Walter Williams - The Praxis

Interesting, Sula thought. Blitsharts’s last long acceleration burnmight have been calculated to take him out of range of any rescue, and the erratic tumble that followedmight have been intended to make any docking impossible. His actions could certainly be interpreted as an attempt to hide a suicide attempt.

But if Blitshartshad killed himself, the case would be difficult to prove. The sabotage could have been done very subtly, a loose connector here or an overlooked fastening there. Unless Blitsharts had done something blatant, like drilling a hole in his hull with a hand laser, there would be no evidence of intent.

“Blitsharts’s friends are up in arms about it, of course,” Martinez went on. “The centerpiece of their argument is the claim that Blitsharts would never have deliberately done anything so cruel as to murder his dog.”

Sula’s answer to that was a wolfish smile. If Blitsharts was a sufficient egotist—and there was nothing to indicate that he wasn’t—he might have thought of Orange as merely an extension of himself. In which case he would have sacrificed Orange without a second thought.

Martinez paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Well,” he said, “maybe you can find something that will solve the mystery.”

Sula knew there was no way she was ever again going on board that ship of the dead, no way short of a direct order, and she would resist even that. She had climbed out of one dark nightmare pit and wasn’t about to descend into another. The mystery, if there was one, could be solved without her.

Martinez shifted to another topic. “I’m running out of Spate to send you,” he said. “I did find an old interview, however, and I’ll send it along on this transmission. I’m also enclosing two comedies with the Deuces, one of them a minor masterpiece, plus the latest installment ofOberon and the most recent plans for the Great Master’s funeral.” His face assumed a bland pleasantness. “I hope the weather’s fine where you are. I’ll transmit again when duties permit.”

The screen went dark. Sula considered replaying it, then decided to save it for later, if she got lonely enough.

Aside from monitoring her engine and life-support boards, twice-a-day isometric exercise and the consumption of bland rations, she literally had nothing to do, and of course nowhere to go. Her pinnace had been designed for voyages of hours, not many days. Martinez’s broadcasts, which averaged two a day, were the only human contact she could expect to receive until she requested docking instructions for the Zanshaa ring.

She wondered why Martinez bothered. Of course, men constantly reminded her that they considered her attractive, but surely there were other women on Zanshaa, and besides, conducting a courtship at a distance of light-hours seemed excessive.

Maybe he just felt sorry for her, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with only a vacuum-mummified corpse for company.

But though Sula wondered about his reasons, she found she didn’t care what they were. He appeared on her viewscreen twice a day, offered news, commentary, and human warmth; he demanded nothing; and he beamed her entertainment that kept her amused in the darkness. She was deeply grateful. She was even nearing the point where she hardly noticed his accent.

“I’d appreciate it if you could send me some texts,” Sula said. “I can’t be watching passive entertainment all the time, enjoyable though it is. I’d like something to chew on.”

Martinez sipped at his cocktail as he glanced at the list she’d appended to the message: Kwa-Zo’s Fifth Book of Mathematical Puzzles; Proceedings of the Seventeenth Quee-ling Conference on the Textural Mapping of Wormhole Space; Pre-Conquest Earth Porcelains: Asia. Not the lightest of reading.

He was beginning to believe that Cadet Sula was a toil.

“If there are any charges for the texts, I’ll reimburse you,” she said.

The download fees, if any, would be insignificant, but it was nice to know that she was conscientious that way.

Martinez looked at the display. Sula lay on her acceleration couch with the helmet and upper half of her vacuum suit removed—the lower half was presumably retained for sanitary purposes. Her hair was stringy, her shirt rumpled and sweat-stained, and she looked in need of a shower, but her gaze was lively and interested, and she seemed much improved over the pale, stricken ghost he’d seen after she found Blitsharts dead in his cockpit.

“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 aboutMidnight 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 overMidnight 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 withKwa-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.