The Sundering (24 page)

The two aides softly closed the doors, leaving the Fleet Control Board and its guests isolated in the hushed, dimly lit room. The board’s Cree secretary took up his stylus and cued recorders that would transcript the meeting for history. The Torminel aide removed her spectacles.

The scent of dying flesh wafted from Lord Tork as he took his place at the head of the table. His unblinking eyes looked left and right as if he were slowly counting the members present, and then he rapped the table with his pale knuckles.

“My lords,” he said, “I should like to introduce Captain Ahn-kin, of the Intelligence Section, who yesterday sent me a report that I realized was of profound consequence. The captain has made a discovery with grave implications for the war, and I decided to bring him here before you so that we may respond as a body to this information.”

Ahn-kin stepped forward—he was not offered a seat—and adjusted his sleeve display so as to send information to each of the board members’ desk displays. Lord Chen looked at the desk before him and saw, glowing in the ebony surface of the table, a document with the title
Analysis of Premiere Axiom and its Role in Rebel Force Structure.

Premiere Axiom? he thought. He had heard the name before, but he couldn’t remember where. Ahn-kin soon refreshed Chen’s memory.

“Some of you may remember Premiere Axiom as a shipping company created by rebel plotters in order to secretly move resources from one place to another prior to the rebellion,” Ahn-kin said. Without any clear place at the table he was hovering awkwardly above Tork’s left shoulder, shifting his weight from one leg to another in his discomfort. “Premiere Axiom was created in the Year of the Praxis 12,477, four years before rebellion, and is privately held. Its principal shareholders include Lady Kushdai, Lord Kulukraf, Lord Aksad, and other rebels. Lady Kushdai serves as chairman.” Chen’s display showed the company’s organizational structure.

“On the day of the rebellion,” Ahn-kin continued, “three Premiere Axiom cargo ships were inbound to Magaria.” Names and manifests flashed across Chen’s displays. “We believe they carried personnel sufficient to crew the ships captured by the Naxid rebels on that first day, thus enabling their subsequent victory at the Battle of Magaria. Nineteen other ships had been purchased over the years by Premiere Axiom, and probably carried legitimate cargo in addition to any cargoes intended to aid the rebels. At the time of the rebellion most of these were in five other inhabited systems in the reaches between Naxas and Magaria.”

Chen’s display showed planetary systems, all systems that hadn’t been heard from since the rebellion had begun. Ahn-kin shifted from one foot to the other, then continued his briefing.

“We suspect these ships held soldiers that captured critical sections of the ring stations, possibly with the help of rebels already on the station. Though we have heard nothing of any of these Premiere Axiom cargo vessels since the rebellion began, presumably they continue to serve the rebel cause.”

Lord Chen jumped as Ahn-kin gave a convulsive explosion that Chen only belatedly realized was a sneeze. The poor Lai-own stood directly behind Lord Tork, Chen realized, and was breathing in the scent of Tork’s perpetually decaying flesh with every inhalation.

“I beg your lordships’ pardon,” Ahn-kin said, and took a few steps to the side, where the odor was not so strong. He took in a deep breath, then continued.

“Our investigation into enemy capabilities initially concentrated on military equipment, organization, and facilities, and then only gradually began to take in civilian facilities and capabilities as well. Approximately a month ago we became aware that Premiere Axiom had commissioned ten new cargo vessels from civilian yards on six different worlds, all of which were in one stage or another of completion at the time of the rebellion. We assumed the Naxids wanted to add carrying capacity to their fleet, and these new ships were added to our estimates of rebel inventory. It was only in the last few days, however, that our analysis unit acquired a specialist in ship construction, Lieutenant Kijjalis here”—the Torminel braced, chin high—“who was able to examine the vessels’ plans in any detail, and we reached,” he took another deep breath, “certain conclusions.”

Ship schematics, data from the Imperial Ship Registry, flashed on the board’s displays. Lord Chen, who owned ships, leaned closer to take a careful look. A lean merchant craft, he saw, with small capacity for cargo. It would be useful, he supposed, for carrying high-value, high-priority cargo, but otherwise could scarcely be operated at a profit.

Built to carry urgent war materiel, he thought, from one base to another, and given the capacities of the engines, to carry it fast. The cargo would be missiles, perhaps, or key replacement personnel, or information so critical that it could not be trusted to the usual channels…and at that point his imagination flagged.

“It was the limitations of the new vessels that intrigued me,” said Lieutenant Kijjalis. The Torminel was no doubt very warm with his full uniform over his fur, and there were probably hidden cooling units in his tailoring.

“The ships’ cargo capacity is small,” she said, “and the engines large for such a small ship. And their modular construction, which would enable the owners to reconfigure their crew and cargo areas, is unnecessarily expensive. And then I realized that the ships were never meant to be cargo vessels.”

Chen’s heart gave an unexpected lurch as he looked again at the schematics. It would take a relatively brief stay at a dockyard to strip away the modular cargo and crew sections, he saw, and to replace them with missile batteries, expanded crew quarters, and action stations with enough radiation shielding to insulate them from the blasts of antimatter missiles.

Lord Chen looked at the Torminel lieutenant in a fever of sudden calculation. “And how many of these ships did you say there were?”

“Ten, my lord.”

“Ten warships.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ahn-kin interrupted, taking the reins of the discussion. “Once they are retrofitted with weapons and crew, we estimate they would be the equivalent of a medium-sized frigate, with twelve to fourteen missile launchers, one or two pinnaces, half a dozen or so point-defense lasers, and a crew of approximately eighty.”

“Ten
frigates
…” breathed Lord Mondi. For once the Torminel forgot his careful diction and lisped like a child.

Frigates were the smallest class of true warship, certainly, but once they were added to the formidable enemy fleet concentrated at Magaria, the implications were horrific.

“Do you realize what this means?” Lord Pezzini demanded. His face was red. “This means…”

“My lord,”
interrupted Lord Tork forcefully. “I must ask everyone here to refrain from speculating in the presence of these officers. Until the briefing is finished, please confine your remarks to questions and comments related to Captain Ahn-kin’s presentation.”

There was a formidable silence, broken by Lady Seekin.

“How certain are you?”

The officers from the Intelligence Section looked at each other, hesitant to make too definite a commitment before this august audience. It was Lieutenant Kijjalis who answered. “I am absolutely convinced that my analysis is the correct one. But insofar as I must admit the possibility that I may be in error, let me say that my confidence is on the order of ninety percent.”

“I concur,” said Ahn-kin.

“And so do I,” said Lord Chen. The board members looked at him. “I own ships,” he pointed out, “and I’m familiar with ship design.” He tapped the display in front of him. “These are warships in everything but armament and proper shelters for the crew, and a Fleet dockyard can remedy that in a short time.” He looked at Ahn-kin. “Do you have an estimate for the completion of these vessels?”

“At least two should be complete by now,” Ahn-kin said. “These would be the two building at Loatyn, which were undergoing trials when the rebellion broke out. Since Loatyn submitted to the enemy soon after, I think we can safely say that these have almost certainly completed their refit and joined the enemy fleet. Probably three more should be joining any day now.” Estimates flashed on the screen. “The remaining five could be completing about now, but since three of these would have to fit out at Naxas, they’re still two months or more from the main enemy concentration at Magaria.”

Lord Chen felt a chill in his blood as he thought suddenly of Lord Saïd’s deception strategy, the phony messages from dissidents that the Lord Senior was confident were delaying the rebel attack. Whether the Naxids believe the messages or not, it wasn’t the alleged conspiracy that was delaying their attack, they were delaying because they were waiting for the ten newly minted frigates that would give them overwhelming power against the defenders.

The Naxids would soon be able to bring forty-five ships against the twenty-five defending the capital, and the number of attackers rose to fifty-three if the eight ships from Protipanu were included. No matter how brilliantly Lord Fleetcom Kangas maneuvered, he could not hope to win against those odds. The loyalists would be overwhelmed and annihilated.

There were a few stunned, hopeless questions from the board before the officers from the Intelligence Section were sent away, and then a long, numb, despairing silence before Lord Tork spoke.

“My lords,” he said slowly, “I think it is now obvious that we can’t hope to hold Zanshaa. We must adopt another plan.”

“The Martinez Plan?” Chen said pointedly, and felt a mean little stab of satisfaction at seeing Pezzini wince.

Lord Tork turned his pale face toward Chen. “Lord Saïd, when he spoke to me about your visit the other day, referred to it as the Chen Plan. Perhaps it should retain that designation.”

Lord Chen, who now realized that Tork knew that he’d gone behind his back to the Lord Senior, resolved that he refused to be embarrassed by the knowledge.

“Your lordship gives me too much credit,” he said.

Lord Tork’s mournful face turned to the others on the board. “I shall demand an immediate interview with Lord Saïd,” he said. “I trust you will all attend?”

Lord Chen, as he rose from his chair, thought back to the desperation of the last few days, his frantic lobbying efforts aimed at getting the government to adopt the plan that Lord Tork and the other die-hards had just accepted without question…and then it occurred to him to wonder:

The Martinez luck. Is it working already?

Walpurga walked through her wedding with a half-curious, half-thoughtful expression on her face, as if she were observing with considerable interest the quaint rites of a tribe of Yormaks.

PJ Ngeni, on the other hand, looked as if he were attending his own funeral.

At the climax of the marriage ritual Walpurga sat on the edge of a bed, her legs dangling over the side, while the groom sat on the floor with her feet in his lap as he removed her slippers. Perhaps in most homes this ceremony took place in an actual bedroom, but in the Shelley Palace—as in the Yoshitoshi Palace two days before—a large bed had been moved into a drawing room for just this purpose.

The guests at Walpurga’s wedding were a small fraction of those at Vipsania’s. The circumstances of the marriage seemed to call for a smaller celebration, and each family had invited only intimates, a total of about fifty people.

The ribbons of one slipper untied, PJ paused, his long face drawn with melancholy, to permit pictures to be taken. Lord Pierre Ngeni stood near his cousin, arms folded on his chest, to make certain PJ went through with it. Roland, rather more confident of the outcome, smiled easily in the background.

Martinez, watching with more sympathy than he’d perhaps intended, wondered what expression the picture-takers would find on his own face, at his own nuptials two days hence.

PJ completed the ritual to polite applause. Walpurga’s toenails had been lacquered a brilliant shade of crimson to compliment her wedding gown of red and gold tissue. The two rose and kissed, again as cameras hummed about them.

A sudden anger flashed through Martinez. Let
my
wedding not be such a farce, he violently thought.

Afterward, after Walpurga put on her slippers once again and the crowd began to disperse, Martinez approached Terza, who had been watching with a kind of serene smile that Martinez would have found eerie had he not, already in their brief acquaintance, learned that this was an habitual expression of concealment.

Terza saw him walking toward her, and her gaze shifted to him while the smile altered, he hoped, to something more genuine. He had been trying to spend as much time as possible with his bride-to-be, though with so many last-minute arrangements on the part of both families this had amounted only to a few hours. With her father occupied exclusively with the Convocation and the Control Board, her mother refusing to have anything to do with the proceedings, and many of her relatives fleeing the capital, Terza was forced to plan her own wedding, and on only a few days’ notice.

You’ve got to get her pregnant,
Roland had urged him that morning.
Tell her you want children right away, that she should get her implant removed and take Progestene or something to induce ovulation.
And when an annoyed Martinez had asked him why in hell he should do that, Roland had patiently explained.
When the Chen family’s back on its feet after the war, Daddy Chen may try to make his daughter divorce you. I want you to have fathered a couple of bouncing baby heirs by that point—and if Chen tries to disinherit them in favor of children by some other parent, Clan Martinez will serve him with a lawsuit that will nail his ears to the wall.

It had not cheered Martinez to discover that Roland was already thinking ahead to his divorce.

“Shall we walk in the garden?” Martinez suggested.

“Certainly.”

The garden in the Shelley Palace courtyard was old and overgrown, shadowed by the rambling structure of the palace, which had been built over many centuries and in different styles. The two stood for a moment before an allegory of The Triumph of Virtue over Vice, the two central figures so old and weathered that their faces had become nearly identical abstractions, corroded blind eyes over hollow, mournful mouths.