Rules of Engagement

  With that, Esmay yanked the door open; she was ready to shove Brun out, but Brun stalked past her, under the eyes of her waiting security, who carefully looked at neither of them. The doors were not made to slam, or Esmay would have slammed hers. As it was, she restacked her gear with shaking hands, packed it, set it aside, then lay unsleeping on her bunk to wait for the alarm.

  Chapter Four

  Brun stalked along the streets of Q-town trying to push her anger back down her throat. That ­sanc­t­imonious little prig . . . that prissy backcountry chit . . . her family probably slopped hogs in their bare feet. Just because she herself had grown up rich, just ­because she could talk about sex without squinching her face up-!

  In one corner of her mind, she knew this was unfair. Esmay was not an ignorant girl, but an accom­plished older woman. Not much older, but an Aca­demy graduate, a Fleet officer, a combat vet­­eran-Brun would have been glad to have Esmay’s experience. She wanted Esmay’s respect.

  But not enough to turn into a frumpy, tight-buttoned, sexless, joyless . . .

  Esmay wasn’t joyless, though.

  Brun didn’t want to be fair. She wanted to be angry, righteously angry. Esmay had had no right to ream her out like that, no right to say she had no moral sense. Of course she had moral sense. She had rescued Lady Cecelia, for one thing. Even Esmay granted that. Aside from the requisite helling around that all the people in her set went through in adoles­cence, no one had ever accused her of being immoral.

  She hunted through her past, finding one instance after another in which she had acted in ways she was sure Esmay would approve . . . not that it was any of her business. She had protected that little Ponsibar girl at school, the one who had arrived so scared and so easy to bully. She had told the truth about the incident in the biology lab, even though it had cost her a month’s detention and the friendship of Ottala Morreline. She had been polite to Great-Aunt Trema even when that formidable old lady had regaled guests at the Hunt Ball with tales of “little Bubbles” ­cavort­ing naked in the fountain as a toddler. She’d had to fight off entirely too many of her schoolmates’ brothers after that one, but she hadn’t turned against Aunt Trema. She and Raffa on the island . . . they had saved each others’ lives.

  She could not, however, find something to plaster over all the accusations. Well . . . so what? Her standards were different; that didn’t mean she had none. Just as her inner voices began to talk about that, she decided she was thirsty, and turned into one of the bars that lined the street.

  Diamond Sims, the sign read. Brun assumed it referred to fake diamonds, with an implication of world-weariness. Inside, the tables and booths were full of men and women who might as well all have been in uniform as in the mostly-drab shipsuits now the favorite casual wear for the military. The way they sat, their gestures . . . all revealed their profession. A few-less than a third-were in uniform. She didn’t see any of the students from the courses here-not that she’d know any but those in her own section, anyway. But she hadn’t wanted to see anyone she knew, anyone who would wonder where her body­guards were. She wanted new faces, and a new start, and new proof that she was who she thought she was.

  With that in mind, she edged past crowded tables to the one double seat empty toward the back. She sat down, and touched the order pad on the table-Stenner ale, one of her favorites-and put her credit cube in the debit slot. She glanced around. On the wall to her right were framed pictures of ships and people, and a display of little metal bits arranged in rows. A faded red banner hung up in the far corner; she could not make out the lettering from where she sat.

  A waitress deposited her frosted mug and the bottle of ale, and gave her a saucy grin. “What ship, hon?”

  Brun shook her head. “I’m on a course.” The waitress looked slightly surprised, but nodded and went on her way to deliver the rest of the tray to another table. Brun poured her ale. Behind her, she heard the dim confused sound of voices, and realized that there was another room-apparently private-adjoining the main room. And on her left, the long bar, the same matte black as the stuff covering ships’ hulls . . . could it possibly be a section of the same material? Above it, suspended from the high ceiling, were ship models. Brun recognized the odd angular shape of a minesweeper among the more ordinary ovoids of the warships. And ­behind the bar, the expected mirrors were framed with . . . her eyes widened. She knew enough about ordnance now to recognize that every frame had once been part of a functioning weapon. In a quick glance around the room, she saw more and more . . . it was as if the inside of the bar were made of the salvaged pieces of wrecks.

  She felt the hair rising on the back of her neck, on her arms. It wasn’t real-it could not be real-no one would really . . . but her eye snagged on a display at the near end of the bar. Paradox. That name-she could not forget that name. And here was a plate-an ordinary dinner plate, its broad rim carrying the same dark-blue chain design she’d seen on all the dinnerware aboard Admiral Serrano’s ship, with the four lozenges that had surrounded the name Harrier. Here, the design inside the lozenges was slightly different . . . and the plate, sitting on a stand she was suddenly sure had been made of other debris, was brightly lit by a tiny spot that also illuminated the label, for those who were too far away to see the lozenges. Beside it was a stack of crockery.

  Brun looked at the mug holding her ale, suddenly feeling almost sick. Had she been drinking from . . . ? No, it wasn’t Paradox. But now that its frosting had melted, she could see it was etched with some design. She squinted slightly. R.S.S. Balrog.

  She had been drinking from dead men’s cups. She was sitting on . . . a seat made from salvaged bits . . . and what bits? Her elbows rested on a table made of . . . she wasn’t sure what, but she was now sure it was something that had been part of a living ship, and had been salvaged from a wreck. She looked for clues-and there, in a dull-finished plaque set into the tabletop next to the menu screen, she found it. R.S.S. Forge, enlisted bunk 351. A tiny button to one side caught her eye; she pressed it.

  The menu screen blanked, replaced by a historical note: R.S.S. Forge had been lost thirty-two years ­before, in combat with a Benignity strike force; all hands had died. This fragment had been salved twenty-eight years ago, and identified by the stamped part number (still on the underside of the table); at the time of the ship’s death, enlisted bunk 351 had been ­assigned to Pivot Lester Green.

  The table’s pedestal, the note went on, was formed of a piece of shielded conduit from the same ship; the two chairs were both from Forge, but one was from the enlisted mess and the other had been that of the senior weapons tech serving the aft starboard missile battery. The five people who had taken that position during Forge’s final battle were all listed: Cpl. Dancy Alcorn, Sgt. Tarik Senit, Cpl. Lurs Ptin, Cpl. Barstow Bohannon, Sgt. Gareth Meharry.

  Brun’s breath caught. Bad enough that all the names were listed, real people who had lived real lives and died a real death. But Meharry . . . she had known Methlin Meharry . . . was this a relative? A . . . parent? Aunt? Uncle?

  Each name was linked, she realized, to some other information. She didn’t want it; she didn’t want those names to be any more real than they already were. But Meharry-she had to know. She activated the link.

  Gareth Meharry had been twenty-six when he died; his family tree, spread across the screen, with Fleet members in blue, was more blue than gray. His parents (both now deceased, one in combat) had been Fleet; of his four sibs, two were active-duty Fleet, and two were married to Fleet members. Methlin Meharry was his sister . . . hard to think of that tough veteran as anyone’s sister. One of his nieces-her niece too-was named after her. So there would be another Methlin Meharry someday, and with both parents, and aunts and uncles, in Fleet, there was every chance that she would go into Fleet.

  Sudden curiosity-and an escape from the weight of tragedy that was making it hard to concentrate-sent Brun back to the main menu. Sure enough, below the lists of drinks and food, she found data acc
ess choices. From this table, she could check on the publicly accessible records of anyone in Fleet.

  Esmay-she wondered if there were other Suizas in Fleet. She entered the name and waited. Up on the screen came only one name, and Fleet’s choice of data for public consumption. Name . . . she had not known that Esmay’s full name was Esmay Annaluisa Susannah Suiza. Planet of origin: Altiplano. Family background . . . Brun caught her breath. In a few crisp sentences, she was informed that the Suiza family was one of the three most prominent on Alti­plano . . . that Esmay’s father was one of the four senior military commanders . . . that her uncles were two of the others, and that the fourth was considered to be a Suiza choice. That the military influence on Altiplano’s government was “profound.”

  Brun tried to tell herself that a senior military commander on a backwater planet was nothing special-her father’s militia, back on Sirialis, was just a jumped-up police force. Its commander, though given the title “General,” had never impressed her as the regulars of Fleet did. But Altiplano . . . she read on . . . had no Seat in Council. It had no Family connections at all. Which meant-she wasn’t sure what, but she suspected that a General Suiza had a lot more power than old General Ashworth.

  Of Esmay herself, there was little: a list of her decorations, with the citations that went with them. Conspicuous gallantry. Outstanding leadership. Out­standing initiative. A list of the ships she’d served on. Her present assignment, to Training Command’s Junior Officer Leadership Course.

  Well. Brun sat back, aware of tension in her neck and shoulders, the feeling that she’d got herself in well over her head in more than one way. She returned the screen to its default, and thought of ordering a snack. But it would come on a plate from some wrecked ship. She didn’t think she could face that. As it was, she already had tears in her eyes.

  “Something wrong?” asked a deep voice behind her. She turned.

  He was stocky, heavy shoulders thick with muscle; his bald head, like Oblo’s, deeply scarred. His eyes were scarcely higher than hers; he was in a hover­chair. Brun kept her eyes from dropping to see why with an effort-but that gave him a clear look at her face.

  Out of the scarred face, brown eyes observed her with more insight than she liked. His wide mouth quirked.

  “Lady, you’re not Fleet, and you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”

  The “lady” threw her off-stride for a moment. In that pause, he jerked his head toward the farthest angle of the back.

  “Come on over here, and let’s get you sorted out,” he said. She was moving before she realized it, compelled by something in his voice. His hover­chair turned, and slid between the tables; Brun ­followed.

  Two tables away, someone called, “Hey! Sam!” He turned his head slightly-he could not, Brun realized, turn it all the way-and raised a hand but did not answer. Brun followed him and found a half-booth: enclosing bench and table, with space on the other side for his hoverchair.

  “Sit,” he said. Then, over his shoulder to a waitress, “Get us a pair of Stenners, and some chips.” His gaze returned to Brun, as disturbing as ever.

  “I’m not really-” Brun began.

  “That much I know already,” he said, humor in his tone. “But let’s see what you are.” He ticked off points with a stubby finger that looked as if it had been badly moulded of plastic. “You’re Thorn­buckle’s daughter, according to your credit chip, and accord­ing to the class list over there-” He jerked his head in the direction of the Schools. “You’re Brun ­Meager, choosing to use your mother’s family name. Target of assassination ­attempts-” Brun noted the plural and wondered how he knew. “By your instructors’ reports, physically agile and strong, bright as a new pin, quick learner, gifted with luck in emergencies. Also emo­tionally labile, argumentative, arrogant, stubborn, willful, difficult. Not officer material, at least not without a lot of remedial work.”

  Brun knew her face showed her reaction to that. “And why not?” she asked, trying for a tone of mild academic interest.

  He ignored the question and went on. “You’re not Fleet; no one in your bloodline’s been Fleet for over two hundred forty years. You come from a class where social skills are expected in a normal person your age. Yet you come into a Fleet bar-”

  “There’s nothing but Fleet bars in Q-town,” Brun muttered.

  “And not only a Fleet bar,” he went on, “a bar with special connotations, even for Fleet personnel. Not all of them will come here; not all of them are welcome here. I’ve seen kids with what you would call no social background at all come through the door and recognize, in one breath, that they don’t belong here. Which makes me wonder, Charlotte Brunhilde Meager, about someone like you not noticing.”

  Brun glared at him. He gazed back, a look neither inviting nor hostile. Just . . . looking . . . as if she were an interesting piece of machinery. That look didn’t deserve an answer, even if she’d had one, which she didn’t. She didn’t know why she’d ducked into this doorway instead of another. It was handy; she’d wanted a drink; when the thought of a drink and a doorway offering drinks overlapped, she went in. Put that way it didn’t sound as if she were thinking straight, but she didn’t want to think about that. Not here; not now.

  “You know, we’ve got security vid outside,” the man said, leaning back a little. “When your cube ID popped up on my screen, I ran back the loop. You were stalking along the street like someone with a serious grievance. Then you hitched a step, and turned in here, with just a glance at the sign. Anyone tell you about this place?”

  “No.” Even to Brun’s present mood, that sounded sulky, and she expanded. “I was given a list of places that catered to various specialties, mostly sexual. They have a code of light patterns in the windows, the briefing cube said. Anything else was general enter­tainment.”

  “So, just as it seemed on the vid, you were in a rage, thought of getting a drink, and turned into the first bar you saw.” His mouth quirked. “Really high-quality thinking for someone of your tested intel­ligence.”

  “Even smart people can get mad,” Brun said.

  “Even smart people can get stupid,” he replied. “You’re supposed to have a security escort at all times, right? And where are they?”

  Brun felt herself flushing again. “They’re-” She wanted to say a royal pain, but knew that this man would think that childish. Everyone seemed to think it was childish not to want half a dozen people lurking about all the time, looming over private conver­sations, listening, watching, just . . . being where she didn’t want them to be. “Back at the Schools, I suppose,” she said.

  “You sneaked out,” the man said, with no question at all in his voice.

  “Yes. I wanted a bit of-”

  “Time to yourself. Yes. And so you risk not only your own life, which is your right as an adult, but you risk their safety and their professional future, because you wanted a little time off.” Now the scorn she had sensed was obvious in his expression and his tone. Those brown eyes made no excuses, for himself or anyone else. “Do you think your assassin is taking time off, time to have a little relaxation?”

  Brun had not thought about her assassin any more than she could help; she had certainly not thought about whether an assassin kept the same hours as a target. “I don’t know,” she muttered.

  “Or what will happen to your guards if you get killed while they’re not with you?”

  “I got away from them,” Brun said. “It wouldn’t be their fault.”

  “Morally, no. Professionally, yes. It is their job to guard you, whether you cooperate or not. If you elude them and are killed, they will be blamed.” He paused. Brun could think of nothing to say, and was silent. “So . . . you got mad and barged in here. Ordered. Started looking around. Noticed the decor-”

  “Yes. Pieces of ships. It’s . . . morbid.”

  “Now that, young lady, is where you’re wrong.”

  Faced with opposition, Brun felt an urge to argue. ?
??It is. What’s the point of keeping bits of dead ships, and-and putting people’s names on them, if not morbid fascination with death?”

  “Look at me,” the man said. Startled, Brun com­plied. “Really look,” the man said. He moved the hoverchair back a little, and pointed to his legs . . . which ended at what would have been mid-thigh. Brun looked, unwillingly but carefully, and saw more and more signs of old and serious injury.

  “No regen tanks on an escort,” the man said. “It’s too small. A buddy stuffed me in an escape pod, and when old Cutlass was blown, I was safely away. By the time I was picked up, there was no way to regrow the legs. Or the arm, though I chose a good prosthesis there. They’d have given me leg prostheses too, but I had enough spinal damage that I couldn’t manage them. Now the head injuries-” He dipped his head, showing Brun the scars that laced his head. “Those were from another battle, back on Pelion, when part of a casing spalled off and sliced me up.”

  He grinned at her, and she saw the distortion of one side of his mouth. “Now you, young lady, you don’t have a clue what using part of Cutlass’s hull as my bar means to me. Or to any of the men and women who come here. What it means to have ­crockery from Paradox and Emerald City and Wildcat, to have cutlery from ­Defence and Granicus and Lancaster, to have everything in this place made of the remnants of ships we served on, fought on, and survived.”

  “I still think it’s morbid,” Brun said, through stiff lips.

  “You ever killed anyone?” he asked.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She could not believe this conversation. Tell him about the island, about Lepescu? But his eyes waited, and his scars, and his assumptions about her ignor­ance. Which of these finally drove her to speak, she could not have said.