Elizabeth Moon: Rules of Engagement

“And . . . ?”

She gave Vericour a glance that moved him back a half step. Good. “And he’s a fine junior officer—what more do you want?”

“Was he on your crew on the Bloodhorde ship?”

“No.” And she was not going to tell Barin’s secrets, either; Vericour could find out for himself.

In the classroom, she saw Brun first; the tall blonde was leaning on a desk, surrounded by male officers, while her bodyguards stood by the wall, looking as blank as robots. She had, Esmay had to admit, an infectious laugh and a smile that lit up the room. Esmay moved to a seat midway up on the left side, and then spotted Barin, front row right, already seated and looking compact and composed.

Should she go up there? But she was already in her seat, and Vericour was in the next . . . it would be obvious if she moved. Barin turned, as if her glance were a warm hand on his neck, and spotted her. He smiled, nodded; she nodded in return. Enough for now; they could talk later. Although . . . certain paragraphs in the professional ethics lectures came back to her. They would have to be careful. They were not presently in the same chain of command, but she was senior enough that the relationship would be called “not recommended.”

At the chime, the instructor came in; he looked as if he’d been slow-dried over a fire . . . the color of jerky and not any more extra fat. Lieutenant Commander Uhlis, his name was.

“Escape and evasion,” he said, without preamble. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never need this course, but if you need it and haven’t mastered it . . . you’ll be dead. Or worse.” He glanced around the room, then his gaze rested on Barin.

“I understand that Ensign Serrano already has experience as a captive,” Lieutenant Commander Uhlis said. “But none at all in escape.” Esmay gave him a sharp look. His tone was ambiguous, edged in some way she could not yet determine.

Barin said nothing; the others had turned to look at him.

“It is the duty of a captured officer to attempt to escape, is it not, Serrano?” The edge was sharper, sarcasm at the least.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yet . . . you did not.”

“I did not escape, sir.”

“Did you even try ?” Contempt now. Esmay could feel the tension in the room.

“Not effectively,” Barin said. “Sir.”

“I would have thought a Serrano the equal of a few Bloodhorde thugs,” Uhlis said. “Would you care to explain to the class your mistakes?” Put that way, it was not a request.

“Sir, I was careless. I thought the person I saw in the inventory bay, wearing a Fleet uniform with Fleet patches, was Fleet personnel.”

“Ah. You expected the Bloodhorde to be fur-clad barbarians carrying swords—”

“No, sir. But I didn’t expect them to be laying an ambush in the inventory bay. As I said, sir, my carelessness.”

“And precisely how did they capture you, Ensign?”

Esmay could tell from the quality of Barin’s voice that he was both angry and shamed. “I was climbing an inventory rack—the Deep Space Repair has automated inventory racks some twenty meters tall, but the machinery had been shut off. Ship regulations required using safety harness and line, so I was clipped into the ladder I was climbing. The parts trays were far enough apart that someone could lie flat in them; when I climbed up that far, I found a gun to my head.”

“And did you struggle?”

“Yes, sir. But between the harness and the ones who grabbed my legs, and getting knocked unconscious, not effectively.”

“I see.” Uhlis eyed the rest of the class. “The lesson here is that a moment’s inattention—a brief lapse of caution—can and someday will result in your capture. The ensign thought that he was safe, aboard a Fleet vessel, even though he knew intruders had penetrated the ordinary defenses. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing—and no doubt convinced himself that anything out of the ordinary was the result of the overall emergency situation. Someone else would take care of it. He is lucky to be alive, presumably only because his captors thought he might be useful that way.”

Uhlis paused, long enough that a discreet rustle indicated uncertainty among the other students. “But the ensign did something right. Two things, in fact. He stayed alive, when it might have been easier to die. And he worked through his post-capture trauma properly, as his reactions just now proved.”

A hand shot up on the far side of the room. “Sir—I don’t understand.”

“Lieutenant Marden, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kindly identify yourself next time. And haste, in this course, can get you killed. When you don’t understand, wait . Be still. Listen. You might learn something that will save your life.”

Everyone was very still; Esmay found it hard to breathe. Even Brun had gone immobile, she noticed.

“But since I was going to explain anyway, I will now. Ensign Serrano could, no doubt, have changed his captors’ decision to keep him alive, by being too much trouble, while not able to escape. From my understanding, having reviewed his debrief, he had no real opportunity to escape. Therefore, his duty was to stay alive, if possible, by not driving his captors to kill him. This he did, enduring physical abuse without losing control, making no threats, being as passive as possible. Second, he cooperated fully with remedial therapy. Some rescued captives cannot face what they consider the shame of such therapy; although they cannot evade a minimum requirement, they do not cooperate, and do not receive the benefit of it. Ensign Serrano, by all reports—and of course most of this is confidential, so I have only the output summary—cooperated completely, and his therapists were convinced that he had no residual psychological deficits.” Another pause, which no one interrupted.

“Some of you, no doubt, thought I was being rough on Ensign Serrano—sarcastic, critical. I was. I was testing for myself the validity of the therapists’ report, before putting him through the trauma of this course, where any unresolved issues might make him a danger to himself and others. He passed my test. The rest of you . . . we’ll just have to see about.” Uhlis turned to Barin. “Ensign Serrano.”

“Sir.” The back of Barin’s neck was no longer flushed.

“Congratulations.”

“Sir.” Barin’s neck reddened again.

“I presume you’ve all read the introductory material for this class,” Uhlis said. His gaze scanned the classroom. Esmay had, as usual, read beyond the introductory assignment, but she judged from the uneasy shifting of some classmates that they had not. Uhlis glanced down at his display. “Lieutenant Taras, please explain the legal difference between military capture and hostile seizure.”

Taras had been one of the wigglers, seated two down from Esmay. She rose to her feet. “Sir, military capture is when a unit surrenders, and hostile seizure is when they’re caught off-guard.”

“And the legal situation?”

“Well . . . one is surrender and one is—being caught.”

“Inadequate. I assume you did not read the assignment, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Taras looked deservedly wretched.

Uhlis looked along the row. “Lieutenant Vericour?”

Vericour stood. “Sir, I read it, but I am not sure I understand—I mean, it’s clear when someone is kidnapped from a space station while they’re on leave or something, as compared with the surrender of personnel from a damaged ship.”

“Suppose you were sure that you were facing a situation of hostile seizure: what would be your legal position?”

“Sir, the Code says that I am to attempt escape by any means possible, assisting others to escape—”