Elizabeth Moon - Sporting Chance

“How old are you?” Heris asked. “And what kind of background would you offer the Fleet?” She already suspected the answers. Brun was too old to enlist with the skills she could reasonably claim—having been taught marksmanship by your father didn’t count, even if he was a renowned hunter—and lacking any education the Fleet would recognize. At least, under an assumed name. “Which will get you in trouble anyway,” Heris explained. “After all, plenty of people the Fleet doesn’t want would like to get in. Falsifying one’s identity is fairly common—and nearly always detected, and when detected is always justification for rejection.”

“But I thought if I explained that I just don’t want to use my father’s privilege—”

“To whom would you explain? A recruiting officer? That would get you sent for psychiatric and legal evaluation—are you impersonating a member of your father’s family? And if not, what’s wrong with you that you don’t enjoy your privilege? No—” She held up her hand. “I see your point, and I admire you for wanting to make your own way, but you cannot sneak into the Fleet that way. Not with our methods of certifying identity. You’d do better, if you’re intent on a dangerous military career, to travel as a tourist outside the Familias Regnant and take service with some planetary ruler. Don’t try to be fancy—just say you’re running away from family problems. Someplace like Aethar’s World or the Compassionate Hand would probably hire you.”

“But Aethar’s World is all . . . those hulks, isn’t it?”

“Soldiers can’t afford prejudice,” Heris said with an internal grin. She’d thought that would get a reaction. “Aethar’s World always needs soldiers. Admittedly, that’s because the Fatherland uses them up in bloody and unnecessary battles, but they do give you a glorious funeral, I hear. And yes, they’re all big-boned and fair-haired—one reason they might hire you—and they have anachronistic ideas about warrior women—another reason they might hire you. But they do pay on time, if you survive.”

“And the . . . the Compassionate Hand?” asked Brun, her brow furrowed.

“Not an accurate name, but you don’t want to call them the Black Scratch unless you’ve got a battle group behind you. A large battle group. You may not have heard of them; the Familias discourages trade that way. We have a border incident every few years, though. They would like to control Karyas and the nearby jump points.”

“Black Scratch . . . Compassionate Hand?”

“Well, you know about protection rackets, don’t you?” Brun nodded, but still looked puzzled. “The motto of the families that settled Corus IV—a was ‘You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.’ They referred to this as being a compassionate hand—a helping hand. But the first colony they raided, on Corus V, called it the ‘black scratch.’ They now control the Corus system, with heavy influence in two nearby systems, and their official designation is ‘The Benignity of the Compassionate Hand.’ They hire offworlders for mercenary actions, often against underground groups who still call them the Black Scratch.”

“But they’re—illegal,” said Brun.

“Not by their laws, and they’re not part of our legal system. From what I read of Old Earth history, their ancestors ran the same kinds of rackets there and no one ever converted them to what we call law and order. Actually, if you’re on an official visit, it looks like a model government. I’ve known a few people who had served in their military—said it wasn’t bad, if you followed the rules exactly, but they have no tolerance for dissent.”

“You’re saying I can’t really do what I was talking about,” Brun said. “If my choices run to the barbarians of Aethar’s World or the Compassionate Hand—”

“There are others. But I’m not exactly sure what you’re looking for. A military career? If so, leading to what? Coming back to your family someday, or retiring on your own independent savings? How much adventure—otherwise known as danger—do you really want? Do you have something against your family which would prevent your adventuring within its canopy?”

“Mmm.” Brun looked thoughtful; Heris was glad to see that she could calm down and think. “I suppose—I want change. Change from what I was, and from what people think of me.” She looked up at Heris, who said nothing. Let the girl work it out for herself; then she’d believe it. “Lady Cecelia crossed her family—but—she did use her own money—”

“Makes it easier,” said Heris. “And there’s no reason to do things the hard way if you don’t have to.”

“I don’t know what, really,” Brun said. “I guess I just want to serve notice to my family—to others—that I’m not the bubblehead they think—that I’m not the designated blonde sure to marry someone like the odious George.” She grinned then. “And you’re saying there are easier ways to do that than get myself killed by barbarians with blond braids or a knife in the ribs from the . . . er . . . Compassionate Hand.”

“I didn’t say it,” Heris said. “You did. I’d think you’d had enough adventure for a while . . . although . . . if you liked that, there’s training that would help you survive other . . . adventures.”

Brun’s face lit. “That’s what I’d like—what bothered me most wasn’t the danger, but not knowing what to do. But I thought you could only get that training in the military.”

“No—in fact, not everyone in the military does. There are other sources, if that’s what you want. Tell you what, I’ll give you a list of skills and places I know you can get training . . . and then you can find a use for that training. How about that?”

“I’d love it. Can’t I come to Rockhouse with you? I already know about Mr. Smith, of course.”

“No—I’m sorry. We’re overloaded, with the required escorts for Mr. Smith. But if you’re going back there, you can start to acquire some of the things I’m talking about—”

“Tell me what sorts of things,” Brun interrupted, eyes bright.

“Well . . . the more you know about all the technology we use for transportation and communication, the better. Not just classroom theory but practical stuff like being able to maintain and repair the equipment. Lady Cecelia’s taken an interest in her yacht now, and she’s finding it very helpful. I wish we had time for you to meet Brigdis Sirkin—my Nav First. She’s done it all by formal schooling, but she’s taken every opportunity to expand her skills and knowledge on the job, too.”

From the look on Brun’s face, she wanted to be Brigdis Sirkin. Heris wondered if Sirkin would return the favor, if she imagined the opulence and privilege of Brun’s background. Probably not. That very practical young woman was headed exactly where she wanted to go—perhaps a narrow goal, but one she knew she could attain. Brun had so many choices it must be hard to make them.

“Do you like space travel?” Heris asked.

“Yes—but I don’t know if I’d like to spend all my time in space.” And this was someone who had thought of joining Fleet! “What I really like—liked—was thinking up elaborate pranks, but of course there’s no place for that in the real world.”

Was there not! Heris cocked her head. “What kind of pranks?”

“Oh—you know—like when we were kids on that island, and having mock wars.” She had flushed again, clearly embarrassed to put her childhood mock wars up against the real thing, even in imagination. “I got pretty good at ambushes. And at school, my first term . . . they never did figure out who had reprogrammed the water supply so all the hot was cold and vice versa. Silly stuff. Except about Lucianne—keeping her away from her uncle when he came to visit was serious enough, but necessary.”