Ruler of Naught by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Page A

children. She felt his loss. His spirit had glowed
brighter than his hair.
    “The redheaded boy,” she said. “With the pale skin. Where is
he?”
    The healer hesitated, puzzlement lengthening his face.
    “The one who was standing at the back of the group, playing
with a silver ball.”
    The healer sighed, apparently considering his words, before
replying. ‘There is no redheaded boy in this village.”

FOUR
PANARCHIST BATTLECRUISER GROZNIY
    From his seat at the senior table, Lieutenant Commander
Mdeino ban-Nilotis could see most of the junior officers bridge wardroom—not
surprising, given that he topped most on Grozniy by a head. That didn’t
help him see into the little alcoves that ensigns tended to hide in to avoid
catching extra duty. But right now, an hour before watch change, the
compartment zinged with nervous energy and he was sure those alcoves were
empty.
    Nilotis was better than most of his rank at the peripheral
people-watching required of officers. He’d had to be, given that the heritage
of the bomas of Nyangathanka had given him not only a elongated
build but flaming red hair and night black skin. One did not overlook Mdeino
ban-Nilotis in most company, no matter how much he might wish you to.
    He needed every bit of that talent right now. The next watch
would see the battlecruiser Grozniy’s emergence back into the Thousand
Suns after seven months out-octant. The most animated conversations in the
wardroom—those in which hands shaped air and lips shouted laughter—surely
involved boasts and speculations about the coming liberty in Wolakota System,
famous—or notorious—for its hospitality to Naval personnel.
    Other colloquies were more sober, though no less intense, as
revealed by the set of shoulders here, and fingers stiffly tapping the table
over there. Beyond Wolakota, a few weeks further into Rouge Nord octant, lay
the end of their tour of duty and the further definition of career
trajectories: the summing up of rank points gained or lost, new assignments,
new ships, new captains.
    And then there were the junior officers Captain Ng was
rotating into the alpha crew for the first time this next watch, the most
senior of whom sat across the table from Nilotis right now.
    Nilotis grinned at Lieutenant Rom-Sanchez, who was picking
at his food. “Gee-flutters, Sergei?”
    Rom-Sanchez dropped his fork on his plate and pushed his
food away. Like the rest of his body, his hands were lean and quick-moving.
Next to him Lieutenant Denil Methuen chuckled in a light baritone. “He’d rather
be back in the lock of that bubbloid.”
    Rom-Sanchez was spared the necessity of a reply as
Lieutenant Tang dropped into the seat next to Nilotis. “I can never resist a
look of misery,” she said brightly, her straight black hair swinging about her
ears, a couple of centimeters past regulation. “Especially on the face of the
most junior lieutenant in the wardroom an hour before his appointment with
destiny.”
    “Thanks, Mabel,” Rom-Sanchez muttered. “You’re such a
comfort.”
    “Anytime, Sergei. Just remember, all those Rifters could
have done was kill you. Hero.”
    Nilotis laughed. “That’s enough of that. Denil and I have
had sufficient time to get his head back to normal size since the Captain’s
momentary lapse in judgment.” He canted a look at the new lieutenant’s tabs
Rom-Sanchez was trying not to finger.
    “It’s our duty.” Methuen nodded soberly. “We have the ship’s
reputation to think of.”
    Everyone laughed, but Nilotis noted how forced Rom-Sanchez’s
was, and dropped the teasing. “Sergei. Look at it this way. Giving you tactical
on the alpha crew is the captain’s way of underscoring your success at Smyrna.
As your last station on this tour, it will look good on your record, especially
since it’s not for just any emergence, but our triumphant return to
civilization.”
    Rom-Sanchez snorted at the mockery in the last phrase, but
shook his head