Praxis, p.18
Praxis, page 18
Because no one quite knew what to expect following the death of the last Shaa, Fleet elements had been dispersed around the empire in order to preserve order. Now that order seemed to have been preserved without the intervention of the Fleet, the squadrons were reassemblingbut they were also reshuffling. Two of Fleetcom Fanaghees squadrons were new to the Magaria station, and so she had declared a series of maneuvers, the two Naxid squadrons versus the other three. It was a reasonably even match, as the Naxid ships were more heavily armed and included the only battleship.
Coronahad arrived on station just as the maneuvers were beginning, and to Tarafahs alarm had been added to the second division as its smallest ship, the rest being medium and light cruisers.
Maneuvers werent common in the Fleet. Squadrons had to spend a month or more at high accelerations beforehand, and the same amount of time decelerating afterward. Martinez had participated in maneuvers only once, years ago, when he was a young cadet on the Dandaphis.
Live-fire exercises, particularly on short notice, had not exactly been Tarafahs specialty. So Martinez wasnt surprised to hear renewed tension in his captains voice as he spoke to the weapons officer.
Weapons, this is a drill, Tarafah said, following form. Target salvo one at trailing enemy cruiser. This is a drill.
This is a drill, my lord. Salvo one targeted at trailing enemy cruiser.
Weapons, this is a drill. Fire salvo one.
There was a brief, suspenseful pause as gauss rails flung missiles into spacethere was no recoil detected in Commandafter which solid-fuel boosters carried the missiles to a safe distance before their antimatter engines ignited. An instant later Cadet Kelly was hurled after them in her pinnace.
Salvo one away, Lord Elcap. Pinnace one away. She paused and only then remembered her disclaimer. This is a drill.
Martinez glanced at the corner of his screen that showed the weapons bays. Nothing was happening, a good sign, and the weaponers all seemed to be remaining in the safety of their hardened shelters.
The missiles raced off on their preprogrammed tracks, followed by the pinnace that was supposed to shepherd them. Naturally warheads wouldnt actually explodenot unless someone in the weapons department had really bollixed something upbut their effects would be simulated; or at least, their assumed effects would.
Not that what the missiles actually did would matter: the fate of all the ships, not to mention their missiles, had already been decided. Fleetcom Fanaghee and her staff had labored many hours to script the maneuvers to the last detail. The two Naxid squadrons, designated the defenders of the Praxis, were holding one of Magarias wormholes against mutineers, and the Praxis, along with Fanaghees squadrons, would inevitably triumph.
As for Corona, it would attack with the second division against the enemys light squadron. The first salvos fired by each side were scheduled to annihilate each other in a simulated spray of antimatter radiation, thus confusing sensors and masking maneuvers from the other sidethe missiles wouldnt actually detonate, and the sensors confusion was programmed. The second salvo from the enemy would mostly fall to point-defense weapons, but one would detonate near enough to the Corona to damage one of the weapons bays and require the venting of one of the antimatter storage tanks, thus providing some useful drill for the frigates damage-control teams.
Coronawould fight on, launching several more waves of missiles, until annihilated by an oncoming barrage from the flagship at precisely 29:01:021. The entire battle could have been loaded into the ships computers and fought without a single officer giving an order, except this was specifically forbidden. The officers were to have practice at giving orders, even if the orders were scripted well in advance.
Weapons, this is a drill. Fire salvo two. This is a drill.
The officers were very scrupulous indeed to give the right orders. They and their ships would be judged by how well they followed the plan. The point of the maneuver wasnt who won, but who best did what they were told.
This is a drill. Salvo two away, Lord Elcap. This is a drill.
The tension in Command seemed to fade with news of the two successful launches.
Enemy light squadron firing missiles, Navigation reported. Missile tracks heading our way. Estimated time of impact, eight-point-four minutes.
The missiles in question had actually been fired some minutes ago, but the limitations of the radars speed of light had prevented the information from reaching Corona till this moment.
Starburst, Lord Elcap! Navigation managed to simulate surprise. Enemy starburst!
Which meant that the target squadron, perceiving incoming missiles, were now trying to separate from one another as swiftly as they could. To keep their ships firmly under their control, squadron commanders usually wanted to keep them clustered about them as long as possible, but ships that were clumped together also made overlarge targets, with a possibility of one strike destroying more than one ship. The question of when to order a starburst was one of the questions that junior officers debated ceaselessly in their wardrooms. If the senior officers debated this subject, or indeed anything at all, they gave no sign.
Tarafah frowned down at his displays. Weapons, this is a drill. Power up the point-defense lasers.
This is a drill, Lord Elcap. Point-defense lasers powered.
As the enemys second salvo came in, the point-defense lasers fired away at low power, perhaps even scoring hits. Whether hit or not, most of the salvo had been declared destroyed days before they were fired, and were deactivated. Whether hit or not, one missile was assigned to penetrate the defensive shield and detonate, its simulated radiation burning away the control systems on the number two engine, setting off a potential runaway antimatter leak that required a fuel tank to be vented into space. Other damage would include the disabling of an entire bank of missile launchers, and sensors burned away along one whole flank of the frigate.
A message flashed onto Martinezs displays. Relief danced in his heart as he reported it to Tarafah. General message from flagship Majesty. The qualifier was to distinguish it from the heavy cruiser that was the flagship of the mutineers squadron. Bombardment of Kashmahas failed to launch pinnace number three. All ships are to proceed as if the pinnace were launched.
Comm, acknowledge, Tarafah said. He could barely contain his delight. Some other ship had screwed up, and furthermore, one in Fanaghees own squadron.
Corona could look on the rest of the maneuvers with rising optimism. Even if they made some hideous mistake, they wouldnt be alone.
The hideous mistake came twelve minutes later, when the simulated damage occurred to a bank of eight missile launchers. It was not to be repaired by actual members of the crew, because the powerful and unpredictable accelerations of a warship might fling them fatally against the nearest bulkhead. Instead weaponers, from the safety of their thick-walled shelters, cleared the missiles from the tubes with remote-controlled robots, massive machines built on the lines of spiders, with multiple arms that would clamp on stanchions fixed to the ships polycarbon frame, move from one stanchion to the next while the powerful arms secured themselves against accelerations, and smaller manipulator arms did the work.
The movements of the two robots seemed at first to go well. Damaged control systems were replaced, and the robots began to yank missiles from their tubes. Then somehow one of the multilegged machines fouled the other, and in an effort to break free, tore away the other robots central hydraulic reserve. Hydraulic fluid jetted out into the weightless missile compartment, forming a spray of perfect azure globes, and the second robot died.
Now both robots were useless, since the dead robot was blocking the one that still functioned.
Martinez watched the silent little video picture with the same fascination with which he would watch any other disaster he was helpless to prevent. The footballers Tarafah had stuffed in the weapons division might have just finished off their patrons career.
Martinez glanced up from his screens to tell Tarafah what was happening, then hesitated. The captain couldnt affect whatever was going in the weapons bays, not now, not from Command. Perhaps he would be happier not knowing.
And besides, Martinez wasnt supposed to be spying on other divisions.
Then he looked back at the video at the sight of motion in the weapons bay. Little suited figures were shooting weightless into the bay. The figure in the lead seized a stanchion with one hand and, gesturing, directed the others to the work. From the leaders erect posture, and something of his air of command, Martinez recognized his own orderly, Alikhan. The retired master weaponer was trying to set things right.
How long till the next acceleration? The terrifying question shot through Martinezs mind. And suddenly his fingers were tapping his screens in an attempt to call up the script for the maneuver.
Unsuccessful, Tarafah had the whole thing under his captains key. Martinez glanced in claw-handed frustration at his displays.
Two of the suited figures had wrestled a missile out of its tube and were now guiding it through a tangle of robotic limbs between it and the disposal bay. At least the missile hadnt received its antimatter, and was therefore relatively light.
How long? Martinez clenched his teeth. He thought about shouting out, Crew in the weapons bay! which would presumably halt any future accelerations.
No. No acceleration would occur without Tarafahs command, and if Tarafah gave the order, he could announce the danger in time.
Or so he hoped.
Another missile was being wrenched out of its tube, by a single straddle-legged figure braced against the weapons bank. At least the footballers could be counted on for brawn.
A message flashed across screens. Message from Flag, he found himself repeating. Second Division, alter course in echelon to two-two-seven by three-one-zero relative. Accelerate at four-point-five gravities. Execute at 28:01:001 ship time.
He glanced at the time display. That was six minutes from now.
He was never more thankful for the regulation that made certain his helmet was sealed. He touched his controls and said into his helmet mic, Page Crewman Alikhan.
My lord? The answer came within seconds.
Youve got five minutes before the next acceleration.
There was a moment of silence as Alikhan calculated the odds. Three missiles remaining. Were not going to make it.
No. Get the people to the acceleration couches, and Ill tell the captain whats happening. Martinez looked at the hopeless situation, the awkward crew in their vac suits guiding a missile past the tangled arms of the robots, then said, Halt that. Wait a minute.
He paused to think his idea through. No, what you do is this: get someone on the robot controls; have the others yank the missiles from the tubes and then just hand them to the robot manipulator arms. The robot can hang onto them till the maneuver is over. Theres no antimatter and no danger, and after the maneuvers completed, you can finish the job manually.
Very good, my lord. Alikhan cut his comm very fast, and from then on Martinez had to watch in silence. Alikhan himself bounded out of the frame, presumably to Weapons Control and the robot controls. The other crew popped the hatches, pulled the missiles, and boosted them gently in the direction of the functioning robot. In another few seconds the robots manipulator arms snatched the missiles from midair and then froze.
The suited figures bounded from the weapons bay in the direction of their armored shelter. Martinez looked at the time display: 26:51:101.
Two minutes to spare.
Oh, it was a shambles in the weapons bays, my lord, Alikhan said as he buffed Martinezs number two pair of shoes. No one was in charge. The master weaponer was so drunk he couldnt manage a single order that made sense or had anything to do with the situation. One of our two weaponer/firsts was a footballer, and so was one of the weaponer/seconds. And the two cadets who usually help outnice young people, really, theyre learning fastwere stuffed into pinnaces and fired out of the ship.
Im glad I thought to put you on the scene, Martinez said. But still, I could have got you killed.
Alikhan put the shoe down and tapped the inactive communications display on his left sleeve. I had Maheshwari on the comm. He would have aborted any accelerations if wed still had anyone in the weapons bay.
Martinez nodded slowly. The senior petty officers had their own networks, their own intelligence, their own way of surviving the officers who the Fleet had placed over them.
If you can find a master specialist who isnt a drunk, isnt crazy, and who retains most of his brain cells, Martinezs father had told him, then grab him.
Martinez blessed his father for the advice, and helped himself to whisky from his private stash, the dark-paneled cabinet under his narrow bed. On taking command, Captain Tarafah had repaneled the officers quartersand his ownwith rich, dark mahogany, complemented by brass fixtures and dark tile with a white and red geometric pattern. Officers country was now scented faintly with lemon oil, at least when it didnt whiff of brass polish.
Martinez needed the whisky, having just finished a double shift, standing watch in Command while Corona picked up its pinnaces and spent missiles, and Tarafah and the senior lieutenant shuttled to the flagship for a debriefing with the other captains and the fleetcom. The neat whisky scorched Martinezs throat, and he could feel his bruised muscles begin to relax.
Im glad were not in a real war, he said. You would all have been shot through with gamma rays.
In a real war, Alikhan said, we would have stayed safe in our bunker and used a different bank of missiles.
Martinez fingered his chin. Do you think the captain will find out what happened?
No. The jammed robots were repaired as soon as we secured from quarters. The damaged missile will be written off the inventory somehowthere are all sorts of ways to make a missile disappear.
I take no comfort in this knowledge, Martinez said. He took another sip of whisky. Do you think the captain should find out?
By which Martinez meant, Do you think the captain should find out that we saved him during the maneuvers?
Alikhan looked sober. Id hate to end the career of a thirty-year man just short of retirement. And its the master weaponer whod be blamed, not the footballers.
True, Martinez said. He hated the idea of doing something clever and no one ever finding out. But getting the master weaponer cashiered would not endear him to Alikhan, and he found Alikhan too valuable to offend.
Well, he shrugged, let it go. Lets hope Corona doesnt get into a war before the master weaponer retires.
Hardly likely, my lord. Alikhan brushed his mustachios with the back of a knuckle. Coronahas survived worse commanders than Tarafah. Well get her through it, never fear.
But will I get through it? Martinez asked. He sighed, then reached into the mahogany-paneled hutch beneath his bed and withdrew another bottle of whisky. This might help your cogitations, he said. Dont share it with anyone in the Weapons Division.
Alikhan accepted the bottle with gravity. Thank you, my lord.
Martinez finished his drink and decided not to pour himself another, at least not yet. The example of the master weaponer was a little too strong. Too bad its the only reward youre going to get for saving the captain from disgrace.
Its more than I usually get, Alikhan remarkedand, with an ambiguous smile, braced in salute and left.
Two days later, after the last of the meetings in which the commanding officers refought the maneuver, Fleet Commander Fanaghee announced a Festival of Sport that would take place at Fleet facilities. Teams from every ship in Fanaghees command would participate, and Coronas football team would face Magarias own champions from the Bombardment of Beijing in a special match. Tarafah announced an intensified program of training for his team, beginning immediately, before the ship even docked.
When Martinez crawled off his watch that night, he didnt stop at one drink. Or at two.
* * *
EIGHT
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The bank was built of granite, a miniature Great Refuge complete with dome, probably to suggest permanence, but now, in the absence of the Great Masters, perhaps suggesting something else. Wesley Weckman, the trust manager, was a young man with a prematurely grave manner, though the style of his glossy boots and his fashionable bracelet of human hair suggested that his life outside the bank was not as sedate as his working hours.
Interest has stayed at three percent in the years since you entered the academy, he said. And since youve returned most of your allowance to the bank since that time, Im pleased to report that the total sum now exceeds 29,000 zeniths, all of which I can put in your hands when your trust fund matures on your twenty-third birthday.
Which was in eleven days. Which made her, in Terran yearsshe had once known someone who calculated Earthdaysjust past twenty.
Sula briefly calculated what 29,000 zeniths might buy her. A modest apartment in the High City, or an entire apartment building in a decent section of the Lower Town. A modest villa, with extensive grounds, in the country.
At least a dozen complete outfits from the most fashionable designers of Zanshaa.
Or one perfectly authentic rose Pompadour vase from Vincennes dating from four centuries before the conquest of Terra, conveniently up for auction at the end of the month.
Given prices like that, Sula figured the antimatter bombs had broken a lot of porcelain.
It was a ridiculous fantasy to spend her entire inheritance on a vase, but she felt shed been working hard for a long time now and deserved a moment of complete irrationality.
What do I have to do to get the principal? she asked.
A small amount of paperwork. I can do it now, if you like, and it will take effect on your birthday.
Sula grinned. Why not?
Weckman printed out the papers in question, and handed them to Sula along with a fat gold-nibbed pen. Then he activated the thumbprint reader and pushed it across his desk.
