The Sundering (31 page)

The art, Martinez saw on closer inspection, hadn’t been actually painted on: it had been created in a graphics program, run off on long sheets, and installed like wallpaper.

As an antidote to the treacle on his office walls, he installed a picture of Terza in his desk display, an image of her in a long high-necked white gown, sitting in front of a vast spray of flowers that she had arranged. The picture would glow there at all hours, migrating in silence from one corner of the display to the next, a reminder of the marriage that still eluded his comprehension.

Michi Chen had kindly suggested that Martinez would need rest, but in fact he’d had plenty of relaxation aboard
Daffodil
during his transit, and he didn’t feel particularly sleepy. He paged Perry for a cup of coffee, settled himself at his desk, and contemplated his discomfort at the memory of Chandra Prasad.

Chandra was as provincial a Peer as was Martinez himself, and from a less distinguished family on her home world. She’d told him that she joined the Fleet out of a desire to escape her home, and indeed restlessness seemed to be her greatest trait. During their months together, she and Martinez had mated, quarreled, reconciled, and then done it all over again. Chandra had been spectacularly unfaithful to him, and as a result he made it a point of honor to be unfaithful to her. Two months of this had left him feeling as if he’s done ten rounds with a prizefighter, and had been more than a little thankful that their connection had come to an end.

Martinez had no intention of becoming involved with Chandra again, especially on a ship with one of his in-laws aboard. He would take that glimmer he’d seen in Chandra’s eye as a warning, and stay clear.

He wished, now that he had time to consider it, that he’d had more practice at being a husband. All his social reflexes were aimed at making himself pleasant and available to any eligible woman in his vicinity. Sexual continence was not a virtue he’d ever felt the need to practice. He was going to have to guard himself against the well-honed gallantry that had been practiced for so long that it amounted to a reflex.

At this point he remembered that he had messages waiting, and with a degree of relief at the mental change of subject he slotted his captain’s key into his desk and called them up. There were several from Terza, the latest from four days ago, and he keyed them.

Most were brief. Life on the
Ensenada,
speeding toward Laredo, was without care but hardly a gay round of social excitement. Roland was consistently beating Walpurga and Terza in games of hyper-tourney. The several hours spent each day at two gees weren’t causing her any discomfort. Terza read a great deal and had a lot of time to practice her harp.

Martinez found himself warming at the sight of her face, at the lovely moment, just before speaking, when her eyes first lifted to the camera. Once she spoke he detected a slight hesitation in her manner. They hadn’t spent enough time together to develop complete ease in one another’s company, let alone while talking over a distance of light-days. Martinez wondered if his own discomfort showed in the audio and video he’d sent from
Daffodil,
and thought he might try writing letters in reply. It would let his manner develop more naturally, without the hesitations of video.

He triggered the latest of the messages and saw Terza on a loveseat in her quarters dressed in a high-collared blouse of blue silk moiré, her hair an asymmetric waterfall over one shoulder. He sensed a slight flush in her cheeks, and perhaps an elevated pulse rate as well, though how he knew that he couldn’t imagine.

“I was right,” Terza said in her soft voice. “I told you I felt fertility coming on, and I was correct. I’ve known for twenty or more days that I was pregnant, but I know a lot of accidents can happen early on, and we were dealing with acceleration and so on, so I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain that…well, that it would last. It looks as if there’s no going back now.” Her lips turned up in a smile. “I’m very pleased. I hope you are as well.” She put one of her long, exquisite hands over her abdomen. “All sorts of magical hormone things seem to be happening to me right now. I wish you were here to share them. Please stay safe for the two of us.”

The message ended. Martinez let out the long breath he’d been holding, and then played the message again. Sensation surged through his blood; he could feel his skin warming.

He was going to be a father. The realization was so staggering that Perry had to knock three times before Martinez heard it and called his steward in. Perry appeared in full dress, with white gloves, with a pot of coffee on a tray. Martinez looked at him in surprise.

“Has someone told you to put on your number ones?” he asked.

Perry placed a cup and saucer before Martinez and poured. “The other servants told me that full dress was customary aboard
Illustrious,
my lord.”

“I see.”

Perry replaced the coffeepot on the tray and stood back. “I’m sorry your coffee was delayed, my lord. I should let you know that there may be a problem with our meals.”

Martinez had been sufficiently wrapped in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized that his coffee had taken longer than expected to turn up “Yes?” he said. “Why’s that?”

“It’s because you’re in the premiere’s cabin, my lord. The squadcom’s cabin has a kitchen, of course, and so does the captain’s. The wardroom has a kitchen for the lieutenants, and of course the enlisted have their mess. But the first lieutenant’s cabin has no kitchen facilities.”

“Ah. I see.”

Martinez should have anticipated this. Lady Michi had her own cook, of course, as did the captain. The wardroom was a kind of club for the lieutenants, and the tactical officer, normally a lieutenant, would under normal circumstances mess there. But as a full captain Martinez couldn’t impose on his juniors for his meals, and in order to dine with either Fletcher or Michi Chen, he’d have to be invited.

On all of
Illustrious
, there was no place for Perry to prepare his meals. He nodded at the coffeepot.

“Where’s you get this?”

“The wardroom steward very kindly lent it to me, my lord.” Perry’s face darkened. “This was after the captain’s steward refused to let me into his kitchen.”

“Well, that’s within his rights.” For a moment Martinez pictured himself living out of boxes and cans for the length of his posting, and then he laughed. “Have a talk with Lady Michi’s cook,” he said, “and with the wardroom steward again. Perhaps something can be worked out.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“And if all else fails,” Martinez said, “there’s always
Daffodil.
” Since the Fleet hadn’t provided a pilot to take the commandeered yacht away once it had delivered Martinez, the boat, with its full kitchen, would remain grappled to
Illustrious
for the foreseeable future.

Perry cheered at this. “That’s true, my lord.”

“I’ve been invited to supper with the squadcom tonight, so there isn’t any urgency.”

Perry left, and Martinez returned his attention to his video display, where Terza’s image remained frozen, her lips parted in a soft smile, her hand touching her abdomen as if protecting the child.

A child
…An unfamiliar sensation shivered through Martinez, and to his immense surprise he discovered that it was bliss.

He needed to respond to the message at once, if he could manage it without babbling.

Martinez told the display to record a reply, and began the babbling at once.

“This isn’t a spy ring,” Sula said to Lord Octavius Hong, “this is a fucking holiday association. Dreamed up by the same people who join the Fleet because they think it’s a yacht club.” She snarled.
“Everyone in the neighborhood
knows by now that Fleet personnel are living in our apartment. When the Naxids come, they’re going to be on us in three minutes.”

“Steady, Four-nine-one,” her superior murmured. “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that.”

They had met in a sidewalk café after Sula had stuck a strip of tape on a lamppost in the Old Square, the sign for an immediate meeting. In the balmy weather of early summer Hong had draped his jacket over the back of his chair and sat at the table in his shirt-sleeves. His face bore an expression of handsome, quiet confidence as he set about dismembering a flaky pastry.

He had showed respect for procedure by calling Sula by her code name, though because they’d trained together he knew her real name perfectly well, just as she knew his despite the fact that, as head of Action Group Blanche, she should refer to him as “Blanche.” Awarding code names had come rather late in the training, and by that time they’d all got used to one another’s genuine identities. Another aspect, Sula realized now, of the amateurishness with which this operation had been set up.

“You’re based in a Terran neighborhood,” said Lord Octavius. “If you were living with Naxids, you might have cause to worry, but your neighbors will have no reason to betray you.”

“How about money or favor?” Sula said as she stirred more honey into her tea. “What if the Naxids offer a cash reward for turning us in?”

Hong gave her a stern look. “Loyal citizens—” he began.

“I want backup identities for my whole team,” she said, stirring. “And everyone else in your group should get them, too.” She raised her spoon and licked it, the flavor of warm clover honey bursting on the tip of her tongue.

For the first time in their acquaintance Hong’s face displayed a moment of doubt. “I’m not sure that’s in the budget,” he said cautiously.

Sula raised her cup of tea to her lips. “Oh, for all’s sake, Blanche,” she said. “Our side
coins
the money.”

Hong’s decisive look returned. “I’ll push a memorial up to higher authority, shall I?”

“I’ll do the work myself,” Sula said. It was an offer, and also a decision.

She still had her special warrant from the lord governor. Sula used one of the cameras with which the Intelligence Section had equipped Team 491 to take pictures of herself and her group, then put on her uniform and took the funicular to the High City. She flashed her warrant in the Records Office and took advantage of a slight ambiguity in its wording—“require cooperation in the matter of records”—to get herself a desk and the passwords necessary to do her job.

The passwords, strings of long numbers, she recorded with her sleeve camera while no one was looking.

Thus enabled, her task was simple enough that once she had her three backup identities, she saw no reason to stop. By the time the office closed at the end of day, each member of Action Team 491 had four false identities, counting the ones they’d started with.

Sula collected the last of these, the heavy plastic card still warm from the thermo printer, the seal of the government embossed on its surface.

That evening, she memorized the codes she’d printed, destroyed the printout, and thought, I must remember to use these powers only for good.

She told Hong that joke at their next meeting. He frowned, brows knitting. “You’ll do well to remember, Four-nine-one,” he said, “that in the military, irony proceeds from the
top.
”

Sula straightened. “Very good, my lord.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“That’s all right. It was irony.”

Hong grunted, eyes fixed on his plate. As was his custom, he had chopped his pastry up into several pieces, which he now commenced to eat with military efficiency, last of all sweeping up the crumbs and devouring those as well.

The day was rainy and he and Sula met indoors. The café was crowded and smelled of damp wool, and the door banged loudly whenever anyone went in and out.

“Still,” Hong admitted, “that’s a good use of initiative, I suppose. You’ll have to give me a list of those names, of course.”

“No,” Sula said. “Absolutely not.”

Hong looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean, no?”

“You don’t need to know our backup identities. We’ll have secure means of communication no matter what names we’re using, so the only people inconvenienced will be the Naxids, when they arrest you and interrogate you and you can’t tell them where to find us.”

Hong didn’t seem annoyed, which Sula might have understood, but rather deeply and sincerely concerned, as if he’d just learned she’d come down with a serious illness.

“Are you all right about this?” he asked. “You’re not having second thoughts about our assignment, are you?”

“None whatsoever,” she said flatly, and held his eyes until he dropped them.

Second thoughts about
you,
she said to herself, are another matter.

That evening, out of more than merely idle curiosity, Sula used the display and touch-keypad in the surface of the old desk in a corner of her apartment’s front room, and logged onto the archives at the Records Office to see if her passwords still worked. They did.

But she knew they wouldn’t work much longer: passwords of this sort were changed frequently as a matter of routine, and when the Naxids arrived they might well demand exclusive control of the system.

“Ada,” she said to Engineer/1st Spence, calling her by the cover name assigned her by the Fleet. “I can use your advice.”

Spence brought a chair to where Sula worked, and sat. She was a short, sturdy woman of around thirty, with short straw hair and a pug nose. “What do you need?”

“I’m in the Records Office data system. And what I’d like is to make certain that I can keep my access even after they change the passwords.”

Spence was surprised. “Is that legal?”

Sula suppressed a laugh. “I have a warrant,” she said, and hoped her face was straight. “The problem is that the Naxids aren’t going to honor it.”

Spence considered the display. “Can you get into the directory?”

Sula gave the command, and a long list, thousands of files, began rolling across the desktop.

“Apparently I can,” Sula said.

“System: halt,” Spence ordered. “System: find file
Executive
.”

Two file names glowed in Sula’s display, one a backup of the other.