nine-one, after our team. We can’t call you that.”
“No, you can’t.” Sula glanced over the street, the people moving in the shade of the gemel trees that were bright with their white summer blossoms. From the shadows she heard the echo of a name, and she smiled.
“Call me Gredel,” she said.
That night, with the reflected rays of Shaamah glowing on theju yao pot and One-Step quietly passing copies ofResistance on the pavement outside, she wrote with her stylus on the modestly intelligent, glowing surface of her table, producing an essay on how to organize a loyalist network into cells. She threw in every security procedure she could think of, from code names to letter drop procedures.
She realized that she had done part of her job already. Copies ofResistance were being passed from hand to hand along spontaneously formed, informal networks. For her purposes the networks already existed: all she had to do was professionalize them.
The unsuccessful networks would be caught and killed, she thought. All taking bullets meant for her.
The successful networks she would hope to contact later—so they could be killed by other bullets when she needed them.
TEN
Martinez set the wall video to the tactical display, but he didn’t pay a lot of attention to it. He couldn’t stay in his seat: he was compelled to pace, and march, and conduct imaginary conversations with every officer on the ship.
By the time Alikhan came in with his dinner, he’d worked himself into a near frenzy. “What’s happening?” he demanded the instant Alikhan entered. “What are people saying?”
With a series of deliberate gestures Alikhan put the covered plate in front of Martinez and arranged his napkin and silverware. Then he straightened and said, “May I close the door, my lord?”
“Yes.” It was all Martinez could do to avoid shouting the word.
Alikhan quietly closed the door and said, “Lady Michi asked Dr. Xi to report to her. He did so. Then she asked for Captain Fletcher, and he reported to her as well.”
“Any notion of what was said?”
“No, my lord.”
Martinez found himself grinding his teeth. He very much wanted to know what Fletcher said to the squadcom.
“How are the petty officers taking it?” he asked.
“They’re huddling with one another, talking quietly.”
“What are they saying?”
Alikhan straightened with quiet dignity. “They’re not speaking much to me, my lord. I’ve not been aboard very long. They’re talking only to people they know they can trust.”
Martinez drummed his fingers on his thighs in frustration. Alikhan quietly uncovered Martinez’s plate, revealing a rehydrated filet drizzled with one of Perry’s elaborate sauces. Martinez looked up at him.
“Do they think the captain’s mad?” he said.
Alikhan considered the question for a moment before answering. “They don’t understand the captain, my lord. They never have. But mad? I don’t know what a doctor would say, but I don’t think the captain fits any definition of madness a petty officer would recognize, my lord.”
“Yes,” Martinez said. The answer depressed him. “Thank you, Alikhan.”
Alikhan withdrew. A few moments later Martinez looked at his plate and discovered that his food was gone. Apparently he’d eaten it, though he couldn’t remember doing so.
He thought about inviting the lieutenants for an informal meeting aboardDaffodil. Or the premiere lieutenant, Kazakov, to a dinner. To talk, and perhaps to plan for eventualities.
But no. That might call Fletcher’s attention to his lieutenants. Because of his position on Michi Chen’s staff, Martinez was one of the few people aboardIllustrious that Fletcher couldn’t legally kill. The lieutenants weren’t so lucky. If Fletcher suspected Kazakov of plotting with Martinez, then Kazakov might be in jeopardy.
Martinez sipped his glass of water, flat and tasteless from its trip through the recyclers, and then called Alikhan to clear the table. Just as Alikhan was leaving, Martinez’s sleeve comm chimed.
“Martinez,” he answered, and his heart leaped to see the squadcom’s face on the display.
Now, he thought, Michi would call him to a conference, and the two of them would work out something to do about Fletcher.
“Lord Captain,” the squadcom said, “I’d be obliged if you’d arrange a squadron maneuver—an experiment, rather—in three days, after we pass Termaine.”
Martinez fought down his surprise. “Yes, my lady. Do you want any kind of experiment in particular?”
“Just make sure it lasts at least a watch,” Michi said. “We don’t want the squadron to get rusty.”
“No, my lady.” He paused for a moment in hopes Michi would open the subject of the killing, and when nothing was said, he hopefully asked, “Do you have any other requests, my lady?”
Michi’s tone was final. “No, my lord. Thank you. End transmission.”
Martinez gazed for a moment at the orange end-stamp on his sleeve, then blanked the display.
Chenforce hadn’t had a maneuver since before Bai-do, so it was probably time to shine the squadron’s collective skills. The ships would be linked by communications laser into a virtual environment and fight a battle against an enemy force, or split into two divisions and battle one another.
Maneuvers in the Fleet, traditionally, were highly scripted, with the outcome determined in advance and the ships and their crews rated on how well they performed the tasks they were assigned. Michi, however, had requested an “experiment,” a type of maneuver that Martinez and Squadron Commander Do-faq had developed after the Battle of Hone-bar. In an experiment, the outcome of the maneuver was not determined in advance, and the ships and their commanders were free to improvise and experiment with tactics. It was a measure of Michi’s generosity that she was willing to permit this: most commanders would have insisted on knowing they were going to win ahead of time.
What was perhaps more important under the current circumstances was that while the maneuver was going on, Fletcher would not be conducting inspections, and thereby not be tempted to execute subordinates in passing.
Nor could Fletcher conduct an inspection while Chenforce flew by Termaine in two days. Everyone would be at general quarters for ten or twelve hours while they waited to see if Termaine would attempt resistance.
That left tomorrow, still a routine day in which the captain was free, if he desired, to conduct an inspection. Martinez wondered why Michi hadn’t ordered a maneuver then as well as three days hence.
Perhaps, he thought, Michi was giving Fletcher a test. One more dead petty officer and she’d know what steps to take.
He looked at the naked winged children that had been painted on his office walls, and he wondered at the mind that could both commission such art and plan a cold-blooded killing.
Martinez threw himself into planning the experiment. He altered the composition of the forces several times and modified the fine details obsessively. It was a way to avoid thinking about Fletcher, or remember Thuc falling with a fan of scarlet spraying from his throat.
That night, he wore a virtual headset and projected the starscape from outsideIllustrious into his mind, hoping it would aid his sleeping mind in achieving a tranquility that had eluded him all day. It seemed to work, until he came awake with his heart pounding and, in his mind, the black emptiness of space turned to the color of blood.
Breakfast was another meal eaten without noticing the contents of his plate. He dreaded hearing the businesslike sound of heels on the deck, Fletcher and Marsden and Mersenne, marching to his door to summon him to another inspection.
Even though he half expected the sound, his nerves gave a surprised, jangled leap when he heard it. He was on his feet and already half braced when Fletcher appeared in his open door, wearing full dress, white gloves, and the knife in its curved, gleaming scabbard.
“Captain Martinez, I’d be obliged if you’d join us.”
Cold dread settled over Martinez like a rain-saturated cloak.
“Yes, my lord,” he said.
As he walked to the door, he felt light-headed, possessed by the notion that everything from this point was
