desolate look, relieved only by a picture Alikhan had copied from a news report, framed, and mounted: the picture showed Martinez addressing the Convocation, the supreme legislative body of the empire, after he’d been awarded the Golden Orb for savingCorona from the rebels.
His great moment in history. It had been all downslope from there.
The final moments of the Battle of Magaria were frozen in the display over his head, an abstract display of blips, traces, heading and speed indicators, all marred by the deadly radio blooms of antimatter explosions. Martinez shifted the display’s t-axis to the beginning of the battle and ran the display again. Caroline Sula intruded again on his thoughts, and he found himself unable to concentrate.
Perhaps Sula had sent him a message. He checked and discovered that she had, one that had been three days crossing the empty space between them.
Anticipation sang through him as he called up the video.
Absurd, he told himself. He hardly knew her.
Sula appeared in the air before him. He paused for a moment in appreciation of her pale, translucent complexion, the pale gold hair and brilliant green eyes, elements of a staggering beauty marred only slightly, at this moment, by signs of weariness and pain. And the brain hidden under that remarkable exterior was at least as remarkable as her looks—Caroline Sula had won a First, had scored highest of all candidates in her year for the lieutenants’ exams, and had then gone on to blow up five enemy ships at the Battle of Magaria.
Still, it wasn’t her mind that Martinez was admiring at the moment. Simply gazing at her was like being hit in the groin with a velvet hammer.
Sula looked at him and spoke. “Another nineteen days of deceleration before we reach—” And then there was the annoying white flash, with the Fleet symbol, that indicated censorship, before Sula appeared again, apparently undisturbed by the interruption. “Everyone’s tired. Nobody on this ship bathes nearly enough, and that includes me.
“I’m sorry to hear about your misadventures on the exercise. Working up a new crew can’t be any fun.” Her lips twitched in a suggestive smile, a flash of sharp white teeth. “I’m sorry not to be there to help you whip them into shape.” The smile faded, and she shrugged. “Still, I’m sure you’ll manage it. I have confidence in your ability to warp all others to your imperious will.”
Well, Martinez thought,that was good. At least hesupposed it was good.
Sometimes Sula’s choice of phrase was too ambiguous for his tastes.
“Still,” she went on, “you can’t be enjoying yourself, not when every other captain in the Fleet is jealous of you and will pounce on your least misstep. I hope you have at least a few friends on board.”
Her expression changed subtly, a mask falling into place behind her eyes. “And speaking of friends, an old acquaintance of ours has been given the task of censoring these messages. That would be Sublieutenant Lord Jeremy Foote, who I believe you encountered when he was a mere cadet. So if any pieces of these messages are missing, for instance—” Martinez laughed at the appearance of a white space, knowing that Sula was deliberately filling the air either with military secrets or candid, scatological judgments of superior officers. The long empty moment ended, and Sula returned wearing another of her ambiguous smiles. “—then you’ll know it was due to the intervention of a friend.” Sula raised her hand to wave farewell, then winced. “The burn is better,” she added, “thanks for asking. But sometimes I move too suddenly, and the little bastardbites. ”
The orange End Transmission symbol filled the air.
Jeremy Foote,Martinez thought. A big blond oaf with a cowlick, a rich boy whose arrogance and assumption of privilege skated the line of insubordination and contempt. Martinez had loathed him on first meeting him, and subsequent acquaintance hadn’t improved Martinez’s opinion.
Foote hadn’t bothered with the lieutenants’ exams in which Sula had scored her First—that sort of work was beneath the dignity of a Foote. He’d been promoted straight into theBombardment of Delhi by its captain, his yachtsman uncle, and no doubt subsequent promotions were assured by other relations and friends in the service. Perhaps Foote had suffered a setback when the yachtsman uncle had died along with half his crew, but Martinez doubted that Foote’s star would fade for very long. The higher-ranking Peers looked after each other very well.
At least Sula seemed as fond of Lord Jeremy as was Martinez, a fact in which he could take comfort.
He squirreled Sula’s message away in a file that could be opened only with his captain’s key, then told the software he would reply. He looked at the camera and donned what he thought of as his official face, the imperturbable mask of a commander.
“You can only imagine my delight on learning that it was Lieutenant Foote who censors your messages,” he said. “I know, of course, that my superior rank means that he can’t censorme, and that he won’t seethis message unless you show it to him.
“Permission to do this is now granted. As you know, I now command a squadron that is being sent on…” He paused for deliberate effect. “A hazardous mission. I’ve recently reviewed the records of the battle at Magaria, including the records made by your pinnace. As I may soon be leading ships into combat myself, I’m interested in your assessment of that action.”
He gazed sternly—nobly, he hoped—into the camera. “Please reply with your most candid appraisal of our performance, and that of the enemy. You may respond fully, and I hope without censorship—I intend this message should make it clear to Lieutenant Foote that there is no need to keep the facts of the battle from me, as I already know them. I know that all but six of our ships were lost, thatBombardment of Delhi suffered the death of its captain and considerable damage, and that what remains of the Home Fleet are returning to Zanshaa in hopes of defending the capital.
“So,” he said, looking at the pickup with what he hoped was stern confidence, “I hope that your analysis of the battle will be able to aid my mission and help to restore the rule of the Praxis and the peace of the empire. End transmission.”
Let Foote swallowthat one, he thought.
He queued the message in the next burst of the communications lasers, then turned the display again to the battle at Magaria. Again he watched the Home Fleet fly to its death, and he tried to keep track of the waves of missiles, the increasingly desperate counterfire, the sudden collapse as entire squadrons vanished into the expanding burning plasma shells of antimatter bombs.
A chime sounded on the comm. He answered on his sleeve display.
“This is Martinez.”
The face that appeared on Martinez’s sleeve was that of his orderly. “I have done as you instructed, lord elcap.”
“Yes? Any conclusions?”
“It’s really not my place, my lord.”
Martinez ignored this disclaimer, a habit with Alikhan. One didn’t prosper for thirty years in the weapons bays by telling officers what one actually thought. If Martinez had stated his own opinion first, then Alikhan would have agreed with him and kept his own thoughts to himself.
“I’d very much appreciate your opinion, Alikhan,” Martinez said.
Alikhan hesitated for another moment, then caved in. “Very well, my lord. It seems to me that…that the squadrons were flying in too close a formation, and for far too long.”
Martinez nodded. “Thank you, Alikhan.” And then he added, “It happens that I agree with you.”
It was useful to know that someone else supported his position, even though the person was not anyone he could bring to a captains’ conference.
He signed off and watched the recordings of the battle again. Commanders kept their ships close together in order to maintain control of them for as long as possible, and in order so that their defensive fire could be concentrated on any incoming attack. Though Fleet doctrine assumed that at some point a formation would have to break up—to “starburst”—in order to avoid being overwhelmed by salvos of enemy missiles, the commanders at Magaria had been reluctant to order such maneuvers till the last possible moment, because it meant losing control of their ships. Once control was lost, it would be impossible to coordinate friendly forces in the battle. Each ship would be on its own.
Squadron Commander Do-faq, and Martinez himself, were training their crews in exactly the sort of formations and maneuvers that had brought about the disaster at Magaria.
Nowthat, Martinez thought, bore thinking about.
