“But,” he added, “I can authorize either one of you, or both of you, to be present in the compartment containing the transmitter. And I will do so. I know that’s a lot less convenient. But it’s the same rules anyone else in this fleet would have to live by, myself included.”

  “We can’t ask for better than that, Admiral,” Bradamont said, smiling with relief. “We do have a greetings message for the Dancers from President Iceni and General Drakon that we were hoping to be able to transmit.”

  “You need to get with General Charban and his people,” Geary said. “Communications with the Dancers have to be . . . formatted properly. They can help you do that.”

  “Isn’t one of those people Lieutenant Iger?” Bradamont asked.

  “My intelligence officer,” Geary said. “Yes. He was added to the team not to monitor things, but because he can help format the messages. He’s a poet.”

  “A poet?”

  “Not a great poet, but he’s good at rendering words in haiku form.” Geary paused. “Would you object to Ambassador Rycerz seeing your message to the Dancers?”

  “That depends,” Colonel Rogero said. “For information, we would have no objections. But if she would see it with an eye to approving it . . .”

  “I understand you don’t want that,” Geary said. “I’ll talk to the ambassador when we reach Dancer space.”

  “Is there a chance that she’d want our greeting sent from the transmitter on Boundless?” Bradamont asked.

  Geary blew out a long, exasperated breath as he considered his words. “I’d say no. There may well be problems with the transmitter on Boundless.”

  “Hardware or software?”

  “Bureaucratic.”

  After a pause, Colonel Rogero gave Geary a speculative look. “You understand, Admiral, that in the Syndicate, if a supervisor such as your ambassador was encountering problems with her subordinates, those subordinates would have a high chance of developing sudden, fatal, health problems.”

  “Health problems?” Geary said.

  Bradamont shrugged. “You know the old joke about lead poisoning,” she said, using one hand to mimic firing a slug-throwing weapon.

  Rogero nodded. “Heart failure. Shock. Low blood pressure was a favorite official way of describing someone who died as a result of having their throat cut. Or low oxygen levels if they were strangled. Telling someone that they appeared to be at risk of sleep apnea was one way for a Syndicate supervisor to warn an individual that they might die in their sleep if they didn’t shape up.”

  “You joked about that?” Geary said, appalled.

  “Sir, you know how the fleet uses dark humor to get through tough times,” Bradamont said. “So did the people stuck under the Syndicate.”

  Geary leaned back to better study Rogero. “You’re not nostalgic for those times, are you?”

  Rogero laughed at the idea. “No! Why would I be? It was justified in terms of efficiency, but it always had the opposite results. Those targeted were those who stuck their noses out trying to fix things. The mediocre kept their heads down and pretended everything was perfect, which the bosses loved because then they’d tell their bosses that everything was perfect.” His brief burst of humor faded. “You never knew when you’d die or be arrested. Maybe because of what you did, maybe because of what it was suspected you did, maybe because somebody decided they didn’t like you or needed to make their quota. Or you might get killed at any time by one of your own workers who’d decided they couldn’t take it anymore. It’s really surprising that more people didn’t die in revenge killings when we overthrew the Syndicate on Midway.”

  “I thought President Iceni and General Drakon were able to keep a lid on things,” Bradamont said.

  “That’s true. But it was very close. A lot more could’ve died. You’ve seen what can happen when Syndicate workers suddenly snap.” Rogero nodded apologetically to Geary. “Forgive me a bit of melancholy at how close things were. Sometimes the past weighs on me.” He paused. “And that was an exceptionally wrong thing to say to you of all people, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Geary said. “Go ahead and talk to Charban. Tell him I authorized full access for you two.”

  One day later, they came out of jump in Dancer space.

  EIGHT

  HE felt tense as the final seconds counted down. As tense as when arriving in Syndicate Worlds space, or in enigma space. Sure, the Dancers had always been friendly. But the Alliance fleet was doing the equivalent of bursting through the front door of a helpful but distant neighbor while brandishing a powerful weapon.

  As Geary’s head cleared of the mental fuzz created by leaving jump space, he noted first the lack of warning alarms.

  When he was finally able to focus on his display, rapidly being updated by the fleet’s sensors, he saw a reassuringly familiar set of Dancer installations and space traffic.

  The closest Dancer ships were about ten light minutes from the jump point. Sixty of them, of various sizes, arranged in a breathtaking three-dimensional pinwheel. It tended to confirm earlier speculation that the Dancers made those gorgeous formations not to impress others but simply because they liked doing it.

  And it made the neat human ship formation, which he’d earlier taken pride in, look like the work of toddlers. Enthusiastic, but unskilled.

  He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that. All over the human formation, ships were making tiny adjustments to their positions, trying to be certain they were in exactly the right place relative to where Boundless was.

  Something else should be happening right now. Geary checked for transmissions from Boundless and saw nothing. He tapped an internal communications control. “General Charban, have you heard anything being sent by the Dancer-modified transmitter aboard Boundless?”

  “Not a thing, Admiral,” Charban said.

  Geary frowned in a way that made the lieutenants on the bridge exchange nervous glances. “Surely they know how impolite it is to show up in a star system and not immediately send greetings. When someone shows up in force like this and doesn’t immediately communicate, it’s outright threatening.”

  Charban shrugged. “I’m afraid that I have no idea what the bunch on Boundless may or may not know.”

  This was a security issue, ensuring that the Dancers knew the Alliance ships were here for peaceful purposes. “Go ahead and send our greetings to the Dancers, assuring them of our peaceful intent, and then the greeting from President Iceni and General Drakon. I’ll call Ambassador Rycerz to let her know we’re doing that.”

  Rycerz didn’t answer, hopefully because she was busy trying to get the official greeting out from Boundless, so Geary left her a message.

  He’d ordered the entire fleet to brake velocity, every ship turning to use its main propulsion to slow down rather than accelerate. Until he knew what the Dancers wanted, he didn’t want to go charging deeper into their star system.

  After about twenty minutes Charban called back. “Both greetings have been sent, Admiral. Ummm, I may have gotten us into trouble.”

  “How?”

  “We were waiting for any indication that Boundless wanted to send, but we heard nothing. Once we finished the second message, though, Boundless started transmitting immediately, as if they’d been forced to wait on us. I think the transmitter aboard Dauntless and the one on Boundless may be linked somehow by the Dancer software, so that only one can transmit at a time. Which if true means the entire time we were transmitting, Boundless could not.”

  “Oh, hell.” Geary bit back some stronger words. Charban looked genuinely regretful, and there really hadn’t been any way to learn this beforehand. But aboard Boundless it would look very much as if the military had deliberately preempted the civilian communications with the Dancers. “I guess I’d better call Ambassador Rycerz again to apologize.”

  “Admiral, this one should be mine,” Charban said. “I should own this.”

  “No,” Geary said. “First, you were doing what I told you to do. And, second, if that idiot Macadams had been willing to test the transmitters jointly before we got here we would’ve learned about the problem. And, third, someone could’ve called us on normal comm channels and told us about the problem, which they didn’t. I’m more than willing to stand up for that.”

  On the heels of those words, he called Ambassador Rycerz again, once more not getting through to her. After leaving a hopefully appropriately apologetic message, Geary got up from his command seat. “I’m going down to the room with the Dancer transmitter so I can hear their reply when it comes in as well as see the printed transcript.”

  Captain Desjani nodded to him. “Have fun. At the current rate of braking velocity, the fleet will achieve a stable orbit in . . . thirty-four minutes.”

  “Good. Then all we’ll have to do is wait around to see what the Dancers decide to do with us.”

  The compartment holding the Dancer-modified transmitter felt more crowded than usual when Geary joined General Charban, Lieutenant Iger, and Lieutenant “Shamrock” Jamenson. Kommodor Bradamont and Colonel Rogero were also present, sitting back and watching. But there was still easily room for a dozen more people if needed. “How’s it look?”

  Charban sighed and shrugged. “The ball is in the Dancers’ court. They might well be waiting for Boundless to finish transmitting, though.”

  “Boundless is still transmitting?”

  Without saying anything else, Charban pushed some printouts at Geary.

  Geary read, feeling a growing sense of puzzlement. The academics aboard Boundless, or at least Dr. Macadams, who ruled them with an iron fist, had refused to pay any heed to the hard-won lessons the fleet had gained on communicating with the Dancers. The rhythm and pacing of words mattered. Messages had to have an elegant structure, or the Dancers would treat them as if those speaking were infants.

  The long message Macadams was still sending seemed to be mostly composed of simplistic sentence structures and words, as if aimed at a human toddler. But seeded in among that like boulders were references to what Geary assumed were academic theories. “What is . . . antispeciesmonoperspective exceptionalism?”

  Everyone else shook their heads. As usual that made Lieutenant Jamenson’s bright green hair stand out even before she replied. “It’s probably against something. And I think whoever wrote this message is trying to tell the Dancers they’re against it. Or maybe reassure the Dancers they’re against it. Whatever . . . it is.”

  Anything that could confuse Jamenson must be a masterpiece of human double-talk. “Even you can’t figure it out?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It finally stopped,” Lieutenant Iger said, staring at the transmitter. “There’s no real sign-off. Boundless’s transmission just stopped.”

  The fleet’s stable orbit was only about five light minutes from the Dancer formation nearest the jump point, so it wasn’t surprising when a reply came in eleven minutes after Boundless’s transmission ended. The audio of the transmission carried the melodious flutelike tones of Dancer speech, followed by the translation in flatter human speech.

  “Welcome, friend Geary,

  “Surprised you are here many,

  “Please wait, must learn plan.”

  “That’s definitely for you,” Charban said.

  “And it’s not exactly an enthusiastic greeting,” Geary said. “But at least they called me friend.”

  Charban paused as he studied the transcript of the message. “I think the last line means they need to get instructions on what to do. If I’m right, in a few hours we should see one of the ships near their hypernet gate take off to report our arrival and get orders on what to do with us. Here’s something else coming in. This is a reply to Midway’s message, I think,” Charban added, nodding toward where Rogero and Bradamont sat.

  “Friends of friend, hear you,

  “Your words of peace are welcome,

  “Please wait, must learn plan.”

  Bradamont frowned slightly. “That’s positive, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not negative,” Rogero said, his frown matching hers. “One of the things you learn in the Syndicate is to watch for what isn’t said. In this case, they welcomed our words. But not us.”

  “They did call you friends of friend,” Geary said.

  “And they acknowledged your words,” Charban said, tapping that part of the transcript. “They didn’t simply ignore them. But, yes, it’s clear that the Dancers are reserving judgment on you being here, just as they are with us. We all have to wait while they ask higher authority for the ‘plan’ to deal with us. There’s nothing surprising about that.”

  “Here’s something else,” Lieutenant Jamenson said, reacting with surprise when the Dancer speech cut off almost as soon as it began.

  “Hello, others.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, Charban laughed. “That’s their reply to Boundless. Remember when they talked to us like that?”

  “That’s just your antispeciesmonoperspective exceptionalism talking,” Geary said, unable to resist a smile at the thought of how Dr. Macadams must be reacting to that minimal reply.

  “You might well be right,” Charban said, grinning. “I have no idea.”

  The compartment’s comm panel lit up. “Admiral, we’ve been advised that Ambassador Rycerz is on her way to Dauntless.”

  That was happening sooner than expected. “Thank you,” Geary said. “Please ensure the ambassador receives a full security screening after she leaves her shuttle. She’ll understand why. I’ll meet her in the primary secure conference compartment.”

  He turned to see everybody else in the room trying not to look at him, all except General Charban, who stood up with a grim expression.

  “If the ambassador is coming here this quickly to administer a personal chewing out regarding the transmitter issue—” Charban began.

  Geary halted him with an open palm. “It’s not that. I knew this was coming, though not so soon after our arrival.” He paused, trying to decide what he could say. “There are some issues of concern that the ambassador and I need to discuss. But I want to emphasize that these issues are not anything between us. They concern . . . other actors and other issues.”

  Kommodor Bradamont stood up this time. “Admiral, if there are any concerns regarding Colonel Rogero and I—”

  “No,” Geary said. “I assure you not. I regard you both as reliable allies.” He paused again. “Even though I’m not supposed to use that ‘allies’ word.”

  Bradamont smiled. “We’ll let it pass this time, Admiral. If there is anything we can do, just say the word.”

  Geary nodded to her and Rogero, remembering General Drakon’s advice. “Believe me, I will. But I have to talk to Ambassador Rycerz first.”

  * * *

  RYCERZ was sitting in the conference room when Geary reached it. She waved a hand in greeting, staying silent until the hatch sealed and the lights above indicated the environment was totally secure. “Guess what your security screen found, Admiral.”

  “Another tick?” The tiny, mobile listening devices had been found twice already in places they should never have been.

  “Right the first time.” Rycerz sighed heavily, looking away. “I was supposedly fully screened before boarding the shuttle.”

  “Maybe the tick was on the shuttle and latched onto you during the journey?”

  “The shuttle was also supposedly screened.” Rycerz looked directly at him. “Admiral, here are my cards, laid on the table for you to see. I can’t trust anyone aboard Boundless. I have to assume anything I say or do aboard that ship will be overheard and recorded.” She paused for just a moment. “But I’ve decided that I can trust you.”

  “Why?” Geary said, genuinely surprised.

  “Why?” Rycerz waved one hand. “I could say because your record is so ridiculously untarnished by actions or words aimed at personal advancement. I’ve had experts on the military check your career, with your own name removed, prior to Grendel one hundred years ago and they all informed me that you must be an idiot because you’d never make high rank by not focusing on your own advancement. But you are something far more dangerous than an idiot, Admiral. You are an honest man.”

  Geary sat back, watching her. “Was that a compliment? Or . . . ?”

  Ambassador Rycerz tapped the table, her finger coming down hard with each tap. “At Atalia, we nearly had a fatal falling-out.”

  “You understand my reasons,” Geary said.

  “Yes. Now I do. But in my instructions, I was told to press the point, and that it would not generate any particular problems. I must be firm with you, to clearly establish your submission to civilian rule. But you would bend, because your ethics wouldn’t allow you to risk your ships under anyone else’s command.”

  He shook his head, wishing that he’d thought to bring some coffee to this meeting. “That’s not how my ethics work.”

  “Clearly! My point is,” Rycerz said, an angry gaze fixed on someone or something only she could see, “I was misled. And I had other so-called coordination issues I was supposed to press on you at Atalia. The more you resisted, the stronger I was to push. What would have happened, Admiral? Our working relationship would’ve been shattered.”

  “Who gave you those instructions?” Geary asked, knowing he looked as bewildered as he felt.

  “That is a very, very good question,” Ambassador Rycerz said. “Do you know what the highest levels of bureaucracies excel at? Hiding who was responsible for decisions. No fingerprints. No accountability. Accountability is for the little people. I went through my instructions, which bear every sign of having been fully vetted and authorized by all necessary parties. And there is not one name in them to identify their originators.”