“If you had been a little more hypocritical,” Martinez said, “PJ Ngeni might still be alive, you’d still be married to Nikkul, and your family would be happy to welcome you to Zanshaa.”

  “I—”

  “If you can’t stand hypocrisy,” Martinez continued, “maybe you should stop bribing selection committees and go home to Harzapid, because you are absolutely unsuited for life or politics in the High City.”

  Sempronia’s face turned to stone. She turned to Nikkul. “Well,” she said, “it seems we are dismissed to our sad little provincial home.”

  Martinez look at Nikkul. “You had questions for me. I answered them as honestly as I could. I hold you no ill will, and I wish you every possible success.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “But I see no point in continuing this. If you don’t like my answers, perhaps you need to find some new questions.”

  Sempronia just glared at him. Nikkul stood. “I’ll walk with you to the airlock,” he said.

  They walked in silence for a few moments while anger and sadness chased each other through Martinez’s brain.

  Nikkul Shankaracharya had proved unsuited to combat, but otherwise he was a highly intelligent man, with an active, agile imagination and an abundance of technical knowledge and skills. He’d made a contribution to the Method, and Martinez had genuinely regretted shooting down his career.

  “I’m sorry,” Martinez said. “My family is broken, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “I’m sorry too,” said Nikkul. “The sad fact is that I genuinely believe in the Restoration and its cause, and I think I could contribute to the reforms the empire desperately needs. But now—” He waved a hand. “We’ll have to see what we can do.”

  “Good luck,” Martinez said.

  Nikkul gazed at him with solemn brown eyes. “And to you. I think you’ll need it more than I.”

  Sula brought a gift when she visited Lord Nishkad in his palatial quarters aboard Pride of Parkhurst. It was a statuette of Nishkad himself, each part created in an autolathe in Splendid’s workshop, then assembled and sprayed with a bronze microalloy plating. Nishkad stood nobly on his four feet in his old squadron commander’s uniform, complete with decorations. A plaque on the base held an inscription:

  To Lord Nishkad, in Gratitude for His Benevolent and Unflagging Support of the Restoration, from Caroline Lady Sula and the Officers and Crews of Division Nine.

  Macnamara carried the heavy statuette from the shuttle and handed it to Sula at the door. A servant in livery met Sula there, took the statuette, and brought her to where Nishkad waited in his parlor. Naxids had only two speeds, stop and very-very-fast, and Sula smiled as the servant bolted ahead of her, shoes clattering on the tile, only to be forced to stop to allow her to catch up.

  “I brought you something for your trophy shelf,” she said as she entered the parlor.

  The servant placed the sculpture on a gleaming, polished table, and Nishkad uncoiled from his sofa and approached the statuette, which he studied with his black-on-red eyes. The eyes turned to Sula.

  “Thank you,” he said. “This is most unexpected.”

  “I considered giving it to you in a public ceremony,” Sula said, “and I still can, with your permission. But if the Zanshaa government wins the war, this award would be viewed as evidence of treason, and I thought perhaps you’d prefer to keep your contribution out of the public eye.”

  “If we win,” Nishkad said, “my contribution will become known. It will also become known if we lose, and in that event—if my courage proves sufficient—I plan to cheat the executioners by taking my own life.”

  Sula approved of Nishkad’s calm acceptance of his fate, whatever that would be. Everything dies. Nothing matters.

  “Fortune attend you, my lord,” she said. “And once I’m back in the Convocation, I will try to pass an act to award you a decoration. You and the other Naxids have provided our very best chance of success.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Nishkad. He returned to his sofa and coiled his quadruped body on the plush cushions. “I have tea prepared, if you would like some.”

  “I would, thank you.”

  “Please sit.”

  Sula perched on an intelligent chair that adjusted itself to her human frame. Another liveried servant pushed in a tray with a setting for tea and with a selection of cakes and pastries.

  “I remember that you like cane syrup,” Nishkad said, “and I found some on Zarafan.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, my lord.”

  For half an hour they sipped tea, ate lemon cake, and talked about progress made in training and in the reconstruction of the three great ships. The transformation that had begun in chaos was slowly beginning to take on a more concrete form, with crews that were learning their jobs and transports slowly turning into warships.

  The Colamote system was well in their rear, and Division Nine had already turned and begun the deceleration that would allow it to rendezvous with the Laredo cruisers.

  The three captured cruisers were still losing to Mentor and Splendid in any exercises, but their crews were growing more experienced and were making measurable progress.

  “My problem is lack of trained crew,” Sula said. “When the new crews board the cruisers from Laredo, they’re going to find themselves in battle within months. That’s hardly enough time for a shakedown, let alone for everyone to know their jobs. While Do-faq’s ships and crews have served together for years.”

  “You must plan your tactics in accordance with the skills of your subordinates,” Nishkad said. “Which I know is far easier said than done.”

  “I wonder,” Sula said, “if we might use some of your veteran instructors as crew on our warships.”

  Nishkad looked at her in wary surprise. “That of course would be illegal,” he said. “Would your superiors permit such a thing?”

  “I don’t plan to ask them,” Sula said. “I didn’t ask permission when I employed Naxids in construction, or when I called for Naxid volunteer instructors—and as long as I produce results, no one will be in a position to complain.”

  “And if you fail,” Nishkad said, “all evidence will be destroyed, along with the ships and the crews.”

  “It will hardly matter to either of us at that point.”

  Nishkad’s expression turned inward. “I will call for volunteers,” he said. “But I will resist any attempt at conscription.”

  “That is all I ask,” Sula said. “If anyone prefers a free, safe ride to Laredo, they’re welcome.”

  Inwardly she smiled. Nishkad certainly deserved the award she’d given him, and she was perfectly sincere when she told him she would try to get him a decoration, but her timing had been quite deliberate. She needed him to put his people at risk by agreeing to her latest scheme, and she knew that few people were immune to flattery.

  Now if only the enemy delayed their attack long enough for her to train her crews.

  The flagship Crisis had any number of airlocks suitable for docking a shuttle, but only two that would support the dignity of a senior officer of the Fleet, so there was a queue, with shuttles hanging in formation near the cruiser until a new space opened up. Martinez courteously let others go first, not because he was feeling deferential, but because he hadn’t wanted to experience the strained conversation between Jian’s officers and his own, which he expected would be hesitant, dreary, and depressing.

  Plus, he wanted to save his impressive entrance for last.

  At the last minute, Martinez stepped aboard the Crisis to the flourishes of a military band playing “Sworn Ever to Serve the Praxis,” its seven members crammed into a corner of the lobby and barely able to deploy their instruments. Martinez wore full dress, the tall collar scratching at the flesh under his chin, and he carried the Golden Orb in his right hand, the polychromatic liquid swirling in its transparent ball.

  The welcoming party braced to attention when they saw the Orb, and he heard a hesitation on the part of the band, until with a gesture he told them to continue their playing. The others he let stand easy for a few seconds, then set them at ease. An elcap with the red triangles of a staff officer escorted him to the elevator, and then to Wei Jian’s dining room.

  The two largest elements of the Restoration fleet had finally united. Michi Chen, her new leg, and her nine freshly repaired cruisers had arrived ten days earlier, and Martinez and Michi had engaged in long discussions about how best to welcome Jian and her captains. Formally correct, they decided, and any informal dialogues, including the subversive ones, could happen behind the scenes.

  Jian and her fifty-five warships had joined the Fourth Fleet only hours ago, and she had promptly called a meeting of the high-ranking officers of both commands. Martinez had the feeling that this wasn’t going to be the usual service dinner, with the diners slogging through one course after another and the dreariness relieved only by wine, but something else—for one thing, it was being held in midafternoon and not at mealtime.

  As Martinez stepped off the elevator, he saw two military constables braced at attention on either side of open double doors. Desultory conversation came fitfully through the doors The staff officer led him to the doors and stood aside, and he walked in.

  Wei Jian sat at the head of the table, with Michi on her left, and a gray-haired squadron commander on her right. Jian’s eyes lighted on Martinez as he stepped through the double doors, and without hesitation she leaped to her feet and braced to salute the Orb. The others followed, and soon Martinez gazed down the table at a double row of formally dressed officers standing frozen at attention, chins raised to bare their throats in a sign of submission.

  “Be at ease,” he said, and the others relaxed.

  “Captain Martinez,” said Jian, “a place is reserved for you here.”

  An orderly drew back Martinez’s chair, and he walked to it and sat. “Coffee or tea, my lord?” the orderly said. “Or a soft drink?”

  “Coffee will be fine.” Silver jugs of coffee and tea stood ready on a nearby shelf. The orderly brought him a cup and saucer, then poured from one of the jugs. A sharp aroma rose from the cup—it seemed Jian preferred her coffee strong, and Martinez could only agree.

  The room was very functional, the walls painted light green, with recessed lighting, video screens on the walls, and a floor tiled in a severe pattern in black and white. Wei Jian had lived in this suite for years, he knew, and Martinez found it strange that the room remained so impersonal after all that time.

  He sipped his coffee, glanced over the assembled guests, and saw almost all the officers in the Fourth Fleet who had served as a squadron or division commander, including Severin of the Exploration Service, the Daimong Rivven with his immobile face frozen in a perpetual expression of indignation, and the Lai-own An-dar, Rivven’s fellow defector. Amid the officers of the Fourth Fleet were their opposite numbers from Jian’s force. All were seated in order of rank and seniority dating not after any promotions within the Fourth Fleet but from the first day of the rebellion.

  Looking at the assembled officers, he saw at least three of Jian’s officers who outranked him. Any of them could be placed over him at any time: Martinez might well find himself in command of a single ship—or perhaps not even that, because every ship already had its captain.

  Chandra Prasad entered the room, her metallic red hair swinging, and then braced at attention. Jian directed her to a chair. Martinez suspected that Chandra had arrived late as an act of insolence, and he hoped that the insolence—or the perception of it—would not fatally poison the atmosphere of the meeting.

  Jian rose to her feet. “Now that we are all present,” she said, with a pointed look at Chandra, “I will present my plan for engaging the enemy.” Video displays flashed on the walls, showing numbers and types of ships.

  “The Fourth Fleet has ninety-four ships,” Jian continued, “or at least it will once those under repair have joined us—and the last should join within the next few days. My own command stands at fifty-five. In addition, two light cruisers were constructed at the Harzapid dockyards, have taken on crews, and are now on their way to a rendezvous. Other ships have been built on Terra and other worlds, but will not arrive for some weeks.

  “Lady Sula’s command, when she joins us, will consist of eleven warships, most with crews new to their jobs, plus three, ah, improvised warships”—her lips gave a dismissive little twist—“which may be of some limited use.”

  Jian’s eyes scanned the room, locking eyes, however briefly, with each of the officers in turn. Gazing back into that determined stare, Martinez felt a chill run up his back.

  “That,” Jian said, “gives us a total of over a hundred and sixty warships, and despite some of the crews’ hasty training, we now have a fair chance of engaging Do-faq’s hundred and sixty-six on something like equal terms.”

  Jian frowned at one of the displays. “But why did Do-faq give us a chance to engage on equal terms? After all, the enemy knew ages ago that the Fourth Fleet had only seventy-five ships at Zarafan, some of which were under repair, and if Do-faq had attacked then he could have outnumbered Captain Martinez more than two-to-one and destroyed him. So the question I must ask myself is, Why did he hesitate?”

  “The politicians may have ordered him to stay and protect the capital,” said Captain Conyngham. Conyngham was a dedicated officer who had stayed in the service despite the bad luck of being captured on the first day of the Naxid Rebellion, and at Second Shulduc had commanded Perfection of the Praxis, the Fourth Fleet’s one and only battleship, protected by a squadron of cruisers. As intended, Lord Tork had assumed that Perfection was the flagship of the entire fleet and had personally led the attack with his own three battleships and their support, and in so doing fatally overstrained his own line. Conyngham had fought an extended defensive action and survived by the skin of his teeth, and it had been claimed afterward that the action had been so harrowing that his hair and goatee had turned white. Martinez happened to know that Conyngham’s hair had been white before the start of the Accidental War, but he saw no reason to let trivial truth stand in the way of a good story.

  Wei Jian, however, was not inclined to respect Conyngham’s white hairs, and put him in the crosshairs of one of her cold stares.

  “Kindly do not interrupt,” she said. “When I wish to hear speculation, I shall ask for it.”

  Conyngham was taken aback. “Beg pardon, Lady Fleetcom,” he murmured.

  Jian ignored him and turned to the rest of the room.

  “It may have been a political decision, yes,” she said. “But I think the decision was a military one—a conservative decision, perhaps, but a decision that might have unwelcome consequences in the long run. I think that Do-faq had decided to await reinforcements.”

  She paused to let that calculation sink into the minds of the assembled officers.

  “Recall that Tork had left nineteen ships to defend the capital,” Jian said. “That raises Do-faq’s total to a hundred eighty. And we may assume that the Zanshaa government has been building new warships, just as we have—casualties, after all, were foreseeable, and contracts for replacement ships would have been let out early in the war. The three cruisers that Lady Sula captured at Colamote were newly built at Antopone, and Antopone doesn’t have a large, well-staffed Fleet dockyard. The enemy have more yards, personnel, and cash than we do, so if every Antopone-sized ring station was ramped up to produce three cruiser-equivalents, we may assume that at least twenty-one new ships may soon be reinforcing Do-faq at Zanshaa, if they haven’t already.”

  There was a stir in the room as the assembled officers turned to look at one another. Calculations clicked over in Martinez’s mind: ships, missiles, missile launchers. Jian’s calculations were at least plausible.

  “Furthermore,” Jian said, “we can assume that the enemy co-opted ships of the Exploration Service, just as we did. A percentage of Service ships are on extended exploration missions, so probably no more than nine or ten will be both strong enough to stand in battle and available to join Do-faq.”

  Rivven had told Martinez that Tork, wanting the glory of victory to go entirely to the Fleet, had refused the offer of Exploration Service ships, but that meant there were now more available to Do-faq.

  Jian leaned forward and rested her knuckles on the surface of the table. “Most important, however, are the forty warships formerly commanded by Nguyen at Felarus. The enemy boasts that these ships were captured, not destroyed, and that all Terran crew were killed without any damage taken by the enemy. While some of this may be an exaggeration, we should nevertheless assume that those forty ships would have been converted from Terran use to that of other species, and done as quickly as possible.

  “Remember that Felarus is the headquarters of the Third Fleet, and in normal circumstances maintains and crews more than two hundred ships. If all available personnel were concentrated on converting and crewing those forty captured ships, the job could have been completed in very short order—anywhere from one to two months, and after the three-month voyage to Zanshaa all forty ships would be ready to join Do-faq. All these added together would make over two hundred fifty ships, which would leave us substantially outnumbered.”

  Martinez knew that if the captured Terran ships were assigned to Daimong or Torminel, a conversion was barely needed at all. Daimong and Torminel were roughly human-shaped, and at need could use furniture and acceleration couches designed for humans. Lai-own required fixtures designed for their own species, and any Terran ship given to Cree would also require every screen, console, and display altered to conform to the near-blind species’ requirements. But if no ships were given to Cree, then Wei Jian’s figures were more than plausible.

  Jian straightened and looked out over the heads of her audience without even seeming to see them.

  “Therefore we must prepare to fight an enemy that possesses a substantial advantage in numbers. I will accordingly make assignments based on successful investigations conducted by ships in transit, and by success in combat.”