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to face the center of the bridge and walked toward it with long strides. Although he held the rank of captain, Kircheis was not yet twenty-one. When he was out of uniform, he was “nothing but a handsome, redheaded beanpole,” as the female officers in the rear service whispered. From time to time, it bothered him that his age and his rank were so out of proportion to one another. He wasn’t able to accept his circumstances in the cool, calm way that his commanding officer did.
    Count Reinhard von Lohengramm had his command chair tilted backward and was staring intently into the sea of stars that flooded over the display screen above. Kircheis felt a soft resistance from the air as he drew near. A soundproof force screen was up. Conversations taking place within a five-meter radius of Reinhard would be inaudible to anyone on the outside.
    “Stargazing, Excellency?” he asked.
    A moment after hearing Kircheis’s voice, Reinhard shifted his line of sight and returned his chair to an upright position. Although he was still sitting down, his uniform—functional and black, with silver highlights here and there—made clear the tight masculinity of his slender, well-balanced limbs.
    Reinhard was a handsome young man. One might even say that his good looks were without peer. His white, oval face was adorned on three sides with slightly curling golden hair, and his lips and the bridge of his nose had an elegance that brought to mind a sculpture carved by the hands of some ancient master craftsman.
    But what could never be captured in lifeless sculpture were his eyes—ice-blue eyes that shone with light like the blade of a keenly polished sword, or the gleam of some frozen star. “Beautiful ambitious eyes,” gossiped the ladies at court. “Dangerous ambitious eyes,” whispered the men. Either way, it was certain that those eyes possessed something other than the inorganic perfection of sculpture.
    Looking up at his faithful subordinate, Reinhard answered, “Yes, I love the stars.” Then he added, “Have you gotten taller again?”
    “I’m the same 190 centimeters that I was two months ago, Excellency. I don’t think I’m going to grow any taller.”
    “Seven centimeters taller than me is certainly plenty,” Reinhard replied. In the sound of his voice was the ring of an overcompetitive schoolboy. Kircheis smiled faintly. Until about six years ago, there had been virtually no difference in their heights. But when Kircheis’s growth spurt had begun to put a distance between himself and Reinhard, the blond-haired lad had been genuinely frustrated. “Are you going to leave your friend behind and just grow up by yourself?” he had sometimes complained. That was the childish side of Reinhard, of which only Kircheis—and one other—knew.
    “I see,” Reinhard replied. “So, what business brings you up here?”
    “Yes, sir. It’s the battle formation of the rebel military. According to reports from three of our surveillance craft, they are closing in on our forces from three directions at uniform velocity. May I use your console’s display?”
    The young senior admiral nodded assent, and Kircheis moved his hands rhythmically over the console. On the display screen occupying the left half of Reinhard’s command console, four arrows floated into existence, positioned at the top, bottom, left, and right sides of the screen, and all were advancing toward the center. Only the arrow at the bottom of the screen was colored red. The other three were green.
    “The enemy’s Fourth Fleet lies directly ahead of us, and we estimate that its force numbers twelve thousand vessels. Its distance from us is 2,200 light-seconds. At our current velocities, we will make contact in about six hours.”
    Kircheis moved his finger around the screen. On the left side was the alliance’s Second Fleet, with a force of fifteen thousand vessels, approaching from a distance of 2,400 light-seconds. On the right side was the Sixth Fleet,