The only reason Martinez could think of for the idiomatic quality of the flash-dialogue was that the Naxids were striving to make their silent conversation as incomprehensible as possible to outsiders.
Nevertheless, some of it translated. Repeated more than once was a pattern that meant either “distant coordinates,” or “dusty ground,” or “target”-Martinez was betting on “target.” Other patterns were less ambiguous: “move swiftly,” “make secure,” and “swarm,”which the program explained was a hunting tactic designed to bring down a large prey animal. There were a number of patterns along the lines of “Your lordship shall be obeyed without question,” and “this unworthy one marvels at the dimensions of your”-something that was either “hindquarters,” or “gemel tree,” neither of which seemed suitable to the occasion.
There were other references, to “cold ocean” and “divan chamber,” phrases that were sufficiently idiomatic that the translation program declined to attempt to assign them meaning. The program declined even to guess at the rest.
Martinez followed the Naxid parties with the security cameras until their mission was completed. The enlisted returned to their individual ships, but the officers went toMajesty of the Praxis, Fleet Commander Fanaghee’s flagship, presumably to report.
Martinez thought for a long, somber moment as he stared at the multiple displays, then saved all the recordings and the translations into his personal file. He wiped the screens, thought for another moment, and triggered his sleeve display.
“Contact Alikhan,” he said.
Alikhan answered the call within a few seconds. “My lord.”
“Meet me in Auxiliary Command at once.”
Alikhan betrayed no hint of surprise at this unusual order. “Very good, my lord.”
Martinez rose from his seat and glanced around Command. Cadet Vonderheydte was at the position that monitored ship’s systems, bent over a display and probably censoring mail. Signaler/Second Blanchard, in Martinez’s own division, daydreamed over the communications board. Otherwise Command was empty.
“Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.
The small, yellow-haired cadet shook himself and straightened at his station. “Lord Lieutenant.”
“The watch is yours till I return.”
“The watch is mine, my lord.”
Martinez pushed his displays up until they clicked into place and stepped out of the locked command cage. He made his way to the exit and then hesitated-Vonderheydte had kept watches before, but usually he or Koslowski had backed him up with an experienced warrant officer.
“Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.
“My lord?”
“Contact me in Auxiliary Command in case of anything unusual or important. Particularly if anyone requests permission to come aboard.”
The cadet blinked in surprise. “Very good, my lord.”
Martinez went down the central belt elevator to Auxiliary Command, the armored battle station aft intended for use if Command was destroyed by an enemy or in the hands of mutineers. He paused outside the hatch, then stepped to one side to check the six long, low rooms referred to officially as “biological recreation chambers.” None of the crew were having a romp at present, which was not surprising, considering that the crew remaining onCorona were employed in polishing everything to a golden gleam, something guaranteed to make Martinez less than beloved among the pulpies if they ever discovered that it was his idea.
He waited for Alikhan’s arrival, then opened Auxiliary Command with his lieutenant’s key. The armored door rolled shut behind them as the lights automatically came on.
Auxiliary Command was smaller than Command, the stations more cramped and the gimbaled chairs placed closer together. Nevertheless, the metal cages gleamed, and the scent of polish wafted on the breeze: the place had been carefully sleekened and burnished just that morning.
“I’d like your opinion, Alikhan,” Martinez said as he squeezed between two of the cages to sit in one of the couches at the communications station. “Sit on my right here, watch some video, and tell me what you think.”
Alikhan eased himself into the couch and lowered the displays until they locked in front of him. Martinez opened his private files and showed Alikhan the Naxid parties marching along the rows of ships, the officers, weaponers, engineers, and constables. He showed the translations the program had made, but offered no comment on them.
“What are your conclusions?” Martinez asked.
Alikhan stared at the displays, the deep lines of his face set in a frown. “I don’t like to speculate on such things, my lord,” he said.
“Talk, Alikhan,” Martinez said. “I really need you to help me.”
Alikhan’s mouth worked beneath his spreading mustachios. Then he sighed and gave a slow nod. “They’re going to take the ship, my lord.” His voice was filled with a tremulous, exalted despair, terror and awe all mingled together. “They’re going to take all the Terran and Daimong ships. Probably tomorrow, when most of the crews will be on Magaria with their teams.”
Relief trickled through Martinez’s veins. He wasn’t alone in this madness, he had an ally. “But why?” he asked. “Is it a mutiny? Or is Fanaghee acting tostop a mutiny?”
Alikhan shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“The Terran and Daimong divisions were labeled ‘Mutineers’ during the exercises. And the exercises were aimed at holding a wormhole gate against attackers. Are they expecting a counterattack from the Home Fleet after they take the Second Fleet?”
Alikhan turned to Martinez. “There are Naxid squadrons in the Home Fleet too, my lord.”
Martinez felt cold fingers caress his spine. This was a factor he hadn’t considered. “Here the Naxids are two-fifths of our strength,” he said, and hoped his tone was optimistic. “In the Home Fleet they’re a smaller percentage.”
Alikhan’s expression was careful to avoid utter hopelessness. “That’s true, my lord.”
Martinez turned toward the displays, looked at the images of Naxids marching between docking ports. “I’ll have to tell the captain.”
Alikhan’s expression did not change. “The captain may not be…receptive,” he ventured.
“I’ll speak to Koslowski first, if I get the chance.”
“And if the lord premiere is also distracted?”
Martinez felt a sudden, angry urge to leap from the acceleration couch and pace around the room. For him, planning and motion were best performed simultaneously. But the room was too crowded with the close-packed acceleration cages, so he settled for savagely wiping the screen of Naxids.
“I’m trying to think of other officers I know on this station,” he said. “Salzman on theJudge Di. Aragon and Ming on theDeclaration. Mukerji the Younger on theSteadfast. ” He banged a fist on his armrest in frustration. “That’s all, damn it,” he said, more to himself than to Alikhan. “I did a cipher course with Aidepone on theBombardment of Utgu but I don’t know him that well. And I don’t know any of the captains at all. And worse than that-”
Alikhan’s calm voice cut off the flow of words. “How do you plan to communicate with these officers, my lord? The Naxids may be intercepting communications.”
Despair clawed at Martinez’s heart as he stared hopelessly across the small armored room. He couldn’t even use coded communications: all the Second Fleet had the same codes in common, and Fanaghee or her minions would be able to read anything he tried to send.
He sighed, then straightened on the couch and put his hands on the control panel in front of him as if he were going to takeCorona out of dock. On his right sleeve glittered the soccer ball worn by the Home Fleet champions. “Right,” he said. “So how do we saveour ship?”
“You’ll speak to the officers. And I’ll speak to others.”
Martinez looked at him. “Speak to who?”
“Maheshwari. If we have to run, I wouldn’t want to take the ship out of dock without him minding the engines.”
“Good. And…?�
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Alikhan looked uncertain. “I suppose I should choose only from those likely to be on the ship tomorrow, during the sporting exercises?”
Martinez nodded. “For the moment, let’s say yes.”
Alikhan’s voice grew firm. “In that case, no one. Maheshwari’s the only one with sufficient, ah, gravity to appreciate the situation.”
Martinez’s fingers tapped the control panel. “I’m sending you a copy of the recordings and translations. Show them to Maheshwari.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Martinez blanked the screen, unlocked the displays, and swung them up and out of the way. A strong sense of relief swept through him: he was accomplishing something, working against the threat he knew existed.
He bounded to his feet like a man escaping prison. And then he remembered that his next task was to speak to the captain, and again his heart sank.
Lieutenant Captain Tarafah looked up from his ocoba-bean salad. “Ah. Lieutenant Martinez. I’d been wanting to speak with you.”
Irrational hope blazed in Martinez’s heart. Tarafah and the rest of the team had just returned from their day’s practice, and the elcap, Lieutenants Koslowski and Garcia, and the trainer, Weaponer/First Mancini, were settling down to a meal at the captain’s table. They were all still in their sweats, withCorona’s blazing badge on their breasts, and smelled of exercise and the outdoors. The captain’s table was scattered with bottles and cold dishes as well as papers and diagrams of plays.
And now Tarafah actually wanted to speak to him. Martinez had worried about being resented for intruding on the captain’s time, but it seemed he wasn’t entirely out of the captain’s thoughts.
“Yes, Lord Elcap?” he answered.
Tarafah looked at him with cool eyes. “When you joined at Zanshaa you offered to have a player as one of your servants,” he said. “I’d like to take advantage of your offer, if I may.”
Martinez was surprised. He had long ago assigned his spare-servant scheme to the realm of unsuccessful ploys.
“Of course, Lord Elcap,” he said.
“Good. Our only weakness is defense, and Conyngham on theJudge Jeffreys has agreed to trade us one of his backs. He’ll be your orderly until, umm, we can work him in elsewhere.”
Till he can be promoted to Specialist/First in some poor fool’s division,Martinez thought.Let’s hope it isn’t mine.
But he agreed, of course, and as heartily as he could manage. “When will he come aboard?”
“In the next few days, so we can have him in place when the season starts.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The captain’s cook brought in the main dish, a steaming casserole fragrant with allspice and onions, and placed it before the captain. “Ragout of beef, Lord Elcap,” he said, and then his eyes turned uncertainly to Martinez. “Shall I set Lieutenant Martinez a place, my lord?”
Tarafah favored Martinez with a brilliant white smile. “Certainly. Why not?”
“Thank you, Lord Elcap.”
Martinez sat at the end of the polished mahogany table while the captain’s steward provided him a place setting and poured him a glass of dark ale from the pitcher in the center of the table. The others were in a exuberant mood: the day’s practice must have gone well. Martinez tried not to fidget with his silverware.
Tarafah’s shaved head bent over his plate for a moment as he sampled the ragout, and then he looked up at Martinez, his face glowing with enthusiasm. “Lord Gareth,” he said, “I’m pleased to say that I’ve reviewed every recording ofBeijing ‘s games last season-and now I know their weakness! Three times in the last season their left half and their left back were drawn out of position in exactly the same way-a goal each time! No one’s noticed it till now.”
“Excellent, my lord,” Martinez encouraged. “Very perspicacious.”
“So for us, it’s Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby-and goal!” Tarafah brandished his fork in triumph. “We were drilling it all afternoon.”
“Superb, Lord Elcap! Congratulations!” Martinez raised his glass. “To our coach!”
Tarafah beamed while the others toasted him. Martinez took a breath. Certainly there would never be a better moment.
“Apropos tactics,” he began. “I’ve noticed the Naxid squadrons are up to something odd. May I show you?”
“Show us?” Tarafah bent over his plate again.
“May I use the display here?” Without waiting for permission, Martinez reached over the pink head of the plump, bald Mancini and touched the control of the wall screen. He activated his own sleeve display and slaved the wall screen to it.
“For the last three days,” Martinez said, “Naxid officers have been making an extraordinary tour of the non-Naxid berthing areas. For the first two days, Squadron Commander Kulukraf brought parties of officers along the berthing bays, and today the officers brought noncoms with them. These are recordings I made this afternoon…”
He went through the evidence piece by piece, just as he had with Alikhan. The others ate in silence as he spoke, Mancini and Garcia occasionally craning around to view the display behind them. At the end, with the screen frozen on a Naxid officer flashing the symbol for “target,” Martinez turned to the captain.
“I wonder, Lord Elcap,” he said, “what you make of it?”
Tarafah raised his napkin to dab gravy off his goatee.“Should I make anything of it?”
Garcia spoke hesitantly. “They’re obviously rehearsing something.”
“And it’s a maneuver that requires weaponers, engineers, and the constabulary,” Martinez said.
Koslowski, the premiere, frowned at him. He was a long-legged, broad-handed man, as befit his position of goalkeeper. “This morning,” he said, “you told me that you thought that all this was the rehearsal for a surprise inspection-”
He barely got out the words before Tarafah thumped a hand down on the table and made the plates jump. “Just before the game? When we’re all distracted? That Fanaghee’s a vicious little monster, isn’t she?” He looked at Koslowski. “I’ll have to inspect the ship myself tomorrow morning before breakfast, right when I was hoping to have a last talk with the team.”
“The lord premiere and I have been preparing for the inspection,” Martinez said. “I’ve had the people hard at work all day.”
Tarafah seemed little mollified. “That’s good. But I still can’t believe that Fanaghee would take advantage of the Festival of Sport in this way. It just isn’t right!”
“My lord,” Martinez said. “I no longer believe that the Naxids are planning a surprise inspection.”
Tarafah blinked at him. “What?” he said. “What are you bothering us with, then?”
Martinez tried to settle his leaping wits. “You don’t need weaponers or engineers or constables to pull an inspection, Lord Elcap,” he said. “You need weaponers to control the weapons bays. Engineers to control the engines. And constables to control the crew-andthe officers.”
Tarafah’s brows knit as he tried to puzzle it out. “Yes. That’s true. But what are you saying?”
Martinez took a deep breath. “I think the Naxids are going to board the ship and take her. Takeall the ships they don’t have already.”
Tarafah gave a puzzled frown. “Why would Fanaghee do that? She doesn’t need to capture our ships. She’salready in command of the Second Fleet.”
To prevent his hands from trembling with eagerness and frustration, Martinez clamped them on the butter-smooth edge of the table and squeezed.
“She could be acting to suppress a mutiny she believes is about to break out,” Martinez said. “Or it could be a rising of some kind.”
The trainer, Mancini, seemed even more puzzled than his captain. “On theFestival of Sport? ” he demanded in a high, peevish voice. “A rising on theFestival of Sport? ”
“What better time?” Martinez asked. “Most of the crew, and all the senior officers, will be off the ship watching the games.”
&n
bsp; “The Naxids areparticipating in the festival,” Koslowski said. “They’re having a huge tournament of lighumane, and-” He hesitated. “Some of the other sports they do.”
“On theFestival of Sport? ” Mancini repeated. “Spoil the football and disappoint the fans? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Tarafah said. “Why should Fanaghee lead a rising? She’s at the top of her profession-she’s afleet commander, for all’s sake.”
“I don’t know,” Martinez said. He hesitated-he knew this might sound dangerously absurd, but it was the only argument he had left. “Maybe it’s not just Fanaghee,” he said. “Maybeall the Naxids are rising.”
The others stared at him. Then Koslowski lowered his eyes and shook his head, his lips quirked in a tight smile. “Allthe Naxids?” he murmured. “That’s too ridiculous.”
“The Naxids are the most orthodox species under the Praxis,” Tarafah said. “There’s never been a single rebellion in Naxid history.”
“They’re pack animals,” Koslowski said. “They always submit to authority.”
“They’dnever spoil the football,” Mancini proclaimed, and smacked his lips as he drank his ale.
“Then what could they possibly be doing?” Martinez asked. “I have no other explanation.”
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t one,” Koslowski said reasonably. “Maybe Fanaghee’s decided to drill her people on boarding. Maybe it’s a familiarization tour for new arrivals. Who knows?”
Tarafah seemed happy to agree with his goalkeeper. “This speculation is useless,” he said. “I’m not going to get inside Fanaghee’s mind, or Kulukraf’s either.” He turned to Martinez. “Lord Gareth, I appreciate your…diligence. But I think you’ve let your imagination run away with you.”
“Lord Elcap,” desperately, “I-”
“Perhaps we should return to tomorrow’s game,” Tarafah said. “That’s something a little more within our sphere.”
Martinez suppressed the impulse to hurl his glass at his captain’s face.
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