They had never before experienced the Ship of the Law demonstrating its full power and sophistication…

The Dawn Treaderwas a single virus about to enter a highly protected and extremely powerful host, with unknown capabilities. Martin would report to the moms every day now, and a mom would be constantly available in the schoolroom; the same mom, with an identifying mark painted on it by Martin, at the suggestion of Jorge Rabbit and Stephanie Wing Feather, who thought it would boost morale.

The marking ceremony was attended by all the children. Just before his suicide, Theodore Dawn had written of this expected time: "We'll get dressed up in war paint and war uniforms, and we'll swear an oath, like mythic pirates or the Three Musketeers, and it won't be all nonsense, all childsplay. It will mean something. Just wait and see." The search for a meaningful ceremony had come too late for Theodore, Martin thought.

But now that moment had come for the rest of them.

The children gathered on the tiers of an amphitheater that had risen from the floor of the schoolroom at Martin's command. They wore black and white paint on their faces and forearms, "To eliminate the gray feelings, the neutralities, the indecisions." Even Martin wore the paint.

A mom floated near the middle of the schoolroom. Within the star sphere, a red circle blinked around the white point of the Buttercup star. Martin approached the mom with small pots of black and white paint in one hand, and a brush in the other.

"To show our resolve, to show our change of state, to strengthen our minds and our courage, we appoint this mom a War Mother. The War Mother will be here to speak with any of us, at any time.

"Now is ourtime."

Martin applied the brush thick with white paint to one side of the mom's stubby, featureless head. The other half he carefully painted black. Then, to complete the effect—something he had thought of himself—he painted a divided circle where the "face" might have been, reversing the colors, black within white, white within black. No grays, but cautious judgment of alternatives.

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'slibraries.

"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."

"Right," Martin said.

"We can't keep looking back."

"It's all we have," Martin said.

"Not so."

Martin nodded. "I mean, it's all we have that's our own."

Theresa put the books back and returned the slate to the text he had been reading. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't come here to talk about this."

"I'm not just looking at Earth histories and texts," Martin said. "I've been going over everything the moms taught us. They haven't made up a drill for the external exercise—they seem to want to surprise us. I don't like that, but I see their point—"

"Martin. You need a break."