Conventions of War (18 page)

Alikhan was waiting in his cabin to take his trousers, shoes, and uniform tunic for their nightly rehabilitation. “What are they saying in the petty officers' lounge?” Martinez asked.

“Well, my lord,” Alikhan said, with a kind of finality, “they're saying you'll do.”

Martinez suppressed a grin. “What are they saying about Fletcher?”

“They aren't saying anything at all about the late captain.”

Martinez felt irritation. “I wish they were.” He handed Alikhan his tunic. “You don't think they know more than they're saying?”

Alikhan spoke with the utmost complacency. “They're long-serving petty officers, my lord. They
always
know more than they tell.”

Martinez sourly parted the seals on his shoes, removed them, and handed them to Alikhan. “You'll tell me if they say anything vital? Such as who killed the captain?”

Alikhan dropped the shoes into their little carrying bag. “I'll do my best to keep you informed, my lord,” he said. He sealed the bag and looked up. “By the way, my lord. There is the matter of Captain Fletcher's servants.”

“Ah.”

Each officer of captain's rank was allowed four servants, whom he could take with him from one posting to the next. Martinez had his four, and so had Fletcher; but now with only one captain remaining, that left four servants too many.

“Are Fletcher's people good for anything?” Martinez asked. “Anything besides being servants, I mean?”

Alikhan's lip curled slightly, the long-serving Fleet professional passing judgment on his inferiors.

“Narbonne was a valet in civilian life,” he said. “Baca a chef. Jukes is an artist, and Buckle is a hairdresser, manicurist, and cosmetologist.”

“Well,” Martinez said dubiously, “I suppose Baca could be sent to the enlisted mess.”

“Not if Master Cook Yau has anything to say about it,” said Alikhan. “He won't want that fat pudding of a man taking up space in his kitchen and fussing with his sauces.”

“Alikhan.” Martinez examined himself in the mirror over his sink. “Do you think I need a cosmetologist?”

Alikhan curled his lip again. “You're too young, my lord.”

Martinez smiled. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

Alikhan draped trousers over his arm, and then the jacket over the trousers. Martinez nodded in the direction of the door that led to his office.

“Do you have someone sleeping out there again?” he asked.

“Ayutano, my lord.”

“Right. If the killers come by way of the dining room instead, I'll try to shout and let him know.”

“I'm sure he'd appreciate it, my lord.” Deftly, with the hand that wasn't holding Martinez's clothing, Alikhan opened a silver vacuum flask of hot cocoa and poured.

“Thank you, Alikhan. Sleep well.”

“And yourself, my lord.”

Alikhan left through the door that led to the dining room. Martinez changed into pajamas and sat on his bed while he drank the cocoa and looked at the old dark painting. The young mother held her infant and the little fire glowed and the cat crouched with his ears pinned back, and it all took place inside a painted frame or maybe a stage.

He kept seeing the painting for a long time after he turned out the light.

 

I
n the morning Martinez printed a series of supper invitations on Fletcher's special bond paper, and sent them via Alikhan to all the senior petty officers. He didn't know whether Fletcher would have invited the enlisted to supper—he suspected not—and he was certain Fletcher wouldn't have used the fancy bond invitations.

He didn't care. It wasn't his bond paper anyway.

The experiment began shortly afterward. The ships of Chenforce were linked by communications laser into a virtual environment, and while the ships themselves continued on their way, a virtual Chenforce maneuvered against a virtual enemy squadron of superior force, a squadron that was meeting them head-on at Osser, the system into which Chenforce would pass after Termaine. The system was largely uninhabited, with a pair of wormhole relay stations and some small mining colonies on some mineral-rich moons, but nothing else, nothing that would complicate an engagement between two forces.

Chenforce deployed the dispersed tactics that had been created by Martinez and Caroline Sula and the officers of Martinez's old frigate,
Corona
. The ships were widely separated, maneuvering in ways that seemed absolutely random but were in fact dictated by a complex mathematical formula devised by Sula, the ships riding along the convex hull of a chaotic dynamical system.

The opposing force utilized the classic, formal tactics of the empire, tactics in which the ships were shepherded in a rigid formation so their commander could retain control of them till the last possible moment.

Tungsten-jacketed antimatter missiles exploded between the converging squadrons in glowing fireballs and hellish blasts of radiation. Lasers and antiproton beams lanced out to destroy incoming missiles, and the missiles jinked and dodged to avoid destruction. Ships died under waves of fast neutrons and blasts of heat.

Chenforce didn't come through the battle unscathed: out of seven ships, three were destroyed and one severely damaged. Of the Naxid force, all ten were wiped out.

For the first time, Martinez commanded a heavy cruiser in combat, albeit a combat that took place only in simulation. The crew in Command were disciplined and well-trained, long practiced at their jobs and at working with one another, and they obeyed his orders with perfect understanding and efficiency.

Martinez ended the experiment pleased with himself and with his ship. The pleased feeling lasted until he returned to his office, where Marsden presented him with a vast number of documents, all requiring his attention, or his judgment, or at the very least his signature.

He ate his dinner at his desk while he worked his way through the documents, and sent Marsden to his own meal.

Chandra Prasad arrived half a minute after his dinner, as if she were waiting for him to be alone. He looked up at her knock, lowered his stylus to the desk and told her to come in. As she approached, he wondered in a curiously offhand way whether she'd come to murder him, but decided against it. The sunny smile on her face would have been too incongruous.

“Lieutenant?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“The lady squadcom just told me that I was the new tactical officer,” Chandra said. “I guessed you had something to do with that, so I thought I'd come by and thank you.”

“I mentioned your name,” Martinez said. “But last I heard it was a temporary appointment. I think she's going to try a series of people.”

“But I'll be first,” Chandra said. “If I impress her, she won't need the others.”

Martinez smiled encouragingly. “Good luck.”

“I'll need more than luck.” Chandra bit her lower lip. “Can you give me a hint about how best to impress the squadcom?”

“I wouldn't know,” Martinez said. “I don't think I've managed it lately.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide whether to get angry.

He picked up his stylus and said, “Come to dinner tomorrow. We'll discuss your ambitions then.”

Calculation entered her long eyes. “Very good, Captain.”

She braced, and he sent her away and went back to reviewing his paperwork, and nibbling on his dinner in between paragraphs. He had no sooner finished both papers and the meal when Kazakov arrived with a new series of documents that, as executive officer, she was passing to him for review.

It was mid-afternoon before he finished all that, and went into the personnel files to acquaint himself with the petty officers he would be having to supper. They were as Kazakov had said: long-serving professionals, with high scores on their masters' exams and good efficiency reports from past superiors. All received high marks from Fletcher—including Thuc, the man he'd executed.

Martinez then checked the documentary evidence that should have corroborated Fletcher's good opinions, and almost immediately found something that appalled him.

His supper, he thought darkly, would be more than social.

He opened the supper with the traditional toast to the Praxis, then gave a preamble to the effect that he was counting on his guests to maintain continuity in a ship that had just suffered a series of shocks, and he knew from their records and their efficiency reports that they were all more than capable of giving all that was required.

He looked from one of the eight department heads to the next—from round-faced Gawbyan to rat-faced Gulik, from Master Rigger Francis with her brawny arms and formidable jowls to Cho, Thuc's gangly replacement—and he saw pleased satisfaction in their faces.

The satisfaction stayed there for the entire supper, as Perry brought in each course and as Martinez questioned each of his guests about the state of their department. From Master Data Specialist Amelia Zhang he learned the condition and the capacities of the ship's computers. From Master Rigger Francis he received myriad details, from the stowage of the holds to the state of the air scrubbers. From Master Signaler Nyamugali he had an informative discussion on the new military ciphers introduced since the beginning of the war, a critical task since both sides had started with the same ciphers and the same coding programs.

It was a pleasurable, instructive meal, and the satisfaction on the faces of the department heads had only increased by the time Perry brought in the coffee.

“In the last days I've come to see how well-managed a ship we have in
Illustrious,
” Martinez said as the scent of the coffee wafted to his nostrils. “And I had no doubt that much of that excellent management was due to the quality of the senior petty officers here on the ship.”

He took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, then put his cup down in the saucer. “That's what I thought, anyway,” he added, “at least until I saw the state of the 77-12s.”

The satisfaction on the petty officers' faces took a long, astounded moment to fade.

“Well, my lord…” Gawbyan began.

“Well,” said Gulik.

“The 77-12s aren't even remotely current,” Martinez said. “I don't see a single department that can give me the information I need in order to know the status of my ship.”

The department heads looked across the long table at one another. Martinez read chagrin, exasperation, embarrassment.

And well they should be mortified,
he thought.

The 77-12s were maintenance logs supposed to be kept by every department. The petty officers and their crews were supposed to make note of all routine maintenance, cleaning, replacing, lubricating, checking the status of filters, seals, fluids, the airtight gaskets in the bulkheads and airlocks, and the stocks of replacement parts. Every item on
Illustrious
was designed to a certain tolerance—overdesigned, some would have thought—and each was supposed to be replaced or maintained well before that tolerance was ever reached. Every part inspection, every replacement, every routine maintenance, was supposed to be recorded in a department's 77-12.

Keeping the records current was an enormous inconvenience for those responsible, and they all hated it and tried to avoid the duty whenever possible. But the 77-12s, properly maintained, were the most effective way for a superior to know the condition of his ship, and to a newly appointed captain, they were a necessity. If a piece of equipment failed, the 77-12 could tell the captain whether the failure had been due to inadequate maintenance, human error, or some other cause. Without the record, the cause of a failure would be anyone's guess, and finding out the correct reason would take time and could distract an entire department.

In wartime, Martinez felt that
Illustrious
couldn't afford the time and distraction of tracking the cause of any failure of a critical piece of equipment, not when lives were potentially in the balance. And he simply
detested
not knowing the condition of his command.

“Well, my lord…” Gulik began again. There was a nervous look in his sad eyes, and Martinez remembered the sweat on his upper lip as he stood at the end of the line of weaponers, all passing under Fletcher's gaze. “Well, it all has to do with the way Captain Fletcher ran the ship.”

“It's all the inspections, my lord,” said Master Rigger Francis. She was a brawny woman, with broken veins in her cheeks and hair that had once been red. “You saw how thoroughly Captain Fletcher conducted an inspection. He'd pick a piece of equipment and ask about its maintenance, and we'd have to know the answers. We wouldn't have a chance to look it up in the records, we'd have to
know
it.”

Master Cook Yau leaned his thin arms on the table and peered around Francis's broad body. “We don't have to write the information down, my lord, because we had it all in our heads.”

“I understand.” Martinez gave a grave nod. “If you have it all in your heads,” he added, “then it should be no trouble to put it all in the 77-12s. You should be able to give me a complete report in, say—two days?”

Martinez found himself delighted by the bleak and downcast looks the department heads gave one another.
Yes,
he thought,
yes, it's absolutely time you found out I was a bastard.

“So what's today, then?” he asked cheerfully. “The nineteenth? Have the 77-12s to me by the morning of the twenty-second.”

He'd have to continue the inspections, he thought, because he'd have to check everything against the 77-12s to make sure the forms weren't pure fiction. “Yarning the logs,” as it was called, was another time-honored custom of the service.

One way or another, Martinez swore he would learn
Illustrious
and its workings, human and machine both.