The transmission ended. Sula looked at the comm display and saw the steadily winking light that indicated her communications buffer was being filled with compressed audiovisual files.
Entertainment?
Anything was better than lying here alone, with nothing but memories for company.
She watched Spate in the knockabout comedy Extrovert, enjoying his excellent timing, the sheer physicality of his movements. She absorbed Loralee Pang and the Lai-own Far-fraq in the melodramas Dr. An-ku Investigates and Dr. An-ku and the Mystery Skull. She watched Aimee Marchant in the sophisticated comedy Fleet Exercises, with its totally unreal life aboard a battleship, and Cannonball Li in the frantic, classic Crazy Vacation, which she decided was overrated. She avoided the dramas Righteousness and Life of Evil—grim explorations of despair and violence were nothing she wanted to watch right now, despite the happy endings mandated by the censors.
“Send more Spate,” she sent in a private message to Martinez. “And tell the reporters to go eat rocks.”
Martinez proved to be quite a connoisseur of low comedy. In addition to more Spate vehicles, he sent the Deuces in High-Low Boys and Mary Cheung in Who’s on the Slab?
It was while watching Spate do his famous mushroom dance in Spitballs! that Sula felt the tide of sorrow begin to flow out of her, propelled by a wind of laughter. She laughed till cramp lay like a fist in her belly, till tears spilled from her eyes. She felt the sadness retreat and flow away until she could dam it up again, until it was safe behind its iron wall.
Thank you, Martinez, she thought. Thank you for saving me…from me.
FOUR
There had been a party at the Ngeni Palace the night before, and the decorations were still coming down. Golden shay blossoms taller than a man were being lowered from the upper regions of the barrel-vaulted hall, ribbons of gold and white unwound from the columns that supported the long balconies, and a gang of servants under the direction of a Daimong in livery was scrubbing the dark red marble floor. Mingled scents of perfume and decay wafted from the hundreds of faded flowers dumped into a hopper near the front door.
Judging by its remnants, the party had been quite large, thronging the halls and corridors. Were Martinez the sort to pay attention to the society reports, he could probably have read rapturous descriptions that morning of the decorations, costumes, and guests that had filled the palace the previous night.
Perhaps he would examine the society reports, at least as far as studying the guest list. It would be interesting to speculate who had rated an invitation and who hadn’t, and why.
Martinez, for example, hadn’t received an invitation, despite being one of Lord Ngeni’s clients. Ngeni and his clan represented the Martinez clan’s interests here in the capital.
But Lord Ngeni was absent. The Ngeni clan head had taken up the governorship of Paycah, leaving clan affairs in the hands of his son, Lord Pierre Ngeni. It had been Pierre’s party that filled the palace the previous night.
Martinez followed the palace majordomo through the courtyard—filled with orderly rows of greenery and larger-than-life statues of Ngeni ancestors—to Lord Pierre’s office. There were several individuals in the waiting room, not all of them human, not all of them respectable-looking. Martinez was not made to wait.
At least he rated some consideration.
Pierre Ngeni was a broad-shouldered, round-headed young man with a resonant baritone voice and the jaws of a mastiff. Like his father, he wore the dark red uniform that marked him as a convocate—a member of the Convocation, the body that provided the empire’s top administrators, and which was permitted to “petition” the Shaa. (When a petition was accepted by the Shaa, it changed its status to that of “law.”) The Convocation would have charge of the empire when the last of the Great Masters finally ended its life.
Lord Pierre’s uniform was well-tailored, but not the extreme epitome of style. At least he was not a glit. Quite the contrary, he was a serious man, dry, who always gave the impression of being busy. His desk was covered with orderly stacks of papers, and two secretaries sat in the room to take notes or dictation, as he required.
“My lord,” Pierre said, rising from behind his desk.
“Lord Convocate.” Martinez briefly braced himself military-style, tilting his chin high, a salute to the other man’s senior status.
“Please sit down.”
Martinez sat in a straight-backed chair clearly designed to discourage people from taking up too much of the lord convocate’s time. Lord Pierre’s chair was a more comfortable one, and its cushions sighed as it took his weight. Pierre tilted his chair back at a generous angle and evaluated Martinez with his mild brown eyes.
“I’ve seen you in the news,” he said. “That rescue you helped engineer—that’s been well spoken of.”
“Thank you, Lord Pierre.”
“A pity you couldn’t bring back Blitsharts alive, or at least the dog.” Zanshaa, or at least the Terran parts of it, were displaying extravagant mourning for the dog Orange, more than they seemed to show for his owner.
Martinez gave a shrug. “I’m afraid that wasn’t up to us,” he said.
“I suppose it wasn’t.” There was a moment’s pause, then Pierre, businesslike, inclined himself and his chair forward. “How may I help you this morning?”
“I was hoping you might be able to arrange another appointment for me.”
Lord Pierre seemed taken aback. “As I recall,” he said slowly, “my father went to some effort to recommend you to Lord Commander Enderby.”
“And I’m very grateful to him, my lord.”
Pierre’s look turned accusatory. “But it hasn’t worked out? Enderby has taken some dislike to you?”
“Not that I know of,” Martinez hedged. “The problem is that Lord Commander Enderby has decided to follow the last Shaa into eternity.”
Lord Pierre’s eyes flickered in surprise. “Ah. I see.” He stroked his heavy jaw. “Most inconvenient, after all we’ve done. And you have no indication whether his deathbed petition will recommend you for promotion?”
“I can’t count on any such recommendation,” Martinez said carefully. His hands twitched at the creases of his trousers. “He’s arranged for me to take a post as communications officer on the Corona. It’s more or less the same job I’m doing now, but it’s a small ship under a junior commander, and—”
“A far less prestigious post than aide to the commander of the Home Fleet,” Pierre said.
“Yes.”
“It’s almost as if he were going out of his way to demote you,” Pierre said. The accusing look reentered his eyes.
“He probably thinks it’s time I had ship duty,” Martinez said weakly.
“I will see what I can find,” Pierre said. “The problem is, I have very little influence in the Fleet at the moment—my great-aunt’s retired, and no one in the service owes us any favors right now.” He frowned and lowered his voice, almost speaking to himself. “If you wanted a post in the civil service, I’d stand a greater chance of finding you something.”
“I’d appreciate anything you can do, my lord,” Martinez said. “And perhaps my…recent celebrity…may be of some assistance.”
Lord Pierre tilted an eyebrow at this thought, then his hands reached for the arms of his chair, as if he were about to rise and dismiss Martinez from both his office and his thoughts. But he seemed to think better of it and settled back into his seat.
“How are your lady sisters?” he asked. “I’ve seen them here and there, since they made their introductions here, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to them.”
“They’re well,” Martinez said. “Very active in the social life of the capital.”
“Have you made marriage plans for them?”
The question took Martinez aback. “Ah—no,” he said. “No plans.” I wouldn’t dare, he added silently.
“I have a cousin,” Lord Pierre said, “who I believe would be improved by marriage. His name is Pier
re also, though we call him PJ.”
Martinez blinked. “Which of my sisters did you have in mind?”
Lord Pierre shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose, so long as she brings a competence with her. And I assume your lord father can find employment for PJ on Laredo…?”
Warning bells clanged loud and long in Martinez’s mind. “Perhaps you can tell me a little more about PJ,” he said.
Lord Pierre’s answer made much of Lord PJ’s sunny personality and winning ways. He was a popular fellow, apparently, beloved by all who knew him. Under Martinez’s careful questions, it was revealed that PJ had not quite finished university, and had never entered either of the two career courses traditional for Peers, the civil service or the military. He had never, in fact, had a career at all.
By the time this was revealed, anger had begun to simmer dangerously in Martinez’s veins. Lord Pierre had a useless glit cousin who had dissipated his inheritance and/or embarrassed everyone with his behavior, and the Martinez family was to take him off the Ngenis’ hands—and be grateful, presumably, for the chance to marry upward. The reference to a “competence,” and to finding PJ employment off in the provinces, made it clear that the Martinez clan would be expected to support this character once he connected himself with them.
Martinez badly wanted to shove the offer back between Lord Pierre’s perfect white teeth, but instead he said, “Well, I’ll talk to my sisters, but I don’t think they’re contemplating matrimony at present.”
Lord Pierre offered a little frown. “Surely you don’t leave it up to them?”
The answer that came to Martinez was, If you were their brother, you would too. But what he said was, “It’s my father’s choice in any case. I’ll write to him with the particulars, if you like.”
“Oh—perhaps we should just contrive to introduce PJ into their circle. They entertain frequently, I suppose?”
“Among their set,” Martinez said.
If Lord Pierre thought he was going to drag this PJ person to one of his sisters’ parties, he was very much mistaken. No, he thought, you’re going to have to invite us here, which so far you have conspicuously failed to do.
Lord Pierre’s little frown deepened, but whatever answer he intended was interrupted by one of his secretaries.
“Lord Convocate,” the man said, “beg pardon for interrupting, but I just received a signal that the Convocation is commanded to meet this afternoon, in three hours’ time.”
Both Martinez and Lord Pierre unconsciously straightened in their chairs at the announcement. There was only one entity that could command the Convocation to meet, and that was Anticipation of Victory, the last of the Great Masters.
“Cancel the rest of my appointments,” Lord Pierre said. He turned to Martinez as he rose from his chair. “I beg your pardon, my lord…”
Martinez rose also. “I understand.”
There was only one reason to summon the Convocation at this time, and that was to announce the hour at which the last Great Master would kill itself.
Once outside the palace, Martinez turned uphill, toward the Commandery. He knew he would be needed there.
“Forty-one days,” Martinez told Cadet Sula. “Enough time for the news to reach the farthest corners of the empire, with twenty or so days left over to make preparations.” And forty-one, a prime number, was a significant number for the Shaa, who loved primes and multiples of primes. Martinez’s look darkened. “Forty-one days for me to find a better appointment than the one Enderby’s stuck me with.”
Amusement trickled through Sula. The woes of her superior officers rarely stirred her sympathy.
At least Martinez had an appointment, even if it wasn’t one he particularly wanted. She, on the other hand, had no prospects at all once she delivered Blitsharts’s yacht to the yards on Zanshaa’s ring station. Her few acquaintances in the Fleet had been left behind on Los Angeles, and she knew no one on Zanshaa other than Martinez, whom she’d never met in person. She could be assigned anywhere, or nowhere, on the whim of the service.
Sula didn’t reply to Martinez. She was still over fifteen light-minutes from Zanshaa, and it was impossible to have anything resembling a regular conversation. Instead, Martinez’s transmissions were more in the nature of video letters, skipping from topic to topic at his whim. The replies she sent tended to be much shorter, as her days generated very little in the way of news or interest.
Martinez’s expression changed, turned a little sly. “If you have any idea of the nature of the air leak on Midnight Runner, you might want to send me a follow-up report to the one you’ve already filed. Or if you’re feeling a little ambitious, you might suit up and try to track it down. There has already been some litigation filed in regard to Blitsharts’s estate.”
Oh really? Sula thought. She found herself leaning forward in her couch, her mind already working on the possibilities.
“It seems that Blitsharts was bankrupt and heavily in debt,” Martinez said. “He was betting on races, apparently, and not just his own, and he wasn’t very lucky either way. His creditors were getting ready to file for the seizure of Midnight Runner,” and this might have been his last race. His creditors have now filed a petition for the Fleet to turn Midnight Runner over to them—” Fat chance, Martinez’s expression seemed to say, the Fleet wasn’t about to hand over a choice piece of salvage to private interests—“and his insurance company has filed a petition to examine the boat, a petition Lord Commander Enderby has been pleased to consider. If it can be shown that Blitsharts sabotaged his own boat in order to commit suicide, the insurance company won’t have to pay off. But the creditors want the company to pay off so the settlement will go to them, so unless there’s clear physical evidence one way or another, the question of how Blitsharts died will be decided in court.”
Interesting, Sula thought. Blitsharts’s last long acceleration burn might have been calculated to take him out of range of any rescue, and the erratic tumble that followed might have been intended to make any docking impossible. His actions could certainly be interpreted as an attempt to hide a suicide attempt.
But if Blitsharts had killed himself, the case would be difficult to prove. The sabotage could have been done very subtly, a loose connector here or an overlooked fastening there. Unless Blitsharts had done something blatant, like drilling a hole in his hull with a hand laser, there would be no evidence of intent.
“Blitsharts’s friends are up in arms about it, of course,” Martinez went on. “The centerpiece of their argument is the claim that Blitsharts would never have deliberately done anything so cruel as to murder his dog.”
Sula’s answer to that was a wolfish smile. If Blitsharts was a sufficient egotist—and there was nothing to indicate that he wasn’t—he might have thought of Orange as merely an extension of himself. In which case he would have sacrificed Orange without a second thought.
Martinez paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Well,” he said, “maybe you can find something that will solve the mystery.”
Sula knew there was no way she was ever again going on board that ship of the dead, no way short of a direct order, and she would resist even that. She had climbed out of one dark nightmare pit and wasn’t about to descend into another. The mystery, if there was one, could be solved without her.
Martinez shifted to another topic. “I’m running out of Spate to send you,” he said. “I did find an old interview, however, and I’ll send it along on this transmission. I’m also enclosing two comedies with the Deuces, one of them a minor masterpiece, plus the latest installment of Oberon and the most recent plans for the Great Master’s funeral.” His face assumed a bland pleasantness. “I hope the weather’s fine where you are. I’ll transmit again when duties permit.”
The screen went dark. Sula considered replaying it, then decided to save it for later, if she got lonely enough.
Aside from monitoring her engine and life-support boards, twice-a-day isometric exercise and the consumption of bla
nd rations, she literally had nothing to do, and of course nowhere to go. Her pinnace had been designed for voyages of hours, not many days. Martinez’s broadcasts, which averaged two a day, were the only human contact she could expect to receive until she requested docking instructions for the Zanshaa ring.
She wondered why Martinez bothered. Of course, men constantly reminded her that they considered her attractive, but surely there were other women on Zanshaa, and besides, conducting a courtship at a distance of light-hours seemed excessive.
Maybe he just felt sorry for her, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with only a vacuum-mummified corpse for company.
But though Sula wondered about his reasons, she found she didn’t care what they were. He appeared on her viewscreen twice a day, offered news, commentary, and human warmth; he demanded nothing; and he beamed her entertainment that kept her amused in the darkness. She was deeply grateful. She was even nearing the point where she hardly noticed his accent.
“I’d appreciate it if you could send me some texts,” Sula said. “I can’t be watching passive entertainment all the time, enjoyable though it is. I’d like something to chew on.”
Martinez sipped at his cocktail as he glanced at the list she’d appended to the message: Kwa-Zo’s Fifth Book of Mathematical Puzzles; Proceedings of the Seventeenth Quee-ling Conference on the Textural Mapping of Wormhole Space; Pre-Conquest Earth Porcelains: Asia. Not the lightest of reading.
He was beginning to believe that Cadet Sula was a toil.
“If there are any charges for the texts, I’ll reimburse you,” she said.
The download fees, if any, would be insignificant, but it was nice to know that she was conscientious that way.
Martinez looked at the display. Sula lay on her acceleration couch with the helmet and upper half of her vacuum suit removed—the lower half was presumably retained for sanitary purposes. Her hair was stringy, her shirt rumpled and sweat-stained, and she looked in need of a shower, but her gaze was lively and interested, and she seemed much improved over the pale, stricken ghost he’d seen after she found Blitsharts dead in his cockpit.
The Praxis Page 9
