disinfectant.
“Can I get you anything?” Sula asked. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Can’t eat.” Spence made a vague gesture at the wall. “Video, maybe?”
Sula told the video wall to turn on, and settled on her bed to help Spence watch one of her romantic dramas. The hero was an older man, a Peer, handsome and cynical; the heroine was young and astoundingly beautiful. Her beauty seemed to unlock the hero’s personality, if not unhinge his sanity altogether: he disgorged a perfectly stupendous amount of jewelry, clothing, and trips to exotic climes before dismissing a long-time mistress and installing the heroine in his High City palace. The heroine seemed bewildered and faintly distressed by much of this, but she understood the meaning of the palace at least, and consented to the Peer’s offer of marriage.
Sula, who had more experience with older, cynical Peers than Spence, watched the ludicrous goings-on with growing impatience. Her mother, she knew, would have loved this story, had in fact done her best tolive it—she had spent most of her life in service to some man or other, her chief problems being that her beauty tended to attract admirers from another end of the social scale than the Peerage, and that most of these were married already.
Her mother, who she had not seen in years.
Claustrophobia began to press on Sula’s mind with cotton-wool fingers. She was in the apartment waiting, and for what? A handsome Peer with a fistful of jewelry? A horde of Naxids with guns? For Martinez, to carry her off to his palace in the sky, the palace that Maurice Chen had bought for him?
Sula made sure Spence was comfortable and then went out into the streets. Laughter and chatter rose around her while gunfire echoed in her skull. The first action against the Naxids had been a catastrophe. Action Group Blanche was in ruins, and the survivors in hiding. The Naxids were doubtless installing their government in the High City at this exact moment.
Simply for a place to go, Sula went to the Grandview apartment, a walk that took her over the better part of an hour. She studied the building for a while, then decided that it was unlikely the Naxids were waiting for her as yet. There were belongings she might as well fetch out, and some preparations it might be worth her while to make.
She saw a light on in the apartment of the toothless old concierge, and an idea occurred to her. She bought a newssheet from the vendor on the corner, walked to the apartment, and stuck a head in the concierge’s door.
“Mr. Greyjean?”
“Yes, miss?” The old man shuffled toward her from the kitchen, carrying in one gnarled hand a plate with a piece of toast.
“I wonder if I might ask a favor of you.”
“Of course.”
Sula eased the door shut behind her. “Mr. Greyjean, do you remember that when I first moved in, you thought I was a Fleet officer?”
“Oh yes, of course. Do you mind if I eat my toast while it’s hot?”
“No I don’t,” she said, “and Iam a Fleet officer.”
“Ah.” Greyjean munched toast, which caused more of his consonants to disappear than usual. “Well, I always thought so.” He gave a watery glance around his room. “Would you like to sit down, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She perched on the edge of an elderly, overstuffed chair; Greyjean sat on a small sofa. “I’m here to fight the Naxids, you see,” Sula said. He nodded. “So,” she continued, “the Naxids might well come looking for me.”
Greyjean nodded. “Well yes, that makes sense.”
“And if they do…” Sula handed him the newssheet, neatly folded into quarters. “Could you put this in your kitchen window, so that I could see it from the outside?”
Greyjean contemplated the thin plastic rectangle. “In the window, you say?”
“Yes. You could keep it by the window, you know, and then just prop it up if the Naxids come.”
Light colors were recommended for these sorts of signals: the white plastic sheet would stand out well against practically any background.
Greyjean rose from his sofa and shuffled toward the kitchen, his plate in one hand and the newssheet in the other. Sula followed. Greyjean put the sheet in the window, pinning it in place with a terra-cotta pot that held a ficus.
“Will this do, my lady?” he asked.
“Yes, but only if the Naxids come.”
“Of course, yes.” He took the white rectangle out of the window and placed it under the potted plant. “I’ll just keep it there,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Greyjean.”
Greyjean shrugged and took another bite of his toast. “My pleasure, my lady.”
Sula reached into her pocket, took out a twenty-zenith coin, and put it on his plate. His eyes widened.
“Twentyzeniths?” he said. “Are you sure, my lady?”
He might never have held twenty zeniths in his hand in his life.
“Of course,” Sula said. “You’re entitled. You’re working for the government now.” She winked. “Thereal government.”
For a long moment Greyjean considered the apparition on his plate, and then took the coin and slipped it into his pocket. “I always wanted government service,” he said, “but I never had the right schooling.”
Chenforce sped from Aspa Darla Wormhole 2 into Bai-do, the ships coming in hot, their radars pounding away as they began maneuvering the instant they passed the wormhole. Martinez had his eyes fixed on the displays, and in the radio spectrum found, as he suspected, a black, dead system, with the only radio sources being the system’s star and its single inhabited planet. He switched to optical and infrared censors, and found rather more. Large numbers of merchant ships burned at high accelerations for wormholes leading out of the system.
“Targets,” Martinez reported, and with a sweep of his fingers so categorized them on the tactical display.
“Assign targets to weapons officers within the squadron,” Michi said. “Tell them to launch missiles when ready.”
And in the meantime the familiar message had automatically been broadcast, and was being repeated every few minutes:“All ships docked at the ring station are to be abandoned and cast off so that they may be destroyed without damage to the ring. All repair docks and building yards will be opened to the environment and any ships inside will be cast off…”
The Naxids at Bai-do had known they were coming for days and had ordered everyone in the system to switch off their radars. It would be many hours before Martinez had a complete picture of the system. He had very little anxiety on that score, since they’d entered through a wormhole that was at a great distance from the system’s sun, and any warships guarding the system would be much closer in.
“…Any ship attempting to flee will be destroyed…”
For the first two days Bai-do seemed a repeat of Aspa Darla. No warships were discovered. Merchant ships in flight were destroyed, and most crews had enough warning to escape in lifeboats. No drunken Captain Hansen appeared on comm to object to the annihilation of his vessel. Large numbers of ships were cast off from Bai-do’s ring, and a pair of pinnaces were launched fromJudge Arslan to inspect the ring and to make certain orders were carried out.
A modest round of dinners and parties continued, though under strict orders for superior officers to restrain the amount of drinking as long as the squadron was in enemy space. Martinez played host to a party of lieutenants and cadets aboardDaffodil, and Fletcher once more had Michi and her staff as guests for a formal supper.
“Your ring will be inspected to make certain that you have complied with these orders…”
The crew ofIllustrious was reasonably light of heart when they strapped into their action stations for the two pinnaces’ closest approach to Bai-do. The pinnaces would pass no closer than a quarter of a light-second, but the powerful sensors on the small craft would be able to see perfectly well into the open hangar bays, yards, and docks, and relay the information to the flagship.
