The Swarm by Orson Scott Card

hoping he could figure out which before Vaganov led them into combat.
    The flight from the cafeteria to the colonel’s office was a series of twists and turns through the labyrinth of the space station. WAMRED was actually five space stations cobbled together, each one donated from a different country when the International Fleet first formed. Linked together, with sturdy docking tubes between them, the stations formed an asymmetrical, odd-shaped structure, like something a child would assemble with a stack of random pipes.
    Mazer initiated his boot magnets as he approached the colonel’s office, and the door slid open automatically.
    Colonel Vaganov was anchored to the floor behind his holotable. He was young for his rank, and unlike the other Russian officers Mazer had known—who always maintained a rather austere disposition—Vaganov actually smiled when Mazer entered.
    â€œCaptain Mazer Rackham,” he said. “Come in, come in. I was just reviewing your record here.”
    It was then that Mazer noticed the military file hovering in the air above Vaganov’s holotable.
    Here it comes, thought Mazer. He’ll see the complaints of insubordination and peg me as a troublemaker.
    But Vaganov’s mood didn’t change after reviewing the file in silence for a moment. “I see here that you’ve been in the IF since it formed,” said Vaganov.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Mazer. “I spent one year at CentCom, and two years here.”
    Vaganov nodded. “Our paths didn’t cross at CentCom, but that doesn’t surprise me. That place is practically a city. Your wife is still on Luna, I take it?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Mazer said. “She’s an ER doctor at Imbrium Memorial.”
    Vaganov smiled. “A doctor? Well, someone has to earn the bread for the family. We certainly don’t get it in the IF.”
    Mazer was impressed with Vaganov’s command of Common. There was only the slightest hint of a Russian accent.
    â€œDo you communicate with your wife at least weekly, Mazer? E-mails perhaps? Holos? Whatever?”
    The question struck Mazer as odd. What business was it of the colonel’s how often he spoke with Kim?
    As if registering his thoughts, Vaganov smiled. “I ask, Mazer, not to pry but because I believe you are a husband first and a soldier second. I suspect I’d get a wrist slap from CentCom for saying so. They couldn’t care less about your personal life. In their minds you are a blunt object to be thrown at the enemy and nothing more. But I disagree. I have little patience for a man who doesn’t keep his commitments to his wife and family. It is a sign of weak character and usually indicative of how he will keep his commitments to his fellow soldiers in the field. That’s not the type of officer I want in command of my troops.”
    In all his years of service, Mazer had never heard any commander express that opinion. Most seemed to believe the opposite. You were a soldier and only a soldier, subject to the commander and only the commander. Family obligations were an inconvenient distraction.
    Mazer’s surprise must have registered on his face, because Vaganov laughed.
    â€œMy opinions unsettle you, I see,” Vaganov said.
    â€œNo, sir,” said Mazer. “On the contrary. I agree with you. I’ve just never heard a commanding officer hold that opinion.”
    Vaganov laughed again. “I am a rare bird. Some people hear a melody. Most people hear squawking.”
    It was a strange metaphor, but it amused Vaganov. Mazer doubted it was true. You didn’t become the director of acquisitions or of WAMRED by squawking your way to the top.
    â€œTo answer your original question,” said Mazer. “Yes, my wife and I communicate often.”
    Vaganov nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve noticed however that you have not been attending the officer socials.”
    Is that what this