Painting completed, the War Mother decorated, Martin turned to the children on the risers. They stood quietly, no coughing, breathing hardly audible in the stillness, strong and beautiful and grim-faced with thoughts and memories. He stood before them, looking into their faces.
“Luis Estevez Saguaro and Li Mountain of the search team have suggested names for the star systems. They think the Buttercup star should be called Wormwood, the Cornflower Leviathan, and the Firestorm, Behemoth. Any other suggestions?”
“They’re good names,” Joe Flatworm said, scratching his sandy growth of beard.
No one objected.
“We’ve been training for years, but we’ve never exercised outside, in real conditions. I’m making a formal request of the moms, right now, that we begin external exercises as soon as possible, before this day is out if we can.”
The moms had always turned that request down. Martin had not conferred with them; by asking them now, in front of the children, he was taking a real risk, operating only on a hunch.
“You may begin three days of external drill,” the War Mother replied. “You may conduct a full-level exercise in the region around the ship.”
Hans’ face lit up and he raised his fist in a cheer, then turned to the children behind him. All but Ariel cheered, even Erin Eire. Ariel kept her face blank.
“We’re in it now,” Hans said to Martin as the group broke up. He smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together. “We’re really in it!”
“What kind of drill are you planning?” Martin asked the War Mother when the room was almost empty.
“That must be determined at the time of the exercise,” the War Mother said. Martin backed away, confused.
“No warning?”
“No warning,” said the mom.
During the coasting, Martin’s primary quarters—once shared with Theodore—had been spherical, nets at one end filled with the goods manufactured by the moms to give the children a feeling of place and purpose: paper books, jewelry. Since the deceleration began, Martin had redesigned the quarters to have several flat ledges he could sit on or brace against. His sleeping net had been swapped for a bag and sling hung between two pillars.
Theresa came to him in his primary quarters in the second homeball after a ten-hour period of self-imposed isolation. She stood at his closed hatch, inquiring discreetly through his wand whether he was available. With a groan, conflicting emotions making him ball up his fists and pound the yielding floor, he swung down from a ledge and opened the door.
“I didn’t want to bother you…” she said, her face tight, hair in disarray, skin glistening. “We’ve been exercising. Harpal and Stephanie told me you were here…”
He reached out for her and hugged her fiercely. “I need you. I need someone to balance me.”
“I’m glad,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder. She wore workout cutoffs, blue shorts and loose-fitting top. “The exercises are good,” she said. “We’re really into them.”
“I’m in the boneyard,” he said, sweeping his free arm at electronic slate and books piled into his sleep corner. What they called boneyard was everything human stored in the Dawn Treader’s libraries.
“Tactics?” she asked.
He grimaced. “Call it that.”
She hugged him again before moving away to riffle through the stack and pick up the slate. He didn’t mind her curiosity; she seemed interested in everything about him, and he was flattered. “Marshal Saxe,” she said, scrolling through the slate displays. She lifted a book. “Bourcet and Gilbert. Clausewitz, Caemerrer, Moltke, Goltz.” She lifted an eyebrow.
“Their armies could see each other, make sorties against each other,” Martin said. “We don’t even fight with armies.”
“These are the people T. E. Lawrence studied when he was young,” Theresa said, surprising him yet again. “You’ve been reading Liddell Hart.”
He smiled in chagrin. “You, too.”
“Me and about twenty others. I asked for crew access records.”
Martin grinned ruefully. “I should have thought of that. To see what they’re…thinking, preparing for.”
“Most are just doing your exercises. They respect you. They think you know what you’re doing. Hans is doing a lot of extra research. Erin Eire. Ariel.”
“I’m glad they’re keeping me on my toes.”
“We can’t afford to take chances, even with you, Martin.”
Theresa had never spoken to him in such a tone before; was she implying lack of confidence? She smiled, but the question was raised, and she looked away, aware she had raised it.
“I’m not criticizing you, Martin, but you—we—won’t find many answers in Earth strategy books.”