“If it was, the saboteur was on the crew and died with everyone else. Because when they programmed the new temperatures, someone lost a decimal point somewhere, andDestiny’s environment was cooled to one-tenth what it should be.”
Martinez was puzzled. “But the temperature change should have been gradual enough to—Oh.”
“Yes,” Dalkieth said. “Torminel have a hibernation reflex. When it gets cold, they just go into a deeper sleep. But even hibernation doesn’t preserve them against an environment below freezing.”
Martinez shivered. “All of them died?”
“All of them. A hundred and twenty-something, dead in their racks.”
“And the guard on the airlock?”
“Destinywasn’t going to be in commission till today. Guards were provided by the Office of the Constabulary, not the ship itself. No one went in or out ofDestiny till early this morning.”
When they found ice coating the walls, and frozen Torminel with frost glittering in their fur. Martinez wanted to lean back in his chair and marvel in awe at the horrific, whimsical blow of fate that had deprived the squadron of both its heaviest ship and its commander. But there was too much to do: two-thirds of his crew were strangers, a figure that included the officers. So far as he knew,Corona and its squadron would still leave the station tomorrow.
“Who’s in command of the squadron?” he asked.
“Kamarullah is the senior captain. Nothing official’s been said, though.”
He rose from behind his office desk, conscious of the football trophies that were still bolted to the wall behind him. Tarafah’s suite had at last been reassembled, and he’d been moved into it, after insisting on triple-strength locks and bolts on the liquor store.
“Right,” he said, “department inspections at 2601.”
“Very good, Lord Elcap.”
He carried the Golden Orb on his inspection—not the one the Convocation had presented him the day before, but the cruder version that Maheshwari and Alikhan had made in the frigate’s machine shop. If the crew drew the conclusion that he appreciated their gift more than that of the Convocation, he would not be disappointed.
The results of the inspection were a little better than he expected, but he’d only completed half of it when Vonderheydte informed him that an urgent, private communication had been received from Squadron Commander Do-faq. Martinez dismissed the crouchbacks, including those he hadn’t yet inspected, and took the communication in his office.
Junior Squadron Commander Do-faq commanded the Lai-own cruiser squadron that had been heading toward Zanshaa from Preowin since the rebellion. Hollow Lai-own bones couldn’t stand much more than two gravities’ acceleration, and he’d been accelerating the whole way. Now that Do-faq bad arrived at Zanshaa, he wasn’t about to slow down: he’d continue a wide, eccentric circuit of the system until shooting off toward whatever wormhole the Fleet had assigned him, and in the meantime he’d command his light squadron, which includedCorona, via remote control.
How Do-faq was going to coordinate his squadrons if he ever had to fight was an open question, given their wildly different performance characteristics. But then, Lai-owns were supposed to be diabolically subtle tacticians, as their performance in the Lai-own War had shown, and Martinez told himself it wasn’t his job to worry about it anyway.
Martinez used his captain’s key to decode the squadron commander’s message, which had crossed the six light-minutes that separated Zanshaa from the Lai-own squadron. When the picture resolved on the display, he saw that Do-faq was a youngish Lai-own for his post, as demonstrated by the dark featherlike hair on the sides of his flat-topped head, the hair that Lai-owns lost on full maturity. His wide-set eyes were golden, and his broad mouth, lined with peg teeth, was set in the weary lines that spoke of nearly thirty days of continual acceleration.
“Lord Captain Martinez,” he said. “Allow me to congratulate you on your promotion and your receipt of the Golden Orb. I hope to have the honor of meeting you in person one day, should the constraints of the service ever permit it.”
Martinez found himself warmed by these civilities. It was always pleasing to discover that your superior officers had a good opinion of you and were willing to say so. He was more accustomed to his superiors pretending that he didn’t exist.
Do-faq slid nictating membranes over his eyes. “The loss ofDestiny has forced me to a number of painful decisions, among them, the reluctant conclusion that Lord Captain Kamarullah is unsuited for command of the squadron.”
Martinez stared at the screen in complete surprise, and touched the control key. “Page crew Alikhan to the captain’s office.”
Do-faq continued, his voice weary. “The other captains senior to you would, I am certain, be suitable enough for the task. But they lack combat experience—weall lack such experience. All but you.”
The nictating membranes slid away from Do-faq’s eyes, and Martinez found himself staring into the lord commander’s brilliant gold eyes.
“I am willing to appoint you to command the light squadron, Lord Captain Martinez,” Do-faq said. “I realize that you may consider this an undue burden, considering the problems you must be facing inCorona now, with so many new crew and with the other difficulties of a new command. You may decline the appointment without prejudice…”
Martinez paused the message as he heard a knock on the door. He told Alikhan to come in, and as his orderly entered, said, “What’s between Do-faq and Kamarullah?”
Alikhan paused for a moment, then silently slid the door shut behind him. “That would date from the maneuvers back in ‘seventy-three, my lord,” he said. “There was a misunderstanding of an order that led to the maneuver being spoiled. The Fleet blamed Do-faq, and Do-faq blamed Kamarullah, who was tactical officer on theGlory at the time.”
And now I’m in the middle,Martinez thought. The thought failed to depress him.
Nor did the thought of his new and untried crew, the officers he didn’t know, the prospect of captains angry at being passed over, and the certain wrath of Kamarullah. He felt instead the onset of exhilaration, the tingle of blood and mind as he began to grapple with the challenges implied by Do-faq’s offer.
“Thank you, Alikhan,” he said. And after Alikhan left, he told the comm board, “Reply, personal to Squadron Commander Do-faq,” and pressed the cipher key.
The light came on that showed he was being recorded, and he gazed into the camera with a face that he hoped broadcast sincerity.
“Though I fear you’re giving me far too much credit,” he said, “I am nevertheless honored to accept the appointment. I and the squadron will await your orders.”
He had almost saidmy squadron, but had stopped himself at the last second.
That, he decided, would be conceit.
The next call came from Lieutenant Captain Kamarullah. He had a squarish face, a mustache, and the graying temples that suggested Do-faq’s wrath must have genuinely harmed his career—lieutenant captains were generally promoted well before their hair had a chance to go gray.
“You could refuse the command,” Kamarullah said.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Martinez said, “but you know that Do-faq would just appoint someone else.”
“You couldall refuse,” Kamarullah urged. “If the squadron stood united against him, he’d have no choice.”
“I regret the situation,” Martinez said, “but I’ve accepted the lord commander’s offer.”
Kamarullah’s lips twisted. “Regret,” he repeated. “No doubt.”
Martinez looked at the man coldly. “Captain’s breakfast meeting onCorona at 0601,” he said. “You may bring your senior lieutenant.”
He’d get the Golden Orb out of its box, he thought, the real one, to demonstrate his authority.
And ifthat didn’t work, he’d use it to clout Kamarullah on the head.
Two hours before his breakfast meeting, Martinez was awakened by a messenger who had his sealed orders from the Fleet Control Board. He put on his dressing gown, signed for the orders, broke the seal, and read his
