"Genetic makeup!" This was not what she had expected; curiosity overcame outrage.
"Whether they're a Registered Embryo or not, and what the code is."
"You mean that's . . . visible?"
"Of course," Brun said, still in the superior tone that was raking Esmay's patience. "There's the registration mark, and the code number. How else are you going to be sure—? Oh. You don't do that."
"Well, I certainly don't have any registration marks or numbers on me," Esmay said. The thought made her skin twitch, but curiosity was a worse torment. "Where—?"
"Lower left abdomen," Brun said promptly. "Want to see?"
"No!" Esmay said, with more force than she intended.
"I didn't mean that," Brun said, not specifying. "But surely you have—I mean, you're older than I am."
"What I do is none of your business," Esmay said. "And I plan to keep it that way."
Brun opened her mouth and shut it again, then gave a little shrug that irritated Esmay as much as anything she might have said. She fished in one of her pockets and brought up a tangle of wire with a few plastic beads on it. "Here—know what this is?"
"Haven't a clue," Esmay said, glad to be off the topic of Barin.
"According to Ty, it's a good-luck charm. I thought it was a chunk of obsolete electronics."
"Mmm." Esmay gave the little object a better look, then grinned.
"What?" Brun asked.
"Well . . . it's a good-luck charm only under certain circumstances. That is—this is the sort of thing they gave us when we started the senior scan course. You were supposed to hang it up—did Ty mention that?"
"Yes—above my desk, from the lamp bracket."
"Uh huh. What it is, underneath the distractions of bent wire and pretty beads, is a scan device. Along about week six, if you were doing your work, you would suddenly realize that it had been transmitting everything you did and said . . . and you'd look up—everyone did—and that picture of your sudden revelation went into the class scrapbook. The earlier, the better luck . . . they'd calculated the mean, and if you beat the mean, you got extra points, depending on how early you were."
"You mean it's . . . spying on me?"
"Well, you knew you were under surveillance."
"I hate it!" Brun flung herself down, in a gesture that reminded Esmay of a child's petulant flounce. Esmay was not moved.
"So? You agreed—"
"I agreed to have the stupid bodyguards around, not to have them putting illicit scan devices in my room. Damn them!"
Esmay felt much older than this spoiled girl. "They're doing their job . . . and you're not making it easier."
"Why should I?"
"Grow up!" It wasn't what she'd meant to say, but she had been thinking it, and she couldn't hold it back any longer. To her surprise, Brun whitened as if Esmay had hit her.
"I'm very sorry to have bothered you." She was up and out the door before Esmay could say anything. Esmay stared at the shut door a long moment. Should she apologize? Altiplano manners demanding apology for almost everything quarrelled with Serrano advice not to apologize too much; she wished she could talk to Barin about it, but she had to finish the calculations for a project in support planning. She forced herself to concentrate on the work, with the consoling thought that perhaps Brun would no longer want to be on her team.
But that hope disappeared when the study team assignments came out. Brun had managed, by whatever means the daughter of the Speaker of the Grand Council could use, to get herself assigned to Esmay's team in the Escape and Evasion course. Esmay told herself that was unfair; it might not have taken any deviousness at all. Perhaps she'd just asked, and they'd given. Brun's demeanor gave no clue; she gave her usual impression of complete unconcern.
"Your problem today is to assess the security problem associated with moving a high-risk individual from this room"—Uhlis pointed at it on the diagram—"to the shuttle port, which is here." A map graphic came up on the screen. "You have available the materials in the box on your table; you are briefing the head of the security detail in forty-five minutes. Go."
The first thing to do, the class rules declared, was to open the envelope in the box and find out who was commanding this exercise. To Esmay's relief, it was neither Brun nor herself. Lieutenant Marden—who had, though hastily, at least read the first assignment—seemed to have a basic grasp of the topic so far, as he handed out the materials to Esmay, Brun, and Vericour. They all set to work, and their presentation won a passing grade, though not a high one. Brun's failure to recognize a potential threat dropped their score, and Uhlis was unforgiving.
"The point of working as a team is for all of you to combine skills and knowledge, not to hide in your own narrow area of responsibility. Any of the rest of you could have noticed that Sera Meager had ignored the possibility of an aerial attack on the motor route—and should have."
Esmay felt the sting of that. She had wondered why Brun didn't mention it—and she had said nothing, since she was trying to arrange the resources she supposedly had, none of which included anything she knew could take out aircars. But Uhlis's greatest scorn fell on Lieutenant Marden, as their commander. By the time he was through, Esmay was afraid Marden would be in shreds on the floor . . . as it was, he disappeared rapidly after the lab, and showed up again only at dinner. Esmay took her tray to his table.
"I should've said something," she said. "I did wonder about air, but since I didn't have any resources to deal with an air attack—"
"That was in my packet," Marden said. "If and only if someone mentioned it, I could call for reinforcements. I thought that meant I couldn't mention it myself, but—as you heard—that's not what it meant at all." He stared at his plate. "I'm not really hungry. Sorry to lower your ratings average, though."
"Don't worry about that," Esmay said. "I think we were all too worried about stepping on each other's territory. Wonder if all the other groups had the same problem."
"Well, from what I hear, no one got a satisfactory, let alone a commended. But I feel really stupid."
"I don't think—" began Esmay. But Vericour appeared at the table.
"Do you think we'll have the same teams for the field exercise?" He sat down before either of them answered. "I hope not—getting the Speaker's daughter through it safely is going to make it harder on us." He turned to Esmay. "Harder on you, in particular."
Esmay felt moved to defend Brun. "I don't know—she has no military background, but she is smart and willing."
"And just about demonstrates rashness, from what I hear." Vericour reached for the condiment tray, and sprinkled galis sauce generously over his entire plate. Esmay sneezed as the sharp fumes went up her nose. "Sorry—I forget what this can do to sensitive noses. Mine went years ago."
"She is the Speaker's daughter," Marden said, in a lower voice than Vericour had used.
"Well, yes. She's also a celebrity in her own right, so she can't expect not to be talked about. She's always on some newsflash or other. You know they have a team here covering her training."
"She can't help that," Esmay said. "They're always after prominent people, and she is good-looking—"
"She's spectacular," Vericour said. "But I can't see her sneaking across anything unobserved, can you?"
"She got from Rotterdam back to Rockhouse Major—" Marden said.
"Yes, back when no one imagined a girl like that would work her passage on an ag ship. Now they know—and you can bet she won't do that again." He turned back to Esmay. "Do you follow the newsflashes, Esmay?"
"No," Esmay said. She had never paid much attention to the gossipy newsflashes, with their emphasis on fashion and celebrity.
"Well . . . if you had, you'd have seen Brun Meager in everything from formal gowns to skinsuits, posing elegantly on a horse or lounging by a picturesque beach. Flatpics of her are probably in more lockers than anyone but actual storycube stars."
Great. Someone else who thought she was astoundingly beautifu
l. Esmay could picture every flaw in that face and body—not that there were many.
"But except for the daring rescue of the most noble Lady Cecelia"—that sounded like a quote from someone's purple prose—"nothing I've read suggests she had any real sense. So now we're stuck with her . . ."
"If the teams are the same," Marden said. "Maybe they aren't."
"Maybe they aren't, but I'll bet Esmay ends up on the same team. They'll want to put another woman on her team, and who else would they put? Taras? Don't make me laugh. Taras wouldn't have a chance with Brun Meager. No, they'll put the best they have, and that's you, m'dear." Vericour bowed, grinning. Esmay felt embarrassed. How could she deal with this? It did not help that Brun chose that moment to appear at their table.
"Won't do you any good to flirt with Suiza," she said to Vericour, apparently apropos of the bow. "But you could always flirt with me."
Vericour spread his hands, rolled his eyes, and then mimed a swoon; everyone laughed but Esmay. It was funny, but she was too conscious of the vivid intensity next to her to enjoy it.
"Could I talk to you a bit?" Brun said, turning to her with a more serious expression than usual. Under the eyes of the others, Esmay had to say yes.
"I know I did something wrong, but not what . . . how could I arrange air cover when we didn't have any resources? And why should I have worried about it, when the information we were given didn't mention any such threat?"
A technical problem she could answer; Esmay quickly outlined the logic behind their low score. Brun nodded, apparently paying attention, and Esmay warmed to her again.
"So . . . even if there's no evidence to indicate a certain kind of threat, you still have to counter it?"
"You have to assume your intelligence is incomplete," Marden put in. "It always is."
"But if you're too cautious, you can't get anything done," Brun said. "You have to act, even before you know everything—"
"Yes, but with an awareness of what you don't know, and its implications," Esmay said.
"And it's not so much what you don't know, as what you think you do know—that's wrong—that will get you killed," Vericour said. "It's the assumptions—that no mention of an aerial threat means no aerial threat, or no mention of piracy in a sector means there are no pirates."
"I see," Brun said. "I'll try to do better next time, but I have to say I'm better at reacting quickly than seeing invisible possibilities."
When Esmay got up to leave, Brun trailed along instead of heading for the ball courts with the others, and Esmay sighed internally. She was tired already, and had at least four hours of studying to do; if Brun insisted on talking to her, she would be up late again, and her energy was running out.
"I know you're busy," Brun said, as they got to Esmay's quarters. "But this shouldn't take long, and I really don't know where else to go."
This appeal cut through Esmay's worry about her classes. "Come on in," she said. "What's wrong?"
"There's something wrong with Master Chief Vecchi," Brun said.
"Wrong? What kind of wrong?" Esmay, her mind on their previous conversation, had been expecting a question about Fleet manners.
"Well . . . right in the middle of the lecture today, he suddenly didn't make sense. He was telling us how to secure a line on a derelict in zero gravity, and he got it backwards."
"How would you know?"
Brun had the grace to blush. "I read the book," she said. "His book, actually. Safety Techniques in Space Rescue."
"It slipped his mind," Esmay said. "Everyone makes mistakes sometimes."
"But he didn't know it. I mean, he went right on, explaining things wrong. When one of the jigs asked if he was sure, Vecchi blew up . . . then got very red, walked out, and when he came back, he said he had a headache."
"Maybe—"
"It's not the first time," Brun said. "A week ago, he actually inserted a Briggs pin upside down."
"Testing you?"
"No—it was his own line, and he was about to move on it when one of the junior instructors—Kim something. Tough little woman, about half my size but can haul me up one-handed. She did. Anyway, she noticed Vecchi's mistake and fixed it."
"Um." Esmay couldn't think why this was her problem, except that anything that bothered Brun was her problem.
"It bothered her, I could tell. She watched everything else he did, checked it all. Not the usual cross-checks, but as if he were a student."
"How old is Vecchi?"
"What, are you thinking he's just gotten old? He's rejuved, I know that. One of the first enlisted rejuvs."
"When?"
Brun looked disgusted. "I don't have his medical records—how would I know?"
"I just wondered . . . maybe it's wearing off."
"It doesn't work that way," Brun said. Esmay raised her eyebrows and waited. "My father," Brun went on. "He's rejuved, so is Mother. Their friends . . . so I naturally know how it works."
"And?" Esmay prompted.
"Well, the usual reason for repeating a rejuv is physical. The people I know who've had more than one certainly didn't have any mental problems. Their personalities don't change, and they're just as alert."
"But wasn't that earlier kind of rejuvenation associated with mental degeneration?"
"Only if you tried to repeat it." Brun made a face. "Mother's second cousin or something did that, and it was horrible. Mother tried to keep me away from her, but you know little kids . . . I thought there must be something special in that suite if they wanted me out of it, so I sneaked in."
"So . . . is Vecchi anything like your mother's cousin?"
"Not . . . exactly. Not as severe, anyway. You don't suppose they made a mistake and gave him the wrong kind of rejuv procedure, do you?"
"I don't know. It would help if we knew more about rejuvenation, and also about the procedure used on Vecchi."
"I thought you could do something, since you're in Fleet."
Esmay snorted. "Not dig into his personnel and medical records—I have no reason to see them, and it's against regulations to snoop."
"Not even . . . unofficially?"
"No." She would stop this right here. "I'm not going to ruin my career to satisfy your curiosity. If Vecchi is impaired, someone in his chain of command will notice. If I observe something myself, I can report it. But I cannot—and will not—attempt to snoop in his records. You can report it, to—oh—whoever's commanding over there. Who's the senior instructor?"
"A Commander Priallo, but she's on leave somewhere."
"Well, find someone else—whoever is her junior—"
"I'd think you'd care," Brun said.
"I care—" If anything at all was wrong, but this was only Brun's word. "But I have no right to intervene; this needs to go to his commander. I suppose you could tell the Commandant."
"Maybe I will," Brun said, and after a moment sighed and went out. Esmay put Brun's worries out of her mind and tackled her assignments.
When the field exercise team assignments came out the next day, she found Vericour was right. Brun was on her team, and she had the smallest team of all—because her security would have to come along. How would that work? Would they really let her be roughed up? Or would they interfere in the exercise? And what would that do to the scoring?
Meanwhile, Brun maintained an indecent level of energy and enthusiasm. She learned content as fast as anyone Esmay had ever known—Esmay wondered if her intellectual capacity had ever been pushed near its limit. She did not, however, seem able to learn the attitudes that were by now second nature to those young officers for whom they were not first nature. Reprimands slid off her impenetrable confidence; suggestion and example alike had no effect.
"She's a dilettante," Vericour said, in another of those mealtime discussions. "Though what else could we expect from someone of her background? But she takes nothing seriously, least of all Fleet culture."
Anton Livadhi, a cousin of the Livadhi with whom Esmay had served on Despite, shook h
is head. "She takes us seriously enough . . . but she's not one of us, and she knows it. She wants us to be serious, while she has fun." He had his own team for the field exercise, and they were well up the chart on the evaluations for the preliminary exercises. Esmay's team performance was only middling; Brun fluctuated between brilliant and maddening, and her security could not commit emotionally as team members were supposed to do, and still be guards. They had taken almost twice as long as the fastest team in several exercises.
Esmay began to dread the field exercise itself, four days of intense and dangerous work in the badlands west of the base. She was reasonably sure that Brun's guards wouldn't let her be killed, but that left her and Jig Medars to do the work of an entire team. Two days before the exercise, she left a lecture on ship systems maintenance and found a message on her personal comunit: Lieutenant Commander Uhlis wanted to see her at her earliest convenience. Since she had an hour between classes, that meant right now.
She could hear the angry voices from ten meters down the corridor; Uhlis's door was ajar.
"You have to see that it's impossible." Uhlis sounded annoyed.
"Why?" Brun sounded more than annoyed; Esmay paused, wishing the door had shut firmly.
"Because you're already the target of assassins. The field exercise is by nature dangerous, and it's also impossible to secure. All it would take is one person—just one, with the right skills—to pick you off."
"You mean to tell me that on a base covered with Fleet personnel, you can't even let me do a simple field exercise?" Scorn in that, as if Brun expected to shame Uhlis into changing his mind. That wouldn't work.
"I mean we will not approve it. Nor will your father; I have already forwarded our decision, and our reasons for it, to him. He agreed."
"That's—that's—the stupidest thing I ever heard!" Brun's voice had gone up another notch. "If I'm a target for terrorists, then it's perfectly clear that escape and evasion is exactly what I need to know. What am I supposed to do if I get kidnapped and need to escape?"
"The escape segment will be available—at least the urban end . . ."
The Serrano Connection Page 46