He pointed behind him with his ceremonial wand, through the transparent rear wall of the Hall of the Convocation to the terrace, from which rebel Naxids had once been hurled. “If we do not find a way to pay for this war,” he said, “we might as well throw ourselves from that cliff, because it will be a more merciful fate than what the Naxids will give us.”
With the arch-conservative Lord Senior speaking for the measure, the tax passed with margin of sixty-one percent. One of the dissenters—a toothless old Torminel—thumped an angry fist on her desk and growled that, as the Convocation had forsaken the principles of civilization, she might as well remain on Zanshaa and wait for the Naxids, who seemed to have a clearer idea of decency and order than the members of the house.
The Lord Senior politely suggested that perhaps the lady convocate had forgotten that such an action, as the Convocation had decided only two days before, constituted high treason. “I would regret extremely the necessity of ripping you limb from limb and hurling you from the High City,” Saïd said, “but alas, my lady, we are the servants of the law, not its masters.”
Lord Chen barely heard this exchange: he was too busy rejoicing. Just a few hours ago, in committee, one of his ship-owning colleagues had slipped a rider onto the revenue bill abolishing the excise tax on cargoes. Very suddenly his business was profitable again, and even at the cost of one percent of his income he could expect colossal profits. Admittedly most of the money would be going to the Martinez family for the next five years, but after that Lord Chen could look forward both to increased profit and the end of his relationship with Clan Martinez.
And, he thought in triumph, all those annoying revenue officers on the ring stations that had so harassed his captains and agents would now descend to the planets below, to harass everyone else.
Even at the cost of one percent of his income, Lord Chen thought, this was welcome news.
“Well, Gare, as it happens you’ve got a choice of transport.”
Lieutenant Ari Abacha raised to his lips one of the Commandery’s tulip glasses, with white and green stripes, and sipped his cocktail. He was a long-limbed man of superior social connections and a perfectly majestic brand of indolence, and he and Martinez had become acquainted when they were both on staff at the Commandery. Abacha was still on staff, as the red triangles on his collar showed, and now as Michi Chen’s tactical officer, Martinez once again wore the red tabs himself.
“I say, Gare, it’s decent of you to take me to the senior officers’ club,” Abacha said. He glanced over the barroom, his social antennae twitching, and then he leaned close. “That’s Captain Han-gar over there, you know. Rumor has it that these days he’s pissing on the doorstep of Squadron Commander Pen-dro…”
“A dangerous business,” Martinez murmured. His eyes were fixed on the display glowing in the table, showing him one small Fleet craft after another.
Not that one, he thought, that was nearly a pinnace. He didn’t want to be strapped into a coffin for all that time.
“It’s dangerous only if his wife finds out,” Abacha said. “But Pen-dro has a habit of rewarding her lovers. Look what happened to Esh-draq.”
Martinez did not encourage this line of conversation, being instead more interested in the variety of craft that might be employed in the task of uniting him with Michi Chen’s squadron and his new appointment. With forty or fifty days of very nasty acceleration in the offing, he wanted at least a little comfort.
“Say, Ari,” he said, “what do you think of this one?”
The vessel in question was one of the craft that had been conscripted to defend Zanshaa in the aftermath of the Battle of Magaria. Optimistically called “picket ships,” they had consisted of a variety of small craft hastily outfitted with missile launchers and sent to patrol the system in the hope that they might somehow score a hit or two on the enemy before being annihilated. Once Chenforce had arrived to defend the system, the picket ships had been withdrawn.
“Ah,” Abacha said as he looked at the design. “Nice boat. That was one of Exalted Flower’s corporate yachts, built to shuttle their executives around their mineral concessions in the system. Nicely appointed. Said to have an excellent kitchen. A pity you won’t have one of their chefs aboard.”
The boat, which had retained its original corporate name ofDaffodil, had docked with the ring station two days earlier and discharged what no doubt had been a highly relieved crew of four. After routine maintenance that would complete in four days,Daffodil would be available for further use, which would include taking Martinez to Michi Chen’s flagship.
“I’ll take this one, then,” Martinez said. “Thanks very much for giving me the choice.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Abacha. “I’m happy to help out a friend from the old days.” An expression of distaste crossed his face, and he leaned closer to Martinez. “All sorts of new people here now,” he said. “Rude, useless, ignorant…always bustling about and ruining one’s day. Do you know, since the war’s started, some days I’m here eighteen hours straight!”
Martinez widened his eyes. “I’m shocked.”
Abacha’s eyes grew fierce. “And now that we’re evacuating, it’s going to get worse. I’m only allowed three trunks and one servant! Regulations clearly state I’m entitled to five trunks and two servants!” He gave the table an angry thump. “I’ve finally got my two boys trained to starch my collars exactly as I want them, and to serve me a Hairy Roger at just the right temperature, and now I have to let one go. Who knows what the Fleet will do with him? Turn a fine valet into a machinist or something.”
“I’ll take your extra,” Martinez said. His rank entitled him to four servants, but he’d never had more than Alikhan. Since his escape withCorona, his life had been speeding so fast that he’d never had time to search the ranks for servants, and if he were to serve on a flagship he should probably acquire someone more polished than his ex-weaponer.
Abacha looked disapproving. “I promised my boys they’d never have to do ship duty.”
“If they’re evacuating,” Martinez pointed out, “they’ll have to spend time on ships anyway. Unless they’d rather stay on Zanshaa and wait for the Naxids.”
Abacha sipped his drink and made a face, as if he’d just tasted lemon juice. “I’ll ask them. But whatever happens, they’re going to be vexed.”
“Tell them they’ll be on a flagship. That’s something.”
Abacha only shrugged, but then he cheered. “By the way, Gare, we’re having some rare parties these days. Since we can’t take it with us, everyone’s drinking up their finest stock. You’d be welcome to join us in our revels, if you like.”
“My calendar seems to be quite full these days,” Martinez said.
“Oh yes!” Abacha beamed in approval. “Newly married and all. You’ve got quite a catch in the Chen girl.”
“Thank you,” said Martinez.
“You know,” Abacha laughed, “I thought that Lady Sula would be your next conquest.”
Martinez felt a counterfeit smile cleave to his face. “You did?” he asked.
“I was duty officer in Operations, remember…I saw the logs that showed all those messages you were sending each other during the Blitsharts business. I felt certain you were…” Abacha searched for a word. “…building an intimacy.” He shook his head. “I guess nothing came of it. Pity. She’s a lovely girl—very suited to you, I thought.”