Conventions of War

ELEVEN

Martinez marched into Command with his helmet under his arm and confusion warring with frustration in his heart.

“I am in command!” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Per the squadcom’s orders!”

Heads turned, faces peering at him from over the collars of their vac suits. Chandra Prasad looked at him from the command cage. A lock of her auburn hair curled across her forehead from under her sensor cap.

“Captain Martinez is in command!” she agreed.

Martinez stepped toward her. “Lieutenant,” he said, “do you wish to confirm with the squadcom?”

Amusement touched the corners of her mouth. “I just got off the comm with her, Lord Captain. She told me you were coming.”

Martinez sensed the drama that had marched in with him begin to deflate.

“Very well,” he said.

Chandra tipped her couch forward and rose to her feet. “Course two-two-five by zero-zero-one absolute,” she reported. “Accelerating at one gravity, and are currently moving at.341c. Our closest approach to Termaine will occur in approximately a hundred and ten minutes. We are not yet at general quarters.”

“Sound general quarters then,” Martinez said.

“General quarters!” Chandra called.

The alarm began to chime. The command crew reached into the net bags attached to their couches, pulled out their helmets, and began to lock them onto the connecting rings of their collars.

Chandra paused with her helmet halfway over her head. “My position at quarters is normally at signals,” she said.

“Take your position then, Lady Chandra.”

“Yes, my lord.” As she walked by him she lowered her voice and said, “Your luck’s holding, Captain.”

Martinez shot her a murderous glance, but she’d already passed. He took his seat, the couch swinging with his weight as he webbed himself in. He reached above his head for the command display and locked it down in front of him.

He donned his helmet, and at onceIllustrious turned more distant. All the noise in Command faded-the creak of the acceleration cages, the bleating of displays trying to call for attention, the distant rumble of the ship’s engines. More apparent was the hiss of the air inlet and the polyamide scent of the suit seals. Martinez turned on his suit microphone and tuned to the channel he shared with the signals station. “Comm,” he said. “Test, test.”

“I hear you, Lord Captain.”

He looked over Command. The murals Fletcher had installed were antique military scenes, horsebacked officers who looked like bolsters in odd, overstuffed clothes, all leading bodies of men who carried firearms that featured nasty long knives on the ends. Below the officers’ bland gaze Martinez saw only the backs of the helmets of the crew sitting at their stations. IfIllustrious had been his own command, he would have known their names by now: as it was, he knew only the three lieutenants and a handful of the others.

He wondered how much they knew about why he was here. It was a certainty that whatever they knew or didn’t, they were probably boiling with questions.

Martinez shifted to the channel that allowed him to address everyone in Command, then paused to collect his thoughts. It was difficult to pass on information that he did not himself possess. He decided to keep it as simple as possible.

“This is Captain Martinez,” he said. “I wished to inform you that the lady squadcom instructed me to take command ofIllustrious, as Captain Fletcher has been reported ill. I don’t know any details, but I’m sure that Captain Fletcher will return to command as soon as circumstances permit.”

Well, he thought,that was as bland an announcement as he could possibly imagine. He doubted it went very far toward softening the curiosity of the watch.

Martinez then called Michi to let her know that he’d arrived in Command. The call was taken by Michi’s aide, Lady Ida Li, who presumably passed it on.

He called up the tactical display and familiarized himself with the situation: Chenforce on its way to pass by Termaine, the two pinnaces and their squadrons of missiles ahead, Termaine surrounded by a cloud of ships that had been cast off and abandoned. If Fleet Commander Jakseth was preparing any act of defiance, he had yet to launch it.

“Lord Captain?” The voice was familiar, and a glance at his display showed that it belonged to Husayn, the weapons officer.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Martinez answered.

“I was wondering if I’m likely to have to light the weapons board.”

Which was very tactful of Husayn, and Martinez mentally awarded him a few points. At the moment neither he, Husayn, or anyone else aboardIllustrious could fire its population-crushing array of weaponry. No single officer could do that, not until certain conditions were met.

Three officers-either the captain and two lieutenants or three lieutenants on their own-would have to turn their keys to unlock the weapons board, and at least two of those keys would have to be turned in different parts of the ship.

Martinez’s key was useless for the task-it wasn’t configured for a line officer in the correct chain of command. He would have to organize three of the lieutenants.

“Very good, Lord Lieutenant,” he said. He called the first lieutenant, Fulvia Kazakov, who was stationed in Auxiliary Command, ready to take charge ofIllustrious if Command and all senior officers were blown to bits, and had her insert her key along with Husayn and Chandra Prasad.

“Turn on my mark,” Martinez said. “This is not a drill. Three, two, one, mark.”

Husayn’s display brightened as all weapons went live.

“Thank you,” Martinez said. “Stand by.”

Lighting the weapons board was the most dramatic thing that happened until it was time to darken the weapons board again. The day crawled by like an arthritic animal looking for a hole to die in. Every so often one of the icons on the tactical display would move very slightly in one direction or another, and then everything would be still once more.

The pinnaces flashed past Termaine, cameras and sensors sweeping the planet’s ring for hidden weapons or warships and feeding the data to the sensor operators in Command and Auxiliary Command. Lieutenant Kazakov correlated the data and informed Termaine that Fleet Commander Jakseth was to all appearances obeying Lady Michi’s commands. The Naxids had been building no less than six warships on Termaine’s ring, but none were completed and all had been cast adrift.

Martinez wasn’t asked to kill a few billion people. Instead, in a voice that breathed relief with every syllable, he targeted each of the abandoned ships cast off from the ring, warships and civilian craft both, and sent missiles on their way to destroy them. He divided the missiles equally among the ships of Chenforce so that no one ship’s magazines would be depleted too quickly.

He watched the missile bursts blossom in the display, as the expanding, overlapping spheres of superheated plasma momentarily obscured Termaine and its ring. When the plasma cooled and dissipated, the ring was still there, presumably much to the relief of Fleet Commander Jakseth.

Martinez watched the tactical situation crawl along for another half hour, then called Michi to ask for permission to secure from general quarters. This time he spoke to her personally.

“Permission granted,” she said.

“How is Captain Fletcher?”

“He’s dead. I’ll need you and Lieutenant Kazakov to meet in my office as soon as we secure from quarters.”

“Yes, my lady.” He paused in hopes that Lady Michi would volunteer more information, but once again she remained silent.

“May I ask how the captain died?” he said finally. He was prepared to wager that Fletcher had hanged himself.

Michi’s tone turned resentful. “Fell and hit his head on a corner of his desk, apparently. We don’t know any more than that because we went to quarters soon after the body was discovered. Dr. Xi had the body moved to sick bay and then had to go to quarters himself, so there hasn’t been an examination.”

“Would you like me to make an announcement to the ship’s crew?”

“No. I’ll do that myself. For now, I want to see you in my office.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Michi ended the communication, and Martinez shifted to the channel that enabled him to speak with others in Command.

“Secure from general quarters,” he ordered. “Well done, everyone.”

He took off his helmet and took a breath of air free off the smell of suit seals. As the tone to secure from quarters buzzed through the ship, he unwebbed and stood.

“Who’s normally standing watch at this hour?” he asked.

Chandra pulled the helmet off her head and wiped a bit of sweat off her forehead with a gloved hand. “The premiere, Lord Captain,” she said.

“Lieutenant Kazakov is called elsewhere. If you’re not too tired, Lieutenant Prasad, I’d be obliged if you’d take the premiere’s watch.”

Chandra nodded. “Very good, my lord.”

“Lieutenant Prasad has the watch!” Martinez said, loud enough for anyone to hear.

“I have the watch!” Chandra agreed loudly.

Martinez stalked out of the room. The horsebacked officers on the walls watched with unfriendly, calculating eyes.

“I’m appointing you to commandIllustrious, ” Michi said. “You’re the only captain we’ve got.”

Martinez wished she had phrased it so he didn’t sound so much like a desperate last resort, but the warm, exuberant pleasure of having a command again soon erased any discomfort.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, glowing.

“Give me your captain’s key,” she said. He took his key from the elastic around his neck and handed it to her, and she slipped it into the slot on her desk and tapped codes into the desk.

“Your thumbprint, please?”

Martinez provided it. Michi returned the key to him, and he reattached it to the elastic and tucked it again into his uniform tunic.

“Congratulations, my lord,” said Fulvia Kazakov. She sat next to Martinez, across the desk from the squadcom. Her dark hair was knotted as usual behind her head, but she’d changed hurriedly afterIllustrious secured from quarters, and hadn’t had time to stick the usual pair of inlaid chopsticks through the knot.

“Thank you,” Martinez said, then realized he should try not to beam quite so much. “A shame it had to happen after such a tragedy,” he added.

“Quite,” Michi said. She touched her comm panel. “Is Garcia there yet?”

“Yes, my lady.” The voice of her orderly Vandervalk.

“Send him in.”

Rigger First Class Garcia entered and braced. Under the loose supervision of the military constable officer, Garcia was the head of the ship’s Constabulary, all three of them, and was a youngish man, a little plump, wearing a mustache. He had never been in the flag officer’s office before, at least to judge by the way his eyes kept turning to the ornamental fluted bronzed pillars, the bronze statues of naked Terran women holding baskets of fruit, and the murals filled with poised human figures sharing a landscape with fantastic beasts.

“You’ve finished your investigation?” Michi said.

“I’ve interviewed Captain Fletcher’s staff,” Garcia said. “I wasn’t able to see them all personally, but I was able to speak to them through comm when we were at quarters.”

“Report then.”

Garcia looked at his sleeve display, where he’d obviously stored the particulars. “The captain worked with Warrant Officer Marsden on ship’s business till about 2501 yesterday,” he said. “His orderly, Narbonne, was the last person to see him. He helped the captain undress, took his uniform to be brushed and his shoes to be polished. That was about 2526.”

Garcia gave a polite cough that indicated his willingness to be interrupted by a question, and when there was none, continued.

“Narbonne returned at 0526 this morning to wake the captain, bring him his uniform, and help him dress, but when he entered the captain’s room he saw that the captain wasn’t in his bed. He assumed Captain Fletcher was working in his office, so he hung the uniform by the bed and returned to the orderly room and waited to be called.

“A few minutes later the captain’s cook, Baca, brought Captain Fletcher’s breakfast into the dining room. The captain wasn’t there, but that wasn’t unusual, and Baca also withdrew.”

“Neither of them looked in the office?” Michi asked.

“No. The captain doesn’t-didn’t-like to be disturbed when working.”

“Continue.”

“About 0601 Baca returned and saw the captain’s breakfast hadn’t been touched. He knew we’d be going to quarters shortly, so he paged Captain Fletcher to see if he’d be wanting anything at all to eat, and when there was no answer, he went into the office and found the captain dead.”

Again Garcia coughed politely to provide a convenient break in his narrative, and this time Michi obliged him.

“What did Baca do then?”

“He paged Narbonne. Then he and Narbonne put their heads together and paged me.”

“You?” Martinez was startled. “Why did they page the Constabulary? Did they suspect foul play?”

Garcia seemed embarrassed. “I think they were afraid they might be blamed for the captain’s death. They wanted me there so I could…assure them they wouldn’t be held responsible.”

Martinez supposed that was plausible.

“I arrived on the scene at 0614,” Garcia continued. “The captain was cold and had clearly been dead for some time. I paged the doctor and a stretcher party, and then called Lady Michi.” His eyes turned to the squadcom. “You ordered me to conduct an investigation. I told Narbonne and Baca to return to the orderly room, and then waited for the doctor. Once the doctor and stretcher party arrived, Dr. Xi pronounced the captain dead and took the body to sick bay. I looked over the office and…well, it was obvious what happened.”

“And what happened was?” Michi prompted.

“Captain Fletcher got out of bed sometime during the night, went into his office, fell and hit his head. There was an obvious wound on his right temple, and the corner of his desk had some blood, hair, and a bit of skin adhering.” For some reason, Garcia had trouble pronouncing the word “adhering,” but he managed it on the third try.

“My suspicion is that the captain got caught off-balance during the course change early this morning. There was one at 0346. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then when acceleration resumed he was caught wrong-footed. Or maybe he was floating weightless in the room and resumption of gravity caught him by surprise. Dr. Xi might be able to confirm the timing.”

Michi saw his surprised look out of the corner of her eye. “Captain Martinez?” she said. “Did you have a question?”

Martinez was startled. “No, my lady,” he said quickly. “I just remembered that I woke during that course change. I wonder…if I heard something.”

He groped through his memory, but failed to grasp whatever it was that had brought him awake.

“It was most likely the zero-gravity alarm that woke you up,” Kazakov said.

“Very possible, my lady.”

Michi returned her attention to Garcia. “Was the captain dressed?” she asked.

“No, my lady. He wore pajamas, a dressing gown, and slippers.”

“I have no more questions,” Michi said. She glanced at Martinez and Kazakov. “Is there anything else?”

“I have a question,” Martinez said. “Did you take any notice of what the captain was working on?”

“Working?”

“If he was in his office, I’d suppose he’d be working.”

“He wasn’t working at anything. The display wasn’t turned on, and there were no papers on the desk.”

“Where was his captain’s key?”

Garcia opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I don’t know, my lord.”

“Was it slotted into the desk?”

“I don’t think so.”

Martinez looked at Michi. “That’s all,” he said. “I think.”

Michi turned to the petty officer. “Thank you, Garcia,” she said.

He braced and made his way out. Michi gave Martinez a look. “That was good thinking, about the captain’s key. It’s got access to practically everything.” She turned to her desk and began entering codes. “I’ll cancel the key’s privileges.”

This proved to be unnecessary, as the next to report was Dr. Xi, who put Captain Fletcher’s key on the desk in front of the squadron commander. The strip of plastic was on an elastic band.

“I found this around his wrist,” Xi said.

Lord Yuntai Xi was a small man with a well-tended white beard, salt-and-pepper hair that hung over his collar, and a little potbelly. The Xi clan were clients of the Gombergs, and he had known the captain from boyhood. He spoke in a steady tenor voice, but there was sadness in his brown eyes.

“Because we’ve spent most of the last several hours at general quarters, I’ve been able to conduct only a superficial investigation. There is a substantial depression on the right side of the skull, and the skin is torn, and skull fracture is the obvious cause of death. There are no other wounds. I made a small incision under the ribs on the right side and inserted a thermometer into the liver, and from that I calculate that the time of death was 0401, plus or minus half an hour.”

Martinez noted that 0401 was only seven minutes after the change of course that might have caused the captain’s stumble and death.

“Thank you, Lord Doctor,” Michi said. “I think in view of the questions that will inevitably be raised, an autopsy will be required.”

Xi closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well, my lady.”

After Xi left, Michi took up Fletcher’s key and held the thin plastic strip thoughtfully in her hand.

“Do you wish me to make an announcement to the ship’s company?” Martinez asked.

“No. I’ll do it.” She tossed the key into the rubbish. “That’s a bad coincidence,” she said.

“Yes, my lady,” said Kazakov. Her expression was thoughtful.

“Coincidence?” Martinez repeated.

“First Kosinic,” Kazakov explained, “and then Captain Fletcher.”

Kosinic had been Lady Michi’s first tactical officer. He had died early in Chenforce’s journey from Harzapid to Zanshaa, and his death provided an opening on the staff that Martinez-a recent addition to the Chen family-had jumped to fill.

“Coincidence?” Martinez said again. “I don’t understand what you mean. I thought Lieutenant Kosinic died from wounds received at Harzapid.”

“No.” Michi’s glare was savage. “He fell and hit his head.”

Martinez returned to his cabin to find that Alikhan, assisted by his other orderlies, Espinosa and Ayutano, were packing his belongings.

Alikhan turned to him as he paused in the doorway. “I presume we will be moving to the captain’s cabin, my lord,” he said.

“I suppose we will.” Martinez hadn’t actually gotten that far in his thinking.

Nor was there any point in wondering how Alikhan knew of the vacancy in the captain’s quarters. Even though no announcement had been made, everyone on the ship must know by now that Fletcher was dead.

“We’ve removed the staff tabs from all your tunics except for what you’re wearing now,” Alikhan said. “If you’d care to give me your jacket, my lord?”

Martinez unbuttoned his collar and stepped into his sleeping cabin. Alikhan and his mates had nearly finished the job, remarkably efficient considering the amount of gear an officer was supposed to carry with him from one posting to the next.

“Are the captain’s belongings also being packed?” he asked.

“Everything but what was in his office,” said Alikhan. “There’s a constable on guard there.”

“Right,” Martinez said. He turned, left his cabin, buttoned his collar again, and marched down the corridor to Fletcher’s office. The Constable there braced as he entered.

“Come with me, Constable,” he told her, and walked through the office, deliberately averting his eyes from the desk with the blood and the scrapings of Fletcher’s scalp. He entered Fletcher’s sleeping cabin, stopped in the doorway and gaped.

Something Chandra said had led him to conclude that he’d find erotica on Fletcher’s walls, but Fletcher hadn’t adorned his private room with anything so ordinary. In place of the bright tile work or classically balanced frescoes Fletcher had placed elsewhere on hisIllustrious, the walls in the sleeping cabin were paneled in ancient dark wood. The wood was rough-hewn and scarred and had never been painted or polished. Presumably it had been fireproofed as Fleet regulations required, but otherwise it looked to have been acquired from some timeworn ruin of a house, a timbered hulk from a desolate dark age. The ceiling panels were perhaps equally old but were in a different style, dark wood again and roughly hewn, but polished to a mellow glow. On the floor were mud-colored tiles with geometrical patterns in faded yellow. Lights were recessed into crude hand-beaten copper sconces. Small dark old pictures sat on the walls in metal frames that winked dully of gold or silver.

Dominating the far wall was the life-sized figure of a man, cast apparently in porcelain. The man had been savagely tortured and then hung on a tree to die. Cuts and blood and the marks of burning tongs were vivid in the translucent porcelain flesh and rendered in immaculate detail by the artist. Despite the many wounds and the agonized posture, the clean-shaven face of the man was serene and unearthly, with unnaturally large dark eyes that wrapped partly around the sides of the head. His hair had been braided in long ringlets that hung to his shoulders. As Martinez took a step closer, he saw that the figure had been lashed by metal bands to what appeared to be a chunk of a perfectly genuine tree.

He looked in amazement from the object on the wall to the two servants who stood braced by open trunks half filled with the captain’s belongings.

“What isthat?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Part of Captain Fletcher’s collection, my lord.”

The answer came from the older of the two, a gray-haired man with a long nose and a moist, mobile mouth.

“You’re Narbonne?” Martinez asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Stand by a moment.”

Martinez paged Marsden, the captain’s secretary. When he arrived, Martinez turned to him.

“I want a complete inventory taken of all Captain Fletcher’s belongings,” he said. “I want that signed by you and witnessed by everyone here, including-” He nodded toward the guard. “Your name?”

“Huang, my lord.”

“Including Huang.”

Marsden nodded his bald head. “Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll try to access the captain’s safe so we can inventory the contents as well.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Getting into the captain’s safe proved more difficult than Martinez expected. A combination in records was available to the captain, but Fletcher had changed the numbers at least once since he’d taken command, and the old combination was no longer valid. Martinez got Fletcher’s captain’s key from Michi, but that didn’t serve either. In the end he had to call Master Machinist Gawbyan. The machinist, who had a truly spectacular pair of mustachios that curled so broad and high they nearly met his eyebrows, arrived with an assistant and a bag of tools. When the safe was finally open, the contents were uninteresting: some money, a beautifully made custom pistol with a box of ammunition, some bank records, notes on investments, and a pair of small boxes. One box contained a small, frail old book written in some incomprehensibly ancient alphabet. The other box held a carved white jade statue of a nearly naked six-armed woman dancing atop a skull, a sight that wasn’t very shocking after the sight of the tortured man lashed to the tree.

Martinez supposed the book and the statue were valuable, so he decided to keep them in his own safe once Gawbyan finished repairing the damage he’d just inflicted. “Make a note,” Martinez told Marsden, “that I’ve kept in my own possession a small book and a small statue of a woman.”

“Very good, my lord,” Marsden said, and wrote on his datapad.

He took the objects to the safe in his own office, and on his return encountered Dr. Xi coming up the companion, climbing amid the faint scent of disinfectant. Xi braced apologetically, then said, “I was on my way to report to Lady Michi.”

“Yes?”

His sad eyes contemplated Martinez for a moment, then grew hard. “Join me if you like.”

They were shown into Michi’s office, and Xi offered another unpracticed salute.

“I’ve performed the autopsy,” he said, “but it was hardly necessary, since it was obviously murder nearly from the start.”

Michi pressed her lips together in a thin line, then said, “Obvious? How?”

“I put a sensor net around the lord captain’s head and got a three-dimensional image of the skull. Captain Fletcher’s right temple was struck by three separate blows, grouped closely together-the multiple blows weren’t obvious from the superficial examination I was able to conduct this morning, but on the three-dimensional image they were very clear.”

“His head was driven into the desk three times?” Michi asked.

“Or hit with a blunt object twice, then slammed into the desk to make it look like an accident.”

Michi spoke to her desk. “Page Rigger First Class Garcia to the squadcom’s office.” She looked at Martinez. “Who’s military constabulary officer?”

“Corbigny, my lady.”

Michi turned to her desk again. “Page Lieutenant Corbigny as well.”

Martinez turned to Xi. “I don’t suppose Lieutenant Kosinic’s body is still on the ship.”

Xi looked at him. “As a matter of fact, the body’s in a freezer compartment. We didn’t cremate.”

“Perhaps you ought to take a look at it.”

Xi turned away, his gaze directed at the wall over Michi’s head. His lips pursed out, then in. “I should,” he said. “I wish I had when he died.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Michi answered for him. “Because the cause of death seemed so obvious. In the fighting at Harzapid, Kosinic suffered broken bones and head injuries. When he came on board, he insisted he was fit, but his report from the hospital stated he was subject to blinding headaches, vertigo, and fainting spells. When he was found dead, it seemed obvious that he’d fainted and hit his head.”

“Where was he found?”

“In the Flag Officer Station.”

Martinez was surprised. “What was he doing there alone?”

Michi hesitated. “Li and Coen told me he sometimes worked there by himself. It was less distracting than the wardroom.”

“Was he working on anything in particular?”

“He was tactical officer. I’d had him plan a full schedule of squadron maneuvers, concentrating on the defense of Zanshaa.”

Martinez turned at the sound of someone entering. Rigger Garcia came into the room and braced.

“Rigger/First Garcia reporting, my lady.”

“Thank you. Stand at ease, and take notes if you need to.”

Corbigny arrived a few seconds later, and seemed intimidated by the presence of the squadron commander. The slim, dark-haired young woman was the most junior lieutenant on the ship, and therefore got the jobs none of the other officers wanted. One of these was Military Constabulary Officer, which put her in theoretical charge of the ship’s police. If nothing else, supervising the Constabulary would give Corbigny a rapid education in the varieties of vice, depravity, and violence available to the average Fleet crouchback, an education desirable and probably necessary for her further development as an officer.

Garcia adjusted his sleeve display. “I’m recording, my lady.”

Michi spoke in quick, clipped phrases, as if she wanted to get it over quickly. “The lord doctor’s autopsy showed that Captain Fletcher was murdered. You’ll be taking charge of the investigation.”

Garcia’s eyes went wide at this, and Corbigny turned pale. When Garcia began to speak, Michi’s words continued without hesitation.

“Captain Fletcher’s office should be sealed off and subject to a minute examination. Look for fingerprints, traces of fabric or hair, anything that may have been carelessly dropped. Take particular care-”

“My lady!” Garcia said almost desperately.

Michi paused. “Garcia?”

“Fingerprints-hair analysis-I don’t know how to do any of that!” he said. “The Investigative Service is trained for that sort of thing, not the Constabulary!”

Martinez looked at the man in sudden sympathy. The Military Constabulary investigated cases of vandalism or petty theft, broke up brawls, or arrested crouchbacks drunk on wine brewed up in plastic bags they’d hidden in their lockers. Any technical investigation was well outside their strengths.

Michi’s lips thinned to a line. Her fingers drummed on her desktop a few times, and then she relaxed. “Perhaps I’ve been watching too manyDoctor An-ku dramas,” she said. “I thought there were professionals who handled this kind of thing.”

“There are, my lady,” Garcia said. “But none on this ship, I guess.”

Michi rubbed her forehead under her straight bangs. “I still want the office examined very carefully,” she said.

Dr. Xi had a smile behind his little white beard. He turned to Garcia. “I might be able to create some fingerprint powder out of materials I have in the pharmacy,” he said. “I’ll do the research and see what I can manage.”

“Good,” Michi said. “Why don’t you do that now, my lord?”

“Certainly.” Xi straightened his slouch slightly in salute and turned to leave. He hesitated, seeming to remember something, then reached into his pocket and took out a clear plastic box, the sort in which he probably kept samples.

“I took the captain’s jewelry from his body,” he said. “To whom should I give it?”

“I’m having an inventory made of the captain’s belongings,” Martinez said. “I’ll take the box, if you like.”

Martinez took it and looked through the plastic lid. Inside were a pair of rings, a heavy signet of enameled gold with the Fletcher and Gomberg crests interlinked, a smaller ring made of a kind of silver mesh, wonderfully intricate, and a pendant on a chain. He held the box to the light and saw that the pendant formed the figure of an ayaca tree in full flower and shimmered with fine diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

“We should try to make a list of where everyone was during the critical hour,” Michi continued. “And if anyone was seen moving about.”

Again Garcia looked as if despair had him by the throat. “There are over three hundred people aboardIllustrious, my lady,” he said. “And I only have two staff.”

“Most of the crew would be asleep,” Michi said. “We’ll have the department heads make the reports, so you don’t have to interview everyone personally.”

“I’ll send the department heads instructions later today,” Martinez added.

Michi gave Garcia a level look. “Start now with a careful examination of the scene,” she said.

“Very good, my lady.”

He braced in salute and left, clearly relieved to have made his escape. Michi watched him go, then turned to Martinez. There was irony in the set of her smile.

“Any thoughts, Captain?”

“Three deaths,” Martinez said, “and I don’t see the connection. It would be better if there were only two.”

Her eyebrows rose. “How do you mean?”

“If it were only Kosinic and Fletcher killed,” Martinez said, “then I’d say the killer was someone with a grudge against officers. If it were only Thuc and Fletcher, I’d say that Fletcher had been killed by someone wanting revenge for Thuc. But with all three I don’t see anything to link them.”

“Perhaps thereis no connection.”

Martinez considered this notion. “I’d rather not believe that,” he decided.

Michi slumped in her chair and looked sidelong at the serene bronze seminude woman that Fletcher had installed in the corner, the one offering a bowl of fruit. Apparently she found no answers there, so she turned back to Martinez.

“I don’t know what else to do, so I’m going to have a cocktail,” she said. “Would you care to join me?”

Martinez began to accept, then hesitated. “Perhaps I’d better supervise Garcia in his efforts.”

“Perhaps.” Michi shrugged. “Let me know if you find anything.”

Martinez braced in salute, turned to leave, and then saw Sub-Lieutenant Corbigny, who had stood without speaking for the entire interview.

“Any questions, Lieutenant?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “No, my lord.”

“You may leave,” Michi said. Corbigny braced and fled.

Martinez turned to leave again, then turned back. “Are we still doing an experiment tomorrow?” he asked.

“Postpone.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Very little was found in Fletcher’s office: Narbonne and the other servants simply kept it too clean. Crawling on hands and knees, Garcia and Martinez found several hairs that were placed in specimen flasks sent them by Dr. Xi. When Xi turned up with a squeeze bottle of his homemade fingerprint powder, they blanketed every solid surface and produced a few dozen prints, most of them of sufficient quality to be read by an ordinary fingerprint reader they procured from Marsden’s desk.

While they worked, Michi Chen made an announcement to the ship’s company, confirming that Captain Fletcher had died and that Martinez had been appointed to fill his place. Martinez, on his knees peering at an eyelash he’d just picked up with tweezers, failed somehow to be overcome by the sudden majesty of command that had just officially dropped onto his shoulders.

“I regret to informIllustrious, ” Michi continued, “that Captain Fletcher’s death was the result of foul play. I ask any crew with knowledge of this event to report to the Constabulary or to an officer. As the lord captain was murdered between 0301 and 0501, the testimony of anyone with knowledge of unusual movement or activity around that time would be very useful.”

A new firmness, almost a ferocity, entered Michi’s voice. “The squadron is alone, moving deep in enemy territory. We are too vulnerable to the enemy to permit any kind of disorder and lawlessness in our own ranks. Any weakness on our part only makes the enemy stronger. I amdetermined ”-the word was almost a shout-“determinedthat the killer or killers of Captain Fletcher will be found and punished.

“Once again,” more subdued now, “I ask anyone with information to come forward before any more crimes are committed. This is Squadron Commander Chen, in the name of the Praxis.”

Martinez was impressed. The drinks had done her good, he decided.

Before long he began to envy Michi her cocktails. If anything were going to be solved this way, with fingerprint comparison and hair and fiber analysis, it would be through long and tedious work, and he had no time for that.

He had a warship to command.

When the job was finished, Martinez rose to his feet and looked at the office, the fine tile and elegant paneling, the martial statues of men in plate armor, and the glass cabinets holding objects of beauty, all of it smudged with fingerprints and covered with powder. If he’d set out deliberately to disfigure all the grace and perfection with which Fletcher had filled his life, he could scarcely have done a better job.

“Lord Captain,” Xi said. “May I have the codes to the ship’s fingerprint file?”

“Yes. As soon as I can find them.”

“I’ll return to my office,” Xi said, “and proceed as best as I can.”

Martinez thought again about Michi’s cocktails. “May I offer you a drink first?”

Xi accepted. Martinez paged Alikhan and told him to serve Xi in his old office. “I have a brief errand,” he told the doctor. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Martinez got a signed copy of the inventory from Marsden, then had the captain’s possessions transferred to a locker under his own key and password. He dismissed Fletcher’s servants to clean the captain’s office, a task he did not envy them, and went to his own cabin to find Xi sitting comfortably amid theputti, his forensic samples on the desk, and a glass of whisky in his hand.

Alikhan had thoughtfully left a tray on the desk with another glass, a beaker of whisky, and another beaker of chilled water, its flanks covered with glittering gems of condensation. Martinez poured his own drink and settled into his chair.

“Interesting whisky, my lord,” Xi said. “Very smoky.”

“From Laredo,” Martinez said, “my birthplace.” His father sent him cases of Laredo’s best, in hopes exposure would boost the export market.

“What it lacks in subtlety,” Xi said, “is more than regained in vigor.”

Martinez inhaled the fumes lovingly, then raised his glass. “Here’s to vigor,” he said, and drank.

The whisky blazed a trail of fire down his throat. He looked at the smoky fluid through the prisms of the crystal glass and contemplated his long, singular day.

“My lord,” he said, “do you have any idea? Any idea at all?”

Xi seemed to understand the point of this vague question. “Who’s responsible, you mean? No. Not the slightest.”

“Or why?”

“Nor that either.”

Martinez swirled whisky in his glass. “You’ve known Captain Fletcher for a long time.”

“Since he was a boy, yes.”

Martinez put the glass down and looked at the whitebearded man across his desk. “Tell me about him,” he said.

Xi didn’t answer right away. His thumbs pressed hard against his whisky glass, pressed until they turned white. Then the thumbs relaxed.

“Lord Gomberg Fletcher,” he said, “was exceptionally well-born, and exceptionally wealthy. Most people born to wealth and high status assume that their condition isn’t simply luck, but a result of some kind of perfect cosmic justice-that is, that any person as fine and virtuous as themselves should naturally take an exalted place in society.” His brows knit. “I would guess that Captain Fletcher found his position more of a burden than a source of pleasure.”

Martinez was surprised. “That-That was hardly my impression,” he said.

“Living up to the worlds’ expectations is a difficult job,” Xi said, “and I think he worked very hard at it. He made a very good job of it. But I don’t think it made him happy.”

Martinez looked at the pink-cheeked winged children who fluttered around his office wall. “The art collection?” he asked. “All this?” He waved a hand vaguely at the flying children. “That didn’t make him happy?”

“There are a limited number of roles suitable for someone of his status,” Xi said. “That of aesthete was perhaps the most interesting available.” He frowned, a narrow X forming between his brows. “Aestheticism took up the part of his life that wasn’t taken up by the military. Between the two of them, he didn’t have time to think about being happy or unhappy, or to think about much at all.” He looked up at Martinez.

“Did you wonder about all those inspections, those musters?” Xi continued. “All the rituals-dressing formally for every meal, sending notes to people he could as easily have called on the comm? If you ask me, it was all to keep him from thought.”

He’s as dull as a rusty spoon.Chandra’s words echoed in Martinez’s head.

Martinez took another sip of whisky while he tried to make sense of Xi’s words. “You’re saying,” he said carefully, “that Captain Fletcher was a kind of imitation human being.”

“People realize themselves in adversity,” Xi said, “or by encountering opposition, or through the negative consequences of their decisions. For Fletcher there was no opposition or adversity or negative consequences. He was given a part and he played it, more or less convincingly.” Xi lowered his head and contemplated the whisky glass that rested on his potbelly. “He never questioned his role. I often wish that he had.”

Martinez put his glass on the table. It made more noise than he intended, and Xi gave a start.

“There were no negative consequences for Fletcher,” he said, “until he killed Engineer Thuc.”

Xi said nothing.

“Was that something he did to fill his empty hours?” Martinez asked. “Cut a man’s throat?”

Xi peered at Martinez from under his white eyebrows, his dark eyes glittering. “I asked him, you know. The day it happened, at Lady Michi’s request. I believe she was hoping I could find Captain Fletcher insane and she could remove him from command.” He made the pursing movement of his lips. “I disappointed her, I’m afraid. Captain Fletcher was perfectly rational.”

Martinez tried to avoid shouting. “So why did he kill Thuc?” he demanded.

Xi licked his lips quickly. “He said that he killed Engineer Thuc because the honor of theIllustrious demanded it.”

Martinez stared at him. Words died on his tongue. He took a drink. “What did he mean by that?” he managed finally.

Xi shrugged.

“Were you his friend?”

Xi shook his head. “Gomberg didn’t have any friends aboard. He was very dutiful in the way he kept to his sphere, and he expected others to keep to theirs.”

“But you followed him.”

Xi smiled lightly and rubbed his thigh with his hand. “The job has its compensations. My practice on Sandama was successful but dull, and it turned me so dull that my wife left me for another man. The children were nearly grown. When young Gomberg got his first command and made his offer, I realized I hadn’t ever seen Zanshaa, or the Maw, or Harzapid Grand Market. Now I’ve seen all those things, and a lot more besides.”

Martinez felt a sudden flash of anger. All these questions had done nothing but draw him further into the riddle that was Lord Gomberg Fletcher, and the only thing he really cared about the captain was who had killed him. He didn’t even care why, he just wanted to find out who’d done it, and deal with that as efficiently as possible.

“What is that thing in Fletcher’s sleeping cabin?” Martinez asked. “The man tied to the tree?”

A half-smile played on Xi’s lips. “A part of his collection that could not be shown to the public. Captain Fletcher had a special license from the Office of the Censor to collect cult art.”

Martinez was speechless. Cults were banned for the public good, and were defined in the Praxis as any belief or sect that made irrational or unverifiable claims about the universe. Banned as well were any art such cults had managed to inspire. Generally such work could only be seen in the Museums of Superstition that had been erected in the major cities of the empire.

Of course, there were also private collectors and scholars, those considered reliable enough to deal regularly with such explosive material. That one such might be aboardIllustrious, and might have part of his collection aboard, was beyond all credence.

“Was he interested in any cult in particular?” Martinez finally asked.

“Those that produced good paintings and sculpture,” Xi said. “I don’t know if you know anything about ancient Terran art-”

“I don’t,” Martinez said shortly.

“A lot of it, particularly in the early days, was the product of one cult or another. Of course most of those cults now have no followers, and the art is now seen in ordinary museums.”

“Really.” Martinez drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you have any idea why Captain Fletcher put that-that thing-on his wall, where it was the last thing he’d see before going to sleep?”

Xi’s expression was frank. “I don’t know. I’d like to know the answer myself, Lord Captain.”

“It wasn’t part of some kind of erotic game, was it?”

Xi was amused. “I doubt very much that Gomberg was interested in homoerotic flagellation.” He shrugged. “But human variety is infinite, isn’t it?”

Thwarted again. Martinez found his anger simmering once more. “If you say so.”

Xi returned his empty glass to the tray. “I thank you for the drink, Lord Captain. I wish I could have been more useful.”

Martinez looked pointedly at the samples. “Thoseare what’s going to be useful, I think.”

“I hope so.” Xi rose and collected the little plastic boxes. “I’ll get to my investigations, with your permission.”

Martinez sighed. “Carry on, Lord Doctor.”

Xi slouched out without bothering to salute. Martinez looked after him for a moment, then paged Alikhan.

“Tell Perry he can bring in supper if he’s ready,” Martinez said. “Also, I won’t be moving into the captain’s quarters till tomorrow-unpack just enough to get me through breakfast.”

“Very good, my lord.” Alikhan leaned over the desk to freshen Martinez’s drink. “Anything else, my lord?”

Martinez looked at him. “What are they saying?”

Alikhan’s tone was regretful. “I’ve been here all day, my lord, packing and so on. I haven’t had a chance to speak to anyone outside the household.”

“Right,” Martinez muttered. “Thanks.”

Alikhan withdrew. Martinez looked through the files newly unlocked by his captain’s key and thumbprint, and sent Xi access to the fingerprint file. Perry arrived a few minutes afterward with his supper. Martinez ate left-handed, while his right hand worked with his stylus on the desktop, drawing up one list after another.

All things he needed to do or think about as he assumed command.

After Perry carried the dishes away, Martinez sent messages to all the senior petty officers, the heads of departments, ordering them to account for the movements of all their juniors for the critical hours of the morning. He thought it a job best done soon, while memories were still fresh. This done, he called Fulvia Kazakov, the first lieutenant.

“Are you on watch at the moment, Lieutenant?”

“No, my lord.” She seemed surprised at the question.

“I’d be obliged if you’d stop by my office then.”

“Of course, my lord.” She hesitated, then said, “Which office would that be, my lord?”

Martinez smiled. “My old office. And yours too.”

When he’d come aboard, as the third-ranking officer on the ship, he’d taken the third-best cabin, which turned out to be that of the first lieutenant. Kazakov had then displaced the lieutenant next junior to her, and each lieutenant shifted in turn, with the most junior having to bunk with the cadets. Tomorrow, he supposed, would be a relief for them all, with everyone restored to his proper place.

Except, of course, for Captain Fletcher, whose body was slowly crystallizing in one of theIllustrious freezers.

Kazakov arrived wafting a cloud of metallic perfume. She wore full dress, and the tall collar emphasized the long neck below the heart-shaped face. Mother-of-pearl inlay gleamed on the handles of the chopsticks she’d thrust through the knot at the back of her head.

“Sit down, my lady,” Martinez said as she braced. “Would you care for wine? Or something else, perhaps?”

“Whatever you’re having, my lord, thank you.”

He poured from the bottle of wine that Perry had opened for his supper. She took the glass and sipped politely, then returned it to the desk.

“I am a very different person from Captain Fletcher,” Martinez began.

Kazakov was unsurprised by this analysis. “Yes, my lord,” she said.

“But,” Martinez said, “I’m going to try very hard tobe Captain Fletcher, at least for a while.”

Kazakov gave a thoughtful nod. “I understand, my lord.”

Continuity was essential. Fletcher had commandedIllustrious for years, and his habits and idiosyncracies had become a part of the ship’s routine. To change that suddenly was to risk disturbing the equilibrium of the vast organic network that was the ship’s crew, and that network had been disturbed enough already by events of the last few days.

“I intend to continue Captain Fletcher’s rigorous series of inspections,” Martinez said. “Can you tell me if he inspected the different departments on a regular rotation, or if he chose them randomly?”

“Randomly, I think. I didn’t see a pattern. But he’d call the department head before he left the office to let them know he was coming. He wanted the inspections to be reasonably spontaneous, but he didn’t want to interrupt anyone in the middle of some critical work.”

“I see. Thank you.”

He took a sip of his wine. It tasted vinegary to him-Terza had shipped the best stuff to him from Clan Chen’s cellars in the High City, but he didn’t see what was so special about it.

“Can you give me a report about the state of the ship?” Martinez asked. “Informally, I mean-I don’t need all the figures.”

Kazakov smiled and triggered her sleeve display. “I actually have the figures if you want them,” she said.

“Not right now. Just a verbal summary, if you please.”

The state ofIllustrious, not surprisingly, was good. It had suffered no damage in the mutiny at Harzapid or the Battle of Protipanu. Food, water, and fuel stocks were more than adequate for the projected length of the voyage. Missile stocks, however, were down: between battle and the enemy shipping destroyed so far on the raid, the cruiser’s magazines were depleted by two-fifths.

Which was going to be a problem if Chenforce were ever obliged to fight an enemy either more numerous or less cooperative than the Naxid squadron at Protipanu.

“Thank you, Lady Fulvia,” Martinez said. “Can you give me a report on the officers? I know them socially, but I’ve never worked with them.”

Kazakov smiled. “I’m happy to say that we have an excellent set of officers aboard. All but one of us were chosen by Captain Fletcher. Some of us were friends before this posting. We work together exceptionally well.”

Being chosen by Fletcher wasn’t necessarily a recommendation in Martinez’s opinion, but he nodded. “And the one who wasn’t chosen?” he asked.

Kazakov thought a moment before she replied. “There’s no problem with the way she performs her duties,” she said. “She’s very efficient.”

Martinez gave no indication that he understood this as a less than wholehearted endorsement. He liked the fact that Kazakov felt sufficient loyalty to the other officers not to put a knife into Chandra’s back when she had the chance.

“Let’s take the lieutenants one by one,” he said.

From Kazakov’s report, Martinez gathered that three of the lieutenants were Gomberg or Fletcher clients, following in their patron’s wake up the ladder of Fleet hierarchy. Two, Husayn and Kazakov herself, had benefited from those complex trades of favor and patronage so common among the Peers: Fletcher had agreed to look after their interests in exchange for their own families aiding some of Fletcher’s friends or dependents.

It occurred to Martinez that perhaps Kazakov thought that this genealogy of relationships and obligations was all that was required to explain the lieutenants to her new captain, or perhaps she was looking into the future and letting him know that her relations were ready to assist his friends in the same sort of arrangement they’d had with Fletcher. He was gratified, but insisted on knowing how well the officers did their jobs.

According to Kazakov, they did their jobs very well. Lord Phillips and Corbigny, the two most junior, were inexperienced but promising; and the others were all talented. Martinez had no reason to doubt her judgments.

“It’s a happy wardroom?” Martinez asked.

“Yes.” Kazakov’s answer came without hesitation. “Unusually so.”

“Lady Michi’s lieutenants are fitting in? Coen and Li?”

“Yes. They’re amiable people.”

“How about Kosinic? Was he a happy member of the wardroom mess?”

Kazakov blinked in surprise. “Kosinic? He wasn’t aboard for very long and-I suppose he agreed well enough with the others, given the circumstances.”

Martinez raised his eyebrows. “Circumstances?”

“Well, he was a commoner. Not,” Kazakov was quick to add, aware perhaps that she’d put a foot wrong, “not that being a commoner was a problem, I don’t say anything againstthat, but his family had no money, and he had to live off his pay. So Kosinic had to take an advance on his pay in order to pay his wardroom dues, and he really couldn’t afford to club together with the other lieutenants to buy food stores and liquor and so on. The rest of us were perfectly happy to pay his allotment, but I think he was perhaps a little sensitive about it, and he severely limited his wine and liquor consumption, and avoided eating some of the more expensive food items. And he couldn’t afford to gamble-not,” she added, catching herself again, “that there’s high play in the wardroom-nothing like it-but there’s often a friendly game going on, for what we’d consider pocket money, and Kosinic couldn’t afford a place at the table.”

Kazakov reached for her wine and took a sip. “And then of course the mutiny happened, and Kosinic got wounded. I think perhaps the head injury changed his personality a little, because he became sullen and angry. Sometimes he’d just be sitting in a chair and you’d look up and see him in a complete fury-his jaw would be working and his neck muscles all taut like cables and his eyes on fire. It was a little frightening. This is extremely good wine, my lord.”

“I’m glad you like it. Do you have any idea what made Kosinic angry?”

“No, my lord. I don’t think the wardroom conversation was any more inane than usual.” She smiled at her own joke, and then the smile faded. “I always thought getting blown up by the Naxids was reason enough for anger. But whatever the cause, Kosinic became a lot less sociable after he was wounded, and he spent most of his time in his cabin or in the Flag Officer Station, working.”

Martinez sipped his own wine. He thought he understood Kosinic fairly well.

He himself was a Peer, and blessed with a large allowance from his wealthy family. But he was a provincial, and marked as a provincial by his accent. He knew very well the way high-caste Peers could condescend to their inferiors, or deliberately humiliate them, or treat them as servants, or simply ignore them. Even if the other officers intended no disparagement, a sensitive, intelligent commoner might well detect slights where none existed.

“Do you happen to know how Lady Michi came to take Kosinic on her staff?” Martinez asked.

“I believe Kosinic served as a cadet in a previous command. He impressed her and she took him along when he passed his lieutenant exams.”

Which was unusually broad-minded of Michi, Martinez thought. She could as easily have associated herself only with her own clients and the clients of powerful families with whom she wished to curry favor, as had Fletcher. Instead, though she came from a clan at least as ancient and noble as the Gombergs or Fletchers, she’d chosen to give one of her valuable staff jobs to a poor commoner.

Though it had to be admitted, in retrospect, that Michi’s experiment in social mobility hadn’t been very successful.

“Was Kosinic a good tactical officer?” Martinez asked.

“Yes. Absolutely. Of course, he didn’t bring in a new tactical system, the way you did.”

Martinez sipped his wine again. In spite of Kazakov’s praise, it still tasted vinegary to him. “And the warrant officers?” he asked.

Kazakov explained that Fletcher had his pick of warrant and petty officers, and had chosen only the most experienced. The number of trainees was kept to a minimum, and the result was a hard core of professionals in charge of all the ship’s departments, all of whom were of exemplary efficiency.

“But Captain Fletcher,” Martinez said, “chose to execute one of those professionals he had personally chosen.”

Kazakov’s expression turned guarded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

Kazakov shook her head. “No, my lord. Engineer Thuc was one of the most efficient department heads on the ship.”

“Captain Fletcher had never in your hearing expressed any…violent intentions?”

She seemed startled by the question. “No. Not at all, my lord.” Her brows knit. “Though you might ask…” She shook her head. “No, that’s ridiculous.”

“Tell me.”

The guarded look had returned to her face. “You might ask Lieutenant Prasad.” She spoke quickly, as if she wanted to speed through the distasteful topic as quickly as she could. “As you probably heard, she and the captain were intimates. He may have said things to her that he wouldn’t have…” She sighed, having finally gotten through it. “…to any of the rest of us.”

“Thank you,” Martinez said. “I’ll interview each of the lieutenants in turn.”

Though he couldn’t imagine Fletcher murmuring plans for homicide along with his endearments, assuming he was the sort of man who murmured endearments at all. Neither could he imagine Chandra keeping such an announcement secret, especially in those furious moments after she and Fletcher had their final quarrel.

“Thank you for your candor,” Martinez said, though he knew perfectly well that Kazakov hadn’t been candid throughout. On the whole he approved of the moments when she’d chosen to be discreet, and he thought he could work with her very well.

They ended the interview discussing Kazakov’s plans for her future. Her career had been planned to minimize any possible intervention by fortune: in another one of those trades so common among Peers, a friend of her family would have given her command of the frigateStorm Fury, a plan that had been detailed when both the friend and the frigate were captured by the Naxids on the first day of the mutiny.

“Well,” Martinez said, “if I’m ever in a position to do something for you, I’ll do my best.”

Kazakov brightened. “Thank you, my lord.”

The Kazakovs seemed a useful sort of clan to have in one’s debt.

After the premiere left, Martinez stoppered the wine bottle and gulped whatever was left in his glass. With his captain’s key, he opened the personnel files, intending to look at the lieutenants’ records. Then the idea struck him that Fletcher might have made a note in Thuc’s file explaining why the engineer had been executed, and Martinez went straight to Thuc’s file and opened it.

There was nothing. Thuc had been in the Fleet for twenty-two years, had passed the exam for Master Engineer eight years ago, and was aboardIllustrious for five of those years. Fletcher’s comments in Thuc’s efficiency report were brief but favorable.

Martinez read the files of the other senior petty officers and then went on to the lieutenants, looking through the files more or less at random. Kazakov, he discovered, had been fairly accurate in describing their accomplishments. What she hadn’t known, of course, were the contents of the efficiency reports Fletcher had made personally. For the most part they were dry, terse, and favorable, as if Fletcher was too grand to dole out much praise, but instead dribbled it out tastefully, like a rich sauce over dessert. About Kazakov he had written, “This officer has served as an efficient executive officer and has demonstrated proficiency in every technical aspect of her profession. There is nothing that stands in the way of her further promotion and command of a ship in the Fleet.”

A note that “nothing stands in the way” was not quite the same as Fletcher’s endorsement that Kazakov would be a credit to the service or would do a fine job in command of her own ship; but carefully guarded enthusiasm seemed to be Fletcher’s consistent style. Perhaps he hadn’t thought that praise was necessary, given that his officers were so well-connected that their steps to command had been arranged ahead of time.

After the dry asperity of Fletcher’s views of the other officers, Chandra’s report came like a thunderbolt. “Though this officer has not demonstrated any technical incompetence that has reached her captain’s attention, her chaotic and impulsive behavior has thoroughly befouled the atmosphere of the ship. Her level of emotional maturity is not in any way consistent with the high standards of the Fleet. Promotion is not indicated.”

The curiously worded first sentence managed to insert the word “incompetence” without justifying its inclusion, and the rest was pure poison. Martinez stared at this for a long moment, then looked at the log to check the date at which Fletcher had last accessed the file. It had been at 2721 hours the previous evening, a mere six hours before he was killed.

His mouth went dry. Chandra had ripped apart her relationship with Fletcher, and after thinking about it for two days, Fletcher fired a rocket at Chandra with every intention of blowing up her career.

After which, some hours later, Fletcher was killed.

Martinez thought the sequence through carefully. For this to be anything other than a coincidence, Chandra would have had to know that Fletcher put a bomb in her efficiency report. He checked Fletcher’s comm logs for the evening and found that he’d made only one call, to Command, possibly for a situation report before going to bed. Martinez checked the watch list and discovered that it hadn’t been Chandra on watch at the time, but the sixth lieutenant, Lady Juliette Corbigny.

So there was no evidence that Chandra would have known the contents of her efficiency report. Not unless Fletcher had made a point of looking for her and telling her in person.

Or unless Chandra had some kind of access to documents sealed under Fletcher’s key. She was the signals officer, after all, and she was clever.

Martinez decided that this theory had too much whisky and wine in it to make any sense, and he failed in any case to successfully imagine Chandra wrestling the fully grown Fletcher to his knees and then banging his head repeatedly on his desk.

He rose and stretched, then looked at the chronometer: 2721. At this exact time, Fletcher had made his last cold-blooded alterations to Chandra’s fitness report.

The coincidence chilled him. He left his office and took a brief march along the decks, circling back to his own door. He passed the door of the captain’s cabin, which was closed, then found himself turning back to it. It opened to his key. He stepped in and called for light.

Fletcher’s office had been returned to its pristine state, the fingerprint powder dusted away, the desk dark and gleaming. There was a scent of furniture polish. The bronze statues were impassive in their armor.

The safe sat silvery in its niche. Apparently, Gawbyan had repaired it after his break-in.

Martinez passed into the sleeping cabin and stared at the bloody porcelain figure with its unnaturally broad eyes. He looked at the pictures on the wall and saw a long-haired Terran with blue skin playing a flute, a bearded man dead or swooning in the arms of a blue-clad woman, a monstrous being-or possibly it was a Torminel with unnaturally orange fur-snarling out of the frame, its extended tongue pierced by a jagged spear.

Lovely stuff to see at bedtime, he thought. The view dismaying.

The only picture of any interest showed a young woman bathing, but what might have been an attractive scene was spoiled by the creepy presence of elderly men in turbans who watched her from concealment.

“Comm,” he said, “page Montemar Jukes to the captain’s office.”

Fletcher’s pet artist ambled into the office wearing nonregulation coveralls and braced halfheartedly, in a way that would have earned a ferocious rebuke from any petty officer. To judge from Jukes and Xi, Fletcher was willing to tolerate a certain amount of unmilitary slackness among his personal following.

Jukes was a stocky man with disordered gray hair and rheumy blue eyes. His cheeks were unnaturally ruddy and his breath smelled of sherry. Martinez gave him what he intended to be a disapproving scowl, then turned to lead into Fletcher’s bedroom.

“Come with me, Mr. Jukes.”

Jukes followed in silence, then stopped in the doorway, leaning back slightly to contemplate the great porcelain figure strapped to the tree.

“Whatis this, Mr. Jukes?”

“Narayanguru,” Jukes said. “The Shaa tied him to a tree and tortured him to death. He’s all-seeing, that’s why his eyes wrap around like that.”

“All-seeing? Funny he didn’t see what the Shaa were going to do to him.”

Jukes showed yellow teeth. “Yes,” he said. “Funny.”

“Why’s he here?”

“You mean why did Captain Fletcher hang Narayanguru in his sleeping cabin?” Jukes shrugged. “I don’t know. He collected cult art, and he couldn’t show it to the public. Maybe this is the only place he could put it.”

“Was Captain Fletcher a cultist?”

Jukes was taken aback by the question. “Possibly,” he said, “but which cult?” He walked into the room and pointed at the snarling beast. “That’s Tranomakoi, a personification of their storm spirit.” He indicated the blue-skinned man. “That’s Krishna, who I believe is a Hindu deity.” His hand drifted across the scarred paneling to indicate the swooning man. “That’s a pieta, that’s Christian. Another god killed in some picturesque way by the Shaa.”

“Christian?” Martinez was intrigued. “We have Christians on Laredo-on my home world. On certain days of the year they dress in white robes and pointed hoods, don chains, and flog each other.”

Jukes was startled. “Why do they do that?”

“I have no idea. It’s said they sometimes pick one of their number to be their god and nail him to a cross.”

Jukes scratched his scalp in wonderment. “Jolly sort of cult, isn’t it?”

“It’s a great honor. Most of them live.”

“And the authorities don’t do anything?”

Martinez shrugged. “The cultists only hurt each other. And Laredo is very far from Zanshaa.”

“Apparently.”

Martinez looked at Narayanguru with his bloody translucent flesh. “In any case,” he said, “I’m neither a cultist nor an aesthete, and I have no intention of sleeping beneath that gory object for a single night.”

The other man grinned. “I don’t blame you.”

Martinez turned to Jukes. “Can you…rearrange…the captain’s collection?” he asked. “Store Narayanguru where he won’t disturb anyone’s sleep, and put something more pleasant in his place?”

“Yes, my lord.” Jukes gave him an appraising look. “Or perhaps you’d like me to create something for you? I can print something off and frame it easily enough, if you’ll tell me the sort of thing you’d like.”

Martinez had never been asked the sort of art he’d liked before and had no ready answer, so he asked, “Are you looking for a new patron, Mr. Jukes?”

“Always,” Jukes said with his yellow-toothed smile. “Bear in mind that you’ll probably retain command ofIllustrious for years, Fletcher’s collection will go to his family, and you don’t want to keep the original tiles and murals on the walls. This is a warship, not a haunted palace.”

Martinez looked at him. “Didn’t you create all the designs on the ship? You don’t mind if I rip out all the tiles and paint over the murals?”

A sherry-tinged jauntiness floated from Jukes. “Not at all. The designs are all safe in my computer, and quite frankly it’s not my best work anyway.”

Martinez frowned. “Wasn’t Fletcher paying for your best?”

“The work’s all his taste, not mine. All balanced and classical and dull. I’ve done a lot better work in the past, much more interesting, but no one’s paying for it, and so…” He shrugged. “Here I am, on a warship. It’s not what I expected when I first started working with a graphics program, believe me.”

Martinez found himself amused. “What did Fletcher rate you, anyway?”

“Rigger First Class.”

“You don’t know anything about a rigger’s duties, do you?”

The artist shook his head. “Not a damn thing, my lord. That’s why I need a new patron.”

“Well.” Martinez looked at the blue-skinned flute player. “Start by removing all this gloomy stuff and putting something more cheerful in its place. We can talk about any…commissions later.”

Jukes brightened. “Shall I start now, my lord?”

“After breakfast will be fine.”

Jukes brightened still further. “Very good, my lord. I’ve got an inventory of what items of his collection Fletcher brought aboard, and I’ll peruse it tonight.”

Martinez was amused by the word “peruse.” “Very good, Mr. Jukes. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, my lord.” This time Jukes managed a halfway creditable salute, and marched away. Martinez left Fletcher’s quarters and locked the door behind him.

The interview had cheered him. He went to his own cabin and was startled to find that one of his servants, Rigger Espinosa, had laid cushions on the floor of his office and was stretched out on them fully clothed.

“What are you doing there?” Martinez asked.

Espinosa jumped to his feet and braced. He was a young man, muscular and trim, with heavy-knuckled hands that hung by his sides.

“Mr. Alikhan sent me, my lord,” he said.

Martinez stared at him. “But why?”

Espinosa’s face was frank. “Someone’s killing captains, my lord. I’m to keep that from happening again.”

Killing captains. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

“Very well,” Martinez said. “As you were.”

He went into his sleeping cabin, where Alikhan had laid out his night things. He picked up his toothbrush, moistened it in his sink, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Captain of theIllustrious, he thought.

In spite of the deaths, in spite of Narayanguru hanging on his tree and the unexplained deaths and the unknown killer stalking the ship, he couldn’t help but smile.