Rules of Engagement

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Heads up—” That murmur in Barin’s ear got his attention away from Prima. “May be trouble on the way—some kind of gathering across town—” A tiny picture flashed on the corner of his helmet display. Someone in a bright blue bathrobe or something similar yelling at a bunch of men.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Barin said. “Do you know what this might be?” He transferred the image to the larger screen they’d been using for the cube reader.

Prima glared at him, but turned to look. Her face paled. “It’s Parson Wells—”

“A parson is a religious leader,” Professor Meyerson said with renewed confidence. “Amazing—look at that garment—”

“It’s a cassock,” Prima said.

“No, it’s not a cassock,” Meyerson said, as if correcting a child. “Cassocks were narrower, black, and buttoned up the front. This is the variant of academic regalia which was popular in one branch of Christianity—”

“Professor . . . I don’t think that’s the most important thing.”

“But look at that—those men are carrying replica Bowie knives—and that looks like a replica of an actual twenty-first-century rifle—”

“Professor—we need to get the children and get out of here,” Barin said. “We don’t want a conflict—we want them safe—”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Meyerson flushed slightly. “Sorry. It’s just—seeing things I’ve only read about before—it’s quite exciting. I wish I had more time—”

“Not this visit,” Barin said. He turned to Prima. “Please, ma’am—the children?

“Come with me, then.” She was still angry, but clearly the view on the screen meant more to her than to the professor. “I want you to see where they were housed, how they were cared for, so you can tell their families—” She led the way down the corridor to the women’s wing. Through windows, Barin saw a garden brilliant with flowers, centered by a fountain—then a wall, then another garden.

“The children’s garden,” Hazel murmured. “The little girls were allowed to run about some there.” It was empty now. The scent of warm, fresh-baked bread wafted along the corridor, as Prima opened another door. “Kitchen’s down there—she’s taking us to the sleeping area for the youngest—”

Another courtyard, this one paved with broad stone slabs and shaded by a central tree. Prima turned, led them down a narrow exterior hall, and into a large room. Here a dozen beds were lined up along either wall. On five of the beds, children sprawled asleep.

“Here is where they slept,” Prima said. “This is the quiet time after lunch, and these younglings are napping. Prudence and Serenity are too old for naps now; they’ll be in the sewing parlor.” She led them on, to a room where two older women and a dozen young girls from Hazel’s age down were sitting, heads bent, over their sewing. Only the women looked up; the younger one stood. “It’s all right, Quarta. They do have families, real families.”

Now the children looked up, shyly, staring at the intruders. Barin smiled at them; he didn’t want to be a frightening memory. Two of the children stared at Hazel a long moment, then one of them said, “Patience—?” softly.

“Yes,” Hazel said. “I’m back. Do you remember your Uncle Stepan?” The child nodded, her face solemn.

“He wants to see you again, and so does your aunt Jas. We can go home now, Brandy.”

The girl’s face lit up and she dropped her sewing—then she looked cautiously at the older women.

“You may go with Patience—Hazel—now, Prudence.”

The girl ran to Hazel and hugged her. “I didn’t forget, I promise I didn’t forget!” She leaned back, looking up at Hazel’s face. “Home to the ship? Will Mama be there? Can I use the computer again? Can I have books?”

The other child, younger and shyer, had to be led from her seat . . . but when she realized she was actually leaving, she clung to Brandy’s hand and smiled.

The other girls stared, faces solemn. Clearly they had no idea what was happening.

Barin glanced at Prima, hoping she would make the necessary explanation. The older woman grimaced, but complied.

“Prudence and Serenity are going back to their own families,” she said. “We wish them God’s blessings in their new life.”

“But who will protect them?” asked one of the other girls. “Is that man their father? Their uncle? Why are those women holding weapons?”

“We will protect them,” Barin said. Shocked looks from all of them. “In our home, women can be soldiers or work on spaceships—”

“That’s wrong,” said one of the older girls firmly; she picked up her sewing. “It’s wrong for women to meddle in men’s things.”

Quarta reached out and tapped the girl lightly on the head with her thimbled finger. “It’s wrong for children to instruct their elders. But I believe, Faith, that you are right and these heathens will not prosper.”

The boys were in the boys’ wing; Prima despatched one of the other women to fetch them, while she herself led them to the nursery to pick up Brun’s twins. They seemed healthy, happy babies, scooting about on the floor in a way that suggested they would soon be crawling.

“Simplicity . . .” Hazel breathed, nodding toward a young woman who sat rocking her baby. The girl looked up with a shy smile; her eyes widened when she saw the others. Hazel picked up one twin, and Prima carried the other; by the time they were back to the front hall, the boys were there, looking worried and uncertain.

“Paolo!” Brandy said. “We’re going home!” She reached out to hug him, but he moved aside.

“I don’t think—”

“You need to hear this, Ensign—” That in his earplug. Automatically, he switched audio to the speakers of the cube reader.

“—Satan’s snares!” the man in the blue robe was saying. “God’s judgement has fallen on those Rangers, and on their families, for their sins. Suffer not the wicked to prosper, nor the ungodly woman to speak—”

“He means you,” Professor Meyerson said to Prima. “You’re in danger now.”

“We must retake the Rangers’ houses, and cleanse them of the filth of contamination—destroy the infidels with holy fire—”

“Not that there’s anything really to worry about,” the marine major said; his voice overrode the other man’s on the com. “All they’ve got is old-fashioned small arms and big knives. You’ll be safe enough in the ground transport—”

“No,” Hazel said. “They have whatever was on Elias Madero. They said so, when they were talking after I was captured.”

“What was on Elias Madero?” Barin asked. “Ship weapons?”

“I don’t know, but something bad, something they’d stolen from Fleet.”

A cold wave ran down Barin’s spine, as if someone had swiped along it with a piece of ice. The Guernesi had talked about arms traffickers and stolen weapons . . . and Esmay had mentioned that her captain was concerned about missing nuclear warheads.

“Major, it could be a lot worse than that—these guys may have our missing nukes.”

A pause, in which the ranting voice went on about sin and defilement and tyranny. Then: “I knew we shouldn’t have brought a Serrano along. Things always get interesting with a Serrano along. All right, Ensign, suppose you tell the admiral while I see what I can do to keep these guys from using whatever it is they’ve got.”

Barin had just presence of mind to sever the connection to the cube reader’s speakers, then switched channels to contact Navarino in orbit.

“We’re on it,” he was told first. “Monitoring all local transmissions . . . and we have scan working on locating any fissionables. Get those kids out now, if you can.”

“I don’t want to be another man’s servant,” Prima said suddenly. “I don’t want my children brought up in another man’s house. . . .”

Barin spared her a glance, but no more; he was trying to patch into ship’s scan and see if he could spot anything. Then Prima grabbed his arm.

“You—your grandmother is really the commander? And you are a man of her family—you must give me your protection.”

“I’m trying,” Barin said.

“I want to go,” Prima said. “Me, all my children. Take me to my husband.”

Barin stared at her, startled out of his immediate concern. “Take you—? You mean, to the ship?”

“Yes. That man—” She pointed at the now-blank screen. “He will give me to someone else; he may tell them to mute me just because I have talked with you—and if he knew I had killed Jed last night, he would certainly do so.” Heavily, with no grace at all, she knelt in front of Barin. “I claim you as my protector, in place of my husband.”

Barin glanced around; Professor Meyerson had her usual expression of alert interest, and the guards looked frankly amused. “I—let me talk to my grandmother,” he said. When in doubt, ask help.

“No—it is you I claim.”

“She means it,” Meyerson said. “And she’ll probably do something drastic if you don’t agree.”

And he had always wanted command track. Well, he had it now. “Fine,” he said. “You’re under my protection. Get your household together—”

“I can’t speak for the other wives,” Prima said.

“Would he give them away? Mute them?”

“Yes . . .”

“Then you jolly well can speak for them, and you have. Get them together; don’t bring anything but warm bodies.” He chinned his comunit. “Major, we’re going to be bringing out the whole household. I don’t even know how many—” He looked at Hazel, who shook her head. Even she didn’t know. “More transports,” he said, trying to think if they’d have shuttle space. If they crammed in, if nobody blew the shuttles on the way up—

People started crowding into the front hall: women, carrying babies; girls leading younger girls, boys pushing younger boys ahead of them, and one man—a narrow, angular fellow that Barin disliked on sight. They all stared at Barin and the guards, but there was less noise than he expected. The girls were all looking silently at the floor; the boys were all staring silently, with obvious awe and longing, at the soldiers’ weapons.

Prima made her way through the crowd and dipped her head to him, which made Barin acutely uncomfortable.

“May I speak?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“I have sent messengers to the other Rangers’ houses—by the women’s doors—to their ladies.”

“What? No!” But even as he said it, he realized it must be so. “You think—”

“You said I could speak for the other wives. As you are my protector, so you are theirs, through me; it is your people who killed their husbands, after all.”

Barin looked over the crowd that filled the hall from side to side, and was packed into the rear passages—somewhere between fifty and a hundred people, he was sure, and made the easy calculation.

“We need more shuttles,” he murmured to himself. And what of the male relatives of the other Rangers, who were surely in their houses as—what was his name? That fellow Ranger Bowie had been talking to—had been here. Wouldn’t they resist? He could not possibly get that many people out of a city in riot, without casualties. A child whimpered, and someone shushed it.

“What’s your situation, Ensign?”

Waiting for inspiration, he could have said. Instead, he gave his report as succinctly as possible, into the hissing void of the comunit, which hissed emptily at him for long enough to make him worry. Then his grandmother’s voice in his ear.

“Am I to understand that you have undertaken the evacuation to our ships of the entire civilian population of that misbegotten excuse for a city?”

“No sir: only about five hundred of them. Rangers’ households.”

“And upon whose authority?”

“It . . . had become a matter of family honor, sir. And Familias honor.”

“I see. In that case, I suppose we are bound to support your actions, if only to have you present and accounted for when the bill comes in.” His grandmother, according to rumor which he had never cared to test, could remove a laggard officer’s hide in a single spiraling strip, from crown of head to tip of toe, without raising her voice. He felt dangerously close to finding out whether she would use its full powers on a callow young descendant.

“Contact!” That was the marine major in charge of the landing party. “We are being fired upon; say again: we are receiving hostile fire.”

“Engagement code: open green.” His grandmother’s voice when speaking to the others was flat and edgeless. “Say again: engagement code is open green.”

Open green . . . new objective, new rules of engagement. She had given it to him. Barin felt a simultaneous lift and sink of the heart which almost made him sick, then he steadied to it.

“In support of Ensign Serrano and an unknown number of civilians, in the hundreds, who will be embarking for evacuation—open green.”

He could hear the suck of the major’s indrawn breath: the ground support more than adequate for a small party was far from adequate to protect and escort hundreds.

“Support on the way—”

He tried to calculate how long it would take, whether they would have to draw shuttles and troops from the other cruisers, from Shrike. Then he shook his mind away from that, which was someone else’s task, to his own, which was organizing this mass into the most protectable, in the safest possible place to await what his grandmother would send.

To Prima, still waiting before him, he said, “They will send more shuttles, but it will take time. We will keep you as safe as possible, but—” But . . . if the rioters knew where the nukes were, if they could trigger them, there was no safety. “—If you know anything of outland weapons, where they are hidden, it would help.”

“I know somethin’.” That was a boy, perhaps thirteen, now waving his arm.

“What?” he asked.

“Daddy gave Uncle Jed his key, an’ told him right afore he left to go hunt down that runaway girlie.”

Key. That would be an arming key. Barin’s stomach curled into a tight cold knot.

“And where’s your uncle Jed, do you think?”

“On the floor in there—” Prima waved toward a door across the hall. “I couldn’t think what to do, so I left him—”

“Check it,” Barin said to the guards. One of them went in, shutting the door behind him on the smell of death that had puffed out into the hall.

“Looks like an arming key, on a chain around his neck. In the pockets—another key, different—looks like he has the primary for one system, and the secondary for another.”

But how many systems were there, and how many men held the keys, and did they know in what order to use them? He could not count on the other Rangers’ wives to poleax their husbands’ relatives.

“We have two arming keys,” Barin reported to the major. “From Ranger Bowie’s brother. I expect each Ranger had one or more keys and left them with a successor.”

“How many troops do you have with you?”

“Only the four, as escort.”

“Damn. We need to get those keys out of those houses, before we all form a pretty fireworks display. These guys are insane—you should see how they’re acting out here.”

Barin could hear, in the distance, noises like those on a live-fire range.

Esmay Suiza, back on the bridge of Shrike where she belonged, discovered that everyone aboard—including Captain Solis, who had given up the last of his doubts about her intentions—was treating her with excessive care. All the special crew borrowed from Navarino had gone back to their ship—Meharry, she knew, would not have treated her as if she were delicate crystal, just because she’d had a spell of hypoxia. She felt quite fit for regular duty, more than willing to go back to work rather than sit by Brun’s side as she dozed in regen. If she could have been on Gyrfalcon, with Barin, that might’ve been different, but soon enough they’d be back at some base, where they could finish what they’d started.

“I’m fine,” she said, to the third offer of a chance to take a break. “It’s my watch—” She caught the edge of a significant glance from Solis to Chief Barlow on communications. “What? Am I making mistakes?”

“No, Lieutenant, you’re doing fine. It’s just that there have been . . . developments.”

Something cold crawled through her chest, down toward her toes. “Developments?”

“Yes . . . while you were offwatch, the landing party went down to retrieve those children . . .”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’ve been . . . complications. And—Admiral Serrano’s grandson is down there.”

Barin was down there? “Why?” came out in an accusatory tone she had not meant to use to her captain. “I mean,” she said, trying to recover, “I didn’t think an ensign would be chosen for such a team.”

“He wasn’t, originally. But he’s there now, and since you and he—well, so I understand—”

“Yes,” Esmay said firmly. Whatever else might be secret, that wasn’t any longer.

“He’s managed to get himself into a right mess, and we’re supposed to help him out, but I do not think you should be on the team. You’ve already had your stint at suited combat—”

“I’m fine,” Esmay said. “I am perfectly recovered, passed by medical, one hundred and ten percent. It is of course the captain’s choice—”

Solis snorted. “Don’t start that again. One time for each trick. Besides, he had to chew his nails over your exploits on the station; it’s only fair for you to reciprocate.”

“War isn’t about fair,” Esmay muttered. To her surprise, that got a flashing smile.

“You’re right there, Suiza, and if I decide your talents are needed, be sure I’ll send you. If you can assure me that being in love with the Admiral’s grandson won’t warp your judgement or affect your performance.”

“I’m not in love with the Admiral’s grandson,” Esmay said. “I’m in love with Barin. Sir.”

Another look between captain and chief; she felt her ears heating.

“Wonderful,” Solis said, in a tone that could be taken in several ways.

The crackle of gunfire was nearer, as was the crump and crash of Fleet light-duty guns. Barin felt he should be doing something with his menagerie, but he couldn’t figure out what. If he took them out in the street to head for the port, they could be shot; if he kept them here, they were a grand target.

“Serrano—taxi’s here, room for fifteen.”

That simplified things slightly. “Sera Takeris, Professor—take the Elias Madero children, the babies, and—let’s see—” Room for fifteen adults . . . make that two adults, four small children, and—surely he could cram in ten babies. No, another adult and ten babies. “Prima, bring eight more babies, if you have them, and a reliable woman to care for them.”

That turned out to be a gray-haired woman as wrinkled as dried fruit; in less than three minutes he had ten babies, the four little children, and the adults all out the door and into the first ground transport vehicle. It clanked off noisily. Barin looked up the street, to the flower-decked park at the end of it. In the middle, a great stone star-shape. The points of the star were blunted, he noted, and seemed to have bronze plaques set on them.

Suddenly as he watched a door opened across the street, and a woman scampered toward him, eyes on the ground. When she neared him she stopped short. Behind him, Prima cried out, and the woman dashed on, brushed past him, and began chattering to Prima as fast as she could.

“An’ Travis’s little brother, he tooken this key and he putted it into this thing, this box thing, and then Travis’s Prima she whapped him with her skillet, that she was carryin’ from the kitchen all full of hot grease and fried chicken, an’ that box was buzzin’ and buzzin’ and she said come quick tell you ’cause one—a her outland mutes she wrote Bad, bad, bad, get help quick in the grease.”

Prima looked over her head at Barin. “It’s a bomb,” he said, hoping she had that much knowledge. “The keys turn it on—”

“Like a light?” she asked. “A . . . switch?”

“Yes. If they’re the bombs taken from us, it takes at least two keys to arm them . . .” But if they’d been stolen elsewhere, he didn’t know. “So no one can do it by accident,” he said. “The keys have to be used in the right order.”

“Where are the keys?” Prima asked the woman.

“I dunno, ma’am, she only tol’ me to come tell you ’cause you’d sent word we’s to get out and Ranger Travis’s brother he said no, and we was all whores of Satan and deserved to die anyway.”

“I’ll send—” Barin said, but Prima held up her hand.

“They won’t trust you; they might trust my women. You want to be sure no one uses both keys?”

“Any keys, if we’re not too late.”

Prima despatched another cluster of women, who followed the first back across the street. The next armored transport arrived. One baby left, then half a dozen toddlers, and women to care for them, crammed into that one. He noticed that Prima had no hesitation about which to choose, and those waiting their turn made no attempt to crowd or protest. One more would make a shuttle load—the shuttle they’d come in on.

Two sets of keys he was sure—almost sure—hadn’t been used. At least three more, and he would be lucky if that was all . . .

An explosion, up the street, and a gust of acrid smoke blew past, followed by the rattle of something hard on the house walls and the street. Before he could dare a cautious look, he heard the major in his earpiece.

“Something just blew in that pretty little park up the block from you, Ensign. Looks like it took the top off that decorative star—”

Barin looked out to see, through the cloud of dust and smoke, an ominous shape rising slowly from the bright red and yellow flowerbeds.

“I think we found the nukes,” he said, surprised at the even tone of his voice. “They had a silo under that thing. And somebody used both keys.” For all the good it would do, he gestured to Prima to have everyone get down on the floor, and then replaced and locked his own helmet. He would like to have said goodbye to Esmay, but—

“It’s not moving any more,” said the major. “What’s your visual on it, Serrano?”

Barin peered cautiously around the doorframe, wondering only then why he’d left the door open. “It’s—about thirty feet above ground, and . . . not moving.”

“Waiting an ignition signal?” asked another voice in his ear.

“Don’t know. Our birds would be out and flying by now,” said the major. “Is this just a way to blow up the city?”

Pleasant thought. He had not thought of that, and hoped very much that hypothesis was wrong.

The first armored transport, back for another load, ground its way around the corner, as if nothing else mattered, and paused by the door. Barin shrugged: if that thing blew where it was, it wouldn’t matter whether people were in the house or the transport—they’d be safely dead. He nodded at Prima, who pointed at heads until the transport driver insisted not one more would fit in.

“Shuttles incoming—” Of course, if it blew as the shuttles were landing, all those would die too. His decision to save more lives just might be the cause of losing more lives.

And he’d asked for command track.

One after another, the shuttles left shockwaves that rattled the windows and sounded like heavier guns than any that had spoken yet. He counted—two, four, six . . . how many were they sending in one flight? Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—they must have stripped every shuttle from Navarino, and most from the other ships as well. Thirteen . . . the rolling thunder went on, and he lost count. Well, if you were going to commit to something, you committed in strength.

Now a nearer roar, with an unpleasant groaning whine to it.

“Troop drop.” He peeked out again, to see the first shuttle doing a low flyby, its drop bay open and marines falling, then steadying on their gravpads, to form up with the others. A blinding-bright bar of blue light stabbed across, toward the north. A second shuttle, this one fatter and even slower, crawled past with its cargo bay open and disgorging dark blots he hoped were more weapons and some faster transport. A distant loud rumble suggested that other shuttles were landing.

“Equipment—” On grav sleds, big enough to hold twenty armored troops . . . steering carefully down to the wide streets around the central plaza. Once they’d gone to open green rules, attempts to match technology to that of the planet had gone by the boards. Well, it would be quicker . . .

Another distant crump, and another, and a column of black smoke—Barin could almost feel sympathy for the men with their rifles and their long knives. A grav sled settled outside the door, and its six occupants rolled off, leaving room for the women and children.

Prima had them ready, and sent them out the door without a word. “First shuttle’s off,” Barin heard in his ear. So the original mission was accomplished, if they got those safely to a ship. The grav sled took off, with a whine and a whirl of dust; the next settled in its place, and Prima directed a file out to it.

“We’re loading in all the streets,” Barin heard. He could see, from the door, the sleds landing and taking off in three of the streets around the plaza. He glanced around, and saw that one more sled load would do it for this house. “It’s your turn,” he said to Prima.

“She’s not goin’,” a male voice said. “She deserves to die, the murderin’ whore.” The scrawny man, the one he had not liked but had ignored after the first glance, had his long knife out, and held to Prima’s neck. Her eyes looked at him, a look that might have been warning, but was not fear.

Then the neuro-enhanced female marine who’d been checking the back rooms broke his arm like a soda straw, smashed him into the wall, and caught Prima before she fell. Her neck bled—but not the lethal spurt of a severed artery. The marine slapped a field dressing on it. Prima looked at Barin.

“You’re a good protector,” she said, then quickly lowered her eyes.

“No, she is,” Barin said, nodding to the marine, who pushed up her faceplate so that Prima could see. Prima stared.

“You’re . . . a woman?”

“Yup. And a mother, too. Hang in there, lady, you’re gonna be fine.”

The last load went quickly; Barin swung aboard the grav sled and watched others loading and taking off as they swung above the city and headed for the spaceport. There he found, instead of the chaos he expected, a perfectly ordinary Landing Force Traffic Control section. “Ah—Ensign Serrano’s last load, fine. Bay 23, that’ll finish that shuttle load—”

Bay 23 had a shuttle labelled R.S.S. Shrike. Barin helped his passengers from the grav sled to the interior with its narrow benches designed for troops in armor, not civilians in dresses. He started helping them strap in, ignoring the pounding of his heart which had speeded up at the thought of seeing Esmay again.

“Barin!”

His heart stopped completely, then raced on again. She was there, alive and well, waving from the front. He nodded, grinning but speechless with feeling, and went on with his work. He felt the shuttle lurch, then the lump-lump-lump of the wheels on the runway.

“You know her?” Prima asked him, a hand on his wrist.

“Yes. She’s—” How could he say it to her? He didn’t even know what words would make clear to her what his culture meant by engagement. Prima’s eyes flicked to his face, then back down. She nodded.

“I will be an obedient second wife,” Prima said. “After you execute my husband Mitchell.”

Barin could think of nothing whatever to say to that, and the rising thunder of the shuttle engines made further conversation impossible anyway.

Far below, as the last shuttles rose into the sky, the men at last made it to the Rangers’ houses, the armory, the meeting hall. The houses were empty, but for a dead man or two in each; and the keys—the keys they needed so badly—were missing.

Mitchell Pardue had been told that his wives and children were safe, but he hadn’t believed it. Not until Prima stood before him, properly barefoot but quite improperly dressed in a bright orange shipsuit with a sheet tied around it for a skirt.

“We have a new protector,” she told him. She glanced at his face, then down respectfully. “Of the Serrano family.”

“Prima—you can’t just—”

“I reckon you lied to me, husband,” Prima said. She looked at him again, this time steadily. “You said they was all orphans. You said those outlander women was all you ever found. You never told me you killed parents, in front of their children, that you killed women, even mothers.”

“I—”

“As far as I’m concerned, they might as well mute you, Mitchell Pardue, because if your tongue cannot speak the truth, why speak at all?”

And after that, he found he had little need to speak, and no one to speak to. In a last act of kindness that tore his heart, his captors showed him video of his children playing in the ship’s gymnasium.

They were almost to the Security station at the Fleet entrance to Rockhouse Major when they spotted the crowds on the other side of the barrier. The security detail moved on ahead to take up their positions.

“Oh Lord, the media!” Brun’s new voice, still furry and softer than it had been, but strengthening steadily. Esmay glanced over at her.

“You knew it would be here.”

“I suppose so, but I could hope. And you know, I used to love being the top newsflash attraction.”

“Well, Barin can almost top you this time,” Esmay said, with a wicked smirk.

Barin flushed. “I do not really have nineteen wives—”

“No, but do you think the media cares? It’s a great story.”

“Esmay—”

“I wouldn’t tease him,” Brun said. “After all, you could be a sensation yourself—”

“Not me, I’m the plain one.”

“I don’t think so. Landbride Suiza in love with a man encumbered by nineteen fanatic cultists, and having gone from villainess of my abduction to hero of the rescue force? We might as well face it—we’re all condemned to a spot on the evening news.”

“So . . . what’s your advice, O experienced target of the press?”

“Relax and enjoy it,” Brun said. “In fact—let’s give them a real show. After all, it’s ours. We’re heroes of the hour—let’s do it right.”

“I hesitate to ask,” Barin said, with a glance at Esmay. “Do you know what she means?”

“No,” Esmay said, “and I don’t want to, but we will.”

“Link arms and I’ll show you,” Brun said.

“We can’t do that; we’re sober, serious professionals, Fleet officers—” But Brun had already grabbed her arm, and they came out of the gate like a trio of chorus dancers, into the lights and hubbub.

“All we have to worry about,” Brun was saying brightly, eyes sparkling, golden curls tossing, “is pirates, thieves, traitors, smugglers, assassins, and the occasional nutcase.”

Esmay looked past Brun to Barin. “Do you want to duck her in the fountain, or shall I?”

“Let’s do it together,” Barin said, suggestively.

“Always,” Esmay said.