The Sundering

by Walter Jon Williams

  The question was how long it would take Lady Arkat to turn up at her desk. If she were like many of the Peers in the civil administration, she might turn up at midmorning, or even after a long luncheon.

  Sula opened her hand comm and put it on the desk in front of her. She ate her muffin and asked Spence for another.

  She ate her second muffin. She paced. She made more coffee. She emptied her bladder. She brushed her teeth and combed her hair.

  She tried to keep from screaming aloud.

  Spence stayed very much out of her way.

  Lady Arkat turned out to be one of the midmorning Peers. It was just after midmorning, at 13:06, when Sula saw that the head of security had checked in and viewed her morning’s messages.

  A few minutes later, Sula’s hand comm chimed. She checked the message, and found Lady Arkat’s new password waiting for her.

  She leaped up from her chair to give a shriek of exultation. Then she deaccessed the Records Office and bounced joyously around the apartment, tidying the breakfast things.

  Macnamara returned from his errands and walked into the apartment carrying a bag of provisions. “No messages,” he reported. Then, seeing Sula’s state, he asked, “Something happened?”

  “I’ve become the Goddess of the Records Office,” Sula said.

  Macnamara thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Very good, my lady,” he said, and went to the refrigerator to put away the groceries.

  TWELVE

  Lady Michi’s dining room was large enough for the formal dinner parties that were part of the service life of a squadron commander, and was made to seem larger by ornate mirrors fashioned out of highly polished nickel-iron asteroid material, and by the murals that made the room seem to open up into a series of other rooms, each with windows that looked onto a distant horizon.

  Martinez wore full dress—which he would have done in any case—and found the squadcom dressed likewise. From her table, set for two, she looked up at Martinez with an expression of relief.

  “Oh, good,” she said, rising. “I wanted to be the first to invite you to a meal, so that I could warn you that they’re all formal here.”

  “Lord Captain Fletcher told me.”

  “You spoke to him, then? Please sit down, by the way.”

  Martinez placed his gloves on a side table, then sat in the chair that one of Lady Michi’s servants held for him. “I encountered the captain, along with one of the lieutenants, Lady Chandra Prasad.”

  A private smile touched the squadcom’s lips. “Yes. Well. I’m somewhat less formal than the lord captain, but he sets the style on the ship, so I thought you should be warned.” She looked up at the servant, an older, dignified, broad-faced woman. “Could you bring in the cocktails, Vandervalk?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  After Vandervalk made her way out, Lady Michi leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I should let you know about Prasad, by the way. In normal circumstances I’m not one to repeat gossip, but I wouldn’t want you to put a foot wrong here. It’s reported that Lady Chandra and the captain are, ah, intimates.”

  The sensations produced in Martinez were dominated by relief. “Ah—thank you, my lady. Not that I would, in any case, be…” Martinez paused as he tried to work out exactly how to tactfully reassure Lady Michi that he had no intention of cheating on her niece with the captain’s mistress, or indeed with anyone else.

  This road of virtue was proving a frustrating one, and not simply in the matter of continence. When interviewing servants, he’d found a young woman machinist who would have been perfect for the post, and he had been on the verge of taking her into his entourage when he realized that she was quite attractive and that everyone would assume he’d brought her along as his lover. With ill grace he had passed her over in favor of Ayutano.

  “Quite so,” Lady Michi said. “I just wanted to give you a warning just in case the…undercurrents…became a little troublesome.”

  Martinez knew all too well how troublesome the undercurrents around Chandra could be, and he was grateful for the news. “I thank you. And—as it happens—I have news of the family.”

  Lady Michi was delighted to discover that Terza was pregnant, and when Vandervalk returned with glasses and the cocktail pitcher, she was the first to offer a toast to the new Chen heir.

  Over dinner they talked of family and other innocuous matters. Martinez knew that Lady Michi was divorced, but not that she had two children at school in the Hone Reach, children whose liberty had been guaranteed by the Battle of Hone-bar. She drew out of Martinez a description of the fighting, and her questions were shrewd enough so that Martinez began to believe that here, at least, was a commander who knew her job.

  “And apropos the war,” Michi said at the end of the meal, “I may as well acquaint you with your duties.” She called up the wall display and flashed onto a map of the empire, Zanshaa in the center with the wormhole routes woven like lace around the capital.

  “As you’ve probably guessed,” she said, with a sidelong look, “the Fleet has adopted what I believe is now being called the Chen Plan.”

  Martinez tried not to sigh too heavily. “Naturally, my lady,” he said, “I support the plan fully.”

  Michi smiled. “My brother Maurice sent me an early copy of the plan,” he said, “when it still had your name on it—yours and Lady Sula’s, I recall. How is she, by the way?”

  “We’ve lost touch.”

  The squadron commander raised an eyebrow, but chose not to pursue the matter. “Maurice tells me, by the way, that it was Lord Tork who insisted on changing the name of the plan. Lord Tork seems to think that you’ve gained more celebrity than is proper for someone of your station.”

  Martinez attempted without success to restrain his indignation. He protested to himself that he didn’t even know Lord Tork. He’d only met Tork briefly, at an awards presentation. Why the hell had the chairman of the Fleet Control Board taken against him?

  Martinez spoke through clenched teeth. “Has Lord Chen any idea why Lord Tork has…has—”

  “Lord Tork is a person of fixed ideas and strong prejudices,” Michi said. Her tone combined amusement and sympathy.

  Martinez looked at her. “Does your ladyship have any notion how I might improve in his lordship’s opinion?” he asked.

  Lady Michi’s amusement grew. “Avoid any distinction for the rest of the war, I suppose,” she said.

  Martinez decided not to pursue this annoying topic, and he turned to the wormhole map displayed on the wall.

  “And our part of the plan, my lady?” he asked.

  Lady Michi suppressed her smile and turned to the map. “Once the Naxids are fully committed in the Zanshaa system,” she said, “Chenforce will leave Seizho by the Protipanu wormhole gate for raids into enemy rear areas, destroying commerce and any warships we encounter.”

  Protipanu. This was the destination Martinez had suspected when he’d heard that Chenforce was still decelerating after detaching from the fleet. Aside from being the place where the hitherto obscure Exploration Service Warrant Officer Severin had physically moved the wormhole out of the path of a Naxid squadron, Protipanu was an old brown dwarf with a highly reduced solar system: the shrunken state of the system’s gas giants made slingshot maneuvers and changes of course more difficult, and maneuvering in the system would require low initial velocities.

  “What’s the rest of the fleet going to be doing while we’re raiding?” Martinez asked.

  “That information is secret, even from me,” Michi said, “but from the hints I’ve been receiving from my circle of acquaintances, I believe your old Squadron Fourteen will be on a raid similar to ours. I’ve received no indication that Do-faq and Kangas are going on the offensive, so possibly they won’t be doing anything other than keeping between the Convocation and the Naxids.”

  Under the table, Martinez clenched a fist. If only the Control Board hadn’t insisted on his leaving Corona, it would be he who led
Squadron 14 against the enemy.

  “The Control Board has allowed me a remarkable degree of latitude,” the squadcom said. “I’m not to go near Naxas, Magaria, or Zanshaa, but otherwise I’m permitted to choose my own targets.” She spoke a few words to the video display, and a route traced in red along the wormhole map. “This is the preliminary route I’ve chosen. I would appreciate your comments when you’ve had a chance to study it.”

  “Very good, my lady.” Martinez’s eyes were already busy tracing the route. Protipanu, Mazdan, Koel, Aspa Darla, Bai-do, Termaine…the first three systems were obscure or underinhabited, but the route then debouched into a series of highly industrialized, heavily populated systems. Aspa Darla’s wealth came from two small, dense, heavy-metal-rich planets and equally rich asteroids; Bai-do’s accelerator ring had huge shipyards that were probably adding to the strength of the Naxid fleet; Termaine produced…well, Martinez wasn’t sure exactly what it produced, his astrography lessons were long ago, but he knew the system was rich.

  “Based on these targets, I’ll want you to create exercises…no, I believe the word is now ‘experiments.’” Michi gave him a conspiratorial smile, and Martinez felt a rising exaltation. Michi reached for her cup of coffee. “We want the best chances of disrupting the Naxid war effort while avoiding large-scale damage to civilian populations—we have to assume that most of the population is loyal, and we don’t want to drive them straight to the Naxids.”

  “True,” Martinez said, though in the end it hardly mattered what the population thought. No matter what their convictions in regard to the war, civilian populations would in the end have to submit to whichever fleet held the high ground above their worlds.

  Michi frowned at the display. “I’ll also want exercises based on encountering opposition in these systems. We don’t know where all the Naxid fleet elements are, particularly those eight ships that were in Protipanu, and in any case the Naxids may send formations after us once they figure out what we’re up to. So I’d like you to devise exercises based on any contingency.”

  “Very good, my lady,” Martinez said. “I’ll start working that up immediately.” This was the sort of assignment he could do easily, and his mind was already abuzz with the kind of diabolical complications he could introduce into these scenarios.

  She turned to him. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.

  “When would you need the first exercise?”

  “Shall I give you tomorrow to rest, and the day after to work it up? Say in three days.”

  “I’m sufficiently rested, my lady. Let’s say two days.”

  Michi nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, captain. If you’re confident in your estimations. Any other questions?”

  Martinez considered for a moment before answering. “Not at present, my lady.” And then one occurred to him. “By the way,” he said, “what happened to my predecessor? I assume you wouldn’t have left Harzapid without a tactical officer.”

  Sadness crossed Lady Michi’s features. “Lieutenant Kosinic was off the ship when the rebellion broke out, and in a part of the ring station hit by an antiproton beam. He was wounded—some head injuries, broken ribs and a broken arm—but when we departed Harzapid he insisted he’d recovered sufficiently to join us. But he died, unfortunately.” Michi looked away. “A sad business. I quite liked the young man.”

  Martinez felt his spine brushed by an eerie sense of responsibility. Sula had claimed he was the luckiest man in the universe, but he’d never thought his luck would reach out and strike down a complete stranger just so Martinez could have his job.

  The dinner ended shortly afterward, and Martinez returned to his cabin, where Alikhan waited with a cup of cocoa. “What do you think of Illustrious?” Martinez asked him.

  “A taut ship,” Alikhan said, “and a well-trained crew. The noncommissioned officers know their jobs. But no one understands the captain at all.”

  Martinez gave Alikhan a sly look. “Isn’t an officer supposed to keep up an air of mystery?”

  “Is he, my lord?” Alikhan, as he brushed Martinez’s tunic, gave the strong impression that no officer had ever been mysterious to him. “The captain’s a complete puzzle to the crew. And I don’t think they’re fond of him.”

  The heavy scent of cocoa rose in the room. Martinez reached for his cup.

  “If he painted little winged children all over their quarters,” Martinez said, “I wouldn’t blame them.”

  One morning Sula took her team shopping for clothing. She wanted clothes less suitable for the neighborhood in which the Fleet had put them, clothes a little more loud, a little more worn. She didn’t know the Zanshaa milieu well enough to know exactly what she was looking for, but thought she’d recognize it when she saw it.

  First she took her group on a long reconnaissance. The Terran neighborhood she chose backed onto a pool filled with old boats and canal barges that were being repaired by something called Sim’s Boatyard. The ripping noise of pneumatic hammers and riveters sounded in the air. The apartment buildings were prefabricated and old. The streets were crowded. There were people wandering over the worn paving who had obviously been sleeping on the streets, and the look of some of them made Macnamara hover protectively off Sula’s shoulder.

  Except for the clothing, this was very much like the Fabs, in Spannan, where Sula grew up. In the Fabs the mode involved stockings, felt boots, chunky ceramic jewelry, and puffy jackets sewn with rows of little silver chimes. Here, she saw, the style featured a brightly colored shirt with the collar worn outside a short jacket that belted tightly across the midsection, pegged trousers that belled out around the ankles, and shoes with thick wooden platform soles ornamented with carvings.

  Sula stepped into a used clothing store and began to page through the racks. Macnamara was dubious when Sula handed him the outfit she’d chosen for him. “I don’t know if I can carry this off,” he said. “I’m from Kupa. From the mountains. We’d make our money off the winter sports, and in the summer I’d herd my uncle’s sheep.”

  “I’ve seen you wear stupider stuff than this,” Sula said.

  Macnamara decided Sula had scored a point, and went to the changing room. When he came out, he looked like a shepherd with a very unusual style sense.

  Sula sighed. “Put on your regular clothes. You’ll have to be my hick cousin from the country till you can get used to wearing something like that.”

  Macnamara seemed relieved. Sula, remembering how he’d seemed perfectly at ease after a long hike across muddy fields in combat armor, decided that all this was going to take was practice.

  Engineer/1st Spence looked more at home in the local fashion. She had at least lived in a city most of her life, and accessorized with some gaudy costume jewelry and a tall velvet hat that looked as if it had been deliberately sat on—the damage was a little too perfect to be accidental.

  Sula wobbled a little on her platform shoes as she clacked out onto the pavement. Military life had accustomed her to flats.

  Spence had a good eye, she decided. Sula spotted a number of the crumpled velvet hats in the next street.

  “Uhh, Lucy?” Macnamara said from over her shoulder. Sula’s current ID, one she had made for herself, listed her as Lucy Daubrac, and the team were supposed to use the cover names and not ranks or titles.

  “Yeah, Patrick?”

  “You know, you walk like an officer in the Fleet. Spine straight, shoulders back. You should try, like, slouching more.”

  She flashed him a smile from over her shoulder. Her hick cousin, the unemployed shepherd, wasn’t so stupid after all.

  “Thanks,” she said, then she stuck her hands in her trouser pockets and slumped her shoulders.

  Sula called up a list of apartments for rent on her hand communicator—her jacket didn’t have a sleeve display—but the one she chose was found by a sign in the window: TWO BEDROOMS, FURN., W/TOILET.

  Her sense of self-respect and order demanded, at the very least, a toilet she didn
’t have to share with strangers.

  There was no concierge, let alone a doorman, just an elderly Daimong janitor who lived in a basement flat, and who let them view the apartment. The place smelled of mildew, the furniture sagged, some child had scrawled over the face of the wall video, and there was a creepy purple stain on the walls.

  “If we take it,” Sula said, “will you paint the place?”

  “I’ll give you some brushes and paint,” the Daimong said. “Then you paint the place.” With apparent satisfaction the Daimong peeled a swatch of dead skin from his neck, then let it drift to the worn carpet.

  “How much is it again?”

  “Three a month.”

  “Zeniths?” Sula scorned. “Or septiles?”

  The Daimong made a gonging noise meant to indicate indifference. “You can call the manager and argue with him if you want,” he said. “I’ll give you his number.”

  The manager, a bald Terran, insisted on three zeniths. “Have you seen this place?” Sula asked, knowing full well he hadn’t in years, and probably not ever. She panned the hand comm’s camera over the room. “Who’s going to pay three zeniths for this wreck? Just look at that stain! And let me show you the kitchen—it’s unspeakable.”

  Sula argued the manager down to two zeniths per month, with a two-zenith damage deposit and three months paid in advance. She paid the janitor, dragging the cash out of her pocket and counting out the durable plastic money repeatedly, as if it were all she had, and she then insisted on his giving her a receipt.

  The Daimong ambled out, leaving behind the sweet scent of his dying flesh, and Sula turned to look at her team. Neither Macnamara nor Spence seemed happy with their new home.

  “Uhh, Lucy?” Macnamara said. “Why did we take this place?”

  “Some cleaning and paint and it’ll be all right,” Sula said. “Besides, did you notice we have a back door off the kitchen? It leads right onto the back-stairs landing—it’s our escape route, if we need one.”