The Praxis

by Walter Jon Williams

  Martinez himself suspected that little or nothing would happen. Yes, there would be hysterics who would try to kill themselves, though most of them wouldn’t succeed; and perhaps there would be a few individuals who ran out of control while under the impression that, with the last Shaa dead, life would turn into some kind of fair. But while these people doubtless existed, those he encountered appeared to be merely waiting. They hadn’t worked out what the death of Anticipation of Victory meant, and neither had anyone else.

  And then he remembered standing in the foyer of the Commandery, looking at the map of the empire’s wormhole systems and thinking that there was no escaping the Shaa.

  Perhaps, he thought, he had just escaped. Perhaps everyone had. Perhaps some of the weight of history had been taken off everyone’s shoulders.

  This idea sufficiently intrigued him that he barely noticed the long, slow parade until it finally came to an end at the Couch of Eternity, the long, rectangular mausoleum, sheathed in marble of a brilliant cake-icing white, where the Great Masters were cremated and shelved for infinity. The mausoleum was built at the base of a series of long white steps, an artificial amphitheater, with a ramp descending to the entrance, with its peculiar two-tier arch. The catafalque rolled slowly down the ramp and beneath the arch, and the mourners following it wheeled off and took their places in rank on either side of the tall wide steps.

  As Enderby’s body crept beneath the arch, Martinez’s formation wheeled again to follow his daughter past the more senior mourners to their place. To Martinez’s right the Lower Town sprawled out beneath the uncertain autumn skies, marked by the patterns of cloud that scudded overhead. He was beginning to feel very cold. The march hadn’t been swift enough to warm him.

  The slow procession went on until finally the elaborate doors of blackened steel closed behind the last of the dead.

  There was a long, long pause. The mourners stood in disciplined rows, coats and cloaks flapping in the cold wind. There was a rushing noise, as if the wind had been channeled into a tiny tunnel, and then fire burst from the mausoleum roof, a column of white-hot flame that licked toward the viridian sky.

  Martinez felt a collective sigh from the assembled multitude. The era of the Shaa had come to an end.

  The column of flame died away, scattering atoms of Anticipation of Victory and the others onto the cold wind. In a series of shouted commands, the mourners were dismissed. Martinez stood with the others to speak briefly to Enderby’s daughter—the proper form was to offer congratulations rather than condolences on someone permitted to die with a Great Master, but Martinez knew his congratulations probably sounded more mournful than not—and then he made his way back along the parade route through the High City.

  He passed the Shelley Palace on the way, where he knew his sisters, along with PJ Ngeni, were hosting a small reception for his brother Roland, who had arrived three days ahead of the funeral. It wasn’t a party, since parties on the day of the last Shaa’s death would have been bad form. It would be a mourning function, a kind of wake, and was restricted by custom to twenty-two guests.

  Martinez wasn’t one of them. The Fleet was still on alert, and he would be spending the next shift in the Commandery, handling the signals traffic that might result from an emergency, should there actually be one.

  Then he would turn in the Commandery ID that entitled him to enter the building, after which he would go to his apartment and give Alikhan his jacket, so his orderly could pick away the tiny stitches that fixed the red staff tabs to his collar.

  Sula spent the day commanding a guard detail on a skyhook terminus on the first level of Zanshaa’s accelerator ring. The ring was built in two sections. The lower part rotated at the same speed as the planet below, which gave it a very light gravity, and was used for antimatter generation, storage, and utility conduits. The second, outer section glided atop the inner ring like the second hand of a clock, spinning faster than the hour hand; it moved at nine times geosynchronous speed in order to maintain one standard gravity. It was this second level that contained docks, repair bays, and housing for the population of the ring.

  Sula’s dozen recruits carried stun batons, and she herself wore a sidearm on one hip and a viridian-green helmet on her head. She couldn’t help but wonder what this pathetic force was supposed to do in the event of a raving mob of anarchists charging down from the outer ring to seize the skyhook, other of course than to die pointlessly with all the bravery they could muster.

  Nothing happened. Civilian traffic was nil, and military traffic nearly so until her relief arrived, a detail of Naxids armed with gatling guns and grenade launchers.

  Naxids didn’t fool around, Sula concluded.

  She took her detail to the outer ring, where she turned in her sidearm and her detail’s stun batons, then wondered what to do next. Mourning had closed down all entertainment, on the planet or off, and filled all hotels, so she couldn’t get a room.

  In the end she requested a billet in the traveling cadets’ hostel and found half a dozen cadets passing a bottle around while shooting dice. She let them get drunk, won their money, then retired to her rack filled with a rare, pleasing sense of accomplishment.

  “Reporting aboard Corona, my lord.”

  Martinez, head thrown back before his new captain, gazed with level eyes above the captain’s head at the massive gleaming structure on the shelf behind him, the Home Fleet Trophy that Corona’s football team had just won in a short season truncated by the death of the last Shaa.

  One other Home Fleet Trophy stood on a special shelf in the corner, locked into place and braced against high accelerations. A second-place trophy sat on a somewhat less special shelf. Other, lesser trophies, all topped by gleaming crystal footballers, crowded Lieutenant Captain Tarafah’s desk on all sides.

  “At ease, Lieutenant Martinez,” Lord Fahd Tarafah said, which allowed Martinez to drop his chin and contemplate his new commander. Tarafah was a compact, well-formed man with a shaven head and neatly trimmed goatee, still under thirty. On his left sleeve, just above the cuff, was the stylized football insignia that all the Coronas were entitled to wear for the next year.

  “You’ve reported to Garcia?” Tarafah asked, referring to the officer on watch.

  “Yes, my lord. She’s shown me my quarters and given me the code to my safe. She was going to give me a more thorough orientation after her watch.”

  “It’ll be useful to have another watch-keeping officer aboard. Your orders and records have been logged on the computer?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tarafah opened his collar, took his captain’s key from around his neck, and called Martinez’s records onto his displays. His eyes scanned back and forth, then halted, no doubt focused on the candid evaluations of Martinez’s abilities and character provided by his former commanders, evaluations that Martinez carried around with him as part of his permanent record but did not possess the codes to read.

  “What sports did you do at the academy?” Tarafah asked. Which, Martinez knew, was the question that might well doom him.

  “An absolute fanatic about football,” Ari Abacha had said approvingly, when Martinez had asked him about Tarafah at the junior officers’ club. “Pulls every string he can to get the top players on his ship, and when strings won’t work, he lays out the cash. Rumor has it that he bought Captain Lord Winfield a new yacht in order to guarantee the transfer of a new outside forward.”

  Abacha approved of the Fleet’s fanatic football officers, and if his devotion to languor hadn’t been so all-encompassing, he would probably have been one himself, either a player, coach, or manager. As it was, Abacha contented himself with absorbing everything known about the subject—the players, the statistics, the tactics, the managers and coaches—and had a profitable sideline running a sports book for other officers.

  Corona’s appearance only confirmed Abacha’s assessment. Tarafah had painted his ship green—not the viridian green of Zanshaa’s sky, but the brig
ht lawn green of a football pitch, with the white midfield stripe bisecting the frigate lengthwise and a motif of white soccer balls bouncing down the ship’s sides.

  Corona was a small ship to field such an important team. With a crew of only sixty-one, to get a first-rate team of eleven players, plus alternates and coaches and support—enough to make a serious bid for the Home Fleet Trophy, against ships with ten times the crew strength—required single-minded dedication and deep pockets.

  “I did fencing and swimming, my lord,” Martinez said. Sports where his long arms and comparatively short legs worked to his advantage.

  He suspected it wouldn’t help to mention that he was school champion at hypertourney, an abstract positional game with a computer-generated playing field. Hypertourney was probably a little too intellectual for Tarafah and the Corona.

  “We do football on the Corona,” Tarafah said. Which Martinez couldn’t help but think was like saying, In the Legion of Diligence, we do fanaticism.

  “Yes, my lord,” Martinez said. “Everyone in the Fleet knows the quality of Corona’s team.”

  The compliment indirect, Martinez thought. One should start small, then work slowly up toward finding the level of flattery appropriate for one’s commander.

  The praise at least persuaded Tarafah to ask Martinez to sit. Martinez drew up a chair and watched the lieutenant captain with all due attention.

  Tarafah folded his hands atop his desk and leaned forward. “I don’t believe that any officer can succeed on his own, Lieutenant,” he said. “I believe that a ship’s company is a team, each dependent on the others for success.”

  “Very true, my lord.” Martinez tried to imply that this was an idea he had never heard before.

  “That’s why I expect the entire ship’s company to pull together for the common good, in making Corona look its absolute best—during fleet maneuvers, during inspections, and on the football field. Each must do his part.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Martinez repeated.

  “That’s why I expect everyone to support the team. The team makes us all look good, just as polished paneling and spotless floors give us the look of a ship where everything is completely up to the mark. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord. In fact,” Martinez added, “that’s why I hope to contribute directly to the success of the team. I know that I’m probably unsuitable as a player, but I thought I might serve as a coach, or some kind of manager—”

  Martinez fell silent as he saw the thin, disapproving look on Tarafah’s face. “I coach the team myself, as well as manage,” he said. “And Weaponer Mancini assists.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Martinez said, his hopes for the tour sinking fast. He played his last card. “By the way,” he added, “I’m bringing only one servant on board.”

  Tarafah was taken aback. “Yes? Do you want the first officer to appoint another?”

  “No. I merely thought that, if for any reason you needed another reserve player aboard, you could make the player my second servant.”

  “Oh.” Calculation flickered across Tarafah’s face. “That might be useful,” he judged. “I intend to win the Second Fleet Championship next year, at Magaria.”

  Surprise filled Martinez. “Magaria?” he said. “We’re shipping out?”

  “Yes. We’re replacing Staunch, which is going into refit. You’ve got six days to wind up your personal affairs and get your division up to the mark.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tarafah fingered the touch pads on his desk. “I’ve configured your third lieutenant’s key. Here you are.”

  Martinez accepted the key on its elastic strap and thought, This is going to be a long, long tour.

  “Brilliant. Quite brilliant. I’m sure your parents would be proud.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Sula said.

  “May I get you another drink?”

  “I’m having water, thanks.”

  Lord Durward Li decanted some water into Sula’s glass and refreshed his own mig brandy. “It’s a pity we’re in a period of mourning,” he said. “Usually we have swarms of guests at these affairs, but now it’s only twenty-two, alas.”

  “Twenty-two,” Sula mused. “I wonder why. The Shaa usually preferred to play with primes.”

  “Oh—you don’t know the story behind that? You see, ages ago, just after the Torminel conquest…”

  Sula sipped her water and listened to Lord Durward rattle on.

  After the debacle with Martinez, she’d fled the capital to a resort town in the highlands. While other visitors hiked trails or lounged in the communal bath or enjoyed the mountain scenery, Sula rarely left her room and spent her days studying for her lieutenant exams.

  When she’d grown so weary of cramming that she couldn’t make her eyes focus on the screen, she closed her eyes and lay on the bed and tried to rest. On the backs of her closed lids she saw Martinez standing in the boat, his hands thrown out in exasperation.

  Stupid, stupid. She had to learn how to behave around people.

  She remembered the invitations she’d received and thought that perhaps Martinez had been right about them. Her parents’ friends might help, and in any case it was probably a good idea to meet people other than those the service threw in her way. The alternative, after all, was the cadet lounge, with Foote and his clique.

  She’d sent her regrets to all invitations to take place before the Great Master’s funeral, which disposed of all the people who only wanted her as an ornament because she’d become a celebrity. Then she’d done a modest amount of research through public databases concerning the remainder, and discovered that the Li clan had been clients of the Sulas, and after the fall of Clan Sula, were assured of the patronage of the Chen clan instead. Lord Durward’s was the first invitation she had accepted.

  Apparently the Lis had done well for themselves in the years since the death of Lord Sula. The new Li Palace, built on the site of an older place that had been torn down, occupied a large frontage on the Boulevard of the Praxis. The facade was of some pale, semitranslucent stone veined with pink, and which, when lights were turned on at night, seemed to glow as if the building itself were a living thing.

  Inside, the reception hall was draped in what Sula at first assumed were tapestries and lace, but which on closer inspection turned out to be marble, cream and green and pale red, carved into the shape of draped fabric, all the little lace-points and filigree cunningly shaped into the stone. She was stunned by the tens of thousands of man-hours that must have gone into the work.

  The parlor was less intimidating, with plush furniture and portraits of horses and country scenes on the walls. Fortunately, the furniture was set with wide lanes between the pieces, so that the three Naxid guests—Lady Kushdai, a convocate come into the city for the Great Master’s funeral, and her kin—could maneuver without knocking things over. Sula admired greatly the crackled surface on the porcelain jars, each taller than a man, that stood in the room’s corners.

  “So you see,” Lord Durward finished, “it all has to do with the Twenty-Two Martyrs for the Perfection of the Praxis. One wants to invite them to one’s mourning feasts, to show them that they didn’t die in vain.”

  “Fascinating,” Sula said.

  “Ah.” Lord Durward’s ginger brows rose as he turned to the parlor door, where a Fleet captain had just entered with an elegant young woman on his arm. “Have you met my son Richard?” And then he smiled. “Well, of course you have. I forgot.”

  Sula’s mind whirled as she tried to remember where she might have met Captain Lord Richard Li. He didn’t seem the sort of man one would forget: he was taller than his father, dark-haired, with a smooth, handsome face of the sort that would look youthful well into middle age.

  “Caro,” Lord Richard said, taking Sula’s hand. “It’s good to see you after all this time.”

  Sula felt herself bristling, and told herself to behave. “Caroline,” she corrected. “I’m not Caro anymore.”

>   Amusement crinkled the corners of Lord Richard’s eyes. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Behave, she told herself again. These people are trying to be your friends.

  Lord Richard’s smile was very white, his eyes very blue. “I put you on your first pony, in our garden at Meeria.”

  “Oh,” Sula said. Her eyes widened. “That was you?”

  “I haven’t changed that much, have I?” he said. “Do you still ride at all?”

  “Not in ages.”

  Lord Richard looked at his father, then back at Sula. “We still keep stables at Meeria. If you’d like to go down and spend some time riding, I’m sure we’d love having you. We also have excellent fishing.”

  Lord Durward nodded agreement.

  “Thank you,” Sula said. “I’ll think about it. But it’s been so long…”

  Lord Richard turned toward the young woman by his side. She was tall and willowy, with dark almond eyes and a beautiful, shining fall of black hair.

  “This is my fiancée, Lady Terza Chen. Terza, this is Caroline, Lady Sula.”

  “A pleasure. I saw you on video.” Lady Terza’s voice was low and soothing, and the graceful hand she extended was unhurried but warm and welcoming in its gentle clasp.

  Sula knew it was far too early to hate her, to resent the ease and privilege and serenity that oozed from Terza’s every pore, but somehow she managed it. Shove off, sister, she thought. You think you can get between me and the man who put me on my first pony?

  “What a beautiful necklace,” Sula said, the first civil thing that popped into her head.

  Lord Richard turned adoring eyes to his bride-to-be. “I wish I could say I’d given it to her,” he said. “But she chose it herself—her taste is so much better than mine.”

  Sula looked at him. “You’re a lucky man,” she said.

  It’s not as if she wouldn’t have bollixed the relationship anyway.

  A trim, broad-shouldered man in the uniform of a convocate arrived, along with Lady Amita, Lord Durward’s wife. The newcomer was introduced as Maurice, Lord Chen, Terza’s father. Sula’s knowledge of the status of Peer clans in relationship to each other was hazy, but she understood enough to know that the Chens were on top of the pile. Lords Chen, Richard, and Durward then engaged in a brief contest in who could offer Terza the most compliments, with Sula adding plaudits of her own now and again out of politeness Then Lord Chen turned to Sula and said equally polite things about her parents, and about her rescue of Midnight Runner.