Chac frowned, thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Chu-sa, be mindful of this mess hall—always leave one seat empty. Always.”
“What suggests this?” She shifted the binders under the tray and started picking at her sliced fruit.
“Saving yours, kyo, there are only twenty-five seats.” He indicated the tables and Koshō saw this was indeed the case. “The last to sit will be—must be—in the thirteenth chair, regardless of how they enter.”
“Ah,” she said, suddenly realizing who he must be. “You are our hafuri priest.”
“No!” He shook his bald head abruptly. “The jichinsai rites to consecrate the hull will be performed by others, before you leave the yards. I am your fitting officer, kyo.”
But our hafuri bonze should … “You’re not our fitting officer,” she said, voice suddenly cold. “You’re our superstitions officer.”
Chac’s impassive face seemed to congeal, and Susan bit down on further angry words. That was not polite.
“Starmen are … superstitious, Chu-sa,” the Mayan hissed, trying to keep his voice down. Koshō realized she’d cut him to the quick with the heedless statement. “Do not tempt fate! You bring this ship bad luck enough, kyo, without provoking Camaxtli with your rudeness!”
“Bad luck?” Susan’s eyes narrowed to bare slits.
“Not that you are a woman!” Chac hissed, standing his ground. Though Koshō would never be accounted tall, she had a good two inches over the tiny Mayan. But he did not flinch away from her. “Your last ship died, her crew disgraced, captain sent down to the List … you think no one here knows what happened at Jagan? And you survived? Were promoted? How dearly bought was that last golden skull, Chu-sa? Did your family pay?—Or did you?”
“I see.” Koshō felt still and cold, the Mayan’s words a well-placed dart straight to the heart. She turned, sweeping the mess with a sharp, piercing glance. Every officer sat still as a statue—staring at the two of them in varying degrees of interest, horror, and uncertainty. “Rumor is fleet of foot, they say, and your ears will be filled with all manner of calamities.” Her voice echoed from the unfinished shoji. “I will say this—and no more—the Cornuelle was well and truly caught in a trap at Jagan. Her captain taken by surprise, myself trapped planet-side when the ship was stricken. The Admiralty made many excuses for us, but none of them are the truth. We had been out on patrol too long. We were far past tired, and our ship had worn down to nothing … a stupid, deadly mistake her captain rues to this day. His soul was in that ship, and now—with Cornuelle sent to the breaking yards—he is lost as well.”
Koshō inclined her head towards the ensigns sitting near the main door. “Remember this lesson. Chu-sa Hadeishi was one of the finest ship-handlers you could ever meet—and even he was caught out—defeated—by an enemy whose first weapon was patience. The odds always turn against you.”
“So is my belief, kyo,” Chac said, in a voice too low for the others to hear. “And what did you learn from this excellent teacher?”
Koshō’s right hand tightened on the breakfast tray. The Mayan matched her frigid stare without flinching, then raised one eyebrow minutely, bowed, and made his way out of the room. Susan did not watch him go, but stalked to her seat and sat down.
Koshō took two deep breaths, closed her eyes for a moment, and then set to eating the rice pudding. A fine breakfast with my officers, she thought, chewing mechanically. Very fine.
* * *
The next week passed in a blur of construction review, sitting in with Thai-i Goroemon while the Logistics officer bartered with Supply Service to fill the ship’s holds with perishables and spare parts, and the lengthy business of actually meeting all of her department heads and their staff. In all the confusion of the tribunal at Toroson and the hurry to get to her new command, Susan had neglected to obtain the services of a manservant or—as she might have claimed—a maid. She’d always considered Hadeishi’s maintenance of old Yejin some kind of a charitable arrangement … until now, when she woke one morning, twenty-one days after reporting aboard the Naniwa, and found she had not a single clean uniform left in her closet. The ship, of course, boasted a fine, modern laundry, but someone had to gather up the dirty clothes and send them off to be cleaned.
Her comm chimed politely, reminding her that Thai-sho Kasir—the operational commander of the Yards—was expecting her on v-cast within the hour. A whole set of Fleet orders packets had arrived during shipnight and they required discussion with the Zosen officers responsible for the Naniwa’s construction, as well as other personnel issues she would have to manage herself.
Grandmother Suchiru would put her cane to the soles of my feet for this.… Koshō stiffened at the thought of facing a superior Fleet officer in a less-than-immaculate uniform. All night and all day. What to do? Improvise. I will improvise.
Frowning, Susan commed the laundry and asked the petty officer on duty to send someone around to collect everything, then she found a reasonably clean kimono and clipped her hair back.
Laughing a little at herself, Koshō sat at her desk, woke up her main comp, and unfolded three v-panes on the desk surface. Chapultepec lower form never taught a better lesson than this!
Her stylus skipped across the control interface in a blur as she called up a skinning module, mapped her proper dress whites onto a splice of the v-cast feed routed back from the pickup nodes to pane two, then set pane three to show her what the admiral would see.
Six minutes before the v-cast started, she was finished tweaking herself and the door cycled open to admit one of the midshipmen.
“Kyo?”
“Everything is over there, Jushin-tzin.” She watched him for a moment, toying with a pair of reassignment packets from the bigger pile, as he bustled around, gathering up uniform tunics. A thought occurred to her while she was waiting. “Ko-hosei—do you know if our fitting officer is still aboard?”
“Chac-tzin?” Jushin’s expression was carefully neutral. “I believe so, Chu-sa.”
“Excellent.” Koshō considered the packets sitting on her desk, then shook her head. I will just have to make do with the resources at hand.
* * *
Two hours later, Susan had an excellent view of the construction frame enclosing the six-hundred-meter length of the Naniwa. Beyond the spindly web of metal and the hundreds of canisters queuing to be unloaded into the cargo bays, the striated orb of Jupiter blotted out most of the visible sky. The constellation of orbital habitats holding station between Europa and the gas giant were off to her left, though invisible save for the tiny moving flares of shuttles or cargo lighters trolling between the wide-spread components of the Akbal complex.
Koshō stepped carefully, wending her way along the hexacomb pattern of the shipskin tiles. Her combat armor boots were magnetized, as were the narrow walkways installed for the final fit-out of the ship. Primary hull construction had been completed early the previous year—the last sixteen months had been spent by the Zosen installing crew compartments, weapon systems, fuel bladders, and so on.
With the loading bays and internal atmosphere operational, the shipskin had been laid down—a quarter-million tiles according to one of the binders now filling up the tiny office in her quarters—and punched down to the shipnet. Each tile was composed of a multi-phase composite which could deform—within limits, of course—upon command. Reflective or refractive surfaces could deploy within milliseconds, absorptive ones as well. They were tough, too. A diamond-bit saw could barely scuff their surface, much less cut the material.
But the Chu-sa knew there were gangs of yard specialists running hundreds of tests against the skin, looking for defective linkages, bad command interfaces, or skunky tiles which had—for unknown reasons—lost their ability to deform with acceptable speed. Her boots trampling on the quiescent surface would trigger alarms and lead to unnecessary work.
We have enough to do, she thought pensively. Naniwa was still at least thirteen days from being spaceworthy.
The marine walking point in front of her raised a warning hand. They had entered a region of the shipskin where long radiating fins ran out from the hull, making a queer sort of forest—all black limbs and leaf-like extrusions frilled with thousands of tiny heat-exchanging surfaces.
“Priest dead ahead, kyo,” Socho Juarez muttered across the local comm. Susan could tell the sergeant major was unhappy, but who wanted their commander skylarking around outside the ship’s armor—even here, deep in Anáhuac space—when they could be safely parked in Command, out of harm’s way? “Chu-sa, do you want some privacy?”
Susan shook her head.
You’re sure? he signed. There are Mice everywhere.
Koshō almost laughed aloud. The Mice are always watching, she replied with a deft movement of her gloved fingers. “Feel free to listen in. But if you are worried—I will be polite.”
The officers complement on the Naniwa—including junior officers—stood at almost a hundred men and women. After her discussion with the Mayan hafuri, their attitude towards her had cooled noticeably. When she’d first come aboard, most of the five-hundred-plus crew were already hard at work, so Susan had found herself out of synch with her subordinates. There had been so much to do, however, they had started to gel into something like the team she expected.
But nothing like we had on the Cornuelle. Koshō knew that had been rare—Fleet crews usually had a high rate of turnover as specialists rotated out and the officers were promoted. A ship’s complement which remained substantially intact for three years—particularly under combat conditions—was almost unheard of save in the Clan-supplied squadrons. She missed the comfort long familiarity provided.
Proper respect for the Chu-sa was absolutely necessary for the proper functioning of the ship, but there was an uneasy tension Susan could not ignore, particularly when the fitting officer was not in her chain of command. The Fleet was dependent on the Zosen—Construction and Supply Service—but did not control the logistics arm of the Imperial military. Like the Army, they were held separate from one another by the Emperor’s decree. Each Kaigun Kyo reported directly to the Military Council. Her rudeness, therefore, had exacerbated a natural division between Zosen and Fleet.
Again, grandmother would have illuminated this error with a bōken or perhaps a kettle.
The marine signed an all-clear and Koshō stepped past him, around one of the towering fins, and onto an open area among the heat radiators much like a meadow in a forest of black battle-steel. Oc Chac was waiting, hands clasped behind his engineer’s construction suit, helmet turned towards the vast eye of Jupiter burning down upon them. His mirrored faceplate glowed amber and red, as though filled with fire.
“Chac-tzin.” Susan waved off the marine, who faded back into the “forest,” his combat armor dappling to match shadow to shadow. Most Fleet officers seeking a private conversation—particularly of ship-command rank—would have ordered the sergeant-major to stay aboard ship and out of their hair, but Koshō had spent far too long beyond the Frontier to go anywhere without proper security precautions. Indeed, she hadn’t even thought of not having Juarez accompany her. “I understand we’ve finished final inspections on all systems save the shipskin and the main drive coil?”
Chac nodded, but said nothing. In response, she gave him an abbreviated bow and turned to look upon the face of Jove as well.
“I would like to apologize for my behavior the other morning. It was rude.”
The Mayan shifted a little, and Koshō could feel his attention focus upon her.
“I understand,” she continued, “that you have been most diligent in your efforts to see construction completed and all systems readied for our trials. Engineering, in fact, sings your praises and promises to spill a thousand cups of octli beer in your honor. Which, from my experience with engineers, is heady tribute indeed.”
There was a short, abrupt snorting sound. He laughs. Well, now I have him.
“These same engineers pressed me, in a most unseemly way, to let you finish your work. I must admit, as I’ve never served on a new ship before, that I do not fully understand your role.”
“Truth, kyo,” the Mayan barked, almost against his will. “Your service jacket bears such a statement out.…” Now he was facing her, and Susan could make out his eyes as shadows within shadows. “The Cornuelle was far past her time.”
He paused. Koshō could hear him click his teeth together. Thinking, is he?
“This Chu-sa Hadeishi of yours was competent—this I have heard from Painal the Runner, and having read the Book, would believe. But he was reckless! Ah, by the Gods, Chu-sa, he was a madman!”
For a moment Susan struggled, trying to frame a proper response. How can he say this! Mitsuharu was spinning gold from straw for six months! How … Her shoulders sagged for an instant, before she straightened up again. How could he have risked all our lives? He did. He dared Hachiman over and over again … even at Jagan he was still maneuvering for a way to stay out on patrol. Even at the end, when he and the ship and the crew were past exhaustion.…
“He was.” The words were harsh, brittle, metallic in her mouth. But true. “And so he paid, in the end, in blood—as we all pay.”
“Huh!” Chac wrinkled up his prominent nose and clicked his teeth sharply. “Do you see why the crew fear you, Chu-sa? Why they are on edge? Why my work here is crucial for your success at trials?”
“So all say.” Koshō spread her hands, accepting fate. “And are we ready? Could I take Naniwa into transit tomorrow? Could I take her into battle in a month?”
“Battle, kyo? In a month!” The Mayan laughed out loud. “Oh, Chu-sa, you know she is not ready, the crew is not ready! Six or seven months of working up, running the engines through a full maintenance cycle … then you can go hunting! A month.” He chuckled.
Susan removed a folded orders packet from the document pouch on her suit gunrig. She held it up, letting the light of Jupiter gleam ruddy red and gold from the Fleet seal.
“We have received deployment orders,” she said quietly. “To join a battle-group forming up off Europa right now. Chu-sho Xocoyotl is already aboard the Tokiwa, and the other ships are arriving in short order. Naniwa is expected to join them within five days, fully supplied and ready for action.”
“Hsst! Impossible!”
“Tell that to the admiral. Will your work be done in time? Will everyone cease giving me such foreboding looks and turn their minds to proper work?”
The Mayan’s chiseled old face twisted into a grimace. “Chu-sa, you don’t believe they have cause to fear? Even with all that has happened to you, even with the engineer’s mighty tribute?” For an instant, it seemed as if he would spit in disgust, but then held back. “You called me the superstitions officer, as though such a thing had no weight in this world!”
Susan almost took a step back, hearing the fury in the old man’s voice. “Instruct me, then, Zosen, for I have little time left to waste, not with the admiral—”
“Waste, kyo?” Chac cut her off with a harsh bark. “Waste is the root of my business, and the fullness of your ignorance. Listen!” He stopped abruptly, his anger having passed as quickly as it had come. “Listen, kyo.”
Koshō said nothing, waiting patiently. Grandmother had spent a long time teaching her to grow still, to pause in the instant of action, waiting for balance to emerge from chaos.
“The mind of a warrior must be clear, kyo,” Chac began, “undiluted by fear, unrestricted by disorderly thoughts. If he hurries the throw, his aim ever goes awry. You know this, you are samurai. Your family is noble with a long tradition, a great lineage.… Your blindness in this matter is of great concern—both to me, and to your men.
“So listen. There is no mechanism yet devised by man which exceeds the complexity of a ship of war. Our Naniwa is small, as the great ships go, yet she holds within her every kind of system, every kind of compnet, sensor, power plant, engine of destruction we can devise. Her armor may be light
er than a dreadnaught, she may lack so many launch-racks as a carrier—but everything is present in her. A capsulation of all we can build … and she is fragile. A delicate bubble.”
Chac lifted his face to the vast, molten orb hanging over their heads. “Despite all her shielding and armor and bronzed hull, if Naniwa were plunged into the heart of Jupiter—tidal pressures would crush her shell, incinerate her inhabitants, and leave nothing but dust.”
His hand moved, indicating the radiating fins surrounding them, almost invisible against the ebon backdrop of open space. “If the thermocouples fail, we roast inside, broiled by our own waste heat. If Engineering does not balance containment properly, a fusion rupture obliterates us. In battle, the slings, arrows, and stones of the enemy will seek us—and one penetrator through the point-defense leaves us an expanding cloud of superheated plasma. Everywhere, failure is waiting to consume us.
“All this, beside the unforgiving environment of open space … a hideous broil of hard radiation, micrometeoroid swarms, gravitational eddies—you have seen what happens to a ship which loses transit shielding in the run-up to gradient! There is no soft margin upon which to fall, not for us.
“Thus the Zosen crawling through every compartment, access way, and control space on this ship. All of them seeking to find and eliminate as many sources of failure in this machine as they can. Your crew, too, is deep in the work. Preparing to take her out—then the real learning begins! And I am here, Chu-sa, trying to keep you alive with my … superstitions.”
The Mayan leaned close, the faceplate of his helmet almost touching Susan’s.
“What kills more ships, Captain, than pitiless space? More than microscopic black holes, the teeming ships of the Megair or Khaid or Kroomākh? More than solar storms lancing out from the heart of some unseen sun to overwhelm shielding and armor?
“What is my enemy, Chu-sa Koshō?”
Susan tilted her head; her face a quiet, still mask. “Tell me.”
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