annihilation at the hands of the Naxids, and who stood out of the crowd, with her broad grin blazing.
A letter or video from Terza arrived almost every day. Martinez watched the growing pregnancy with a mixture of awe, desire, and frustration.
One video showed his portrait, which his proud father had printed and set in the foyer of the palace.
There was no word or sign of Caroline Sula. Martinez wondered where she was.
The rounds of social contact made it easier for him to promote his tactical system in casual settings. There were hundreds of officers in the Orthodox Fleet who had never seen battle, some of them of senior rank, and most were eager to hear from those who had. Martinez refought Hone-bar and Protipanu dozens of times at dinners and receptions, and always made a point of mentioning the tactical lessons learned. He was describing the mathematics of the new system to a newly arrived captain from Harzapid, a self-important man with ginger whiskers, and found that the man understood him.
“Oh yes,” he said. “The convex hull of a dynamical system. That’s the Foote Formula.”
Martinez raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“The Foote Formula—the system developed by one of the bright young lads assigned to the Fourth Fleet at Harzapid, Lord Jeremy Foote. He was promoting the system among his friends when he was still on his way to the Fourth Fleet from Zanshaa, and once he arrived, he acquainted everyone he could. He’s made quite a number of converts among the younger officers. A pity Lord Tork isn’t keen on it.”
Martinez couldn’t believe his ears. He remembered Foote well, a big, blond cadet with all the drawling arrogance of the elite Peerage, a man who, despite his inferior military rank, did his best to make him feel his social inferiority at every meeting.
“Do you really think Lord Jeremy understands the math?” he said.
The captain seemed surprised. “He devised it, didn’t he?”
“Well, no actually.” Resentment simmered beneath Martinez’s words. “When I was working out the system, I consulted with other officers, among them Lady Sula—the hero of Magaria, if you remember.”
The captain was trying to follow this. “You consulted with Lord Jeremy then?”
“No.” Martinez felt an angry smile draw itself across his face. “Lord Jeremy was the censor aboard Lady Sula’s ship. He had a complete record of the correspondence, and apparently he’s been passing it off as the Foote Formula among his friends at the Fourth Fleet.”
The captain processed this, then turned stern. “Surely not,” he said stoutly. “I knew Lord Jeremy’s father—a worthy heir to the most impeccable ancestors. I can’t imagine anyone in the family doing such a thing.”
Martinez felt his savage grin return. “I’ll be sure to ask him when I see him.”
He was able to do so ten days later, at a reception for the officers of the newly arrivedSplendid . The cruiser was aptly named, being one of the flying palaces of the old Fourth Fleet, heavily damaged on the day of the mutiny but now repaired and returned to duty, and with Foote among its junior officers.
Martinez waited until late in the reception, when Sub-Lieutenant Foote was relaxed and talking to a group of his cronies, and then approached. Since the reception was formal and Martinez was carrying the Golden Orb, Foote and his friend were compelled to brace in salute.
“Foote!” Martinez cried with pleasure. “How long has it been?” He transferred the Orb to his left hand and held out his right. Foote, taken aback, took his hand.
“Very pleased to see you, Captain,” he said. He tried to withdraw his hand, and Martinez clamped hard and stepped close.
Yes, it was the same Foote. Large and handsome, with a blond cowlick on the right side of his head and an expression of arrogant disdain that had probably settled onto his face in the cradle.
“Everyone has been telling me about the Foote Formula!” Martinez said. “You absolutelymust explain it to me!”
Foote’s heavy face flushed. Again he tried to withdraw his hand, and again Martinez held him close.
“Inever called it that,” he said.
“You’re too modest!” Martinez said. He turned to the other officers, the young high-caste Peers whom Foote counted among his equals.
“Lord Jeremy,” he said, “you absolutely must explain to your friends where you first encountered the formula!”
Martinez saw rapid calculation reflected in the pale eyes, and then Foote drew himself up to his considerable height. When he spoke, there was light amusement in his drawl.
“I encountered the formula, of course,” he said, “when I had the duty of censoring Lady Sula’s correspondence with you, my lord. I was struck by the formula’s adroitness in coping with the tactical problems revealed by the Battle of Magaria, and I decided to show it to as many officers as I could.”
Martinez had to give Foote credit for finding the most graceful way out of his situation. Foote had realized that claiming authorship of the formula would only lead to his humiliation; instead he claimed only the role of popularizer.
Martinez gave a broad grin. “You know,” he said, still grinning, still pumping Foote’s hand, “youshould have mentioned the real authors of the formula. It would have been more thoughtful.”
Foote’s reply was smooth. “I would have,” he said, “if I’d known for certain who the authors were. I knew that you were involved, and Lady Sula, but the correspondence indicated that other officers had contributed, and I didn’t know their names. And besides…” He glanced over his shoulder, as if in fear of being overheard. “…I recognized the controversial nature of the work. Anyone whose name was associated with the formula was bound to get on the wrong side of certain senior officers.”
“How considerate of you to leave my name out of it!” Martinez exclaimed, with what he hoped was an expression of transparently false bonhomie. “But you needn’t in the future—I’m sure you couldn’t change Lord Tork’s opinion of me in the least.”
Foote only lifted one supercilious eyebrow. Martinez turned to look at Foote’s companions, who were watching the two with expressions ranging from wariness to thoughtful surprise.
“I won’t keep you from your friends any longer,” he said, and released Foote’s hand. Foote flexed the hand and massaged it with the other. Martinez looked from one face to the next.
“Take care with your formulas, now,” he said, “or you may find Foote giving them to all sorts of people.”
Then, with another smile and a wave of the Orb, he turned and walked away.
Given the wide social rounds of the officers, he knew that their exchange would circulate throughout the Orthodox Fleet in days.
Revenge might at best be a petty emotion, he thought, but at times it was a strangely satisfying one. And in something called the Orthodox Fleet of Vengeance, it seemed to have the blessing of higher authority.
The funicular creaked as the strain came on its cable, and Sula’s seat swayed on its gimbals. As the train rose, it passed between the gun emplacements—turrets of heavy, near-impenetrable plastic—that had been placed on the terraces on either side of the terminus. The barrels of antiproton guns thrust from the turrets, ready to turn any attacker into a scattering of subatomic particles.
Sula left the car at the upper terminus and stepped out onto the flagstone terrace. A blast of wind scoured her face. One of the turrets squatted, featureless and ugly, on the terrace before her. It was barely large enough to contain the gun, its crew, and the rotating mechanism. Stubby little ventilators protruded from the top, along with periscopes and antennae. There was a low Naxid-sized door in the back, and it was closed.
Naxid guards dashed about, legs churning, or stood in the lee of the turret, sheltering from the wind. Sula pretended to adjust her long scarf, then took her shopping bag and headed into the city.
Satchel charges, she thought. Deliver enough kinetic energy to the turrets and anything inside was going to get scrambled whether the turrets were breached or not. Unfortunately, the sensitive antiproton ammunition might get scrambled as well, and the result would be an explosion that…well, whatever else it might do, it would at least solve her problem.
Still, it would be nice if they coulduse those guns.
She wondered when the gun crews got their meals. Surely the doors would open then.
But even if the antiproton guns were disabled or captured, there was no practical way to get a large force up that slope. It was too steep, and her people could climb only slowly and be exhausted by the time they arrived. Plus, any defenders at the upper terminal of the funicular could hold off an army with small arms.
