Bleskoth had been a part of the rebellion even then, Martinez thought. Fanaghee had recruited him: the young Naxid had gone to Felarusknowing he was going to blow the other ships of the Third Fleet to bits with his antiproton beams.
Martinez considered the enemy captain as he sipped his coffee. Bleskoth was young, decisive, and committed. He led a team at lighumane, a sport that combined long-term strategy with sudden, aggressive violence. He hadn’t hesitated at Felarus. He was a yachtsman, used to hard accelerations and last-minute, decisive actions.
Martinez returned his coffee cup to its saucer. He had his answer.
“They’re trying to convince us that they’re decoys,” Martinez said later, as he reported to Lady Michi at the Flag Officer Station. “They’re going to do a prolonged acceleration and deliberately take some casualties in order to convince us that they’re a badly managed set of decoys and that we don’t have to worry about them.”
Lady Michi drummed her gloved fingers on the armrest of her couch. “That implies they want us to believe some particular set of decoys is in fact the real squadron. Which one?”
Martinez frowned. “I haven’t worked that out yet.”
“Have they worked out that Severin’s given their whole game away?”
Martinez, standing by Michi’s cage and looking down at her, felt a touch of vanity at his answer. “I checked the timing. Everyone on their ships must have been unconscious when the light from Severin’s torch reached them. When they wake up they’d have to go back through the records and look for it.”
“Unless,” Michi pointed out, “they have an automatic alarm set to alert them to any new ships in the system.”
“Theyshould have set such an alarm, yes,” Martinez conceded. “But they weren’t expecting us, so in their surprise and haste they may not have.” Michi looked dubious, but Martinez had prepared his report thoroughly, and he restrained the impulse to tick off the points on his gloved fingers. “And even if theydo see Severin creeping off, they may not necessarily think he’s been in the system for five months—he may look like a pinnace pilot we sneaked into the system a few hours ahead of our arrival, and who may not have observed a great deal. And if theyhave set an alarm, it would make sense for the alarm to alert the flagship to cease acceleration to give the commander time to work out if the new arrival is a threat, and if that happens we’ll be able to see it in, oh, twenty minutes or so.” He had to stop and take a breath. “If theyare alerted butdon’t stop to evaluate their situation till the end of this long acceleration, then it will be too late, because they’ll be already committed to their strategy.”
Amusement tweaked the corners of Michi’s lips. “You’ve certainly got your facts in order.”
Martinez shambled into as decent an approximation of a salute as his vac suit permitted. “I do my humble best, my lady.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Humble? Really? You may take your seat, captain.”
Martinez saw the two signals lieutenants try to suppress their smiles, and suppressed his own as he shuffled to his acceleration couch. A superior who appreciated his moments of conceit was a welcome change from commanders of the past.
The couch rocked beneath his weight as Martinez lowered himself into it, the hoops of the acceleration cage vibrating with little metallic shivers. He reached into one of the seat compartments and pulled out a med injector, then held it against his carotid and touched the trigger. A carefully calculated cocktail of pharmaceuticals entered his system, one that would regulate his blood pressure during acceleration and strengthen his blood vessels, keeping their walls supple and whole against the danger of acceleration. Then Martinez put on his helmet, reached above his head, and pulled his displays to the locked position in front of him.
“Reminder from Captain Fletcher, my lady,” said Li, from the comm board. “Twenty-six point five minutes till our acceleration around Pelomatan.”
“Acknowledge,” said Michi. She turned to Martinez, then waited for him to finish webbing himself into his place before speaking.
“Captain, you mentioned the advantages of having the Naxids think that we’re fooled by their decoys.”
“Yes.” Martinez paused a moment to collect his thoughts. The decoys were self-guided missiles small enough to be fired from a warship’s missile tubes. The warships, with their resinous hulls, were not good radar reflectors, and it was possible to configure a small decoy missile to give off as large a radar signature as a warship. The decoys’ exhausts had also been modified to give off the broader tail of a larger vessel. In general a decoy was less convincing the closer it got to an observer, and the longer an observer had a chance to study it.
“We have some decoys heading right for us,” Michi said.
Martinez’s fingers brought up his tactical displays. “We should destroy them, of course. The question is how. If we knew they were decoys we’d let them get quite close. But if we suspect they might be real, we’d open fire early and use a lot of missiles.”
“I don’t want to waste missiles,” Michi said. “Not when we’ve got a real battle coming on, followed by a long campaign.” Her fingers again drummed on the arm of her couch. “I’ll order the squadron to open fire with lasers on that oncoming group as soon as it’s even remotely possible. If we get lucky and hit one, that will prove to everyone’s satisfaction—including the Naxids‘—that we know the squadron are decoys and can treat them as such.”
Martinez nodded. This was as reasonable a plan as any he’d been able to devise himself. “Very good, my lady,” he said.
He watched the tactical displays for the next several minutes. The Naxids’ frenzied acceleration continued without cease, even after the light from Severin’s engine flare reached them. They had not set an alarm, at least not one that could be triggered by a small vessel such as the lifeboat.
Martinez became aware of the sound of deep breathing in his earphones. He checked the comm board first, to make certain no one had broken into the channel he shared with the squadcom, and then looked up to see Michi Chen lying on her couch with her eyes closed, asleep with a pleasant smile on her lips.
Sweet dreams, he thought. He felt a stab of envy for a commander who could relax so completely on the eve of battle.
This was clearly not an ability he had acquired himself. If he snatched a few hours of sleep within the couple of days, he’d be very pleased. And he wasn’t even in charge of the squadron.
Alarms clattered as the ship prepared for weightlessness, and Martinez saw Michi start awake. She looked at her displays, saw nothing had changed, and closed her eyes. Martinez heard the deep breathing start again as the ship went weightless and rotated about its sleeping center of gravity as it prepared for the burn around Pelomatan.
Another alarm rang, this one for heavy gravity. The engines roared into life, and gravity swung Martinez’s couch to a new attitude. As he was pressed deep into his seat he heard Michi’s breathing grow labored as the gravities began to stand on her ribs with their leaden boots.
Martinez felt his own breath burn as it fought its way through his constricting throat. His vac suit clamped gently on his arms and legs. The ship cracked and groaned as the gravities built. In succession, as the engine vibration reached the frequency of different elements of the ship, Martinez heard the metallic keen of one of his cage bars as it vibrated in sympathy with the ship, the song of a metal washer on his console, and the hum of one of the room’s recessed light brackets.
Darkness began to flood his vision, and he clenched his jaw muscles to force blood to his brain. The darkness continued to advance: the last thing Martinez saw was a scarlet stripe on his tactical display, and then the stripe twisted, spun into a narrowing spiral, then faded like a dying spark into the night. In his headphones he heard a snarl as Michi Chen fought for consciousness.