Rules of Engagement Page 2

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant-” She looked up to see that they had reshuffled themselves to put one of the women next to her.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you the Lieutenant Suiza who was on Despite and then Koskiusko?”

  Esmay nodded.

  “Lieutenant, I’m really glad to meet you. I-we’ve always wondered what it’s like outside during FTL flight. Would you mind telling us about it? They tell us the debriefing sims won’t be out for another six months.”

  “It’s . . . really odd,” Esmay said. “First, the starfield dis­appears-” She was about to go on when the clerk called her name.

  “If we don’t take you now, you’ll be here for hours,” the clerk said. “These neuro-enhanced jobs take forever.”

  Esmay felt a wave of cold dislike rise from the seated squad, and hoped they were aiming it at the clerk, and not her. “Excuse me,” she said to them all.

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” said the woman who had asked her the question. She had green eyes, startling in her dark face. Then she looked beyond Esmay to the clerk, and Esmay was not surprised to hear the clerk’s breath catch.

  She hadn’t had a full neuroscan since she entered the Academy, and it was still as boring as ever, being stuck in the dark maw of the machine following orders to think of this, or that, or imagine moving her left little finger . . .

  Finally it was done, and the last yellow line led her back to the desk where her duffel lay waiting for her, along with a handful of ID tags she would need for the facilities she was authorized to enter.

  “Junior officers’ quarters and mess that way, sir,” the sergeant said, and gave a crisp salute as he passed her through. Esmay returned it and stepped onto the indicated walkway. She had missed out on command training, once she’d chosen technical track, so now she would be taking back-to-back courses-more school! Her own fault, she reminded herself, and yet not a fault to spend much time on. Her Altiplano conscience worried about the quickness with which her retrained neurons pushed away that momentary pang of guilt, and she grinned mentally at it. Her Altiplano conscience, like her Altiplano family, could stay where it belonged . . . on Altiplano.

  She signed into the officers’ quarters and the officers’ mess, showing her clearance tags each time, picked up a duty roster, then a class schedule. She slung her gear into 235-H, one anonymous cubicle in a row of anonymous cubicles, and then headed for the mess. Even if it was between mealtimes for the school, they should have something for officers arriving from different time zones.

  The dining room was almost empty; when she walked in, a mess steward peered out from the galleys and then came toward her.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “I just came in,” Esmay said. “Our ship was on . . .”

  “Fleet Standard. I understand Lieutenant . . . you’re overdue for . . . midday, right? Do you want a full meal or a snack?”

  “Just a snack.” She would get herself on the planet’s schedule faster this way, but she felt hollow as a new-built hull at the moment.

  He seated her at a table a discreet distance from the two that were occupied, and left to bring the food. Esmay glanced casually at the others, won­dering if they would be in her class. A young woman in fatigues without insignia, her curly blonde hair cropped short, sat hunched over what looked like a bowl of soup. Beside her, an older man in a lieutenant commander’s uniform who, from his posture, was laying down the law about something.

  Esmay looked away. Unusual to chew someone out while they were eating, but it would be rude to observe. Could this be father and daughter? At the other table, three young men wearing exercise clothes who were, she realized, watching her. She met their gaze coolly, and they looked away, not as if they were embarrassed, but as if they had seen all they wanted. Their gaze wandered the room steadily; they ignored the litter of plates and cups before them.

  The steward brought out a platter of sandwiches, pastries, and raw vegetable slices arranged in a fan-shaped pattern. Esmay ate a sandwich of thinly sliced cattleope spread with horseradish sauce, several carrot sticks, and was considering one of the curly pastry things which smelled so deliciously of cinnamon and hot apples when the blonde woman erupted.

  “I’m not quitting!” she said, loudly enough that Esmay could not fail to hear. She was sitting upright now, her face flushed slightly. With that flush Esmay could spot the irregular patches of fresh healing . . . she had been in a regen tank to repair some kind of injury to her face and-Esmay could not help looking-hands and arms.

  The older man, with a cautionary glance at Esmay, rumbled something she could not hear.

  “No!” the blonde said. “It’s something else-something impor­tant. I know-” Then she too looked around, met Esmay’s eyes, and fell silent for a moment.

  Some instinct prompted Esmay to look not merely down, but-under lowered lids-across at the other table. The three men there now made sense . . . their dismissive assessment of her, their constant surveil­lance of the room. These were the bodyguards of some­one who hired the best-or to whom the best were, by custom, assigned.

  Whom were they guarding? Surely not the young woman . . . if they had been, they had failed in some way or she would not have been hurt. A lieutenant commander? Hardly . . . unless he were not a lieutenant commander at all.

  She glanced back at the young woman, and surprised by an expres­sion on both faces so alike that it had to imply a relation­ship. Her eye, trained on a planet where families mattered, and where she had been expected to recognize even the most distant Suiza cousin, picked out now the similarities of bone and proportion, as well as behavioral quirks like the sudden lift of eyebrow that both older man and younger woman showed at that moment.

  “Brun . . .” That carried, in part because the tone was so like the pleading tone her own father had used. Her mind caught on the unusual word. Brun. Wasn’t that-? She clamped her mouth shut on the apple tart. If that was the blonde girl who had been involved in the Xavier affair, then her father was the present Speaker of the Grand Council . . . the most powerful man in the Familias Regnant. What could they be doing here?

  Speculation having outrun data, she munched steadily through the tart, studiously ignoring the argument which continued, in lower voices, at the other table. She struggled to remember all the snippets of rumor she’d heard about Thornbuckle’s wild youngest daughter . . . a spoiled beauty, a hotheaded fool who had plunged into the thick of intrigue with no training, an idiot who’d ended up dead drunk and naked in a rockhopper’s pod in the aftermath of a battle. But also something about being, in some obscure way, Admiral Vida Serrano’s protégé, because of her services to the Familias and-most particularly-to Admiral Serrano’s niece Heris.

  “Excuse me,” someone said. Esmay swallowed the last bite of tart, and looked up. She had been concen­trating so hard on not noticing what she shouldn’t notice that she hadn’t noticed anyone approaching her table.

  It was one of the bodyguards. He had no rank insignia on his exercise clothes, but from his face he was older than she.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Lieutenant Suiza, aren’t you?”

  Despite the therapy, her gut tightened. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Lieutenant Commander . . . Smith . . . would like to meet you.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Smith?”

  He nodded his head toward the other table. “Smith,” he said firmly. “And his daughter.”

  For a moment Esmay wished that she had just lived with her hunger until the next scheduled main meal. She had no desire to get involved in whatever was going on, whether it was a matter of father-daughter dissension or some plot against the Familias.

  “Of course,” she said, and rose from the table.

  The older man and the young woman watched her approach with, Esmay thought, the wrong sort of interest. The older man had the sort of face which might have been pleasant, but presently had locked into a tight mask of concern. The young woman looked both anno
yed and afraid.

  “Commander Smith,” Esmay said, “I’m Lieutenant Suiza.”

  “Have a seat,” the man said. Although his uniform fitted his tall, lanky body perfectly, she was sure it did not fit his spirit . . . it would have needed stars on the shoulders, and plenty of them.

  “This is an unexpected honor,” the man went on. “I had heard about you, of course, from Admiral Serrano, after Xavier-and now this recent busi­ness-”

  This, for instance, was not the way a real lieu­tenant com­mander would have brought it up. Esmay wondered whether to relieve him of the need for faking a military identity, and had her mouth open when the young woman spoke.

  “Dad! Stop it!”

  “Brun, I’m merely-”

  Now almost whispering, but still angrily, the young woman continued. “You’re not really a lieu­tenant commander and it’s not fair.” She turned to Esmay. “I’m Brun Meager, Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter, and this is my father.”

  “I’m pleased to meet Commander Smith,” Esmay said, “under the circumstances.”

  His face relaxed a bit, and his mouth quirked. “Well, one of you young ladies has a bit of dis­cretion.”

  “I’m not being indiscreet,” Brun said. “She could see you weren’t really a Fleet officer, and I could see the wheels going around in her head as she tried to figure out how to handle it.”

  “One allows prominent people to introduce them­selves as they choose,” Esmay said. “One’s private curiosity never intrudes.”

  Brun blinked. “Where are you from?”

  “Altiplano,” Esmay said. “Where, on occasion, senior officials may choose to appear in borrowed identities.”

  “And where good manners seem to have pene­trated more than in some other places,” Lord Thornbuckle said pointedly. Brun flushed again.

  “I don’t like deception.”

  “Oh, really? That’s why you so carefully avoided using your own name when you were coming back to Rockhouse-”

  “That was different,” Brun said. “There was a good reason-”

  “There’s a good reason now, Brun, and if you can’t see that I’ll go back to calling you Bubbles with reason.” For all his low, even voice and quiet face, Lord Thornbuckle was seriously angry. Esmay wished she were on the other side of the planet. ­Father-daughter conflict raised ghosts she wanted laid to rest. Brun subsided, but Esmay had the feeling she was not really subdued.

  “Perhaps we could continue this in another loca­tion,” Lord Thornbuckle said. Esmay could think of no polite way to refuse, and she wasn’t sure where her duty lay, as an R.S.S. officer. But she would have to report to class at 0800 local time the next morning, and she had a lot to do in the meantime. Still . . . he was who he was, and even who he wasn’t out­ranked her.

  “Of course, sir,” Esmay said.

  Thornbuckle nodded to the men at the other table, who stood up. “I’m afraid we will have an escort.”

  That didn’t bother Esmay; what bothered her was landing in the middle of whatever mess this was. She noticed that the escort split up, two going ahead and one trailing behind. Were they Fleet? She couldn’t tell. She felt she should be able to tell; the civilians aboard Kos had been obvious enough. These didn’t look like civilians, but they didn’t quite fit Fleet, either. Private guards?

  The conference room they finally entered was small, centered with a table large enough for only eight or so to surround. It had a display console at one end, but Lord Thornbuckle ignored that. He waited until his escort nodded, then sat at one end of the table. Habit, Esmay supposed.

  “Sit down, and I’ll make this as brief as possible. You haven’t been here long, have you?”

  “Just got off the shuttle, sir,” Esmay said. “I’m here for the command courses I missed earlier, and then the standard junior officers’ course.” The one that would qualify her to command a ship in combat, according to the Board of Inquiry which had recom­mended it. Of course, not being qualified hadn’t stopped her yet-but she put that out of mind and prepared to focus on whatever Lord Thornbuckle had to say.

  “My daughter wanted to take some training with Fleet experts,” Thornbuckle said. “I agreed, in part because she’d gotten herself in so much trouble without training . . . it seemed the risk-taking genes had all come together in her.”

  “And the lucky genes,” Brun said. “I know they’re not enough, but they’re also not negligible. That’s what Captain-Com­­­­­mander-Serrano said. And her aunt admiral.”

  The thought of anyone calling Vida Serrano “aunt admiral”-even a niece-shocked Esmay. For this girl-for Brun was clearly younger than she was-to do so would have been unthinkable except that Brun had just done it.

  “But there’ve been incidents,” Thornbuckle went on, ignoring what Brun had just said. “I thought she’d be safer here, on a Fleet training facility-”

  “I am safer,” Brun said.

  “Brun, face the facts: someone shot at you. Tried to kill you.”

  Esmay managed not to say what she was thinking, that a Fleet training facility was not, in the nature of things, the safest place in the universe. Live fire exercises, for instance. Was this what the girl had gotten into?

  “It wasn’t anywhere near a live fire exercise,” Thornbuckle went on. “That was my first thought, of course. Military training is dangerous; it has to be. But we-and by ‘we’ I mean not only myself, but others who’ve seen Brun in action-thought it would be less dangerous than turning her loose on the universe untrained.” He spread his hands. “No-this has been different. I suppose we were just careless. We knew there were traitors in Fleet; that mess with Xavier proved it. But it didn’t dawn on me that there might be traitors here, in a training base, until Admiral Serrano pointed it out. We knew that Brun might be at special risk, but we didn’t react fast enough.”

  “I’m alive,” Brun said.

  “You survived with your usual flair,” her father said. “But you also had to spend a day in the regen tank, which is not what I call coming out unscathed. Too close for comfort is my analysis. You have to have more protection, or you have to leave.”

  Brun’s shoulders twitched. “I’ll be careful,” she said.

  “Not good enough. You have to sleep sometime.”

  “Have you identified the nature of the threat?” Esmay asked, to forestall another round of useless argument.

  “No. Not . . . precisely. And the worst of it is that I can see a variety of threats. The Benignity’s not happy with their loss at Xavier, and we are sure they have other agents in Fleet. Some have been identified, others haven’t. They consider assas­sination a political tool. The Bloodhorde . . . well, you can imagine how they would like to have my daughter in their control. Then there are my personal enemies among the Familias. A few years ago, I would not have believed any of the Families would make war on personal relations, but now-things have changed.”

  “And you-or your advisors-think your daughter should leave this facility?”

  “It would be easier to protect her at home, or even on Castle Rock.”

  “I would go crazy,” Brun muttered. “I’m not a child, and I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”

  “Do you want to join Fleet?” Esmay asked. She couldn’t really imagine this obvious rebel wanting to join anything with discipline, but if she hadn’t under­stood . . .

  “I did at one time,” Brun said, eyeing her father. “Now-I’m not sure.”

  “She doesn’t want to get stuck doing boring things,” Thorn­buckle said. Brun flushed.

  “It’s not that-!”

  “Isn’t it? When Captain Serrano pointed out how much of her time was spent on boring routine, you said you didn’t much like that prospect.”

  “I don’t, but that’s part of any life. I do under­stand that, just as I understand that the exciting bits are dangerous. You seem to think-”

  Esmay jumped in again, as much for her own comfort as for the hope of getting useful infor­mati
on. “Perhaps you could tell me what you think I might do to help?”

  “She needs a”-Thornbuckle paused, and Esmay was sure he was thinking of the word keeper-­“Mentor,” he said instead. “If she’s going to stay here, I need to know that someone of her-” ­Another pause, during which Esmay could almost hear the unspo­ken, ­discarded choices: social standing, rank, type, ability . . . “Someone she might respect and listen to, anyway, will be near her. She’s been chattering about you and your exploits-”

  “I do not chatter,” Brun said, through her teeth.

  “So I thought maybe you-”

  “She has her own responsibilities,” Brun said. “And there are the . . . guards.” In that gap was some epithet Esmay was glad the guards had not heard.

  “Are you telling me now that you will accept the security procedures we talked about?”

  “Rather than bother Lieutenant Suiza, yes.” Brun gave Esmay a challenging look. “She will be busy with her own courses here; they don’t exactly give officers time off to play nursemaid to rich girls.”

  Esmay interpreted this as having more to do with Brun’s determination not to have a nursemaid than any consideration of her own convenience.

  Thornbuckle looked from one to the other of them. “I have seen more cooperative senior mini­sters of state,” he said. “What­ever gene sculpting we did on you, Brun, is not going to be repeated again.”

  “I didn’t ask for it,” Brun said. Again Esmay sensed old arguments lurking below the surface.

  “No-but life gives you a lot you didn’t ask for. Now-if you promise me that you will cooperate with the new security procedures-”

  “All right,” Brun said, not quite sulkily. “I’ll cooperate.”

  “Then, Lieutenant Suiza, I’m very sorry to have wasted your time. And I must thank you for your recent actions; you well deserve your recent award.” He nodded at the new ribbon on her uniform.

  “Thank you,” Esmay said, wondering if she was just supposed to leave and forget the conversation had ever happened. She turned to Brun and supressed an almost wistful expression on her face. “If we end up in the same class, I’ll be glad to share notes with you. I’m glad to have met you.”