by L D Inman
“I polished it and wound it up for you,” Speir said. “They both work.”
He opened each side to reveal the watch and the compass. “My mother gave it to my father,” she said, “which is why it has his initials on the inside. Then a few years ago he gave it to me. I’d like you to have it. It’s not army-practical,” she added, diffidently, “but it’s sturdy. You’ll always know where north is.”
The open compass seemed to weigh Douglas’s palm down to his lap. He dropped his head mutely, overcome.
Her eyes prickling, Speir bent to grasp his shoulder. She gave him a few gentle shakes, steadying him until he could breathe again; he put his free hand up to cover hers. Finally he looked up, his eyes bright; she released him and straightened up.
“You are so kind to me,” he said softly. “And I don’t have anything to give you that’s nearly this nice. I’m sorry, Speir.”
Speir took a deep breath. “You…might have something to give me, at that. Though, not right now. Or soon. You know, if all goes well I’ll be wanting to start my family, in time. It occurred to me…well, it occurred to me that in a few years, if we are both in a good position, you could give me a child for my name.” The traditional phrase felt strangely wooden, blocky and adult in her mouth. “I’d rather have a child from my friend than anyone,” she added, more easily.
Douglas sat wide-eyed, too stunned even for tears. “Speir,” he managed finally, “that’s not a gift for you. That’s an honor for me.”
“On the contrary,” she replied; “how else am I going to get your mother for a cousin?”
Her assay at brisk humor brought him to a smile, and she smiled back relieved.
“There isn’t any hurry about it,” she said, “at all. But in a few years, may be…we could look one another up and see how it stands.”
She watched his face, concealing anxiety, hoping he would understand that she was offering him the possibility of connection without any coercion. “I would welcome that,” he said, and his sincerity made her eyes smart again briefly, this time in relief.
“Till then, wisdom keep you,” she said. He made an abortive motion, as if to reach for her: understanding what he wanted, she bent close and received his kiss on the corners of her lips, then saluted him in kind. When she straightened again they smiled at one another sadly. “Good night,” Speir said, turning to go. At the door she paused briefly. Glanced back as if to take a memory-snap of him, bright-eyed in his chair with her compass open in his hand. “And good luck.”
“All of the same to you,” Douglas said.
9
“So are you coming to sparring court tomorrow?” Cameron asked.
“Yes, but I’ll be late,” said Speir. “I’m helping Oisel update the scorebooks after the first-years’ exam tomorrow.”
They were sitting side by side on one of the benches in the training room, Speir rubbing a towel over the damp tendrils of hair on her neck and Cameron pulling on her training slippers in preparation for her workout. Speir had finished her weight-training sequence when Cameron came in, and she had been glad to sit down with her before going on. In Douglas’s absence, Speir and Cameron had spent more time together, planning working groups and activities: Cameron was not the quiet study partner Douglas was, but her conversation was stimulating, and Speir welcomed it despite a lingering suspicion that Cameron was acting on an urge to spread a wing over her.
“How’s that going?” Cameron asked her now.
Speir shrugged. “All right. Oisel knows what he’s doing with the meteorology curriculum. I’ve been supplementing his class lectures on the cartography curriculum with some material from the Naval Archives that Marag pulled for me.”
Cameron gave a sigh that was almost a snort. “That sounds a lot like what Ahrens is doing with the weapons systems curriculum.”
“Yes,” Speir said. “We’re lucky to have him. I hear he’s really come into his own, teaching his subject.”
“He does himself too little credit,” said Cameron, and then shot her an unreadable look.
Speir teased her gently: “And he hasn’t forgotten to file his reports!”
“Not for months now.” Cameron smiled, but she was not diverted. “So who said that about Ahrens to you, then?”
Her glance was shrewd. “Barklay did,” Speir admitted.
It was late evening, and they were alone in the training room. Cameron braced a hand on her knee and gave Speir a long, measuring look, which Speir returned equably enough.
“I’m not going to meddle in your business, Speir,” Cameron said finally. “I just want you to know: any time you want me to back your play, I’ll do it.”
“I appreciate that, Cameron,” Speir said, sincerely. “But there really isn’t any need for worry.”
“I believe you. It’s just—am I mistaken that you don’t have a lot of family?”
She didn’t. Speir wasn’t close to her father’s cousins, her mother’s mother had passed a few years ago, and her father hadn’t belonged to a co-op long enough for her to develop strong ties with her age-mates. And as for her father himself—Speir had forced herself to read the latest report from the Med House, which had detailed his condition in such a way that strongly suggested she visit soon if she wanted to see him before the end.
Speir wanted to see her father before the end. She wanted it very much. But she had not been able to break free of the paralysis of anguish that held her, from the memory of his cold eyes empty of recognition. He was already gone from her; she had already lost him; and not even the racking urge to be kind to what was left of him was enough to goad her to ask Barklay for the leave to go to the capital for her last visit.
“No,” Speir said, with a tight, sad smile. “I don’t have much in the way of family.”
Cameron screwed up her lips and studied Speir’s face. Then she said: “I’m making sure my mother knows about you. You’ll have family if you need it. You probably won’t need it. But I don’t want there to be any doubt.”
For a moment Speir’s eyes smarted. Then she gave herself a mental shake and recovered herself. “I am much obliged to you. Dear friend.”
“The obligation is mine,” Cameron said comfortably. She clapped Speir gently on the shoulder as she rose.
~*~
Speir’s plans to study quietly in her quarters after her shower were disarranged by a message that Barklay wanted to see her, at her convenience, even if late. So instead of dressing for bed, Speir got her shower and put her wet hair up, climbed back into her uniform, and went down to Barklay’s office.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” Barklay smiled at her. “I see you got my message.” At his gesture she closed the door and came to stand before his desk.
“Yes, sir. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” Barklay said. “I talked with Stevens after dinner, and he is willing to take up a commission on Rysywck’s teaching staff, starting next week. Now, I know we promoted Lieutenant Orla out of B Rota to serve as captain of A Rota, so I’m hesitant to raid your rota again to fill Stevens’s place. So I thought I’d ask you—are there any in your section that look likely for promotion to the junior cadre? We need some new blood.”
Speir gave him a long look. “This is what you called me to a late-night conference for, sir?”
“Well,” he said, “you’ll be on duty in the early morning.” He looked the soul of innocence and reason, and Speir was not fooled in the least. But she answered him.
“I’ve been thinking Cadet Rose is long past due for a promotion, sir. And I’d be glad to have him on my rota, if you’re looking to fill gaps there.”
Barklay stirred two papers on his desk. “Oh, good, he’s on my list. Anyone else?”
Speir gave him a few more names as possibilities. Barklay duly marked them down, and then looked up with a sigh. “It won’t be long,” he said, “before I’m having to look for a successor for you.”
“I’m not in a hurry, sir,” Speir said.
Not like Douglas. The words were unspoken between them but she could see them plainly in Barklay’s eyes. Speir missed Douglas—sorely, at times—but not as Barklay did. But the bewildered, lonely, guilty look in his eyes Speir understood all too well, for other reasons.
“Speir,” Barklay said abruptly, “if I were trespassing, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
She met his eye calmly. “If I told you you were trespassing,” she answered, “would you stop doing it?”
He straightened. “Of course I would.”
“Are you sure?” Speir said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be hurt that I didn’t make room for you instead?”
“I—wouldn’t—” He stopped. “Is that what I’m doing?”
She glanced back deliberately at the closed door. “Not yet.”
“Speir,” Barklay said, “it is the furthest thing from my desire to do you harm.”
“I know that, sir.”
“Then…you will tell me. Won’t you?”
He was still hoping he would never have to hear it, she knew. “Will you tell me what it is you need from me, Barklay?” she said, gently.
The briefest stricken flinch passed across Barklay’s face. He looked away for a moment; then looked back. “You know what I am,” he said, his voice low.
“Sir….”
Barklay let his hands fall open on his desk. “I need a tether. I need someone stable close to me.”
“Is that what Douglas was to you?”
Barklay looked away again. “Ah, Douglas,” he murmured, half to himself. “My rock in a stormy sea.”
“I’m not Douglas, sir.”
He looked back at her, and a smile lightened the ache in his eyes. “I know well enough who you are, Speir. You’re the only person I don’t have to hide from.”
“Does that mean you’ll actually listen to my advice, sir?” she said dryly.
Barklay’s lips twitched, tamping out a smile. He liked being scolded, Speir had discovered: liked it just excessively enough that she had learned quickly to keep her responses to him poised, so that he wouldn’t drag her off balance. Even with poise, she thought now, he might manage it.
“It would be foolish,” Barklay said, “to consult you specifically for advice and then disregard it.”
“So then,” Speir said, and folded her arms.
He said: “Just what are you advising me, at this point, Speir?”
“If I’m going to be your tether,” Speir said, “you should use your free hands to do the right thing.”
“And what is the right thing?”
“You tell me, sir,” Speir said.
He smiled suddenly: like a flash of sunlight on sea. “Spar with me, then.”
Was that not what they were doing? “You wield a good foil, don’t you?” Barklay added, deliberately provoking.
“You want a literal private sparring appointment?” Speir asked him, just to be sure.
“Can you think of a better way of managing distance?” Barklay said.
Speir thought about it. It would be a tactical improvement over staying shut up in Barklay’s office wearing a groove in his needs. And if guiding him wasn’t going to work, engaging him would at least keep his attention. She was suddenly reminded of how her father and mother would interact during one of his bad spells—as a child Speir had called it their “battle dance,” and had only been sorry that she wasn’t big enough to carry the role after her mother was gone. They’d had to figure something else out, Speir and her father; some other way of coping with the damages of war. Some ways worked better than others, she knew, but none of them would even begin to work unless the principals trusted one another implicitly.
“Do you trust me?” Speir said.
Barklay blinked. “Shouldn’t the question be the other way around?”
“No,” said Speir.
They met eyes for a long moment. “All right,” Barklay said finally. “Shall we meet in the third training room an hour before first watch?”
~*~
It would be good to get a foil in her hand again, Speir thought; not to mention crossing swords with someone master-trained. In the darkness of her quarters she lay awake with memory treading her sleepy consciousness. The touch of her mother’s hand, larger fingers shaped like her own, forming hers around the grip of a foil. Her mother’s face was hazy now, but she could remember that touch, as she could remember her voice, firmness concealing strain as she coped with Speir’s father’s spells of illness. At the time Speir had set up a project in her room, a complicated channelworks made from miniature assembly sets. When parts of it crashed and fell, she rebuilt them patiently, improving the design as she went. It was much the same thing. Even in strain her mother had not been afraid…or, Speir thought now, she had never sounded afraid; and so Speir had not been afraid either.
When her mother died in action, Speir and her father had done their best to go on as always, schoolwork and HQ routine. Only now it was she who made the cup of tea when her father broke down shaking at the table, she who petted him and talked to him till his breathing leveled out. She couldn’t argue with him as her mother had done, and even at her firmest, her nine-year-old physical presence wasn’t large enough to make him do things. Little by little she improved on the design of her voice, talking him into going to bed at a nourishing hour, reading to him under the light-box, carefully carving her channels so that his dignity would not be eroded. And in return, Jamis Leam had used his times of good health to take interest in her studies, to be her companion to extracurricular activities, to attend to the upkeep of their household so that she wouldn’t have to manage heavy tasks when he was ill. They looked after one another, and it was a stable symbiosis.
One thing she had not attempted to talk him into was seeking medical counsel in the veterans’ wing; her mother had never succeeded in doing that, and Speir had a terrifying notion that inviting outside forces would destroy the little channelworks they had built; that they would make her father join an unsympathetic co-op, or worse, take her father away from her altogether.
But in the end she’d had to risk it.
One terrible night, the cup of tea she brought him wound up flung against the wall, shattered, with the liquid running down in chaotic rivulets. He’d proceeded to rampage blindly about the flat, Speir following him desperately hoping for an opening to talk him back into himself. Instead, she was forced to put herself between him and the doorway to the kitchen, where the knives were. He was taking a long time to come back to himself. He was taking too long. When his soul finally flickered back to life in his eyes, she was pressed back against the wall with his large hands wrapped around her throat, silent and petrified. Petrified for him: for what would become of him when he discovered that he’d hurt her when he was away from himself.
Then he was checking her frantically over for injury; finding none he collapsed in violent trembling, weeping into her front. She soothed him; talked him to his feet and into his room, where she pulled off his sweater and tucked him into his bed in trousers and singlet; brought him a fresh cup of tea and urged him out of his tight fetal position on the bed to drink it; covered him up again and lowered the lights. She cleaned up the broken teacup, hid all the knives and weapons in the house in her bureau, put the flat to bed for the night, and went to curl up on her own bed. Hours later she woke to find him sitting silently at her side in the cold morning light: he agreed with her somberly that there was no other course but to ask for veterans’ medical counsel. He would do it today.
She believed him: and even as she believed him, she slipped out of the Naval Academy at lunch hour, then darted down the street to HQ and followed the signs to the veterans’ medical administration offices. It had been empty but for one overburdened captain who oversaw case assignments. “I need medical counsel,” she’d said to his quizzical look. Very kindly, he’d plied her with tea and biscuits and eased the story out of her. She remembered trying to extract a promise from him that she and her father would no
t be separated; he did not give her a satisfying assurance but his manner still calmed her, and she had willingly led him down to her father’s office for a conference.
Worried and startled at seeing her unexpectedly out of school, her father had taken them into his office and closed the door, where Captain Deeley explained who he was and what he was doing there. Her father had looked at her with sad, tired eyes. “You didn’t think I would go,” he said.
Only then had Speir broken down, clapping her hands like shutters to her face to keep back a betraying wail. Then her father’s arms, his whole body, were wrapped in shelter around her, drawing her out of her chair to where he knelt before her, and she heard/felt him over her head, begging the captain to help them.
Things were never that bad again; there were conversations and appointments and, for her father, regular medical visits with someone who had enough security clearance to treat him. But she and her father had had to join a childcare co-op, for Speir’s sake, they said. It was not the unsympathetic cadre of her nightmares, but Speir was pressed among age-mates who had already formed their attachments, and they did not bond with her, or she with them. But it was better than being separated from her own blood kin, so Speir did not complain.
Now that she was older, the memories of that time had dropped into a more level proportion. She could see the isolation she and her father had suffered, and knew that that isolation was more insidious and deadly than any accompanying suffering.
But despite all she could tell herself, her grief was still that she was not big enough to absorb it all on her own.
I don’t want you to be alone, Barklay had said.
Barklay, she thought, closing her eyes, I don’t want you to be alone either.
~*~
