The Accidental War

by Walter Jon Williams

  And what could Tork, Pezzini, and the Fleet Control Board do about it? They ran the Fleet, not the Office of the Censor, and Vipsania was intelligent enough not to run afoul of the latter.

  He supposed that the Fleet could forbid any of its officers from cooperating with the project, but that would merely give Vipsania more freedom to speculate—or simply to invent the stories she liked.

  Indeed, Lieutenant Lam’s face was already showing a degree of alarm at the knowledge of Vipsania’s project. Martinez would be very interested to view the contents of Lam’s next transmission to his superior, but it wasn’t too hard to guess.

  Martinez raised his glass to Vipsania. “I’ll be happy to cooperate, of course.”

  She raised her glass in reply. Lieutenant Lam smiled weakly.

  Martinez looked down and saw that his beans had been replaced by the paw of a sweet trynti, a fruit-eating nocturnal marsupial, adorable but edible, native to Zanshaa’s southern hemisphere. Trying not to think of the big-eyed plush trynti doll that slept with his daughter every night, he employed his knife and fork to remove the claws and ate the paw whole. Whatever fruit had sustained the trynti during its brief lifetime had given the flesh a distinct sweetish flavor, familiar but somehow elusive.

  “Figs,” Lady Fitzpatrick said, sighing with rapture. “The trynti’s been fed exclusively on figs.”

  “Quite,” said Martinez.

  “My lord captain.” Martinez looked at the speaker, on his far left, whom he recognized as Lord Jeremy Foote. Foote was a tall, imposing blond specimen, with a distinctive cowlick on the right side of his head, and had been an annoying presence in Martinez’s life for years. The most annoying thing about him was that he was a very good racing pilot, the best the Apogee Club had.

  “I wonder, Captain Martinez,” Foote went on, in his insufferable aristocratic drawl. “I wonder if the sight of Vandrith is a cause of nostalgia for you?”

  Martinez didn’t understand the question and had the sense that Foote was luring him into some kind of trap.

  “No,” he said. “Why would it be?”

  “Because it was the occasion of your first step upon the public stage.” Foote turned to Lady Fitzpatrick. “Lord Captain Martinez commanded the attempted rescue of Ehrler Blitsharts, you know.”

  “Ah yes.” Lady Fitzpatrick nodded. “A terrible tragedy. I knew Lord Ehrler well.” She shook her head. “His poor dog.”

  Ehrler Blitsharts had been one of the most celebrated pilots of his day, always accompanied in races by his loyal dog, Orange, who was at least as popular as he was. During the Vandrith Challenge seven years ago, his yacht had inexplicably accelerated into the void on a day when Martinez happened to be on duty.

  “I supervised the rescue from the Commandery,” Martinez clarified. “I was on Fleet Commander Enderby’s staff at the time.”

  “Yes,” Foote said. “It was of course Lady Sula who performed the actual rescue. Blitsharts and the dog were dead, naturally, but that was hardly Lady Sula’s fault.”

  Martinez tried to keep his face impassive. He hardly wanted to think of Caroline Sula at this moment, in this company.

  “I knew her parents,” said Lady Fitzpatrick. “Quite lovely people, the handsomest couple imaginable. I was so surprised when they were arrested and executed in that dreadful way.”

  “I served with Lady Sula briefly during the war,” Foote said. “A very sharp intelligence, and of course the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen. Such a presence!” He smiled at the memory. “But rather a prickly personality—I wished to know her better, but she kept me at arm’s length.”

  “Shows her good taste,” Martinez said, and plastered a completely false smile on his face as an indication to bystanders that he didn’t mean it.

  Foote nodded in easy agreement. “Captain Martinez had better luck, I believe.” He turned to Lady Fitzpatrick and took a deliberate taste of wine. “During the war I had the duty of censoring the correspondence that Lady Sula had with Lord Captain Martinez—and such a passionate correspondence it was! Such fervor! A true meeting of minds.”

  Lady Fitzpatrick gave Martinez a sidelong glance. “Indeed,” she murmured.

  “But then of course the Chen heir lost her fiancé at First Magaria, and Captain Martinez maneuvered to secure the prize like the bold captain he is,” Foote said. He turned to Martinez. “Do you hear much from Lady Sula these days?”

  The moment awkward, Martinez thought quickly. Foote had made him look like a complete unprincipled mercenary, deserting Sula for a richer, better connected heiress. As if Sula hadn’t walked out on him. As if she hadn’t—well, he couldn’t discuss that here, not without seeming a complete cad.

  “You forget that Lady Sula and I served together,” Martinez said. “At Second Magaria, and Naxas.”

  “But separate squadrons, though, eh?”

  Not really, he wanted to say. Because though she commanded a light squadron and he served as tactical officer aboard another vessel, they had fought brilliantly together, their ships moving as if they were parts of a single organism. As if they were in telepathic contact. As if they were in some kind of mystical union.

  Martinez feigned confusion. “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” he said. “We’re both captains—we can hardly serve on the same ship. Our appointments were ‘as the service requires,’ as we say.”

  “Quite,” said Foote. He leaned back, content to have blackguarded Martinez in front of this select company. “And speaking of captains,” he added, “I’ve just been promoted to that august rank myself.”

  Martinez murmured congratulations. Foote was among the exclusive breed of aristocratic officers whose career path had been determined long before they entered the academy, each promotion and posting arranged by relatives, friends, and clients in the service. The family had planned for him to ascend to fleet commander as soon as decency and Fleet regulations permitted.

  But war had interrupted what should have been Foote’s smooth rise. The uncle who had taken Foote on as a sublieutenant had been killed at First Magaria, and various other patrons were killed, captured, or shifted away from posts where they could help him.

  “I’m getting a command as well,” Foote said. “They’re giving me Vigilance, rebuilding at Comador, and attached to Light Squadron Eight.”

  Vigilance was a light cruiser, Martinez knew. Foote, as a junior captain, would outrank the lieutenant-captains on the frigates that made up the rest of the squadron. Which meant that Foote would be a squadron commander, for all that he didn’t yet have the rank.

  Apparently Foote’s inevitable rise to high command was back on track. Jealousy clawed at Martinez with adamantine talons.

  “Congratulations, my lord,” he managed.

  “Thank you, Lord Captain!” Foote said cheerfully.

  And then somebody down the table, one of Foote’s many toadies undoubtedly, began to sing the “Congratulations” round from “Lord Fizz Takes a Holiday,” and everyone had to join in. Foote just sat back and beamed, accepting the commendation as if it was entirely his due—which, according to law and custom, it certainly was.

  Soak it up, Foote. Because winning the Challenge Cup won’t be so easy for you, Martinez thought. Tomorrow, I’m going to fry the nose off your boat.

  As the song died away Martinez felt a soft touch on his shoulder, and he turned to discover a tall Daimong looming over him, and behind him Lord Orghoder.

  “Lord Captain,” said Orghoder. “May we speak to you privately for a moment?”

  “I’m at your service.”

  The conversation took place in a small salon off the banquet room, paneled and carpeted and made comfortable by aesa-leather furniture. There was a heavy smell of tobacco in the room, and cigar cutters, matches, and a hookah waited on a table, above which were placed the blazoned private humidors of the club’s members. The Daimong commandeered the wall display and brought up an image of a yacht blasting past a satellite, the latter a blazing beacon
in the reflected light of the yacht’s streaming plasma tail.

  Martinez had been trying to remember the Daimong’s name. Like all Daimong she was tall and cadaverous, hairless and with a fixed, round-eyed expression that a human might read equally as horror, surprise, or fury. Ichtha, Martinez thought. Lady Ichtha . . . Something. He knew she was one of the stewards of the Ion Club.

  “I regret to say that the Apogee Club has filed a protest about the Crucible race,” Lady Ichtha said. Like all Daimong, her voice was sonorous, like chiming bells.

  “The Crucible race was two months ago,” Martinez pointed out.

  “Unfortunately, the Apogee is within their rights,” Orghoder said. “The protest involves your Captain Kelly, and the Apogee maintains they have only now discovered the violation.”

  “The Apogee Club has nothing better to do than to obsessively examine recordings of past races?”

  “I’m sure you have been viewing past races yourself, Lord Captain,” said Orghoder. “We all study our opponents’ tactics, do we not?”

  Which was true, so Martinez turned to the display. “What does Apogee claim to have discovered?”

  Lady Ichtha’s sonorous voice made the other club’s accusation sound like a song. “They say that Captain Kelly failed to properly tag Satellite 11.”

  During the race, all the competitors had to speed past a number of satellites, and they were required to pass within a certain distance of them.

  “That makes no sense at all,” Martinez said. “The satellite itself registered Kelly’s pass.”

  “Apogee maintains that the satellite was in error,” chimed Lady Ichtha. “They have analyzed the parallax of the background stars in this video, and they claim that their computations show that Captain Kelly passed outside the allowable limit. We have reviewed their calculations and have found no”—she offered a diffident chime—“no error.”

  “I protest this underhanded attempt to disqualify one of Corona’s captains,” Martinez said. “Has this method ever been used in the past?”

  “It seems to be an innovation,” Orghoder admitted. “But the stewards and I will meet later this evening to review the data. Your protest is noted and will receive equal consideration with that of the Apogee Club.”

  “Thank you,” Martinez said, as his heart began drifting toward his boots. He knew perfectly well what was going on—the upstart Coronas were being sabotaged by the established clubs. They were disqualifying Corona’s most successful captain at the last minute in hopes of causing chaos in the club’s organization and putting a less experienced captain in Kelly’s place.

  If you can’t win, cheat. He really shouldn’t have expected anything else.

  “In any case,” Orghoder continued, “I thought it only fair to give you warning, so that you could inform Captain Kelly that she may be scratched tomorrow. And you should also inform your next in line, ah—”

  “Captain Severin,” Martinez said.

  “Severin? Oh dear.” Orghoder shook his furry head. “Well, I understand he is very promising.”

  Martinez eyed Orghoder narrowly. “He is. I would also like a copy of Apogee’s protest. I have friends who are astronomers and mathematicians, and I would like them to review this data.”

  Orghoder hesitated. “Ah,” he said. “It would be a shame if this controversy were paraded before people outside our circle.”

  I’m already outside your circle, Martinez thought. “If this protest succeeds,” he said, “you’ll have to release the data in any case. There are a dozen or more representatives from sports networks and the sporting press on this ship, and they’ll all want to know why one of the most successful captains was disqualified on the eve of the race.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Orghoder licked his fangs. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He gestured at Lady Ichtha, who sent a copy of the data to Martinez’s hand comm.

  “Thank you,” Martinez said. And then he returned to the banquet room to make his grim preparations for the next day’s race.

  He had no doubt that Apogee’s protest would be upheld.

  His only consolation was that he planned to beat them anyway.

  “My lords and ladies,” said Lord Orghoder. “I present today’s challenge course!”

  Holographic displays flashed into existence above each of twelve tall, round tables, and a much larger hologram appeared overhead. Martinez looked at the course, then gestured at the image to tilt it at a better angle.

  “Interesting,” said Kelly, as she leaned forward with her elbows on the table. She was a long-limbed, black-eyed young woman with a bright, blazing smile. Technically she was Lieutenant Lady Benedicta Kelly, but she disliked her forename and never used it. During the war, she had served as a cadet and pinnace pilot under Martinez. They had even been lovers, for at least an hour, during the breathless escape after Martinez had stolen the frigate Corona during the mutiny at Magaria. The proprieties had been restored shortly thereafter, but Martinez had retained an affection for Kelly that he hoped came across as completely disinterested. Still, when he’d heard that Kelly’s career had stalled due to her single patron having been killed in the war, he’d been pleased to recruit her as one of the Coronas.

  She had more than fulfilled his trust, becoming over three seasons the best pilot in the club, and the captain most likely to win this year’s Captains’ Championship, as the pilot with the highest score.

  Until, of course, the unfair disqualification, which had been duly reported that morning—the timing perfectly coordinated so Martinez couldn’t make an appeal before the race. Kelly had taken the news philosophically, and Martinez promptly snared her for his support team. For which he felt a pang of guilt, since Severin surely needed the help more than he did.

  He cast a glance in Severin’s direction and saw the young officer frowning at his display, while the three members of his support team spoke animatedly around him. Shushanik Severin had done well in the races in which he’d been entered, but as he was also a captain in the Exploration Service, he’d been on active duty for part of the season and missed several races.

  Well. Martinez would have to do the job himself, along with Lady Kosch Altasz, Corona’s third pilot in the race. Altasz was a Torminel from a provincial family whose Fleet career had stalled due to lack of influence. She was a ferocious competitor, though, and stood just behind Kelly in Corona’s rankings. Martinez could count on her to help punish the Apogees for their outrageous protest.

  He turned his attention back to his own display. The rules allowed him to study the course for exactly one hour, and to plot his track along with the help of three members of his support team. This year’s Challenge Cup race would consist of three complete orbits of Vandrith, with the racers required to pass within range of a host of satellites placed around the gas giant. Each satellite had to be passed at least once. But the path from satellite to satellite was strewn with Vandrith’s twelve moons, which could either be obstacles or provide a gravity assist for acceleration or deceleration. And in order to make the whole business even more challenging, the satellites were programmed to maneuver randomly.

  All of which was meant to keep the pilots alert and improvising.

  Of course the colossal accelerations and decelerations did the opposite, exhausting the pilots and dulling their minds and reactions. Even the most skilled yachtsman could suffer a blackout or miscalculate a course, and this unpredictability—and inherent danger for the pilot—was why yacht racing had a vast audience throughout the imperium, even among people who had never left the planet of their birth.

  He saw that the race would start and end at Vandrith’s twelfth moon, romantically named V12. So long as he tagged every satellite, his precise course was up to him. Mentally he threaded a path through the tangle of satellites—he dared not point, for fear someone on another team would be able to work out his plans.

  “Oh look,” said Kelly. Her black eyes were shining. “V3.”

  Martinez’s eyes traced a path
to the moon.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

  “Eleven-second warning!”

  The call came just as Martinez’s racing boat Laredo flew out of the shadow of the moon and into the light of Shaamah. Ahead the sun winked off the skins of other racing yachts, all in an arc stretching around the moon.

  The moon’s bright terminator scrolled beneath Martinez, black on one side, wispy green on the other. Displays flared around him. Calculations sped through his mind.

  The twelve racing yachts, three from each club, were in orbit around Vandrith’s twelfth moon. They had been waiting for the eleven-second warning, which was triggered randomly in the Timekeeper’s boat by the unpredictable decay of a minute amount of radium-226 into radon-222. The yachts, which had been spaced evenly in their orbits, were now free to maneuver; but none could actually break orbit until the eleven seconds had expired and the race was officially on its way.

  Impatience urged Martinez to add delta-vee, but he knew that he couldn’t just yet—it would risk breaking orbit too early and being forced to return to swing around V12 again.

  In the rearward display he saw engine flares. Boats coming up from behind him.

  Precious seconds ticked by while his own eagerness warred in his mind with calculation. Then, finally, he felt free to shove the throttle forward with his left hand, and he felt the kick of acceleration as antimatter flared into gamma rays and pi-mesons. The pale green atmosphere of V12 scrolled rapidly under him. He saw engine flares ahead.

  A computer could have made the calculation for him, but those sorts of computers were forbidden in this kind of race. He and the other pilots would have to plot their courses on the jump, based on whatever plans they had made during the hour-long view of the course.

  A tone sounded in his headphones. “The race is on! No false starts! No foul!” Kelly’s voice was loud in his earphones.