He was on the Relief Board, intended to help people in distress, which meant that enlisted personnel were constantly hounding him with their hard-luck stories in hopes of getting money.
And lastly, he was also officer in charge of censoring the ship’s mail, a job he was happy to shovel onto Seisho and a couple other cadets.
In fact the cadets and some of the more reliable warrant officers were getting as much of his work as he could safely unload, though he kept anything involving equipment or money in his own hands.
At the moment he was puzzling over wardroom funds. The three lieutenants were required to contribute sums to their mess, intended for the most part to be spent on liquor and delicacies, though some money vanished as under-the-table payoffs to maintain the style of the wardroom steward—in civilian life a professional chef—and large sums seemed to be employed for the purposes of gambling on football games. SinceCorona had a successful season, and most of the bets were winners, this didn’t appear to be a problem.
What disturbed Martinez most was inventory. The wardroom mess had paid for a good many items that were no longer in stock. It was possible that enlisted personnel were somehow pilfering, though it seemed unlikely, given that wardroom supplies were kept separately under lock and key. It was likewise possible that the wardroom steward, who had a key, was skimming. But since most of the items seemed to have vanished sinceCorona had been docked at Magaria’s ring station, Martinez suspected that the officers themselves were taking the stuff away, perhaps to give as presents to woman friends in Magaria’s ring station or skyhook towns.
But in that case, why didn’t the officers simply sign for the items? They’d paid for them, after all.
Martinez had verified with his own eyes that the items had existed. He had signed for them. And now they were gone.
He drummed his fingers on the edge of the display. This might be another good moment to schedule a talk with Alikhan.
His left cuff button chirped again, and Martinez, assuming another query from Seisho, glared as he told the display to answer the call.
“Martinez. What is it?”
The face that appeared on his sleeve answered his glare with an apologetic look. “This is Dietrich at the airlock, my lord. The military constables are here with three of our liberty people.”
Dietrich was one of the two guards on duty at the port to the ring station. “Are they drunk?” Martinez asked.
Dietrich’s eyes cut away, outside the frame of the camera, then back to Martinez. “Not at the moment, my lord.”
Martinez restrained the impulse to sigh. “I’ll be there in a minute and sign for them.”
Such were the joys of the designated Military Constabulary officer.
He put the wardroom accounts back in their sealed password file and rose from his chair.Corona was moored nose-on to the ring station, which meant the forward airlock was “up” from Command, where Martinez was standing watch. In dock, a continuous belt elevator—essentially a mobile stepladder—was rigged in a central tunnel, and Martinez stepped onto this for the ride toCorona’s forward airlock.
Rigger/First Dietrich was waiting just inside the airlock, his sidearm, stun baton, and handcuffs on his wide scarlet waist belt, and the red elastic Military Constabulary band on his arm. “Zhou, Ahmet, and Knadjian drunk and disorderly. Busted up a bar in the course of getting themselves thrashed by a gang from theStorm Fury. ”
Zhou, Ahmet, and Knadjian. Martinez hadn’t been on the ship long, but he already knew better than to feel sympathy for these three.
He went up the long umbilical to the station and found the three handcuffed recruits with their torn clothing, blackened eyes, and cut lips. Knadjian seemed to have had a fistful of hair torn from his scalp. AfterStorm Fury ‘s recruits finished with them, the Naxid constables who had broken up the fight had probably got in a few licks as well. The miscreants had spent the night in the local lockup, and they smelled about as good as they looked.
The Fleet’s enlisted personnel were known with varying degrees of affection as hardshells, holejumpers, or—from the hard gees they pulled—crouchbacks, pulpies, or pancakes. Whatever they were called, they tended to fall into certain well-defined areas on the military spectrum. Zhou, Ahmet, and Knadjian were in the part of the spectrum that involved brawls, floating dice games, drunkenness, the plunder of military supplies, and intrigues with women of low character. If their roles hadn’t been so well-defined and traditional, Martinez would have been more annoyed at the three than he was. Instead he was aloof and amused.
Martinez read the charges given him by the constable/ first, who stood braced as far back as a Naxid could rear. He signed the charge sheet, presented in electronic form on the constable’s overlarge datapad, and then the other document accepting custody of the prisoners, and as he did so, he sensed the Naxids twitching at the presence of something behind him. He turned.
Squadron Commander Kulukraf, Fanaghee’s flag captain, was marching along the ring with a pack of twenty or so of his officers. Martinez figured that the Naxid MCs were twitching as they tried to restrain the impulse to grovel in the face of someone so senior.
Martinez sent electronic copies of the documents to his station onCorona, then handed the datapad back. “You can take off their handcuffs, constable,” he said.
“Very good, my lord.”
The crouchbacks, released from restraint, rubbed their wrists and eyed the MCs sidelong, as if tempted by the idea of clouting them now that their fists were free. Martinez decided to cut this dangerous thought off with some ideas of his own.
“You have twenty minutes to shower, clean up, and present yourselves to Rigger Chaves for fatigues. The captain will hear your wretched excuses and award punishment in the morning. Get moving.”
The recruits moved. Martinez smiled, and considered which toilets needed cleaning and which brassware most needed polishing.All, he decided.
He turned back to the head constable. “Thank you, constable. You may—”
He noticed that the constable was braced at the salute facing into the ring, and the other constables with him. Martinez whipped around and braced.
Squadron Commander Kulukraf had moved closer and was pointing atCorona’s hatch with one dark-scaled hand. The Naxid officers looked from Kulukraf toCorona, then to their sleeve displays and back to Kulukraf again. Red patterns on their chests flashed complex patterns at one another, the chameleon-weave jackets transmitting the color shifts of the beaded scales beneath. None of them spoke.
Kulukraf ignored Martinez and the others braced at the docking tube, then made his way onward, fast-moving feet beating at the rubberized surface of the ring station’s main thoroughfare. Martinez watched him go, then relaxed.
“Thank you, constable,” he repeated. “You may go.”
“Very good, my lord.” The constables braced briefly, turned, and thrashed deck after Kulukraf.
Curious, Martinez looked after Kulukraf. The Naxid squadcom and his officers had stopped at the next docking tube on the station, that of the light cruiserPerigee, and were going through the same routine, pausing and staring and making notes.
“The squadcom was here yesterday with a different bunch,” Dietrich volunteered.
“Was he?” Martinez looked at him. “Do you know what he’s up to?”
“No idea, Lord Lieutenant. They just flashed at each other, like today.”
Martinez wondered if there was some kind of big surprise inspection scheduled. But only a total swine of a fleetcom would schedule an inspection two days before the Festival of Sport.
Right, he thought. And Fanaghee wasn’t exactly known for dripping sweet compassion over her subordinates, was she?