Lord Pierre conceded with an annoyed flap of one hand. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.”
“Thank you, Lord Convocate.” And he smiled as sweetly as he could.
After that he recorded another rambling message to Sula, and sent it along with downloads of Kwa-Zo’s Fifth Book of Mathematical Puzzles and Pre-Conquest Earth Porcelains: Asia.
When he returned to his apartment, he found his evening clothes laid out for him, along with a fragrant corsage of eskartori blossoms, and remembered his date with Amanda Taen. The memory came as a mild surprise. He had been so occupied with making plans for meeting Caroline Sula and arranging a sham engagement for Sempronia that he’d pushed Amanda to the back of his mind. An injustice, he thought, and he’d spend the rest of the evening setting it right.
He told Alikhan to lay out a small cold buffet for later and to chill a bottle of sparkling wine. Alikhan, not unaccustomed to these sorts of commands, nodded without speaking. Martinez shaved again, then changed into the civilian suit with the braided collar and cuffs and the elastic stirrup that ran under his glossy shoes at the instep—accessories that said fashionable without quite saying glit—then summoned a cab to pick up Amanda at her warrant officers’ quarters. She wore a gown of russet material quietly stuffed with all the by-products of modern materials science: it supported her lush figure in all the right places, while tucking her in elsewhere. In front, the gown modestly covered her to the throat, but there was no back at all. Her chestnut hair had been pinned up by long golden needles topped by walnutsized chunks of artificial ruby—cheap stuff, but deployed massively and to great effect—while rubies and gold also glittered on her fingers and at her throat.
Her smile was brilliant as her jewelry. “It’s not too formal, is it?” she asked.
“Not at all.” He put a hand on her naked back and helped her to the cab.
He took her to the Penumbra Theater for a comedy, a sex farce of the sort that humans loved and that other races found incomprehensible. Amanda laughed in all the places where Martinez could have hoped she might have laughed.
After the show, he took her to a restaurant in the High City for supper—not one of the absolutely first-class places, which tended to be too starched and formal, but a large, noisy restaurant with overhead galleries, smiling, busy waitrons, and with what Martinez had been assured was excellent food. Ari Abacha was drinking in the bar as Martinez entered, and silently raised his glass at the sight of Amanda. Martinez ate modestly, watched Amanda tuck into her bison steak, and thought how pleasing it was to meet a girl with such unconcealed appetites.
Afterward he took her to a club for dancing, then to his apartment, and then to bed. When he drew off her gown, her abundant flesh seemed to leap into his hands. She was as much fun as he expected, a gloriously healthy young female animal who took what she wanted with both generosity and laughter.
The evening would have been perfect if he hadn’t kept picturing Sula, her image and eyes, her voice, and imagining her scent, some fanciful combination of clean skin and lilac and arousal.
Sula, meanwhile, alone in her sour-smelling cockpit, wondered why Martinez hadn’t sent his usual evening message. She had gotten used to hearing his voice two or three times every day, and now that the voice hadn’t come, she realized how much she missed it.
She decided that his commander had him working late. She opened the file on Earth porcelains and spent the hours gazing at one image after another, of vases and bowls and jugs, all ancient and unbelievably rare and precious. In her mind she touched the lovely objects, stroking surfaces glossy or crackled or smooth, her fingertips caressing the unreachable creations of those immeasurably skilled, unknown, long-dead hands.
FIVE
“He’s old. I hate him.”
Sempronia’s fierce whisper hissed in Martinez’s ear. He looked at his youngest sister with sympathy.
“Sorry, Proney.”
“He keeps following me around the room. What if he wants to touch me?”
“You’ll have to endure it. Think of the family.”
Sempronia narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “I am thinking of the family. I’m thinking of you—because this whole scheme is all your fault.”
“Ah—here you are.” PJ Ngeni materialized at Sempronia’s elbow, a drink in either hand. “I thought I’d bring you another cocktail.”
Sempronia turned to PJ with a brilliant smile. “Why, thank you! How very thoughtful!” She put down her untouched drink and replaced it with another.
Martinez had to admire her skill under pressure. Sempronia was so good at playing a vivacious young thing that he sometimes had to remind himself that she was a vivacious young thing, at least most of the time. He could only tell the difference between a performance and the genuine article by the slight tensing of the muscles around the eyes.
PJ didn’t seem the type to much care about whether Sempronia’s conduct was genuine or not. His own behavior was clearly a performance of some sort, in his case that of an attentive and considerate cavalier. He was a tall, thin, elegant man with arched, amused eyebrows and a little mustache. He lacked the cannonball head and large jaws of most of the Ngenis, and the hair was beginning to recede atop his long skull. Though suspicious, thus far Martinez had found nothing in the man he could object to save the bracelets and lapel braid made of bleached and woven human hair, a typical glit affectation.
PJ looked at Martinez. “Such a shame about Blitsharts,” he said. “Too bad you couldn’t rescue him.”
“I rescued him, all right,” Martinez said. “The pity is that he was dead by then.”
PJ’s tented brows arched even higher and he gave a laugh. “Blitsharts was a good fellow,” he said. “Witty. Like you. I won quite a lot, betting on him in the old days.” He shook his head. “Not so much lately, though. He wasn’t lucky.”
“Are you a gambler, then?” Sempronia asked, her eyes clearly asking, Is this why you need my dowry?
PJ shrugged. “I have a flutter now and again. A fellow has to, you know. It’s expected.”
“What else is a fellow expected to do?” The brilliant smile across Sempronia’s face, Martinez knew, was intended to mask the vengeful glimmer in her eyes.
The question took PJ aback. “Well,” he said. “Dress well, you know. Mix with people. Have nice things.”
Sempronia took his arm. “There must be more to it than that. Please tell me simply everything.”
Martinez watched as Sempronia drew him away with the clear intention of ferreting out his every vicious secret. PJ, he decided, was going to pay dearly for his family’s marital ambitions.
Martinez, for his part, was enjoying himself. Lord Pierre had added the Martinez clan to a dinner party already on his schedule, which meant that he would soon be sitting to supper with the sort of people normally out of his reach, in this case three convocates, a judge of the High Court, the commander of the Legion of Diligence for the Metropolis of Zanshaa, a fleet commander on the retired list, and a captain and a squadron commander who weren’t.
Martinez wore his uniform, something he normally didn’t do on a social engagement, and it contributed to his being recognized. The captain and the squadron commander asked for details on the Blitsharts rescue, and Martinez was pleased to oblige. He was just getting to his description of how he had used the virtual simulation to work out how Midnight Runner was tumbling when the dinner gong rang. “I’ll go into the rest later,” he promised.
Particularly the part where he expressed admiration for Lord Commander Enderby’s decision to terminate his life, and happened to mention that as a result he was lacking a posting.
Martinez gave his arm to a lady convocate and led her from the tapestry-lined parlor to the dining room done in parquetry, tens of thousands of slivers of various kinds of wood jigsawed together in the form of portraits of prominent Ngenis of the past. Lord Pierre had only been doing his duty when he placed Martinez between the lady
convocate and the retired fleet commander, a short, leathery-skinned woman.
Servants in livery began putting down plates of soup, and the scent of onions and tomatoes rose in the room. The retired fleetcom—she was Lord Pierre’s great-aunt—turned to Martinez and looked him up and down. Long white hairs clustered on her chin. “You’re the Martinez who got Blitsharts back, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He reached for his soup spoon and readied the story of the rescue.
“Bad business,” the fleetcom said. “Wish you hadn’t.”
“My lady?”
The fleetcom glowered. “Now all sorts of things that should have been private will come out. Things that will discredit the poor man. You should have let the fellow die in peace.”
“No doubt, my lady,” Martinez murmured. One never disagreed with a fleet commander.
The fleetcom’s gaze shifted searchingly to her plate. “Hope the soup’s good,” she muttered. “Last time they burnt the onions.”
Which ended that conversation. The lady convocate on the other side of Martinez was engaged in a complicated discussion over a piece of legislation involving the protection of the gold-bearing seaweeds of Hy-Oso. Martinez glanced across the table, where PJ seemed relieved to find himself sitting next to Vipsania. Lord Pierre had doubtless seated them together on the theory that since Vipsania was the eldest, she’d be most desperate to marry.
Martinez applied himself to his soup and thoughts of Sula and Amanda Taen. He’d seen Amanda twice since he’d first taken her out, with results as filled with delight as the first time. None of the delight, however, had quite got Cadet Lady Sula out of his mind.
Well. He’d see her soon. That would probably settle his thoughts one way or another.
At the end of the long deceleration burn Sula turned Midnight Runner over to the tugs that would take it to fleet quarantine. She guided her pinnace into her assigned berth, and as the docking clamps locked, she felt the ring’s gravity pushing her onto her back, pressing her into her acceleration couch at a full gravity, twice what she’d experienced during the journey to Zanshaa. She waited till the docking tube had extended and formed a seal around the hatch, then pulled off her helmet and took a deep, relieved breath. People were supposed to wear vac suits when docking in small craft, and it had been a mental struggle to get the faceplate closed.
Once her helmet was off, Sula shut down the pinnace, took two small data foils out of the computer and put them into envelopes.
One foil was the log of the journey, and went into an official envelope that would be turned over to the Fleet Records Office for examination and filing. The other contained her personal information, the communications from Martinez and all the books and entertainment he’d sent her.
She put the private data into the small bag of personal gear she’d carried onto the pinnace with her, then sealed the bag into the thigh pocket of her vac suit. She popped the door into the airlock trunk, grabbed the hand bar over her head and hauled herself out of the couch. The airlock was now “down,” and she lowered herself into it, clumsy in the suit, shut off the lights in the pilot’s compartment and sealed the door behind her.
She didn’t spare the interior of the pinnace another glance. She was glad to see the last of it.
The hatch hissed open, and Sula crawled down the docking tube until she emerged in the ready room, blank white walls and floor, the better to show any dirt or contamination. Hands reached down to help her stand, and it wasn’t until Sula got to her feet that she realized the hands belonged to Martinez. He wore his undress uniform and a broad smile.
Vertigo eddied through Sula’s inner ear. “My lord,” she said.
“Welcome back to the world, cadet.” His hands guided her a step or two forward, and three expressionless, disinterested riggers in sterile disposable smocks and caps descended on her and began to strip off her vac suit. Martinez relieved her of the official envelope. “Is this the log? I’ll take it, then.”
“I’m supposed to deliver it myself.”
“I’ll sign a chit for it,” Martinez said. “It has to be delivered to the Investigative Service, not to Fleet Records.”
“Oh.”
“Lawyers armed with writs have already descended on Midnight Runner. Not that it will do them any good—the Fleet has lawyers as good as anyone’s, and I’m sure it’s already been decided which senior officer is going to get the new toy.”
Efficient hands opened all the vac suit’s pockets, retrieved her personal belongings, some tools, and a pony bottle of air. The air supply and recycler was detached from the seat, the valves sealed, and the upper suit section detached from the lower. The riggers shoved her arms above her head, then pulled the top of the suit off.
Sula, arms high, was suddenly aware that she didn’t smell very good. She lowered her arms as the riggers began to prepare to drop the lower half of the vac suit. She looked up at Martinez.
“Would you mind turning your back?”
Martinez turned, and the riggers stripped the suit and its sanitary gear down Sula’s legs. Martinez looked down as he took a datapad from his belt and wrote on it. One of the riggers held out a pair of sterile drawers, and Sula stepped into them. Martinez pressed a button and the datapad spat out a foil, which he took and held over his shoulder.
“Your chit.”
“Thanks.” Collecting it. “You can turn around.”
Martinez did so. The expression of polite interest on his face betrayed no awareness of the fact that he was looking at an unwashed, slack-muscled woman with greasy hair, pasty skin, and a shirt stained with prominent sweat patches that hadn’t been changed in many long days. Sula had to admire his self-control.
“I’ve got you a room in the cadets’ quarters at the Commandery,” he said.
“I don’t have to live on the ring?” Sula was impressed. “Thanks.”
“I’m using my staff privileges while they last. You can shower in your quarters, and get a bite if you want, and then we’ve got an appointment with my tailor.”
“Tailor?”
“Lord Commander Enderby is going to decorate you in a ceremony tomorrow. You can’t show up in what you’re wearing.”
“Oh. Right.” Decorate? she thought.
“I got your height and weight and so on out of your records. The tailor’s put a uniform together from that, but you’ll still need the final fitting.”
Elastic snapped around Sula’s ankles as the riggers knelt and put slippers on her feet. The vac suit was carried off for checkout, refurbishment, sterilizing, and storage. A thought struck her. “I don’t have to wear parade dress, do I?”
“Full dress, not parade dress.”
“Oh, good. My feet and ankles are swollen from sitting all this time on that couch, and I’d hate to get fitted for a pair of boots right now.” And then she remembered.
“Decorate?” she asked.
“Medal of Merit, Second Class. You’ll be decorated with nine others, after which there will be a reception and questions from reporters.” He gave her a significant look. “The yachting press. Answer their questions fully and freely, and if you want to give credit to my brilliant plan for your success, I think it would only be just.”
Sula looked at him. This last was said in a jocular tone, but perhaps with more emphasis than necessary.
“I think I’d like to take a shower now,” she said. She knew that showers were always adjacent to the sterile ready rooms, and her whole body shrieked for soap and hot water.
“Certainly. This way.”
He directed her to the changing room and politely held the door for her.
“I’m likely be here awhile,” she said.
“Take all the time you like.” He smiled. “By the way, I arranged a furlough for you, starting in two days. It’ll last until the death of Anticipation of Victory, and then all furloughs are off anyway.”
He smiled again and let the door sigh closed behind her. Sula turned and propped the door open with
one hand. He looked at her, his heavy brows raised.
“Are you always this efficient?” she asked.
Martinez tilted his head as he considered the question. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe I am.”
Sula, wearing her new uniform and medal, sat in the Commandery’s cadet lounge, where three separate football games blared from the video walls. She was perched on a chair of carbon-fiber rods with a lemon-flavored beverage in her hand, while Cadet Jeremy Foote lounged before her in another, deeper, overstuffed chair.
“Martinez?” Foote said. “He’s got you in his sights, has he?”
“Sights!” snorted Cadet Silva from the sofa. “Bang! Another virgin gone!”
Silva, Sula thought, was very drunk.
“Virgin?” Foote said. He turned to Sula and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a virgin, are you? That would be original.”
“I’m pure as the void itself,” Sula said, and enjoyed the expression that crossed Foote’s face as he tried to work out exactly what she meant.
She had sought out the cadet lounge because it was one of the few places in the Commandery where an off-duty cadet was permitted. Senior officers and politicians apparently preferred to work, drink, and dine without having to rest their eyes on the gauche, ill-mannered, pimpled, and inebriated apprentice officers.
After a brief exposure to Cadet Silva, Sula was beginning to think they had a point.
“So is there anything wrong with Martinez?” she asked.
“Nothing, if you’re attractive, female, and a shop girl,” Foote said. “He’s got money and a degree of charm and a limited sense of style, and I’m sure he gives his usual sort of companion no reason to complain. But those from a higher station in life can’t be so very impressed.” He gave Sula a significant look. “You could do much better, I’m sure.”
“Troglodyte!” Silva called. “That’s what we call him!” His voice grew excited. “Goal! Did you see that? Point for Corona! A header off the goalie’s hand!”
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