, woman.”

She took the bait. “A bargain?”

“Yes,” he said, turning away from her and pacing thoughtfully back and forth. He needed to give her a reason to allow Charlie to live. He wanted to have her and her small child killed, to be rid of her quickly and easily, but even if she was clearly responsible for the murder of Charlie, he couldn't go that far. After all, Charlie was the son of a servant, and unacknowledged he was still just a commoner. So Cesare improvised. “Should Charlie, my second son, die—­and should I have even the faintest suspicion of complicity on your part, or that of your son—­then you and your son will spend the rest of your lives in near poverty.” Her family was powerful and influential, but not wealthy.

“I will not have a whoreson standing above my son in the line of succession.”

“Very well,” Cesare said. “I'll not acknowledge Charlie, I'll not legitimize him, I'll never call him son and he'll never call me father. I'll not bestow upon him property or wealth, and in return, you'll see to it that he remains alive and healthy. I will, however, make sure the boy is financially comfortable, though nothing close to what's appropriate for a son of House de Maris. I think I'll also buy him a career, perhaps a commission, and I'll see to it that he's educated and given appropriate training.”

“And my son and I?”

“As long as Charlie remains healthy, you'll remain the supreme lady of House de Maris. For your son, I'll buy him some title, something significant, and unlike Charlie, I
will
bestow upon him property and wealth.” He turned toward her again and faced her squarely. “Do we have a bargain, woman?”

She thought carefully for an instant. “Do I have a choice?”

“No. You don't.”

With that he turned and strode for the door, pulled it open, but paused in the doorway. “There is one more thing.”

She didn't look his way.

“Your son will
never
inherit the ducal seat. For should Arthur, my legitimate heir, die before his time, regardless of the circumstances, and whether you're implicated or not, your death, and that of your son, will be long, slow, and agonizing. Do we understand one another?”

She hesitated, then nodded . . .

T
he knock on the door brought Cesare out of his reverie. That had been so long ago, the bargain they'd struck. Charlie and Arthur had been but children, and he, Cesare, had still been young and vital. Three sons, Arthur, then Charlie, then Theode. Arthur, son of the first duchess, whom Cesare had even loved, in a way. Arthur was bookish, intelligent, noble, kind, a diplomat by nature, a politician by instinct; he'd inherit the ducal seat and would carry the responsibility well. Theode, son of the second duchess, had turned out to be no less a viper than his mother, self-­indulgent, spoiled, calculating. And Charlie, born between Arthur and Theode of the only woman Cesare had ever truly loved. Charlie, condemned by a bargain struck more than twenty years ago to a life between lives, more than a commoner, but less than a nobleman's son. Charlie was what Cesare had made of him: the warrior, trained to stand at Arthur's right hand, the man who would enforce Arthur's policies when the diplomacy of politics would not suffice. Cesare wondered if Charlie was truly a warrior by nature, or if the boy had merely followed the path laid out before him.

Again, a knock on the door brought Cesare back to the moment. He hadn't meant to keep Charlie waiting.

T
he computer acknowledged Charlie's knock. “You may enter.”

He took an instant to adjust his tunic, to make sure all was right and proper before entering the duke's presence, then pushed the door open and stepped into the duke's study. The computer closed the door behind him. Charlie immediately bowed. “Your Grace, you wished to see me?”

“Stand up, Charlie. Let me look at you. And relax.”

Charlie straightened and saw the duke clearly for the first time, seated behind a large desk. He looked tired and old, but he smiled and said, “You're starting to look like the old Charlie, though I noticed a slight limp.”

Charlie grinned back at him. “Add, Ell, and Roacka beat up on me almost daily, when they're not trying to force-­feed me.”

Cesare stood and came around the desk. “It seems to be doing you some good.” He patted Charlie on the shoulder, led him toward two large, comfortable chairs in the corner.

“Ya, but I'm not about to admit that to them.”

“Of course not. Sit down.” Cesare pointed him to one of the chairs, and without asking his preference, turned to a small bar and splashed whiskey on ice in two glasses. It was a ritual Charlie had forgotten, and seeing it for the first time in years reminded him that he was truly home. “They tell me you still have nightmares.”

Charlie shrugged as Cesare handed him one of the glasses. “And they tell me the nightmares are natural, and they'll pass with time.”

Cesare sat in the other chair. “And they tell me you won't accept any of the standard therapies for such difficulties. You know they could end the nightmares with a few hours of treatment, end them once and for all.”

Charlie shook his head. “Yes I know. But neural probe therapy will also destroy some of the associated memories. And I don't want that.”

“Are those memories so good?”

“Of course not.” Charlie sipped at his drink; it burned his throat wonderfully. “But they're part of what I am, and I don't want to lose that. I know that sounds trite, or maybe just stupid . . .”

Cesare nodded thoughtfully and considered his drink for a moment. “Do you know that all the men who came back with you, once they heard you refused the neuronics, have also refused them? And they've asked to serve under you. Even those sworn to other noblemen have requested release from their oaths.”

“I don't have a command.”

“That can be changed in an instant.”

“I don't want a command.”

Cesare finished his drink and stood to fix another. Like the first drink, this one was small, just a splash over ice, more a ritual than a drink. While he stood at the bar with his back to Charlie he said, “I need a strong military presence behind the ducal seat. Once again Lucius is playing at emperor, demanding levies from the Nine, and if he gets them he'll start something . . . possibly another war.”

Charlie asked, “Another war with the Syndonese?”

Cesare turned back to Charlie, holding a fresh drink. “No, I don't think President Goutain wants open war. The last one cost him dearly, and he and his Syndonese sycophants have carefully avoided any saber-­rattling. Our dear king has something up his sleeve regarding Aagerbanne and the independent states. I don't yet know what, but Arthur should have more information when we get back to Farlight.”

Charlie said, “And once again you're the primary opposition to Lucius's posturing.”

Cesare smiled and shrugged. “Guilty.”

“If you resist him, he might accuse you of treason.”

Cesare paced back and forth across the small room. “Treason is a relative term. If House de Maris is weak, then I'm guilty of treason, and will probably lose my head. If we're moderately strong, then I'm merely an obstinate advisor to the king, and I must eventually capitulate to his desires. If we're truly strong, then I'm the king's most trusted counselor, whose advice he will certainly heed. In any case, Lucius has exhausted his own treasury, so at the moment he's quite weak.”