Free The Sundering by Walter Jon Williams

grip on his arms and legs. He felt his chest expand, the sensation of relief and relaxation in his diaphragm, as he snapped up the faceplate and tasted the control room’s cool, sterile air.
    There would be a twenty-six minute bathroom, recreation, and snack break at one gravity, then renewed acceleration at high gee. And a higher gee than anyone else knew.
    “Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “General message to the squadron. Inform them that we have received orders to accelerate ahead of the heavy squadron and return to Zanshaa. Tell them we shall accelerate to three point two gravities once the current break has ended, at 19:26.”
    The brief hesitation in reply told of Vonderheydte’s dismay. “Very good, my lord.”
    Heavier gees should take the zest out of Vonderheydte’s fantasy life, Martinez reflected, and he unlocked the cage’s displays and pushed them above his head and out of the way. Then he tipped the cage forward till his boots touched the floor, and he released the webbing and stood.
    Blood swirled uneasily in his head, and he kept a hand clamped on the cage tubing until the vertigo eased.
    He’d have some water, perhaps, or juice. And more meds to help endure the upcoming acceleration.
    From this point on, he thought, the joy of command was going to be considerably reduced.
    It was reduced by a larger margin four hours later, during the supper break, when a call came from Captain Kamarullah, personal to Martinez. Martinez answered it in his office, where he was nibbling a sandwich while catching up on Corona ’s administrative work. Around the desk, towering in special racks to brace them against hard accelerations, were the two Home Fleet Trophies won by Captain Tarafah’s football teams, plus a second-place trophy and various prizes won by Tarafah in other commands.
    Martinez wasn’t after trophies himself. If he could just get through tomorrow’s maneuvers without a visit from Mr. Calamity, he’d be satisfied.
    “This is Martinez,” he said, turning on the comm display. Kamarullah’s square face appeared, his eyes directed somewhere behind Martinez’s right ear.
    “Captain Martinez, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal break.”
    “That’s all right, lord captain. What can I do for you?”
    Martinez kept his eyes directed toward his desktop, where he was looking at a report in regard to the replacement of an erratic turbopump used in the engine cooling system. The relevant cooling line would be offline for an estimated ten hours while the work was done by robots operated remotely by crew from their acceleration couches; or six hours if the repair were done by hand. Martinez put his stylus to the desktop, and authorized the robotic repair.
    Corona wouldn’t have six hours under light enough gees to make a hand repair safe.
    “My lord captain,” Kamarullah said, “I wonder if I might beg from you a clarification.”
    Martinez gazed at the next report, which had to do with the condemnation of supplies damaged by high accelerations, and said, “How may I be of service, my lord?”
    “I wonder who it was who issued the order separating this squadron from that of Lord Commander Do-faq?”
    Martinez cast his mind back to the orders he’d received that afternoon from Do-faq. “The orders originated with the Fleet Control Board,” he said.
    “And not with the lord commander?”
    “No, my lord.”
    There was a moment’s silence. “In that case, lord elcap,” Kamarullah said, “I must inform you that, as the senior officer present, I am now in command of this squadron.”
    Surprise sang through Martinez’s veins, but his reply was automatic, and quick.
    “Not so, my lord.”
    “But we’re now under Control Board orders,” Kamarullah said, “and no longer under the command of Lord Commander Do-faq. His order placing you in command is no longer in effect. Therefore the senior officer now commands the squadron, and that senior officer is me.”
    Martinez tried