“Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.
“My lord?”
“Contact me in Auxiliary Command in case of anything unusual or important. Particularly if anyone requests permission to come aboard.”
The cadet blinked in surprise. “Very good, my lord.”
Martinez went down the central belt elevator to Auxiliary Command, the armored battle station aft intended for use if Command was destroyed by an enemy or in the hands of mutineers. He paused outside the hatch, then stepped to one side to check the six long, low rooms referred to officially as “biological recreation chambers.” None of the crew were having a romp at present, which was not surprising, considering that the crew remaining onCorona were employed in polishing everything to a golden gleam, something guaranteed to make Martinez less than beloved among the pulpies if they ever discovered that it was his idea.
He waited for Alikhan’s arrival, then opened Auxiliary Command with his lieutenant’s key. The armored door rolled shut behind them as the lights automatically came on.
Auxiliary Command was smaller than Command, the stations more cramped and the gimbaled chairs placed closer together. Nevertheless, the metal cages gleamed, and the scent of polish wafted on the breeze: the place had been carefully sleekened and burnished just that morning.
“I’d like your opinion, Alikhan,” Martinez said as he squeezed between two of the cages to sit in one of the couches at the communications station. “Sit on my right here, watch some video, and tell me what you think.”
Alikhan eased himself into the couch and lowered the displays until they locked in front of him. Martinez opened his private files and showed Alikhan the Naxid parties marching along the rows of ships, the officers, weaponers, engineers, and constables. He showed the translations the program had made, but offered no comment on them.
“What are your conclusions?” Martinez asked.
Alikhan stared at the displays, the deep lines of his face set in a frown. “I don’t like to speculate on such things, my lord,” he said.
“Talk, Alikhan,” Martinez said. “I really need you to help me.”
Alikhan’s mouth worked beneath his spreading mustachios. Then he sighed and gave a slow nod. “They’re going to take the ship, my lord.” His voice was filled with a tremulous, exalted despair, terror and awe all mingled together. “They’re going to take all the Terran and Daimong ships. Probably tomorrow, when most of the crews will be on Magaria with their teams.”
Relief trickled through Martinez’s veins. He wasn’t alone in this madness, he had an ally. “But why?” he asked. “Is it a mutiny? Or is Fanaghee acting tostop a mutiny?”
Alikhan shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“The Terran and Daimong divisions were labeled ‘Mutineers’ during the exercises. And the exercises were aimed at holding a wormhole gate against attackers. Are they expecting a counterattack from the Home Fleet after they take the Second Fleet?”
Alikhan turned to Martinez. “There are Naxid squadrons in the Home Fleet too, my lord.”
Martinez felt cold fingers caress his spine. This was a factor he hadn’t considered. “Here the Naxids are two-fifths of our strength,” he said, and hoped his tone was optimistic. “In the Home Fleet they’re a smaller percentage.”
Alikhan’s expression was careful to avoid utter hopelessness. “That’s true, my lord.”
Martinez turned toward the displays, looked at the images of Naxids marching between docking ports. “I’ll have to tell the captain.”
Alikhan’s expression did not change. “The captain may not be…receptive,” he ventured.
“I’ll speak to Koslowski first, if I get the chance.”
“And if the lord premiere is also distracted?”
Martinez felt a sudden, angry urge to leap from the acceleration couch and pace around the room. For him, planning and motion were best performed simultaneously. But the room was too crowded with the close-packed acceleration cages, so he settled for savagely wiping the screen of Naxids.
“I’m trying to think of other officers I know on this station,” he said. “Salzman on theJudge Di. Aragon and Ming on theDeclaration. Mukerji the Younger on theSteadfast. ” He banged a fist on his armrest in frustration. “That’s all, damn it,” he said, more to himself than to Alikhan. “I did a cipher course with Aidepone on theBombardment of Utgu but I don’t know him that well. And I don’t know any of the captains at all. And worse than that—”
Alikhan’s calm voice cut off the flow of words. “How do you plan to communicate with these officers, my lord? The Naxids may be intercepting communications.”
Despair clawed at Martinez’s heart as he stared hopelessly across the small armored room. He couldn’t even use coded communications: all the Second Fleet had the same codes in common, and Fanaghee or her minions would be able to read anything he tried to send.
He sighed, then straightened on the couch and put his hands on the control panel in front of him as if he were going to takeCorona out of dock. On his right sleeve glittered the soccer ball worn by the Home Fleet champions. “Right,” he said. “So how do we saveour ship?”
“You’ll speak to the officers. And I’ll speak to others.”
Martinez looked at him. “Speak to who?”
“Maheshwari. If we have to run, I wouldn’t want to take the ship out of dock without him minding the engines.”
“Good. And…?”
Alikhan looked uncertain. “I suppose I should choose only from those likely to be on the ship tomorrow, during the sporting exercises?”
Martinez nodded. “For the moment, let’s say yes.”
Alikhan’s voice grew firm. “In that case, no one. Maheshwari’s the only one with sufficient, ah, gravity to appreciate the situation.”
Martinez’s fingers tapped the control panel. “I’m sending you a copy of the recordings and translations. Show them to Maheshwari.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Martinez blanked the screen, unlocked the displays, and swung them up and out of the way. A strong sense of relief swept through him: he was accomplishing something, working against the threat he knew existed.
He bounded to his feet like a man escaping prison. And then he remembered that his next task was to speak to the captain, and again his heart sank.
Lieutenant Captain Tarafah looked up from his ocoba-bean salad. “Ah. Lieutenant Martinez. I’d been wanting to speak with you.”
Irrational hope blazed in Martinez’s heart. Tarafah and the rest of the team had just returned from their day’s practice, and the elcap, Lieutenants Koslowski and Garcia, and the trainer, Weaponer/First Mancini, were settling down to a meal at the captain’s table. They were all still in their sweats, withCorona’s blazing badge on their breasts, and smelled of exercise and the outdoors. The captain’s table was scattered with bottles and cold dishes as well as papers and diagrams of plays.
And now Tarafah actually wanted to speak to him. Martinez had worried about being resented for intruding on the captain’s time, but it seemed he wasn’t entirely out of the captain’s thoughts.
“Yes, Lord Elcap?” he answered.
Tarafah looked at him with cool eyes. “When you joined at Zanshaa you offered to have a player as one of your servants,” he said. “I’d like to take advantage of your offer, if I may.”
Martinez was surprised. He had long ago assigned his spare-servant scheme to the realm of unsuccessful ploys.
“Of course, Lord Elcap,” he said.
“Good. Our only weakness is defense, and Conyngham on theJudge Jeffreys has agreed to trade us one of his backs. He’ll be your orderly until, umm, we can work him in elsewhere.”