"He reminds me of my father in some ways," Brun said. "Pretty much unflappable."
Esmay did not mention that Brun's father had been capable of flapping quite a lot when Brun was in danger. In a few minutes, her father returned with two chairs.
"Here. Have a seat. This is actually a magic trick, because if we get at all comfortable, they'll be back to tell us to go somewhere else."
Sure enough, Esmay and Brun had only just relaxed with a sigh when the clerk bustled back in.
"There you are—where'd you get those chairs? There aren't supposed to be any chairs in here—"
"I brought them," General Suiza said. "I'll take them back."
"You shouldn't have," the clerk said. "Lieutenant—or Sera, since you're not a lieutenant now—Major Tenerif is trying to access your personnel record to see if that discharge certificate is genuine—it's not the original, you know."
"They have the original down in 1118," Esmay said. "I left it with them, because they hadn't received anything on the discharge yet." She wondered just how soon after she'd left the mutineers had hit Trinidad Station.
"It's most irregular," the clerk said. "You'll need to speak to Major Tenerif."
"Is he free?"
"Well, not now—he's on the horn trying to get your records."
But at that moment, a major emerged from behind a screen. "Suiza?"
"I'm Esmay Suiza," Esmay said.
"Damnedest thing I ever heard of," the major said. "I've called JAG, and they're willing to agree that you are not, at present, a deserter, but that still leaves a mess. Either the discharge was valid or it wasn't. If it was, you're completely clear of charges of desertion, and you're a civilian. You'd have to apply to enter Fleet as a civilian, with a lapse in service and a considerable blot on your record. If the discharge wasn't valid, or was cancelled somewhere in the process of completion, then it's worse. You could be reinstated, of course. If you're reinstated as of the date of discharge, which would be normal if the discharge were shown to be a fake, then you were actually on active duty when the notices of AWOL and desertion were sent, and the defense that you'd been discharged prior to that is no longer valid. You'd have to stand at least a judicial inquiry to ensure that you were not at fault, that you had reason to believe you'd been legitimately discharged, that it wasn't some plot you'd cooked up to avoid duty in time of war."
"The discharge certificate—"
"Well, yes, you have one, but it would still be a matter for a formal inquiry. If you're reinstated as of this date, that means something has to explain the gap, besides the loss of time for pay and promotion consideration. And it's messed up the assignment process. Someone else took over your slot; we can't bump them out just because you showed up." He shook his head. "We need you combat-experienced people, but we do not need a mess like this. And you need a friend in high places. You don't happen to know Grand Admiral Savanche, do you?"
"No, sir," Esmay said. "The only admiral I know is Admiral Serrano—Vida Serrano."
"Ah. Her. Well, if the Serranos are behind you, that might help. But scuttlebutt has it they're peeved with you."
"Some of them," Esmay said. She was not about to say more about her relationship to Barin unless she had to.
"You'd better hope she's not one of the peeved ones," the major said.
Fleet Headquarters planetside had access to Fleet ansible communications, but it took the combined efforts of Esmay, Brun, and General Suiza to convince someone to try to reach Admiral Vida Serrano, who had just taken over at Sector VII. When they finally did, her response was terse: "Reinstate her at once and get her out here where we need her. Mutineers attacking civilian ships . . ."
It took more than that one message, but by afternoon the next day, Major Tenerif was much more cheerful about the situation. "JAG's dropped the desertion charge; apparently it's been decided the discharge was a valid order when you got it, but a mistake at a higher level, and it didn't get here because of the mess at Trinidad. Someone's probably in a lot of trouble, but not—at this point—you. However, we do have some urgency in getting you back to duty. When can you be ready to travel?"
"Pay and allowances?" murmured General Suiza.
"Oh. Of course. I guess, if you haven't been paid since—that would be before you went on leave, right?—and did your luggage catch up with you? No? Then you'll need some things, I imagine. Well, we don't issue pay here, but over in the Bursar's division, you can get any monies owed. But can you be ready to travel in—let's see, it's already 1500—two days? That will put you aboard our next transport to Sector VII."
"Yes, sir," Esmay said. She would find a way, she told herself.
"Good. We already cut your orders—you're going out to Sector VII to command
Rascal
, an upgraded patrol class."
"
Command
a ship? Me?" Esmay's voice almost squeaked.
"I don't see why not," Brun said.
The major shrugged. "We're short-handed, Lieutenant. You're the next qualified person on the list. And you
are
command track—"
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It's just—a surprise."
"That's all right." The major allowed himself a small smile. "We've had similar reactions from some other younger officers who weren't aware they now qualified for ship command." He turned to the clerk. "Get those orders cut for shuttle transport day after tomorrow." Then to Esmay. "You'll want to get your credit updated before you leave. I've already told the Bursar's office to expect you. . . ."
"Thank you, sir."
On the way to that office, new orders in hand, Esmay couldn't feel that this was real. From utter disgrace to ship command in one day?
"I still can't believe they gave me a ship. I'm only a lieutenant—"
"Who has commanded ships in battle . . . What do you want, Es, an engraved invitation?" Brun asked. Then she mimed shock. "This
is
an engraved invitation."
"Protocol . . . I don't know all the protocol for it . . ." The memory of that hasty and scrambled assumption of command on
Despite
did not reassure her.
"That's what fast-tapes are for. What about uniforms?"
"Right. Bursar's office, then the tailor's . . ."
Swainson & Triggett, Officers' Outfitters (All Services), greeted the new captain of a patrol ship with suitably restrained delight, and the presence of a distinguished-looking father only increased the respectful hush in the room. Lieutenant Suiza, the hero of Xavier, yes of course. An honor. And newly made captain? Congratulations. Luggage lost in transit, in the confusion of the mutiny? What a shame. Complete set of uniforms, as quickly as possible, money no object? They purred over her, the younger Ser Swainson, and the elder Ser Triggett. The senior women's fitter was summoned; she led Esmay away to a booth large enough to host a small party, where an entire team of fitters measured her from tip to toe, then had her move . . . sit, stand, walk, raise and lower her arms . . .
"We have items in stock, of course, which can be altered—that might do for everyday uniforms, since you're in a hurry—" The old lady sent a young one off to the racks. "But your dress uniforms must of course be custom-fitted. You're lucky; you have a nice shape for uniforms."
Esmay assumed that was simple flattery, until the woman said, "Now you take Sera Meager—lovely woman she is, but if you tried to fit a uniform on her it would be quite difficult. She looks good in many kinds of clothes, and she knows how to dress, but it's the ratios, you see. The ratio of upper to lower arm, of thigh to lower leg, of torso length to leg length." Esmay was glad Brun had stayed out front and hadn't heard this.
The girl came back with a uniform that fit better than any of her own ever had. Esmay said so, but the old lady sniffed as she began marking and pinning for alterations. "That may be, Lieutenant, but I daresay you didn't order your wardrobe
here
."
"No—this is my first time on Castle Rock."
"Ah. Well, we have several branch offices. There are other good firms—Hatan Meior does quite nice work—but we do feel that we have a little something extra."
"I'd agree," said Esmay, watching her image in the mirror as the pins subtly changed what had already seemed like a smarter silhouette.
"Is that the way you usually wear your hair?" the old lady asked, with a swift glance at the mirrored image.
"No—I had to cut it off for a religious ceremony," Esmay said. "I usually wear it short, but not this short. I was thinking of getting a wig or something."
"It's the cap, you see. If we size it to your head now, it may not fit when your hair grows out, depending on how you style it. A wig would certainly change the size, but if you don't mind my advice—"
"Not at all."
"It's our experience that those officers who try wigs find them inconvenient aboard ship. We've had to replace quite a few caps for that reason. And they don't work well with the command helmets, either."
"Thank you," Esmay said. "I'd only thought, because it's so much shorter than usual—"
"You might consider a hair booster; it'll grow out about twice as fast, for thirty days. Then it slows back down. Any good salon can do the treatment, and I understand it doesn't affect the ID process. Many of our officers use Dorn's, down the street."
"Thanks," Esmay said again.
"They'll be ready tomorrow," the elder Ser Triggett told them, when the fitters had done with her. "And do you have a list of your decorations? You'll need the ribbon and the miniature and full-size dress medals." Esmay handed over the list feeling more and more that she was in some fantasy world . . . she was suddenly back in Fleet . . . she was to command a ship . . . she had just ordered a full set of uniforms from what had to be the most expensive tailors in the universe . . . it was as if she'd fallen into one of the tales in which the despised outcast sister is transformed into a beautiful princess by magical hands.
She did notice that Ser Triggett passed the bill discreetly to her father, who scanned it closely before handing over his credit cube. "You're sure you don't need a second pair of ship boots?" her father asked. "If those are really comfortable . . ." Ser Triggett paused on his way to the credit desk.
They were comfortable; they felt like walking on pillows. Her father could afford it, and he wanted to treat her. "Yes," Esmay said. "I would like a second pair."
She walked out in uniform—the first of the working uniforms, quickly but perfectly altered to fit her, with the insignia of a ship's captain embroidered on epaulets and cap, and the rank insignia gleaming on her shoulders. The day itself seemed brighter, though in fact it was almost dark: Swainson & Triggett appeared not to mind that outfitting her had kept them busy until well after the stated closing hour.
That night, they all had dinner at the Thornbuckle town house—she, her father, Brun, Kate, and Kevil Mahoney, who was finally out of rehab with his new arm. After the meal, the talk turned to Familias politics.
"You young ladies will most likely not agree with me," General Suiza said, "but I see the Familias facing more and more trouble unless it reconstitutes its government on more rational lines."
"That's what I keep saying," Kate said. "They need a constitution . . ."
"They need clear thinking," the general said. "A bad constitution would not help."
"But the first thing," Esmay said, "must be the mutiny. Without security, they won't have time to think clearly."
He smiled at her. "You are definitely my daughter, Esmaya. Of course they must put down the mutiny first and repel any invaders. That's the job of the Fleet. But while you are out there blowing up mutineers, someone here must be thinking clearly about the reasons for the assassinations and mutinies, and the other unrest that troubles the realm." He cocked an eye at Kevil Mahoney. "Is that not so, Ser Mahoney?"
"Yes, of course," Kevil said. "But I don't quite see how we're to do that. Bunny and I were working on it, but without Bunny's influence I'm small potatoes and few in the hill, as the saying is. I rode his coattails . . ."
"Or drove him with them," Brun said. "I know you influenced his thinking a lot."
"Well . . . it became clear to me when I was a young man that something was stifling opportunity for talent of all kinds. It took me a long time to figure it out—you'd think with colony worlds opening all around, with hundreds of populated worlds all linked by trade and expanding almost visibly, that there'd be plenty of chance to rise."
"Some worlds are more conservative," Brun said. "Look at the Crescents, for instance."
"Yes, that's what my professors said. And there was a lot of scoffing, of the 'That's just what they're like, what do you expect' from senior men of law who were content that it should be so. But I had the advantage of my grandfather's library—he had a passion for old books that went far beyond having rows of attractive bindings to show on a library wall, or a few reproduction books on foxhunting or military history to lay out for display on a fancy table. By the time I was in law school, he'd long retired, and nothing pleased him so much as arguing over history with me—and not just legal history. One thing he convinced me of—and all the evidence I've seen since confirms this—is that any system which does not give ample opportunity for talent to displace unearned rank will, in the end, come to grief."