Martinez remembered his own temptations very well, and the times he’d given in to them even better. He’d managed to carry off a degree of glithood—in fact, he’d found he was good at it, and only an inner compulsion to somehow be useful prevented him from turning into a complete parasite.
The cadets in the duty room were being used as messengers until useful work could be found for them. Normally, someone needing a messenger would have called here and summoned a messenger to pick up dispatches, which could give one of these layabouts a chance to finish his drink, spruce up his uniform, and transform himself into something resembling a smart, eager officer before presenting himself to authority.
Martinez parked himself directly behind their couch without anyone noticing. Pleasurable self-righteousness filled his mind. He had tracked the slothful cadet to its lair, where it wasted and loitered and thought not of duty.
“Scuuuum!” he bellowed. Cadets were not as yet commissioned, and he didn’t have to “lord” them, even though these were almost certainly Peers.
The four cadets—one woman and three men—leaped from the couch, braced their shoulders back, and bared their throats. “My lord!” they responded.
Martinez gave them a cold look. He had just had his dignity and fortunes shredded by a superior, and he felt a very powerful, very human urge to pass the pain on to someone else. He said nothing for a few seconds, daring them to relax once they realized they were facing a mere lieutenant—and a provincial at that.
The cadets stayed braced. Rich boy Foote, with his disordered blond cowlick and a clamp on his usual supercilious expression. Chatterji, with her freckles and her red hair clubbed behind her neck. Martinez didn’t know the other two.
Eventually he condescended to speak. “Which of you is at the head of the queue?”
“I am, lord.” It was one of the unknowns who spoke, a small, slim, brown-skinned youth who reeked of the beer he’d splashed on his chest as he leaped from the sofa.
Martinez took a step closer and loomed over him. Martinez was tall, and looming was something he found useful, and he had practiced till he could do it well. “Your name, insect?” he inquired.
“Silva, lord.”
Martinez held out the letters. “These are to be hand-delivered to every ship on the ring station. To the captains personally, or to their aides. Signature-receipts will be collected and returned to Lord Commander Enderby’s office.” He looked pointedly at the beery splotch that decorated the cadet’s open jacket and the blouse beneath it.
“Are you sober enough for this task, Cadet Silva?”
“Yes, lord!” Barley and hops outgassed from Silva’s lungs, but he didn’t sway, not even with his heels together and Martinez looming over him. Therefore he probably wasn’t so drunk as to bring complete disgrace onto himself, Martinez, and Enderby’s command.
“The next shuttle for the skyhook leaves in half an hour, insect,” Martinez said. “That will give you just enough time to shower and change into suitable dress before going top-side.” A thought occurred to him, and he added, “You aren’t so drunk that you’ll upchuck on the elevator, will you, insect?”
“No, my lord!”
Martinez offered him the letters. “See that you don’t. Better put these in a waterproof bag, just in case.”
“Begging my lord’s pardon?” said someone else.
The speaker was Jeremy Foote, the big blond with the cowlick that disordered his hair on the right side, and though the cadet was braced when he spoke, he still managed to speak with something approaching his usual languid drawl. It was a voice he had probably spoken in the cradle, a voice that oozed breeding and social confidence, that conjured images of exclusive smoking rooms, fancy-dress balls, and silent servants. A world to which Martinez, despite his own status as a Peer, had no admittance, not unless he was begging favors from some high-caste patron.
Martinez wheeled on him. “Yes, Cadet Foote?”
“I may as well take the letters myself, my lord,” Foote said.
Martinez knew Foote well enough to know that this seeming generosity masked an underlying motive. “And why are you being so good to Silva tonight?” he asked.
Foote permitted a hint of insolence to touch a corner of his mouth. “My uncle’s the captain of the Bombardment of Delhi, my lord,” he said. “After I’ve delivered the messages, the two of us could have a bit of breakfast together.”
Just like him to cite his connections, Martinez thought. Well damn him, and damn his connections too.
Until Foote had spoken up, Martinez had planned on letting the cadets off with a brief lecture on correct dress and deportment in the duty room. Now Foote had given him every excuse to inflict dread and misery on all of them.
“I fear you’ll have to save the cozy family breakfasts for another time, Cadet Foote,” Martinez said. He jerked his chin toward Silva and once more held out the invitations.
“Get up to the station, Silva,” he said. “And if you don’t make the next elevator, believe me, I’ll know.”
“Lord!” Silva took the invitations and scuttled away, buttoning his jacket as he went. Martinez eyed the other three, one by one.
“I have other plans for the rest of you,” he said. “I’ll oblige you to turn and look at the yacht race, if you will.”
The cadets made precise military turns to face the display on the video wall—except for Chatterji, who swayed drunkenly during her spin. The wall display gave the illusion of three dimensions, with the six competing yachts, along with a planet and its moons, displayed against a convincing simulation of the starry void.
“Display,” Martinez told the wall. “Sound, off.” The chatter of the commentators cut off abruptly. “Football, off,” he went on. “Wrestling, off.”
The yachts now maneuvered in silence, weaving about the twelve moons of the ochre-striped gas giant Vandrith, the fifth planet in Zanshaa’s system. The moons weren’t precisely the object of the race: instead, each vessel was required to pass within a certain distance of a series of satellites placed in orbit about the moons. In order to avoid the race turning into a mere mathematical exercise best suited to solution by a navigational computer, the satellites were programmed to alter their own orbits randomly, forcing the pilots into off-the-cuff solutions that would test their mettle rather than the speed of their computers.
Martinez maintained an interest in yacht racing, in part because he’d considered taking it up, not only because it might raise his profile in a socially accepted way, but because he thought he might enjoy it. He’d scored his highest marks in simulations of combat maneuvers, and as a cadet had qualified for the silver flashes of a pinnace pilot. He’d been a consistent winner in the pinnace races staged during his hitch aboard the Bombardment of Dandaphis, and pinnaces were not unlike racing yachts—both were purposeful, stripped-down designs that consisted largely of storage for antimatter fuel, engines, and life-support systems for a single pilot.
Martinez knew he might be able to afford a personal yacht—he had a generous allowance from his father, which could be increased if he were tactful about it. The little boats were expensive beasts, requiring a ground crew and frequent maintenance, and he would also be obliged to join a yacht club, which involved expensive initiation fees and dues. There would be docking fees and the expense of fuel and upkeep. Not least was the humiliating likelihood that he would probably not be considered for the very best yacht clubs, such as those—for instance—sponsoring the race now being broadcast.
So he had postponed his decision about whether to become a yachtsman, hoping that his association with Fleet Commander Enderby would serve his purposes equally well. Now that his gesture in aid of Enderby’s life seemed to have triggered nothing but Enderby’s loathing, perhaps it was time to reconsider the yachting strategy again.
Martinez looked at the display, drank it in. The race, though broadcast “live,” was actually delayed by twenty-four minutes, the length of time the telemetry signals took to t
ravel from Vandrith to Zanshaa.
“Cadet Chatterji,” Martinez said, “can you elucidate the strategy displayed by racer number two?”
Chatterji licked her lips. “Elucidate, my lord?”
Martinez sighed. “Just tell us what the pilot is doing.”
Racer Two’s craft—the display did not offer the name of the pilot, and Martinez didn’t recognize the flashy scarlet paint job on the craft—had just rotated to a new attitude and fired the main engine.
“She’s decelerating, my lord,” Chatterji said.
“And why is she doing that, Chatterji?”
“She’s d—dumping delta-vee in order to—to—” She licked her lips. “—to maneuver better,” she finished lamely.
“And what maneuver is this deceleration in aid of?”
Chatterji’s eyes searched the display in desperation. “Delta-vee increases options, my lord,” she said, a truism she had learned in tactics class, and clearly the first thing to leap to her mind.
“Very true, Chatterji,” Martinez said. “I’m sure your tactics instructor would be proud to know you have retained a modicum of the knowledge he tried to cram between your ears. But,” he said cheerfully, “our pilot is decreasing delta-vee, and therefore decreasing his options. So tell me why, Cadet Chatterji. Why?”
Chatterji focused very hard on the display but was unable to answer.
“I suggest you review your basic tactics, Cadet Chatterji,” Martinez said. “Persistence may eventually pay off, though in your case I doubt it. You—worm there—” Addressing the cadet whose name he didn’t know.
“Parker, lord.”
“Parker. Perhaps you can enlighten Chatterji concerning our pilot’s tactics.”
“She’s dumping delta-vee in order to be captured by V9’s gravity.” He referred to Vandrith’s ninth moon, the innermost counting as number one. The Shaa didn’t go in much for naming astronomical objects in interesting or poetic ways.
“And why is she entering V9’s gravity well, Parker?”
“She’s planning to slingshot toward the satellite near V11, lord.”
“And number four—that would be Captain Chee—” He recognized the blue and silver paint job. “Why is she not dumping delta-vee? Why is she accelerating instead?”
“I—” Parker swallowed. “I suppose she’s trying another tactic.”
Martinez sighed deliberately. “But why, worm, why? The display should tell you. It’s obvious.”
Parker searched the display in vain, then Cadet Foote’s languid tones interrupted the desperate silence.
“Captain Chee is accelerating, lord, because she’s intending to bypass V9 entirely, and to pass between V11 and the satellite to score her point. Since V11 possesses an atmosphere, she’ll probably try to use atmospheric braking in order to dump velocity and make her maneuver to tag the satellite at the last minute.”
Martinez rounded on Foote and snapped, “I don’t recall asking your opinion, Cadet Foote!”
“I beg the lord’s pardon,” Foote drawled.
Martinez realized to his dismay that Foote had just succeeded in making himself the star of this encounter. Martinez had intended to throw a little justified terror into some wastrels caught drunk on duty, but somehow Foote had changed the rules. How had he done that?
In children’s school fiction, there was always the evil bully, tormenting the youngsters, and then there was the hero, who tried to stand between the bully and his victims. Foote had made a gesture to help Silva, and now had just rescued Parker.
And I’m the bully, Martinez thought. I’m the wicked superior officer who torments his helpless underlings just to assuage his own pathetic feelings of inadequacy.
Foote, Martinez realized, had him pegged just about right.
Still, he thought, if he were going to be the villain in this little drama, he might as well do it well.
“Parker should learn that you won’t always be there to rescue him from his own stupidity,” he said to Foote. “But since you’ve chosen to express an opinion, suppose you tell me whether Chee’s maneuver will succeed.”
“She shan’t succeed, lord,” Foote said promptly.
“Shan’t she?” Martinez said, mocking. “And whyever shan she not?”
Foote’s tone didn’t change. “V11’s satellite has altered course, but Chee didn’t see it because it was on the far side of the moon at the time. She’ll be too late to correct when she finally sees her error.” Foote’s tone had grown almost intimate. “Of course, Captain Blitsharts seems to have allowed for that possibility. His acceleration isn’t as great, but he’s allowing himself more options.”
Martinez looked at the number one boat and saw the famous Blitsharts glossy black paintwork with its ochre-yellow stripes. Blitsharts was a celebrated and successful racer, a glit of the first order, famous not only for his victories, but for the fact that he always raced with his dog, a black retriever named Orange, who had his own acceleration bed in Midnight Runner’s cockpit next to his master’s. Blitsharts claimed the dog enjoyed pulling hard gees, and certainly Orange seemed none the worse for his adventures.
Blitsharts also had a reputation for drollery. He was once asked by a yachting enthusiast why he called the dog Orange. Blitsharts looked at the man and lifted surprised eyebrows above his mild brown eyes. “Because it’s his name, of course,” he said.
Oh yes, Martinez thought, there was rare wit in the yacht clubs all right.
“You think Blitsharts will win?” Martinez asked.
“At this stage, it’s very likely.”
“I don’t suppose Blitsharts is a relative of yours, is he?” Martinez asked.
For the first time, Foote hesitated. “No, my lord,” he said.
“How generous of you,” Martinez said, “to mention his name in conversation,” and was rewarded by seeing the cadet’s neck and ears turn red.
Chee crashed into V11’s atmosphere, her craft trailing a stream of ions as it cut through the moon’s hydrocarbon murk. She saw her target’s change of course too late, altered her heading and burned antimatter to try to make her mark. Her bones must have groaned with the ferocious gees she laid on, but she was a few seconds too late.
Blitsharts, on the other hand, hit the atmosphere with his usual impeccable timing, burned for the satellite, and passed it without breaking a sweat. And then kept accelerating, his torch pushing him onward past his mark.
“Perhaps, Cadet Foote, you will favor us with an analysis of Blitsharts’s tactics now,” Martinez said.
“Of course, lord. He’s…” Foote’s voice trailed away.
Blitsharts’s boat stood on a colossal tail of matter-antimatter fire and burned straight out of the plane of the ecliptic. Foote stared at the screen in confusion. Blitsharts seemed to be heading away from his next target, away from all his targets.
“Blitsharts is…he’s…” Foote was still struggling for words. “He’s…”
“Shit,” Martinez said, and bolted for the door.
TWO
Operations Command wasn’t in the Terran wing of the Commandery, but Terrans were on duty at this hour, none aware of any emergency until Martinez burst through the door. The duty officer, Lieutenant Ari Abacha, lounged with his feet on his console, a perfect corkscrew apple peel falling from his paring knife onto the napkin spread over his lap, while the three duty techs dozed over the screens that helped them supervise the automated systems that routed routine traffic.
Martinez batted Abacha’s legs out of the way as he rushed for an unoccupied console. The screw of apple peel spilled to the floor, and Abacha bent to pick it up. Footballers careened over a brightly lit field in one of his displays—he was a big Andiron supporter, Martinez recalled.
“What’s the problem, Gare?” Abacha said from somewhere near the floor.
“Vandrith Challenge race. Yacht’s out of control.” Martinez dropped onto a seat that had been designed for a Laiown and called up displays.
“Yeah?�
�� Abacha said. “Whose?”
“Blitsharts.”
Abacha’s eyes widened. “Shit,” he said, and leaped from his seat to look over Martinez’s shoulder.
Telemetry from Midnight Runner had been lost, so Martinez had to locate the yacht by using the passive detectors on Zanshaa’s accelerator ring. Blitsharts’s yacht had cut its main engine and started tumbling. From the erratic way the boat lurched, it appeared that maneuvering thrusters were still being fired. It was possible that Blitsharts was trying to regain control, but if so, he was failing. Any input from the thrusters just seemed to add to the chaos.
And all this, Martinez reminded himself, had happened over twenty-four minutes ago, with the time-lag increasing as Midnight Runner raced toward galactic south.
Martinez asked the computer to calculate how many gees the acceleration had inflicted on Blitsharts’s body. A maximum of 7.4, he found, deeply uncomfortable but survivable, especially for a yacht racer in peak condition. Blitsharts might still be alive.
A communicator buzzed on Abacha’s console. He stepped toward it and linked it to the display on his uniform sleeve. “Operations. Lieutenant Abacha.”
The voice came out of Abacha’s sleeve. “My lord, this is Panjit Sesse of Zanshaa All-Sports Networks. Are you aware that Captain Blitsharts’s yacht Midnight Runner is tumbling out of control?”
“We’re working on that, yes.”
Martinez was only vaguely aware of this dialogue. He told the computers to guess where Midnight Runner would be in half an hour or so and to paint the area with low-energy ranging lasers aimed from the ring. That might make it easier for rescuers to track the boat.
The reporter’s voice went on. “Who is working on it, my lord?”
The Praxis Page 3