Once Martinez passed on Lord Chen’s message to Roland, a different organizing principle took hold. Martinez had been concerned with escaping with his family and enough officers to make a difference in any subsequent battle, but Roland’s intentions were more dynastic. Walpurga, Roland decided, would take the family yacht home to Laredo, taking with her Vipsania’s children; Roland’s daughter, Girasole; and Martinez’s daughter, Yaling.
“In case we’re annihilated at Harzapid,” Roland said, “we each need an heir in Laredo, to carry on our work.”
“You always maintain the most cheerful outlook,” Martinez said, and then he felt a wave of surprise. “You’re going to Harzapid?” he said.
“Assuming I’m welcome on Corona,” Roland said. “It won’t just be fighting at Harzapid—there will of necessity be a political element in what we’re doing. And I’ll handle that.”
I’ll handle that. Roland’s words, oozing confidence, obliterated any possible objection.
Such a jolly family vacation, Martinez thought. I wonder if Vipsania’s bringing a camera crew.
Lord Chen would stay, despite the danger. So would Vipsania’s husband, Lord Oda Yoshitoshi, to provide opposition to Tork in the Convocation.
Martinez had reasonable success recruiting officers. Since those who had worked most closely with him in the war had been denied a posting by Lord Tork, many were on Zanshaa looking for employment. Martinez hadn’t told all of them where they were going and why, just hinted there might be a confidential mission for which they’d be suited. Chandra Prasad, Sabir Mersenne, and Ahmad Husayn from Illustrious; Vonderheydte and Elissa Dalkeith from Martinez’s first command, the frigate Corona; and Martinez’s friend Lieutenant-Captain Ari Abacha, who joined the expedition with his hairdresser and his personal bartender in tow.
A special case was Lieutenant Garcia, who had escaped promotion not because she was too closely associated with Martinez, but because she had managed to miss the war completely. She’d been second lieutenant of Corona under Fahd Tarafah and had been captured along with most of the crew during the opening hours of the war. She’d spent the war in a prison camp on Magaria, her service patrons had been killed in battle, and thousands of officers with genuine war experience had been promoted over her head. Her own career had been frozen. Yet, on her last day of freedom, she had slipped her lieutenant’s key to Martinez, which allowed Martinez to unlock Corona’s weaponry and make his escape from the enemy, and Martinez always felt he owed her a debt of gratitude. She had been so desperate for employment that she’d volunteered before Martinez got halfway through his recruitment speech.
Each of the recruits was given leave to suggest others who might be willing to join the expedition. Those recruits were given no information at all, only that Captain Martinez wanted them for duty that was hazardous and extremely secret. Martinez was gratified to know that his prestige in the service was such that nine junior officers joined knowing nothing more than this.
Nor was Martinez the only person recruiting pilgrims. Roland brought Hector Braga along, for reasons that seemed obscure. All Martinez could imagine was that whatever Roland and Braga were planning, they were planning it together.
Deep sadness flooded him when he thought of Kelly, still lying in a coma in her hospital room. The escape from Zanshaa to a chaotic situation at Harzapid was the sort of thing she would have very much enjoyed.
He couldn’t take her with them, but Martinez decided he didn’t want Kelly remaining helpless in Zanshaa when the conflict started. He arranged for her to be transferred to a hospital well away from the capital.
Martinez had contacted all the Terran officers he knew and could find, all save one—the one he’d need the most, but also the one he most dreaded.
Three times, he’d found himself in her orbit. Three times, she’d run away.
He cringed at the thought of speaking with her again. Yet he wanted nothing more.
But he knew the meeting was inevitable, and so he let Alikhan drive him to the Petty Mount.
His mouth was dry as he arrived at Sula’s building, and he felt a touch of vertigo swim through his senses.
He had never ceased to dream about Sula. The flashing green eyes, the silver-gilt hair, the straight-backed hauteur that dissolved to passion in bed.
At the end of the war he had made a decision, or perhaps the decision had been made for him. To be with Sula he had been willing to risk the wrath of Terza and her powerful father; the anger of his brother, Roland; and the scorn of strangers; but when the moment came he had found himself disarmed by his child. The infant had been born at his father’s home on Laredo and brought for months across the empire to be placed in his arms at the very moment he returned to his home in Zanshaa.
When he had looked up from the wonder of Young Gareth’s eyes, Sula had been gone.
But now he had come to ask her to join him on the flight to Harzapid, and his nerves jangled as he looked up at her building.
There had been snow overnight, but the morning had brought the melt, and when Martinez left the car he stepped into a small stream running at the curb. He felt an uncomfortable moisture creeping through the seams of his shoe.
A uniformed Terran doorman opened the door for him, and he stepped into the lobby’s warmth. Another uniformed man waited behind a curved desk, and Martinez detected the impersonal sweep of the man’s eyes, eyes that grew more interested when they detected the bulge of Martinez’s sidearm under his overcoat.
“May I help you, sir?” the second man said.
Martinez began to speak, found the words jammed in his throat, then cleared his throat and spoke again. “I’m Captain Martinez. I hope to see Lady Sula.”
“Lady Sula is not in residence,” the man said. “She’s spending the holiday as a guest of Lady Koridun.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Lady Koridun headed a prominent Torminel family, and Martinez could hardly chase Sula down at a Torminel Peer’s estate to warn her that a group of non-Terrans was planning to seize power.
He would have to tell Roland or Lord Chen to pass the word to Sula another way.
“Do you wish to leave a message?” the man asked.
“Just that I called on her.”
Martinez turned, and the doorman kindly opened the door for him. On his way out, he saw the weapon lying heavy in the doorman’s overcoat pocket.
Carrying firearms, he decided, was very much the new fashion.
The voyage outward from Zanshaa combined aspects of a vacation, a country house outing, and a sports training camp. Water bubbled from the fountains and waterfalls, the dining room echoed with conversation and laughter at mealtimes, and officers punished themselves pushing weights in the gym, building the muscle that would help them stand the heavy acceleration that battle might bring. Young Gareth played in the ponds and fountains, chased the rare fish, and had to be locked out of the racing yachts after he spilled apple juice on Laredo’s control panel.
All this was too strenuous for Ari Abacha, who preferred reclining with a cocktail while watching sports on video. He exerted himself to the extent of starting a sports book, and from his chaise longue in the lounge took bets on everything from lighumane to football.
Corona flew under the direction of a reduced crew augmented by the Fleet officers. Captain Sor-tan and the other non-Terrans had been furloughed with full pay, and First Officer Anderson, a Fleet veteran, was now in command. The Terran chef who had fought so well in the Corona Club riot now reigned in the kitchens.
Officially the Corona was on a mission to audition new captains for the yacht races, and so Fleet officers were allowed the use of the yachts that rode piggyback on the carrier’s hull. Races and gymkhanas were improvised. Martinez watched the races carefully. He and Michi Chen might have to promote some of these officers to command warships, and the tactics employed in a race might be the only evidence of their suitability.
Chandra Prasad turned out to be the most successful of the new racers. Martinez was not surprised, as she’d been a very gifted tactical officer under Michi Chen, and he was grateful that she had found something to occupy her restless spirit.
Terza had brought her harp, and others had brought instruments, and so there were sessions that were too informal to be called “concerts,” but too organized to be viewed as complete improvisations.
As if she had been reading his mind, Vipsania had arrived with a camera crew and was producing a documentary on the phony yacht trials and the various candidates. To be introduced into evidence at my court-martial, Martinez thought. To demonstrate our innocence.
As if that would work.
There was only one real surprise in the first few days, and that happened on the third day when Martinez saw Lieutenant Vonderheydte walking to dinner with a young woman on his arm. He recognized the pale bouncing curls and the spray of freckles over the snub nose and bowed as she approached.
“I wasn’t aware you were aboard, my lady.”
The laugh of Lady Marietta Li sounded like the trill of an exotic bird. “Von and I are running away together,” she said.
Poor Lord Durward, Martinez thought. Then it occurred to him to look on the bright side—maybe Lord Durward could divorce Marietta and marry his first wife all over again.
He fixed Vonderheydte with a stern look. “You failed to inform me you were bringing a . . . companion.”
Vonderheydte offered a weak smile. “We’re in love, my lord. And this time it’s the real thing.”
This was not the first time he’d heard Vonderheydte proclaim one of his affaires the real thing. Reality seemed unusually transient where Vonderheydte’s love life was concerned.
Which, for that matter, applied to Lady Marietta as well. At least she seemed to have good taste in officers, if Vonderheydte and Nikki Severin were anything to judge by.
“This journey is all too likely to become the real thing before it’s over,” he said. “For Lady Marietta’s sake, you’d better hope it doesn’t.”
Vonderheydte at least had the decency to blush before Marietta gave another exotic-bird trill and led him away.
Martinez decided it was time the passengers got more serious about being in the military, and he told everyone to don their uniforms and do their best to pretend they were on a warship. To this end, he made a point of censoring all communication from the ship. Officially this was to prevent anyone from blabbing about the brilliant new racing techniques Corona was developing, but he wanted to make sure that no one made a slip or tried to tip off a friend.
Roland and Hector Braga spent a lot of time sending coded messages to their allies in Zanshaa, and Vipsania likewise remained busy with her media empire, spinning the news to the support of her family and Terrans generally. Martinez didn’t censor their messages—in fact he didn’t dare. He knew how conflicts with his formidable siblings turned out.
But still, after Corona passed through Zanshaa Wormhole Eight into a series of other systems, and as the weeks wore into months, there was too much free time, and too much of it was spent listening to the news and the dread, thudding drumbeat of disintegration, suspicion, and violence that was engulfing the empire.
Corona passed through Chijimo’s system, where a full-blown regatta was staged to impress their peaceful character on any observers. Twelve days after leaving the Chijimo system came a message from Zanshaa, eyes only to Martinez, using the code that Lord Chen had provided him. The message consisted only of a single date.
“Eleven days from now,” Martinez said, in a family conference in his suite. “That’s when Lord Tork plans to disarm all Terran ships.”
Terza said nothing, but calculation was visible somewhere behind her dark eyes. Roland looked at the piece of paper with the decoded message, and he nodded.
“And there’s nothing we can do,” he said. “Not here. Not halfway to Harzapid, far away from any elements of the Fleet.”
Martinez spread his hands. “And that’s just the problem. We’re helpless. All we can do is wait and hope that Michi knows how to organize a mutiny.”
When she saw the black uniforms of the Legion, Sula knew she was about to be arrested, and the White Ghost, seizing control of her mind, planned the route to the purser’s office to break out her firearms . . . but then she noticed that the members of the Legion were carrying identical shoulder bags, which were not weapon shaped, and that some were carrying shopping bags with personal items bought on Zarafan’s ring. They didn’t look as if they were about to arrest anyone: they stood in an orderly group, and stewards arrived to take them to their cabins.
They weren’t here to apprehend anyone, then—they were here to travel to a new posting. At Harzapid, Sula assumed.
There were more than forty of them, a whole company. And they would be sharing accommodation on the Striver with Sula and her rebel officers.
Her pulse still racing in response to the jolt of adrenaline she’d just experienced, Sula forced herself to move casually as she rose from her corner booth and began a stroll out of the room. She needed to alert her people to the presence of the Legion. She didn’t want anyone jumping to the same conclusion she had, and either running or going for a weapon.
This voyage was going to be far more complicated than she had intended.
“Miss Bycke,” said Captain Lord Naaz Vijana, “may I join you?”
“If you like,” said Sula. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Kaanan Koti, miss.” Vijana had just arrived from the buffet with his tray, which he placed on the table opposite Sula. Like Sula, he’d chosen the stewed Hone-bar phoenix and dumplings, which was about the most reliable item on the rather limited menu.
Sula was missing her Cree chef. Without knowing it, she seemed to have developed a refined palate.
Vijana arranged his napkin on his lap, which allowed him to look to his right to see Lady Koridun dining with Lord Arrun Safista, the commander of the Legion contingent on the Striver. The two had a table to themselves, and Lord Arrun’s servant stood within hailing distance, ready to freshen their drinks or bring them another item from the buffet.
“How’s Koridun doing?” Vijana asked.
Sula rubbed the pad of scar tissue on her right thumb. “We’re not arrested yet,” she said.
Lord Arrun, as one of the two Torminel Peers on Striver, had shown a purposeful, businesslike interest in the other Peer. In fact he was so narrowly focused on her that he ignored everyone else and monopolized Lady Koridun at meals and social functions. Lady Koridun would normally be far above Lord Arrun in Peer society, but here they were isolated on a ship for months, and Lord Arrun was giving romance every conceivable chance to blossom. Lady Koridun, after all, was young and presumably impressionable, and Lord Arrun was mature, confident, and on the hunt. The possibility of failure seemed not to have entered his head.
Lady Koridun had told Sula that she’d resigned herself to a long voyage and was considering feigning illness.
Of course with the Torminel, there was always the option of violence. But if Koridun picked up Lord Arrun and hurled him headfirst into a bulkhead, he might view it as a form of flirtation.
“Lady Koridun told me that Lord Arrun has arrested any number of fascinating thieves and subversives,” Sula said.
Amusement crossed Vijana’s pointed face. “That must make for delightful dinnertime conversation,” he said.
“At least the lord commander isn’t looking at us,” Sula said. She gave Lord Arrun a glance. “I’ve been researching the Legion of Diligence,” she said. “There aren’t that many of them, you know, but they make up for lack of numbers by fanaticism and ferocity. Sending an entire company on a two-and-a-half-month trip to Harzapid is unusual.”
Vijana’s black eyes turned hard, and for a moment Sula saw the ruthless officer who had so efficiently slaughtered rebellious Yormaks. “You think they’re going for a reason,” he said.
“Someone decided they’re needed there.”
“You think that someone might have got wind that Lady Michi is plotting a—” He cleared his throat and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. Two members of the Legion walked by carrying their supper trays, their large nocturnal eyes scanning the room. Sula examined the sidearms they wore on their belts.
The Torminel passed. “I think all sorts of things are possible,” Sula said.
“It’s occurred to me,” Vijana began, then stroked his upper lip where, till recently, he’d worn a pencil mustache. When Sula had built him the Kaanan Koti identity, she’d looked at his photo, decided she didn’t like the mustache, and removed it. Vijana had been forced to conform, and shave. Now he was forever stroking his lip, a gesture that amused Sula every single time she saw it.
“It’s occurred to me to wonder,” he started again, “what happens if Lady Michi opens the, the business before we arrive. Once the Fourth Fleet is in her hands, what do you think is going to happen on board Striver?”
“It depends on whether anybody tells Lord Arrun and his men that something’s happened.”
“Do you have a plan to prevent their finding out?”
“Not yet.” Sula considered. “It occurred to me there might be a fire in the comm center.”
Vijana shivered. A fire anywhere on a spacecraft was a terrifying prospect.
“And if Lord Arrun isn’t prevented from finding out?” he said.
“I can’t think he’d take on the Fourth Fleet by himself,” said Sula. “I imagine he’ll order Striver to turn around and return to Zarafan.”
Vijana looked at her levelly. “And to prevent that we’d have to take the ship ourselves.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have a plan for that?”
“Not yet.”
They fell silent as two passengers joined them at their table, an elderly Torminel couple on their way to visit family in Harzapid. The coppery scent of warm blood drifted from their plates. Sula and Vijana devoted their attention to their stew for a minute or two, and then Vijana looked up.
“How have you been amusing yourself, Miss Bycke?”
“Working puzzles, Mister Koti. And helping Lady Koridun with her business plans.”
Vijana offered a charming smile. “Perhaps you’d like to join me this evening for a game of cards.”
“Cards?” Sula said. “What sort of stakes?”
Vijana waved a hand. “Whatever sort you like. I’m happy to oblige you.”
“I’ve seen you play in the lounge with some of the other passengers. Judging by the stacks of tiles on the table, I’d guess the stakes were pretty high.”
Vijana shrugged. “We can play for lower stakes, if you like. I don’t know how many of the others would join us, however . . . We might have to play alone.”
Ah. Hah, Sula thought. Perhaps Lady Koridun was not the only person in the restaurant with a persistent admirer.
Carefully she considered Naaz Vijana in the light of this surmise. With his alert face, his caramel skin, the long black eyelashes that framed his dark eyes, and his absurd mustache shaved, he was not unpresentable. He was smart and a fighter and seemed aware of possibilities that existed outside the sphere of normality for Peers. As a distraction from impending war and its impending horrors, he had much to recommend him.
But she was also focused on the problem at hand, and so a distraction probably wasn’t what she needed. The White Ghost was in her head, quietly planning mayhem, and a card game might pull the White Ghost away from her proper business.
“I think I’m not in the mood for cards tonight,” she said. “I’m really not much for gambling.”
“You don’t gamble, and you don’t drink,” Vijana said. “Don’t you have any vices at all?”
I kill Koriduns, Sula thought. She felt her lips pull back in a smile that was perhaps too much of a snarl.
“Perhaps we can indulge in vice some other time,” she said.
“I’ll look forward,” said Vijana. He seemed a little pleased with himself.
Sula sipped her sparkling water and took another glance at Lord Arrun as he chatted with Lady Koridun.
The White Ghost was already trying to work out a way to kill him.
Shawna Spence held up a large tube of topical pain relief gel. “Before we left I filled the tube with a semiliquid plastic explosive,” she said. “I’ve also filled several bottles of skin lotion and some packages of nutrient bars. Glycerin is a primary ingredient in lotions and some foods, and on an X-ray the explosive looks just like glycerin, so we got it through security and onto the ship.” She lowered the gel tube. “I also have the raw materials for detonators, the same type created by Mister Sidney as propellant for his rifles.”
“I’ll make all the detonators you want,” said Sidney.
“The explosives may be useful,” said Alana Haz. “But they’re not really antipersonnel weapons. And we have to overcome twice our numbers, and they have sidearms, and we don’t.” She corrected herself. “Well, you don’t. Since I’m traveling as a Fleet officer, I was permitted to retain mine.”
“That,” said Sula, “might make you a target, if the Legion is ordered to arrest any Terran Fleet officers.”
Sula, Spence, Macnamara, Sidney, Haz, Giove, Ikuhara, and Vijana were in Lady Koridun’s suite, gathered around her dining table. Koridun’s lady’s maid had been given an evening’s holiday and provided with some money to throw into the ship’s gambling machines. Drinks were scattered around the table, along with comm units containing the phony business plan for Lady Koridun’s alleged publishing investment, in case the servant returned early.
Lady Koridun herself was with Lord Arrun Safista, at a screening of the new Dr. An-ku mystery. She had promised to keep him busy for the whole evening, and Sula had been impressed by her willing sacrifice.
“It’s not just the Legion we have to worry about,” Vijana said. “We’ve got to seize the Command center, the engine room controls, and anyplace else from which control of the ship can be managed. We’ve got to contain the ship’s officers, or at least the ones who aren’t Terran.”
“The third officer is Terran,” said Giove. “And he’s ex-Fleet, so he may be on our side in the end.”
“Engineer Markios can handle the engines,” Sula said. “Any number of us could command the ship if we needed to. The Legion of Diligence has to be our main target, because they can offer resistance and retake the ship if we’re careless.”
There followed a discussion of how to dispose of the Legion, including bombing their rooms, stationing gunmen just outside their cabins to mow them down as they came out, or simply knocking them off as they wandered about the ship in the course of an afternoon.
“Kill them at supper,” Vijana said. “They all sit together for the most part, and mostly eat at the same time. Those elsewhere can be hunted down once we’ve disposed of the rest.”
“There will be other people eating in the restaurant,” said Ikuhara. “We don’t want casualties among the bystanders.”
“It will terrify them,” said Vijana. “Terrified people are much less likely to give us trouble.”
Sula looked at Vijana, and the man who had killed half a million Yormaks looked back at her, his expression mild.
“Let’s try to get them all there,” she said. “Maybe Lady Koridun can host a special dinner to honor the Legion.”
A proper Torminel feast, Sula thought, plenty of blood and raw flesh.
Macnamara looked up from his glass of fruit juice. “What do we kill them with?” he asked. “All our weapons are held by the purser or hidden in crates in the hold. We’ve got to get access before we can do anything.”
“The purser is a Daimong,” Sidney said. “But his assistant is a Terran.” Since he’d been aboard ship his smoking was confined to a single lounge reserved for that purpose, and his consumption of hashish had been somewhat reduced. So had his constant coughing. His voice remained hoarse, but at least he wasn’t wheezing all the time.
“How do we get to that person?” Sula asked. “And who can let us into the hold?”
Spence held up the bottle of pain relief gel. “We can blow open the hatch,” she said.
“Let’s try other remedies first,” Sula said. “We don’t want the Legion to storm into the hold and find us fumbling with a container of disassembled weapons.”
Vijana frowned. “And once we get firearms, where do we put them? With this one exception, all our cabins are small, and an attendant cleans them daily. What’s an attendant going to do if he finds a dozen rifles stacked in the closet next to grenades and detonators?”
“Tell them we’re cleaning our own rooms?” Macnamara wondered.
Well, Sula thought, we’ll worry about that when we get the guns.