It would have been hard, for example, to work into any theory of censorship the conversation he’d had the previous day with Dalkeith. They’d had a breakfast meeting about ordinary ship business, and at the end, over coffee, she’d given him a puzzled look, as if she didn’t know where to begin, and then said, “You know I’m censoring the other lieutenants’ mail.”
Censorship, like all tasks that no one really wanted, was a job that tended to fall quickly down the ladder of seniority. The most junior cadets censored the messages of the enlisted; and the most junior lieutenant censored the cadets. Dalkeith censored the two lieutenants junior to her, and Martinez was left free of all responsibility but that of reviewing her messages only—a light task, as they consisted entirely of dull but heartfelt greetings to her family back on Zarafan.
“Yes?” Martinez prompted. “Is there a problem?”
“Not a problem, exactly.” Dalkeith lips twisted, as if searching for an entry point to this subject. “You know Vonderheydte has a lady friend on Zanshaa. Her name is Lady Mary.”
“Is it? I didn’t know.” He rather doubted that the lady’s name was of any great relevance.
“Vonderheydte and Lady Mary exchange videos, and the videos are of a…” She hesitated. “…highly libidinous nature. They exchange fantasies and, ah, attempt to enact them for the camera.”
Martinez reached for his coffee. “You haven’t encountered this before?” he said. “I’m surprised.” When he was a fresh young cadet aboard ship for the first time, he had been deeply shocked by both the ingenuity and depravity of the holejumpers whose messages he’d been called on to review. By the end of the second month of this involuntary course in human nature, he’d become a cynical, hard-boiled tough, a walking encyclopedia of degeneracy, incapable of being surprised by any iniquity, no matter how appalling.
“It’s not that,” Dalkeith said. “I just wonder at the persistence. They spend hours at it, and it’s all very elaborate and imaginative. I don’t know where Vonderheydte gets the energy, considering we’re under acceleration.” Her troubled eyes gazed into his. “There’s a relentless quality to it that seems unhealthy to me. You don’t suppose he’s doing himself actual physical harm, do you?”
Martinez put down his coffee cup and paged through the mental encyclopedia of depravity he’d acquired as a cadet. “He’s not getting involved in, ah, asphyxiation?”
Dalkeith shook her head.
“Or use of ligatures? Around, say, vital parts?”
Dalkeith seemed dubious. “Depends on how vital you consider hands and feet. Well, one hand actually.” She looked at him. “Would you like to see the next set of outgoing messages?”
Martinez explained to his senior lieutenant that, however much she failed to enjoy watching a young man engage in acts of self-stimulation, he would enjoy it even less.
“I don’t care what he’s doing so long as it’s on his own time, and so long as he remains undamaged,” Martinez said. And then he added, “You can fast-forward through it, you know. I very much doubt Vonderheydte is giving away state secrets during these interludes. Or you can have the computer make a transcript and review that.”
Dalkeith sighed. “Very well, my lord.”
Cheer up, he thought, the reading might be more fun than the watching. All fantasy, without the reality of Vonderheydte’s contortions.
After that conversation, the rest of ship’s business had seemed very dull.
A chime on the comm interrupted Martinez’s remembrance. He answered, and heard Vonderheydte’s voice through his earphones.
“Personal transmission from the squadcom, my lord.”
Since the revelations of the previous morning, Martinez had found that Vonderheydte’s voice, even carrying a perfectly innocent message, seemed filled with libidinous suggestion. The dread scepter of the squadcom that hovered over his head, however, drove all suggestive notions out of Martinez’s head. His imagination flashed ahead to a rebuke, as Corona had once again fumbled in the morning’s maneuver.
“I’ll accept.” And as Do-faq’s head blossomed on the display, he said, “This is Captain Martinez, my lord.”
Peg teeth clacked in Do-faq’s muzzle. “I have received an order from the Commandery, lord captain. Your squadron is to increase acceleration, part company from the heavy squadron, enter the Hone-bar system ahead of us, and return to Zanshaa at the fastest possible speed.”
“Very good, my lord.” In truth, Martinez had been anticipating this order for some time. No enemy were expected at Hone-bar, and every ship in Faqforce was badly needed back at the capital. He had considered suggesting the separation himself, but held back for fear of being accused of being greedy for an independent 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 everyone knows 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’l
l 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 on Corona’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.
Corona wouldn’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.”
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 we have 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: Kamarullah had been treated unjustly, and Martinez had been jumped over his head in a piece of rank favoritism. Kamarullah was a more experienced officer with a highly experienced crew.
But, he thought. But…
Kamarullah had been insufferably superior when it came to Corona’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…like you.
“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 will not,” Martinez said. “I will 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 just take command,” he said. “I’ll wager m
ost 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 on Corona’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 of Judge 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 aboard Corona. 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 that Judge Solomon’s captain would die or suffer crippling disability.
Thus it was that a day and a half later when Corona 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 vessel Clan 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 Sundering Page 6
