“Signal incoming from the Hiram Maxim,” Martinez said. “It carries the correct IFF codes.”  He put it up on a screen facing the Admiral.

“Hello, N237.  I am Squadron Commander Gabriel Smith, Anglic Union Astrographic Service, appearing with my detached squadron for maneuvers as planned. My orders were to advance to N237D and go to high orbit awaiting start of the exercises. I gather there is a large orbital station.  I will have pinnaces to bring my command staffs there for briefings.”

“Hello, Squadron Commander Smith.  I’m Grand Supreme Admiral Thatcher, Imperial Navy.  Welcome aboard. I look forward to seeing you at the fleet dinner tomorrow at 1800 hours standard time.  Briefings are scheduled for the next day.”

“Understood.”

“Thatcher out,” Thatcher announced.

Footsteps behind Thatcher marked the remainder of the battle stations crew casually walking into the command center.  He glanced at his watch. “Very good,” he announced. “Under ten minutes to get here from the dining room.”

&&&&&

For what was presumably an orthodox dinner, Smith thought,  prior to the start of the maneuvers, the settings and menu were remarkably ornate.  There were eleven courses, gold-washed flatware, four wine glasses and two after-dinner glasses, and a remarkable stack of plates.  He told himself to watch very carefully how the Imperial Navy officers handled their silver, no, gold, ware, lest he be marked as a primitive barbarian. Now the meal was winding to a close.  He had carefully tasted each course, made appreciate comments, and let his table companions do most of the talking. 

Admittedly, he considered, he sometimes had to strain to hear what was being said.   The nominally junior officers around him wore elaborate dress uniforms that clattered with layers of medals.  However, the Imperial Navy had an amazing number of ranks, so they all matched him in holding the fourth rank from the bottom.  His AUAS dress uniform was plain black.  As Squadron Commander, the rank badge on his collar was a silver sunburst.  In theory, the Service presented several combat medals, but the well-known comment, spoken quietly between friends, was that they would never be awarded, because if a Survey ship got into battle the commanding officer would surely be court-martialled for incompetence and ejected from the service before the medal could be awarded.

“What’re the final  prices for wedge counterattack positions?” one of his companions asked the others.  Chiang  Jianhong, Smith thought, was the most interested in fishing for gossip, while offering rather less himself.

“Ten thousand imperials,” Pavel Vladimirovitch Zaitsev answered. To Smith’s ear, he was the best informed, not to mention the most confident of his own greatness.  “Twice that for ‘died gallantly, and thrice that for point, except I believe point has been locked up already.”

“Wedge counterattack?” Smith asked.

“Yes, the counterattack,” Tuan Chen answered.  “Oh, you just got here, have’t seen the battle choreography yet.  The mythical enemy fleet enters in a cylinder of battle formation,  penetrates our screening line, and is shattered when our side deploys a wedge for a counterattack.”

“Battle choreography?” Smith asked.  What in God’s name, he thought, does dance have to do with fighting a battle?