After dinner Martinez 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 by 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 desk top 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 couldn't help thinking, 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 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. She turned to Kazakov.
"Lieutenant?" she said.
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-" Martinez saw the motion of Kazakov's shoulders that began a shrug, then saw her consciously suppress it. "-were 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 Doctor 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 fought," 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 took the rest of the day, and uncovered nothing. 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. Deftly, with the hand that wasn't holding Martinez' 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 painting 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 maneuver 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 in 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.
For the first time Martinez commanded a heavy cruiser in combat, even though it was 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 Martinez' orders with perfect understanding and efficiency.
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.
Martinez ended the maneuver pleased with himself and with his ship. The pleased feeling lasted until he returned to his office, where Marsden presented him with a vast number of documents, all requiring his attention, or his judgment, or at the very least his signature.
He ate his dinner at his desk while he worked his way through the documents, and sent Marsden to his own meal.
Chandra Prasad arrived half a minute after his dinner, as if she were waiting for him to be alone. He looked up at her knock, lowered his stylus to the desk, and told her to come in. As she approached the desk he wondered in a curiously offhand way whether she'd come to murder him, but decided against it. The sunny smile on her face would have been too incongruous.
"Lieutenant?" he said, raising his eyebrows.
"The lady squadcom just told me that I was the new tactical officer," Chandra said. "I guessed you had something to do with that, so I thought I'd come by and thank you."
"I mentioned your name," Martinez said. "But last I heard it was a temporary appointment. I think she's going to try a series of people."
"But I'll be first," Chandra said. "If I impress her, she won't n
eed the others."
Martinez smiled encouragingly. "Good luck."
"I'll need more than luck." Chandra bit her lower lip. "Can you give me a hint about how best to impress the squadcom?"
"I wouldn't know," Martinez said. "I don't think I've managed it lately."
She looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide whether or not to get angry. He picked up his stylus and said, "Come to dinner tomorrow. We'll discuss your ambitions then."
Her long eyes turned calculating. "Very good, captain."
She braced and he sent her away and went back to reviewing his office work, and nibbling on his dinner between paragraphs. He had no sooner finished both papers and the meal when Kazakov arrived with a new series of documents that, as executive officer, she was passing to him for review.
It was midafternoon before he finished all that, and went into the personnel files to acquaint himself with the petty officers he would be having to supper. They were as Kazakov had said: long-serving professionals, with high scores on their masters' exams and good efficiency reports from past superiors. All received high marks from Fletcher-including Thuc, the man he'd executed.
Martinez then checked the documentary evidence that should have corroborated Fletcher's good opinions, and almost immediately found something that appalled him.
His supper, he thought darkly, would be more than social.
He opened the supper with the traditional toast to the Praxis, and then gave a preamble to the effect that he was counting on the petty officers to maintain continuity in a ship that had just suffered a series of shocks, and he knew from their records and their efficiency reports that they were all more than capable of giving all that was required.
He looked from one of the eight department heads to the next-from round-faced Gawbyan to rat-faced Gulic, from Master Rigger Francis with her brawny arms and formidable jowls to Cho, Thuc's gangly replacement-and Martinez saw pleased satisfaction in their faces.
The satisfaction stayed there for the entire supper, as Perry brought in each course and as Martinez questioned each of his guests about the state of their department. From Master Data Specialist Amelia Zhang he learned the condition and the capacities of the ship's computers. From Master Rigger Francis he received a myriad of details from the stowage of the holds to the state of the air scrubbers. From Master Signaller Nyamugali he had an informative discussion on the new military ciphers introduced since the beginning of the war, a critical task since both sides had started with the same ciphers and the same coding machines.
It was a pleasurable, instructive meal, and the satisfaction on the faces of the department heads had only increased by the time Perry brought in the coffee.
"In the last days I've come to see how well managed a ship we have in Illustrious," Martinez said as the scent of the coffee wafted to his nostrils. "And I had no doubt that much of that excellent management were due to the quality of the senior petty officers here on the ship."
He took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, then put his cup down in the saucer. "That's what I thought, anyway," he added, "at least until I saw the state of the 77-12s."
Their satisfaction on the petty officers' faces took a long, astounded moment to fade.
"Well, my lord," Gawbyan began.
"Well," said Gulic.
"The 77-12s aren't even remotely current," Martinez said. "I don't see a single department that can give me the information I need in order to know the status of my ship."
The department heads looked across the long table at one another. Martinez read chagrin, exasperation, embarrassment.
And well they should be mortified, Martinez thought.
The 77-12s were a maintenance log supposed to be kept by every department. The petty officers and their crews were supposed to make note of all routine maintenance, cleaning, replacing, lubricating, checking the status of filters, of seals, of fluids, of the airtight gaskets in the bulkheads and airlocks, of the stocks of replacement parts. Every item on Illustrious was designed to a certain tolerance-overdesigned, some would have thought-and each was supposed to be replaced or maintained well before that tolerance was ever reached. Every part inspection, every replacement, every routine maintenance was supposed to be recorded in a department's 77-12.
Keeping the records current was an enormous inconvenience for those responsible, and they all hated it and tried to avoid the duty whenever possible. But the 77-12s, properly maintained, were the most effective way for a superior to know the condition of his ship, and to a newly-appointed captain they were a necessity. If a piece of equipment failed, the 77-12 could tell the captain whether the failure had been due to inadequate maintenance, human error, or some other cause. Without the record, the cause of a failure would be anyone's guess, and finding out the correct reason would take time and could distract an entire department.
In wartime, Martinez felt that Illustrious couldn't afford the time and distraction of tracking the cause of any failure of a critical piece of equipment, not when lives were potentially in the balance. And he simply detested not knowing the condition of his command.
"Well, my lord," Gulik began again. There was a nervous look in his sad eyes, and Martinez remembered the sweat on his upper lip as he stood at the end of the line of weaponers, all passing under Fletcher's gaze. "Well, it all has to do with the way Captain Fletcher ran the ship."
"It's all the inspections, my lord," said Master Rigger Francis. She was a brawny woman, with broken veins in her cheeks and hair that had once been red but was now the color of a dishrag. "You saw how thoroughly Captain Fletcher conducted an inspection. He'd pick a piece of equipment and ask about its maintenance, and we'd have to know the answers. We wouldn't have a chance to look it up in the records, we'd have to know it."
Master Cook Yau leaned his thin arms on the table and peered around Francis' broad body. "We don't have to write the information down, my lord, because we have it all in our heads."
"I understand." Martinez gave a grave nod. "If you have it all in your heads," he added, "then it should be no trouble to put it all in the 77-12s. You should be able to give me a complete report in, say-two days?"
Martinez found himself delighted by the bleak and downcast looks the department heads gave one another. Yes, he thought, yes, it's absolutely time you found out I was a bastard.
"So what's today, then?" he asked cheerfully. "The nineteenth? Have the 77-12's to me by the morning of the twenty-second."
He'd have to continue the inspections, he thought, because he'd have to check everything against the 77-12s to make sure the forms weren't pure fiction. "Yarning the logs," as it was called, was another time-honored custom of the service.
One way or another, Martinez swore he would learn Illustrious and its workings, human and machine both.
He let them drink their coffee in the sudden somber silence, bade them farewell, and went to his sleeping cabin intending to sleep the sleep of the just.
"How did I do, Alikhan?" he asked in the morning, as his orderly brought in his full dress uniform.
"The petty officers who aren't cursing your name are frightened," Alikhan reported. "Some were up half the night working on their 77-12s, and kept a number of recruits up running from one compartment to the next confirming their recollections."
Martinez grinned. "Do they still think I'll do?" he asked.
Alikhan looked at him with a tight little smile beneath his curling mustachios. "I think you'll do, my lord," he said.
As Martinez was eating breakfast he received a written invitation from the warrant officer's mess for dinner. He read the invitation and smiled. The warrant officers had learned something from the petty officers. They weren't going to wait for their invitation to dine with Martinez and find out all the things he thought were wrong with them, they were going to bring Martinez onto their home ground and then take it on the chin if they had to.
Good for them.
He accepted with pleasure, then sent a message to Ch
andra saying he would have to postpone their dinner for a day. He knew the message would not make her happy. He followed this with a message that none of the lieutenants would find to their liking, his request that all up-to-date 77-12s be filed in two days.
He then called for Marsden and the fifth lieutenant, whose title was Lord Phillips and whose personal name was Palermo.
Sub-lieutenant Palermo, Lord Phillips was a tiny man whose head didn't even reach Martinez' shoulder. His arms and legs were thin, his body slender, almost frail. His small hands were beautifully proportioned and his face was pale, darkened slightly by a feeble mustache. His voice was a quiet murmur.
Phillips commanded the division that embraced the ship's electronics, from the power cables and generators to the computers that navigated the ship and controlled its engines, so Martinez started by inspecting the workshop of Master Data Specialist Zhang. The shadowy little room with its glowing screens was kept in immaculate order. Martinez asked Zhang if she had made any progress at her 77-12, and she showed him the work she'd managed since the previous evening. He checked two items randomly and found that they'd been logged correctly.
"Excellent work, Zhang," Martinez said, and marched with his party to the domain of Master Electrician Strode.
Strode was a little below average height but broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, with symbols of his sexual prowess tattooed on his biceps. His hair was brown and cut in a bowl haircut, with his nape shaved and pale hairless patches around the ears. Martinez expected to find it in spotless condition, since Strode would have had warning that the captain was on the prowl since he'd arrived in Zhang's domain. Martinez wasn't disappointed.
"Have you made any progress with your 77-12?" Martinez asked.
"I have, my lord."
Strode called up the log on one of his displays. Martinez copied it to his sleeve display and asked Strode to accompany him to on a brief tour to a lower deck. He paused by one of the deck access panels, marked by a trompe l'oeil niche on the wall, with Juke's painting of a graceful one-handled vase. Martinez looked again at the annotation in the 77-12..
Logs (dread empire's fall) Page 7
