She bobbed an almost bow in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Your Honor. Meanwhile, my client will not come to trial for a week or more. Therefore I respectfully request his release on bond."

The prosecutor's exhalation was more hiss than sigh. Obviously she intended to fight over every proposed juror, eating up all the time possible, and providing a magnet for public attention. A Peace Front circus indeed.

The chief justice smiled slightly. "Counselor, your request is denied."

"On what grounds, Your Honor?"

"On the grounds that whatever the outcome of his trial for contributing to the crime of murder, he will still face charges of inciting to mutiny."

Stolz frowned. "Your Honor, I do not see what that has to do with my request. My client has complied with every order, responded to every request, without resistance." She appeared to grope for words, settling for "He is not a violent man. He decries violence, by persons as well as by governments."

"The trial should cast light on that," Hafiz answered wryly. "It is, of course, possible to contribute to the crime of murder without intending that it go that far. We'll see. Meanwhile, your client stands before this court accused of two Crimes of the First Category. In such cases, the court has full discretion with regard to bail. Mr. Switzer has much reason to fear the outcomes of his trials, and there is an entire social class who would willingly undertake to conceal him or help him flee."

Stolz's features had stiffened. "What social class, if you please, Your Honor?"

"Let me answer it this way, Counselor. Who is paying your fees?"

She answered indignantly. "The Peace Front, Your Honor. The party which more than any other decries this war and all violence."

"Exactly." She plays her role well, he thought, for someone who belongs to the Center Party instead of the Front. He'd respect her more, he told himself, if her first allegiance was to the accused. But there was little she could do for him at any rate, and if the Front wanted to use Switzer for propaganda… He hoped, though, that Switzer really understood what was going on.

She wasn't done yet. "Your Honor, I have one more request. A number of journalists have asked to interview my client." She took a small flat case from her pocket and held it out to him. "I told them to put their requests in writing, and that they might have to agree on one or two doing the interviews for all."

The chief justice declined to receive the data chips; they were irrelevant. She took you by surprise on that one, Gil, he told himself. You're slowing down. "Denied again, Counselor," he replied. "If the court granted such privileges to accused felons, activists would commit crimes simply for the pulpit they provided."

"Your Honor," Stolz said unhappily, "except for the jury trial, you have denied every request I've made for my client."

"True. In fact, it seems to me you made those requests anticipating their denial. And I have no doubt you'll make good use of them after you leave this chamber."

He was right, of course. She spent half an hour standing before cameras in the plaza outside, speaking carefully, but airing all her complaints. The court would provide the media with recordings and transcripts of the proceedings, but meanwhile, she'd put her own spin on them.

Battle Master

The CWS Altai, flagship of the 1st Sol Provisional Battle Force, was in hyperspace just seven days short of the Paraiso System. Its admiral, Alvaro Soong, lay propped on a pillow in his stateroom, hands cupped behind his head, reviewing. He was not a notable worrier. His usual style was to treat things matter-of-factly. But he'd made a decision-made and implemented it-that could wipe out whatever chance humanity had for survival. At least civilized survival.

His rationale was that the chance being risked was thin. And if his decision worked out, it could substantially improve.

If it worked out. He'd approached it on a gradient: "Just how good are you at battle games, Charley? Let me write a set of opening circumstances, and see what you can do with it."

Both men-the one who occupied 210 pounds of primate body, and the one who weighed only 58 pounds, most of it a "bottle" of metal and synthetics-both knew what lay in the back of the admiral's mind. Are you good enough to direct a real battle with real warships? Are you really? Because the odds are heavily against us. I may be better at directing a space battle than any other officer in this battle force. At the Academy, my cumulative battle game score set a record. But if you can beat me decisively enough…

Basically he was praying for a true genius in war gaming. And Charley had passed the test with ease, even flair. And a second, and a third…

Soong himself was the default choice, but after extensive testing, he'd chosen Charley. For a while the choice had been reversible. Now it wasn't. Not if they were to engage the armada in the Paraiso System. They'd programmed too many changes into the Altai's battlecomp, trying to take maximum advantage of Charley's talents.

Briefly the admiral turned his attention to his stateroom "window"-a large wall panel that in F-space usually gave a real-time view of the stars more clearly than an actual window could. But in hyperspace, the default view was of the F-space potentiality, as interpreted by the shipsmind, and it was neither esthetic nor ordinarily interesting. Usually it showed nothing at all. So he'd requested views of Terra. Terra, which he might never see again. Just now it showed the Swedish taiga-its trees sparse and stunted in the ever worsening climate. In the background was the great ice sheet of the Kjolen Range, intensely, painfully white in spring sunshine. It covered the fjelds as far north and south as the view permitted, and oozed slow white tongues of ice down the valleys toward the sea. A magnificent view, it also provided perspective. Many townsites and historical sites had been buried by the ice in this and many other valleys, leaving the region virtually abandoned. A few-a very few Sami had stayed, long since genetically more Swedish and Norwegian than Sami. They had relearned to herd reindeer, a valid lifestyle, given the climatic shift.

A thought surfaced: if the Wyzhnyny prevailed, would they undertake to root out such tiny, harmless enclaves? That was what some of the colonies had been-small harmless enclaves in planetary wilderness. And seemingly the Wyzhnyny had rooted them out. From the alien point of view, he supposed it made sense.

He pulled his attention away from the screen. In a week he'd emerge in the Paraiso System-the first inhabited system at which he could intercept the invader. How terrible, how overwhelming was that alien armada? How good were his Provos-his 1st Sol Provisional Battle Force? What chance did humanity have?

You'll be the first to know, Alvaro, he told himself.

He was not expected to win this battle, in the usual sense. Thank the Tao. He was to attack the enemy, cause as much damage as possible, then disappear into hyperspace before the invader could destroy him. And in the process learn as much as possible about enemy weaponry and tactics. Those were his orders. Engage, flee, and report.

The decisive part-the most dangerous moment-would be just before escape into strange-space. That moment after the shield generators had shut down, but before the shields had sufficiently decayed to allow generation of a carrier bubble.

War House deemed those waited-for reports so vital, they'd invested five of a seriously limited resource to make sure of them. In each battle group, the point battleship carried a savant communicator, and through that savant, a liaison officer was to give War House a running account of the fight. Then, when the fleet had escaped into hyperspace, the surviving commanders would debrief, again via savant.