John Maddox Roberts - Spacer: Window of Mind (8 page)

Kiril turned her attention from the high table to her own. She was acutely conscious of the beauty of many of the women surrounding her. Many of them were navy officers, some were from the lines. She wondered if they were all born that way or could they just afford high-class surgery? It struck her that she did not come off all that unfavorably by comparison.

The waiters began bringing in the first courses. Most of the lood was Earth-raised and she was unfamiliar with it, as she was with most food. What she lacked in experience, though, she made up for with enthusiasm. After the chilled vichyssoise, the waiter set a lobster before her. She looked at it with dismay.

"Hey, Lafayette," she said, "eating this'd be kind of like chewing on old Homer. I'd feel like a cannibal."

"Homer's not a real crustacean," Lafayette assured her. "He just looks like one. That lobster's more closely related to you than it is to Homer." Kiril had her doubts, but the smell of the lobster and the butter sauce overcame them. Lafayette showed her how to tackle the thing. She caught on quickly and ate two.

"Take it easy," said Lafayette as waiters passed carrying platters heaped with entrees. "Just pick small amounts of everything. Those two steaks look a little excessive."

"How come?" Kiril asked. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? Eating?"

"Sure, but there are conventions to follow. Most people here don't have as many lean years to make up for as you."

"Well, let them spend a few years fighting sewer lizards for scraps and I'll let them dictate how I eat." Despite her defiance, Kiril watched the others more closely and tried to eat, like them, with more circumspection. It took an effort of will.

"Excuse me," said a gilded lady across the table from Kiril. "You're with the
Space Angel's
company, aren't you?"

"That's right," Kiril said, working on a helping of Peking duck.

"Were you on the expedition that reached the Core Star? I

don't recall seeing your features on the news at the time."

"No," said Kiril, reaching for some curried lamb. "I've signed on since then."

"Ah, what a pity," the woman said. "But you must have heard all about it from the rest of the crew, and from that marvelous little alien. Tell me, is it true that he's the most erudite creature in existence? It's hard to believe that anything so—so—peculiar-looking, is a poet and a scholar."

"I've been working with Homer lately," Kiril said.

"Oh, really? On what, poetry?"

"No, he's been doing a study on human profanity. Do you know the Taurus IV word for—"

"Ah, yes, wonderful being, Homer," said Lafayette, breaking in abruptly. "He's a little disconcerting at first, but you get used to him." He helped Kiril to a load of Yorkshire pudding, perhaps in hopes of shutting her up. A welcome distraction was provided by K'Stin, who was regaling his neighbors down the table with tales of his bloodthirsty exploits.

"And then, at the great Post-Adolescent Talent Contest, I fought the mighty B'Kin," he said with enthusiasm. "I ripped off his pectoral chitin and disemboweled—"

"But, ah, Mr. K'Stin," said a junior diplomat, looking rather green, "doesn't it damage your people's renowned posture of defense for your young warriors to be killing each other?"

"Hah, it takes more than a little disemboweling to kill a Viver," K'Stin asserted. "Once, at the Inter-Clan Fun-Fair, the estimable K'Tok and I fought with heavy billhooks and he beheaded me.'' He thumped the thick stalk of interlocking rings that served him for a neck. ' 'Grew back together good as new.'' It might have been true. Nobody knew for sure what it took to kill a Viver since nobody had accomplished the feat.

The rest of the dinner was occupied with small talk. Kiril noticed that people avoided talking about the mission. She got the distinct impression that they didn't know what the mission was all about anyway. She asked Lafayette about this as people began leaving the table. "It's likely," he said. "The navy people can be sent anywhere, they don't have to be told why. As for the scientific and diplomatic people . . ." He shrugged. "I don't know. We do know that we weren't told not to talk about ii Maybe everybody's just playing cagey. 1 have a feeling that there's a lot of politics being played here. Now, look, we're expected to socialize for a while. That means 1 can't monopolize you. Circulate, make small talk, but avoid prying questions. It somebody starts to talk about something you don't want to bring up, or it's something you don't know anything about, just change the subject. It's expected."

"I can take care of myself," she said. Actually, she wasn't so sure. This wasn't the streets. She went ahead and took the plunge, keeping her shipmates' locations in mind in case she should feel the need of backup. She found her task to be fairly easy. Everybody wanted to talk a great deal and say very little. It was almost fun.

"We haven't properly met," said a voice. Kiril turned and her heart lurched. For a split second she thought she was facing l/.quierda, then realized that she wasn't looking high enough and this man had black hair. It was Huerta.

"I guess not," she said, covering her confusion. "I'm Kiril. I just joined the
Angel
a few weeks ago." She spoke slowly, trying to keep her grammar straight.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry about that little scene a while ago. I know my uncle and your captain have some kind of feud dating back to the War. It's a shame that they should hold a grudge so long."

"I'll go along with you there," she said. That seemed safe enough. Her guard was up, but he didn't seem to be nearly as menacing as his uncle.

"Well, I just wanted you to know that, whatever his grudge is, 1 don't share it. I certainly wouldn't extend it to the rest of you, in any case. This is going to be a long expedition, and 1 hope we can be friends."

"That sounds good to me," Kiril said. She wondered whether he meant all of them or herself in particular. She hoped not. The last thing she wanted was to start liking this handsome
schlucter.
"Let's just figure the truce has been signed and we're back to square one, okay?"

"That will have to do," he said, smiling, "at least for a start." He had one of the better smiles she'd encountered. Then she reminded herself that she didn't trust smiles. He glanced over her shoulder. "Ah, here comes the director to collect me. It seems I must go." He gave her a courtly bow and actually took her hand and kissed it. It didn't even occur to her to whip out a knife. "I hope we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

She watched his retreating, caped back. Down, girl, she thought. This is the last thing you need.

4

"Hey, Tor, what do you know about court-martials?" Kiril and Torwald were walking aft through the hold towards the engine room. Michelle had decided that, since the thrusters were idle during their long haul to the edge of the system in the hold of the TFCS, Kiril could now go back and learn something of the engineering section.

"The correct plural is 'courts-martial,' " said Torwald.

"Don't be a pain. Come on, how do they work?"

"Why the sudden interest?"

"It's that
schturtzl
Izquierda. He's probably got it in for us, right? And it's because of this military trial, right? So I'd like to find out as much about this mess a? I can. After all. my neck's on the block, too."

"All right," said Torwald with exaggerated patience, "just to set your mind at ease. A general court martial, the kind that tried Izquierda, is a board consisting of a varying number of officers, depending on what's available under wartime conditions. There's no jury. The senior officer is president of the court. There's a prosecutor, usually an officer from the JAG corps."

"JAG?"

"Judge Advocate General. And there's a defense attorney. In an emergency, though, any officer can be appointed to defend or prosecute. When the arguments are over, the board votes guilty or not guilty. Majority decides. In case of a tie, the president casts the deciding vote. They can drag on for weeks, but I've sat on courts held during battles and sieges that lasted a few minutes. A general court can order any punishment, including execution."

"If that court found Izquierda guilty of what he did, why didn't they just stand him up against a wall and shoot him?"

"They should have. However, if conditions permit, they have to allow the defendant time to appeal to a higher court. Izquierda appealed all the way to the Council and got off. I didn't hear about the incident or the trial until after the War, like most people. By the time Izquierda got his appeal through, people were sick of the War and just wanted to put it behind them. He must have counted on that."

They came to a big hatch marked Engine Room. Torwald stuck his head inside and called out: "Ahoy, the black gang." Kiril shook her head. Spacers were full of archaic forms and usages. It seemed silly to hear that someone on a fairly modern space ship should have to hail the engine crew with a phrase from the ancient, coal-driven ocean vessels. They were a proud and touchy lot, though, so she kept her opinions to herself.

Inside, she looked about with interest. The bulkheads, where they were not covered with readout plates, were white and immaculate. Towards the stern two pits housed the thrusters employed to get the ship clear of the solar system. Slung between them was a huge cone, its apex pointed towards the nose of the ship. Its tip was transparent, and inside she could see suspended a metallic mobius band.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing toward the cone.

"That's the Whooppee drive generator," said Achmed. The Arab sat next to Lafayette on a bench below a worktable. The two had disassembled an esoteric piece of apparatus and were cleaning it with tiny sonic disrupters. "This is the Fuel Flow Regulator, Kiril," Achmed continued. "It controls the flow of nuclear fuel to the two thrusters and makes sure they stay in balance." He pointed out the various parts of the instrument, and Kiril soaked it all up, fascinated. Torwald sat down and picked up a brush and a bottle of solvent and began helping the engineers. Work and instruction went on for an hour. Achmed did most of the talking. Lafayette seemed sullen, for some reason. She suspected that he had seen Huerta kissing her hand the night before. Well, what business was it of his, anyway?

Achmed called a halt, and the three men drew cups of the inevitable, horrid coffee from a wall dispenser.

"How could we find out about Izquierda's trial?" Kiril asked, doggedly sticking to her earlier train of thought. Achmed and Lafayette stared at her in puzzlement, then looked at Torwald for elucidation.

"She started in a while back on courts-martial and Izquierda's case. She wants to know all about it. Thinks it's important."

"She could be right," said Achmed. He turned to Kiril again. "Do you want to know how the trial went?"

"Of course not," Kiril said impatiently. How could these people be so dense? "We know how the trial went. What I want to know is what happened to the board members since the trial. And what about the witnesses who testified against Izquierda? Don't you people have any sense of self-preservation at all?"

"I think she's got something," said Lafayette reluctantly. "Where can we find that information?"

"The full Archives of the Confederation are contained in the computer banks of every capita! ship of the navy," said Achmed.

"That's the place to look, then," said Kiril.

"You don't just walk into the computer room of a navy ship and sit down at the console," Lafayette said. "They're loaded with classified information."

"It's out of the question," added Torwald. "They'd never let one of us close to that computer. Even if they did, Izquierda's people would get wind of it and see what we were inquiring about. No, it's a good idea, but it won't work."

"I'll bet they'd let Homer in," she said sweetly. She took deep satisfaction in the way they looked at her with new respect.

The crew, grouped around the mess table, waited for Homer to begin. Kiril smiled smugly as she sat next to Homer, taking a quiet satisfaction in her coup. Even the skipper had to admit that Kiril had spotted a possibility they had all missed. Homer made a throat-clearing sound. He didn't need to, since he had no throat to clear. He knew, however, that humans were more comfortable, for some reason, if these sounds were made prior to a lengthy speech.

"I was granted access to the computer," he began, "on the pretext that I was studying some seventeenth-century commentaries written in Flemish on Dante. Of course, I actually
was
making such inquiries, I simply did not explain what other studies I was making."

"Sure, Homer," said the skipper. "Now, what did you find about the court-martial board?"

"There were nine officers on the board," said Homer. "Of these, four later died in action during the Confed-Trium War. Their names were—"

"Forget 'em,' said Ham. "Those were probably legitimate deaths in action, and if they weren't, we'd have a time proving it. What about the others?"

"President of the court was Rear Admiral Chi'Ching Fu. He retired after the War and lived on a small space yacht. It was lost on a routine trip from Earth to Luna. Of the other four, Rear Admiral Ian Donleavy, on Reserve status, was testing a new impulse engine for the Navy Mark Thirty-five Moray when the engine detonated. Cause of detonation was never determined."