Elizabeth Moon - Rules of Engagement

Brun tried to tell herself that a senior military commander on a backwater planet was nothing special—her father’s militia, back on Sirialis, was just a jumped-up police force. Its commander, though given the title “General,” had never impressed her as the regulars of Fleet did. But Altiplano . . . she read on . . . had no Seat in Council. It had no Family connections at all. Which meant—she wasn’t sure what, but she suspected that a General Suiza had a lot more power than old General Ashworth.

Of Esmay herself, there was little: a list of her decorations, with the citations that went with them. Conspicuous gallantry. Outstanding leadership. Outstanding initiative. A list of the ships she’d served on. Her present assignment, to Training Command’s Junior Officer Leadership Course.

Well. Brun sat back, aware of tension in her neck and shoulders, the feeling that she’d got herself in well over her head in more than one way. She returned the screen to its default, and thought of ordering a snack. But it would come on a plate from some wrecked ship. She didn’t think she could face that. As it was, she already had tears in her eyes.

“Something wrong?” asked a deep voice behind her. She turned.

He was stocky, heavy shoulders thick with muscle; his bald head, like Oblo’s, deeply scarred. His eyes were scarcely higher than hers; he was in a hoverchair. Brun kept her eyes from dropping to see why with an effort—but that gave him a clear look at her face.

Out of the scarred face, brown eyes observed her with more insight than she liked. His wide mouth quirked.

“Lady, you’re not Fleet, and you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”

The “lady” threw her off-stride for a moment. In that pause, he jerked his head toward the farthest angle of the back.

“Come on over here, and let’s get you sorted out,” he said. She was moving before she realized it, compelled by something in his voice. His hoverchair turned, and slid between the tables; Brun followed.

Two tables away, someone called, “Hey! Sam!” He turned his head slightly—he could not, Brun realized, turn it all the way—and raised a hand but did not answer. Brun followed him and found a half-booth: enclosing bench and table, with space on the other side for his hoverchair.

“Sit,” he said. Then, over his shoulder to a waitress, “Get us a pair of Stenners, and some chips.” His gaze returned to Brun, as disturbing as ever.

“I’m not really—” Brun began.

“That much I know already,” he said, humor in his tone. “But let’s see what you are.” He ticked off points with a stubby finger that looked as if it had been badly moulded of plastic. “You’re Thornbuckle’s daughter, according to your credit chip, and according to the class list over there—” He jerked his head in the direction of the Schools. “You’re Brun Meager, choosing to use your mother’s family name. Target of assassination attempts—” Brun noted the plural and wondered how he knew. “By your instructors’ reports, physically agile and strong, bright as a new pin, quick learner, gifted with luck in emergencies. Also emotionally labile, argumentative, arrogant, stubborn, willful, difficult. Not officer material, at least not without a lot of remedial work.”

Brun knew her face showed her reaction to that. “And why not?” she asked, trying for a tone of mild academic interest.

He ignored the question and went on. “You’re not Fleet; no one in your bloodline’s been Fleet for over two hundred forty years. You come from a class where social skills are expected in a normal person your age. Yet you come into a Fleet bar—”

“There’s nothing but Fleet bars in Q-town,” Brun muttered.

“And not only a Fleet bar,” he went on, “a bar with special connotations, even for Fleet personnel. Not all of them will come here; not all of them are welcome here. I’ve seen kids with what you would call no social background at all come through the door and recognize, in one breath, that they don’t belong here. Which makes me wonder, Charlotte Brunhilde Meager, about someone like you not noticing.”

Brun glared at him. He gazed back, a look neither inviting nor hostile. Just . . . looking . . . as if she were an interesting piece of machinery. That look didn’t deserve an answer, even if she’d had one, which she didn’t. She didn’t know why she’d ducked into this doorway instead of another. It was handy; she’d wanted a drink; when the thought of a drink and a doorway offering drinks overlapped, she went in. Put that way it didn’t sound as if she were thinking straight, but she didn’t want to think about that. Not here; not now.

“You know, we’ve got security vid outside,” the man said, leaning back a little. “When your cube ID popped up on my screen, I ran back the loop. You were stalking along the street like someone with a serious grievance. Then you hitched a step, and turned in here, with just a glance at the sign. Anyone tell you about this place?”

“No.” Even to Brun’s present mood, that sounded sulky, and she expanded. “I was given a list of places that catered to various specialties, mostly sexual. They have a code of light patterns in the windows, the briefing cube said. Anything else was general entertainment.”

“So, just as it seemed on the vid, you were in a rage, thought of getting a drink, and turned into the first bar you saw.” His mouth quirked. “Really high-quality thinking for someone of your tested intelligence.”

“Even smart people can get mad,” Brun said.

“Even smart people can get stupid,” he replied. “You’re supposed to have a security escort at all times, right? And where are they?”

Brun felt herself flushing again. “They’re—” She wanted to say a royal pain , but knew that this man would think that childish. Everyone seemed to think it was childish not to want half a dozen people lurking about all the time, looming over private conversations, listening, watching, just . . . being where she didn’t want them to be. “Back at the Schools, I suppose,” she said.

“You sneaked out,” the man said, with no question at all in his voice.

“Yes. I wanted a bit of—”

“Time to yourself. Yes. And so you risk not only your own life, which is your right as an adult, but you risk their safety and their professional future, because you wanted a little time off.” Now the scorn she had sensed was obvious in his expression and his tone. Those brown eyes made no excuses, for himself or anyone else. “Do you think your assassin is taking time off, time to have a little relaxation?”

Brun had not thought about her assassin any more than she could help; she had certainly not thought about whether an assassin kept the same hours as a target. “I don’t know,” she muttered.

“Or what will happen to your guards if you get killed while they’re not with you?”

“I got away from them,” Brun said. “It wouldn’t be their fault.”

“Morally, no. Professionally, yes. It is their job to guard you, whether you cooperate or not. If you elude them and are killed, they will be blamed.” He paused. Brun could think of nothing to say, and was silent. “So . . . you got mad and barged in here. Ordered. Started looking around. Noticed the decor—”

“Yes. Pieces of ships. It’s . . . morbid.”

“Now that, young lady, is where you’re wrong.”

Faced with opposition, Brun felt an urge to argue. “It is. What’s the point of keeping bits of dead ships, and—and putting people’s names on them, if not morbid fascination with death?”

“Look at me,” the man said. Startled, Brun complied. “Really look,” the man said. He moved the hoverchair back a little, and pointed to his legs . . . which ended at what would have been mid-thigh. Brun looked, unwillingly but carefully, and saw more and more signs of old and serious injury.