The Praxis

by Walter Jon Williams

  He stood in the hatch and heard the laughter in his mind, laughter ringing down the years as long as he remained in the service. If he were wrong, he could expect nothing less. Everything Fanaghee and Kulukraf were doing could have an innocent explanation—well, not innocent exactly, but at least rational. If he had missed that, if the Naxids were doing anything but rising, he would never hear the end of it. The story would become one of those Fleet legends that would follow a person for his entire career, like the story of Squadron Commander Rafi ordering the cadets to bind and beat him.

  The endless belt of the central elevator rustled past. Suddenly he wanted very much to return to the weapons locker, check in his pistol, and go to the wardroom to watch the game on video and cheer on Corona’s team.

  The hell with it, he thought. He was already a laughingstock to most of the crew.

  He put a foot on the next descending rung, took a hand-hold onto the rung above, and stepped into the central trunk corridor. He stepped off two decks below, and immediately saw Zhou, the brawler he’d released from arrest two days before, polishing the silverware in the officers’ mess, across the corridor from Command.

  Wonderful, Martinez thought. He had Zhou, Ahmet, and Knadjian in his crew, as well as every other miscreant that the captain had condemned to labor instead of the games.

  Zhou, polishing away, gave Martinez a dubious look from his blackened eyes, which widened when he saw the pistol belt. Martinez gave a curt nod and walked into Command.

  “I am in Command,” he announced.

  “The officer of the watch is in Command,” Cadet Vonderheydte agreed, speaking from his position at the comm board. The scent of coffee, wafting from the cup he’d propped near one hand, whispered invitingly in the room.

  Martinez stepped into the locked captain’s cage. “Status?” he asked.

  Vonderheydte, whose cage was directly behind the captain’s, saw the pistol belt, and his eyes widened. “Um, ship systems are normal,” he said. “And—oh yes! The dishwasher in the enlisted galley blew a circuit breaker, and it’s being looked into.”

  “Thank you, Vonderheydte.” He turned his back on the cadet and sat in the captain’s chair. Cushions sighed beneath his weight, and he adjusted the pistol to a more comfortable position, then reached over his head and drew down the captain’s displays until they locked in front of him.

  He set one display to the security camera. Crewmen were still streaming past the airlock toward the rim rail stop. Nothing untoward was visible, but then, he didn’t expect anything for a few hours yet, not until the crews had descended to the planet’s surface and all the remainder were distracted by the sports.

  He settled back in his chair. “We’ll be having an engine drill presently,” he said, and then listened to the profound, astonished silence that followed his words.

  Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby—and goal. Martinez heard Vonderheydte give a shout as the ball shot past Beijing’s goalkeeper and into the net.

  Warrant Officer/Second Mabumba punched the air with a fist. He sat at the engineering station, and in his excitement at Corona’s second goal, had forgotten to be resentful of Martinez for the engine drill that placed him in Command instead of the warrant officers’ lounge, where he could have watched the game in comfort, and with a glass of beer by his hand.

  Maheshwari in Engine Control was holding the engine countdown at five minutes. Martinez knew he had hardly won the enduring love of the entire engineering division for calling the drill on a sports holiday and keeping them at their stations.

  He’d left Command only once, to help Alikhan bring food, coffee, and comfort to the two guards at the outside airlock, where Martinez made it clear to Dietrich and Hong that any orders from Alikhan were to be treated as if they were orders from himself.

  Clearly, the silent faces of the sentries suggested, there was more than one madman aboard the ship.

  Next, Martinez tried to see what he could do about sending alarms to other elements of the Fleet, perhaps to Zanshaa. A check with data on file at the Exploration Service, which crewed and maintained the wormhole stations that stitched the empire together with communications lasers that pulsed messages and data from one system to another, showed that there was no chance of getting word outside the Magaria system. In the previous few months, on a leisurely schedule, the crews of each station had been replaced—with Naxids.

  Another possibility existed. There were civilian ships in the system, outbound. He could send a message to each of these, and hope that at least some information escaped the system. He checked the navigation plots and discovered there were sixteen civilian ships in the Magaria system. He checked their registration, and after discounting the three large inbound transports belonging to a corporation called Premiere Axiom, based on the Naxid homeworld of Naxas, produced a list of ships to which he might appeal.

  He’d tell them when the time came. And he still had ground-line communication to other ships berthed in the Fleet dockyard. He might be able to save some of them yet.

  Another of Martinez’s displays shifted through a succession of other security monitors, particularly those on the Naxid stretch of the ring station. The Fleet enclave was nearly deserted: everyone, even the civilian workers, had been given tickets to the Festival of Sport and a day off. The only living presence in the Fleet areas were the two guards posted by every airlock.

  A third display showed the football match between the Coronas and the Beijings. Tarafah’s offensive strategy had thus far scored two goals and held the opposition scoreless. Martinez had to admire his captain’s ability as a strategist—he was truly a superb and inspiring sports tactician.

  A fourth, smaller display scrolled slowly between the other games being played at the same time. His friend Aragon of the Declaration had won his wushu match with a joint lock in the second round, but Aidepone’s team from the Utgu wasn’t faring very well in fatugui, a game involving a large ovoid ball being flung across a field by what looked like giant teaspoons held in the matchstick arms of the Daimong players. Two of Aidepone’s side had been declared dead, in fatugui a temporary condition, but their opponents now had the advantage of numbers and had scored several points, and their own team kept stumbling over them.

  Senior Fleet Commander Fanaghee was enthroned, with Kulukraf and others of her senior staff, in the stadium where two champion Naxid teams were deeply involved in lighumane, a game of position and movement that seemed like an unlikely combination of chess and rugby football—at one moment players carrying large white or black placards were participating in diabolically subtle maneuvers on a green field, and then all periodically dissolved into riot and violence. The camera frequently returned to Fanaghee, as if to demonstrate to everyone that she was here watching sport instead of, say, conspiring at mutiny aboard the Majesty.

  All these displays, however, were little more than a distraction to Martinez. A fifth, central display was open to a navigation plot. He had been trying to find an escape route for Corona once he got her out of dock, and the possibilities weren’t promising. The direct wormhole route to Zanshaa was blocked by the cruiser Judge Kybiq, which had departed the station en route to Zanshaa three days earlier.

  Other than Zanshaa, the nearest Fleet concentration was the Fourth Fleet headquarters at Felarus, but Fanaghee had cleverly blocked that as well, with the heavy cruiser Bombardment of Turmag, shaking down after a period of refit. The refit, Martinez suspected, had been timed precisely, in order to provide Fanaghee an excuse to order the cruiser out of dock.

  Corona would have to return to Zanshaa the long way around, through Magaria Wormhole 4, then through a series of three other wormholes leading through uninhabitable or sparsely inhabited systems. It would add twenty to forty days to Corona’s journey, depending on how hard Martinez wanted to push the acceleration.

  And then he had to cope with the possibility that once he arrived at Zanshaa, he would find that the capital itself might have fallen to the
rebels. In that case, he could launch whatever missiles he had at Zanshaa’s ring station, he supposed, try to kill whatever enemy ships were there before he was destroyed himself, then go down marked in history as Nature’s very own fool.

  His navigation plot was complicated by the fact that he hadn’t any real-world experience as a navigator, only basic training, and that long ago. Martinez double- and triple-checked everything, and leaned heavily on the computer for assistance. He realized he had been staring at his navigation plot for some time without thought, and reached for the communications button to call to the officer’s galley for a flask of coffee when a movement caught his eye, and a cold chill eddied along his flesh. His second display was automatically flicking through a series of security camera shots from the Naxid part of the ring, and quite suddenly there was movement.

  A lot of movement, and on every camera.

  Naxids were pouring off their ships. Whole long columns of them, swarming out of the airlocks four abreast.

  He scrambled upright on his seat and only caught the yell of alarm that rose in his throat just in time to keep it from breaking out. It’s really happening, he thought.

  “Damn! Damn-damn-damn!” It was Mabumba cursing, and it took Martinez a staggered second to realize that he was lamenting the fact that the Beijings had just scored a goal.

  Martinez stabbed at the alarm pad and missed—his overexcited thumb overshot the target and skiddered along the smooth metal console surface—and then he swiped at the switch with his entire hand and managed to shove it over. Furious, urgent bells blared throughout the ship. Mabumba almost jumped out of his chair, and stared at Martinez with wild, disbelieving eyes.

  Martinez reached for the headset with its earphones, built-in microphones, and virtual reality projectors, put it on his head, and snapped the chin strap shut. He took a moment to get ahold of his leaping nerves, then spoke into the microphone.

  “Communications,” he prefaced to the computer. “General announcement to ship’s company.”

  He waited a half second or so, then spoke again.

  “General quarters,” he said. “This is the officer of the watch. Everyone to their action stations.”

  He thought about adding the words This is not a drill, but decided that this was not a time to strain the crew’s credulity.

  He repeated the announcement twice, then shut off the blaring alarm that was only serving to make him more nervous.

  “End announcement,” he said, and then, “Communications. Page crewman Alikhan.”

  Alikhan’s miniature face appeared in the display. “My lord.”

  “I need you at the airlock. There may be a Buena Vista situation coming up.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “End transmission.”

  Martinez began reconfiguring his displays to employ more security cameras and see what the Naxids were up to. Hundreds were on the concourse, martialing under their officers and crowding toward the electric Fleet trains that carried personnel and equipment through the Fleet areas of the ring station.

  The first of the trains began moving as the door to Command rolled open and Navigator Trainee Diem entered along with Pilot Second Class Eruken. They looked at Martinez with expressions that appeared to combine annoyance with concern for his mental health.

  “May I ask what’s happening, my lord?” Eruken ventured.

  “Not yet, Pilot. Take your seat.”

  Martinez considered alerting the other ships. This would warn the Naxids of his suspicions, but it was too late for them to change their plans now.

  “Comm,” Martinez told Vonderheydte. “Get me the all-ships channel.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  There was a moment’s pause, then the shrieks of a huge crowd and the shouts of an overexcited announcer filled the room. Martinez gathered that Goalie Koslowski had just made a brilliant save.

  The lanky Cadet Kelly, entering at that moment to take her place at the weapons board, gave a cheer.

  “Not the game, Vonderheydte!” Martinez shouted. “Get me the fucking—”

  “Sorry, my lord!” Vonderheydte had to shout over the cries of the announcer. “Someone’s broadcasting the game on the all-ships channel.”

  “Emergency channel, then!”

  There was a brief susurrus as the channels were switched, and then the game blared on again.

  “Sorry, my lord! It’s on the emergency channel too!”

  Martinez clenched his fists. “Any channel.”

  But he knew by now that Vonderheydte would find the games on every channel. He could try to shout a warning to the other ships over the crowd and the announcer, but who knew if anyone would be listening?

  “Ground line, Comm,” he said. Cable data connections to the ring station were still in place.

  From behind he heard the soft sound of Vonderheydte’s fingertips touching pads on his console. “Ground lines are down, my lord.”

  “What’s going on?” Mabumba murmured, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Our communications have been cut,” Martinez told him. “Let’s just think for a minute about who might have done that and why.”

  The others in the control room exchanged glances, clearly bewildered. At that moment Tracy and Clarke, the two sensor operators, arrived in the sudden silence, and ghosted to their places as if struck by a guilty conscience.

  Nervous energy drummed through Martinez. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to be in motion along with his ship. He paged Maheshwari.

  “My lord?”

  “I wanted you to know that it’s begun.”

  Maheshwari nodded. “I heard the alarms, my lord.”

  Martinez realized he’d called the master engineer less to alleviate Maheshwari’s nervousness than his own. He had been reaching into the engine room for comfort, for someone who understood, who would make him feel less lonely in his moment of command.

  It wasn’t helping. “Keep holding at five minutes,” he said, for lack of anything better. “End transmission.” He then blanked the screen because the first of the computer-guided trains were shooting through the human areas of the ring station.

  They didn’t stop. They raced on to the Daimong area, where the most powerful ships were concentrated in the heavy squadron, and then began to slow.

  Martinez’s sleeve button gave a quiet chime. He answered, and the sleeve display shifted to show Alikhan.

  “The Naxids are moving past, my lord. I’ve counted nine trains.”

  “I know that. They’ve jammed or cut all ships’ communications, by the way.”

  “Shall we move the guard into the ship, my lord?”

  Martinez hesitated, and glanced at his screens. The Naxids were disembarking in the Daimong areas and moving for the Daimong ships in columns thirty or forty strong, officers in the lead. They weren’t deploying in combat formations, or otherwise look as if they were going to shoot down the guards and storm the airlocks.

  They hadn’t showed their hand yet. It all might still have a rational explanation. And Martinez, for all the fear and adrenaline that blazed through his veins, still hoped there was.

  “My lord?” Alikhan reminded.

  “Not yet,” Martinez decided. “When they approach, stall them. Keep everyone calm. Tell them you’ll have to speak to the officer of the watch and get into the airlock yourself. But don’t come back to the ship, mind the outer hatch instead, and get ready to open it when I signal Buena Vista.”

  Now it was Alikhan’s turn to hesitate. “Very well, my lord,” he said finally.

  “End transmission,” Martinez said, his eyes riveted to the displays. More trains were loaded in the Naxid areas and sent out, this time to the medium squadron.

  The medium squadron, which had Corona as its smallest ship.

  In the Daimong areas, the first Naxid columns had reached the airlocks. Conversations were going on between the airlock guards and the officers leading the columns.

  Martinez felt hi
s nerves coil and tense and flare. Resist, he silently urged the Daimong. Keep them off. Resist.

  At Bombardment of Kathung, flagship of the heavy squadron, the guards braced, stood aside, and watched as the Naxids swarmed into the airlock.

  “No.” The word forced its way past Martinez’s locked throat. “No, keep them out.”

  Two more sets of guards, those on either side of Kathung, stood aside as they saw the Naxids enter the flagship.

  From the camera above Corona’s lock, Martinez saw a train slowing as it prepared to enter the nearest station. The open-topped cars were black with Naxids.

  Martinez switched from one camera to the next on the Daimong sections. At least six ships were being boarded. Polite conversations seemed to be going on at the other airlocks. Nowhere did Martinez see any violence.

  He zoomed in on one of the Naxid columns. At least half the Naxids were carrying sidearms.

  Whatever was happening, it wasn’t a surprise inspection. You didn’t carry weapons while making an inspection.

  His cuff button chimed again. “Private comm: answer,” he said.

  Alikhan. “They’re coming, my lord.”

  “Very good. Blank your screen but keep this channel open.”

  Martinez configured his own sleeve display so his words would not be transmitted: this left him free to give other orders without the Naxids overhearing through Alikhan’s comm rig.

  He called up the airlock display onto his command board and made certain he had the airlock commands ready.

  A glance at the displays showed Naxids boarding at least two more ships of the Daimong squadron.

  He looked at the first display, which showed the column moving with the usual Naxid scrambling haste toward Corona. The column slammed to the equally normal abrupt halt in front of the two airlock guards, and the commanding officer braced briefly to acknowledge the guards’ salutes.

  Only a lieutenant, Martinez saw. The senior officers were at the games, being seen on camera and maintaining the illusion that all was normal.