Actual cash wasn't handed to the crew during the voyage: accounts were kept electronically in the commissary bank, which was, technically anyway, a branch of the Imperial Bank which issued the money in the first place. Crew would pay electronically for anything purchased from the commissary, and any gambling losses would be handled by direct transfer from one account to another.
The crew were paid every twenty days. Martinez looked at the account of Rigger Francis, and saw that it totaled nearly nine thousand zeniths, enough to buy an estate on nearly any planet in the empire.
And this was only the money that Francis had in this account. She could have more in accounts in other banks, in investments, in property.
Martinez called for Alikhan. His orderly came into the dining room first, was surprised to find Martinez in his office, and approached.
"Would you like me to take your plate, my lord?"
Martinez looked in surprise at the plate he'd brought with him.
"Yes," he said. "No. Never mind that now."
Alikhan looked at him. "Yes, my lord."
"I want to know about the gambling that's going on among the petty officers." Martinez looked at him. "Do they cheat?"
Alikhan considered his answer for a long moment before speaking.
"I don't think so, my lord. I think they're very experienced players, and at least some of the time they play in concert."
"But they gamble with recruits, don't they?"
Martinez thought he saw an angry tightening of Alikhan's lips before the answer came.
"Yes, my lord. In the mess, every night."
It's always about money. Again Alikhan's words echoed in Martinez' head.
Gambling was of course against Fleet regulations, but such regulations were applied with a degree of discretion. If the petty officers played cards in their lounge, or the lieutenants wanted to play tingo in the wardroom, or the recruits roll dice in the engine spaces, action was rarely taken. It was a minor vice, and nearly impossible to stop. Gambling games and gambling scams were almost universal in the Fleet.
But the gambling could become dangerous when it crossed lines of caste. When petty officers gambled with recruits, serious issues of abuse of power came into play. A superior officer could enforce a vicious payment schedule at extortionate rates of interest, and could punish recruits with extra duties or even assault. A recruit who owed money to his superior could not only lose whatever pay he happened to possess at the time, but could lose future salary either in direct losses or interest payments. The recruit might be forced to pay in other ways: gifts, sexual favors, performing the petty officers' duties, or even being forced to steal on behalf of his superior.
It had been months since Chenforce left Harzapid, and it would be months more before Illustrious would stop in a Fleet dockyard. A recruit in the grips of a gambling ring could lose his pay for the entire journey, possibly the entire commission.
"Who's taking part in this?" Martinez asked.
"Well, my lord," Alikhan said, "I'd rather not get anyone in trouble."
"You're not getting them in trouble," Martinez said. "They're already in trouble. But you can exclude those who aren't a part of it by naming those who are."
This logic took a few seconds to work its way through Alikhan's mind, but in the end he nodded.
"Very well, my lord," Alikhan said. "Francis, Gawbyan, and Gulik organize the games. And Thuc was a part of it, but he's dead."
"Very good," Martinez said. He turned to his desk, then looked back at Alikhan. "I don't want you talking about this."
"Of course n-"
"Dismissed."
Martinez' mind was already racing to the next problem. He called up the accounts of Francis, Gawbyan, Gulik, and Thuc, and saw that they jumped on every payday-but when he looked at the figures, Martinez saw they were being paid far more than their salary. Nearly two-thirds of their income seemed to becoming in the form of direct transfers from other crew. Martinez backtracked the transfers, and found no less than nine recruits who regularly transferred their entire pay to the senior petty officers. They'd been doing it for months. Others were paying less regularly, but still paying.
Anger simmered in Martinez. You people like playing with recruits so much, he thought, maybe you should be recruits.
He would break them, he thought. And he'd confiscate the money, too, and turn it over to the ship's entertainment fund, or perhaps to Fleet Relief to aid distressed crew.
He checked the totals and found that Gulik was losing the money practically as fast as he was making it. Apparently the weaponer was truly devoted to gambling, and eventually lost every bit of his earnings to his friends. At the moment he had practically nothing in his accounts.
The scent of coffee wafted past his nose, and he looked up from the accounts to find that someone had placed a fresh cup of coffee by his elbow, next to a plate of newly-made sandwiches. Alikhan had made the ghostly delivery and Martinez hadn't even noticed.
He ate a sandwich and drank a cup of coffee.
Always about the money, he thought.
He opened the 77-12 that he'd viewed just that morning and looked again at the serial number of the ventilation blowers. He backtracked through the record and found that Patil had corrected the serial number from the purely fictional one that Francis had originally recorded in the log.
Every item in Martinez knew, came with its own history. Every pump, every transformer, every missile launcher, every robot, every processor, and every waste recycler came with a long and complex record that recorded the date of manufacture or assembly, the date at which it was purchased by the Fleet, the date at which it was installed, and each date at which it was subject to maintenance or replacement.
Martinez called up the history of the air blowers on Deck Eight and discovered that, according to the records, the blowers had been destroyed with the Quest, a Naxid frigate involved in the mutiny at Harzapid.
Rebel Data, he thought.
He checked the history of the turbopump that had failed at Arkhan-Dohg, and found that the turbopump had been decommissioned three years earlier, sold as scrap, and replaced by a new pump fresh from the factory.
His mouth was dry. He was suddenly aware of the silence in his office, the easy throb of his pulse, the cool taste of the air.
He knew who had killed Kosinic and Fletcher, and why.
Invitations went out in the morning, sent to all the senior petty officers. An invitation for drinks with their new captain, set for an hour before supper, was not something the customs of the service would let them decline, and decline they did not. The last affirmative reply came within minutes of the invitations being sent out.
The petty officers entered the dining room more or less in a clump: round-faced Gawbyan with his spectacular mustachos, Strode with his bowl haircut, burly Francis, thin, nervous Cho. Some of them were surprised to find the ship's secretary Marsden waiting with his datapad in his hands.
The guests sorted themselves out in order of seniority, with the highest-ranked standing near Martinez at the head of the table. Gulik was on his right, across from Master Cook Yau, with Gawbyan and Strode the next pair down, each with a grand set of mustachios; and then Zhang and Nyamugali. Near the bottom of the table was the demoted Francis.
Martinez looked at them all as they stood by their chairs. Francis seemed thoughtful and preoccupied, and was looking anywhere but at Martinez. Yau looked as if he had left his kitchens only reluctantly. Strode seemed determined, as if he had a clear but not entirely pleasant duty before him; and Gulik, who had been so nervous during inspections, was now almost cheerful.
Martinez picked up his glass and raised it. Pale green wine trembled in Captain Fletcher's leaded crystal, reflecting beads of peridot-colored light over the company.
"To the Praxis," he said.
"The Praxis," they echoed, and drank.
Martinez took a gulp of his wine and sat. The others followed suit, including Marsden, who sat by himself to the side of the room and set his datapad to record. He picked up a stylus and stood ready to correct the datapad's transcription of the conversation.
"You may as well keep the wine in circulation," Martinez said, nodding to the crystal decanters set on the table. "We'll be here for a while, and I don't want you to go dry."