The Praxis

by Walter Jon Williams

  Martinez panned the camera after them and found them halted about fifteen paces in front of Corona’s airlock. Their chameleon-weave jackets were already flashing red patterns, and frustration gnawed at Martinez at his inability to read what the Naxids were saying.

  Then he remembered that an imperfect Fleet translation program existed for the Naxid pattern language, and that it was probably installed on Corona’s computers. He triggered the Record button, figuring he’d try to read the conversation later, and zoomed in closely enough so he could see the sleeve badges on the group of warrant officers who hovered respectfully behind their seniors.

  He saw weaponer patches. Engineers. And Military Constabulary, though without the usual red belts and armbands they wore on duty.

  Why those three? Martinez supposed that weaponers and engineers might assist with inspections of weapons bays and engine rooms, but he’d never known them to be a part of any such inspection. And in any case, why were constables in the mix?

  The Naxids swept on to the Perigee in the downspin berth and went through the same routine. Martinez kept the camera on them, kept recording the red patterned flashes. And then he wondered, What else are the Naxids doing?

  He could access most of the military station’s security cameras from his own station, and he began throwing them up on other displays.

  Other Naxid patrols were moving along the ring, demonstrating the same sort of behavior they’d shown along Corona’s stretch of dockyard. The Terran light squadron had its own set of visitors, and the heavy division crewed by Daimong.

  There was no unusual activity near the berths occupied by the two Naxid divisions. The only dockyards visited by the Naxids were those occupied by the three non-Naxid divisions, those labeled “Mutineers” during the recent exercises.

  Weaponers, he thought. Engineers. And the constabulary.

  If you were to take a ship by boarding, he thought, the first thing you’d want to secure would be the missiles with their lethal antimatter warheads, and you’d need weaponers for that. Engineers would be required to secure the engines, which used dangerous antimatter as fuel and whose blazing torch could itself be used as a weapon. Officers would be needed in Command and Auxiliary Command. And armed military cops would make the whole job all that much easier.

  A warning bell began to chime in Martinez’s thoughts. He zoomed the security cameras in on the Naxid parties and began to record the feed.

  Then he started to dig through menus for the program that would translate the Naxid flash patterns.

  He discovered that the bead patterns didn’t translate well. The patterns had evolved in order to help packs of Naxids chase down prey on the dry veldt of their home continent, and they tended to be idiomatic and strongly dependent on context. There were, for instance, about twenty-five ways to flash yes, depending on the situation and who was being addressed, and the patterns could mean anything from a simple affirmative to “this unworthy one is staggered by the percipience of Your Excellency’s reasoning.”

  There was a rigid pattern of symbols, with unambiguous meanings, that were to be used in military situations where absolute clarity was required, but the Naxids weren’t using these. They seemed to be having the equivalent of an informal, slangy conversation, which Martinez thought suspicious since there were both officers and enlisted in the group. The Naxids were instinctively submissive to pack leaders, who in turn behaved with a highly formalized arrogance to underlings: he couldn’t imagine the Naxid superiors using this kind of informal language to their subordinates.

  The only reason Martinez could think of for the idiomatic quality of the flash-dialogue was that the Naxids were striving to make their silent conversation as incomprehensible as possible to outsiders.

  Nevertheless, some of it translated. Repeated more than once was a pattern that meant either “distant coordinates,” or “dusty ground,” or “target”—Martinez was betting on “target.” Other patterns were less ambiguous: “move swiftly,” “make secure,” and “swarm,” which the program explained was a hunting tactic designed to bring down a large prey animal. There were a number of patterns along the lines of “Your lordship shall be obeyed without question,” and “this unworthy one marvels at the dimensions of your”—something that was either “hindquarters,” or “gemel tree,” neither of which seemed suitable to the occasion.

  There were other references, to “cold ocean” and “divan chamber,” phrases that were sufficiently idiomatic that the translation program declined to attempt to assign them meaning. The program declined even to guess at the rest.

  Martinez followed the Naxid parties with the security cameras until their mission was completed. The enlisted returned to their individual ships, but the officers went to Majesty of the Praxis, Fleet Commander Fanaghee’s flagship, presumably to report.

  Martinez thought for a long, somber moment as he stared at the multiple displays, then saved all the recordings and the translations into his personal file. He wiped the screens, thought for another moment, and triggered his sleeve display.

  “Contact Alikhan,” he said.

  Alikhan answered the call within a few seconds. “My lord.”

  “Meet me in Auxiliary Command at once.”

  Alikhan betrayed no hint of surprise at this unusual order. “Very good, my lord.”

  Martinez rose from his seat and glanced around Command. Cadet Vonderheydte was at the position that monitored ship’s systems, bent over a display and probably censoring mail. Signaler/Second Blanchard, in Martinez’s own division, daydreamed over the communications board. Otherwise Command was empty.

  “Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.

  The small, yellow-haired cadet shook himself and straightened at his station. “Lord Lieutenant.”

  “The watch is yours till I return.”

  “The watch is mine, my lord.”

  Martinez pushed his displays up until they clicked into place and stepped out of the locked command cage. He made his way to the exit and then hesitated—Vonderheydte had kept watches before, but usually he or Koslowski had backed him up with an experienced warrant officer.

  “Vonderheydte,” Martinez said.

  “My lord?”

  “Contact me in Auxiliary Command in case of anything unusual or important. Particularly if anyone requests permission to come aboard.”

  The cadet blinked in surprise. “Very good, my lord.”

  Martinez went down the central belt elevator to Auxiliary Command, the armored battle station aft intended for use if Command was destroyed by an enemy or in the hands of mutineers. He paused outside the hatch, then stepped to one side to check the six long, low rooms referred to officially as “biological recreation chambers.” None of the crew were having a romp at present, which was not surprising, considering that the crew remaining on Corona were employed in polishing everything to a golden gleam, something guaranteed to make Martinez less than beloved among the pulpies if they ever discovered that it was his idea.

  He waited for Alikhan’s arrival, then opened Auxiliary Command with his lieutenant’s key. The armored door rolled shut behind them as the lights automatically came on.

  Auxiliary Command was smaller than Command, the stations more cramped and the gimbaled chairs placed closer together. Nevertheless, the metal cages gleamed, and the scent of polish wafted on the breeze: the place had been carefully sleekened and burnished just that morning.

  “I’d like your opinion, Alikhan,” Martinez said as he squeezed between two of the cages to sit in one of the couches at the communications station. “Sit on my right here, watch some video, and tell me what you think.”

  Alikhan eased himself into the couch and lowered the displays until they locked in front of him. Martinez opened his private files and showed Alikhan the Naxid parties marching along the rows of ships, the officers, weaponers, engineers, and constables. He showed the translations the program had made, but offered no comment on them.

  “What are your conc
lusions?” Martinez asked.

  Alikhan stared at the displays, the deep lines of his face set in a frown. “I don’t like to speculate on such things, my lord,” he said.

  “Talk, Alikhan,” Martinez said. “I really need you to help me.”

  Alikhan’s mouth worked beneath his spreading mustachios. Then he sighed and gave a slow nod. “They’re going to take the ship, my lord.” His voice was filled with a tremulous, exalted despair, terror and awe all mingled together. “They’re going to take all the Terran and Daimong ships. Probably tomorrow, when most of the crews will be on Magaria with their teams.”

  Relief trickled through Martinez’s veins. He wasn’t alone in this madness, he had an ally. “But why?” he asked. “Is it a mutiny? Or is Fanaghee acting to stop a mutiny?”

  Alikhan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “The Terran and Daimong divisions were labeled ‘Mutineers’ during the exercises. And the exercises were aimed at holding a wormhole gate against attackers. Are they expecting a counterattack from the Home Fleet after they take the Second Fleet?”

  Alikhan turned to Martinez. “There are Naxid squadrons in the Home Fleet too, my lord.”

  Martinez felt cold fingers caress his spine. This was a factor he hadn’t considered. “Here the Naxids are two-fifths of our strength,” he said, and hoped his tone was optimistic. “In the Home Fleet they’re a smaller percentage.”

  Alikhan’s expression was careful to avoid utter hopelessness. “That’s true, my lord.”

  Martinez turned toward the displays, looked at the images of Naxids marching between docking ports. “I’ll have to tell the captain.”

  Alikhan’s expression did not change. “The captain may not be…receptive,” he ventured.

  “I’ll speak to Koslowski first, if I get the chance.”

  “And if the lord premiere is also distracted?”

  Martinez felt a sudden, angry urge to leap from the acceleration couch and pace around the room. For him, planning and motion were best performed simultaneously. But the room was too crowded with the close-packed acceleration cages, so he settled for savagely wiping the screen of Naxids.

  “I’m trying to think of other officers I know on this station,” he said. “Salzman on the Judge Di. Aragon and Ming on the Declaration. Mukerji the Younger on the Steadfast.” He banged a fist on his armrest in frustration. “That’s all, damn it,” he said, more to himself than to Alikhan. “I did a cipher course with Aidepone on the Bombardment of Utgu but I don’t know him that well. And I don’t know any of the captains at all. And worse than that—”

  Alikhan’s calm voice cut off the flow of words. “How do you plan to communicate with these officers, my lord? The Naxids may be intercepting communications.”

  Despair clawed at Martinez’s heart as he stared hopelessly across the small armored room. He couldn’t even use coded communications: all the Second Fleet had the same codes in common, and Fanaghee or her minions would be able to read anything he tried to send.

  He sighed, then straightened on the couch and put his hands on the control panel in front of him as if he were going to take Corona out of dock. On his right sleeve glittered the soccer ball worn by the Home Fleet champions. “Right,” he said. “So how do we save our ship?”

  “You’ll speak to the officers. And I’ll speak to others.”

  Martinez looked at him. “Speak to who?”

  “Maheshwari. If we have to run, I wouldn’t want to take the ship out of dock without him minding the engines.”

  “Good. And…?”

  Alikhan looked uncertain. “I suppose I should choose only from those likely to be on the ship tomorrow, during the sporting exercises?”

  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.

  Lieutenant 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.”