The Praxis (41 page)

Once he had his effects calculated and knew where to aim, he began a regular barrage, firing one bolt after another. Only then did he communicate with his superiors in the Seizho system to ask permission for what he was doing.

It took four hours for the Seizho brass to respond, categorically forbidding Severin to destabilize the wormhole. By then, he'd hurled hundreds of thousands of tons of dense matter through the torus, and had begun to detect motion.

The odor of garlic preceded Gruust into the command center. “Lifeboat's ready,” he reported. He gazed out the huge plate windows of the mass driver as another giant bolt shot off the rails and toward the eerie, hoop-shaped entity in the far distance.

“Why don't you look after the drivers for a while,” Severin said. “I want to make sure my personal stuff is on the lifeboat.”

The lifeboat wasn't as cramped as its name might have suggested: it was designed to keep an entire station's crew comfortable for the journey to and from the station, a journey that might take a month or more. There was a fully stocked kitchen and exercise facilities, and a library of videos, books, music, and other entertainments.

Severin added a stock of insulated clothing, thermal blankets, and warm socks, then returned to the command center.

“The wormhole's moving,” Gruust said.

“I know.”

By the time Severin had fired off all his ammunition, the wormhole had moved seven diameters on a diagonal course from the plane of the ecliptic, and the messages from his superiors, who were detecting the huge freight-train-sized bolts flying into their system, were growing frantic. Eventually their messages trailed away: with the wormhole moving, the communications lasers were no longer in alignment.

Severin and his crew had a last meal in the station, noodles in a tomato sauce made fiery by dried chiles, washed down by a dark, toasty beer that one of the crew had made with barley he'd brought onto the station.

The Exploration Service traditionally compensated for their loneliness by eating well.

“You know,” Severin said, “I'm beginning to think we shouldn't leave the Protipanu system.”

“If we stay here,” Gruust said, “they'll just take us prisoner.”

“I don't want to stay
here,
” said Severin. “Not in the station. I thought we'd take the lifeboat and grapple it to one of those big chunks of rubble orbiting past. That way we could keep the enemy under observation, and if the Fleet returns, we can give them the information. And if the rebels leave, we can just reoccupy the station.”

“You're talking
months,
” someone said.

There was some discussion of this. Severin didn't want to live for three or four months with a crew who resented the orders that put them there. But in the end he had his way, and without pulling rank: the others were used to spending time together in isolated situations, and agreed that wrecking enemy plans was worth the extra discomfort and time.

“It's going to be cold, unfortunately,” Severin said. “To avoid detection, I'm going to have to power as little of the ship as possible.”

“We should get the thermal blankets aboard,” someone said.

“I already have.”

There was a moment of silence. “Well, at least we'll have a big pay packet waiting when we return,” Gruust said hopefully.

They moved six months' food supplies into the lifeboat and cast off. Severin already had chosen his rock, an iron asteroid called 302948745AF—the smaller lumps of rock and metal in the Protipanu system were well charted, since they were all potential supplies of reserve ammunition for the mass drivers.

The Naxid flotilla leaped into the system before the lifeboat actually grappled to its new home, but Severin had anticipated this, and made his major deceleration burn before their arrival. He was now drifting gently toward 302948745AF. He knew he should be able to snuggle tight to the asteroid with just his maneuvering thrusters, and without attracting attention by lighting the antimatter engine.

Floating weightless in the lifeboat's control station, he watched the tall antimatter torches race toward the wormhole. The Naxids were coming fast, decelerating but still moving at nearly half the speed of light. Severin calculated their trajectories and discovered that they were on course…for where the wormhole
had been
.

It was perfectly possible for them to find out the wormhole had moved. They could detect it visually or by charting its warp of space-time. But the wormhole had been in the same place since its discovery, and the Naxids had no reason to suspect it might have crabbed away from there.

Still, as the minutes ticked by and the blips raced closer, Severin felt his mouth go dry, and cramp pained his hands as they clamped on the stabilization bars at the control panel. It would require a tiny correction in their course to hit the wormhole, one they might make at any moment…

He held his breath. And the Naxid squadron shot past, a clean miss of the wormhole. The little lifeboat's crew broke into cheers. Severin could only imagine the consternation in the rebels' command centers as they realized what had happened to them.

While the Naxids increased the fury of their deceleration burn, Severin knew that he'd delayed their plans, whatever they were, by at least three months, probably a good deal more.

He felt a quiet triumph. He'd done the enemy an injury, done it without having a single weapon to fire at them, and with any luck, he'd be in a position to do them another.

 

I
n the days that followed his conversation with Tork, Jarlath and his staff worked endlessly on plans for a Magaria attack, and the harder he contemplated the possibilities, the less possible he found it to resist them.

Martinez's video report, delivered after a transmission delay of some days, provided little hard information about the damage of his missile strike, but it left Jarlath convinced that the missile must have done
something
. Almost all the shielding on a ring station was on its outer rim, facing the sun as it rotated to protect the inhabitants from solar radiation, and
Corona's
missile had hit north of the inner rim. The flood of neutrons and highly energetic gamma rays released by the explosion would probably not have done any lasting damage to the ships, but any crew and ring personnel who were not in a hardened shelter had probably got a fatal dose of radiation.

Martinez might have caused a massacre among the enemy, as well as many of the civilian personnel aboard the ring. Casualties to the dockyard workers and other specialists on whom the Fleet depended could have been high. Though hardened military gear would probably have survived well enough, the ordinary electronics on the ring station might well have been slagged—everything from communications to light and power to the electric carts used to haul supplies to and from the ships. Such damage would have interfered severely with the Naxids' attempts to refit their captured ships.

If
he came in fast, Jarlath thought, if the Home Fleet roared in so quickly that Fanaghee had no time to alter her own dispositions, he might well catch her napping. The only way she could match the abrupt and devastating arrival of the Home Fleet would be to subject her own crews to the same merciless accelerations that he was inflicting on his own personnel. But Jarlath had full crews—his people got at least
some
rest—and if Fanaghee had crewed her captured vessels from out of the Naxid ships,
all
her ships would have skeleton crews. By the time he met them in combat, Jarlath thought, they'd be beaten into undifferentiated protoplasm by over a month of high gravities and standing continual watches, unable to match his crews in efficiency and combat readiness. They would have no real damage control capability. After all, the three squadrons consisted of ships that had only recently been adapted to their species, and whose controls and capabilities would be unfamiliar.

On the other hand, they would have the advantage of position. Two large planets in Magaria's system, Barbas and Rinconell, happened to have moved on either side of Magaria Wormhole 1, with a forty light-minute gap between them. Fanaghee could keep her squadrons involved in perpetual slingshots between the two planets, or between Barbas, Rinconell, Magaria, and Magaria's sun, thus keeping her ships at high speed and in a position to slap at his fleet once it emerged from the wormhole.

Jarlath's staff, however, had worked out a series of maneuvers that would minimize this advantage.

His primary worry, as he saw it, was that he might be outnumbered. But then he heard from Martinez that the enemy squadron from Felarus wasn't at Magaria, but at Protipanu, and Jarlath realized that not every enemy ship was joining Fanaghee. The Naxids seemed to be dispersing rather than concentrating their force.

Now it seemed more essential than ever to seize Magaria to prevent the enemy from concentrating.

 

T
he appearance of the Felarus squadron at Protipanu sent the Convocation into a paroxysm. If the rebels were dispersing their force, then everywhere was threatened. The Convocation demanded that the Fleet Control Board take steps.

“To protect
everywhere
,” Tork muttered, and followed the remark with an obscenity.

Accordingly, it was decided to send a force to Hone-bar, which would silence at least some of the critics. The Laiown squadron from Preowin, not yet arrived at Zanshaa, was tasked for this mission, as was the improvised squadron that would be raised by calling in single ships scattered in the capital's vicinity. It would be led by the captured Naxid cruiser
Destiny
, now being adapted for the Torminel crew that would soon be placed aboard her.

It was to this squadron that the
Corona
of the heroic and by now much-decorated Lieutenant Captain Martinez would be assigned.

M
artinez stood in the well of the Convocation and let the cheers and applause flood over him. He raised the Golden Orb—the genuine article this time, the heavy baton with the swirling fluid that shimmered and flowed in its glass globe—and the Convocation roared again in answer to his salute.

The Orb had been presented to him, in a glittering jeweled case, by Fleet Commander Lord Tork, chairman of the Fleet Control Board, following a speech of introduction by his family's patron, Lord Pierre Ngeni. Martinez's family, his brother and sisters, stood in the visitors' gallery and applauded with the rest.

Martinez tried not to let his smile, which he hoped radiated confidence and wisdom, turn into a broad, imbecile grin. He thought he succeeded, mostly.

In time the cheering died away, and Martinez was suddenly aware of how loudly his heart was beating. He took a breath, and then a grip on his courage. He turned to the new Lord Senior, Lord Saïd.

“I believe a speech is customary on these occasions, my lord,” he said. In his imagination he heard
Corona's
crew whooping at the familiar words.

Lord Saïd seemed surprised by the existence of this custom, but he acceded with grace. “Lord Gareth, you are welcome to address this body of Peers.”

Martinez turned to face the audience, the convocates in their wine-colored uniforms, his family and the Fleet officers in the gallery, the Lord Senior and Fleet Commander Tork standing expectantly just before him, all turned to dark silhouettes by the brilliant spotlights ranged above the platform. Behind all these, of course, were the obscure billions who would watch this moment on video.

After years of striving, after all the work and the schemes and the danger, Martinez had finally reached his moment of glory. The moment when all the empire waited only for him.

And he couldn't say a word. The fine phrases that had been in his mind a moment ago had vanished, and all he felt was the awesome weight of expectation, the presence of the grand personages of the empire, all waiting for him to make a mistake, to show himself for the rustic nobody that he was.

The silence yawned before him as his heart thundered in his ears. He forced his mouth to open and forced sound from his throat.

“My lord convocates,” he began, and his eyes desperately sought among the audience, to light on Saïd and on Fleet Commander Tork. “My Lord Senior,” he managed, “my lord commander…” His eyes flew to the gallery. “My friends,” he said.

And then, once he had convinced himself that he could actually speak before this audience, the words broke free in his mind. At first only a few phrases floated to the surface, but once he spoke them, others came, and then more. It was fortunate that he had already given the speech twice—that helped him settle into a rhythm. Adopting his sentiments for the Convocation wasn't hard: his audience had fought their own battle, on this very spot, and he could credit them with the same courage, skill, and rare genius with which he'd credited the crew of
Corona.

By the end the phrases were flying naturally from his lips, as if he'd been addressing the Convocation all his life.

“I know this in my heart,” he concluded. “With the wisdom and leadership of this body, and with such courage and skill as that demonstrated by the crew of
Corona,
our noble cause cannot fail!”

The room erupted in cheers and applause that lasted longer than it had the first time. Martinez tried to smile his wise, confident smile, and saluted them again with the orb.

And if you don't like the accent,
he thought,
you can lump it.

There was a reception afterward in the Ngeni Palace. The place was fragrant with the scent of hundreds of floral bouquets, and brilliant with glowing decorations in the shape of snowflakes, no two alike, that hovered below the high ceiling and cast a silver glow on the assembled throng. Snow, the real thing, dusted the window ledges outside and sparkled brilliantly on the trees in the courtyard. Convocates, high-ranking members of the Fleet, and senior administrators filled the rooms and galleries.

None wore mourning. The Convocation had decided to cancel the mourning period for the last Great Master, and with it the customary restrictions on the size of social engagements. Officially this was because the rebellion took priority over sorrow, though if Martinez were a convocate, he would have wanted mourning canceled on the grounds of confusion, because it was no longer possible to know whether one was mourning the Great Master, war casualties, dead Naxid rebels, or the stability and peace of the old imperial order.

No longer having to worry about
which
twenty-two to invite to any function, society happily removed its corsets and began to take what pleasure it could from winter and rebellion.

In any case, Martinez was pleased to be wearing viridian again.

“I didn't know you were going to make a speech,” said Lord Roland, Martinez's older brother.

“I'm planning on being a convocate myself someday,” Martinez said. “I thought I'd let them know that I can speak in public, and can be useful, and that Laredans don't drool or twitch or pitch a fit when they get nervous.”

“Actually,
I
was planning on being the first convocate to be co-opted from Laredo,” Roland said. He was a little taller than Martinez, a result of his longer legs. His Laredo accent was pronounced. “I hope you'll defer to seniority.”

“Maybe,” Martinez said. “But if I don't, I'll work hard to get you in. Now's the time; there are vacancies.”

He didn't know how seriously to take his own words. Lieutenant Captain Lord Convocate Gareth Martinez? It certainly seemed possible, on such a day as this. The Convocation was in a generous mood. They had already given the Laredo shipyards an order for three frigates, and guaranteed a substantial profit for the Martinez clan and their dependents.

Perhaps, after all this time, his father's plans were actually bearing fruit. Marcus Martinez had been snubbed in the Fleet and on Zanshaa, and returned to Laredo determined to become so rich that no one would ever dare snub him again. He
had
become ridiculously wealthy, even by the standards of Peers, and his children were elements of his scheme to storm the city and cast down its social walls. But until now, Martinez hadn't thought it was possible to purchase respect, not from the old families like the Ngenis and the Chens.

Until now.
Since the rebellion, all sorts of things seemed possible.

Lord Pierre Ngeni arrived and raised his glass in salute to Martinez of the Golden Orb. Martinez raised the orb in reply, then noticed a piece of Fleet Commander Tork's flesh hanging from the baton, stripped it away and let it fall.

“We were discussing,” Martinez said, “how the first convocate from Laredo should be one of your clients.”

Lord Pierre hesitated.
He,
theoretically, represented Laredo in convocation through his patron/client relationship with the Martinez clan, though of course Lord Pierre had never been to Laredo, and would never go. “I'm sure,” he said finally.

“You can never have too many allies in Convocation,” Martinez said.

Lord Pierre turned to Roland. “Now that your shipyards have got those contracts,” he said, “you'll be returning home?”

“It will take me three months to get there,” Roland said, “and by then your frigates will be half finished. There's no need for me to be on site—my father can handle all that. No,” Roland smiled, “I'll be in the capital for quite a while. Probably a few years.”

Lord Pierre did not seem cheered by this. He turned to Martinez. “But you, Lord Captain, you must leave soon.”

“In two days, to make up this new squadron. I've barely met my new officers.” And what he'd seen hadn't encouraged him: a gray-haired lieutenant who hadn't been promoted in sixteen years, and a new-fledged youngster with scarcely any more seniority than Vonderheydte. He clearly had his work cut out for him.

“Do you think Jarlath will strike for Magaria?” asked Lord Pierre. “Everyone seems to think he will.”

“I don't think he's got the numbers,” Martinez said.

Roland gave a little smile. “I thought you said we couldn't fail.”

“We can if we
try.
”

Later, as strains of music floated toward the assembly from the orchestra in the ballroom, Martinez found himself with a powerful yearning to have Amanda Taen in his arms. But Warrant Officer Taen was away in her ship, repairing satellites for the next month, and Martinez hadn't the time to make a new connection, not unless he made one now.

As he walked toward the ballroom, Martinez found himself next to PJ Ngeni. Melancholy seemed to have become a permanent fixture on PJ's long face, and Martinez assumed this to be a consequence of frequent contact with his sisters. Martinez more or less knew how he felt.

“I say, Gareth,” PJ said.

“Yes?”

“Terrific speech you gave this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“It made me want to—to
do
something, if you know what I mean. Do something useful, in the war.”

Martinez looked at him. “To join the Fleet?”

“I hardly think I—” He hesitated. “Well, to do
something
.” PJ touched a hand to his collar. “I wonder if I might ask your advice. On a more personal matter.”

Martinez lifted his eyebrows. “Of course.”

“I wonder if it's normal for someone from Laredo—a young woman, for example—to maintain, ah, a sort of social and emotional independence.”

Martinez hid a smile. “Of course,” he said. “Laredans are renowned for their independence, both of thought and of character.”

“Ah, I wondered. Because, you know—” PJ frowned. “I hardly ever see her. Sempronia, I mean. Formal occasions, yes, and she gives me a kiss on the cheek and…” His voice trailed away, then he resumed. “But she has her own friends, and she spends time with them, and I never…” He tried again. “She's in school, of course, and she says she wants to enjoy her school friends while she can. And I can't object to that, because I've had my friends over the years, and…” His brows knit in puzzlement. “But so many of her friends are officers. And
they're
not in school.”

For a moment Martinez almost felt a breath of sorrow for PJ Ngeni. And then he remembered who he was talking to, and his sorrow blew away like cherry blossoms in the spring.

“I think you should just have patience,” he said. “Sempronia's the pet of the family, and she's used to having her own way.” He gave PJ's arm a consoling pat. “She'll grow to appreciate your virtues in time,” he said. “And as for the officers—well, I'm sure she just wants to take advantage of their company before they go off to war.”

“Hmm.” These thoughts processed their way across PJ's face. “Well. I suppose.”

Martinez found out more about at least one of the officers the next morning, after breakfast. He was packing his night case, preparing to leave for a meeting called by his new squadron commander, Captain Farfang of
Destiny,
when he heard a tentative knock on his door.

“Yes?”

“It's me.” Sempronia's voice, muffled by a thumb's length of Shelley Palace teak.

“Come in.”

Sempronia, her expression tentative, swung the thick door inward and entered. She saw him in his unbuttoned tunic, and walked up to work the silver tunic buttons, her teeth resting lightly on her lower lip and her hazel eyes comically crossed as she concentrated on the work. She finished the last button, straightened the collar, then stepped back to survey the result.

“Thank you,” Martinez said.

“You're welcome.” She crossed her arms and frowned at him. He went to his dressing table and took from it the gold disk on a ribbon that he could wear if he wasn't going to lug the Golden Orb about.

“You aren't going to carry the orb with you?”

Martinez placed the disk about his neck. “To carry the orb on anything other than a formal occasion would be conceit.”

“But Gareth,” Sempronia protested, “you
are
conceited.”

Martinez decided that the higher wisdom lay in not answering this charge. He turned to her. “And the reason you came here, Proney…?”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “I wanted to talk to you about one of your officers.”

“One of
my
officers?”

“Nikkul Shankaracharya.”

“Ah.” This would be his second officer, whom he had met just two days before, and with whom he'd exchanged perhaps three dozen words. A sublieutenant of less than six months' seniority, with a faint little mustache and a hesitant manner. At the first meeting, Shankaracharya had made little impression, though Martinez had a strong sense that this one, perhaps, would take a lot of work.

“A friend of yours, is he?” Martinez asked.

A faint rose color brightened Sempronia's cheeks. “Yes. I was hoping that you could, well, look after him.”

“That's my job,” Martinez said. “But is Shankaracharya likely to need much looking after?”

Sempronia's flush deepened. “I think he's very talented. But he's shy, and he doesn't put himself forward. You're likely to trample him into the deck without even noticing he's there.”

“Well, I promise not to trample him into the deck.” He cast his mind back, uncovered a memory of Sempronia talking to a dark-haired officer at the family's reception for Caroline Sula.

Her eyes darted from one corner of the room to the next. “He admires you very much. He pulled strings through his patron Lord Pezzini to get aboard
Corona.
” Her lips twisted into an S shape. “Of course, he doesn't know you like I do.”