The Sundering def-2

by Walter Jon Williams

  He looked at PJ. “So how did you become a member? You haven’t raced yachts, have you?”

  “No, but grandfather did, ages ago. He put me up for membership.” PJ sipped his cocktail, then swiped at his thin little mustache with a forefinger. “And it’s useful, you know,” he nodded, “if you like to wager. Listening to the conversation in the club room, you can pick up a lot of information about which pilot is off his game or who’s having a run of luck, who’s just had his maneuvering thrusters redesigned…”

  “Did you make a lot of money that way?”

  “Mmm.” PJ’s long face grew longer. “Not much, no.”

  The two contemplated PJ’s financial state for a moment, one gloomy and the other lighthearted, and then the elderly waitron brought their plates, the meal that would have been called “dinner” on a ship but was “luncheon” here. The summery flavor of a green herb—Martinez didn’t know which one—floated up from his pâté. The waitron departed, leaving behind a cloud of floating hair.

  PJ dipped into his soup, then brightened and looked at Martinez.

  “I wanted to say that I think you’re just the most brilliant person,” he said.

  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.

  Sula looked at the vase. “How did you know I liked Guraware?”

  “Innate good taste, I suppose. I saw it in a shop and thought it should belong to you.”

  “If you ever feel a similar impulse, don’t restrain yourself. This is some of the best porcelain ever made on Zanshaa.” She ran the pads of her fingers over the curves of the vase, and Martinez felt a shiver run up his spine at the sensuality of the protracted caress.

  “I’m getting decorated and promoted tomorrow,” Martinez said. “09:01, Zanshaa time, at the Commandery. Will you come?”

  She returned her attention to the video. “Of course. If they’ll let me in.”

  “I’ll add your name to list of guests. I’ll be in the Hall of Ceremony.”

  “It’s a nice room.” She smiled. “You’ll like it.”

  “There will be a celebration tomorrow evening here at the palace. Will you come?”

  “Your kind sisters already invited me, though I wasn’t aware of the party’s purpose.” She looked thoughtful. “I hope you don’t think I’m greedy, but…”

  “You want a matching vase.”

  “Well,yes. ” She laughed. “What I meant to ask was whether you were free tonight.”

  “I’m not. Sorry. And besides…” He looked into her green eyes. “I’m not yet at my best.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “And tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “You be the judge.”

  At that moment the thick teak door thundered open and Sempronia entered screaming.“What did you do to him?”

  Martinez turned to Sempronia and tried to speak around the heart that had just leaped into his throat. “What?” he said. “Who—?”

  Anger flushed Sempronia’s cheeks and fury blazed in her eyes.“I’m never going to forgive you for this! Never!”

  “Well,” came Sula’s cautious voice from the display, “I can see you’re busy…”

  Martinez’s attention whipped from Sempronia to Sula and back, in time to avoid being brained by his own Golden Orb, which Sempronia had just flung at him. He cast Sula a desperate look.

  “See you later.”

  “Comm,” said Sula, “end transmission.” The orange End symbol flashed on the screen, and then it darkened. By that time Martinez was on his feet, fending off a hairbrush, his shaving kit, and a bottle of cologne, objects that Sempronia found atop the bureau and sent his way.

  He snatched the cologne out of the air and dropped it to a soft landing on the bed.

  “Will you tell me what this is about?” he shouted in an officer’s voice calculated to freeze a member of the enlisted class in his tracks.

  Sempronia was far from frozen, but at least she ceased to throw things.“What did you do to Nikkul!” she cried. “What did you do to him, you rat!”

  Martinez knew precisely what he had done to him. Into Shankaracharya’s record he had written:

  This officer possesses great intelligence coupled with imaginative gifts of a high order. He has demonstrated an ability to solve complex technical problems, and would be of outstanding utility in any position requiring expert technical or technological knowledge, or any position in which abstract reasoning or scientific skills are required.

  This officer participated as communications officer in the Battle of Hone-bar. Based on his performance therein, it is not recommended that this officer be employed in any capacity in which the lives of Fleet personnel depend on his effectiveness in action against an enemy.

  Shankaracharya had frozen in action not once but twice, first at the initial sighting of the enemy, and second when the first missile barrage had gone off and spread its hellfire plasma through the reaches of space. Martinez hadn’t given him a third chance.

  It was possible that Shankaracharya would have overcome his shock and surprise and given exemplary service for the rest of the battle, his career, and his life. But Martinez, with the lives of hundreds of people under his immediate care, had not been able to take that chance.

  After the battle, in the days that followed, he had asked himself the same sort of question he’d asked concerning Kamarullah: Would I feel safe knowing that I had to depend on Shankaracharya in combat?

  With Martinez’s comments on his record, Shankaracharya would be put in charge of a supply depot or a laundry or a data processing center till the end of the war, and then his career would be over.

  “Whathappened, Proney?” Martinez shouted in reply. “Can you just tell me what happened?”

  Sempronia clenched her fists and shook one of them in Martinez’s direction. “Nikkul had it all arranged! Lord Pezzini arranged it for him—he had a place on one of the new cruisers they’re building in Harzapid. He and the other officers were going to leave in twelve days’ time. And this afternoon the captain called him and told him that his services would no longer be required, and that his place was going to someone else!”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Nikkul said his captain must have read your report. Sowhat did you write in it to wreck Nikkul’s career?”

  “What didNikkul say was in it?” Martinez countered.

  “Hewouldn’t say, ” Sempronia raged. “He just said you’d done the right thing.” Her lower lip trembled. Tears began to fill her eyes. “He wasashamed. He turned away. I think he was crying.” Anger returned, and again she brandished a fist. “You were his hero! He pulled strings to get on your ship!” Tears burst out again, and her voice became a wail. “You promised to look after him.You promised. ”

  “He shouldn’t have pulled strings,” Martinez said softly. “He shouldn’t have got Pezzini to put him over the heads of more experienced officers. He was too young and he wasn’t ready.”

  Her voice was a soft, anguished keen. “You said you’dhelp him. You should havehelped him.” Sempronia took a step toward Martinez, but her knees wouldn’t support her and in slow motion she coiled down onto his bed, turning away, her fair hair falling into her face. Sobs shuddered through her. Martinez, his mouth dry, put out a hand to touch her shoulder. She shook it off.

  “Oh, goaway, ” she said. “Ihate you.”

  “It’s my room,” he pointed out. “If anyone leaves it’s you.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Martinez decided that he wasnot going to shut up. “Shankaracharya is a good man,” he said. “But he’s not an officer. He can succeed in any path but the one he’s chosen. Help him choose another path.” He made a helpless gesture. “Youhave to help him now. I can’t.”

  Sempronia rose to her feet and ran for the door, hurling over her shoulder one last blaze of anger. “You bastard! You’re souseless!” And then the heavy door slammed shut behind her.

  Martinez stood for a moment in the sudden thundering silence, then sighed.

  He looked at the bed. He decided it was unlikely that he was going to get back to sleep, so he put on his shirt and trousers and civilian jacket, and the half-boots that Alikhan had polished to a mirror gleam just that morning. With proper milita
ry concern he tidied the objects that Sempronia had flung about, then went downstairs to the ground floor.

  The parlor and drawing room were deserted. Perhaps everyone was in a back room discussing Sempronia’s explosion.

  In the parlor Martinez poured some Laredo whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and he sipped it as he continued his search. He found Roland just outside his office, dragging a piece of furniture down the hall toward a storage room.

  Martinez looked at the specialized couch that would hold two humans comfortably enough but which was better adapted to a reclining four-legged body the size of a very large dog.

  “You’ve just had a visit from Naxids?” Martinez asked in surprise.

  Roland looked up. “Yes. Give me a hand with this, would you?”

  Martinez set down his drink on the ancient, scuffed parquet floor and helped Roland carry the couch to the storage room at the end of the hall, where it was placed with other furniture adapted to the specialized physique of the various species living under the Praxis. Then he and Roland carried a second couch from Roland’s office, after which they replaced the Terran-scaled furniture that had been taken from the office for the convenience of Roland’s guests.

  “I could have the servants do this, I suppose,” Roland said, “but they’d gossip.”

  Martinez got his drink from the hall, returned to Roland’s office, and made a note of the private entrance that led to the alley on one side of the palace, a discreet way for members of the empire’s most suspect species to pay confidential calls.

  “Why are you seeing Naxids?” he asked.

  Roland gave him an amused look. “I’m not conspiring against public order, if that’s what you suspect. These are perfectly respectable Naxids, Naxids that the conspirators never told about their rebellion, and who were as surprised about it as we were.”

  Martinez sipped his drink as he considered this. “And that doesn’t make themless trustworthy?”

  “I’mnot trusting them. I’m just helping them do their business.” Roland, eyeing Martinez’s glass, stepped to the glass-fronted cabinet behind his desk, opened it with a key, and poured himself whiskey. “Freshen yours?”