Praxis

SEVEN

The catafalque of the last Great Master rolled past, moving at a silent, glacial glide along the length of the Boulevard of the Praxis, all the way from the Great Refuge at the peak of the city’s acropolis to the Couch of Eternity on the other end of the High City’s great rock. Atop the monstrous catafalque was an image of the last Shaa itself, twice life size. The massive body reclined amid sculpted folds of slack gray skin, its flat-topped, prow-shaped head erect, like some lonely butte in a distant desert country, and gazing ahead into a future that only those as wise as the Shaa could expect ever to see.

Martinez had been standing under somber skies for what seemed hours. He wore parade mourning dress, with cape and brocade and epaulets and jackboots, and a tall black leather shako atop his head. Service colors were reversed in mourning garb, so instead of green tunic and trousers with silver buttons and braid, the tunic and trousers were the white of mourning, with green collar, cuffs, braid, buttons, and brocade. The cape was white and lined with green, and weighted at the corners to preserve its line.

The uniform was stiff with starch and unfamiliarity, and the tall collar chafed the underside of Martinez’s chin. The jackboots were hot and heavy, and the shako with its silver plate sat like a millstone on his skull. The scabbard of the sickle-shaped dress knife, with which he was entitled to slice the throats of subordinates who displeased him, banged against his thigh when he walked.

The catafalque crept past, followed by a band-all Cree, with motorized booming kettledrums and double-reed flutes that wailed a weird, wild chant like the keening of some half-savage species from the dawn of time. These were followed by a float that held the various machines that rumor maintained had been connected to Anticipation of Victory during the latter portion of its life. These were covered with white shrouds, and would be burned along with the last Shaa, taking their secrets with them.

Martinez couldn’t help but think this was a pity. The Shaa had been very private where their anatomy and physiology were concerned, let alone their mentation. On their decease, each Shaa had been cremated along with their personal servants and gear, and the surviving Shaa had made certain that all proper procedures were followed. Whatever was going on beneath those folds of skin, or in those prow-shaped heads, remained a secret of the Shaa alone.

But now therewere no surviving Shaa to assure that the evidence was destroyed. This was a perfect opportunity for a postmortem if not an actual dissection. If Martinez had been in charge of arrangements, the funeral and its solemn procession would have been postponed for days if not months, while expert pathologists sought out every last secret of Shaa physiology, and the best cyberneticians examined the machines to determine if they were, in fact, repositories of Shaa memory.

But Martinez was not in charge, and the secrets of the Shaa would die with the last of their kind.

Following Anticipation of Victory and its machines came the senior mourners, all in their reversed mourning uniforms: the white and deep red of the lords convocate, the white and brown of the Civil Service, the white and green of the Fleet, each service organized by species, in order of the seniority of conquest. The Naxids were first, their long bodies curving right and left in order to maintain the slow pace, followed by the Terrans, the Torminel, and so on. The only species missing were the Yormaks, who centuries ago had received special dispensation never to leave their home world.

Lord Pierre Ngeni was somewhere among the lords convocate, but Martinez didn’t see him. Amid the white uniforms of the Fleet, he saw Senior Fleet Commander Jarlath, the new commander of the Home Fleet. He was a Torminel, his large nocturnal eyes covered by shaded spectacles even on this gray day, his plump, furry body swathed to the chin in mourning white. The combination of fur and an elaborate uniform could result in deadly overheating in his species-in less formal circumstances, Torminel officers usually wore only vests and short pants-but Martinez suspected that there were refrigeration units in his uniform to keep his body cooled to a reasonable temperature. Many Torminel in official posts would bleach their gray and black fur white for the duration of the mourning period rather than to risk heat stroke every day.

Martinez knew nothing of Fleet Commander Jarlath, and wished to know less. For Jarlath had replaced Fleet Commander Enderby, and after today Martinez would have to remove from his collar the red staff tabs that marked him as an officer of distinction.

Following the mourners of the Fleet came the white and blue of the Exploration Service, then the black and gold of the Legion of Diligence. The Legion alone had no mourning dress, which symbolized the fact that even mourning could not interrupt their incessant search for the foes of the Praxis.

After these came the bodies of those who had decided to follow the Great Master in death, first among them the Lady Senior of the Convocation, the highest-ranking individual in the empire not to have been born a Shaa. She moved past slowly on her catafalque, the wind whipping the scant feathery hair atop her hollow-boned body. Following the Lady Senior and other convocates came the biers of high-ranking civil servants. Each had taken massive doses of poison, and presumably died with their loyal family members worshipfully clustered about them-possibly to make certain they went through with it, or to pour the poison down their throats if they balked.

For the first time in his life Martinez felt grateful that the Martinez clan wasn’t of the first rank. If his family were expected to offer up one of their own, he couldn’t help but wonder whether they wouldn’t have handed the cup to him. His brother Roland was the presumed heir to Laredo and too important to die, and his sisters were-for the most part, anyway-a united front against all adversity. Perhaps a family council would have decided that the unfortunate Gareth, employed uselessly with the Fleet and with few prospects for aiding the others in their projects, would have been the most expendable.

Martinez was saved from further morbid thoughts by the sight of someone he knew-PJ Ngeni, dressed all in white, walking slowly in the procession with an unusually solemn look on his insipid face. He marched with other Ngenis behind the bier of one of their clan members, an elderly man with a distinguished white mustache who wore the uniform of a retired senior civil servant. Strange to think that the Ngenis would spare this one sooner than PJ.

PJ’s sojourn in the Shelley Palace garden with Sempronia had proved successful-certainly more successful than his own boat ride with Sula-and now that he and Sempronia had paid their obligatory visit to the Peers’ Gene Bank, Martinez was now obliged to treat PJ as a future brother-in-law. Had he not known that the whole thing was a sham, he would have been deeply offended, but as it was, he found himself almost genial around PJ.

Which was more than could be said for Sempronia, who was clearly keeping her fiance at arm’s length. What PJ thought about being engaged to a girl who was doing her best to avoid his presence had not, so far, come to Martinez’s ears.

After the civil servants came the biers of the Fleet. Fleet Commander Enderby, without the fierce rigidity that animated him in life, looked shrunken and mournful in death. Martinez felt a surge of sadness at the sight.

He should have followed my advice, Martinez thought.

Enderby’s daughter, looking trim in the white and brown of the Civil Service, stepped from her place near Martinez and walked to the tail of her father’s bier. She held her own daughter, a child of nine or ten, by the hand.

The famous wife was nowhere in evidence.

“Party-forward!” called the senior captain on Martinez’s right, and he stepped out with the others of Enderby’s family and staff. The small formation, Enderby’s official family, performed a left wheel and placed themselves into the procession behind Enderby’s daughter and granddaughter, his chief mourners.

Other formations placed themselves in the procession. Among them, Martinez saw Cadet Foote. Apparently the Footes had sacrificed one of their own to the glory of their clan, though the solemnity of the occasion had done nothing to tame Foote’s cowlick.

Martinez was pleased to be moving, even if it was at this glacial pace. The solemnity of the death march meant that each foot had to hang in the air for a beat or two before it could be placed on the ground. The polished jackboots looked dashing and romantic, but were very heavy when suspended that way. The rest of the uniform had its disadvantages as well: when the procession moved into gaps between the palaces that lined the road, the wind caught at his tall hat and whipped the cape of the next in line into his face.

He blinked and adjusted his hat, which earned a frown from the captain on his right.

The procession crept on. The scabbard of the curved knife banged against his right thigh with every step. Formations of cadets lined the road to keep order, and Martinez found himself searching for the bright hair and brilliant eyes of Cadet Sula. He failed to find her, and then reprimanded himself for looking for her in the first place.

He had been angry enough when she bolted and left him standing foolishly in the excursion boat. His temper hadn’t improved when he returned to his apartment and found the cold supper that Alikhan had left for two, and which Martinez unceremoniously shoved into the fridge on his way to bed.

His anger had faded to annoyance by morning, and faded yet again when he received a message from Sula. It was written on her datapad in a precise, uniform hand, and sent without being recorded on video. Perhaps she was embarrassed to be seen by him, even on a screen.

It’s entirely my fault, she’d written.Since I’m not fit company for man nor beast, I’m going to spend the rest of my furlough away from the capital, studying for my exams.

It had been a few hours before his ire faded to the point where he returned her message, scrawling her a note-this handwriting was contagious-to the effect that he’d be happy to speak with her whenever she felt like talking.

Apparently, she didn’t feel much like conversation, because he hadn’t heard from her again. He’d managed to console himself somewhat with Amanda Taen, who by this point he was finding refreshingly uncomplicated.

He didn’t see Sula at any point during the long, slow march, but that wasn’t surprising. Every cadet, every officer, every warrant and petty officer, and every recruit was on duty at this hour, and only a minority of them in the High City. Also on alert was every member of the Legion, every member of every police force, and even the few remaining members of the Exploration Service. All public areas were guarded, and a platoon of armed troops kept watch at each skyhook terminal. They were all as ready as they could be for…well, forsomething.

As Martinez saw it, no one knew what to expect after the death of the last member of the order that had ruled with such terror and absolute unquestioning certainty for the last ten thousand years. Despair and panic were widely predicted. Projections included mass suicides, riots, and insurrections. Lord Commander Enderby and the other senior officers had redeployed half the Fleet to make sure that warships were available to intervene anywhere in the empire at short notice.

Martinez himself suspected that little or nothing would happen. Yes, there would be hysterics who would try to kill themselves, though most of them wouldn’t succeed; and perhaps there would be a few individuals who ran out of control while under the impression that, with the last Shaa dead, life would turn into some kind of fair. But while these people doubtless existed, those he encountered appeared to be merelywaiting. They hadn’t worked out what the death of Anticipation of Victory meant, and neither had anyone else.

And then he remembered standing in the foyer of the Commandery, looking at the map of the empire’s wormhole systems and thinking that there was no escaping the Shaa.

Perhaps, he thought, hehad just escaped. Perhaps everyone had. Perhaps some of the weight of history had been taken off everyone’s shoulders.

This idea sufficiently intrigued him that he barely noticed the long, slow parade until it finally came to an end at the Couch of Eternity, the long, rectangular mausoleum, sheathed in marble of a brilliant cake-icing white, where the Great Masters were cremated and shelved for infinity. The mausoleum was built at the base of a series of long white steps, an artificial amphitheater, with a ramp descending to the entrance, with its peculiar two-tier arch. The catafalque rolled slowly down the ramp and beneath the arch, and the mourners following it wheeled off and took their places in rank on either side of the tall wide steps.

As Enderby’s body crept beneath the arch, Martinez’s formation wheeled again to follow his daughter past the more senior mourners to their place. To Martinez’s right the Lower Town sprawled out beneath the uncertain autumn skies, marked by the patterns of cloud that scudded overhead. He was beginning to feel very cold. The march hadn’t been swift enough to warm him.

The slow procession went on until finally the elaborate doors of blackened steel closed behind the last of the dead.

There was a long, long pause. The mourners stood in disciplined rows, coats and cloaks flapping in the cold wind. There was a rushing noise, as if the wind had been channeled into a tiny tunnel, and then fire burst from the mausoleum roof, a column of white-hot flame that licked toward the viridian sky.

Martinez felt a collective sigh from the assembled multitude. The era of the Shaa had come to an end.

The column of flame died away, scattering atoms of Anticipation of Victory and the others onto the cold wind. In a series of shouted commands, the mourners were dismissed. Martinez stood with the others to speak briefly to Enderby’s daughter-the proper form was to offer congratulations rather than condolences on someone permitted to die with a Great Master, but Martinez knew his congratulations probably sounded more mournful than not-and then he made his way back along the parade route through the High City.

He passed the Shelley Palace on the way, where he knew his sisters, along with PJ Ngeni, were hosting a small reception for his brother Roland, who had arrived three days ahead of the funeral. It wasn’t a party, since parties on the day of the last Shaa’s death would have been bad form. It would be a mourning function, a kind of wake, and was restricted by custom to twenty-two guests.

Martinez wasn’t one of them. The Fleet was still on alert, and he would be spending the next shift in the Commandery, handling the signals traffic that might result from an emergency, should there actually be one.

Then he would turn in the Commandery ID that entitled him to enter the building, after which he would go to his apartment and give Alikhan his jacket, so his orderly could pick away the tiny stitches that fixed the red staff tabs to his collar.

Sula spent the day commanding a guard detail on a skyhook terminus on the first level of Zanshaa’s accelerator ring. The ring was built in two sections. The lower part rotated at the same speed as the planet below, which gave it a very light gravity, and was used for antimatter generation, storage, and utility conduits. The second, outer section glided atop the inner ring like the second hand of a clock, spinning faster than the hour hand; it moved at nine times geosynchronous speed in order to maintain one standard gravity. It was this second level that contained docks, repair bays, and housing for the population of the ring.

Sula’s dozen recruits carried stun batons, and she herself wore a sidearm on one hip and a viridian-green helmet on her head. She couldn’t help but wonder what this pathetic force was supposed to do in the event of a raving mob of anarchists charging down from the outer ring to seize the skyhook, other of course than to die pointlessly with all the bravery they could muster.

Nothing happened. Civilian traffic was nil, and military traffic nearly so until her relief arrived, a detail of Naxids armed with gatling guns and grenade launchers.

Naxids didn’t fool around, Sula concluded.

She took her detail to the outer ring, where she turned in her sidearm and her detail’s stun batons, then wondered what to do next. Mourning had closed down all entertainment, on the planet or off, and filled all hotels, so she couldn’t get a room.

In the end she requested a billet in the traveling cadets’ hostel and found half a dozen cadets passing a bottle around while shooting dice. She let them get drunk, won their money, then retired to her rack filled with a rare, pleasing sense of accomplishment.

“Reporting aboardCorona, my lord.”

Martinez, head thrown back before his new captain, gazed with level eyes above the captain’s head at the massive gleaming structure on the shelf behind him, the Home Fleet Trophy thatCorona’s football team had just won in a short season truncated by the death of the last Shaa.

One other Home Fleet Trophy stood on a special shelf in the corner, locked into place and braced against high accelerations. A second-place trophy sat on a somewhat less special shelf. Other, lesser trophies, all topped by gleaming crystal footballers, crowded Lieutenant Captain Tarafah’s desk on all sides.

“At ease, Lieutenant Martinez,” Lord Fahd Tarafah said, which allowed Martinez to drop his chin and contemplate his new commander. Tarafah was a compact, well-formed man with a shaven head and neatly trimmed goatee, still under thirty. On his left sleeve, just above the cuff, was the stylized football insignia that all the Coronas were entitled to wear for the next year.

“You’ve reported to Garcia?” Tarafah asked, referring to the officer on watch.

“Yes, my lord. She’s shown me my quarters and given me the code to my safe. She was going to give me a more thorough orientation after her watch.”

“It’ll be useful to have another watch-keeping officer aboard. Your orders and records have been logged on the computer?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tarafah opened his collar, took his captain’s key from around his neck, and called Martinez’s records onto his displays. His eyes scanned back and forth, then halted, no doubt focused on the candid evaluations of Martinez’s abilities and character provided by his former commanders, evaluations that Martinez carried around with him as part of his permanent record but did not possess the codes to read.

“What sports did you do at the academy?” Tarafah asked. Which, Martinez knew, was the question that might well doom him.

“An absolute fanatic about football,” Ari Abacha had said approvingly, when Martinez had asked him about Tarafah at the junior officers’ club. “Pulls every string he can to get the top players on his ship, and when strings won’t work, he lays out the cash. Rumor has it that he bought Captain Lord Winfield a new yacht in order to guarantee the transfer of a new outside forward.”

Abacha approved of the Fleet’s fanatic football officers, and if his devotion to languor hadn’t been so all-encompassing, he would probably have been one himself, either a player, coach, or manager. As it was, Abacha contented himself with absorbing everything known about the subject-the players, the statistics, the tactics, the managers and coaches-and had a profitable sideline running a sports book for other officers.

Corona’sappearance only confirmed Abacha’s assessment. Tarafah had painted his ship green-not the viridian green of Zanshaa’s sky, but the bright lawn green of a football pitch, with the white midfield stripe bisecting the frigate lengthwise and a motif of white soccer balls bouncing down the ship’s sides.

Coronawas a small ship to field such an important team. With a crew of only sixty-one, to get a first-rate team of eleven players, plus alternates and coaches and support-enough to make a serious bid for the Home Fleet Trophy, against ships with ten times the crew strength-required single-minded dedication and deep pockets.

“I did fencing and swimming, my lord,” Martinez said. Sports where his long arms and comparatively short legs worked to his advantage.

He suspected it wouldn’t help to mention that he was school champion at hypertourney, an abstract positional game with a computer-generated playing field. Hypertourney was probably a little too intellectual for Tarafah and theCorona.

“We do football on theCorona,” Tarafah said. Which Martinez couldn’t help but think was like saying,In the Legion of Diligence, we do fanaticism.

“Yes, my lord,” Martinez said. “Everyone in the Fleet knows the quality ofCorona’s team.”

The compliment indirect, Martinez thought. One should start small, then work slowly up toward finding the level of flattery appropriate for one’s commander.

The praise at least persuaded Tarafah to ask Martinez to sit. Martinez drew up a chair and watched the lieutenant captain with all due attention.

Tarafah folded his hands atop his desk and leaned forward. “I don’t believe that any officer can succeed on his own, Lieutenant,” he said. “I believe that a ship’s company is a team, each dependent on the others for success.”

“Very true, my lord.” Martinez tried to imply that this was an idea he had never heard before.

“That’s why I expect the entire ship’s company to pull together for the common good, in makingCorona look its absolute best-during fleet maneuvers, during inspections, and on the football field. Each must do his part.”

“Very good, my lord,” Martinez repeated.

“That’s why I expect everyone to support the team. The team makes usall look good, just as polished paneling and spotless floors give us the look of a ship where everything is completely up to the mark. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord. In fact,” Martinez added, “that’s why I hope to contribute directly to the success of the team. I know that I’m probably unsuitable as a player, but I thought I might serve as a coach, or some kind of manager-”

Martinez fell silent as he saw the thin, disapproving look on Tarafah’s face. “I coach the team myself, as well as manage,” he said. “And Weaponer Mancini assists.”

“Yes, my lord,” Martinez said, his hopes for the tour sinking fast. He played his last card. “By the way,” he added, “I’m bringing only one servant on board.”

Tarafah was taken aback. “Yes? Do you want the first officer to appoint another?”

“No. I merely thought that, if for any reason you needed another reserve player aboard, you could make the player my second servant.”

“Oh.” Calculation flickered across Tarafah’s face. “That might be useful,” he judged. “I intend to win the Second Fleet Championship next year, at Magaria.”

Surprise filled Martinez. “Magaria?” he said. “We’re shipping out?”

“Yes. We’re replacingStaunch, which is going into refit. You’ve got six days to wind up your personal affairs and get your division up to the mark.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tarafah fingered the touch pads on his desk. “I’ve configured your third lieutenant’s key. Here you are.”

Martinez accepted the key on its elastic strap and thought,This is going to be a long, long tour.

“Brilliant. Quite brilliant. I’m sure your parents would be proud.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Sula said.

“May I get you another drink?”

“I’m having water, thanks.”

Lord Durward Li decanted some water into Sula’s glass and refreshed his own mig brandy. “It’s a pity we’re in a period of mourning,” he said. “Usually we haveswarms of guests at these affairs, but now it’s only twenty-two, alas.”

“Twenty-two,” Sula mused. “I wonder why. The Shaa usually preferred to play with primes.”

“Oh-you don’t know the story behind that? You see, ages ago, just after the Torminel conquest…”

Sula sipped her water and listened to Lord Durward rattle on.

After the debacle with Martinez, she’d fled the capital to a resort town in the highlands. While other visitors hiked trails or lounged in the communal bath or enjoyed the mountain scenery, Sula rarely left her room and spent her days studying for her lieutenant exams.

When she’d grown so weary of cramming that she couldn’t make her eyes focus on the screen, she closed her eyes and lay on the bed and tried to rest. On the backs of her closed lids she saw Martinez standing in the boat, his hands thrown out in exasperation.

Stupid, stupid.She had to learn how to behave around people.

She remembered the invitations she’d received and thought that perhaps Martinez had been right about them. Her parents’ friends might help, and in any case it was probably a good idea to meet people other than those the service threw in her way. The alternative, after all, was the cadet lounge, with Foote and his clique.

She’d sent her regrets to all invitations to take place before the Great Master’s funeral, which disposed of all the people who only wanted her as an ornament because she’d become a celebrity. Then she’d done a modest amount of research through public databases concerning the remainder, and discovered that the Li clan had been clients of the Sulas, and after the fall of Clan Sula, were assured of the patronage of the Chen clan instead. Lord Durward’s was the first invitation she had accepted.

Apparently the Lis had done well for themselves in the years since the death of Lord Sula. The new Li Palace, built on the site of an older place that had been torn down, occupied a large frontage on the Boulevard of the Praxis. The facade was of some pale, semitranslucent stone veined with pink, and which, when lights were turned on at night, seemed to glow as if the building itself were a living thing.

Inside, the reception hall was draped in what Sula at first assumed were tapestries and lace, but which on closer inspection turned out to be marble, cream and green and pale red, carved into the shape of draped fabric, all the little lace-points and filigree cunningly shaped into the stone. She was stunned by the tens of thousands of man-hours that must have gone into the work.

The parlor was less intimidating, with plush furniture and portraits of horses and country scenes on the walls. Fortunately, the furniture was set with wide lanes between the pieces, so that the three Naxid guests-Lady Kushdai, a convocate come into the city for the Great Master’s funeral, and her kin-could maneuver without knocking things over. Sula admired greatly the crackled surface on the porcelain jars, each taller than a man, that stood in the room’s corners.

“So you see,” Lord Durward finished, “it all has to do with the Twenty-Two Martyrs for the Perfection of the Praxis. One wants to invite them to one’s mourning feasts, to show them that they didn’t die in vain.”

“Fascinating,” Sula said.

“Ah.” Lord Durward’s ginger brows rose as he turned to the parlor door, where a Fleet captain had just entered with an elegant young woman on his arm. “Have you met my son Richard?” And then he smiled. “Well, of course you have. I forgot.”

Sula’s mind whirled as she tried to remember where she might have met Captain Lord Richard Li. He didn’t seem the sort of man one would forget: he was taller than his father, dark-haired, with a smooth, handsome face of the sort that would look youthful well into middle age.

“Caro,” Lord Richard said, taking Sula’s hand. “It’s good to see you after all this time.”

Sula felt herself bristling, and told herself to behave. “Caroline,” she corrected. “I’m not Caro anymore.”

Amusement crinkled the corners of Lord Richard’s eyes. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.”Behave, she told herself again.These people are trying to be your friends.

Lord Richard’s smile was very white, his eyes very blue. “I put you on your first pony, in our garden at Meeria.”

“Oh,” Sula said. Her eyes widened. “That wasyou? ”

“I haven’t changedthat much, have I?” he said. “Do you still ride at all?”

“Not in ages.”

Lord Richard looked at his father, then back at Sula. “We still keep stables at Meeria. If you’d like to go down and spend some time riding, I’m sure we’d love having you. We also have excellent fishing.”

Lord Durward nodded agreement.

“Thank you,” Sula said. “I’ll think about it. But it’s been so long…”

Lord Richard turned toward the young woman by his side. She was tall and willowy, with dark almond eyes and a beautiful, shining fall of black hair.

“This is my fiancee, Lady Terza Chen. Terza, this is Caroline, Lady Sula.”

“A pleasure. I saw you on video.” Lady Terza’s voice was low and soothing, and the graceful hand she extended was unhurried but warm and welcoming in its gentle clasp.

Sula knew it was far too early to hate her, to resent the ease and privilege and serenity that oozed from Terza’s every pore, but somehow she managed it.Shove off, sister, she thought.You think you can get between me and the man who put me on my first pony?

“What a beautiful necklace,” Sula said, the first civil thing that popped into her head.

Lord Richard turned adoring eyes to his bride-to-be. “I wish I could say I’d given it to her,” he said. “But she chose it herself-her taste is so much better than mine.”

Sula looked at him. “You’re a lucky man,” she said.

It’s not as if she wouldn’t have bollixed the relationship anyway.

A trim, broad-shouldered man in the uniform of a convocate arrived, along with Lady Amita, Lord Durward’s wife. The newcomer was introduced as Maurice, Lord Chen, Terza’s father. Sula’s knowledge of the status of Peer clans in relationship to each other was hazy, but she understood enough to know that the Chens were on top of the pile. Lords Chen, Richard, and Durward then engaged in a brief contest in who could offer Terza the most compliments, with Sula adding plaudits of her own now and again out of politeness Then Lord Chen turned to Sula and said equally polite things about her parents, and about her rescue ofMidnight Runner.

It was a polite group altogether, Sula thought.

“The problem,” she said, “is I’m not likely to see the end ofMidnight Runner for some time. I’ve had to give a deposition for the court of inquiry, but I’ve been contacted by advocates representing Lord Blitsharts’s insurance company.They want to prove it was suicide.”

“It wasn’t, was it?” Lady Amita asked.

“I found no evidence one way or another.” Sula tried not to shiver at the memory.

“However complicated it gets,” Lady Amita said, “I’m so glad it was you who got the medal, and not that dreadful man.”

“Dreadful man, my lady?” Sula asked, puzzled.

“The one who talked all the time during the rescue. The man with the horrible voice.”

“Oh.” Sula blinked. “That would be Lord Gareth Martinez.”

“That’s what the news kept insisting, that he was a Peer.” Lady Amita made a sour face. “But I don’t see how a Peer could talk like that, not with such a horrid accent. Certainlywe don’t know any such people. He sounded like some kind of criminal fromThe Incorruptible Seven. ”

Lord Durward patted his wife’s arm. “Some of these decayed provincial Peers are worse than criminals, take my word on it.”

Sula felt a compulsion to defend Martinez. “Lord Gareth isn’t like that,” she said quickly. “I think he’s kind of a genius, really.”

Lady Amita’s eyes widened. “Indeed? I hope we never meet any such geniuses.”

Lord Durward gave her an indulgent smile. “I’ll keep you safe, my dear.”

The point of the evening, it turned out, was to demonstrate Lady Terza’s accomplishments before a select group of Lis and their friends. After supper, which was served on modern Gemmelware with a design of fruits and nuts, they all gathered in a small, intimate theater. It was built in the back of the Li Palace in the form of an underwater grotto, with the walls and proscenium covered with thousands of seashells arranged in attractive patterns, and blue-green lighting to enhance the effect. All listened as Lady Terza sat before a small chamber ensemble and played her harp-and played it extremely well, so far as Sula could tell. Terza’s concentration on the music was complete, her face taking on an intent look, almost a ferocity, that belied the serene exterior she had shown with her family and friends.

Sula knew next to nothing about chamber music, and had always dismissed it as the kind of music where you have to make up your own words. But Terza’s concentration led her into the piece. From the other woman’s expressions-the way Terza held her breath before a pause, then nodded her satisfaction at the chord that ended the suspense; the way her eyes grew unfocused as she made a complicated attack; the way she seemed to relax into the slow passages, her movements growing dreamy, evocative-Sula felt the music enter her, caressing or stimulating or firing her nerves, dancing in her blood.

After the music ended there was a pause, then Sula helped to fill it with applause.

“I’m glad to have a chance to hire an orchestra,” confided Lady Amita, her hostess, during the interval. “Musicians aren’t going to be in very great demand during the mourning period.”

This aspect of mourning hadn’t struck Sula till now. “It’s good of you to give them work,” she said.

“Terza suggested it. She has so many friends among the musicians, and she’s concerned for them.” Her face assumed a touch of anxiety. “Of course, once she’s married, we don’t imagine she’ll be spending so much time with-” Tact rescued her in time. “With those sorts of people.”

The interval ended, and the orchestra began to play again. Sula watched Terza’s long, accomplished fingers as they plucked the harp, her intent face hovering near the strings, and then Sula glanced across the aisle at Maurice Chen and Lord Richard, both gazing with shining eyes at the graceful woman on stage. Sula suspected her own accomplishments would never gather quite that level of admiration-she was a good pilot and a whiz with math, but she’d already destroyed any hope of a relationship with the one person who had ever shown appreciation for that particular blend of skills.

Not that she would have had a chance with Martinez anyway, not in the longer term, and certainly not with someone like Lord Richard. She had long ago discovered that her looks attracted eligible men right up to the point where their parents found out she had no money or prospects, after which the young men were dragged off to look elsewhere. Strangely, however, this made her attractive to their fathers, men who had married once for the sake of procreation and family advantage, and who now, widowed or divorced, were looking for fun in their declining years, and someone beautiful on their arm for other men to admire.

If she’d been interested in older men, Sula supposed she could have done very well for herself. But she would have been lost in the complex, intricate world that those men lived in-she hadn’t grown up in it the way they had, or had a fraction of their experience-and she didn’t fancy being in the position of a pampered, addled, half-imbecile doll, trotted out for show or a romp in bed, then sent off to the boutique or the hairdresser whenever anything important went on.

The Fleet, for all its frustrations and disadvantages, was at least something she understood. Given a chance, perhaps only the merest breath of a chance, the Fleet was a place where she could do well.

After the concert, Sula complimented Terza on her playing. “What instrument do you play?” Terza asked.

“None, I’m afraid.”

Terza seemed surprised. “You didn’t learn an instrument at school?”

“My schooling was…a bit spotty.”

Terza’s surprise deepened. “You were taught at home, Lady Sula?”

Clearly no one had told Terza about Sula’s past. “I was in school on Spannan,” she said. “The school wasn’t very good and I left early.”

Something in Sula’s tone perhaps suggested to Terza that the matter was best left unpursued, and so it was.

Sula raised her coffee cup. “This is the Vigo hard-paste, isn’t it?”

Which led to a discussion of porcelain in general, and a tour of some of the family’s collection, led by Lord Richard.

It never hurts to know a genial senior officer, Sula told herself, and exerted herself not to tell him he was an idiot when he got something wrong.

The vote appointing Akzad as Lord Senior of the Convocation was unanimous. The choice had been obvious. Lord Convocate Akzad was a member of an exemplary and dignified Naxid clan that had provided scores of distinguished civil servants and high-ranking officers of the Fleet, he had served in the Convocation most of his life, and he was a prominent member of the previous Lady Senior’s administration.

There was a certain amount of speculation concerning why Akzad hadn’t retired or committed suicide along with his contemporaries. Privately, the convocates admitted to one another that Akzad wanted the highest office in the empire more than he wanted his ashes to rest with the Great Masters. But it was also admitted that he deserved the office, and that his administration would be run smoothly and be free of innovation. The Convocation was not in favor of innovation, especially not now, when citizens were uneasy after the death of the Shaa and continuity was most to be desired.

Maurice, Lord Chen rose from his seat when the vote was called, then remained on his feet and applauded as Akzad took his seat at the dais and with great ceremony was cloaked in the stiff, brocaded robe of the Lord Senior. He was then presented with the overlong wand, burnished copper with silver bands, that he would use to call the Convocation to order, to recognize speakers, and to command the audio pickups that would broadcast the speaker’s words to the 631 members of the Convocation.

The Convocation meeting room was a large fan-shaped building tucked beneath a wing of the Great Refuge, a carved stone amphitheater with the seat of the Lord Senior at its focal point. The gray-white granite of the acropolis was carved in abstract, geometric patterns and inset with marble, porphyry, and lapis. Each convocate had a seat appropriate to his species, along with a desk and display. They faced the dais, behind which was a transparent wall with a spectacular view of the Lower Town, the Apszipar Tower prominent on the far horizon.

The applause ending, Lord Chen took his seat and paged through his correspondence while Lord Akzad gave his acceptance speech. When Lord Chen’s turn came, he rose to congratulate the Lord Senior on his appointment and express confidence in Akzad’s forthcoming administration. With any luck, he’d get an appointment himself, command a department or chair a more important committee than that of Oceanographic and Forestry, on which he now sat.

After the long round of congratulations, the Convocation was adjourned. Akzad would need several days to form his government and make his appointments.

As Lord Chen made his way out of the hall, he found himself walking alongside Lord Pierre Ngeni. The young convocate walked with his head bent, frowning at the floor, his heavy jaw grinding some particle of a thought to a fine powder.

“Lord Pierre,” Maurice Chen said, “I hope your father is well.”

Pierre gave a little start and look up. “I beg your pardon, Lord Chen. I was thinking of-well, never mind. My father is well, and I wish he were here. He’d be certain to be a part of this new government, but I’m too young, alas.”

“I encountered one of your clients the other day. Lord Roland Martinez.”

“Ah.” His heavy jaw ground once. “Lord Roland, yes. He’s arrived from Laredo.”

“A three-month journey, he told me.”

“Yes.”

“He’s the brother of the fellow that helped Caro Sula try to save Blitsharts, isn’t he?”

Lord Pierre looked as if he had just been struck by indigestion. “His brother, yes. Lord Gareth.”

Maurice Chen waved at a friend across the lobby. “Dreadful accent the man’s got,” he said.

“Both brothers. The sisters’ voices are sweeter, but more insistent.”

“You’re marrying PJ to one of them, aren’t you?”

Lord Pierre shrugged. “PJ’s got to marry someone. A Martinez is probably as high as he can hope.”

Lord Chen guided Pierre into the lobby lounge, where legislators, meeting clients or family, were thick on the deep pile carpet before the bar. He caught the eye of one of the waitrons and signaled for two of the usual.

“The Martinez family’s very wealthy, I understand,” he said.

“And they’re doing their best to display it while they’re here.” Sourly.

“They don’t seem vulgar, though, from what I’ve seen of them. I haven’t seen them making the mistakes the newly arrived usually make.”

Lord Pierre hesitated, then agreed. “Nothing gauche,” he said. “Except their accents.”

“Lord Roland spoke to me of his plan for the opening of Chee and Parkhurst.”

Lord Pierre looked at Chen in surprise. “He only spoke to me of it a few days ago. I’ve barely had time to consider the scheme.”

“The scheme seemed fairly complete to me.”

“He should have let me present it to people, once I’d had a chance to review it. The Martinez clan are always in a hurry.” Lord Pierre shook his head. “They have no patience, no sense of occasion-everything’s a rush with them. My father tells me it was the same with their father, the current Lord Martinez.”

“Lord Roland has only a limited time on Zanshaa. I’m sure he’d like to get things in train before he leaves. And he’s certainly done his homework.”

Drinks arrived. Lord Pierre raised his glass to his lips, then hesitated. “I say, Lord Chen,” he said, “what’s your interest in Roland Martinez?”

Lord Chen spread his hands. “Just that he seems a very…thoroughyoung man. He’s looked into a number of schemes that have got jammed up one way or another, what with uncertainty and inertia and the death of the Great Masters. Including the station at Choy-on, which should have been expanded to a full-scale antimatter ring ages ago.”

Lord Pierre’s pebble eyes gazed unblinking at Maurice Chen. “You have shipping interests at Choy-on,” he said.

“And I also have ships that could be leased long-term to help settle Chee and Parkhurst.”

“Ah.” Lord Pierre took a long, deliberate swallow of his drink, and seemed to chew it on the way down. “Since you’ve taken such an interest in Clan Martinez,” he said, “I wonder if you might consider helping Lord Gareth.”

“Lord Gareth needs help?”

“Lord Gareth needs promotion. I really don’t have any family remaining in a position to help him, not since my great-aunt retired.” His lips tightened in what might have been a smile. “Butyou, I seem to remember, have a squadron commander in the family.”

“My sister, Michi.”

“And your daughter is marrying a captain, I seem to remember.”

“But Lord Richard can’t promote anyone to command. He has no command himself, at present.”

“Your sister can, and does.”

“Possiblymy sister can,” Lord Chen qualified. “I’ll inquire and see what she can do.”

“You’ll have my gratitude.”

“And you already have mine. For letting me bore you with this subject.”

“Not at all.”

Later, as he left the lounge, Maurice, Lord Chen reflected on the conversation and decided that things had, for a change, gone very well.

Now if only he could get out of Oceanographic and Forestry and into something more useful.

Sula raised her glass to the newly commissioned Sublieutenant Lord Jeremy Foote, and toasted his good fortune. Foote had insisted on filling the glass with champagne despite her protests. She moistened her lips with the wine and put the glass down.

“Thank you,” Foote said. “I appreciate you all turning up for my farewell dinner.” He unleashed a bright white smile. “I wonder how many of you would have shown if I hadn’t been paying for it.”

Sula allowed herself to smile as the predictable laughter rolled from the guests.

It would have been impolite to refuse Foote’s invitation. The Fleet hadn’t found her employment, other than to run messages in the Commandery, which put her in the cadets’ lounge every day. After a few straightforward attempts to get her into bed, and some equally unsuccessful tries at bullying her into doing his work, Foote seemed to accept the fact that she wasn’t interested in playing his games, and then treated her with a brotherly familiarity calculated to annoy her. But they had survived the time in the cadets’ lounge without actually plunging daggers into one another, and Sula supposed that was worth a toast or two, especially as she’d never have to toast him again.

She had to admit that Foote looked fine in his new white uniform with its dark green collar and cuffs, his sublieutenant’s narrow stripe bright on his shoulder boards. He hadn’t actually done anything so unfashionable as to pass his lieutenants’ exams: his uncle, as a senior captain commanding theBombardment of Delhi, was allowed to raise two cadets to a lieutenancy every year provided he had vacancies in his own ship, and Foote had long been marked for one of these. Tomorrow Foote would take up his post asDelhi’s navigation officer, where well-trained subordinates and a computer would doubtless assist him in not diving the heavy cruiser straight into the nearest star.

Foote had thrown a splendid party. He’d rented a private dining room in the 1,800-year-old New Bridge restaurant in the High City, and provided entertainment as well, a raucous six-piece band that had the floorboards throbbing beneath Sula’s feet. The food arrived in fourteen courses-Sula counted-and the drinks were unending. Cadet Parker seemed to have ordered up a woman to go along with the food and drink-at least, Sula hadn’t yet met any woman who dressed that way for free-and Sula wondered if Foote was paying for that as well.

After Foote started grabbing his guests and shoving them under the long table so they could sing the “Congratulations” round fromLord Fizz Takes a Holiday, Sula slipped from her place, opened one of the tall doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. Drunken chanting echoed behind her as she braced her arms on the wrought-iron and polished brass rail and gazed down at the night traffic. Peers walked or drove on their usual evening round of parties and dinners and meetings; servants slumped along to the funicular that would take them to their homes in the Lower Town; and groups of young people half danced their way to a night of adventure.

It had been a while since she’d been part of such a group, on her way to such an adventure. She wondered if she missed it.

Sometimes, she decided. Sometimes she missed it very much.

She had spotted Martinez once, at the Imperial, at a performance ofKho-So’s Elegy, which was about the most exciting sort of entertainment permitted in the month following the Great Master’s death. Sula had been in the Li family box with Lady Amita and some of her friends, and saw him in the stalls below in the company of a woman with an astounding hourglass figure and glossy dark hair.So that’s the kind he likes, she sneered, and immediately sensed the injustice of her thought-Martinez had seemed to like her well enough until she’d ruined everything.

She didn’t think he’d seen her at the theater. She’d stayed in the box through intermission, chatting to Lady Amita, and delayed their departure as much as she could.

A pair of arms encircled Sula from behind. She found herself relaxing into them, then Foote spoiled the illusion by talking.

“You looked lonely,” he said. “This party isn’t your sort of thing, is it?”

“It was, once,” Sula said. “Then I turned seventeen.”

“There’s been talk about you.” Foote nuzzled her hair to one side and spoke at close range into her ear. “We’ve been wondering if you’re really a virgin. I bet the others that you aren’t.”

“You lose,” Sula said. She detached his arms from her, turned to face him, and felt a fierce inward satisfaction as she thought,Good. Open season on you, then.

Foote brushed invisible lint off his new tunic, then glanced out at the city. “That’s your old home by the funicular, isn’t it? The one with the blue dome.”

Sula didn’t look. “I guess it must be,” she said.

He looked at her. “I know about your family. I looked it up.”

She affected surprise. “Don’t be silly.You — actually looking something up? You just paid someone to do it.”

Foote looked nettled, but he let it go by. “You really should be friends with me. I could help you.”

“You mean your uncle the yachtsman could.”

“He would if I asked him. AndI could, eventually. I’ll get promoted as fast as it’s legally allowed-the next few steps are already worked out. Then I’ll be able to help people. And you don’t have any patronage in the Fleet, so you’ve got to have friends or you’ll be a lieutenant forever.” His look softened. “You’re the head of one of the most senior human clans. Eminent as my own. It’s unjust that someone with your ancestors shouldn’t be promoted to the highest ranks.”

Sula smiled. “So how many times do I have to join you in the fuck tubes for this injustice to be corrected?”

Foote opened his mouth, closed it.

“Would six times a month be enough?” Sula went on. “We could put it in a contract. But you’d have to do your part-if I don’t make lieutenant at the earliest legal opportunity, you could pay a fine of, say, ten thousand zeniths? And twenty thousand if I don’t make elcap, and so on. What do you say-shall I take it to my lawyer?”

Foote turned to face the party on the other side of the tall glass doors and leaned back against the iron rail with his arms crossed. His handsome profile was undisturbed. “I don’t know why you talk this way.”

“I just think everything should be clear and understood right from the beginning. It only makes sense to put a business arrangement in a contract.”

“I was just offering to help out.”

Sula laughed. “I get offers of that sort every week. And most of them are better than yours.”

A massive exaggeration, but one she decided was justified under the circumstances.

Sula also decided she should exit before Foote regrouped. She gave his sleeve a pat of mock consolation and strolled through the open door into the dining room.

Except for Parker and his companion, the guests had climbed from beneath the table. The band was making a lot of noise. Sula sat at her place, reached for her sparkling water, and discovered that someone had spiked it with what seemed to be grain alcohol.

These youngsters and their hijinks, she thought wearily.

For a moment she thought about downing the drink and chasing it with her untouched champagne. The idea had a certain attractive gaiety to it. She remembered the person she’d been the last time she was drunk and smiled. These people wouldn’t like that person at all.

The problem was, she wouldn’t either.

She put the glass back on the table, and a moment later knocked it and its contents into the lap of the person next to her.

“Oh, so sorry,” she said. “Would you like a match?”

“Signal from Flag, my lord,” Martinez said. “Second Division, alter course in echelon to two-two-seven by one-two-zero relative, and accelerate at two-point-eight gravities. Commence movement at 27:10:001 ship time.”

“Comm, acknowledge,” Tarafah said. He sat in his rotating acceleration couch in the middle of the command center.

The padded rectangular room was unusually quiet, with the lighting subdued in order not to compete with the glowing pastel lights of the various station displays, green and orange and yellow and blue. Through the open faceplate of his helmet Martinez could smell the machine oil that had recently relubricated the acceleration cages, all mixing with the polymer plastic scent of the seals of his vac suit.

From his couch behind the captain’s, he observed that Tarafah’s body was so rigid with tension that the rods and struts of the acceleration cage vibrated in sympathy with his taut, quivering limbs.

“Yes, Lord Elcap,” Martinez said, using the accepted shorthand for Tarafah’s grade, which came more easily than “Lieutenant Captain” to a Fleet officer in a hurry.

Tarafah stared at his displays, one muscle working in his cheek, visible because he hadn’t put on his helmet, a breach of procedure permitted in a captain but scarcely anyone else. Gazing at his displays, he had the attitude of a footballer deep in concentration on an unfamiliar playbook. Martinez figured that Tarafah was desperate not to wreck the assigned maneuver, which was a greater possibility than usual since so many of his top petty officers-the noncommissioned officers who were the backbone of his crew-were useless dunces.

Fortunately, Martinez had only one such dunce in his own division, Signaler First Class Sorensen, otherwise known asCorona’s star center forward. It wasn’t that Sorensen wouldn’t learn his official duties-he seemed cheerful and cooperative, unlike some of the other players-but that he seemed incapable of understanding anything the least bit technical.

No, Martinez thought, that wasn’t exactly true. Sorensen was perfectly capable of understanding the complex series of lateral passes that Tarafah had built into the Coronas’ hard-charging offense, and all that was technical enough-and besides, Martinez took his hat off toanyone who could understand the intricacies of custom, interpretation, and precedent that made up the Fleet League’s understanding of the offside rule. It was just that Sorensen couldn’t understand any complexities beyond football, to which he seemed dedicated by some unusually single-minded force of predestination.

All that wouldn’t have mattered so much if Sorensen hadn’t been promoted past Recruit First Class. But Tarafah had wanted to boost his players’ pay beyond the hefty under-the-table sums he was doubtless handing them, so he’d promoted eight of his first-string players to Specialist First Class. No doubt he would have promoted them to Master Specialist if that rank hadn’t required an examination that would have exposed a complete ignorance of their duties.

Leaving aside the senior lieutenant, Koslowski, who despite playing goalkeeper seemed a competent enough officer, there were ten additional first-string players, plus an alternate-the second alternate being an officer cadet fresh from a glorious playing season at Cheng Ho Academy. To these were added a coach in the guise of a weaponer second class, all of which made up a lot of dead weight in a crew of sixty-one.

Thus it was that Martinez discovered what Captain Tarafah meant when he said he wanted the entire ship’s company to pull together. It meant that everyone else had to do the footballers’ jobs.

He could have coped easily enough if it meant covering for the genial but inept Sorensen. But because Tarafah was consumed with football, and the Premiere, as well, he had to do much of Koslowski’s work, and even some of the captain’s. And sometimes stand their watches as well as his own. And this during a period in which football wasn’t even in season. Martinez dreaded the time when the games actually started.

He enviedCorona’s second officer, Garcia. A small, brown-skinned woman, she wasn’t a suitable footballer, and she spoke with a provincial accent almost as broad as his own, but she’d got herself in with the captain as, in effect, First Fan. She’d organized the nonfootballer crew to attend and cheer for the Coronas at the games, and made up signs and banners and threw parties in the players’ honor. Thus, she had worked her way into the captain’s circle, though she was also obliged to keep her own watch and do her own work, and probably a little of the premiere’s as well.

“Pilot, rotate ship,” Tarafah said. A little ahead of time, Martinez thought, since the other ships in the division hadn’t rotated yet, but no harm done.

“Rotating ship,” called Pilot/Second Anna Begay, who was doing the job of Pilot/First Kostanza, a long-legged hairy-wristed halfback who sat behind her in the auxiliary pilot’s position, and whose displays had been set to an archived edition ofSporting Classics.

The acceleration couches swung lightly in their cages asCorona rotated around them. Martinez kept his eyes focused on his signals display board in front of him.

“Two-two-seven by one-two-zero relative, Lord Elcap,” Begay reported.

“Engines, prepare for acceleration,” said Tarafah.

“Engines signaled,” said Warrant Officer Second Class Mabumba, who was doing a class on propulsion to prepare for his exams for Warrant Officer/First.

The little muscle ticked in Tarafah’s cheek as he watched the digital readout on his displays. “Engines, accelerate on my mark,” he said, and then, as the counters ticked to 27:10:001, “Engines, fire engines.”

Gravity’s punch in the chest, and the gee suits tightening around arms and legs, told everyone in the ship that the engines had fired, but Mabumba reported the fact anyway, as protocol dictated. Acceleration couches swung to new attitudes as gee forces piled on, and began to generate the pulsing miniwaves that kept blood from pooling. The second division of Cruiser Squadron 18, echeloned so that each ship wouldn’t fry the one behind with its torch, blazed out toward the target.

Martinez saw that Tarafah seemed to relax once the engines were fired. There hadn’t been the slightest chance that theywouldn’t fire, of course: the dour, impatient Master Engineer Maheshwari had the engines well in hand, even considering the two footballers stuck in his department, one rated Engineer/First and supposedly in charge of his own watch.

The problems, if any, would come when weapons began to fire. SinceCorona had never fired a weapon in anger, the weapons bays had seemed a useful sort of place to stuff excess footballers. But now missiles were actually going to be launched, from launchers maintained and loaded by crews supervised by bogus weaponers. If anything would go amiss, it would be there.

In order to head off trouble, Martinez had sent Alikhan, his orderly, to the weapons bays instead of to the damage control or medical sections, as was normal. Alikhan had retired a master weaponer, and Martinez knew thatCorona’s weapons division could use him.

Still, if anything went wrong, Martinez hoped it wouldn’t involve antimatter.

Quietly, he configured his screen to show the view of the security camera in the weapons bay. He tucked the image into a corner of his display, then jumped back to his real job as a new message flickered onto his screens.

“Message from flag,” he reported.“Second Division, alter course in echelon to two-two-seven by one-nine-zero relative, execution immediate.”

Martinez touched the pad that would send the new course to the captain, pilot, navigator, and engine control, which would assure that they would all receive the same information and that it wouldn’t be garbled in transmission.

“Signals, acknowledge,” Tarafah said. “Engines, cut engines.”

“Engines cut, Lord Elcap.” Suddenly everyone was weightless in their straps.

“Pilot, rotate ship.”

“Rotating ship, Lord Elcap. New heading two-two-seven by one-two-zero relative.”

“Engines, fire engines.”

Again that punch in the solar plexus, the swinging of the couches in their cages. Somewhere, a couch wheel gave a little metallic scream.

“Engines fired, my lord.” Redundantly.

Over Tarafah’s shoulder, Martinez caught a glimpse of the navigation displays. The ships of the second division had all made the course change in their own time, leaving their line slightly ragged.Corona, at one end of the line, was headed just for the enemy, exactly according to plan.

“Weapons,” Tarafah commanded, “prepare to fire missiles.”

Martinez reflected that if it hadn’t been for Tarafah’s worry over whether one of his nominal petty officers was going to make him look bad, the current operation would scarcely have had any suspense at all.

Martinez had yet to see Magaria,Corona’s new base. Not that it was worth viewing: Magaria had been chosen as a major Fleet installation not because the world was a desirable one, but because the system had seven useful wormhole gates-only one fewer than Zanshaa itself-and the Second Fleet squatting at the wormhole nexus could therefore hold much of the empire in its power.

Magaria had been a hellishly hot planet when it was discovered, shrouded in clouds of acid and swept by typhoon winds, and thousands of years of tinkering with its climate had barely succeeded in making the place habitable. The population of Magaria’s accelerator ring was higher than that of the planet proper, several million who lived off the money the military brought in, or who existed as middlemen for cargoes passing through the port. A few towns crouched near artificial oases near the skyhook termini, hiding from the scouring sandstorms, their economies based on supporting and supplying the Fleet and entertaining its crews. Most of the inhabitants were Naxids, who were more suited for hot, dry weather than other species.

The local Fleet commander was a Naxid as well, Senior Fleet Commander Fanaghee. She was a ferocious disciplinarian who ruled her domain from a luxurious suite aboard theMajesty of the Praxis, one of the huge Praxis-class battleships that provided vast planet-slagging firepower as well as the splendor and magnificence which the customs of the service demanded for senior officers.

Because no one quite knew what to expect following the death of the last Shaa, Fleet elements had been dispersed around the empire in order to preserve order. Now that order seemed to have been preserved without the intervention of the Fleet, the squadrons were reassembling-but they were also reshuffling. Two of Fleetcom Fanaghee’s squadrons were new to the Magaria station, and so she had declared a series of maneuvers, the two Naxid squadrons versus the other three. It was a reasonably even match, as the Naxid ships were more heavily armed and included the only battleship.

Coronahad arrived on station just as the maneuvers were beginning, and to Tarafah’s alarm had been added to the second division as its smallest ship, the rest being medium and light cruisers.

Maneuvers weren’t common in the Fleet. Squadrons had to spend a month or more at high accelerations beforehand, and the same amount of time decelerating afterward. Martinez had participated in maneuvers only once, years ago, when he was a young cadet on theDandaphis.

Live-fire exercises, particularly on short notice, had not exactly been Tarafah’s specialty. So Martinez wasn’t surprised to hear renewed tension in his captain’s voice as he spoke to the weapons officer.

“Weapons, this is a drill,” Tarafah said, following form. “Target salvo one at trailing enemy cruiser. This is a drill.”

“This is a drill, my lord. Salvo one targeted at trailing enemy cruiser.”

“Weapons, this is a drill. Fire salvo one.”

There was a brief, suspenseful pause as gauss rails flung missiles into space-there was no recoil detected in Command-after which solid-fuel boosters carried the missiles to a safe distance before their antimatter engines ignited. An instant later Cadet Kelly was hurled after them in her pinnace.

“Salvo one away, Lord Elcap. Pinnace one away.” She paused and only then remembered her disclaimer. “This is a drill.”

Martinez glanced at the corner of his screen that showed the weapons bays. Nothing was happening, a good sign, and the weaponers all seemed to be remaining in the safety of their hardened shelters.

The missiles raced off on their preprogrammed tracks, followed by the pinnace that was supposed to shepherd them. Naturally warheads wouldn’t actually explode-not unless someone in the weapons department hadreally bollixed something up-but their effects would be simulated; or at least, their assumed effects would.

Not that what the missiles actually did would matter: the fate of all the ships, not to mention their missiles, had already been decided. Fleetcom Fanaghee and her staff had labored many hours to script the maneuvers to the last detail. The two Naxid squadrons, designated the “defenders of the Praxis,” were holding one of Magaria’s wormholes against “mutineers,” and the Praxis, along with Fanaghee’s squadrons, would inevitably triumph.

As forCorona, it would attack with the second division against the enemy’s light squadron. The first salvos fired by each side were scheduled to annihilate each other in a simulated spray of antimatter radiation, thus confusing sensors and masking maneuvers from the other side-the missiles wouldn’t actually detonate, and the sensors’ confusion was programmed. The second salvo from the enemy would mostly fall to point-defense weapons, but one would detonate near enough to theCorona to damage one of the weapons bays and require the venting of one of the antimatter storage tanks, thus providing some useful drill for the frigate’s damage-control teams.

Coronawould fight on, launching several more waves of missiles, until annihilated by an oncoming barrage from the flagship at precisely 29:01:021. The entire battle could have been loaded into the ships’ computers and fought without a single officer giving an order, except this was specifically forbidden. The officers were to have practice at giving orders, even if the orders were scripted well in advance.

“Weapons, this is a drill. Fire salvo two. This is a drill.”

The officers were very scrupulous indeed to give the right orders. They and their ships would be judged by how well they followed the plan. The point of the maneuver wasn’t who won, but who best did what they were told.

“This is a drill. Salvo two away, Lord Elcap. This is a drill.”

The tension in Command seemed to fade with news of the two successful launches.

“Enemy light squadron firing missiles,” Navigation reported. “Missile tracks heading our way. Estimated time of impact, eight-point-four minutes.”

The missiles in question had actually been fired some minutes ago, but the limitations of the radars’ speed of light had prevented the information from reachingCorona till this moment.

“Starburst, Lord Elcap!” Navigation managed to simulate surprise. “Enemy starburst!”

Which meant that the target squadron, perceiving incoming missiles, were now trying to separate from one another as swiftly as they could. To keep their ships firmly under their control, squadron commanders usually wanted to keep them clustered about them as long as possible, but ships that were clumped together also made overlarge targets, with a possibility of one strike destroying more than one ship. The question of when to order a starburst was one of the questions that junior officers debated ceaselessly in their wardrooms. If the senior officers debated this subject, or indeed anything at all, they gave no sign.

Tarafah frowned down at his displays. “Weapons, this is a drill. Power up the point-defense lasers.”

“This is a drill, Lord Elcap. Point-defense lasers powered.”

As the enemy’s second salvo came in, the point-defense lasers fired away at low power, perhaps even scoring hits. Whether hit or not, most of the salvo had been declared destroyed days before they were fired, and were deactivated. Whether hit or not, one missile was assigned to penetrate the defensive shield and detonate, its simulated radiation burning away the control systems on the number two engine, setting off a potential runaway antimatter leak that required a fuel tank to be vented into space. Other damage would include the disabling of an entire bank of missile launchers, and sensors burned away along one whole flank of the frigate.

A message flashed onto Martinez’s displays. Relief danced in his heart as he reported it to Tarafah. “General message from flagshipMajesty.” The qualifier was to distinguish it from the heavy cruiser that was the flagship of the mutineers’ squadron. “Bombardment of Kashmahas failed to launch pinnace number three. All ships are to proceed as if the pinnace were launched.”

“Comm, acknowledge,” Tarafah said. He could barely contain his delight. Someother ship had screwed up, and furthermore, one in Fanaghee’s own squadron.

Coronacould look on the rest of the maneuvers with rising optimism. Even if they made some hideous mistake, they wouldn’t be alone.

The hideous mistake came twelve minutes later, when the simulated damage occurred to a bank of eight missile launchers. It was not to be repaired by actual members of the crew, because the powerful and unpredictable accelerations of a warship might fling them fatally against the nearest bulkhead. Instead weaponers, from the safety of their thick-walled shelters, cleared the missiles from the tubes with remote-controlled robots, massive machines built on the lines of spiders, with multiple arms that would clamp on stanchions fixed to the ship’s polycarbon frame, move from one stanchion to the next while the powerful arms secured themselves against accelerations, and smaller manipulator arms did the work.

The movements of the two robots seemed at first to go well. “Damaged” control systems were replaced, and the robots began to yank missiles from their tubes. Then somehow one of the multilegged machines fouled the other, and in an effort to break free, tore away the other robot’s central hydraulic reserve. Hydraulic fluid jetted out into the weightless missile compartment, forming a spray of perfect azure globes, and the second robot died.

Now both robots were useless, since the dead robot was blocking the one that still functioned.

Martinez watched the silent little video picture with the same fascination with which he would watch any other disaster he was helpless to prevent. The footballers Tarafah had stuffed in the weapons division might have just finished off their patron’s career.

Martinez glanced up from his screens to tell Tarafah what was happening, then hesitated. The captain couldn’t affect whatever was going in the weapons bays, not now, not from Command. Perhaps he would be happier not knowing.

And besides, Martinez wasn’t supposed to be spying on other divisions.

Then he looked back at the video at the sight of motion in the weapons bay. Little suited figures were shooting weightless into the bay. The figure in the lead seized a stanchion with one hand and, gesturing, directed the others to the work. From the leader’s erect posture, and something of his air of command, Martinez recognized his own orderly, Alikhan. The retired master weaponer was trying to set things right.

How long till the next acceleration?The terrifying question shot through Martinez’s mind. And suddenly his fingers were tapping his screens in an attempt to call up the script for the maneuver.

Unsuccessful, Tarafah had the whole thing under his captain’s key. Martinez glanced in claw-handed frustration at his displays.

Two of the suited figures had wrestled a missile out of its tube and were now guiding it through a tangle of robotic limbs between it and the disposal bay. At least the missile hadn’t received its antimatter, and was therefore relatively light.

How long?Martinez clenched his teeth. He thought about shouting out, “Crew in the weapons bay!” which would presumably halt any future accelerations.

No. No acceleration would occur without Tarafah’s command, and if Tarafah gave the order, he could announce the danger in time.

Or so he hoped.

Another missile was being wrenched out of its tube, by a single straddle-legged figure braced against the weapons bank. At least the footballers could be counted on for brawn.

A message flashed across screens. “Message from Flag,” he found himself repeating.“Second Division, alter course in echelon to two-two-seven by three-one-zero relative. Accelerate at four-point-five gravities. Execute at 28:01:001 ship time.”

He glanced at the time display. That was six minutes from now.

He was never more thankful for the regulation that made certain his helmet was sealed. He touched his controls and said into his helmet mic, “Page Crewman Alikhan.”

“My lord?” The answer came within seconds.

“You’ve got five minutes before the next acceleration.”

There was a moment of silence as Alikhan calculated the odds. “Three missiles remaining. We’re not going to make it.”

“No. Get the people to the acceleration couches, and I’ll tell the captain what’s happening.” Martinez looked at the hopeless situation, the awkward crew in their vac suits guiding a missile past the tangled arms of the robots, then said, “Halt that. Wait a minute.”

He paused to think his idea through. “No, what you do is this: get someone on the robot controls; have the others yank the missiles from the tubes and then just hand them to the robot manipulator arms. The robot can hang onto them till the maneuver is over. There’s no antimatter and no danger, and after the maneuver’s completed, you can finish the job manually.”

“Very good, my lord.” Alikhan cut his comm very fast, and from then on Martinez had to watch in silence. Alikhan himself bounded out of the frame, presumably to Weapons Control and the robot controls. The other crew popped the hatches, pulled the missiles, and boosted them gently in the direction of the functioning robot. In another few seconds the robot’s manipulator arms snatched the missiles from midair and then froze.

The suited figures bounded from the weapons bay in the direction of their armored shelter. Martinez looked at the time display:26:51:101.

Two minutes to spare.

“Oh, it was a shambles in the weapons bays, my lord,” Alikhan said as he buffed Martinez’s number two pair of shoes. “No one was in charge. The master weaponer was so drunk he couldn’t manage a single order that made sense or had anything to do with the situation. One of our two weaponer/firsts was a footballer, and so was one of the weaponer/seconds. And the two cadets who usually help out-nice young people, really, they’re learning fast-were stuffed into pinnaces and fired out of the ship.”

“I’m glad I thought to put you on the scene,” Martinez said. “But still, I could have got you killed.”

Alikhan put the shoe down and tapped the inactive communications display on his left sleeve. “I had Maheshwari on the comm. He would have aborted any accelerations if we’d still had anyone in the weapons bay.”

Martinez nodded slowly. The senior petty officers had their own networks, their own intelligence, their own way of surviving the officers who the Fleet had placed over them.

If you can find a master specialist who isn’t a drunk, isn’t crazy, and who retains most of his brain cells,Martinez’s father had told him,then grab him.

Martinez blessed his father for the advice, and helped himself to whisky from his private stash, the dark-paneled cabinet under his narrow bed. On taking command, Captain Tarafah had repaneled the officers’ quarters-and his own-with rich, dark mahogany, complemented by brass fixtures and dark tile with a white and red geometric pattern. Officers’ country was now scented faintly with lemon oil, at least when it didn’t whiff of brass polish.

Martinez needed the whisky, having just finished a double shift, standing watch in Command whileCorona picked up its pinnaces and spent missiles, and Tarafah and the senior lieutenant shuttled to the flagship for a debriefing with the other captains and the fleetcom. The neat whisky scorched Martinez’s throat, and he could feel his bruised muscles begin to relax.

“I’m glad we’re not in a real war,” he said. “You would all have been shot through with gamma rays.”

“In a real war,” Alikhan said, “we would have stayed safe in our bunker and used a different bank of missiles.”

Martinez fingered his chin. “Do you think the captain will find out what happened?”

“No. The jammed robots were repaired as soon as we secured from quarters. The damaged missile will be written off the inventory somehow-there are all sorts of ways to make a missile disappear.”

“I take no comfort in this knowledge,” Martinez said. He took another sip of whisky. “Do you think the captainshould find out?”

By which Martinez meant,Do you think the captain should find out that wesaved him during the maneuvers?

Alikhan looked sober. “I’d hate to end the career of a thirty-year man just short of retirement. And it’s the master weaponer who’d be blamed, not the footballers.”

“True,” Martinez said. He hated the idea of doing something clever and no one ever finding out. But getting the master weaponer cashiered would not endear him to Alikhan, and he found Alikhan too valuable to offend.

“Well,” he shrugged, “let it go. Let’s hopeCorona doesn’t get into a war before the master weaponer retires.”

“Hardly likely, my lord.” Alikhan brushed his mustachios with the back of a knuckle. “Coronahas survived worse commanders than Tarafah. We’ll get her through it, never fear.”

“But willI get through it?” Martinez asked. He sighed, then reached into the mahogany-paneled hutch beneath his bed and withdrew another bottle of whisky. “This might help your cogitations,” he said. “Don’t share it with anyone in the Weapons Division.”

Alikhan accepted the bottle with gravity. “Thank you, my lord.”

Martinez finished his drink and decided not to pour himself another, at least not yet. The example of the master weaponer was a little too strong. “Too bad it’s the only reward you’re going to get for saving the captain from disgrace.”

“It’s more than I usually get,” Alikhan remarked-and, with an ambiguous smile, braced in salute and left.

Two days later, after the last of the meetings in which the commanding officers refought the maneuver, Fleet Commander Fanaghee announced a Festival of Sport that would take place at Fleet facilities. Teams from every ship in Fanaghee’s command would participate, andCorona’s football team would face Magaria’s own champions from theBombardment of Beijing in a special match. Tarafah announced an intensified program of training for his team, beginning immediately, before the ship even docked.

When Martinez crawled off his watch that night, he didn’t stop at one drink. Or at two.