Rules of Engagement

Chapter Thirteen

“The admiral wants you,” the jig said. Esmay looked up from her lists. What now? She hadn’t done anything bad again, surely.

“On my way,” she said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. Whatever it was would be made no better by a long face.

In Admiral Hornan’s outer office, the clerk nodded at her soberly, and touched a button on the desk. “Go right in, Lieutenant Suiza.”

So it was serious, and she still had no idea what was going on. They had chewed all the flavor out of her sins so far; what else was there to attack?

“Lieutenant Suiza reporting, sir.” She met Admiral Hornan’s eyes squarely.

“At ease, Lieutenant. I’m sorry to say I have sad news for you. We have received a request relayed by ansible from your father for you to take emergency leave . . . your great-grandmother has died.”

Esmay felt her knees give a little. The old lady’s blessing—had she known? Tears stung her eyes.

“Sit down, Lieutenant.” She sat where she was bidden, her mind whirling. “Would you like tea? Coffee?”

“No . . . thank you, sir. It’s—I’ll be fine in a moment.” She was already fine; a translucent shield protected her from the universe.

“Your father indicates that you and your great-grandmother were close—”

“Yes, sir.”

“And says that your presence is urgently needed for both legal and family matters, if you can possibly be spared.” The admiral’s head tilted. “Under the circumstances, I think you can well be spared. Your presence here is hardly essential.” He might as well have said it was grossly unwelcome; Esmay registered that but felt none of the pain she would have felt before. Great-grandmother dead? She had been a constant, even in self-exile, all Esmay’s life, all her father’s life.

“I—thank you, sir.” Her hand crept up to touch the amulet through her uniform.

“I’m curious to know, if you would not mind telling me, what legalities might require a great-grandchild’s presence at such a time.”

Esmay dragged her mind back to the present conversation; she felt she was wading through glue. “I’m not entirely sure, sir,” she began. “Unless I am my great-grandmother’s nearest female relative in the female line . . . and I’d have thought it was my aunt Sanibel.”

“I don’t follow.”

Esmay tried to remember birth years—surely it had to be Sanni, and not herself. But Sanni was younger than her father. “It’s the land, sir. The estancia. Land passes in the female line.”

“Land . . . how much land?”

How much land? Esmay waved her hands vaguely. “Sir, I’m sorry but I don’t know. A lot.”

“Ten hectares? A hundred?”

“Oh no—much more than that. The headquarters buildings occupy twenty hectares, and the polo fields are—” She tried to think without counting on her fingers. “Probably a hundred hectares there. Most of the small paddocks up by the house are fifty hectares . . .”

The admiral stared; Esmay did not understand the intensity of that stare. “A small paddock—just part of this land—is fifty hectares?”

“Yes . . . and the large pastures, for the cattle, are anywhere from one to three thousand hectares.”

He shook his head. “All right. A lot of land. Lieutenant—does anyone in Fleet know you are that rich?”

“Rich?” She wasn’t rich. She had never been rich. Her father, Papa Stefan, her great-grandmother . . . the family as a whole, but not her attenuated twig on the end of the branch.

“You don’t consider thousands of hectares a sign of wealth?”

Esmay paused. “I never really thought of it, sir. It’s not mine—I mean, it never was, and I’m reasonably sure it’s not now. It’s the family’s.”

“My retirement estate,” the admiral said, “Is ten hectares.”

Esmay could think of nothing to say but “Sorry,” and she knew that was wrong.

“So might I conclude,” the admiral went on, in a tone of voice that set Esmay’s teeth on edge, “that if you were to . . . choose to pursue family responsibilities, rather than a career in Fleet, you would not be starving in the street somewhere?”

“Sir.”

“Not that I’m advising you to do so; I merely find it . . . interesting . . . that the young officer who was capable of telling the Speaker’s daughter she was a spoiled rich girl is herself . . . a rich . . . girl. A very rich girl. Perhaps—for all the reasons you elucidated for Sera Meager’s benefit—rich girls are not suited to military careers.”

It was as close to an instruction to resign as anyone could come, without saying the words. Esmay met his eyes, bleak misery in her heart. What chance did she have, if senior officers felt this way about her? She wanted to argue, to point out that she had proven her loyalty, her honor—not once, but again and again. But she knew it would do no good.

The admiral looked down at his desk. “Your leave and travel orders have been cut, Lieuteant Suiza. Be sure to take all the time you need.”

“Thank you, sir.” She would be polite, no matter what. Rudeness had gotten her nowhere, honesty had come to grief, and so she would be polite to the end.

“Dismissed,” he said, without looking up.

The clerk looked up as she came out.

“Bad news, sir?”

“My . . . great-grandmother died. Head of our family.” Her throat closed on more, but the clerk’s sympathetic expression looked genuine.

“I’m sorry, sir. I have the leave and travel orders the admiral told me to prepare . . .” The clerk paused, but Esmay offered no explanation. “You’ve got a level two priority, and I took the liberty of putting your name on a berth for the fastest transit I could find.”

“Thank you,” Esmay said. “That’s very kind—”

“You’re quite welcome, sir; just sorry it’s for a sad occasion. I notice your end-of-leave is given as indeterminate—I’m assuming you’ll notify the nearest sector HQ when you know how long you’ll need?”

“That’s right,” Esmay said. The familiar routine, the familiar phrases eased the numbing chill of the admiral’s attitude.

“That would be Sector Nine, and I’ll just add the recognition codes you’ll need—and here you are, sir.”

“Thank you again,” Esmay said, managing a genuine smile for the clerk. He, at least, treated her as if she were a normal person worth respect.

Her transport would undock in six hours; she hurried back to her quarters to pack.

Marta Katerina Saenz, Chairholder in her own right, and voter of two other Chairs in the Family sept, had been expecting the summons for weeks before it came. Bunny’s wild daughter had at last fallen into more trouble than youth and dash could get her out of, though the news media had been fairly vague about what it was, having had her listed first as “missing” and then as “presumed captured by pirates.” She suspected it might be worse than that; pirates normally killed any captives or ransomed them quickly. Bunny, who had succeeded Kemtre as the chief executive of the Familias Grand Council, had actually done quite well in the various crises that had followed the king’s abdication—the Morellines and the Consellines had not in fact pulled out; the Crescent Worlds hadn’t caused trouble; the Benignity’s attempt at invasion in the Xavier system had been quickly scotched. But rumor had it that his daughter’s disappearance had sent him into a state close to unreason. Rumor was usually wrong in details, Marta had found, but right in essence.

She herself was the logical person to call in for advice and help. Family connections and cross-connections, for one thing, and—paradoxically—her reputation for avoiding the hurly-burly of political life. Her axes had all been ground long since, and stored in the closet for future need. Several of the Families had already contacted her, asking her to make discreet inquiries. Moreover, she had helped Bunny in the Patchcock affair, and she knew the redoubtable Admiral Serrano. In addition, whatever trouble Brun had gotten herself into involved this side of Familias space—that was clear from the number of increased Fleet patrols, and the way her own carriers were being stopped for inspection. So it was natural that someone would think of asking her to—what was the phrase?—“assist in the investigations.”

She did not resent the call as much as she might have a decade or so earlier. That affair on Patchcock had been much more fun than she’d expected, and the aftermath—when she’d tackled Raffaele’s difficult mother about the girl’s marriage—even more so. Perhaps she’d had enough, for a while, of secluded mountain estates and laboratory research. Perhaps it was time for another fling.

Though by all accounts this would be no fling. When she boarded the R.S.S. Gazehound, which had been sent to fetch her, she was given a data cube which made that clear. Marta had met Brun more than once, in her wildest stages, and the vid of Brun helpless and mute was worse than shocking. She put it out of her mind, and concentrated instead on testing her powers with the crew of the R.S.S. Gazehound.

Captain Bonnirs had welcomed her aboard with the grave deference due her age and rank; Marta had managed not to chuckle aloud at that point, but it wasn’t easy. He seemed so young, and his crew were mere children . . . but of course they weren’t. Still, they responded to her as her many nieces and nephews had, treating her as an honorary grandmother. For the price of listening to the same old stories of love, betrayal, and reconciliation, she could acquire vast amounts of information the youngsters never knew they were giving.

Pivot-major Gleason, for instance, while apparently unaware of any conflict between his loyalty to the Regular Space Service and that to his family, was carrying undeclared packages from his brother to his sister-in-law’s family: packages that, under the scrutiny now given such mail, would have been opened and inspected by postal authorities. He didn’t see anything wrong with this; Marta hoped very much he was merely hauling stolen jewels or something equally innocuous and not explosives.

Ensign Currany, in the midst of asking advice on handling unwanted advances from a senior officer, revealed that she had a startling misconception of the nature of Registered Embryos which suggested a political orientation quite different from that she overtly claimed. Normally this wouldn’t have mattered, but now Marta had to wonder just why Currany had joined Fleet—and when.

She discovered that an environmental tech had a hopeless crush on the senior navigator, who was happily married, and that the curious smell in the enlisted crew quarters emanated from an illicit pet citra, kept in a secret compartment in the bulkhead behind a bunk. It was brought out to show her, and she enchanted its owners by letting it run up her arm and curl its furry tail around her neck. She overheard part of a furious argument between two pivot-majors about Esmay Suiza—one, having served aboard Despite, insisted she was loyal and talented; the other, who had never met her, insisted she was a secret traitor who had wanted Brun to be captured and had probably told the pirates where to find her. She would like to have heard more of that, but the argument ended the moment they realized she was lurking in the corridor, and neither would talk more about it.

By the end of the twenty-one day voyage, she was remembering exactly why she normally lived in isolation: people told her things, they always had, and after just a few weeks of it, she felt stuffed with the innumerable details of their lives and feelings. Therapist had never been her favorite self-definition.

Marta prepared herself for her first meeting with Bunny; she knew, from the tension all around her, that whether she liked it or not, she was everyone’s favorite candidate for therapist where Bunny was concerned. She swept into the room with her usual flair, hoping it would have its usual effect on him.

This time it did not. Lord Thornbuckle looked up at her with the expression of a man very near the edge of sanity. Desperate, exhausted . . . not the expression one wanted to see on the chief executive of the Familias Regnant, someone on whose judgement the security of the entire empire depended.

Marta moderated her instinctive verve, and instead walked quietly across the room to take the hand he held out to her.

“Bunny, I’m so sorry.”

He stared at her silently.

“But I know Brun, and if she’s alive, we can and will help her.”

“You don’t know”—he swallowed—“what they did to her. To my daughter—”

She did know, but clearly he needed to tell her. “Tell me,” she said, and held his hand through the recitation of all the horrors he knew Brun had endured, and the ones that might have followed. She interrupted this latter list.

“You can’t know that—you can’t know, and until we know for certain, you must not waste your strength worrying about it.”

“Easy for you to say—”

“It was my niece you sent off to rescue Ronnie and George,” Marta said crisply. “It is not easy to say, or to do, but people of our rank have responsibilities. Yours is heavy, but not beyond your strength, if you will quit adding to the load by imagining even more horrors.”

“But Brun—”

“What you are doing by tearing yourself up does not help her.”

“I don’t know what to do . . .”

“Where’s Miranda?” Bunny’s exquisitely beautiful wife was, under her beauty, a woman of spun-steel endurance, capable of enforcing sense on her husband—one of the few who could.

“She’s . . . back on Castle Rock. I didn’t want her out here.”

“Then, in her place, I will tell you what to do. Eat a hot meal. Sleep at least nine hours. Eat another hot meal. Don’t talk to anyone about anything important until you have done so. You will be even more miserable if your bad judgement, born of hunger and exhaustion, harms Brun’s chances.”

“But I can’t just sleep—”

“Then get medication.” Marta paused a moment for that to take effect, and went on. “Bunny, I’m terribly, terribly sorry that this has happened . . . but you simply must not go into this as you are.”

“Who called you here?” he asked, at last reacting to her immediate presence.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m here; I belong here, because those people are only a jump point away from my home; and I’m taking charge of you, at this moment, because I’m older, meaner, and you daren’t hit me.”

With that, she punched in a call to the infirmary and the kitchen, and stood over Bunny until he had downed a bowl of soup and a plate of chicken and rice. Then she insisted that he take the medication provided, and nodded to his valet. “Don’t let him up until morning, or he’s slept ten hours, whichever comes latest. Then make him eat again.”

From the startled, but relieved, expressions of those around her, Marta judged that no one else had been able to make the Speaker see reason. He was, after all, the Speaker of the Grand Council. She felt her lip curling. That was exactly why she let someone else vote her Seat most of the time, all this ridiculous social etiquette getting in the way of common sense.

Her next stop was a brief call on Admiral Serrano, who was said to be in line to command the task force. On her way through the interminable layers of military bureaucracy between the outer and inner office, she heard a sleek blonde female officer murmur to another woman, “Well, it was Suiza, after all.” Both shook their heads.

Marta decided she didn’t like the sleek blonde, on no more evidence than the unlikely perfection of her bone structure and perfect grooming. She said nothing, but filed the comment away.

Vida Serrano looked almost as harried and exhausted as Thornbuckle had. Marta blinked; she had not expected this.

“What happened to you?”

“Lord Thornbuckle,” Vida said. “He’s furious with the Serrano family in general, and me in particular.”

“Why?”

“Because he thinks it was his daughter’s attachment to my niece Heris which led her into what he calls ‘dangerous interests.’ Of course, there was that regrettable incident at Xavier, but it certainly wasn’t Heris’s fault. Then I recommended that she go to the Fleet training facility at Copper Mountain to get some practical knowledge—and I had hoped, some discipline as well—but that blew up in our faces when she was shot at, then quarrelled with Lieutenant Suiza and stormed off on her own. Still, it was my recommendation, so it’s my fault.” She heaved a sigh and managed a weary smile. “I really had thought she was ready for something like Copper Mountain. Lord Thornbuckle himself introduced his daughter to Lieutenant Suiza, but apparently that young woman is not at all what she seemed.”

“I’m confused,” Marta said, sitting down firmly. “I thought young Brun had managed to get herself captured by pirates and hauled off somewhere. I saw the vid of her mutilation, that’s all. But I’ve heard nasty comments about Lieutenant Suiza from more than one person, and this is the first I’ve heard of Brun taking any military training. And ‘shot at’—was that part of a course, or something else?”

“One thing at a time,” Vida said, suddenly looking more like the admiral she was. “Brun was accepted as a civilian trainee—she signed up for courses in search and rescue, and similar adventurous things. I was hoping, frankly, that she’d realize how well her talents suited us and join Fleet formally.”

“Brun?” Marta snorted. “You could no more make that girl into an officer than a mountain cat into a sheepdog.”

“So it seems. Perhaps she was on her best behavior with me. At any rate, while she was there, she was the target of at least two assassination attempts—one nearly fatal, in part because she insisted on doing what everyone else did, and eluding her assigned security detail. Her father wanted her to leave, and she refused. He recognized Lieutenant Suiza from all the publicity, and tried to enlist her help in making his daughter cooperate with her security detail. Apparently his daughter did agree, and things went along fairly well for a few weeks. Witnesses say that she kept trying to make friends with Suiza, who wasn’t willing.”

“Why?” Marta asked.

Vida shrugged. “Who can know? She was taking extra courses herself, doubling up, but all we know for sure is that she and Brun quarrelled the night before the field exercise in escape and evasion. Lieutenant Suiza was extremely rude and abusive—I’ve heard the tapes myself—and according to some sources, she had been previously heard to make disparaging remarks about the senior Families and the Grand Council. Highly unprofessional.”

“Why didn’t this come out at the time of the courts-martial?” Marta asked. “Surely if she’d had a bad reputation, it would have been a matter of some interest during the investigation of the mutiny.”

Vida threw out her hands. “I don’t know. I wasn’t involved in that investigation, except in the most preliminary stages; all the background work was done at headquarters. Frankly, I had trouble believing that of her—I’d met her several times, you know—but the scan record is undeniable. Moreover, she admits she said those things to Sera Meager.”

“Odd,” Marta said. She filed that away in the same mental cubbyhole as the sleek blonde’s remark. “So—what happened to Brun, then?”

Vida related what was known. “We’re keeping it as quiet as we can, which isn’t very. The newsfeeds have agreed, for now, but who knows when they’ll change their mind? Clearly these people want it known: they keep leaking vid and other material—everything except location—to the newsfeeds. Worse, we still do not know where she was taken—and until we know that, we can hardly formulate a plan to get her out. The Guernesi are cooperating in every way, but so far we are still sifting through a very large sandpile looking for one very small diamond.”

“Well.” Marta gazed past Vida at the wall screen—a pattern of slowly shifting bands of color—for a long moment. “I’ll tell you what I’ve accomplished. I put Bunny to bed with his stomach full of decent food, and I think I’ve terrorized the medical staff into keeping him down for at least ten hours.”

“I am impressed.”

“You should be. I presume you wanted me for my knowledge of the region?”

“Your ships travel it regularly—we wondered if there was anything in any of the logs that might reveal a trace of the ship or ships that Brun was on.”

“What are we looking for?”

“A Boros Consortium container ship—a heavy—called the Elias Madero, perhaps traveling in association with one or more ships of about patrol-class.”

“I presume you want this information extracted without informing my entire staff?”

“If possible, yes.”

“I’ll do the datasuck myself.” Marta stood up. “Now you, m’dear, need to take my advice to Bunny. A hot meal, a long sleep. For a woman your age, you look like hell.”

Vida laughed. “Yes, Marta. Are we convening the aunt’s coven again?”

“No . . . Cecelia would be no help on this, and her feelings for Brun would be almost as obstructive as Bunny’s. You and I should be able to handle it.”

“If your esteemed friend will quit putting obstacles in my path,” Vida said, shaking her head. “He’s so convinced there’s a conspiracy of Serranos, I’m lucky to be still on the task force.”

“Um. I’ll see what I can do, when he’s had some sleep. I should at least be able to insist on his eating and sleeping on a sane schedule. Now, what can you give me for doing the suck on my own database?”

“Well . . . we’ve gathered the best we’ve got. Take your pick—here’s my private list.” Vida handed over a data cube. “You might want to work through Heris; she’s got the really good techs with her at the moment.”

“Fine. Now what’s our conference schedule?”

Between meetings and a long and abortive attempt to extract data about the Boros ship from her own databases (no one had reported anything like it), Marta pottered about, as she thought of it, listening and learning how Fleet fit together. Much like any large organization, including her own pharmaceutical firms, but subtly different. Yet it was made up of people, and people were people the universe over.

Take this matter of Esmay Suiza. She had heard of Suiza—everyone with a newsfeed had heard of Suiza, first for the Battle of Xavier, and then for the Koskiusko affair. A rising young hero, a tactical genius, a charismatic leader. And she was here, executive officer of a ship in the task force . . . but she was not here . . . nowhere in the lists of officers tasked with this or that planning, was Esmay Suiza listed. Her captain sat in on some meetings . . . she never had, it seemed.

It seemed stupid. Suiza was the obvious source of recent, detailed knowledge of Brun’s performance and attitudes. Surely Bunny’s irrational dislike wasn’t affecting everyone’s judgement. Was she on some secret assignment? When she turned out to be on leave, that seemed the most likely explanation. But according to gossip, she was in disgrace, and had been sent away.

A cover story, of course. Marta wondered what kind of cover story they’d concocted. She knew what she would have done. She managed to be in one of the rec rooms one evening, looking by design as close to a potty old woman as she could manage, and kept her ears open.

Of course, they all knew who she was, in a way. Ordinary old civilian women weren’t hanging out in the junior officers’ recreation room. But they all had grandmothers, and she had perfected an earthy chuckle in the years of having nieces and nephews and cousins visiting. Soon she had a circle around her, bringing her drinks and snacks, and chatting happily.

She didn’t even have to drop the topic herself. A female ensign nudged another. “Look—there’s Barin now.”

They both looked, and Marta looked too. A darkly handsome, compact young man with a worried expression made his way across the room to the drinks dispenser; that same sleek blonde followed him.

“With Casea on his heels,” the other ensign said.

“Lieutenant Ferradi to you, Merce—she is senior.” That was a male jig, whom Marta had already pegged as stuffy and overly precise.

“She is what she is,” the ensign said. Her eyes slid to Marta, encountered the unexpected, and she blushed.

That confirmed what Marta had already expected. These young people—so transparent.

“It’s too bad,” the first ensign said. “I’d like to get to know him, but I can’t—”

“Well,” said the jig, “she may be . . . whatever . . . but she’s better than Suiza, and that’s who he was supposed to like before.”

Marta gave him a smile for doing her work for her, and cocked her head. “Suiza? That girl who’s the hero?”

Nervous glances, eyes shifting from side to side. No one spoke for a moment, then the first ensign said quietly, “She’s—not such a hero right now, Sera.”

“Why?” asked Marta, ignoring the signals that this was a ticklish subject. Directness often worked, and besides, it was more fun. But this produced more sidelong looks, more shifting about. Finally, the same ensign answered.

“She—said bad things about the Speaker’s daughter. Said she didn’t deserve to be rescued.”

Marta blinked. That was not the kind of cover story she would have invented, and it wasn’t something Admiral Serrano had told her. She had mentioned a row at Copper Mountain, but nothing since. That kind of rumor could hang around and damage someone’s career years later. “Are you sure?” she asked.

Nods, some reluctant. “It started before, is what I heard,” the jig said.

“It’s all rot!” another jig said. “I don’t believe it—someone made it up—”

“No, it’s true. They have a tape. I heard Major Crissan talking to Commander Dodd, and he said he heard it himself. She quarrelled with Sera Meager at Training Command, something about a course they were both in, and they nearly asked for her commission.”

“I don’t see what you could say bad enough for that.”

“Well . . . it had something to do with her loyalty, or something.”

Something something something. A clear sign of uncontrolled rumor, Marta thought. She prodded a bit.

“Well, but—she is a hero, isn’t she? I mean, she brought her ship back and saved Xavier . . .”

“Yes, but why? That’s what they’re asking now. People I know who knew her in the Academy say she wasn’t that talented then. She wasn’t even command track. How could she get that good without anyone knowing, unless she had help? And not wanting to rescue Sera Meager—”

“I’m sure she does,” said Suiza’s defender, getting red in the face. “But nobody listens—”

“Just because you have a bad case of hero worship, you can’t ignore the facts. Sera Meager is a Chairholder; we exist to protect Chairholders, and—”

“What class was she in?” Marta said, before that turned ugly.

That led to an explanation she did not want about the way the Academy named its classes, on a rotation having nothing to do with the standard calendar. “So anyway,” that informant finished up, when Marta felt her eyes about to glaze over, “she’s in Vaillant class, six years ago.” Marta converted that quickly to standard dates, but reminded herself that she’d probably have to ask for classmates by the Fleet’s peculiar reckoning. But her informant went on, clearly in earnest to be complete. “Her classmates will be jigs—that’s lieutenant, junior grade, sera—and lieutenants. Everyone who doesn’t mess up badly is promoted from ensign to jig at the same time, but there’s a selection board for lieutenant, with a 12-month range. Lieutenant Suiza was promoted in the first selection; some of her classmates will be promoted in the next few days.”

So, to find Esmay’s classmates, she could confine herself to lieutenants, for the most part. And some of them promoted behind her might have reason to wish her ill. Casually, without apparent intent, Marta began trolling through the assortment of lieutenants. Most were, she found, either classmates or within one year of Esmay Suiza’s class. Some had hardly noticed her at the Academy; others claimed to have known her well. And a few had more immediate information to share.

“I just can’t believe it,” said the redhaired lieutenant with the mustache. Vericour, his name was. “I mean—Esmay! Yes, she got angry, and yes, she said things she shouldn’t have—but she’d been working twice as hard as anyone else. They should have cut her some slack. You’d have thought she murdered the girl.”

“You’re a friend of hers?”

“Yes . . . at least, we were together at Training Command; we studied together sometimes. Brilliant tactician—and a nice person, too. I don’t think she ever said half of what people say—”

“Perhaps not,” Marta said.

“But Admiral Hornan says I should stay away from her—she’s poison. And Casea Ferradi claims she was saying all sorts of things in the Academy . . . but why they listen to Casea, I can’t figure out.”

“Casea?”

“Classmate of ours. She’s from a colonial world too—one of the Crescent Worlds group, can’t remember which. Tell you the truth, before I met her, I had heard the women there are . . . well . . . shy. Casea was an education in that respect.”

“Oh?” Marta gave him a grandmotherly smile, and he blushed.

“Well . . . junior year . . . I mean I’d heard about her, and she . . . she said she liked me. I suppose she did, as long as it lasted.”

“She likes men . . .” Marta said, trailing it out.

“She likes sex,” Vericour said. “Sorry, sera, but it’s the truth. She went through our class like—like—”

“Fire through wheat?” suggested Marta. “And now she’s always with that Ensign Serrano, isn’t she?”

“Poor kid won’t know what hit him,” Vericour said, nodding. “I’d heard she was after bigger game, working her way up—but maybe she thinks the Serrano name’s better than rank alone. And right now, when they’re under a cloud, what with Lord Thornbuckle being so angry with them, she probably thinks she has a better chance.”

“She is attractive,” Marta said. “And I suppose she’s efficient in her work?”

“I suppose,” Vericour said, without any enthusiasm. “I was never on the same ship.”

“I wonder if Ensign Serrano is actually taken with her.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Vericour said gloomily. “She has her ways, has Casea.”

A few days downside, working through the civilian databases and ansible, gave her even more insight into the Suiza controversy. She had identified five classmates, including the sleek blonde Ferradi, who were actively spreading, if not inventing, wicked-Suiza stories. All five were at least one promotion group behind Suiza. If that wasn’t the green-eyed monster, she didn’t know what was. Suiza’s former co-workers and commanding officers, on the other hand, seemed incredulous that anyone would believe such stories. One and all, they insisted that if she had had an argument with Brun Meager, and if she had been insulting, then Brun must have deserved it.

Marta wasn’t sure about that—couldn’t be, until she met Esmay Suiza in person—but she was willing to swear that whatever the nature of the original offense, malice and envy and spite had blown it out of all proportion.

The nature of the original offense still eluded her. Unless Suiza had snapped under the pressure of work—which didn’t seem likely given her history—Brun had precipitated the fight. How? Given Brun’s past history, the most likely cause was that she’d come between Suiza and a lover, but gossip didn’t credit Suiza with any lovers. Indeed, gossip went the other direction. Block of ice, cold fish, frozen clod. Barin Serrano was supposed to have liked her, when he was on Koskiusko, but that could be mere hero worship, and Vericour had said Suiza was cool to him at Copper Mountain.

What could Brun have done? Marta was careful not to ask this question of the youngsters. Most of them, it was clear, thought that being the victim of piracy turned Brun into a shining martyr figure, untainted by any human error other than getting caught. Marta knew better. Brun was, by observation and Raffaele’s report, intelligent, quick-witted, brave, and full of mischief as a basket of kittens. If she had wanted some reaction from Suiza she did not get, she might well have put all her inventive genius to work making trouble. That still led back to interference with a man Suiza wanted—but the problem was that Suiza supposedly had no preferences. Unless it was Barin, but for that she had no evidence.