“In two days, to make up this new squadron. I’ve barely met my new officers.” And what he’d seen hadn’t encouraged him: a gray-haired lieutenant who hadn’t been promoted in sixteen years, and a new-fledged youngster with scarcely any more seniority than Vonderheydte. He clearly had his work cut out for him.
“Do you think Jarlath will strike for Magaria?” asked Lord Pierre. “Everyone seems to think he will.”
“I don’t think he’s got the numbers,” Martinez said.
Roland gave a little smile. “I thought you said we couldn’t fail.”
“We can if wetry. ”
Later, as strains of music floated toward the assembly from the orchestra in the ballroom, Martinez found himself with a powerful yearning to have Amanda Taen in his arms. But Warrant Officer Taen was away in her ship, repairing satellites for the next month, and Martinez hadn’t the time to make a new connection, not unless he made one now.
As he walked toward the ballroom, Martinez found himself next to PJ Ngeni. Melancholy seemed to have become a permanent fixture on PJ’s long face, and Martinez assumed this to be a consequence of frequent contact with his sisters. Martinez more or less knew how he felt.
“I say, Gareth,” PJ said.
“Yes?”
“Terrific speech you gave this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“It made me want to—todo something, if you know what I mean. Do something useful, in the war.”
Martinez looked at him. “To join the Fleet?”
“I hardly think I—” He hesitated. “Well, to dosomething .” PJ touched a hand to his collar. “I wonder if I might ask your advice. On a more personal matter.”
Martinez lifted his eyebrows. “Of course.”
“I wonder if it’s normal for someone from Laredo—a young woman, for example—to maintain, ah, a sort of social and emotional independence.”
Martinez hid a smile. “Of course,” he said. “Laredans are renowned for their independence, both of thought and of character.”
“Ah, I wondered. Because, you know—” PJ frowned. “I hardly ever see her. Sempronia, I mean. Formal occasions, yes, and she gives me a kiss on the cheek and…” His voice trailed away, then he resumed. “But she has her own friends, and she spends time with them, and I never…” He tried again. “She’s in school, of course, and she says she wants to enjoy her school friends while she can. And I can’t object to that, because I’ve had my friends over the years, and…” His brows knit in puzzlement. “But so many of her friends are officers. Andthey’re not in school.”
For a moment Martinez almost felt a breath of sorrow for PJ Ngeni. And then he remembered who he was talking to, and his sorrow blew away like cherry blossoms in the spring.
“I think you should just have patience,” he said. “Sempronia’s the pet of the family, and she’s used to having her own way.” He gave PJ’s arm a consoling pat. “She’ll grow to appreciate your virtues in time,” he said. “And as for the officers—well, I’m sure she just wants to take advantage of their company before they go off to war.”
“Hmm.” These thoughts processed their way across PJ’s face. “Well. I suppose.”
Martinez found out more about at least one of the officers the next morning, after breakfast. He was packing his night case, preparing to leave for a meeting called by his new squadron commander, Captain Farfang ofDestiny, when he heard a tentative knock on his door.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.” Sempronia’s voice, muffled by a thumb’s length of Shelley Palace teak.
“Come in.”
Sempronia, her expression tentative, swung the thick door inward and entered. She saw him in his unbuttoned tunic, and walked up to work the silver tunic buttons, her teeth resting lightly on her lower lip and her hazel eyes comically crossed as she concentrated on the work. She finished the last button, straightened the collar, then stepped back to survey the result.
“Thank you,” Martinez said.
“You’re welcome.” She crossed her arms and frowned at him. He went to his dressing table and took from it the gold disk on a ribbon that he could wear if he wasn’t going to lug the Golden Orb about.
“You aren’t going to carry the orb with you?”
Martinez placed the disk about his neck. “To carry the orb on anything other than a formal occasion would be conceit.”
“But Gareth,” Sempronia protested, “youare conceited.”
Martinez decided that the higher wisdom lay in not answering this charge. He turned to her. “And the reason you came here, Proney…?”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “I wanted to talk to you about one of your officers.”
“One ofmy officers?”
“Nikkul Shankaracharya.”
“Ah.” This would be his second officer, whom he had met just two days before, and with whom he’d exchanged perhaps three dozen words. A sublieutenant of less than six months’ seniority, with a faint little mustache and a hesitant manner. At the first meeting, Shankaracharya had made little impression, though Martinez had a strong sense that this one, perhaps, would take a lot of work.
“A friend of yours, is he?” Martinez asked.
A faint rose color brightened Sempronia’s cheeks. “Yes. I was hoping that you could, well, look after him.”
“That’s my job,” Martinez said. “But is Shankaracharya likely to need much looking after?”
Sempronia’s flush deepened. “I think he’s very talented. But he’s shy, and he doesn’t put himself forward. You’re likely to trample him into the deck without even noticing he’s there.”
“Well, I promise not to trample him into the deck.” He cast his mind back, uncovered a memory of Sempronia talking to a dark-haired officer at the family’s reception for Caroline Sula.
Her eyes darted from one corner of the room to the next. “He admires you very much. He pulled strings through his patron Lord Pezzini to get aboardCorona. ” Her lips twisted into an S shape. “Of course, he doesn’t know you like I do.”
Martinez approached Sempronia, reached out a hand and lifted her chin, so he could see her eyes at rest. “Is Shankaracharyavery important, Proney?” he asked.
Her lips thinned to a line and she nodded. He kissed her forehead.
“Very well, then,” he said. “I’ll do my best for him.”
Her arms went around him briefly in a fierce hug. “Right, then,” she said. “If you look after Nikkul, Imight forgive you for PJ.”
She dashed from his room then, and he finished packing and called for the servants to carry his gear to the cab that would take him to the maglev station. Alikhan wasn’t available—Martinez liked to think he was looking afterCorona in his absence. He threw his winter overcoat over one arm, took the Golden Orb in its traveling case, marched down the broad staircase to the foyer, and said good-bye to his family.
Outside, snow glittered white beneath Zanshaa’s dark green sky. The antimatter ring arced overhead, with its dockyards and the improvised squadron of whichCorona was a part. The squadron would leave tomorrow, on special duty. Martinez didn’t know where they were bound, knew only that they wouldn’t be made a part of the Home Fleet, because they had been assigned to the Lai-own Do-faq’s command, and not Jarlath’s. He assumed there would be many long days of acceleration before he found out, unless Captain Farfang chose to inform his captains at the day’s meeting.
But it turned out that Captain Farfang couldn’t tell him anything, because he was dead.
“Destinywas finishing its conversion from a Naxid ship to one crewed by Torminel.” This from Dalkieth, his middle-aged senior lieutenant. Her excited voice was high-pitched yet soft, almost lisping, a child’s voice that contrasted with her lined face. “Work was completed on the crew quarters last, so the hardshells had been bunking on the station and only came aboard last night to make final adjustments to the ship’s environment. And you know that Torminel prefer a lower temperature than Naxids, because of the fur.”
“So it wasn’t sabotage?”
