Page 16 of Rules of Engagement

  Barin heaved an internal sigh, but started in. He remembered almost everything-he forgot to have them turn off the check-valve between primary feed and the intermediate scrubbers-and Arendy gave him a grudging thumbs-up. Then she spent ten minutes with the flow diagrams explaining exactly why that check-valve should be closed during routine inspections.

  In a few days, Barin felt he was fitting in well. All four command-track ensigns bunked together; they were pleasant enough, and genuinely glad that some­one else had the scrubber duty for the next two months. Meals in the junior wardroom enabled him to meet the other juniors-jigs and lieu­tenants-who were his immediate superiors. Jig Arendy, he dis­covered, could talk about something other than sewage; she turned out to be an avid follower of celebrity newsflashes. She and a handful of others discussed celebrities as if they were family members, endlessly poring over their clothes, their love affairs, their amusements. When she found he’d been at Copper Mountain with Brun Meager, she wanted to know all about it. Was she really as beautiful as her pictures? What kind of clothes did she wear? Had there been many newsflash shooters around?

  Barin answered what he could, but luckily it did not occur to Arendy that he himself might have been a target of Brun’s attention. When the ward­room discussions of Brun became uncomfortable, he took himself off. He would much rather listen to Zucker­man’s tales of the old days in Delphine, with his grandmother. She’d never told him about the time a missile hung in the tube with a live war­head.

  He mentioned that to Petty-light Harcourt, while they were replacing a section of feeder pipe.

  “Zuckerman is . . . well, he’s Zuckerman,” the petty-light said.

  Barin was surprised at the tone. P-lights knew more than he did, and he’d never met one who didn’t ­admire a master chief. But Harcourt sounded unsure. He thought of asking more, but decided against it. Whatever it was, a mere ensign shouldn’t be getting ­involved. If Harcourt had a serious problem, he also had the seniority to feel comfortable taking it to his own commander.

  He had come to that decision when Harcourt sighed, an expressive sigh, and went on.

  “It’s like this, sir . . . Zuckerman’s got a fine record, and I’m not saying anything against him. But he’s . . . changed, in this last tour. He’s not the man he was. We all know it, and we make allow­ances.”

  But allowance shouldn’t have to be made, not for a master chief. Harcourt was still looking at him, and Barin realized he was expecting a comment.

  “Family?” he murmured. It must’ve been the right thing to say, because Harcourt relaxed.

  “I wouldn’t bring this up with a junior officer, begging your pardon sir, but you are a Serrano, and . . . well . . . the chief’s always talking about the time he served with a Serrano on Delphine. It’s not anything we-I-can understand. It’s not all the time. Just sometimes he’s . . . it’s like he forgets things. The kind of thing you just don’t forget, not with his years. We-I-have to have someone check his pressure-suit settings, for instance. One emer­gency drill, he didn’t even have his suit sealed.”

  He shouldn’t be hearing this. Someone con­siderably senior should be hearing this. Because anything which could make a man like Chief Zuckerman forget to seal his suit was too much for an ensign to handle.

  “I did say something to Major Surtsey,” Harcourt went on. “He arranged to have the chief called in for a random health survey, but . . . that was one of his good days. And on his good days, he’s sharper than I am. And then the major was reassigned, and I . . . I was just . . . I don’t quite know how far to take this.”

  So the sticky problem had just been handed off to a very junior ensign. With the Serrano reputation. No good to tell Harcourt that he didn’t feel com­fortable with it either . . . the job description for ensigns did not include comfort.

  “And you’d like me to take this on upstairs?” Barin asked.

  “It’s up to you, sir,” Harcourt said. “Although . . . if I could make a suggestion . . .”

  “Sure,” said Barin. Having hooked the ensign, of course the petty-light could play him.

  “Commander Dockery is . . . prefers to have . . . all the ducks in a row, sir, if you know what I mean.”

  “In other words, I should investigate this myself, and have some documentation?”

  “Well . . . yes, sir.”

  He would have to have something, that was certain, something more than the word of a petty-light who might have some grievance Barin didn’t know about. “I’ll have a look,” he said to Harcourt, who looked satisfied with that. He himself had no idea how to go about finding out if a senior NCO was going bonkers for some reason.

  He remembered what Brun had said about that man at the Schools . . . what was his name? She’d claimed he was making too many mistakes, but that was right before she and Esmay had the big fight. Barin had no idea what had happened after that, if anyone else had confirmed Brun’s suspicions. She was, after all, only a civilian, and she might not have told anyone else.

  Still, he paid close attention to Zuckerman every time his own duties took him that way. The man seemed much like every other master chief he’d met, decades of experience providing him with a depth of knowledge and competence far beyond the ability of an ensign to assess. Zuckerman could be missing whole chunks, and he’d never know it. He liked Zuckerman, and Zuckerman seemed to like him; he felt that Zuckerman would have liked almost any Serrano. He hoped he wouldn’t find anything to worry about; he worried that he might miss something ­important.

  But most of the time he was too busy to worry, too busy to find time to visit Zuckerman. He had his own work, in an area remote from Zuckerman; he had watches to stand, inspections to take, duties that kept him busy. He had peers, the other ensigns in both command and technical tracks, whose perso­nalities and relationships became ever more impor­tant as time went on. Jared and Leah were already engaged; Banet recorded a cube every other day for someone on Greylag. Micah had quarreled with Jared over plans for the ship’s Commissioning Day festivities, and Leah had blown up at Micah in the junior wardroom in a way that reminded Barin painfully of Esmay.

  He tried not to think of Esmay. As time wore on, he could not stay angry, but he remained confused. They had liked each other a lot, back on Koskiusko; they had shared secrets neither had told anyone else. He had expected her to welcome his presence at Copper Mountain-and granting that she had been extremely busy and tired, there was still something else different about her, a new reserve, a tension. And then there’d been Brun, always around when he wanted to talk to Esmay, always with time on her hands. Exuberant when Esmay was reserved. Jolly when Esmay was serious. Fun when Esmay was . . . he would not say dull, because to him she was never dull, but . . . busy, tired, not really present when she was sitting right beside him.

  Perhaps she never had loved him. Perhaps it had worn off, and she was too kind to say so. That didn’t make sense, though, if she was angry because she thought Brun had tolled him into her bed. He thought of sending mail . . . but after all, their quarrel wasn’t his fault.

  As he came to know the other junior officers better, he noticed that he kept running into one in particular: Casea Ferradi. He’d heard of Casea Ferradi back at the Academy, but she’d graduated before he started. He knew how rumors grow with time, and assumed that the stories of her beauty and her behavior were both inflated.

  Barin first noticed Lieutenant Ferradi because of her hair-that uncommon golden blonde, like Brun’s, but different. Brun’s hair had a life of its own; it curled vigorously even when just groomed, and when she was upset or excited, and raked her fingers through the curls, it looked like an uncombed poodle. Lieutenant Ferradi’s hair lay in a sleek wave beside her perfect cheekbones. Blondes were rare in Fleet. Perhaps that accounted for Lieutenant Ferradi’s nickname, Goldie, which he heard in the junior wardroom the first night.

  He noticed her next because she kept showing up where he was, and speaking to him. She was a jig on the watch
rotation, so of course she would be where he was part of the time. But he began to realize that he saw her more than any other jig, even when she wasn’t on shift watch.

  He hadn’t thought about her being in Esmay’s class at the Academy until she brought it up.

  “You know Lieutenant Suiza, don’t you, Ensign?” That, while initialling the midwatch report.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wonder if she’s changed much,” Ferradi said. “We were classmates, you know.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t know that.” He wondered if she might have some insight into Esmay’s recent beha­vior, but felt reluctant to ask her.

  “I mean,” Ferradi went on, as she fiddled with the datawand, “she was such a stiff, formal person. Not really friendly. But from what everyone says, she’s such a born leader-so I was wondering . . .”

  Tiny alarm bells rang in his backbrain, but his forebrain was ahead of them. “She’s fairly formal, yes . . . but I believe it has something to do with her background.”

  “Oh yes.” Ferradi rolled her eyes. “Both of us were the colonial outcasts, you know. I’m Crescent Worlds-I think they expected me to insist on wearing one of those trailing silk things.” Her hands fluttered and waved. Barin had no idea what she meant, and his expression must have showed it because she laughed. “Oh-I guess you haven’t seen the bad storycubes about us. I think they got the costumes from back on Old Earth, because of course no one actually wears them. Long flowing garments that cover young women from head to toe, but flutter fetchingly in the breeze.”

  Barin had no time to pick out what detail had set off the alarms again, because she’d gone on, her pleasant, slightly husky voice soft and amused.

  “But Esmay-Lieutenant Suiza-she told me once her whole family was military. Very formal, very correct. Which is why I can understand her having a quarrel with the Speaker’s daughter, but not how she could lead anyone anywhere.”

  Barin had his mouth open before caution stopped him; he had to say something. “I-didn’t know the quarrel was common knowledge.”

  Ferradi laughed again. “I don’t see how anyone could keep it quiet. It was on the newsflashes, after all. Screamed like a harpy, is what I heard, and told the Speaker’s daughter she had no more morals than a tavern whore.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” Barin said. He couldn’t have said how it wasn’t, since Esmay had been loud and insulting, but his instinct was to protect Esmay.

  Ferradi looked at him with an indulgent smile that made him feel like a small child. “That’s all right, Ensign; I’m not asking you to turn your back on a Fleet hero.”

  She made him feel uncomfortable. She was always looking at him . . . he would glance up and discover those clear violet eyes, and an amused quirk to her mouth. She seemed to impinge on his space in a way that Esmay never did. Brun, though she had been overtly interested in his body, had backed off without rancor when refused. But this . . .

  He went into the gym convinced that whatever was going on was his fault. He had done something-what, he couldn’t figure out-that aroused her interest. He climbed onto the exercise machine he’d reserved, and set the controls. Past the warmup phase, into the sweaty part of the workout, his mind drifted to Esmay. She was exec of a specialty ship now; he could imagine her in a rescue situation . . . she might do something spectacular, and get back in everyone’s good graces.

  “Hello, Ensign.” The husky voice broke his concentration. There beside him, on the next machine, was Ferradi. Barin blinked, confused. She hadn’t been signed up for that machine; he’d made sure of that. But now she was warming up, her body as sleek as her golden hair in a shiny exercise suit that outlined every curve. Barin, panting slightly, nodded a greeting.

  “You’re a hard worker,” she said, starting her own machine. “I guess that goes with being a Serrano, eh?”

  He had to say something; she was still looking at him and it would be rude to ignore her-possibly even insubordinate.

  “It’s . . . expected . . . sir,” he said.

  “No need for formality in the gym,” she said. “I approve . . . of the attitude, and the results, Barin.” Her look ranged over him, with particular attention he couldn’t mistake.

  Well, he would have to say something . . . but before he could, Major Oslon climbed onto the machine on Ferradi’s other side.

  “Hey, Casea . . . let Serrano finish his workout. He’s too young for you anyway. I, on the other hand . . .”

  She gave Barin a last lingering look before turning to Oslon. “Why, Major . . . you’re incor­rigible. Whatever makes you think I’m after Ensign Serrano?”

  “Glad to know you’re not. I must have been misled by the fit of that exercise suit.”

  “This old thing?” Barin had seen less obvious flirting from professionals at the trade, but Oslon didn’t seem to mind. He and Casea bantered awhile, and when he invited her to a game of parpaun, she agreed-with a last lingering look at Barin that bothered him all over again.

  A few days later, Barin was on his way through Troop Deck on a routine inspection of the traps in the heads-hairballs in the traps were a constant problem. A peculiar crunch caught his attention. He hesitated. Another, and then another. Which com­partment was it in? He looked around, trying to locate the sound . . . slightly behind him, and to the right. A slither-and-bump, followed by the sounds of some­thing heavy being dragged, came next, and pinpointed the source: D-82.

  Barin looked in, to see Master Chief Zuckerman, face almost purple with rage and exertion, dragging someone by the heels.

  “Chief-what’s going on?”

  “Outa my way!” Zuckerman said, breathing heavily. The Chief did not seem to recognize him; his eyes were dilated.

  “Chief-” Barin could not see clearly past him, but the limpness of the legs Zuckerman held bothered him. He lifted his gaze a little . . . down the row of racks to one with a depression where someone had been sitting . . . a needler case on the pillow . . .

  “Chief, put that down.” Barin had no idea what had happened, but it was trouble all the same. He reached back for the alarm beside the hatch.

  “Oh, no you don’t, you puppy!” Zuckerman dropped the man’s feet and charged. Barin ducked aside, and Zuckerman kept going, bouncing off the opposite bulkhead. By then Barin had slapped the alarm, cutting in local scan.

  “Security, ASAP!” Barin said. “Man down, possible assault!”

  Zuckerman turned, more slowly than he’d charged. “Not possible-the bastard attacked me. Me, a master chief with . . . with . . . twenty . . . twenty . . .” He shook his head. “He shouldn’t have done that. Not right.”

  “Chief,” Barin said, cautiously. “What happened?”

  “None of your lip, boy,” Zuckerman said. His eyes narrowed. “What the devil are you doing wearing officers’ insignia? That’s illegal. You want to get tossed out? You take those pings off your uniform this minute, Pivot.”

  “Master Chief Zuckerman,” Barin said. “I asked you a question.” For the first time in his life, he heard the Serrano bite in his own voice-the family pride that knew, bone-deep, what it was.

  Zuckerman stared at him, his face blanking a moment. Then he looked confused. “Uh . . . Ensign . . . Serrano? What’s . . . what’s that you were asking me, sir?”

  “Chief,” Barin tried again, but cautiously. Where was Security? How long would it be? “I’m watch officer today. I heard something funny, and came to look. You were in 82, dragging someone, and there’s a needler case on a rack.” He paused. Zucker­man stepped forward, but Barin put up his hand. “No. Don’t go in there. Security’s on the way; I want nothing disturbed. Can you tell me what ­happened?”

  “I-he-he was going to kill me.” Zuckerman was sweating now, his face shiny with it. His hands opened and closed rhythmically. “He pulled a needler; he said he’d never be caught.” He shook his head, then looked at Barin again. “Son of a bitch actually tried it-if I didn’t have good reflexes, I’d be dead in there. So I-so
I grabbed his hand, got the needler, and-and hit-” He turned pale and sagged against the bulkhead. “I hit him,” he whispered. “I hit him . . . and then I hit him . . . and-”

  “Chief. Stay where you are. Can you do that?”

  Zuckerman nodded. “Yes, sir. But I-but I don’t know-”

  “Just stay there. I need to check the guy. What’s his name?”

  “Moredon. Corporal Moredon.”

  “All right. I’m going in; I want you to stay exactly where you are.” Again, the Serrano tone-he could hear it himself; he could see its steadying effect on Zuckerman.

  Moredon lay where Zuckerman had dropped him, unmoving. Barin stepped closer. Now he could see the bruises and blood on the man’s head, and a long streak of blood on the deck where he’d been dragged. Was he breathing? Barin couldn’t tell; he knelt ­beside the limp body. Yes. Through the open mouth he could just hear a low snore, and feel the moist breath against the back of his hand.

  He stood up, and went back to the corridor. Zucker­man stood where he’d been told, and down the corridor came a Security team, with medical assist.

  “Sir?” said the sergeant in charge of the Security team. His gaze flicked quickly from Barin to Zucker­man, down to Zuckerman’s hands, back to his face, and Barin could see the puzzlement in his eyes.

  “There’s a man down in 82,” Barin said crisply. “Head injuries, but he’s breathing. You’ll need to secure the area for forensic examination, and look for a loose needler.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. He waved the medical team forward, and gave the necessary orders to his team. Then he glanced at Barin again. “Did . . . uh . . . the man in there attack Chief Zucker­man, sir? Or you?”

  “If you please, Sergeant, just see to it that the area is ­secured, and that the injured man is treated appro­priately.” Before the sergeant could comment, Barin turned to Zuckerman. “Chief, I need you to come with me to make a report. Can you do that?”