Praxis

FIVE

“He’s old. I hate him.”

Sempronia’s fierce whisper hissed in Martinez’s ear. He looked at his youngest sister with sympathy.

“Sorry, Proney.”

“He keeps following me around the room. What if he wants totouch me?”

“You’ll have to endure it. Think of the family.”

Sempronia narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Iam thinking of the family. I’m thinking ofyou — because this whole scheme is allyour fault.”

“Ah-here you are.” PJ Ngeni materialized at Sempronia’s elbow, a drink in either hand. “I thought I’d bring you another cocktail.”

Sempronia turned to PJ with a brilliant smile. “Why, thank you! How very thoughtful!” She put down her untouched drink and replaced it with another.

Martinez had to admire her skill under pressure. Sempronia was so good atplaying a vivacious young thing that he sometimes had to remind himself that shewas a vivacious young thing, at least most of the time. He could only tell the difference between a performance and the genuine article by the slight tensing of the muscles around the eyes.

PJ didn’t seem the type to much care about whether Sempronia’s conduct was genuine or not. His own behavior was clearly a performance of some sort, in his case that of an attentive and considerate cavalier. He was a tall, thin, elegant man with arched, amused eyebrows and a little mustache. He lacked the cannonball head and large jaws of most of the Ngenis, and the hair was beginning to recede atop his long skull. Though suspicious, thus far Martinez had found nothing in the man he could object to save the bracelets and lapel braid made of bleached and woven human hair, a typical glit affectation.

PJ looked at Martinez. “Such a shame about Blitsharts,” he said. “Too bad you couldn’t rescue him.”

“I rescued him, all right,” Martinez said. “The pity is that he was dead by then.”

PJ’s tented brows arched even higher and he gave a laugh. “Blitsharts was a good fellow,” he said. “Witty. Like you. I won quite a lot, betting on him in the old days.” He shook his head. “Not so much lately, though. He wasn’t lucky.”

“Are you a gambler, then?” Sempronia asked, her eyes clearly asking,Is this why you need my dowry?

PJ shrugged. “I have a flutter now and again. A fellow has to, you know. It’s expected.”

“What else is a fellow expected to do?” The brilliant smile across Sempronia’s face, Martinez knew, was intended to mask the vengeful glimmer in her eyes.

The question took PJ aback. “Well,” he said. “Dress well, you know. Mix with people. Have nice things.”

Sempronia took his arm. “There must be more to it than that. Please tell me simplyeverything. ”

Martinez watched as Sempronia drew him away with the clear intention of ferreting out his every vicious secret. PJ, he decided, was going to pay dearly for his family’s marital ambitions.

Martinez, for his part, was enjoying himself. Lord Pierre had added the Martinez clan to a dinner party already on his schedule, which meant that he would soon be sitting to supper with the sort of people normally out of his reach, in this case three convocates, a judge of the High Court, the commander of the Legion of Diligence for the Metropolis of Zanshaa, a fleet commander on the retired list, and a captain and a squadron commander who weren’t.

Martinez wore his uniform, something he normally didn’t do on a social engagement, and it contributed to his being recognized. The captain and the squadron commander asked for details on the Blitsharts rescue, and Martinez was pleased to oblige. He was just getting to his description of how he had used the virtual simulation to work out howMidnight Runner was tumbling when the dinner gong rang. “I’ll go into the rest later,” he promised.

Particularly the part where he expressed admiration for Lord Commander Enderby’s decision to terminate his life, and happened to mention that as a result he was lacking a posting.

Martinez gave his arm to a lady convocate and led her from the tapestry-lined parlor to the dining room done in parquetry, tens of thousands of slivers of various kinds of wood jigsawed together in the form of portraits of prominent Ngenis of the past. Lord Pierre had only been doing his duty when he placed Martinez between the lady convocate and the retired fleet commander, a short, leathery-skinned woman.

Servants in livery began putting down plates of soup, and the scent of onions and tomatoes rose in the room. The retired fleetcom-she was Lord Pierre’s great-aunt-turned to Martinez and looked him up and down. Long white hairs clustered on her chin. “You’re the Martinez who got Blitsharts back, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He reached for his soup spoon and readied the story of the rescue.

“Bad business,” the fleetcom said. “Wish you hadn’t.”

“My lady?”

The fleetcom glowered. “Now all sorts of things that should have been private will come out. Things that will discredit the poor man. You should have let the fellow die in peace.”

“No doubt, my lady,” Martinez murmured. One never disagreed with a fleet commander.

The fleetcom’s gaze shifted searchingly to her plate. “Hope the soup’s good,” she muttered. “Last time they burnt the onions.”

Which endedthat conversation. The lady convocate on the other side of Martinez was engaged in a complicated discussion over a piece of legislation involving the protection of the gold-bearing seaweeds of Hy-Oso. Martinez glanced across the table, where PJ seemed relieved to find himself sitting next to Vipsania. Lord Pierre had doubtless seated them together on the theory that since Vipsania was the eldest, she’d be most desperate to marry.

Martinez applied himself to his soup and thoughts of Sula and Amanda Taen. He’d seen Amanda twice since he’d first taken her out, with results as filled with delight as the first time. None of the delight, however, had quite got Cadet Lady Sula out of his mind.

Well. He’d see her soon. That would probably settle his thoughts one way or another.

At the end of the long deceleration burn Sula turnedMidnight Runner over to the tugs that would take it to fleet quarantine. She guided her pinnace into her assigned berth, and as the docking clamps locked, she felt the ring’s gravity pushing her onto her back, pressing her into her acceleration couch at a full gravity, twice what she’d experienced during the journey to Zanshaa. She waited till the docking tube had extended and formed a seal around the hatch, then pulled off her helmet and took a deep, relieved breath. People were supposed to wear vac suits when docking in small craft, and it had been a mental struggle to get the faceplate closed.

Once her helmet was off, Sula shut down the pinnace, took two small data foils out of the computer and put them into envelopes.

One foil was the log of the journey, and went into an official envelope that would be turned over to the Fleet Records Office for examination and filing. The other contained her personal information, the communications from Martinez and all the books and entertainment he’d sent her.

She put the private data into the small bag of personal gear she’d carried onto the pinnace with her, then sealed the bag into the thigh pocket of her vac suit. She popped the door into the airlock trunk, grabbed the hand bar over her head and hauled herself out of the couch. The airlock was now “down,” and she lowered herself into it, clumsy in the suit, shut off the lights in the pilot’s compartment and sealed the door behind her.

She didn’t spare the interior of the pinnace another glance. She was glad to see the last of it.

The hatch hissed open, and Sula crawled down the docking tube until she emerged in the ready room, blank white walls and floor, the better to show any dirt or contamination. Hands reached down to help her stand, and it wasn’t until Sula got to her feet that she realized the hands belonged to Martinez. He wore his undress uniform and a broad smile.

Vertigo eddied through Sula’s inner ear. “My lord,” she said.

“Welcome back to the world, cadet.” His hands guided her a step or two forward, and three expressionless, disinterested riggers in sterile disposable smocks and caps descended on her and began to strip off her vac suit. Martinez relieved her of the official envelope. “Is this the log? I’ll take it, then.”

“I’m supposed to deliver it myself.”

“I’ll sign a chit for it,” Martinez said. “It has to be delivered to the Investigative Service, not to Fleet Records.”

“Oh.”

“Lawyers armed with writs have already descended onMidnight Runner. Not that it will do them any good-the Fleet has lawyers as good as anyone’s, and I’m sure it’s already been decided which senior officer is going to get the new toy.”

Efficient hands opened all the vac suit’s pockets, retrieved her personal belongings, some tools, and a pony bottle of air. The air supply and recycler was detached from the seat, the valves sealed, and the upper suit section detached from the lower. The riggers shoved her arms above her head, then pulled the top of the suit off.

Sula, arms high, was suddenly aware that she didn’t smell very good. She lowered her arms as the riggers began to prepare to drop the lower half of the vac suit. She looked up at Martinez.

“Would you mind turning your back?”

Martinez turned, and the riggers stripped the suit and its sanitary gear down Sula’s legs. Martinez looked down as he took a datapad from his belt and wrote on it. One of the riggers held out a pair of sterile drawers, and Sula stepped into them. Martinez pressed a button and the datapad spat out a foil, which he took and held over his shoulder.

“Your chit.”

“Thanks.” Collecting it. “You can turn around.”

Martinez did so. The expression of polite interest on his face betrayed no awareness of the fact that he was looking at an unwashed, slack-muscled woman with greasy hair, pasty skin, and a shirt stained with prominent sweat patches that hadn’t been changed in many long days. Sula had to admire his self-control.

“I’ve got you a room in the cadets’ quarters at the Commandery,” he said.

“I don’t have to live on the ring?” Sula was impressed. “Thanks.”

“I’m using my staff privileges while they last. You can shower in your quarters, and get a bite if you want, and then we’ve got an appointment with my tailor.”

“Tailor?”

“Lord Commander Enderby is going to decorate you in a ceremony tomorrow. You can’t show up in what you’re wearing.”

“Oh. Right.”Decorate? she thought.

“I got your height and weight and so on out of your records. The tailor’s put a uniform together from that, but you’ll still need the final fitting.”

Elastic snapped around Sula’s ankles as the riggers knelt and put slippers on her feet. The vac suit was carried off for checkout, refurbishment, sterilizing, and storage. A thought struck her. “I don’t have to wear parade dress, do I?”

“Full dress, not parade dress.”

“Oh, good. My feet and ankles are swollen from sitting all this time on that couch, and I’d hate to get fitted for a pair of boots right now.” And then she remembered.

“Decorate?”she asked.

“Medal of Merit, Second Class. You’ll be decorated with nine others, after which there will be a reception and questions from reporters.” He gave her a significant look. “The yachting press. Answer their questions fully and freely, and if you want to give credit to my brilliant plan for your success, I think it would only be just.”

Sula looked at him. This last was said in a jocular tone, but perhaps with more emphasis than necessary.

“I think I’d like to take a shower now,” she said. She knew that showers were always adjacent to the sterile ready rooms, and her whole body shrieked for soap and hot water.

“Certainly. This way.”

He directed her to the changing room and politely held the door for her.

“I’m likely be here awhile,” she said.

“Take all the time you like.” He smiled. “By the way, I arranged a furlough for you, starting in two days. It’ll last until the death of Anticipation of Victory, and then all furloughs are off anyway.”

He smiled again and let the door sigh closed behind her. Sula turned and propped the door open with one hand. He looked at her, his heavy brows raised.

“Are you always this efficient?” she asked.

Martinez tilted his head as he considered the question. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe I am.”

Sula, wearing her new uniform and medal, sat in the Commandery’s cadet lounge, where three separate football games blared from the video walls. She was perched on a chair of carbon-fiber rods with a lemon-flavored beverage in her hand, while Cadet Jeremy Foote lounged before her in another, deeper, overstuffed chair.

“Martinez?” Foote said. “He’s got you in his sights, has he?”

“Sights!” snorted Cadet Silva from the sofa. “Bang! Another virgin gone!”

Silva, Sula thought, was very drunk.

“Virgin?” Foote said. He turned to Sula and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a virgin, are you? That would be original.”

“I’m pure as the void itself,” Sula said, and enjoyed the expression that crossed Foote’s face as he tried to work out exactly what she meant.

She had sought out the cadet lounge because it was one of the few places in the Commandery where an off-duty cadet was permitted. Senior officers and politicians apparently preferred to work, drink, and dine without having to rest their eyes on the gauche, ill-mannered, pimpled, and inebriated apprentice officers.

After a brief exposure to Cadet Silva, Sula was beginning to think they had a point.

“So is there anythingwrong with Martinez?” she asked.

“Nothing, if you’re attractive, female, and a shop girl,” Foote said. “He’s got money and a degree of charm and a limited sense of style, and I’m sure he gives his usual sort of companion no reason to complain. But those from a higher station in life can’t be so very impressed.” He gave Sula a significant look. “Youcould do much better, I’m sure.”

“Troglodyte!” Silva called. “That’s whatwe call him!” His voice grew excited. “Goal!Did you see that? Point forCorona! A header off the goalie’s hand!”

“Troglodyte?” Sula asked.

Foote smiled thinly and swiped at the cowlick on his blond head. “It’s those short legs of his. And the long arms. Have you noticed? He must be a throwback to some primitive form of human.”

“But he’s tall,” Sula protested.

“It’s all in his back. The legs are short.” He nodded. “Mind you, he’s got a good tailor. The cut of the jacket hides it, except it can’t hide the hands that hang almost to his knees.”

The comm unit on the wall chimed. Foote told the video walls to be quiet, rose from his chair and answered. He turned to Silva. “Package at the Fleet Office, Silva,” he said. “Needs hand delivery. Take it, will you?”

“You’re first in the queue,” Silva said.

Irritation crossed Foote’s face. “Just go, will you, Silva?”

“The score’s tied two-all,” Silva complained, but he rose, buttoned his tunic, and headed for the door.

“Breath, Silva,” reminded Foote. He tossed Silva a small silver aerosol flask, and Silva gave his palate a shot of mint. Silva tossed the flask back to Foote, who pocketed it, and Silva departed.

“Do you make a point of easing life for your drunken friends?” Sula asked as Foote resumed his seat.

Foote was surprised. “Friends help each other out,” he said. “And as for drinking, you have to do something here to keep away the boredom. For myself, I’m thinking of taking up yachting.” A thought struck him. “Why don’t weboth take it up?” he asked. “You showed real skill capturing theMidnight Runner. I’m sure you’d do well.”

Sula shook her head. “I’m not interested.”

“But why not?” Foote urged. “You’ve won the silver flashes-surely you must have considered yachting. And the Fleet will encourage you, because it’ll improve your piloting.”

Sula felt a certain comfort in the fact that Foote hadn’t checked her family history. Her membership in the Peerage was genuine enough, for all that the Sula clan had no members other than herself. Her trust fund might support a modest apartment in the High City, but would hardly extend to a yacht.

She could simply tell Foote that she hadn’t got her inheritance yet, but for some reason, she didn’t want to. The less Jeremy Foote knew about her, the better.

“I spend too much time in small boats as it is,” Sula said. “Why ask for more?”

A red-haired cadet entered then and looked at Sula in surprise. “I saw you on vid this morning,” she said. “You salvaged theRunner. ”

Foote introduced Ruth Chatterji, who wanted to know if Lord Commander Enderby was as ferocious as rumor made out. Sula said helooked ferocious enough, but hadn’t behaved with any noticeable brutality when hanging the medal around her neck.

“So tell me what it was like onMidnight Runner,” Chatterji said. “Is it true that Blitsharts got an embolism and vomited up his lungs?”

Sula rose to her feet. “I’d better go. Thanks for the chat.”

“Time for your date with the trog?” Foote said. He slouched in his chair and tossed his head back, looking at Sula under half-lowered lids as she passed. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I show you a proper evening? I’m having dinner with my uncle tomorrow night-he’s captain of theBombardment of Delhi. He’s always keen to meet a promising officer-maybe he could do you some good.”

Sula looked down at Foote and smiled sweetly. “Captain Foote of theDelhi? ” she asked. She wrinkled her brow as if trying on a memory for size. “He’s the yachtsman?”

“Yes. That’s the fellow.”

Sula let her smile twist into an expression of distaste. “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I’ve always thought yachtsmen were the most boring people in the whole fucking world.”

Mean pleasure sang in Sula’s heart as she left Foote blinking in slow surprise and Chatterji staring.

Though the afternoon in the cadet lounge wasn’t without its effect. When Martinez arrived for her, she found herself looking at his legs as she walked beside him through the Commandery.

Theywere perhaps a little short, she decided.

Vipsania raised her glass. “Before we go in to supper,” she said, “I would like to salute our special guest. To Lady Sula, who so bravely and skillfully retrieved theMidnight Runner and the bodies of Captain Blitsharts and Orange.”

Martinez repressed a stab of jealousy as he raised his glass and murmured Sula’s name along with everyone else. Really, he thought, itwas his plan.

He imagined it was too much to suppose that Vipsania would ever bother to offer a toast to him. He was just her brother, after all.

But envy faded into admiration as he contemplated Sula, who stood slim and straight as a lance in the parlor of the Shelley Palace, her porcelain complexion lightly flushing at being the center of attention. Her dark green dress tunic served to heighten the intrigue of her emerald eyes. Martinez’s tailor had done a superb job with fitting the uniform, and a bath, a haircut, and modest use of cosmetic had done wonders to repair the pallor and poor skin tone that were consequences of her long, cramped journey.

Martinez touched his glass to his lips and drank to Sula with complete sincerity.

Sula raised the glass of sparkling water she’d been nursing since the start of the evening. “I would like to thank Lady Vipsania, Lord Gareth”-with a look at Martinez-“and to the entire Martinez clan for their gracious hospitality.”

Martinez modestly refrained from lifting his glass as the guests saluted him. He cast a glance about the room and saw PJ Ngeni, a few paces away, looking at Sula with glowing eyes. “Superb!” Martinez heard beneath the crowd’s murmur. “Wonderful girl!”

Martinez smiled privately.You’ll have no luck with this one, my man, he thought,unless you know the works of Kwa-Zo.

The Martinez sisters’ party seemed to be a success. Martinez saw several faces he’d first seen at Lord Pierre’s dinner party, and PJ had arrived with a couple of his male friends who were less successful than he at concealing their fundamentally decorative nature. Walpurga was in a corner of the room, laughing and smiling with an advocate she had first met at the Ngeni Palace, a man who represented the interests of the Qian clan. Sempronia was speaking near the garden door to a young brown-haired man in the viridian uniform of a Fleet lieutenant.

And Sula, Martinez saw, had become the center of a number of young men, including PJ’s two glit friends. Martinez was thinking about rescuing her when the dinner gong boomed and saved him the trouble.

He wasn’t seated near Sula, who was placed between two of the guests his sisters had poached from the Ngeni Palace, but he had a clear view of her. She was framed perfectly by the chair back, which was made of carved, ancient, darkened Esker ivory that admirably set off her pale complexion. Despite the other guests and the elaborate floral arrangements that had perfumed the air with their scent, Caroline Sula was clearly the object in the room most worth looking at.

Martinez was shifting from the dining room to the drawing room when Sempronia briefly touched him on the left arm. “This isyour fault!” she hissed. “He’s at me to join him for a walk in the garden!”

“It’s a pleasant garden,” Martinez said.

“Not with PJ in it.”

“Besides,” Martinez said, “it’s your sisters’ fault and you know it.”

She glared at him. “You should stand up to them for me!” she said. “What are brothers for?” She strode off.

Martinez mingled for a while, and was on the verge of seeking out Sula when PJ Ngeni touched him on the right arm. Symmetry, he thought.

“May we speak?” PJ said, and touched his narrow little mustache.

“Certainly.”

“I have asked, um, your sister Sempronia if she would join me for a walk in the garden,” he said.

Martinez drew a smile onto his face. “That will be pleasant,” he said.

“Well…” PJ hesitated. “The fact is, I’ve become quite fond of Sempronia in a very short time.”

Martinez nodded. “That’s not unusual. She’s a popular girl.”

“I thought-if I could get her in the garden-I might ask for her hand.” His voice trailed off. “In marriage,” he clarified.

“I never thought otherwise.”

“So I thought I’d ask your advice,” PJ finished, and looked brightly up at Martinez.

Martinez gazed down at the man. For someone who was supposed to have led some kind of debauched life, PJ seemed remarkably short of social confidence.

“What’s the problem?” Martinez asked. “Haven’t you propositioned a woman before?”

PJ flushed. “Well, yes,” he said, “purely in a sporting way, of course. But I have never proposed marriage, with all its,” he gave a little cough, “responsibilities and duties, and-” He looked bleak. “-so forth.” His voice trailed away, and he looked up at Martinez again. “Do you have any objection to my asking for your sister’s hand?”

“No.”Not for asking, Martinez thought.Actually marrying, I’d have to shoot you.

This answer didn’t relieve PJ’s anxiety. “Do you think she…do you think darling Sempronia will accept me?” He licked his lips. “She seems to be rather avoiding me, actually.” He cast a glance to a corner of the room, where Sempronia was still talking to the brown-haired young officer.

“She’s one of the hostesses, she’s got a lot to do,” Martinez said. “I think if you ask her, the answer would please you.” It was time to get PJ on his errand. He clapped the man on his shoulder. “Go to it,” he said. “Courage!”

PJ’s eyes seemed to be looking not at Sempronia but the abyss. “Very good of you,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

He marched toward Sempronia as if to his execution. Martinez smiled at the thought of the two people, neither of whom wanted a life with the other, stumbling their way toward the engagement that would satisfy their families. He decided he would prefer not to witness the painful outcome, whatever it was, but instead looked for Sula and found her sipping a cup of coffee, miraculously free of admirers.

“We don’t have to stay all night,” he said. “I know a place in the Lower Town that’s fun.”

Sula tasted her coffee and returned the cup to its matching saucer of hard-paste porcelain. “Is this the new Spenceware Flora pattern?” she asked.

Martinez looked at the cup as if seeing it for the first time. There was a pattern of violets and a faint, matching purple stripe. “I don’t know,” he said. “To me it looks like, well, a cup.”

Sula looked up from the saucer. “I can ask your sisters when we say good night.”

They bade farewell to Vipsania and Walpurga, who told Sula that the cup was in fact the new Flora and thanked her effusively for coming. The presence of the recently decorated Sula, Martinez knew, was enough to assure a mention of the party in tomorrow’s society reports, and that had been his sisters’ object in inviting her in the first place. They wanted to get certified as fashionable hostesses before the official period of mourning for the last Shaa brought large society functions to a close for a full year.

Martinez took Sula down the funicular railway to the Lower Town, and they gazed through the rail car’s transparent roof at the great expanse of the huge metropolis rising to embrace them like a wide, golden sea. Gusts of wind made little excited screams against the car’s hard edges. Martinez turned to one side and saw the old Sula Palace towering on the edge of the High City, its distinctive stained-glass dome glowing blue, and with a start he turned to Sula, remembering the way her parents had died and lost their property. She was looking toward the palace as well, but her face was relaxed. Maybe, after all these years, she didn’t recognize the place.

Martinez took Sula to a cabaret off the city’s main canal, sat her in a quiet corner, and ordered a bottle of wine. He was surprised when she put a hand over the mouth of her glass and asked for sparkling water instead.

“Don’t you drink at all?” he asked.

“No. I-” She hesitated. “I used to have a problem with alcohol.”

“Oh.” There was a moment of surprised silence. Then he looked at the wine bottle in his hand. “Does it bother you if I drink? Because if it does, I’ll-”

“I don’t mind. Have all you like.” She smiled thinly. “Just don’t expect me to carry you home.”

“I haven’t had to be carried yet,” he said, an attempt to carry off the awkward moment with a little bravado.

He sipped his wine but decided to strictly limit his intake. The idea of being inebriated in Sula’s presence was suddenly distasteful.

“So,” he said, “you’re an expert on porcelains? I remember sending you that book.”

“I’m hardly an expert,” Sula said, “I’m just very interested.” Her eyes brightened and she seemed as relieved as he to leave the awkward subject of alcohol behind. “Did you know that fine porcelains were invented on Earth? That porcelain was one of the few things, along with tempered tuning, the Shaa thought a worthy contribution to interstellar civilization?”

“No. I didn’t know that. You mean no one had pots until Earth was conquered?”

Sula’s eyes narrowed. “Of course they had pots. They had all sorts of ceramics. Stoneware, even. But translucent, vitrified ceramics, white clay mixed with feldspar-real porcelain, the kind that rings when you tap your finger against it-that was invented on Earth.” Her lecturing tone suggested that Martinez’s question had disappointed her.

He disliked disappointing beautiful women, and decided not to risk her disapproval by asking about tempered tuning, whatever that was. He took a careful sip of his glass and decided to try the compliment direct.

“I’m reminded of porcelain when I look at you,” he said. “Your complexion is extraordinary, now that I can appreciate it in person. I’m having a hard time not staring.”

She turned away from him, an ambiguous smile twisting her lips. And then she gave a brief laugh, tossed her head, and looked him in the eye. “And my eyes are like emeralds, right?” she said.

Martinez answered with care. “I was going to say green jade.”

She nodded. “Good. That’s better.” She turned away again. “Perhaps we can save the descriptions of any remaining parts for another time,” she murmured.

At least the thought of her other parts-this time or next-was cheering.

“Do you collect porcelains?”

Sula shook her head. “No. I-Not with the way I’m living now. Not if I’m sharing cadet quarters with five other pinnace pilots. Nothing would survive.”

It was also possible, Martinez realized, that Sula couldn’t afford the kind of ceramics she’d like to own, not if she were actually living on her cadets’ pay. He didn’t know what financial resources the execution of her parents had left her.

“There’s a whole wing of porcelains in the Museum of Plastic Arts,” he said. “We could go there someday, if you like.”

“I’ve seen it,” Sula said. “It was the first place I went when theLos Angeles came here to refit.”

He could scratch the museum tours off his agenda, he thought. Though it might have been fun, seeing porcelains with an expert as lovely as any of the ceramics on display.

“Any luck in finding a good posting?” Sula asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Does it have to be a staff job?”

Martinez shook his head. “I don’t mind ship duty. But I’d like it to be a step up, not a step back or sideways.” He put his arms on the table and sighed. “And it would be nice to be in a position to occasionally accomplish something. I have this ridiculous compulsion not to be totally useless. But that’s difficult in the service, isn’t it? Some days it’s a struggle to find a point in it all. Do you know what I mean?”

Sula looked at him and nodded. “We’re in a military that hasn’t fought a real war in thirty-four hundred years, and most of its engagements before and since consisted of raining bombs on helpless populations. Yes, I know what you mean.” She cocked her head, silver-gilt hair brushing her shoulders. “Occasionally we pull off a nice rescue,” she said. “Though we hardly need cruisers or battleships for that, do we? But all those big ships make terrific platforms for enhancing the grandeur and self-importance of senior captains and fleet commanders, and grandeur and self-importance are what holds the empire together.”

Martinez blinked. “That’s blunt,” he said.

“I’m allowed to be blunt. I understand my position very well.” She looked at him. “You know about my family?”

Martinez gave a cautious nod. “I’ve seen your file.”

“Then you know that the military is the only career I’m allowed. But even though I’m a clan head, there’s no clan for me to be head of, so there will be no powerful relatives to help me get promotions. I can get a lieutenancy on my own, but once I pass the exam, that’s about all I can expect. If I astonish everyone with my genius, I might be promoted to elcap, and if I make full captain, it will probably happen only on retirement.” She gave a cold smile. “The consolation of my position is that I can say what I damn well please,” she said. “None of it will change anything.” She looked thoughtful. “Except…” she began.

“Yes?”

“If I do an absolutely brilliant exam. Sometimes senior officers take an interest in the cadet who scores first. Or even second.”

Martinez nodded. It had been known to happen. Even commoners could do well if they had the right patron. “I wish you the best of luck,” he said.

“I hope luck has nothing to do with it,” Sula said. “I’ve never got anywhere by counting on luck.”

“Fine,” Martinez said amiably. “No luck to you, then.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a brief silence, and then Sula said, “In the last couple days, since I’ve arrived on Zanshaa, I’ve started getting messages from people. People who say they were friends of my parents.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember any of them. I don’t remember things very well from that period.”

“You should meet them.”

“Why?”

“Maybe they could help you. They may feel that they owe your parents that.”

Sula considered this for a moment, and then her eyes hardened. She shook her head. “It’s the job of the dead to stay dead,” she said. “Isn’t it?”