Logs (dread empire's fall)

by Walter Jon Williams

  Though it had to be admitted, in retrospect, that Michi's experiment in social mobility hadn't been very successful.

  "Was Kosinic a good tactical officer?" Martinez asked.

  "Yes. Absolutely."

  Martinez sipped his wine again. In spite of Kazakov's praising the vintage, it still tasted vinegary to him.

  "And the warrant officers?" he asked.

  Kazakov explained that Fletcher had his pick of warrant and petty officers, and chosen only the most experienced. The number of trainees had been kept to a minimum, and the result was a hard core of professionals in charge of all the ship's departments, all of whom were of exemplary efficiency.

  "But Captain Fletcher," Martinez said, "chose to execute one of those professionals he had personally chosen."

  Kazakov's expression turned guarded. "Yes, my lord."

  "Do you have any idea why?"

  Kazakov shook her head. "No, my lord. Engineer Thuc was one of the most efficient department heads on the ship."

  "Captain Fletcher had never in your hearing expressed any… violent intentions?"

  She seemed startled by the question. "No. Not at all, my lord." Her brows knit. "Though you might ask…" She shook her head. "No, that's ridiculous."

  "Tell me."

  The guarded look had returned to her face. "You might ask Lieutenant Prasad." She spoke quickly, as if she wanted to speed through the distasteful topic as quickly as she could. "As you probably heard, she and the captain were intimates. He may have said things to her that he wouldn't have…" She sighed, having finally got through it. "To any of the rest of us."

  "Thank you," Martinez said. "I'll interview to each of the lieutenants in turn."

  Though he couldn't imagine Fletcher murmuring plans for homicide along with his endearments, assuming he was the sort of man who murmured endearments at all. Neither could he imagine Chandra keeping such an announcement secret, especially in those furious moments after she and Fletcher had their final quarrel.

  "Thank you for your candor," Martinez said, though he knew perfectly well that Kazakov hadn't been candid throughout. On the whole he approved of the moments when she'd chosen to be discreet, and he thought he could work with her very well.

  They ended the interview discussing Kazakov's plans for her future. Her career had been planned so as to minimize any possible intervention by fortune: in another one of those trades so common among Peers, a friend of her family would have given her command of the frigate Storm Fury, a plan that had been detailed when both the friend and the frigate had been captured by the Naxids on the first day of the mutiny.

  "Well," Martinez said, "if I'm ever in a position to do something for you, I'll do my best."

  Kazakov brightened. "Thank you, my lord."

  The Kazakovs seemed a useful sort of clan to have in one's debt.

  After the premiere left, Martinez stoppered the wine bottle and gulped whatever was left in his glass. With his captain's key he opened the personnel files, intending to look at the lieutenants' records. Then the idea struck him that Fletcher might have made a note in Thuc's file explaining why the engineer had been executed, and Martinez went straight to Thuc's file and opened it.

  There was nothing. Thuc had been in the Fleet for twenty-two years, has passed the exam for Master Engineer eight years ago, and had been aboard Illustrious for five of those years. Fletcher's comments in Thuc's efficiency report were brief but favorable.

  Martinez read the files of the other senior petty officers and then went on to the lieutenants, looking through the files more or less at random. Kazakov, he discovered, had been fairly accurate in describing their accomplishments. What she hadn't known, of course, were the contents of the efficiency reports Fletcher had made personally. For the most part they were dry, terse, and favorable, as if Fletcher was too grand to dole out much praise, but instead dribbled it out tastefully, like a rich sauce over dessert. About Kazakov he had written, "This officer has served as an efficient executive officer, and has demonstrated proficiency in every technical aspect of her profession. There is nothing that stands in the way of her further promotion and command of a ship in the Fleet."

  A note that "nothing stands in the way" was not quite the same as Fletcher's endorsement that Kazakov would be a credit to the service, or would do a fine job in command of her own ship; but carefully guarded enthusiasm seemed to be Fletcher's consistent style. Perhaps Fletcher hadn't thought that praise was necessary, given that his officers were so well-connected that their steps to command had been arranged ahead of time.

  After the dry asperity of Fletcher's views of the other officers, Chandra's report came like a thunderbolt. "Though this officer has not demonstrated any technical incompetence that has reached her captain's attention, her chaotic and impulsive behavior has thoroughly befouled the atmosphere of the ship. Her level of emotional maturity is not in any way consistent with the high standards of the Fleet. Promotion is not indicated."

  The curiously-worded first sentence managed to insert the word "incompetence" without justifying its inclusion, and the rest was pure poison. Martinez stared at this for a long moment, then looked at the log to check the date at which Fletcher had last accessed the file. He found that Fletcher had last looked at Chandra's file at 27:21 hours the previous evening, a mere six hours before he was killed.

  His mouth went dry. Chandra had ripped apart her relationship with Fletcher, and after thinking about it for two days, Fletcher fired a rocket at Chandra with every intention of blowing up her career.

  After which, some hours later, Fletcher was killed.

  Martinez thought the sequence through carefully. For this to be anything other than a coincidence, Chandra would have had to have known that Fletcher had put a bomb in her efficiency report. He checked Fletcher's comm logs for the evening, and found that he'd made only one call, to Command, possibly for a situation report before going to bed. Martinez checked the watch list and found that it hadn't been Chandra on watch at the time, but the sixth lieutenant, Lady Juliette Corbigny.

  So there was no evidence that Chandra would have known the contents of her efficiency report. Not unless Fletcher had made a point of looking for her and telling her in person.

  Or unless Chandra had some kind of access to documents sealed under Fletcher's key. She was the signals officer, and she was clever.

  Martinez decided that this theory had too much whisky and wine in it to make any sense, and he failed in any case to successfully imagine Chandra wrestling the fully-grown Fletcher to his knees and then banging his head repeatedly on his desk.

  Martinez rose and stretched, then looked at the chronometer. 27:21. At this exact time, Fletcher had made his last cold-blooded alterations to Chandra's fitness report.

  The coincidence chilled him. He left his office and took a brief march along the decks, circling back to his own door. He passed the door of the captain's cabin, which was closed, and then found himself turning back to it. It opened to his key. He stepped in and called for light.

  Fletcher's office had been returned to its pristine state, the fingerprint powder dusted away, the desk dark and gleaming. There was a scent of furniture polish. The bronze statues were impassive in their armor.

  The safe sat silvery and silent in its niche. Apparently Gawbyan had repaired it after his break-in.

  Martinez passed into the sleeping cabin and stared at the bloody porcelain figure with its unnaturally broad eyes. He looked at the pictures on the wall and saw a long-haired Terran with blue skin playing a flute, a man dead or swooning in the arms of a blue-clad woman. a monstrous being-or possibly it was a Torminel with unnaturally orange fur-snarling out of the frame, its extended tongue pierced by a jagged spear.

  Lovely stuff to see at bedtime, he thought. The only picture of any interest showed a young woman bathing, but what might have been an attractive scene was spoiled by the creepy fact of elderly men in turbans who watched her from concealment.

  "Comm," he said, "p
age Montemar Jukes to the captain's office."

  Fletcher's pet artist ambled into the office wearing non-regulation coveralls and braced half-heartedly, in a way that would have earned a ferocious rebuke from any petty officer. To judge from Jukes and Xi, Fletcher was willing to tolerate a certain amount of slackness among his personal following.

  Jukes was a stocky man with disordered gray hair and rheumy blue eyes. His cheeks were unnaturally ruddy, and his breath smelled of sherry. Martinez gave him what he intended to be a disapproving scowl, then turned to lead into Fletcher's bedroom.

  "Come with me, Mister Jukes."

  Jukes followed in silence, then stopped in the doorway, leaning back slightly to contemplate the great porcelain figure strapped to the tree.

  "What is this, Mister Jukes?"

  "Narayanguru," Jukes said. "The Shaa tied him to a tree and tortured him to death. He's all-seeing, that's why his eyes wrap around like that."

  "All-seeing? Funny he didn't see what the Shaa were going to do to him."

  Jukes showed yellow teeth. "Yes," he said. "Funny."

  "Why's he here?"

  "You mean why did Captain Fletcher put Narayanguru in his sleeping cabin?" Jukes shrugged. "I don't know. He collected cult art, and he couldn't show it to the public. Maybe this is the only place he could put it"

  "Was Captain Fletcher a cultist?"

  Jukes was taken aback by the question. "Possibly," he said, "but which cult?" He walked into the room and pointed at the snarling beast. "That's Tranomakoi, a personification of their storm spirit." He indicated the blue-skinned man. "That's Krishna, who I believe is a Hindu diety." His hand drifted across the scarred paneling to indicate the swooning man. "That's a pieta, that's Christian. Another god killed in some picturesque way by the Shaa."

  "Christian?" Martinez was intrigued. "We have Christians on Laredo-on my home world. On certain days of the year they dress in white robes and pointed hoods, don chains, and flog each other."

  Jukes was startled. "Why do they do that?"

  "I have no idea. It's said they sometimes pick one of their number to be their god and nail him to a cross."

  Jukes scratched his scalp in wonderment. "A jolly sort of cult, isn't it?"

  "It's a great honor. Most of them live."

  "And the authorities don't do anything?"

  Martinez shrugged. "The cultists only hurt each other. And Laredo is very far from Zanshaa."

  "Apparently."

  Martinez looked at Narayanguru with his bloody translucent flesh. "In any case," he said, "I'm neither a cultist nor an aesthete, and I have no intention of sleeping beneath that gory object for a single night."

  The other man grinned. "I don't blame you."

  Martinez turned to Jukes. "Can you… rearrange… the captain's collection?" he asked. "Store Narayanguru where he won't disturb anyone's sleep, and put something more pleasant in his place?"

  "Yes, my lord. I've got an inventory of what items of his collection Fletcher brought aboard, and I'll peruse it tonight."

  Martinez was amused by the word peruse. "Very good, Mister Jukes. You're dismissed."

  "Yes, my lord." This time Jukes managed a halfway creditable salute, and marched away. Martinez left Fletcher's quarters and locked the door behind him.

  The interview had cheered him. He went to his own cabin and was startled to find that one of his servants, Rigger Espinosa, had laid cushions on the floor of his office and had stretched out on them fully clothed.

  "What are you doing there?" Martinez asked.

  Espinosa jumped to his feet and braced. He was a young man, muscular and trim, with heavy-knuckled hands that hung by his side.

  "Mister Alikhan sent me, my lord," he said.

  Martinez stared at him. "But why?"

  Espinosa's face was frank. "Someone's killing captains, my lord. I'm to keep that from happening again."

  Killing captains. Martinez hadn't thought of it that way.

  "Very well," Martinez said. "As you were."

  Martinez went into his sleeping cabin, where Alikhan had laid out his night things. He picked up his toothbrush, moistened it in his sink, and looked at himself in the mirror.

  Captain of the Illustrious, he thought.

  In spite of the deaths, in spite of Narayanguru hanging on his tree and the unexplained deaths and the unknown killer stalking the ship, he couldn't help but smile.

  After breakfast Martinez put on his full dress uniform with the silver braid and the tall collar, now without the red staff tabs that Alikhan had removed overnight. Martinez drew on his white gloves, and called for Marsden and Fulvia Kazakov to join him. While waiting he had Alikhan fetch the Golden Orb from its case. The empire's highest military decoration was a baton topped by a transparent sphere filled with a golden fluid that, when disturbed, swirled and eddied like the clouds surrounding a gas giant. It was a magnificent award, and Martinez was the first to be awarded the decoration in hundreds of years.

  Martinez hadn't even considered strapping on the curved ceremonial knife. The situation would be tense enough without that.

  Marsden and Kazakov arrived, each wearing full dress. "My lady," Martinez said to the premiere, "please let Master Machinist Gawbyan know that we are about to inspect his department."

  Kazakov made the call as Martinez led the procession to the machine shop, where Gawbyan, breathless because he'd rushed from the petty officers' mess just ahead of them, braced at the door.

  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 go all over the shop.

  Gawbyan 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 Two. 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 the sunny spirits among the crew, he felt a suspicion that they might be taking him too lightly. He wanted the crew 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 it was that Fletcher was.

  Martinez found the inspections valuable. He realized this was the best and fastest way he had of finding out about his ship.

  "I'd like to see the lieutenants after supper," Martinez told Kazakov as they left the battery. "We'll have an informal meeting in my dining room. 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 in scrolls 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 wi
th 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 of 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. Martinez 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.