“Certainly.”
“The Fleet’s official history is going through what is supposed to be a final revision, and we’ve heard some of the changes that are being made. So we thought we’d have you address them—head off Tork and his minions.”
Martinez felt a flush of pleasure. “I’d be delighted to thwart the Supreme Commander in any way. Can you send me the questions?”
“It’ll look better if your answers don’t seem rehearsed. And you should wear the same uniform as last time, and we’ll interview you in the same room at your palace.”
He nodded. “With the racing season over I’m reasonably free, not to say indolent. Send Miss Saperstein around whenever is convenient, and I’ll try to sound as unrehearsed as I can.”
Echoing from the high ceiling came the sound of an orchestra tuning. Martinez walked with his sister and Lord Oda in the direction of Roland, who was frowning at something on his hand comm. Roland dictated a brief message in reply, then put the device away.
The Martinez Palace bustled around them. It was a new structure, built on the footprint of an older palace owned by Lord Akthan, a Naxid rebel who with most of his family was executed after the war.
The Martinez family, when they had first arrived in Zanshaa City, had been cautious about the way they intruded upon the stately rituals of the capital. They knew they were interlopers, and they didn’t want to call too much attention to themselves too early in the game. Therefore they had rented an old palace in one of the less fashionable districts of the High City. Carefully they probed the crust of the city, looking for cracks.
But the war had, for a while, changed all the rules and thrown the whole family into prominence. Four of the five siblings had married into the highest strata of the Peer hierarchy. Roland had become a convocate, and his brother a successful military leader. For Roland, the future Lord Martinez, to build his own palace no longer seemed presumptuous.
Still, the palace wasn’t on the Boulevard of the Praxis, where the most elite clans resided, but one street to the south, on the Street of Righteous Peace. Roland preferred not to push himself too far forward, especially as his brother, with the Corona Club, was garnering massive amounts of attention throughout the empire, and equally massive amounts of disapproval.
The building was in the conservative but monumental Tanyl style, the same architectural school chosen by the Shaa overlords for the Great Refuge and the Couch of Eternity, possibly because it reflected the proportions of their own towering, massive bodies. Square, rather squat pillars supported a portico in front, and the main body of the building hunched beneath a roof that overflowed the walls like the cap of a mushroom. Gazing upon the street were windows that weren’t quite rectangular, and weren’t quite oval, either. Martinez thought the windows reminded him uncomfortably of eyes. The palace as a whole seemed to crouch beneath its shadowing roof, ready to spring upon the unwary world—not unlike his family, now that he came to think of it.
The building had been constructed of pink limestone imported all the way from Chee, a planet the Martinez family were developing. The polished limestone resembled marble and served as a massive, public, unavoidable advertisement for Chee’s exports. Indoors, the rooms were tall and proportioned more to humans than to the vast, slack-skinned frames of the Shaa conquerors. In the reception room the eyelike windows brought the light of Shaamah in to the sparkling crystal glasses, the softly glowing porcelain, the polished parquet floors, and the fine wood veneers on the wainscoting. Fine art occupied the walls or stood on pedestals.
Though they might be found in a private study or two, there were no portraits of ancestors on the walls of the public rooms. There were no Martinez ancestors the High City would have considered important enough to look at.
Guests began to arrive, Lady Gruum among them. She was a Daimong of the highest caste and had been named by the Convocation the patron of Rol-mar, one of the new worlds open to settlement. During the long centuries of the Shaa decline, exploration and settlement had fallen to nothing; but now inhabitable planets that had been discovered ages ago were being opened, and an expanded Exploration Service was venturing through wormhole gates to discover new worlds.
Lady Gruum normally lived in a sphere so rarefied that she would never have crossed the threshold of a palace as inconsequential as that of the Martinez family; but as it happened Clan Martinez was in a position to make her a great deal of money, and in order to multiply her colossal fortune she was willing to unbend. Truth was, the Martinez clan were the only people in the empire who had any practical experience in settling new worlds. Lady Gruum had hired the Chee Company as a planning executive and Meridian as prime contractors, and these were both owned in large part by Clan Martinez.
And so she graciously deigned to make an appearance, accompanied by a loyal entourage of friends, aides, and relations. She was dressed in silken robes of violet and mauve and moved with a faint rustle on tall heels. Her face was fixed in what a human would have thought an expression of round-eyed surprise, and perhaps it was fortunate for all concerned that nature had masked her true feelings at having to visit the home of a social inferior and hustle her fellow guests for money.
Martinez greeted Lady Gruum as she entered the room, and she answered in gracious, musical Daimong tones. Baths and scent had masked the odor of her ever-rotting flesh, though he observed that one strip of dead skin hung off her chin like a little beard. She made a stately progress through the guests and then stationed herself near the drinks table, where everyone would have to encounter her sooner or later.
The orchestra began to play, effervescent tunes suitable for dancing, though no one danced. Martinez greeted Lord Chen as he arrived, and Lord Durward Li and his new, vivacious wife, Lady Marietta.
Lord Durward was a distinguished older Peer who had suffered two profound tragedies in his life: the loss of his son, Richard, at First Magaria, and then his subsequent remarriage. The second had proceeded from the first: Richard was his only heir, and his relatives had nagged him into divorcing his first wife, whom he loved, and marrying another, whom he didn’t, for the sole purpose of carrying on his line. Ordinary families might have used a surrogate to carry a child, but families as old and traditional as the Lis would never consider such a thing. Lord Durward had surrendered to his clan’s wishes and made himself miserable with a bride thirty years his junior—though at least Marietta had provided him with a set of twin girls before setting forth on an enthusiastic, zigzag voyage from one lover to the next.
“I’m pleased to have spoken in Convocation for your friend Lady Sula,” Lord Durward said.
Martinez clenched his teeth. “It was very good of you,” he said.
“It’s only a matter of time before she’s co-opted into the Convocation,” Lord Durward continued. “It should happen as soon as the Credentials Committee issues its report, and that’s a mere formality.”
“Very good to know.”
Lord Durward raised his ginger eyebrows. “Did you hear about the new Lord Koridun? Held the title for less than two months, and now he’s dead. Another accident—apparently he slipped on a staircase down on the Petty Mount.”
Martinez absorbed the news with interest. The Koridun clan had suffered an unprecedented number of losses over the last few years, all to a series of accidents, including half a dozen lost in a tragic fire.
“I’m tempted to start a sports book offering odds on the next Lord Koridun,” he said.
“Lady Koridun. The last lord’s sister. Though if she has any sense, she’ll resign the title before she’s formally invested.” Lord Durward shook his head. “First a Koridun gets blown up by a volcano on Terra, and then they start dropping dead here on Zanshaa. It’s as if the whole family’s cursed.”
“Excuse me, Captain Martinez,” interrupted Lady Marietta. She was a tall young woman with a mass of pale curls and a spray of impish freckles over the bridge of her snub nose. “Do you happen to know if Captain Severin is here?”
> “I believe he said he’d attend, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Thank you.” She looked at her husband. “I’m going to get a drink. Can I bring you anything, darling?”
“Kyowan and Spacey, thank you.”
“Of course.” She kissed her husband’s cheek, then sped away. Martinez and Lord Durward watched her go, each lost in his own reflections.
A few minutes later Martinez welcomed Junior Fleet Commander Lord Altasz, an aggressive officer who during the war had successfully commanded a long, devastating raid into Naxid territory. Altasz was a squat Torminel with thick fur, brown shading into black, and a pair of dark bubble lenses over his nocturnal eyes, to shade the daylight. To avoid overheating he wore shorts and a vest, but these were far from casual clothes and were brilliant with braid and gemstones. Jeweled billiments were braided into his fur.
Lord Altasz was also a distant cousin of Lady Kosch Altasz, the Corona Club captain who had come in fourth in the Vandrith Challenge race. The career of Lady Kosch had suffered because of lack of patronage in the service, and Lord Altasz would normally have been expected to provide such backing, but apparently the two branches of the family were estranged and had been for generations.
Martinez wished he could somehow bring the two officers into some kind of reconciliation, but he knew better than to get involved in a feud between Torminel. If he were lucky he’d be the victim of only a lashing verbal assault—but if unlucky, he might lose body parts.
If only Lord Altasz weren’t such a yachting enthusiast. Discussing the races without bringing Lady Kosch into the conversation was trying on the nerves.
Altasz didn’t open with a hello but went straight to his favorite subject. “At least you won your appeal on Orghoder’s ridiculous ruling!” he said. He made a disgusted hacking sound deep in his throat. “Parallax! Even a cretin like Orghoder should have known that the video in question didn’t offer sufficient movement against the background stars to be able to work out parallax!”
“The protest wasn’t about parallax,” said Martinez.
Again the hacking sound. “Yes, it was about Apogee keeping your best captain out of the match! And now your Captain Kelly has her victory back, Severin won a brilliant triumph, and Apogee got what it deserved.”
Martinez smiled. “I cannot but agree with you, my lord.”
Even though he was a member of the Ion Club, Lord Altasz was unusually free of the elitism that was so common among the Peers who dominated the racing world. He cared more about the captains’ piloting skills than their ancestry, and he spoke admiringly of any Corona captains who didn’t happen to be his cousin.
Perhaps, Martinez thought, the war had broadened Lord Altasz’s point of view. He would have seen talented pinnace pilots drawn from other than the highest-ranking Peer families, and he might have come out of battle thinking their talent deserved recognition.
“I’m afraid the poor old Ion Club had a wretched season,” Altasz continued. “But Fenthag is promising, don’t you think? If only we could give her a decent backfield.”
Martinez agreed with his lordship, and the two discussed racing for a while. “I’d like to recommend a young sublieutenant to your Coronas,” Altasz said. “Sodak. Very talented, has won a couple of Fleet gymkhanas, but has no chance of getting into the traditional clubs.”
“I’ve heard of her. You can sponsor her directly, if you like.”
The fur on Altasz’s forehead shifted in what Martinez somehow knew was a benign way. “May I? That’s very good of you.”
“Corona’s new,” Martinez said. “We don’t have a back bench of older members to sponsor new ones. So we’re very happy to take your recommendation.”
An approving growl issued from Altasz’s throat. He touched Martinez’s arm. “Do you know,” he said, “the other day I heard some of our members complain about how the Coronas were just a gang of mercenary pilots . . .”
Martinez stiffened with indignation. “That’s not even remotely true,” he said. “We don’t pay the pilots a minim, we just enable talented people to race.”
Altasz touched Martinez’s arm again. “I know, I know. You’re going to get that sort of thing for a while, till people get used to you.” Altasz’s voice was as soothing as a Torminel voice was ever likely to be. “Be that as it may, Lord Captain . . . one of the people complaining to me was a high-ranking officer in the Fleet—I shan’t mention which—and I pointed out that all the Corona pilots are Fleet officers on inactive status, and if he wanted to be rid of competition, all that would be necessary is to employ all of you on some duty that takes you out of Zanshaa’s system.”
Martinez’s mind whirled. Would they actually do that? he wondered.
Of course, he’d desperately wanted a new posting for years. But how would he feel if he received an assignment not because his talents were appreciated and judged worthy of reward, but as an underhanded means of fixing yacht races? And if he were offered such a posting, would he accept?
Depends, he supposed, on how good the assignment actually was.
Command of a squadron at least, he decided.
“But,” Altasz continued, “the officer pointed out that Tork would never give you a real assignment no matter how many yacht races you won. Which of course is true, isn’t it?”
Even though he knew that Altasz meant no offense, the words seemed to stab Martinez like a knife. “I won’t disagree with your officer friend,” he said.
“We shouldn’t let talented officers go to waste, not when the Fleet’s being expanded,” Altasz said. “It’s absurd that the service is so given to these feuds!”
One might mention your feud with your cousin, Martinez thought. But he smiled pleasantly and agreed, and then saw someone approaching. “Ah,” he said. “Do you know Lord Minno?”
“I have not had the pleasure.”
Lord Minno approached. He was a Cree, short and randomly wrinkled, with large prehensile ears capable of funneling the subtlest sound into his aural cortex. His deep purple skin featured darkish patches that sensed light and shade, but other than this crude optical apparatus he was blind and lived entirely in a world of sound. The Cree had evolved on a dark, warm, heavily forested world a long distance from its dim star, but with a greenhouse atmosphere that kept the temperature suitable for life and produced heavy clouds that made the dim star even dimmer. In such an environment a highly evolved sonar was more practical than vision. Martinez had been on Fleet warships optimized for Cree crews, and their control spaces were filled with a bewildering sonic barrage that informed the crew about the status of their ship and the universe outside but were incomprehensible to anyone else.
What disturbed him most was the lack of eyes. Martinez was used to being able to look into the eyes of people to make some kind of basic contact, individual to individual, and more importantly to make certain he was being understood. Talking to a Cree was like talking on an audio link, with no visual feedback, and he never knew whether he was making an impact or not.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Lord Altasz. It was considered polite to speak first when introduced to a Cree, so that he could hear your voice and be able to recognize you when you spoke. In Martinez’s experience that politeness was hardly necessary, since the Cree had a virtuoso memory for voices and sounds and probably could recognize Lord Altasz’s distinctive voice from across the reception hall.
“I am happy to know you,” Minno said. His voice burbled with good humor. “I hope you will pass on my hearty congratulations to your cousin Lady Kosch on her successful season with the Corona Club.”
Altasz’s lips twitched, and Martinez caught a flash of fang before his lordship mastered himself. “Should I ever see her,” he said, “I will faithfully convey your message.”
Martinez intervened to change the subject before Lord Minno could begin an analysis of Lady Kosch’s performance during the last season. “Lord Minno,” he said, “is here on behalf of the Bank of the H
igh City. The bank is aiding Lady Gruum’s efforts to pioneer Rol-mar.”
Junior Fleet Commander Altasz was suddenly quite alert. As blunt as if he were addressing a junior lieutenant, he got straight to the point. “What dividends are your bonds currently paying?”
“There are several series available,” said Minno, “with yields ranging from three to seven and a half percent. Plus of course there is the opportunity to have yourself, your family, or any designee immortalized by having a city, district, mountain, or other feature on Rol-mar named after them.”
“My family has quite enough mountains named after them,” said Altasz. “As well as lakes, townships, cities, and at least one glacier covering half a continent. I’m pleased to say I’ve never seen it.” He took Lord Minno’s arm. “No, I’m interested in a less symbolic reward.”
“Then let us discuss your options, by all means!” The blind, pointed face turned toward Martinez. “Captain Martinez, would you excuse us?”
“Of course.”
The two lords walked away, and Martinez decided that he had earned a drink. He drifted across the room to the drinks table and ordered a Delta whisky from Laredo, an export he was duty bound to drink in public. Next to him, a Terran was drinking a hairy roger.
“You’re Captain Martinez, aren’t you?” he asked. He was a thick-bodied man with a truly impressive set of side whiskers, so woolly they looked like carpet glued to his face. The whiskers were many shades darker than the curly fair hair on his head, which added to the impression of artificiality.
“I’m Martinez. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“My name is Cosgrove.” Which explained the gold rings on his fingers and thumbs, each with its set of winking gemstones, and the thick gold rope around his neck. He was the man who had cornered the market on the gold-bearing seaweeds of Hy-Oso, and everything he wore advertised his product.
“Pleased to meet you,” Martinez said. “You live next to Lord Chen, don’t you?” He had heard his father-in-law complain, more than once, about his tranquil afternoons being disturbed by Cosgrove’s brass band.
The Accidental War Page 9