Martinez wondered if anyone had ever actually disobeyed one of Deghbal’s orders before. Probably not. He hoped he could profit by Deghbal’s unfamiliarity with disobedience, and again tried to look as if he were pondering the escap’s words. Then he hardened his face into what he hoped was a kind of dim-witted, stubborn resolve.
“I want Captain Tarafah’s order,” he said. “I trust him to know what’s actually going on.” And then he frowned at the camera. “End transmission.”
I am enjoying this too much, Martinez thought, but still he pictured Deghbal cursing at the orangeEnd Transmission symbol appearing on his displays. Then he wondered if he’d overplayed his hand, if Deghbal would be angry enough simply to order a barrage of missiles to pursueCorona until the frigate was destroyed.
He looked toward Tracy and Clarke, who were monitoring the sensor screens, and said, “Screens, if you see missile tracks, let me knowfast. ”
Pinned by acceleration on their tandem couches, they rolled their heads toward him in wide-eyed surmise—though not related, so far as he knew, they looked very much alike, being dark-haired, broad-shouldered young women—and then turned their heads quickly back to their displays.
Martinez paged Alikhan, this time using the ship’s system rather than his sleeve display, a convenience that enabled Martinez to use his headset mic rather than having to talk into his sleeve button. Alikhan’s own sleeve button showed nothing but the ceiling in Tarafah’s cabin, the only view available as Alikhan lay in the captain’s bed under six gravities.
“Did you have any luck?”
Alikhan’s voice showed the strain of the gravities he was laboring under. “I got the gear to the captain’s cabin, my lord. But all I had time to do was search his desk—no luck there.”
“If I slow our acceleration to two gravities, do you think you could handle the—the gear?”
“I could, my lord.”
“Right. End transmission.” He raised his voice to carry to Eruken. “Engines. Reduce acceleration to two gravities.”
“Very good, my lord.” Plain relief dripped from Eruken’s words. The ferocity of the acceleration eased, andCorona’s frame groaned with the release of strain.
“My lord?” Vonderheydte’s query came into Martinez’s headset. “May I have permission to use the toilet? I was drinking coffee while I was censoring the mail, and—”
Martinez grinned. The commonplace trumped the dramatic every time. “Permission given,” he said. “Transfer the comm displays to my board while you’re gone. Be careful.”
Moving under two gravities was like walking with another person on your back. Sprains and breaks were common, and Martinez couldn’t afford injured personnel.Corona’s “doctor”—actually a pharmacist second class—was also the team doctor, and had been left behind on Magaria.
But he didn’t want the crew in Command to pee all over themselves either.
“Whoelse needs the toilet?” Most of the hands went up. High gees were hard on bladders.
Come to think of it, Martinez thought, he could use the toilet himself. He made a general announcement to the ship’s company that people would have some time to make ablutions, again with care.
IfCorona survived the next few hours, he’d put the crew into vac suits, with the necessary sanitary appliances built in.
Four crewmen had rotated in and out of the toilet before Alikhan reported in. “I’ve got the safe open, my lord. No luck.”
Black anger descended on Martinez. This failure had very possibly killed everyone. “Search the room,” he said. “Then his office.”
“Very good, my lord. Does he have a safe in his office?”
“I don’t know. If there is, you’ll know what to do.”
Martinez was last in rotation for the toilet. Stooped with the weight of gravity, he had just shuffled back into Command when the next transmission came from Ring Command. “It’s the elcap, my lord!” Vonderheydte proclaimed cheerfully, as if in the belief that Tarafah’s mere electronic presence would straighten out all misunderstandings and solve allCorona’s problems.
“Stand by,” Martinez said. He lowered himself gently into the couch, released the cage to gimbal to a more comfortable position, then lowered the displays to lock in front of him.
Martinez wondered if he shoutedWhere is your captain’s key? at some point in the conversation, whether Tarafah would have the chance to answer before the rebels flattened him or switched off. He wondered if Tarafah would even consider giving him the answer to the question.
And he wondered that if he so much as asked the question, would he be confirming Ring Command’s worst suspicions and immediately trigger a salvo of missiles aimed inCorona’s direction.
He decided he’d better not ask.
“Martinez here,” he answered.
Tarafah glowered at him from the display, which jerked and bobbed a little. It was probably someone else’s sleeve camera, since Tarafah was wearing sweats and had no sleeve rig of his own. Martinez heard crowd noises in the background. Tarafah was somewhere indoors, with institutional decor, and his voice echoed off the hard walls—probably he was in one of the rooms or corridors beneath the football stadium.
“What’s this I hear about you launchingCorona and going like a skyrocket all over the ring?” Tarafah demanded.
Delay, Martinez thought.
“I hear the Coronas are ahead three to one, my lord,” he said. “Congratulations, first of all—your careful planning is bearing fruit.”
“It’s four to one now,” Tarafah said. A touch of vanity tinged his anger.
“Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby—and goal. Brilliant, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Tarafah grudged. “But I’ve got to get back to the team—we don’t want the Beijings to get another goal in the final minutes.”
“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry you were asked to leave the game.”
“My ship.” Tarafah’s eyes narrowed. “What about my ship?”
“Armed Naxids tried to board theCorona, my lord. I had to get her out of dock.”
Tarafah gave a dismissive look. “That’s been explained. It was a surprise inspection.”
“They werearmed, my lord,” Martinez said. “Why do inspectors need guns? And they were storming every ship on the station. Forty of them to every ship. Naxids.Only Naxids. With guns.”
Tarafah’s eyes cut away, to something or someone out of frame, and then back.
“Was it a Naxid who brought you the information, my lord?” Martinez inquired gently. “Are there Naxids with you now?”
Tarafah hesitated, and then his look hardened again. “Of course they’re Naxids,” he said finally. “They’re from Fleet Commander Fanaghee’s staff.” His tone turned accusing. “You’ve got thefleetcom involved, Martinez! Do you know howvast this is?” A loud cheer roared up from the nearby crowd, and impatience crossed his face. “I’ve got to get back to the game. Now you turnCorona around and get back to the station—everything will get straightened out once you get back.”
Martinez’s heart sank. This, he thought, is the precise moment at which any of this stops being fun.
“You’re saying this freely?” he asked. “Under no duress or compulsion?”
“Of course,” Tarafah snapped. “Now getCorona back to the rim and we’ll get everything settled.”
“Yes, my lord,” Martinez said, tasting the bitterness that striped his tongue at the knowledge of what he’d have to say next.
Delay, he told himself. Delay was all. Delay would justify everything.
“If you’ll just give me the code word,” he told Tarafah, “I’ll swing the ship around and start the deceleration.”
Tarafah had started to turn, ready to return the football pitch, but now he swung back to the camera. “The what?” he said.