There was a hesitation before Sula answered. “Yes,” she said. “There are things in my past that I’m not proud of. You should know that.”
Martinez kissed the top of her head and contemplated her history and his own responsibilities. Her parents had been executed—skinned alive—when Sula was on the verge of adolescence, her family’s homes and wealth confiscated by the State, and Sula herself had been fostered out on a remote provincial world. Certainly any one of these incidents constituted a traumatic enough shock to send her reeling toward the erratic solace of alcohol and sex. It was a tribute to her character that she’d been able to draw herself out of the sink of despair into which she’d been swept.
But that meant that her only knowledge of love was confined to drunken adolescent couplings, perhaps with boys who had deliberately made her drunk for the particular purpose of coupling with her. Sula had apparently never known the ease and pleasures of bed, the give and take, the gift of laughter and the fire of a proper caress…
Did not know love at all, he realized.
And the boy, she said, was probably dead. So even that attachment, whatever it was, had ended badly.
Martinez took a long breath. Shedid deserve his best. He would have to try to give it to her, in that big bed of hers.
And then a realization struck him and he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Sula asked.
“I’m just realizing that I’ve lost one of my chief weapons,” he said. “I can’t slip you a few drinks to get you relaxed.”
Her laughter rose bright in the air. He kissed her ear, and they sat for a while, her head on his shoulder, while mountains rose on the other side of the window and danced jagged along the horizon, then fell away again. They chatted of entertainments, of a video they had shared, the comedian Spate inSpitballs! They laughed over their memories of Spate’s famous Mushroom Dance, and rejoiced in their mutual taste for low humor.
Martinez ordered a meal, and the attendant arrived to set the small table in place, adding white linen, silver, a small vase with flowers, and—to judge by Sula’s expression—some rather inferior porcelain. Sula sat opposite Martinez, her tunic properly buttoned. With the meal, Martinez shared Sula’s bottle of mineral water.
The train raced on, through forests and over broad rivers; its flanges, placed with precision along its flanks, pulsing out interfering sound waves that canceled its sonic boom. More mountain ranges rose and then fell behind, and the train began slowing as it approached its destination.
Sula and Martinez embraced, kissed, and watched as Zanshaa’s Lower Town, the huge expanse radiating on all sides of the High City, sped past the window. After the machine came to a halt in the station, Martinez folded Sula in his arms one last time before leaving the privacy of the compartment.
The terminus was within easy walking distance of the funicular railway that took them to Zanshaa’s acropolis. As they rose to the High City, Martinez looked through the funicular’s transparent walls at the blue stained-glass dome of the old Sula Palace, lost now to the Sula heir, and wondered what passed through Sula’s mind when she viewed it.
“Why don’t you take me home in your taxi?” Sula suggested. “That way you’ll know where I live.”
If Martinez hadn’t been so weary, he probably would have thought of that himself.
To his delight, Martinez found that Sula lived just behind the Shelley Palace, the colossal old pile his family rented in the capital. He suspected that was not an accident.
“When you have a free moment,” Sula said, “come up and see the bed.”
She kissed him quickly on the cheek and slid from the taxi before he could put his arms around her. Martinez restrained the impulse to lunge after her, and instead let the Cree driver swing around the corner to halt in front of the Shelley Palace, where Martinez’s family were waiting.
Martinez’s brothers and sisters had realized that he would be exhausted, and hadn’t planned anything more elaborate than a simple family supper for the night of his arrival. Roland, his older brother, placed Martinez at the head of the table, in the place of honor. He was pleased to be wearing civilian dress for the first time in months. Vipsania and Walpurga, handsome and impeccably dressed even on this informal occasion, sat next to each other on Martinez’s right hand, one in a red gown, the other in sea-green. The youngest sister, Sempronia, sat next to Roland on the left.
At the far end of the table, next to Sempronia, was her fiancé PJ Ngeni, a cousin of Lord Convocate Ngeni, whose family represented Martinez interests. PJ was suspected of having lost his money in a series of debaucheries, and his engagement was a stratagem on the part of Clan Ngeni to relieve themselves of an expensive and useless relation. One stratagem deserved another, Martinez had felt, and had devised a plan of his own. Sempronia and Lord PJ were engaged, to be sure, but the engagement would be along one—there would be no marriage as long as Sempronia stayed in school, and Sempronia would be in school for as many years as was necessary for the Martinez family to use the access granted by the Ngenis to wedge themselves into Zanshaa’s highest strata of Peers. And once that happened, PJ would be returned to whence he came, there to remain a debit on the ledgers of his clan.
PJ had not yet realized, apparently, that the engagement was nothing more than a ruse, and throughout supper he paid Sempronia a series of elaborate courtesies, courtesies to which Sempronia replied with a graceful inclination of her head and a kind, condescending smile, a smile that vanished whenever she glanced down the table at Martinez.
Sempronia hadn’t forgiven Martinez for shackling her, even temporarily, to this human debacle. Especially when her affections appeared to be genuinely engaged by Nikkul Shankaracharya,Corona ‘s former lieutenant.
Martinez found himself uninterested in Sempronia’s problems. She, after all, only had to put up with one imbecile. He had the whole Fleet Control Board.
“You’ll be decorated and promoted in two days’ time,” Roland said. “At the same time your victory at Hone-bar will be announced throughout the empire.” He gave a sardonic smile. “It’ll be Do-faq’s victory officially, and he’ll be promoted and decorated too—but the people who matter will know who’s really responsible, and since Do-faq is still with his squadron,you’ll be the one seen on video in the Hall of Ceremony….” Roland gave a pleased nod. “After that, we can start pressing to get you a command. It will seem special pleading until everyone realizes you’re the only officer in the Fleet to be decorated twice for actions against the enemy. Then giving you a real job will only seem good sense.”
Martinez, who personally thought that the special pleading should have started ages ago, nodded as if he agreed, and then realized that his brother had no post whatever within the Fleet or the government, and shouldn’t be aware of any of these details at all.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“From Lord Chen. He and I have been…associated in an enterprise.”
Martinez looked at his brother. “So how porousis the Fleet Control Board?”
Roland shrugged. “Everything’sporous. If you’re on the inside, you can find out anything you want.”
“And you’re on the inside now?”
Roland looked down at his plate and drew his knife delicately across his filet. “Not quite. But we’re getting there.”
“If you’re so well connected,” Martinez said, “perhaps you can let me know why I don’t have a new commandnow. ”
Roland paused with his fork partway to his mouth. “I haven’t bothered to inquire. But I imagine it’s the usual story.”
“Which is?”