Rules of Engagement

by Elizabeth Moon

  “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 this 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 rig
ht.”

  “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.”

  “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.

  Being a girl on the Crescent Worlds had been the first handicap, and the second had been her face and body-typical of her colony, but not like anything she’d seen in a Fleet uniform on the newsfeed vid. Delicate features, narrowing to a pointed chin, sloping wine-bottle shoulders, and generous hips-all prized in her culture-did not fit her dream.

  Her parents had been shocked when she told them what she wanted-but at ten, even girls could speak to the sept as a whole, not just parents, about impor­tant decisions like marriage nego­tiations. She had taken her argument to the Aunts’ Gossip, where her desire to go offworld was quickly approved-she was too intelligent by far to fare well in the local marriage market. Biosculpting, though-it wasn’t until her father’s mother approved that she knew she had a chance.

  “They will not know she is from here, if she looks so different, so her unwomanly behavior will not disgrace us.”

  Three years of surgery-of the pain that strength­ening her redesigned body caused her-and then she took the Fleet entrance exams, passed them, and left home forever.

  Once at the Academy, Casea discovered that her new shape was not considered sexless and unfeminine by her peers. Her honey-blonde hair, falling sleekly to a razor-cut angle, was unique in her class. She had all the interest she could handle, and discovered that the behaviors she’d observed in her older sisters and cousins had quite an effect on the young men in her class.

  Protected by the standard implant provided all Academy ­cadets, she moved from interest to experimentation, and from experi­mentation to enthusiastic activity. Lectures on the ethics of personal relationships rolled off her confidence without making any impact. If Fleet had been serious about it, she reasoned, the young men of renowned Fleet families wouldn’t have been so eager to take her to bed, and the young women would not have received implants. And after all, the young men and women of the Chairholding Families made no secret of their sexual activity-Casea watched enough news­flash shorts to know that.

  She was angered, rather than alarmed, to discover that some of her classmates were making snide remarks about her behavior.

  “Casea-if it’s alive, she’ll take it to bed,” one of the women drawled in the shower room one mor­ning. That wasn’t fair; she had no interest in the ugly or dull.

  “She’ll get herself in trouble someday,” another one said, sounding worried.

  “No-not the way she’s going. Which of those guys is going to accuse her of seducing him?”

  Others simply radiated quiet disapproval. Esmay Suiza, whom she had expected to be a natural ally-they were each the only cadet from their original worlds-turned out to be either a sanctimonious prig or a sexless lump. Casea wasn’t sure which, but didn’t care. After the first year, she gave up on Esmay: she hadn’t the right qualities to be the plain friend of a popular beauty, and Casea could not tolerate the chilly, stiff earnestness of the girl.

  But after graduation, she slowed down-sex itself was no longer as exciting-and began to consider her targets with more care. Her cultural background had taught her to look for more from a liaison than physical pleasure alone. Carefully, with an eye out for trouble, she
explored the limits of Fleet’s policy on what was delicately termed “personal relation­ships.”

  In her first assignment, she discovered that if she stayed away from men already considered “taken” by other women, she could hunt at will without arousing comment. So that had been it! She felt a happy glow of contempt for the idiot girls who hadn’t simply told her which boys they fancied themselves. Testing this understanding, she turned her violet eyes on a lonely jig, who was quite happy to console himself with a lovely ensign.

  But he wasn’t enough. She wanted someone in command track. All the command track jigs aboard were paired already-she wrinkled her nose at the two who were wasted on each other, as she thought-and she was not attracted to the single male lieutenant. A major? Could she? She did not doubt her ability to get his interest, but-regulations were supposed to prevent him from dallying with junior officers in his chain of command.

  Regulations, as everyone knew, could be bent into pretzels by those with the wit to do so. Still it might be better to look elsewhere . . . which led her to a major in another branch of technical track. It never hurt to have a friend in communications. On her next assignment, he was followed by a lieutenant in command track, and then-with some difficulty in detaching from the lieutenant-by another ­major. She learned something from each about the extent of her talent, and what advantages could come from such close associations.

  Now, though, she was through with casual liai­sons. She had found the right man. Against all expectations-she was sure that her grandmothers and aunts would be amazed-she had found a respectable, intel­ligent, charming young man whom even her father would consider eligible. That he was an ensign, and she a lieutenant, two ranks higher, meant nothing to her. He was mature for his age, and best of all . . . he was a Serrano. Family is everything, she had heard all her life. The one-eyed son of a chief is better than a robber’s by-blow. And better family than Serrano-grandson of an admiral, with other admirals in the family tree-she could not hope to find.

  The only snag was that rumor said he was, or had been, interested in Esmay Suiza. Casea discounted that. Esmay had been a nonentity, even aside from being a prig. Not pretty, with a ­hap­haz­ard set of features topped with fluffy, flyaway hair of nondescript brown. The boy had hero worship, that’s all it was. Suiza had turned out to be a hero of sorts, but nothing could make her beautiful or charming. And now, if rumor were true, she was in trouble for being untactful-Casea could believe that, no question. If she ever had a lover, which didn’t seem likely, it would be someone as unspectacular as herself, another non­entity, probably just as tactless and doomed to as inglor­ious a career.