“Tork’s doing this deliberately,” Michi told Martinez. “He’s trying to isolate everyone he feels he can’t trust, and surround them with strangers.”
“Let’s hope he’s not isolating contagion, but spreading the virus instead,” Martinez replied.
Tork kept his new formations busy with daily exercises, all drawn from the old playbook. Martinez thought Tork’s staff must have been working twenty-nine hours per day planning out the scripts. Every move was planned in advance; every maneuver, every missile fired, every casualty. Ships were judged not on how well they did against an enemy, but on how well they obeyed instructions.
For anyone who had experienced the new-style, free-form experiments that Martinez, Michi, and Do-faq had created, Tork’s maneuvers were agonies of frustration. Anyone who had ever been in an actual battle, Martinez thought, would have observed that real combat didn’t follow anybody’s script, and seen what a useless waste of time Tork’s maneuvers were.
But Tork hadn’t ever been in an actual battle, or in one of Martinez’s experiments. The maneuvers continued, one after another, all dreadfully familiar. Martinez could only hope that Tork had an intellectual equal on the Naxid side.
He had to admit, however, that the maneuvers were atleast giving the new ships practice at basic maneuvers. Their quality, marked by hastily trained crews under newly minted officers, was in general wretched. Even he, as a brand-new skipper aboard the newly crewedCorona, hadn’t been as hapless as these officers.
Light Squadron 14 under Squadron Commander Altasz, which had been on a raid similar to that of Chenforce, arrived three days after Chenforce was broken up. Martinez had once commanded the squadron, and he looked at his old command on the tactical display with a mixture of nostalgia and resignation. None of the old crews were aboard, none of those with whom he’d shared danger from Magaria to Hone-bar. The ships were old friends, but the crew in them were strangers.
Michi wanted to know how Squadron 14 had avoided danger from relativistic Naxid missiles, and queried Altasz in private. Altasz replied that he’d simply blown up every single relay station he’d come across.
“Tork will get another chance to use the word’pirate,‘ ” Michi predicted, and later found out that her forecast came true.
Routine in Tork’s command wasn’t all drill and discipline. There was a great deal of visiting back and forth among the officers, and a round of dinners, parties, and receptions. As new-minted ships joined, old acquaintances arrived or sent their greetings. Lady Elissa Dalkeith, Martinez’s first officer onCorona, invited him to a handsome dinner on her new frigateCourage. Small, blond Vonderheydte, who Martinez had promoted to Lieutenant onCorona ‘s flight from Magaria, invited him to a dinner in the wardroom of his cruiser, whereCorona ’s escape was recounted in detail to a fascinated group of officers. Ari Abacha arrived aboardIllustrious to drink a bottle of Chen wine and complain languidly about the amount of work he had to do as second officer of theGallant. Dour Master Engineer Maheshwari, his flamboyant mustachios still dyed a highly industrial shade of red, sent respectful greetings and congratulations from Engine Control of his new frigate. Squadron Commander Do-faq, who had won the Battle of Hone-bar by following Martinez’s advice, made him guest of honor at a large reception, and there he met Cadet Kelly, with whom Martinez had shared a carnal romp after they had narrowly escaped annihilation at the hands of the Naxids, and who stood out of the crowd, with her broad grin blazing.
A letter or video from Terza arrived almost every day. Martinez watched the growing pregnancy with a mixture of awe, desire, and frustration.
One video showed his portrait, which his proud father had printed and set in the foyer of the palace.
There was no word or sign of Caroline Sula. Martinez wondered where she was.
The rounds of social contact made it easier for him to promote his tactical system in casual settings. There were hundreds of officers in the Orthodox Fleet who had never seen battle, some of them of senior rank, and most were eager to hear from those who had. Martinez refought Hone-bar and Protipanu dozens of times at dinners and receptions, and always made a point of mentioning the tactical lessons learned. He was describing the mathematics of the new system to a newly arrived captain from Harzapid, a self-important man with ginger whiskers, and found that the man understood him.
“Oh yes,” he said. “The convex hull of a dynamical system. That’s the Foote Formula.”
Martinez raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“The Foote Formula—the system developed by one of the bright young lads assigned to the Fourth Fleet at Harzapid, Lord Jeremy Foote. He was promoting the system among his friends when he was still on his way to the Fourth Fleet from Zanshaa, and once he arrived, he acquainted everyone he could. He’s made quite a number of converts among the younger officers. A pity Lord Tork isn’t keen on it.”
Martinez couldn’t believe his ears. He remembered Foote well, a big, blond cadet with all the drawling arrogance of the elite Peerage, a man who, despite his inferior military rank, did his best to make him feel his social inferiority at every meeting.
“Do you really think Lord Jeremy understands the math?” he said.
The captain seemed surprised. “He devised it, didn’t he?”
“Well, no actually.” Resentment simmered beneath Martinez’s words. “When I was working out the system, I consulted with other officers, among them Lady Sula—the hero of Magaria, if you remember.”
The captain was trying to follow this. “You consulted with Lord Jeremy then?”
“No.” Martinez felt an angry smile draw itself across his face. “Lord Jeremy was the censor aboard Lady Sula’s ship. He had a complete record of the correspondence, and apparently he’s been passing it off as the Foote Formula among his friends at the Fourth Fleet.”
The captain processed this, then turned stern. “Surely not,” he said stoutly. “I knew Lord Jeremy’s father—a worthy heir to the most impeccable ancestors. I can’t imagine anyone in the family doing such a thing.”
Martinez felt his savage grin return. “I’ll be sure to ask him when I see him.”
He was able to do so ten days later, at a reception for the officers of the newly arrivedSplendid. The cruiser was aptly named, being one of the flying palaces of the old Fourth Fleet, heavily damaged on the day of the mutiny but now repaired and returned to duty, and with Foote among its junior officers.
Martinez waited until late in the reception, when Sub-Lieutenant Foote was relaxed and talking to a group of his cronies, and then approached. Since the reception was formal and Martinez was carrying the Golden Orb, Foote and his friend were compelled to brace in salute.
“Foote!” Martinez cried with pleasure. “How long has it been?” He transferred the Orb to his left hand and held out his right. Foote, taken aback, took his hand.
“Very pleased to see you, Captain,” he said. He tried to withdraw his hand, and Martinez clamped hard and stepped close.
Yes, it was the same Foote. Large and handsome, with a blond cowlick on the right side of his head and an expression of arrogant disdain that had probably settled onto his face in the cradle.
“Everyone has been telling me about the Foote Formula!” Martinez said. “You absolutelymust explain it to me!”
Foote’s heavy face flushed. Again he tried to withdraw his hand, and again Martinez held him close.
“Inever called it that,” he said.