“Thank you for your candor,” Martinez said, though he knew perfectly well that Kazakov hadn’t been candid throughout. On the whole he approved of the moments when she’d chosen to be discreet, and he thought he could work with her very well.
They ended the interview discussing Kazakov’s plans for her future. Her career had been planned to minimize any possible intervention by fortune: in another one of those trades so common among Peers, a friend of her family would have given her command of the frigateStorm Fury, a plan that had been detailed when both the friend and the frigate were captured by the Naxids on the first day of the mutiny.
“Well,” Martinez said, “if I’m ever in a position to do something for you, I’ll do my best.”
Kazakov brightened. “Thank you, my lord.”
The Kazakovs seemed a useful sort of clan to have in one’s debt.
After the premiere left, Martinez stoppered the wine bottle and gulped whatever was left in his glass. With his captain’s key, he opened the personnel files, intending to look at the lieutenants’ records. Then the idea struck him that Fletcher might have made a note in Thuc’s file explaining why the engineer had been executed, and Martinez went straight to Thuc’s file and opened it.
There was nothing. Thuc had been in the Fleet for twenty-two years, had passed the exam for Master Engineer eight years ago, and was aboardIllustrious for five of those years. Fletcher’s comments in Thuc’s efficiency report were brief but favorable.
Martinez read the files of the other senior petty officers and then went on to the lieutenants, looking through the files more or less at random. Kazakov, he discovered, had been fairly accurate in describing their accomplishments. What she hadn’t known, of course, were the contents of the efficiency reports Fletcher had made personally. For the most part they were dry, terse, and favorable, as if Fletcher was too grand to dole out much praise, but instead dribbled it out tastefully, like a rich sauce over dessert. About Kazakov he had written, “This officer has served as an efficient executive officer and has demonstrated proficiency in every technical aspect of her profession. There is nothing that stands in the way of her further promotion and command of a ship in the Fleet.”
A note that “nothing stands in the way” was not quite the same as Fletcher’s endorsement that Kazakov would be a credit to the service or would do a fine job in command of her own ship; but carefully guarded enthusiasm seemed to be Fletcher’s consistent style. Perhaps he hadn’t thought that praise was necessary, given that his officers were so well-connected that their steps to command had been arranged ahead of time.
After the dry asperity of Fletcher’s views of the other officers, Chandra’s report came like a thunderbolt. “Though this officer has not demonstrated any technical incompetence that has reached her captain’s attention, her chaotic and impulsive behavior has thoroughly befouled the atmosphere of the ship. Her level of emotional maturity is not in any way consistent with the high standards of the Fleet. Promotion is not indicated.”
The curiously worded first sentence managed to insert the word “incompetence” without justifying its inclusion, and the rest was pure poison. Martinez stared at this for a long moment, then looked at the log to check the date at which Fletcher had last accessed the file. It had been at 2721 hours the previous evening, a mere six hours before he was killed.
His mouth went dry. Chandra had ripped apart her relationship with Fletcher, and after thinking about it for two days, Fletcher fired a rocket at Chandra with every intention of blowing up her career.
After which, some hours later, Fletcher was killed.
Martinez thought the sequence through carefully. For this to be anything other than a coincidence, Chandra would have had to know that Fletcher put a bomb in her efficiency report. He checked Fletcher’s comm logs for the evening and found that he’d made only one call, to Command, possibly for a situation report before going to bed. Martinez checked the watch list and discovered that it hadn’t been Chandra on watch at the time, but the sixth lieutenant, Lady Juliette Corbigny.
So there was no evidence that Chandra would have known the contents of her efficiency report. Not unless Fletcher had made a point of looking for her and telling her in person.
Or unless Chandra had some kind of access to documents sealed under Fletcher’s key. She was the signals officer, after all, and she was clever.
Martinez decided that this theory had too much whisky and wine in it to make any sense, and he failed in any case to successfully imagine Chandra wrestling the fully grown Fletcher to his knees and then banging his head repeatedly on his desk.
He rose and stretched, then looked at the chronometer: 2721. At this exact time, Fletcher had made his last cold-blooded alterations to Chandra’s fitness report.
The coincidence chilled him. He left his office and took a brief march along the decks, circling back to his own door. He passed the door of the captain’s cabin, which was closed, then found himself turning back to it. It opened to his key. He stepped in and called for light.
Fletcher’s office had been returned to its pristine state, the fingerprint powder dusted away, the desk dark and gleaming. There was a scent of furniture polish. The bronze statues were impassive in their armor.
The safe sat silvery in its niche. Apparently, Gawbyan had repaired it after his break-in.
Martinez passed into the sleeping cabin and stared at the bloody porcelain figure with its unnaturally broad eyes. He looked at the pictures on the wall and saw a long-haired Terran with blue skin playing a flute, a bearded man dead or swooning in the arms of a blue-clad woman, a monstrous being-or possibly it was a Torminel with unnaturally orange fur-snarling out of the frame, its extended tongue pierced by a jagged spear.
Lovely stuff to see at bedtime, he thought. The view dismaying.
The only picture of any interest showed a young woman bathing, but what might have been an attractive scene was spoiled by the creepy presence of elderly men in turbans who watched her from concealment.
“Comm,” he said, “page Montemar Jukes to the captain’s office.”
Fletcher’s pet artist ambled into the office wearing nonregulation coveralls and braced halfheartedly, in a way that would have earned a ferocious rebuke from any petty officer. To judge from Jukes and Xi, Fletcher was willing to tolerate a certain amount of unmilitary slackness among his personal following.
Jukes was a stocky man with disordered gray hair and rheumy blue eyes. His cheeks were unnaturally ruddy and his breath smelled of sherry. Martinez gave him what he intended to be a disapproving scowl, then turned to lead into Fletcher’s bedroom.
“Come with me, Mr. Jukes.”
Jukes followed in silence, then stopped in the doorway, leaning back slightly to contemplate the great porcelain figure strapped to the tree.
“Whatis this, Mr. Jukes?”
“Narayanguru,” Jukes said. “The Shaa tied him to a tree and tortured him to death. He’s all-seeing, that’s why his eyes wrap around like that.”
“All-seeing? Funny he didn’t see what the Shaa were going to do to him.”
Jukes showed yellow teeth. “Yes,” he said. “Funny.”
“Why’s he here?”
“You mean why did Captain Fletcher hang Narayanguru in his sleeping cabin?” Jukes shrugged. “I don’t know. He collected cult art, and he couldn’t show it to the public. Maybe this is the only place he could put it.”
“Was Captain Fletcher a cultist?”
Jukes was taken aback by the question. “Possibly,” he said, “but which cult?” He walked into the room and pointed at the snarling beast. “That’s Tranomakoi, a personification of their storm spirit.” He indicated the blue-skinned man. “That’s Krishna, who I believe is a Hindu deity.” His hand drifted across the scarred paneling to indicate the swooning man. “That’s a pieta, that’s Christian. Another god killed in some picturesque way by the Shaa.”
“Christian?” Martinez was intrigued. “We have Christians on La
redo-on my home world. On certain days of the year they dress in white robes and pointed hoods, don chains, and flog each other.”
Jukes was startled. “Why do they do that?”
“I have no idea. It’s said they sometimes pick one of their number to be their god and nail him to a cross.”
Jukes scratched his scalp in wonderment. “Jolly sort of cult, isn’t it?”
“It’s a great honor. Most of them live.”
“And the authorities don’t do anything?”
Martinez shrugged. “The cultists only hurt each other. And Laredo is very far from Zanshaa.”
“Apparently.”
Martinez looked at Narayanguru with his bloody translucent flesh. “In any case,” he said, “I’m neither a cultist nor an aesthete, and I have no intention of sleeping beneath that gory object for a single night.”
The other man grinned. “I don’t blame you.”
Martinez turned to Jukes. “Can you…rearrange…the captain’s collection?” he asked. “Store Narayanguru where he won’t disturb anyone’s sleep, and put something more pleasant in his place?”
“Yes, my lord.” Jukes gave him an appraising look. “Or perhaps you’d like me to create something for you? I can print something off and frame it easily enough, if you’ll tell me the sort of thing you’d like.”
Martinez had never been asked the sort of art he’d liked before and had no ready answer, so he asked, “Are you looking for a new patron, Mr. Jukes?”
“Always,” Jukes said with his yellow-toothed smile. “Bear in mind that you’ll probably retain command ofIllustrious for years, Fletcher’s collection will go to his family, and you don’t want to keep the original tiles and murals on the walls. This is a warship, not a haunted palace.”
Martinez looked at him. “Didn’t you create all the designs on the ship? You don’t mind if I rip out all the tiles and paint over the murals?”
A sherry-tinged jauntiness floated from Jukes. “Not at all. The designs are all safe in my computer, and quite frankly it’s not my best work anyway.”
Martinez frowned. “Wasn’t Fletcher paying for your best?”
“The work’s all his taste, not mine. All balanced and classical and dull. I’ve done a lot better work in the past, much more interesting, but no one’s paying for it, and so…” He shrugged. “Here I am, on a warship. It’s not what I expected when I first started working with a graphics program, believe me.”
Martinez found himself amused. “What did Fletcher rate you, anyway?”
“Rigger First Class.”
“You don’t know anything about a rigger’s duties, do you?”
The artist shook his head. “Not a damn thing, my lord. That’s why I need a new patron.”
“Well.” Martinez looked at the blue-skinned flute player. “Start by removing all this gloomy stuff and putting something more cheerful in its place. We can talk about any…commissions later.”
Jukes brightened. “Shall I start now, my lord?”
“After breakfast will be fine.”
Jukes brightened still further. “Very good, my lord. I’ve got an inventory of what items of his collection Fletcher brought aboard, and I’ll peruse it tonight.”
Martinez was amused by the word “peruse.” “Very good, Mr. Jukes. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, my lord.” This time Jukes managed a halfway creditable salute, and marched away. Martinez left Fletcher’s quarters and locked the door behind him.
The interview had cheered him. He went to his own cabin and was startled to find that one of his servants, Rigger Espinosa, had laid cushions on the floor of his office and was stretched out on them fully clothed.
“What are you doing there?” Martinez asked.
Espinosa jumped to his feet and braced. He was a young man, muscular and trim, with heavy-knuckled hands that hung by his sides.
“Mr. Alikhan sent me, my lord,” he said.
Martinez stared at him. “But why?”
Espinosa’s face was frank. “Someone’s killing captains, my lord. I’m to keep that from happening again.”
Killing captains. He hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Very well,” Martinez said. “As you were.”
He went into his sleeping cabin, where Alikhan had laid out his night things. He picked up his toothbrush, moistened it in his sink, and looked at himself in the mirror.
Captain of theIllustrious, he thought.
In spite of the deaths, in spite of Narayanguru hanging on his tree and the unexplained deaths and the unknown killer stalking the ship, he couldn’t help but smile.
TWELVE
After breakfast Martinez put on his full dress uniform with the silver braid and the tall collar, now without the red staff tabs that Alikhan had removed overnight. He drew on his white gloves and called for Marsden and Fulvia Kazakov to join him. While waiting, he had Alikhan fetch the Golden Orb from its case.
He hadn’t even considered strapping on the curved ceremonial knife. The situation would be tense enough without that.
Marsden and Kazakov arrived, each wearing full dress. “My lady,” Martinez said to the premiere, “please let Master Machinist Gawbyan know that we are about to inspect his department.”
Kazakov made the call as Martinez led the procession to the machine shop, where Gawbyan, breathless because he’d rushed from the petty officers’ mess just ahead of them, braced at the door.
Martinez gave the machine shop a thorough inspection, questioned the machinists on their work, and made note of carelessness in the matter of waste disposal. If the ship had to make a course change, cease acceleration, or otherwise go weightless, the trash would float all over the shop.
Gawbyan, his theatrical mustachios quivering, accepted the criticism with a grim set to his fleshy features that suggested that he was going to fall on one of his recruits like an avalanche the second Martinez was out of the room.
When the inspection was over, Martinez found that he’d taken up very little of his morning, and so he called a second inspection, this time of Missile Battery 2. This review lasted longer, with time spent examining missile loaders and watching damage control robots maneuver under the command of their operators. Despite the presence of officers and the stress of the inspection, the mood of the crew was nearly cheerful, and Martinez couldn’t help but compare it with the foreboding and terror that drenched the atmosphere during Fletcher’s inspection two days earlier.
Seeing their sunny spirits, he wondered if the crew might be taking him too lightly. He wanted them to view him seriously, and if they weren’t, he was prepared to become a complete bastard until they did. Intuition suggested, however, that this wasn’t necessary. The holejumpers just seemed pleased to have him in charge.
He was a winner, after all. He’d masterminded both of the Fleet’s victories over the Naxids. The crew understood a winner better than they understood whatever Fletcher was.
“I’d like to see the lieutenants after supper,” Martinez told Kazakov as they left the battery. “We’ll have an informal meeting inDaffodil. Please arrange for a qualified warrant officer or cadet to take the watch.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Feel free to move into your old quarters. I thank your hospitality, involuntary though it was.”
She returned his smile. “Yes, my lord.”
He went into his old office, opened the safe, removed its contents, and left the door of the safe open for Kazakov. He cast a farewell glance over theputti, hoping he would never see their sweet faces again, and then went into the captain’s office-hisoffice-and looked at the statues, still stolid and arrogant in their armor, and the display cabinets, and the murals of elegant figures writing with quills or reading aloud from open scrolls to a rapt audience. Martinez opened his new safe, changed the combination, and put his papers in it along with Fletcher’s book and the little statue of the woman dancing on the skull.
In the sleeping cabin he found a welcome change. The
gruesome Narayanguru was gone, as was the pieta, the snarling beast, and the bathing woman. The blue-skinned flute player remained, though he’d been shifted to a brighter-lit area. Next to him a seascape showed a ground-effect vehicle thundering over a white-topped swell in a blast of spume. Over the dressing table was a landscape, snow-topped mountains standing over a village of shaggy Yormaks and their shaggier cattle.
Pride of place went to a dark old picture that showed mostly murky empty space. The composition was unusual: a sort of frame had been painted around the edges; or perhaps it was meant to be the proscenium of a stage, since a painted curtain rod stretched over the whole scene, with a painted red curtain pulled open to the right. Against the darkness on the left were the small figures of a young mother and the infant she had just taken from her cradle. The woman’s dress, though hardly contemporary, nevertheless gave the impression of being comfortably middle-class. The infant wore red pajamas. Neither were paying much attention to the little cat that squatted next to a small open fire at the center of the picture. The cat bore a sullen expression and was looking at a red bowl, which had something in it that didn’t seem to please him.
Martinez was struck by the contrast between the elaborate presentation, the painted frame and red curtain, with the ordinary domesticity of the scene. The red curtain, the red bowl, the red pajamas. The young mother’s round face. The sulky cat with its ears pinned back. The odd little fire in the middle of the room, presumably on an earthen floor. He kept looking at the picture while wondering why it seemed so worth looking at.
There was a movement in the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Perry in the door.
“Your dinner’s ready, my lord,” he said, “whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ll eat now,” Martinez said, and with a last glance at the painting, made his way to the dining room, where he ate alone at Fletcher’s grand table with its golden centerpiece and its long double row of empty places.
After dinner he reported to Michi for a report on the status of the investigation. Kazakov was there already, still in full dress, sitting next to Xi, who looked even more rumpled and abstracted in comparison. Garcia arrived a few minutes later with a datapad and his notes.
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