Conventions of War (40 page)

Martinez felt a sudden weariness. He'd done everything he'd set out to do, and said far more than he'd intended to say. He pushed back his chair and rose. Chairs scraped as they were pushed back, and the others jumped to their feet and braced.

Martinez reached for his glass and raised it. “To the Praxis,” he said, and the others echoed him.

He drained his glass, and the others drained theirs.

“I won't keep you,” he said. “I'll talk to the new department heads tomorrow morning.”

He watched them file out, and when they were gone, he reached for a bottle and refilled his glass. He drained half of it in one long swallow, then he turned to Alikhan.

“Tell Perry I'll have supper in my office after I report to the squadcom.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Alikhan turned and marched, adjusting the belt with its sidearm and baton. Martinez looked at Marsden.

“Did you get all that?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Turn off your record function, please.”

Marsden did so, and stood bald and impassive, waiting for Martinez's next order.

“I'm sorry about Phillips,” Martinez said.

Surprise fluttered in the other man's eyes. He turned to Martinez. “My lord?”

“I know you would have saved him if you could.”

There was an instant of surprise on Marsden's face, and then he mastered it and his face was impassive again.

“I'm sure, my lord, I don't know what you mean.”

“You people have hand signals and so on, don't you?” Martinez asked. “You would have given Phillips a warning if he hadn't happened to be on watch in Command.” He took in a breath and sighed it out. “I wish you had.”

Marsden looked at him with intense brown eyes but said nothing.

“I worked out a while ago,” Martinez said, “that Thuc may have been a killer, but he wasn't a Narayanist. The tree pendant was found in Thuc's belongings because you put it there, Marsden, when I sent you to collect his things. You knew that I was about to launch an investigation into cult affiliations, and you wanted to get rid of the evidence. So you took the pendant from around your own neck and put it in with Thuc's jewelry.”

Marsden's neck muscles twitched. He looked stonily at Martinez.

“My lord,” he said, “that's pure speculation.”

“I couldn't work out why you were behaving so strangely,” Martinez said. “You were very angry when I first mentioned Narayanists—and then you denounced me for daring to insult the Gomberg and Fletcher clans. You forced me to search you right then and there, though of course that was after you'd ditched your pendant. I thought you were some extreme kind of snob. What I didn't realize was that I'd just insulted your most deeply held beliefs.

“The problem is, that pendant helped to condemn Phillips. You didn't know that one of Thuc's fingerprints was found on Kosinic's body. That linked murder and Narayanism in my mind, and I charged off on a campaign to find cult killers. That's the way cultists are always portrayed in video dramas—killing people and sacrificing children to false gods. I was misled by a lifetime of watching that sort of drama. I forgot that Narayanism isn't a killing sort of belief.”

“I wouldn't know, my lord.” Marsden spoke with great care.

Martinez shrugged. “I wanted you to know I was sorry about the way I handled things. You won't forgive me, I'm sure, but I hope you'll understand.” He took a long drink of his wine. “That's all, Marsden. If you can copy me that recording, and append a transcription as soon as you can, I'd be very much obliged.”

Marsden braced. “Yes, my lord.”

“You are dismissed.”

Marsden turned and walked away, his back straight, his head facing rigidly forward. Martinez watched the door close behind him.

Apology not accepted,
he thought.

He took another long drink of his wine, and then he walked to his office, put the wineglass on his desk, and walked out into the corridor.

It was time to report to Lady Michi.

A
nxiety over the Naxid raid had not improved Tork's appearance. His flesh was dying faster than ever, and dry twists of skin hung from his hands and gray, expressionless face. Decay came off him in great gusts. But however frail his body seemed, his mind remained firm and inflexible as ever.

“There is only one possible solution,” he said, “and that is for this board to appoint me commander of the Home Fleet.”

Lady Seekin's eyes were huge beneath her dark goggles. “But aren't you retired, my lord?”

Resignation tinged Lord Tork's voice. “This board has the power to restore me to active service. I will accept, of course, with regret. I had hoped that those days were long past.”

Lord Chen doubted that Tork's regret could possibly be greater than his own.

“I don't understand, my lord,” he ventured. “You've been entrusted with the direction of the entire Fleet establishment, not just ships, but ring stations and everything on the ground as well. You're crucial to our hopes of victory. Can you possibly forsake this trust for the command of only one element?”

Chen had been afraid his words might provoke another diatribe from Tork, but the chairman's chiming voice remained level.

“There is no one else. Consider—the Home Fleet must be led by someone of suitable rank. Most of the active officers of fleet command rank died at Magaria, and the rest are too distant from the scene of action. Kringan is three months away, at Harzapid with the Fourth Fleet. Pel-to is at Felarus, with Naxid-held systems in the way. Trepatai is at Seizho, but her health broke down early in the war, and she hasn't left her bed for months. Lord Ivan Snow has suitable rank, but has spent most of his career with the Investigative Service, has never commanded a large formation, and is in any case three months away at Laredo, where he reports to the Convocation. Whereas I…”

There was a moment of silence. Lord Chen closed his throat against the sickly waft of dying flesh that floated to his nostrils.

“I am available,” Tork said. “I will hold suitable rank once I am restored to the active list. I am a Daimong, and could join the two new Antopone cruisers, which are adapted for Daimong crews and could take me aboard without difficulty.”

“Couldn't we
promote
someone into the position?” Lady Seekin asked. “Lord Pa Do-faq is a victorious commander. We couldn't find a more experienced officer.”

Chen closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears as well, against the sonic storm that was bound to peal from Tork at Lady Seekin's sensible but naive sentiments. Again he was surprised, for Tork said nothing, while the question was answered by Pezzini.

“Do-faq's an advocate of the innovations that got Kangas killed,” he said. “We can't put the Home Fleet under him—he'd just kill more good officers, and probably lose Zanshaa all over again. The Fleet needs to be under a strong disciplinarian and an advocate of orthodox tactics.” He nodded at Tork. “The lord chairman fits the description.”

“I am no longer young,” Tork said, “but my health remains good. And in any case I need retain my vigor only a few more months.”

After that there was no choice. Tork and his loyalists would block any attempt to promote Do-faq or anyone else.

Lord Chen raised his hand with the others when the vote was called, and Lord Tork was appointed unanimously to command the Home Fleet, charged with the reconquest of Zanshaa and the defeat of the rebels.

Tork threw himself into the work with his usual dedication. He didn't transfer himself to the Daimong ships right away, but stayed where he had sufficient support staff to keep himself informed of the status of the Fleet throughout the empire.

The Daimong ships continued to Chijimo, where they would dock and receive their weapons. Tork made certain all necessary equipment was shipped from Antopone. The Home Fleet under Do-faq decelerated all the way to Zarafan, then swung around its sun and whipped back to Chijimo.

Reinforcements were on their way. Three ships from the Fourth Fleet that had finished repairs after the battle at Harzapid. Three brand-new frigates, built with astounding efficiency by the Martinez yards at Laredo, were undergoing trials; and the Convocation, mightily impressed, commissioned five frigates more. Thirty-one more ships were nearing completion elsewhere in friendly space, and construction had begun on another sixty.

Fleet Commander Kringan, at Harzapid, apparently heard the call of the trumpets once the news of Kangas's death reached him. Within three days he'd placed himself aboard a frigate, one that hadn't yet finished repair, and launched himself for Chijimo with repair crews still aboard. Clearly he was hoping to arrive in time to be appointed commander of the Home Fleet, but unfortunately no one else was hearing the same trumpets, because by the time the frigate left Harzapid's system, Tork had already received the supreme command.

Lord Chen would be grateful for Kringan's presence, however. It would be good to have another high-ranking officer on hand in case Tork worked himself into a stroke.

But Tork showed no sign of flagging. He grew leaner and he shed skin at a fantastic rate, but he burned with a fever that his age could not quench. Lord Chen had to admit that no other officer could possibly have been more dedicated.

The Naxids launched no more raids.

“They've learned not to make detachments,” Lord Mondi said as they relaxed one evening in
Galactic
's lounge. “Every time they send a force out on its own, they lose it. Hone-bar, Protipanu, and now Antopone—and since there have been no Naxid survivors, they have no idea what's doing it to them.”

“So it all comes down to one big battle then,” said Pezzini. “It all comes down to Zanshaa.”

 

T
he three traitors were executed two days after their arrest. The Convocation, in the hours following the start of the rebellion, had decreed that the penalty for treason was torture followed by hurling the condemned from a great height. Martinez managed to talk Michi out of the torture on the grounds that the squadron had no professional torturers and that amateurs were bound to make a mess of it. He couldn't tell whether Michi was relieved by her decision or not.

There were no heights to throw the condemned men from, but Michi managed an approximation.
Illustrious
was decelerating at one gravity, to swing around the blue giant Alekas and on to another wormhole, so she decided to eject the traitors from an airlock. Once free of the ship, the traitors would no longer be decelerating and would fall into the ship's burning antimatter tail.

And they would be ejected without vac suits. “Damned if I'll waste vac suits on them!” Michi snarled. The vacuum might well kill them before they were torn to atoms by the antimatter blast. Martinez didn't know which death would be worse.

Gawbyan was stoic in the moments leading up to his execution. Francis was contemptuous, and Gulik, who had condemned himself and the others repeatedly during his interrogation, sagged in a kind of bewilderment. He seemed to suggest that it was unfair to execute him. He'd cooperated and freely confessed, and he didn't understand why he didn't get a prize from a grateful empire.

They died with ceremony. A party waited at the airlock, Martinez, Michi with her staff, and all the lieutenants except Corbigny, who was on watch. All glittered in full dress. There was a guard, witnesses from each of the prisoners' departments, and the ship's band, which played the low, mournful “Death Without Honor” as the prisoners shuffled from the brig in their coveralls.

Constable Garcia stripped from the condemned their badges of rank and seniority. Guards tied their ankles together with white mourning tape, and their arms were taped to their sides. They were then taken into the airlock and loaded onto an apparatus designed to eject the bodies of crew who had died in accident or as a result of enemy action. The apparatus hadn't ever been used on live crew, so far as Martinez knew, but he imagined the principle remained the same.

The inner airlock door closed smoothly. Garcia stepped to the airlock controls. The band halted at the end of the phrase, and the drummer began a slow, throbbing pulse on the hourglass-shaped drum.

“Evacuate the airlock, Mr. Garcia,” Martinez said.

“Evacuate the airlock, my lord.” Garcia turned to the controls. If there was a sound, a hiss or the throb of pumps, it was covered by the sound of the drum.

If he were one of the condemned, Martinez thought, he'd try to hold his breath and hope to give himself a quick embolism.

Garcia turned back to him. “Airlock evacuated, my lord.”

“Open outer airlock doors, Mr. Garcia.”

The drum thudded on. Martinez was suddenly aware of a furious itch below his right shoulder blade.

“Outer doors opened, my lord.”

“Proceed, Mr. Garcia.”

Ejecting the condemned into space was the matter of pressing a keypad. Martinez hoped they were already dead. Garcia looked into the airlock through the little window, then turned back to Martinez.

“Airlock's clear, my lord.”

“Close the outer door and repressurize. Lieutenant Mokgatle?”

Acting Lieutenant Mokgatle, who was blessed with an impressive reading voice, stepped forward from the ranks of the officers and read from the service from the dead.

“Life is brief, but the Praxis is eternal,” Mokgatle concluded. “Let us all take comfort and security in the wisdom that all that is important is known.”

He took a neat step back into ranks.

By now the condemned were stripped ions floating on the void. Martinez felt a moment of stillness building around him. The prisoners had been condemned according to law and executed with all the majesty that the traditions of the Fleet could provide. Their comrades had been present, either in person or mustered to observe by video from the mess or from duty stations in the ship. They were witnesses to the fact that the executions had been conducted properly, just as they'd been witnesses to the larceny that had begun the series of deaths.

Mute witnesses, in both cases. The recruits hadn't been consulted when their own department heads had conspired to rob them, and they hadn't been consulted when Martinez had proved their guilt and Michi ordered their executions.

Maybe it was time they were taken into their superiors' calculations.

Lady Michi cleared her throat in a deliberate way, suggesting that she was tired of waiting for something to happen.

Martinez took a step forward and turned to look at the camera that was recording the ceremony.

“The three condemned,” he said, “and their partner Engineer Thuc, operated a gambling ring for months, preying openly on the crew of
Illustrious
. There is no record that any notice was taken of this, or that anyone registered a complaint. Their activity led by degrees to theft, treason, and the murder of two officers, including the captain of this ship.”

He looked into the camera and tried to imagine the scene in the mess, the crew standing braced behind their tables, watching the proceedings on the video walls. The mess, where the gamblers had plundered their comrades every night.

“All the deaths could have been prevented,” Martinez said, “if a proper report of their activities had been made, and action taken. For some reason, everyone, even the victims, chose to keep silence.

“Perhaps the crew has not been properly encouraged to report wrongdoing to their officers. I would like to change that.”

He took a deep breath. “I want to assure the ship's company that my door is now open to any reports the crew may wish to make. Any crew will be admitted to see their captain, on any matter they consider important.” He glanced at the line of officers behind and to one side of him. “I trust that my officers will be similarly receptive.” They shifted uneasily in their line.

He faced the camera again. “When Captain Fletcher executed Engineer Thuc, he said it was for the honor of the ship. He was right. Our ship's honor was being daily dragged through the mud by a criminal gang.
Illustrious
's honor is far from restored, but I'll be
damned
if I see it degraded any further.”

Martinez paused, wondering if he hadn't said enough, or if he'd said too much.

He took his eyes off the camera, then looked at the crew standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the corridor outside the airlock.

“Dismissed,” he said.

The crew broke ranks and shuffled away as the band began a slow, dirgelike rendition of “Our Thoughts Are Ever Guided by the Praxis,” normally a brisk marching tune. Michi stepped up to him, drawing her gloves off her fingers.

“You've let yourself in for it,” she said.

“I hope not,” Martinez said.

“Every recruit coming to you with his problems. Every slacker on the ship asking you for money or time off.” She shook her head. “You'll be buried in them.”

“Maybe, but I'll share,” Martinez said, with another glance at his officers. Michi grinned and marched away. Chandra, standing behind her, began to follow, then hesitated and approached Martinez.

“You just made the ship yours,” she said. “Treat her well.”

At the words, Martinez felt, somewhere behind his breastbone, a slow unfolding of pride.

“Thank you.” He glanced around him, then leaned closer to Chandra. “I enjoyed your exercise in creative writing, by the way.”

She didn't look the least embarrassed. “I thought I caught his style rather well.”

“Too many adverbs,” Martinez said. “I pruned them back.”

The night before, he'd looked at the prisoners' personnel files and brought them up to date. While he had the files open, he'd decided to go into Chandra's file and remove the poisonous fitness report that Fletcher had written for her.

In the end Martinez had decided the report simply wasn't worthy of Fletcher. He didn't want Fletcher's last act to be the slagging of an officer against whom he'd had a grudge.