R.S.S. Gyrfalcon
Barin Serrano checked his appearance in the mirror yet again. Like all his class who had not actually disgraced themselves, he had his promotion to jig, and in an hour the ensigns were to appear for the promotion ceremony in the captain’s office. His parents, in accordance with tradition, had sent him their old insignia-a pair from each-and a credit chip for his contribution to the celebration in the junior officers’ mess. That was handy, given that his pay was now zeroed out. They’d said nothing about that, in their accompanying note. He wondered if it had been written before they found out. He wondered if they simply couldn’t think of anything to say.
Luckily, these lower-level promotions didn’t require dress uniforms, and he had a natural knack for looking trim. His mind strayed, as it often did, to Esmay Suiza, whose fluffy brown hair sometimes appalled her as much as it delighted him. She would never understand, he was sure, how those stray wisps made him feel.
He hadn’t heard from Esmay in weeks, but they’d both been shipbound. They’d expected it. He hadn’t expected to be quite so susceptible to everything that reminded him of her, but he assumed that would pass.
“C’mon, Barin!” came a call from the hatch of the ensigns’ bay. With a last glance (no, hairs had not suddenly sprouted from his ears) he turned and followed the rest to the ceremony.
The ceremony itself was brief, but the aftermath wasn’t. Each newly promoted jig had, by tradition, donated a dozen drink chits into the pool, and the first twelve enlisted personnel who recognized the new rank each got one. Barin, one of the last in alphabetical order on this ship, found that he was being ambushed at every crossing until his last chit was gone.
Four hours later, the first of the new ensign assignees came aboard, a ship-to-ship transfer from the Cape Hay which had ferried them from Sector HQ. Two were already partway through their progress from newly commissioned to jig, but three were this year’s graduates, so wet they squeaked. Barin, still most junior in ship duty of the jigs, found himself assigned to escort them to the junior wardroom. He’d known the more senior ones at the Academy; Cordas Stettin was, in fact, a kind of cousin through his mother’s family, and Indi Khas had been in his cadet unit. They looked incredibly young; he couldn’t believe he had ever been that green. He kept almost looking behind himself when one of them called him sir.
The Gyrfalcon was on what would have been a routine patrol, if it weren’t for the persistent fear that the New Texas colonies were up to something. Normally, Sector Seven was quiet; the transit points into it from Benignity space made invasion from their main enemy unlikely. Now, however, they were expecting trouble. Within the ship itself, all routines were performed under the restrictions of Level 2 alert. A few days of this, Barin thought, and people would start slacking off: not quite dogging down the blast barriers, not remembering to close off the shower-room drains after use, forgetting one or more of the niggling little details that might-if they came under surprise attack-save lives, or waste them.
Junior officers and senior NCOs were the only defense against this natural relaxation of precautions, and they had lost eight senior NCOs to the medical restrictions on rejuv recipients. Barin took his turn at inspection with a keen understanding of its importance. He had, after all, lost an uncle to someone’s failure to dog a blast barrier, and had grown up with the story.
But Cape Hay had brought new orders, and Captain Escovar called Barin in to discuss them.
“You remember that professor who’s been staying with your wives-er, dependents?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we’re going to stop by to pick her up, and take her with us to Sector One HQ, where we’re to meet a diplomat of some sort from the Lone Star Confederation and transport her back to Castle Rock. And it might be a good idea for you to try to convince those women to do something other than sit there eating up Fleet resources. They may not listen, but they’ve been telling Professor Meyerson they can’t do anything without your permission. Oh, and you have mail.”
Barin read the message cube as soon as he had a free moment, which was hours later. His parents had recorded it, but the full weight of the Serrano dynasty lay behind it.
He was young to marry anyway, and with Fleet having already assigned him responsibility for the maximum number of dependents, how could he even think of marrying? Of course they were sure that Lieutenant Suiza would understand, and if she truly cared for him, she would see to it that she made things easier, not harder, for him. There need be no unseemly haste, assuming-
Barin argued with the message cube in resentful silence. How could he think of marrying? How could he not? Unseemly haste? They had known each other for years now; they had been through a Bloodhorde attack, the machinations of envious troublemakers, a very tricky hostage extrication, and he was not-NOT-going to be told he was too young, too inexperienced, too anything else to get married. He was a jig, not some wet-ears ensign fresh out of the Academy.
He loved her. She loved him. It was so simple, if only other people would leave them alone. Perhaps she could get leave and they could meet somewhere . . . privately . . . he toyed briefly with the idea of running away and getting married secretly, in spite of his family. That wouldn’t be fair to Esmay, though. The Landbride Suiza would expect-would require-more than a hasty ceremony before some local magistrate. Still, with the ship detached for diplomatic duty, maybe-just maybe-they could manage to meet.
Chapter Six
R.S.S. Shrike
“Mail drop, Lieutenant.” Chief Conway handed Esmay the hardcopy list. Esmay managed not to sigh. All these new security procedures ate time, since every piece of incoming mail at every mail drop required her to check and initial it. Luckily, they could pick up mail only when reasonably near Fleet relays. Still, she could not believe that all these security measures were necessary on a small ship like this. She ran her eye down the list, noting that the chief had flagged three names, a pivot-major and two sergeants minor. They had received more than a sig beyond the mean number of contacts, and from multiple sources.
“No packages,” Esmay murmured, checking the columns.
“No, sir, not for them. There’s one for you, though. And Pivot-major Gunderson is getting married at the end of this tour. The return addresses match his next-of-kin address, his future in-laws’ address, and the medical center on Rockhouse Major.”
“Medical center?” Then it came to her. “Oh-of course.” Gunderson was neuroenhanced, and- “Is his betrothed also a NEM?”
“No . . . civilian softsider. Gunderson’s trying to get a control implant approved.”
That made sense-he wouldn’t want to tear his spouse apart by accident. “Still . . . a civilian marriage?”
“Security’s been all over it,” the chief said, correctly interpreting her scowl of concern. “The family’s not Fleet, but they’ve been subcontractors for two generations.”
Esmay let her gaze drift to the next name.
“Farley’s parents have sicced the whole family on her to get her to leave Fleet and work for their shipping consortium. She says she’s been hassled for years, and just trashes the notes.”
A message cube from Barin. Esmay put it aside for later viewing. It bore the sticker that meant it had passed censors at Sector HQ. He must have told his family by now-his grandmother already knew; this was probably about their response to his telling them about Esmay. She still hadn’t heard back from her own family, though with the long transit times the new security regs imposed, that wasn’t too surprising. She hoped they’d reply promptly. She and Barin would have only a short window of opportunity for their wedding, and while they wanted it to be small and informal, she still wanted it to feel like a wedding, which meant family present.
Her other mail was all official business, addressed to her position on Shrike . . . all but the package, much battered after its passage through one checkpoint after another, with Brun Meager’s name in the sender ID square.
A pac
kage from Brun? Esmay hadn’t heard from her since she left for Castle Rock with her babies. She noticed the rumpled sealtape, where security had tried to open it, as required by the new rules. She laid her hand on the ID plate, wondering momentarily how Brun had acquired her handprint, and the sealtape flicked free. Esmay unfolded the wrapping, aware of security watching her.
The last of the paper folded back to reveal . . . a strip of embroidery so exquisite that Esmay could not repress a gasp of pleasure. As wide as her hand, a long strip-she unfolded it carefully-that was nearly as tall as she was. And every centimeter covered with white-on-white embroidery and lace. She hardly dared touch it with bare hands; she felt she should be wearing white gloves to protect it. She laid it gently across her lap and went back to the box.
Under the folded strip was a square of some sheer white fabric, more like a net, encrusted with tiny seed pearls. And under that, several pages of drawings, sketches of a gown-a wedding gown, Esmay realized, with long sleeves and a high collar. It was more severe than she would have expected Brun to choose; it had almost the suggestion of a uniform about the shoulders.
The data cube in the same package explained. “Barin’s acquisitions need a way to support themselves, Hazel told me, and you need a wedding gown. Handwork of this quality is rare; if they’re working for a good designer, they’ll be paid well for it. So I took the liberty of talking to some designers. I assume you don’t want to pay a year’s salary on it. For the Fleet hero who rescued me, and an introduction to the craftswomen doing work of this quality, Goran Hiel is willing to design your gown. He’s not considered as good as Marice Limited, but I liked the slight military flair.”
It was not the first time Brun had tried to plan their life for them. This was . . . the fourth, Esmay thought, trying not to resent it. Brun had grown up expecting things to go her way; money and beauty and luck had failed her only once. No wonder she wanted to go back to running the world-or at least her friends’ lives. She was only reverting to normal; she didn’t mean to flaunt her power. Probably.
Esmay looked at the drawings and embroidery again. For a moment, Esmay imagined herself in that gown, made of such gorgeous stuff. She would look . . . no, she must not think about that, not now. It was far too grand a gown for her, for a plain lieutenant in Fleet who wanted a quiet family wedding.
But for the Landbride Suiza?
It was not too grand for the Landbride Suiza, but she was not marrying Barin as Landbride . . . she paused in folding the strip of embroidery to replace it in the box. Was she not, indeed?
A cascade of difficulties unfolded in her mind, beginning with her position as Landbride Suiza. What if someone thought her marrying Barin had anything to do with that? With the historical position of Suiza of Altiplano and the Regular Space Service, or Altiplano’s ambiguous position within the Familias Regnant?
What if her family thought that? What if-she did not like even thinking about this, about the land link that was supposed to have been formed with the Landbride ceremony-what if the land itself, Land Suiza, thought her marriage to Barin Serrano meant something beyond love?
And she hadn’t yet made formal application for a status change. Quickly, without stopping to think about any of it, she called up the relevent forms.
Officer Application For Life Partner Ceremony: Procedures and Requirements.
Although she had known about the official forms in an intellectual way, having them actually loaded onto her deskcomp felt very . . . serious. First came a long, depressing series of warnings, restrictions, and discouraging statistics: she had to initial each paragraph as having been read. Formal life partnerships (also known as marriages, the text informed her prosily) failed even among individuals of longstanding Fleet background. The report cited all the possible reasons, including some Esmay hadn’t thought of (Were there really people who were confused about their gender as adults? And how many people converted to a religion requiring celibacy after marrying someone?).
She read on, doggedly initialling one paragraph after another, until she came to the section warning officers against entanglements with persons of planetary importance. And right there, in a list that included governor-general of this, and assistant general secretary of that, and commander of the other, she found “Altiplano: Sector Commanders, immediate families of, and Landbride/Landgroom.”
Landgroom? There wasn’t any such title on Altiplano. The whole point of the Landbride was . . . her mind caught up with the warning and she glanced back at the heading. “Officers are specifically warned to avoid political entanglements, including liaisons either casual and permanent with the following classes of persons.”
She could hardly avoid a liaison with herself, but-what would this mean to Barin? She was a commissioned officer of the Regular Space Service. Surely they couldn’t hold her Landbride status against her . . . not her . . .
But if they did . . . she hadn’t been a Landbride when she and Barin met and fell in love. She had been just another ensign . . . just another ensign who had survived a mutiny and saved a planet . . . but basically, a Fleet officer. She hadn’t done anything wrong in falling for Barin, or he for her. What difference did it make that she was also the Landbride Suiza?
Come to think of it, had she ever officially informed Fleet that she was the Landbride? Lady Katerina Saenz knew, but she had been concentrating so on helping get Brun free-that was far more important-and she wasn’t at all sure she’d turned in the form. Esmay called up her personnel stats. Planet of origin, family of origin, religion, local awards and decorations . . . the Starmount, she had put that in. But she hadn’t mentioned Landbride.
Feeling guilty already, she hunted through the Personnel Procedures database for the right form, and didn’t find one. Well . . . not that many officers became Landbride. In fact, she was the only one. But this meant discussing the lapse with Captain Solis; he would not want to be surprised by it later.
* * *
“Captain, could I speak to you?”
“Certainly.” He looked up from his work, much less menacing than she had once thought him.
“It’s about these forms for a change of status,” Esmay began. “The warnings to personnel-”
His brows rose. “I don’t imagine you’re in any trouble-you and the young man are both Fleet officers. Unless you still think you’re robbing cradles.”
“No, sir. But the section on planetary entanglements-”
“I know your father’s a prominent person, but you’re a Fleet officer-”
“And a Landbride.”
“Landbride? What is that?”
“A proscribed position, it says here.” Esmay handed over the printout she’d made. “I don’t know if it applies-I am a Fleet officer, and when we met I wasn’t Landbride Suiza-”
“Umph. Landbride must be something extraordinary. What does a Landbride do, Lieutenant?”
That was not something she could explain, when she didn’t half understand it herself. “It’s-the Landbride represents the family’s bond to the land-to the soil itself-in the family holdings. She’s a symbol of the family’s commitment to the land. It’s . . . sort of religious.”
“I didn’t even know you were a Landbride,” he said.
“It happened during my leave home, after my great-grandmother died,” Esmay said. “When I came back, we were so busy with the rescue mission, I guess I forgot to put it in . . . I didn’t think about its being important.”
“Yes . . . we were all somewhat preoccupied right then. But you need to report it now. Personnel will definitely want to know, and they may have some concerns about your duties. How much time you’ll need to be away from Fleet, and so on.”
“I won’t,” Esmay said. “That’s what my father said-”
“But religion . . .” He looked thoughtful. “Religious positions usually require some actual commitment of time and effort, Lieutenant. If you aren’t there-”
Esmay thought suddenly of the spring and fall Eveners, w
hen her great-grandmother had ridden out to do something-she didn’t know what-in the fields. No one had mentioned that to her, but-
“It all happened so fast,” she said. “And then I came back . . .” She hated the sudden pleading tone in her voice; and stopped short.
“You need to get it straightened out, whatever it is, before you marry young Serrano,” he said. “Not just because of regulations, but because you both need to know what you’re getting into. And I see here you’re in double jeopardy, with your father being a sector commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Esmay said. “But they knew that when I went into the prep school.”
“But you weren’t then about to marry one of the oldest families in Fleet,” he said. His tone held no rancor, but the very matter-of-factness of it set a barrier of steel between her and what she hoped for.
Esmay nodded, and withdrew. Master Chief Cattaro, after rummaging in the Admin database for the correct form, gnawed the corner of her lip. “There’s a procedure, Lieutenant . . . there’s always a procedure. Let me just check . . .” Another dive into the database. “Ah. What I think will work is a 7653, an Application for Exception, Unspecified, and a 78B-4, an Incident Report, Personnel Infraction, Unspecified, and then you’ll need a 9245 . . . no, actually, two of them. One to accompany each of the others.” Chief Cattaro grinned, looking happier with each additional form. “And it might be just as well to file your 8813-your application for permission for permanent bond-linked to the code tag for your pre-commissioning records, because that will have your prep-school classifications, and of course you’ll need . . .”
“Chief, I’m not going to have time to do all that at once.”
“Best get started then,” Cattaro said. She had the quiet twinkle of the senior NCO who has just been able to dump a load of work on a junior officer. “I’ll just pipe it to your desk, shall I? Or would you rather work it in here?”
Change of Command - Heris Serrano 06 Page 10
