one another for the few places available.
Unfortunately, the war had been hard on pinnace pilots, with casualty rates of something like ninety percent. Sula had been the only pinnace pilot to survive the First Battle of Magaria. For some reason, Peers weren’t volunteering for the duty in their usual numbers: most of the new pinnace pilots were now enlisted.
“No pinnace, Weapons,” Martinez said.
“No pinnaces, my lord.” There was a moment of silence, and then, “Missiles away, my lord. Tubes clear. All missiles running normally.”
“Tell Battery Three to stand by for counterfire,” Martinez said. Michi had used the radio blooms as cover to fire a salvo: possibly the Naxids would as well.
An idea floated into Martinez’s mind, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The thought of the radio-opaque wall of missile bursts between him and the Naxids had combined with Husayn’s query about pinnaces to produce a fresh, bright notion that glittered in his thoughts like a precious gem.
Martinez probed the idea for a moment and found that it only glittered all the more.
“Comm,” he said, “I need to speak to the pilots of Pinnaces One and Two.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Choy.
The two pilots reported in. One was a cadet and a Peer, the other a commoner and a recruit.
“I’m going to fire you in opposite directions, at right angles to the plane of the ecliptic,” he said. “I want to use you as observation platforms, to get as many angles on the action as possible. Use passive detectors only—there will be enough radar and lasers out there. Send me all information real-time, and we’ll overlay it with our picture of the battle here.”
The pilots were too well-trained to show any relief at the knowledge that Martinez was not about to send them alongside flights of missiles into the hell of antimatter bursts that awaited them.
“Yes, my lord,” they said.
The pinnaces were launched. They were packed with sensor equipment and transmitters, in order to detect openings in enemy defenses and order whole sheaves of missiles into course changes. They would do very well as spotters, able perhaps to see around the missile bursts and provide a new angle on the combat.
Martinez instructed Choy and Pan to coordinate the reception of the pinnaces’ transmissions and their integration into the sensor picture of the battle. During the time it took to set that up, Michi ordered one more offensive barrage and another salvo of defensive missiles against incoming enemy.
Missile bursts were raging up and down the first two-thirds of the Fleet. At the head was a continuous seething blaze, like endless rippling chains of fireworks going off. So pervasive was the radio interference that Martinez had no clear picture of what was happening there, but he sensed that Sula’s fight had reached some kind of climax.
His picture of the battle was beginning to get a little murky. Both fleets were now flying past or through the dispersing plasma spheres caused by the detonation of Sula’s missiles, and though the bursts had cooled, they were still fuzzing the sensors.
Ahead of Squadron 9, Tork’s Daimong squadron fired one volley after another. More missiles than made sense, Martinez thought. He preferred greater elegance in these matters. It was as if Tork viewed the opposing fleets as gangs of primitives armed with clubs, charging into one another and thumping away. Tork presumably took comfort in the fact that his side had more clubs.
To the rear, the loyalist squadrons were still driving toward the enemy. Tork had more ships and squadrons than the Naxids, and he had ordered his rearmost formations to double the Naxid formation, get behind it to catch the rear elements between two fires. The tactic was obvious enough, and the Naxids were clearly aware of it: their squadrons were stretching their formations to engage as many of Tork’s ships as possible without permitting a clear path through their battle order.
More missiles launched, one salvo after another, all of which were destroyed to create radio-opaque walls between the approaching ships. It was as if the enemy were disappearing into thick clouds, clouds in which enemy missiles could hide. The data fromIllustrious’ s two pinnaces began to be factored into the tactical display, and they enabled Martinez to see several missile barrages being launched from behind the radio haze, and to plot his own missile intercepts. He congratulated himself that he had given himself a slight advantage over the enemy.
Considering the number of missiles racing toward him, he was going to need it.
He spared a moment for what was happening at the head of the column. He could see nothing through the plasma murk, but the intensity of fire appeared to have dropped away. Sula’s fight, at least for the moment, was over.
“Course change, my lord,” said Choy. “From the Supreme Commander.”
Tork’s new order aimed the squadron again for the original interception point, near Magaria’s sun, and reduced acceleration to a standard gravity. Apparently, the Supreme Commander had looked into the flights of enemy missiles coming at him and figured he’d gotten close enough.
Martinez decided Tork was probably right. Unless Tork was actually going to use tactics—something the Supreme Commander seemed determined to avoid—he might as well slug it out at this range as anything.
From what Martinez could see, the rear squadrons had given up trying to double the enemy. So it was just going to be hammer-hammer-hammer until the two fleets reached the intersection point, when things would turn very interesting indeed.
Data from the pinnaces was flooding in. Martinez kept shifting between the points of view ofIllustrious and the two pinnaces, trying to spot the enemy missiles coming in, as well as approaches by which his own missiles could get nearer the enemy. He fed the data to Chandra, and at least occasionally she followed his suggestions.
The Naxid missiles came closer. Point-defense lasers and antiproton weapons lashed out. Plasma bursts were filling far too much of Martinez’s field of vision. He remembered the data from First Magaria, the way the squadron defenses held up perfectly well until suddenly they collapsed and whole formations were wiped out in seconds. He began to feel as if someone had pasted a large target symbol to his chest.
“Permission to starburst?” he sent to Chandra. It was more than time.
He received his answer in text:“Squadcom says not yet.”
Martinez clamped down on his frustration and began again the business of trying to visualize trajectories. He checked plots from the two observation pinnaces againstIllustrious’ s own spectra, plotted possible missile courses against the expanding, overlapping spheres of plasma that raged between the two fleets…and then, when he saw his opportunity, he almost gave voice to a cry of pure joy. Tork’s Daimong squadron just ahead was heavily engaged: a dense cloud of plasma from Tork’s fight was going to pass between Squadron 9 and the Naxids in five or six minutes.
If Squadron 9 fired now, the missiles could be launched behind the plasma bursts that were currently screening it from the enemy. The missiles would dash ahead and make the approach through the cooling plasma from Tork’s battle. The attack would arrive from an unusual angle, and the Naxids might not see it at all—or if they did, it might be glimpsed for only a few seconds as the missiles dodged from one plasma cloud to another.
Nearly stammering in his haste, Martinez informed Chandra of this opportunity. The answer was immediate: fire a full fifteen-launcher flight following his trajectory, and then launch another full barrage straight at the enemy to keep their attention occupied.
Missiles leapt from the tubes, and this time Martinez fired Pinnace 3 along with them. The pinnace pilot couldn’t accelerate with the same angry speed as the missiles, but would follow them and perhaps be able to see the enemy from a perspective useful enough to make vital last second corrections.
Another flight of missiles roared in on Squadron 9, and was destroyed by lasers and antiproton beams. Martinez felt anxiety gnaw his nerves with sharp, angry teeth. The enemy missiles were getting so close that it was difficult to launch countermissiles in time—the missiles just took too long getting clear of the ship in order to ignite their antimatter engines. He would have to depend entirely on the point-defense beams.
His head swiveled within the virtual environment as he saw ahead a horrific, violent series of flashes. The Daimong squadron vanished into overlapping blooms of plasma light. Martinez felt his heart lurch against his ribs. Very possibly Tork, his flagship, and his squadron had all been destroyed, annihilated in an instant like so many squadrons at First Magaria.
He wondered how hot the fireballs would be whenIllustrious flew into them, in just a few minutes.
Chandra’s urgent voice sounded in his ears. “All ships prepare to starburst.”
About time,he thought.
