Logs (dread empire's fall)

by Walter Jon Williams

He dismissed Fletcher's servants to clean the captain's office, a task he did not envy them, and went to his own cabin to find Xi sitting comfortably amid the putti, his forensic samples on the desk and a glass of whisky in his hand.

  Alikhan had thoughtfully left a tray on the desk with another glass, a beaker of whisky, and another beaker of chilled water, its flanks covered with glittering gems of condensation. Martinez poured his own drink and settled into his chair.

  "Interesting whisky, my lord," Xi said. "Very smoky."

  "From Laredo," Martinez said, "my birthplace." His father sent him cases of Laredo's best, in hopes exposure would boost the export market.

  "What it lacks in subtlety," Xi said, "is more than regained in vigor."

  Martinez inhaled the fumes lovingly, then raised his glass. "Here's to vigor," he said, and drank.

  The whisky blazed a trail of fire down his throat. He looked at the smoky fluid through the prisms of the crystal glass and contemplated his long, singular day.

  "My lord," he said, "do you have any idea? Any idea at all?"

  Xi seemed to understand the point of this vague question.

  "Who's responsible, you mean? No. Not the slightest."

  "Or why?"

  "Nor that either."

  Martinez swirled whisky in his glass. "You've known Captain Fletcher for a long time."

  "Since he was a boy, yes."

  Martinez put the glass down and looked at the white-bearded man across his desk. "Tell me about him," he said.

  Xi didn't answer right away. His thumbs pressed hard against the wall of his whisky glass, pressed until they turned white. Then the thumbs relaxed.

  "Lord Gomberg Fletcher," he said, "was exceptionally well-born, and exceptionally wealthy. Most people born to wealth and high status assume that their condition isn't simply luck, but a result of some kind of perfect cosmic justice-that is, that any person as fine and virtuous as themselves should naturally take an exalted place in society." His brows knit. "I would guess that Captain Fletcher found his position more of a burden than a source of pleasure."

  Martinez was surprised. "That-that was hardly my impression," he said.

  "Living up the worlds' expectations is a difficult job," Xi said, "and I think he worked very hard at it. He made a very good job of it. But I don't think it made him happy."

  Martinez looked at the pink-cheeked winged children who fluttered around his office wall. "The art collection?" he asked. "All this?" He waved a hand vaguely at the flying children. "That didn't make him happy?"

  "There are a limited number of roles suitable for someone of his status," Xi said. "That of aesthete was perhaps the most interesting available." He frowned, a narrow X forming between his brows. "Aestheticism took up the part of his life that wasn't taken up by the military. Between the two of them he didn't have time to think about being happy or unhappy, or to think about much at all." He looked up at Martinez.

  "Did you wonder about all those inspections, those musters? All the rituals-dressing formally for every meal, sending notes to people he could as easily have called on the comm? If you ask me, it was all to keep him from thought."

  He's as dull as a rusty spoon. Chandra's words echoed in Martinez' head.

  Martinez took another sip of whisky while he tried to make sense of Xi's words. "You're saying," he said carefully, "that Captain Fletcher wasn't precisely a human being."

  "Not a fully-realized one," Xi said. "People realize themselves in adversity, or by encountering opposition, or through the negative consequences of their decisions. For Fletcher there was no opposition or adversity or negative consequences. He was given a part and he played it, more or less convincingly." Xi lowered his head and contemplated the whisky glass that rested on his pot belly. "He never questioned his role. I often wish that he had."

  Martinez put his glass on the table. It made more noise than he intended, and Xi gave a start.

  "There were no negative consequences for Fletcher," he said, "until he killed Engineer Thuc."

  Xi said nothing.

  "Was that something he did to fill his empty hours?" Martinez asked. "Cut a man's throat?"

  Xi peered at Martinez from under his white eyebrows, his dark eyes glittering. "I asked him, you know. The day it happened, at Lady Michi's request. I believe she was hoping I could find Captain Fletcher insane and she could remove him from command." He made the pursing movement of his lips. "I disappointed her, I'm afraid. Captain Fletcher was perfectly rational."

  Martinez tried to avoid shouting. "So why did he kill Thuc?" he demanded.

  Xi licked his lips quickly. "He said that he killed Engineer Thuc because the honor of the Illustrious demanded it."

  Martinez stared at him. Words died on his tongue. He took a drink.

  "What did he mean by that?" he managed finally.

  Xi shrugged.

  "Were you his friend?"

  Xi shook his head. "Gomberg didn't have any friends. He was very dutiful in the way he kept to his sphere, and he expected others to keep to theirs."

  "But you followed him."

  Xi smiled lightly and rubbed his thigh with his hand. "The job has its compensations. My practice on Sandama was successful but dull, and it turned me so dull that my wife left me for another man. The children were nearly grown and weren't going to need me on hand. When young Gomberg got his first command and made his offer, I realized I hadn't ever seen Zanshaa, or the Maw, or Harzapid Grand Market. Now I've seen all those things, and a lot more besides."

  Martinez felt a sudden flash of anger. All these questions had done nothing but draw him farther into the riddle that was Lord Gomberg Fletcher, and the only thing he really cared about the captain was who had killed him. He didn't even care why, he just wanted to find out who'd done it, and deal with that as efficiently as possible.

  "What is that thing in Fletcher's sleeping cabin?" Martinez asked. "The man tied to the tree?"

  A half-smile played on Xi's lips. "A part of his collection that could not be shown to the public. Captain Fletcher had a special license from the Office of the Censor to collect cult art."

  Martinez was speechless. Cults were banned for the public good, and were defined in the Praxis as any belief or sect that made irrational or unverifiable claims about the universe. Banned as well was any art such cults had managed to inspire. Generally such work could only be seen in the Museums of Superstition that had been erected in the major cities of the empire.

  Of course there were also private collectors and scholars, those considered reliable enough to deal regularly with such explosive material. That one such might be aboard Illustrious, and might have part of his collection aboard, was beyond all credence.

  "Was he interested in any cult in particular?" Martinez finally asked.

  "Those that produced good paintings and sculpture," Xi said. "I don't know if you know anything about ancient Terran art-"

  "I don't," Martinez said shortly.

  "A lot of it, particularly in the early days, was the product of one cult or another."

  "Really." Martinez drummed his fingers on the table. "Do you have any idea why Captain Fletcher put that-that thing-on his wall, where it was the last thing he'd see before going to sleep?"

  Xi's expression was frank. "I don't know. I'd like to know the answer myself, lord captain."

  "It wasn't part of some kind of erotic game, was it?"

  Xi was amused. "I doubt very much that Gomberg was interested in homoerotic flagellation fantasies." He shrugged. "But human variety is infinite, isn't it?"

  Thwarted again. Martinez found his anger simmering once more.

  "If you say so," he said.

  Xi returned his empty glass to the tray. "I thank you for the drink, lord captain. I wish I could have been more useful."

  Martinez looked pointedly at the samples. "Those are what's going to be useful, I think."

  "I hope so." Xi rose and collected the little plastic boxes. "I'll get to my investigations, with y
our permission."

  Martinez sighed. "Carry on, lord doctor."

  Xi slouched out without bothering to salute. Martinez looked after him for a moment, then paged Alikhan.

  "Tell Perry he can bring in supper if he's ready," Martinez said. "Also, I won't be moving into the captain's quarters till tomorrow-unpack just enough to get me through breakfast.'

  "Very good, my lord." Alikhan leaned over the desk and to freshen Martinez' drink. "Anything else, my lord?"

  Martinez looked at him. "What are they saying in the petty officers' lounge?"

  Alikhan tone was regretful. "I've been here all day, my lord, packing and so on. I haven't had a chance to speak to anyone outside the household."

  "Right," Martinez muttered. "Thanks."

  Alikhan withdrew. Martinez looked through the files newly unlocked by his captain's key and thumbprint, and sent Xi access to the fingerprint file. Perry arrived a few minutes thereafter with Martinez' supper. Martinez ate left-handed, while his right hand worked with his stylus on his desk top, drawing up one list after another.

  All things he needed to do or think about as he assumed command.

  After Perry carried the dishes away, Martinez sent messages to all the senior petty officers, the heads of departments, ordering them to account for the movements of all their juniors for the critical hours of the morning. He thought it a job best done soon, while memories were still fresh. This done, he called Fulvia Kazakov, the first lieutenant.

  "Are you on watch at the moment, lieutenant?"

  "No, my lord." She seemed surprised at the question.

  "I'd be obliged if you'd stop by my office, then."

  "Of course, my lord." She hesitated, then said, "Which office would that be, my lord?"

  Martinez smiled. "My old office. And yours, too."

  When he'd come aboard, as the third-ranking officer on the ship he'd taken the third-best cabin, which had turned out to be that of the first lieutenant. Kazakov had then displaced the lieutenant next junior to her, and each lieutenant had shifted in turn, with the most junior having to bunk with the cadets. Tomorrow, he supposed, would be a relief for them all, with everyone restored to his proper place.

  Except, of course, for Captain Fletcher, whose body was slowly crystallizing in one of Illustrious' freezers.

  Kazakov arrived wafting a cloud of a rather metallic perfume. She wore full dress, and the tall collar emphasized the long neck below the heart-shaped face. Mother-of-pearl inlay gleamed on the handles of the chopsticks she'd thrust through the knot at the back of her head.

  "Sit down, my lady," Martinez said as she braced. "Would you care for wine? Or something else, perhaps?"

  "Whatever you're having, my lord, thank you."

  He poured from the bottle of wine that Perry had opened for his supper. She took the glass and sipped politely, then returned the glass to the desk.

  "I am a very different person from Captain Fletcher," Martinez began.

  Kazakov was unsurprised by this analysis. "Yes, my lord," she said.

  "But," Martinez said, "I'm going to try very hard to be Captain Fletcher, at least for a while."

  Kazakov gave a thoughtful nod. "I understand, my lord."

  Continuity was essential. Fletcher had commanded Illustrious for years, and his habits and idiosyncracies had become a part of the ship's routine. To change that suddenly was to risk disturbing the equilibrium of the vast organic network that was the ship's crew, and that network had been disturbed enough already by events of the last few days.

  "I intend to continue Captain Fletcher's rigorous series of inspections," Martinez said. "Can you tell me if he inspected the different departments on a regular rotation, or if he chose them randomly?"

  "Randomly, I think. I didn't see a pattern. But he'd call the department head before he left the office to let them know he was coming. He wanted the inspections to be reasonably spontaneous, but he didn't want to interrupt anyone in the middle of some critical work."

  "I see. Thank you."

  He took a sip of his wine. It tasted vinegary to him-Terza had shipped the best stuff to him from clan Chen's cellars in the High City, but he didn't see what was so special about it.

  "Can you give me a report about the state of the ship?" Martinez asked. "Informally, I mean-I don't need all the figures."

  Kazakov smiled and triggered her sleeve display. "I actually have the figures if you want them," she said.

  "Not right now. Just a verbal summation, if you please."

  The state of Illustrious, not surprisingly, was good. It had suffered no damage in the mutiny at Harzapid or the Battle of Protipanu. Food, water, and fuel stocks were more than adequate for the projected length of the voyage. Missile stocks, however, were down: between battle and the enemy shipping destroyed so far on the raid, the cruiser's magazines were depleted by two-fifths.

  Which was going to be a problem if Chenforce were ever obliged to fight an enemy either more numerous or less cooperative than the Naxid squadron at Protipanu.

  "Thank you, Lady Fulvia," Martinez said. "Can you give me a report on the officers? I know them socially, but I've never worked with them."

  Kazakov smiled. "I'm happy to say that we have an excellent set of officers aboard. All but one of us were chosen by Captain Fletcher. Some of us were friends before this posting. We work together exceptionally well."

  Being chosen by Fletcher wasn't necessarily a recommendation in Martinez' opinion, but he nodded.

  "And the one who wasn't chosen?" he asked.

  Kazakov thought a moment before she replied. "There's no problem with the way she performs her duties," she said. "She's very efficient."

  Martinez gave no indication of his awareness that this was a less than wholehearted appraisal. He liked the fact that Kazakov felt sufficient loyalty to the other officers not to put a knife into Chandra's back when she had the chance.

  "Let's take the lieutenants one by one," he said.

  From Kazakov's report Martinez gathered that three of the lieutenants were Gomberg or Fletcher clients, following in their patron's wake up the ladder of Fleet hierarchy. Two, Husayn and Kazakov herself, had benefitted from those complex trades of favor and patronage so common among the Peers: Fletcher had agreed to look after their interests in exchange for their own families aiding some of Fletcher's friends or dependents.

  Perhaps Kazakov thought that this genealogy of relationships and obligations was all that was required to explain the lieutenants to her new captain, or perhaps she was looking into the future and letting Martinez know that her relations were ready to assist Martinez' friends in the same sort of arrangement they'd had with Fletcher. Martinez was gratified, but insisted on knowing how well the officers did their jobs.

  According to Kazakov they did their jobs very well. Lord Phillips and Corbigny, the two most junior, were inexperienced but promising; and the others were all talented. Martinez had no reason to doubt her judgments.

  "It's a happy wardroom?" Martinez asked.

  "Yes." Kazakov's answer came without hesitation. "Unusually so."

  "Lady Michi's lieutenants are fitting in? Coen and Li?"

  "Yes. They're amiable people."

  "How about Kosinic? Was he a happy member of the wardroom mess?"

  Kazakov blinked in surprise. "Kosinic? He wasn't aboard for very long, and-I suppose he agreed well enough with the others, given the circumstances."

  Martinez raised his eyebrows. "Circumstances?"

  "Well, he was a commoner. Not," Kazakov was quick to add, aware perhaps that she'd put a foot wrong, "not that being a commoner was a problem, I don't say anything against that, but his family had no money, and he had to live off his pay. So Kosinic had to take an advance on his pay in order to pay his wardroom dues, and he really couldn't afford to club together with the other lieutenants to buy food stores and liquor and so on. The rest of us were perfectly happy to pay his allotment, but I think he was perhaps a little sensitive about it, and he sev
erely limited his wine and liquor consumption, and avoided eating some of the more expensive food items. And he couldn't afford to gamble-not," she added, catching herself again, "that there's high play in the wardroom, nothing like it, but there's often a friendly game going on, for what we'd consider pocket money, and Kosinic couldn't afford a place at the table."

  Kazakov reached for her wine and took a sip. "And then of course the mutiny happened, and Kosinic got wounded. I think perhaps the head injury changed his personality a little, because he became sullen and angry. Sometimes he'd just be sitting in a chair and you'd look up and see him in a complete fury-his jaw would be working and his neck muscles all taut like cables and his eyes on fire. Sometimes it was a little frightening. This is extremely good wine, my lord."

  "I'm glad you like it. Do you have any idea what made Kosinic angry?"

  "No, my lord. On those occasions I don't think the wardroom conversation was any more inane than usual." She smiled at her own joke, and then the smile faded. "I always thought getting blown up by the Naxids was reason enough for anger. But whatever the cause, Kosinic became a lot less sociable after he was wounded, and he spent most of his time in his cabin or in the Flag Officer Station, working."

  Martinez sipped his own wine. He thought he understood Kosinic fairly well.

  Martinez was a Peer, and blessed with a large allowance from his wealthy family. But he was a provincial, and marked as a provincial by his accent. He knew very well the way high-caste Peers could condescend to their inferiors, or deliberately humiliate them, or treat them as servants, or simply ignore them. Even if the other officers intended no disparagement, a sensitive, intelligent commoner might well detect slights where none existed.

  "Do you happen to know how Lady Michi came to take Kosinic on her staff?" Martinez asked.

  "I believe Kosinic served as a cadet in a previous command. He impressed her and she took him along when he passed his lieutenants' exams."

  Which was unusually broad-minded of Michi, Martinez thought. She could as easily have associated herself only with her own clients and the clients of powerful families with whom she wished to curry favor, as had Fletcher. Instead, though she came from a clan at least as ancient and noble as the Gombergs or Fletchers, she'd chosen to give one of her valuable staff jobs to a poor commoner.