Conventions of War

TWENTY-THREE

Once the Fleet Control Board and their staff had come aboard,Galactic cast off from the ring in order to build the delta vee necessary for escape in the event the Naxids came to Antopone. A few hours later the two brand-new heavy cruisers launched. Their Daimong crews were inexperienced, and the ships hadn’t yet received their weapons. They couldn’t fight, and so would have to flee.

A squadron of eight Naxid ships had departed the fleet guarding the Zanshaa system: they were heading for Zanshaa Wormhole 2 at a steady four gees acceleration. At that rate they could be at Zarafan in less than ten days.

From Zarafan they could continue to Laredo, normally a journey of three months, but less if they continued to tenderize themselves with heavy gravities. Or from Zarafan the Naxids could take a wormhole that could lead them eventually to Antopone and, from there, Chijimo; or alternately, they could use another wormhole to take them through a series of barren systems to Seizho, from which they could return to Zanshaa.

This last was thought unlikely. If they wanted to raid Seizho, they could go there direct from the capital.

“They’ve learned from us,” Mondi said in his precise way. He adjusted the dark goggles he wore over his night-adapted eyes. “Our raids must be hurting them if they’re launching a raid themselves.”

“But is this theironly raid?” Pezzini wondered. “This could be a probe designed to get our defenses off balance, and then they launch a larger strike elsewhere-Harzapid and what remains of the Fourth Fleet, for example.”

Lord Chen contemplated mosaics on the walls, with their bright warships rocketing out of wormholes, and shook his head.

“That doesn’t matter, my lords,” he said. “We don’t have the ships to oppose more than one raid, and in any case Laredo has to be protected.”

He was just a politician, he thought, not a Fleet officer, but even he knewthat. He could already picture in his mind the panicked series of instructions from the Convocation, demanding that the Fleet save them from the Naxids.

“Very well,” said Lord Tork. “We shall order Lord Eino to move his forces in this direction, to guard the Convocation if necessary.”

Tork was in the process of dictating this order to the secretary of the board when the secretary’s comm unit chirped-a message from Lord Eino Kangas stating that the Home Fleet was already in motion, heading for Antopone.

Kangas had read the situation as the board had, and reached an identical conclusion.

Bulletins arrived almost hourly, so Lord Chen and the others were kept well-informed of the movements of the various players. The Naxids took ten days to reach Zarafan, a journey that normally took a month. Once there, they destroyed the few civilian ships that hadn’t made their escape and demanded and received the planet’s surrender. It had been hoped that the Naxids might detach ships to remain in the system-detachments could be picked off later-but instead they reduced their fierce acceleration and swung through Wormhole 3 on a course that would eventually take them to Antopone. The course of the enemy raid was now clear: Zarafan-Antopone-Chijimo, and then the return to Zanshaa. It was an unambitious raid compared to those Michi Chen and Altasz had launched into Naxid space, but perhaps it was a rehearsal for others.

Now that Kangas knew where the enemy were bound, he increased his acceleration and headed for Antopone, his ships crossing paths with theGalactic and the two refugee cruisers heading the other way. Kangas wanted to arrive at Antopone ahead of the Naxids to protect the shipbuilding facilities on the planet’s ring.

Kangas’s ships were ready for a fight. The five survivors of the Home Fleet burned to avenge their defeat at Magaria, and Do-faq’s seven ships were confident of victory, having already wiped out a Naxid squadron at the Lai-own home world of Hone-bar.

Kangas succeeded in arriving first, placing his forces between Antopone and the arriving Naxids. The raiders-seven frigates led by a light cruiser-arrived in the system to find twelve heavy cruisers driving for them head-on, with barrages of missiles already launched.

The Fleet Control Board, in their meeting room onGalactic, watched the battle courtesy of the amazingly detailed spectra gathered by detectors on the Antopone ring, and projected in three-dimensional holographic images above the board’s long table. The illusion that they were watching in real time was perfect, and Lord Chen had to keep reminding himself that the battle had in fact occurred fifteen hours before. They saw the missiles launched at a target that had not as yet appeared through the wormhole, the Naxid squadron entering “hot” with radars and ranging lasers hammering, and then a frenzy of countermissile firings and maneuvers as the Naxid commander rearranged his formation.

“The Naxid’s pissing his pants by now,” Pezzini said with satisfaction.

“No!”Tork cried, his melodious voice edged with an uncanny shimmering quality that Lord Chen had never heard before. Chen stared at him, and then at the display.

“Starburst,” Pezzini said critically. “And damned early too.”

The compact bundle of ships that was Kangas’s command were separating, flying apart like the casing of an exploded bomb.

“Kangas may just have lost the war!” Tork said. Anger buzzed in his voice. “He has shamed us before our ancestors!”

Chen knew that warships usually clumped together in rigid formations that enabled the commander to communicate with them, and that at some point in a battle the ships would “starburst”: separate from one another in order to provide a less compact target. He also knew that his son-in-law, Captain Martinez, had devised a new tactical system based on the ships separating from one another early and engaging in maneuvers governed by some rather obscure branches of mathematics. Lord Tork and other conservative officers were bitterly opposed to these new ideas.

“Do-faq has corrupted Kangas!” Tork said. “Do-faq, who was corrupted by Martinez and has practiced these innovations! The fleetcom has fallen a victim to these dangerous new fashions!”

“The Home Fleet’s advantage was in numbers,” Pezzini remarked. “Kangas has thrown that all away. With his ships separated that way, each is fighting on its own.”

Chen remained silent. The battle had been foughthours ago, he reminded himself.

The opposing forces, hurtling toward each other, closed the distance rapidly. Missiles found each other in the spaces between the contending squadrons, creating expanding spheres of hot expanding plasma and radio hash. The Naxid force disappeared from the display as the missile burst screened them from the sensors on the Antopone ring. More missiles hurled themselves into the gap between the racing squadrons, and the plasma screen broadened and thickened.

Eventually the Home Fleet flew into the screen, and vanished as if an invisible hand had wiped it from existence.

“Damn,” Pezzini said, rather clinically.

No one else spoke. Even Tork could find no words.

Then the plasma screen began to cool and disperse, and gradually-winking into existence on the holographic display like a distant flight of fluorescent insects-the Home Fleet reappeared, one ship after another, their torches now pointed away from the planet, decelerating.

One,Lord Chen counted to himself,two, three…five. Eight! Ten!

Ten survivors of the Home Fleet were now narrowing their dispersed formation as they approached the wormhole that would take them in the direction of Zarafan.

Of the Naxids there was no sign.

“We wiped them out!” Lord Chen blurted. “It’s a victory!”

“Damn Kangas!” Tork said. “Damn him! He’s lost two ships!”

It was only a short time later that Squadron Commander Do-faq’s report reachedGalactic. The Home Fleet had wiped out eight enemy ships and lost two of their own.

And one of the casualties was the flagship. Lord Eino Kangas had died in the act of giving the Home Fleet its one and only victory.

Invitations went out in the morning, sent to all the senior petty officers. An invitation for drinks with their new captain, set for an hour before supper, was not something the customs of the service would let them decline, and decline they did not. The last affirmative reply came within minutes of the invitations being sent out.

The touchstone dramatical, Martinez thought. The scene climactic.

The petty officers entered the dining room more or less in a clump: round-faced Gawbyan with his spectacular mustachios, Strode with his bowl haircut, burly Francis, thin, nervous Cho. Some of them were surprised to find the ship’s secretary Marsden waiting with his datapad in his hands.

The guests sorted themselves out in order of seniority, with the highest-ranked standing near Martinez at the head of the table. Gulik was on his right, across from Master Cook Yau, with Gawbyan and Strode the next pair down, one grand set of mustachios confronting another; and then Zhang and Nyamugali. Near the bottom of the table was the demoted Francis.

Martinez looked at them all as they stood by their chairs. Francis seemed thoughtful and preoccupied, and her eyes looked anywhere but at him. Yau looked as if he had left his kitchens only reluctantly. Strode seemed determined, as if he had a clear but not entirely pleasant duty before him; and Gulik, who had been so nervous during inspections, was now almost cheerful.

Martinez picked up his glass and raised it. Pale green wine trembled in Captain Fletcher’s leaded crystal, reflecting beads of peridot-colored light over the company.

“To the Praxis,” he said.

“The Praxis,” they echoed, and drank.

Martinez took a gulp of his wine and sat. The others followed suit, including Marsden, who sat by himself to the side of the room and set his datapad to record. He picked up a stylus and stood ready to correct the datapad’s transcription of the conversation.

“You may as well keep the wine in circulation,” Martinez said, nodding to the crystal decanters set on the table. “We’ll be here for a while, and I don’t want you to go dry.”

There were murmurs of appreciation from those farther down the table, and hands reached for the bottles.

“The reason this meeting may take some time,” Martinez said, “is because like the last meeting, this is about record-keeping.”

There was a collective pause from his guests, and then a resigned, collective sigh.

“You can blame it on Captain Fletcher, if you want to,” Martinez said. “He ranIllustrious in a highly personal and distinctive way. He’d ask questions during inspections and he’d expect you to know the answers, but he never asked for any documentation. He never checked the 77-12s, and never had any of his officers do it.”

Martinez looked at his wineglass and nudged it slightly with his thumb and forefinger, putting it in alignment with some imaginary dividing line running through the room.

“The problem with a lack of documentation, though,” he said, keeping his eyes on the wineglass, “is that to a certain cast of mind, it meansprofit.” He sensed Yau stiffen on his left, and Gulik gave a little start.

“Because,” Martinez continued, picking carefully through his thoughts, “in the end Captain Fletcher only knew what you told him. If it looked all right, and what he was told was plausible, then how would he ever find out if he’d been yarned or not?

“Particularly because Fleet standards require that equipment exceed all performance criteria. Politicians have complained for centuries that it’s a waste of money, but the Control Board has always required that our ships be overbuilt, and I think the Control Board’s been right.

“But whatthat meant,” he said, “is that department heads could, with a little extra maintenance, keep our equipment going far longer than performance specs required.” He looked up for the first time, and saw Strode watching him with a kind of thoughtful surprise, as if recalculating every conclusion about Martinez that he’d ever reached. Francis was staring straight ahead of her, her graying hair partly concealing her face. Cho seemed angry.

Gulik was pale. Martinez could see the pulse beating in his throat. When he saw Martinez studying him, he reached for his glass and took a large gulp of the wine.

“If you keep the old equipment going,” Martinez said, “and if you know where to go, you can sell the replacement gear for a lot of money. Things like blowers and coolers and pumps can bring a nice profit. Everyonelikes Fleet equipment, it’s so reliable and forgiving and overbuilt. And they were gettingthis stuff new, right out of the box.”

He looked at Francis’s scowling profile. “I checked the turbopump that failed at Arkhan-Dohg-using thecorrect serial number, not the number that Rigger Francis tried to yarn me with-and I found out the pump was supposed to have been retired three years ago. Someone had been keeping it going long after it should have been sold as scrap.”

Martinez turned to Gulik. Sweat was pouring down the weaponer’s face. He looked as deadly sick as he had been on the morning of Fletcher’s last inspection, as the captain stalked toward him with the knife dangling at his waist.

“I also checked the serial number of the antiproton gun that failed in the same battle, and that was supposed to have been retired thirteen months ago. I hope that whoever sold the replacement wasn’t selling it to someone intending to use it as a weapon.”

“It wasn’t me,” Gulik croaked. He wiped sweat from his upper lip. “I don’t know anything about this.”

“Whoever did it,” Martinez said, “didn’t intend to endanger the ship. We weren’t at war.Illustrious had been docked in Harzapid for three years without so much as shifting its berth. The heavy equipment was moving on and off the ship all the time, moving through the locked storage room where substitutions could be made without anyone being the wiser.”

Martinez turned to look down the line of petty officers. “In order to work this scheme,” he said, “you’d need that storage room. You’d also need the services of a first-rate machinist, with access to a complete machine shop, so that the old equipment could be rehabilitated before it was reinstalled.”

Strode turned to look thoughtfully at the master machinist. Gawbyan’s lips had thinned to a tight line across his fleshy face. His mustachios were brandished like tusks. One large, fat-fingered hand had closed into a fist around the stem of his wineglass.

“So far, so good,” Martinez said. “Our happy band of felons were making a profit. But then they took on some partners. And the partners were Naxids.”

That surprised some of them. Yau and Cho stared. Strode’s mouth dropped open.

“Specifically,” Martinez said, “the Naxid frigateQuest, which was berthed next toIllustrious on the ring station. I expect the gang knew the Naxid petty officers informally before anyone mentioned the possibilities of mutual profit. And then they began using one another’s facilities and swapping parts with one another, which is how equipment from theQuest ended up aboardIllustrious.

“Now in order to exchange parts, the codes for the storage areas had to be exchanged as well. And that didn’t work out so well, because the Naxids involved somehow got theextra codes for the antiproton storage areas-maybe they came up with a plausible story of needing to exchange antiproton bottles, or maybe they just hid a camera where they could get a view of the lock so they could record the combination-but the result was that shortly before the Naxid rebellion, all of our antiproton bottles were exchanged for empty ones.”

Theour was deliberate, even though Martinez hadn’t been there. In war there was us and them, and Martinez wanted to make it clear who was which.

“The result was thatIllustrious was helpless to defend itself in the battle, and unable to aid our comrades. I’m sure you all remember what that was like.”

They did. He watched as they relived their helplessness, as anger blotched their faces, as jaw muscles clenched at the memory of humiliation.

“The bastards,” Nyamugali said. Hatred burned in her eyes. “The bastards,” she repeated.

Usandthem, Martinez thought. Very good, signaler.

“Illustrioussurvived the battle,” Martinez said, “no thanks to the thieves. But the Naxid rebellion left them with a problem. Before the war, they were felons; but once shots were fired, they weretraitors. And while the penalty for theft from the state can be dire under the Praxis, the cost of being found a traitor is much, much worse.

“The thieves’ problems increased,” Martinez said, “when an officer launched his own, personal investigation of how the antiproton bottles turned up empty. Maybe his injuries had turned him into an obsessive, or maybe when he was running into the storage area to fetch the bottles, he’d seen something that made him suspicious. But once Kosinic started conducting his own equipment inspections-lifting access plates and checking the machine spaces-it was clear that he was going to find the evidence that would condemn our ship’s clique. So Kosinic had to die.”

“It was Thuc.” Gawbyan’s voice came out in a half-strangled croak. “Thuc killed Kosinic because of the cult. You said so yourself.”

“I was both right and wrong,” Martinez said. “Thucdid kill Kosinic. But not because Thuc was a cultist. Kosinic was killed because Thuc was a thief, and Thuc may not have acted alone.”

There was a moment of silence. Somewhere down the table, Master Data Specialist Zhang tossed back her glass of wine, then reached for a bottle and refilled it.

“Kosinic’s death was ruled accidental, as it was meant to be,” Martinez continued. “All continued well for the conspirators, until the worst possible thing happened. Captain Fletcher himself grew suspicious. Maybe it was his turn to wonder how onlyhis antiproton bottles, of all those in the Fourth Fleet, had turned up empty; or maybe he began to realize the weakness in his own system of inspections; or maybe he grew offended when he discovered that a gambling ring composed of high-ranking petty officers was skinning a group of recruits in the mess hall every single night.”

That accusation struck home, Martinez saw. Even those who weren’t a part of the gambling had to know about it, and most of them had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Captain Fletcher was a proud man,” Martinez said. “His pride had already been offended when his ship was disarmed in a crucial battle. That was the sort of thing that would have launched an official investigation ifIllustrious hadn’t been so badly needed in the emergency-and maybe there would have been an investigation anyway if Fletcher hadn’t been so well connected, I don’t know.

“That his ship had not only been humiliated at Harzapid, but was also home to a gang of traitorous thieves, was a further blow to the captain’s pride. Any kind of official investigation would reveal how badly Captain Fletcher had let things get out of hand.That would be a black mark that neither his career or his pride would survive.

“So Captain Fletcher decided to handle the situation on his own. He executed Thuc and claimed captain’s privilege. No doubt he intended to execute the rest as well.”

“I wasn’t a part of any ring,” Gulik said suddenly. “Fletcher had the chance to execute me, and he didn’t.”

Martinez looked at the weaponer and slowly shook his head. “Fletcher looked at your current bank account and saw that you were broke. He didn’t think you were a thief because he couldn’t find the profits. But when I looked at a running total of your bank account, I saw that you were very clearly a member of the ring, but that you’re also a compulsive gambler. Your money slips through your fingers almost as soon as you earn it.”

Desperation shone in Gulik’s eyes. There was a strange odor coming off of him, sweat and fear and alcohol ghosting out of his pores. “I never killed anybody,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“But you know who did,” Martinez said.

“I-” Gulik began.

“Quiet!”Francis barked. She glared down the table at Gulik. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to get us to turn on each other.” Her fierce gaze looked at each of the petty officers in turn. “He’s trying to divide us! He’s trying to get us so frightened that we start making accusations against each other!” She looked at Martinez, and her lip curled. “We know whoreally killed Fletcher, don’t we? The man who stepped into his place!”

She looked at the other department heads and snarled. “We all know how Martinez got to be captain! Married the squadcom’s homely niece, then bashed Fletcher’s head in so he could have the ship. And when Phillips found out, he had Phillips arrested and murdered so Phillips wouldn’t talk.”

Martinez fought to control the adrenaline that surged into his veins. He pressed his hands carefully to the tabletop to control any trembling. With deliberation, he looked at Francis and gave her a sweet smile.

“Nice try, Rigger Francis,” he said. “You’re at liberty to file that accusation if you wish. But you’d better have evidence. And you’d better have an explanation for how air blowers from theQuest ended up on Deck Eight, Access Four.”

She stared at him for a moment, hate-filled eyes locking his, and then she turned away. “Fucking officers!” she said. “Fucking Peers!”

Martinez spoke into the ringing silence and tried to keep his voice level.

“So Fletcher had to die. And once the killers disposed of him, they must have again congratulated themselves on a narrow escape. Except that then I stepped into Fletcher’s place, and I insisted on every department completing its 77–12.”

Martinez permitted himself a thin smile. “The conspirators must have had a debate among themselves as how best to handle the new requirement. If the 77-12s had accurate information, it would point to obsolete equipment and theQuest. But if the logs were yarned, an inspection could reveal the deception.”

He looked at Francis. “Rigger Francis’s misadventures with the turbopump demonstrated the folly of yarning the log. So the others gave correct information and hoped that no one ever checked the hardware’s history.” He shrugged. “It took me a while, but I checked.”

He swept the others with his eyes. “I’m going to assume that any department with equipment from theQuest is run by someone who’s guilty. I’ve checked enough to see that there’s machinery from theQuest in Thuc’s old department, and in Gulik’s, and in Francis’s.”

Francis made a contemptuous sound with her tongue and turned her head away. Gulik looked as if someone had just thrown a poisonous snake in his lap.

Martinez turned to Gawbyan. “They couldn’t have done any of it without you. So you’re guilty too.”

Gawbyan’s lips emerged from the thin line into which he’d pressed them. “Naxids,” he said. “Naxid engineers could have done that work.”

Martinez considered this idea and conceded that it was possible, if unlikely.

“Your account at the commissary will be examined closely,” he said, “and we’ll see if you share any mysterious payments with your mates. That’ll be proof enough as far as I’m concerned.”

A contemptuous look entered Gawbyan’s eyes.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Gulik said rapidly. “I didn’t want to be a part of any of it but they talked me into it. They said I could earn back some of the money I’d lost at cards.”

“Shut up, you rat-faced little coward,” Francis said, but she said it without concern, as if she’d already lost interest in the proceedings.

“Gawbyan and Francis killed the captain!” Gulik cried. “Fletcher had already shown he wasn’t going to kill me, I had no reason to want him dead!”

Francis flashed the weaponer a look of perfect disdain but said nothing. Martinez saw Gawbyan’s big hands closing into fists.

If this were one of the Dr. An-ku dramas that Michi enjoyed, Martinez thought, it would have been the moment at which the killers produced weapons and made a murderous lunge for him, or taken hostages and tried to bargain their way out. But that didn’t happen.

Instead Martinez called for Alikhan, and Alikhan entered from the kitchen with Garcia and four constables, including Martinez’s servants Ayutano and Espinosa. All, even Alikhan, were armed with stun batons and sidearms.

“Gawbyan, Gulik, and Francis,” Martinez said. “Lock them up.”

All three were cuffed from behind. There was no resistance, though Francis gave Alikhan a scornful look.

“Wait, Captain!” Gulik said as he was manhandled out the door. “This isn’t fair! Theymade me!”

Alikhan remained behind, hovering behind Martinez, who felt a great tension begin to ebb. He picked up his wineglass, took a long drink and put the glass back on the table.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve a drink right now.

He looked at the remaining petty officers. “There were lines crossed on this ship,” Martinez said. “Four senior petty officers conspired to rob recruits of their pay, and no one complained, no one talked, and no one did anything about it. Those same petty officers branched out into sale of Fleet property, and they put the ship in danger over and over. People died at Harzapid because of those four.

“And it wasn’t just the petty officers,” Martinez said. “Captain Fletcher crossed some lines too, and maybe that made others think it was acceptable.”

He looked at his remaining guests and saw them staring at nothing, or perhaps looking inward. Cho and Zhang seemed angry. Nyamugali looked as if he were ready to weep.

“If any of you were involved with any of these schemes,” Martinez said, “I need to knownow. I need to know what you know. Believe me, it will go better with you if you turn yourselves in than if I find it out on my own. Right now I haven’t done anything more than spot-check the logs, and I haven’t looked at financial records in any kind of detailed way. But Iwill. Now that I know what to look for, I’ll have that information very soon.”

There was silence, and then Amelia Zhang turned to Martinez and said, “You won’t find anything wrong in my department, my lord. And you can look at my finances and see I live on my pay and that most of it goes to my kids’ school fees.”

“My department’s clean,” said Strode. He brushed one of his mustachios with a knuckle. “I yarned my log, I admit that, but I didn’t like those others, Thuc and Francis particularly, and whenever they talked to me about ways of making money I wouldn’t listen.”

Martinez nodded.

“Illustriousdepends on you all,” he said. “You’re more important to this ship than the officers. You’re all professionals and you’re all good at what you do, and I know that’s the case because Captain Fletcher wouldn’t have had you aboard otherwise. But those others-they’re theenemy. Understand?”

He had a feeling he’d made better speeches in his career. But he hoped he’d succeeded in creating a dividing line, the kind that was necessary in war, between us and them. Those he’d just labeled asus were people he needed very badly.Illustrious had been scarred, not in combat but in its heart, and the remaining petty officers were going to be a vital part in any healing. He could have had the killers arrested in their beds and dragged to the brig, but that wouldn’t have had the same effect on their peers. It could have been put down to arbitrary action on the part of an officer, and that wasn’t what Martinez wanted. He wanted to demonstrate in front of their peers how guilty the killers were, and exactly how long and detailed their treachery was, and how badly it had put the ship in danger. He had wanted to separatethem fromus.

Martinez felt a sudden weariness. He’d done everything he’d set out to do, and said far more than he’d intended to say. He pushed back his chair and rose. Chairs scraped as they were pushed back, and the others jumped to their feet and braced.

Martinez reached for his glass and raised it. “To the Praxis,” he said, and the others echoed him.

He drained his glass, and the others drained theirs.

“I won’t keep you,” he said. “I’ll talk to the new department heads tomorrow morning.”

He watched them file out, and when they were gone, he reached for a bottle and refilled his glass. He drained half of it in one long swallow, then he turned to Alikhan.

“Tell Perry I’ll have supper in my office after I report to the squadcom.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Alikhan turned and marched, adjusting the belt with its sidearm and baton. Martinez looked at Marsden.

“Did you get all that?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Turn off your record function, please.”

Marsden did so, and stood bald and impassive, waiting for Martinez’s next order.

“I’m sorry about Phillips,” Martinez said.

Surprise fluttered in the other man’s eyes. He turned to Martinez. “My lord?”

“I know you would have saved him if you could.”

There was an instant of surprise on Marsden’s face, and then he mastered it and his face was impassive again.

“I’m sure, my lord, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You people have hand signals and so on, don’t you?” Martinez asked. “You would have given Phillips a warning if he hadn’t happened to be on watch in Command.” He took in a breath and sighed it out. “I wish you had.”

Marsden looked at him with intense brown eyes but said nothing.

“I worked out a while ago,” Martinez said, “that Thuc may have been a killer, but he wasn’t a Narayanist. The tree pendant was found in Thuc’s belongings because you put it there, Marsden, when I sent you to collect his things. You knew that I was about to launch an investigation into cult affiliations, and you wanted to get rid of the evidence. So you took the pendant from around your own neck and put it in with Thuc’s jewelry.”

Marsden’s neck muscles twitched. He looked stonily at Martinez.

“My lord,” he said, “that’s pure speculation.”

“I couldn’t work out why you were behaving so strangely,” Martinez said. “You were very angry when I first mentioned Narayanists-and then you denounced me for daring to insult the Gomberg and Fletcher clans. You forced me to search you right then and there, though of course that was after you’d ditched your pendant. I thought you were some extreme kind of snob. What I didn’t realize was that I’d just insulted your most deeply held beliefs.

“The problem is, that pendant helped to condemn Phillips. You didn’t know that one of Thuc’s fingerprints was found on Kosinic’s body. That linked murder and Narayanism in my mind, and I charged off on a campaign to find cult killers. That’s the way cultists are always portrayed in video dramas-killing people and sacrificing children to false gods. I was misled by a lifetime of watching that sort of drama. I forgot that Narayanism isn’t a killing sort of belief.”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord.” Marsden spoke with great care.

Martinez shrugged. “I wanted you to know I was sorry about the way I handled things. You won’t forgive me, I’m sure, but I hope you’ll understand.” He took a long drink of his wine. “That’s all, Marsden. If you can copy me that recording, and append a transcription as soon as you can, I’d be very much obliged.”

Marsden braced. “Yes, my lord.”

“You are dismissed.”

Marsden turned and walked away, his back straight, his head facing rigidly forward. Martinez watched the door close behind him.

Apology not accepted,he thought.

He took another long drink of his wine, and then he walked to his office, put the wineglass on his desk, and walked out into the corridor.

It was time to report to Lady Michi.