He didn’t manage to eat much of his dinner. When the elcap proposed another review of the videos ofBeijing ‘s game, Martinez excused himself and made his way to his cabin. Once there, he sent messages to the other officers he knew on station, asking if they’d care to meet him in one of the bars on the station. Salzman didn’t reply, Ming sent his regrets, Aragon said that he was participating in the wushu tournament in the Festival of Sport and was making an early night of it. Aidepone was likewise preparing for tomorrow’s game of fatugui, and only Mukerji accepted. Viewing the transmission, with its sonic interference, Martinez knew that Mukerji was already in a bar.
Martinez joined him in the Murder Hole, a dark, nebulous, and noisy place, with ear-shattering music and dancing. Mukerji bought three rounds of drinks while Martinez showed Mukerji the Naxid maneuvers on his sleeve display and explained his theory.
Mukerji put a friendly arm around Martinez’s shoulders. “I always thought you were mad!” he said cheerfully. “Totally mad!”
“You can tell your captain!” Martinez shouted over the music. “I can give you the data! He might be able to save his ship!”
“Totally mad!” Mukerji repeated. He pointed to a couple of Fleet cadets standing by the bar. “If it’s my last night of freedom, I want some recreationals,” he said. “Who do you want—the redhead or the other?”
Martinez excused himself and made his way out onto the ring station with whisky fumes swirling through his head.
Perhaps hewas mad, he thought. No other officer credited his theory about the Naxids. Maybe they’d been right about the absurdity of his premise. It made no sense that the most obedient and orthodox species under the Praxis would suddenly turn rogue.
He admitted to himself that he didn’t like Naxids and never had. He likewise admitted that it was an irrational prejudice. Naxids had always made him uneasy, unlike the other species united beneath the Praxis. Perhaps he had let his bias run in advance of the facts.
He thought again of those parties marching up and down the ring station’s broad avenue, and at the thought, a chill certainty went through his frame.
No. Hewas right. The Naxids were going to board the ship. It was possible there was some rational explanation for it other than a rising, some reason that hadn’t occurred to him, but the boardingwould happen.
And if the boarding were to be prevented, Martinez would be the one to do it.
Martinez returned to his cabin aboardCorona and called Alikhan.
“My lord?”
“No good with the captain,” Martinez said. “Or with anyone else.”
Alikhan didn’t seem surprised. “I have spoken to the master engineer,” he said.
“And?”
“Maheshwari agrees with your lordship.” Spoken carefully, in case of eavesdroppers.
Martinez sighed. Maheshwari was something, at least.
“Very well,” Martinez said. “Let me know if—” He fell silent, defeated, then finished, “Let me know ifanything.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The orangeEnd Transmission symbol appeared on Martinez’s sleeve display, and he blanked it.
Fully aware that this was the last time he might ever do these things, he took off his clothes, hung them neatly in his tiny closet, and prepared for bed.
Plans for savingCorona eddied through his head, all fog and futility.
Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby, he thought.
And goal.
TEN
Martinez, with most ofCorona’s crew, stood on the station rim outside the airlock and cheered and clapped as Tarafah ledCorona’s team out of the ship. Immaculate in white sweats, withCorona’s blazon on his chest and his lieutenant captain’s shoulder boards pinned on, Tarafah grinned and waved as if he were jogging into a stadium filled with ten thousand fans. Koslowski followed at the head of the players.
“Corona! Corona!”the crew chanted. Martinez pounded his big hands together till they were sore.
The team jogged away to the rim train station that would take them to the skyhook terminal, and were followed by the waddling figure of their trainer, Mancini. Lieutenant Garcia, in undress mourning whites, whooped and waved her cap over her head.
“Let’s go!” she shouted. “Let’s give the Coronas our support!”
Shouting, most of the crew poured after the team, leaving behind the cadets condemned to spend the day aboard, and Dietrich and his partner Hong, both looking depressed at having to play military constable while the rest of the crew was off on a lark.
Served them right for being large and handsome, Martinez thought. Since the airlock guards were the members ofCorona’s crew most often seen by outsiders, Tarafah chose them for their imposing appearance rather than for any skill at policing.
Lieutenant Garcia herself remained behind, cheering and clapping as the crew pounded after their team. Then she turned to Martinez and stepped up to him.
“Take this,” she said in a soft voice, and Martinez felt something warm and metallic pressed into his palm. “Just in case you’re right.”
Martinez glanced at his half-opened hand, saw Garcia’s second lieutenant’s key, and felt his mouth go dry. He shut his fist on the key.
“Koslowski doesn’t wear his key while playing,” Garcia murmured. “I don’t know where he keeps it. Try his safe.”
Martinez managed a nod. “Thank you,” he said.
Garcia’s dark eyes held his. “If they take the Fleet,” she said, “blow everything. The ships, the ring, everything.”
Martinez stared into the dark eyes. His nerves wailed like violin strings tuned to the breaking point. “I understand,” he said.
Garcia gave a quick, nervous nod, then turned and ran after her crew.
Martinez let his breath out slowly as he watched Fleet personnel stream past along the rim. They laughed and shouted, carrying banners and signs, their officers striding with them, happy to let them have fun. It was their first holiday since the period of mourning began, and they were ready for an delirious good time, already drunk on freedom and anticipation.
Martinez watched them go by and wondered what would happen if he just ran out among them and started shouting, “Back to your ships! There’s a rising! If you go down to the planet, all is lost!”
He’d be laughed at, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he’d be hit on the head by the constables and dragged off to jail.
Blow everything,he thought again. There were thousands of personnel on the ships and the ring station, and millions of civilians, all to be vaporized or blown to bits—but only if he was right about the Naxid rising. If his fears were justified, everything wasalready lost.
Except maybeCorona. Maybe he could save his ship.
He put Garcia’s key in his pocket, then turned to face the airlock. Dietrich and Hong stood there, stiff-spined in the presence of officers, along with Warrant Officer First Class Saavedra, a middle-aged, mustachioed man who had double duty asCorona’s secretary and supply officer, and Cadet Kelly, a lanky, clumsy pinnace pilot in charge of the weapons department in the absence of the drunken master weaponer.
“Kelly. Saavedra. After you.” Martinez made shooing motions with his arms, and the two turned obediently and headed into the airlock. Martinez began to follow, then paused by the two constables. Dietrich and Hong braced as they detected his inspection.
“I want you to understand,” Martinez said, “that no one comes aboardCorona without my permission.”
“Yes, Lord Lieutenant,” the two chorused, eyes forward.
“And by that I meananyone,” Martinez continued, speaking with forceful emphasis that he hoped did not sound either fanatic or insane. “If Anticipation of Victory itself comes back from the dead and demands to be let on, you are not to let him aboard without my express permission.”