Walter Williams - Conventions of War

As usual.

His own wedging was working. He isolated one enemy ship and hammered it till it vanished in a flash of plasma fire. He began moving to drive another wedge between a pair of enemy and the rest of the Naxid squadron.

At that point the squadron of converted transports fired again. The two Naxids that had been engulfed in the plasma storm from the destroyed ship failed to fire, but the remaining barrage was formidable enough, and it occupied much of his attention for the next several minutes.

When he next had the opportunity to view the battle, he saw that Sula and her entire squadron had vanished into a colossal fireball.

She had miscalculated. She had killed two of the enemy and then shifted the squadron’s center of mass toward a part of the oncoming plasma wall that she expected to cool and thin by the time she arrived, giving them all better sight lines of the enemy. But a salvo of Naxid missiles came racing out of a hotter part of the plasma wall and was hit by counterfire right in her path. She was flying toward a blazing hot, opaque, expanding sphere, and before long, Sula knew that she and the rest of the squadron would be blind.

Sensors from her own squadron showed nothing but a flaming hot wall in her path, butConfidence was still receiving sensor feeds from the other squadrons and the pinnaces. The feeds showed no threat, but any perspective on the engagement had its blind spots, and in any case the situation could change quickly.

Sula felt a growing obsession about the blind spots. She fired a volley of missiles into the hot spot anyway, in hope they would fly through the hash and find and locate any enemy missiles that might be about to plunge into the cloud from the other side.

Right. Fat chance.

For a moment she considered a starburst-areal starburst, each ship clawing for maximum distance from the others. That would reduce the chance of them all being hammered while cloaked in the plasma sphere, but on emerging they would have surrendered any advantages that Ghost Tactics gave them.

No, she thought. Just try to get to the other sidefast.

She ordered all ships to blast through the plasma sphere at acceleration of ten gravities. The acceleration began as soon as they entered the plasma.Confidence groaned as the weight came on. An invisible hand began to close on her throat. She watched the radiation readings rise, and the hull temperature with them.

Darkness encroached on her vision. She felt the pillow press over her face. Perhaps she cried out.

An instant later the darkness seemed to fade. She was floating in her harness. A persistent, irritating tone sounded in her headphones. She tasted iron on her tongue.

“I have command of the ship,” said a voice. Belatedly she recognized it as that of First Lieutenant Haz.

Someone touched her arm, her throat. She flailed at him.

“Are you all right, my lady?” There was an edge of panic in Ikuhara’s voice.

Sula pushed him away. She heard the twanging sound as he rebounded off the bars of her acceleration cage.

“Display!” she called. “Cancel virtual!”

The limitless space of the virtual display was replaced by the soft lights and close confines of Command. Ikuhara, clumsy in his vac suit, floated over her couch. His face was a mirror of concern mingled with a touch of fear.

Something dark floated in the air between them, something round and shiny like little marbles.

“What the hell’s going on?” Sula demanded.

“Acceleration canceled,” Ikuhara said. “Health risk to an officer.”

At quarters the state of the crew was constantly monitored by detectors in their sensor caps. Any threat to the health of the crew-any cerebral hemorrhage, blood pressure spike, or heart malfunction-was monitored, and action taken in accordance with a preset program. If enlisted crew stroked out during a battle or even an exercise, it was usually the pulpy’s hard luck; but a threat to an officer could shut down the engines.

“Who was it?” Sula said. She’d have him off her ship the second they could shuttle the invalid away to a nice safe desk job, preferably on the most distant planet available.

Ikuhara’s expression suggested that he was suffering some gastroenteric malady. “You, my lady,” he said. “Your blood pressure was extremely high and-”

“Right,” Sula said. “Get back on your couch, I’m fine now.”

“You have a nosebleed, my lady.”

She put a hand to her nose and felt the wet. A blob of blood detached itself from her nose and joined the others in the air, a formation of perfect spheres. She could taste the blood running-floating-down the back of her throat.

“I’ll deal with it,” she said. She looked at the displays before her. “Haz!” she cried.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Light the engines! What is thisinsanity about cutting the engines completely during a battle, for all’s sake?”

She groped for a tissue in the necessity bag webbed to the couch.

“It was programmed, my lady.”

“Engine startup in fifteen, my lady,” said Engineer First Class Markios.

“Accelerate at three gravities.” Sula jammed a tissue to her nose.

“I am in command, my lady,” Haz said in her ear. “Your blood pressure is still-”

“It isn’t, and you’re not,” Sula said. “Three gravities, Engines.”

“Yes, my lady,” Markios said smoothly.

She enlarged her biomonitor display and saw that her blood pressure was returning rapidly to something like normal. Her heart rattled in her chest with fear, but at least it wasn’t in the process of giving her a stroke.

This had happened to her once before, at First Magaria. There might, she thought with a burning resentment, be something wrong with her heart or its wiring that would make it impossible for her to stand high gees.

Make it impossible to do her job.

The engines caught and snarled. The droplets of blood in the air fell like hail, and spattered the breast of her vac suit.

Gravities swung Sula’s couch through a series of decreasing arcs. Her blood pressure elevated slightly with the gravities, but within acceptable limits.

Other lights flashed on her display. She enlarged them and saw a big radiation spike, then another.

Somewhere in the radio darkness of the plasma bubble, missiles were finding targets.

Martinez held his breath. Only six of the nine ships belonging to Light Squadron 17 had flown out of the great furnace of plasma and sundered matter that had concealed them for several nerve-wringing minutes. A glance at the shifting sphere dictated by the Martinez Method showed gaps in the formation. Sula seemed to have lost a third of her command.

He wondered if Sula had been lost along with them.

And then a seventh ship flew out of the great dissipating bubble. The others regrouped, adjusting their formation to their new number, arranging around the late arrival like a flock of angry geese around an injured comrade.

Martinez sent out orders. He had isolated a pair of enemy and had them ready for the kill, but now he ordered Squadron 31 to shift in the other direction, toward Sula’s squadron and the enemy they were engaging. He wasn’t going to let the Naxids take advantage of the disorder in her squadron.

The Naxids seemed startled by this unexpected movement, and scattered before his advance. The two ships he’d cut off were too isolated to take advantage of their sudden reprieve.

Squadron 17, once it had resumed its formation, made a similar movement, toward him. It had likewise cut off a pair of enemy, and likewise ignored them.

Martinez and Sula now found themselves with scattered enemy between their two fires. The two loyalist squadrons moved, dodged, fired. It was as if, without communicating with one another, they were moving in accordance with some higher version of Sula’s formula, one that encompassed the whole battle.