Martinez was learning his ship from the inside out. He would inspect every pump, every launcher, every conduit. He would makeIllustrious his own.
He worked hard. His wrist healed. He still sometimes woke to the phantom scent of Caroline Sula on his pillow.
Every so often he met with Jukes to discuss the new designs forIllustrious. He was beginning to get used to the idea of his ship as a gaudy personal banner, as far away from Fletcher’s concept as possible.
In the meantime, Jukes painted his portrait. The artist had wanted to create the portrait electronically and print it, but Martinez desired a proper portrait, with paint on canvas, and Jukes complied with weary grace. He put an easel in Martinez’s office and worked there, preferring more obscure hours.
His portrait was romantic and lofty, Martinez in full dress, the Orb in one hand, his gaze directed somewhere over the viewer’s right shoulder. The other hand rested on a tabletop, next to a model ofCorona. Behind him would be a picture-within-a-picture, a portrait ofIllustrious blazing into battle. Jukes seemed to think the picture-within-a-picture device was clever. Martinez didn’t understand why exactly, but saw no reason to contradict the other’s professional judgment.
There was some discussion whether the portrait ofIllustrious should portray the ship in its current form, with Fletcher’s abstract color scheme of pink, white, and green, or in the bolder style they planned forIllustrious after the war.
Martinez put off making the decision, but eventually decided to use Fletcher’s color scheme. Should he win any glory in the war, it would be withIllustrious in its current appearance, and that would be what he wanted to commemorate.
Besides, he thought, there was no reason to stop at just one portrait. The redesignedIllustrious could be immortalized another time.
Martinez began to notice at musters and inspections that the crew looked obscurely more attractive. Kazakov came to dine one day with her hair down rather than knotted behind her head, and Martinez was struck by how good-looking she was.
Buckle, it seemed, was working his magic as a hair stylist and cosmetician. Even Electrician Strode’s bowl haircut seemed more shapely. Martinez called Buckle to his cabin for a haircut, and had to admit that the result was an improvement.
He made Jukes repaint the portrait to include the more attractive hair style.
There were more disciplinary problems among the crew now, fights and occasional drunkenness. They also had too little to occupy their time. It would have taken only thirty-odd people to con the ship from one place to another, and another thirty weaponers to manage the fighting. The rest were partly for redundancy’s sake, in the event of casualties, and many of the crew were intended to support the dignity of the officers, acting as their servants; but mainly crew were needed for damage control. In an emergency, hundreds of pairs of well-trained hands might be needed to keep the ship alive. The rest of the time the officers had to invent work for them, cleaning and spit-polishing, playing parts in rituals and ceremonies, and performing and reperforming routine maintenance.
Everyone, officers and crew alike, were growing tired of it all.
Still, beneath the weariness, Martinez began to sense an undercurrent of optimism. Chenforce was returning to the Home Fleet, and once there, would move on the enemy at Zanshaa and retake the capital. The crew were anticipating the war coming to its conclusion, and with it, the end of all the monotony.
Even the danger of a merciless enemy had begun to seem preferable to the endless repetition and routine.
One night, Martinez sipped his cocoa and looked at the mother and the cat and the infant in his red pajamas. It seemed to him that the Holy Family, whoever they were, had things pretty easy. They had their fire, their beds, their comfortable middle-class clothing, a child that was well-fed and well-clothed, enough food so they could spare some for their cat.
There was no indication that they had to worry about unknown killers skulking outside their ornate painted frame, or coping with a sudden relativistic barrage of antimatter missiles, or whether reports given them by others had been yarned.
By the time he finished his cocoa, Martinez began to feel envy for the lives of the people in the painting. They were simple, they were Holy, they were carefree.
They were everything a captain wasn’t.
TWENTY-TWO
Perhaps, Martinez thought, it was the boredom induced by the long days of the ship’s routine that had led him to think about the killings again. After mulling it over for several days, he asked Chandra to come to his office in the middle of one long, dull afternoon.
“Drink?” he asked as she braced. “By which I mean coffee.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Sit down.” He pushed a cup and saucer across his desk, then poured from the flask that Alikhan habitually left on his desk.
A rich coffee scent floated into the room. Chandra sat expectant, eyes bright beneath the auburn hair.
“I wanted to ask you about Kosinic,” Martinez said.
Chandra, reaching for the coffee, pulled back her hand and blinked in surprise. “May I ask why?”
“Because it occurred to me that all our thinking about the killings has been exactly wrong. We’ve been looking at Captain Fletcher’s death and trying to reason backward about what might have motivated it. But Kosinic’s death was the first—hewas the anomaly. Thuc’s death followed from his, and I think Fletcher’s followed as well. So if we can just work out why Kosinic was murdered, everything else will fall into place.”
Chandra frowned as she considered this reasoning, then gave him a searching look. “You don’t think it’s all down to Phillips and the cultists?”
“Do you?”
She was silent.
“You knew Kosinic best,” Martinez said. “Tell me about him.”
She accepted the remark without comment, then reached for the coffee and considered her words while she fiddled with the powdered creamer;Illustrious had long ago run out of fresh dairy. She took a sip, frowned, and took another.
“Javier was bright,” Chandra said finally, “good-looking, young, and probably a little more ambitious than was sensible for someone in his position. He had two problems: he was a commoner and he had no money. Peers will mingle with commoners if they’ve got enough money to keep up socially; and they’ll tolerate Peers who have no money for the sake of their name. But a commoner with no money is going to be buried in a succession of anonymous desk jobs, and if he gets a command, it’s going to be a barge to nowhere, an assignment that no Peer would touch.”
She took another sip of her coffee. “But Javier got lucky—Squadron Commander Chen was impressed by a report on systems interopability that happened to cross her desk, and she took him on staff. Javier wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that slide—he knew she could promote him all the way to Captain if he impressed her enough. So he set out to be the perfect bright staff officer for her, and right at that moment war broke out and he was wounded.”
She sighed. “They shouldn’t have let him out of the hospital. He wasn’t fit. But he knew that as long as he stayed on Chen’s staff he could have a chance to do important war work right under the nose of an important patron—and of course by then he was in a perfect rage to kill Naxids, like all of us, but more so.”
“He had head injuries,” Martinez said. “I’ve heard his personality changed.”
“He was angry all the time,” Chandra said. “It was sad, really. He insisted that what had happened toIllustrious at Harzapid was the result of a treacherous Naxid plot—which of course was true—but he became obsessed with rooting out the plotters. That made no sense at all, because by that point the Naxids at Harzapid were all dead, so what did it matter which of them did what?”