“I am going on board.”
The battle was over; now there was only the inspection of the prize.
When news came that there was no air in Blitsharts’s cockpit, Martinez’s heart sank only a little. Having had hours in which to think about it, he’d concluded that it was unlikely that the yachtsman was alive.
The next report came after the silence in which the airlock door cut off Sula’s transmissions.
“Blitsharts and the dog are dead.” She was back in the cockpit of her pinnace, floating within close range of the cockpit camera. “There was a leak somewhere in the cockpit, and his faceplate was up and he’d turned off most of the cabin alarms. I suppose you shut off a lot of alarms when racing—proximity alarms, acceleration alerts—and when the depressurization alarm went off, he probably shut it off without noticing what it was. At some point he released the dog from its acceleration couch, but I doubt he was in his right mind by then—he’d probably lost it just before that long acceleration burn.” She seemed to shrug inside her vacuum suit. “I will follow this transmission with the recording I made aboardMidnight Runner. This is Cadet Caroline Sula, concluding her report.”
Martinez watched in fascination. The Caroline Sula who uttered these words seemed neither the mischievous pilotcadet nor the weary, triumphant warrior, but someone somehow lost…almost misplaced in time, both older and younger than her actual age. Older, because she seemed timeworn, almost frail. Younger, because there was a helplessness in her glance, like that of a wounded child.
Had she counted so much on Blitsharts being alive? Martinez wondered. Or perhaps sheknew him, even loved him…
He was tempted to replay the transmission, so he could better understand why her reaction seemed so exaggerated.
“Lieutenant Martinez,” Enderby said.
Martinez gave a start. “Lord Commander?”
“Please convey to Cadet Sula my congratulations on her successful maneuver. It required both skill and courage.”
Surprise swam through Martinez’s brain. “Yes, my lord.”
“I have decided to award her the Medal of Merit—” Enderby hesitated. “—Second Class. Please have the necessary documents on my desk by the end of shift.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Enderby had been watching all along, Martinez realized. Watching the transmissions while he sat at his desk, expressionless as always.
Another idea occurred to the lord commander. Enderby continued, “Compose a document for release to the Fleet News Service, then send it to me for review.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Oh—another thing.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“In your message, please admonish Cadet Sula for the inappropriate nature of one of her remarks. Official communications are not to be used for levity.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Martinez realized he would miss the old man when he was gone.
Enderby sent Martinez and Gupta home early so he could attend the football match between the crews ofThe Glory of the Praxis andThe Sublime Truth of the Praxis, two of the goliath Praxis-class battleships that formed the core of the Home Fleet.
Fleet commanders were often as fanatic about sport as any cadet. Sport was the closest anyone in the Fleet was ever likely to come to real combat.
Martinez had attended the games as often as not, but today he wanted nothing so much as a shower, a bed, and—come to think of it—a drink to help relax the kinks in his muscles. He stopped by the junior officers’ club on his way out of the Commandery and encountered Ari Abacha, fortifying himself before his shift at Operations Control. Abacha waved him over to the bar as he entered, and Martinez took a chair, wincing at the pain caused by that inhuman seat in Operations.
“Buy you a drink?”
“Thanks, Ari. I’ll have some of that Sellaree.”
A glass of ruby wine was placed in front of Martinez. It was one of the Commandery’s special tulip glasses, rimmed with the same glossy white ceramic out of which the bar had been shaped, and with a stripe of the same pale green as the carpet, a color scheme intended to set off to advantage the darker green of the officers’ tunics.
“Isay. Gare…” Abacha’s words were unusually tentative.
Martinez looked at him. “Yes, Ari?”
Abacha gave a laugh. “I don’t know whether you’ll be annoyed by this or not—I think it’s amusing, actually—but it seems you’re famous.”
Martinez raised his heavy brows. “I? Famous?”
“I’m afraid so. Do you remember yesterday, when that fellow from All-Sports Network called Operations Control?”
Martinez scratched his two days’ beard. “Panjit something, wasn’t it?”
Abacha gave a nervous laugh. “Panjit Sesse, yes. Well—things were getting busy, you’ll recall—and I was going to cut the fellow off. But Ididn’t — hesuggested that I keep transmitting to him, and it appears that Idid. Without thinking about it. He heardeverything. ”
“Everything,” Martinez repeated, trying to remember if he’d said anything particularly embarrassing.
“Everything up till the time my shift ended and I left. Everything we did was broadcast on All-Sports Network.”
“And the censors didn’t…?”
“The censors seem to have taken the night off. Maybe they were watching the football match—it was Lodestone versus Andiron, you know.”
Martinez probed carefully, like a tongue exploring a painful tooth. “I—We—didn’t say anything that…”
“Oh no.” Abacha laughed. “Nothing that will haunt us. You were quite decisive, in fact—sent your message to Kandinski requesting a rescue mission before informing Lord Commander Enderby that a situation even existed.”
Martinez’s brittle laugh was a poor imitation of Abacha’s, and his head buzzed with calculation as he laughed.
Did Enderby know? If he didn’t, someone was sure to tell him. But of course Enderby knew thatsomeone must have requested a rescue mission from Kandinski.
If only Enderby’s informant wouldn’t rub his nose in it, wouldn’t jog him with an elbow at the football match and say, “By all the virtues, Enderby, you allow your aides a deal of latitude.”
But someone was bound to. The fleet sailed not so much in the starry void as on a sea of rumor, an incoherent mass of information, speculation, gossip, intrigue, interest, and collusion. Martinez, without seeking them out, was nevertheless privy to an outrageous number of secrets, some of which—if true—were blood-chilling. But it hardly mattered whether they were true or not, they were things that the Fleetknew. It wasknown that the Naxid Fleet Commander Toshueen, finding his son disappointing, had cut off the youngster’s head and eaten it; it wasknown that Squadron Commander Rafi had ordered cadets to tie and beat him, and as for Enderby’s wife…well, a lot wasknown about Enderby’s wife.
That Martinez had good, authoritative reasons to disbelieve all these stories scarcely mattered: the Fleet always told stories about itself, and the sort of stories it told were eternal. There was aneed in the Fleet for stories, and now there was a new story, how Lord Commander Enderby had been made a fool of by his aide.
Martinez had always hoped he would be the subject of one of these stories, but this wasn’t the sort he had in mind. He had the sense that his promotion, already slipping from his fingers, had just floated beyond his reach.
His sense of grievance, however, was only momentary. He was too tired to feel anything for very long.
He said good-bye to Abacha and took a cab to the apartment he kept in the High City, let his clothes fall on the floor for his orderly to pick up, and fell into bed.
His orderly woke him at the usual hour, and Martinez dragged himself to breakfast. Lieutenants were entitled to two servants, paid for by the Fleet—the service was nothing if not generous to its officers—but Martinez had never found duties enough for more than one. This was Khalid Alikhan, a master weaponer of more than thirty years’ service, a man Martinez saved from retirement when the oldCrisis was decommissioned. He was tall and grave, with iron-gray hair and the curling mustachios and goatee favored by senior warrant and petty officers.