want the best chances of disrupting the Naxid war effort while avoiding large-scale damage to civilian populations—we have to assume that most of the population is loyal, and we don’t want to drive them straight to the Naxids.”
“True,” Martinez said, though in the end it hardly mattered what the population thought. No matter what their convictions in regard to the war, civilian populations would in the end have to submit to whichever fleet held the high ground above their worlds.
Michi frowned at the display. “I’ll also want exercises based on encountering opposition in these systems. We don’t know where all the Naxid fleet elements are, particularly those eight ships that were in Protipanu, and in any case the Naxids may send formations after us once they figure out what we’re up to. So I’d like you to devise exercises based on any contingency.”
“Very good, my lady,” Martinez said. “I’ll start working that up immediately.” This was the sort of assignment he could do easily, and his mind was already abuzz with the kind of diabolical complications he could introduce into these scenarios.
She turned to him. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“When would you need the first exercise?”
“Shall I give you tomorrow to rest, and the day after to work it up? Say in three days.”
“I’m sufficiently rested, my lady. Let’s say two days.”
Michi nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, captain. If you’re confident in your estimations. Any other questions?”
Martinez considered for a moment before answering. “Not at present, my lady.” And then one occurred to him. “By the way,” he said, “what happened to my predecessor? I assume you wouldn’t have left Harzapid without a tactical officer.”
Sadness crossed Lady Michi’s features. “Lieutenant Kosinic was off the ship when the rebellion broke out, and in a part of the ring station hit by an antiproton beam. He was wounded—some head injuries, broken ribs and a broken arm—but when we departed Harzapid he insisted he’d recovered sufficiently to join us. But he died, unfortunately.” Michi looked away. “A sad business. I quite liked the young man.”
Martinez felt his spine brushed by an eerie sense of responsibility. Sula had claimed he was the luckiest man in the universe, but he’d never thought his luck would reach out and strike down a complete stranger just so Martinez could have his job.
The dinner ended shortly afterward, and Martinez returned to his cabin, where Alikhan waited with a cup of cocoa. “What do you think ofIllustrious ?” Martinez asked him.
“A taut ship,” Alikhan said, “and a well-trained crew. The noncommissioned officers know their jobs. But no one understands the captain at all.”
Martinez gave Alikhan a sly look. “Isn’t an officer supposed to keep up an air of mystery?”
“Is he, my lord?” Alikhan, as he brushed Martinez’s tunic, gave the strong impression that no officer had ever been mysterious tohim . “The captain’s a complete puzzle to the crew. And I don’t think they’re fond of him.”
The heavy scent of cocoa rose in the room. Martinez reached for his cup.
“If he painted little winged children all overtheir quarters,” Martinez said, “I wouldn’t blame them.”
One morning Sula took her team shopping for clothing. She wanted clothes less suitable for the neighborhood in which the Fleet had put them, clothes a little more loud, a little more worn. She didn’t know the Zanshaa milieu well enough to know exactly what she was looking for, but thought she’d recognize it when she saw it.
First she took her group on a long reconnaissance. The Terran neighborhood she chose backed onto a pool filled with old boats and canal barges that were being repaired by something called Sim’s Boatyard. The ripping noise of pneumatic hammers and riveters sounded in the air. The apartment buildings were prefabricated and old. The streets were crowded. There were people wandering over the worn paving who had obviously been sleeping on the streets, and the look of some of them made Macnamara hover protectively off Sula’s shoulder.
Except for the clothing, this was very much like the Fabs, in Spannan, where Sula grew up. In the Fabs the mode involved stockings, felt boots, chunky ceramic jewelry, and puffy jackets sewn with rows of little silver chimes. Here, she saw, the style featured a brightly colored shirt with the collar worn outside a short jacket that belted tightly across the midsection, pegged trousers that belled out around the ankles, and shoes with thick wooden platform soles ornamented with carvings.
Sula stepped into a used clothing store and began to page through the racks. Macnamara was dubious when Sula handed him the outfit she’d chosen for him. “I don’t know if I can carry this off,” he said. “I’m from Kupa. From themountains. We’d make our money off the winter sports, and in the summer I’d herd my uncle’s sheep.”
“I’ve seen you wear stupider stuff than this,” Sula said.
Macnamara decided Sula had scored a point, and went to the changing room. When he came out, he looked like a shepherd with a very unusual style sense.
Sula sighed. “Put on your regular clothes. You’ll have to be my hick cousin from the country till you can get used to wearing something like that.”
Macnamara seemed relieved. Sula, remembering how he’d seemed perfectly at ease after a long hike across muddy fields in combat armor, decided that all this was going to take was practice.
Engineer/1st Spence looked more at home in the local fashion. She had at least lived in a city most of her life, and accessorized with some gaudy costume jewelry and a tall velvet hat that looked as if it had been deliberately sat on—the damage was a little too perfect to be accidental.
Sula wobbled a little on her platform shoes as she clacked out onto the pavement. Military life had accustomed her to flats.
Spence had a good eye, she decided. Sula spotted a number of the crumpled velvet hats in the next street.
“Uhh, Lucy?” Macnamara said from over her shoulder. Sula’s current ID, one she had made for herself, listed her as Lucy Daubrac, and the team were supposed to use the cover names and not ranks or titles.
“Yeah, Patrick?”
“You know, you walk like an officer in the Fleet. Spine straight, shoulders back. You should try, like, slouching more.”
She flashed him a smile from over her shoulder. Her hick cousin, the unemployed shepherd, wasn’t so stupid after all.
“Thanks,” she said, then she stuck her hands in her trouser pockets and slumped her shoulders.
Sula called up a list of apartments for rent on her hand communicator—her jacket didn’t have a sleeve display—but the one she chose was found by a sign in the window:TWO BEDROOMS, FURN., W/TOILET .
Her sense of self-respect and order demanded, at the very least, a toilet she didn’t have to share with strangers.
There was no concierge, let alone a doorman, just an elderly Daimong janitor who lived in a basement flat, and who let them view the apartment. The place smelled of mildew, the furniture sagged, some child had scrawled over the face of the wall video, and there was a creepy purple stain on the walls.
“If we take it,” Sula said, “will you paint the place?”
“I’ll give you some brushes and paint,” the Daimong said. “Thenyou paint the place.” With apparent satisfaction the Daimong peeled a swatch of dead skin from his neck, then let it drift to the worn carpet.
“How much is it again?”
“Three a month.”
“Zeniths?” Sula scorned. “Or septiles?”
The Daimong made a gonging noise meant to indicate indifference. “You can call the manager and argue with him if you want,” he said. “I’ll give you his number.”
The manager, a bald Terran, insisted on three zeniths. “Have youseen this place?” Sula asked, knowing full well he hadn’t in years, and probably not ever. She panned the hand comm’s camera over the room. “Who’s going to pay three zeniths for this wreck? Justlook at that stain! And let me show you the kitchen—it’sunspeakable. ”
Sula argued the manager down to two zeniths per month, with a two-zenith damage deposit and three months paid in advance. She paid the janitor, dragging the cash out of her pocket and counting out the durable plastic money repeatedly, as if it were all she had, and she then insisted on his giving her a receipt.
