Fleet Elements

by Walter Jon Williams

  Sula hadn’t come to visit Ranssu purely out of compassion, but because she thought she needed information from Paivo in hopes of getting a better idea of how the dockyard’s conversion was progressing, and what was needed to ready the Fourth Fleet for action. Since Paivo now spent practically all his time with his twin, Sula was obliged to visit the hospital.

  Ranssu gave her an amused look. “I took a few shots at you,” he said. “I’m glad I missed.”

  Sula was surprised. “Why were you shooting at me?” she asked.

  “I saw gun flashes from the building across the street. I didn’t know you were on our side, I thought you were one of the attackers.” Ranssu grinned with his deformed mouth. “Lucky I’m a bad shot, hey?”

  “Now I’m glad I didn’t bring you a present,” Sula said.

  Ranssu’s grin broadened, and then he winced. “Nonii,” he said.

  “I actually have some questions,” she said, “which I think Paivo can probably answer, while you lie on your bed and nod in agreement.”

  Ranssu waved the uninjured hand. “‘Okay,’” he said, with audible quotes around the word. Sula laughed.

  Ranssu pressed a button on his bed’s control panel to give himself a dose of painkiller, administered through a cuff on his arm. In answer to Sula’s questions, Paivo told Sula that the conversion of the ships for human use had absorbed practically all available personnel, even as more Terran workers were being shipped up from the planet below. The shortages weren’t so much in work crews for the warships, as for the smaller support vessels and the routine tasks of the dockyard, maintaining equipment and shifting supplies and armament.

  “What if we brought in help from members of another species?” Sula asked. “Workers that were familiar with the Fleet and the jobs at hand? Would they be accepted by the Terran workers?”

  She decided not to mention that the species she had in mind were Naxids.

  “Depends on how many bring guns and bombs with them,” Paivo said. “I’d say the dockyard workers are on edge right now, and not inclined to trust outsiders.”

  “Suppose we put the other workers in barracks when they come up,” Sula said, “and don’t let them out until the war is over. That way they’d be under supervision and kept in isolation from . . .” She searched for a word. “Malign influences,” she decided.

  “They could still conduct sabotage,” said Paivo. “Even a small ship would make a formidable weapon if it were put on a collision course with the dockyard.”

  “And where will these barracks be found?” Ranssu asked. “Fleet facilities are full, and anyplace outside the dockyard isn’t secure.”

  Sula didn’t have an answer for that. “There must be a place to put people,” she said, and then the answer blazed into her head. “Put them on a ship. We have immigration ships in the civilian dockyards that aren’t going anywhere right now, and they can hold thousands.”

  “Aren’t they full of immigrants?” Paivo asked.

  “Most of the immigrants would have been bound for Rol-mar,” Sula said, “but Rol-mar’s in a state of mutiny and nobody’s going there. The worlds found on the far side of Terra aren’t accepting large groups of newcomers yet. The immigrants might still be on the ships, but I’ll find out.”

  Ranssu’s painkiller had made him sleepy, and he’d been drowsing while Sula had been questioning Paivo. He opened one eye, looked at Sula, and croaked out a word.

  “Ghost,” he said.

  Sula looked at him, and then at Paivo. “Ranssu is reminding me to ask you a question,” he said. “We’ve heard about the Martinez Method, and we understand that you prefer your own Ghost Tactics, and a few people have even talked about the Foote Formula. They all seem similar to an outside observer, and we were wondering why you prefer your method to the others.”

  In fact the systems weren’t similar, they were identical: Sula and Martinez had developed their tactics early in the last war, and Jeremy Foote, in his position as a military censor, had eavesdropped on their conversation. But still, Sula thought, why should she give credit to the other two?

  “If you ask me,” Sula said, “Ghost Tactics are simply superior.”

  Lord Nishkad was a senior squadron commander in the Fleet when the Naxid War broke out. He had been in charge of a procurement office on Chijimo, hadn’t known about the mutiny in advance, and hadn’t participated in it—so far as anyone knew, he was one of the vast majority of Naxids who had remained loyal to the legitimate government, or at least hadn’t done anything to subvert it. Shortly after the war began, Nishkad and all other Naxid personnel were retired from the military and some of the security services. Those entitled to collect pensions were allowed to do so. Nishkad had been able to use his Fleet experience to start a procurement agency of his own, and the success of that venture had taken him to Harzapid.

  Sula met him in his own apartment in a Naxid district of Harzapid’s ring. So as not to be recognized she wore civilian clothing, a conservative blue suit with satin lapels, and a wide-brimmed hat to conceal her bright hair. She’d put Macnamara and Spence in civilian clothing as well, cut so as to conceal their firearms.

  Sula felt uneasy stepping from the monorail in the Naxid neighborhood. Naxids zoomed along the sidewalks and down the platform, their four legs thrashing at the paving as they hurled themselves along, their flat heads darting atop their short torsos, eyes locking on one subject after another as if in search of prey. But if any of them marked Sula as a target it wasn’t obvious, and the Naxids politely made room for her on the pavement.

  A servant in Nishkad livery met Sula at the door and escorted her to a parlor. Spence and Macnamara were whisked away to be entertained by the servants.

  A bright herbal scent, like rosemary, wafted through the parlor. Succulents rose in spears from polychrome pots. The centauroid Naxids were shorter than humans, so their ceilings were often low; but Lord Nishkad’s residence had been built with guests of many species in mind, and the tall ceilings had a distinctive horseshoe arch, tucked in slightly at the bottom.

  A door opened and Lord Nishkad entered. Naxids had two speeds: fast and dead stop, and Sula tried to avoid flinching as Nishkad hurled himself at her like an onrushing bullet, then came to an abrupt halt right in front of her.

  “Good morning, Lady Sula,” he said. “I am honored by your presence.”

  Sula nodded. “As I am honored by your hospitality, Lord Squadcom.”

  There was a pause. “I have not been called by the title in a long time.”

  Nishkad looked up at Sula from black-on-scarlet eyes. His dress was dignified, gray with a tall stock that restricted the possible movement of his flat head. His age was showing: Sula could see that his black, beaded scales were dull and graying, and some were missing, showing pale weathered flesh.

  “Please be seated, Lady Sula,” Nishkad said. “May I offer refreshment?”

  “Tea would be welcome,” Sula said.

  A human-scale chair had been placed across a low table from Lord Nishkad’s settee, and Sula sat while Nishkad coiled his four-legged body on his couch. His scarlet eyes turned to her.

  “How may I help you, Lady Sula?”

  “I was hoping we might help each other, my lord,” Sula said. “I was hoping to offer employment to some of your old comrades who lost their places in the last war.”

  If Nishkad was surprised, he didn’t show it. “What sort of employment, my lady?” he asked.

  “I was hoping to find people with experience at supplying ships, and at converting ships from one purpose to another,” Sula said. “Ultimately, for building new ships.”

  Because, she thought, every shipyard in enemy hands would be receiving contracts for new ships, and it was time the Restoration began to plan new warships to replace inevitable losses.

  “You wish Naxid dockworkers to assist this Restoration?” Nishkad said.

  “Yes, Lord Squadcom,” Sula said.

  “You realize that I am not a spokesman for al
l Naxids, and that other Naxids are in no way obligated to follow my suggestions in any matter whatever.”

  “That is understood, Lord Squadcom. No one expects you to produce miracles.” Sula did her best to radiate sincerity. “But you have stature, influence, and respect. You would know who to talk to, and what arguments to employ.”

  There was a moment of silence in which Nishkad’s red eyes remained fixed on Sula, and then he spoke. “There would be a certain amount of danger associated with this course,” he said. “What would happen to these workers if the Restoration lost the war? And would not Naxids elsewhere in the empire be put in jeopardy?”

  “We could agree that these workers would be conscripted,” said Sula. “They could not be blamed if they were acting under compulsion.”

  “I think you have an overoptimistic view of the Zanshaa government.” Lord Nishkad considered for another moment, long seconds that seemed to fall in slow motion from the arched ceiling of the parlor. “Assuming for a moment that this is even possible,” Nishkad said finally, “what benefit might these workers obtain?”

  “They would be paid well for work in which they are . . .” Sula’s next word was chosen after some consideration. “Underutilized,” she said.

  “You mean they are now forbidden from taking such employment,” said Nishkad. “But if my people assist the Restoration in their efforts, will the restrictions on Naxids be lifted?”

  Sula had already decided not to promise anything she couldn’t deliver. “I can’t guarantee such a thing,” Sula said. “We don’t know what form the government will take after the war. But I can say that the government would be in your debt, and I would personally work to lift as many restrictions as possible.”

  “Ah. Thank you for your honesty.” Again Nishkad spent a long moment considering his reply, until the door opened and a liveried servant entered with Sula’s tea. Tea was poured, and a delicate floral scent filled the room. Sula added three lumps of sugar and stirred.

  “Well,” Nishkad said finally, “let us say that, somehow, all barriers to this plan were overcome. What exactly would you need?”

  Sula sipped at her tea while a song of triumph rang out in her mind.

  She thought she had her workers. Now all she had to do was convince Michi that they were a good idea.

  Lamey’s outfit maintained his tradition of extravagance, with its blue watered silk jacket and burnt-orange facings. In polished half-boots he glided over the walk like a prince. “You haven’t sent me any of those rich friends of yours,” said Lamey. “Have you talked to them about my project?”

  “You overestimate the number of rich people I can influence,” Sula said. “And in any case I’m trying to get them to put money into Restoration bonds.”

  “They can put money into Esley as well,” Lamey said.

  “All the people who could really use defrauding are still on Zanshaa,” Sula said.

  “Defrauding?” Lamey said innocently. “I’m not defrauding anyone!”

  “You could try Naaz Vijana. He was awarded property on Esley after he defeated the Yormaks, and the faster Esley’s climate is altered, the faster his property will increase its value.”

  Lamey made a scornful sound with his lips. “Vijana’s broke. He lost his money at tingo, mortgaged his property, then lost that, too.”

  Sula was not completely surprised at this, as she’d known Vijana was a gambler, but still she found herself startled at his recklessness. His victory over the Yormaks had made him a hero well placed to advance, but in the Fleet even heroes needed money, and now he was without funds.

  But then during the fight at the officers’ hostel he’d led the counterattack personally, so possibly he wasn’t addicted to gambling per se, but to thrills. Plenty of thrills in war.

  As they came near the gate of the Empyrean Hotel, they could smell the scent of the orange trees that lined the front of the building. “How about Lady Koridun?” Lamey asked. “With all those relatives of hers getting killed, she has to have inherited several fortunes. Surely she can spare at least one.”

  “You can go down to the planet’s surface and pitch your scheme to the governor yourself,” Sula said. “Though I think she’s got enough on her hands running the planet she’s already got.”

  “Will you give me an introduction?” Lamey asked.

  Will I ever, Sula thought. She’d give Lady Koridun a warning to send Lamey packing.

  “Of course I will,” she said.

  The guards at the hotel gate recognized them and let them pass. The guards at the elevator insisted on thumbprints. Lamey was annoyed, but Sula approved of the guards taking no chances of a saboteur slipping in under false pretenses.

  Outside the meeting room she met a member of the Fleet constabulary carrying out the remains of a celadon vase, along with the gladioli it had once contained.

  “I hope that wasn’t thrown at someone’s head,” Lamey said.

  “No, sir,” said the constable. “It just fell off a table.”

  “That’s what they tell us, anyway,” said Lamey.

  In the meeting room Sula found Ming Lin, Lord Mehrang, Roland Martinez, and a waitron who provided drinks and pastry. Sula was pleased to discover that her host by now knew her well enough to provide her favorite brand of cane sugar syrup. By the time Sula had sweetened her tea and collected a puff pastry with a honey-butter glaze, Terza Chen and Vipsania Martinez had arrived.

  The meeting began with a report by Ming Lin on the first issue of Restoration bonds, which had exceeded expectations. Humans were more motivated to support the rebellion than had been assumed.

  Ming Lin had also been working with the Bureau of Arrears and Obligations for an issue of defunct stock, aimed at those who would be less than happy to be found with Restoration bonds in their portfolios. She was pleased to report that interest among banks, brokers, and investors was high.

  “We’re issuing the stock only of the most viable businesses,” she said. “Fortunately for us the crash wrecked a lot of them.”

  Sula had grown used to the way the economic wreckage that had ruined so many people could be used to generate income for those who were lucky or well placed, but this was her first experience of a government making money off a catastrophe. She wondered if the Zanshaa government was doing the same thing.

  Under Lady Tu-hon, and with the avaricious Lord Minno in charge of the Treasury, Sula was fairly confident that they were. Except in Zanshaa, those running the government would benefit personally.

  Terza Chen spoke next. Sula frowned down into her tea, but the announcement made her look up.

  “Lady Michi wanted me to announce that this morning three missiles were fired from Harzapid to Chijimo, in retaliation for the slaughter of Terrans in the capital. The targets were chosen to cause maximum damage to those who would have ordered the attacks or benefited from them.” She raised her hand comm. “I have targeting information if you care to review it, as well as estimates of casualties. One missile has been targeted specifically at the government district, with the hopes of catching the governor and his administration within the fireball.”

  “There will be a fireball?” Sula asked. “The missiles aren’t being used only as a radiation weapon?”

  “Lady Michi says the warheads have retained their tungsten jackets,” said Terza. “The intention is to create as much destruction to property as possible.”

  There was a moment of silence as everyone pondered this news, and then a smile spread across Lamey’s face. “The propertied classes are going to lose a lot of property,” he said.

  “We’ll broadcast a statement explaining our actions,” Terza said. “I have the text available.”

  They examined the text, which was a bland statement that ended with the promise not to use further radiation weapons on populations unless the persecution of Terrans continued.

  “I’d like to suggest one addition,” Sula said. “Which is to state that if the persecutions continue, we will assume the
y are directed by the Zanshaa government and will act accordingly.”

  There was another moment of silence. “I don’t think threatening Zanshaa will raise our popularity,” Roland said. “Zanshaa has been the capital for over twelve thousand years. The original Tablets of the Praxis are there. Neither side attacked the capital in the last war, because it’s too symbolically important. Zanshaa is sacrosanct.”

  “I think it’s time our leaders were held responsible for their decisions,” Sula said. “Those fucking idiots . . .” Sula took a calming breath and continued. “Those imbeciles in Zanshaa have allowed two civil wars to start in less than ten years. How many more can the empire stand?” She waved a hand. “Wipe them out,” she said. “I don’t care if they live on Zanshaa or in a mining habitat on Comador. Kill them all, and then maybe we can find some intelligent people to run things.”

  The others stared at her in shock—except for Lamey, whose face was split by a delighted grin. Sula looked back at her audience in defiance, despite having succeeded in shocking herself—she was surprised at the depth of her feeling, of her rage. She hadn’t realized she hated so thoroughly.

  “This is your own class you’re talking about,” said Lord Mehrang.

  And a class to which Mehrang aspired—he might be a patron to a world, but to the high-caste Peers of Zanshaa High City he was still a provincial lord.

  “If it’s my class,” Sula said, “then I know all the better how much happier we’d be without them.”

  Terza Chen looked away. Sula had just proposed her annihilation, and clearly Terza hadn’t decided how or whether to respond.

  “Perhaps we should take a vote on Lady Sula’s addition to the statement,” said Roland.

  Sula’s addendum was voted down, which was nothing less than what she’d expected. She shrugged and took a bite of her pastry.

  “This discussion leads into another issue I hoped to raise,” Roland said, “which is the question of how we return to something like normality after victory. Once we get to Zanshaa with the Fleet, for all intents and purposes we’ll be military dictators, and we’ll want to ease away from that kind of arbitrary power and return to a situation more . . . conventional.”