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 in Daffodil. 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 the putti, hoping he would never see their sweet faces again, and then went into the captain’s office—his office—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.
Xi began with a report on the fingerprints found in Fletcher’s office. “Most belonged to the captain,” he said. “The rest were those of Marsden, the secretary, and the captain’s servants Narbonne and Buckle, who had cleaned and tidied the room the previous day. Three prints belonged to Constable Garcia and were presumably left in the course of his investigation.”
Xi’s face screwed into an expression that probably intended to express wry amusement.
“Five stray prints belonged to me. And four prints, the fingers of the left hand, were found pressed under the rim of the desktop at the front of the desk.” He made a movement with his hand, palm up, in the direction of Michi’s desk to show how this could happen.
“The prints belonged to Lieutenant Prasad. Of course they could have been left at any time, since the servants wouldn’t necessarily polish daily under the rim of the desk.”
Or, Martinez thought, the prints could have been made when Chandra held onto the desk with her left hand while slamming Captain Fletcher’s head into it with her right.
Michi betrayed no evidence that this idea might have occurred to her. “Make anything of the hair or fiber evidence?”
“I haven’t had time, but it’s not going to prove anything unless we already have a suspect.”
Michi turned to Garcia. “Any information on the movements of the crew?”
Garcia consulted his datapad, an unnecessary gesture considering the contents of his report. “My lady, aside from the few on watch, most of the crew were asleep. Those on watch in Command or Engineering vouch for each other. Of those in bed, the only people who admit moving at all say they were visiting the toilet.”
“No reports of anyone moving outside the crew compartments? None at all?”
“No, my lady.” Garcia’s tongue flicked anxiously over his lips. “Of course, we only have their word for it, and that’s all we’re going to get…” He cleared his throat. “…unless we find an informant.”
Michi’s eyes hardened. Her fingers drummed on the desktop. She turned to Kazakov. “Lieutenant?”
Kazakov’s tone was faintly apologetic. “It’s the same situation with the lieutenants and warrant officers, my lady. Those on duty vouch for one another, and those asleep were”—Kazakov began to shrug, then stopped herself—“asleep. I have no information that contradicts their stories.”
“Damn!” Michi’s right hand made a petulant clawing motion in the air. She glared at each of them in turn. “We can’t leave it at this,” she said. “There’s got to be something else we can do.” She gave a snarl. “What would Dr. An-ku do?” She didn’t mean it as a joke.
“We can search the ship,” Martinez said. “And search the crew.”
Michi frowned at him.
“There was a little blood,” Martinez continued. “Not much, but some. It just occurred to me that the killer might have got some on a shirt cuff or a trouser leg. Or he might have wiped blood off his hands with a handkerchief. He might have used a weapon on the captain and only slammed the captain’s head into the desk afterward, and the weapon might be found. Or the killer might have taken a souvenir from the captain’s room and hidden it.”
“The captain might have fough
t,” Garcia said, “at least a little. He might have marked someone.”
“Alert the people in the laundry,” Kazakov said. “They need to check every item.”
Michi stood very suddenly. She looked at the others as if surprised to find them still in their seats.
“What are we waiting for?” she said. “We should have done this yesterday.”
Searching Illustrious and its crew was the work of a long afternoon. Martinez and Kazakov called all off-duty crew into their sleeping quarters, organized the officers and petty officers into gangs, and subjected everyone to a meticulous inspection. Lockers and storage areas were searched for anything that might have been taken from the captain’s quarters. Lastly, the officers were searched, by each other. Martinez stood in the corridor outside the wardroom with Lady Michi and waited for the results.
Michi had been growing more irritable as the afternoon progressed and the hoped-for evidence failed to appear. She stood with her hands clenching into fists and a scowl on her face, rising on her toes quickly and then dropping, over and over again.
Martinez decided to distract her before the jerky movement drove him mad.
“This is going to upset the crew,” he said. “We should settle them down as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow we could schedule the maneuver that was postponed today.”
Her heels stayed on the floor as she gave him a thoughtful look. “Very good. We’ll do it.” Another thought struck her, and she frowned. “What am I going to do for a new tactical officer?”
“You don’t want to use Coen or Li?”
She shook her head. “Not seasoned enough. All their experience is in communications.”
A vague sense of obligation compelled Martinez to make a suggestion. “There’s Chandra Prasad.”
Michi looked at him suspiciously. “Why Prasad?”
“Because she’s the senior lieutenant after Kazakov, and I can’t spare Kazakov. Not now.”
Which certainly sounded better than, She wrung a promise out of me to help her, and much, much better than, If she did kill Fletcher, we could try being very nice to her and hope she doesn’t kill us.
Michi frowned. “I’ll ask her to design one experiment. I’ll ask the other lieutenants too. We’ll see if any of them have a talent for it.”
When Kazakov and Husayn came to report that no evidence had been found in the wardroom or the lieutenants’ quarters, Michi accepted the news without comment and then turned to Martinez.
“You’re next, Lord Captain.”
“Next?” Martinez said through his surprise.
“You’re a suspect, after all,” Michi said. “You’re the one who benefited most from Fletcher’s death.”
He hadn’t looked at the situation in that light. He supposed that, objectively, she had a point.
“I wasn’t even aboard when Kosinic died,” he pointed out.
“I know,” Michi said. “What difference does that make?”
None, apparently. Martinez submitted without protest as a committee of male officers—Husayn, Mersenne, and Lord Phillips—searched his quarters and his belongings. Alikhan watched the inspection from the doorway, his body stiffened in outrage, watching every movement with glowering eyes as if he suspected the three Peers might pocket valuable items in the course of their search.
The long, useless afternoon delayed supper, and consequently Martinez’s meeting with the lieutenants in the informal circumstances of Daffodil, the requisitioned luxury yacht that had brought him to his new assignment as Michi’s tactical officer.
The party wasn’t a success. Everyone was tired after having spent the day pawing so uselessly through others’ belongings, and also the officers didn’t quite know how the new relationship with Martinez was supposed to work. During previous get-togethers on Daffodil, Martinez had been a staff officer playing host to the line officers in a setting more congenial than the starchy dinners and receptions given by the captain. Though Martinez had outranked them, he wasn’t in their chain of command, and the lieutenants had felt far less inhibited than they would have been in the company of a direct superior. But now the relationship had changed, and they were more on their guard. Martinez was generous with liquor, but for most of the officers the alcohol seemed only to act as a depressant.
The one exception was Chandra Prasad, who chattered and laughed all evening in loud, high spirits, oblivious to how much it irritated the others. Perhaps, he thought, she felt she had no reason to feel on guard around him because they shared a special relationship.
Martinez hoped she was wrong.
Finally he called an end to the dismal evening, and by way of good-night told everyone there would be a maneuver during the forenoon watch.
Alikhan was waiting in his cabin to take his trousers, shoes, and uniform tunic for their nightly rehabilitation. “What are they saying in the petty officers’ lounge?” Martinez asked.
“Well, my lord,” Alikhan said, with a kind of finality, “they’re saying you’ll do.”
Martinez suppressed a grin. “What are they saying about Fletcher?”
“They aren’t saying anything at all about the late captain.”
Martinez felt irritation. “I wish they were.” He handed Alikhan his tunic. “You don’t think they know more than they’re saying?”
Alikhan spoke with the utmost complacency. “They’re long-serving petty officers, my lord. They always know more than they tell.”
Martinez sourly parted the seals on his shoes, removed them, and handed them to Alikhan. “You’ll tell me if they say anything vital? Such as who killed the captain?”
Alikhan dropped the shoes into their little carrying bag. “I’ll do my best to keep you informed, my lord,” he said. He sealed the bag and looked up. “By the way, my lord. There is the matter of Captain Fletcher’s servants.”
“Ah.”
Each officer of captain’s rank was allowed four servants, whom he could take with him from one posting to the next. Martinez had his four, and so had Fletcher; but now with only one captain remaining, that left four servants too many.
“Are Fletcher’s people good for anything?” Martinez asked. “Anything besides being servants, I mean?”
Alikhan’s lip curled slightly, the long-serving Fleet professional passing judgment on his inferiors.
“Narbonne was a valet in civilian life,” he said. “Baca a chef. Jukes is an artist, and Buckle is a hairdresser, manicurist, and cosmetologist.”
“Well,” Martinez said dubiously, “I suppose Baca could be sent to the enlisted mess.”
“Not if Master Cook Yau has anything to say about it,” said Alikhan. “He won’t want that fat pudding of a man taking up space in his kitchen and fussing with his sauces.”
“Alikhan.” Martinez examined himself in the mirror over his sink. “Do you think I need a cosmetologist?”
Alikhan curled his lip again. “You’re too young, my lord.”
Martinez smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Alikhan draped trousers over his arm, and then the jacket over the trousers. Martinez nodded in the direction of the door that led to his office.
“Do you have someone sleeping out there again?” he asked.
“Ayutano, my lord.”
“Right. If the killers come by way of the dining room instead, I’ll try to shout and let him know.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate it, my lord.” Deftly, with the hand that wasn’t holding Martinez’s clothing, Alikhan opened a silver vacuum flask of hot cocoa and poured.
“Thank you, Alikhan. Sleep well.”
“And yourself, my lord.”
Alikhan left through the door that led to the dining room. Martinez changed into pajamas and sat on his bed while he drank the cocoa and looked at the old dark painting. The young mother held her infant and the little fire glowed and the cat crouched with his ears pinned back, and it all took place inside a painted frame or maybe a stage.
He kept seeing the paintin
g for a long time after he turned out the light.
In the morning Martinez printed a series of supper invitations on Fletcher’s special bond paper, and sent them via Alikhan to all the senior petty officers. He didn’t know whether Fletcher would have invited the enlisted to supper—he suspected not—and he was certain Fletcher wouldn’t have used the fancy bond invitations.
He didn’t care. It wasn’t his bond paper anyway.
The experiment began shortly afterward. The ships of Chenforce were linked by communications laser into a virtual environment, and while the ships themselves continued on their way, a virtual Chenforce maneuvered against a virtual enemy squadron of superior force, a squadron that was meeting them head-on at Osser, the system into which Chenforce would pass after Termaine. The system was largely uninhabited, with a pair of wormhole relay stations and some small mining colonies on some mineral-rich moons, but nothing else, nothing that would complicate an engagement between two forces.
Chenforce deployed the dispersed tactics that had been created by Martinez and Caroline Sula and the officers of Martinez’s old frigate, Corona. The ships were widely separated, maneuvering in ways that seemed absolutely random but were in fact dictated by a complex mathematical formula devised by Sula, the ships riding along the convex hull of a chaotic dynamical system.
The opposing force utilized the classic, formal tactics of the empire, tactics in which the ships were shepherded in a rigid formation so their commander could retain control of them till the last possible moment.
Tungsten-jacketed antimatter missiles exploded between the converging squadrons in glowing fireballs and hellish blasts of radiation. Lasers and antiproton beams lanced out to destroy incoming missiles, and the missiles jinked and dodged to avoid destruction. Ships died under waves of fast neutrons and blasts of heat.
Chenforce didn’t come through the battle unscathed: out of seven ships, three were destroyed and one severely damaged. Of the Naxid force, all ten were wiped out.
For the first time, Martinez commanded a heavy cruiser in combat, albeit a combat that took place only in simulation. The crew in Command were disciplined and well-trained, long practiced at their jobs and at working with one another, and they obeyed his orders with perfect understanding and efficiency.
Conventions of War Page 16
