The Sundering def-2

by Walter Jon Williams

  In normal times the government was run on a relatively small budget. The Peers took care of most minor matters at their own expense. The rest was paid for by rental of government property, distribution of energy from ring stations and other sources, sale of antimatter to private shipping, a tax on telecommunications, and an excise tax on interstellar commerce.

  All this was clearly inadequate, and had been from the first day of the war. But the alternative was to tax those who actually possessed wealth, and these were for the most part Peers and Peer-owned enterprises. Peers had always been reluctant to tax themselves; and for the most part they saw no reason why mere civil war should alter this condition. They pointed out that they already spent a great deal of capital in the public interest, maintaining roads, creating water and sewer projects, managing charities, sponsoring theatrical events, and the like. The lords convocate became desperate to raise money by any means other than direct taxation, the result being an erratic series of consumption taxes—on salt, on beverages, on use of warehouse space in government-controlled ring stations.

  That last intrusive decree had driven Lord Chen into a frenzy. As a shipowner he was already subject to a flat fifteen percent tax on the value of any cargo he discharged onto a ring station—to have to payagain, to store the same cargo, was ruinous.

  Yet most of the Convocation were not shipowners, and in their desperation tried to double the excise tax to thirty percent. At this rate of taxation interstellar commerce was simply unprofitable: no ships would fly. Lord Chen and every other convocate with shipping interests pointed this out repeatedly, and in the end staged a filibuster that managed to talk the subject to death.

  The impending evacuation of Zanshaa had removed the last of the die-hards’ excuses for believing the war would be a short one, and in the Convocation’s last session before its departure from the capital, a bill was placed before the house to pay through the war by means of an income tax of one percent. Traditionalists insisted that this was worse than revolution—even the Naxids, vile as they were, would not be so vicious and so radical as to place a tax on equity. Lord Saïd assured the lords convocate that the measure was a temporary one only.

  He pointed behind him with his ceremonial wand, through the transparent rear wall of the Hall of the Convocation to the terrace, from which rebel Naxids had once been hurled. “If we do not find a way to pay for this war,” he said, “we might as well throw ourselves from that cliff, because it will be a more merciful fate than what the Naxids will give us.”

  With the arch-conservative Lord Senior speaking for the measure, the tax passed with margin of sixty-one percent. One of the dissenters—a toothless old Torminel—thumped an angry fist on her desk and growled that, as the Convocation had forsaken the principles of civilization, she might as well remain on Zanshaa and wait for the Naxids, who seemed to have a clearer idea of decency and order than the members of the house.

  The Lord Senior politely suggested that perhaps the lady convocate had forgotten that such an action, as the Convocation had decided only two days before, constituted high treason. “I would regret extremely the necessity of ripping you limb from limb and hurling you from the High City,” Saïd said, “but alas, my lady, we are the servants of the law, not its masters.”

  Lord Chen barely heard this exchange: he was too busy rejoicing. Just a few hours ago, in committee, one of his ship-owning colleagues had slipped a rider onto the revenue bill abolishing the excise tax on cargoes. Very suddenly his business was profitable again, and even at the cost of one percent of his income he could expect colossal profits. Admittedly most of the money would be going to the Martinez family for the next five years, but after that Lord Chen could look forward both to increased profit and the end of his relationship with Clan Martinez.

  And, he thought in triumph, all those annoying revenue officers on the ring stations that had so harassed his captains and agents would now descend to the planets below, to harass everyone else.

  Even at the cost of one percent of his income, Lord Chen thought, this was welcome news.

  “Well, Gare, as it happens you’ve got a choice of transport.”

  Lieutenant Ari Abacha raised to his lips one of the Commandery’s tulip glasses, with white and green stripes, and sipped his cocktail. He was a long-limbed man of superior social connections and a perfectly majestic brand of indolence, and he and Martinez had become acquainted when they were both on staff at the Commandery. Abacha was still on staff, as the red triangles on his collar showed, and now as Michi Chen’s tactical officer, Martinez once again wore the red tabs himself.

  “I say, Gare, it’s decent of you to take me to the senior officers’ club,” Abacha said. He glanced over the barroom, his social antennae twitching, and then he leaned close. “That’s Captain Han-gar over there, you know. Rumor has it that these days he’s pissing on the doorstep of Squadron Commander Pen-dro…”

  “A dangerous business,” Martinez murmured. His eyes were fixed on the display glowing in the table, showing him one small Fleet craft after another.

  Not that one, he thought, that was nearly a pinnace. He didn’t want to be strapped into a coffin for all that time.

  “It’s dangerous only if his wife finds out,” Abacha said. “But Pen-dro has a habit of rewarding her lovers. Look what happened to Esh-draq.”

  Martinez did not encourage this line of conversation, being instead more interested in the variety of craft that might be employed in the task of uniting him with Michi Chen’s squadron and his new appointment. With forty or fifty days of very nasty acceleration in the offing, he wanted at least a little comfort.

  “Say, Ari,” he said, “what do you think of this one?”

  The vessel in question was one of the craft that had been conscripted to defend Zanshaa in the aftermath of the Battle of Magaria. Optimistically called “picket ships,” they had consisted of a variety of small craft hastily outfitted with missile launchers and sent to patrol the system in the hope that they might somehow score a hit or two on the enemy before being annihilated. Once Chenforce had arrived to defend the system, the picket ships had been withdrawn.

  “Ah,” Abacha said as he looked at the design. “Nice boat. That was one of Exalted Flower’s corporate yachts, built to shuttle their executives around their mineral concessions in the system. Nicely appointed. Said to have an excellent kitchen. A pity you won’t have one of their chefs aboard.”

  The boat, which had retained its original corporate name ofDaffodil, had docked with the ring station two days earlier and discharged what no doubt had been a highly relieved crew of four. After routine maintenance that would complete in four days,Daffodil would be available for further use, which would include taking Martinez to Michi Chen’s flagship.

  “I’ll take this one, then,” Martinez said. “Thanks very much for giving me the choice.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Abacha. “I’m happy to help out a friend from the old days.” An expression of distaste crossed his face, and he leaned closer to Martinez. “All sorts of new people here now,” he said. “Rude, useless, ignorant…always bustling about and ruining one’s day. Do you know, since the war’s started, some days I’m here eighteen hours straight!”

  Martinez widened his eyes. “I’m shocked.”

  Abacha’s eyes grew fierce. “And now that we’re evacuating, it’s going to get worse. I’m only allowed three trunks and one servant! Regulations clearly state I’m entitled to five trunks and two servants!” He gave the table an angry thump. “I’ve finally got my two boys trained to starch my collars exactly as I want them, and to serve me a Hairy Roger at just the right temperature, and now I have to let one go. Who knows what the Fleet will do with him? Turn a fine valet into a machinist or something.”

  “I’ll take your extra,” Martinez said. His rank entitled him to four servants, but he’d never had more than Alikhan. Since his escape withCorona, his life had been speeding so fast that he’d never had time to search the ranks
for servants, and if he were to serve on a flagship he should probably acquire someone more polished than his ex-weaponer.

  Abacha looked disapproving. “I promised my boys they’d never have to do ship duty.”

  “If they’re evacuating,” Martinez pointed out, “they’ll have to spend time on ships anyway. Unless they’d rather stay on Zanshaa and wait for the Naxids.”

  Abacha sipped his drink and made a face, as if he’d just tasted lemon juice. “I’ll ask them. But whatever happens, they’re going to be vexed.”

  “Tell them they’ll be on a flagship. That’s something.”

  Abacha only shrugged, but then he cheered. “By the way, Gare, we’re having some rare parties these days. Since we can’t take it with us, everyone’s drinking up their finest stock. You’d be welcome to join us in our revels, if you like.”

  “My calendar seems to be quite full these days,” Martinez said.

  “Oh yes!” Abacha beamed in approval. “Newly married and all. You’ve got quite a catch in the Chen girl.”

  “Thank you,” said Martinez.

  “You know,” Abacha laughed, “I thought that Lady Sula would be your next conquest.”

  Martinez felt a counterfeit smile cleave to his face. “You did?” he asked.

  “I was duty officer in Operations, remember…I saw the logs that showed all those messages you were sending each other during the Blitsharts business. I felt certain you were…” Abacha searched for a word. “…building an intimacy.” He shook his head. “I guess nothing came of it. Pity. She’s a lovely girl—very suited to you, I thought.”

  “As you say,” speaking past the tension in his jaw, “nothing came of it.”

  “Still,” Abacha said, “it ended happily, yes?” He gave an appreciative smack of his lips. “Lady Terza Chen! How perfect for you! You’re a lucky man, you know it?”

  “Yes,” Martinez said. “I’ve been told.” He reached for his drink, and a cool frumenty fire poured down his throat.

  Ari Abacha was still in a contemplative mood. “You and Caroline Sula,” he mused. “Who’d have thought that you’d become so famous? You have to wonder how such a thing could happen.”

  “War,” Martinez said into his glass. “All it took was war.”

  A cold wind was blustering around the High City, carrying with it the smell of rain, so Martinez took a cab from the Commandery to the Shelley Palace, where he would join Roland and Walpurga for dinner. He was spending the day without Terza, who was joining her parents on the ride to the skyhook, and wouldn’t be back till late.

  This was the day fixed for the Convocation’s evacuation. Though no announcement had been made and there were no reports in the media, all the High City seemed a part of the secret. The Boulevard of the Praxis was filled with trucks taking household goods into storage, and several of the larger palaces were being shuttered. Another element that made up so much of the capital’s distinctive style was abandoning Zanshaa, and no one knew what would come, with the Naxids, to take its place.

  Shutters weren’t going up on the Shelley Palace yet, but it was only a matter of days before they would. Personal possessions were being packed, to be shipped up the skyhook and received aboard theEnsenada, the Martinez family yacht, to be carried to Laredo along with the family. They would leave as soon as Martinez brought his honeymoon to an end by leaving for his appointment with Michi Chen’s squadron. Martinez supposed it was nice of them to wait, but he thought it was asking a lot of Terza to endure three months’ daily exposure to Roland, Walpurga, and PJ.

  Daffodilwould be ready in four days, which meant Martinez’s marriage would be seven days old before he and Terza were parted, certainly for many months, possibly a year or more. Conceivably forever, if things went wrong.

  The first days of marriage had been tranquil: the serenity that seemed to surround Terza had embraced Martinez in its calm, scented arms. He and Terza spent most of their time in the hotel suite, having their meals brought in, and aside from chance encounters on their short walks they saw no one.

  They opened their wedding presents. Martinez managed to conceal his shock when the Guraware vases were unwrapped.She hates me, he thought, in sudden desolation.

  He sent the vases straight into storage, where he hoped they would remain forever.

  They sent thanks to wedding guests. Fresh-cut flowers had been sent to the room every day, and Terza arranged them into gorgeous displays that radiated color and scent in every corner of the apartment. Thankfully she never remembered Sula’s gift, and Martinez never had to look at Terza’s flowers arranged in Sula’s porcelain.

  Terza and Martinez discovered a mutual liking for the plays of Koskinen: Terza enjoyed the sophisticated portrayals, and Martinez the cynical epigrams. They called upThe Sweethearts Divided onto the parlor’s video wall and watched it with great pleasure.

  Martinez missed the intensity he’d shared with Sula, the way their minds had seemed to leap suddenly into the same channel, the intense, often unspoken mental collaboration they’d shared when they devised the plan for the evacuation, or even—the minds leaping across star systems—when they’d created a new system of tactics.

  Terza was all tranquillity and excellence—self-possessed, considerate, alert to his wishes, efficiently arranging their time together. But there was an unearthly quality to this tranquillity, and sometimes Martinez suspected he was watching a performance, a brilliant performance of the highest order, and he wondered what it concealed.

  Martinez found something of an answer when he watched Terza play her harp. As her fingers drew music from the strings the habitual calm and serenity were replaced by an intensity that bordered on ferocity—Here is fire.Martinez was intrigued.Here is passion. He saw her breathe with the music; he saw the determined glitter in her eye, the throb of the pulse in her throat. Her engagement with the music was total, and the sight of it a revelation.

  Martinez tried to carry the music with them to bed, to kindle the same passion there, in the bower she filled with rainbows of flowers. He flattered himself that he was successful. In the music of limbs and hearts Terza soon found her rhythm. Her trained musician’s fingers, sensitive already to nuance, learned to caress him and draw forth any timbre she desired, piano to fortissimo. She was not shy. In between moments of love there was a sweetness to her that he found touching.

  But somehow his time with Terza failed to equal other, recent experience. With Sula the play of love had been more brilliant, more brittle, its peak a moment of realization, a knowledge of self and other and the whole blazing, brilliant universe beyond. In Sula he found the confirmation of his own existence, the answer to every metaphysical quest.

  Martinez failed to find this with Terza, and furthermore he knew perfectly well that it wasn’t Terza’s fault. At a loss for any other options, he strove simply to please her, and it pleased her to be pleased.

  The problem, Martinez thought as he paid the cab, was that he simply didn’t know on what footing the marriage stood. He couldn’t be certain if it was a business arrangement, a piece of practical politics, a folly, or a farce. He couldn’t tell if he and Terza were a man and woman bought and sold, or simply two inexperienced people trying to make the best of what fate had handed them, aware that at any moment fate could declare the whole arrangement nothing more than a joke.

  Martinez opened the door to the Shelley Palace and saw PJ standing irresolute in the hall, and he thought, at least my marriage isn’tthat.

  “Oh,” PJ said, his eyes widening. “I was thinking of, um…”

  “Taking a walk?” Martinez finished. “You don’t want to. It’ll rain soon.”

  “Ah.” PJ’s long face was glum. “I suppose I should have looked.” He returned his walking stick to the rack.

  One of the maidservants arrived to take Martinez’s uniform cap. “Shall I tell Lady Walpurga you’ve arrived?” she asked.

  “Not just yet,” PJ said, and turned to Martinez. “Let me give you a drink. Take th
e chill off.”

  “Why not?”

  Martinez followed PJ into the south parlor, where he saw a glass already set out on a table, the sign that this was not PJ’s first drink of the day.

  “Terza’s well, I hope?” PJ asked as he made a swoop for the mig brandy.

  “She’s very well, thank you.”

  “Would you like some of this,” holding up the brandy, “or…”

  “That will be fine, thanks.”

  They clinked glasses. Rain began to spatter the broad windows, and outside Martinez saw people leaning into the downpour and sprinting to their destinations.

  PJ cleared his throat. “I thought I should let you know,” he said, “that I’ve decided to stay.”

  “Stay?” Martinez repeated. “You mean on Zanshaa?”

  “Yes. I’ve spoken to Lord Pierre and, ah—well, I’ll be staying here to look after Ngeni interests while everyone’s away.”

  Martinez paused with the brandy partway to his lips, then lowered the glass. “Have you thought this out?” he asked.

  PJ gazed at Martinez with his sad brown eyes. “Yes, of course. My marriage to Walpurga is…” He shrugged. “Well, it’s an embarrassment, why not admit it? This way Walpurga and I can part and…” Again he shrugged. “And no one can criticize, you see?”