command…that, and the fact that by now he quailed from the very idea of harder accelerations.
“You will commence at once,” Do-faq continued. “Your official orders will follow as soon as my secretary can copy them. I wish you the best of luck.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Do-faq’s golden eyes softened. “I want you to know, Captain Martinez, that I have no regrets in regard to choosing you for command of the squadron.”
Martinez’s heart gave a spasm. “Thank you, lord squadcom.” He felt the millstone of doubt, heavy as a couple gravities’ acceleration, float weightless from his shoulders.
“You’ve been handicapped by an inexperienced crew, but they are improving under your direction, and I have no doubt they’ll prove as fine as any in the Fleet, in time.”
Gratitude threatened to overwhelm Martinez’s tongue, but he managed to say, “Thank you for your confidence, my lord. It has been a privilege to serve under you.” Another matter entered his mind, and he cleared his throat. “My lord,” he began, “perhaps you will recall our tactical discussion the other day. When I…suggested some rather unformed ideas regarding fleet tactics.”
Do-faq’s expression was unreadable. “Yes, lord captain,” he said, “I recall the discussion.”
“Well, the ideas have grown more, ah, formed.”
Briefly, he explained the attempt to encapsule the new formations within a bit of elegant mathematics. “That was Lieutenant Shankaracharya’s particular contribution,” he said.
Do-faq’s answer was instant. “You shared the data from Magaria with your lieutenants?”
“Ah—yes, lord squadcom.”
“I very much doubt the wisdom of this. Our superiors have decided that this information must be controlled.”
Which superiors? As Sula’s theory flashed into Martinez’s mind.
“My lieutenants are reliable people, my lord,” he said.Best not mention Alikhan. “I have every confidence in their discretion.”
“They may be disheartened. They may spread defeatism.”
But everyoneknows we got thrashed at Magaria, Martinez wanted to say. But instead he said, “The news seemed to inspire them to greater efforts, my lord. They know how critical our work could be to the outcome of the war.”
Do-faq’s golden eyes probed at him for a long moment. “Well, it’s too late now,” he decided. “I trust you will caution your officers not to go about spreading rumors.”
“Of course, my lord.” He hesitated. “Would you like to see the formula and an analysis, my lord? There are some unexpected conclusions.”
Not least of which was that the effective range of a warship’s missiles were considerably less than anyone had expected. Even Shankaracharya had confidently predicted that the missiles would have a much greater range than ships’ defensive armament; but analysis of the fighting at Magaria showed that while a ship could of course launch a missile at long range, a longer flight time only gave a target’s defenses a longer time to track the missile and shoot it down. The missiles that had the greatest chance of doing damage tended to be fired in swarms from fairly close range, and launched behind a screen of exploding antimatter missiles that confused enemy sensors.
“Send the analysis, by all means,” Do-faq said. “I’ll review it with my tactical officer.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Martinez briefly reviewed the analysis he’d prepared for Do-faq, gnawed his lip over the phrasing of the analysis, and then sent it personal to the squadron commander just as the tone sounded for reduced gees. His acceleration cage creaked as the gravities came off, and the soft pressure of his suit relaxed its grip on his arms and legs. He felt his chest expand, the sensation of relief and relaxation in his diaphragm, as he snapped up the faceplate and tasted the control room’s cool, sterile air.
There would be a twenty-six minute bathroom, recreation, and snack break at one gravity, then renewed acceleration at high gee. And a higher gee than anyone else knew.
“Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.
“Yes, my lord.”
“General message to the squadron. Inform them that we have received orders to accelerate ahead of the heavy squadron and return to Zanshaa. Tell them we shall accelerate to three point two gravities once the current break has ended, at 19:26.”
The brief hesitation in reply told of Vonderheydte’s dismay. “Very good, my lord.”
Heavier gees should take the zest out of Vonderheydte’s fantasy life, Martinez reflected, and he unlocked the cage’s displays and pushed them above his head and out of the way. Then he tipped the cage forward till his boots touched the floor, and he released the webbing and stood.
Blood swirled uneasily in his head, and he kept a hand clamped on the cage tubing until the vertigo eased.
He’d have some water, perhaps, or juice. And more meds to help endure the upcoming acceleration.
From this point on, he thought, the joy of command was going to be considerably reduced.
It was reduced by a larger margin four hours later, during the supper break, when a call came from Captain Kamarullah, personal to Martinez. Martinez answered it in his office, where he was nibbling a sandwich while catching up onCorona ‘s administrative work. Around the desk, towering in special racks to brace them against hard accelerations, were the two Home Fleet Trophies won by Captain Tarafah’s football teams, plus a second- place trophy and various prizes won by Tarafah in other commands.
Martinez wasn’t after trophies himself. If he could just get through tomorrow’s maneuvers without a visit from Mr. Calamity, he’d be satisfied.
“This is Martinez,” he said, turning on the comm display. Kamarullah’s square face appeared, his eyes directed somewhere behind Martinez’s right ear.
“Captain Martinez, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal break.”
“That’s all right, lord captain. What can I do for you?”
Martinez kept his eyes directed toward his desktop, where he was looking at a report in regard to the replacement of an erratic turbopump used in the engine cooling system. The relevant cooling line would be offline for an estimated ten hours while the work was done by robots operated remotely by crew from their acceleration couches; or six hours if the repair were done by hand. Martinez put his stylus to the desktop, and authorized the robotic repair.
Coronawouldn’t have six hours under light enough gees to make a hand repair safe.
“My lord captain,” Kamarullah said, “I wonder if I might beg from you a clarification.”
Martinez gazed at the next report, which had to do with the condemnation of supplies damaged by high accelerations, and said, “How may I be of service, my lord?”
“I wonder who it was who issued the order separating this squadron from that of Lord Commander Do- faq?”
Martinez cast his mind back to the orders he’d received that afternoon from Do-faq. “The orders originated with the Fleet Control Board,” he said.
“And not with the lord commander?”
“No, my lord.”
There was a moment’s silence. “In that case, lord elcap,” Kamarullah said, “I must inform you that, as the senior officer present, I am now in command of this squadron.”
Surprise sang through Martinez’s veins, but his reply was automatic, and quick.
“Not so, my lord.”
“But we’re now under Control Board orders,” Kamarullah said, “and no longer under the command of Lord Commander Do-faq. His order placing you in command is no longer in effect. Therefore the senior officer now commands the squadron, and that senior officer is me.”
Martinez tried to set his face in an expression of mild interest as he sorted this out.
With his stylus, he condemned the stores. Another report flashed onto his desk.
“The Control Board knew full well that I had been placed in command of this squadron,” he said finally. “They did not countermand the squadcom’s order, and therefore I remain in command.”
