Walter Williams - The Praxis

The appearance of the Felarus squadron at Protipanu sent the Convocation into a paroxysm. If the rebels were dispersing their force, then everywhere was threatened. The Convocation demanded that the Fleet Control Board take steps.

“To protecteverywhere,” Tork muttered, and followed the remark with an obscenity.

Accordingly, it was decided to send a force to Hone-bar, which would silence at least some of the critics. The Laiown squadron from Preowin, not yet arrived at Zanshaa, was tasked for this mission, as was the improvised squadron that would be raised by calling in single ships scattered in the capital’s vicinity. It would be led by the captured Naxid cruiserDestiny, now being adapted for the Torminel crew that would soon be placed aboard her.

It was to this squadron that theCorona of the heroic and by now much-decorated Lieutenant Captain Martinez would be assigned.

Martinez stood in the well of the Convocation and let the cheers and applause flood over him. He raised the Golden Orb—the genuine article this time, the heavy baton with the swirling fluid that shimmered and flowed in its glass globe—and the Convocation roared again in answer to his salute.

The Orb had been presented to him, in a glittering jeweled case, by Fleet Commander Lord Tork, chairman of the Fleet Control Board, following a speech of introduction by his family’s patron, Lord Pierre Ngeni. Martinez’s family, his brother and sisters, stood in the visitors’ gallery and applauded with the rest.

Martinez tried not to let his smile, which he hoped radiated confidence and wisdom, turn into a broad, imbecile grin. He thought he succeeded, mostly.

In time the cheering died away, and Martinez was suddenly aware of how loudly his heart was beating. He took a breath, and then a grip on his courage. He turned to the new Lord Senior, Lord Saïd.

“I believe a speech is customary on these occasions, my lord,” he said. In his imagination he heardCorona’s crew whooping at the familiar words.

Lord Saïd seemed surprised by the existence of this custom, but he acceded with grace. “Lord Gareth, you are welcome to address this body of Peers.”

Martinez turned to face the audience, the convocates in their wine-colored uniforms, his family and the Fleet officers in the gallery, the Lord Senior and Fleet Commander Tork standing expectantly just before him, all turned to dark silhouettes by the brilliant spotlights ranged above the platform. Behind all these, of course, were the obscure billions who would watch this moment on video.

After years of striving, after all the work and the schemes and the danger, Martinez had finally reached his moment of glory. The moment when all the empire waited only for him.

And he couldn’t say a word. The fine phrases that had been in his mind a moment ago had vanished, and all he felt was the awesome weight of expectation, the presence of the grand personages of the empire, all waiting for him to make a mistake, to show himself for the rustic nobody that he was.

The silence yawned before him as his heart thundered in his ears. He forced his mouth to open and forced sound from his throat.

“My lord convocates,” he began, and his eyes desperately sought among the audience, to light on Saïd and on Fleet Commander Tork. “My Lord Senior,” he managed, “my lord commander…” His eyes flew to the gallery. “My friends,” he said.

And then, once he had convinced himself that he could actually speak before this audience, the words broke free in his mind. At first only a few phrases floated to the surface, but once he spoke them, others came, and then more. It was fortunate that he had already given the speech twice—that helped him settle into a rhythm. Adopting his sentiments for the Convocation wasn’t hard: his audience had fought their own battle, on this very spot, and he could credit them with the same courage, skill, and rare genius with which he’d credited the crew ofCorona.

By the end the phrases were flying naturally from his lips, as if he’d been addressing the Convocation all his life.

“I know this in my heart,” he concluded. “With the wisdom and leadership of this body, and with such courage and skill as that demonstrated by the crew ofCorona, our noble cause cannot fail!”

The room erupted in cheers and applause that lasted longer than it had the first time. Martinez tried to smile his wise, confident smile, and saluted them again with the orb.

And if you don’t like the accent,he thought,you can lump it.

There was a reception afterward in the Ngeni Palace. The place was fragrant with the scent of hundreds of floral bouquets, and brilliant with glowing decorations in the shape of snowflakes, no two alike, that hovered below the high ceiling and cast a silver glow on the assembled throng. Snow, the real thing, dusted the window ledges outside and sparkled brilliantly on the trees in the courtyard. Convocates, high-ranking members of the Fleet, and senior administrators filled the rooms and galleries.

None wore mourning. The Convocation had decided to cancel the mourning period for the last Great Master, and with it the customary restrictions on the size of social engagements. Officially this was because the rebellion took priority over sorrow, though if Martinez were a convocate, he would have wanted mourning canceled on the grounds of confusion, because it was no longer possible to know whether one was mourning the Great Master, war casualties, dead Naxid rebels, or the stability and peace of the old imperial order.

No longer having to worry aboutwhich twenty-two to invite to any function, society happily removed its corsets and began to take what pleasure it could from winter and rebellion.

In any case, Martinez was pleased to be wearing viridian again.

“I didn’t know you were going to make a speech,” said Lord Roland, Martinez’s older brother.

“I’m planning on being a convocate myself someday,” Martinez said. “I thought I’d let them know that I can speak in public, and can be useful, and that Laredans don’t drool or twitch or pitch a fit when they get nervous.”

“Actually,I was planning on being the first convocate to be co-opted from Laredo,” Roland said. He was a little taller than Martinez, a result of his longer legs. His Laredo accent was pronounced. “I hope you’ll defer to seniority.”

“Maybe,” Martinez said. “But if I don’t, I’ll work hard to get you in. Now’s the time; there are vacancies.”

He didn’t know how seriously to take his own words. Lieutenant Captain Lord Convocate Gareth Martinez? It certainly seemed possible, on such a day as this. The Convocation was in a generous mood. They had already given the Laredo shipyards an order for three frigates, and guaranteed a substantial profit for the Martinez clan and their dependents.

Perhaps, after all this time, his father’s plans were actually bearing fruit. Marcus Martinez had been snubbed in the Fleet and on Zanshaa, and returned to Laredo determined to become so rich that no one would ever dare snub him again. Hehad become ridiculously wealthy, even by the standards of Peers, and his children were elements of his scheme to storm the city and cast down its social walls. But until now, Martinez hadn’t thought it was possible to purchase respect, not from the old families like the Ngenis and the Chens.

Until now.Since the rebellion, all sorts of things seemed possible.

Lord Pierre Ngeni arrived and raised his glass in salute to Martinez of the Golden Orb. Martinez raised the orb in reply, then noticed a piece of Fleet Commander Tork’s flesh hanging from the baton, stripped it away and let it fall.

“We were discussing,” Martinez said, “how the first convocate from Laredo should be one of your clients.”