Rules of Engagement

  Esmay did her best to hold still, even as her air ran out, and the hunger for oxygen overtook her, urging her to run, struggle, fight her way out of the dark choking tunnel that was squeezing the life out of her.

  She heard voices before she could see; the steady quiet voices of the medics, and somewhere beyond, quite a bit of cursing and yelling.

  “What’s her pO2 doing?”

  “Coming up. Caught it in time . . .”

  “We’re going to need another can of spray over here-”

  “My God, what’d they do to them?”

  “It was the horse, I think-” That in a tentative, soft voice.

  Esmay opened her eyes to see unhelmeted faces bent over her. She wanted to ask the logical question, but she would not ask that one. One of the medics anticipated her.

  “We’re in the shuttle again. Our targets are alive, no wounds taken in the shootout. We lost two dead, eight with minor injuries. The station’s pretty much gone and there’s a fight going on upstairs some­where. And now you’re with us, we don’t have to worry about you any more.” The medic winked. “But I do have to do a mental status exam.”

  Esmay took a deep breath, and only then realized that she still had something up her nose feeding her oxygen. “I’m fine,” she said. “What else is going on?” She tried to sit up, but the medic pushed her back.

  “Not until we’re sure of your blood gases. Your suit telemetry said you were out of air for about two and a half minutes before we got you reconnected, and that’s on the edge of the bad zone.”

  “I’m fine,” Esmay said.

  “You’re not,” the medic said, “but you will be when we’re done with you.” She inserted a syringe into the IV line Esmay had not noticed until then, and a soft gauzy curtain closed between Esmay and the rest of the universe.

  * * *

  Barin had the uncomfortable honor of observing the whole collapse of the “simple, straightforward extrication” from the bridge of Gyrfalcon. Most of the carnage had already happened by the time Shrike’s signal reached them, and his grandmother ordered the rest of the task force to jump in. They popped out less than thirty light seconds from the planet, only ten from the nearest enemy ship. Gyrfalcon’s first salvo took it out; the cruiser’s massive energy weapons burned through its shields in less than a second.

  “Not used to facing real firepower,” Escovar said calmly.

  “Captain-Shrike has recovered one shuttle-casualties . . .”

  Please, please, let it not be Esmay . . . Barin clenched his hand on the ring he had bought for her.

  “Firing solution on second enemy ship-RED for Shrike-”

  “Hold!”

  “Got it!” That from Navarino, whose clear shot at the second enemy ship had blown it as cleanly as their own had the first.

  “Third target running-headed for jump point-”

  That would be the job of Applejack, the cleanup light cruiser . . . Barin watched scan intently as the enemy ship headed toward the minefield Applejack had spent the past six hours sowing around the jump corridor.

  * * *

  Hazel had seen the bulkhead peeling back, and felt a moment of complete panic-not now, not after all they’d been through-but someone’s gloved hand caught the bar at the end of her gurney, and wrapped a quick line to it, then secured the line to a stick­patch. But-when she looked-she could see a tumbling, receding shape that had to be Brun and someone holding her.

  She said nothing-there was enough noise on the comunits anyway-until someone asked if she was all right.

  “Yes, but-what about Brun?”

  “We’ll get them back,” a reassuring voice said. “Don’t you worry. And we’ll get you into a shuttle.”

  “Yeah, before this place breaks up completely . . .”

  She was passed from one set of hands to another-each carefully attaching her to another set of secured lines before releasing the first-and then finally through the cargo hatch of a shuttle. People moved past her, all busy, all doing something she hoped would rescue Brun. She had heard of Fleet SAR all her life, but she’d never seen it in action. She’d had no idea that SAR teams wore black p-suits that looked like space armor from storycubes. She’d expected them to wear bright colors with flashers or something to make them easier to see.

  “Hey there-can you tell us your name again?” That was a blonde woman with sleepy green eyes.

  “Hazel Takeris,” Hazel said. “Of the Elias Madero.” Her throat closed on all the things she had meant to say, that she’d rehearsed in her head so many times.

  “We’re going after Brun now,” the woman said. “There’s a beacon on the officer with her-we can’t lose her.”

  Hazel felt better, but she could sense more tension in the people around her. Something was still wrong.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” the woman said. “Only this was supposed to be a quick, simple extrication . . . and we didn’t know about you-”

  “I’m sorry,” Hazel said automatically. The woman looked startled.

  “Don’t you be sorry. It’s those idiots who planned it who need to be sorry.”

  The woman looked aside suddenly, and Hazel turned her head to see what it was. The cargo hatch gaped again, and three more black-suited figures swam in, pushing another, attached to Brun’s gurney.

  “Hatch closed,” she heard through her com.

  “Air up! Air up!”

  “Patch it into the suit, dammit!”

  Hazel could just see Brun’s turquoise suit . . . surely she had air, from the suit tanks. The others cut off her view.

  “Air pressure’s nom,” someone said.

  Then they moved, coming past her with the black-suited figure. Two of them stripped off suit gloves, and opened the other’s black suit with some tool-and it flipped back like a beetle’s carapace. Hazel stared-it was space armor. Inside, a limp figure . . . she could see a pale face, slack-mouthed. Busy arms, hands-and then someone tapped her shoulder.

  “You don’t want to watch,” the green-eyed woman said. “It gets messy. And since they’re working on her, they asked me to do an initial assessment on you. Any trouble breathing?”

  “No,” Hazel said, “but-”

  “Fine, then. You want to open your helmet? We can talk off the coms that way, save interference.”

  Hazel realized she could reach up and open her faceplate. The woman had opened hers, as well, and was folding back her gloves.

  “You got any broken bones you know of?”

  “No . . . is Brun all right?”

  “She’s fine-she’s got her own team working on her.”

  “But who was that-”

  “Lieutenant Suiza-just a little hypoxia, don’t fret.”

  She wished people would quit telling her not to worry. She glared at the green-eyed woman.

  “I’m not a child, you know.”

  “You sure look like one.”

  “Well, I’m . . .” She wasn’t even sure how old she was. How long had she been a captive? At least a year, because Brun had those babies. “I’m seven­teen,” she said.

  “Mm. Well, I’m thirty-eight, and my name is Methlin Meharry. Want to tell me how you got away?”

  “I was coming back from market-” Hazel began, and she’d gotten as far as cutting off their hair with the long knives when she heard someone working on the officer-on Lieutenant Suiza-let out a happy Yes!

  “She coming around?” Meharry asked.

  “Any minute now.” One of the others came over to Hazel.

  “All right-let us professionals at her.” And to Hazel, “Let’s get you out of that p-suit and see what shape you’re in.”

  “You be gentle now,” Meharry said.

  “You should talk,” the medic said, without rancor. “Considering your rep.”

  “I could get out of this myself-” Hazel started to say, as the medic reached through the sleeves to unfasten her p-suit.

  “Yes, but we want you i
n the tent in case the shuttle has pressure problems . . . unlikely but it’s a zoo out there.” The medic peeled back her pressure suit section by section; Hazel heard exclamations from those working on Brun and craned her head, trying to see, just as her attendant peeled the leg sections of the suit and the clothes underneath. “My God-what did they do to them!”

  “I think it was the horses,” Hazel said. “We rode horses all night.”

  “Horses! We send a task force halfway across the cluster, and they’re getting you out on horses?”

  “It makes you really sore,” Hazel said. “And the clothes were stiff.”

  “Barbarians,” someone muttered. “Should have spaced the lot of ’em.”

  Shrike scooped up the shuttle, and medics moved Hazel and Brun into the spacious sickbay. “Regen for you,” said the green-coated medic when he’d peeled away the gurney’s tent and draped a gown over her. “You’ll feel a lot better after an hour-maybe two-in the tank.” Hazel wasn’t about to argue; she saw that Brun was being led to the other tank. She settled into the warm, soothing liquid, and dozed off.

  * * *

  Brun was furious. They were talking over her head again, as if she weren’t there, and no one had thought to get her a voice synthesizer. Three hours aboard, and they continued to treat her like an idiot child.

  “She’ll need another five hours of regen for those abrasions,” one medic said. “And I still think we should order a parasite scan.”

  Brun reached out, caught hold of his uniform, and yanked hard. He staggered, then turned.

  “Are you all right? All right?” He spoke a little too slowly, a little too loudly, as if she might be a deaf child.

  Brun shook her head and mimed writing a ­mes­sage.

  “Oh-you want to say something?”

  Yes, she wanted to say something, something very firm. Instead, she smiled and nodded, and mimed writing again. Finally, someone handed her a pad.

  HOW’S ESMAY? she wrote.

  “Lieutenant Suiza is fine,” the medic said. “Don’t worry-you won’t have to see her again. It was strictly against orders-”

  What were they talking about? Brun grabbed the pad back. I WANT TO SEE HER.

  “That’s not a good idea,” the medic said. “You weren’t supposed to see her at all. We understand how traumatic it was-”

  Brun underlined the words I WANT TO SEE HER and shoved the pad back at him.

  “But it was all a mistake . . .”

  SAVING MY LIFE WAS A MISTAKE? That came out in a scrawl he had to struggle to read.

  “No-her being involved. Your father said, under no circum­stances should you have to see her, after what she said about you.”

  Her father. Rage boiled up. Carefully calm, she printed her message. I DON’T CARE WHAT MY FATHER SAID. ESMAY SAVED MY LIFE. I WANT TO SEE HER. NOW.

  “But you can’t-you need more time in regen-and besides, what will the captain say?”

  She could care what the captain said. Or her father. She had not come back to the real world to be told she couldn’t talk to anyone she pleased, even if she couldn’t talk.

  “She’s getting agitated,” someone else said. “Heart rate up, respirations-maybe we should sedate-”

  Brun erupted from the bed, ignoring the ­remaining twinges, and slapping aside the tentative grab of the first medic. The other one picked up the injector of sedative spray. With a kick she had practiced in ­secret for months, she smashed it from his hand; it dribbled down the bulkhead. She pointed a minatory finger at the medics, picked up the pad, and tapped the word NOW.

  “Good to see you up,” came a lazy voice from the entrance. Brun poised to attack, then realized it was Methlin Meharry, whose expression didn’t vary as she took in the two medics, the smashed injector, and Brun with the short hospital gown flapping about her thighs. “Giving you trouble, were they? All right boys-out.” The medics looked at each other, and Meharry, and wisely chose withdrawal.

  Brun held out the pad.

  “You want to see Suiza? Why, girl? I thought she trashed you at Copper Mountain, upset you so you ran away home.”

  Brun shrugged-it doesn’t matter-and tapped the pad again.

  “Yeah, well, she did save your life, and you saved hers I guess. Or helped. Your father thought seeing her would be a terrible trauma. If it’s not-well, it’s your decision.” Meharry’s mouth quirked. “You might want to put on some clothes, though . . . unless you want her to come down here.”

  Brun didn’t. She was more than ready to get out of sickbay. Resourceful as ever, Meharry quickly found Brun a shipsuit that almost fit. It wasn’t quite as soft as the shipsuits Hazel had found on the station, but it fitted her better.

  “Now-it’s customary to make a courtesy call on the captain. Since the captain told the lieutenant not to let you know she was there, and she did-this could be a bit tricky. Just so you know.”

  Meharry led her through a maze of corridors to a door that had Lt. E. Suiza, Executive Officer on it. Meharry knocked.

  “Come in,” Esmay said. When Meharry opened the door, she was half-sitting on her bunk; she looked pale and tired.

  “Brun wants to see you,” Meharry said. “She kind of insisted, when the medics wanted to sedate her . . .”

  Brun moved past Meharry, and held out the pad on which she’d already scribbled THANK YOU.

  Esmay stared at it, then at Brun, brow furrowed. “They don’t have a speaker device for you! What are they thinking of!” Esmay looked almost as angry as Brun felt.

  They’re worried about my stability.

  “They ought to be worried about your voice, dammit! This is ridiculous. That should be the first thing-”

  Thank you, Brun wrote again. My father gave you trouble?

  Esmay flushed. “They got the tape of what I said to you that night-and I’m sorry, it really was insulting-”

  You were right.

  “No-I was angry, that’s what. I thought you were stealing Barin-as if he were my property, which is disgusting of me, but that’s how I felt.”

  You love Barin? That was something that hadn’t occurred to her, even in the months of cap­tivity. Esmay, the cool profes­sional, in love?

  “Yes. And you had so much more time, and when I was working I knew you were spending time with him . . .”

  Talking about you.

  “I didn’t know that. Anyway-I said I’m sorry. But they think-they thought-I had something against you and your family. Your father didn’t want me involved in the planning, or with the mission. But that’s not the important thing-the important thing is getting you a voice.” Esmay thought for a moment. Meharry. Meharry knew everyone and everything, as near as Esmay could tell. If that device on the station had survived, Meharry would know where it was, and if it hadn’t, she’d know what would work.

  “A speech synthesizer? Sure-I can get you one. Just don’t ask where.”

  Ten minutes later, a young pivot, so new he squeaked, delivered a briefcase-sized box that flipped open to reveal a keyboard of preprogrammed speech tags as well as direct input.

  “Here,” Esmay said. “Try this.”

  Brun peered at it, and began tapping the but­tons. “It looks like the one Lady Cecelia used on Rotter­dam,” said a deep bass voice.

  Esmay jumped, then started laughing.

  “Let’s see what this one sounds like,” the box said, this time in a soprano.

  “I didn’t like that one, let’s try this . . .” came out in a mezzo; Brun shrugged. “I’ll keep this one.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t do this first,” Esmay said. “If they had a speech synthesizer aboard, why not give it to you right away.”

  “Arrogance,” Brun keyed in. “They knew what I needed; why ask me?”

  “Brun, I’m so sorry-”

  “Don’t waste time. Thank you. You saved my life.”

  Esmay was trying to think how to answer that one when Brun’s next message came out.

  “And by t
he way, who’s doing your hair? It looks good even after being squashed in a suit.”

  “Sera Saenz-Marta Saenz-took me to this place, Afino’s.”

  “Raffaele’s Aunt Marta? You must have impressed her if she took you there. Good for you.”

  Esmay could not believe how fast Brun was keying in the words, as if she’d used one of these for years. “You’re good with that thing,” she said.

  “Practice,” Brun keyed. “With Cecelia. And you cannot know how good it feels. Now-what’s going on with Fleet and the planet? Hazel wants to get the other kids out.”

  “And your babies,” Esmay said. “Your father’s adamant about that: he’s not leaving his grand­children there.”

  “He can have them.” Brun’s expression dared Esmay to question that, and she didn’t.

  “I don’t know what the whole situation is,” Esmay said. “Because, since I’m in disgrace for letting you know I was here, they won’t tell me. You’re on a search-and-rescue ship; there’s a task force with us, but what we’re doing is microjumping around keeping out of the way of the Militia warships.”

  “Who can I talk to?” Brun keyed. “Who’s giving the orders?”

  “On this ship, Captain Solis. For the task force, Admiral Serrano.”

  “Good. I need to talk to her.”

  “Admiral Serrano?” Esmay remembered in time that Brun already knew the admiral . . . she might in fact listen. “I can get you as far as Captain Solis, but there’s a blackout on communications with the task force.”

  “Captain Solis first,” Brun keyed in. Esmay nodded and led the way without another word. Brun glanced at Esmay. Besides the more effective haircut, there was something else different. She realized, as Esmay led her through the ship and she saw others defer to her, that Esmay might indeed be in disgrace but she was far more than Brun had imagined. This was what she’d been like at Xavier, or on Koskiusko? Her own idiocy struck her again, the way she had condescended to this woman, the way she had ­assumed that Esmay was no more than any other student, no more than, for ­instance, herself. That man in the combat veterans’ bar had been right-she had not understood at all.