“And I do mean we.”

  Severin gave a long sigh, then offered a weary smile. “How are you, by the way?” He laughed. “Maybe I should have opened with that. End message.”

  Sula pondered Severin’s arguments as she stared at the orange end-stamp on the display, and then she waved a hand at the record button, and the camera eye winked on. She smiled.

  “Hi, Nikki. I’m very well, thanks for asking,” she said. “You look as if you could use a long vacation, but I know what it’s like when your brain won’t stop spinning its gears.”

  She took a breath. “I think that you’re right that we need to move fast politically when we arrive at Zanshaa, and to that end we have to have our program ready before we arrive. Fortunately, we’ve got a couple months to get it in shape. I’ll communicate my ideas to the political leadership on Harzapid, and you should do the same.”

  Sula nodded at the camera. “It occurs to me that our victory at Toley might be the first pebble falling in what could be a massive avalanche. We’ve argued that the government in Zanshaa is illegitimate, and that we’re going to replace it with a government somehow more genuine, but the fact is that the Zanshaa government was chosen in the normal way, and our actual objection to Gruum and Tu-hon and the others is that they’re stupid, greedy, overprivileged, and want to kill us. Do-faq might not have been wrong when he accused us of trying to overthrow a legitimate government by force.” She grinned. “Not that I care about his accusations particularly.”

  She tapped her desktop with her fingers. “But say for the sake of argument that Do-faq was right. Once we’re in charge, what’s to stop others from doing what we’ve done, which is gather a fleet and make a dash for the capital?

  “We’ve proved it’s possible.” She shook her head. “That’s another argument for us establishing a dictatorship,” she said. “Put the power in the hands of the people who actually have the missiles, rather than a civilian government that depends on the missile-launching classes for their own safety.”

  She considered adding a digression on the transfer of power during the Roman Empire, but when she contemplated the lengthy list of emperors who were stabbed, strangled, committed suicide, died in battle, were killed by their bodyguards, or were drowned in their own bath, she began to doubt that these examples buttressed her case.

  “We should continue these discussions with our friends in the Fleet and with our friends back on Harzapid,” she said. “And I hear you: we should figure this out. I look forward to hearing from you. End message.”

  She loosened the collar of her fatigues jumpsuit and picked up her stylus while turning on her desk display. She called the kitchen and asked for tea, then made notes on her desktop till she had her arguments in order. Macnamara delivered her tea in silence, then withdrew. Ignored, it silently perfumed the air. Sula instead stayed focused, writing an outline for what she planned to say, then faced the camera and readied herself to say it.

  It was then that she considered who would be viewing her message. The most energetic members of the Restoration’s council were Roland Martinez, Vipsania Yoshitoshi, and Terza Chen—in other words, Gareth Martinez’s brother, sister, and wife. She supposed they might listen to her message, but she doubted they would take it very seriously. They had plenty of ideas of their own.

  She needed to give them a reason to treat her ideas with respect. She revisited her message, made a few more notes, then waved the camera on.

  “This is Caroline, Lady Sula, with a report to the Restoration council. Greetings.”

  She waved a hand to indicate her convocate’s jacket. “You will notice that I appear in the raiment of a member of the Convocation. I am the only convocate in the Combined Fleet, and I am already consulting with members of the Fleet to gather their ideas about the future of the empire.”

  That should get their attention, she thought. There was nothing like the news that a potential rival was harvesting clients from among the missile-launching classes.

  “I presume that our intentions include reforming the Convocation as well as promoting a new Lord Senior in line with our ideas. I should like to point out that I serve on the Court of Honor, which rules on whether or not a given member is suitable to remain a convocate. If I were to chair that committee instead of Lady Tu-hon—who I presume we’re going to shoot in the head once we find her—I can find reasons to ease any number of people out of the Convocation without any fuss and without any executions.”

  She smiled. “I also have some ideas for how the empire might be ordered after the end of the war.”

  Now, she thought, she might be listened to.

  Martinez watched Sula’s video, then considered sending her his ideas about the future of the empire, but in the end decided against it. He preferred to avoid giving Sula a chance to exercise her talent at savage mockery, and besides, Roland was in charge of the political side.

  When he thought about it, he really didn’t have a political program, just a set of personal goals. He wanted his promotion to fleet commander back, he wanted to be co-opted into the Convocation, and he wanted a seat on the Fleet Control Board, preferably at its head.

  All reasonable and warranted, he thought.

  Once this war was over, there was no point in having a large field command, because the Fleet would be in a rebuilding phase, replacing the hundreds of ships lost in the war. The Fleet Control Board would manage that rebuilding, as well as supervise the training of new recruits to crew the ships. Martinez wanted to be in charge of all that, because though he had no firm ideas of where to take the empire, he knew where he wanted to take the Fleet.

  He’d leave the political dimensions to Roland, Terza, Vipsania, and Walpurga.

  And Sula, apparently.

  Sula considered Wei Jian handing out prizes for the Combined Fleet trivia contest and smiled. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Jian would be more uncomfortable.

  Yet that scenario would soon present itself. The Combined Fleet would be engaged in a lengthy series of intership competitions—quizzes; concerts; and contests in making art, music, short videos. There would be competitions in board and video games and gymkhanas for pinnace pilots. It was all a way of keeping the crews from being too idle, and of keeping their competitive spirit high. Apparently the Fourth Fleet had done much the same thing on its route to Toley.

  And Wei Jian would hand out the prizes. Delightful.

  Sula strolled along the mezzanine overlooking Parkhurst’s gleaming concourse. Bright banners hung from the mezzanine rail and the walls of the restaurant and bar. The sound of the ship’s orchestra tuning came up like scattered birdsong from the bandstand below. Pride of Parkhurst was about to enjoy its victory ball.

  Parkhurst was in a much better condition to host a ball than the Combined Fleet’s warships. For one thing, the ship normally carried an orchestra, and enough of the musicians had volunteered for the Restoration Fleet to form the core of a new ensemble that included brand-new recruits who just happened to be musicians. Too, the concourse was large enough to make a dance floor, whereas in warships any dance would have to be held in the crew’s dining area, with the chairs and tables removed.

  Sula saw Dr. Gunaydin ahead, leaning on the mezzanine rail and looking at the growing crowd below. He wore civilian dress, more practical for dancing than formal military wear, and his head had been freshly shaved.

  “Doctor,” she said. “I hope to see you dancing tonight.”

  He turned and nodded. “I hope you’ll reserve a dance for me.” She couldn’t help but notice that he’d failed to salute.

  “Of course,” she said.

  He looked at her wine-red tunic. “You seem to have become a convocate again.”

  She spread her hands. “I do what I can.”

  “This might explain the queries I’m getting from the fleet commander’s staff. They are very eager to discover the state of your health.”

  “Have you been ordered yet to confine me to a health ward?”

  He seemed amused. “There is no health ward on the ship, though I suppose I could improvise one. But in any case, I am not in the fleet commander’s chain of command and she—or her staff—have no business giving me any such order. I could appeal to my own superiors on Harzapid.” He laughed. “But, the truth is, anyone who gives me such an order might qualify for a health ward herself.”

  She laughed with him. “I applaud your resolution, Doctor,” she said, “though I think few people would resist such an order.”

  Gunaydin shrugged. “What could they do to me? Nothing.”

  Sula thought that Gunaydin was lacking in certain kinds of imagination.

  “Let’s hope so,” she said. “I’ll see you on the dance floor.”

  She went to the bar and ordered a couple of cocktails to get herself in the mood for dancing. She was finishing the last of these when she was approached by Devindar Suri, Parkhurst’s original captain. He was a tall, rugged-seeming man going gray at the temples and exuded a strange mixture of confidence and bonhomie, intended perhaps to be reassuring to wealthy paying passengers.

  “Lady Sula,” he said. “A pleasure to see you here.”

  “Please join me.”

  “Thank you.” He eased himself into his seat. “I think the music is about to begin,” he said. “Will you be giving an address to the crew beforehand?”

  “No,” Sula said. “I’ve already praised them in a formal address, so now they can lose themselves in celebration. I certainly intend to.”

  And then, because Suri seemed surprised, she added, “If you wish to speak, by all means do so.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t prepared anything. I assumed you would open the celebrations.”

  Sula considered the matter, then drained the last of her cocktail. “Why don’t we open the event with the first dance? That should get everything started.”

  “I’d love to.”

  The two of them went out onto the concourse, stepped onto the dance floor, and Sula signaled the orchestra to begin. The opening chords of Mortak’s “Lush” rolled out onto the concourse, and Sula and Captain Suri began to dance. For the first few minutes they had the dance floor to themselves, and then others began to join them.

  Suri was a relaxed and expert dancer, which Sula thought might be almost a requirement for the captain of a large passenger ship. He bowed to her as “Lush” faded away, then turned to applaud the orchestra.

  Sula danced with all the ship’s officers in turn and managed to avoid being trampled by the clumsier of the cadets. The orchestra was in fine form. A succession of cocktails sent a warm wave of relaxation through Sula, and the easing of the tension she’d felt for so many months set her soaring onto the dance floor.

  Eventually she found herself dancing with Gunaydin, and he steered her expertly around the other dancers. Colored spotlights reflected in his eyes and haloed his shaven head.

  “How’s my vagus today?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Vagus function nominal,” he said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Her sleeve display lit, and she saw that she’d just received a message from Roland Martinez. Roland’s image floated through Sula’s mind, so like his brother Gareth’s. She scowled at the display.

  “Bad news?” Gunaydin asked.

  “Annoying news,” Sula said. “It can wait till tomorrow.”

  Now Gareth Martinez had lodged in her head, and she couldn’t get rid of him. The orchestra played a series of triumphant chords and the song came to an end. Sula applauded, then took Gunaydin’s sleeve and led him off the dance floor.

  “Come with me,” she said. “I have an idea.”

  She led Gunaydin to the living area of her suite, closed the door, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard. It took him a few seconds to respond—he wasn’t surprised, she thought, but he had to work out how best to respond.

  The kiss went on for a while. Gunaydin’s lips tasted of salt, and his mustache bristled against her upper lip. His arms wrapped around her.

  The kiss came to a satisfying end, and they regarded each other from the distance of a handsbreath. His expression seemed quizzical.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you to do anything,” Sula said. “As you keep pointing out, you’re not a line officer and not in my chain of command. So I suppose I’m just calling for a volunteer.”

  “What do I do?” Gunaydin asked. “Take a step forward?”

  She grinned and pressed her hips into him. “You could try.”

  The second kiss was an improvement on the first. When it ended, she drew him toward her sleeping cabin and her bergamot-scented sheets.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s a selection of drinks in the cabinet.”

  He looked at her. “We could bathe together. A suite like this, I imagine there’s room in the shower stall.”

  Sula considered this. There was room, though a part of her wanted the indulgence of a shower to be hers alone. But still, she had to admit that the thought of a shared bath was alive with possibility.

  “I’ll want the water really hot,” she said.

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll call you.”

  She pinned her hair atop her head, used mouthwash, hung her clothes with care on the pegs provided, and put on a wine-red bathrobe that matched her convocate’s tunic. She started a hot shower, then opened the bathroom door and summoned Gunaydin.

  They kissed for a pleasant interval, collaborated in removing Gunaydin’s clothes, and then she stepped out of her robe and into the shower, drawing him after. The gods of the Fleet had banished cake soap from its ships—hapless recruits could slip on them, fall during heavy accelerations, and break bones—but the liquid soap produced abundant lather and had a pleasing herbal scent.

  The shower was a preview of things to come. Gunaydin demonstrated that he knew his way around a woman’s anatomy, which was only to be hoped for in a physician. Sula found it amusing that while his head was shaved, his chest was thickly thatched, and soon heavily soaped. They rubbed against each other, skin sliding freely against soapy skin. Steam rose in the small cabinet.

  When Gunaydin’s arousal became impossible to ignore, Sula showered all the soap away and led him to her bed. They lay atop the scented sheets and kissed. Gunaydin’s skin was cool and fresh after his shower.

  “Maybe I’ll achieve vasovagal syncope,” she said. “It sounds like fun.”

  “I’ll do my best to make you swoon,” he said. “But no promises. It’s your vagus nerve that has to cooperate.”

  Sula’s vagus nerve offered neither encouragement nor trouble. The results were otherwise satisfactory: Gunaydin knew how to please a woman, and Sula knew how to please herself. He wasn’t Martinez—there was no mutual extravagance of need and desire and pleasure, no rapture that stopped just short of anguish—but then that was probably the point.

  She didn’t think there would be nightmares tonight.

  There was another agile embrace before sleep stole upon them, and again upon wakening. After which Sula showered, put on her robe, and called for breakfast.

  Macnamara was startled to find Gunaydin sitting with Sula, his tunic partly unbuttoned, her feet resting casually in his lap. Sula could see calculation speeding through his head as he placed the basket of pastries and the teapot on the table, along with Sula’s bottle of cane-sugar syrup.

  “Is tea all right?” Sula asked Gunaydin. “Would you rather have coffee?”

  “Tea is fine,” Gunaydin said.

  “I’ll bring you a cup, Doctor,” Macnamara said, and vanished into the pantry.

  Sula knew that Macnamara was suffering from the absence of Japutra Bliss and hoped that the picture of satiation that she and Gunaydin presented wouldn’t increase Macnamara’s loneliness and misery. Be happy for me, she commanded mentally.

  Macnamara returned with cups, plates, silverware, and napkins for two. The floral scent of the tea rose as he poured for them both. If he was suffering, he concealed it well.

  “Thank you,” Sula said, and Macnamara returned to the pantry. She turned to Gunaydin. “Would you rather have a more substantial breakfast?”

  Gunaydin helped himself to a pastry. “This is more luxury than I’m used to,” he said. “Normally by this time of day I have an energy drink and go to the gym.”

  “We’re not on a warship now,” she said. “We won’t be engaging in high-gee burns or dangerous maneuvers. You don’t have to be in the gym every day, and you can award yourself a treat now and again.”

  He looked at her. “I already have,” he said.

  After breakfast she took him to the door and kissed his buttery-tasting lips.

  “Do we get to do this again?” he asked.

  “I hope so.”

  He smiled. “Me too.”

  She showed him out, returned to her sleeping cabin to put on clothes, then went to her office. Roland Martinez’s message still waited in her queue. She contemplated the message, then decided she needed more fortification before facing it and ordered more tea. She dealt with routine correspondence until Macnamara arrived with the teapot.

  “How are you this morning?” Sula asked as he poured the fragrant tea.

  “Very well, my lady. Thank you for asking.”

  She stirred a long golden ribbon of cane syrup into her cup. “How is Miss Bliss?” she asked.

  “She reports herself well,” he said carefully.

  “And is she?”

  Macnamara blinked. “I can’t tell. I don’t think she’s happy, but—” He looked down at her. “Do you mind my talking like this?”

  “No, not at all.” Which wasn’t exactly true—it wasn’t that she didn’t want to help Macnamara, it was that she knew she wasn’t very good at these sorts of conversations. Human warmth not my specialty, she thought.