Rules of Engagement Read online

  Esmay stowed her gear in the lockers-she had nothing to put in two of them-and changed into a clean uniform. She did not look forward to the next meeting with her captain.

  He was, however, slightly more affable. “I hate losing Colin,” he said. “But his wife was killed in a traffic accident while she was downside arranging for their children to change fosterage. It’s going to take him quite a while to sort everything out . . . the kids have outgrown the grandparents, and the retired uncle who was going to take them was killed in the same accident.” He shook his head, then smiled at Esmay. “You’ll find we have good teams, Lieutenant. And a tour on an SAR is always inter­esting. We deal with problems that the big boys ignore-everything from private yachts stranded by jump-drive blowouts, to collisions. You will learn a lot. And since we didn’t expect you until tomor­row, you’re not on the watch list yet, which gives you time to poke around and start learning your job.”

  “All I’ve had was the basic SAR course, sir,” Esmay said. “They assigned me before I had time for the advanced . . .”

  “Better than nothing,” he said. “And if you know you don’t know, you’ll ask questions instead of blundering around causing trouble. Now-the duties of exec on this ship are different than on line ships. That’s because our mission is different. There’s the basic stuff, of course-but I’d like you to look at this-” He handed over a data cube. “And of course you’ll want to meet everyone-we’d planned a get-together this evening, at 1900-”

  “That’s fine, sir,” Esmay said. “I can get unpacked, have a chance to look this over . . . unless you have something now.”

  “No, that’s fine. We’re not kicking out of here until day after tomorrow anyway. There’s a meeting tomorrow, which you’ll have to attend as my ­repre­sentative-you haven’t been with the ship quite long enough to take over full prep.”

  Alone in her cabin-her name was already on the door, she noticed, with the permanent engraving Executive Officer under­neath-she inserted the cube the captain had given her into the reader. She knew what an exec did-or thought she did. Run the ship, basically, under the captain’s command. But on a Search and Rescue ship, the exec also had the ­responsibility of super­vising all rescue efforts, while the captain concentrated on ship security-of both this ship and the rescued one. She blinked at the listing for the security detachments-she had not realized that an SAR ship would carry marines, though it made sense. Most of the time when ships needed rescue, it was the result of some deliberate act, and the troublemakers might still be in the area.

  And she’d had only the basic course . . . so it was definitely going to be a case of “sergeant, put up that flagpole” if they had a ­rescue call before she had learned the rest of the stuff she needed. Which meant she had better make friends with the sergeant equivalents.

  She scrolled quickly through the headings of her job description to the ship’s table of organization, and began to figure out who would do the actual work, while she “supervised.” These were the key people she must have on her side. The words in the leadership manuals were fresh in her mind. The five rules of this; the seven principles of that. She reminded herself where the cube of those manuals was. She would review it as soon as she’d finished the captain’s cube. She knew she could lead, when she let herself remember it.

  Shrike mounted two complete rescue teams, cross-trained in both gravity-field and zero-gravity work. Like most of the smaller SARs, the gravity-field training specialized in low-pressure and vacuum work. Most of their calls would be to space stations or ships in deep space. A forensic team and a lab full of analytical gear suggested that SAR might include something more than accident assistance. And the medical support team was sub­stantially larger than a ship this size normally carried, including both major trauma regen tanks and two surgical theaters, with all that implied. Again, it ­reminded her of a miniature of Koskiusko.

  Rescue One was commanded by a lieutenant she ­remembered from the Academy as a clown of sorts, Tika Briados; he didn’t seem clownish now, as he led her around the ready room with its racked suits and equipment. It all seemed a jumble to Esmay, though an orderly one-she recognized only about half the equipment and wondered how long it would take to learn the rest. Rescue Two’s commander was a jig she’d never met ­before, Kim Arek; she was eager and energetic, busily explaining things that Esmay hoped she could remember. She kept nodding, and found herself liking Jig Arek for her single-minded ­enthusiasm.

  Going through both rescue team areas had taken hours, she found when she finally got away from Arek, and she needed to get ready for the meeting with the other officers. She did hope they weren’t all going to mention Brun Meager.

  The wardroom was crowded when she got there.

  “Lieutenant Suiza-glad to meet you.” The blocky major who thrust out his hand reminded her of Major Pitak. “I’m Gordon Bannon, pathology.”

  “Officers-” That was Captain Solis, who stood; the others quieted. “This is Lieutenant Esmay Suiza, our new executive officer. Some of you have heard of her-” There were murmurs that Esmay hoped ­referred to her earlier exploits. “She’s fresh out of Copper Mountain, with the basic course in SAR, so I’m sure you’ll all cooperate in educating her into the real world.” He sounded friendly enough; this was clearly an old joke, for their chuckle had no edge to it.

  After that, the others came up one by one to introduce themselves. Esmay began to relax as she chatted with them; they were clearly more interested in how she might perform here than in anything which had happened in her past.

  In the next few days, she threw herself into her work, loading her scheduler with everything she could think of, or that anyone suggested. When Shrike left the base, she was just beginning to think she had a handle on her assignments. Shrike would patrol alone through the sector, ready to assist in any emergency that fell within its mission statement. According to those who had been aboard longest, days might go by with nothing happening, or disasters might overlap . . . there was no way to predict.

  “The ship’s a part-container, part-bulk hauler that lost power on insertion . . . the insystem drive’s functioning at maybe twenty percent. They say it’s fluctuating, and they can’t make orbit. We’ve advised them that there’s a registered salvage company in this system; the captain sounds unhappy with that. Says he’s had trouble before with salvage companies.”

  The first emergency since she’d come aboard. Esmay listened to the précis of the problem, and tried to remember which protocol this fell under.

  “He wants Fleet assistance.” Captain Solis looked at Esmay. “We have a responsibility in such cases, but we must also consider our responsibility to the whole area. So I want an estimate on the time it will take us to skip-jump over there, rig grapples, and put him in tow, then sling him back toward the orbit he wants. He’s not an emergency.”

  “Sir.” Esmay ran the numbers quickly. “Sixty hours, allowing a safety margin for rigging the grapples; he should have standard tug connections, but just in case.”

  “Well, then . . . let’s go catch us a freighter.”

  Esmay watched the approach plots carefully on the bridge displays. External vid showed a bulbous, almost spherical ship with rings of colored light indicating tug grapple connections.

  “Ugly, isn’t it?” asked Lieutenant Briados. The Rescue One commander was on the bridge to watch the approach. “You’d think they could design big freighters with some character, but they all look pretty much alike.”

  “It would hold a lot of soldiers,” Esmay said, the first thing that came into her mind.

  Briados laughed. “I can tell you’re off a warship. Yeah, it could, but it hasn’t got insystem maneuverability worth spit. Even with the insystem drive working.”

  “How do they even know where to mount the drives? What’s the drive axis?”

  “Well, they want low-speed maneuverability near stations, so they mount two, usually, out near the hull and separated by sixty degrees; the driv
e axis is the chord perpendicular to the chord between the drives, in the same plane.” It took Esmay a moment to work that one out, but she nodded finally.

  Captain Solis turned to her. “All right, Suiza-let’s see how you handle this. Just pretend you’ve been doing it for years.”

  Her stomach churned. She nodded to the com watch, and picked up the headset to talk to the freighter captain, explaining that a team would be boarding.

  “We just wanted a tow,” the captain said. “I don’t see why you want to board.”

  “It’s R.S.S. policy to board all vessels seeking ­assistance,” Esmay said, repeating what Captain Solis had told her. “Just a routine, sir.”

  “Damned nuisance,” the captain said.

  “Think of it as practice,” Esmay said. “If we didn’t practice close-hauling and boarding, we might not be quick enough for someone with a serious emer­gency. After all, it might be your ship . . .”

  “Oh, all right,” he said. “Just as long as you’re not planning to practice cutting holes in my hull.”

  Shrike deployed standard tug grapples, backed up by its military-grade tractor. In this instance, the grapples homed neatly on the freighter’s signal, and locked on as Shrike maintained matching course and velocity. The tractor snugged the SAR ship closer still. Esmay gave the orders that sent Jig Arek and her team across a few hundred meters of vacuum to the other ship.

  Rescue Two made its way in and out of all the holds, while Shrike boosted the freighter gently on its way, then returned before Solis ordered the grapples retracted.

  “Captain-what were they looking for?” Esmay asked.

  “Just practicing,” Solis said.

  She looked at him; finally he grinned at her.

  “All right. You might as well know. Sector’s con­cerned about possible shortages in the munitions inventory. We think some stuff’s being diverted from Fleet to civilian use. So the admiral says to check every ship that asks us for a boost. It is good practice, including the use of the warhead detection equip­ment.”

  “What’s missing?” asked Esmay.

  Solis spread his hands. “I’ve been told I don’t need to know, but since they specified the equip­ment we were to use looking for it, I’d say someone’s misplaced some of the more effective nukes.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Exactly. If our stuff’s being transshipped on civilian freighters, it could be going anywhere. To anyone. Probably not the Benignity-they have their own munitions industry, and plenty in stock. But any of the lesser hostile powers, or domestic malcontents . . .”

  “Or simply pirates,” Esmay said.

  “Yes. Anyone who wants a big bang.”

  Chapter Six

  Elias Madero, owned by the Boros Consortium, followed a five-angled route that had proved lucra­tive for decades. Olives and wine from Bezaire, jewels mined on Oddlink, livestock embryos from Gullam, commercial-grade organics from Podj, enter­tainment cubes from Corian, which had FTL traffic from deeper insystem, and the largest popu­lation in the area. She was a container hauler, picking up at each port the hold-shaped containers that had been filling since her last visit there. Her crew, most of them permanent, often had no idea what was in the con­tainers. The captain did, presumably, and also the Boros agents at each port. But the containers had no accessible hatches-one advantage of container ships was supposed to be the impossibility of petty pilfering by crews-so they had no idea that the container in Hold 5 which was supposed to be filled with 5832 cube players was ­actually full of arms stolen from a Fleet stockpile. The other containers in Hold 5, which should have had entertainment cubes to be played in the cube players, contained more illicit weaponry, including thirty-four Whitsoc 43b11 warheads, their controlling electronics, and the arming keys.

  Boros’ agent at Bezaire would not have been happy to find the contents of that container, since she had a contract to supply the cube players and the enter­tainment cubes supposedly filling the rest of Hold 5.

  Elias Madero came out of FTL flight, retranslating to normal space, to traverse the real-space distance between two jump points in the same system, colloquially known as Twobits. This shortcut had been marked “questionable” on standard charts for years, because the presence of two jump points in the same system was believed, on theoretical grounds, to lead to spatial instability of the jump points. If the insertion point shifted, an inbound ship might find itself emerging too close to a large mass, with no time to maneuver clear. But the nearest greenlined route meant three more jump point calculations, and added eleven days to the Corian-Bezaire passage. Since jump point temporal coordinates were fuzzy anyway, many commercial haulers used shortcuts to ensure that they met contractual delivery dates . . . while filing flight plans that were all greenlined.

  This crew had made the traverse before, many times, without incident. The jump points had not shifted in the past fifty years, while the possibility that they might kept the system uncrowded.

  On this trip, system insertion went as smoothly as usual, and the Elias transferred to insystem drive without a hitch.

  “That’s done, then,” Captain Lund said to his navigator, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Four days, and we’ll be out of here again. I’m going to bed.” Custom and regulation both required that a captain be on the bridge during jump point inser­tions; Lund had been up three shifts running because of a minor engineering problem.

  His navigation officer, a transfer from Sorias Madero, a sister ship, nodded. “I have the course laid, sir. By my calculations, ninety-seven point two hours.”

  “Very good.”

  Captain Lund, balding and stocky, waited until he was in his cabin to take off his jacket and kick off his shoes. He hung the jacket up neatly, set his shoes side by side, laid his trousers, neatly folded, over the back of his chair, with his shirt over them. This was his last cycle . . . when he reached Corian again, he would retire at last. Helen . . . his grandchildren . . . the neat little house set high on a slope above the valley . . . he drifted into sleep, a smile on his face.

  The sharp yelp of the emergency alarm woke him. He touched the comunit above his bunk.

  “Captain here-what is it?”

  “Raiders, sir.”

  He sat up, ducking automatically from the over­hanging cabinets. “I’m on my way.”

  Raiders? What kind of raiders would hang around a route where almost no ships went? No ships, really-he’d never found any indication that others used this two-jump transit.

  Had they been tailed through FTL? He’d heard rumors that Fleet was developing some kind of scan that worked in FTL. The Benignity? Certainly not Aethar’s World, and they were across Familias space anyway.

  From the bridge, the situation was clear. Two of them, their weapons systems lighting up the scan board with red threats. On the com screen, a hard-faced man in a uniform he didn’t recognize was speaking in ­accented Standard-an accent he hadn’t heard before, with the words pulled out twice as long.

  “You surrender your ship, and we’ll let the crew off in your lifeboats-”

  Captain Lund almost choked. What good would lifeboats be, in a lifeless system that no one visited because of the paired jump points?

  “Wheah’s yoah captain? I wanna talk to him.”

  Lund stepped up to the comunit, and nodded to his exec, who stepped back.

  “This is Captain Lund. Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Takin’ yoah ship, sir.” The man favored him with a tight grin that did not look at all friendly. “In the name of sacred liberty, and the Nutex Militia. We apologize for any . . . ah . . . incon­venience.”

  “You’re pirates!” Lund said. “You have no right-”

  “Them’s harsh words, sir. We don’t like disrespect for our beliefs, sir. Let me put it this way-we have the weapons to blow your ship away, and we’re offerin’ you a chance to save your crews’ lives. Some of ’em, anyway. If you surrender your ship, and allow us to board
without resistance, we will swear not to kill any of your legal crew.”

  Lund felt that he had waked into a nightmare, and his mind refused to work at its normal speed. “Legal crew?”

  “Waal . . . yes. We’re aware, you see, that you work for a corporation with obscene and unnatural views about moral issues. In our books, there’s things that just ain’t natural and normal, let alone right, and if you have people like that on board, then they’ll have to face justice.”

  Lund glanced around; the faces on the bridge were tense and pale. He thumbed the com control to prevent his words going out in transmission. “Do any of you have the slightest idea who these crazies are? Or what they mean about natural and un­natural?”

  The junior scan tech, Innis Seqalin, nodded. “I’ve heard a little about the Nutex Militia . . . for one thing, they think it’s wrong for women to be spacers, and for another, they don’t tolerate anything but what they call normal sex.”

  Lund felt his stomach churn. If they didn’t ­allow women in space, what kind of sex did they think was normal? And why not allow women in space? “Is it . . . something religious?”

  “Yes, sir. At least, they say it is.”

  Lund felt even sicker. Religious nuts . . . he had gone to space to get away from them back on his home world. If these were the same sort . . . he had too many crew at risk.

  “I’m warnin’ ya,” the pirate officer said. “Answer, or we’ll blow your holds . . .”

  “All right,” Lund said, as much to gain time as anything. “I’ll send my people to the lifeboats-”

  “We’ll see a crew list,” the man said, smiling unpleasantly. “Right now, afore you can doctor it up. If a lifeboat separates before we’ve approved the list, we’ll blow it.”

  Lund’s mind raced into high gear. The crew list did not mention gender-and certainly not sexual preferences-so if he could just keep the medical records out of their hands . . .