“Very good, my lord.”
The orangeEnd Transmission symbol appeared on Martinez’s sleeve display, and he blanked it.
Fully aware that this was the last time he might ever do these things, he took off his clothes, hung them neatly in his tiny closet, and prepared for bed.
Plans for savingCorona eddied through his head, all fog and futility.
Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby, he thought.
And goal.
TEN
Martinez, with most ofCorona’s crew, stood on the station rim outside the airlock and cheered and clapped as Tarafah ledCorona’s team out of the ship. Immaculate in white sweats, withCorona’s blazon on his chest and his lieutenant captain’s shoulder boards pinned on, Tarafah grinned and waved as if he were jogging into a stadium filled with ten thousand fans. Koslowski followed at the head of the players.
“Corona! Corona!”the crew chanted. Martinez pounded his big hands together till they were sore.
The team jogged away to the rim train station that would take them to the skyhook terminal, and were followed by the waddling figure of their trainer, Mancini. Lieutenant Garcia, in undress mourning whites, whooped and waved her cap over her head.
“Let’s go!” she shouted. “Let’s give the Coronas our support!”
Shouting, most of the crew poured after the team, leaving behind the cadets condemned to spend the day aboard, and Dietrich and his partner Hong, both looking depressed at having to play military constable while the rest of the crew was off on a lark.
Served them right for being large and handsome, Martinez thought. Since the airlock guards were the members ofCorona’s crew most often seen by outsiders, Tarafah chose them for their imposing appearance rather than for any skill at policing.
Lieutenant Garcia herself remained behind, cheering and clapping as the crew pounded after their team. Then she turned to Martinez and stepped up to him.
“Take this,” she said in a soft voice, and Martinez felt something warm and metallic pressed into his palm. “Just in case you’re right.”
Martinez glanced at his half-opened hand, saw Garcia’s second lieutenant’s key, and felt his mouth go dry. He shut his fist on the key.
“Koslowski doesn’t wear his key while playing,” Garcia murmured. “I don’t know where he keeps it. Try his safe.”
Martinez managed a nod. “Thank you,” he said.
Garcia’s dark eyes held his. “If they take the Fleet,” she said, “blow everything. The ships, the ring, everything.”
Martinez stared into the dark eyes. His nerves wailed like violin strings tuned to the breaking point. “I understand,” he said.
Garcia gave a quick, nervous nod, then turned and ran after her crew.
Martinez let his breath out slowly as he watched Fleet personnel stream past along the rim. They laughed and shouted, carrying banners and signs, their officers striding with them, happy to let them have fun. It was their first holiday since the period of mourning began, and they were ready for an delirious good time, already drunk on freedom and anticipation.
Martinez watched them go by and wondered what would happen if he just ran out among them and started shouting, “Back to your ships! There’s a rising! If you go down to the planet, all is lost!”
He’d be laughed at, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he’d be hit on the head by the constables and dragged off to jail.
Blow everything,he thought again. There were thousands of personnel on the ships and the ring station, and millions of civilians, all to be vaporized or blown to bits—but only if he was right about the Naxid rising. If his fears were justified, everything wasalready lost.
Except maybeCorona . Maybe he could save his ship.
He put Garcia’s key in his pocket, then turned to face the airlock. Dietrich and Hong stood there, stiff-spined in the presence of officers, along with Warrant Officer First Class Saavedra, a middle-aged, mustachioed man who had double duty asCorona’s secretary and supply officer, and Cadet Kelly, a lanky, clumsy pinnace pilot in charge of the weapons department in the absence of the drunken master weaponer.
“Kelly. Saavedra. After you.” Martinez made shooing motions with his arms, and the two turned obediently and headed into the airlock. Martinez began to follow, then paused by the two constables. Dietrich and Hong braced as they detected his inspection.
“I want you to understand,” Martinez said, “that no one comes aboardCorona without my permission.”
“Yes, Lord Lieutenant,” the two chorused, eyes forward.
“And by that I meananyone ,” Martinez continued, speaking with forceful emphasis that he hoped did not sound either fanatic or insane. “If Anticipation of Victory itself comes back from the dead and demands to be let on, you are not to let him aboard without my express permission.”
The two blinked in surprise. “Very good, Lord Lieutenant,” Dietrich said.
Martinez looked from one to the other. His mouth was dry and he hoped his voice wouldn’t break. “And furthermore,” he said, “you will use all necessary force toprevent anyone from coming aboard who doesnot receive my permission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord Lieutenant,” the two chorused again, though Martinez could see more of their eye whites than he should, a sure indication they thought the third lieutenant was out of his mind.
“There is a special order I wish to give you,” Martinez said. “If I think it necessary for you to retreat from this post through the airlock and into the ship, I will transmit the words ‘Buena Vista.’” He looked at them, then repeated with special emphasis, “‘Buena…Vista.’ Repeat the words, please.”
“Buena. Vista.” In chorus.
“Buena Vista,” Martinez repeated again. The name of the house on Laredo where he’d been born, the name given by his romantic mother in words that belonged to an antique Terran language no longer spoken and read only by scholars.
He could see, drawn through the ether between the two constables in invisible letters, the conviction that he was insane.
“Very good,” Martinez finished. “I’ll send Alikhan out with refreshments every so often. Remember what I said.”
There were four doors between Martinez and the interior ofCorona , two at the rim airlock, where Dietrich and Hong stood guard, and two on the frigate’s bow lock, with the docking tube in between. Martinez moved along this series of barriers and entered his kingdom.
A kingdom with nineteen subjects, most present in obedience to the regulation that required every vessel in commission to carry sufficient crew aboard, even in dock, in case an emergency required that the ship be maneuvered. A dozen of those aboard were intended to work the ship, and the rest consisted of the two constables and a full kitchen staff preparing a huge celebratory meal in anticipation ofCorona’s victory.
Martinez let himself into the ship’s small armory with his lieutenant’s key, then summoned Alikhan and Maheshwari. While he waited he signed out a sidearm and strapped the weapon on its constable-red belt around his waist. He signed two more out to Alikhan’s and Maheshwari, then handed Alikhan’s pistol to him as he arrived, along with a red constable’s armband and helmet.
“I’m thinking of sending you to the airlock,” he said. “Those boys might need some stiffening.”
“Very good, my lord.” He looked at the armory datapad, then signed for his weapon and pressed his thumb to the weapon’s ID scanner.
“And another thing,” Martinez said. “I want you to go to the riggers’ locker and get whatever you’ll need to drill the first lieutenant’s safe.”
Alikhan nodded. “Do you wish that done immediately, my lord?”
“No.” Breaking into the premier’s safe in search of his key was, among other things, a capital crime, and if he were discovered, it would be a race between the Criminal Investigation Division and the Legion of Diligence to see who would kill him first. Martinez wasn’t quite willing to commit himself to the executioner’s garotte just yet.
“Just have the equipment ready in the lord lieutenant’s cabin. If we have to burn gees out of here, it’ll be easier to have what you need on hand rather than have you try to haul it to Koslowski’s cabin under three and a half gravities.”
“Very good, my lord.”