“And naturally there are degrees of Peers,” Paivo said. “Some come from prestigious clans and some don’t, and though we’re all supposed to be rich, some are very poor.”

  “Especially since the economy collapsed,” Martinez said.

  “I’ve noticed that you have a kind of informal stratigraphy,” Severin said. “There’s the absolute top rank, like Lady Terza and Lady Sula—the upper-upper-upper set of Peers. Whereas you two are upper-upper-middle, and the upper-upper-upper feel free to condescend to you.” He turned to Martinez. “That’s why you had to start your own yacht club, yes? Because you wouldn’t have been allowed into the established clubs.”

  “I . . . won’t disagree,” Martinez said cautiously.

  “And Chandra Prasad, I think, is middle-middle-middle, and Naaz Vijana is lower-middle-middle. Lord Gareth’s aide Santana is, at best, lower-middle-lower.” He raised his wineglass. “And I, of course, am a considerable distance below even the lower-lower-lower, because I’m not a Peer at all.”

  Paivo smiled as he swirled his drink in his hand. “You know,” he said, “these categories are kind of fun.”

  Severin continued his dogged analysis. “But even though the peers no longer speak for the Great Masters, they still have a monopoly on certain institutions. Peers are two percent of the population, but have ninety percent of the money. The places at the Fleet academies are reserved for Peers, so even if I were the most talented applicant, I could never be an officer, unless I was promoted through the same kind of accident . . .” He hesitated, aware he was weakening his case. “The sort of accident that actually allowed my step to lieutenant.”

  “An upper-upper-upper gave you a field promotion,” Martinez said. “Out of condescension, perhaps.”

  “I’ve always assumed you recommended me,” Severin said.

  “I recommended a reward,” Martinez said. “It was Michi who decided you should be an officer.”

  “Really?” Severin thought that over, then waved a hand. “Well, I like you anyway.”

  Martinez smiled. “That felt just a little condescending.”

  “You’re wrong about the academies,” Paivo said. “There were commoners in my class. When I was a cadet on the Standard, there was a commoner in the wardroom.”

  “And how many commoners command warships, or any of the big dockyards?”

  Martinez couldn’t think of an answer.

  “And there are no commoners in the Convocation, and the Convocation runs the empire,” Severin said.

  “Commoners have been co-opted into the Convocation,” Martinez said, “but they generally get a peerage at the same time.”

  “At Harzapid,” Paivo said, “Lady Sula was talking about awarding offices and promotions based on competitive examinations.”

  “Was she?” Martinez was surprised. She hadn’t mentioned the idea to him. It seemed remarkably fair-minded of her—but then he remembered that she’d scored a First on her lieutenant’s exams in her year and that if her ability to fly through exams became a qualification for office, she’d be running the empire in no time.

  “There was some old empire on Terra that appointed officials based on exams,” said Severin. “From my perspective, it seems an idea worth considering.”

  “The idea makes me wonder if we want everyone in charge of the empire to be so intelligent,” Paivo said. “Those with, ah, lesser gifts can be depended on to provide a degree of stability, because they’ll have enough imagination to do their jobs, but little else.” He laughed. “But have you ever tried to get a group of very intelligent people to agree on anything? We might have a new civil war every week.”

  “So you’re saying that the empire depends on the mediocrity of its officials,” Martinez said.

  Paivo blinked. “Apparently I am,” he said.

  “I’d like to point out that we,” said Severin, “by which I mean the highly intelligent officers of the Fourth Fleet, seem to have collaborated very well with one another.”

  “We are under extraordinary pressure to work together,” said Martinez. “To assure our own survival, for one thing. Once the fear of annihilation is over, rivalries and discord may well surface.” He shrugged. “May? Let’s face it, some will be at each other’s throats.”

  “I for one would enjoy the sight of Michi Chen gnawing on Wei Jian’s jugular,” said Paivo.

  Mpanza entered, and the conversation faded while he refilled everyone’s glasses. Martinez applied himself to his sour soup.

  It had never occurred to him, he realized, to ask himself what he was for, as a Peer or anything else. As a young man he’d had a choice, to remain with his family and develop into a less impressive version of his older brother Roland or to strike out on his own. As a Peer he’d had a free berth at the Nelson Academy, where upper-upper-middle Peers predominated, and so he opted for the Fleet. Which had turned out to be the right decision, because the Naxid War had shaken the empire just enough so that he had opportunities for advancement that wouldn’t have otherwise been available. And of course the same wartime disruption had made it possible for a commoner like Severin to rise to the highest rank in the Exploration Service.

  But what was he for?

  He was for winning battles, he thought, fortunately for the right side. And he was for fathering genius children.

  Anything else, he thought, could be left to specialists.

  Once Mpanza withdrew, he addressed the matter. “It would be good if we found ways for people like Captain Severin to advance and exercise his gifts,” he said, “and to do it without a war.”

  Severin’s look was dark. “Indeed,” he said. Martinez guessed he was thinking of Lady Starkey.

  “One problem is that it’s not up to us,” Paivo said. “It’s up to the politicians.” He looked at Martinez. “Unless Lady Sula has her way and we establish a military dictatorship.”

  Martinez was aware of this element of Sula’s program. “Remember when I said that conflicts and rivalries would surface after the victory?” he said. “Imagine how the knives would come out when everyone’s competing to be sole ruler of the empire.”

  Paivo considered this. “I fancy Lady Sula could dispose of any rivals without much trouble.”

  Martinez felt a cold finger touch his spine, and he wondered how much Paivo knew, or guessed, about Sula’s methods for dealing with those she found inconvenient.

  Mpanza entered to collect their soup bowls, fortunately bringing an end to any more speculation on Sula or dictatorship. The next course was a kind of vegetable stew. This was followed by deep-fried pork, and lastly coconut and shellfish in a delicate fried wrapper. More coconut was present in the dessert, a kind of custard topped with fruit. Mpanza brought out coffee, its scent sharp in the air, and then Martinez called up the morning exercise into the displays and asked Severin to explain how he had won the morning’s exercise.

  The Fourth Fleet’s last opponent, Lord Tork, had employed the Fleet’s traditional playbook and strung out his squadrons in a long line. Martinez had been able to employ the third dimension to send his own formations north and south of Tork’s line and achieve a local superiority that broke Tork’s formation into pieces, each of which was then overwhelmed in turn.

  There had been considerable discussion among the officers concerning how best to employ the third dimension in this new phase of the war—Martinez had initially favored stacking his ships into a formation resembling a flyswatter, and intended to be used in much the same way as a flyswatter, to bat enemy ships out of the way. His ideas had evolved as the fleet exercises had revealed more possibilities, and now he employed mobile reserves and detached squadrons flying in advance and in the rear, all to add flexibility.

  That morning Severin’s ships had been flying in a formation similar to that of Martinez, with detachments ready to reinforce the main body at any point, and every ship whirling in the unpredictable chaos of the Method.

  “I call it a patchwork quilt,” Severin said. “Each of the patches can be any size, and each can maneuver independently.”

  “Can you explain how that’s different from what we’ve been doing till now?” Martinez said. “My subformations were also capable of independent movement.”

  “The difference isn’t in their capabilities,” Severin said. “But in my exploitation of transient movement.”

  Severin explained that he was always ordering minor shifts in his squadrons’ headings, just to see how the opposition reacted. Once the reactions became predictable, his own maneuvers could be used to shift the opposition out of position, after which he would pounce.

  “Everything’s a feint, until it isn’t,” he said, as he showed how Foote’s Division Two had wedged apart Martinez’s squadrons until he could dash in to disrupt Martinez’s entire force.

  Martinez took a sip of his strong coffee and hoped it would help him grasp Severin’s tactics. “I’d like to think I would have noticed what you were doing,” he said, “if I weren’t so absorbed in trying to envelop your lead ships.”

  “If you’d countered Foote,” Severin said, “I would have feinted somewhere else.”

  Paivo frowned. “It’s a very subtle thing you’re doing,” he said. “All those micromaneuvers—how do you keep them all in your head?”

  Severin spread his hands. “I just do,” he said.

  Paivo turned to Martinez. “I’m beginning to think that Squadcom Severin and I should change places,” he said. “He might make a better tactical officer than me.”

  “That’s a generous thought,” Martinez said, “but it’s premature. If what Nikki is doing forms any kind of system, we can learn that system. Just give us time.” He turned to Severin. “Nikki, I’d like you to command the opposition again tomorrow, and we’ll see if we can be ready for you.”

  Severin nodded. “As you like, my lord,” he said. “I’ll do my best to beat you again.”

  Martinez, as he took another sip of his coffee, resigned himself to once again being on the losing side.

  But the next day Martinez surprised himself by winning. This time, Sula’s scheme to predict where the Martinez Method would take the other side’s ships had worked, and Martinez was able to target Severin’s ships one by one until the computer proclaimed that Severin had been wiped out. The victory had been so swift and decisive that Severin hadn’t an opportunity to develop his micromaneuvers.

  At present, the computers were predicting enemy actions about 30 percent of the time. If Sula was right, the computers would get better at it.

  But if they didn’t, Severin’s system would be valuable indeed. At least assuming that anyone other than Severin could understand it.

  “I have viewed your report of the action at Colamote,” said Wei Jian. From the video display her dark eyes bore on Sula like the barrels of a cannon. “I was shocked and disgusted to see you improperly dressed, insofar as you wore insignia belonging to a junior fleet commander, not a senior captain. If this appalling behavior continues, I shall be forced to take disciplinary action. End message.”

  Well, Sula thought. Complaints about shoulder boards, and no congratulations for my bloodless victory. I guess we now know what’s important to our new overlord.

  Thoughtfully, she reached for her toasted muffin and spread honey on it. The gentle fragrance of the honey failed to calm her.

  She knew the answer she wanted to send: Shut your mouth, you stupid fucking cow! You have no authority over me or over anyone else! You’re a coward who spent months avoiding battle and skulking among the asteroids, and everybody knows it. You’re lucky that you’re allowed to breathe the same air as the rest of the Fleet! Any more lip from you, and I shall be forced to take disciplinary action, and I don’t think you’ll like that one fucking bit!

  By the time she’d finished her muffin, she’d decided that sending the message would not improve the situation. Documenting your mutiny on video was probably not the best prescription for continued health.

  She decided not to reply to the message at all. What, after all, could be the point? She had an independent command, there was no way that Wei Jian could monitor her, and very shortly she would be out of communication, since between Colamote and Laredo most of the wormhole relays were occupied by the enemy.

  Division Nine would be taking the route to Laredo instead of heading to Harzapid, since Sula wanted to stand between the six Laredo cruisers and any more enemy ships popping up from the direction of Antopone. So Division Nine would continue its acceleration out of the Colamote system and accelerate for ten or twelve days, after which they’d turn over and begin a deceleration, which eventually would bring their velocity to zero, followed by an acceleration in the direction of Colamote once more. The Laredo cruisers would catch them, the Fleet crews would be transferred aboard, and the civilian crews that had taken the cruisers from Laredo would get aboard Sula’s excess civilian ships and head for home.

  Staffing, however, was going to be a problem. Sula had brought sufficient trainees to crew six Celestial-class light cruisers, with several hundred extra volunteer crew that had to be evacuated from Zarafan anyway. But now she’d captured the three Bombardment-class heavy cruisers of Sen-thar’s small squadron, each of which required a larger crew than any of the Laredo ships, and the result was that all her warships were going to be undercrewed, with an insufficient number of enlisted serving under newly promoted officers unused to, and possibly unqualified for, their jobs. The crews of the heavy cruisers had all trained on simulators of the light Celestial class, and now they were having to relearn everything.

  Sen-thar’s former ships were also undergoing refit. Furniture for Lai-own included an extra support for the Lai-owns’ keel-shaped breastbone, and the chairs, over time, were excruciating for humans. Regular shuttles full of furniture, including acceleration couches, were moving back and forth between the immigration ships and the new prizes.

  In addition, Ideal, Lentrec, and Pride of Parkhurst had begun their conversion into warships, a procedure that had so far gutted large sections of the ships’ interiors with no increase in the ships’ usefulness, at least so far. Heavy sheets of radiation shielding were being jigsawed into place, and the mechanism to feed missiles to the launchers were being fitted. Installing the launchers, which would involve cutting holes in the ships’ hulls, would be saved for last.

  Sula had called for one military exercise, Mentor and Splendid versus the new captures. As Sula suspected, the captures’ new crews weren’t yet up to actually maneuvering their ships in anything like combat; so the battle had been fought entirely in virtual, with the ships linked together by communications laser in a single computer-generated environment. Despite the heavy cruisers’ advantages in numbers of missile tubes and maneuver elements, the result had been a complete rout, with the three heavy cruisers swiftly destroyed as they staggered through the simulation, unable to coordinate either maneuvers or missile fire.

  Sula had assured the dejected officers of the losing ships that they would get better with practice, but privately she had her doubts. Division Nine was trying to do too much, and its resources were stretched too thin. Inexperienced crouchbacks crewed ships they hadn’t trained for, major reconstruction was being carried out not in dock but on the fly, officers were either inexperienced demi-cadets or recycled retirees—and the nature of the squadron itself, with its heterogeneous collection of warships, transports, and the three giants, was all a great big radioactive formula for confusion and failure.

  And what Sula’s commander Wei Jian cared about was insignia. She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep.

  Everything dies. Nothing matters. Somehow that thought now seemed a comfort.

  A door slid open, and Shawna Spence stepped in. “More tea, my lady?”

  “I think I’ve had enough, thank you.”

  “More pastries, then?” Spence’s eyes strayed to the image of Wei Jian frozen on the screen. “New orders, my lady?” she asked.

  “None I plan to pay attention to,” Sula said. “Why don’t you get a cup from the kitchen and join me for tea?”

  Spence fetched a cup and sat next to Sula at the wedge-shaped table. Sula looked at the battered beige walls. “I’m thinking of repainting,” she said.

  “Good idea,” Spence said. “Bright colors, so being on a ship again isn’t so depressing.”

  Sula, who had been considering a dark viridian green, decided that perhaps Spence had a point.

  “As long as it doesn’t look like the set of a children’s program,” she said. “No red balloons, no cute animals, no wrapped presents with big bows.”

  “I like cute animals.” Spence looked at her. “How about happy derivoo?”

  “That would be too scary. I wouldn’t sleep at all.”

  Sula saw Spence hesitate before answering, and she knew what thought was going through Spence’s head: Oh. No change then.

  “No derivoo,” Spence said. “Check.”

  Sula looked at her teacup with its motif of tulips and pomegranates. “Maybe something like this,” she said. “I can look up traditional Anatolian designs.”

  “If they’re all as colorful as that,” Spence said, “we’ll have the most cheerful flag officer’s quarters in the Fleet.”

  Sula sipped her tea, felt the sweet liquid ease along her tongue, then returned the cup to its saucer.

  “How is Macnamara faring?” she asked.

  “Oh,” Spence said. Her face adopted an ambiguous expression. “He’s very much in love.”

  Sula had assumed as much. She had checked the logs of the ship’s recreation tubes and found that since Macnamara had returned from escorting prisoners to their new accommodation, his name or Japutra Bliss’s were found on reservations for the tubes.

  “He knows Bliss is married, yes?” Sula said.

  “Oh yes. He says that she says the marriage is over.”

  Sula gazed into her teacup. “We’ll see if the husband agrees.”

  Spence was silent.

  “Well,” Sula said finally. “Whatever makes Macnamara happy.”