The Praxis (6 page)

He hesitated a moment, then used Fleet Commander Enderby's code key to call for her file. Enderby might want a report on the pilot.

Oh my.
Martinez, slumped with weariness in his chair, straightened to get a better view of Caroline Sula's face as it materialized on the display. It was extraordinary—pale, nearly translucent skin, emerald-green eyes, white-gold hair worn collar-length. The picture had caught her with a quirk of humor at the corners of her lips, as if she were about to make an ironic remark to the cameraman. And the camera clearly adored her—Martinez threw the picture into 3D and rotated it, and Sula didn't have a single bad angle.

Hope she's not married,
was his first thought. His second was that he didn't much care if she were.

And then he noted the title that graced her official records. Caroline,
Lady
Sula. Why hadn't he heard of her?

He paged through her service records. Unmarried—well, good. Her birth as a Peer had guaranteed her a slot in a military academy, and her record there was mixed—low grades the first year, better the second, top marks the third. After graduation she'd received good reports from her superiors—the words “intelligent” and “efficient” showed up a lot—though there were two comments regarding her “inappropriate sense of humor.” She had volunteered for pinnace training after her first year, and again won top marks as a pilot—her marks for high-gee and disorienting environments were good, and made Martinez feel more easy about sending her on this mission.

It seemed she was trying very hard to be a good, even outstanding, officer. But Martinez had to wonder why. The higher ranks of Peers considered it bad form to work this hard at anything. Someone with a palace in the High City should rise through the ranks without effort.

He thought to check Sula's family, and there found his answer.

Both of Caroline Sula's parents, high officials in the Ministry of Works, had been found guilty of conspiring to steal millions from government contractors. Nine years ago they and their associates had been publicly flayed and dismembered at the public execution ground in the Lower City. Their property was confiscated, and the remaining family banished from Zanshaa.

Martinez gave a slow, silent whistle. Sula Palace didn't belong to the Sula family anymore.

Maybe nothing did.

 

C
adet Caroline Sula watched Captain Blitsharts's yacht roll and tumble against the cold velvet darkness. She illuminated it with floodlights, and watched it carefully as it yawed and spun. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with
Midnight Runner
, no obvious damage, no clue as to why it had run out of control. Not even a nick on its shiny paint.

Whatever was wrong was on the inside. Damn it.

She nudged her pinnace to a position on the axis of the
Runner's
spin, the line along which she would have to creep in order to mate with the runaway craft. Proximity alarms blared, and Sula cut them off.

Maybe the alarms were right. The view didn't look encouraging from here, with the yacht's spinning bow lunging toward her with every beat of her heart.

She decided not to be stupid and to take some meds to inhibit motion sickness. She'd be sleepy after the adrenaline wore off, but that was better than being sick.

Or dead.

She charged a med injector with the Fleet's standard antinausea drug and placed the injector to her neck, over the carotid artery. And hesitated.

Seconds passed. When she took the injector away, her hand was trembling.

Not like this.

She put the injector back in the med kit and took out a pair of med patches. She took off her helmet, peeled away the clear polymer backing of the patches, and placed one behind each ear. It would take longer for the patches to work, but at least she wouldn't have nightmares afterward.

Her mouth had gone dry. She took a drink of water from the tube built into her seat back, donned and closed her helmet, and reached toward the comm board so she could transmit her decisions to Operations Command.

Then she thought better of it. She was alone. They had
sent
her out here alone. It would take half an hour for her signal to reach Operations at the speed of light, hours for a reply to return. They couldn't help her do her job any more than they already had.

You've got to
screw
it in.
The words floated into Sula's mind, and she laughed.

Right, Lieutenant Martinez, whoever you are. This is for you.

She touched Transmit, sending audio and video both. “Cadet Sula to Lieutenant Martinez, Operations Command. I am about to attempt rendezvous with
Midnight Runner.
I will send telemetry throughout the maneuver.” She hesitated, then twitched her eyebrows toward the camera. “Please bear in mind that I haven't ever screwed in quite this way before.”

She ended the transmission, arranged to send a continuous broadcast of vehicle telemetry and radar data to Zanshaa's ring, and pointedly avoided sending any data from inside the pinnace—visuals or vital signs from the monitors in her suit. If she passed out, said or did something stupid, shit her pants, or abandoned herself to a fit of screaming terror, at least Lord Commander Enderby wouldn't be watching.

Sula took a deep breath of the canned air in her vacuum suit. Her mouth was dry again.

She decided to go virtual for a better view of the outside environment. The close confines of the cabin vanished from her visual receptors, replaced by the crisp visuals of the outside monitors, with heads-up displays of critical ship systems and controls superimposed on the outside view. At once she thought she'd made a mistake. The view of
Midnight Runner,
through the hyperreality of the virtual world—the sense that all this was happening
inside her skull
—was more frightening than if she'd been peering out a window at the same sight. She could
sense
the mass of that prow coming around like a bludgeon every heartbeat, and feel pure malevolence in the way it seemed to
reach
for her…

Get a grip,
she told herself. She fought the fear that pulsed through her veins, took deliberate breaths to lower the triphammer beating of her heart. Reached for the maneuvering controls on the arms of her chair. Tried to time the swing of
Midnight Runner's
bow. And triggered her thrusters.

One plane at a time.
Maneuvers were calibrated in roll, pitch, and yaw. She started with roll, nudged the control in her left fist. Vertigo shimmered through her inner ear as it sensed her craft starting to tumble, but she mastered it.
Midnight Runner
's motion shifted relative to her own, began to seem less eccentric. She kept her attention focused not on the runaway yacht, but on the heads-up display and the roll indicator. She kept nudging the boat's roll higher till she saw it match the number that the simulation had predicted for Blitsharts's yacht.

Good. But that was the easy part. Her inner ear could adapt well enough to spinning on one axis, but when she began to alter pitch and yaw, the cockpit—which was well forward in the boat, like that of Blitsharts's—would swoop and spin through a series of freakish arcs, as if stuck on the end of an erratic pendulum.

Sula began to nudge the pitch control in her right hand. At first the sensation was barely distinguishable, but as pitch increased and the bow of the pinnace swooped in larger and larger circles, the vertigo built. Fear shivered through her mind. She might not be able to do this for long, possibly not for the length of time it would take to gradually increase her pitch and yaw.

Do it all at once,
she thought. She added yaw to her movements, both hands working now. She kept her gaze focused fiercely on the
Runner,
trying to ignore the wildly spinning stars in the background. The yacht's complex motions began to moderate relative to her pinnace, until
Midnight Runner
finally stood still in her vision, the bow no longer lunging at her but simply hanging there against the pirouetting star field.

Vertigo swam through Sula's mind in a series of surges, like an inexorable flood tide. Her suit clamped gently on her arms and legs, forcing blood out of her extremities. Her vision was beginning to narrow. She knew it was time to get this over with.

She nudged the controls to back her boat, stern first, toward the yacht. It felt as if her bowels were trying to climb up through her throat—Sula swallowed hard and shook sudden tears from her eyes. She was only a few seconds from grappling, and then she could wrestle both boats to a standstill.

And then Sula saw whiteness blossom in the spotlights that illuminated the scene, and sudden horror surged through her veins. Maneuvering thrusters had just fired—
Blitsharts's
thrusters. The yacht's bow began to swing. In terror, Sula shoved both controls forward, trying to get clear—and then there was a sudden massive lunge as tons of yacht shouldered into her pinnace, followed by a horrid rumble and a hideous scraping sound that shivered along the hull. A howling alarm jolted her nerves. For several terrible seconds she felt the prolonged contact in her bones, and then she was free, away from
Runner's
embrace.

Her vision had contracted almost to nothing. She fought the ship's pendulum motion by feel alone, battling the vertigo that swam her mind. She was only certain she had stabilized the ship's motion when the blackness began to retreat from her vision and she saw the virtual world again with its displays.

Bile stung her sinus. She shut off the collision alarm, turned off the virtual displays to bring her cockpit back in her vision again, then lay in her acceleration couch and drew one shuddering breath after another while she tried hard not to throw up. Probably the only thing that stopped her was the thought that her suit was much less efficient at coping with vomit than with urine.

Eventually the urge to vomit faded, as did the thunderous crash of her heart. Sula opened her helmet and wiped sweat from her face, and only then remembered that she should have checked hull integrity before opening her suit to the environment.

She went over the displays, triggered her pinnace's diagnostics and found no sign of damage. Then she checked the exterior displays and found the long scratch on the pinnace's hull where Blitsharts's boat had contacted her own, the light blue paint that had been Kandinski's pride scraped down to the pale resinous hull.

Sula mopped her face again. She shifted the exterior displays to
Midnight Runner
, which was slowly drifting away while still tumbling. The yacht's motion was different now: the collision, plus Blitsharts's thrusters, had added more complexity to
Runner's
movement.

Damn. She mopped her face again and hoped she was presentable for video, that her next message wouldn't show Enderby a wild-eyed, panicked junior.

She triggered the comm board and tucked in her chin to keep her jaw, and her voice, from trembling. “Cadet Sula to Operations Command. The rendezvous failed, due to Blitsharts firing thrusters during the maneuver. There was a collision, but hull integrity is uncompromised and ship systems undamaged. I will evaluate
Midnight Runner's
current motion and try to discover whether it is possible to attempt another rendezvous.”

Sula ceased transmission, watched
Runner
spin away through the void, and slowly came to the realization that she was now off the hook. The vehicle telemetry she'd sent to Operations would show Blitsharts's thrusters firing and ruining the rendezvous. She could hardly be blamed for not attempting rendezvous again, not with a target that was tumbling in a more dangerous pattern.

The mission had failed, and it wasn't her fault. All she had to do was take a close look at
Midnight Runner's
new, more complex tumbling pattern, then decide it was too dangerous to attempt.

And the failure would be
Blitsharts's
fault.
No blame will attach
…For once, perhaps for the only time in her service career, that statement would actually be true.

She was free to abandon the mission.

For a long moment Sula listened to the air circulate through the cockpit and wondered why she didn't feel like celebrating.

She nudged the controls and sent her pinnace after
Midnight Runner
. She parked again along the axis of the
Runner's
spin, and slowly eyeballed the yacht as it tumbled. Yes, the movement was more complex. More dangerous.

If she went in for the rendezvous again, she'd have to do it faster, finish it before she passed out.

What do you mean
if? she demanded of herself. Surely she wasn't going through with this.

“Display: go virtual,” she commanded.

Space expanded in her skull as her view of the cockpit faded. The yacht rolled in the void of stars.

“Display: show only images within one light-second.”

The stars, and the brighter star that was Vandrith, winked out. When the pinnace was tumbling, the frenzied dance of the stars were both a distraction and a temptation to motion sickness.

“Display: freeze motion. Display: link pointer to hand controls. Display: pointer is now at target. Display: attach artificial horizon to target at pointer. Display: resume motion. Display: link hand controls to maneuvering thrusters.”

With these commands, Sula used her attitude controls to manipulate a virtual “pointer” in the display, attaching an artificial horizon—a flat open gridiron colored a highly artificial fluorescent orange—to the skin of Blitsharts's boat. This now rolled and pirouetted along with the yacht's motion, a flat plane that danced in a frenzied circle around her.

With further commands, she narrowed the artificial horizon until it was only a strip, an orange carpet that led right to the point on
Midnight Runner
where she could successfully grapple.