The Praxis

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Thank you for taking such an interest in me,” Sula went on. “I enjoy your messages and everything you’ve sent me, and I only wish I could send you messages at least as interesting and amusing as yours. But—” She gave a little sigh. “—I’m afraid the news from here has been pretty dull. The most exciting events of the day involve bowel movements, and I’ll spare you the data unless you have an unusually morbid turn of mind.”

  She could still joke, then, Martinez noted. For some reason, this cheered him. He took another sip of his cocktail in celebration.

  Sula shifted on her couch, moving easily in the half-gravity of her ship. “Thanks for the information about Blitsharts’s insurer and creditors. I’m not going to go poking around about Midnight Runner, though—I don’t want the official investigators complaining that an overeager cadet messed up their evidence. Sorry.” She gave a wan smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me for declining the opportunity to pass on something interesting for a change.”

  Martinez shrugged. He knew that in the same situation he personally would have been over Midnight Runner with a magnifying glass and a toothbrush to find out what had happened to Blitsharts. At the very least he’d have downloaded everything he could from the onboard computer.

  Oh well. Maybe Sula didn’t have that kind of curiosity.

  “Thanks again for keeping in touch,” Sula said. “I’ll work on making up something exciting for the next transmission.” Her eyes flicked off-camera. “Computer,” she commanded. “End transmission.”

  The end-stamp appeared on the screen.

  Pneumatics sighed as Martinez leaned his long body back in his desk chair. He was in his apartment, whiling away the moments between the end of his shift and the time when he’d have to leave for a scheduled supper with his sisters.

  He considered sending a reply to Sula, then decided there wasn’t enough time. He finished his cocktail and was on the verge of blanking the screen when it chimed to indicate an incoming call. He answered and found himself staring at Warrant Officer Amanda Taen.

  “Hello?” she queried. “I’m back on station.” A broad smile spread across her face as she saw that Martinez had answered in person.

  He was momentarily derailed as he tried to switch tracks from Sula to the woman he had until recently been pursuing. Warrant Officer Taen was a contrast to Cadet Sula in almost every particular: where Sula was a pale-skinned blonde, Taen had abundant, glossy chestnut hair, dark eyes, and a rosy complexion. Sula’s figure—so far as Martinez could tell from the video, anyway—was certainly feminine, but it was also slim; whereas Taen’s was so lush as to be almost tropical in its abundance.

  Taen exuded a sense of mischief and readiness for fun that haloed her like a cloud of pheremones. Martinez suspected she had no acquaintance whatsoever with Kwa-Zo’s Fifth Book of Mathematical Puzzles.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “Satellite maintenance. The usual.”

  Warrant Officer Taen was second-in-command of a small vessel that maintained, replaced, and repaired the hundreds of communication and sensing satellites in the Zanshaa system. She was frequently absent for days at a time, but her furloughs were equally long, and more than compensated for the length of her missions.

  “I’m engaged for this evening,” Martinez said. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  Taen’s smile broadened. Her look was so direct that Martinez felt it more in his groin than in his mind.

  “I have no plans,” she said. “I hope you can make some for me.”

  Martinez did so, feeling regret as he did so that it wasn’t Sula who had just landed, with a furlough and time on her hands.

  Oh well, he thought. The Fleet did not consider junior officers’ preferences when it made its schedules. Taen was available and Sula was not, and he would be a fool to deny himself one pleasure just because another was a quarter light-hour away.

  After speaking to Amanda Taen, Martinez changed into semiformal evening clothes—nothing was ever casual with his stylish sisters—and took a cab to the old Shelley Palace, where the Martinez salon had been established.

  Along the way, he passed the famous statue of the Great Master Delivering the Praxis to Other Peoples, with its life-size Shaa—twice the size of a Terran—standing on its thick legs with its prow-shaped head lifted toward the horizon. Gray folds of skin draped artfully from the arm that thrust out a display on which the Praxis itself had been carved, beginning with the proud, rather ominous declaration, All that is important is known. Before the Great Master knelt representatives of the subject races, all frozen in postures of astonishment and delight.

  Martinez glanced at the statue with a morose eye and went on his way.

  The Shelley Palace was a huge old thing, several buildings connected by galleries and passages, built over centuries in a succession of architectural styles, horned stone demons capering on the rooftop next to sleek, metallic abstracts of the Devis mode. Lord and Lady Shelley now lived in a smaller, more modern building on a more fashionable street, rented the front part of their old palace to the Martinez sisters, and used the buildings in back as storage for old retainers and penniless relations, who were often seen drifting about the courtyard garden like ancient, homeless ghosts.

  Martinez was let into the building by a young, homely maidservant—no woman in the household was allowed to outshine the Martinez sisters. He was taken to the south drawing room, the one with the view of the Lower City, where he found his sisters Vipsania and Walpurga. They rose so he could buss their cheeks.

  “Cocktail?” Vipsania asked.

  “Why not?”

  “We’ve just made a pitcher of blue melon.”

  “That would suit.”

  Martinez took his drink—which was neither blue nor contained melon—and took a chair facing his sisters.

  Vipsania wore a mauve gown, and Walpurga a turquoise one. Otherwise the sisters looked very much alike, sharing Martinez’s olive skin and dark hair and eyes. Vipsania’s face was perhaps a little sharper, and Walpurga’s jaw a little fuller. Like Martinez, they were tall, and like Martinez, their height was in the length of their spine, not their legs. Both were imposing more than beautiful, and intelligent much more than not.

  Martinez couldn’t imagine how he came to be related to either one of them.

  “We heard from Roland,” Walpurga said. “He’s coming to Zanshaa.”

  Roland was Martinez’s older brother, the presumed heir to the feudal privilege enjoyed by the Martinez clan on Laredo.

  “Why?” Martinez asked.

  “He’s coming for the Great Master’s end.”

  Mental calculations flickered through Martinez’s mind. “Word hasn’t reached Laredo by now, surely.”

  “No. He anticipated.”

  “He wants to be in at the death?” Martinez wondered.

  “He wants to be in at the beginning,” Vipsania said. “He wants to petition the Convocation to open Chee and Parkhurst to settlement.”

  Under Martinez patronage, of course. That was clear but unstated.

  Chee and Parkhurst were two habitable worlds that had been discovered by the Exploration Service in the heyday of planetary discovery, ages ago. As far as anyone knew, they could be reached only by way of wormholes in Laredo’s system. Both had been scheduled for settlement, but as the number of Great Masters had grown smaller, so had their ambitions. The expansion of the empire had halted, and the Exploration Service reduced to a fragment of its former self.

  It had long been the ambition of the Martinez clan to sponsor habitation of the two nearly forgotten worlds. To be patrons of three worlds—now that would elevate them to the highest, most rarified ranks of the Peerage.

  “I wouldn’t expect the Lords Convocate to alter the Great Masters’ policy with any speed,” Martinez asked.

  Vipsania shook her head. “There are plenty of little projects left unfinished. Not all planets to be settled, of course, but appointments to be made, contract
s awarded, grants offered, awards rendered, revenues to be collected or disbursed…if Roland, with Lord Pierre’s help, can find enough allies in the Convocation, I think the project can move along very well.”

  Martinez grimaced. “I hope Roland can get more action out of Lord Pierre than I can,” he said. “And speaking of Lord Pierre, he’s got a cousin named PJ who—”

  “Gareth!”

  Martinez rose as his youngest sister, Sempronia, rushed into the room. She flung her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. He returned the embrace with pleasure.

  Martinez genetics had reached back many generations to find whatever had provided Sempronia’s template. Her wavy light-brown hair had lightened to gold in the sun, and her hazel eyes were likewise flecked with gold, both hair and eyes contrasting dramatically with the Martinez olive complexion. Her nose was tip-tilted, her lips full, her legs long. She was the only one of his sisters in whom Martinez could at all see the lively girl he had left behind, years ago, on Laredo.

  “What have I missed?” Sempronia asked.

  “I was about to broach the subject of your marriage,” Martinez said.

  Sempronia’s eyes widened. “My marriage?”

  “One of you, anyway. It doesn’t seem to matter which.”

  He explained about Lord Pierre’s cousin PJ. “I don’t see why we should marry into a family that won’t even invite us to their palace,” he concluded, “particularly as the fellow’s going to be a complete burden on his in-laws.”

  “We don’t absolutely know that,” Vipsania said. A little frown perched between her eyebrows. She turned to Walpurga. “What do we know of PJ?”

  “He’s a social creature,” Walpurga said. “Quite popular, I understand—well-dressed, well-connected, of course, good-looking. I could ask Felicia about him—she’s in a better position to know.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously,” Martinez protested.

  Vipsania turned her frown toward him. “Not yet,” she said. “But the Ngenis are a family who could be useful to us in the matter of Chee and Parkhurst.”

  “They’re our patrons. They’re supposed to be useful to us anyway.”

  “And in that case we’d have to cut them in on any profits,” Walpurga said. “It might be cheaper to take PJ off their hands.”

  “Which of you,” Martinez asked, “plans to marry this wart on the body politic?”

  “Not me!” Sempronia declared. “I’m still in school!”

  Martinez grinned at her. “Good for you!”

  Vipsania’s frown deepened. “There are worse things than marriage to a highly popular, well-connected man, even if he has run through his funds.”

  “Then you do it,” Sempronia said. Martinez hid a smile: this was a sentiment that he hadn’t quite dared to express himself.

  Vipsania shrugged. “Perhaps I will.”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Walpurga said. “We’ve not yet seen any advantages to the match at all.”

  “True,” Vipsania said. “And I’m not about to marry into any family that won’t see us socially.” She turned to Martinez. “Which means, Gareth dear, that you’ll contact Lord Pierre and inform him that we are willing to be introduced to his cousin, but since Lord Pierre is the only member of the Ngeni family we know, he’ll have to be the one doing the introductions.”

  “Very well,” Martinez said. Perhaps it was the blue melon on top of the cocktail he’d already had at home, but he was unable to entirely suppress the thought that came next. He turned to Sempronia.

  “You’ll have to be the one who gets engaged,” he said. “That’s the way that makes sense.”

  Sempronia blinked at him, startled eyes wide. “I won’t marry him! I already said I wouldn’t!”

  Martinez grinned at Sempronia over the rim of his cocktail glass. “I didn’t say marry,” he said. “I said you’ll have to be the one who gets engaged.”

  Vipsania narrowed her eyes. “Explain yourself, Gareth,” she said.

  “The whole point of getting engaged to PJ is access,” Martinez said. “Access to the Ngenis’ circle. And the best means of prolonging access is an engagement—a long engagement.”

  Vipsania gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Go on.”

  “There’s no reason why you or Walpurga can’t marry after a short engagement, especially if Roland’s here,” Martinez said. “So it’ll have to be Sempronia who gets engaged to PJ, because we’ll be able to insist that she can’t marry till she’s finished school.” He looked at Sempronia. “How many years do you have left, Proney?”

  “Two,” Sempronia said suspiciously.

  “Surely you can fail a few courses and make it three,” Martinez said. “And after that, some postgraduate work might be necessary to fully round your education. And of course our lawyers can drag out the negotiations for the marriage contract for, well, ages I suppose.”

  Light glimmered in Vipsania’s eyes. “And in the meantime…” she said.

  “In the meantime,” Martinez echoed, “we have access to the most exclusive circles in the High City. Roland will be able to pitch his planetary development scheme to the leaders of the Convocation, and surely one of you”—Addressing Vipsania and Walpurga—“will find someone in that circle for a husband. Probably both of you, if I know you at all. And pick someone, if you please, who can assure me a promotion or a staff job, or both. And then…” He smiled at Sempronia. “Surely with such a man as PJ is likely to turn out to be, you can find some reason to break the engagement. Drunken behavior in public, a dread secret from the past, a mistress stowed away in a closet, an unacceptable number of natural children, something. Unless of course,” he added as an afterthought, “you actually fall in love with the poor brute, in which case I’m personally packing you into a crate and shipping you back to Laredo.”

  There was a moment of silence in which all three sisters looked at Martinez. Vipsania gave a little nod, then turned to Sempronia. “We’ll have to discuss this again, Proney dear.”

  “No we won’t!” Sempronia said.

  Walpurga echoed Vipsania’s nod. “Oh yes we shall,” she said.

  Sempronia turned to Martinez. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this!” she said.

  “I’m not,” Martinez said. “If it were up to me, I’d give PJ a swift kick off the planet for daring even to think of marrying any of my precious sisters. But since Vipsania and Walpurga are insisting on taking this seriously, I thought I’d better work to minimize any possible damage.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome!” Martinez said brightly, and sipped his blue melon.

  Poor PJ, he thought. The man didn’t know what he was getting into.

  The door chime rang, then the other guests began arriving. There was a lawyer named Gellimer who was very attentive toward Vipsania, two young women Sempronia knew from school, a pair of elderly Shelley relatives who lived in the rear of the palace and acted as chaperones, their presence permitting the young ladies to entertain gentlemen. Arriving a bit late was someone from the Treasury named Castro, who followed yachting and was very interested in Martinez’s solution to the problem of Blitsharts’s runaway yacht. Martinez demonstrated the gyrations of Midnight Runner by hanging a table knife from his thumb and forefinger and rotating it in a complicated way, and he looked across the table to find Vipsania’s eyes on him.

  “Do you know Lady Sula well?” she asked.

  Martinez was surprised. “We speak now and again,” he said. “Of course, she’s a quarter light-hour out.”

  “Do you think she would be interested in coming to our party?”

  Martinez was even more surprised. “I’ll ask her,” he said, then smiled.

  His sisters rarely made such a useful suggestion.

  “Introducing me to your family already?” Sula said. “I suppose I should be flattered.” Her face showed weary but genuine pleasure. “Well,” she said, “why not? The needs of the Fleet permitting, I’d be hono
red to accept.”

  Martinez smiled. He felt a warm buoyancy enter his soul, and was willing to accept the possibility that sisters had their uses after all.

  He listened to the rest of Sula’s brief message, then checked the time display to see when Lord Commander Enderby could be expected to return. Not yet—he and Gupta were at yet another one of the interminable planning sessions relating to the Great Master’s end, leaving Martinez in charge of communications while they were gone. Since he had time available, he called Lord Pierre. At the moment, he felt as if he could handle a dozen Lord Pierres.

  “My sisters have agreed to be introduced to your cousin,” he said.

  For a moment Lord Pierre seemed puzzled, as if he didn’t recall what Martinez was talking about, then comprehension entered his eyes. “Shall I bring him to the—” He hesitated. “Where is it that your sisters are staying?”

  Martinez affected surprise. Lord Pierre wasn’t about to get away with that. “You can hardly bring PJ to the Shelley Palace for a cold-blooded inspection,” he said. “He’s not a stud horse.” Though of course that’s exactly what he is. “It’s you that will have to play host, I’m afraid. And since I doubt it would be very comfortable for PJ to have my sisters descend on him like the Three Fates, there should be more than the six of us in the party.”

  “Six?” Lord Pierre raised an eyebrow. “You’re planning on attending yourself?”

  “A chaperone should be present, don’t you think?”

  A frown knit between Lord Pierre’s brows. “You’re going to be formal as all that?”

  “These are my sisters,” Martinez said virtuously.

  The whole business of chaperonage was something Martinez didn’t quite understand: things were handled otherwise in a Fleet where recreational tubes were installed on every ship. But some of the old families insisted on keeping their bloodlines unblemished, and would only marry those with a certificate of purity.