The Sundering (11 page)

“I believe that your lordship can begin launching missiles now.”

Without waiting for a reply, Martinez ordered his own force to maneuver. The eight-ship squadron was divided into two four-ship divisions, and he ordered the divisions to separate, as if to catch the enemy between two fires. Shankaracharya’s work had shown the theoretical maximum separation at which overlapping defensive fire remained effective, and Martinez kept the ships within that sphere. In the meantime, he made certain that
Corona
kept arcing missiles between Do-faq and the enemy, to provide the necessary screen for the heavy squadron’s approach.

The missile bursts intensified, a continuous drumroll of flashes and dying matter. Point-defense lasers lashed across the darkness, striking at any incoming threat. Martinez felt his heart begin an inexorable climb into his throat as he watched the hot, opaque cloud of explosions roll nearer and nearer.

“Starburst!” he ordered. “All ships starburst!”

No doubt Kamarullah would consider the maneuver premature, but his ship as well as the others rotated and began to burn heavy gees away from the others, getting as much separation as possible before the onslaught that was about to engulf them.

“Defenses on automatic!” Martinez called as the hand of gravity slammed him into his couch. The display told him the pressure on his chest was nine gravities before his vision narrowed, and then winked out altogether.

After a long moment of darkness Martinez fought his way to consciousness, clenching his teeth and swallowing to force blood to his brain. He saw his displays as if through the wrong end of a telescope, a long distance down a dim tunnel. Gradually his vision cleared, and he gave a gasp as he realized what he was viewing.

Do-faq and the heavy squadron had launched a hundred and sixty missiles, all of them screened from the enemy by the erupting missiles and counterfire of Light Squadron 14. These missiles now raced out of the concealing plasma clouds, converging on Kreeku’s force at seven-tenths of the speed of light.

The missile strike was a vast expanding carpet of light, like the phosphorescence on a moving wave, the entire enemy force torn to elemental fire in a few brief seconds. Martinez watched in awe, unable to believe that the Naxids’ end had come so swiftly.

But the battle hadn’t ended with the death of the enemy. Missiles were still weaving through space, dodging the defensive lasers and on
Corona
’s trail. There were several minutes of suspense before the last threat was destroyed by Vonderheydte’s laser fire.

There was silence, and then cheers began to ring in Command. Martinez felt a giddy exhilaration, and repressed the urge to climb out of his cage in the heavy gravity and lead the crew in a delirious stomping dance.

More cheers burst out as other friendly ships emerged from the plasma fog, though it was not for several minutes that it became clear that Martinez had wiped the enemy from existence without a single loss to his squadron.

A
fter
Corona
had finished a pair of high-gee turns around Hone-bar’s sun and another of the system’s gas giants, and after Martinez had reduced his squadron’s acceleration to 0.8 gravities in order to aid the repairs of the two ships that had suffered damage, Martinez was invited to dine in the wardroom by his lieutenants. When he entered the small room with its cramped cherrywood table, his three officers rose and applauded.

“Congratulations, my lord,” Dalkeith said. She had a broad smile on her face, and Martinez wasn’t surprised—the successful action had almost certainly guaranteed her the promotion that had eluded her for the last fifteen or twenty years, all in despite of the fact that her sole contribution to the battle had been to watch from Auxiliary Control and wait for Martinez to die.

He thanked her and sat at the table, and the lieutenants followed suit. The wardroom steward—a professional chef acquired during Captain Tarafah’s regime, and who had stayed in his post while Martinez’s own chef fled—laid down the first course, a savory soup flavored with bits of smoked duck.

By all rights Martinez should have been exhausted, not having slept in twenty-five hours, almost a full day. But instead of yawning over his soup he felt himself coursing with energy, and his brain bubbled with ideas. He felt a ravenous appetite. The lieutenants were exhilarated as well, and the mood sometimes caught even Shankaracharya, who certainly had reason enough to be cast down.

Some of Martinez’s enthusiasm had been prompted by a message from Sula that had arrived mere hours after the battle, a message featuring her elegant formula for fleet maneuvers. Martinez brought the formula with him to the dinner, hoping to stimulate his officers’ thought. To this end—after the dinner was over, and the last toast drunk—Martinez suggested inviting Cadet Kelly, who had participated in the original officers’ discussions that had led to the new tactical ideas.

Such a suggestion, under the circumstances, was something akin to a command. Kelly came into the wardroom with her brilliant smile blazing. She had spent the entire battle in her pinnace, ready to be launched into space alongside a barrage of missiles. Martinez, for his part, had never for a moment considered launching either of his pinnace pilots into the hell of raging antimatter.

Kelly was brought up to speed with a couple glasses of the wardroom’s excellent wine, and Martinez unveiled Sula’s formula. Shankaracharya considered it carefully, tested it a few times with variables drawn from the day’s battle, and pronounced it worthy of further investigation. The officers were discussing tactical applications when Martinez’s sleeve button gave a discreet chime.

He answered, and on the sleeve display saw the face of Warrant Officer Roh, who had been left in charge of
Corona
while his superiors were roistering in the wardroom.

“Message for you, my lord. It’s just been deciphered.”

“Transmit, then.”

A look of caution entered Roh’s eyes. “Perhaps you might want to receive this in private, lord elcap. It’s personal to you, from the Fleet Control Board.”

Martinez excused himself from the wardroom and stepped into the corridor outside. “Go ahead and transmit, Roh,” he said.

The message, from the secretary of the Control Board, was brief and to the point. In his musical Cree voice the secretary informed him that the board had decided, on receipt of Lieutenant Captain Martinez’s last communication, that Light Squadron Fourteen should from receipt of this message be placed under the command of its senior officer, Lieutenant Captain Kamarullah.

A burble of astounded laughter escaped Martinez’s lips. He was far too astonished to feel resentment at this outrageous usurpation.
They’re going to really feel silly when they hear about what just happened here,
he thought. He wondered if they would change their minds.

No. Of course they wouldn’t. They’d never admit they’d made an error in judgment.

And in any case the order needed to be obeyed. “Message, personal to Captain Kamarullah,” Martinez dictated, and tried to suppress any sign of inebriation as he spoke into the silver button-camera on his cuff.

“Orders have just come from the Fleet Control Board placing you in command of Squadron Fourteen. Naturally I will endeavor to comply with any instructions you see fit to issue to
Corona
. I will immediately inform the other ships of…” He hesitated, having almost said
my command.
“Of the squadron,” he finished. “Message ends.”

He had the message sent, and spent a few moments assembling the words he would use to his other captains.

“My lords,” he transmitted finally, “I must inform you that the Fleet Control Board has decided to place the squadron under the command of Captain Kamarullah. It has been a privilege to command Light Squadron Fourteen during the last month, and to have led you in an engagement which has done great service to the empire. I believe we may view our accomplishments with great satisfaction. I will be honored to serve alongside you under Captain Kamarullah’s command, and I hope that in the future we may score an even greater success against the enemy.”

Not that this was very likely under Kamarullah, Martinez thought, but the sentiment seemed worth expressing. He sent the message, and then paused for a moment outside the wardroom door, as he considered the new dynamics of the squadron.

Kamarullah’s wish had been granted, and he now was in command. But Martinez, his rival, had just won a bloodless victory over the enemy, and more than justified the confidence that Do-faq had placed in him. He’d brought all his captains through the fight without harm, and earned their trust. He could expect decorations and possible promotion, and Kamarullah could not. Kamarullah had just replaced a man who had made history, a commander who had won a great victory and who had earned fame and the thanks of the empire. Kamarullah’s victory could only turn to bitter ashes in his mouth.

The Fleet Control Board had just made Kamarullah an object of ridicule.

Cheered by this thought, Martinez returned to the wardroom, and accepted Dalkeith’s offer of another glass of wine.

The lord secretary of the Fleet Control Board was a Cree, and he spoke in rounded musical tones like the chuckling of a spring.

“…I call to Your Lordships’ attention,” he read, “Lieutenant Captain Lord Gareth Martinez, commander of Light Squadron Fourteen, who as the first squadron commander on the scene developed the plan of battle which his squadron and mine together followed. I earnestly hope that Your Lordships will consider Lord Gareth worthy of promotion or some other distinction.

“I also call to Your Lordships’ notice the following officers, whose service has been exemplary, and whose contribution to the victory at Hone-bar was by no means negligible…”

Lord Chen listened to the list of names as relief sighed through his bones. Captain Martinez had achieved distinction in the action at Hone-bar, something that would make Lord Chen’s own dealings with Lord Roland Martinez less open to question. In addition to securing the victory, Martinez had saved the
Clan Chen,
which made Chen’s pocketbook less empty and his sense of gratitude more personal.

“Your Lordships’ most recent instructions,” the lord secretary continued, “required me to leave two ships at Hone-bar in order to secure the system and the Hone Reach. As the recent victory has lessened the threat to Hone-bar, I hope my decision to leave only the
Judge Qel-fan
will meet with Your Lordships’ approval. I will bring the rest of my ships to Zanshaa at the most expeditious possible speed.”

Lord Chen suppressed a smile. In fact the board’s instructions in regard to the defense of Hone-bar had been erratic, and tended to change from moment to moment depending on the persuasive power of those members with interests in the Hone Reach. From one day to the next Do-faq had been ordered to defend Hone-bar with his entire command, with his squadron alone, with a single four-ship division, and with a number of ships ranging from one to five. No wonder Do-faq had decided to take matters into his own decisive hands.

The lord secretary’s voice burbled on.

“I regret to report that I have ordered Captain Dix of the Investigative Service to inquire into the breakdown in communication that permitted the Naxids to surprise us at Hone-bar. Wormhole stations should have observed the approach of the rebels many days in advance, and though the captain of Hone-bar’s ring attempted to pass off the breakdown as the fault of a negligent tech, the explanation defies reason, and an investigation should be undertaken if only to clear those officers now under suspicion. I trust that this order meets with Your Lordships’ approval.

“In the eternal light of the Praxis, I remain…Lord Pa Do-faq, Squadron Commander, etc.”

The lord secretary looked up from his reader. “Shall I repeat any of the message, my lords?”

“That will not be necessary,” Tork said, answering for them all. His round eyes, mournful in his pale, fixed face, gazed around the broad table. “I am sure we are all aware of how this victory lessens our anxieties. I suggest that the lord secretary be ordered to write a congratulatory reply to the lord squadron commander, and that we all append our signatures.”

There was a murmur of assent. The lord secretary glanced down at his display and got busy with his stylus.

Lady San-torath, who represented Hone-bar in convocation, spoke first. “I’m delighted to congratulate Do-faq on his victory, but I wonder if he’s not gone too far ordering an investigation of what seems to be a simple communications error. Hasn’t the squadcom exceeded his authority?”

By which Lord Chen knew that the lapse hadn’t been a communications error at all. Hone-bar understood its own strategic importance as well as its own vulnerability, and probably at least some members of the elite were aware of the scale of the defeat at Magaria. They had seen the Naxid fleet coming, and had been prepared to make their own peace with the rebels.

Unfortunately the conspirators hadn’t been able to count. They’d known that Faqforce was on its way, and should have known that Faqforce outnumbered the Naxids. That they hadn’t cooperated with Do-faq, who after all had the greatest number of missile launchers, did not speak well for their intelligence.

Chen wondered how much Lady San-torath knew of Hone-bar’s plans. Enough at least to know that she might be compromised by any investigation.

“Better the Investigative Service,” said Lord Pezzini, “than the Legion of Diligence.”

There followed a significant silence that allowed Pezzini’s audience to shudder. Neither the IS nor the legion were infallible, but the legion’s mistakes tended to be a lot more lethal, as were, for that matter, its triumphs.

Pezzini was telling Lady San-torath to shut up and hope for the best. Nictating membranes deployed over her orange eyes, and she fell silent. Chen wondered how much Pezzini knew. Possibly a great deal, since Pezzini’s interests also lay in the Hone Reach.

“Should we not send a congratulatory message to Captain Martinez as well?” asked Lord Convocate Mondi. “He was at least technically in independent command.” Lord Mondi’s diction was very precise, without the lisp common in a Torminel.

Pezzini scowled. “We could make too much of Martinez,” he said. “We’ve already heard far too much of him.”

Chen sighed inwardly, and went to work to earn his stipend. “Surely Captain Martinez deserves more than a congratulatory message,” he said. “Even Squadron Commander Do-faq admits that it was his strategy that won the battle.”

“It was nothing more than any Peer could have done,” said Pezzini.

“That does not eliminate the fact that Martinez was the Peer who did it,” said Lord Chen.

Mondi scrubbed with the back of his hand the gray fur beneath one eye. Humans had a tendency to think of Torminel as very large round-bottomed plush toys, a perception of harmlessness reinforced by the lisp common to so many of Mondi’s species. Millions of human children slept each night with a stuffed Torminel beside them. Torminel, who were actually nocturnal, predatory carnivores who liked their meat raw, rarely understood why humans so persistently underestimated them.

“I don’t see why Martinez shouldn’t be congratulated,” Mondi said. “In fact he should be promoted and decorated.”

“It is Do-faq who should be promoted,” said Pezzini. “He was the senior officer. And Kamarullah should be promoted as well—it was he the board placed in command of the light squadron, not Martinez.”

“Why promote Kamarullah?” asked a bewildered Lady Seekin, the other Torminel member of the board. “What did
he
do?”

“The Board’s decisions must be upheld!” Pezzini snapped. “Martinez has had enough! Kamarullah was our choice for command!”

“And now,” said Lord Chen, smoothly interceding, “comes our opportunity to rectify that…embarrassment.” He had argued against the supercession, but been outvoted. The professional members of the board, those who served with the Fleet, had insisted on the importance of seniority in maintaining discipline, and a couple of the civilians had been impressed enough by their arguments to fall in line.

“We could promote Martinez to captain,” Chen continued, “which would automatically put him over Kamarullah. It would
not
counter this board’s earlier decision,” he said to Pezzini’s glare, “but reinforce the principle of seniority that this board considers so crucial to the order of the Fleet.”

“That seems simple enough,” said Lady Seekin. She was one of the civilian members of the board, from Devajjo in the Hone Reach, and the intricacies of military culture often confused her.

“No member of his family has ever risen as high in the service as Martinez,” Pezzini said. “Now the Board proposes to break precedent again and promote Martinez to
captain
?” Exasperation entered his voice. “Should we place his ancestors on a plane with ours? Should our descendants compete with his for places in the Fleet? It’s bad enough that the Convocation awarded him the Golden Orb, and that we now have to salute him.”