"Do you feel you lack initiative?" asked the board chair.
Esmay considered this. Were they hoping she'd say yes, or no? What hook did they plan to hang her on? "Sir, I'm sure Captain Hearne had reason to think that. It is my habit to be cautious, to be sure I understand the situation fully before stating an opinion. I was, therefore, not the first to offer solutions or suggestions when the captain posed a problem."
"You didn't resent her opinion?"
"No," Esmay said. "I thought she was right."
"And you were satisfied with that?"
"Sir, I was not satisfied with myself, but the captain's opinion seemed fair."
"I notice you use the past tense . . . do you still feel the captain's evaluation of you was accurate?"
"Objection," Chapin said quickly. "Lieutenant Suiza's present self-evaluation and its comparison to Captain Hearne's prior evaluation is not an issue."
At last it wound down . . . all the evidence given, all the questions asked and asked again, all the arguments made by opposing counsel. Esmay waited while the officers conferred; in the reverse of the Board procedures, she stayed in the courtroom while the members withdrew.
"Take a long breath," Chapin said. "You're looking pale again . . . but you did very well."
"It seemed so . . . so complicated."
"Well, if they let it look as simple as it is, they'd have no good reason for a trial, except that it's the regulations. With all the media coverage, they don't want to make it look easy; they want it to look as if they were thorough and demanding."
"Can you tell—?"
"How it will come out? If they don't acquit you of all charges, I'll be very surprised . . . they have the Board report; they know you've been chewed on about mistakes. And if they don't acquit, we'll appeal—that'll be easier, actually, out from under the media's many eyes. Besides, they found themselves a bad apple to squash, that young Arphan fellow."
The officers returned, and Esmay stood, heart beating so that she could scarcely breathe. What would it be?
"Lieutenant Junior Grade Esmay Suiza, it is the decision of this court that you are innocent of all charges made against you; this court has voted unanimously for acquittal. Congratulations, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, sir." She managed to stay on her feet during the final ceremonies, which again included greeting each officer on the court, and the prosecuting counsel, who—now that he wasn't badgering her with questions—seemed friendly and harmless.
"I knew we didn't have a chance," he said, shaking her hand. "It was obvious from the evidence, really, but we had to go through with it. Unless you'd come in here blind drunk and assaulted an admiral, you were safe enough."
"I didn't feel safe," Esmay said.
He laughed. "Then I did my job, Lieutenant. That's what I'm supposed to do, scare the defendant into admitting every scrap of guilt. You just didn't happen to have any." He turned to Chapin. "Fred, why do you always get the easy ones? The last fellow I had to defend was a mean-minded SOB who'd been blackmailing recruits."
"I'm rewarded for my virtues," Chapin said blandly, and they both laughed. Esmay didn't feel like joining in; she felt like finding a quiet place to sleep for a week.
"What'll you do now, Lieutenant?" asked one of the other officers.
"Take some leave," she said. "They said it'd be awhile before they had a new assignment for me, and I could have thirty days home leave plus travel. I haven't been home since I left." She wasn't that anxious to go home, but she knew no other way to escape the media attention.
Chapter Four
Altiplano
Esmay thought she had outdistanced the last of the newshounds two stops before her homeworld Altiplano. When she came out of the arrival lounge into the main concourse, the bright lights blinded her for a moment. They had figured out where she was going, of course. She set her jaw and kept going. They could have all they liked of her walking from one side of the station to another. They might even get someone on the down shuttle, but once she hit the dirt, they would find themselves blocked. That would be one good to come out of this misconceived homecoming.
"Lieutenant Suiza!" It took a long moment, several strides, for her to realize that one of the yells wasn't a newshound's demand for a comment, but her uncle Berthol. She looked around. He wore his dress uniform, and Esmay groaned inwardly, thinking ahead to the reaction of her Fleet acquaintances when they saw the newsclips of this. When he caught her eye, he quit waving and pulled himself rigid. Sighing, Esmay stopped short, bracing against the expected crunch from behind, and saluted. When her father had sent word that he could not meet her at the station, she'd assumed that meant no one would . . . she hadn't expected Berthol.
"Good to see you, Esmaya," he said now, opening a path between them with a glance that sent the newshounds scurrying out of the way.
"And you, sir," Esmay said, very conscious of the scrutiny of the cameras.
"God's teeth, Esmaya, I'm not a sir to you." But the twinkle in his eye approved of her formality. The stars on his shoulders glittered as the cameras shifted for better angles, their spotlights crisscrossing. Esmay had told Fleet that her father was one of four regional commanders . . . she had not reminded them what must be in her file, that her uncles Berthol and Gerard were two of the others. "I guess you didn't starve in Fleet, after all. You know Grandmother is still convinced you can find nothing legal to eat . . ."
Esmay found herself grinning even as she wished he hadn't brought that up. Grandmother was his grandmother, not hers—well over a hundred, and an influence as potent in her way as Papa Stefan in his. "I'm fine," she said, and turned, hoping to convince Berthol not to grandstand for the cameras.
"More than fine, Esmaya." He sobered, and touched her shoulder gently. "You give us pride. We are more than glad to have you home." Now he turned; his aides, she noticed now, had been scattered in the crowd and now came together at his back. The glaring lights receded behind them despite raised voices. "When we get down, we will celebrate."
Esmay's heart sank. What she really wanted was a quiet drive out to the estancia, and a room with windows open to the rose garden . . . and a full night's sleep, a night that fit her body's rhythms.
"We can't waste this," he said more quietly, as they walked straight past a departure lounge full of people she didn't know, who were giving her the soft tongue-clicking applause she remembered so well. Berthol ushered her into the waiting shuttle, and into the rear compartment which his aides closed off as they came through.
"What's going on?" Esmay asked. Tension curdled her stomach; she did not really want to know.
"What's going on . . . you'll be fully briefed later," Berthol said. "We didn't reserve a full shuttle—we thought it would be too obvious. Natural enough to have a private compartment. And there's no way out of the welcoming celebration, though I'm sure you're ready for a vacation at home, eh?"
Esmay nodded. She glanced around at Berthol's aides. The militia ranks were not those of Fleet, exactly; the insignia, except for stars marking flag rank, were completely different. It came back to her in a rush. Infantry, armor, air, navy—what her Fleet called, somewhat disparagingly, "wet-fleet." All four branches here, all of them older than she was. The one wearing armor tags had an ear-wire, and now he turned to Berthol.
"General Suiza says it's all ready, sir."
"Your father," Berthol said. "He's in charge down there, for reasons that will become clear later. In the meantime, there'll be a formal ceremony at the shuttleport—blessedly brief, if I know your father—then a parade into town, and a formal presentation at the palace."
"Presentation?" Esmay squeezed that in when Berthol took a breath.
"Ah—" He seemed embarrassed a moment, then lowered his voice. "You see, Esmay, when it was your action that saved an entire planet, and then you don't even get a token of recognition from your Fleet . . ."
Dear God. Esmay scrambled through all the possible explanations she could make—that he would no
t understand—and realized it was no use. They had decided that her Fleet had not sufficiently honored her, and it would do no good to point out that her acquittal was itself acknowledgement and reward. Besides, she knew that someone had put in a recommendation for a medal—which made her skin itch to think of it. She wished they'd just forget it. But this—
"And it's not like you're just any shaggy pony out of the back lots," Berthol went on. "You're a Suiza. They're treating you—"
"Very well, Uncle Berthol," she said, hoping to stop him, if she couldn't stop the ceremony.
"No—I don't think so. Nor does the Long Table. They've voted to give you the Starmount—"
"No," Esmay breathed. She was uneasily aware that something deep inside disagreed, and breathed yes.
"And a title of your own. To be converted if you marry on Altiplano."
Dear God, she thought again. She didn't deserve this. It was ridiculous. It would cause . . . immense trouble either way. No matter that Fleet would not realize it had been intended as a rebuke—they would find it awkward, and that made her awkward.
"Not much of a steading with it," Berthol said. "In fact, your father said he'd provide that; it's that little valley where you used to hide out . . ."
Despite herself, Esmay felt a stab of pleasure at the memory of that little mountain valley, with its facing slopes of poplar and pine, its grassy meadows and clear stream. She had claimed it years before in her mind, but had never thought it would be hers. If it could be . . . she remembered some R.S.S. regulations she was afraid might interfere.
"Don't worry," Berthol said, as if he could read her mind. "It's under the limit—your father ran a new survey, and chopped it short at the upper end. It's under the glacier there. Anyway, if you need to refresh yourself on the protocol of the award ceremony . . ."
She did, of course. The data cube the major with the armor insignia handed her contained not only the ceremony, but a precis on recent political developments, and her family's position on all of them. The Minerals Development Commission was still squabbling with the Marine Biological Commission over control of benthic development. Some things never changed, but in the years she'd been gone the focus of the battle had shifted from the Seline Trench, as the colonies of interest to the biologists died, and were mined for their rich ores, to the Plaanid Trench, where new vents nourished new vent communities. That quarrel would have been unimportant on many worlds, but on Altiplano the Minerals Development Commission represented the Secularists, while Old Believers and the Lifehearts controlled the Marine Biological Commission. Which meant that an argument over exactly when a benthic vent community was dead and could be mined might erupt in religious riots around the entire planet.
"Sanni," Berthol said, when she had clicked off the cube reader, "is involved with the Lifehearts again."
Esmay remembered vividly the moment when her romantic feelings about the night sky became utter certainty that she would have to leave her home forever. Her aunt Sanni—Sanibel Aresha Livon Suiza—and her uncle Berthol, screaming at each other across the big dining room at the estancia. Sanni, a Lifeheart as rigid in her piety as any Old Believer. Esmay found the Lifeheart philosophy attractive, but Sanni in a rage terrified her. Yet it was Berthol who had thrown the priceless chocolate pot, shattering its painted water lilies and swans, scarring the wide polished table. Her own father had walked in on the end of that, with Sanni scrabbling on the floor for shards and Berthol still yelling. And Papa Stefan, two paces behind him, had shamed them both into apologies and hand-shakings.
Esmay hadn't believed it. Whatever was wrong between Sanni and Berthol stayed wrong, and was still wrong, and here she was back in the middle of it.
"It's not my problem now," she said. "I'm only here for a short leave—"
"She likes you," Berthol said. His gaze flicked to his aides, who were studiously ignoring this. "She says you're the one sane member of your generation, and now you're a hero."
Esmay felt herself reddening. "I'm not. All I did—"
"Esmay, this is family. You don't have to pretend. All you did, you babykin, was survive a mutiny, come out on top, and then defeat a warship twice your size."
Bigger than that, Esmay thought. She didn't say it; it would only make things worse. "It didn't know I was there until too late," she said.
"So you were smarter than its captain. Hero, Esmay. Get used to it. You're carrying our flag out there, Esmay, and you're doing very well."
She was not carrying their flag, but her own. They would not understand that, even if she dared say it to them. And Berthol sounded too much like Major Chapin, too much like Admiral Serrano. She had been a hero by accident—why wasn't it as obvious to the others as it was to her?
"And Sanni's very proud of you," Berthol went on. "She wants to talk to you—ask you all about Fleet, about your life. If you're meeting anyone eligible, if I know Sanni." He laughed, but it sounded forced.
She had left for a good reason. She should have stayed away. Yet at the thought of the whole family for once approving, for once seeing her as an asset rather than a very chancy proposition, her heart beat faster. The Starmount . . . when she'd been a little girl, she remembered the first soldier she'd seen awarded the Starmount, a lean, red-haired fellow who walked lopsided. She had stared and stared at the medal on its blue and silver ribbon that dangled around his neck until a disapproving grownup made her apologize and then quit following him. No one from Altiplano could be indifferent to the Starmount . . . and she didn't have to tell Fleet how she felt.
At the shuttlefield, the only media wore the green and scarlet uniforms of the Altiplano Central News Agency. No one tried to speak to her; no one tried to crowd close. She knew that her walk from the shuttle through the terminal to the waiting car would be only one clip in the finished story, narrated by a senior "analyst." No one would try to interview her; here that was considered rude and disrespectful.
Her father, backed by a wedge of other officers, gave her the same formal salute Berthol had; she returned it, and he gave her the semiformal hug and kisses, not fatherly, but from commander to junior about to be honored. She was introduced to his senior aide, to the next senior; she was led through a corridor where a solid block of militia provided complete privacy—in their terms, which meant from civilian eyes—for her few moments in the ladies' retiring room, where she found two tiring maids ready to apply fresh makeup and attempt to do something about her flyaway hair. That ended in a spritz of scented stuff which would leave her scalp itchy for two days—but this once, she didn't mind. In moments they had whisked off her R.S.S. uniform jacket, pressed it, and after a look at the shirt beneath, insisted on replacing it with a clean one from her luggage.
Refreshed, and to her surprise cheered by these ministrations, Esmay came back out, into the midst of a low-voiced argument between her father and her uncle.
"It's only one cloud," her uncle was saying. "And it might not rain—"
"It's only one bullet," her father said. "And it might miss. I'm not taking the chance. When her hair gets wet—Oh, there you are, Esmaya. There's a line of storms moving into the city; we're going to go by car—"
"It's not nearly as impressive," Berthol grumbled. "And it's not as if you expected her to do any real riding."
She had assumed by car; she'd forgotten that on Altiplano all ceremony involved horses. She thanked some unknown deity for the gift of a possible rainstorm and her father's distaste for the frizzy mess her hair became if it got damp. At least no one from Fleet was here, to make a joke about a backwoods military that still used horses.
Of course the parade still had horses, even though she was in a car. From the protection of the car, she watched the perfectly drilled cavalry swing into position before and behind, the horses moving in unison, their glossy haunches bunching and relaxing. The riders, their backs upright, hands quiet, faces set in a neutral expression that would not vary if a horse stood up on its hind legs . . . not that one of those well-trained
animals would. Beyond the horses, a crowd on the sidewalks, faces peering from the windows of the taller buildings. Some of them waved the gold and red Altiplano colors.
She had not been home for just over ten standard years. She had left as a gawky teenager, who in memory seemed the very model of adolescent incapacity. Nothing had fit, not her body nor her mind nor her emotions. From not fitting at home to not fitting in the Fleet prep school had been a tiny, natural transition. By the time she had graduated from the Academy, she had expected to be the odd one out, the one whose reactions were not natural.
She had not realized how much those feelings had been due to age and then the real displacement of leaving her home world before her adult identity had solidified. Now, in the light of Altiplano's sun, with her body held by Altiplano's gravity, she began to relax, feeling at home in a way she had not since she was a little girl. The colors were right in a way they had not been for years; her very bones knew that this gravity, not one standard G, was the right gravity.
When she stepped out of the car, and walked up the red stone steps of the palace, her feet found the right intervals without effort. These steps were the right height, the right depth; this stone felt solid enough; this doorway welcomed; this air—she took another long breath—this air smelled right, and felt right all the way down to the bottom of her lungs.
She looked around at the people now crowding into the hall around her. Humans were humans, but the shapes of humans varied with their genome and the worlds they lived on. Here the bone structure looked familiar; these were the faces she had known all her life, prominent cheekbones and brows, long jutting chins, eyes set deeply under thick eyebrows. These long arms and legs, big bony hands and feet, boxy joints—these were her people, her look. Here she fit in, at least physically.
"Ezzmaya! S'oort semzz zalaas!" Esmay turned; her ears had already adapted to the Altiplano dialect, even in her family's less-obvious form, and she had no trouble understanding the welcome she'd just been given. She didn't immediately recognize the wizened old man in front of her, stiffly upright and wearing the brilliant braid of a former senior NCO, but her father's senior aide murmured into her earplug. Retired master sergeant Sebastian Coron . . . of course. He had been part of her life as far back in childhood as she could remember, always crisp and correct, but with a twinkle for his commander's elder daughter.
The Serrano Connection Page 6
