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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’ll 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