“If the Naxids don’t come,” he repeated. She knew the odds as well as he. Thirty-five ships to twenty-five, with two of the loyalist squadrons being scratch forces, ships thrown together that wouldn’t normally serve in the same division. And the eight Naxid ships last seen at Protipanu were still unaccounted for.
“Do-faq was practicing the new tactics—our new tactics,” he said. “Maybe he can convince Michi Chen. Maybe the two of them can convince the new fleetcom.”
“Do you think new tactics are enough?” Sula said. “Enough to overcome the odds?”
Martinez thought about it, then drew a breath. “We’d have to be lucky.”
Her jade eyes seemed to gaze through him into some deep abyss of time. “I wasn’t scared of the Naxids till just now,” she said. Her voice was strange, the languid Zanshaa consonants replaced by sharper accents. There was a flicker across her face, as if she’d just realized where she was; and her eyes focused on him, on the present. “I’m frightened of losing what we’ve just found,” she told him, the Zanshaa voice back. “I’m frightened of losing you.”
A slow, sad thrill rang through him like a chime. He rose from his chair and embraced Sula from behind, holding her close, her head lolled back against his shoulder. He licked the jam from her lower lip.
“We’ll get through it,” he said, making an effort to fight the tone of hopelessness that threatened to invade his voice. “I’m going to get a ship, and I’ll request you as a lieutenant. We’ll spend half each day plotting strategy in the recreational tubes, and the crew will spit with jealousy.”
A smile drew taut the sadness on her lips. The soft warmth of her hair touched his cheek like a caress. “I don’t even know why they’re trying to hold Zanshaa,” she said. “Not when there’s every reason to give it up.”
Martinez felt his mouth go dry. Cold, calculating energy sang through his nerves as he gave the expected reply. “Zanshaa is the capital. It’s the government. If Zanshaa falls the empire goes with it.” Even as he said the words he knew where the flaw in the argument lay.
“But none of that’s true.” Sula turned to give him a serious look. “The capital is not the same as the government. The government—the Convocation and the senior officials—they can be anywhere. We should put them on a ship and get them out of the way of the Naxids.
“Right now the Fleet is nailed here defending Zanshaa against a force we can’t defeat. More ships are being built to replace our losses, but they need time.” She tapped a finger against his chest. “Time, in war, is the same as distance. If we draw our forces in toward our source of supply, we’re falling back on our own reinforcements. If the Naxids come after us, they’ll strain their lines of supply.” Her lips drew back to reveal her sharp incisors. “Particularly if we make certain that they can’t draw support from here, from Zanshaa.”
He looked at her. “How would you prevent that?”
Sula shrugged. “Blow the accelerator ring.”
Martinez gave an involuntary glance toward the ceiling, toward the silver accelerator ring that had encircled the planet for over ten thousand years.
“They’ll never go for that,” he said. “Zanshaa is the center. All the Great Masters lie in the Couch of Eternity here in the High City. If we start dropping bits of the ring onto the planet, that’s desecration. The government would lose all legitimacy—no one would follow them.”
Martinez felt Sula’s muscles grow taut. “If we won the war, they damn well would,” she said. “It’s not as if we’d give them a choice.” She gently detached herself from his embrace and reached for her cup of coffee. “But that wouldn’t happen anyway. The ring is built to be detached from the planet.”
“You’re joking,” Martinez said.
“No. I found that out when I was sent to guard a ring terminus just after the rebellion began—I checked the records to find out where the vulnerable bits of the terminus were. And I found out about the fail-safes built into its structure.” She sipped her coffee. “The engineers weren’t stupid—they wanted to be prepared in case something went wrong. They didn’t want the whole mass of the ring to come crashing down on the planet, particularly with antimatter on board. So the accelerator ring was set into an orbit where, if the cables were broken, the release of centripetal force would gently carry the ring away from the planet, not toward it.”
“But you’d have to break the ring into pieces.”
“Right. The engineers calculated exactly where the scuttling charges would have to be placed. And scuttling charges were there, heavily guarded, for years—until the Shaa were satisfied that the ring would stay where they put it.”
“What about the cables? If the ring slipped off the skyhooks, the cables would wrap themselves right around the planet…”
Sula dabbled plum chutney onto her flat bread. “The engineers were smart. The cable termini are built with release mechanisms here, on the planet’s surface. The cables would be drawn up into space and we’d never see them again.” She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Imagine the Naxids’ surprise. They’d come expecting to land their government on the ring and take the elevator down to the surface—and they wouldn’t be able to get down to the planet! All their officials would be stuck up there, issuing decrees they couldn’t enforce, at least until they brought enough shuttles from Magaria to land their government.”
By this time Martinez had recovered from his slow surprise at this unorthodox notion and his mind had begun to grapple at its implications. “A hot reception could be arranged for them on the ground. I’d have thousands of soldiers guarding Zanshaa city.”
Sula seemed puzzled. “What good would it do? The Naxids would just flame your army from orbit.”
Martinez felt a triumphant smile split his face. “That’s exactly what they’d do—they’d flame any city—but not Zanshaa. They wouldn’t hit Zanshaa for the same reason that we couldn’t drop a piece of the ring on it—it would be a desecration of the most sacrosanct place in the empire. Flame the Couch of Eternity? The Convocation? The Great Refuge? The original Tablets of the Praxis? They wouldn’t dare.”
A wild mirth brought blood mantling the surface of Sula’s face. “Your soldiers could hold out in the capital forever!”
He shrugged. “For a long time, anyway. The Naxids would have to shuttle in enough troops to defeat them….”
“…And in the meantime the Fleet would be building its power off in the reaches of the empire.” Sula’s grin was gleeful. “Ready to come back.”
“Ye-es…” Further calculations shrank Martinez’s smile. “Except that the Naxids are building, too. They’d have to be.” He looked at her. “What will the Naxids do if we don’t fight for Zanshaa? If we blow the ring and withdraw? What could they do? Come after us?”
The green fire of calculation burned in Sula’s eyes. “They couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because they wouldn’t know where the fleet’s gone. Zanshaa has eight wormhole gates. If the Naxids plunge on ahead toward where they think we are—even if they get the right wormhole—our fleet could still double back through another gate and retake Zanshaa. If they leave a smaller force behind to hold the capital, that force could be destroyed. They’d have to stay here.” She took a thoughtful nibble of her bread. “Yes,” she nodded, “they’d be stuck here.”
“In which case,” Martinez said slowly, “our forces wouldn’t have to just fall back and stay put. They could go on the offensive.”
Her face was a mask of concentration. “Yes. They could bypass Zanshaa and strike into the areas the Naxids already control. Disrupt trade, hinder resupply…”
“…destroy reinforcements and anything building in the shipyards,” Martinez added.
“While the main Naxid force is stuck at Zanshaa trying to find a way to fight your army and secure the High City,” Sula said.
“…And after suitable havoc is wreaked, and the new loyalist elements assemble…”
“We rendezvou
s, return to Zanshaa, and take back the capital!” Sula almost shouted out her triumph. And then her exhilaration faded.
“But who listens to the likes of us?” she asked. “So far as we know, the Fleet is nailed to Zanshaa to defend or die.”
Martinez was mentally adding up the people who might be useful. Lord Chen, he thought, perhaps Lord Pierre Ngeni, the recently promoted Do-faq. Perhaps he could get Shankaracharya to contact his patron Lord Pezzini on his behalf.
And if necessary he could go to Lord Saïd. The Lord Senior had been present when he’d been awarded the Golden Orb, and they’d exchanged a few words—Martinez knew that the head of the government was a busy man, but he suspected that the Golden Orb might be able to win a few moments of the old man’s time.
“We should put together a proposal,” Martinez said slowly. “A formal proposal, listing all the options.” He didn’t want to spring an idea prematurely, before it was developed…he’d made the mistake of doing that with the new tactics, only to encounter ridicule.
Sula’s look was skeptical. “But who will ever read it?”
“I’ll think about that later. Proposal first.”
They cleared away the breakfast dishes, made another pot of coffee, and ordered the surface of the Sevigny table to brighten with its cybernetic options.
They would have to pare their ideas down to a manageable few.
It didn’t pay to be too imaginative in these matters.
Martinez, with Sula’s farewell kiss still tingling on his lips, walked toward the Shelley Palace at midafternoon, his mind saturated with a kind of awe. It was as if his brain had just discharged all its energy like a capacitor, and would require several hours to recover. He and Sula had been so perfect together, their minds working as if in tandem, one filling in details while another leaped ahead to the next point, then the two combining to collaborate on a particularly knotty problem. He no longer had any recollection which idea had occurred to which of the collaborators, it was all one smooth, perfect, ecstatic interface.
It was like wonderful sex. And this was in addition to the wonderful sex.
He bounded up the stairs of the Shelley Palace as he hummed to himself Oh, the woman on the strand, and as he entered the foyer he encountered his brother. Roland was preparing to go out and gave Martinez a saturnine look as he shrugged into his coat and twitched the lapels into place.
“I’ve been working on family business all day,” he said, “and here you come loitering into the house in the middle of the afternoon reeking of sexual satiation.”
“It’s the uniform,” Martinez said. “The uniform works wonders on the ladies.”
“It seems to have worked its magic on that Amanda person, sure enough,” Roland said. “But you might oblige me by considering a more permanent liaison, as your sister’s done.”
Martinez, smiling to himself, decided not to correct Roland’s misapprehension about the woman with whom he’d spent the night.
“Where is the happy bride-to-be, by the way?” he asked.
“At our lawyer’s, where I will soon join her.” Roland moodily studied himself in a glass, then twitched at his lapels again. “A few last little wrinkles of the marriage contract need to be ironed out.”
“I’ve been assuming the wrinkles on the contract are the whole point of the marriage,” Martinez said, “since I hadn’t till last evening actually seen the joyful couple together, or heard the groom so much as mentioned.”
“You would if you hadn’t spent so much of the last few days asleep.” Roland stepped to the front door, put a hand on the polished brass knob, hesitated, and then turned to Martinez. “But why be surprised that they don’t know each other particularly well? Why be surprised that marriage is about money and property and inheritance? Why else bother with it?”
“That carefree, fey romantic spirit of yours,” Martinez said, “will get you in trouble one day.”
Roland gave a grunt of annoyance and launched himself out the door. Martinez followed.
“So what gems are going to fall into our collective laps as a result of this alliance?” he said as he fell into stride with his brother.
“Lord Oda is the nephew of Lord Yoshitoshi,” Roland said, his eyes fixed forward. “Lord Yoshitoshi had two children—the eldest, Lady Samantha, has been disinherited for reasons that have never been disclosed publicly, but which are assumed to be…” He searched for words.
“The usual,” Martinez finished.
“Yes. The usual.” Roland frowned. “The youngest child and heir, Lord Simon, died at Magaria. That leaves Lord Yoshitoshi’s brother Lord Eizo as the heir. And Lord Oda is his eldest child.”
“And the presumed heir to Clan Yoshitoshi. Very good. But presumably Lord Oda’s increased prospects didn’t escape the attention of other clans with eligible women. How did we happen to land him for Vipsania?”
Roland’s stolid face took on an expression of grim satisfaction. “Lord Oda’s only the presumed heir,” he said. “The elder Yoshitoshis are very strict—remember the disinherited daughter?—and Oda’s got some younger siblings who want the title. Oda also has some debts he preferred his father and uncle not know about—”
“Debts?” Martinez began to choke on laughter.
“The usual.” With a sidelong smile.
“So you bought up his debts, and…”
“The debts will be canceled after the marriage ceremony,” Roland said. “The only thing holding us up was that Lord Yoshitoshi insisted on interviewing Vipsania personally. He let us know just yesterday that she passed her audition.” He smiled. “Now we’ll see how Vipsania runs a video company.”
Martinez tried to stifle his rising hilarity. “Video company?”
“Clan Yoshitoshi and its clients own a majority interest in Empire Broadcasting. That’s two entertainment channels, four devoted to sports, and one to information, broadcasting in all of forty-one solar systems not counting the ones the Naxids currently occupy. We’re going to ask Lord Yoshitoshi to let Vipsania run it. We think he will—he considers broadcasting a plebeian pursuit, nothing like the high culture here in the acropolis that really matters to him.”
Surprise quelled Martinez’s laughter. “Vipsania knows how to run a major broadcasting corporation?”
“She’ll hire people for that.” Irritably. “The point is that she’ll be in a position to influence the public about…” He made an equivocal gesture with his hand. “…about whatever we think suitable. As, for example, why you aren’t being given a meaningful command.” He shot Martinez a shrewd glance from under his heavy brows. “You won’t have a problem with an adulatory documentary about your exploits, will you?”
Martinez felt a waft of pleasure at the idea, immediately followed by caution. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it won’t be the public who decides my assignments.”
“I’d prefer something more subtle myself, but we can always keep the broadcast in reserve.” Roland nodded to an acquaintance passing on the street. “The wedding will be very soon, by the way—we’re starting to get the point where I want to get as many of my kinfolk off the planet as possible.”
“I’ve been telling you that for over a month.”
Roland chose to ignore the comment. Passing down the walkway, he and Martinez negotiated their way through a pack of glits—fashionable, decorative young people who chattered their way past, leaving behind a waft of laughter and hair pomade. Glits had been in the mode before the Naxid revolt, but the seriousness of the war seemed to have suppressed them: these were the first Martinez had seen since his return.
“If only we can get you and Walpurga married before the time comes to leave,” Roland continued, after the glits had passed.
Martinez only smiled. Roland gave him a sharp look. “Do you actually have someone in mind? Someone who isn’t a warrant officer, that is?”
Martinez increased what he hoped was the mystery of his smile. “Perhaps I do. How are Walpurga’s prospects?”
�
��Nothing concrete, though there are a number of possibilities.”
“Get her and Vipsania and Proney and yourself off the planet. Do it now, whether they’re married or not.” He tried to put all his urgency into the words. “Bad things are going to happen here. I think the Fleet’s going to get another pasting.”
Roland gave a grim nod. “Yes. I think you’re right.”
And where do your schemes go then? Martinez wanted to ask. But the words never passed his lips: he was afraid that Roland might admit that had been betting on the Naxids all along.
“Which brings us to the reason I’m following you down the street,” Martinez said. “I need an interview with Lord Chen, and I need it as soon as possible.”
Roland gave him a frowning look. “This isn’t about your posting, is it?”
“No. It’s about…” Martinez realized how absurd this sounded even as he said it. “I have a plan to redeploy the Fleet and save the empire.”
To Martinez’s surprise, Roland stopped dead on the pavement, then raised his arm and engaged his sleeve display.
“Personal and urgent from Lord Roland Martinez to Lord Chen,” Roland said. “I need you to meet my brother, and the meeting must be at once. Please respond.”
He lowered his arm and looked up at Martinez.
“Right,” he said. “Now it’s up to you.”
“And you developed this plan yourself?” Lord Chen asked. He had received Martinez—graciously, under the circumstances—in his garden, amid the scent of the purple lu-doi blossoms growing on either side of the walkway. The afternoon was well advanced, and the garden largely in shade, overhung by the sunlit, winged Nayanid gables. It was growing chilly.
“I—” Martinez hesitated. “I developed it with Lady Sula.”
Lord Chen nodded. His dark eyes were thoughtful. “Our two most celebrated officers,” he said. “That speaks well for these ideas. But you realize that this isn’t simply a military decision. It’s political, and of the highest possible order.”
“Yes, my lord.” It had occurred to him that the government leaving Zanshaa for the first time in twelve thousand years was very possibly an act of some significance.
The Sundering Page 18
