Out of the corner of his eye he saw the frown form beneath Kamarullah’s gray mustache. “A countermanding order wasn’t necessary,” he said. “In the absence of an order from a superior officer, the senior officer is always in command of an independent detachment.”
“But wehave such an order, dating from when the squadron was formed.”
Kamarullah affected patience. “But the squadron is no longer part of Faqforce. We’re operating under Commandery orders. We’ve been removed from Do-faq’s command, and his decisions no longer apply.”
The squadrons had barely separated. Do-faq, at this instant, was only a few light-seconds away. It was absurd to think that Do-faq’s orders no longer pertained.
Martinez turned to look directly into the camera. “If you insist,” he said, “we can refer this matter to the nearest superior officer.”
Kamarullah stared stonily out of the display. “That senior officer’s preferences no longer apply.” He made a visible effort to seem at ease, to force a highly artificial smile onto his face. “Come now, my lord,” he said. “You know as well as I that Lord Do-faq’s order superceding my command was arbitrary and a result of sheer prejudice. You have a new command and a new crew, and I’m sure you’ve got enough work without taking on the job of a squadcom.” The effort to maintain a friendly tone grated in Kamarullah’s words. “You know as well as I that the strain has been showing. I say nothing against your abilities, but I’ve been with my crew for almost two years, and surely you can see that I can give the job of squadcom my full attention, without having to spend most of my time whipping my crew into shape. Don’t you think the job deserves that?”
Martinez took a bite of his sandwich, tasting the heat of mustard across his tongue, then chewed as he contemplated the merits of Kamarullah’s argument. The problem was that the merits were considerable: Kamarullahhad been treated unjustly, and Martinezhad been jumped over his head in a piece of rank favoritism. Kamarullahwas a more experienced officer with a highly experienced crew.
But, he thought. But…
Kamarullah had been insufferably superior when it came toCorona ‘s deficiencies in the maneuvers. He had been wrong when it came to the tactical lessons of Magaria, and would never consider Martinez’s new system.
Plus, Squadron Commander Do-faq was an officer who obviously knew how to hold a grudge, as witness his treatment of Kamarullah in the first place. If Martinez willingly surrendered a command to which Do-faq appointed him, and furthermore to a man Do-faq despised, Martinez could hardly expect preferment from Do-faq ever again.
Let alone mercy.
And besides, my lord, Martinez thought as he looked at Kamarullah, I just…don’t…likeyou.
“I’m willing to refer the matter to higher authority,” he said, “but until that time I will consider myself commander of this squadron.”
Anger drew Kamarullah’s graceless smile into a snarl. “If that’s the way you want it, my lord,” he said. “I’ll compose a message to the Control Board.”
“No, my lord, you willnot, ” Martinez said. “Iwill compose the letter.I will send a copy to you and another to Lord Commander Do-faq…for hisfiles.”
Kamarullah’s color had deepened with rage. “I could justtake command,” he said. “I’ll wager most of the captains would follow me.”
“If you tried, Lord Commander Do-faq would blow you to bits,” Martinez said. “Please remember he’s not that far away.”
After he signed off, Martinez dictated a letter that stated the situation as simply and baldly as possible, then sent it to his secretary, Saavedra, to attach the appropriate headings and salutations. “Copies to the files, to Captain Kamarullah, and to Lord Commander Do-faq,” he instructed, and Saavedra gave a disapproving, purse- lipped nod. It wasn’t possible to tell if Saavedra was offended on Martinez’s behalf, or onCorona ‘s, or whether he was offended generally with the world. Martinez suspected the latter.
A few hours later came a signal from Do-faq that the heavy squadron was ceasing acceleration temporarily, as the captain ofJudge Solomon had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage as a result of constant high accelerations. It was the sort of thing that could happen even to young recruits in the peak of physical condition, and Martinez was thankful that no one had yet stroked out aboardCorona. In wartime there was very little that could be done for the luckless captain: he’d be taken to sick bay and given drugs and treatment, but acceleration would have to be resumed before long and it was very likely thatJudge Solomon ‘s captain would die or suffer crippling disability.
Thus it was that a day and a half later whenCorona and the light squadron leaped through Wormhole 1 into the Hone-bar system, they were twenty minutes ahead of Do-faq’s eight ships. The message sent to the Fleet Control Board had not arrived on Zanshaa as yet, and Martinez was still exercising command.
The Hone-bar system seemed normal. The system was peaceful, loyalists were in charge of the government, and there seemed no immediate enemy threat. Civilian traffic was light, and the only ship in the vicinity was the cargo vesselClan Chen, outward bound through Wormhole 1 at 0.4c.
The Hone-bar system even had a warship, a heavy cruiser that was undergoing refit on the ring, but the refit wouldn’t be completed for at least another month, and until then the cruiser was just another detail.
Martinez had no plans to go anywhere near Hone-bar itself. Instead he’d plotted a complex series of passes by Hone-bar’s primary and by three gas-giants, the effect of which would be to whip the squadron around the system and shoot it back out Hone-bar Wormhole 1 at top speed.
The crew was at combat stations, as was standard for wormhole transit in times of unrest. Martinez’s acceleration cage creaked as the engines ignited, drivingCorona on a long arc that would take it into the gravitational field of the first of the system’s gas giants. He fought the gravities that began to pile on his bones, and tried to think of something pleasant.
Caroline Sula, he thought. Her pale, translucent complexion. The mischievous turn of her mouth. The brilliant emerald green of her eyes…
“Engine flares!” The voice in his earphones came from Tracy, one of the two women at the sensor display. “Engine flares, lord captain! Six…no, nine! Ten engine flares, near Wormhole Two! Enemy ships, my lord!”
Martinez fought to take another breath.
Oh dear, he thought. Here’s trouble.
THREE
Perfect porcelain glazes floated through Sula’s mind, the blue-green celadon ofkinuta seiji, thegros bleu of Vincennes, the fine crackle ofJu yao. Fine porcelain was a passion with her, and she often drifted to sleep with illustrations of pots and vases and figurines projected in random order on the visual centers of her brain.
The forms soothed her, as the touch of the real objects delighted her fingertips. And the ancient words used to describe porcelain—ko-ku-yao-lan, Muscheln, Faience, deutsche Blumen, Kuei Kung, rose Pompadour, Flora Danica, sgraffito, pate tendre—evoked exotic places and ancient times, the courts and lime-shaded byways of old Earth.
Her tongue silently formed the words, curling itself around each syllable in sensuous delight. Her silent chant evoked a timeless perfection that was removed from her current situation: unwashed, weary, fighting for every breath. The crew ofDelhi barely spoke: they climbed in and out of their couches only to shovel in nourishment and perform necessary labor, and the rest of the time they lay on their couches, in the stink of their suits, and fed into their minds the mindless entertainment that might lighten their burden, the comedies that were no longer funny, and the tragedies that seemed trivial compared to what they had already endured. The high gravities had gone on far too long.
The deceleration alarm sang, and Sula reluctantly opened her eyes and let the porcelain fade from her thoughts. She dragged herself out of her suit, then to the shower, then into a clean coverall. Supper’s flat food was eaten in silence. Foote lacked the energy to gibe at her, and she was too exhausted to provoke him.
Sula stuck a med patch behind her ear to help her through the next acceleration, then dragged on her vac suit while wincing at the sharp scent of the spray disinfectant she’d used to try to scrub out some of the odor. She would stand—or lie—the next watch in Auxiliary Control while her superiors tried to sleep, but unless the Naxid fleet arrived, or the Shaa came again, there would be little for the watch to do except stare at the displays while the preprogrammed work of the ship went on.
