No one else spoke. Even Tork could find no words.
Then the plasma screen began to cool and disperse, and gradually—winking into existence on the holographic display like a distant flight of fluorescent insects—the Home Fleet reappeared, one ship after another, their torches now pointed away from the planet, decelerating.
One, Lord Chen counted to himself, two, three…five. Eight! Ten!
Ten survivors of the Home Fleet were now narrowing their dispersed formation as they approached the wormhole that would take them in the direction of Zarafan.
Of the Naxids there was no sign.
“We wiped them out!” Lord Chen blurted. “It’s a victory!”
“Damn Kangas!” Tork said. “Damn him! He’s lost two ships!”
It was only a short time later that Squadron Commander Do-faq’s report reached Galactic. The Home Fleet had wiped out eight enemy ships and lost two of their own.
And one of the casualties was the flagship. Lord Eino Kangas had died in the act of giving the Home Fleet its one and only victory.
Invitations went out in the morning, sent to all the senior petty officers. An invitation for drinks with their new captain, set for an hour before supper, was not something the customs of the service would let them decline, and decline they did not. The last affirmative reply came within minutes of the invitations being sent out.
The touchstone dramatical, Martinez thought. The scene climactic.
The petty officers entered the dining room more or less in a clump: round-faced Gawbyan with his spectacular mustachios, Strode with his bowl haircut, burly Francis, thin, nervous Cho. Some of them were surprised to find the ship’s secretary Marsden waiting with his datapad in his hands.
The guests sorted themselves out in order of seniority, with the highest-ranked standing near Martinez at the head of the table. Gulik was on his right, across from Master Cook Yau, with Gawbyan and Strode the next pair down, one grand set of mustachios confronting another; and then Zhang and Nyamugali. Near the bottom of the table was the demoted Francis.
Martinez looked at them all as they stood by their chairs. Francis seemed thoughtful and preoccupied, and her eyes looked anywhere but at him. Yau looked as if he had left his kitchens only reluctantly. Strode seemed determined, as if he had a clear but not entirely pleasant duty before him; and Gulik, who had been so nervous during inspections, was now almost cheerful.
Martinez picked up his glass and raised it. Pale green wine trembled in Captain Fletcher’s leaded crystal, reflecting beads of peridot-colored light over the company.
“To the Praxis,” he said.
“The Praxis,” they echoed, and drank.
Martinez took a gulp of his wine and sat. The others followed suit, including Marsden, who sat by himself to the side of the room and set his datapad to record. He picked up a stylus and stood ready to correct the datapad’s transcription of the conversation.
“You may as well keep the wine in circulation,” Martinez said, nodding to the crystal decanters set on the table. “We’ll be here for a while, and I don’t want you to go dry.”
There were murmurs of appreciation from those farther down the table, and hands reached for the bottles.
“The reason this meeting may take some time,” Martinez said, “is because like the last meeting, this is about record-keeping.”
There was a collective pause from his guests, and then a resigned, collective sigh.
“You can blame it on Captain Fletcher, if you want to,” Martinez said. “He ran Illustrious in a highly personal and distinctive way. He’d ask questions during inspections and he’d expect you to know the answers, but he never asked for any documentation. He never checked the 77-12s, and never had any of his officers do it.”
Martinez looked at his wineglass and nudged it slightly with his thumb and forefinger, putting it in alignment with some imaginary dividing line running through the room.
“The problem with a lack of documentation, though,” he said, keeping his eyes on the wineglass, “is that to a certain cast of mind, it means profit.” He sensed Yau stiffen on his left, and Gulik gave a little start.
“Because,” Martinez continued, picking carefully through his thoughts, “in the end Captain Fletcher only knew what you told him. If it looked all right, and what he was told was plausible, then how would he ever find out if he’d been yarned or not?
“Particularly because Fleet standards require that equipment exceed all performance criteria. Politicians have complained for centuries that it’s a waste of money, but the Control Board has always required that our ships be overbuilt, and I think the Control Board’s been right.
“But what that meant,” he said, “is that department heads could, with a little extra maintenance, keep our equipment going far longer than performance specs required.” He looked up for the first time, and saw Strode watching him with a kind of thoughtful surprise, as if recalculating every conclusion about Martinez that he’d ever reached. Francis was staring straight ahead of her, her graying hair partly concealing her face. Cho seemed angry.
Gulik was pale. Martinez could see the pulse beating in his throat. When he saw Martinez studying him, he reached for his glass and took a large gulp of the wine.
“If you keep the old equipment going,” Martinez said, “and if you know where to go, you can sell the replacement gear for a lot of money. Things like blowers and coolers and pumps can bring a nice profit. Everyone likes Fleet equipment, it’s so reliable and forgiving and overbuilt. And they were getting this stuff new, right out of the box.”
He looked at Francis’s scowling profile. “I checked the turbopump that failed at Arkhan-Dohg—using the correct serial number, not the number that Rigger Francis tried to yarn me with—and I found out the pump was supposed to have been retired three years ago. Someone had been keeping it going long after it should have been sold as scrap.”
Martinez turned to Gulik. Sweat was pouring down the weaponer’s face. He looked as deadly sick as he had been on the morning of Fletcher’s last inspection, as the captain stalked toward him with the knife dangling at his waist.
“I also checked the serial number of the antiproton gun that failed in the same battle, and that was supposed to have been retired thirteen months ago. I hope that whoever sold the replacement wasn’t selling it to someone intending to use it as a weapon.”
“It wasn’t me,” Gulik croaked. He wiped sweat from his upper lip. “I don’t know anything about this.”
“Whoever did it,” Martinez said, “didn’t intend to endanger the ship. We weren’t at war. Illustrious had been docked in Harzapid for three years without so much as shifting its berth. The heavy equipment was moving on and off the ship all the time, moving through the locked storage room where substitutions could be made without anyone being the wiser.”
Martinez turned to look down the line of petty officers. “In order to work this scheme,” he said, “you’d need that storage room. You’d also need the services of a first-rate machinist, with access to a complete machine shop, so that the old equipment could be rehabilitated before it was reinstalled.”
Strode turned to look thoughtfully at the master machinist. Gawbyan’s lips had thinned to a tight line across his fleshy face. His mustachios were brandished like tusks. One large, fat-fingered hand had closed into a fist around the stem of his wineglass.
“So far, so good,” Martinez said. “Our happy band of felons were making a profit. But then they took on some partners. And the partners were Naxids.”
That surprised some of them. Yau and Cho stared. Strode’s mouth dropped open.
“Specifically,” Martinez said, “the Naxid frigate Quest, which was berthed next to Illustrious on the ring station. I expect the gang knew the Naxid petty officers informally before anyone mentioned the possibilities of mutual profit. And then they began using one another’s facilities and swapping parts with one another, which is how equipment from the Quest ended up aboard Illustrious.
>
“Now in order to exchange parts, the codes for the storage areas had to be exchanged as well. And that didn’t work out so well, because the Naxids involved somehow got the extra codes for the antiproton storage areas—maybe they came up with a plausible story of needing to exchange antiproton bottles, or maybe they just hid a camera where they could get a view of the lock so they could record the combination—but the result was that shortly before the Naxid rebellion, all of our antiproton bottles were exchanged for empty ones.”
The our was deliberate, even though Martinez hadn’t been there. In war there was us and them, and Martinez wanted to make it clear who was which.
“The result was that Illustrious was helpless to defend itself in the battle, and unable to aid our comrades. I’m sure you all remember what that was like.”
They did. He watched as they relived their helplessness, as anger blotched their faces, as jaw muscles clenched at the memory of humiliation.
“The bastards,” Nyamugali said. Hatred burned in her eyes. “The bastards,” she repeated.
Us and them, Martinez thought. Very good, signaler.
“Illustrious survived the battle,” Martinez said, “no thanks to the thieves. But the Naxid rebellion left them with a problem. Before the war, they were felons; but once shots were fired, they were traitors. And while the penalty for theft from the state can be dire under the Praxis, the cost of being found a traitor is much, much worse.
“The thieves’ problems increased,” Martinez said, “when an officer launched his own, personal investigation of how the antiproton bottles turned up empty. Maybe his injuries had turned him into an obsessive, or maybe when he was running into the storage area to fetch the bottles, he’d seen something that made him suspicious. But once Kosinic started conducting his own equipment inspections—lifting access plates and checking the machine spaces—it was clear that he was going to find the evidence that would condemn our ship’s clique. So Kosinic had to die.”
“It was Thuc.” Gawbyan’s voice came out in a half-strangled croak. “Thuc killed Kosinic because of the cult. You said so yourself.”
“I was both right and wrong,” Martinez said. “Thuc did kill Kosinic. But not because Thuc was a cultist. Kosinic was killed because Thuc was a thief, and Thuc may not have acted alone.”
There was a moment of silence. Somewhere down the table, Master Data Specialist Zhang tossed back her glass of wine, then reached for a bottle and refilled it.
“Kosinic’s death was ruled accidental, as it was meant to be,” Martinez continued. “All continued well for the conspirators, until the worst possible thing happened. Captain Fletcher himself grew suspicious. Maybe it was his turn to wonder how only his antiproton bottles, of all those in the Fourth Fleet, had turned up empty; or maybe he began to realize the weakness in his own system of inspections; or maybe he grew offended when he discovered that a gambling ring composed of high-ranking petty officers was skinning a group of recruits in the mess hall every single night.”
That accusation struck home, Martinez saw. Even those who weren’t a part of the gambling had to know about it, and most of them had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Captain Fletcher was a proud man,” Martinez said. “His pride had already been offended when his ship was disarmed in a crucial battle. That was the sort of thing that would have launched an official investigation if Illustrious hadn’t been so badly needed in the emergency—and maybe there would have been an investigation anyway if Fletcher hadn’t been so well connected, I don’t know.
“That his ship had not only been humiliated at Harzapid, but was also home to a gang of traitorous thieves, was a further blow to the captain’s pride. Any kind of official investigation would reveal how badly Captain Fletcher had let things get out of hand. That would be a black mark that neither his career or his pride would survive.
“So Captain Fletcher decided to handle the situation on his own. He executed Thuc and claimed captain’s privilege. No doubt he intended to execute the rest as well.”
“I wasn’t a part of any ring,” Gulik said suddenly. “Fletcher had the chance to execute me, and he didn’t.”
Martinez looked at the weaponer and slowly shook his head. “Fletcher looked at your current bank account and saw that you were broke. He didn’t think you were a thief because he couldn’t find the profits. But when I looked at a running total of your bank account, I saw that you were very clearly a member of the ring, but that you’re also a compulsive gambler. Your money slips through your fingers almost as soon as you earn it.”
Desperation shone in Gulik’s eyes. There was a strange odor coming off of him, sweat and fear and alcohol ghosting out of his pores. “I never killed anybody,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“But you know who did,” Martinez said.
“I—” Gulik began.
“Quiet!” Francis barked. She glared down the table at Gulik. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to get us to turn on each other.” Her fierce gaze looked at each of the petty officers in turn. “He’s trying to divide us! He’s trying to get us so frightened that we start making accusations against each other!” She looked at Martinez, and her lip curled. “We know who really killed Fletcher, don’t we? The man who stepped into his place!”
She looked at the other department heads and snarled. “We all know how Martinez got to be captain! Married the squadcom’s homely niece, then bashed Fletcher’s head in so he could have the ship. And when Phillips found out, he had Phillips arrested and murdered so Phillips wouldn’t talk.”
Martinez fought to control the adrenaline that surged into his veins. He pressed his hands carefully to the tabletop to control any trembling. With deliberation, he looked at Francis and gave her a sweet smile.
“Nice try, Rigger Francis,” he said. “You’re at liberty to file that accusation if you wish. But you’d better have evidence. And you’d better have an explanation for how air blowers from the Quest ended up on Deck Eight, Access Four.”
She stared at him for a moment, hate-filled eyes locking his, and then she turned away. “Fucking officers!” she said. “Fucking Peers!”
Martinez spoke into the ringing silence and tried to keep his voice level.
“So Fletcher had to die. And once the killers disposed of him, they must have again congratulated themselves on a narrow escape. Except that then I stepped into Fletcher’s place, and I insisted on every department completing its 77-12.”
Martinez permitted himself a thin smile. “The conspirators must have had a debate among themselves as how best to handle the new requirement. If the 77-12s had accurate information, it would point to obsolete equipment and the Quest. But if the logs were yarned, an inspection could reveal the deception.”
He looked at Francis. “Rigger Francis’s misadventures with the turbopump demonstrated the folly of yarning the log. So the others gave correct information and hoped that no one ever checked the hardware’s history.” He shrugged. “It took me a while, but I checked.”
He swept the others with his eyes. “I’m going to assume that any department with equipment from the Quest is run by someone who’s guilty. I’ve checked enough to see that there’s machinery from the Quest in Thuc’s old department, and in Gulik’s, and in Francis’s.”
Francis made a contemptuous sound with her tongue and turned her head away. Gulik looked as if someone had just thrown a poisonous snake in his lap.
Martinez turned to Gawbyan. “They couldn’t have done any of it without you. So you’re guilty too.”
Gawbyan’s lips emerged from the thin line into which he’d pressed them. “Naxids,” he said. “Naxid engineers could have done that work.”
Martinez considered this idea and conceded that it was possible, if unlikely.
“Your account at the commissary will be examined closely,” he said, “and we’ll see if you share any mysterious payments with your mates. That’ll be proof enough as far as I’m
concerned.”
A contemptuous look entered Gawbyan’s eyes.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Gulik said rapidly. “I didn’t want to be a part of any of it but they talked me into it. They said I could earn back some of the money I’d lost at cards.”
“Shut up, you rat-faced little coward,” Francis said, but she said it without concern, as if she’d already lost interest in the proceedings.
“Gawbyan and Francis killed the captain!” Gulik cried. “Fletcher had already shown he wasn’t going to kill me, I had no reason to want him dead!”
Francis flashed the weaponer a look of perfect disdain but said nothing. Martinez saw Gawbyan’s big hands closing into fists.
If this were one of the Dr. An-ku dramas that Michi enjoyed, Martinez thought, it would have been the moment at which the killers produced weapons and made a murderous lunge for him, or taken hostages and tried to bargain their way out. But that didn’t happen.
Instead Martinez called for Alikhan, and Alikhan entered from the kitchen with Garcia and four constables, including Martinez’s servants Ayutano and Espinosa. All, even Alikhan, were armed with stun batons and sidearms.
“Gawbyan, Gulik, and Francis,” Martinez said. “Lock them up.”
All three were cuffed from behind. There was no resistance, though Francis gave Alikhan a scornful look.
“Wait, Captain!” Gulik said as he was manhandled out the door. “This isn’t fair! They made me!”
Alikhan remained behind, hovering behind Martinez, who felt a great tension begin to ebb. He picked up his wineglass, took a long drink and put the glass back on the table.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve a drink right now.
He looked at the remaining petty officers. “There were lines crossed on this ship,” Martinez said. “Four senior petty officers conspired to rob recruits of their pay, and no one complained, no one talked, and no one did anything about it. Those same petty officers branched out into sale of Fleet property, and they put the ship in danger over and over. People died at Harzapid because of those four.
Conventions of War Page 36