The Serrano Connection

by Elizabeth Moon

  "It's . . . expected . . . sir," he said.

  "No need for formality in the gym," she said. "I approve . . . of the attitude, and the results, Barin." Her look ranged over him, with particular attention he couldn't mistake.

  Well, he would have to say something . . . but before he could, Major Oslon climbed onto the machine on Ferradi's other side.

  "Hey, Casea . . . let Serrano finish his workout. He's too young for you anyway. I, on the other hand . . ."

  She gave Barin a last lingering look before turning to Oslon. "Why, Major . . . you're incorrigible. Whatever makes you think I'm after Ensign Serrano?"

  "Glad to know you're not. I must have been misled by the fit of that exercise suit."

  "This old thing?" Barin had seen less obvious flirting from professionals at the trade, but Oslon didn't seem to mind. He and Casea bantered awhile, and when he invited her to a game of parpaun, she agreed—with a last lingering look at Barin that bothered him all over again.

  A few days later, Barin was on his way through Troop Deck on a routine inspection of the traps in the heads—hairballs in the traps were a constant problem. A peculiar crunch caught his attention. He hesitated. Another, and then another. Which compartment was it in? He looked around, trying to locate the sound . . . slightly behind him, and to the right. A slither-and-bump, followed by the sounds of something heavy being dragged, came next, and pinpointed the source: D-82.

  Barin looked in, to see Master Chief Zuckerman, face almost purple with rage and exertion, dragging someone by the heels.

  "Chief—what's going on?"

  "Outa my way!" Zuckerman said, breathing heavily. The Chief did not seem to recognize him; his eyes were dilated.

  "Chief—" Barin could not see clearly past him, but the limpness of the legs Zuckerman held bothered him. He lifted his gaze a little . . . down the row of racks to one with a depression where someone had been sitting . . . a needler case on the pillow . . .

  "Chief, put that down." Barin had no idea what had happened, but it was trouble all the same. He reached back for the alarm beside the hatch.

  "Oh, no you don't, you puppy!" Zuckerman dropped the man's feet and charged. Barin ducked aside, and Zuckerman kept going, bouncing off the opposite bulkhead. By then Barin had slapped the alarm, cutting in local scan.

  "Security, ASAP!" Barin said. "Man down, possible assault!"

  Zuckerman turned, more slowly than he'd charged. "Not possible—the bastard attacked me. Me, a master chief with . . . with . . . twenty . . . twenty . . ." He shook his head. "He shouldn't have done that. Not right."

  "Chief," Barin said, cautiously. "What happened?"

  "None of your lip, boy," Zuckerman said. His eyes narrowed. "What the devil are you doing wearing officers' insignia? That's illegal. You want to get tossed out? You take those pings off your uniform this minute, Pivot."

  "Master Chief Zuckerman," Barin said. "I asked you a question." For the first time in his life, he heard the Serrano bite in his own voice—the family pride that knew, bone-deep, what it was.

  Zuckerman stared at him, his face blanking a moment. Then he looked confused. "Uh . . . Ensign . . . Serrano? What's . . . what's that you were asking me, sir?"

  "Chief," Barin tried again, but cautiously. Where was Security? How long would it be? "I'm watch officer today. I heard something funny, and came to look. You were in 82, dragging someone, and there's a needler case on a rack." He paused. Zuckerman stepped forward, but Barin put up his hand. "No. Don't go in there. Security's on the way; I want nothing disturbed. Can you tell me what happened?"

  "I—he—he was going to kill me." Zuckerman was sweating now, his face shiny with it. His hands opened and closed rhythmically. "He pulled a needler; he said he'd never be caught." He shook his head, then looked at Barin again. "Son of a bitch actually tried it—if I didn't have good reflexes, I'd be dead in there. So I—so I grabbed his hand, got the needler, and—and hit—" He turned pale and sagged against the bulkhead. "I hit him," he whispered. "I hit him . . . and then I hit him . . . and—"

  "Chief. Stay where you are. Can you do that?"

  Zuckerman nodded. "Yes, sir. But I—but I don't know—"

  "Just stay there. I need to check the guy. What's his name?"

  "Moredon. Corporal Moredon."

  "All right. I'm going in; I want you to stay exactly where you are." Again, the Serrano tone—he could hear it himself; he could see its steadying effect on Zuckerman.

  Moredon lay where Zuckerman had dropped him, unmoving. Barin stepped closer. Now he could see the bruises and blood on the man's head, and a long streak of blood on the deck where he'd been dragged. Was he breathing? Barin couldn't tell; he knelt beside the limp body. Yes. Through the open mouth he could just hear a low snore, and feel the moist breath against the back of his hand.

  He stood up, and went back to the corridor. Zuckerman stood where he'd been told, and down the corridor came a Security team, with medical assist.

  "Sir?" said the sergeant in charge of the Security team. His gaze flicked quickly from Barin to Zuckerman, down to Zuckerman's hands, back to his face, and Barin could see the puzzlement in his eyes.

  "There's a man down in 82," Barin said crisply. "Head injuries, but he's breathing. You'll need to secure the area for forensic examination, and look for a loose needler."

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant said. He waved the medical team forward, and gave the necessary orders to his team. Then he glanced at Barin again. "Did . . . uh . . . the man in there attack Chief Zuckerman, sir? Or you?"

  "If you please, Sergeant, just see to it that the area is secured, and that the injured man is treated appropriately." Before the sergeant could comment, Barin turned to Zuckerman. "Chief, I need you to come with me to make a report. Can you do that?"

  "Of course, sir." Zuckerman straightened up. "What's the problem?"

  Barin wished he had an answer for that. "We'll let the Exec sort it out," he said. It occurred to him, as he led the way back up to command deck, that perhaps he should have brought along an escort. What if Zuckerman got violent again? Surely he wouldn't, but all the way up to command deck, his neck prickled at the thought of Zuckerman behind him.

  He met Lieutenant Commander Dockery coming down the ladder from command deck, and came to attention.

  "What is it, Ensign?"

  "Sir, we have a real problem. Permission?"

  "Go ahead . . . wait, who's that with you?"

  "Chief Zuckerman, sir. There's been an incident—"

  "I know you called for Security. At ease, both of you. Spit it out, then, Ensign."

  Barin spit it out, aware all the time of Zuckerman—his age, his seniority, his record—standing there looking entirely too confused still.

  Dockery glanced at Zuckerman. "Well, Chief?"

  Zuckerman's voice trembled. "Commander, I . . . I don't quite know what happened . . ."

  "Did this individual attack you?"

  "I—I think so. Yes, sir, he did. It's—I can almost see it—"

  Dockery gave Barin a look he could not interpret. "Did you . . . do anything with the Chief, Ensign?"

  "No, sir."

  "Was he sedated by security?"

  "No, sir."

  "You came up here with someone you're accusing of assault, without sedating him or putting him under guard?"

  "Sir, he'd calmed down. He wasn't—"

  Dockery touched one of the com panels on the bulkhead. "XO to med, stat response team to my location." He turned back to Barin. "Ensign, the Chief is clearly not himself. He needs medical evaluation prior to anything else."

  "I feel fine, Commander," Zuckerman said. Indeed, he looked like the model of a master chief. "I'm sorry to have upset the ensign; I'm not sure why . . ."

  "Just routine, Chief," Dockery said. "Just a checkup, make sure you aren't coming down with something."

  A team of medics arrived, carrying crash kits. "Commander?"

  "Chief Zuckerman's had a little spell of confusion thi
s morning. Why don't you take him down to sickbay and check him out. He might need a little something to calm him."

  "There's nothing wrong with me," Zuckerman protested. Barin noticed his neck flushing again. "I'm . . . sorry, Admiral!" He stared at Barin and saluted stiffly. Barin felt a coldness settle into his belly; he returned the salute, just to get Zuckerman to relax. "Whatever you say, Admiral," Zuckerman said, though no one had said anything in the surprise of seeing a master chief confuse a grass-green ensign with an admiral.

  "Just a checkup," Barin said, afraid to let his gaze wander to see how Commander Dockery was taking this. Zuckerman was staring at him with an expression halfway between fear and awe. "It'll be fine, Chief," he said, putting what he could of the Serrano voice in it. Zuckerman relaxed again.

  "By your leave, sir."

  "Go along, then," Barin said. The medics led Zuckerman off, with the obvious care of professionals ready to leap to action.

  "Well, Ensign," Commander Dockery said. "You've made a right mess of things, haven't you?"

  Barin knew better than to protest that it wasn't his fault. "I know I did something wrong, Commander, but I'm not sure what I should have done."

  "Come along, and I'll tell you as we go. Down on Troop Deck, wasn't it?" Dockery strode off, leaving Barin to follow. Over his shoulder, he asked, "And just how much of Zuckerman's problem did you know about?"

  "Me, sir? Not much . . . another NCO had said something, but he said it had been checked by another officer and nothing was found."

  "Did you look for anything? Or did you just ignore it?"

  "I looked, sir, but I didn't know what to look for. The times I talked to him, Chief Zuckerman seemed fine to me. Well, there was once . . . but it didn't seem that important."

  "And you didn't see fit to pass on what this other NCO told you?"

  Barin began to see the shape of his sin looming ahead. "Sir, I wanted to have something definite before bothering you."

  Dockery grunted. "I'm just as unhappy to be bothered with trifles as anyone else, Ensign, but I'm even more unhappy to be bothered with a large problem that someone let get big because he didn't know what to do about it."

  "I should have told you right away, sir."

  "Yes. And if I'd chewed on you for bringing me vague unsubstantiated reports, well—that's what ensigns are for. To provide jaw exercise for grumpy executive officers. If you'd told me, or this other mysterious NCO had told me—and who was that, by the way?"

  "Petty-light Harcourt, sir."

  "I thought Harcourt had better sense. Who'd he tell before?"

  "Uh . . . a Major Surtsey, who was transferred out. He said they'd done a med check, and found nothing."

  "I remember . . . Pete told me about that before he left, but said he hadn't found anything definite. I said I'd keep an eye out . . . thinking my officers would have the good sense to pass on anything they heard . . ."

  "Sorry, sir," Barin said.

  "Well. All you youngsters make mistakes, but mistakes have consequences. In this case, if I'm not mistaken, the ruin of a good man's career."

  They were on Troop Deck now, and Dockery led the way to the right passage and compartment as if he never needed to stop and think. Barin supposed he didn't.

  The security team had cordoned off the passage, and as Dockery arrived so did a forensics team.

  "Commander . . . all right to go on and start collecting evidence?"

  "If it's been scanned. Come on, Ensign, I want to show you how to do this."

  If Barin had not been so aware of his failings, it would have been a fascinating hour. But it was followed quickly by a less pleasant time in Dockery's office.

  "Remember—the chewing out you get for bothering me with a nonproblem problem will never be as big as the one you get for not bothering me with a real problem."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Unless Zuckerman turns out to have an unsuspected medical problem—and anything big enough to excuse this would probably get him a medical out—he's in big trouble."

  Something tickled a corner of Barin's mind. Medical problem? He cleared his throat. "Sir—?"

  "Yes?"

  "I—something I just remembered, sir, about another senior NCO back at Copper Mountain."

  "Relevant to this?"

  "It might be, sir. But it's not something I observed myself, it's just that when you said medical problem . . ."

  "Go on, Ensign."

  Barin related the story of the master chief whose crew was covering up for some strange memory lapses as succinctly as possible. "And, sir, back on Koskiusko, I remember being told that the master chief in inventory had had a breakdown after the battle . . . everyone was surprised, because he'd been in combat before, and he wasn't directly involved anyway."

  "And . . . you're wondering what affected three master chiefs? Do you have any idea how many master chiefs there are in the whole Regular Space Service?"

  "No, sir," Barin said miserably. So this one had been a stupid idea, too.

  "Of course, by the time they're master chiefs, most of the problem cases have been eliminated," Dockery said. "But it is odd. I'll tell the medics and see if anyone has any ideas."

  But his sins had earned him yet another chewing out, this time at the captain's hands.

  "Ensign, Commander Dockery has had his chance at your backside—now it's my turn. But first, let's see if you understand what you did wrong—or rather, didn't do right."

  "Yes, sir. I knew about a problem, and did not keep Commander Dockery or you advised."

  "Because—?"

  "Because I thought I should gather more data, keep a record of incidents, before bother—before telling anyone else."

  "I see. Serrano, there are several possible motives for that action, and I want a straight answer out of you. Were you trying to protect Chief Zuckerman's reputation, or get yourself a bit of glory by bringing me a nice juicy bone?"

  Barin hesitated before replying. "Sir, I think . . . I was confused at first. I was surprised when the other NCO told me about Zuckerman; my first thought was that he had something personal against Zuckerman. But when he said he'd reported it before and that a major had taken it seriously . . . I thought it might be a real problem. Except that medical hadn't found anything. I didn't know why the NCO had confided in me, in particular—it made me uncomfortable. So I thought I'd keep an eye out, and document anything I noticed—"

  "And did you notice anything?"

  "Not anything I could put a finger on, sir. There was less respect for Chief Zuckerman than I would expect to find among enlisted, but not enough to be insubordination. I noticed that he was not intervening in some situations where I'd have expected his influence. But he'd made only two actual errors that I'd documented—and even master chiefs are human. I didn't want to go around asking questions—he deserved better than that—"

  "Wait there. You are telling me you made the judgement—that you felt qualified to make the judgement—that Zuckerman 'deserved better' than your asking questions about him? Zuckerman liked you, that much is clear. Were you swayed by his favoritism to your family, or were you just out of your depth completely?"

  "Sir, I know now that I was out of my depth, but I didn't recognize that at the time."

  "I see. And you thought you'd keep a quiet eye on him, document any problems, and bring your report to—exactly whom did you expect to bring this report to, assuming you came up with something?"

  Under that cool gray gaze, Barin's mind kept trying to blank out. But a lifetime's experience gave him the right answer even in his panic. "To Chief Zuckerman's commander in the chain, sir. Which would be Lieutenant Commander Orstein."

  "That much is correct. And what did you expect to happen when you presented such a report?"

  "Sir, I thought Commander Orstein would review it, perhaps make his own investigation, and then take whatever action he felt necessary."

  "And it would be out of your hands?"

  "Yes, sir."

&n
bsp; "And what did you think Orstein would do with you, the pup who dragged in this unsavory prize?"

  "I . . . hadn't thought about that, sir."

  "I find that hard to believe."

  "Sir, no one could be happy to find a master chief losing his . . . losing effectiveness, sir. Master chiefs are . . . special." That wasn't the right word, but it was the only one he could think of.

  "Yes, they are. So, if I read between the lines correctly, you figured Lieutenant Commander Orstein would chew you out and then—maybe—undertake his own investigation."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tell me, Serrano, if you had found additional problems, are you certain you'd have risked that chewing out to report on Zuckerman?"

  "Yes, sir!" Barin couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

  "Well, that's something. Let me reiterate what I'm sure Dockery told you: it is annoying for a junior to show no initiative and bother a senior with minor problems, but it is dangerous and—in the long run—disloyal for a junior to conceal a serious problem from a senior. If you had reported this sooner, Chief Zuckerman's problems—whatever they are—could have been dealt with properly, in the chain of command, and I would not have been caught flat-footed and embarrassed. I presume you understand this, and I presume you won't do it again. If you do, the trouble you're in now will be as a spark compared to a nuclear explosion. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then get out of here and do better."

  Chapter Ten

  R.S.S. Gyrfalcon

  Lieutenant Casea Ferradi knew she looked like a recruiting poster. She intended to. Every hair on her head lay exactly where it should, and under perfectly arched brows her violet eyes sparkled with intelligence. Her features—strong cheekbones and clean-cut jawline, short straight nose and firm but generous lips—fit anyone's image of professional beauty.

  It had been worth the risk of early biosculpt. All she had ever wanted was to be a Fleet officer—no, to be honest, a Fleet commander. She had first imagined herself in command of a starship when only a child, her parents had told her. Casea Ferradi was born to be a hero, born to prove that a Crescent Worlds woman could do anything.