Elizabeth Moon: Rules of Engagement

“He’s gettin’ old, though,” Sam Dubois, Ranger Austin said. “He’s had one of them proscribed procedures . . .”

“He was rejuvenated,” Mitch said, using the correct term. “They started rejuvenating their most senior NCOs about ten, fifteen years ago, and he’s one of ’em. If they hadn’t, likely we wouldn’t have got anythin’ from him.”

“But it’s an abomination,” Sam said. Stubborn as rock, Sam was, and tighter than a tick to Parson Wells.

“Yes, it’s an abomination,” Mitch said. “I’m not sayin’ it’s right. But the devil takes care of his own, sometimes, and them rejuvenations have been working awhile now. The man’s only eighty; his mind should be fine even if he hadn’t had the drugs.”

“But it’s not,” the Captain said, with a triumphant look at Mitch. “Look at this here.” He passed down a sheet of paper.

Mitch looked at it. “Gobbledegook,” he said after a glance. “Did he change ciphers or something?”

“No. I think he’s taken to some heathen practice—or that rejuvenation is eating his brain. I’ve heard about that.” His next glance at Mitch was calculating.

“Could be,” Mitch said. Everyone knew he had read more widely in the dangerous literature of biomodification than was strictly approved by the parsons. The Captain was trying to trap him into a discussion that would prove his contamination, but Mitch was smarter than that. Instead, he had his own plan.

“Well?” Sam said.

“Captain,” Mitch said formally. “I’d like to make a proposal.”

“Sure,” the Captain said. His gaze didn’t waver. Mitch could have laughed; the idiot still thought Mitch would incriminate himself.

“You know you gave me permission ’way last year to do some work in the Familias myself—”

“Yeah—”

“Well, sir, I cast bread on the waters and let me tell you, there are hungry souls out there all athirst for the true word of God.” Now the others all nodded, leaning forward. “I found us some agents here and there—in big trading firms, and one in a regional weapons depot, an assistant station master—and we’ve been getting a nice little flow of illicits in here for about six months.”

Mitch pulled out his own report and passed it around. “More’n that, gentlemen, any time we want an entire cargo hold loaded with nukes or anything else, I’ve got just the person to do it. What I thought was, I’d go on and tell ’em to load up, and then go get us a transport as well as the weapons. There’s this ship that takes a shortcut through a deserted system—a fine place for an ambush.”

“Ah—and you want our help, Ranger Bowie?”

“No sir, I don’t. With all respect, sir, there’s too much goin’ on to pull resources from the rest of our people. What I thought was, I’d take all of the Bowies, and take care of this little chore—and that should put us back on track for knocking the Guernesi flat on their tails.”

Silence, during which the others digested this, and looked for ways to profit from it. Mitch made himself sit still, and observed.

“What about the crew?” the Captain asked finally.

Mitch shrugged. “Our usual rules. We still need more females, if we can find some that aren’t too badly contaminated.”

“You know, we’ve had to mute damn near every foreign female we’ve brought in,” Sam said. “And I worry about their effect on our women.”

Mitch smiled. “We’re real men; we can control our women.” The others quickly nodded; nobody wanted to admit to having a problem in that area. “Besides, we know God approves, because the imported women have strong, healthy babies, fewer of ’em born with defects.” That, too, was unarguable. A child’s defects reflected parental sin; if healthy children came from women brought up in sin, then it must be because God celebrated their release from the abominations of the ungodly.

“If Parson Wells will bless your mission, Ranger Bowie, you have my approval,” the Captain said formally.

Just wait until he, Ranger Bowie, was Captain of Rangers, and then see if he rolled over like that for anyone. Mitch nodded, and when the parson came in he explained the proposed mission again. Parson Wells pursed his lips, but finally nodded. “Just be sure to avoid contamination, Ranger Bowie.”

Mitch smiled. “Yes, sir, Parson. I got no intention of going heathen.” He had every intention of coming back with weapons, women, wealth—and every intention of making it to the captaincy before he was many years older.

Lieutenant Esmay Suiza arrived at Training Command’s Copper Mountain Base with high hopes only to find herself waiting her turn for security clearance in a big echoing reception hall with two of the ugliest murals she’d ever seen. On the right, over the com booths, a scene of ships in combat in space. They looked nothing like ships as Esmay had seen them from the outside. Realism would have been dull at best, but she couldn’t help an internal smirk at the astronomical decorations . . . stars, comets, spiral galaxies. On the left, over the luggage dumps, a scene depicting ground combat, which looked even less realistic than the space one . . . for one thing, nobody’s uniform ever stayed that clean. For another, the artist had only a shaky grasp of anatomy and perspective; all the figures looked squashed sideways.

Esmay tried to get her mind back to her own high hopes. A change in track, from technical to command, and she was finally pursuing her destiny, using her best talents. Certainly her commanders thought so. She had made friends, including Barin Serrano who was—if she was honest with herself—much more than a friend. In his admiration, she felt herself more capable; in his concern, she felt herself loved. That still made her uncomfortable: she had never really thought about love, about being loved, and she could hardly believe it had happened, or that it might last. But she still felt the touch of his hands on her face—she pulled herself back from that memory and made herself consider what came next.

She glanced at the space combat scene again and could not help shaking her head.

“Gruesome, aren’t they, sir?” asked the sergeant at the first security station. “Supposed to be very old and valuable, but really—it looks like something done by a half-gifted amateur.”

“That’s probably what they got,” Esmay said, grinning. She presented her orders and identification.

“New rules, Lieutenant, require a full med-ID scan before you receive station tags. If you’ll follow the yellow line to the next station, they’ll get started.”

Security had been tighter all the way across Familias Space, a natural result of all that had happened in the past quarter year. Still, she hadn’t expected the level of confirmation required here, at a training base whose only access was through a Fleet-controlled orbital station. Where were intruders supposed to be coming from?

An hour later she was waiting outside yet another security checkpoint. It was ridiculous. How long did it take to do a retinal check, even a full neuroscan? Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d broken one of the great rules of military life—eat whenever you get a chance. She could have grabbed a snack before leaving the transport, but (her memory mocked her) it was only supposed to be a couple of hours down to Copper Mountain.

In for the retinal check at last. “Just follow the yellow line, Lieutenant . . .” said the voice behind the screen.

“But can’t you just—”

“Follow the yellow line.”

Which ended in another bench to wait on until her name was called. Ahead of her was a whole squad of neuro-enhanced combat troops . . . she’d heard of these but never seen any up close. They looked like anyone else who happened to be carrying about twice the muscle and half the fat of anyone else. They had been chatting, but fell silent as she came up to the bench. She felt fragile beside them.