As a servant, Alikhan was adequate: though he kept the place tidy and looked after Martinez’s uniforms, he was an indifferent cook, and both his manners and accent were rough. But that didn’t matter—Martinez knew he could always hire more polished servants if he wished to entertain. It was Alikhan’s thirty years spent in the Fleet weapons bays that Martinez found invaluable, the fund of Fleet wisdom and experience to which Alikhan gave him access.
Alikhan knew more of the Fleet’sstories than anyone Martinez had ever met.
“There are quite a few messages, my lord,” Alikhan said as he poured the first coffee of the day. “They started coming in yesterday morning.”
Alikhan’s words brought the day’s first cloud of despair: Martinez felt his head sinking between his shoulders. “Reporters, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, my lord.”
Alikhan offered Martinez his breakfast of porridge and pickled mayfish. The jellylike mayfish, splayed across the plate’s Martinez crest, trembled greenly in the morning light.
“I saw the broadcasts, my lord,” Alikhan said. “When you didn’t turn up the other night, I checked the video to see if some crisis might be detaining you.”
“Was it exciting?” Martinez shoved porridge into his mouth. He was rarely awake enough in the mornings to care what his breakfasts tasted like, and this one, so far as he could tell, tasted more or less like the others.
“Well,” Alikhan said, “the broadcasters really didn’t know what to make of it, but to anyone with real experience,” by which he meant the Fleet, “to anyone who knew what was happening, it was…” He made an affirmative movement with one shovel-fingered hand. “It was suspenseful, my lord. Very interesting.”
“Let’s hope the lord commander isn’t toointerested, ” Martinez said savagely.
“He might decide that you’re a credit to the service, my lord,” Alikhan offered, though he sounded dubious.
“He might,” Martinez agreed, then added, “He’s decorating that cadet, Sula…nothing was said about decoratingme. ”
The pickled mayfish oozed over Martinez’s palate. He washed it down with coffee, and Alikhan topped up his cup.
“Peopleare interested in you,” he said. “There’s that.”
“That’s nice, I suppose. But that’s not going to matter in the service.”
“But those people could be, I don’t know…useful.”
Something in Alikhan’s manner made Martinez straighten. “How do you mean?”
“Well,” Alikhan began, “I recall a lieutenant on the oldRenown, name of Salazar. There was a problem with one of the missile launchers during an exercise—the missile ran hot in the tube, was spraying gamma rays all through the bay, could have blown up…Salazar was the officer in command, took charge and got the missile out of the tube—those were the old Mark 17 launchers, my lord, very unreliable unless they were maintained properly, and these weren’t. That’s what the board of inquiry determined—there were two officers cashiered over that one, and a master weaponer and two weaponers first class were broken in the ranks.”
“They took it seriously, then,” Martinez said. Weaponers were broken in rank often enough, he supposed, but if they cashiered a couple of Peers instead of shifting them to some meaningless duty, then their dereliction must have been serious.
“It spoiled a very large fleet exercise,” Alikhan said. “Lord Commander Fanaghee—that’s the clan-elder of the Fanaghee that’s got the Naxid squadron at Magaria—he was humiliated in front of Senior Fleet Commander El-kay. And of course we could have lost theRenown. The destruction of theQuest had already been blamed on the Mark 17, and cautions sent around the Fleet.”
“I see,” Martinez said. “So how did Salazar make out?”
“Well, he was decorated, of course—the hero of the hour. Very popular. But it was what he didwith his celebrity that caught my attention.”
Martinez had forgotten the existence of his breakfast. “And what was that?” he asked.
“He was interviewed. And in the interviews, he stressed the discipline of the Fleet under Lord Commander Fanaghee, the inspiring example of his seniors, the capability of the instructors who had taught him how to manage the missile launchers.”
“He flattered everybody,” Martinez said.
“He turned what had been a black eye for the Fleet into something that reflected well on the service. Fanaghee ordered him promoted to lieutenant captain, even though he’d only passed for lieutenant nine months before.”
Martinez decided that Salazar’s example was certainly worth pondering. He cocked an eye up at Alikhan. “What became of Salazar? I never heard of him.”
“He died, my lord, a few months later. Too many gamma rays flooding that missile bay.”
At least there were no gamma rays in Martinez’s case. “I can’t talk to reporters without clearing it with the lord commander,” he said.
“I would advise obtaining permission, my lord,” Alikhan agreed.
“Damn Abacha, anyway!” Martinez said. “This is all his fault.”
Alikhan refrained from comment.
Martinez concentrated on his breakfast. The taste, he reflected, wasn’t bad at all.
Enderby granted Martinez permission to talk to reporters, comforted perhaps by the fact that Fleet censors would have the final say in what finally reached the public. Martinez found his opportunity when Enderby was called to meeting. Gupta went along to take notes, but Martinez had nothing to do but monitor signals traffic.
Martinez spoke to several reporters from his comm station in Enderby’s office. He told them that it was the example of Fleet Commander Enderby and his other seniors that had inspired him during the rescue mission. Enderby saw that the Home Fleet was trained and disciplined and brought up to the mark. It was thanks to Enderby that the Home Fleet was ready for anything.
“It is one of the glories of the Praxis that lines of responsibility are clearly defined,” he said. “I have my job and I’m responsible to my lord commander, just as others are responsible to me. When I undertake a task, I know that my lord commander has entrusted me with it, and I do my best to ensure that it will be performed up to his expectations.”
The reporters listened and took dutiful notes, if only because it was the sort of thing the censors would like to see in their reports. They asked questions about Martinez’s history, his family. They seemed equally interested in Cadet Caroline Sula, however, and the fate of the dog Orange. They wanted to know if it were possible to interview Sula.
“I’ll ask,” Martinez said. “But I have to remind you that she’s still some distance out. It’s not going to be a sparkling dialogue, with her answers taking an hour to get back to you.”
He sent the reporters as much information about Sula as he felt appropriate for them to know, with no mention of the miserable fate of her parents. He sent them her picture, which he was sure would pique their interest, if not their lust.
And then, looking at the picture, that glorious face, he began to think about Cadet Sula himself. She was out there alone, hours beyond reach of even the simplest message, and in a tiny vessel with no comforts. Her nearest neighbor was a corpse.
What was she thinking about? he wondered. Her last message, the shocking picture of the fragile, strangely aged Sula, had suggested that her thoughts were not comfortable ones.
If she were to think about anything, he decided, perhaps it ought to be Gareth Martinez.
He reached for his comm to send her a message.