Suddenly Martinez felt enormously weary, as if merely the mention of all the time he’d spent on Los Angeles had been enough to remind himself that he was exhausted. “I’ll send my protest,” Martinez said. “And you can send yours.”
She rose from her chair and straightened her tunic. “I’ll do that.” She looked down at him. “I hope I’ll see you later, when we’re both in a better mood.”
“I’ll do my best to cheer myself up,” he said. “And if I can’t, you can do it for me.”
Sula gave him a skeptical look. “What makes you think I’ll be more cheerful?”
“Because telling people that they’re wrong always cheers you up.”
She considered this. “True enough,” she said. “I hope you’ll be cheerful when it’s your turn.”
He waved a hand. “I’ll be looking forward.”
After the door closed behind her, Martinez stared for a long moment at the Torminel wrestlers on his wall, then called up the signals display on his desk and told it to record. He could send a protest to Michi—and he would—but he knew she’d send him a bland, political reply. The only person he might trust to tell him what was going on was Terza.
Since the battle he’d continued his daily messages to her, though he felt uneasy about it, as if he were somehow cheating on Sula with his wife. He told Terza about his daily business, about the conduct of affairs in the Fleet, news about people they knew. He’d told her about Alikhan’s death, and how he felt unmoored without Alikhan’s years of experience to rely on. He’d praised Gareth Junior’s artworks and sent a photo of the drawings on the walls of his sleeping cabin.
But this signal would be important, and he began the complicated business of negotiating the tangle of his thoughts and asking the necessary questions.
The Fourth Fleet, still decelerating, passed through Shulduc’s Wormhole Two toward Harzapid. A few days later, their deceleration finally ended and turned into acceleration, and they passed through the wormhole again on their way to Zarafan.
From the point of view of the crews, nothing changed. They stood the same watches, performed the same duties, ate the same meals, and underwent the same accelerations with the same resignation they’d employed all along. Sometimes the monotony drove them to anger or resentment, and then there were disciplinary hearings, but for the most part they were too exhausted to do anything but plod through their jobs.
A few went mad, though not in interesting ways. They just slowed down until they could no longer work, and barely manage to feed themselves. Medical opinion was divided, but most said they’d probably recover quickly once they got off their ships and got a change of scenery.
The Fleet Train began their resupply. Swarms of missiles rained into the Shulduc system, then were taken under Restoration Fleet control, slowed, and added to the ships’ armories. The defectors An-dar and Rivven were resupplied last, but they registered no complaints. The Fleet Train transport ships, which had cleared the area of the anticipated battle, reversed their courses and began the long acceleration in pursuit of the Fourth Fleet. They wouldn’t catch the Fourth Fleet until after it had reached Zarafan, but they’d be welcome whenever they appeared.
Martinez reorganized the Fourth Fleet. Some squadrons were down to a very few ships, and these were broken up and sent to other units as reinforcements. Division commanders now controlled formations the size of squadrons, but they officially retained their positions as division commanders. Squadron commanders like Severin remained squadron commanders, but they commanded formations the same size as one of the new divisions, ten or eleven ships apiece.
The mathematics of the Martinez Method didn’t care how many ships are plugged into the formula. It would work for any number.
Michi Chen’s reply to Martinez and Sula’s protests arrived and took many words to say nothing. Neither Martinez nor Sula was surprised.
Terza’s response to Martinez told him more. “We were worried about staying within the Praxis,” she said. “Dictating a peace from orbit is different from a settlement voted by the Convocation, and the Praxis prefers the latter.” Her dark eyes were filled with concern. “Since your victory was so total, we’re hoping that the Convocation will vote out Tu-hon’s faction and restore Lord Saïd’s government.”
If they haven’t killed him, Martinez thought.
“If not Saïd, then my father,” Terza continued, as if she’d read Martinez’s mind. “Or someone else; there’s a long list.” She sighed. “Michi assured us that there’s no force the Zanshaa government can deploy to stop you once you move on them, and they’ll know that. We’re just hoping that some sanity enters the Convocation once they understand their situation.”
I might get a medal or two, Martinez thought, but it’s Roland who will get to play the Savior of the Praxis.
“You used to wear Sandama Twilight perfume,” Martinez said.
“And you asked what’s so special about twilight on Sandama,” said Sula.
“I said maybe we’d find out. And maybe we shall.”
They were lying together in his sleeping cabin, her head on his shoulder, her arm thrown across his chest. The room was illuminated only by a video screen showing a silent succession of astronomical scenes, and Sula could see Martinez’s body outlined by the shimmering reflection of planets and suns.
The bed was quite untidy.
A suspicion crossed her mind, and she raised her head. “Why are you bringing up my old perfume?” she asked. “Do I smell bad or something?” She raised her elbow and took a careful whiff of her armpit.
“Not at all,” Martinez said. “You smell of soap and floral shampoo. But if you had Sandama Twilight, I’d splash a little on my pillow, so that I could dream of you when you’re not here.”
Tendrils of warmth coiled themselves about Sula’s heart, and she rested her cheek again on his shoulder. “I haven’t used that perfume in years,” she said. “If there’s some in ship’s stores I’ll buy it, but otherwise you’ll have to wait till we get to Zanshaa.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Sula realized that the silence implied something.
“You were going to correct me and say ‘Zarafan,’ weren’t you?” she said.
“I was.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“I know.” Ringed planets shivered in his eyes. “But I’m not going to split the Restoration. We can’t afford it.”
Sula clenched her teeth. She’d known this was coming, she’d sensed it in his reluctance to talk about whether he would ignore Michi’s order and strike directly for the capital.
“I have till 1400 to change your mind,” she said. At that hour the Fourth Fleet would have to pitch their ships over to begin the deceleration that would allow them to dock with Zarafan’s antimatter-generation ring.
“I’ve got a plan for taking the ring by surprise,” Martinez said. “We should manage the thing without casualties, and the best part is that Rivven and An-dar will be even more compromised, and even less able to switch sides.”
“Yes? Then name the second-best part.” Sula waited, but Martinez had no answer.
“Roland and his friends are afraid we’ll be violating the Praxis if we go to Zanshaa,” Sula said. “I don’t care, because the Praxis is a dead letter anyway. And if we win, the Praxis is whatever the hell we say it is.”
“I have made that argument,” Martinez said. “I was overruled.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Politicians want a political solution,” he said. “The military wants a military solution.”
“We already have a military solution,” Sula said. She clenched her teeth. The stop at Zarafan was so obviously a mistake that her blood simmered in sheer frustration.
“So we don’t win the war, but Roland does,” she said. “I think I’ll skip his victory parade.” She wanted to turn her fingers to claws and gouge Martinez’s chest just to shock him out of his passivity.
“Well,” she said, “at least your family won’t need the Chens anym
ore. Once Roland takes the throne you build for him, you can shuffle Terza out of your life without any repercussions. Maurice will probably dance a jig.”
She saw the hurt spring into his eyes, and for a brief moment felt remorse, and then remorse was submerged beneath a feeling of satisfaction.
Every so often she had to remind him that his life was going to change, and that some of the changes were not subject to negotiation.
The Fourth Fleet turned over on time and began their deceleration. Once again combat drills began, to acquaint the new squadrons with each other’s ships and captains. The ships all moved with an easy efficiency, as if they were controlled by a single intelligence—veteran captains and crews, blooded and at ease with their work.
Martinez wrote a script for Rivven to record—in his own person, not Tork’s—to send to Zarafan.
“I have received revised orders from Supreme Commander Tork,” Rivven said. “The damaged ships are to repair at Zarafan in order to be ready to reinforce the Supreme Commander in the event of a catastrophe. I append a list of items required for repairs and resupply, and Supreme Commander Tork requires that Zarafan supply these by the time the damaged ships arrive, in approximately twenty-two days. Any resupply missions are to be halted at Zarafan for use by my force.”
Rivven, as usual, acted his part extremely well, but Martinez was not quite ready to let him send the message on one of Rivven’s own missiles, so he fired the message missile from Los Angeles instead. Over the next twenty-two days Rivven fended off questions first from Zarafan, then from the Fleet Control Board in Zanshaa’s Commandery. Those ominous words in the event of a catastrophe had set alarms bleating in the corridors of the Fleet administration. Message missiles came pinging in through wormholes, demanding more information. The messages were ignored until the Fourth Fleet entered the Zarafan system, when they were in direct communication with Zanshaa via wormhole relays, and Martinez had Rivven report to Zanshaa that the Supreme Commander had forbidden him to answer any such queries.
Rivven also mentioned that fifty-nine damaged ships would dock on the ring, while his and An-dar’s squadrons were to remain orbiting the system in order to “repel enemy counterattacks.” This message was relayed to Zanshaa, which demanded to know about the likelihood of any such attacks.
The demand was ignored, because within a few days of the query’s reception the Fourth Fleet docked on Zarafan’s ring. Zarafan’s Fleet dockyard was modest in size—no more than two squadrons had ever been based there—and it couldn’t play host to fifty-nine ships, so the extra were berthed in adjacent civilian docks. It was at the Fleet dock that the reception party awaited, Junior Fleet Commander Trie-var and his staff, all splendid in dress uniforms, and all startled witless when armed Terrans came boiling out of the moored ships, led by Martinez strolling with his pistol in its holster, and Sula with her machine pistol aimed between Trie-var’s eyes. Martinez demanded the ring’s surrender and got it, but parties were already bound for Ring Control, the officers’ hostel, and the elevator terminals to make sure that Trie-var’s commands were obeyed.
Trie-var and his officers were placed under arrest and put in a hotel under guard. Martinez spoke to them later, told them that Tork’s vast fleet had been annihilated, and that a political settlement of the war was imminent. It was hard to judge the reaction of all the officers present, but it seemed to Martinez that Trie-var was relieved.
Resupply proved to be abundant. Kung had plundered Zarafan’s dockyard and destroyed what he couldn’t carry away, but Tork had ordered production ramped up to serve the needs of the Righteous Fleet, and the Fourth Fleet absorbed those supplies and demanded more.
A message from Roland Martinez was relayed through the wormhole relays to Zanshaa. Roland himself hadn’t arrived in the Zarafan system yet, but he made a point of trying to erase the ravages of high gee before his broadcast, and he looked proper and sober in his wine-red convocate’s jacket. His hair was glossy, and his buttons shone. He informed the Convocation that Supreme Commander Tork and his entire command had been destroyed, with the exception of the squadrons of Rivven and An-dar, which had changed sides.
The Restoration could take Zanshaa easily, he pointed out, but desired a political settlement that would leave the empire at peace for generations to come. The Restoration desired that the Commandery order all warships to cease hostile action, and for the Convocation to reinstall Lord Saïd as the Lord Senior—and if not Lord Saïd, then some other name agreeable to the Restoration. Some members of the Convocation would be confined and subject to investigation, but no member who had not ordered or voted for the persecution of imperial citizens would be molested. All officers of the Fleet would retain their current rank and seniority.
The Restoration would also like to be put in touch with Lord Saïd, Lord Chen, Lord Ngeni, Lord Oda Yoshitoshi, and Fleet Commander Pezzini as soon as possible.
The message was sent in the clear, so that anyone working the station relays would be able to see it, as well as anyone at Zanshaa who happened to be listening. A message missile followed, repeating the message again and again as it passed through system after system, to Zanshaa and on to Magaria, all broadcasting in the clear so that anyone receiving on the right channel could hear the Restoration’s message.
Martinez liked the idea of the missile so well that he sent another missile in the other direction, toward the Martinezes’ home planet of Laredo. He followed it with a message to his father, sent by the regular wormhole relay. Anyone in command of one of the relay stations could intercept the message, of course, but he had taken the precaution of using a cipher he’d sent to Laredo with his sister Walpurga.
Why not? If the station commanders agreed that the war was over, they might as well send the message on.
Less than a third of the Fourth Fleet’s ships required serious repair, so the intact ships’ crews were sent on liberty when they weren’t busy topping up their ships’ antimatter supplies, aiding their comrades in the damaged ships, or gorging on the fresh food that had been shipped to them from the planet’s surface. They were ordered never to travel alone, and to carry sidearms and stun batons, but so far no one seemed inclined to harm them.
Martinez viewed Trie-var’s palatial quarters in the Residence of the Lord Commander of the Dockyard, with its hand-painted tiles, paintings that didn’t involve Torminel wrestling, and chesz-wood furniture, and shifted out of Los Angeles along with his staff. He showed Sula the facilities and invited her to have her choice of the guest suites.
“I hope that when I pick a suite,” Sula said, “you’ll pay me a welcoming visit.”
Martinez spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. “I would be honored, my lady.”
Sula grinned. “You damn well will be,” she said and set off on her inspection.
Martinez watched her leave, and the hairs prickled on the back of his neck as he realized that she was trailing the scent of Sandama Twilight. He settled into his office chair and swung it around to gaze at the Boulevard of the Praxis, just outside and filled with groups of crouchbacks having their first liberty in months. They were in raptures as they bounded along the boulevard, intent on making the most of their freedom. Even though they were restricted to the dockyard and the immediate neighborhoods established to cater to the needs of the Fleet’s crews, they weren’t going to let the bounds on their freedom put an end to their enjoyment.
Just watching them, Martinez found himself relaxing into a wordless and undefinable happiness.
Maybe Roland was right, he thought. Maybe the war could end right here, and the happily-ever-after begin.
Sula chose an office before anything else, with an anteroom large enough for a substantial communications staff. Once she was established behind her desk, and with her computer access assured, she called up the plans of the Residence of the Lord Commander of the Dockyard. She asked for a list of unused sleeping rooms, and to her surprise a U-shaped pattern emerged behind the main building. The area was l
abeled “Celestial Court,” named after a class of cruisers apparently, and was separate from and behind the Residence.
She equipped herself with a key that would open the courtyard’s doors and went out in search of the court. Sula followed a covered lane to the building, then saw a series of blue doors opening off a rectangular court filled with lankish trees covered with fragrant red and yellow blossoms. Apparently the apartments were lodging for middling-level visitors, and the Restoration officers in charge of billeting hadn’t yet realized they existed.
Sula chose an apartment with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, and a comfortable front room with armchairs and a settee. The colors were pale gold and an earthy red, there were crown moldings joining the walls and ceiling, and chandeliers of brass and crystal. A rather grand pier glass mirror stood between the front door and the narrow hall window.
It needed only some porcelain on display to make it complete, she thought.
She assigned the apartment to herself, and then put her staff and servants in larger rooms in the Residence. This would give her and Martinez privacy, and put some distance between herself and Macnamara’s disapproval.
After arranging for her billeting, Sula took a stroll through the court. The U of the court was closed by a fence of metal pickets topped with elaborate spearlike points, and a gate that required a code to open. Beyond the fence was a lane, and beyond the lane a small park. Sula supposed that anyone determined enough would be able to get over the fence without trouble, and that in any case enemies could fire their weapons between the pickets and blast any unguarded members of the Restoration wandering by. Accordingly, she informed the head of the Military Constabulary that a back door into the Residence had been left unguarded and suggested a couple of constables be posted there. The young lieutenant said it would be done within the hour.
All safe. Sula regarded herself in the pier glass, picked a piece of lint off her sleeve, and marched off in the direction of her office.
Fleet Elements Page 36
