The Praxis (27 page)

Martinez nodded. “For the moment, let's say yes.”

Alikhan's voice grew firm. “In that case, no one. Maheshwari's the only one with sufficient, ah, gravity to appreciate the situation.”

Martinez's fingers tapped the control panel. “I'm sending you a copy of the recordings and translations. Show them to Maheshwari.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Martinez blanked the screen, unlocked the displays, and swung them up and out of the way. A strong sense of relief swept through him: he was accomplishing something, working against the threat he knew existed.

He bounded to his feet like a man escaping prison. And then he remembered that his next task was to speak to the captain, and again his heart sank.

 

L
ieutenant Captain Tarafah looked up from his ocoba-bean salad. “Ah. Lieutenant Martinez. I'd been wanting to speak with you.”

Irrational hope blazed in Martinez's heart. Tarafah and the rest of the team had just returned from their day's practice, and the elcap, Lieutenants Koslowski and Garcia, and the trainer, Weaponer/First Mancini, were settling down to a meal at the captain's table. They were all still in their sweats, with
Corona's
blazing badge on their breasts, and smelled of exercise and the outdoors. The captain's table was scattered with bottles and cold dishes as well as papers and diagrams of plays.

And now Tarafah actually wanted to speak to him. Martinez had worried about being resented for intruding on the captain's time, but it seemed he wasn't entirely out of the captain's thoughts.

“Yes, Lord Elcap?” he answered.

Tarafah looked at him with cool eyes. “When you joined at Zanshaa you offered to have a player as one of your servants,” he said. “I'd like to take advantage of your offer, if I may.”

Martinez was surprised. He had long ago assigned his spare-servant scheme to the realm of unsuccessful ploys.

“Of course, Lord Elcap,” he said.

“Good. Our only weakness is defense, and Conyngham on the
Judge Jeffreys
has agreed to trade us one of his backs. He'll be your orderly until, umm, we can work him in elsewhere.”

Till he can be promoted to Specialist/First in some poor fool's division,
Martinez thought.
Let's hope it isn't mine.

But he agreed, of course, and as heartily as he could manage. “When will he come aboard?”

“In the next few days, so we can have him in place when the season starts.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The captain's cook brought in the main dish, a steaming casserole fragrant with allspice and onions, and placed it before the captain. “Ragout of beef, Lord Elcap,” he said, and then his eyes turned uncertainly to Martinez. “Shall I set Lieutenant Martinez a place, my lord?”

Tarafah favored Martinez with a brilliant white smile. “Certainly. Why not?”

“Thank you, Lord Elcap.”

Martinez sat at the end of the polished mahogany table while the captain's steward provided him a place setting and poured him a glass of dark ale from the pitcher in the center of the table. The others were in a exuberant mood: the day's practice must have gone well. Martinez tried not to fidget with his silverware.

Tarafah's shaved head bent over his plate for a moment as he sampled the ragout, and then he looked up at Martinez, his face glowing with enthusiasm. “Lord Gareth,” he said, “I'm pleased to say that I've reviewed every recording of
Beijing
's games last season—and now I know their weakness! Three times in the last season their left half and their left back were drawn out of position in exactly the same way—a goal each time! No one's noticed it till now.”

“Excellent, my lord,” Martinez encouraged. “Very perspicacious.”

“So for us, it's Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby—and goal!” Tarafah brandished his fork in triumph. “We were drilling it all afternoon.”

“Superb, Lord Elcap! Congratulations!” Martinez raised his glass. “To our coach!”

Tarafah beamed while the others toasted him. Martinez took a breath. Certainly there would never be a better moment.

“Apropos tactics,” he began. “I've noticed the Naxid squadrons are up to something odd. May I show you?”

“Show us?” Tarafah bent over his plate again.

“May I use the display here?” Without waiting for permission, Martinez reached over the pink head of the plump, bald Mancini and touched the control of the wall screen. He activated his own sleeve display and slaved the wall screen to it.

“For the last three days,” Martinez said, “Naxid officers have been making an extraordinary tour of the non-Naxid berthing areas. For the first two days, Squadron Commander Kulukraf brought parties of officers along the berthing bays, and today the officers brought noncoms with them. These are recordings I made this afternoon…”

He went through the evidence piece by piece, just as he had with Alikhan. The others ate in silence as he spoke, Mancini and Garcia occasionally craning around to view the display behind them. At the end, with the screen frozen on a Naxid officer flashing the symbol for “
target,
” Martinez turned to the captain.

“I wonder, Lord Elcap,” he said, “what you make of it?”

Tarafah raised his napkin to dab gravy off his goatee.
“Should
I make anything of it?”

Garcia spoke hesitantly. “They're obviously rehearsing something.”

“And it's a maneuver that requires weaponers, engineers, and the constabulary,” Martinez said.

Koslowski, the premiere, frowned at him. He was a long-legged, broad-handed man, as befit his position of goalkeeper. “This morning,” he said, “you told me that you thought that all this was the rehearsal for a surprise inspection—”

He barely got out the words before Tarafah thumped a hand down on the table and made the plates jump. “Just before the game? When we're all distracted? That Fanaghee's a vicious little monster, isn't she?” He looked at Koslowski. “I'll have to inspect the ship myself tomorrow morning before breakfast, right when I was hoping to have a last talk with the team.”

“The lord premiere and I have been preparing for the inspection,” Martinez said. “I've had the people hard at work all day.”

Tarafah seemed little mollified. “That's good. But I still can't believe that Fanaghee would take advantage of the Festival of Sport in this way. It just isn't right!”

“My lord,” Martinez said. “I no longer believe that the Naxids are planning a surprise inspection.”

Tarafah blinked at him. “What?” he said. “What are you bothering us with, then?”

Martinez tried to settle his leaping wits. “You don't need weaponers or engineers or constables to pull an inspection, Lord Elcap,” he said. “You need weaponers to control the weapons bays. Engineers to control the engines. And constables to control the crew—
and
the officers.”

Tarafah's brows knit as he tried to puzzle it out. “Yes. That's true. But what are you saying?”

Martinez took a deep breath. “I think the Naxids are going to board the ship and take her. Take
all
the ships they don't have already.”

Tarafah gave a puzzled frown. “Why would Fanaghee do that? She doesn't need to capture our ships. She's
already
in command of the Second Fleet.”

To prevent his hands from trembling with eagerness and frustration, Martinez clamped them on the butter-smooth edge of the table and squeezed.

“She could be acting to suppress a mutiny she believes is about to break out,” Martinez said. “Or it could be a rising of some kind.”

The trainer, Mancini, seemed even more puzzled than his captain. “On the
Festival of Sport?
” he demanded in a high, peevish voice. “A rising on the
Festival of Sport?
”

“What better time?” Martinez asked. “Most of the crew, and all the senior officers, will be off the ship watching the games.”

“The Naxids are
participating
in the festival,” Koslowski said. “They're having a huge tournament of lighumane, and—” He hesitated. “Some of the other sports they do.”

“On the
Festival of Sport?
” Mancini repeated. “Spoil the football and disappoint the fans? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“It doesn't make any sense,” Tarafah said. “Why should Fanaghee lead a rising? She's at the top of her profession—she's a
fleet commander,
for all's sake.”

“I don't know,” Martinez said. He hesitated—he knew this might sound dangerously absurd, but it was the only argument he had left. “Maybe it's not just Fanaghee,” he said. “Maybe
all
the Naxids are rising.”

The others stared at him. Then Koslowski lowered his eyes and shook his head, his lips quirked in a tight smile. “
All
the Naxids?” he murmured. “That's too ridiculous.”

“The Naxids are the most orthodox species under the Praxis,” Tarafah said. “There's never been a single rebellion in Naxid history.”

“They're pack animals,” Koslowski said. “They always submit to authority.”

“
They'd
never spoil the football,” Mancini proclaimed, and smacked his lips as he drank his ale.

“Then what could they possibly be doing?” Martinez asked. “I have no other explanation.”

“That doesn't mean there isn't one,” Koslowski said reasonably. “Maybe Fanaghee's decided to drill her people on boarding. Maybe it's a familiarization tour for new arrivals. Who knows?”

Tarafah seemed happy to agree with his goalkeeper. “This speculation is useless,” he said. “I'm not going to get inside Fanaghee's mind, or Kulukraf's either.” He turned to Martinez. “Lord Gareth, I appreciate your…diligence. But I think you've let your imagination run away with you.”

“Lord Elcap,” desperately, “I—”

“Perhaps we should return to tomorrow's game,” Tarafah said. “That's something a little more within our sphere.”

Martinez suppressed the impulse to hurl his glass at his captain's face.

“To our winning play!” Mancini said, and raised his glass. “Sorensen to Villa to Yamana to Sorensen to Digby—and
goal!
”

Martinez drank with the others, as despairing, unvoiced shrieks echoed one after another in his skull.

 

H
e didn't manage to eat much of his dinner. When the elcap proposed another review of the videos of
Beijing
's game, Martinez excused himself and made his way to his cabin. Once there, he sent messages to the other officers he knew on station, asking if they'd care to meet him in one of the bars on the station. Salzman didn't reply, Ming sent his regrets, Aragon said that he was participating in the wushu tournament in the Festival of Sport and was making an early night of it. Aidepone was likewise preparing for tomorrow's game of fatugui, and only Mukerji accepted. Viewing the transmission, with its sonic interference, Martinez knew that Mukerji was already in a bar.

Martinez joined him in the Murder Hole, a dark, nebulous, and noisy place, with ear-shattering music and dancing. Mukerji bought three rounds of drinks while Martinez showed Mukerji the Naxid maneuvers on his sleeve display and explained his theory.

Mukerji put a friendly arm around Martinez's shoulders. “I always thought you were mad!” he said cheerfully. “Totally mad!”

“You can tell your captain!” Martinez shouted over the music. “I can give you the data! He might be able to save his ship!”

“Totally mad!” Mukerji repeated. He pointed to a couple of Fleet cadets standing by the bar. “If it's my last night of freedom, I want some recreationals,” he said. “Who do you want—the redhead or the other?”

Martinez excused himself and made his way out onto the ring station with whisky fumes swirling through his head.

Perhaps he
was
mad, he thought. No other officer credited his theory about the Naxids. Maybe they'd been right about the absurdity of his premise. It made no sense that the most obedient and orthodox species under the Praxis would suddenly turn rogue.

He admitted to himself that he didn't like Naxids and never had. He likewise admitted that it was an irrational prejudice. Naxids had always made him uneasy, unlike the other species united beneath the Praxis. Perhaps he had let his bias run in advance of the facts.

He thought again of those parties marching up and down the ring station's broad avenue, and at the thought, a chill certainty went through his frame.

No. He
was
right. The Naxids were going to board the ship. It was possible there was some rational explanation for it other than a rising, some reason that hadn't occurred to him, but the boarding
would
happen.

And if the boarding were to be prevented, Martinez would be the one to do it.

Martinez returned to his cabin aboard
Corona
and called Alikhan.

“My lord?”

“No good with the captain,” Martinez said. “Or with anyone else.”

Alikhan didn't seem surprised. “I have spoken to the master engineer,” he said.

“And?”

“Maheshwari agrees with your lordship.” Spoken carefully, in case of eavesdroppers.

Martinez sighed. Maheshwari was something, at least.

“Very well,” Martinez said. “Let me know if—” He fell silent, defeated, then finished, “Let me know if
anything
.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The orange
End Transmission
symbol appeared on Martinez's sleeve display, and he blanked it.

Fully aware that this was the last time he might ever do these things, he took off his clothes, hung them neatly in his tiny closet, and prepared for bed.