"That's fine, sera . . . milady?"
"Thank you," Brun said, without clarifying her status. "Are you sure it's all right? We don't want to get you in any trouble."
"No, sera, that's quite all right. It's an honor to be of service. If your friends don't mind, I'd like to put their names on the roster . . . will they need independent access? If so, we should get them some tags made up."
"Certainly," Brun said. "This is General Suiza, from Altiplano—his daughter Esmay Suiza—you may remember that she saved my life—"
The guard's gaze rested briefly on Esmay, then slid quickly back to Brun. "Yes—of course—the hero of Xavier."
"And the Docent of Altiplano, Ser Faiza."
"Docent?"
"Diplomatic status," Brun said, as if she'd always known it.
"Ah . . . yes, thank you, sers and seras. Sera Meager, I know it's an imposition, but if you wouldn't mind—my wife's a big fan—" He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled shopping list. "Would you sign it?"
"Of course," Brun said, and scrawled her name with the stylus he offered.
The man said, clearly as an afterthought, "And you, Sera Suiza? My wife bought a cube of Sera Meager's rescue—"
Esmay fitted in her signature under Brun's—she couldn't think of a gracious way to refuse—and wondered if the 2 p. crts. on the list under her name was crates, carrots, or something illegal.
The guard waved them through double doors into another corridor—a bridge over a street—and at the far end another guard opened the matching doors for them. "Sera Meager? It's an honor—I'm calling ahead so you shouldn't be stopped again, just go down this ramp, turn left, take the first corridor to the right and keep going . . ."
Brun, in what Esmay considered an excess of honesty, said, "But weren't we supposed to go through security?"
"Oh, you don't want to bother with them," the man said. "They're backed up at least three hours processing recruit clearances from that new intake that came in overnight. My wife works in catalog over there; she called to tell me she had to work overtime tonight. You'd be sitting on a bench until dark, most likely, and besides—they're just not very helpful."
Esmay closed her mouth on the comment that security was not supposed to be helpful, but thorough. She had no more desire to sit on a bench for hours than anyone else.
"What you do," the man said, "is just go along here, and then out the door at the end, and straight across the Sif Memorial Garden to the side door of Corvey. Don't go in the front; they'll make you go back through security. Go in that side door; I'm calling Bev, and she'll be expecting you."
"Thank you," Brun said.
The Sif Memorial Garden was only a small courtyard with a plinth in the middle, two straggly trees, four flowerbeds, and two benches. Straight across—with a detour around the plinth—brought them to the side door of the Corvey Building, where a woman let them in.
"Sera Meager! I'm so glad to meet you! And you, of course, Sera Suiza. Although I should know your rank; I just don't remember—"
"Sera's fine," Esmay said. She could see, in the corridor ahead, figures moving about in the familiar uniform.
"I have temporary tags for all of you," the woman said. She pulled out four violently pink tags, with little clips attached. "These are only day passes; I believe your permanent passes will be ready this evening or tomorrow."
* * *
After all this confusion, Esmay was prepared for almost anything, she thought. Except for the discovery that her discharge hadn't yet been transmitted to Headquarters and therefore they couldn't reinstate her.
"Why not?" she asked. "Can't you at least take my application, and the proof that I'm no longer a Landbride, so when it comes in—"
"Well, we could, if it weren't for the mutiny. See, we have to run everything like that past the Judge Advocate General's office, and right now they're having some kind of snitfit because the admiral in charge disappeared, and they think he's part of the mutiny."
"And that means—?"
"It means they won't take anything from us without a complete file. For the complete file, we'd need a copy of the discharge order, with the file number an' everything, and your PR-S-87, your personnel file—"
"Isn't there a copy of that here?"
"Yes, of course. But it may not be complete, because your most recent evaluations may not have been forwarded yet. I can't think why the discharge wasn't, unless it was cancelled—"
"Cancelled?"
"Well—if someone overruled whoever signed it, when they got it, then they might have sat on it until you showed up and they could tell you. Let's see, where were you discharged?"
"Trinidad Station," Esmay said.
"Oh, dear."
"What?"
"You haven't heard? Trinidad was sacked by the mutineers several weeks ago. We can't get any records out of them. Do you have a discharge order?"
"Yes . . ." Esmay took it out and handed it over.
"Umph. Some people can't even sign their names legibly . . . I'll call up your file, and we'll see how out-of-date it is . . ."
Her file was up-to-date only as far as the ill-fated leave to visit Barin and his family. "Nothing here about a discharge," the clerk said. "The emergency orders that sent you from there to your next ship are here, but no more." He paused, looked thoughtful, then said. "If the discharge hasn't gone through, Lieutenant, you may actually be down as AWOL. You'd better go check with Personnel Assignment; I can't access their server from this station. That's in 2345. In the meantime, I'll ask what we'd better do about clearing this discharge up when we don't actually have it. Our CO's in a meeting, but he'll be back in the office any time now."
Trailed by her support group, Esmay headed off for 2345—up a lift and down another long corridor. Once in Personnel Assignment, she gave her name to the clerk and explained briefly that she was trying to straighten out her records. He called up her name, and let out a long whistle.
"You're in trouble, Lieutenant. You overstayed your leave, and we have you listed as a deserter. I'm going to have to call this in to the Judge Advocate General's office; please do not try to leave. Here—you were notified twice—" He turned the screen so she could read it. First there was a message addressed to her on the transport Rosa Gloria, pointing out that she had not reported for duty as ordered at Harrican and warning that she would be considered AWOL if she did not report in within 24 hours and a deserter if she had not reported within seven (7) days. A second message to the same address informed her that she was now considered a deserter and should turn herself in to the nearest Fleet facility or face pursuit and arrest. Both time limits had long since expired.
"Great," Esmay muttered as she read it. "Now I can be prosecuted for desertion after being thrown out on my ear . . ." Then, to the clerk, "I never got those notices; I wasn't on that ship because I'd been discharged."
"Do you have proof of discharge that predates this notice?" the clerk asked, as if he were sure she did not. "We should have had any such discharge in our records, which would have automatically cancelled this notice."
"Good thing we made those certified copies of your discharge certificate," Brun said. "Maybe we should have made more."
Esmay handed over one of the copies, and the clerk compared the dates and consulted a graphic of relative dates. Sure enough, she had been discharged at Trinidad well before she was supposed to have reported at Harrican. The clerk nodded. "Well, then, you're cleared of these charges presumptively, but I'll have to get it signed off . . . just wait right here. If you leave, I'll have to assume you're deserting again." He disappeared with all the documentation.
"I didn't desert the first time," Esmay muttered to the floor.
"This is stupid!" Brun said.
"No, it's the military," General Suiza said. "I hate to admit it, but even in Altiplano, we have mixups like this. Of course, there I can usually cut through it in less time, but even generals—and admirals, obviously—are at the mercy of
clerks at times." He looked around the office. "I'm going to get us some chairs; we may be here awhile." He left before Esmay could say anything.
"He reminds me of my father in some ways," Brun said. "Pretty much unflappable."
Esmay did not mention that Brun's father had been capable of flapping quite a lot when Brun was in danger. In a few minutes, her father returned with two chairs.
"Here. Have a seat. This is actually a magic trick, because if we get at all comfortable, they'll be back to tell us to go somewhere else."
Sure enough, Esmay and Brun had only just relaxed with a sigh when the clerk bustled back in.
"There you are—where'd you get those chairs? There aren't supposed to be any chairs in here—"
"I brought them," General Suiza said. "I'll take them back."
"You shouldn't have," the clerk said. "Lieutenant—or Sera, since you're not a lieutenant now—Major Tenerif is trying to access your personnel record to see if that discharge certificate is genuine—it's not the original, you know."
"They have the original down in 1118," Esmay said. "I left it with them, because they hadn't received anything on the discharge yet." She wondered just how soon after she'd left the mutineers had hit Trinidad Station.
"It's most irregular," the clerk said. "You'll need to speak to Major Tenerif."
"Is he free?"
"Well, not now—he's on the horn trying to get your records."
But at that moment, a major emerged from behind a screen. "Suiza?"
"I'm Esmay Suiza," Esmay said.
"Damnedest thing I ever heard of," the major said. "I've called JAG, and they're willing to agree that you are not, at present, a deserter, but that still leaves a mess. Either the discharge was valid or it wasn't. If it was, you're completely clear of charges of desertion, and you're a civilian. You'd have to apply to enter Fleet as a civilian, with a lapse in service and a considerable blot on your record. If the discharge wasn't valid, or was cancelled somewhere in the process of completion, then it's worse. You could be reinstated, of course. If you're reinstated as of the date of discharge, which would be normal if the discharge were shown to be a fake, then you were actually on active duty when the notices of AWOL and desertion were sent, and the defense that you'd been discharged prior to that is no longer valid. You'd have to stand at least a judicial inquiry to ensure that you were not at fault, that you had reason to believe you'd been legitimately discharged, that it wasn't some plot you'd cooked up to avoid duty in time of war."
"The discharge certificate—"
"Well, yes, you have one, but it would still be a matter for a formal inquiry. If you're reinstated as of this date, that means something has to explain the gap, besides the loss of time for pay and promotion consideration. And it's messed up the assignment process. Someone else took over your slot; we can't bump them out just because you showed up." He shook his head. "We need you combat-experienced people, but we do not need a mess like this. And you need a friend in high places. You don't happen to know Grand Admiral Savanche, do you?"
"No, sir," Esmay said. "The only admiral I know is Admiral Serrano—Vida Serrano."
"Ah. Her. Well, if the Serranos are behind you, that might help. But scuttlebutt has it they're peeved with you."
"Some of them," Esmay said. She was not about to say more about her relationship to Barin unless she had to.
"You'd better hope she's not one of the peeved ones," the major said.
Fleet Headquarters planetside had access to Fleet ansible communications, but it took the combined efforts of Esmay, Brun, and General Suiza to convince someone to try to reach Admiral Vida Serrano, who had just taken over at Sector VII. When they finally did, her response was terse: "Reinstate her at once and get her out here where we need her. Mutineers attacking civilian ships . . ."
It took more than that one message, but by afternoon the next day, Major Tenerif was much more cheerful about the situation. "JAG's dropped the desertion charge; apparently it's been decided the discharge was a valid order when you got it, but a mistake at a higher level, and it didn't get here because of the mess at Trinidad. Someone's probably in a lot of trouble, but not—at this point—you. However, we do have some urgency in getting you back to duty. When can you be ready to travel?"
"Pay and allowances?" murmured General Suiza.
"Oh. Of course. I guess, if you haven't been paid since—that would be before you went on leave, right?—and did your luggage catch up with you? No? Then you'll need some things, I imagine. Well, we don't issue pay here, but over in the Bursar's division, you can get any monies owed. But can you be ready to travel in—let's see, it's already 1500—two days? That will put you aboard our next transport to Sector VII."
"Yes, sir," Esmay said. She would find a way, she told herself.
"Good. We already cut your orders—you're going out to Sector VII to command Rascal, an upgraded patrol class."
"Command a ship? Me?" Esmay's voice almost squeaked.
"I don't see why not," Brun said.
The major shrugged. "We're short-handed, Lieutenant. You're the next qualified person on the list. And you are command track—"
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It's just—a surprise."
"That's all right." The major allowed himself a small smile. "We've had similar reactions from some other younger officers who weren't aware they now qualified for ship command." He turned to the clerk. "Get those orders cut for shuttle transport day after tomorrow." Then to Esmay. "You'll want to get your credit updated before you leave. I've already told the Bursar's office to expect you. . . ."
"Thank you, sir."
On the way to that office, new orders in hand, Esmay couldn't feel that this was real. From utter disgrace to ship command in one day?
"I still can't believe they gave me a ship. I'm only a lieutenant—"
"Who has commanded ships in battle . . . What do you want, Es, an engraved invitation?" Brun asked. Then she mimed shock. "This is an engraved invitation."
"Protocol . . . I don't know all the protocol for it . . ." The memory of that hasty and scrambled assumption of command on Despite did not reassure her.
"That's what fast-tapes are for. What about uniforms?"
"Right. Bursar's office, then the tailor's . . ."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Swainson & Triggett, Officers' Outfitters (All Services), greeted the new captain of a patrol ship with suitably restrained delight, and the presence of a distinguished-looking father only increased the respectful hush in the room. Lieutenant Suiza, the hero of Xavier, yes of course. An honor. And newly made captain? Congratulations. Luggage lost in transit, in the confusion of the mutiny? What a shame. Complete set of uniforms, as quickly as possible, money no object? They purred over her, the younger Ser Swainson, and the elder Ser Triggett. The senior women's fitter was summoned; she led Esmay away to a booth large enough to host a small party, where an entire team of fitters measured her from tip to toe, then had her move . . . sit, stand, walk, raise and lower her arms . . .
"We have items in stock, of course, which can be altered—that might do for everyday uniforms, since you're in a hurry—" The old lady sent a young one off to the racks. "But your dress uniforms must of course be custom-fitted. You're lucky; you have a nice shape for uniforms."
Esmay assumed that was simple flattery, until the woman said, "Now you take Sera Meager—lovely woman she is, but if you tried to fit a uniform on her it would be quite difficult. She looks good in many kinds of clothes, and she knows how to dress, but it's the ratios, you see. The ratio of upper to lower arm, of thigh to lower leg, of torso length to leg length." Esmay was glad Brun had stayed out front and hadn't heard this.
The girl came back with a uniform that fit better than any of her own ever had. Esmay said so, but the old lady sniffed as she began marking and pinning for alterations. "That may be, Lieutenant, but I daresay you didn't order your wardrobe here."
"No—this is my first time on Castle Rock."
"Ah. Well, we have several branch offices. There are other good firms—Hatan Meior does quite nice work—but we do feel that we have a little something extra."
"I'd agree," said Esmay, watching her image in the mirror as the pins subtly changed what had already seemed like a smarter silhouette.
"Is that the way you usually wear your hair?" the old lady asked, with a swift glance at the mirrored image.
"No—I had to cut it off for a religious ceremony," Esmay said. "I usually wear it short, but not this short. I was thinking of getting a wig or something."
"It's the cap, you see. If we size it to your head now, it may not fit when your hair grows out, depending on how you style it. A wig would certainly change the size, but if you don't mind my advice—"
"Not at all."
"It's our experience that those officers who try wigs find them inconvenient aboard ship. We've had to replace quite a few caps for that reason. And they don't work well with the command helmets, either."
"Thank you," Esmay said. "I'd only thought, because it's so much shorter than usual—"
"You might consider a hair booster; it'll grow out about twice as fast, for thirty days. Then it slows back down. Any good salon can do the treatment, and I understand it doesn't affect the ID process. Many of our officers use Dorn's, down the street."
"Thanks," Esmay said again.
"They'll be ready tomorrow," the elder Ser Triggett told them, when the fitters had done with her. "And do you have a list of your decorations? You'll need the ribbon and the miniature and full-size dress medals." Esmay handed over the list feeling more and more that she was in some fantasy world . . . she was suddenly back in Fleet . . . she was to command a ship . . . she had just ordered a full set of uniforms from what had to be the most expensive tailors in the universe . . . it was as if she'd fallen into one of the tales in which the despised outcast sister is transformed into a beautiful princess by magical hands.
She did notice that Ser Triggett passed the bill discreetly to her father, who scanned it closely before handing over his credit cube. "You're sure you don't need a second pair of ship boots?" her father asked. "If those are really comfortable . . ." Ser Triggett paused on his way to the credit desk.
Against the Odds Page 27
