"I see. And you thought you'd keep a quiet eye on him, document any problems, and bring your report to—exactly whom did you expect to bring this report to, assuming you came up with something?"
Under that cool gray gaze, Barin's mind kept trying to blank out. But a lifetime's experience gave him the right answer even in his panic. "To Chief Zuckerman's commander in the chain, sir. Which would be Lieutenant Commander Orstein."
"That much is correct. And what did you expect to happen when you presented such a report?"
"Sir, I thought Commander Orstein would review it, perhaps make his own investigation, and then take whatever action he felt necessary."
"And it would be out of your hands?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what did you think Orstein would do with you, the pup who dragged in this unsavory prize?"
"I . . . hadn't thought about that, sir."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Sir, no one could be happy to find a master chief losing his . . . losing effectiveness, sir. Master chiefs are . . . special." That wasn't the right word, but it was the only one he could think of.
"Yes, they are. So, if I read between the lines correctly, you figured Lieutenant Commander Orstein would chew you out and then—maybe—undertake his own investigation."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell me, Serrano, if you had found additional problems, are you certain you'd have risked that chewing out to report on Zuckerman?"
"Yes, sir!" Barin couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.
"Well, that's something. Let me reiterate what I'm sure Dockery told you: it is annoying for a junior to show no initiative and bother a senior with minor problems, but it is dangerous and—in the long run—disloyal for a junior to conceal a serious problem from a senior. If you had reported this sooner, Chief Zuckerman's problems—whatever they are—could have been dealt with properly, in the chain of command, and I would not have been caught flat-footed and embarrassed. I presume you understand this, and I presume you won't do it again. If you do, the trouble you're in now will be as a spark compared to a nuclear explosion. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then get out of here and do better."
R.S.S.
Gyrfalcon
Lieutenant Casea Ferradi knew she looked like a recruiting poster. She intended to. Every hair on her head lay exactly where it should, and under perfectly arched brows her violet eyes sparkled with intelligence. Her features—strong cheekbones and clean-cut jawline, short straight nose and firm but generous lips—fit anyone's image of professional beauty.
It had been worth the risk of early biosculpt. All she had ever wanted was to be a Fleet officer—no, to be honest, a Fleet commander. She had first imagined herself in command of a starship when only a child, her parents had told her. Casea Ferradi was born to be a hero, born to prove that a Crescent Worlds woman could do anything.
Being a girl on the Crescent Worlds had been the first handicap, and the second had been her face and body—typical of her colony, but not like anything she'd seen in a Fleet uniform on the newsfeed vid. Delicate features, narrowing to a pointed chin, sloping wine-bottle shoulders, and generous hips—all prized in her culture—did not fit her dream.
Her parents had been shocked when she told them what she wanted—but at ten, even girls could speak to the sept as a whole, not just parents, about important decisions like marriage negotiations. She had taken her argument to the Aunts' Gossip, where her desire to go offworld was quickly approved—she was too intelligent by far to fare well in the local marriage market. Biosculpting, though—it wasn't until her father's mother approved that she knew she had a chance.
"They will not know she is from here, if she looks so different, so her unwomanly behavior will not disgrace us."
Three years of surgery—of the pain that strengthening her redesigned body caused her—and then she took the Fleet entrance exams, passed them, and left home forever.
Once at the Academy, Casea discovered that her new shape was not considered sexless and unfeminine by her peers. Her honey-blonde hair, falling sleekly to a razor-cut angle, was unique in her class. She had all the interest she could handle, and discovered that the behaviors she'd observed in her older sisters and cousins had quite an effect on the young men in her class.
Protected by the standard implant provided all Academy cadets, she moved from interest to experimentation, and from experimentation to enthusiastic activity. Lectures on the ethics of personal relationships rolled off her confidence without making any impact. If Fleet had been serious about it, she reasoned, the young men of renowned Fleet families wouldn't have been so eager to take her to bed, and the young women would not have received implants. And after all, the young men and women of the Chairholding Families made no secret of their sexual activity—Casea watched enough newsflash shorts to know that.
She was angered, rather than alarmed, to discover that some of her classmates were making snide remarks about her behavior.
"Casea—if it's alive, she'll take it to bed," one of the women drawled in the shower room one morning. That wasn't fair; she had no interest in the ugly or dull.
"She'll get herself in trouble someday," another one said, sounding worried.
"No—not the way she's going. Which of those guys is going to accuse her of seducing
him
?"
Others simply radiated quiet disapproval. Esmay Suiza, whom she had expected to be a natural ally—they were each the only cadet from their original worlds—turned out to be either a sanctimonious prig or a sexless lump. Casea wasn't sure which, but didn't care. After the first year, she gave up on Esmay: she hadn't the right qualities to be the plain friend of a popular beauty, and Casea could not tolerate the chilly, stiff earnestness of the girl.
But after graduation, she slowed down—sex itself was no longer as exciting—and began to consider her targets with more care. Her cultural background had taught her to look for more from a liaison than physical pleasure alone. Carefully, with an eye out for trouble, she explored the limits of Fleet's policy on what was delicately termed "personal relationships."
In her first assignment, she discovered that if she stayed away from men already considered "taken" by other women, she could hunt at will without arousing comment. So that had been it! She felt a happy glow of contempt for the idiot girls who hadn't simply told her which boys they fancied themselves. Testing this understanding, she turned her violet eyes on a lonely jig, who was quite happy to console himself with a lovely ensign.
But he wasn't enough. She wanted someone in command track. All the command track jigs aboard were paired already—she wrinkled her nose at the two who were wasted on each other, as she thought—and she was not attracted to the single male lieutenant. A major? Could she? She did not doubt her ability to get his interest, but—regulations were supposed to prevent him from dallying with junior officers in his chain of command.
Regulations, as everyone knew, could be bent into pretzels by those with the wit to do so. Still it might be better to look elsewhere . . . which led her to a major in another branch of technical track. It never hurt to have a friend in communications. On her next assignment, he was followed by a lieutenant in command track, and then—with some difficulty in detaching from the lieutenant—by another major. She learned something from each about the extent of her talent, and what advantages could come from such close associations.
Now, though, she was through with casual liaisons. She had found the right man. Against all expectations—she was sure that her grandmothers and aunts would be amazed—she had found a respectable, intelligent, charming young man whom even her father would consider eligible. That he was an ensign, and she a lieutenant, two ranks higher, meant nothing to her. He was mature for his age, and best of all . . . he was a Serrano. Family is everything, she had heard all her life. The one-eyed son of a chief is better than a robber's by-blow. And better family than Serrano—grandson of an admiral, with other admirals in the family tree—she could not hope to find.
The only snag was that rumor said he was, or had been, interested in Esmay Suiza. Casea discounted that. Esmay had been a nonentity, even aside from being a prig. Not pretty, with a haphazard set of features topped with fluffy, flyaway hair of nondescript brown. The boy had hero worship, that's all it was. Suiza had turned out to be a hero of sorts, but nothing could make her beautiful or charming. And now, if rumor were true, she was in trouble for being untactful—Casea could believe
that
, no question. If she ever had a lover, which didn't seem likely, it would be someone as unspectacular as herself, another nonentity, probably just as tactless and doomed to as inglorious a career.
Still, Esmay's present disgrace would make it easier for Casea to pursue Barin Serrano unhindered. And surely that Serrano grandmother wouldn't want him connected to someone like the bad Lieutenant Suiza. It would take very little, Casea thought, to make absolutely sure that no one ever admired Lieutenant Suiza again.
It was getting harder to get up off the floor to use the toilet; Brun realized that in addition to the pregnancy she was getting weaker because she didn't exercise much. How could she? The compartment would have been small for one person; with an adult woman, a girl, and two small children, it was impossibly crowded. And at any time, one of the men might look in; she could imagine how they would react if they caught her doing real exercises. She tried to make herself pace back and forth, but she quickly ran out of breath, and leaned on the bulkhead panting. The girl watched her with a worried frown, but looked away when Brun tried to smile at her. As Brun had shared more of the work, the girl had accepted that help, but always with reserve.
That night when the lights dimmed, signalling a sleep period, the girl slept at her back, curled around her. Brun woke to a breath of air in her ear. She started to lift her head, and felt a gentle push downward. The girl?
"
Elias Madero
," came the words. "Merchanter."
Brun squirmed as if trying to find a comfortable position. Merchanter . . . the merchanter ship. This girl must be off that ship. Excitement coursed through her . . . she knew
something
now.
"'M Hazel," the girl breathed. Then she too squirmed, as if moving in her sleep, and rolled away.
The rush of joy from those five words burst through her. This must have been how Lady Cecelia felt, when she first made contact with the world again.
A wave of shame followed. Lady Cecelia had been locked in paralysis and apparent coma for months . . . and months more of painful rehab . . . and she had been old. Brun was young, healthy . . .
I am not defeated. I am only . . . detained on the way to victory.
So she might bear children for these animals . . . so she might be a prisoner for months, for years . . . but in the end, she was who she was, and that would not change.
She rolled over with difficulty, and looked through narrowed lids at the girl . . . at Hazel. She had been impressed before at the girl's patience, her consistent gentleness with the little girls, her endless invention of quiet little games and activities to amuse them. But she had given up hoping for any real contact, after the first long stretch of days . . . the girl was too scared. Now she appreciated the courage of this thin, overworked, terrified girl . . . still a child herself . . . who cared for two younger children and Brun. Who dared, in the face of threats, to say a few words of comfort. She had lost everything too—parents, most likely. Were these children even her sisters? Maybe not, but no one could have done more for them.
She pushed herself up to use the toilet; on the way back she noticed that Hazel had rolled over again, as if offering Brun a niche convenient to her ear. Brun lay down, grunting, and pretended to sleep. Her arm slid sideways, touched Hazel's. She twisted—she was uncomfortable—and traced the letters of her name on Hazel's arm before moving her arm away.
Hazel turned, burying her face under her hair, and a soft murmur came to Brun's ear. "Brun?"
Brun nodded. A wave of excitement ran through her; the baby kicked vigorously as if aware of it. Someone besides the men knew who she was . . . an ally. She had made contact . . . it wasn't much, but it gave her hope, the first real hope she'd had.
The next day, she watched Hazel covertly. The girl seemed the same as always—busy, careful, quiet, patient, warm with the children and remote with Brun. When Brandy's restlessness grew toward a tantrum, Hazel intervened, steadied her . . . and Brun was reminded of an expert trainer with a fractious young horse. When she thought of it that way, she began to grasp how Hazel was using the children's need to steady herself. She could be calm, she could follow the senseless rules, because she had someone for whom she was responsible.
And who was Brun's responsibility? The words she had heard from Lieutenant Commander Uhlis came back to her. If she had been a Regular Space Service officer, her duty would have been clear—to escape, or if that was not possible, to live, gathering information, until she could escape. But she wasn't. And even if she had been—even if she pretended to be—was that duty enough to sustain a lifetime such as she faced? What if she never had a chance to escape?