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and heavy accelerations. And it would take twenty-four minutes for Martinez’s request to reach them, during which time Blitsharts would continue south.
    Martinez scanned the display and found what he was looking for: Senior Captain Kandinski in the Bombardment of Los Angeles, one of the big bombardment-class heavy cruisers. It had just finished a refit on the ring dockyards and was now accelerating at a steady 1.3 gravities toward the Zanshaa 5 wormhole gate, heading for the Third Fleet base at Felarus. For the next 4.2 standard hours a rescue boat launched from the Los Angeles could take advantage of at least some of the cruiser’s speed in its acceleration toward Midnight Runner. Not an ideal position for a rescue launch, but it would have to do.
    Kandinski was something of a yachtsman himself— Los Angeles was a well-polished ship, shiny inside and out, with a white and powder blue paint job Kandinski had paid for out of his own deep pockets. Even the cruiser’s pinnaces and missiles had the same glossy light blue finish. Maybe he would feel an affinity for Blitsharts and his shiny yacht.
    Martinez reached for the communications console, linked it to his sleeve display. “Transmission to Los Angeles, ” he instructed. “Code status: clear. Priority: extremely urgent, personal to the captain.”
    â€œIdentify?” the automated comm system wanted to know.
    â€œGareth Martinez, lieutenant, aide to Lord Commander Enderby.”
    A brief moment’s pause, then, “Approved.”
    â€œCan you tell me what steps are being taken?” Sesse’s voice nattered in Martinez’s ear from Abacha’s sleeve display. Martinez ignored it.
    Another chime from the communicator; someone else needing to talk. “We’re very busy right now,” Abacha said. “Good-bye.”
    â€œCan you just let us listen? ” Sesse said frantically.
    Martinez took a moment to run fingers through his dark hair, then twitched his collar to make certain it was in place. “Transmit, video and audio,” he said.
    He waited for the flashing orange cue in his sleeve display to let him know that transmission had started, then looked at the sleeve button camera and spoke.
    â€œCaptain Kandinski, this is Lieutenant Gareth Martinez on Lord Commander Enderby’s staff. The yacht Midnight Runner with its captain, Ehrler Blitsharts, is tumbling out of control, heading southward from Vandrith. There is no telemetry, and there has been no communication from Captain Blitsharts since before the situation started. He may still be alive but unable to recover command of his boat. If your situation permits, I should like to request that you launch one or more pinnaces on a rescue mission. I will send you the latest course data. Please advise Command your course of action as soon as possible. Data follows.”
    The message, Martinez knew, was already being pulsed toward Los Angeles by powerful military communications lasers, but it would still be over twenty-four minutes before the red-shifted signal reached the cruiser, and at least that much time again before he would know Kandinski’s decision.
    Martinez added Blitsharts’s real and projected course to the end of the message and closed the transmission. He tried to lean back, then swayed as he almost toppled from the Laiown chair. Abacha was talking to yet another questioner whom he cut off in mid-sentence. “Receive military communications only,” Abacha told his console. “Log others for reply later.”
    Abacha turned to Martinez. “What now?”
    Martinez rose from the chair and kicked it away. “We wait an hour or more for a reply, while you field calls from every Blitsharts fan on the planet.” Then a thought struck him. “Oh,” Martinez added. “I suppose we should inform Lord Commander Enderby.”
    Â 
    M artinez was busy trying to analyze the way Blitsharts’s boat was