Foote kept the high acceleration as the expanding, now attenuated clouds enveloped his ship, and his view of the universe narrowed to the immediate vicinity of Vigilant. He fought for breath against five gravities, grunting every few seconds as his abdominal muscles forced out air.
Over time the radioactive cloud cooled, and his own ships were all he could see.
Wonder and relief sang through Foote’s nerves. “Signals, message to squadron to reduce acceleration to one gravity.”
He’d just destroyed seventeen ships. He’d killed his own commander, and thousands of officers and crew. Despite their orders to act against Foote, they hadn’t considered the possibility that Foote might attack first, and that had doomed them all.
Foote’s muscles eased along with the force of gravity. Blood surged into his brain, and the darkness cleared from his vision.
“Secure from general quarters,” he said. “Navigation, plot a course to Harzapid by way of Wormhole Two.”
“Yes, Lord Captain.”
A course to Harzapid, Foote thought. And it would be Footeforce that would be racing on to the Fourth Fleet. They could scarcely be called Light Squadron Eight when they were no longer in the Fleet.
“My lord,” said someone on the signals board. “We have two casualties. Recruit Nang and Weaponer Second Class Quispe. Apparent strokes during acceleration, and they’re being taken to the medical section.”
Foote was annoyed. He didn’t know Nang and Quispe by name and probably wouldn’t know their faces. He preferred to keep his interactions with the enlisted to a minimum.
His concerns had always been elsewhere.
Foote could hope that no one in the system had been looking in his direction during the brief battle. If no one noticed the bright flashes in the darkness, or wondered about the series of radiation pulses that signified the destruction of seventeen ships, then he might be able to make a clean escape. If someone reported the slaughter and the two squadrons at Zarafan were alerted to intercept him, then there could be another battle before very long.
Foote deliberately stretched his arms and legs. Cold sweat had pooled between his back and the suit, and he shivered.
He’d started a war, he realized, Terrans against everyone else.
He’d better figure out a way to win it.
Chapter 18
Winter rain, half sleet, rattled against the skylight. The day was dark, and dark shadows lurked in the Lord Senior’s office. There was a woody scent in the air, like sandalwood. Tapestries and brasses glowed softly in the subdued lighting. Maurice, Lord Chen rose as Lord Fleet Commander Pezzini entered the room.
“Hello, Pezzini,” Lord Chen said.
“Chen,” said Pezzini.
Lord Chen and Pezzini weren’t friends, but they served together as the only Terran members of the Fleet Control Board. The board was divided between politicians and professional serving officers, and Pezzini was one of the latter. He wore full dress, bright silver buttons winking against the dark green tunic, and his gray hair was perfectly waved and shaped, clearly by expert hands.
Lord Chen had also dressed formally, in his wine-red convocate’s jacket, and his shirt collar buttoned practically to his chin. He’d had a few glasses of mig brandy before he’d set out, and now he was feeling overheated. He tugged at his collar to release some of the heat, and at that moment Lord Saïd entered, majestic with his wand of office and his scarlet brocade cloak. His large dark eyes were intent.
“My lords,” he said. “I am told that Lord Tork has just arrived from the Commandery.”
“Very good,” said Pezzini. He smoothed the front of his tunic. The Lord Senior stood behind his desk, the others flanking him, waiting in silence and sandalwood scent, all dressed formally for the formal duty that united them.
A chime from Saïd’s secretary announced Tork’s arrival in the outer office. Saïd told the secretary to send him in.
As he entered, the Supreme Commander studied the trio with his round, expressionless black eyes. His cadaverous gray face was incapable of expression, but his walk was brisk and animated, and he carried his Golden Orb. Saïd and Lord Chen were already standing, but as an officer Lord Pezzini braced to attention, his chin lifted, his throat bared. Lord Tork walked to stand before Lord Saïd’s desk, then braced in the presence of the Lord Senior.
“I believe we may all stand at ease,” said Saïd. Tork and Pezzini relaxed. Lord Saïd studied Tork for a moment, then indicated Lord Chen and Pezzini.
“These lords have approached me with a complaint,” he said. “It appears there have been secret meetings of the Fleet Control Board from which they have been excluded.”
Lord Tork’s melodious voice insinuated itself into the room. “It was my decision to act in the interests of caution, and to avoid involving anyone who might be connected with the Terran criminals.”
Lord Pezzini gave a snarl. “You call us criminals?”
Tork’s response was instant. “Absolutely not, my lord!” he said. “But I do not know all your friends. And Lord Chen—” His black round button eyes turned to Chen. “Lord Chen has married his daughter to a man connected with criminal interests, one who has profited by the financial crisis, and who—”
Lord Chen roared in anger. “That is not only a lie, that is insane!”
Tork’s voice rose to goblet-shattering power. He raised the Orb like a truncheon and brandished it. “Captain Martinez is a rebel! He is a dangerous innovator! He is a threat to the Praxis! It will be my personal pleasure to disgrace him and to break him in rank, and if I can’t execute him, I will send him back to that pathetic provincial world he comes from, where he can crawl back into the mud with the rest of his parvenu family!”
“You bullying shit!” Chen shouted as alcohol flamed through his veins. It had not escaped his attention that he had thought of Martinez and his family in these terms himself, but to hear these sentiments from another sent him into a rage. He looked on Lord Saïd’s desk for a weapon to smash Tork in his frozen gray face.
The Lord Senior’s copper wand dropped atop Lord Chen’s arm just as he reached for a heavy bronze bust of one of Lord Saïd’s ancestors. Saïd turned to Tork.
“Perhaps we may discuss your strange vendetta at another time,” he said. He used the voice that he employed in cutting off debate in Convocation, and his words rang with authority. “Let us return for the moment to these secret meetings. What was discussed at these meetings that was so dangerous that no Terran could attend?”
“Fleet deployments,” Tork said.
Lord Saïd cocked his head. His beaky nose pointed at Tork like an unsheathed sword. “Fleet deployments? What was so secret about these deployments that it had to be kept from the Terran members of the Control Board?”
Tork did not reply, and so the Lord Senior answered for him. “Deployments designed to make the Terran ships vulnerable? Along with plans to board the Terran ships and disarm them?”
Melody had returned to Tork’s voice. “Precautionary measures only,” he said. “After Severin made his unprovoked attack on Beacon, I thought it best to be certain that the violence would not be repeated.”
“By storming armed warships?” Pezzini said. “And you intend to prevent shooting this way?”
“Do you plan interrogations?” Lord Chen said. “Detentions? Torture?”
“The Military Constabulary will be authorized to investigate whether the officers have been corrupted,” said Tork, “and if any conspiracy is discovered, it will be referred to the Office of the Judge Martial for prosecution.”
“You have no evidence!” Pezzini said. “You intend to create it!”
“On the contrary,” said Tork. His voice had turned to an impatient bark. “There is already ample evidence of rebellion and conspiracy. I intend not to start a war, but to prevent one by making a rebellion impossible.”
Lord Saïd spoke with cold precision. “The Praxis mandates equality for all species living beneath its peace. Yet you de
fy the Praxis by acting against Terrans only.”
A metallic clangor entered Tork’s words. “If you had uncovered evidence of the Naxid conspiracy before their rebellion began, my lord, wouldn’t you have acted against them?”
“I wouldn’t have skulked around like a cowardly sneak!” Pezzini said. “Your Terran conspiracy is the delusion of an unbalanced mind!”
Tork turned to Pezzini, and Lord Chen flinched as a strange, threatening insect buzz issued from Tork’s cavernous, immobile mouth. Saïd interrupted before Tork could speak.
“Lord Supreme Commander,” he said, “these actions of yours are insupportable, and your concealing them from my office, and from your colleagues who have proved their loyalty countless times during the war, shows an alarming lack of prudence. With regret I must ask for your resignation.”
Tork looked at Saïd with his cold black eyes. “You don’t have the votes,” he said.
Lord Saïd seemed a little surprised at this. “I do not need votes to replace you,” he said.
“You might dismiss me,” Tork said, “but the Convocation would vote to reinstall me immediately, once they hear my report, which is that the Terran rebellion has already started.”
The last words boomed out like a rolling barrage. Tork raised the Golden Orb and once again brandished it. “Word arrived less than an hour ago that a Terran squadron commanded by Captain Lord Jeremy Foote has opened fire on the other ships of Force Orghoder and wiped them out.”
Lord Chen stared, his breath bottled up in his throat. “That can’t be true,” he murmured.
“Seventeen ships,” Tork said. “Over four thousand crew. Blown to bits in a surprise attack at Colamote. Do you still claim there is no evidence of conspiracy?”
Lord Chen was speechless. The Convocation would be screaming with rage once they found out about Force Orghoder. Lady Gruum, Lady Tu-hon, and all their allies would be in a fury to wipe out anyone they claimed to be a conspirator.
He rather thought that he might be somewhere at the head of the list.
“Is this interview over, Lord Saïd?” asked Tork.
“You will send me the information about Force Orghoder,” said Lord Saïd.
“Yes, my lord.” Tork braced and left.
Lord Chen stared at the door as it closed behind the Supreme Commander. He was as breathless as if he’d just run the length of the Boulevard of the Praxis.
Saïd gave a long sigh. Lord Chen looked at him, and he saw the Lord Senior crumple, as if he were in a tightening vise. Saïd sagged into his chair. His elaborate red cloak seemed to drag him down like a great weight. His skin had turned gray.
“I don’t know if I can survive this,” he said, apparently to himself.
Lord Chen looked at Pezzini. “None of us might,” he said.
Chapter 19
Martinez walked in the direction of the lounge, thinking perhaps to ask Ari Abacha’s bartender to make him something cold and fizzy to accompany a sandwich. He’d just been in the ship’s gym lifting weights until he ached from his neck to his arches, and he felt he could do with some calories, not to mention relaxation. Seven days remained before Tork’s coup, and he had nothing to do but organize activities that would prove irrelevant no matter what happened at Harzapid or Zanshaa.
He was considering his sandwich—crispy bread, cheese melted perfectly over shaved breast meat from a Hone-bar phoenix—and then he heard raised voices from the lounge.
“You worthless,” Chandra Prasad shouted from inside, “you lazy, you utterly supine waste of protein! What excuse do you give yourself even for breathing, you hapless, useless, fumble-witted—”
Without thought Martinez pivoted on his heel and began walking away. He had been through enough scenes with Chandra himself to never want to be in the vicinity of one ever again.
He decided he’d have Alikhan bring him a sandwich in his quarters.
Chandra’s voice pursued him. “I don’t even know why I bother to insult you!” she said. “No useful idea could possibly enter that impenetrably thick skull of yours!” And then she gave a snarl, a sound all too reminiscent of a Torminel in a fight. The snarl was followed by a crash of broken glass, and Chandra stormed past Martinez, red metallic hair swinging, her pointed chin high. As she passed Martinez, she glared at him over her shoulder, as if he were somehow responsible for the state of affairs, and then she stomped on. Martinez slowed, considered again the matter of his sandwich, and then turned back toward the lounge.
There he found Ari Abacha stretched on his chaise longue, his cocktail in his hand. His bartender was fussing over him, wiping drink off his face and uniform. Smashed glassware ground under the bartender’s feet.
“What was that about?” Martinez asked.
Abacha looked at him wide-eyed. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Gare,” he said. “Though I believe I may be correct in my surmise that Lieutenant Prasad and I are no longer a twosome.”
Twosome? Martinez thought. He took a chair, placed it outside the splash zone, and sat. “How did you get involved with her in the first place?”
Abacha shrugged. “The way these things always happen. She seemed a very exciting girl, delightful really, full of spirit and vitality. And then—” He waved a hand. “Boom! Suddenly, this.” He sighed. “I would offer you a cocktail, Gare, but Chandra seems to have smashed the pitcher.”
The bartender dropped towels on the spatter and went for a broom.
“Is she involved with anyone else?” Martinez asked. He hoped she was, because that lessened the chance that she might take a sudden swerve in his direction.
“No idea.”
“Captain Martinez.” Lieutenant Garcia’s voice came on the public address system. “Captain Martinez, please come to the communications suite.”
Martinez rose to his feet. There were very few reasons why anyone would be sending him a message.
“I’ll try to come back for that drink,” he said.
On a warship the communications center would have consisted of a single console in Command, but on Corona the center was a spacious room filled with displays, keyboards, cameras, and ergonomic chairs adaptable to any species under the Praxis. A tank full of brightly colored fish occupied an entire wall and filled the room with a faint briny scent. The room was designed for a large group of racers, crew, and guests to remain in touch with those they left behind, to send and receive text and video messages, and for journalists and broadcasters to send race results to their headquarters.
At the moment the only occupant was the small dark-skinned figure of Lieutenant Garcia, her wiry hair jammed under her billed cap. Members of the Corona expedition had less reason to send messages than most. Half were not supposed to be on board at all, and the rest were subject to Martinez’s censorship. Whoever stood a communications watch on Corona was guaranteed a lonely few hours.
Garcia jumped from her chair and braced to attention as Martinez entered.
“You called?” he said, and Garcia held out a data foil.
“I put the message on this. It was clearly for you, my lord.”
Which meant the message was in the code that Lord Chen had given him. Martinez felt a hum of anticipation in his nerves. He thanked Garcia and went to his suite, where he took out a special hand comm and inserted the data foil. He went through several layers of security, giving his thumbprint and a series of passwords, and then called up the decoder.
The message appeared in plaintext on his screen, and his heart surged into a higher gear.
“It’s begun,” he said, a few minutes later, over the public address system. “Seventy-eight Terran ships of the Home Fleet have departed Zanshaa’s ring and are accelerating at high gees away from the capital. I assume they’re heading for Harzapid but I don’t know that for certain. I also do not know if they’re being pursued.”
Martinez paused and tried to sort out his thoughts. “I assume this means that a political solution to the crisis has failed,” he said. “While I’m sure pol
iticians will continue to do their best, we should prepare ourselves for the likelihood that the situation will be solved only by force.”
Having run out of words, Martinez ended the communication. Lieutenant Garcia gazed at him solemnly from behind her desk.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“Hope for the best,” Martinez said. Because hope was all he and the rest of the Corona passengers could do. A solution favorable to the Terran mutineers would only be found if Michi Chen succeeded in seizing the fleet at Harzapid. And from Harzapid he’d heard nothing.
“I was wondering,” Garcia said, “if we should disable the ship’s transponder. That would make it harder to track us.”
“They can track us by our engine flares,” Martinez said. “We’re going to be accelerating or decelerating the entire journey. Anyone with a radiation detector, or even a telescope, could find us.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Garcia.
“And it might attract attention if our transponder suddenly cut out. Right now we have no idea they’re looking at us.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Though if they were, Martinez thought, they could find Corona easily enough. And that was a disturbing realization.
Despite Sula’s apprehensions, Striver flew on for a month and a half with nothing to remark save tedium. The only person who failed to succumb to monotony was Lord Arrun Safista, who continued his relentless pursuit of Lady Koridun despite her conspicuous lack of encouragement.
Members of Sula’s party began to make friends with the crew, particularly the Terran third officer, the assistant purser, and anyone with access to the cargo holds. Sidney, who was willing to share his hashish, became popular with the crew. Tetrahydrocannabinol and bribery assured access to the holds, and it wasn’t too long before sidearms and some detonators were smuggled out.
Everyone strapped into their beds while Striver cut its engines, spun around, and began its deceleration toward Harzapid, still over a month away. Despite the tide of anger and violence shown on the news programs, there was no sign that the tranquil life of the ship would soon alter.
The Accidental War Page 33