Martinez stabbed at the alarm pad and missed—his overexcited thumb overshot the target and skiddered along the smooth metal console surface—and then he swiped at the switch with his entire hand and managed to shove it over. Furious, urgent bells blared throughout the ship. Mabumba almost jumped out of his chair, and stared at Martinez with wild, disbelieving eyes.
Martinez reached for the headset with its earphones, built-in microphones, and virtual reality projectors, put it on his head, and snapped the chin strap shut. He took a moment to get ahold of his leaping nerves, then spoke into the microphone.
“Communications,” he prefaced to the computer. “General announcement to ship’s company.”
He waited a half second or so, then spoke again.
“General quarters,” he said. “This is the officer of the watch. Everyone to their action stations.”
He thought about adding the wordsThis is not a drill, but decided that this was not a time to strain the crew’s credulity.
He repeated the announcement twice, then shut off the blaring alarm that was only serving to make him more nervous.
“End announcement,” he said, and then, “Communications. Page crewman Alikhan.”
Alikhan’s miniature face appeared in the display. “My lord.”
“I need you at the airlock. There may be a Buena Vista situation coming up.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“End transmission.”
Martinez began reconfiguring his displays to employ more security cameras and see what the Naxids were up to. Hundreds were on the concourse, martialing under their officers and crowding toward the electric Fleet trains that carried personnel and equipment through the Fleet areas of the ring station.
The first of the trains began moving as the door to Command rolled open and Navigator Trainee Diem entered along with Pilot Second Class Eruken. They looked at Martinez with expressions that appeared to combine annoyance with concern for his mental health.
“May I ask what’s happening, my lord?” Eruken ventured.
“Not yet, Pilot. Take your seat.”
Martinez considered alerting the other ships. This would warn the Naxids of his suspicions, but it was too late for them to change their plans now.
“Comm,” Martinez told Vonderheydte. “Get me the all-ships channel.”
“Yes, my lord.”
There was a moment’s pause, then the shrieks of a huge crowd and the shouts of an overexcited announcer filled the room. Martinez gathered that Goalie Koslowski had just made a brilliant save.
The lanky Cadet Kelly, entering at that moment to take her place at the weapons board, gave a cheer.
“Not the game, Vonderheydte!” Martinez shouted. “Get me the fucking—”
“Sorry, my lord!” Vonderheydte had to shout over the cries of the announcer. “Someone’s broadcasting the game on the all-ships channel.”
“Emergency channel, then!”
There was a brief susurrus as the channels were switched, and then the game blared on again.
“Sorry, my lord! It’s on the emergency channel too!”
Martinez clenched his fists. “Anychannel.”
But he knew by now that Vonderheydte would find the games on every channel. He could try to shout a warning to the other ships over the crowd and the announcer, but who knew if anyone would be listening?
“Ground line, Comm,” he said. Cable data connections to the ring station were still in place.
From behind he heard the soft sound of Vonderheydte’s fingertips touching pads on his console. “Ground lines are down, my lord.”
“What’s goingon? ” Mabumba murmured, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Our communications have been cut,” Martinez told him. “Let’s just think for a minute about who might have done that and why.”
The others in the control room exchanged glances, clearly bewildered. At that moment Tracy and Clarke, the two sensor operators, arrived in the sudden silence, and ghosted to their places as if struck by a guilty conscience.
Nervous energy drummed through Martinez. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to be in motion along with his ship. He paged Maheshwari.
“My lord?”
“I wanted you to know that it’s begun.”
Maheshwari nodded. “I heard the alarms, my lord.”
Martinez realized he’d called the master engineer less to alleviate Maheshwari’s nervousness than his own. He had been reaching into the engine room for comfort, for someone who understood, who would make him feel less lonely in his moment of command.
It wasn’t helping. “Keep holding at five minutes,” he said, for lack of anything better. “End transmission.” He then blanked the screen because the first of the computer-guided trains were shooting through the human areas of the ring station.
They didn’t stop. They raced on to the Daimong area, where the most powerful ships were concentrated in the heavy squadron, and then began to slow.
Martinez’s sleeve button gave a quiet chime. He answered, and the sleeve display shifted to show Alikhan.
“The Naxids are moving past, my lord. I’ve counted nine trains.”
“I know that. They’ve jammed or cut all ships’ communications, by the way.”
“Shall we move the guard into the ship, my lord?”
Martinez hesitated, and glanced at his screens. The Naxids were disembarking in the Daimong areas and moving for the Daimong ships in columns thirty or forty strong, officers in the lead. They weren’t deploying in combat formations, or otherwise look as if they were going to shoot down the guards and storm the airlocks.
They hadn’t showed their hand yet. It allmight still have a rational explanation. And Martinez, for all the fear and adrenaline that blazed through his veins, still hoped there was.
“My lord?” Alikhan reminded.
“Not yet,” Martinez decided. “When they approach, stall them. Keep everyone calm. Tell them you’ll have to speak to the officer of the watch and get into the airlock yourself. But don’t come back to the ship, mind the outer hatch instead, and get ready to open it when I signal Buena Vista.”
Now it was Alikhan’s turn to hesitate. “Very well, my lord,” he said finally.
“End transmission,” Martinez said, his eyes riveted to the displays. More trains were loaded in the Naxid areas and sent out, this time to the medium squadron.
The medium squadron, which hadCorona as its smallest ship.
In the Daimong areas, the first Naxid columns had reached the airlocks. Conversations were going on between the airlock guards and the officers leading the columns.
Martinez felt his nerves coil and tense and flare.Resist, he silently urged the Daimong.Keep them off. Resist.
AtBombardment of Kathung, flagship of the heavy squadron, the guards braced, stood aside, and watched as the Naxids swarmed into the airlock.
“No.” The word forced its way past Martinez’s locked throat. “No, keep them out.”
Two more sets of guards, those on either side ofKathung, stood aside as they saw the Naxids enter the flagship.
From the camera aboveCorona’s lock, Martinez saw a train slowing as it prepared to enter the nearest station. The open-topped cars were black with Naxids.
Martinez switched from one camera to the next on the Daimong sections. At least six ships were being boarded. Polite conversations seemed to be going on at the other airlocks. Nowhere did Martinez see any violence.
He zoomed in on one of the Naxid columns. At least half the Naxids were carrying sidearms.
Whatever was happening, it wasn’t a surprise inspection. You didn’t carry weapons while making an inspection.
His cuff button chimed again. “Private comm: answer,” he said.
Alikhan. “They’re coming, my lord.”
“Very good. Blank your screen but keep this channel open.”
Martinez configured his own sleeve display so his words would not be transmitted: this left him free to give other orders without the Naxids overhearing through Alikhan’s comm rig.