Martinez handed him a sidearm. “I hope this won’t be necessary,” he said.
“There won’t be trouble inmy division,” Maheshwari said as he signed for the weapon and scanned in his thumbprint. “But I can’t speak for some of the other folk on board.”
“In a short while I’m going to call for an engine startup drill. It takes forty minutes or so to ready the engines for a cold start, yes?”
Maheshwari smiled with brilliant white pebble-sized teeth. “It can be done much faster, my lord.”
“Let’s not. I want the drill to seem as normal as possible.”
As possiblewas the key here. No drill was going to be normal on the Festival of Sport.
“The electrical and data connections are dropped at three minutes forty, if I remember,” Martinez said. “We’ll start the drill and then hold at four minutes.”
“Beg pardon, my lord,” Maheshwari reminded, “but water and air connections are dropped at four minutes twenty.”
“Oh. Right. We’ll hold at five, then.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Dropping water, air, electrical, and data connections to the ring station would be the station’s first warning ifCorona left its berth unexpectedly. Martinez wanted to delay that warning as long as he could.
At least he was confident that, if necessary, he could leave his berth when he wanted to, whether the engines were ready or not. He knew that 641 years ago a raging fire had broken out in Ring Command on Zanshaa’s ring station, subsequently spreading to seven berthed ships, all destroyed along with their crews. The ships could not unberth, or even close their airlock doors, without permission from Ring Command, which by then had been gutted by fire.
Since then, regulations had insisted that a ship under threat could unberth without permission, and had complete control of its airlock doors. Martinez could getCorona out of its berth; the only question was whether the other warships would permit her to survive past that point.
Martinez did his best to pretend that he had his imperturbable, omnipotent officer’s face on, and ventured to give the master engineer a confident smile. “Good luck, Maheshwari.”
Maheshwari’s response was courtly. “The same to you, Lord Lieutenant.”
The engineer braced in salute and returned to Engine Control.
Martinez locked the armory and went to the central belt elevator that would take him to Command, then hesitated, one hand on the wide belt that held his sidearm and stun baton. If he walked into Command wearing this thing, everyone would consider him a lunatic. If the Naxids did nothing, or if what they did had a rational explanation, then the entire crew would know by the end of the day. He’d become a laughingstock.
He stood in the hatch and heard the laughter in his mind, laughter ringing down the years as long as he remained in the service. If he were wrong, he could expect nothing less. Everything Fanaghee and Kulukraf were doing could have an innocent explanation—well, notinnocent exactly, but at leastrational . If he had missed that, if the Naxids were doing anything but rising, he would never hear the end of it. The story would become one of those Fleet legends that would follow a person for his entire career, like the story of Squadron Commander Rafi ordering the cadets to bind and beat him.
The endless belt of the central elevator rustled past. Suddenly he wanted very much to return to the weapons locker, check in his pistol, and go to the wardroom to watch the game on video and cheer onCorona’s team.
The hell with it, he thought. He wasalready a laughingstock to most of the crew.
He put a foot on the next descending rung, took a hand-hold onto the rung above, and stepped into the central trunk corridor. He stepped off two decks below, and immediately saw Zhou, the brawler he’d released from arrest two days before, polishing the silverware in the officers’ mess, across the corridor from Command.
Wonderful, Martinez thought. He had Zhou, Ahmet, and Knadjian in his crew, as well as every other miscreant that the captain had condemned to labor instead of the games.
Zhou, polishing away, gave Martinez a dubious look from his blackened eyes, which widened when he saw the pistol belt. Martinez gave a curt nod and walked into Command.
“I am in Command,” he announced.
“The officer of the watch is in Command,” Cadet Vonderheydte agreed, speaking from his position at the comm board. The scent of coffee, wafting from the cup he’d propped near one hand, whispered invitingly in the room.
Martinez stepped into the locked captain’s cage. “Status?” he asked.
Vonderheydte, whose cage was directly behind the captain’s, saw the pistol belt, and his eyes widened. “Um, ship systems are normal,” he said. “And—oh yes! The dishwasher in the enlisted galley blew a circuit breaker, and it’s being looked into.”
“Thank you, Vonderheydte.” He turned his back on the cadet and sat in the captain’s chair. Cushions sighed beneath his weight, and he adjusted the pistol to a more comfortable position, then reached over his head and drew down the captain’s displays until they locked in front of him.
He set one display to the security camera. Crewmen were still streaming past the airlock toward the rim rail stop. Nothing untoward was visible, but then, he didn’t expect anything for a few hours yet, not until the crews had descended to the planet’s surface and all the remainder were distracted by the sports.
He settled back in his chair. “We’ll be having an engine drill presently,” he said, and then listened to the profound, astonished silence that followed his words.
Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby—and goal. Martinez heard Vonderheydte give a shout as the ball shot pastBeijing’s goalkeeper and into the net.
Warrant Officer/Second Mabumba punched the air with a fist. He sat at the engineering station, and in his excitement atCorona’s second goal, had forgotten to be resentful of Martinez for the engine drill that placed him in Command instead of the warrant officers’ lounge, where he could have watched the game in comfort, and with a glass of beer by his hand.
Maheshwari in Engine Control was holding the engine countdown at five minutes. Martinez knew he had hardly won the enduring love of the entire engineering division for calling the drill on a sports holiday and keeping them at their stations.
He’d left Command only once, to help Alikhan bring food, coffee, and comfort to the two guards at the outside airlock, where Martinez made it clear to Dietrich and Hong that any orders from Alikhan were to be treated as if they were orders from himself.
Clearly, the silent faces of the sentries suggested, there was more than one madman aboard the ship.
Next, Martinez tried to see what he could do about sending alarms to other elements of the Fleet, perhaps to Zanshaa. A check with data on file at the Exploration Service, which crewed and maintained the wormhole stations that stitched the empire together with communications lasers that pulsed messages and data from one system to another, showed that there was no chance of getting word outside the Magaria system. In the previous few months, on a leisurely schedule, the crews of each station had been replaced—with Naxids.
Another possibility existed. There were civilian ships in the system, outbound. He could send a message to each of these, and hope that at least some information escaped the system. He checked the navigation plots and discovered there were sixteen civilian ships in the Magaria system. He checked their registration, and after discounting the three large inbound transports belonging to a corporation called Premiere Axiom, based on the Naxid homeworld of Naxas, produced a list of ships to which he might appeal.
He’d tell them when the time came. And he still had ground-line communication to other ships berthed in the Fleet dockyard. He might be able to save some of them yet.
Another of Martinez’s displays shifted through a succession of other security monitors, particularly those on the Naxid stretch of the ring station. The Fleet enclave was nearly deserted: everyone, even the civilian workers, had been given tickets to the Festival of Sport and a day off. The only living presence in the Fleet areas were the two guards posted by every airlock.
A third display showed the football match between the Coronas and the Beijings. Tarafah’s offensive strategy had thus far scored two goals and held the opposition scoreless. Martinez had to admire his captain’s ability as a strategist—he was truly a superb and inspiring sports tactician.
A fourth, smaller display scrolled slowly between the other games being played at the same time. His friend Aragon of theDeclaration had won his wushu match with a joint lock in the second round, but Aidepone’s team from theUtgu wasn’t faring very well in fatugui, a game involving a large ovoid ball being flung across a field by what looked like giant teaspoons held in the matchstick arms of the Daimong players. Two of Aidepone’s side had been declared dead, in fatugui a temporary condition, but their opponents now had the advantage of numbers and had scored several points, and their own team kept stumbling over them.
Senior Fleet Commander Fanaghee was enthroned, with Kulukraf and others of her senior staff, in the stadium where two champion Naxid teams were deeply involved in lighumane, a game of position and movement that seemed like an unlikely combination of chess and rugby football—at one moment players carrying large white or black placards were participating in diabolically subtle maneuvers on a green field, and then all periodically dissolved into riot and violence. The camera frequently returned to Fanaghee, as if to demonstrate to everyone that she was here watching sport instead of, say, conspiring at mutiny aboard theMajesty.
All these displays, however, were little more than a distraction to Martinez. A fifth, central display was open to a navigation plot. He had been trying to find an escape route forCorona once he got her out of dock, and the possibilities weren’t promising. The direct wormhole route to Zanshaa was blocked by the cruiserJudge Kybiq, which had departed the station en route to Zanshaa three days earlier.
Other than Zanshaa, the nearest Fleet concentration was the Fourth Fleet headquarters at Felarus, but Fanaghee had cleverly blocked that as well, with the heavy cruiserBombardment of Turmag, shaking down after a period of refit. The refit, Martinez suspected, had been timed precisely, in order to provide Fanaghee an excuse to order the cruiser out of dock.
Coronawould have to return to Zanshaa the long way around, through Magaria Wormhole 4, then through a series of three other wormholes leading through uninhabitable or sparsely inhabited systems. It would add twenty to forty days toCorona’s journey, depending on how hard Martinez wanted to push the acceleration.
And then he had to cope with the possibility that once he arrived at Zanshaa, he would find that the capital itself might have fallen to the rebels. In that case, he could launch whatever missiles he had at Zanshaa’s ring station, he supposed, try to kill whatever enemy ships were there before he was destroyed himself, then go down marked in history as Nature’s very own fool.
His navigation plot was complicated by the fact that he hadn’t any real-world experience as a navigator, only basic training, and that long ago. Martinez double- and triple-checked everything, and leaned heavily on the computer for assistance. He realized he had been staring at his navigation plot for some time without thought, and reached for the communications button to call to the officer’s galley for a flask of coffee when a movement caught his eye, and a cold chill eddied along his flesh. His second display was automatically flicking through a series of security camera shots from the Naxid part of the ring, and quite suddenly there was movement.
A lot of movement, and onevery camera.