The applause started in the stand over to her left and continued on for several minutes. Large groups of people were standing now, the sound of the applause rolling around the stadium, seeming momentarily to reach a peak before growing ever louder.

  Faulkner himself seemed not to notice. He was too fixated on reaching his Commander-in-Chief. It was painful watching him walk that last section but he managed it, coming smartly to attention before finally breaking into his own salute.

  The sound of the applause drowning out everything else.

  In the end, it was the president himself who signalled for everyone to re-take their seats.

  The two men shook hands, the president’s political senses helping him best handle the moment. He might not be able to compete with Faulkner’s sudden surge of popularity but he could allow himself to be buoyed up by it, for now at least.

  Then, one of the naval Ensigns mounted the stage, carrying what looked like a light blue plaque.

  “What the hell’s that?” the man behind her asked but LaCruz already knew.

  She’d glimpsed the familiar five-pointed star earlier on one of the monitors.

  The Legion of Honor medal.

  The president took it and nimbly fixed it around Faulkner’s neck.

  He stood there impassively, making only the briefest nod of acknowledgement.

  LaCruz was reminded of a line from the poem her drill sergeant had hung in their barracks.

  If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster,

  And treat those two impostors just the same.

  “Captain Faulkner,” the president said. “Please accept this on behalf of the Confederation in recognition of your great sacrifice.”

  “I’m deeply honored, sir.”

  The president turned to the crowd. “Hopefully, we can learn from your selfless example at a time when we have to be vigilant in ensuring the safety of our peoples. At times like these, it is appropriate that we should look to men and women of courage to lead us in our journey.”

  At this, the orchestra at the front of the stage struck up, the sound of triumphalist trumpets echoing around the arena. LaCruz heard the whine of motors just before she noticed the enormous Confederation flag, previously hidden behind the view screens, slowly starting to rise towards the ceiling.

  Then it was the turn of the screens to drop down into the recess behind the ranks of assembled service men and women. This left a gap through which LaCruz could look directly out into open space.

  The station’s architects must have been given an unprecedented budget. They had built a giant window out into the void, pieced together from barely discernible diamond shapes, a testament to the skill of the station’s construction crews.

  It was a spectacular sight but, this close to a hard vacuum, all LaCruz could do was wonder at the safety implications. Where was the supporting metalwork, the lattice of safety supports? There were none. And as the flag rose higher, all she could see was the endless blackness of space.

  Realisation was slow to come but when it did the effect was shattering.

  They were standing under an enormous glass dome. It didn’t seem conceivable and yet there it was.

  Her eyes strayed back to the two men centre stage. What was the president playing at?

  But the crowd had spotted something else and murmurs of disbelief went up all around her. Looking up, she initially struggled to make sense of what it was that she was seeing.

  The prow of a starship hung above them like the sword of Damocles, ready to come crashing down on all of them. But this wasn’t a modern warship, it lacked the sharpness of the current designs. The long line of its hull, sweeping back up into a raised bridge array, making it look positively old fashioned. More Jules Verne than a modern spaceship.

  The prow was broad and distinctive, split into the two bulbous observation chambers.

  “That’s it!” someone said. “Faulkner’s ship. I’m sure of it!”

  “No way,” the man directly behind her said. “She was written off years ago. Destroyed. Didn’t you hear what he said?”

  But the man was wrong. Somehow, LaCruz knew, with complete certainty that she was looking straight up at Faulkner’s old ship.

  The Mantis.

  On the stage, the president was nodding approvingly before slowly turning to face Faulkner.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Faulkner’s head was craned backwards, his mouth hanging open.

  “I never thought…” he managed. “I never thought to see her again.”

  “A lot of time and effort has gone into her restoration. Her emergency life support was all but exhausted, her propulsion system badly compromised and yet, somehow, she managed to bring your crew back home.”

  Faulkner’s head suddenly dropped forward and he said something under his breath that the microphones failed to pick up.

  Then he said, “What’s going to happen to her? Some kind of floating exhibit?”

  The president gave a wry smile. “No. Hard to believe but when I say she’s been completely restored, I mean it. The Mantis is good as new – almost. Fully functioning. Problem is, we’ve got no-one to take charge. We’ve looked around but, so far, no one’s quite measured up.”

  He turned to face Faulkner. “I don’t suppose you’d know of anyone, would you?”

  Faulkner looked at him askance.

  “But I’m too old, surely?”

  The president rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.

  “Now, that’s what I would have thought. Turns out that there are two admirals currently serving both of whom are older than you. So, no, Captain Faulkner. You’re not too old.”

  Faulkner shook his head. “I never expected this.”

  “What do you think?” the president said, addressing the crowd. “Like to give the old girl one more turn around the dancefloor?”

  “Sir, it would be my pleasure.”

  *

  There were several parties to attend after the formal presentation and Faulkner felt like a cork carried along on a sudden deluge, propelled from one corner of the room to another. Everywhere he went he was hemmed in by a crush of people he’d never met and would never meet again. All of them vying for his attention. They asked him questions and he replied, as politely as he could, but a day later he wouldn’t be able to tell you a thing they spoken about.

  He was too distracted by what he’d just seen.

  The Mantis.

  Looking as fresh as the first time he’d seen her.

  Fresher even. It was remarkable feat of engineering.

  A few hours ago, his only aspirations had been to find a way to visit his wife’s grave while also trying to get back in contact with his old friends from the service, but now his life had been turned upside down. Of course, Paige had given him some idea of what the president had been proposing but Faulkner had assumed that he’d wanted him to serve in some kind of advisory role, perhaps reviewing the Confederation’s on-going battle readiness plans. The idea of him going back into active service had never actually occurred to him.

  All this was running through his mind as he was introduced to yet another group of the station’s elite. He shook hands, nodded and smiled while they asked their questions but really they just wanted an excuse to have their picture taken with him. He allowed himself to be pulled this way and that until they were satisfied and the next group could be brought over.

  How had he allowed himself to get caught up in all of this? It just didn’t seem feasible. And yet the weariness and resignation he’d been experiencing ever since they’d arrived on Lincoln had somehow vanished. All his anger at being imprisoned scorched away in an instant as he’d looked up at his old ship and allowed the memories to come flooding back.

  He took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Sipped at it. Nothing in his life had tasted quite so sweet.

  The idea of being back on the bridge of a starship again was intoxicating enough.

  But to return to the Mantis, as her new captain? It was something he could never have imagined even a few days earlier.

  But, at the same time, it did seem to make some weird kind of sense. Having been out of the loop for the last twenty years, Faulkner lacked any of the prejudices which might have coloured the judgement of any officer who had come up the traditional route while serving in peace time. Advancement for them would have been secured as a result of various nefarious alliances and allegiances. A serving captain would have to be circumspect about everything they said for fear of alienating their supporters or giving some unintended advantage to a rival.

  And while that might give them an excellent grounding in naval politics, it counted for nothing in a campaign when you finally found yourself coming face to face with the enemy.

  Somewhere, at the back of his mind, Faulkner was aware that he too was being manipulated both by Paige and President Samuels. In some ways, his appointment smacked of the sort of patronage and cronyism, which he had long struggled against. And yet, didn’t he deserve this? Wasn’t he one of the few officers who could be counted on when the time came? He still wasn’t sure.

  While Faulkner had spent his whole career questioning himself and every decision he ever made he had also been conditioned - from a very young age - never to question the chain of command. Ever since he could remember, he had been taught to value the principles of obedience and devotion to duty. And, as command decisions went, they didn’t come any higher than those from the president himself.

  As he accepted a canapé from a passing waiter, Faulkner reflected on how cleverly he had been manipulated. It had been Paige’s job simply to ascertain that he was acquiescent to the president’s wishes, that his mind was still sharp, that he hadn’t been broken by his imprisonment and that he was still loyal to the cause.

  Once that had been ascertained, all they needed to do was to place him in front of an audience of fellow patriots in order to ensure that he had no choice but to accept the role he was offered. What sort of leader was he if he could allow himself to be outmanoeuvred in such an obvious manner? But then he reflected on what one of his old tutors at the Academy had said, “There is a glut of talented military commanders who simply allow themselves to get side-lined by politics.” It was something that many officers were simply forced to resign themselves to.

  But then again, were they truly serious about throwing him back into combat or was this just another one of their public relations exercises? Faulkner had always been dismissive of those old warhorses who’d been trotted out in front of the media as a way of boosting morale. He’d assumed that these members of the old guard had been complicit in their own queasy aggrandisement - had so craved that sense of adulation that they’d been prepared to compromise their own principles for one last chance to sit in the command chair. So now that he found himself in that self-same position, he was starting to question his own motives.

  “Excuse me, Captain Faulkner?”

  He turned without thinking, hoping his thin smile would serve to hide his tiredness.

  He’d expected another rich well-wisher so was surprised to be confronted by an enormous figure wearing an ill-fitting dress uniform. The man looked out of place in the glittering surroundings, his salute making him look strangely lop-sided.

  “Chief Engineer Palmer Davitz at your service.”

  Davitz held out a hand the size of a shovel. Faulkner took it. Then Davitz stood there, clearly expecting Faulkner to say something. An embarrassed grin crossed the man’s face.

  Was Faulkner supposed to recognise him? He was too young to have served in the war, though not by much.

  Faulkner hoped to cling to the security of saying nothing. He didn’t want to make himself seem conspicuous by asking a stupid question and hoped that the man would resolve his tongue-tied state by simply leaving.

  “What can I do for you?”

  It was Davitz’s turn to look confused.

  “I’m sorry. You obviously haven’t been told: I’m the Mantis’ chief engineer.”

  “I didn’t realise that she had one.”

  “I’ve been supervising her re-fit. Last two years,” he laughed as though this was genuinely amusing. “Technically, I’m still in charge. That is until tomorrow, when you come aboard, captain.”

  “Right.”

  Davitz had gone about this all wrong and Faulkner had to make a conscious effort to hide his annoyance. He didn’t appreciate games of one-upmanship when they came from his superiors, so he certainly wasn’t going to tolerate them from one of his own officers.

  “I’ll come aboard tomorrow morning then. Shall we say nine o’clock?”

  Faulkner’s tone made it clear that this wasn’t a request.

  Davitz looked perturbed. “Very well, sir. Give me time to go around with my oily rag. Give everything a bit of a polish.”

  Faulkner rubbed his forehead with a knuckle. He really was tired. The man was just trying to make a connection with him but his blunt nature was coming across as borderline disrespectful.

  Time to be the better man.

  “Two years, you say?”

  Davitz nodded enthusiastically. Faulkner extended his hand.

  “Then I owe you a debt of thanks. The ship looks spectacular.”

  “You might want to save your thanks, captain,” Davitz looked over at a potted palm. “She might look great but it’s a different story when you get inside. Her internal systems are a complete mishmash. Large parts of her electronics are completely incompatible with others. We’ve had one hell of a job sourcing parts. Some components for the proximity alert system we actually found in a museum. The first artificial gravity generator we installed nearly snapped the ship in half. Four-foot-thick armour plating comes at a heavy price.”

  This sudden catalogue of problems took Faulkner by surprise, “You’re saying that the Mantis isn’t up to the task?”

  “Depends what the task is: the outer hull seems stable enough but, like I say, those bulkheads were never built with gravity dampening technology in mind. It’s all well and good trying to retrofit her but some things just weren’t intended to work together. We might have been better off completely gutting her so we could start all over again.”

  Faulkner didn’t appreciate the man’s disparaging tone but decided not to respond to it. Perhaps Davitz was just trying to warn him, by telling him that things weren’t perfect and that he should adjust his expectations accordingly. Or was the man openly taunting him in order to get a reaction? Faulkner couldn’t be sure.

  “So why are you still here? I’m not making any judgements here, Mr Davitz, but why not just request a transfer? That is, if it’s all too much for you.”

  This brought the other man up short. He pulled at the shirttails ballooning over his belt, attempting to cover his midriff.

  “Too much for me? Captain, I don’t think you’re hearing me right. This is the Mantis we’re talking about. My father cried when I told him I was being posted here and he never cries. No, you’ve got me wrong there. I wouldn’t swap the Mantis for any other ship of the line. I’m just saying that they’re trying to turn her into something she’s not: one of those hi-tech hunter killers and that’s not what she’s about at all. She’s big, she’s bold and she’s beautiful. True, it’s going to take a little know-how to get the wind up her skirt again but I think she’ll be worth the effort. Captain, at the end of the day, she is what she is. No point trying to change her.”

  Faulkner was at a loss as to what to make of his new Chief Engineer. The man kept letting his curt, derisive tongue get the better of him. Whoever had stuck him away on the Mantis for the last two years had clearly known what they were doing.

  But this discussion would have to wait for another time. It had been a highly charged evening. Emotions were running high and he strongly suspected that Davitz wasn’t at his best in this type of social environment. He’d spent two years effectively locked away in the bowels of the Mantis but that couldn’t continue forever and now, things were about to change.

  Faulkner said, “Clearly we have a lot to discuss, Chief, but there are other matters I need to attend to this evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Davitz started to say something - he clearly had much more he wanted to talk about - but then he seemed to take in his surroundings as if for the first time and a dawning realisation came over him. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and hitched up his trousers.

  “Of course, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”

  He saluted and was gone.

  *

  Doctor Elsbeth Morton looked striking in her cocktail dress. Faulkner couldn’t help but smile. It was good to see a familiar face.

  “I brought you this,” she held up two glass tumblers. “Give you a bit of a lift. I can see you’re flagging.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to the trained eye.”

  Faulkner took the offered glass and sniffed it.

  “Navy rum?”

  “The very same. Now drink up.”

  Faulkner tilted the glass, studying the liquid’s rich hue. “I’m supposed to stay away from alcohol. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Well, you’ve ignored all her other recommendations. I don’t think one more will matter.”

  Faulkner took a mouthful and swallowed.

  It took a moment for the full effect to hit him but, when it did, he had to pinch his nose to stop his eyes from watering.

  She said, “Congratulations on your new commission.”

  “You think I’m making a mistake?”

  “I think you’ll fail your medical. You’re still seriously under-weight.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

  Faulkner finished his drink while Morton sipped at hers.

  She said, “What did you think of the president?”

  Faulkner thought about that. “Very shrewd. Also, one hell of a showman.”

  “I liked the big reveal of the Mantis. Did you know about that?”

  “Did I look as though I did?”

  “We can go and take a look at her if you like.”

  “Haven’t you seen enough?”

  “No, I’m talking about up close.”