The Praxis (22 page)

Now both robots were useless, since the dead robot was blocking the one that still functioned.

Martinez watched the silent little video picture with the same fascination with which he would watch any other disaster he was helpless to prevent. The footballers Tarafah had stuffed in the weapons division might have just finished off their patron's career.

Martinez glanced up from his screens to tell Tarafah what was happening, then hesitated. The captain couldn't affect whatever was going in the weapons bays, not now, not from Command. Perhaps he would be happier not knowing.

And besides, Martinez wasn't supposed to be spying on other divisions.

Then he looked back at the video at the sight of motion in the weapons bay. Little suited figures were shooting weightless into the bay. The figure in the lead seized a stanchion with one hand and, gesturing, directed the others to the work. From the leader's erect posture, and something of his air of command, Martinez recognized his own orderly, Alikhan. The retired master weaponer was trying to set things right.

How long till the next acceleration?
The terrifying question shot through Martinez's mind. And suddenly his fingers were tapping his screens in an attempt to call up the script for the maneuver.

Unsuccessful, Tarafah had the whole thing under his captain's key. Martinez glanced in claw-handed frustration at his displays.

Two of the suited figures had wrestled a missile out of its tube and were now guiding it through a tangle of robotic limbs between it and the disposal bay. At least the missile hadn't received its antimatter, and was therefore relatively light.

How long?
Martinez clenched his teeth. He thought about shouting out, “Crew in the weapons bay!” which would presumably halt any future accelerations.

No. No acceleration would occur without Tarafah's command, and if Tarafah gave the order, he could announce the danger in time.

Or so he hoped.

Another missile was being wrenched out of its tube, by a single straddle-legged figure braced against the weapons bank. At least the footballers could be counted on for brawn.

A message flashed across screens. “Message from Flag,” he found himself repeating.
“Second Division, alter course in echelon to two-two-seven by three-one-zero relative. Accelerate at four-point-five gravities. Execute at 28:01:001 ship time.”

He glanced at the time display. That was six minutes from now.

He was never more thankful for the regulation that made certain his helmet was sealed. He touched his controls and said into his helmet mic, “Page Crewman Alikhan.”

“My lord?” The answer came within seconds.

“You've got five minutes before the next acceleration.”

There was a moment of silence as Alikhan calculated the odds. “Three missiles remaining. We're not going to make it.”

“No. Get the people to the acceleration couches, and I'll tell the captain what's happening.” Martinez looked at the hopeless situation, the awkward crew in their vac suits guiding a missile past the tangled arms of the robots, then said, “Halt that. Wait a minute.”

He paused to think his idea through. “No, what you do is this: get someone on the robot controls; have the others yank the missiles from the tubes and then just hand them to the robot manipulator arms. The robot can hang onto them till the maneuver is over. There's no antimatter and no danger, and after the maneuver's completed, you can finish the job manually.”

“Very good, my lord.” Alikhan cut his comm very fast, and from then on Martinez had to watch in silence. Alikhan himself bounded out of the frame, presumably to Weapons Control and the robot controls. The other crew popped the hatches, pulled the missiles, and boosted them gently in the direction of the functioning robot. In another few seconds the robot's manipulator arms snatched the missiles from midair and then froze.

The suited figures bounded from the weapons bay in the direction of their armored shelter. Martinez looked at the time display:
26:51:101
.

Two minutes to spare.

 

“O
h, it was a shambles in the weapons bays, my lord,” Alikhan said as he buffed Martinez's number two pair of shoes. “No one was in charge. The master weaponer was so drunk he couldn't manage a single order that made sense or had anything to do with the situation. One of our two weaponer/firsts was a footballer, and so was one of the weaponer/seconds. And the two cadets who usually help out—nice young people, really, they're learning fast—were stuffed into pinnaces and fired out of the ship.”

“I'm glad I thought to put you on the scene,” Martinez said. “But still, I could have got you killed.”

Alikhan put the shoe down and tapped the inactive communications display on his left sleeve. “I had Maheshwari on the comm. He would have aborted any accelerations if we'd still had anyone in the weapons bay.”

Martinez nodded slowly. The senior petty officers had their own networks, their own intelligence, their own way of surviving the officers who the Fleet had placed over them.

If you can find a master specialist who isn't a drunk, isn't crazy, and who retains most of his brain cells,
Martinez's father had told him,
then grab him.

Martinez blessed his father for the advice, and helped himself to whisky from his private stash, the dark-paneled cabinet under his narrow bed. On taking command, Captain Tarafah had repaneled the officers' quarters—and his own—with rich, dark mahogany, complemented by brass fixtures and dark tile with a white and red geometric pattern. Officers' country was now scented faintly with lemon oil, at least when it didn't whiff of brass polish.

Martinez needed the whisky, having just finished a double shift, standing watch in Command while
Corona
picked up its pinnaces and spent missiles, and Tarafah and the senior lieutenant shuttled to the flagship for a debriefing with the other captains and the fleetcom. The neat whisky scorched Martinez's throat, and he could feel his bruised muscles begin to relax.

“I'm glad we're not in a real war,” he said. “You would all have been shot through with gamma rays.”

“In a real war,” Alikhan said, “we would have stayed safe in our bunker and used a different bank of missiles.”

Martinez fingered his chin. “Do you think the captain will find out what happened?”

“No. The jammed robots were repaired as soon as we secured from quarters. The damaged missile will be written off the inventory somehow—there are all sorts of ways to make a missile disappear.”

“I take no comfort in this knowledge,” Martinez said. He took another sip of whisky. “Do you think the captain
should
find out?”

By which Martinez meant,
Do you think the captain should find out that
we
saved him during the maneuvers?

Alikhan looked sober. “I'd hate to end the career of a thirty-year man just short of retirement. And it's the master weaponer who'd be blamed, not the footballers.”

“True,” Martinez said. He hated the idea of doing something clever and no one ever finding out. But getting the master weaponer cashiered would not endear him to Alikhan, and he found Alikhan too valuable to offend.

“Well,” he shrugged, “let it go. Let's hope
Corona
doesn't get into a war before the master weaponer retires.”

“Hardly likely, my lord.” Alikhan brushed his mustachios with the back of a knuckle. “
Corona
has survived worse commanders than Tarafah. We'll get her through it, never fear.”

“But will
I
get through it?” Martinez asked. He sighed, then reached into the mahogany-paneled hutch beneath his bed and withdrew another bottle of whisky. “This might help your cogitations,” he said. “Don't share it with anyone in the Weapons Division.”

Alikhan accepted the bottle with gravity. “Thank you, my lord.”

Martinez finished his drink and decided not to pour himself another, at least not yet. The example of the master weaponer was a little too strong. “Too bad it's the only reward you're going to get for saving the captain from disgrace.”

“It's more than I usually get,” Alikhan remarked—and, with an ambiguous smile, braced in salute and left.

Two days later, after the last of the meetings in which the commanding officers refought the maneuver, Fleet Commander Fanaghee announced a Festival of Sport that would take place at Fleet facilities. Teams from every ship in Fanaghee's command would participate, and
Corona's
football team would face Magaria's own champions from the
Bombardment of Beijing
in a special match. Tarafah announced an intensified program of training for his team, beginning immediately, before the ship even docked.

When Martinez crawled off his watch that night, he didn't stop at one drink. Or at two.

T
he bank was built of granite, a miniature Great Refuge complete with dome, probably to suggest permanence, but now, in the absence of the Great Masters, perhaps suggesting something else. Wesley Weckman, the trust manager, was a young man with a prematurely grave manner, though the style of his glossy boots and his fashionable bracelet of human hair suggested that his life outside the bank was not as sedate as his working hours.

“Interest has stayed at three percent in the years since you entered the academy,” he said. “And since you've returned most of your allowance to the bank since that time, I'm pleased to report that the total sum now exceeds 29,000 zeniths, all of which I can put in your hands when your trust fund matures on your twenty-third birthday.”

Which was in eleven days. Which made her, in Terran years—she had once known someone who calculated “Earthdays”—just past twenty.

Sula briefly calculated what 29,000 zeniths might buy her. A modest apartment in the High City, or an entire apartment building in a decent section of the Lower Town. A modest villa, with extensive grounds, in the country.

At least a dozen complete outfits from the most fashionable designers of Zanshaa.

Or one perfectly authentic rose Pompadour vase from Vincennes dating from four centuries before the conquest of Terra, conveniently up for auction at the end of the month.

Given prices like that, Sula figured the antimatter bombs had broken a lot of porcelain.

It was a ridiculous fantasy to spend her entire inheritance on a vase, but she felt she'd been working hard for a long time now and deserved a moment of complete irrationality.

“What do I have to do to get the principal?” she asked.

“A small amount of paperwork. I can do it now, if you like, and it will take effect on your birthday.”

Sula grinned. “Why not?”

Weckman printed out the papers in question, and handed them to Sula along with a fat gold-nibbed pen. Then he activated the thumbprint reader and pushed it across his desk.

“You've got my thumbprint?” Sula asked in surprise. “From all those years ago?”

Weckman looked at his screens to make certain. “Yes. Of course.”

“I don't remember giving it.” She crossed her legs, laid the papers on her thigh, and read them carefully. Then she put the papers on the desk, raised the pen above the signature line, and hesitated. “You see,” she said, “I don't know what I'm going to do with the money.”

“The bank employs several investment counselors,” Weckman said. “I can introduce you to Miss Mandolin—I see that she's at her desk.”

Sula capped the pen. “The problem is, I'm in transit. I don't even know what my next assignment is going to be.” She put the pen on the desk before Weckman. “Maybe I'll just leave it in the trust fund, at least till I make Lieutenant.”

“In that case, you need do nothing at all.”

“Is it all right if I keep the papers?”

“Of course.”

She rose, and Weckman bowed as he showed her out of his office.

What would she do with a vase anyway? she thought. She didn't even own any flowers to put in it.

She decided to visit the auction house again, and say good-bye.

She should have known better than to permit herself certain dreams.

 

“P
ut him in the river,” Gredel said. “Just make sure he doesn't come up.”

Lamey looked at her, a strange silent sympathy in his eyes, and he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “I'll make it all right for you,” he said.

No you won't
, she thought,
but you'll make it better
.

The next morning, Nelda threw her out. She looked at Gredel from beneath the slab of gray healing plaster she'd pasted over the cut in her forehead, and she said, “I just can't have you here anymore. I just can't.”

For a moment of blank terror Gredel wondered if Antony's body had come bobbing up under Old Iola Bridge, but then realized that wasn't it. The previous evening had put Nelda in a position of having to decide who she loved more, Antony or Gredel. She'd opted for Antony, unaware that he was no longer an option.

Gredel went to her mother's, and Ava's objections died the moment she saw the bruise on her cheek. Gredel told her what happened—not being stupid, she left out what she'd asked Lamey to do—and Ava hugged her and said she was proud of her.

Ava worked with cosmetics for a long time to hide the damage, then she took Gredel to Maranic Town, to Bonifacio's for ice cream.

 

A
va, Lamey, and Panda helped carry Gredel's belongings to Ava's place, arms and boxes full of the clothing Lamey and Caro had bought her—the blouses and pants and frocks and coats and capes and hats and shoes and jewelry—all the stuff that had long ago overflowed the closets in her room at Nelda's and for the most part was lying in neat piles on the old, worn carpet.

Panda was highly impressed by the tidiness of it. “You've got a
system
here,” he said.

Ave was in a better situation than usual. Her man was married and visited only at regularly scheduled intervals, and he didn't mind if she spent her free time with family or friends. But Ava didn't have many friends—her previous men hadn't let her have any—so she was delighted to spend time with her daughter.

Lamey was disappointed that Gredel didn't want to move into one of his apartments. “I need my ma right now,” Gredel said, and that seemed to satisfy him.

I don't want to live with someone who's going to be killed soon
. She kept that thought to herself. And she wondered if she was obliged to live with the boy who had killed for her.

Caro was disappointed as well. “You could have moved in with
me!
” she said.

Shimmering delight sang in Gredel's mind. “You wouldn't mind?”

“No!” Caro was enthusiastic. “We could be sisters! We could shop and go out—have fun.”

For days Gredel basked in the warm attentions of Caro and her mother. She spent almost all her time with one or the other, to the point that Lamey began to get jealous, or at least to
pretend
that he was jealous—Lamey was sometimes hard to read that way. “Caro's kidnapped you,” he half joked over the phone. “I'm going to have to send the boys to fetch you back.”

The nights Ava was with her man, Gredel spent with Caro. There was a lot of room in the big bed. She found that Caro didn't so much go to sleep as put herself into a coma: she loaded endorphins into the med injector and gave herself one dose after another until unconsciousness claimed her.

Gredel was horrified. “Why do you do it?” she asked one night as Caro reached for the injector.

Caro gave her a glare. “Because I
like
it,” she snarled. “I can't sleep without it.”

Gredel shrank away from Caro's look. She didn't want Caro to tear into her the way she ripped into other people.

One night Lamey took them both to a party. “I've got to take Caro out too,” he told Gredel. “Otherwise I'd never see
you
.”

The reason for the party was that Lamey had put up a loan for a restaurant and club, and the people hadn't made a go of it, so he'd foreclosed and taken the place over. Inheriting a stockroom of liquor and a walk-in refrigerator full of food, he decided it shouldn't go to waste, and so invited nearly everyone he knew. He paid the staff for one more night and let all his guests know the food and drinks were free.

“We'll have fun tonight,” he said, “and tomorrow I'll start looking for somebody to manage the place.”

It was the last great party Gredel had with Lamey and his crew. The big room was filled with food and music and people having a good time. Laughter rang from the club's rusted, reinforced iron ceiling, which was not an attempt at decor but a reminder that the floor above had once been braced to support heavy machinery. Though Gredel didn't have anything to drink, she still got high simply from being around so many people who were soaking up the good times along with the free liquor. Her mind whirled as she danced, whirled like her body spinning along the dance floor in response to Lamey's smooth, perfect, elegant motion. He leaned close and spoke into her ear.

“Come and live with me, Earthgirl.”

She shook her head, smiled. “Not yet.”

“I want to marry you. Have babies with you.”

A shiver of pleasure sang up Gredel's spine. She had no reply, only put her arms around Lamey's neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

She didn't know why she deserved to be so loved. Lamey, Caro, her mother, each of them filling a dreadful hollowness inside her, a hollowness she hadn't realized was there until it was filled with warmth and tenderness.

Lamey danced with Caro as well, or rather, guided her around the dance floor while she did the jumping up and down thing she did instead of dancing. Caro was having a good time. She drank only a couple bottles of wine over the course of the night, which for her was modest, and the rest of the time danced with Lamey or members of his crew. As they left the club she kissed Lamey extravagantly to thank him for inviting her.

Lamey put an arm around both Caro and Gredel. “I just like to show my beautiful sisters a good time,” he said.

He and Gredel took Caro to the Volta Apartments, after which they intended to drive back to the Fabs to spend the dawn in one of Lamey's apartments. But Caro lingered in the car, leaning forward out of the backseat to prop her head and shoulders between Lamey and Gredel. They all talked and laughed as the doorman hovered in the Volta vestibule, waiting for the moment to let Lady Sula past the doors. Finally Lamey said it was time to go.

“Save yourself that drive back to the Fabs,” Caro said. “You two can use my bed. I can sleep on the sofa.”

Lamey gave her a look. “I hate to put a beautiful woman out of her bed.”

Caro gave a sharp, sudden laugh, then turned to kiss Gredel on the cheek. “That depends on Gredel.”

Ah. Ha,
Gredel thought, surprised and not surprised. Lamey, it seemed, was looking for a return on his investment. Gredel considered it a moment, then shrugged. “I don't mind,” she said.

So Lamey took Gredel and Caro up to the apartment and made love to them both. Gredel watched her boyfriend's pale butt jigging up and down over Caro and wondered why it didn't bother her.

Because I don't love him,
she decided.
If I loved him, this would matter.

And then she thought,
Maybe Caro loves him.
Maybe Caro would want to stay with Lamey in the Fabs, and she could take Caro's place in the academy and go to Earth.

Maybe that would be the solution that would leave everyone happy.

 

C
aro apologized the next day, after Lamey left. “I was awful last night,” she said. “I don't know what you must think of me.”

“It was all right,” Gredel said. She was folding Caro's clothes and putting them away.
Cleaning up after the orgy,
she thought.

“I'm such a slut sometimes,” Caro said. “You must think I'm trying to steal Lamey away from you.”

“I'm not thinking that.”

Caro trotted up behind Gredel and put her arms around her. She leaned her head against Gredel's shoulder and put on the lisping voice of a penitent little girl. “Do you forgive me?”

“Yes,” Gredel said. “Of course.”

Suddenly Caro was all energy. She skipped around the room, bounding across the carpet as Gredel folded her clothes. “I'll make it up to you!” Caro proclaimed. “I'll take you anywhere you want today! What would you like? Shopping?”

Gredel considered the offer. It wasn't as if she needed new things—she was beginning to feel a little oppressed by all her possessions—but on the other hand, she enjoyed Caro's pleasure in purchasing them. Then another idea struck her.

“Godfrey's,” she said.

Caro's eyes glittered. “Oh yes.”

It was a glorious day—summer was coming on, and warm breezes flowed through the louvered windows on the private rooms at Godfrey's, breezes that wafted floral perfume over Gredel's skin. She and Caro started with a steam bath, then a facial, a lotion wrap, and a massage that stretched all the way from the scalp to the toes. Afterward they lay on couches, talking and giggling, caressed by the breezes and drinking fruit juice as smiling young women gave them manicures and pedicures.

Every square inch of Gredel's skin seemed flushed with summer, with life. Back at the Volta, Caro dressed Gredel in one of her own outfits, the expensive fabrics gliding over nerve-tingling, butter-smooth flesh. When Lamey came to pick them up, Caro put Gredel's hand in Lamey's and guided them both toward the door.

“Have a lovely night,” she said.

“Aren't you coming with us?” Lamey asked.

Caro only shook her head and laughed. Her green eyes looked into Gredel's—Gredel saw amusement there, and secrets that Lamey would never share. Then Caro steered them into the hall and closed the door behind them.

Lamey paused a moment, looking back. “Is Caro all right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Gredel said. “Now let's go find a place to dance.”

She felt as if she were floating, moving across the floor so lightly that she almost danced on her way to the elevator. It occurred to her that she was happy, that happiness had never been hers before, but now she had it.

All it took was getting Antony out of the picture.

 

T
he first crack in Gredel's happiness occurred two afternoons later, when she arrived at the Volta late due to a blockage on the train tracks from the Fabs. She let herself in, and found Caro snoring on her bed. Caro was dressed to go out, but she must have got bored waiting for her to turn up, because there was an empty wine bottle on the floor and the med injector near her right hand.