Rules of Engagement

Chapter Two

At 0500 local time the next morning, Esmay shivered in the chill predawn breeze, much cooler than ship standard. The air smelled of growing things, and distance—sharply different from ship air. Some of the others sneezed, but Esmay sniffed appreciatively—it wasn’t home, but some of the smells were the same.

Her shivering didn’t last long once the exercise started. Esmay grinned to herself—she had always worked out faithfully, but some of these people had not, judging by the sounds they made. She was sweaty, but not exhausted, after an hour and a half; she had surprised herself by coming in fourth in the final run around the drillfield. In the distance, she had seen the irregular cliffs for which Copper Mountain was named emerge from predawn dimness to show the oranges and reds and ochres, when the sun hit them. Vericour was complaining loudly, but good-naturedly; she suspected it was mostly for effect. He didn’t seem to be breathing any harder than she was, and it took breath to complain.

“When’s your first class?” he asked, as they jogged back to quarters.

“Not class—testing,” Esmay said. “They think I can test out of some things, to make room for others.” She hoped so; otherwise her schedule would be impossible.

They parted with a wave, and Esmay went in to shower thinking how different he was from Barin. He was older; he was her peer; he was pleasant and handsome . . . and about as exciting as a bowl of porridge.

That first day passed in a blur of activity. She tested out of some sections—she’d been told she probably would—Scan, as she expected, and Hull and Architecture, which she had not. She must’ve picked up more of that on Koskiusko than she’d thought. The military law segment concentrated on treason, mutiny, and conduct unbecoming . . . giving her an unfair advantage, she thought, but she wasn’t going to complain. Administrative Procedures, though, was her downfall, along with tables of organization and command chains in areas where she’d never served.

“Your schedule’s going to be all over the place,” the testing officer said, frowning. “If you actually took both courses, back to back, you’d be here five standard months. You’ve placed out of about half the lower course, and a tenth of the upper . . . let’s see now.” He finally produced a schedule that looked impossible for the first two weeks—though he claimed that two of the classes were no-brainers—and merely difficult for the next seven.

She had a few choices, and picked Search and Rescue Basic, and Escape and Evasion; they sounded more active than the optional staff support and administrative methods courses. Besides, she knew they were practical. She didn’t want to end up in Barin’s situation.

By the end of the first five days, Esmay felt settled in the academic routine. She was carrying about half again as many hours as her classmates, but the pace of instruction was much slower than it had been at the Academy. Early morning PT woke her up for the day’s classes, and she didn’t have to stay up too late to get all the work completed. Already some of the others had established a habit of going into Q-town when classes let out, eating there instead of in the mess hall. She was almost glad that her extra classes made that impossible for her; she had never socialized off-ship with other officers, and felt shy about it now. Many did not go into town every evening, and whenever she emerged from her room for a break, she would find someone ready to chat or play a quick game in one of the rec rooms.

Administrative Procedures was as dull as she’d feared, though she understood the importance of the course. She tackled it as she had tackled technical data in Scan or Hull Architecture, and found she could remember all the niggling little details even if she was bored by them.

Professional Ethics for Military Officers was another matter. She had started in eagerly, expecting—she wasn’t quite sure what, but not what she got. Three lectures on personal relationships left her feeling unsure and guilty about her . . . friendship . . . with Barin Serrano. Example after example where a senior officer’s pursuit had damaged, if not ruined, a junior’s career. Examples of apparently innocent liaisons, which ended in grief for all concerned. She wondered if he was talking about one of her Academy classmates, a stunning blonde from the Crescent Worlds. She hadn’t seen Casea since graduation, but she had heard that she had moved on from classmates to more senior officers.

And yet—the instructor had insisted—Fleet had neither the desire nor the power to prohibit close friendships and even marriage between officers. The standards governing such relationships were, according to the instructor, perfectly clear and reasonable. Esmay could recite them forwards and backwards, without knowing for sure if she and Barin had done anything wrong, or if going where they had talked about going was forbidden. She wished she had someone to ask about it.

To her relief, her Tactical Analysis class did not consider either the action at Xavier or the Koskiusko defense; along with her classmates, she plunged instead into a comparison of Familias and Benignity small-ship capabilities and battle performance.

“Lies, damn lies, and statistics,” muttered Vericour, her assigned partner. “I hate statistical analyses of battles. It’s more than just so many tons throw-weight—”

“Mmm . . .” said Esmay, extracting another set of figures from the archives. “Did you know that the Benignity had better battle performance out of Pierrot than we did, after they captured her?”

“No! That’s got to be wrong—none of their tacticians use maneuver the way we do—”

“Yup. Renamed Valutis, confirmed from salvage . . . their commander got five hits on Tarngeld, at extreme range.”

“Says who?” Vericour leaned over to look. “Uh . . . you trust that scan data from Tarngeld?”

“Well . . . it’s embarrassing to have to admit you were clobbered by a ship a third your mass, which used to be on your side, so I’d bet on its being accurate. Besides, according to the post-battle plot, nothing else was in that direction. My question is, what did they do to Pierrot-Valutis to make her that effective, and are they doing that to their other ships?”

“Wouldn’t think so. They didn’t at Xavier, did they?”

“Not that I know of, but . . . they had Pierrot for three years before she showed up in their lines.”

“Well, someone must’ve noticed that . . .”

“Yes, but did they apply it?” Esmay handed over the relevant bits. “If the Benignity does whatever it did to that ship to others of the same size, we’ve got a new element to worry about.”

“Maybe. But if they could, they’d have used it at Xavier, wouldn’t they?”

“I wish I knew what it was . . . it matters if it was some one-time thing that depended on some of our architecture—”

“One really good scan tech? Weapons tech?”

“Maybe,” Esmay said again. “But if they’ve got one that good they might have more. I think we ought to make this one of the main points of our presentation.”

“I’m not going to argue with the hero of Xavier and the Kos,” Vericour said, with a grin that took the sting out of it. “It’s not something I would have thought of. Maybe you are that smart.”

“I do my best,” Esmay said, grinning back. He wasn’t Barin, but he was comfortable.

She was still thinking that when Vericour reached out and touched her hair. Esmay managed not to flinch, but she moved smoothly away.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just . . . thought you might like it.”

So Barin wasn’t the only man who could find her attractive . . . she didn’t know whether she found that reassuring or just bothersome. At least she knew for sure that another lieutenant was within the limits allowed by regulations and the ethics class.

“I’m . . . not in the mood,” she said. She couldn’t explain about Barin, or claim a preexisting relationship, not yet.

“If you ever are in the mood, just let me know,” Vericour said. “I’ll even swear on whatever you like that it’s not just hero worship.”

She chuckled, surprising herself. “I didn’t think it was,” she said.

He grinned back, but made no more advances. That’s what the manuals all said was supposed to happen, but she’d never had to deal with it before. She felt a small burst of surprise that the manuals were right.

A few days later, their presentation gained the highest rating in the class. Afterwards Vericour suggested a celebratory drink in Q-town, the little cluster of commercial establishments just outside the gates. “You’re certainly good luck,” he said. “I hope we’re on the same team for E and E. They say no one ever makes it all the way through the field exercise without getting captured, but you might be able to pull it off.”

“I doubt it,” Esmay said. “The instructors know the terrain backwards and forwards. Just like natives.”

“Well—it would be more fun with you, anyway. So—will you come?”

“No—remember I’m taking extra classes, and I have a final in Admin Procedures tomorrow.”

“My sympathies.” Vericour bowed elaborately, and Esmay laughed. So he was no Barin—he was still fun to be around. She went back to her quarters and tore into the Admin Procedures material until long past her usual bedtime.

The next morning, she was surprised to see Brun Meager lining up for PT with the others. During the run, she moved up beside Esmay.

“Hi—I hardly ever see you.” She didn’t sound out of breath at all.

“I’ve got a heavy schedule,” Esmay said. Unlike many, she actually enjoyed the run, but one of the things she enjoyed about it was sinking into a meditative state.

“So I noticed. This was the only thing I could take right now where we’d overlap, but I’m going to be in your Escape and Evasion course.”

“You?” Esmay glanced at her. Brun was taller; she loped along as if she could run forever, like one of the endurance horses.

“Well—if people are out to get me, I need to learn to get away.”

“I suppose.” She could also learn to let her security personnel guard her the way they were supposed to, and quit putting herself into dangerous situations. But that was for someone else to say.

“And I wanted to ask you—if we get a choice—I’d like to be on your team.”

Great. Just what she needed, a spoiled rich girl on her team. Esmay glanced at her again, and scolded herself. Brun might be spoiled but she was willing to work and learn—not every rich girl would pile out of bed at that hour to do PT with a lot of grumpy soldiers. Admiral Serrano had sponsored her; that had to be worth something. Rumor had it she didn’t ask any favors in her classes, either.

“I don’t know if we get a choice,” Esmay said. “But if it’s possible, it’s all right with me.”

“If you ever wanted, we could go into Q-town together,” Brun said, an almost wistful note in her voice.

“No time,” Esmay said. Q-town held no attraction for her; if she wouldn’t go with Vericour, she certainly wasn’t going with a civilian.

“You don’t ever go?”

Esmay shrugged. “No—they have good steaks in the mess.”

“Um. And good steaks constitute your definition of entertainment?” That had a slight edge to it.

“No—but I wouldn’t expect you to find much entertainment there either.”

“Well . . . I like a drink with friends now and then,” Brun said. “Or a meal outside, just because it is outside.” They ran on a ways, and then she said. “That redheaded lieutenant—Vericour. He’s a friend of yours?”

“We were classmates,” Esmay said. “And we’ve been assigned some problems together.”

“But you like him?”

“He’s nice,” Esmay said. She couldn’t figure out what Brun was driving at. Did she want an introduction? “He goes to Q-town fairly often.”

“I know,” Brun said. “I’ve seen him there with friends—I wondered why you didn’t go.”

“Schedule.” It was harder to talk when she was used to solitude in the mornings. “I’ve got a final this morning,” she said, hoping Brun would take the hint.

“What in?” Brun asked. As if she were really interested, which seemed unlikely.

“Administrative Procedures,” Esmay said.

“Sounds dull,” Brun said. “But I guess I should let you review it in your head.”

That would have been nice, but they were almost back to the starting point. Esmay was glad she’d spent the extra hours the night before.

“There’s going to be an ensign in our class,” Vericour said, as they headed toward the first of the Escape and Evasion classes.

“An ensign?” Esmay hoped her face didn’t reveal anything. Barin had left a message saying he was down, but she hadn’t seen him yet; she had back-to-back classes. “So?”

“Well . . . this is a bit upper-level for an ensign, don’t you think? But I hear he’s a Serrano; that probably explains it.”

“Says he was on Koskiusko,” Vericour said. Esmay finally realized he was fishing, and what he was fishing for. She wanted to strangle him.

“Let me see,” she said, and stopped at the next dataport to suck the class list. “Oh . . . yes. Barin Serrano. I know him.” She hoped that was sufficiently casual. Her eye ran on down the list and got snagged on Brunhilde Meager. She had hoped someone would talk the girl out of this; the class was known to be dangerous, but there she was.

“And . . . ?”

She gave Vericour a glance that moved him back a half step. Good. “And he’s a fine junior officer—what more do you want?”

“Was he on your crew on the Bloodhorde ship?”

“No.” And she was not going to tell Barin’s secrets, either; Vericour could find out for himself.

In the classroom, she saw Brun first; the tall blonde was leaning on a desk, surrounded by male officers, while her bodyguards stood by the wall, looking as blank as robots. She had, Esmay had to admit, an infectious laugh and a smile that lit up the room. Esmay moved to a seat midway up on the left side, and then spotted Barin, front row right, already seated and looking compact and composed.

Should she go up there? But she was already in her seat, and Vericour was in the next . . . it would be obvious if she moved. Barin turned, as if her glance were a warm hand on his neck, and spotted her. He smiled, nodded; she nodded in return. Enough for now; they could talk later. Although . . . certain paragraphs in the professional ethics lectures came back to her. They would have to be careful. They were not presently in the same chain of command, but she was senior enough that the relationship would be called “not recommended.”

At the chime, the instructor came in; he looked as if he’d been slow-dried over a fire . . . the color of jerky and not any more extra fat. Lieutenant Commander Uhlis, his name was.

“Escape and evasion,” he said, without preamble. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never need this course, but if you need it and haven’t mastered it . . . you’ll be dead. Or worse.” He glanced around the room, then his gaze rested on Barin.

“I understand that Ensign Serrano already has experience as a captive,” Lieutenant Commander Uhlis said. “But none at all in escape.” Esmay gave him a sharp look. His tone was ambiguous, edged in some way she could not yet determine.

Barin said nothing; the others had turned to look at him.

“It is the duty of a captured officer to attempt to escape, is it not, Serrano?” The edge was sharper, sarcasm at the least.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yet . . . you did not.”

“I did not escape, sir.”

“Did you even try?” Contempt now. Esmay could feel the tension in the room.

“Not effectively,” Barin said. “Sir.”

“I would have thought a Serrano the equal of a few Bloodhorde thugs,” Uhlis said. “Would you care to explain to the class your mistakes?” Put that way, it was not a request.

“Sir, I was careless. I thought the person I saw in the inventory bay, wearing a Fleet uniform with Fleet patches, was Fleet personnel.”

“Ah. You expected the Bloodhorde to be fur-clad barbarians carrying swords—”

“No, sir. But I didn’t expect them to be laying an ambush in the inventory bay. As I said, sir, my carelessness.”

“And precisely how did they capture you, Ensign?”

Esmay could tell from the quality of Barin’s voice that he was both angry and shamed. “I was climbing an inventory rack—the Deep Space Repair has automated inventory racks some twenty meters tall, but the machinery had been shut off. Ship regulations required using safety harness and line, so I was clipped into the ladder I was climbing. The parts trays were far enough apart that someone could lie flat in them; when I climbed up that far, I found a gun to my head.”

“And did you struggle?”

“Yes, sir. But between the harness and the ones who grabbed my legs, and getting knocked unconscious, not effectively.”

“I see.” Uhlis eyed the rest of the class. “The lesson here is that a moment’s inattention—a brief lapse of caution—can and someday will result in your capture. The ensign thought that he was safe, aboard a Fleet vessel, even though he knew intruders had penetrated the ordinary defenses. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing—and no doubt convinced himself that anything out of the ordinary was the result of the overall emergency situation. Someone else would take care of it. He is lucky to be alive, presumably only because his captors thought he might be useful that way.”

Uhlis paused, long enough that a discreet rustle indicated uncertainty among the other students. “But the ensign did something right. Two things, in fact. He stayed alive, when it might have been easier to die. And he worked through his post-capture trauma properly, as his reactions just now proved.”

A hand shot up on the far side of the room. “Sir—I don’t understand.”

“Lieutenant Marden, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kindly identify yourself next time. And haste, in this course, can get you killed. When you don’t understand, wait. Be still. Listen. You might learn something that will save your life.”

Everyone was very still; Esmay found it hard to breathe. Even Brun had gone immobile, she noticed.

“But since I was going to explain anyway, I will now. Ensign Serrano could, no doubt, have changed his captors’ decision to keep him alive, by being too much trouble, while not able to escape. From my understanding, having reviewed his debrief, he had no real opportunity to escape. Therefore, his duty was to stay alive, if possible, by not driving his captors to kill him. This he did, enduring physical abuse without losing control, making no threats, being as passive as possible. Second, he cooperated fully with remedial therapy. Some rescued captives cannot face what they consider the shame of such therapy; although they cannot evade a minimum requirement, they do not cooperate, and do not receive the benefit of it. Ensign Serrano, by all reports—and of course most of this is confidential, so I have only the output summary—cooperated completely, and his therapists were convinced that he had no residual psychological deficits.” Another pause, which no one interrupted.

“Some of you, no doubt, thought I was being rough on Ensign Serrano—sarcastic, critical. I was. I was testing for myself the validity of the therapists’ report, before putting him through the trauma of this course, where any unresolved issues might make him a danger to himself and others. He passed my test. The rest of you . . . we’ll just have to see about.” Uhlis turned to Barin. “Ensign Serrano.”

“Sir.” The back of Barin’s neck was no longer flushed.

“Congratulations.”

“Sir.” Barin’s neck reddened again.

“I presume you’ve all read the introductory material for this class,” Uhlis said. His gaze scanned the classroom. Esmay had, as usual, read beyond the introductory assignment, but she judged from the uneasy shifting of some classmates that they had not. Uhlis glanced down at his display. “Lieutenant Taras, please explain the legal difference between military capture and hostile seizure.”

Taras had been one of the wigglers, seated two down from Esmay. She rose to her feet. “Sir, military capture is when a unit surrenders, and hostile seizure is when they’re caught off-guard.”

“And the legal situation?”

“Well . . . one is surrender and one is—being caught.”

“Inadequate. I assume you did not read the assignment, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Taras looked deservedly wretched.

Uhlis looked along the row. “Lieutenant Vericour?”

Vericour stood. “Sir, I read it, but I am not sure I understand—I mean, it’s clear when someone is kidnapped from a space station while they’re on leave or something, as compared with the surrender of personnel from a damaged ship.”

“Suppose you were sure that you were facing a situation of hostile seizure: what would be your legal position?”

“Sir, the Code says that I am to attempt escape by any means possible, assisting others to escape—”

“Yes . . . and what obligation do your captors have toward you?”

“If they’re signatories to the Otopki Conference, which the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand and the Guernese Republic are, but the Bloodhorde are not, they are obliged to provide adequate life support and medical care . . .”

“Well enough. Lieutenant Suiza—” Vericour sat down, and Esmay rose. “Please define Ensign Serrano’s situation in terms of the legal issue I’ve raised.”

“Sir, although Ensign Serrano was captured on board a Fleet vessel, his situation is more like a hostile seizure than military surrender. Since the Bloodhorde are not signatories to the Otopki Conference, they acknowledge no obligation to captives under any circumstances, but Familias law still holds them responsible.”

“Very well.” Uhlis nodded; Esmay sat down, and he turned his attention to someone else. In a few minutes, he had determined exactly who had read the assignment, and who had not—and who was inclined to be hasty or foolish. Brun was one of the latter, not to Esmay’s surprise. Uhlis had just called on her, and found that she had not read the assignment either, and had told her it was even more important for her than for the others.

“I don’t see why,” Brun said. Uhlis looked at her, a long considering look.

“Even a civilian, Ms. Meager, is expected to abide by the basic courtesies of the class. Please request permission to speak, and identify yourself, before blurting out your ignorance. Better still, listen a little longer and see if you can learn on your own.”

Brun’s neck reddened, and Esmay could see the tension in her shoulders. But she said nothing more, and Uhlis turned to someone else. Esmay could not relax no matter whose behavior was under his harrow; she almost regretted choosing this class, except that Barin was in it.

Esmay’s next class was just down the hall. Barin was there when she came out of the door. “Lieutenant—good to see you again.” His eyes said more. Esmay felt a warm glow, as if she’d stepped into a spotlight.

“Morning, Ensign,” she said, being just as formal. She could feel Vericour’s interested gaze on her back. “Glad to be off old Kos?”

Barin grinned. “They tell me they’ll put me on a line ship after this—assuming I pass all the courses.” In his tone was the confidence of someone who always passed his courses.

“You passed the hardest, back on Kos,” Esmay said seriously. “And Uhlis knows it.”

“I would have preferred things in the opposite order,” Barin said. “Training before performance—though you did the same trick with command, only better.”

Brun appeared suddenly at Esmay’s side. “Hi there—introduce me, Lieutenant Suiza, to this most attractive young ensign. Unless, that is, you’re keeping him for yourself.”

Barin flushed, and Esmay could feel her own ears heating up. With an effort, she forced a smile onto her face and said, “This is Ensign Serrano . . . Ensign, this is Brun Meager.” She didn’t have to give a pedigree; everyone knew it.

“You must be Admiral Serrano’s grandson,” Brun said, practically shoving in front of Esmay. “I heard a lot about you—do you have a few minutes?”

Esmay didn’t—it was time for her next class. She ignored the desperate look Barin gave her and abandoned him to his fate. If he couldn’t handle one dizzy blonde . . .

But she had trouble concentrating on tactics, for the first time in her life. Brun was beautiful, in a way she had never been beautiful, and she had that ability to attract almost anyone. Even Esmay had liked her, in spite of disapproving; it was impossible, it seemed, to stay distant from her. Naturally she would like Barin—charming, handsome, talented—and naturally Barin . . . she yanked her mind back to the lecture, and realized that Vericour had noticed her distraction, which made it even worse.

She made it through class after class, dragging her attention back again and again from the thought of Barin and Brun. If this was what love did, she told herself grimly, no wonder they cautioned officers against it. Back on Kos it had seemed simple: her feeling for Barin made her stronger, more confident, happier—and her performance had soared. But that was the first burst of feeling . . . this was something else, not helpful at all. Was he having the same problem? Would loving her destroy his chances to be the officer he could be? She tried to think what her therapist would have said, but none of the phrases she remembered helped at all.

At the evening meal, she was hunched morosely over her tray when a chair scraped at her side.

“Lieutenant?” It was Barin. She felt something clench and release in her chest.

“Ensign,” she said. She felt like crying; she choked that feeling back. “Barin—how was your first day?”

“Interesting,” Barin said. He was grinning at her in obvious delight. “You’re looking good. When Uhlis started in on me, I wasn’t sure what to do—but then I figured out what he was driving at.”

“I could have clobbered him,” Esmay said, startling herself with the fierceness of that. Hunger returned, and she took a bite of bread as if it were Uhlis’s flesh.

“No—” Barin paused for a spoonful of soup. “He was right, and I did make an interesting demonstration for the class. I would bet they don’t have someone like me in every class—unless they import them especially.” He looked thoughtful a moment. “I wonder if that’s why I got this course. It’s just devious enough—” He shook his head. “But you—I hear you’ve been taking one course on top of another. Are you getting any sleep at all?”

She felt her ears going hot, even though she knew it was an innocent inquiry into her health. “I’m doing fine, as long as I don’t do much but study.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to interrupt you,” Barin said. “I know this is important to you. I just hoped—”

“I know,” Esmay said, into her roast beef. “I’m just—you know it’s been awhile.”

“Ah.” Barin ate some peas, then something orange that had probably started life in the squash family. “I saw you yesterday, when I came in. Going to some class—seems like you’re getting along well with the other officers.”

“Trying to,” Esmay said. “All that you told me about the difference in cultures—it helps. Though I still catch myself about to apologize or explain far too often.”

“Glad to be of service,” Barin said. “I was going to ask—”

“Well,” said a voice from overhead. “I hoped to find my favorite ensign for a dinner companion, but he’s already engaged—”

Esmay nearly choked; Barin turned. “Hello, Sera Meager . . .”

“Brun. Nobody calls me Sera Meager or Ms. Meager but people who want to keep me from doing things. You don’t mind if I join you, do you? I promise my watchdogs will keep a respectful distance.”

“Of course,” Barin said; he stood while Brun found a seat across from Esmay, exactly where Esmay did not want those clear blue eyes.

“How did the exam go?” Brun asked Esmay, with apparently genuine interest. “Administrative Procedures, wasn’t it? Sounds deadly boring to me. Forms-filling, isn’t it?”

“A bit more than that,” Esmay heard herself say, with unmistakeable coolness in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Forms-filling is part of it, but then you have the decisions of which form, and to what office it should be sent. Filling it out correctly doesn’t help if you’ve sent the wrong level of form, or sent the right form to the wrong office.”

“Deadly boring. My sympathies. I hope my heckling you that morning didn’t hurt your performance.”

“No,” Esmay said. “I did all right.”

“All right being number one in the class. Don’t hide your light, Lieutenant,” Barin said.

“Good for you,” Brun said. “Though I can’t see you as a forms-filler, I suppose into every life a few forms must fall.”

Esmay could not stay annoyed, not with that combination of interest and goodwill beaming at her from across the table. “I thought it was boring,” she said. “But—it was a requirement.”

“So you topped out. What I’d expect. Are you sure you won’t come into Q-town, the both of you, and celebrate?”

“I can’t,” Esmay said. “The Tactics final is in two days, and our workgroup is studying tonight and tomorrow night.”

“Well, then, Ensign—do you have a final coming up?”

“No, but—”

“Then you can come, surely? If you’re not in Lieutenant Suiza’s Tactics class, then she’s not going to be spending time with you—not that she’d cradle-rob anyway.”

“I’m hardly an infant, Brun,” Barin said, before Esmay could say anything. “But yes, I’ll be your escort . . . since your watchdogs will be along to ensure my good behavior.”

Esmay watched them go with feelings not so much mixed as churned. She did have a Tactics study group meeting, but she had hoped for a few more minutes with Barin, in which she could ask him about his interpretation of the rules governing personal relationships between officers not of the same rank, or in the same chain of command. He had grown up in Fleet; he was used to the rules. If he thought there was nothing wrong, there probably wasn’t anything wrong.

Barin eyed the Speaker’s daughter as they walked through to the base gates. Dangerous waters, he told himself. Professional officers did not mix with Families; the shadowy aura of Undue Influence brooded over any such liaison. Still, common courtesy to a guest of the Fleet demanded that he accompany her . . . and her security detail.

He would much rather have talked to Esmay. They had things to discuss . . . and anyway, she looked tired, strained, and he wanted to help her, ease that strain. She had been trying so hard for so long; she was on the right track now, but . . . his fingers twitched, imagining the softness of her hair, the way he could soothe the tension from her neck.

“So . . . you knew Lieutenant Suiza on the Koskiusko?” Brun asked.

“Yes,” Barin said, brought back abruptly from his reverie.

“Is she always so . . . stiff?”

“Stiff? She’s hardworking, professional—”

“Dull,” Brun said. But her mouth quirked.

“You can’t mean that,” Barin said.

She grinned at him. “No, I don’t mean that. But I wanted to meet her, talk to her, and she’s always so . . . so upright and formal. Not to mention that she never seems to stop studying. She’s at the top in just about every class—what more does she want?”

“What any of us wants,” Barin said. “To be the best.” He was aware of his spine growing slightly more rigid, and wondered why.

“It’s so different,” Brun said, in a thoughtful tone. “I’ve been around Royal Space Service officers for years, and they’re not like all of you.”

Because they weren’t really military, but that was not something to say when Brun was being trailed by six of the Royal Security’s finest.

“I don’t know why all this is necessary,” Brun went on. “Professional competence I can understand, but the rules are ridiculous.”

Barin managed not to snort. “What rules are these?” he asked instead.

“Oh, you know. All this formality in class—standing when the instructor enters, and saluting all the time, and everything divided by rank.”

“There are reasons,” Barin said vaguely; he didn’t feel like explaining millenia of military tradition to a privileged civilian who was in a mood to dislike it anyway. “But if you don’t like it, why did you come?”

“Admiral Serrano recommended it. Over my father’s objections, in fact. She said I would benefit from the chance to develop my special talents in a controlled environment.”

“That sounds like a quote,” Barin said.

“You know Admiral—oh, that’s right, you are a Serrano. So you also know Heris, I’d imagine?”

“Admiral Serrano is my grandmother; Commander Serrano is one of my cousins.” No need to go into that.

“Well, then, we’ll be friends,” Brun said, taking his arm in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. “Now let’s go have some fun.”

Barin thought longingly of Esmay, hard at work no doubt in her quarters.