Martinez was surprised by this declaration. “That’s good of you,” he said, and put a bit of the pâté on a crust of bread.
“You’ve done wonders in the war, right from the first day. From the first hour.”
Martinez straightened a little as vanity plucked up his chin. Praise from an ignoramus was, after all, still praise.
“Thank you,” he said. He popped the bread into his mouth. The colossal fat content of the pâté began to melt thickly on his astonished tongue.
PJ sighed. “And I’d like to be a part of it somehow. I’d really like to do my bit against the Naxids.” He looked at Martinez, his brown eyes wide. “What do you think I should do?”
“You’re too old for the service academies, so the Fleet’s out,” Martinez said, hoping very much that this was true—the thought of PJ in the Fleet was too alarming. They’d probably give him command of a ship or something.
“And I’m not qualified for the civil service,” PJ said. “And the civil service isn’t exactly on the front lines of the war, anyway. I thought for a moment about becoming an informer…”
“A what?” Martinez was thunderstruck.
“An informer.” Fastidiously, as he dabbed his mustache with a napkin. “You know, the Legion of Diligence is always urging us to inform on traitors and subversives and so on, so I thought I’d join a subversive group and try a bit of the informing line.”
Martinez was enraptured by the idea of Lord Pierre J. Ngeni, Secret Agent. “Have youtold anyone of this plan?” he asked, smearing sauce on bread.
“No I worked it out myself.”
“I thought so.” He scooped up pâté. “The idea has all the hallmarks of a incomparable mind.”
PJ was pleased. “Thank you, Lord Gareth.” A frown intruded onto his face. “But I ran into a problem. I don’tknow any traitors, and all the traitors seem to be Naxids anyway, and since I’m not a Naxid it would be difficult to join any of their groups, wouldn’t it? So the plan hasn’t worked out.”
Martinez chewed thoughtfully through this, then swallowed. “Oh. Sorry.”
There was a moment of silence, and then PJ asked, “You wouldn’t know any subversive groups I could join, would you?”
Other than the Martinez family, you mean?“ I’m afraid not,” Martinez said..
“Too bad.” PJ was downcast. “So I’m still looking for something to do, to help with the war.”
Martinez reflected that he’d been on a ship for the whole war and had no idea what it was that civilianswere doing, and so he asked.
“Well, we’re urged to Uphold the Praxis and Repel Seditious Rumors,” PJ said. “And Ido. I repel rumors like anything.”
Martinez drew a feathery hair off his plate. “Very commendable,” he said.
“And we’re told to Enhance War Production and Conserve Precious Resources,” PJ continued, “but I don’t really have anything to do with production or resource management, so there’s nothing I can do in that line, I’m afraid.”
Martinez considered urging PJ to acquire some resources and then conserve them, but that didn’t seem to be the sort of thing PJ was aiming at.
“I want to domore, ” PJ said. “It’s—these arecritical times, they call for…” He flapped his hands. “Foraction. ”
“Well,” Martinez said, “you could sponsor a benefit show at the Oh-lo-ho or the Penumbra. Proceeds going to Fleet Relief or somewhere useful.”
PJ looked abashed. “I’m afraid—well, the current state of the finances does not permit that sort of thing.”
Martinez had suspected they might not. “Perhaps a jumble sale,” he said. “Urge your friends to clear out their attics for a good cause.”
PJ seemed to be considering this for a moment, and then shook his head. “It’s useless, isn’t it?” He slumped. “I’museless. Here we are in stirring times, and I can’t contribute a whit.” He looked at Martinez, and genuine desperation shimmered in his eyes. “I want to prove myself worthy of Sempronia, you see. She’syour sister, and that makes it hard. She’s used to having heroes loitering around the house, and whenI’m loitering instead ofyou, I’m sure she can’t help but make comparisons.”
Martinez listened in astonishment.Worthy of Sempronia? What, he wondered, could have prompted this? Had the poor sap actually fallen for his sister?
His sister, who at this very moment was loitering, if the word could be said to apply, with one of the heroes of Hone-bar?
“Ah. Well,” said Martinez. “Perhaps you could consult with Lord Pierre.” Referring to Lord Pierre Ngeni, who was handling Clan Ngeni business on Zanshaa while Lord Ngeni was serving as governor of Paycahp.
“What’s the use?” PJ cried. “The only thing I’m good for is buying Fleet officers lunch.”
“It’s appreciated,” Martinez said. He tried to sound as cheerful as possible, but he feared he was unable to succor, or for that matter much care about, PJ’s agony of spirit. He was more worried, given that discretion had never been one of Sempronia’s prime attributes, about the Ngenis finding out about Sempronia’s attachment to Shankaracharya.
“Sorry to bother you with all this,” PJ apologized. “But I thought perhaps you might have some suggestions. Or connections you could bring into play.” He brightened. “Maybe I could serve on your next ship, as, I don’t know, a volunteer or something.”
Martinez tried not to recoil in horror from this suggestion. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’d have to go through one of the training academies first.”
“Ah.” PJ shook his head. “Thanks anyway.” He sighed. “I appreciate your talking to me like this.”
“I’m only sorry,” Martinez said, “I haven’t been able to help.”
Afterward, walking home, he passed by an antique store, hesitated, and stepped inside. After tapping it to find if it had a satisfactory ring, he purchased a broad-mouthed porcelain vase, creamy and translucent, with a light relief of chrysanthemums, which he sent to Sula at her apartment.Here’s a vase for your flowers, he wrote on the card.
Then he went to a flower shop and sent to Sula a huge spray of gladioli.Here are some flowers for your vase.
The next hour was spent with a skilled Torminel masseur, having some of the pains and kinks of two months of acceleration poked, squeezed, and beaten out of him. Exhausted but with his skin aglow, he returned to the Shelley Palace and to his bed.
He was awakened by the chiming of the comm. He opened his eyes.
“Comm: voice only. Comm: answer.”
“Where’s the picture?” came Sula’s voice. “I wanted to show you your flowers.”
Martinez swiped gum from his eyelids. “I’m trying not to send you screaming for the exit.” He rolled over, reached to the bedside table, and aimed the hood of the comm unit in his direction. “But if you insist…Comm,” he commanded. “Video and audio both.”
The flowers sprang into life on the screen—oranges and reds and yellows—and with them Sula’s smiling face. Her eyes widened as she took in Martinez’s bed, tousled hair and undershirt, then a skeptical tone entered her voice.
“You thoughtthis would send me screaming?”
He swiped again at an eye. “It hasn’t failed yet.”
“At least I get to see whatyour bed looks like.”
“Feast your eyes.” He looked at the screen, at the pale, golden-haired figure. “And I’ll feast mine,” he added.
Even on the small screen he saw the flush mantle her cheeks. “I see you’re still on ship time,” she said, a bit hastily.
“Somewhat.” The Fleet’s twenty-nine-hour day contrasted with that of Zanshaa, which was 25.43 standard hours. If the twenty-nine-hour day imposed on the empire by the Shaa corresponded with that of any planet, the planet had yet to be discovered.