Fortunately, subsequent evidence disproved this theory. Sensor missiles probed the area behind Magaria’s sun and found nothing but Magaria itself. Careful reading of laser ranging spectra suggested that there was a difference in size between at least some of the Naxid blips and others, indicating a mix of warships and decoys.
The enemy they saw before them was real.
The two great fleets gradually approached each other. The Orthodox Fleet remained on course to whip around Magaria’s sun en route for the planet. The course of the Naxid fleet would intersect that of the loyalists right there, at Magarmah.
Which, Martinez reflected, was an interesting tactical problem. The two fleets would hammer at each other for several hours, and then have to form into a queue for the slingshot around the sun. Given the considerable distance between ships even in the same formation, there was no real danger of collision, but the ships of the two fleets would be intermingled in that long queue, and presumably still be hurling missiles at each other.
And after their passage around the sun, the two fleets would have to separate somehow, all the while engaged at close range.
Tork showed he wasn’t totally unaware of these problems, and ordered his fleet into an acceleration to arrive at the intersection point ahead of the Naxids. He was confident he possessed superior numbers, and so ordered his lead squadrons to envelop the enemy as they came up. The Naxids increased acceleration to prevent this. This went on for the better part of a day, the crews crushed into increasingly flatter shapes, until Tork gave up and grudgingly ordered his rear squadrons to double on the enemy instead.
The problem of the intersection was still present. Martinez hoped by the time anyone neared the intersection point, the loyalists would already have won the battle.
Tork thought ahead, and took no chances. He ordered all ships, after passing Magarmah, to form on the same bearing for the passage to Magaria. Tork’s bearing might be the same one the Naxid commander would choose. There was no way of knowing.
“This shows that a textbook battle is only possible if both sides cooperate,” Martinez told Michi over dinner. “The Naxids knew approximately when Tork would enter the system, and they set up to receive him exactly the way the tactical manuals said to do it. If they’d doneanything else, we’d all be improvising.”
Michi gave a wry smile. “All Tork’s maneuvers were practice for the real thing after all.”
“In order to fight his kind of battle,” Martinez said, “Tork had to find a Naxid commander who was even older and more set in his ways than he is.” He thought of the two long lines of ships sailing toward their rendezvous, all more or less in the same plane.
Neither commander seemed interested in using the third dimension that was available to them. If he were in charge, Martinez thought, he would have stacked his squadrons in that third dimension and descended on the enemy like a giant flyswatter. As it was, Tork’s superior force would drag into battle slowly, one element at a time. It was almost as if he was deliberately dissipating his advantage.
When battle was within three hours, Martinez turned out in full dress, complete with white gloves and the Orb, and gaveIllustrious a complete inspection. Each division cheered him as he arrived. He found nothing out of place. The division heads’ 77-12s were all up to date, but he checked a few of the items for form’s sake, knowing he would find no discrepancy.
“Carry on,” he said, unable to think of anything more inspiring, and the crew cheeredthat too.
He returned to his cabin and Alikhan helped him out of his uniform and into coveralls and his vac suit. He marched to his station and entered.
“I am in Command,” he said.
“The captain is in Command,” agreed Husayn. Martinez helped the lieutenant out of the command couch, then lowered himself into it. Husayn took his place at the weapons board. Martinez put on his helmet, locking himself in with the scent of his body and suit seals.
“Lord Captain,” Pan said from the sensor board, “I’m detecting missile flares from the lead enemy ships.”
The Second Battle of Magaria had begun.
Cruiser Squadron 9 was astern of the Supreme Commander’s cruiser division, which was square in the middle of the fleet, and neither would be involved in the fighting for some time yet. Martinez had little to do but watch Sula’s engagement at the head of the long column, and watch it with growing impatience. Apparently the lead squadrons of each fleet were to be allowed to have their battle, and then the next squadrons in line, and the next. Tork had the advantage in numbers, Martinez thought, why didn’t he press the engagement? He should order the entire Orthodox Fleet to close with the enemy all along the line and hammer them till they were nothing but dust glowing on the solar wind.
Apparently this hadn’t occurred to Tork, or if it had, he’d decided against it. Perhaps he was giving the fates every chance to remove Caroline Sula from his life.
Martinez found his blood burning with anger on Sula’s behalf. He told himself that he would have been equally angry if it hadn’t been Sula, that he was outraged at the waste of loyal officers and crew.
In the display, he saw that Sula ordered counterfire to intercept the enemy missiles, and that otherwise she did nothing. He understood her tactics. Past experience showed that long-range skirmishing was unlikely to produce results, and Sula clearly wasn’t about to waste missiles when the odds didn’t favor her.
The Naxids, it appeared, hadn’t learned this lesson, and fired several more salvos before Sula replied with one of her own. Explosions moved closer to Light Squadron 17, providing a radio-opaque cloud behind which other missiles could advance. Fury and frustration raged in Martinez’s veins. He punched the key that would connect him to the Flag Officer Station.
“May I speak with Lady Michi, please?” he asked when Coen answered.
In answer, Michi’s image appeared on his display. “Yes, Lord Captain?”
“Can we prod Tork into some action?” Martinez demanded. “Do we have to let Sula fight on her own?”
She looked at him with impatience. “Bywe you meanme, I suppose. You should have an idea by now of how the Supreme Commander responds to prodding.”
“Ask for permission to engage the enemy more closely.”
Michi’s tone turned frosty. “Not yet, Captain.”
Martinez clenched his teeth. “Yes, my lady,” he said, and ended the transmission.
He gazed at the display with burning anger. Sula was on her own.
Sula watched the Naxid squadron’s latest volley of missiles get blown into perfect spheres of blazing plasma by Squadron 17’s counterfire. She sat in her vac suit on her couch in Command, a gray, featureless, metal-walled space that had replaced the more sumptuous room flashed into ruin by a charge of antiprotons at Harzapid. Her neck itched where she’d applied a med patch—she felt a spasm of fear whenever she saw a carotid injector, and she refused to use them.
Her helmet sat in its mesh bag attached to her couch. She hated the damned helmet and the suffocating sensation she got while wearing it; as the captain, she didn’t have to wear it if she didn’t want to.
She would have preferred not to have worn the vac suit either, but supposed she might need its sanitary arrangements by the end of the day.