More annoying was the fact thatCourage had no Flag Officer Station. Martinez would command Squadron 31 from Auxiliary Command, from the couch normally used by Dalkeith’s first lieutenant, who was supplanted— again—to one of the engine boards, where she would monitor the ship’s condition from a reconfigured station. Since the premiere—whose name was Khanh—had little to do in combat other than wait for Dalkeith to die, the inconvenience was not crucial.
Nor were the sleeping arrangements going to be much of a disadvantage to anyone. Martinez knew he wouldn’t have much chance to sleep in the bed he’d taken from Dalkeith—that Michi was planning a series of heavy accelerations—and suspected he’d be doing most of his sleeping on his acceleration couch.
Martinez left Alikhan and Narbonne to stow his belongings, procured a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and headed for Auxiliary Command. His new aide, Cadet Lord Ismir Falana, contacted the captains of Squadron 31 while he inhaled the coffee aroma and took his first sip.
Martinez met them in virtual, four rows of three little portraits. Of his twelve captains, four were Terran, two Daimong, four Torminel, and two were survivors from one of the Fleet’s rare Cree squadrons. The Cree were not a species much tempted by the military life. Once they could be persuaded to join, they served aboard ships modified with displays that made use of their superb hearing and deemphasized their poor vision. A Terran in a Cree control room would find it a dark place filled with maddening sonic interference and white noise.
Supposedly the Cree all slept piled together in a heap, officers in one stateroom, enlisted in heaps of their own. This was what they did at home, except at home the females were part of the piles too. The females were unintelligent quadrupeds and were rarely allowed on ships. The males were unintelligent quadrupeds for their first years of life, but then straightened and grew large brains.
Nature was odd, especially where the Cree came from.
“Welcome to you all,” Martinez said. “I am Captain Lord Gareth Martinez, and I have been assigned by Lady Michi Chen to take command of this provisional squadron. I suppose some of you might be surprised to find me in charge of the squadron, and you wonder how I am qualified to command such a group of experienced officers.
“First, I’m an honors graduate of the Nelson Academy. I worked hard as a cadet and a lieutenant, and served on shipboard as well as on the staff of Fleet Commander Enderby. I won the Golden Orb by rescuingCorona from the Naxids.
“And then,” he said, “I married your squadcom’s niece.”
He looked from one blank face to the next.
“You may laugh,” he said.
Only the Cree seemed to find this amusing. Martinez decided he might as well surrender his career as a wit.
“I expect we’ll be working very hard,” he said. “I have been ordered to work up this squadron in a new system of tactics.”
“We’re defying the Supreme Commander’s express orders?”
This from Captain Tantu, the Daimong commander of the light cruiserVigilant . By virtue of his seniority, Tantu had commanded the squadron until now.
“The situation has changed, my lord,” Martinez said smoothly. “The Supreme Commander is out of contact, and we’re following the enemy so closely that it’s unlikely a conventional battle will develop. Lady Michi feels that we should look into different tactical options—those employed at Protipanu, for instance.”
What Tantu thought of this was hidden behind his expressionless Daimong face. Those faces that Martinez could read seemed intrigued.
“The wise worm learns from the worm-eater,” said one of the Cree.
“And the tree rejoices in the night rains,” said the other.
Martinez looked at them. “Ye-es,” he said.
“My lord?”
One of the Terran captains looked at him with a question poised on her lips.
“Yes, my lady?” he said.
“Is this the Foote Formula we’ll be learning?”
He smiled. “No. Something better than that.”
“Ghost Tactics?” lisped one of the Torminel.
Martinez paused for a moment of surprise, in which he deduced that the White Ghost had given their tactical innovations a name that reflected glory on her and left him out of the picture.
Well, he thought. One good turn deserved another.
“Not quite,” he said. “We’re going to practice the Martinez Method.”
Sula was pleased to have her squadron again, though she was sorry at the effort she’d wasted on Carmody. She had to wonder which way he would have jumped in the end.
Still the point of the spear, she andConfidence raced on the track of the enemy. The Naxids had gained something like twenty hours on their pursuers, and Michi wanted to narrow the distance.
Sula approved. Like Michi, she wondered what it was the Naxids were retreating to, and whether there were reinforcements speeding to Naxas or already there.
Whatever the Naxids planned, timing had to be a crucial element. And the faster the loyalists pursued, the more the Naxids would be forced to advance their timing, straining ships and crew and equipment. The more the enemy were stressed, the more likely they were to make mistakes.
Maybe those reinforcements—if they existed—wouldn’t turn up in time.
The price of wrecking the Naxids’ timing was enduring a three-gravity acceleration at least fifteen hours per day. The rest of the time was spent in drills and experiments, working the squadron’s two new ships into the pattern. The only people excused from the drills were the cooks, who produced the meals that the crew gobbled at their action stations.
Michi Chen gave her ships one hour of free time each day, when the acceleration was reduced to one gee and no drills were scheduled, time that allowed people to leave their couches, stretch, and empty the waste collection bags from their vac suits. Never a pleasant job, the crowding at the toilets and waste disposers now made it worse. Sula rejoiced in her private toilet and her private shower. She wasn’t prepared to share them with anyone.
She hardly had to abuse her new captains at all. They had seen what she’d done at Second Magaria, and all were now believers in Ghost Tactics.
She meet Martinez in virtual conferences with Michi and other officers. She was civil. He was civil. He reported progress with his squadron. So did she. Everyone was learning fast, under the pressure of imminent combat. Sula wanted them all to learn their moves before the constant pounding of heavy gravity made them stupid and careless.
There were three systems between Magaria and Naxas, a swollen red giant, a blue-white star boiling off angry radiation, and a neutron star surrounded by the wreckage of a planetary system it had destroyed in a great supernova. The systems were mostly barren, and when the two fleets entered them, their population doubled or tripled.
Chenforce pressed the Naxids and narrowed the distance. The Naxids didn’t respond to the loyalists’ increased acceleration until five hours had gone by, and then they matched their pursuers’ acceleration without trying to increase their lead.
On the second day, on an hour when Chenforce had reduced its acceleration, the Naxids sent a swarm of pinnaces, shuttles, and other small craft to ferry crew away from one of their ships. Michi saw what was happening and ordered a fast, hard burn in pursuit. The Naxids finished their evacuation and raced away. When they were a safe distance from the abandoned vessel, they blew it up with a missile.
One of the damaged Naxid ships hadn’t been able to stand the increased pressure that Michi Chen was applying. That left the enemy fleet with twenty-nine. Sula approved.
The pursuit went on. Sula peeled med patches off her neck and applied new ones. She ate badly and slept badly, her dreams choked with asphyxiation and blood. Casimir called to her from his pilfered tomb.
Once, she felt his warm touch on her skin. She reached to take his hand, and found that the hand wasn’t Casimir’s, wasn’t long and thin, but broad and blunt-fingered, the hand of Martinez—and she woke, eyes wide and
